by Brad Taylor
Samir gave her a questioning look, and she said, “Nothing,” bending down to remove her shoes. She slung her AK across her back, above the extra one, and draped her shoes around her neck.
“Okay. Here we go. I go up first, place the rope, and two follow behind one by one. When we get three at the top, we assault. Have your remaining two men take out the goons at the front door, assaulting that way, but they wait for us to initiate. We go as far as we can until contact is made, then you hit them.” She looked at Samir. “Don’t translate that unless you’re absolutely sure what I mean. Repeat it back to me.”
When she was satisfied, he turned and rattled off about five minutes of Arabic, then pointed at one other man. The remaining two faded from view down the alley, getting a bead on the front door.
She looked at the wall, a ragged affair slapped together with torn brick, broken windows, and stray cables. She knew she could climb it with ease, but wondered if she should. If it was smart attacking a terrorist stronghold with men she didn’t even trust. All to try and find a man who may not even be here, based on a phone grid from hours ago.
Pike, you’d better be inside.
She picked up the rope and draped it over her shoulders, her hands shaking.
Samir said, “You all right?”
“No,” she said. “But I’ll be better when you break the sill of that balcony. Don’t let me down.”
He simply nodded, kneeling down to pull security for her climb.
She took one deep breath, then lightly jumped up and grabbed a protruding pipe. From there, she scampered up the side of the building like a lizard, finding finger- and toeholds out of instinct. She threaded her way through the cables, avoided the second-floor balcony, and reached the third. She hung on it for a second, then did a chin-up until her eyes were level with the edge.
She was happy to see a crude pipe railing to anchor the rope. Beyond it, she saw a sliding glass door partially cracked open, and a man sitting in an old and torn overstuffed chair watching a flickering thirteen-inch television, an AK leaning against the TV stand.
19
Jennifer lowered herself until she was simply hanging, thinking about her options. She’d seen no other men in the small room, although there was an open doorway leading out. She could probably take him quietly. The TV should mask the noise she made getting over the railing.
But she knew she’d better be prepared to assault on her own. If he reacted before she could close on him, it would be a gunfight, and it would mean game-on. She wouldn’t be able to wait for Samir and his men. She’d have to assault by herself to keep the element of speed and find Pike before they killed him.
She went back and forth in her mind, thinking maybe she should climb back down and talk to Samir about other options.
To hell with it. Pike’s probably getting beat up while you sit here wasting time.
She went hand-over-hand to her left, getting to the farthest point away from the open door. She pulled herself up slowly, making sure the two AK-47s were away from the metal of the railing. She hooked a leg over and used it to torque her body, spinning over the railing and landing softly on her feet.
She flipped one AK off her shoulder and waited, aiming at the door entrance. When nothing happened, she duckwalked to the open door, the TV now bright and flickering in the gathering darkness.
The man was still there, still watching, although his body had shifted.
So he’s awake.
She saw that she could squeeze through the door, but not with the rope and weapons on her back. She could lead with one weapon in a hand, then squeeze through, but she’d be in trouble if he turned around when she was halfway across.
No other option.
She set down Pike’s weapon and the bundle of rope, her shoes still draped around her neck.
Like playing the old game “Operation,” she threaded the AK through the door, then followed it, going as slowly as possible so nothing clanked against the door frame.
After an eternity of inches, she reached the far side. She silently reslung the AK across her back and moved up behind the chair in a crouch. She studied the position of the man’s head for a moment, then struck, wrapping a forearm around his neck.
He became animated instantly, trying to leap to his feet and swinging his arms wildly, but instantly was still too late. She clamped her hands together and used her shoulder to press his head down. Within seconds he had slumped back into the chair, unconscious from the lack of blood to his brain.
She kept the guillotine hold in place for a second longer just to make sure, then released him, springing back and rotating the AK into the ready position. He didn’t move. She rolled him out of the chair and hog-tied his feet to his hands, bending his body backward in an arc. She finished by stuffing a dirty rag in his mouth. Satisfied he was secure, she slid open the door and rapidly tied the nylon rope to the railing, then lowered it to Samir.
She felt it tug twice, letting her know he was on the way. She went back into the room, aiming her AK at the open door behind the television. She heard him reach the balcony, but didn’t turn around.
He entered the room and saw the guard.
“Who’s that?”
“No threat.”
Samir said nothing for a moment, sizing her up yet again. When he saw the rise and fall of the man’s chest, he said, “You didn’t kill him?”
“No need.”
Samir shook his head. “You have real skill, but are naïve. Kill him now, save a life later.”
He took a pillow and pushed it into the man’s face, holding it in place until the chest failed to move. Jennifer said nothing.
They heard a clank from outside, as if someone was kicking the wall. She motioned for Samir to investigate. He moved to the balcony and jerked the rope for several minutes before coming back inside.
“The next man is hung up in the mess of electrical wiring. It will be a little longer.”
Jesus. What else can happen?
“How long? We can’t sit in this room forever. This guy was someone’s guard relief, and they’re going to come looking for him.”
Before he could answer, gunfire shattered the night, first a few rounds, then a major firefight, with AK-47s rocking on full automatic.
Samir said, “That’s from the men at the front. They’ve made contact.”
“Just you and me now,” Jennifer said. “We can’t wait for your partner on the rope. You ready?”
He checked to make sure a round was loaded, smiled, and said, “You going to lead the way, anthropologist?”
20
My torturer moved the scalpel to my bare chest, and I began screaming into the gag, shaking my head to let them know I wanted to talk. Anything to draw out the time.
He pulled out the rag of my shirt and waited.
“You guys have made a mistake. If you look at my past travel and what I’ve been doing, you’ll see I’m who I say I am. I swear. I just came from Syria, where I’m working with the Ministry of Culture on an archeological site…. Please…check it out before you do this.”
He shook his head. “You and I both know that’s not true. If you want the pain to stop, you need to give me something more. Don’t waste my time with your contrived story. Nobody in this room believes it, including you. I will ask you a question, though. How many archeological firms carry laptops full of explosives?”
The question caved in my courage, because there was no way on earth to counter it. No way for me to convince them they held the wrong man, nothing I could say that would alter the cold, hard facts of the café bombing.
They were going to break me. The fear swept through me, my mind racing for a way out. A way to get them to kill me, but there was nothing I could do with the two toughs to my left and right. They’d just capture me before I made it out of the room.
He leaned in again, and I prepared for the pain, channeling my rage to hang on.
A single gunshot rang out, giving him pause. After a moment o
f silence, another one boomed, then another, until at least four weapons were firing on full automatic.
He pulled back and looked at the old man for instructions. The boss barked something in Arabic, and the two toughs to my left and right ran out of the room.
It was just me against the two remaining men, with no weapons in sight.
Big mistake.
I sprang up on my loose right foot, throwing myself backward. I got about two feet in the air and landed hard on my back, shattering the chair.
I stood up with pieces of chair still tied to me, both wrists strapped to lengths of wood that used to be the arms.
I grabbed the old man by his pristine bin Laden–wannabe beard and whirled around, like an Olympian conducting a hammer throw. I did a full circle, generating as much velocity as I could, and released his head straight into the rock wall of the room, seeing it cave in with a satisfyingly meaty thud.
I turned on the torturer, who had backed up and started waving the scalpel. I stared into his eyes and smiled.
I worked the pieces of chair loose from my wrists, giving me a stout, ironwood club for each hand. I noticed nails sticking out of each end and turned them to the rear, mimicking his voice.
“Don’t worry, I won’t use the nails. I don’t want you to die too soon.”
I moved in on him, bringing the first club down on the forearm that held the scalpel, shattering it.
He screamed, a guttural sound from deep inside. The clubs became a blur, beating him all over his body, striking any available spot. Whenever he tried to protect himself, I moved somewhere else. I broke his jaw, both cheeks, his nose, ribs, clavicles, and anything else I could harm, the clubs working like a Japanese Taiko drummer.
He fell to the ground with pink, bubbly froth coming out of his mouth. I continued on like some demented gorilla, trying mightily to burst his internal organs, the rage flowing through me and into him.
Eventually, I slowed out of sheer exhaustion and saw I was now drumming a lifeless bag of meat. The rage evaporated, and I realized I had wasted precious seconds. The gunfight was still going on, and I felt a glimmer of hope that I might not need to simply die. Maybe I could escape alive.
I ran to the back of the room, to a door that hadn’t been used, hoping it led to a back hallway out of the building, away from the gunfire. I ratcheted the knob and found it locked.
I heard shouting behind me and whirled around, raising my clubs in a ridiculous attempt at defense.
The two toughs came back through the door, flabbergasted at the carnage. One ran to the old man while another took aim at my head.
I threw a club as hard as I could, causing him to raise his weapon to block the missile. The wood ricocheted off of the AK and hit him in the head. It exploded open in a mist of blood.
What the hell?
He fell over as my brain registered a gunshot. Two other individuals had entered behind him, both armed and shooting. The second tough whirled at the gunfire and brought his weapon up, but never got off a round before his head exploded as well.
The two swept the room for additional threats. Seeing none, one went to the bin Laden wannabe I’d cratered into the wall, and the other focused on me.
It was Jennifer. Walking toward me barefoot and holding an AK, her shoes draped incongruously around her neck. I was at a loss for words.
My little protégé.
She was staring at me with a crooked grin.
I said, “I’m never going to live this down.”
The smile reached her eyes, and she said, “Yeah, must be tough getting to actually live.”
She pulled an AK from her back and tossed it to me. When I caught it she saw the damage to my left hand. I quickly wrapped the wound with a remnant from my torn shirt. Through the shock on her face, I knew she understood what happened. I changed the subject before she could even ask.
“I’m not being nitpicky,” I said, “but usually an operator puts his shoes on before the gunfight.”
She looked down and saw I was right. She blushed and took the shoes from around her neck, bending down to put them on, saying, “I never got the chance…”
Over her kneeling form I saw the other man who had come in with her, checking on the vital signs of the bin Laden wannabe.
I recognized who it was, the rage flooding back.
Samir’s back was turned to me as he searched the man on the ground. I racked a round into the AK and strode right at him. I came abreast of Jennifer, and she leapt up, trying to push me back.
“Pike, stop. It’s not what you think. Samir didn’t do anything.”
I swept her aside and knocked Samir to the ground, putting a foot on his head.
“You miserable fuck. If I had the time, I’d carve you up like your buddies did to me.”
His eyes were wide and rolling left and right. He tried to talk but couldn’t because of the pressure I was putting on his head. I jammed the barrel of the AK right behind his ear and put my finger on the trigger.
Jennifer, who’d been jerking on me in an attempt to get me off of Samir, saw the move and stopped her attempts lest they caused me to fire.
She pleaded with me. “Pike, don’t do this. He saved your life. He and his men assaulted this place. Move your finger off the trigger.”
I didn’t hear a word. All I felt was the ultimate betrayal of the man at my feet and the terror of the last few hours. I itched to squeeze. Seven foot-pounds of pressure, and it would all be over.
Jennifer leaned in, no longer pleading. She whispered into my ear, her voice steel. “Pike. Stop right now. Back off. We still have to get out of here, and you’re screwing up the mission. You’re going to get us all killed. We need him to get out of here. We need his weapon and his men.”
The words penetrated my rage, snapping me back to the present.
“Kill him later. After we get out.”
She was absolutely right. Get the mission done. I removed my foot and pulled back the AK, but I kept the barrel pointed at his head. “What’s the plan?”
“Get out through the top, away from the fight downstairs.”
“What about site exploitation?”
Samir sat up and spoke for the first time. “Pike, I had nothing to do with that bomb. I was used just like—”
I snarled, “Shut the fuck up. Don’t open your mouth. You can keep the weapon, but if that barrel goes anywhere close to Jennifer or me, I’m gutting you.”
I returned to Jennifer. “What about SSE?”
“Have you lost your mind? We came here to get you. Mission accomplished. Now we’re getting the hell out. We don’t have the time to search this place. Even if we did, we don’t have the manpower to clear it first. You think I came in here with a Taskforce element? I’ve got a bunch of guys I just met who claim you trained them. Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
I went to the door, listening to the rhythms of the firefight a floor below. “You guys clear the upper floors?”
Jennifer snorted and stomped to the back of the room, ratcheting on the same door I had tried, looking for another way out. Samir said, “Yeah. Upstairs is clear.”
Jennifer came back over. “Jesus, Pike, stop what you’re thinking. We’re lucky to be standing here talking. Get your ass moving up those stairs.”
“Jennifer, I’m not leaving without some intel. I’m cleaning this place out of computers, passports, and anything else I can find.”
She tried to appeal to my sense of mission again. “Pike, think about it. We’ll have to clear and secure the entire building for site exploitation. We’ll have to kill everyone here first.”
I wiped the blood seeping out beneath the makeshift bandage on my left hand.
“Yeah. That’s a definite fringe benefit.”
21
Infidel chose to park the car on the outskirts of the Dahiyeh and walk in. He had some equipment within the vehicle that he’d more than likely be leaving behind, and he’d prefer that nobody in Hezbollah saw how he�
��d arrived.
His summons had been uniquely brusque, and he was fairly certain his Hezbollah paymasters were a little upset at the computer bomb. He hadn’t bothered to ask their permission, but since they were so paranoid anyway, he was sure they’d applaud his initiative. Well, almost sure.
He turned the corner to the café and saw three men standing at the entrance—where there was usually one. Not a good sign. He continued on, the only indication of his concern being a subtle caress of a carbon-fiber push dagger hidden parallel to the leather on the inside of his belt. A subconscious reassurance that he wasn’t without some means of self-defense.
He reached the men and smiled, holding out his backpack to be searched. Instead, the men motioned for him to raise his arms. He did so and was subjected to a thorough pat-down, while his backpack was ripped apart.
That had never happened before either. He assumed that he was being punished for his little handiwork and not yet actively suspected of anything. Although with Hezbollah, you never knew. They were as paranoid as the Nazi faithful at the end of World War II, seeing assassins in the shadows everywhere. Being paid as an assassin probably didn’t help his image. Especially with the call sign Infidel.
The search finished, he entered the coffee shop, finding it empty. A man followed him in and nudged him forward with the barrel of a rifle. He thought about resisting, but didn’t. It crossed his mind that he might remain compliant right up until they put a bullet in his head. How far was too far? Where was the line when he would need to fight back? Impossible to know. Seeing a stairwell at the back of the café, he wondered if he’d already crossed it.
He paused for a second, knowing if he entered the stairwell there was really no turning back. He’d be trapped by a man with a gun inside a shooting funnel. The man nudged him again, and he started to climb.
Reaching the top, he saw Majid and Ja’far at a table, both looking at him sternly. Almost comically. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.
“You two upset about something? What’s with all the new security?”
