The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  Ethan drove in front of the middle headblock, partially shielding the kneeling woman from the crowd's view, and parked. Was it her? It had to be.

  It had to.

  Leaving the driver-side window open, he grabbed the Dragunov from the passenger seat, slung it over his shoulder and, still wearing his balaclava, stepped out.

  23

  He made a mental note of the crowd-control militants among the throng, easily identifiable by their AKs. Four on the right side. Three on the left, including the mujahid who held the male prisoner. There was no sign of Raafe. Couldn't stand to watch the beheading of his own sister in the end, apparently.

  One of the militants stepped forward, shouting, "What are you doing?" Another French accent.

  Moving slowly, imperiously, like he had every right to be there, Ethan raised a halting hand toward the foreign fighter.

  "Be silent, Frenchman," Ethan said in perfect Arabic. He had noticed that foreign jihadists were treated with disdain by the native-speaking emirs. He thought he'd try to play that up.

  The man froze.

  Good.

  None of them knew who he was, not while he wore the balaclava. Perhaps he could convince them he was some high-ranking emir. Perhaps he could get through this without firing a single shot.

  It was a nice thought.

  The executioner regarded Ethan with a mix of curiosity and indignation. A stern-featured, middle-aged man, he was dressed in a black, flowing robe with a chador-like hood rimming his face. His long gray beard reached his sternum. He looked like a deeply religious man. Maybe an imam.

  Ethan walked past him and gave the executioner a come hither gesture. He approached the clock tower; there was a metal post at each of its four corners, where guardrails once hung. Ethan stepped around the right-hand corner of the tower, out of the sightline of the three militants to his left but in full view of those on his right.

  Ethan peered past the edge. The executioner hadn't moved from his spot. Ethan beckoned again, more emphatically, and finally the gray-bearded man grudgingly came forward, sword dangling from his hand.

  He reached Ethan.

  "How dare—" the executioner began.

  Ethan decided instantly that no words would sway the man. Better to act while surprise was on his side.

  He withdrew the Makarov from his belt and shot the executioner in the thigh.

  Cries of fear and outrage erupted from the throng. Many people ducked.

  Ethan caught the executioner and swiveled toward the four crowd-control fighters on his right, placing the headman firmly between himself and them; the clock tower at his back shielded him from the remaining men.

  Though all four of the mujahadeen had raised their AKs, none of them fired for fear of harming the headman, who was obviously some important religious official.

  Ethan raised his pistol and let off three shots in rapid succession, adjusting his aim slightly to the right each time. Red blooms erupted from each militant's forehead in turn, and they toppled in place like marionettes whose strings had been cut.

  Before he got off the fourth shot, the last muj finally opened fire. Blood spurted from the executioner's chest as the bullets struck. Ethan felt the impacts as his Kevlar body armor deflected the reduced-energy ballistics that passed through the headman.

  Ethan squeezed the trigger and the last tango went down.

  The crowd was in full retreat by then.

  With all four militiamen on the right side down, Ethan tossed the executioner's bullet-riddled body aside like so much refuse.

  He peered past the clock tower's base. The crowd was dispersing to the far ends of the square, preventing the militants at the various roadblocks from reaching the structure.

  The woman remained kneeling before the headblock, as if oblivious to her surroundings, waiting for death to come. The other man slated for execution lay on the steps, blood seeping from a fresh bullet hole to his temple. After seeing that, Ethan did a double take on the woman, worried that she too had been shot by the militants, but he couldn't discern any blood on her niqab.

  There was no sign of the remaining three crowd-control fighters. Wait... on the opposite end of the structure, the barrel of a Kalashnikov abruptly protruded, along with the head and shoulders of the mujahid holding it.

  Ethan ducked just as the muzzle fired. Shards of black rock broke away from the tower beside him.

  Likely the other two militants were making their way around the back side to outflank him.

  Ethan removed one of the RGD-5 fragmentation grenades from his harness. He squeezed the lever, pulled the pin, crossed the two meters to the rear side of the tower, and without looking he tossed the grenade beyond the edge.

  He heard the loud "pop" as the fuze of the grenade ignited midflight, followed by a shout a moment later.

  Ethan retreated, hugging his side of the clock tower, keeping his Makarov pointed at the edge.

  One of the militants raced into view, trying to escape the grenade. Ethan shot him in the forehead.

  The ground shook as the one hundred and ten gram charge of TNT in the grenade detonated around the bend. The liner could produce over three hundred fragments, lethally shredding anything within a radius of three meters, and injuring up to fifteen meters out from the site of activation. Not bad for a grenade that sold for five US dollars.

  Fragments blurred the air ahead of him and Ethan instinctively looked away, though there was no chance the pieces could reach him where he stood.

  Pistol raised, he leaned past the rear rim. A militant lay on the ground near the base of the tower, quivering, covered in blood.

  Just then, the third militant peered past the far edge to check on his friends. Ethan adjusted his aim slightly and fired. A red dot appeared in the man's cheek and he crumpled.

  Ethan lowered his aim and put the second man out of his misery. The slide on the gun locked open—he'd fired all eight rounds.

  He replaced the spent magazine with the fresh one from his harness, then flicked the pistol's slide-stop lever downward with his thumb. The device returned to its forward closed position, chambering a fresh cartridge in the process.

  The square was quickly emptying. Ethan sprinted toward the faceless woman, who had sat up by that point, though she remained on her knees before the headblock.

  As he reached her, gunfire erupted from the northernmost section of the square. Apparently the crowd had thinned enough for the militants manning the roadblocks there to open fire.

  Ethan crouched beside her, using the white subcompact car as his shield. At that range the AK bullets wouldn't penetrate the vehicle.

  He hoped.

  "Alzena?" he said.

  That featureless black head turned toward him. "Yes?"

  He recognized her voice immediately. It was definitely Alzena, though she sounded dazed. Momentary relief washed over him, but he shoved it aside. He had to remain focused. A cold, emotionless killing machine.

  Keeping low, he helped Alzena to a crouch and brought her to the passenger door. He shoved the pistol into her hands.

  She bobbed her head to look at it; probably didn't know the first thing about firing a 9-mil.

  "Let me know if anyone comes at us from behind," Ethan said, referring to the southernmost roadblock, which was still obscured by fleeing civilians.

  He swung the Dragunov down from his shoulder and aimed past the subcompact's rear bumper, toward the line of trucks that blockaded the northwest section of the square. He aligned the metal sights over the head of a militant who peered past the truck bed of one of the Hilux Vigos. The range was about thirty meters.

  Ethan fired, ducking behind the Rio immediately afterward. Bullets ricocheted from the car's frame beside him in answer.

  Don't hit the tires. Don't hit the tires.

  "Is it really you?" Alzena said from beside him.

  Ethan refused to look at her. "Couldn't let you die because of me."

  "Oh Alrajil, what have you done?"

/>   "Ethan," he said.

  "What?"

  "Ethan." He finally glanced at her. "My real name." It was important to him that she knew in that moment. He opened the passenger door. "Get in. Stay low."

  Staying crouched, he maneuvered to the front of the Rio and aimed over the hood. He picked out the head and shoulders of another militant and let off a shot, then ducked. Behind him, the crowd on the southside of the square was thinning. The militants there would be able to join the fray shortly. Time to go.

  He returned to the passenger door. Alzena had obeyed him, and sat hunched in the seat.

  Ethan slung the Dragunov over his shoulder and snatched the Makarov from her. He hauled himself over her huddled form, firing through the open driver side window with the pistol as he did so. He aimed in the general direction of the northwest roadblock. It was a spray and pray tactic, with the emphasis on pray.

  He slid over the center console with its stick shift, cup holder and parking brake. When he reached the driver seat he immediately ducked beneath the window. Bullets zinged past.

  He put the vehicle in gear and peered over the dash to drive toward the northwest roadblock. He could've attempted one of the other barricades that sealed off the square instead, but decided it was better to deal with the devil he knew.

  As the Rio neared the roadblock, he leaned out the window and aimed at the tires of the nearest pickup. He fired a couple of shots, but missed. Shooting from a moving vehicle was never his forte. The slide on the Makarov abruptly locked open. Empty magazine.

  Return fire came, and Ethan ducked inside.

  He steered the Rio toward the gap between the rightmost pickup and the adjacent building, the same path he'd taken on the way in. Both sides of the vehicle received fire as the militants manning the other roadblocks engaged.

  "Stay down!" Ethan told Alzena, hoping the Rio would hold up to the battering.

  The windshield abruptly shattered in several places, leaving big, crater-like holes. A rocket-propelled-grenade exploded near the rear bumper and the blast momentarily tilted the subcompact.

  When all four wheels were on the ground again Ethan ripped past the rightmost Toyota Hilux, scraping his car against it. Bullets momentarily riddled the Rio's driver side as the militants crouching behind the Toyotas continued to fire; the shots cut out as he drove onward and the gridlocked traffic on the road obscured the subcompact.

  The sidewalk swarmed with pedestrians fleeing the square, and Ethan honked constantly, alternately braking and accelerating as the foot traffic dodged out of the way. It was difficult to see through the cratered windshield, but he planned on abandoning the subcompact shortly.

  In the rearview mirror he spotted a black Hilux Vigo racing down the sidewalk in pursuit. Following in the Rio's wake, the Toyota would soon overtake them since less pedestrian traffic hindered its advance.

  Still honking, Ethan scanned the avenue, trying to spot an exfil route. There, an alleyway across the street, about half a block distant.

  He slammed on the brakes. "Out!"

  He exited the subcompact and led Alzena by the hand, weaving between the densely packed vehicles.

  Gunfire erupted behind them. Ethan pulled Alzena low and continued toward the alleyway. He heard the characteristic screech of rapid braking; glancing over the hood of a nearby car, he saw that the pursuing Hilux had stopped behind the Rio.

  Eight militants leaped out of the truck bed and headed after them.

  24

  Ethan led Alzena forward, keeping low. Bullets occasionally ricocheted from the gridlocked vehicles around them.

  He reached the sidewalk and pulled her into the tight confines of the alley he'd spotted earlier. They raced beneath crowded clotheslines and over trash piles. The stench of cat urine was strong. Ahead, two street urchins were eating some bread, probably stolen; the pair scattered at Ethan's approach.

  As he and Alzena exited the far end, he grabbed the last RGD-5 fragmentation grenade from his harness. He squeezed the lever, pulled the pin, and waited beside the opening.

  He peered into the alleyway. The militants had only just entered.

  Ethan didn't throw the grenade immediately. When the group was about five meters into the alley, he tossed the bomb and ran.

  He heard the explosion and didn't look back.

  He led Alzena down a side street where the traffic was far less dense and he flagged down a passing Hyundai Elantra. He commandeered the white compact at gunpoint, forcing out a man in a business suit.

  Once Alzena was inside, Ethan performed a mid-street U-turn and accelerated north toward the Raqqa city limits. He set the Dragunov down on the dashboard and tore off his balaclava.

  Several Hilux pickups roared past on the left side of the road, packed with militants headed for Clock Tower Square.

  Ethan apprehensively watched the pickups in his rearview mirror. He saw the businessman trying to flag them down but the vehicles ignored him and sped away.

  Ethan exhaled in relief. He felt a little lightheaded, which he attributed to adrenaline hangover. Of course it didn't help that he'd skipped breakfast.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  His passenger grunted some quiet reply.

  "Alzena?"

  "I'm fine," she said, though she sounded far from it. "Where are we going? Where?"

  "Calm down. I don't know. Out of the city, maybe."

  "What about the checkpoints?" she said, a little hysterically. "They'll ask for our IDs. I don't have mine anymore. We'll be detained."

  "They'll let us pass." His eyes darted toward the Dragunov on the dashboard. "One way or another."

  "They're going to kill us," Alzena said. "We're going to die."

  "We're not going to die. Relax, Alzena."

  Ethan spotted a checkpoint up ahead and purposely detoured to another street. He wasn't ready to deal with the Islamic State and their ilk, not yet. And Alzena certainly wasn't.

  "How did you get arrested?" Ethan said, wanting to distract her. But the moment he asked the question he regretted it. He was certain the answer involved him, and he already blamed himself enough as it was.

  Alzena took a moment to respond. He could hear her taking deep breaths, a relaxation technique. "Sorry, I just—" Wait, those weren't breaths: she was sobbing.

  "Take your time," Ethan said.

  In about a minute she had recovered enough to talk. "I... I didn't realize it at the time, but when you came to my apartment that night, the neighbor's son observed everything."

  "The neighbor's son," Ethan said flatly.

  "Yes. Just a boy of eleven years. His door is across from mine. There is a spyhole."

  "Great."

  "When my brother visited on Wednesday, the son intercepted him and told him he had seen a strange man entering my apartment. My brother thanked him profusely and paid the child ten thousand pounds. I watched the entire transaction unfold from behind my door." She paused. "Is that how much my life is worth? Ten thousand pounds?" That was the equivalent of fifty bucks.

  Ethan tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Definitely his fault. Worse, if the child had told Raafe about Ethan, then his cover had indeed been blown the moment he woke up that morning. If he had remained on duty at the checkpoint, likely he would have been arrested at some point during the day. It was a good thing he had gone ahead with the rescue attempt—if he had held back under the pretense of preserving his cover, he would have never forgiven himself.

  "You don't have to come with me," Alzena said suddenly. The sorrow had left her voice, replaced by steel. A strong woman.

  "I'm a wanted man now," Ethan said.

  "But you wore your balaclava back there," Alzena countered.

  "It doesn't matter. Your brother knows what I look like."

  "Yes, but he thinks you're a different suitor," Alzena said.

  Ethan felt his brows draw together. "What do you mean?"

  "He doesn't know it was you who met me that night. In fact, he believes it wa
s another man."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The child didn't see your face," Alzena said. "So I told my brother a different mujahid had come that night."

  "But Raafe left a message in the draft folder of the email account we shared."

  "He did. I told him that was how I communicated with the man."

  "So who does he think he was contacting?"

  "Samuel Al Jordani, the fitness professional who knew my dearly departed husband. Not you, Alrajil... Ethan."

  "You told him it was Samuel?" Ethan said in disbelief. "The alias I used to meet the scientist?"

  "Yes."

  "And you're certain he believed you?" Ethan pressed.

  "I swore on the Quran."

  "Ah." Muslim's didn't take that oath lightly. "So there's still a chance for me, then."

  "But not me," Alzena added.

  "You're wrong." Ethan spun the wheel and did a U-turn, heading back toward the city center.

  "Where are we going?"

  "You'll see," Ethan said. "By the way, if I ever bump into that treacherous brother of yours again, I'm going to—"

  "You'll never meet him again," Alzena interrupted. "He volunteered for a martyrdom operation in Damascus against the Assad regime. He's already left the city. He'll be dead by the end of the week."

  Good riddance.

  Still, by sending that email to Ethan, maybe a small part of her brother, the part that loved his sister, hoped "Samuel" would somehow save her. That was the only explanation Ethan had for the message, since the trap theory had been disproved. Unless the email had been Raafe's twisted way of gloating.

  Ethan reached the neighborhood he was looking for and parked the stolen Hyundai against the curb. He opened the door. "This way!"

  Two blocks later Ethan arrived at Mufid's lingerie shop. When Ethan burst inside, the fifteen-year-old son of the owner started to duck behind the counter, but stopped himself when he realized who it was.

  Mufid was conversing with a local near the entrance; when he saw Ethan, the shopkeeper promptly escorted out the other Syrian and locked the door.