by Ben Coes
The noise was fevered. Car horns mixed with sirens, the patter of feet scrambling frantically, screams and shouting.
Dewey’s eyes shot right and focused: a lone individual was moving slowly along the sidewalk, struggling away from the block of shops. He was young, his hair short. Then he saw it: the man’s shoulder was drenched in blood. The man dragged his leg as he struggled to move. A break in the crowd enabled Dewey to see his leg; it too was covered in blood from the knee down.
Al-Jaheishi.
Behind him, a tall man trailed at a distance. He clutched a handgun and had it trained at the injured man a few dozen feet in front of him.
Dewey stepped forward, his eyes moving left as his hand reached into the folds of the hijab. His fingers went to the strap around his right shoulder.
Sirens grew louder and multiple; without looking, Dewey registered the flashing red to a block away.
He was now across the street from al-Jaheishi and the tracker. Suddenly two more gunmen came into view. Both were dressed in black. They jogged. Each man held a short weapon that Dewey recognized immediately: Uzi.
As he moved calmly toward the scene, Dewey unclasped the strap attached to the rail of the M4. His eyes picked up the path of al-Jaheishi’s eyes as he ran—or limped—for his life. Dewey followed the sight line. He saw Mallory.
Another loud crack interrupted the chaotic scene as the gunman fired. Al-Jaheishi fell to the ground. Dewey watched as Mallory moved to him.
Without looking, beneath his hijab Dewey slid the fire selector on his weapon to manual. In front of him, he saw Mallory reach al-Jaheishi, kneeling over him as if seeing if he was all right. The gesture looked Good Samaritan, but Dewey knew the CIA man was searching for the package.
He walked onto the square, aiming for the café. His finger was on the trigger, ready to kill if necessary but hoping he wouldn’t have to.
Al-Jaheishi was dead, but Mallory was over him, soon joined by a pair of others, also trying to help. The gunmen—all three—came up behind them, but they didn’t fire. Mallory looked up and said something to the tall man. Mallory reached for al-Jaheishi’s shirt and started unbuttoning it, pretending to give medical aid, a performance intended solely for the three gunmen, who now loomed, weapons out and trained on Mallory.
Suddenly, the tall one kicked Mallory in the back. He tumbled over. After a moment, Mallory stood up cautiously as the two men in black descended on al-Jaheishi and ransacked his pockets.
Mallory moved backward, hands out, indicating to the gunman that he would leave. He walked away from the corpse.
Mallory’s performance seemed to work. The killers paused over al-Jaheishi.
He heard shouting in Arabic from up the street. Several Damascus policemen had arrived on the scene.
Mallory was nearly to the crowd in front of the café. A few more yards and he would be clear. They would be able to get away relatively unscathed, shielded by the chaos. Dewey would return to Israel without firing a bullet.
And then the tall gunman turned to Mallory, now at least twenty or thirty feet away. He said something; the two black-clad thugs stood. All three started sprinting in Mallory’s direction.
When Mallory turned, it confirmed the killer’s suspicion. Dewey knew it was all over.
His left hand gripped the stock of the carbine as his right hand undid the other clasp holding the strap to the M4, letting the strap drop to the ground. Dewey swept the rifle in front of him as he ran across the square toward Mallory.
The three killers charged toward Mallory.
“No!” Dewey yelled, just as the gunman fired. The slug hit Mallory in the back, knocking him to the ground.
The sidewalk cleared out as those lurkers who’d remained in the café dispersed.
Dewey sprinted toward Mallory just as the tall gunman leaned down, no doubt looking for the SIM card. Dewey reached the road in front of the café. He was less than twenty yards away. He put his finger to the ceramic trigger and, in midsprint, fired. The suppressed carbine made a dull spit. A slug struck the tall gunman a half inch above his ear, blowing out a chunk of his brain.
The other killers swiveled; both men marked Dewey immediately. They swept their weapons through the air, but Dewey was a half second ahead of them. He flipped the fire selector to full-auto and fired, pulling the trigger hard. The dull thwack thwack thwack of suppressed slugs could barely be heard. The spray of bullets tore a zigzag line across the men. One of them screamed as his chest was pulverized. The second man was hit at the same moment, the slugs tearing into his neck and face, dropping him, killing him instantly.
Dewey ran toward Mallory, scanning to his right, back up the street. The café, the sidewalks, everything had emptied out as terrified Syrians fled the carnage. He kicked one of the terrorist’s weapons, an Uzi submachine gun, toward a concrete bench and reached down to grab Mallory’s shirt collar, dragging him to the bench, which offered a degree of protection from the gunmen, who were moving in on all sides. He dropped to the ground next to him.
He counted three police cruisers, stopped in the middle of the road back near the shops. Officers climbed in and the police cruiser lurched forward, lights flashing, siren blaring, and raced toward him. Another cruiser followed.
Dewey picked up the Uzi. He now had two guns. He would soon need to change out mags on the M4. The mag on the Uzi was almost full.
He looked down at Mallory, whose eyes were shut. Something caused Dewey to turn and scan the street near the stores, behind the third police cruiser, which hadn’t moved.
What is it?
He’d seen something. He surveyed the terrain behind the police cars. All around him, the pandemonium transitioned into the quiet of fear and death, a war zone, still fluid.
Then he saw him. He was alone, standing behind a parked car almost a block back from the corner. He was dressed in business attire but held a rifle tight to his right side, out of view. He was watching Dewey with a monocular. That was what Dewey had seen—the glint of the monocular. Sniper.
The first police car came to a screeching halt a few dozen yards from the café. Two policemen in dark blue uniforms climbed out, guns in hand, less than fifty feet from Dewey. A second cruiser stopped immediately to the left of the first, walling Dewey in to the east.
The sniper in the far distance moved out from behind the sedan and slunk along the storefronts, down the sidewalk. He stopped at the corner of the building. He raised the rifle. Dewey watched as he acquired him in the crosshairs.
Dewey dropped to his stomach next to Mallory and placed the M4 in front of him, on the ground, taking aim at the gunman. A low thunderclap boomed from the gunman’s rifle. The slug clanged behind Dewey, missing and hitting a car. Dewey yanked the trigger back hard. A burst of suppressed slugs struck the building just above the killer’s head. He ducked into an alcove. Dewey moved the fire selector to semiauto and pulled the trigger. A cloud of slugs hit the front of the store, shattering glass everywhere around the alcove. The gunman was out of the target zone but the three-burst had bought Dewey some time.
To Dewey’s right, police were climbing out of their vehicles and taking up position behind their doors, weapons raised.
The gunman broke from the alcove and started running back up the block, away from Dewey, crisscrossing wildly, ducking behind cars and other objects, making it difficult for Dewey to take aim. He had already spent too much ammo; the last thing he wanted to do was waste a mag throwing lead haphazardly in the air, attempting to hit an elusive target.
The gunman was looking for stability; he would attempt a snipe.
One of the police officers yelled to Dewey in Arabic, telling him to stop.
Dewey turned to Mallory. His eyes remained closed. Blood trickled from his nostrils and mouth. He felt Mallory’s hand. It was soaked in blood. In the palm, still clutched tight, he found a small object, no bigger than a fingernail. SIM card. The package. He picked it out of Mallory’s hand, stuck it in his pants pocket, and turned b
ack to the field of fire.
The police were now arrayed in a line, all four officers crouching behind the open doors of their cars. He counted four muzzles, all aimed at him.
In the distance, the lone gunman ducked into another alcove. A second later, he kicked out the glass of a storefront. The long muzzle of the rifle emerged. He raised it and targeted Dewey.
Just then, a black police van entered the square on the opposite side of Dewey and Mallory, behind them. The van sped along the edge of the square and screeched to a stop a hundred feet away. Three SWAT-clad officers with carbines jumped from the back and took up position.
The sniper is the immediate threat.
Dewey swiveled. He ducked against the rifle, his right eye to the sight. Then he fired, just as unmuted gunfire exploded from the gunman in the shadows. The man’s aim was off by less than a foot, and Dewey heard the clank of a slug hitting the concrete a few inches to his left. Dewey let up for a moment, then retriggered, remaining still as he did so, blasting a circular arc around where he knew the sniper was positioned. The sniper rifle’s muzzle retracted. The slugs quieted the gunman, who now tried to avoid the fusillade. Dewey watched through the sight as slugs tore through glass and mortar all around the gunman. Then he heard a low scream as one of the bullets struck.
The police officer barked again at Dewey, first in French, then English.
“Put the weapon down!”
Dewey glanced behind him. The three tactical agents repositioned closer.
Dewey looked at Mallory. He reached his free hand out. He slapped Mallory lightly on the cheek.
“Rick,” he said. “Hold on. Help is on the way.”
Dewey hit him again, harder this time, and Mallory opened his eyes.
“Hey, buddy,” said Dewey.
Mallory’s eyes were like jelly, unfocused and discombobulated. Then he found Dewey.
“Do you have it?” whispered Mallory.
“Yes.”
“It’s over, isn’t it.”
“No, we’re fine,” lied Dewey. “We’re just waiting for RECON. Hang in there.”
“It’s okay,” said Mallory, looking at Dewey. “I just want to know the truth.”
Dewey was startled by a premonition; his head turned. The three policemen were closer now. That he expected. But behind them, on one of the side streets feeding into the square, a white van appeared. It arrived quietly, unbeknownst to the policemen. More gunmen poured from the vehicle. They were dressed in black. He counted two, three, four …
He turned back to Mallory.
“This part of the trip is over,” said Dewey, looking into Mallory’s eyes. “But it was only the beginning. It’s not over.”
Gunfire interrupted his words. Slugs struck concrete a few feet from Mallory’s head as yelling in Arabic—yelling Dewey assumed was meant to get him to surrender—filled the streetscape.
Dewey gripped Mallory’s hand, tight enough almost to break a bone. Then he let go.
Dewey dropped the M4 and picked up the Uzi. He sprayed a line of slugs across the patrol cars, hitting two of the officers, causing the other two to duck for cover. The noise was high and electric, like a swarm of angry bees. The first shots from the tactical agents struck the concrete above his head. Dewey rolled beneath the bench and pivoted his torso, then lifted the Uzi and aimed it at the SWAT-clad gunmen. He yanked the trigger—still set to auto-hail—and swept the muzzle in a smooth line across the edge of the square. He hit two of the gunmen. Frantically, he turned and fired at the police cruisers on the other side of him. He struck one of the officers in the head, another in the neck. Dewey turned yet again, firing at the third SWAT-clad agent, hitting him in the cheek, dropping him in a contorted tumble to the street.
The violent rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire was like a war zone.
Dewey turned to face the last policeman, triggering the carbine, getting only an empty click. The officer fired. A bullet hit his leg—right thigh—and he swore as he desperately reached for the Uzi and turned it on the policeman, who was shielded by the door of the cruiser. Dewey ripped slugs beneath the door, striking the man’s feet; he dropped, screaming, and Dewey finished him off with another quick burst of gunfire.
In pain, he popped the mag from the M4 and slammed in a new one. He swiveled and aimed at the black-clothed killers behind him. He moved the fire selector to three-burst and swept the badly kicking carbine as smoothly as he could. The first burst hit one of them; the others took cover and started firing.
Dewey skirted backward, behind the concrete bench, just as gunfire from the terrorists cracked the air. He reached frantically for the MP7A1—still strapped to his back—pulling it over his head, gripping it, aiming at the killers. Then he pressed the trigger. The sound was familiar, unlike any other firearm, at least in Dewey’s mind. From the torpor of pain now roiling him, he found a hint of satisfaction in the menacing sound of the gun. The submachine gun burst lead in a frenetic, metallic, high-pitched drumbeat. He hit another of the men, who screamed as he fell. The others ducked back.
You have to move. Now!
Dewey stood up. A pained groan came from deep in his throat. His leg gave out and he nearly fell over. But it was his only acknowledgment of the pain that now shot through his leg, then up through his body, like fire.
He retargeted the black-clad gunmen now converging to the west. He slammed his finger against the trigger, gritted his teeth, and took a step on his right leg, testing the strength. The slug had hit muscle. The femur was intact. He let himself glance down at the wound. It was a graze, a thin dollop of thigh was missing a few inches above the knee, but that was it.
Dewey ran from the scene, limping noticeably. He moved to an alley beside the café. He ran until the alley intersected with a road, and then turned down the road, slowing a bit. He jogged a few blocks along a narrow, winding empty residential street as the sound of sirens echoed from several blocks away. He tucked the submachine gun inside the hijab as he moved as quickly as he could away from the horrific scene. After two blocks, he slowed to a walk and slouched, pretending to be an old man. He kept his right hand on the MP7, finger on the steel ring guarding the trigger, just above the trigger itself.
The sound of sirens grew faint and muted. After walking several more blocks in a zigzag pattern, trying to get as far away as possible, he heard the squeal of brakes somewhere behind him. He glanced back furtively, finger moving from the trigger guard to the trigger. He saw nothing; they were out of his sight line. He kept moving. Then his eyes caught another car ripping down a street ahead. The car screeched to a sudden stop at the end of the street. Trying to act natural, Dewey watched as the driver studied him.
In the same moment, Dewey became aware of an approaching vehicle behind him. He didn’t need to turn; the two cars were working in conjunction, and they had marked Dewey, and he knew it.
The car in front of him—a yellow sedan—abruptly moved, jerking left as the driver turned the car and drove toward him.
His eyes swept the street. The roadway was barely wide enough for one vehicle, which meant there were no parked cars to potentially hide behind. Sidewalks on both sides of the roadway were tiny, perhaps two feet wide. To Dewey, it felt like a tunnel, with the light at both ends dimming, a gauntlet that, in that moment, Dewey understood would likely be the place he died.
Now that escape was unlikely, Dewey swore at himself for the few moments of freedom he’d had just after fleeing the square. He should’ve uploaded the contents of the SIM card while he had the time. He thought he could get clear and just carry it out. Mallory’s life, the entire mission—all of it would be pointless if the data on the SIM card was lost.
The yellow car began speeding down the narrow street.
Urban combat. Tight quarters. Daytime. You’re outnumbered and exposed. What’s your move, Andreas?
The words from training echoed inside his head. He was in Damascus, trapped on a narrow, curving residential side street, walled in on both s
ides by sandstone, cut off on both ends by men who wanted him dead.
His mind flashed to a long ago memory. Training. Fort Bragg. Close quarters combat—those exhausting, terrifying, occasionally exhilarating weeks learning urban guerrilla fighting tactics.
Find egress. A doorway, steps to a basement, anything that offers a physical or visual shield.
Dewey scanned the street as the yellow sedan came closer. He registered the vehicle behind him. It was a dark van, and it was closing in as well. The van’s front window was tinted black; he couldn’t see how many men were inside. Looking to the sedan, encroaching from in front of him, Dewey counted a driver, passenger, and two more men in back.
There were no windows, doorways, passageways, alleys, or other exits. The only thing he saw was a slight bend in the wall of homes twenty feet away, across the street, which created a small indentation. But it was not egress; his only hope was to shoot his way through one of the flanks.
He was trapped.
Being trapped is a state of mind. Even if you’re incarcerated, a gun against your head, even if a rope is tied to your neck, you’re never trapped. Unless you allow yourself to think you are. If you believe you’re trapped, you’re done.
Dewey ripped off the hijab, letting it fall to the sidewalk, and charged up the street, away from the van, toward the oncoming sedan, raising the MP7 as he ran, then firing at the oncoming vehicle. The spray of automatic weapon fire was like a thousand buzzing bees, electric and frantic, echoing along the sandstone walls. Slugs struck the front grille of the car, then the windshield, ripping a checkerboard of holes in the glass. The driver’s head was pulverized by the wash of bullets, but the passenger ducked, as did the men in back. Driverless, the speeding car veered sharply and slammed into the lip of the sidewalk, tires jumping the curb, just before barreling into the wall beneath a shutter-covered back window of a home.
