Killing Ground

by Eric Meyer

  He glanced at her, and she was taking it calmly. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “Lieutenant, Colonel Stern did what was necessary. It’s true. That cop was about to kill him, and if they’d captured me, I don’t think I need to explain the rest of it.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  He stared at her for a few moments more, liking what he’d seen. She was one of those girls who were a rarity. On the one hand, had the looks and body that would make any man desire her, and yet on the other she was clearly no stranger to violence, no surprise after her service in the IDF. He understood something deep inside, or maybe not so deep. He wanted this girl. The question came out almost without thinking.

  “Rachel, so you aren’t married?”

  Her eyes flew open. “Excuse me?”

  He cursed himself for being stupid. “I, uh, wondered if you had dependents, that kind of thing, back in Israel.”

  She met his eyes, and she knew. “No, I am not married.”

  “No other family in Israel?”

  She shook her head.

  He didn’t ask any more, but he didn’t need to. She was that perceptive she knew exactly where he was coming from. If they ever got out of Syria, maybe there was a chance.

  While he’d been concentrating on her, Stern had been staring through the rear window.

  “They’re coming. One cop cruiser, and they’re gaining on us. How they managed to get down into the channel I’ve no idea, although they’ll be local, so they’d know where to find the access ramps.”

  “Ryder,” Nolan said urgently, “Can’t you make this thing go faster?”

  “It’s a worthless heap of crap, as you know. I’m driving at full speed, this is it.”

  He took a quick glance behind, in time to see a cop lean out from the passenger window. He was holding an assault rifle, and a moment later, a long burst of automatic fire smashed into the side of the channel. One bullet hit the rear window, traveled all the way through the vehicle without hitting anyone, and smashed out through the windshield. It starred, making visibility almost impossible, and Nolan slung up the butt of his rifle to smash out the rest of the glass. Another burst hammered past them, and two bullets drilled into the bodywork. They didn’t hit anyone and didn’t appear to cause any catastrophic damage to the running gear of the Nissan. But they couldn’t take many more. Sooner or later, they’d strike lucky.

  “Colonel, we need to hold them off. They’re getting closer.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “And Rachel, get down on the floor.”

  She didn’t get down on the floor. Stern twisted around and loosed off several shots at the pursuing cruiser. She knelt on the seat, aimed the Sig he’d loaned to her, and squeezed the trigger twice. The effect of the gunfire was immediate. The Syrians fell back, and the shooting stopped. But it was a matter of time before they came again, or they called for reinforcements.

  “It’s blocked up ahead,” Ryder shouted, “A wrecked car.”

  The vehicle looked as if it had plunged off the top, tilted over, and buried the trunk in the mud when there was water flowing. Viewed from their direction, it was like a ski ramp, and he didn’t need to say anything to John-Wesley.

  He took it at speed, as fast as the beat-up Nissan would go. It soared over the roof of the vehicle, which looked like an early Toyota Corolla, flying into the air for the second time in a matter of minutes. This time, it was more spectacular, and they traveled for ten meters before they started to descend. They hit the bed with a bone jarring crash. The Nissan bounced once, bounced again, and settled back on all four wheels. Ryder kept driving away from the obstacle, and the cops behind them attempted the same maneuver.

  There’s a huge difference between a tough SUV like the Nissan Patrol and the VW Passats in use by the local cops. They were designed for pursuing felons along the highways, like the Highway Patrol, not roughing it out in the boonies. The ground clearance of the Passat wasn’t enough, not by a long way. Instead of soaring over the roof of the wrecked Corolla, the wheels locked on the dented roof, and the forward motion made the VW somersault. It came to rest on the bed of the channel, and the siren, which had been wailing like a banshee, slowed to a low groan before it stopped completely.

  After driving another kilometer, John-Wesley found a kind of exit ramp, created by the side of the channel caving in. It was all they needed to get out into open country. He took the ramp, still driving speed, and they emerged into a litter of boulders at the bottom of a range of low hills. Their choices were limited. In the distance, now several kilometers away, cop cars were racing along the other side of the channel. He started for the hills, and Nolan prayed the malfunctioning engine would carry them up the slope. If they made it, they stood a chance to get away from the cops, but not from ISIS.

  “Lieutenant, ahead of us, waiting at the top of the slope.”

  He jerked his head around, and they were there. The ISIS trucks, the backs loaded with fighters. Just like he said, like spiders, waiting for the fly to enter their web. And they were the fly.

  “Why are they so interested in us?”

  Stern coughed. “You said you were carrying a large sum of money. My guess is they didn’t see Waverley take off, and they believe we transferred it to this vehicle after we killed those men. They think all they have to do is ambush us and kill us. Then they’ll be rich.”

  There was nothing they could do. Ryder stayed away from the slope, steering a course between the cops on one side and ISIS on the other.

  He kept driving, and on both sides, they continued to follow. The cops careful to steer a parallel course, although unable to close because of the irrigation channel, and the four ISIS trucks steering a wide circle into the hills, frequently disappearing, and then reappearing just when they thought they’d lost them.

  Nolan knew the end would come close. Sooner or later, they’d close in for the kill. The irrigation channel would peter out, and the cruisers would sweep toward them, blazing away with their automatic rifles. With their superior speed, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Or the four trucks loaded with black-clad ISIS would find an easy way down, hurtle down the slope toward them, and the end would be much the same.

  He quartered the region, searching for any way out, anything that could give them an advantage enough to escape. They didn’t find one, but they escaped. The trucks took a turn higher into the hills, and looking up it was obvious there was no way they could get back down the slope. The track they’d taken led higher into the range of hills, and he guessed it would take them all the way over the top and down the other side, whatever was there. The cops hit an obstacle. The irrigation channel didn’t peter out, but it reached a river, where it would have collected water in the rainy season. The river was also dry, and it was wide, very wide. With patches of thick mud in the center, it was impossible to cross in anything but a purpose-built amphibian.

  For the first time, they had a chance, a chance to escape the trap that had closed around them after they’d hit the checkpoint. Ryder drove on for several kilometers, and the going became too rough. Boulders were strewn everywhere, and no way to get past. But there was a way. Up into the hills, a narrow track.

  “It’s that or nothing,” he said to Nolan, “What do you want me to do?”

  “We don’t have a choice. But all of you keep your eyes peeled. I think we lost those ISIS trucks, but just in case.” He looked the girl. “Rachel, you have the Sig loaded?”

  “Of course.”

  “We should be okay, but if the worst comes to the worst, and you think they could capture you…”

  She nodded. “Save one bullet, I know.” Unexpectedly, she smiled at him, “Lieutenant Nolan, I’m not worried. I think you will look after me.”

  “Sure, sure.” The way she’d said it, the warmth in that smile, told him a lot. He felt embarrassed, like he had a schoolboy crush on her, “The name’s Kyle.”

  “Kyle, I like that.”

  A pity
this had to happen here of all places. We’re trapped in the middle of hostile territory, and it’s no use kidding ourselves. ISIS won’t give up, and the cops won’t give up. So what do I do? The same as always, I guess. The mission comes first. But Rachel comes a close second, and in third place? Waverley. Provided I get to him before Ryder.

  They drove up into the hills. The track was steep, so the Nissan crawled the last part of the way, the engine coughing and spluttering. They came out onto a part of the track less steep than before, and they picked up a little speed, but not much. And then Ryder glanced aside.

  “We need gas. The way we’ve been driving this thing, we’ve burned up more gas than I would have realized.”

  “How much is left in the tank?”

  “A gallon, no more.”

  “Shit, a gallon will just about get us back to the highway, and in this neck of the woods, we won’t find a friendly Esso station anywhere. Not before we hit Damascus.”

  “I assure you, it won’t be friendly,” Stern said dryly.

  “Where’s the nearest gas?”

  Stern and Ryder answered at the same time. “Hama.”

  “Where we know they’ll be waiting for us. They’ll spot this vehicle the moment we approach the town, and we can get any gas. If there was another way…”

  They were still climbing the track, and the surface was rutted, as if it was in frequent use. If they were in any doubt about the number of vehicles that use it, the one coming toward them was a case in point, an old Citroen, the vintage DS19 model, dating back to the 60s. They were astonished to see it on the road, almost like a spaceship and landed from Mars. And then he noticed the universal sign on the roof. Taxi.

  “Stop the car!” he shouted, “This could be it.”

  Before the wheels had stopped turning, he leaped out, waving his hands for the taxi to stop. It pulled over twenty meters from the Nissan, and the driver stared out of the window. If the cab had been old, vintage, almost ancient, the driver was more so. A thin, wizened man, he looked like he’d been around since the start of the century, the previous century. He was bald, toothless, his skin a mass of wrinkles, and his eyes looked milky and blurred. Probably cataracts, the curse of the Third World, and those Islamic countries who despite their oil wealth, failed to use it for the benefit of their citizens. Nolan was wondering how the guy managed to steer the taxi when he spoke in Arabic.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “English, yes. I speak good.”

  “Mister, we need gas. We have jerry cans in the trunk. I need you to take me down to Hama to find a gas station. Can you do that?”

  He looked concerned and looked down at the ground, shuffling his feet. “Hama is not good for me. The cops, they give me trouble.” He waved his hand around the surrounding hills, “That’s why I do most of my work out here, taking passengers and goods to outlying farms and sometimes the oil surveys. They pay well, and I don’t have any problems.”

  He wasn’t ready to own up they had their own problems with the cops, and he asked the guy what problems he had in Hama.

  “I am Yazidi, you know what that means?”

  “Some religious sect, isn’t it? One of these fringe Islamic groups.”

  He shook his head so violently, Nolan worried he was going to bang it on the side of the Citroen. “Islamic no. No, no, no. That’s why they hate us.”

  “So what are you? A Christian?”

  “No, no, not Christian.”

  “What then?”

  “It is an ancient religion, and it predates both Islam and Christianity. The Muslims do everything possible to force us to convert, and so far, most of us have refused. Many have died, and ISIS kidnapped many of our young women, forcing them into prostitution. Which is why I stay out of the town. There is not so much work out in the country, and my vehicle doesn’t handle the hills very well. But I have learned to keep it running, and I make a living.”

  “That’s rough, but if you can help us, we can pay well.”

  For the first time, the wary look faded from his eyes, and he began to look interested. “How well?”

  Nolan was working out how much cash they had between them. Admiral Jacks had given him five hundred dollars for expenses, but right now all they needed to spend money on was gasoline. “Four hundred dollars.”

  His eyes brightened, and he looked interested. But not quite interested enough to risk his life and his livelihood. “Let me think.”

  “Something else, when we’re finished in Syria, this vehicle is yours. You will find the Nissan much better in your line of work.”

  He eyed the battered Patrol, and his expression brightened. “Fetch the jerry cans. We will go now.”

  Before he left, Ryder shouted to him, “Boss, if anything happens, I’ll take care of him.”

  He nodded and climbed into the passenger seat with the two jerry cans. As they drove away, he noticed Ryder, Stern, and Rachel spreading out into a semblance of a defensive perimeter. The best they could do if any hostiles happened on them. He tried to make himself comfortable in the seat, but the springs had pushed through the worn upholstery, and in the end he put a jerry can on the seat and sat on it. The driver, who said his name was Misha, grinned.

  “When I have the Nissan, things will be different. I will be able to charge more.”

  Nolan nodded and smiled. Although he was thinking how much more than four hundred dollars he could charge for a short ride and a couple of cans of gas. He was tense, fingering his borrowed AKM, and waiting for trouble. He found none. Misha knew his way across the rough ground, suggesting he’d been the same way on several occasions, probably to avoid trouble. Syria was a country synonymous with trouble, a battleground for every cause that decided to take up arms, and for its civilians, an accurate portrayal of hell. Like a painting he’d once seen, Hieronymus Bosch’s ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights.’ Enough to give a guy the creeps, a bit like Syria.

  The elderly Citroen with its even more elderly driver bumped and jolted over the rough ground. Frequently, the underside jarred and scraped at it passed some unforeseen obstacle. If Misha noticed, he didn’t say. With a final lurch, they joined a metaled roadway, and he picked up speed. Something had come loose during the journey, and he realized it was the tailpipe, scraping along the road. A glance behind showed it was leaving a trail of sparks.

  He looked at Misha.

  “Your exhaust came loose.”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh, maybe we should fix it before it falls into the street.”

  “It won’t fall off. It happens all the time, nothing to worry about. The other end is still fastened to the chassis.”

  “Okay.”

  They reached the gas station in the center of town, and he drove straight to the pumps. Nolan slung his rifle over his back to keep it out of sight, leaving him to fill the jerry cans while he looked around for any signs of trouble. Cops or military, but apart from several innocent-looking civilian vehicles, he saw nothing to worry him. He circled the block, there was still nothing, and he started to relax. He rounded the corner, and the gas station came into view. He’d relaxed too soon. While he watched, a cop cruiser had pulled up next to Misha’s Citroen, and two uniformed officers climbed out. At first, he assumed they’d stopped for a routine check, or maybe to buy gas. They hadn’t. They made for Misha, and one shouted a question at him.

  He ignored them at first. They were laughing and joking, and it was obvious it wasn’t an arrest. But as they drew near, he stopped pumping gas and spoke to them. Whatever he said it wasn’t enough to satisfy them, and one cop stepped up to him and pushed him back against the Citroen. While he watched in horror, they waded in with their fists, punching him repeatedly to the stomach. He tried to protect himself with his arms, but they switched to his face, and then one cop drew his baton and swung it against his legs.

  He’d had enough, and he raced forward, grabbed the cop with the baton by his collar, and spun him around. Before he could recover, Nolan
slammed a vicious chop into his throat that left him struggling to breathe. As he stepped closer to the second cop, he hooked a boot behind his ankle, and he went down, choking as he tried to draw breath.

  He almost made it to hammer blow into the other cop, but the ground around the gas station was slippery with oil and grease, and he tripped and fell. The cop smiled, a cold, sadistic smile of pleasure, and he dropped a hand to the gun on his belt. His hand closed around the butt, he drew the weapon, and aimed at Nolan. Lying on his back he was almost helpless, staring into the eyes of a man he knew was about to squeeze the trigger. He’d seen that look too many times in the past, the look of a sadist. A man who got his kicks from the amount of suffering he could cause.

  He had less than a second to live, and with no way of reaching his rifle that was underneath him, he made the only possible move. Reached inside his coat for his combat knife, brought his arm back, and threw. The cop stared at him through astonished eyes, and then he looked down at the blood pouring down his chest. Slowly, his knees began to buckle, and he dropped to the ground.

  He went to help the elderly taxi driver to his feet. “How bad is it?”

  He was shaking his head, trying to put on a brave face, even though he was obviously hurt. “I’ve had worse. Did you kill that man?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. He was about to start shooting.”

  “Then we’re in trouble. Quick, back into the car. We must get out of town fast.”

  He threw the two filled jerry cans onto the rear seat, started the engine, and the car leapt forward. He heard a shout from behind, and Nolan saw the gas station attendant waving his arms.

  “Did you pay for the gas?”

  “In cash? No.” He pointed at the cuts and bruises on his face where he’d received several punches, “I paid for it in another way.”

  He nodded. “I guess you did at that.”

  He drew out of the town, and the old vehicle hurtled along at an insane speed. Several times he lost control and skidded into vehicles parked at the roadside, putting even more dents into the bodywork of the battered Citroen. They were nearing the outskirts of the town and were going to make it. Until Misha turned into a street, at the same time as a cop car turned into the other end. He saw them coming and braked, slowing the vehicle at an angle across the road so it was totally blocked. Misha stamped on the brake pedal, slammed the Citroen into reverse, and backed out, in time for them to see two more cruisers speeding toward them.