Payback - John Hayes Series 06 (2020)

by Abbott, Mark David

  “They killed my mother, my sister.”

  “Who?”

  He looked back at her.

  “They bombed our house. These men found me, dug me out. They said the best way for me to get my revenge was to join them.”

  “I’m sorry, Karam, that’s horrible.” Mia thought quickly. “But… how do you know who bombed your house?”

  Karam stiffened, and he stood straighter.

  “It could have been anyone. This war is confusing,” Mia pushed.

  “No. These men, my... brothers.” Karam shook his head, anger mixing with confusion on his face. “They are doing the work of God.”

  “Karam, killing people, taking women from their homes... it’s not God’s work.”

  “Be quiet!”

  “The Yazidi women in the other house, what if they had done the same to your mother, your sister?”

  “They are kufaar!” He spat the last word out.

  “They are just like you and me, Karam. The world is full of people who have different ways, eat different food, wear different clothes. We should not hate them because of that.”

  Karam shifted the position of his weapon, his face contorted in confusion.

  “I used to believe in the Caliphate. It could have been a wonderful world, all of us living according to Allah. But there has been too much killing, too much destruction. These men are filling your head with hatred.” Mia paused. “Karam, I’m truly sorry about your family. It is a terrible thing, but doing the same thing to someone else will not bring them back. These men, they just want another fighter, they don’t care about you or your family, they don’t even care about Syria.”

  “No, no, no.” Karam continued shaking his head. His fingers tightened their grip on the Kalashnikov.

  “Yes, Karam. Abu Mujahid, he is from Egypt. Do you think it matters to him what happens here? Do you see how he treats the women? He... these men are using you.”

  “They are my brothers!”

  “Karam, they don’t care. You are just another gun to them. Why do you think they only put you on guard duty? You are nothing to them.”

  “No!” Karam turned to face her, his eyes filled with anguish. He raised his weapon and pointed the barrel at her chest. “You are wrong!”

  64

  It didn’t take long for Mansur and Ferhad to find somewhere for them to stay, the promise of easy cash opening doors easily in a town with little business remaining.

  It was in what would have been the living room on the ground floor of a two-story building. There was no furniture, just rugs on the floor, and boards over the window, keeping the worst of the night chill out. A single kerosene heater in the corner warmed the room, the temperature dropping significantly once the sun had gone down.

  They had removed their vests but kept their jackets on and stretched out on the rugs, drinking hot sweet tea from a large samovar.

  Mansur had persuaded the owner, for an extra fee, to run the generator for a while, and they used the time to recharge the phone batteries. John was checking the battery status when Steve’s phone buzzed.

  “You’ve got a message, Steve. Maybe it’s Mia.”

  Steve sat up and held out his hand. “Toss it here.”

  John unplugged it and tossed it across the room, Steve catching it deftly with one hand. He unlocked it and stared at the screen, a smile growing on his face.

  “It’s her. She will meet us tomorrow morning at ten.” Steve looked up, an enormous grin on his face. “She’s shared a location where we can find her.” Steve exhaled loudly. “Fuckin’ ace.”

  “Hang on, Steve.” John frowned, not keen to ruin Steve’s mood. “Check the location first. I don’t want to sound negative, but it won’t be so easy to get into Idlib. It’s in Al Qaeda territory.”

  Steve’s smile faded a little, and he looked down at the screen. He tapped on the link and waited for the location to open in the phone’s web browser. Narrowing his eyes, he squinted at the screen, then his smile grew again.

  “Look, it’s not Idlib, it’s the countryside just north of Saraqib.” He handed the phone to John, who looked at the map. The location was in a patch of what looked like open farmland west of the M5 highway and north of Saraqib. John zoomed in and saw a narrow access road leading off the highway into the fields. He nodded and handed the phone back.

  “That makes things a lot easier. Tell her we’ll see her there.”

  “Yes. It’s happening, guys.” Steve grinned and gave Mansur a friendly punch in the shoulder.

  John smiled. He hoped so.

  65

  The drive toward Saraqib was uneventful for the most part. There were numerous checkpoints on the ring road around Aleppo, but their forged documents passed the test each time. At one point, John joked to Steve that Ramesh deserved a bonus when they got back.

  Signs of conflict were everywhere—military patrols, damaged buildings, and in places, the highway was heavily cratered. At one point, a pair of military helicopters flew beside them for several kilometers before heading south away from the highway.

  John was on edge; he couldn’t relax. There was something niggling away in his subconscious, but he couldn’t grasp it. He hadn’t slept well, the room cold in the middle of the night, the chill seeping up through the rugs. At one point, after finally drifting off, he had woken in a panic, his heart racing, and it had taken a moment to remember where he was. After that, he hadn’t been able to sleep for hours, the faces of the men who haunted his past appearing every time he closed his eyes. He hadn’t had nightmares for a long time, but guessed stress was triggering the repressed memories.

  Eventually, he gave up, splashed water on his face, and went outside to sit on the front step of the building to watch the town slowly awaken. Steve joined him soon after, having had a similarly troubled sleep. They sat in silence as the street became visible in the dawn, listening to the birds chattering in the trees and watching rodents scampering along the gutter.

  The driver, a taciturn man who went by the name of Samir, arrived dead on seven in a battered old Toyota pickup with a twin cab. They piled in and set off, Mansur trying in vain to engage Samir in conversation before giving up and concentrating on the passing scenery.

  Once the M4 became the M5 on the southern side of Aleppo, progress slowed considerably, the road heavily damaged and constant checkpoints manned by Russian military police and Syrian Arab Army soldiers, meaning they had to constantly stop and start.

  It was around nine-thirty when Steve tapped on Mansur’s shoulder.

  “Tell him to take the next right turn. It’s a minor road about five-hundred meters ahead.”

  Mansur translated, and Samir started shaking his head. He said something to Mansur, and the conversation went back and forth until Mansur raised his hands in frustration and turned to face the back.

  “He says he won’t. It’s too dangerous for him. He will drop us at the turn, but he said to go along that road will take him into H.T.S. territory.”

  “Fuck,” Steve cursed. “Tell him we’ll pay him extra.”

  “I did.” Mansur shrugged. “He won’t do it.”

  “The little fucker...”

  “It’s okay, Steve.” John raised a placatory hand to Steve. “Let’s not have a fight. Mansur, tell him to drop us but to wait for us. Tell him we’ll double what we’ve paid him if he waits for us to come back. We won’t be long.”

  Mansur translated, Samir nodded, then Mansur gave a thumbs-up to the back as Samir spotted the turn and pulled over.

  Steve double-checked his phone and pointed up the road. “It’s about two kilometers that way.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  They climbed out and looked around. Fields stretched out in all directions, unplowed and overgrown. Off to the west, twin plumes of black smoke reached up into the sky, and they could hear the distant thump of explosions. A couple of lorries rumbled by, the drivers waving out the window as they passed, but apart from them, there was no-one around.


  “Let’s go.”

  Mansur leaned in the window and said something to Samir, then straightened, and looked at John and Steve.

  “He said, he’ll wait for two hours.”

  “Good.” John shouldered his backpack. He felt uneasy, something wasn’t right. He shook the thought off. He was tired and stressed. He shouldn’t be negative. Everything would be okay.

  “Ready? Lead the way, Steve.”

  Steve set off up the narrow single-lane road, John and Mansur following in single file behind. They had gone only around a hundred meters when they heard an engine start. They turned to look behind them.

  “Motherfucker!” Steve cursed as they watched Samir drive off. “Fuck!” He turned to look at Mansur. “Great translator, you are.”

  Mansur shrugged and looked down at the ground.

  “Hey, Steve, it’s not Mansur’s fault.”

  Steve exhaled. “Yeah, sorry, mate. I guess I’m a bit on edge.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. He promised.”

  “What do we do now?”

  John frowned and looked up the road.

  “We keep going. Let’s get Mia first. One step at a time.”

  They walked up the road for another ten minutes as it separated two large fields, the fields uncultivated, bare dirt in patches, overgrown with weeds in others. Steve kept checking his phone, and as they approached a building on the left side of the road, he said, “This looks like the place.”

  John studied the building. It would have been a farmhouse at one time but by the looks of it, long abandoned. A large concrete area separated it from the road, the building itself missing most of the roof, the skeleton of rafters and broken tiles all that remained. Bullet holes pockmarked the walls, and one corner had collapsed completely.

  “Wait.”

  Steve stopped and turned to look at him.

  “What? This is the place she sent.”

  John ignored him and stared at the building.

  “Just wait.”

  Steve shrugged and turned back to look at the building. The three men stood staring at the deserted structure, looking for any sign of movement. John had a prickling feeling in the back of his neck, a sign that had stood him in good stead before. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Why? She said she would meet us here.” Steve looked at his watch. “It’s ten. She said she would meet us now.” Steve looked up. “Maybe she’s inside hiding?”

  John made a face, his eyes still on the building.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, just a feeling.”

  “Look, mate, I respect your intuition, but look at the place. There’s no sign of anyone. She herself told us to come here.”

  “Yeah...”

  “Mate, we didn’t come all this way to stop now.”

  John nodded slowly, then turned to Mansur.

  “Mansur, you hang back, stay out of sight. Keep an eye on things.”

  “Sure.” Mansur stepped off the side of the road and moved toward a patch of long grass.

  “Let’s go, Steve.”

  Steve turned and walked quickly toward the building, John following slowly behind him. He understood Steve’s eagerness to find his niece, but John wanted to be careful.

  Steve stepped onto the concrete parking area and approached the building. The windows had long been blown out, and the front door was flat on the ground outside, leaving a black hole leading into the house. Steve stood in front and called out.

  “Mia? It’s Uncle Steve.”

  There was no reply. John caught up and stood beside him, his forehead creased in a frown. He turned around and scanned the fields on the opposite side of the road while Steve called out again.

  “Mia?”

  Still no response. Steve pulled out his phone and dialed her number. It took a moment to connect, then they heard a phone ringing from inside the building.

  “She’s inside.”

  John turned back to see Steve rushing forward toward the building. John opened his mouth to say something when a figure appeared in the doorway. A bearded man in camouflage fatigues held a ringing cell phone in the air, his mouth open in a sinister grin, exposing a row of yellowed teeth.

  “Iqboth ‘alayhom!” he shouted. “Seize them!”

  John sensed someone behind him, but before he could turn, someone grabbed him by the arms, and he tried to break free. He heard sounds of struggle nearby and shouts in Arabic. He pulled his arms harder, the grip loosening on his arms, and he stumbled forward, losing his balance. The last thing he felt was a sharp blow to the back of his head.

  66

  John groaned and blinked his eyes open, but it was still dark. He felt something against his face. His head appeared to be covered. What the...? He struggled to remember what happened… the man with the phone, the blow to the head. Fuck! John should have trusted his gut. He should have thought it had been too easy, but he had wanted so much for Steve to succeed. Shit! How did they find them? Where was he? Where were the others? He tried to move his arms, to sit up, but his arms were bound behind his back.

  His head throbbed, and there was the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He tried moving his legs, but they were bound together at the ankle. He stopped moving and tuned into his surroundings. The floor was hard and cold, probably concrete. He could see a faint light through the fabric of his headcovering, not bright enough to be outside, so he must be in a room. Slowing his breathing, he strained to hear any sounds that could help identify his surroundings—Arabic spoken in low tones outside the room, the distant thump of artillery on the frontline, a vehicle crawling slowly past, then stopping, a dog barking in the distance.

  He heard a rustle of fabric and then a cough.

  “Who’s there? Steve?”

  “John, are you okay?”

  “Steve... I’m okay. You?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, mate, I should have listened to you. Bastards.”

  “Did Mansur get away?”

  “I’m here too, Mr. John.”

  “Shit! What happened? I blacked out when someone hit me on the head. Where are we? Can you see?”

  “The bastards have put hoods on us. Can’t see a fucking thing,” Steve growled.

  “I can’t see either. They caught me in the field, put us in a pickup, drove for about thirty minutes, then brought us into this building. We came up one flight of steps. That’s all I know,” Mansur explained. “They don’t know I can speak Arabic. I heard them arguing. They can’t decide what to do with us.”

  “He had Mia’s phone,” said Steve.

  “Yes. They were arguing about her, too. But...” Mansur’s voice trailed off.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. They left the room, and I couldn’t hear anymore.”

  “Fuck,” Steve cursed. “What do we do now?”

  John couldn’t answer. He had no idea.

  They heard footsteps outside, and John tensed, listening for clues as to what was happening. A door crashed open, then a shout in Arabic. He heard footsteps in the room, and a pair of hands grabbed his arm, dragging him backward until he was propped against a wall. The hood was pulled off his head, and he blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light. He sensed Steve and Mansur beside him. As his vision cleared, he saw three men standing in front of them, each with their weapon held ready, the barrels pointed at their chests. Checked shemaghs covered their faces, leaving only their eyes visible. They stared, not saying anything, waiting.

  John heard more footsteps, and another figure appeared in the doorway. He stepped closer, and John recognized him from the farmhouse.

  67

  The man stood in front of them, looking at each one in turn with dark hooded eyes set deep in his face. He was thin, his cheekbones pronounced over a grey-flecked beard that reached to the middle of his chest. He stood with his hands on his hips, his lip curled in a sneer. He locked eyes with John,
and John forced himself to maintain eye contact before the man looked away. He tilted his head to one side, then stepped forward and kicked Steve’s feet with his boot. When he spoke, it was in thickly accented English.

  “You are... Uncle Steve?”

  Steve said nothing, staring back in defiance.

  “I have your girl.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  “Ha,” the man scoffed. “She is mine now.”

  “You bastard, rag head son of a bitch, I’ll....”

  One of the fighters stepped forward, reversed his Kalashnikov, and drove the butt into Steve’s stomach.

  Steve gasped, doubled over, then flopped to one side, the air knocked out of him.

  The man switched his attention to John.

  “Who are you?”

  John ignored the question. He raised his chin and looked him square in the eyes.

  “What do you want?”

  The man grinned. He turned and said something to the fighters, who laughed. Turning back, he squatted down in front of John until his eyes were at the same level. John’s nose wrinkled at the smell of stale sweat and unwashed clothing.

  “What do I want?” he asked. “What can you give me?” he sniggered. “You are tied up. You have nothing. You are mine now. But I will make you famous.” He looked at Mansur. “All of you. Your families will see you on the internet.”

  He stood up and barked a command in Arabic. A fighter stepped forward and dragged the backpacks into the center of the room. He went through the bags, tossing the contents into a pile in the middle of the floor. He handed the biscuits and medicines John had carried for Mia to the other men. The plastic folder of letters and permissions was handed to the leader who scanned through it, then tossed it on the pile. John’s laptop was also passed to him, and after looking at it briefly, dropped it on the floor and stamped on it with his boot. The fighter went through Steve’s bag, removing the cameras and lenses, placing them to one side. Everything else was thrown onto the pile forming at the leader’s feet. Once the bags were empty, the fighter upended them and shook them out, ensuring nothing remained, then tossed the empty bags behind him. He then stood and approached John. Crouching down in front of him, he went through his pockets, removing his phone, passport, and press card, and money, handing it all back to his leader. He did the same with the other men, then stood and stepped behind his leader.