Enemy of Mine

by Brad Taylor

  He stepped through the door and the buzz of conversation dropped away, as one by one they realized he had entered. A quick survey showed that only eight of the thirteen members were present, something that could be expected given the duties of the people appointed to the Council. He was surprised to see President Warren in the room, figuring if anyone had been unable to attend, it would have been the president.

  He went to the small podium at the front of the room and cleared his throat, unsure how to proceed.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you here” flashed through his mind. Instead, when he had everyone’s full attention, he just laid it out.

  “Today, at thirteen-forty-eight DC time, we had a Prairie Fire alert from Lebanon. One of our Taskforce operators is in jeopardy, quite possibly lethal. I’m looking to move a team into the country as soon as I can, and I need your approval to do so, because it’s not without risk.”

  All eyes were riveted on him. He continued with the specifics of what he knew, and his best guess as to the nature of the trouble. When he finished, President Warren spoke first.

  “So you don’t know he’s captured. You’re just worst-casing it?”

  “That’s correct, sir, although I can’t see what else it could be. Jennifer wouldn’t call over an open line for a lock-on, invoking Prairie Fire, if she’d simply lost him at a souk somewhere. She said he was in trouble. That, coupled with the phone grid, tells me he’s in bad-guy hands and she needed his location.”

  “What are the odds it’s the Lebanese authorities and not terrorists?”

  “I’d hate to guess. LAF would be best case, but if that happened I don’t think she’d call Prairie Fire, and his phone grid wouldn’t be in a Palestinian refugee camp notorious for hiding terrorists.”

  The national security advisor, Alexander Palmer, spoke up. “What’s this mean? Worst case? I get Pike getting killed, but that’s not worst case.”

  He saw Kurt bristle and said, “Calm down. I’m not being callous, and we don’t have time for emotions. I want him back as much as you, but what’s it mean the longer he’s in custody?”

  “Catastrophic. He’s been in the Taskforce since its inception. He knows just about every cover and front company we use, along with every tactic, technique, and procedure. We can’t do anything operational until we get him back and determine what he was forced to divulge. If we don’t get him back, we have to assume everything’s compromised. The Taskforce is finished.”

  He saw a few eyes widen and realized they were thinking he meant the Taskforce would become public knowledge, along with their involvement.

  “I’m not talking about an exposé in the Post. If he’s been captured by Hezbollah or one of the Palestinian groups, they’re not going to brag about the intel bonanza. They’re going to use it to penetrate our counterterrorist capability so they can thwart it. That’s why I’m saying the Taskforce is finished. We’ll have to assume they know every method we utilize. It’ll be like us operating thinking we’re wearing camouflage when the enemy sees blaze orange.”

  Palmer said, “Didn’t we already have an indication that there’d been a penetration from the operation in Tunisia? Didn’t he know he was being hunted? Isn’t that why you guys took him down as a fleeting target?”

  Kurt said, “Yes, sir, we thought that, but we were wrong. Turns out Crusty was convinced he was being followed by the new Tunisian government for some heinous things he’d done in support of the old regime. It had nothing to do with terrorism. Just a coincidence. This, on the other hand, is the real deal.”

  “How long to get a team in there?”

  “I’ve got a warning order to Knuckles in Tunisia. He’s the closest one, but because he’s covered under the oil company, he can’t just pick up his team and fly to Lebanon without risking the exposure of the Crusty operation. Best case, I can get him in-country in forty-eight hours.”

  “How long do you think Pike can last?”

  “What do you mean by last? You mean live, or keep his mouth shut?”

  Palmer grimaced, then said, “I mean keep his mouth shut.”

  “I honestly don’t know. Pike’s as tough a man as I’ve ever seen, but if they’re using extreme pressure, forty-eight hours is a long, long time.”

  18

  T

  he old man shouted at the toughs to stop the ineffectual slapping and punching, seeing it was getting them nowhere. In fact, they were moving backward because I was now having trouble talking through my swollen face.

  They sat back and studied me, waiting. Another man entered the room, middle-aged and carrying an old-fashioned leather doctor’s bag. With a chill, I realized that the punching had simply been for pleasure. They had no serious interest in my protests of innocence. They had been waiting on this man.

  He talked to the old man for a moment, then opened the satchel, pulling out a scalpel. He sliced my shirt off of my body, exposing my chest.

  Here we go. Need to focus. Need something to focus on. In surprisingly good English, he said, “You know, we can keep you alive forever. In a state of perpetual pain. I have worked on many men and have gotten very, very good at walking the balance. Do you know of William Buckley? Hmmm? Of course, you wouldn’t admit it—not yet anyway—but he was one of my first patients.”

  The statement made me physically nauseated, searing my core in fear.

  He put down the scalpel and pulled out a handheld set of pruning shears.

  “I like it when you know that death is coming. I’m humane that way. I don’t want you wondering each day if that day will be the last. I can’t imagine the mental pressure that would cause, so I’ve come up with a system. I cut off your fingers and toes as time goes on. Not in any systematic way, of course. You won’t wake up knowing today will be the day you’ll lose your pinky toe, for instance. You’ll just know that when you run out of fingers and toes, we have no more use for you.”

  “Today is your first one.”

  He approached with the shears, and I began to struggle, mightily trying to break my bonds. The two toughs clamped down on me, preventing what little wiggle room I had in my restraints. One shoved a piece of my shredded shirt in my mouth while the other held my hand steady.

  The doctor took my left pinky finger and placed it in the shears. I began to thrash like a shark on a line, to no avail. He looked me in the eye and clamped the shears closed.

  I screamed until my vocal cords felt shredded, the sweat pouring off of my face and the blood jetting out of my hand.

  He held me by my hair, shaking my head.

  “Look at me. See where this is going. You will talk, there’s no doubt about that. But you can die with nineteen fingers and toes, quickly and cleanly.”

  His words penetrated my pain, and I realized he was right. I needed to die right fucking now, before I started spilling my guts. In my thrashing, I had felt my right leg not as tight as my left. I thought I could slip it down far enough to stand up and throw myself backward. If I could break the chair, I could make a run for the door and get killed quickly.

  Before I break.

  I couldn’t do it right now, with the two toughs on me. I would need to last until I didn’t pose a threat. That meant I needed to focus for what was to come. I ignored the words coming out of the man’s mouth, knowing it was just more fear talk, and tried to find something to anchor against.

  I thought about Jennifer, about living to see her again, and felt nothing but despair.

  They got her too. Because of Samir. That son of a bitch.

  The fact that I wouldn’t get to punish him for his treachery made me see red, made me want to scream at the injustice. And I found my anchor.

  Jennifer had told Samir that I held a rage like he did, but that had been a little bit of an exaggeration to make him feel good. When my family had been murdered, my rage had been much, much worse. A blackness that wanted to destroy everything it touched. And Samir’s betrayal caused it to stir. A feeling I had spent years f
ighting, I now stoked until it was white-hot.

  Live long enough to kill Samir. Live to see him die.

  The man with the doctor’s bag had put down the shears and picked the scalpel back up. He saw the emotion flit across my face.

  “Oh? A tough one. I guess you don’t want to die with nineteen fingers and toes. We’ll see about that.”

  Deep inside the Ain al-Hilweh camp, Jennifer stayed underneath a moldy wool blanket, hidden from view. It was now past eight o’clock at night, but there was still enough light out to make her worry should someone look inside the van while they were stopped.

  True to his word, Samir had managed to talk to the Lebanese Army guards outside the camp and had gained access. She didn’t know what he had said and didn’t really care. All she cared about was Pike, and her imagination was running wild with the thoughts of what was happening to him. Every second was precious.

  She heard Samir say something and stuck her head out. He held her tablet in the passenger seat, directing the driver. He turned around.

  “That’s it. At least, that’s where his phone was today when you called.”

  She saw a three-story building that looked like an apartment complex, with two men standing at the entrance holding AKs.

  Jesus. We can’t go door-to-door in that place. We’ll last thirty seconds.

  “What is it? A housing area? Where do you think they’d have Pike?”

  He got the driver moving again and said, “It’s not housing. It’s one of their headquarters. There are no friendlies inside. Pike will be up high. On the second or third floor. It gives them time to hide him if anyone comes inside that shouldn’t.”

  By the time they had circled through the maze of alleys and buildings, a germ of an idea had begun to form. The darkening gloom gave her courage.

  “Can you guys climb buildings? Did Pike show you that?”

  “No. Not specifically, but we learned to climb mountains and rock walls with ropes.”

  Dammit.

  “If you had a rope coming down, could you climb the back of that building?”

  Now parked to the rear, in a lot for an abandoned restaurant, Samir scanned the building, seeing the crude cinder-block walls and pipes jutting out.

  Watching him thinking about it, she said, “It’s only three floors. Surely you can do that.”

  “Yes. We can.”

  She touched a cheap yellow nylon towrope inside the van. It was a half-inch in diameter, and appeared to be long enough. “Tie in some knots. Every three feet. We’re running out of time.”

  “Who’s going to get it up there?”

  “I am. We can’t get in from the front. We’ll get in a gunfight right off the bat, and they’ll kill Pike before we reach him. We climb the back to the top balcony. I’ll lay in the rope, you guys follow. When we’re ready, we assault from top to bottom until we find Pike.”

  Samir said nothing for a moment, looking at the building. When he returned to her, he said, “Are you really an anthropologist?” “Yes. As a matter of fact I am. But not tonight.”

  One of the men finished with the rope, and Jennifer took the last AK-47 out of the duffel, locking in a full magazine and slinging it over her shoulder.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Pike. I imagine he’ll be wanting to kill someone by the time we reach him.”

  They exited the van and moved silently to the rear of the building, the adjacent walls blocking out the last stabs of the sun, covering them in shadow. Nobody challenged them in the alley, the Palestinians’ confidence in their superiority this far into the camp overweighing their security.

  Reaching the base, Jennifer’s concern became the myriad of electrical cables coming out of the building. There must have been a hundred, all haphazardly strewn out of the building and across the alley. It would make the climb hard, as anyone following her would have to thread them without the freedom she would have to move left and right, because they’d be using a rope.

  She said, “Is this building up to code?”

  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

  J

  ennifer 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.