by Isaac Hooke
He stealthily lowered himself from the ledge until he was hanging there, his back to the men, his boots two and a half feet above the ground.
Then he let go, letting his knees bend so that he landed in a crouch. He tried to touch down silently but a couple of the magazines in his harness rattled. He sensed the guards moving behind him.
Ethan twisted, withdrawing the combat knife at his belt with one hand and the spare blade from his boot with the other. He stood up, stepping forward, spreading his arms, burying each knife into the necks of both men. Composed of 55-58 HRC stainless steel that tapered to a spear point, the almost pure black, six and half inch long Voron-3 blades slid easily into the flesh, the silver-tipped cutting edges meeting little resistance.
The two militants gargled sickeningly. One fell, but the other struggled to bring about his AKM. Ethan yanked the knife forward, ripping the cartilage of the man's larynx open in a stream of gristle and gore. He collapsed.
Ethan dragged both bodies, one after the other, into the foliage that grew along the base of the building. He turned off their two-way radios and washed the blood from his hands with water from their canteens. There was nothing he could do about the crimson stains he'd left behind on the pavement, however.
Ethan opened the main doors and slipped into the foyer. Keeping close to the wall so that none of the guards in the central chamber beyond would see him, he proceeded into the overflow room with its hardback chairs. He approached the hallway on the other side of the room, knowing a mujahid awaited on watch within.
He calmly removed his balaclava and entered.
The militant on duty straightened instantly. A youth scarcely out of his teens, he sat in a chair near the closed door to the left, where Ethan had heard Aaron shouting earlier.
The militant fingered the trigger on his AK, but otherwise kept the weapon lowered.
"Salaam," Ethan said. "I am here to pick up the prisoners."
SULEMAN TREMBLED in the guest room. Not from cold, as the air was warm. Nor from the pain he felt in his smashed nose. No, he trembled from sheer, unmitigated rage.
He had given himself up to Emad, believing him a true brother. Believing Emad understood him. Suleman had revealed everything to him and made his peace.
But Emad had humiliated Suleman. He had refused to grant his martyrdom request. For that, and for the knowledge of Suleman's true identity that he had obtained, Emad could not be allowed to live.
Suleman fought against his binds but it was useless.
Then he heard movement in the foyer. The silhouette of a man appeared.
Beneath Suleman's gag, he smiled.
35
Ethan stared down the young guard.
"I was not told there would be a pick up," the mujahid said.
"They are to be transferred to Raqqa immediately," Ethan said authoritatively. "Radio your emir, you will see."
"Judge Mohamed is my emir," the youth said. "He is asleep."
"Then either wake him," Ethan insisted. "Or allow me through."
The youth hesitated. "I will wake him. Come." He beckoned toward the hall, indicating that Ethan should walk in front of him.
Ethan moved casually past the militant; when he was only slightly in front, he spun to the left and gave the youth a controlled knifehand strike to the neck. He hit the carotid sinus at just the right angle, with just the right pressure, to fool his brain into thinking his blood pressure had shot through the roof.
The militant crumpled as his medulla oblongata hurried to compensate.
Ethan disarmed the man and seized his two-way radio. He tried the door. Locked. A quick search of the militant's cargo pockets yielded a key ring.
As he unlocked the door the militant stirred. Ethan grabbed the man by the wrists and dragged him inside.
Aaron lay bound and gagged in one corner of the room, but when he saw Ethan he brightened visibly. One of his eyes was swollen shut. The right portion of his lower lip was a fat, purple mess. The big man still wore his fatigues, and likely had similar bruises over the rest of his body. He was barefooted. Gauze wrapped his left thigh and right shoulder—gunshot wounds? Smaller bandages covered his index fingers and big toes, likely where his nails had been forcibly removed.
Ethan felt sick to his stomach. They'd all undergone torture training and knew what to expect, but still... at least in training they knew it was going to end. Real life didn't afford that luxury. And the worst the instructors had ever inflicted was a good water boarding, that or leaving them tied up naked and soaking wet in subzero temperatures.
The momentarily forgotten youth was struggling in his arms. Ethan clocked him in the face, letting out his anger, and the mujahid went limp. Ethan duct-taped his mouth and then his wrists. By the time Ethan got to his feet, the youth was fighting again. Ethan sat on him and finished the job, securing his hands to his ankles just as he'd done with Suleman.
He ripped the tape from Aaron's mouth.
"Ow," Aaron complained. "You took away some of my beard, dammit."
Ethan had to smile. The resiliency of the human spirit never ceased to amaze him. Even after all he'd been through that day, Aaron still had his sense of humor.
Ethan cut away the rest of Aaron's bonds.
His friend shifted, wincing. "Damn I'm stiff."
"I know you're happy to see me, but come on."
Aaron rolled his eyes. "I said stiff, not stiffy."
Ethan helped him stand.
"Gah!" Aaron exclaimed. "Man, that's pain."
Ethan folded Aaron's uninjured arm over his neck. "You were shot?" He nodded toward the bandaged shoulder.
"Yeah," Aaron said. "Leg and shoulder. That could be a new shampoo. Beats dandruff better than the leading brand."
It wasn't funny. The shoulder was one of the worst body parts to take a bullet. Most of the time such a wound resulted in permanent disability, as the deltoid was simply too compact of a unit—with several highly specialized structures crowded into such a small space there was really no "safe" path for a bullet to travel. His friend would have to endure several reconstructive surgeries, and months, if not years, of rehabilitation.
Ethan tried a few tentative steps. "You're heavier than you look."
"That's what your wife always told me." Aaron's breath came in strained heaves.
Ethan peered into the hall to make sure the way was clear, then he helped Aaron through the door and locked it behind him, sealing the militant within.
Luckily, Ethan found William in the adjacent room. The other operative seemed better off than Aaron, though he had similar bruising on his face, and gauze also wrapped several of his fingertips and toes. He hadn't been shot, however, and that probably made all the difference.
After Ethan freed him, William was able to help with Aaron—he wrapped one arm around the injured operative's waist, careful to avoid his damaged shoulder.
"So what's the plan?" William said quietly, when they entered the hall.
"We make our way to Kobane, fuck up the Islamic State on the way to the front lines, then surrender to the Kurds."
"Sounds easy," William deadpanned.
Outside, Ethan led them to where he had hidden the two bodies. William and Aaron pilfered the boots and weapons of the dead men.
"Look at this." Aaron held up a harness in the dim light, revealing the five RGD-5 fragmentation grenades it contained. "I found me some Easter eggs."
Sharing Aaron between them, Ethan and William hurried onward. They kept to the shadows, avoiding the night patrols, making their way toward the outskirts of town.
The trio reached an intersection. Distant, muffled Arabic drifted to them from beyond the bend.
Staying in cover behind the nearest home, Ethan released Aaron, leaned past the edge, and raised Beast's scope to eye level. The NV clip-on presented everything in a greenish-black hue. The reticule in the Leupold Mark 4 day optic was unaffected; the beaded cross hairs appeared as a black overlay.
The dim glow provide
d by the rooftop blazes provided ample illumination for the NV, which auto-gated as the scope passed over brighter areas. He spotted a handful of militants two blocks to the north, guarding a checkpoint that led in and out of the village. The men lounged in front of a pair of Iraqi Army M1114 Up-Armored Humvees.
Ethan and his fellow operatives had two options. Circumvent the checkpoint and continue toward Kobane on foot, which could take all night. Or steal a Humvee.
He chose the latter option.
SULEMAN MADE his way back to the house where Wolf Company billeted. Beside him marched Fida'a. The loyal holy warrior had followed him at a distance as instructed, and kept watch on the building where Suleman had taken Emad. When the American spy had emerged alone, Fida'a had entered and cut Suleman free.
His nose throbbed. The blood loss made him weak, dizzy. It was difficult to evade the night patrol in his condition, but somehow he managed. He had refused to allow Fida'a to help him walk—he was acting emir, and must appear strong. He supposed he should visit the infirmary, but he wanted to deal with Emad first. He had already decided he would execute the kaffir in the house, in front of the unit if need-be, consequences be damned.
Assuming Emad was actually there.
At the barracks Suleman took back the M16A4 he had given Fida'a earlier. He also yanked the knife from Fida'a's belt.
His friend regarded him questioningly.
"I only need it for a little while, brother," Suleman whispered.
He went inside, the cold, black steel in hand. Suleman shone his flashlight from face to face as he roamed the house, but the kaffir was not present. No matter.
He returned the knife to Fida'a but kept the A4. He went to his belongings and retrieved the laptop secreted there. It had a GSM card and was loaded with Stingray software, allowing Suleman to track nearby active cellphones. No one knew he had that ability, not even Abdullah, who believed Suleman carried an ordinary laptop.
The offline map of the village appeared on screen. In the search field, Suleman entered the serial number he had recorded from Emad's Android-model phone earlier.
There.
Emad was on the north side of the village, close to the courthouse. He was moving northwest. Had he freed the other spies? It didn't matter. Suleman would terminate them, too.
He closed the laptop, leaving it turned on, then went to the kitchen. When he had brought Abdullah to the field hospital earlier, Suleman had borrowed a US-made autoinjector along with a couple of vials of epinephrine. He retrieved them from the cupboards and considered injecting himself right there, but pocketed the device instead. It wouldn't do to die from cardiac arrest before he had Emad in his sights.
Suleman started for the front door.
"Where are you going?" Fida'a said.
"I have a score to settle with our good friend Emad."
"I go with you." Fida'a retrieved his AK. The man had no love for the infidel.
Suleman considered bringing along additional members of the unit, but that would only make it more difficult to skirt the night patrol. Besides, he wanted Emad for himself. He glanced at Fida'a. His friend would be more than enough.
"Come then, brother, we go hunting."
ETHAN APPROACHED THE CHECKPOINT ALONE.
One of the militants spotted him immediately and raised an AK. "Why are you out past curfew?" The man had a thick Roman nose.
Ethan lifted his hands in surrender. "I am a courier."
"A courier?"
"Yes. I bring a message far too sensitive to be delivered over ordinary radio."
Roman-Nose frowned. "Well let's hear it, then."
One of the Humvees started up.
"Hey!" another militant shouted.
The Humvee sped away.
Three of the fighters hurried inside the remaining Humvee and drove off in pursuit. Roman-Nose and another militant stayed behind.
Roman-Nose narrowed his eyes at Ethan. "You did this."
"I swear, I—" Ethan fell to his knees, clutching at his belly, though none of the fighters had touched him. Saliva spilled from his mouth. He collapsed, face-up, to stare unblinking into the smoke-covered sky.
Roman-Nose kicked him in the ribs; Ethan flinched but didn't otherwise move. Roman-Nose glanced uncertainly at the other mujahid... a third figure emerged from the shadows behind them and a pistol report echoed twice into the night. Blood spurted from the heads of both militants and they crumpled.
Ethan clambered to his feet, gripping his throbbing ribs.
"Nice acting," William said.
"Thanks." He glanced toward the village, worried the two shots would empty any nearby barracks or at the very least attract the night patrols, but the neighborhood remained lifeless. It helped that the firecracker-like shelling noises from Kobane were peaking at the moment.
Ethan and William quickly dragged the corpses behind the nearest building and then sprinted out of the village.
"Any trouble loading Aaron into the Humvee?" Ethan asked as he ran.
"None whatsoever."
Chatter erupted over the radio. "A Humvee has been stolen from checkpoint three. We are in pursuit. Requesting assistance!"
He exchanged a worried glance with William and dashed on.
Following the road, they soon came upon an interesting scene.
A Humvee was situated in the middle of the street, with another Humvee parked behind it. The engines of both vehicles were off. Three militants warily approached the first vehicle. One of them carried a flashlight.
Ethan and William dropped. Letting the darkness conceal him, Ethan aimed Beast at the tangos: the militants appeared as dark green smudges. He centered the crosshairs over the mujahid who carried the flashlight, and the NV clip-on auto-gated to compensate for the brightness.
He fired.
He worked the bolt, which ejected the spent shell casing and loaded another cartridge into the chamber, but before he could line up his next shot a pistol sounded twice—the muzzle flash came from the driver-side window of the farthest Humvee. Both of the remaining militants toppled.
Ethan and William approached.
Aaron abruptly sat up in the driver seat and waved a Makarov, singing, "He stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni."
SULEMAN WAS RUNNING. He held his laptop under one arm, trying to ignore the jolts of pain each footfall inflicted upon his smashed nose, but it was difficult. He was beginning to feel dizzy all over again.
Moments ago he had heard an ominous report issue from the road beyond the checkpoint. It had sounded like a high-powered sniper rifle going off, the kind of crack an M24 might make. Two more quick pops had followed it in rapid succession.
Emad.
He strove to increase his pace, but the dizziness was starting to get to him. Fida'a pulled ahead.
"Abu-Fida'a, slow down!" Suleman shouted, not wanting to lose his loyal holy warrior so early in the game. "Abu-Fida'a!"
But the man ignored him.
Suleman finally caught up to Fida'a. The man had stopped beside an abandoned Humvee. Three militants lay motionless in front of it, illuminated by a flashlight one of them had probably dropped.
Suleman and Fida'a cleared the Humvee with their rifles, then Fida'a checked the bodies.
"Dead," he said.
Suleman placed the laptop on the hood of the M1114 and studied the display. Emad was moving away rapidly to the north.
Suleman closed the device and plunked himself down in the Humvee's driver side while Fida'a took shotgun. He handed the portable computer across to Fida'a, who placed it on the passenger support between them. Usually the support was reserved for equipment such as SINCGARS radios and Blue Force trackers, but all of that had been gutted.
Humvees didn't have keys. The last thing you wanted to worry about during the heat of battle was picking up the starter from a fallen brother. You turned a rotary switch through two positions, and the engine activated.
Suleman stared at said switch suspiciously. Was it a tr
ap?
He returned his gaze to the road and the three dead bodies arrayed before him. He thought of Emad speeding away before him, and anger filled him.
He was in Allah's hands.
He moved the rotary switch to the RUN position. The wait-to-start lamp above it activated. He stared at it, sweating.
The lamp went out. So far, so good. He glanced at the transmission indicator lamp above the gear shift. It was lit.
Holding his breath, he turned the rotary switch to the START position.
The vehicle rumbled to life.
Slumping slightly, he released the rotary and it returned to the RUN position. Emad wasn't as good at the game as Suleman had believed—at the very least the fool should have disabled the Humvee.
He shifted uncomfortably—there was something protruding from the base of his seat beneath him. Reaching back, he discovered an undetonated grenade. He tossed it out the window in fright, but the bomb was a dud. Allah truly was with him that night.
Emad, you keep making mistakes.
Smiling maliciously, Suleman set the topmost light switch on the lower left of the steering wheel to the Blackout Drive position, which activated the blackout lights. Then he shifted the vehicle into gear and accelerated over the three dead bodies.
36
Ethan kept checking his left and right rearview mirrors for signs of pursuit, but never spotted any other vehicles. That didn't mean they were safe. Not by a long shot.
He regretted abandoning the second Humvee. He should have told William to drive it, but he had allowed his friend to drop a grenade in the vehicle instead. Before the bomb had gone off, frantic shouting had come from the south; Ethan had feared the arrival of reinforcements, so he had ordered William into the first Humvee and driven off. He should have waited to make sure the grenade had detonated, but he had simply wanted to get the hell out of there.
I'm getting sloppy.
He was driving with the blackout lights. That, combined with the ambient illumination from the blazes in the nearby villages was more than enough to see by.
In the seat behind him, Aaron used the offline map in Ethan's smartphone to give directions. Ethan's only worry was that the battery would fail. The power levels were under twenty percent the last time he checked.
