Hunt the Viper

by Don Mann

  Still, Crocker had no doubt that they were doing the right thing. According to the deadline set by Daesh, there were only twenty-two minutes left.

  He hadn’t heard from Séverine in a while, and pictured her in his head—dark, searching eyes against pale skin. The Honda dirt bike hit a furrow in the path, jutted right, and came off the ground. Crocker managed to hold on and keep the bike upright. Landed hard on his nuts and winced. Fuck!

  “Boss?”

  Stars danced in his head. He hurt too much to answer.

  I deserved that for not maintaining focus. His eyes lasered on the muddy path in front of him.

  “Boss?”

  “Quiet!”

  Fields passed on his right; the rain hissed against the leaves; his boots were covered with mud and water.

  Akil veered closer and waved from his Kawasaki to get Crocker’s attention and pointed to the left. Through the slanting rain, the Black Cell leader made out a guard shack near the river flying a black flag.

  Here we go…

  He looked for a way to avoid it; thought for a second that it might be unoccupied. Then a light lit up the doorway and two men stepped out. They seemed to have been attracted by the noise from the bikes. One pointed a weak flashlight in their direction and shouted.

  “Waqf! Waqf—!”

  Akil said, “They’re telling us to stop.”

  “Not happening.”

  “I can feed them some BS story, then we can grab ’em and find out what they know.”

  “No time.”

  A Daesh guard stepped away from the little wooden guardhouse and waved his arms. The second man stood behind him, smoking a cigarette, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

  Crocker growled, “I got the one on the right.”

  When they were within seventy feet, the militants readied their rifles.

  One hand guiding the bikes, one hand grasping their weapons, Crocker and Akil took them down with suppressed bursts from their MP7A1s. Done, and done.

  All in a blink of an eye. They zipped past the bodies bleeding out on the ground, cordite burning their nostrils. Crocker knew men who enjoyed killing, but he wasn’t one of them and didn’t want them on his team.

  Taking a life, even in combat, wasn’t supposed to be easy. It wasn’t for Crocker. Each enemy he killed took a piece of his soul.

  “Where are you taking me?” Dayna asked the two big guards on either side of her as they followed Rasul down a narrow corridor. She hadn’t realized how weak she’d become as a result of fear, hunger, and exhaustion. The orange jumpsuit bagged around her ankles and dragged across the wet concrete floor.

  “Will you please ask these men where they’re taking me?” Her voice had become higher pitched and more desperate. She hadn’t remembered putting on the black plastic sandals, which worried her. She was losing track.

  Rasul stopped, turned, and barked something to the guards in Arabic. They held her as Rasul removed a black bandana from his pocket and tied it over her mouth. The cloth cut into the corners of her lips. He secured another over her eyes.

  Why is he doing this? she asked. Negative answers buffeted her from all corners of her brain.

  She noted that her head was uncovered, and her wrists were tied behind her, and Rasul, who had been sympathetic, hadn’t bothered to tell her what had changed, or what lay ahead.

  God, I know you love me.…

  Does he?

  The negative voice appeared again—the one she had started calling The Shadow, and that had told her to give in to her old boyfriend Raymond and take drugs with him, because if she didn’t he’d leave her for someone else. The voice that told her now that she had to denounce her country, and even demean herself to mollify her captors.

  As though she had no choice. But she did. Jesus Christ had taught her that. Even though her body was shaking and she couldn’t think straight; even though fear threatened to devour her, she had a choice.

  Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they will comfort me.

  Cold sweat sprung all over her body and started to ooze down her legs and arms.

  She pictured Austin’s face, his sweet, loving smile; her father holding out his hand; Jesus being nailed to the cross. She clung to them, warding off fear, pain, and exhaustion.

  I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.…

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  How can you rise if you have not burned?

  —Hiba Fatima Ahmad

  Séverine dreamt that she was trapped in an underground room and the walls were closing in on her. She felt the bones in her chest breaking, and tasted blood.

  The taste was bitter, and caused her to choke. Strong hands held her arms and someone was dragging a wet rag across her mouth.

  “Arrête!” she mumbled.

  A man responded with a question in what sounded like Arabic. She reminded herself that Mohammad had told her not to talk.

  Past sour-smelling men, she saw black walls and Arabic slogans painted in white. Men with black masks were holding her head and washing her face roughly through the mesh grill of the burqa. They had freed her hands from the table. She tried to straighten her back, but the pain stopped her.

  She wanted to protest, but bit her tongue instead.

  I’m in Raqqa. I’m being punished for having a phone. They haven’t found out where I’m from…yet.

  The men took her by the arms and pulled her forward. She stumbled and started to fall because her legs were numb. They caught her. Their nails cut into the skin of her forearms.

  She wanted to ask a question, but stopped herself.

  I’m supposed to be Mohammad’s lightskinned Kurdish wife. I can’t say anything.

  The men urged her forward. All she could manage was little steps across the rough concrete floor. Her arms and legs barely functioned, and her back was a swirling mass of pain. At least she could see, breathe, and hear.

  Where are they taking me?

  They passed through a doorway into a larger room. Stopped at a table and one of her captors spoke to a man with a red beard. The bearded man recorded something into a ledger. The men pulled her arms again. They continued walking slowly, past two other women in black hijabs being held by more masked men.

  I’m alive. I’m not the only woman. Maybe they’re about to be punished, too.

  She paused to collect her strength. The men urged her forward. Their voices weren’t as harsh as before. She wanted to obey, not to please them, but to remove herself from this dreadful place. They slowly entered another, wider hallway.

  What’s this?

  She was growing impatient with herself. She wanted to sit and rest. When she looked up she saw a group of men dressed in black walking toward them on the other side of the hall. All she could make out of their expressions was their cold, stern eyes.

  As they passed, she noticed a small person in an orange jumpsuit in the middle of the men. She wore a black blindfold and had tousled reddish-blond hair.

  Dayna?

  She had to stop herself from calling out Dayna’s name. When she turned to look back to see where they were taking her, she was sure it was Dayna by the way she walked.

  Yes…It’s her! Yes, it’s her! Oh, my God!

  Excitement surged through Séverine’s body. She and the men escorting her entered a large room divided by a metal fence. On the other side of the fence a crowd of people was waiting. She recognized Mohammad. His eyes lit up when he saw her, but he didn’t move.

  Does this mean they’re letting me go?

  One of the men who had been escorting her scolded her in Arabic. She lowered her head to the floor.

  She imagined she was walking down along the Seine with Notre Dame Cathedral on her right. Cherry trees bloomed on both sides of the river—vivid pink against the clear blue sky.

  A door in the fence buzzed open and she was pushed through. Mohammad
caught her. She still couldn’t straighten her back.

  “Mohammad…” she whispered, not daring to embrace him or even look in his eyes.

  He turned without saying anything, and led her out of the building. She stumbled out into the sweet, cleansing rain.

  As soon as they reached the corner, words burst out of her. “Mohammad, I need my phone. Please hand me my phone…Which building is that? Where are we exactly?”

  Crocker looked across the river at the dark city shrouded in mist. Behind him his men were hiding the bikes in the shrubs and drainage ditch behind him.

  This is gonna be a bitch.

  He tried to separate the best way to proceed from the dozens of warnings flying through his head. Once they reached the museum, they’d find someone to lead them to Dayna. Maybe grab a militant and beat the information out of him. Somebody had to know where she was.

  “The bridge is there, boss,” Akil said, pointing to the right. “Time to cross.”

  “Yeah.”

  Time was running out. Their mission seemed preposterous—eight men with no specific target against an army of dug-in fighters. None of them had been in the center of the city before.

  His boots slid across the wet wood. Akil pointed past two cypress trees to the entrance of the tunnel.

  He hurried in a crouch, the MP7A1 clutched beside him, when something vibrated on his combat belt. Simultaneously, Akil signaled for everyone to hit the ground. He went to his knees, retrieved his cell phone, then lowered himself to his stomach and readied his weapon.

  Through the NVGs, he saw two militants standing on the other side of the bridge with their backs to them. He waited for CT and Dez to come up behind them and slit their throats before he answered.

  “Yes.”

  “Tom? Crocker?”

  The connection broke up.

  “Hello.”

  “Tom, it’s Séverine. Tom, is that you?”

  “Yes, Séverine. I have to whisper…Can you hear me? Where are you?” he asked, shielding his mouth around the phone.

  “Tom?”

  “Séverine, are you okay?”

  “Tom, I’m in Raqqa. I saw Dayna! I just saw her!”

  “Where?”

  The connection broke up again. Akil was waving him forward. He held up his hand to indicate “wait.”

  “Séverine?” he asked into the phone. “Séverine? Can you hear me?”

  Her voice fragmented with static. “Dayna.…She’s in the building…center of the city. It’s called…the…Gover…nant Building.”

  “Governant Building?”

  “Yes…yes, Tom. The Governant…Building. It’s across the street…across the street…from the…”

  “Séverine. Séverine. I didn’t get that last part.”

  “Dayna…I saw her at…across the street…the…museum.”

  “The Raqqa Museum?”

  “Yes. She’s in the Gover…nant…now. Ground floor.”

  “Where are you? Where are you, Séverine?”

  The line went dead. The rest of the team crouched, waiting at the entrance to the tunnel. The rain fell more heavily than before.

  He wanted to call her back to see if she was okay, wanted to reach through the phone and hug her. But didn’t have time for either. When he had glanced at his watch a minute ago they had thirteen minutes left.

  Now he sprung forward and saw Akil crouched near a sheet of rusting corrugated metal holding up four fingers and pointing to the entrance. He was indicating that four guys had already entered.

  “We have a target.”

  “Where?”

  “Across from the museum!”

  “Sweet!”

  He wiped the rain off the lenses of his NVGs and entered behind Akil. Oliver and Mancini went in after him to guard the rear.

  Slid down at a sharp angle for about eight feet, reached the muddy earthen bottom, knees bent, went down on his hands and knees and started crawling. Through his NVGs he saw the shapes of CT, Doyle, Dez, and Rollins in front. His shoulders grazed the sides.

  The air inside the tunnel was thick and still. With a renewed sense of hope, he entered a wider space, which stunk of rotting garbage and human feces. In the corner, he spotted discarded clothing and a foam mattress. The ceiling was still too low to stand. A rat ran over Crocker’s left hand and started to run up his arm. He flung it off.

  Mancini grunted. “Animal cruelty.”

  Akil whispered, “One big fucking toilet.”

  “Who’s in front?”

  “Dez and Rollins.”

  For some reason his radio wasn’t working. “Pass along the news. She’s in the Governant Building across the street from the museum.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Akil whispered, “It’s on the corner. I know it from the maps.”

  “Hurry! We’re running out of time.”

  Events unfolded like a dark dream. The men in black with black masks over their faces standing at attention, the bright lights in her eyes, other men holding video cameras. One wore Converse sneakers.

  Dayna wished that they hadn’t removed the blindfold, but they had. What she saw conjured impressions of the apocalypse. A man with a thick black beard stood behind a microphone haranguing her in a foreign language. Her wrists and ankles were still bound together.

  Hate poured out of him. Barely strong enough to stand, she looked up at the high, arched ceiling. Seeing cobwebs gathered in the corners, she remembered how the Book of Revelation had scared her, even though she couldn’t help reading it a handful of times.

  Darkness swirled everywhere. It came out of the mouths and ears of the men. It entered her nostrils and turned her cold. So cold.…She tried to resist it, to find the light inside of her, to feel the love of God.

  A passage from Peter flashed in her head: The day of the Lord will come like a thief, and the heavens will roar and the heavenly bodies will be burned up and dissolved.…

  She trembled. One of the men in black spread a black sheet on the ground. Another forced her to kneel on it. The voice of the man speaking into the microphone reached a fever pitch.

  And Satan who had deceived them will be thrown into a lake of fire with the beasts and false prophets, and they will be tormented day and night forever.

  She bowed her head and waited. Two men stepped beside her and put their hands on her shoulders. She recalled the faces of Austin, her parents, grandparents, friends, and everyone she had ever loved.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.…” she muttered.

  Crocker heard something crash ahead and pushed forward through the echo until he ran into CT.

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “Something fell. All good.”

  “We’ve got to move faster!”

  He saw Akil standing in the entrance to a large chamber looking down at the map drawn by Dr. Sahari.

  “What’s this?” he asked, seeing plaster filigree on the ceiling.

  “It’s the entrance to the Assyrian Palace. The museum should be over there.”

  Akil pointed left, near where Dez, Doyle, and Rollins were standing.

  CT stepped out of the background, waving his hands and mouthing the words “A stairway! I found a stairway!”

  Crocker raised his left arm and pointed.

  Akil whispered, “Let me go first. I’ve got the map.”

  The men surged toward the arched opening, their weapons locked and loaded. There were too many things wrong with this mission operationally for Crocker to count. But they had come this far, and they weren’t turning back.

  He scanned ahead for targets, made sure the suppressor was on tight and the MP7A1 ready to fire, then followed Akil up the stairs. The first six or seven were made of stone, and the remainder were cut from uneven pieces of wood and made a clattering sound that couldn’t be avoided even when he tried climbing on his toes.

  One of the pieces of wood dislodged, causing Akil to tumble into him. CT was already at the top, crashing through a wooden
door. He heard an explosion; saw a flash of light.

  Fuck! Here we go!

  It flung him back down several stairs and into Mancini. The three men helped one another up. Readied their weapons. Rushed through the door. Someone had discharged a grenade.

  He heard the spitting of rounds from suppressed weapons and looked for targets through the billowing smoke and dust.

  Someone crashed into his back. Turned and saw CT. He was a split second from ripping him apart. Took a deep breath, turned, and made out Akil’s silhouette in a doorway, beckoning. It was fucking chaos already.

  “This way,” Akil whispered, stepping over a black-robed body.

  Crocker’s head was still messed up from the fall. They were outside now, running alongside the museum, past a burned-out car and other wreckage. Akil stopped in front of a big puddle and pointed at the five-story building on the corner. In the distance he saw the dark minaret of a mosque.

  Crocker quickly scanned for targets, then turned and signaled to the men behind him. Counted six. Doyle appeared to be limping.

  He waited for them to catch up. CT indicated that Doyle had been shot in the foot.

  They ran together. He spotted Akil ahead turning to signal, and two militants emerging from an alley, aiming their weapons at Akil’s back. Crocker motioned to Akil to get down, went into a crouch, lined up both targets, and fired in a contained line from left to right. Both militants buckled at the knees.

  Akil, all balls that he was, didn’t hesitate, jumped to his feet and barreled toward the corner of the building with CT on his heels. They both disappeared into the tall entrance and a split second later another charge went off. Pushed Crocker back on his heels and was followed by ferocious firing that lit up the window to his left.

  Crocker hit the ground and scooted right around the corner through mud and water, into the marble entrance. It was hell inside—men screaming, rounds flying everywhere, smoke.

  Someone pushed his head down, then another grenade went off, stinging his ears, and sending waves of pressure against his face and chest.