The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  Two Kalashnikov-carrying guards stood on either side of the entrance. At his approach, the left sentinel raised a halting hand.

  "What do you want?" the fighter inquired.

  "Is this the courthouse?" Ethan said.

  "Yes. Why?"

  Just then the main doors banged open and Suleman, of all people, emerged.

  "There he is," Suleman said. "The final traitor. Arrest him."

  32

  FIVE HOURS EARLIER

  Habib had feared his American masters at first. For some reason he had thought their drones and satellites could observe his every movement. And he had half believed the Americans had implanted some sort of tracker in his body when they had violated him.

  But slowly, very slowly, he began to realize they really had no clue regarding his whereabouts and those he interacted with, or about anything at all, really. The Americans weren't all powerful.

  They were fools.

  He had fed them a constant stream of disinformation. He had lied about the number of brothers in the training camps, what the instruction involved, who the trainers were. He had lied about the electrical and power situation in Raqqa, about his whereabouts and duties therein, about the name of his emir. He had lied about everything. And they had believed it all.

  The Americans had given him a Facebook account to use. He was to post encrypted text to a private group that had the nonsensical name of Al Husseini. When he had told the Americans he was headed northwest to a city without Internet, Akhtarin, they had believed that, too. He almost wished the forward camp had Internet available so that he could continue feeding them misinformation.

  Habib had done well in Kobane. With Allah's help he had distinguished himself among the fighters, so that when his emir was gunned down Habib had been immediately promoted to commander of Bear Brigade. When Habib died in jihad, which of course he must, he hoped Allah might look back at his many valiant deeds and allow him to enter the bliss of paradise. It was a feeble hope, but he clung to it.

  His unit had completed another rotation on the front, and he sat with the survivors in the bed of a pickup truck on its way back to the forward camp. There were only two brothers from his original brigade there with him. The others had gone to jannah, replaced by new fighters.

  He was tired, like his men, but he wore a brave face. As their leader it was his job to boost morale in whatever ways he could. The airstrikes were demoralizing enough—without those, the yellow faces would have fallen long ago. In his heart he knew Allah was on their side, however, and in the end the city would cede. Even if the Islamic State had to blow every last building to hell.

  The pickup arrived at the forward camp and he jumped down from the truck bed with the others.

  Habib stopped dead in his tracks.

  Another pickup had arrived only moments before his own, and a different unit had unloaded. Treading along nonchalantly among the brothers was the man he could never forget.

  AARON WAS RUDELY AWAKENED by three militants he didn't know. They disarmed him and dragged him from the house while the rest of his unit watched—those who were awake, anyway.

  "What's going on?" Aaron said.

  "Silence!" One of the militants jabbed him in the ribs.

  Another spoke into a two-way radio. "We got him."

  They brought him to the former Kurdish church that served as the sharia court and camp prison. He was searched; the cellphone, range finder and USB stick on his person were confiscated. He was brought to a small, white-painted room where five men awaited. Three of them were militants like Aaron. The other two, dressed in snowy robes and skull caps, were seated before a table with a Quran and a laptop on it.

  "That's him," one of the mujahadeen said.

  The man seemed familiar somehow, but Aaron couldn't place him.

  "He was carrying a USB stick, judge," one of the militants who had escorted Aaron said. "As well as a cellphone and a range finder. Abu-Osama is looking at them now. And we also found this among his personal belongings." He placed a fist-sized metal object on the table. "We're not sure, but we think it's some sort of communications device."

  The judge pushed up his eyeglasses and picked up the device to examine it. "Do you know who I am?"

  "No."

  "I am Judge Mohamed Al'Sharia. Everything you say from this moment forth will be used as evidence. Do you understand?"

  "What am I accused of?"

  Mohamed ignored him, his attention glued to the metallic artifact. "What is this?" He unfolded the black metal panels.

  It was a portable, solar-powered Internet hotspot. Military make. Aaron had acquired it after rendezvousing with a member of JSOC in Kobane a couple of days ago. He hadn't had a chance to properly hide it yet.

  Aaron shrugged. "I don't know, I found it on the streets of Kobane."

  The vaguely familiar mujahadeen stepped forward. "You lie, American." Such venom in his voice. Such hatred.

  Then it hit Aaron.

  Habib.

  The foreign jihadist the contractors had raped in Turkey. Aaron still hadn't gotten over the guilt he'd felt in that moment. He should have intervened. He wished he'd had the courage to stand up to those fools.

  At the time he'd been so angry at them and himself that he'd taken off his balaclava and stormed from the hotel room. Removing his mask had been an outward symbol of his defiance, almost an instinctive reaction to the repulsion he'd felt. It was a stupid thing to do, in hindsight, because although Habib had had his back to him, apparently the jihadi had seen his face somehow.

  "American!" Aaron sputtered in feigned outrage, struggling to recover. He felt slightly dizzy, and had to set a hand on the table to steady himself. He blinked a few times and then, realizing all eyes were upon him, he said, loudly, "How dare you call me by that name!"

  Habib smirked. "Do you see, judge, how he almost fainted at the accusation?"

  "It's because of the sheer rage I felt," Aaron said. "It took all my will to keep myself from smashing in your face. I'm not an American kaffir!"

  "Really?" Habib purred. "Then why do speak English so well?"

  "I don't know what he's talking about," Aaron told Mohamed. He kept his voice calm, measured. "I've never seen this man before in my life. You must believe me. He has confused me for someone else." Aaron placed his hand over the Quran on the table. "I swear by the sacred book."

  Habib slapped him in the face. "Don't touch the Quran, infidel! I have confused you for no one! I can never forget you, not after what you did!"

  Aaron feigned outrage, as would be expected of one so indignantly accused, and made a grab for Habib. The other militants intercepted him, restraining Aaron.

  He pretended to calm down. His mind was racing. His only hope was to poke holes in whatever fabricated story Habib might have come up with. And it was a fabrication—Habib would never admit to being on the receiving end of an act of sodomy. He would probably refuse to swear on the Quran. Aaron could use that.

  "What is it, exactly, you think I did?" Aaron asked sharply.

  Before Habib could answer, a commotion came from outside; William abruptly barged into the room. He didn't carry a weapon—it had likely been confiscated at the door.

  Bad move, Will, Aaron thought. Very bad move.

  He had hoped not to drag either of his fellow operatives into that mess.

  "What's going on?" William said. "I come looking for my friend, only to discover that he has been arrested. Do you know how many kaffir he has killed? Do you know—"

  "Your friend has been accused of being an American infidel and a spy," Mohamed interrupted.

  "Well, the accuser is wrong."

  "Your 'friend' was there when the Americans tried to recruit me during my hegira," Habib spat. "The pigs attempted to rape me in my hotel room in Turkey. Rape me! But I fought them off before they could do so, and I tore away this man's mask before he escaped. He is a homosexual in addition to an American and a spy."

  "I'll kill you for that." Aaro
n fought half-heartedly against the men who restrained him. At least he knew the fabricated story he was dealing with. "A homosexual, too!"

  Habib grinned. "It is common knowledge that all Americans are homosexuals."

  His lackeys laughed.

  It was time to start poking holes in Habib's story.

  "You say you resisted these Americans who broke into your hotel?" Aaron said. "How many were there?"

  "Three."

  "You fought off three men who caught you by surprise? Weren't they armed?"

  "I do not answer to you," Habib said. "I have already explained my case to Judge Mohamed."

  "If I am an infidel," Aaron persisted. "Why do I speak perfect Arabic? Why do I look and sound like I was born in Yemen? Why can I quote every passage in the Quran?"

  "The crafty ways of the kaffir know no bounds," Habib said. "The Americans are masters of deceit. Perhaps they surgically altered your face. Perhaps they made you live with a Yemeni boy so you could practice your Arabic every day—when you weren't raping him, that is."

  Aaron turned toward Mohamed. "You must believe me when I tell you I wasn't there."

  "The word of an emir carries more weight than the word of a common soldier," Mohamed said. "These are serious allegations, not made lightly, and we must treat them with the gravity they deserve."

  "Did he swear on the Quran that his testimony was true?" Aaron said, convinced that he was about to ensnare Habib.

  Mohamed bobbed his head. "He did."

  How was that possible? Such an oath was sacred to Muslims.

  Then Aaron had it. Habib believed he was doomed to hell for what had been done to him; if he was damned already, what did it matter if he lied while swearing on the Quran, especially if the lie allowed him to punish a perceived enemy?

  Aaron struggled to find a way out of the situation but he couldn't come up with anything. One thought repeated in his mind.

  Don't let them capture you.

  That path led only to beheading. He didn't want his family to remember him like that: dying on video while some jihadi chopped off his head. He could already see the headline. "Purported DIA contractor Aaron Berkley beheaded by Islamic State terrorists in new Youtube video released Sunday."

  A white-robed male aide entered the room, carrying Aaron's phone. "I need the PIN to unlock this."

  Mohamed looked at Aaron. "What is the code?"

  Aaron smiled grimly. There was a small problem with giving up access to his phone. Over the last few days, when he was in his sniper hide, he'd recorded video during the fighting, making snide comments regarding the buildings he'd targeted after they were blown to shit. "How's it feel to go to paradise, bitches?" "Enjoy your eternal erections." He'd wanted to feed his ego and show off to William and Ethan. Probably not the best idea, in retrospect.

  Also, on the offline map app he'd marked several possible locations where Sheik Abu Khattab Al-Kurdi, the battle commander, might be staying, based on bodyguards Aaron had seen around the houses. He'd also snapped surreptitious photos of the respective homes.

  He hadn't had a chance to wipe any of that data before his unexpected capture.

  "Your code?" Mohamed repeated.

  Aaron gave them a fake PIN number.

  "It's not working," the aide said.

  "Give him the proper code," Mohamed said.

  "I'm not really sure what it is," Aaron claimed. "I can't simply recite it from memory. It's an automatic thing. I need the phone in my hand to enter it."

  The aide glanced at Mohamed, who nodded, then he offered Aaron the cellphone.

  It would take too long to issue a hard reset to wipe the data: they'd realize what Aaron was doing immediately when they saw him holding down the three buttons, and then they'd pry it from his grip. Even if he succeeded, the act basically incriminated him.

  There had to be a way out. There had to be.

  Don't do anything reckless, he warned himself.

  Aaron calmly entered the fake PIN code. Three times.

  "It won't take my code," he lied. "I don't know why. Maybe I'm getting one of the digits wrong. I'm just too tired from my four days on the front. I need a good night's sleep, that's all."

  "And we're supposed to believe you?" Habib snarled.

  Aaron shrugged, then held out the cellphone to the aide, who took it back.

  "The fact that you refuse to unlock your phone doesn't help your case," Mohamed said. "In fact by not doing so, you implicate yourself."

  "It's not my fault," Aaron said. "I want to unlock it. I really do."

  "You are to be detained until you give up your PIN," Mohamed declared. "And if you won't talk, we have men who will make you."

  His greatest fear was finally coming true. Ma and pa would watch the beheading of their son online. No parents should ever have to witness such a thing. But what could he do?

  Many things.

  The militants who restrained him had loosened their hold slightly. So far, Aaron hadn't revealed his true strength, and he felt fairly certain he could break free with a series of sharp, explosive moves.

  He glanced at the nearest muj's holster.

  Don't let them capture you...

  Before Aaron could act, Habib drew his pistol and fired a shot directly into his thigh.

  Aaron sagged in the arms of the men who held him. The pain was unbearable. He was vaguely aware as other militants loyal to Mohamed switched to battle postures and spun their weapons toward Habib.

  "What are you doing?" Mohamed said.

  "Did you not see the infidel staring at the man's gun?" Habib cried. "I stopped the American pig before he could grab it. Besides, he deserves a little taste of his own medicine. How does it feel to be violated?"

  "Habib," Mohamed said. "I have to arrest you for this."

  "Well, in that case." Habib loosed another shot, striking Aaron in the shoulder.

  Any fight he might have had left was gone with that second bullet. If the militants weren't clutching him he would have collapsed. It would have been better if they let him go, because by holding him up by the arms like that, they prolonged his torture, stretching his freshly injured shoulder joint. Torn tendons rubbed against displaced cartilage and chipped bone. Such sheer, burning excruciation...

  "Habib, enough!" Aaron heard Mohamed say.

  He sensed motion to his right. The next thing he knew, Habib was lying on the floor with a gunshot wound to the temple, and William was beside him, subdued by the remaining militants in the room. A handgun, probably seized from another mujahid's holster, lay on the carpet in front of William.

  "What have you done?" Mohamed said.

  "A lucky shot, judge," William pleaded. "He was going to kill Abu-Aadil. I only intended to wound him."

  In a daze, Aaron stared at Habib. Blood pooled from the dead man's forehead onto the floor.

  "Do you know what this looks like?" Mohamed said. "You have murdered a witness—an emir—in cold blood to save the life of a suspected spy. You are now under suspicion of being a spy yourself." He nodded toward the men who restrained William. "Arrest him and prepare him for interrogation."

  "What about him?" one of the militants who gripped Aaron said.

  "Bind his wounds and take him to the interrogation ward as well." He glanced at Habib's bleeding corpse. "And someone clean that up!"

  "This is an outrage," William said as they hauled him away. "Abu-Aadil should be brought to the infirmary for proper treatment at the very least."

  "Hold your tongue, spy," Mohamed said.

  "I'm not a spy!" William shouted.

  "That remains to be seen. The interrogators will extract the truth either way. And even if you are not a spy, then you will be executed for the crime of murdering an emir."

  I'm sorry, William.

  Aaron's vision darkened as he descended into the sweet, painless embrace of unconsciousness.

  33

  Ethan remained motionless.

  Neither of the guards obeyed Suleman's command
to arrest him, so the man did the deed himself, taking Ethan's M24, Beast, along with his Dragunov, combat knife and radio. He also confiscated the bicep cuff that was part of Beast's sling system. Suleman searched him, but didn't find anything else of concern other than his cellphone. Ethan didn't say a word the whole time—it was best to keep his peace until he knew what was going on.

  Bringing one of the guards, Suleman led Ethan inside the foyer. Beyond it lay a tall, pyramidal chamber filled with rows of empty padded seats. Near a cleared central area, prisoners sat with their hands bound. Two AKM-wielding guards watched them. William and Aaron were not among the handcuffed group.

  Still in the foyer, Suleman steered Ethan to the left, into a wide overflow room populated with hardback chairs. He led him into a hallway, where another mujahid with an AK stood watch.

  Inside the hallway two closed doors resided on the left. He heard a shout from behind one of those doors.

  "I told you I don't know anything!"

  The Arabic voice belonged to Aaron.

  Ethan halted. All of his being called out at him to save his friend.

  Suleman shoved him onward. Ethan considered turning around and incapacitating the man and the guards right there, then breaking William and Aaron out in a blaze of ballistic glory, but he knew the chances of a daytime escape were extremely low. The whole camp would be mobilized against them within the first few minutes.

  Wait until dark, he told himself.

  Suleman placed him in a third room. A windowless, furniture-less affair.

  "Sit," Suleman told him.

  Ethan sat on the hard floor, near the wall.

  "Unlock your phone." Suleman handed him the smartphone he had previously confiscated.

  Ethan entered his PIN and unlocked the cellphone. He knew Suleman wouldn't find anything incriminating on it. Even if the zealous militant somehow discovered the hidden app, he'd be asked to enter another PIN. Ethan would simply claim the app was some sort of malware he didn't even know he had.

  Suleman retrieved the cellphone and performed a cursory check, obviously looking at the contacts, messages, and media. He probably disabled the lock mechanism.