“You’ve got my van!” Düster cried out in Arabic. “Where’s my brother?!”
“There’re too many bad guys,” Tom said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Max and his brother made a run for it, or rather, Max stumbled and Tom limped. Max cut through the intersection, and an oncoming car nearly nicked him. He exited the intersection, but he was still disoriented and didn’t know where they were—he only knew that evil men were eager to kill him. He blinked a snowflake out of his eye.
Along the street, the buildings were side by side with no space for egress. The shops were closed. Their only cover was cars parked on the street and intervals of trees on the sidewalk. Tom outpaced Max, and he took cover behind a tree. Tom’s feet slid on a patch of ice, almost dropping him on his keister. He turned, faced their attackers, and fired his MP7.
Max’s head was still foggy, but he glanced over his shoulder to see Düster and his men scatter to avoid getting shot by Tom. A young civilian ran away from the shooting, too.
Max’s head cleared a little. He picked up speed and ran past Tom. Then Max stopped behind a parked car, used it for cover, turned, and answered his attackers. Phht-phht, phht-phht. This time he hit a bad guy with thick hair and a bushy moustache, and the man went down. Max was ecstatic. But Düster and his other men weren’t deterred. They advanced tactically, utilizing cover and shooting.
“Where’s my brother?!” Düster shouted.
“He’s dead!” Max answered in Arabic and fired again. Tom stopped shooting, turned, and ran past Max. Tom wasn’t limping now.
Max and his brother continued to lay down fire and leapfrog away from their enemies. Düster let out a bloodcurdling battle cry.
When Tom’s shots resumed behind him, Max crossed the street to the other side and beat feet away from Düster and his men. There was a loud thump behind Max, in the direction of Düster, a scream, and the screech of brakes. Max passed his brother, who stood behind a tree, his muzzle flaring in the direction of Düster and his men. The snow flurries increased.
Bullets whizzed past Max, but he didn’t look back, and he was grateful for Tom’s cover. He ran around the concrete corner of a building at the end of the block and used it as a shield while he aimed in Düster’s direction to protect Tom.
A woman wearing earphones exited one of the shops and tugged on the door as if checking to make sure it was locked. She stepped into Max’s line of fire and froze. Max left the protection of the concrete corner and shoved her back into the entranceway, out of harm’s way. Then he used a nearby tree as an impromptu shield. Düster and his men’s fire ripped off pieces of bark before they advanced, closing the gap. The wood of the tree vibrated, and Max shuddered.
Tom ran past Max, who didn’t wait long this time before turning and hauling tail around the concrete corner, too. Tom set up behind a parked car to cover for Max, but Max spotted a sign with a u nearby—the U-Bahn—subway. Max motioned for Tom to leave the car and run to the U-Bahn with him. They sprinted to the covered entrance and hustled down the steps into the subway, concealing their weapons with their jackets as they descended. Police sirens squawked from somewhere above them in the city.
At the automated ticket gate, there were no subway personnel present, so Max hopped the turnstile. A pale man with long hair left the station and stared at him. Max stared back. As if fearing trouble, the man turned his head forward, minding his own business, and exited the station.
Tom breathed deep and rapid. “Düster, a bull moose, and one more behind us.”
There were only a handful of passengers on the platform. “We’ve been up against worse,” Max said. He neared the end of the platform.
“Not much room to shoot and move on this platform,” Tom said, “not much cover, and we’ve got some innocent bystanders.”
Max glanced back. Near the stairs where they’d descended, Düster, Bull Moose, and another stepped onto the platform. Düster’s eyes zeroed in on Max.
Max wished for a train to come take him and his brother away, but his wish didn’t come true. “Who says we have to stay on the platform?” He stepped off the platform and dropped several feet, landing next to the tracks.
Tom dropped down beside him.
A puffy-haired man on the platform gasped, and a businesswoman shouted at them.
Max feigned entering the tunnel then ducked and backtracked beside the platform, staying below his enemies’ sight. Max wanted to surprise them. He expected Tom to follow his lead, but Tom ventured deeper into the tunnel. Where the hell are you going? You’re going to get hit by a damn train.
Then Max thought he might be the one to get run over. He looked for an indentation in the platform to step out of a train’s way, but there was none. If a train did come, he’d have to jump back up onto the platform and face the Düster trio or become a gooey mark on the tracks.
One of Düster’s men jumped off the end of the platform, and Max’s first impulse was to plug him, but Max wasn’t ready to give away his position until he had all three men in his field of fire. Waiting for Düster and Bull Moose to arrive seemed to take forever. Are they flanking me?
Düster jumped off the platform with his back to Max. He shouted into the tunnel in Tom’s direction: “You killed my brother, pig, and you’ll die!”
Max aimed.
Bull Moose plopped down next to the rails. His upper body presented a sizeable target, and Max aired him out—twice. Bull Moose stopped as if confused, but he didn’t go down, so Max aired him out again. This time Bull Moose fell. Max’s empty brass casings smoked as they clanked off the metal rails.
Max wished his sound suppressor had been enough to completely silence his MP7, but no sound suppressor was completely silent, and Düster and his remaining thug whipped around and faced Max. Anxiousness filled Max’s head with a droning sound, threatening his equilibrium, threatening to throw him off balance. A negative thought entered Max’s brain: If Düster’s minions could kill Dad, maybe they can kill me, too. Max changed it into a positive thought: They can’t kill me. He willed his anxiety into empowerment and aimed at Düster’s underling. Tom beat him to the punch. A spark emitted from deep in the tunnel, and an airy sound like that of a BB gun blew twice. Düster’s man arched as if he’d been slugged in the back.
The droning sound between Max’s ears intensified—multiple alarms of fear. He couldn’t let the alarms take over; he couldn’t give in. He cranked up his aggression, cranked up his will to live.
Düster stepped to the side and shot at Max. Max moved sideways away from him, taking aim. Düster’s muzzle smoked, and bullets smacked nearby concrete. The brutal noise echoed in the confines of the underground.
Abruptly, Düster’s body convulsed. At first, Max thought Tom shot him, but then he realized that Düster had stepped on the third rail. Seven hundred and fifty volts of electricity clutched Düster’s body.
“Die, you bastard!” Max growled. He opened fire on Düster. Tom’s muzzle emitted light from the tunnel, too. More brass shells clanked off the subway tracks. Max felt the recoil in his MP7 as he concentrated on landing his shots in a tight group. Fabric from Düster’s clothes twitched, and he danced the dance macabre. A horn blared, and a train spotlighted him on the rails.
Max nearly pissed himself, and his heart felt like it stopped. He blurted out to Tom in English, “Train!” Frantic for his own life, Max leaped. If he missed the platform, there’d be no second chance. He cleared it the first time.
An inhuman scream emanated from Düster as if he were an animal bleeding out. The train swooshed in like a hungry shark and caught his convulsing body in its teeth—thunk! The train gobbled him up—and kept going. Düster was gone.
If Max was the praying type, he’d pray that Tom had found an indentation in the tunnel wall for workers to be safe in, but all he could do now was hope. The train created a breeze. Two would-be passengers departed the subway station as if they’d had a change of heart and would take a taxi instead of the train. P
uffy Hair stood like stone, his eyes fixed on the spot where Düster had been. The businesswoman and an unshaven man stared at Max, who realized his MP7 was showing. He hid it with his jacket before closing it.
The last car of the train vanished through the tunnel, leaving behind severed torsos, scattered body parts, mush, and splashes of crimson. Max recognized Düster’s head, but he couldn’t locate Tom. “Tommy!” He tried to recognize clothing or anything in the aftermath.
Tom appeared from the tunnel—a distant look in his eyes but all in one piece.
Max let out an ecstatic cheer that sounded like a crazy man’s laugh. They’d pulled it off and survived.
Tom reached the platform, and Max helped him up. Max discreetly pushed his brother’s submachine gun out of sight and zipped up his jacket. “The police are coming. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”
Max traversed the platform, and he felt eyes follow him. He wanted to run, but he had to stay calm.
He and his brother climbed the stairs. Police officers came at them from above. The droning alarms in Max’s head returned. This is it, Max thought. We’re busted. But the police passed them without incident.
At the top of the stairs, a cluster of squad cars lined the curb. Beside them, two taxis were parked on the shoulder of the road, their engines idling. Max took the first cab in line. He hopped inside. It was toasty warm, and the driver said something.
Tom sat beside him.
Max didn’t know the German word for hotel, so he spoke English. “Hotel.”
The driver replied, and Max thought he understood the driver say the word “hotel,” so Max responded with one of the few German words he knew, “Ja.” Anywhere seemed better than here.
The driver pulled away from the curb, and the throbbing in Max’s head subsided.
Tom spoke French quietly to Tom. “Where’s he taking us?”
“I don’t know,” Max said. “Some hotel, I hope.” He pulled out his cell phone and sent an encrypted message to Willy, reporting their status.
Tom found their location on his GPS map and kept track of where the taxi was taking them.
Minutes later, the taxi dropped them off at a hotel—they were still in the city. Max paid him before leading his brother into the lobby. Off to the side, a fire glowed in the fireplace and on a low table were a handful of candy canes in a basket. Max took a candy cane and kept walking.
“If the police talk to the taxi driver, they’ll trace our ride to here,” Tom said.
“Is there a nearby hotel we can walk to and catch a different taxi out of Berlin?”
Tom searched the Internet on his phone. “Three blocks from here.”
“Outstanding.”
Max exited a side door. The night air was calm, and the snow had stopped falling. He walked briskly on the white powdered sidewalk, unwrapped his candy cane, and tasted the peppermint. He looked at Tom, who looked at him, and they smiled.
“Dad would be proud,” Max said.
“He would,” Tom said.
They continued in silence for a block. Max bit off a piece of candy cane and held it in his mouth to savor its cool flavor. “You know, I want to eat some of that Black Forest cake.”
“If you like, we can spend the night here,” Tom said.
“I don’t think so.”
Tom’s voice was hopeful. “The weather cleared.”
Max was hopeful, too. “Keep walking.”
“I used to hate the cold,” Tom said.
“There’s no bad weather—”
“—only bad clothing,” they said in unison.
“Feels like Dad is walking with us,” Tom said.
Max’s father was in his DNA, his memory, and his heart. “He is.”
He and his brother turned the corner of a snowy sidewalk, and the Berlin lights twinkled like stars.
ENJOY THIS BOOK?
If you enjoyed this book, I’d be grateful if you could spend just a few minutes to leave a review (it can be as short as you like) on the book’s Amazon page. A review is a powerful way of bringing my work to the attention of other readers.
Thank you,
Steve
Dead in
Damascus
A Special Operations Group Short Story
Stephen Templin
For death begins with life’s first breath, and life begins at touch of death.
— John Oxenham
SUMMER 2009
Chris Paladin’s taxi soared through the black morning wasteland like a Valkyrie out of Valhalla, filling his muscles with tension. Laughter boomed from his SEAL Team Six Teammate, Kapua, the Hawaiian giant seated behind him. It was a wonder their CIA driver could see where he was going in the dark hours of the morning as they put distance between them and their base in Al Anbar Province, Iraq. At any moment, they could fly off a ravine or crash into a sand berm, instantly killing everyone in the car, but Chris and Kapua had always been lucky. When others dropped out of Hell Week, the duo remained—albeit unshaven and covered in sand mixed with their own snot, drool, and piss. Later, as they joined SEAL Team Three in Iraq, they lost some of their brothers, but Chris and Kapua survived. When they tried out for SEAL Team Six together, other SEALs didn’t make it past Green Team, but Chris and Kapua did. Although assigned to different platoons, they were reunited for this one mission because of their joint ability to slay enemies. Chris and Kapua were at the top of their game, and there was no end in sight to their winning streak.
Breathe. It was a simple, yet effective mantra. With the thought of that one word, Chris automatically inhaled deeply and slowly before he exhaled long, banishing any negative thoughts. He continued to focus on his mantra until all the kinks bled out of his muscles.
In the back seat next to Kapua sat Hannah Andrade, a crack CIA officer who recruited agents and gathered intel on the enemy for the SEALs to do their duty. She was a chameleon with Middle Eastern features, fluent in Farsi and Spanish, who could appear insignificant one moment, but when she turned on the charm, she could make most men brag about themselves—especially their secrets. She was also a former regional mixed martial arts middleweight who could hold her own if things got physical, and although she was proficient with firearms, the Agency didn’t provide her the time or training to reach the skill level of Chris and Kapua—which is why she brought them along—they were about to venture to where the wild things were.
They’d headed southeast through the desert and, after confirming there was no surveillance behind, the driver circled around and motored northwest. Gradually, the darkness from the dust lightened to a gray haze, and the sloping shapes of berms appeared. Soon they crossed the Syrian border and passed stretches of desert, farms, and small villages. The driver stopped in a town at a bazaar where shopkeepers opened for business.
Foregoing the dress-right-dress mentality of the conventional military, Chris and Kapua had grown beards and longish hair and wore white ghutrahs on their heads and white Didashah robes. Underneath their robes they wore camouflage clothing and carried Glock 9mm pistols with spare ammo. Their robes had customized Velcro cutaways, so they could access their weapons and ammo quickly. Similarly, Hannah wore a black abaya with a head and face cover that only exposed her eyes. She also carried a pistol with ammo. They would be better armed with assault rifles, but those would be difficult to hide while sitting for lunch, so they sacrificed firepower for concealment.
Chris, Kapua, and Hannah stepped out of the taxi and strolled into the bazaar. The rising sun swiftly burned off the cool of the desert morning as a man on a donkey pulled a cart full of vegetables. The trio walked a surveillance detection route (SDR) through the myriad of shops, which provided multiple venues for Chris, Kapua, and Hannah to exit and enter. Because the customers had yet to arrive and the walkways were mostly clear, an enemy surveillance team would need to move in close and expose themselves or lag far away and risk losing Chris’s team. On one of the walkways, the trio surprised a feral cat that leaped away.
> After completing their SDR, they exited the bazaar and boarded a second Agency taxi. Their new driver weaved through the roads leeward of the Anti-Lebanon Mountain, taking them under an ashen sky into a sprawl of white buildings: the heart of Damascus.
The taxi came to a halt, and Chris, Kapua, and Hannah departed the vehicle. The mountains blocked most of the sea winds and rain from reaching them, intensifying the dry heat. Too much time in this oven could sap one’s energy and eventually cause death. As Chris and Kapua escorted Hannah on foot through the busy streets, they scanned the area for threats.
“You know, we should really have more firepower for this,” Kapua said.
“That’s why I picked you and Chris,” Hannah said.
“Your asset is coming alone, right?” Kapua asked.
“That’s the plan,” she said calmly.
“But he could show up with others,” Kapua said.
Hannah walked as if she didn’t have a care in the world—a façade she wore well. “Anything is possible.”
Kapua shook his head. “We should have more firepower.”
They passed an elderly street vendor selling chilled cactus fruit from a portable freeze box under an abnormous umbrella, and he called out his presence by tapping brass bowls together like cymbals. Nearby, a big-shouldered woman complained to a young shopkeeper that his vegetables were bruised and that he should lower the price, but he defended his produce and prices. An aroma of baked kibbeh wafted into Chris’s nostrils as he and his partners cut across a street to a restaurant called Jasmine.
Inside, he tried to appear nonchalant while observing the customers for signs of danger. There were only a handful of diners in the place and half of the tables remained empty. Does anyone’s face or gestures show nervousness or anger? Where are their hands? Are they armed? He began to calculate how he could kill each and every person in the restaurant. To an outsider, it might seem cold-blooded, but if someone suddenly became a combatant, Chris already had a plan.
They chose one of the thick wooden tables away from the windows, in case fireworks erupted outside. They’d arrived at their destination nearly an hour earlier than their appointed rendezvous, so they had time to spot anyone attempting to set up an ambush on them. Chris had already scanned for exits: the door they’d entered from, windows, a side door, and through the kitchen and out the back.
Assassin's Sons: [#4] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 23
