by W. J. Lundy
The vehicles moved onward through the desert. The terrain changed and the road with it, from a dusty trail to a wide, black-top highway. Soon they were crossing over mountains and through small villages that grew larger the farther they got from the border. Tommy watched the terrain pass by his open window, listening to the buzzing of the tires against the pavement. He caught himself nodding off and reached into his shirt pocket for a blister pack of nicotine gum. He didn’t smoke, but he used the gum to help stay focused on long missions. He popped out two pieces and stuffed them in his mouth before passing the rest of the pack off to James.
“We’re stopping,” Papa said.
Jack was already upright in his seat, leaning forward to see what was happening. The convoy was at a wide intersection. The busses loaded with civilians were being directed north, escorted away by Syrian police cars. The loaded trucks turned south, guided by military vehicles. That left only the Ground Division team, the Hyena, and his men in the two remaining Range Rovers. Papa pulled the vehicle up and to the center of the road where the Syrian Secret Service man was standing with his men. Papa rolled down the window, and the fat, mustached man approached the vehicle with a big smile. He extended his hand and Papa reached out, returning the handshake.
“This was a very successful day, gentlemen,” the Hyena said in broken English.
Papa laughed and replied in Arabic, “Yes, indeed. So that’s it? We are complete?”
The Hyena grinned and nodded, his expression revealing that he caught the point Papa had made by not responding in English. The team was still on the job, and poor cover or not, they had to maintain it. The man walked closer to the vehicle and put his hands on the roof then leaned down, looking inside. He spoke calmly. “You all must be very tired. We will escort you to your hotel and say our farewells.” With a smile, he took two steps back and returned to his vehicle.
“That cat is weird,” James said. “He looks like a seventies porn star with that mustache.”
Jack laughed. “I can do weird, let’s just hold it together a bit longer and get this done.” He pulled a paper map from his lap and tried to make sense of it, matching it to the GPS coordinates from a device in his left hand. “No idea where this joker is taking us. The street data and this map must be from the 1950s. This highway isn’t even on here.”
Papa chuckled. “It’s the third world. Updating Garmin probably isn’t a priority.”
The vehicles pulled back onto the road with Papa following the Hyena’s blue police car. The two olive-green Range Rovers with military markings stayed close behind them. They were led down a highway and into a city. The sun was coming up when they exited onto a narrow road then turned onto even tighter streets. The police car to the front slowed then turned with the others following. Soon it stopped on a dead-end street in front of a tall warehouse. Jack stiffened in his seat. “This doesn’t look like a hotel,” he whispered.
Papa looked in the rearview mirror and spoke softly. “Those Rovers behind us are blocking us in, boys.”
Tommy looked over his shoulder and could see that the vehicles had turned out, making a classic roadblock shape. The blue car to their front was still stopped, the red brake lights glowing back at them. Tommy reached down between his knees and readied the submachine gun. He could see that the other men were doing the same. Jack’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact. “I don’t know where this is going, boys, but they don’t take any of us. If they try to disarm us—it’s on. Does everyone understand?”
The men mumbled their acknowledgement and held their breath as they watched the door of the blue vehicle open and the Hyena exit, walking away from the car and stepping onto the sidewalk in front of the warehouse building. Papa again looked in the mirror and said, “I got two moving up on us from the rear.”
“We fighting or talking, boss?” Tommy said, gripping the weapon, ready to lunge out and take down the armed men.
Jack took in a deep breath, his chest expanding, then exhaled loudly. “Let’s show these fuckers we got teeth, but no shooting unless I give the word or they fire first.” With that, he flung open his door and stepped into the street with his rifle up and aimed at the head of the Hyena. The other men did the same, exiting the vehicle quickly and finding targets of their own.
“Talk to him, Papa, before I bust his skull wide open,” Jack shouted, this time in English for effect.
The fat man was smiling, his hands in the air as if it was all a misunderstanding. He took a step forward before Jack intensified his grip on the rifle. “Stay where you’re at, tough guy,” Jack ordered. “I’d hate to ruin that finely groomed mustache of yours.”
“You have no worries, we are just changing vehicles. No worries, friends, no worries.”
Tommy watched the men to the rear take aggressive steps closer, both armed with AK-47 rifles. Others still in the Range Rovers were exiting and taking up firing positions at the back. “Fuck that noise, boss. I got six to eight shooters back here,” Tommy shouted. “This is a takedown if I ever did see one. Let me loose.”
“No, no, friends, it’s okay, it’s okay,” the Hyena said again, maintaining his smile.
Papa moved around the front of the Land Cruiser, his rifle up. He looked at the Hyena and back to the front toward the blue car in the dead-end street. “What the hell is going on here, Abdul? We had a deal,” he said, using the man’s first name.
“Your deal is still good, there will just be delays. Now, I insist you drop your weapons and surrender to my men.”
“Not going to happen,” Jack said as he spun and put his weapon on the men moving up from the rear, realizing the greater threat. “We’re not about to become your bounty.”
Papa did the same, taking cover over the door. Bolts locked on rifles, chambering rounds. Tommy could see the Badawi Brigade soldiers were in cover with their rifles up and in good positions. The team would be cut down in the center of the street if they resisted now. He flexed his shoulders and leaned into the submachine gun, slowly taking the slack out of the trigger, ready to light them up as soon as the word was given.
James was looking at the same thing and knew a fight couldn’t be won. “Wait,” he said, stepping away from the Toyota. “Just hold up.” He held his rifle over his head.
“What the hell are you doing? Get back to your position, James,” Jack ordered.
“Nah, hell with that. Look at ’em, there’s too many. We ain’t getting out of this alive.” James shook his head and laid his rifle on the roof of the Toyota then lifted his arms into the air.
“He said it’s just a delay, right?” James said, looking to the Hyena, who was smiling again.
The fat man nodded. “Yes, of course, just a delay. I talk to your State Department and you will all be home in no time. Big strong men, they’ll pay for you.”
“See?” James moved away from the Toyota with his hands still up, and closer to the Hyena. “Let’s just listen to what the guy has to say.”
Jack shook his head and relaxed his grip on the rifle, not knowing what to do. Papa did the same. In the back, Tommy could see that the soldiers were coming out of cover and closing in on them.
“It’s okay, boys. Let’s just trust this guy,” James said, still walking toward the Hyena, now only paces away.
Tommy looked to his friend and shook his head. “Don’t.”
James stared at him and winked. “It’s better to live to fight another day.”
The Badawi soldiers, now feeling confident, came out of cover and closed in around them. James moved to the sidewalk and dropped to his knees with his hands over his head. The Hyena looked down at the surrendering man with a pleased expression. “Now, please, we can do all of this peacefully, if you just follow the lead of your friend.”
Shaking his head, Jack spit on the ground and took his rifle off his shoulder. Tommy eased his finger off the trigger and pushed back as the enemy soldiers closed in on him. As all attention was on the three armed Americans, James rolled back to his ank
les and drew the concealed Walther hidden in the ankle holster. With a smooth motion, he drew and fired at the Hyena. The intelligence man’s head snapped back.
The Badawi Brigade soldiers paused in shock, their minds not registering the quick change of events from imminent surrender to their leader dead. Tommy took advantage of the hesitation and turned back to the front. Firing on full auto, he stitched a .45-caliber path through the guard closest to him. Weapons on both sides opened fire. Tommy could feel the rounds zip past his head as Papa fired over his shoulder.
In seconds, it was over. The Badawi men lay on the ground, dead or dying. Tommy dropped a magazine and inserted a new one before charging forward and putting safety shots into the wounded soldiers. When he turned back, he could see that Papa had the now bullet-shattered vehicle running again. Tommy turned to the sidewalk. James was still on the ground, looking up at him with wide eyes and then down at the front of his shirt.
“Shit, he’s hit!” Jack shouted, running to the downed man’s side.
Tommy met him at the sidewalk and together they brought him back to the Toyota. The man’s shirt was soaked with blood before they could get him on the seat. James mumbled incoherently while Jack pulled back a seat cushion and dug through an aid box. He tossed bandages to Tommy as he pulled the cap off a morphine needle.
“Jack, we gotta roll, brother,” Papa shouted from the front. The sounds of sirens rose in the distance.
Jack nodded his response and pushed James the rest of the way into the back seat before leaping into the front. Tommy was left in the back, pressing the thick gauze bandages against his friend’s bleeding chest. James looked up at him, grinning, the morphine taking effect. He lifted his hand; the Walther pistol was still tight in his grip. “See, the holster paid off.”
Tommy shook his head and took the pistol from his friend. “It sure did, James, it sure did.”
Papa raced them back out of the alley and turned south, speeding through neighborhood streets until they were back in open desert. Jack pulled out the emergency personal locater beacon, set it to distress mode, and attempted to dial in the AWAC’s aircraft that he knew would be in high orbit over Iraq. It was their only safety net, their only chance of evacuation if things went wrong. He set the transmitter to ping and turned on the speaker, receiving no replies. He pressed the transmit button and gave their call sign, requesting assistance from any aircraft. They were in the wind, too far from home and too far behind enemy lines for the calls to go through.
Jack made a fist and punched the dashboard until his knuckles bled. Papa reached out a hand and squeezed his team leader’s shoulder. “Hold it together, man,” Papa said. He looked in the rearview mirror at Tommy, who was now holding James in his lap. The wounded man’s face was pale as he bled out in the back seat. Tommy shook his head and closed his eyes.
ALBAHR, SYRIA
Ten Years Later
Syrian summer was harsh for those not used to it. The dry heat and the stifling winds could become unbearable. Years of living in Europe and the luxury lifestyle lessened Ziya Fayed’s tolerance to this part of the world, a place he once called home. Syrian by birth, he had attachments here, but many of those were gone now. His family moved to Europe long ago, and he had no romantic aspirations for this land, nor was he eager to stay any longer than he had to.
His nose hadn’t stopped bleeding from the dry winds since his arrival in the land that God forgot. He looked from the sedan window into the night, the full moon hanging low on the horizon of a cloudless pre-dawn sky. White Toyota sport utility vehicles lined a back alley while a tan Humvee, a relic of the war in Iraq, sat idle in the dark. He grinned, the moonlight reflecting off his bleached teeth. It was time.
He exited the sedan and approached the group of men from the back, not happy to be leaving the cold air of his leather-dressed Mercedes. He wore a loose, face-concealing scarf and dark leather jacket, his body dressed entirely in black. As he walked, bodyguards exited the surrounding vehicles, quickly flanking him. Fayed didn’t know the bodyguards, but he was always provided with protection when he went into the field.
Fayed glared harshly at a group surrounding a fat, thick-mustached man with a scar across his forehead. Those in the scarred man’s party noticed his approach and snapped to attention, parting to make room for him. He laughed under his breath, both appreciating and resenting the signs of respect he was given by the hired thugs of the Badawi Brigade.
These men were weak and uneducated. They called themselves soldiers, but they were far from it. They disgusted him—their eagerness to please, fighting for someone else’s ideals, not a single free thought in their heads. Fayed didn’t bother speaking with them, he knew they had no question of what they were fighting for. The scarred man saw his approach and pulled his face from a mobile phone. He waved a free hand to Fayed, smiling gleefully. He turned toward him, nodding as he abruptly ended the call.
“Good evening, Abdul,” Fayed said.
Abdul Nassir smiled, revealing badly stained and chipped teeth. Lowering his phone, he leaned in close to Fayed and pointed far down the alley. The mustached man edged uncomfortably closer, the stench of tobacco causing Fayed to grimace. That he had to work with the man disgusted Fayed. He knew that Abdul considered himself an equal—and sometimes even a superior—to Fayed. As a former member of Syria’s security establishment, Abdul had made a name for himself in the chaos of the civil war.
Even though technically a traitor, the man commanded respect by his reputation alone, and as long as he stayed on the right side of the government, the Syrian forces ignored him. Abdul was once a high-level agent, so high that the Americans had a code name for him. Now he was nothing more than a renegade bandit, having gone rogue from the government after the start of the civil war, switching sides for profit but still walking a fine line to keep himself off the target list of the Syrian forces.
Nassir made his money as a trafficker. Having connections and access to the border routes, he could get anything in or out of Syria. It had started with guns when they paid well, but eventually moved on to drugs and human trafficking. Establishing covers and contacts with outside parties, he was now well-armed and always well-informed. Fayed swallowed hard with revulsion and followed Abdul’s arm. At the end of the street stood an ancient monastery where a lone street lamp illuminated an iron gate guarded by a solitary uniformed officer.
“But one man?” Fayed asked.
“Yes. Your intelligence was good. Tonight, we make them pay.”
“Insha Allah. If it is God’s will, it will be done,” Fayed said.
Abdul grinned. The scar across his forehead tightened with his brow, seeming to catch the light. It flickered with moisture as sweat dripped from his slicked-back hair. He snapped his fingers. “Yes, of course,” he laughed.
Men scattered and rushed back to their waiting vehicles. Abdul held the phone to his ear and spoke low commands into the receiver. He turned back to Fayed and shot him another rotten-toothed smile. “And now you will see how it is done.”
The vehicle engines amongst the convoy roared to life and thundered down the alleyway. Fayed watched intently, his own excitement building as a number of men dressed in black with full chest rigs approached the distant gate from out of the shadows. Fayed enjoyed this part of every operation, watching Abdul’s soldiers in action, witnessing the destruction that he himself took part in planning.
The monastery guard immediately stiffened, his posture changed to alert. He readied his rifle just as the first of several volleys of fire erupted from the approaching men. Rounds slammed into the gate guard’s chest as he staggered back and fell to the ground. Gunfire echoed over the city. Fayed smiled to himself, knowing that help would not be coming tonight. The bribes had been paid, the paperwork filed. Even in a place like this, forms must be signed and stamped as fees were paid to conduct such an operation. There would be no police on duty tonight, no hired militias to protect the people inside the walls of the monastery; Fayed ha
d used all of his connections to ensure it.
The column of vehicles lurched forward. The engine of the Humvee revved and a man in the vehicle’s turret let loose a barrage of heavy weapons fire into the stone wall as the military vehicle charged forward and rammed through the gate of the ancient church. The Humvee continued into the monastery grounds, followed closely by the white sport utility vehicles.
The thundering explosion that trembled through the ancient stone structure shook her awake to find bits of dust and plaster crumbling from the ceiling, covering her bed. This city was used to war, and it wasn’t the first time the fighting woke her from her sleep, but the noise was different tonight, closer and absent of the warning sirens that usually preceded the bombings. She opened her eyes, listening to the screams coming from the hallway while a staccato beat of automatic weapons fire sounded from the courtyard beyond her chamber window.
Her door burst open and a small man pressed into her modestly furnished room. Ignoring pleasantries, he rushed to the bedside and grabbed her by the wrist, trying to pull her from the bed. She recognized the man as Ishmael, one of the guards assigned by the state to guard the monastery. Normally quiet and reserved, tonight the man’s eyes were filled with fright and panic.
“Sister Sarah, please come quickly!” he shouted.
Sarah pulled her arm away, lifting the bedspread to cover herself. “How dare you enter my chamber like—”
“Excuse me, Sister, there is no—” Another blast of weapons fire interrupted him. He dropped her wrist and ran to the window. For the first time, she noticed the man’s rifle; he was armed. Even though in a war zone, she’d never seen a weapon inside the monastery grounds.
“Ishmael, weapons are not allowed inside the church. What’s happening?”
He turned away from the window, his face pale and his eyes filled with fear. He looked at her in despair. “God forgive me, Sister.”
