by Ethan Jones
Al-Razi glanced at Claudia. “This will get messy ... Do you want to wait outside?”
Claudia gave him a sideways glance. “Did I come all the way here to wait outside?”
“No.” He shrugged. “As you wish, but you’ve been warned.”
“Thanks.”
They exchanged the customary Muslim greeting with the gunman. After a brief conversation, he led them through the gate, and the yard, and inside the house. It was relatively clean and in a better condition than the safehouse that had been attacked during the early morning hours. When they came near the back, al-Razi pointed to the left. “There are four men there. We’ll interrogate them one by one in the back yard.”
“Out in the open? Isn’t that risky?”
“Why?” he shrugged. “Who’s going to hear?”
Claudia tipped her head toward the gunman, then said, “Everyone walking by.”
Al-Razi said, “It’s all right. Everyone here is all right.”
He whispered to the gunman, who nodded, then al-Razi and Claudia proceeded to the back yard. It was an area about ten by twenty, covered in dust and other debris. She stood in the porch near the back door and said, “So, what’s your game plan?”
Al-Razi shrugged. “We’ll ask questions until we get answers...”
“Right, but in terms of tactics?”
“That’s it. If I suspect they’re lying or hiding something, we’ll beat the truth out of them.”
“Torture?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Yes, we pretend to be their friends. Build a rapport, act respectfully, express concern. We want something from them, and I’m sure they want something in return.”
“We don’t have time for that.” Al-Razi waved his hand. “Plus, that doesn’t work.”
“Actually, it does. Trading intel has worked over the millennia.”
“You seem very confident.”
“I am. I’ve done this before.”
“And it has worked?”
“Well, I’ve had mixed results.”
Al-Razi shook his head. “Let’s go with my plan.”
Claudia stepped closer to him. “How about this: You said there are four detainees, and we’re running out of time. Let me interrogate one, while you handle the other. If I get nothing, what did we lose? You can still seize him and beat him up...”
Al-Razi did not reply right away.
The gunman appeared at the doorway dragging behind him a dishevelled man dressed in tattered clothes. His face, arms, and hands were full of bruises and cuts, evidence of previous beatings or scuffles. He was perhaps in his early twenties, but because his face was caked in grime, she could not be certain.
The gunman dropped the detainee by al-Razi’s feet. The detainee took a hold of al-Razi’s boot and began to plead with him in a bone-rattling voice. Al-Razi spoke to him in a cold, menacing tone. The detainee shook his head, then looked up and began to cry in a loud voice, as if talking to God.
“So, what do you say?” Claudia asked.
“Waste of time and effort.”
“I don’t mind it. Give me fifteen minutes, then come and find me. If I have nothing, the detainee is yours.”
Al-Razi said nothing and just looked at her.
Claudia said, “Look, we both want the same thing, right? What’s the worst that can happen?”
“These animals should pay for what they’ve done to my people.” He kicked the detainee in the gut, and the man folded in pain.
“Revenge is different from interrogation. If you want payback, you will have it. But we’ve come here for intel, not justice.”
Al-Razi remained unconvinced. He thought about it for another moment, then said, “Okay, all right, but don’t promise him freedom. None of these worms will walk free from here.”
“You got it.”
Al-Razi talked to the gunman, who gave him an uncertain glance. Claudia did not understand his muted reply, but she was certain he was objecting to the crazy idea of this foreign woman interrogating a dangerous ISIS fighter. After a brief discussion, the gunman nodded and pointed to Claudia to follow him.
Al-Razi said, “He’ll call one of the other men, who knows English. He’ll serve as the interpreter.”
“Good.”
“I still think this is a waste of time.”
“Better than me waiting outside in the truck.” Claudia smiled.
“Barely.”
The detainee at their feet cried out again.
Al-Razi gave him a look full of disgust and hate. Then he glanced up at Claudia and said, “Go, before I change my mind.”
Claudia nodded and followed the gunman back into the house. I hope I can make this work, so we can get the intel we need.
Chapter Fourteen
UNHCR Hasan Sham Refugee Camp
Twenty Miles East of Mosul, Iraq
Javin came near the camp’s entrance as another explosion cut through the air already thick with the smell of burned powder and plastic. Shrapnel and debris hit the side of a trailer that served as the guards’ shack. Long barrages came from beyond the iron-gated entrance, which was half open. Two gunmen were using automatic rifles to fire toward the shack and the closest tents.
Javin glanced around as he fell next to a uniformed police officer who seemed to be the only one mounting some form of resistance. He was lying flat on his stomach near the edge of a tent, whose pegs were reinforced onto the ground by heaps of broken cinderblocks. The officer finished squeezing off a quick burst from his AK rifle, then turned to Javin, who asked in Arabic, “Where’s the rest of your team?”
“Two are gone.” The officer nodded at the next tent about ten yards away. “They were shooting from there until a moment ago, when another explosion happened. Then, everything went quiet.”
Javin could not see the officers, so he assumed they were on the other side or perhaps inside the tent. “And the guards?” He pointed at the shack.
“They were the first to die.”
“How much ammo do you have?”
“Another mag.”
Javin shook his head. His pistol and the officer’s last magazine were insufficient to stop the assault. The shooters—whoever they were, but he suspected they were ISIS fighters—were going to overrun the entrance and burst into the camp in a matter of minutes, perhaps sooner. Javin looked at the tent where the officers were killed, then said, “Cover me.”
“What are you doing?”
“We need weapons and ammo. They had rifles, right?”
“They did, yes.”
“Grenades?”
“I’m not sure, maybe.”
“All right. Cover me.”
Javin peered around the cinderblocks. A gunman, bent at the waist, was running toward the gate. Just as he stepped inside the camp and turned his rifle toward Javin’s tent, gunfire erupted from the other side. The bullets struck the gunman on the thighs and chest, and he fell to the ground. We’ve got some help. At least one extra man.
Javin waited for a moment as tense silence hung in the air. “Now,” he said to the officer and dashed toward the other tent.
The officer fired his rifle.
Sporadic return fire came from beyond the gate.
Bullets kicked up dirt around Javin’s feet. He ducked instinctively and turned his body to the left, running away from the bullets. A few more rounds whizzed over his head, so he rolled onto the ground, then crawled forward.
The maneuver seemed to have taken Javin beyond the range of the bullets. Or perhaps it was the extra man returning fire, since a couple of barrages came from that direction. Javin did not care how it happened, and he was glad he had run the gauntlet without a scratch.
He jumped to his feet when he entered the tent. The body of an officer was sprawled close to the back, near a bullet-ridden section of the tent wall. He was dead, as three bullets had struck him in the head and the lower part of his body, the exposed areas not protected by the bulletproof vest. Javin ret
rieved the officer’s M16—the US-made rifle that had replaced the Iraq Army’s Russian-made Kalashnikov rifle—along with two magazines from the chest rig. He also took the only M67 fragmentation grenade the officer had in one of his side chest rig pouches. This will have to do.
Javin checked the rifle, readied it, and stepped outside the tent. His eyes met those of the officer who had been covering Javin’s advance. He gave the officer a thumbs up, then turned the rifle toward the gate.
As soon as one gunman came into his sight, Javin tapped the trigger. The M16 thundered in his hands as he planted two bullets in the gunman’s head. Javin looked around, but did not find another target or the extra man helping from inside the camp. Javin stood up, then shouted in Arabic, “Moving toward the gate.”
He had no intention of doing that and giving away his plans. The shout served the purpose of determining if there were other ISIS fighters within earshot, hiding or amassing outside the gate.
Within a few seconds, the side of the guards’ shack erupted in a spray of shrapnel. Thankfully for Javin, he was beyond their deadly reach. The explosion confirmed his suspicions. Enemy combat troops were a few yards away, and they were heavily armed, outgunning Javin and his two teammates.
He drew in a deep breath and made some quick calculations. He gestured to the officer, hoping he would understand the meaning. Javin was going to approach the shack and toss the grenade on the other side. He repeated the hand motions and waited for the officer to acknowledge his understanding.
When he did, Javin sprinted toward the shack. He held the rifle ready and gripped the grenade with his left hand. Barrages echoed from at least two positions, but no gunfire was aimed at him, and no bullets zipped over his head.
He reached the shack and dropped next to the mangled metal walls without making too much noise. He kept the rifle pointed at the gate, in case enemy fighters charged in, then pulled the safety pin. He released the safety lever, held the grenade in his hand for a couple of seconds, then tossed it high over the shack.
The grenade detonation was louder than he had expected. Metal fragments pierced through the shack. Cries and curses came from the other side.
Javin waited for a few long moments, then crawled toward the right, the opposite direction from the gate. He glanced around the corner of the shack. A gunman was crawling away, toward a black truck positioned about thirty yards away. Another gunman was standing near the truck, and a third one was manning the heavy machine gun mounted on the back of the truck.
Javin fired a quick burst at the man trying to escape. His bullets pinned him to the ground, and he stopped moving. Then Javin raised his rifle and squeezed off a long barrage aimed at the man near the truck. He tried to disappear behind the vehicle, but Javin’s bullets were faster. They struck him in the side, and he flopped onto his back.
The machine gunner unleashed a torrent of bullets toward Javin’s position.
He had just a split second to lower himself to the ground and behind the shack’s concrete pads. Bullets hammered the other side of the shack, sending sprays of debris all around him.
Gunfire barrages came from the two positions inside the camp, but the onslaught against Javin’s position continued. The thick concrete withstood the pounding, but pieces were raining down on him.
A few long moments passed with Javin stuck in that location. He kept his head down and thought about his next moves. He could not go anywhere until the machine gun fire barrage eased. So he held onto his rifle and prayed the concrete pads held up.
A short reprieve came about thirty seconds later. Javin knew it was not going to last long. The gunner would need only a few seconds to connect a new ammunition belt to the machine gun. So Javin rolled onto his stomach and crawled a few inches to his left.
He aimed his rifle at the truck.
The gunman was nowhere to be found.
Javin looked through the rifle’s scope. Nothing in between the protective metal plates shielding the machine gun.
He waited for a few seconds.
Still nothing.
His eyes flitted left and right. Did he run out of ammo and decide to escape on foot? Javin moved the rifle’s scope up and further away from the truck. The road leading away from the camp was empty. Well, not exactly. Another truck—a white one—was coming toward the gate. That’s what’s happening. The gunman is getting reinforcements. Or are they police or the army? He swung the rifle in that direction. The powerful scope brought the truck into sharp, clear view. A gunman armed with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher was sitting in the truck bed, next to a heavy machine gun. I still can’t tell if they’re friends or foes.
He returned his sights to the truck.
Still no gunman.
He sighed and waited for the gunman to pop up.
He did not.
Instead, the rocket-propelled grenade man stood up as the truck came to a slow halt when it was about eighty yards away from the gate. The man shouldered his weapon and pointed it toward the shack.
Javin sprinted in the opposite direction as far away from the shack as he could.
He expected the grenade to blow up what remained of the metal trailer and hoped he would be clear of the shrapnel range.
The explosion came a moment later. It sounded farther away than he expected. No fragments hit around him, which he also found very strange. He did not stop until he slid behind the safety of the nearest cinderblock pile by a tent, then glanced through the gate.
High flames had swallowed the black truck.
What? How did that happen?
Javin could see the white truck, and that was the only possible explanation. The RPG man. So they are friendlies. He got up to a knee and aimed his rifle at the gate. He took a few cautious steps toward the other tent, where the police officer was lying on his back. When Javin drew near, he noticed the officer had been hit in the head. His lifeless eyes and the pool of blood forming around his head told Javin that the man was dead.
Javin looked around for the other shooter who had assisted in thwarting the attack. A number of camp residents, mostly children, were popping up from around the tents and the occasional vehicle now that there was a small lull in the fighting. Javin gestured at them to stay back and away from the road or the gate.
He turned his glance toward the gate and brought the rifle up in the high ready position, with the barrel slightly up in the air and his trigger finger resting on the trigger guard. He had taken only a couple of steps, when he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Javin, what are you doing with that gun?”
It was Liberty.
Chapter Fifteen
Hayy Al Yarmuk Neighborhood
East Mosul, Iraq
Claudia was led to one of the rooms near the front of the house. It had a couple of mattresses, a small plastic table and two chairs, and a worn-out red, blue, and green carpet with a flowery motif. Better than a bare concrete floor. She paced for a few moments, then stood close to the window. The view outside showed a row of houses in various stages of destruction. A couple of gunmen were stationed on a rooftop four houses away, and they were chatting very animatedly.
Heavy footsteps came from the hall, and Claudia turned around to face the door. It opened with a loud creak, and the same gunman who had brought the first detainee to al-Razi shoved in a handcuffed and blindfolded detainee. Like the other man that al-Razi was interrogating in the back yard, the detainee’s clothes were torn, and his arms and legs showed signs of mistreatment.
Claudia picked up a chair, and the gunman pushed the detainee into it so hard that the man almost fell off. The Canadian agent wanted to object, but she was not sure the gunman would understand her or pay any attention. She waited until a third man, who seemed to be just a teenager, entered the room. Claudia assumed he was the interpreter, so she said, “Can you tell him,” she pointed at the gunman, “to remove the hood and the cuffs, but to be gentle when he does so?”
The interpreter rubbed his thin chin beard. “That’
s not a good idea. He’s a dangerous dog, who has cut off the heads of five people…”
“He’s been beaten within an inch of his life … And you’re a strong, armed man.” She pointed at the interpreter’s AK rifle he had aimed at the back of the man’s head. “If he tries something, you will shoot him, right?”
The interpreter hesitated for a moment, then began to talk to the gunman. He shook his head and shouted something that sounded like a curse.
Claudia shrugged. “Al-Razi said I can talk to the detainee. I can’t do that when he’s in this state. Remove the hood and the handcuffs, please,” she said in a warm yet firm voice.
The gunman shook his head and opened his mouth to say something before the interpreter had translated Claudia’s words. Then the gunman changed his mind and ripped off the detainee’s hood as roughly as he could.
The man blinked as the bright sunlight entering the room hit his eyes. He had a full salt-and-pepper beard. A series of burn marks stretched along the left side of his face, while the other side was swollen and had turned purple. But his small dark eyes still had life in them. He glanced at Claudia, then turned his head and frowned as his eyes rested on the gunman, who was just taking off the ISIS fighter’s handcuffs.
Claudia said, “I need you to step outside, so that I can talk to him in private.”
She thought the gunman would object again, but he simply shrugged. He replied to the interpreter, who nodded back. Then the gunman walked out of the room.
“What did he say?” Claudia asked.
“This … this piece of excrement deserves to die.”
“Okay, well, I’ll talk to him and ask him a series of questions. Please translate everything I say in the nicest possible way.”
The interpreter frowned, but Claudia stopped him by holding up her hand. “Yes, I know he’s a dangerous dog who deserves to die. But before he does that, he has valuable intelligence, information that we need from him. That information will save a lot of people, Iraqi fighters like you and your brothers.”
