Shadow of Death

by David M. Salkin

  Adnan smiled. It was the first time Apo had seen the man’s brown teeth. Adnan bowed slightly and replied, “My men would appreciate the chance for some food and drink, and perhaps time for a marriage or two.”

  The men began whispering among themselves, some smiling and patting each other on the back. An older man appeared from another room in cleric robes, and the group followed him into another room. There, a large group of girls ranging from six to sixteen sat on a cold cement floor in tattered clothes. The cleric pointed to the girls, mumbled a few things to the men, pronounced them married, and left. The girls began holding on to each other in terror, having been through the “marriage process” many times since being taken from their small villages. Their fathers and brothers had been beheaded in front of them, and their mothers had been sent to work as cooks and maids for ISIS. The young girls were destined to an abbreviated life of sexual slavery for the “morale” of the ISIS fighters.

  Apo watched the other men eagerly begin grabbing young girls and dragging them off to empty rooms, where they would rape the helpless children. Apo would have killed them all if he could, but instead walked outside. One of the guards pointed his gun at Apo.

  “You fuck boys?” he sneered. Homosexuality was punishable by execution in ISIS-controlled lands.

  “I have a real wife at home, and my daughters are older than those girls. You do as you wish, but don’t question how I live.”

  “Or what?” snapped the man.

  “Or I’ll kill you with my bare hands right here in front of all your friends.”

  The two of them stared at each other for what seemed like a very long time. One of the other guards yelled over, “Leave him alone,” breaking the standoff.

  Apo walked outside and smoked a cigarette, a bad habit he had picked up on the last two missions in the shitholes of the world, and one that would be difficult to break if he lived another few days. He waited for almost an hour for the other men to finish raping and brutalizing the young girls. When they were finished, the group of them walked out leading the girls, who had all been tied together with ropes around their waists. One of the older girls carried a crying child in her arms, her own brown eyes vacant. Apo watched with sadness and disgust as the girls were hoarded into the back of a second box truck, a few of them with blood running down to their ankles.

  Adnan walked back to the pickup and Apo drove again. As they left the city limits of Maskanah heading west, Adnan leaned back against the door and stared at Apo. “I am starting to wonder about you, Hussam. I don’t think I like you. And I don’t trust you.”

  Apo stared straight ahead in silence as he drove.

  “I heard one their guards ask you if you liked little boys. You have a boyfriend at home, maybe?” He sneered as he spoke.

  Apo shot him a hateful glance. “I have a wife and small girls at home. I do not approve.”

  “So you think you’re better than the rest of us?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m here to serve Allah and ISIS. I’m not here to marry five-year-olds.”

  Adnan laughed. “You should try it some time. You might love it as much as I do.” He laughed at his own comment and sat back more relaxed. “Stay on this road. I’m going to take a nap.”

  Apo continued driving in silence, reading every sign they passed to keep his bearings. The drive had gone from brown wasteland to green farmland. They would be in Aleppo in another hour, which would make things more complicated for Apo. He smiled as he saw the sky ahead turning a strange shade of yellow. Way out on the horizon, a brown wall of sand was forming and heading east. The sandstorm was coming their way, and Apo silently thanked God for his divine intervention.

  He continued driving straight ahead as the storm approached, ignoring the trucks behind him who were flashing their lights, signaling him to stop and pull over.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tabasco, Mexico

  Riccardo Moreno sat in his backyard near one of his swimming pools. This one, the largest of the four, included several waterfalls. Half a dozen beautiful women wearing scandalously small bikinis sunned themselves around the pool in oversized lounge chairs. A few bodyguards strolled the grounds further away, submachine guns in hand. A dog handler walked on the outside of the fence with his German shepherd.

  Riccardo Moreno hadn’t been called by his real name in many years. He was now simply “El Gato”—a cat that was stealthy and had at least nine lives. El Gato was an ugly specimen of human being, both inside and out. His pockmarked face and bad teeth were the result of poverty and poor nutrition as a child. He was more than making up for that now.

  As ugly as his face was, his heart was a thousand times worse. El Gato, head of the Las Zetas drug cartel, was responsible for tens of thousands of murders. His thugs didn’t think twice about murdering and dismembering hundreds of civilians at a time to simply prove a point. While most of the Mexican cartels used cash and drugs to bribe their way to what they wanted, Las Zetas took a more direct approach: “Do as you’re told or die.”

  With the Mexican version of the war on drugs now in its tenth year, the death toll had crossed over six figures. El Gato took pride in the fact that his Zetas were responsible for maybe half of the 110,000 dead civilians, police, and federal agents.

  El Gato puffed his Cuban cigar and sat back, admiring his harem sitting poolside. His encrypted satellite phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Everything is set. Two weeks. No problems,” said an echoing voice that sounded very far away, indeed.

  “Excellent. Return safely to your reward.” He hung up and smiled. El Gato hated the idea of having to cooperate with anyone, anywhere—but to be forced to work with these Muslim fanatics was especially hard to swallow. It wasn’t long ago that some of his cartel competitors boasted to the newspapers and social media that they would wipe out ISIS for meddling with their drug trade, but everyone knew it was empty threats. While the cartels did indeed have huge, well-equipped armies, they weren’t capable of launching large-scale invasions or attacking outside of Mexico. That left only one possibility—cooperate with these animals.

  El Gato stood up and walked to the marble balcony overlooking lush green fields and forests. From his mansion on the hilltop, he could see the beauty of Tabasco. Well, it was beautiful from where he sat, anyway. For the dirt-poor farmers and locals trying to survive, it wasn’t quite so enjoyable. El Gato relit his cigar, a cigar that cost as much as most of the locals would earn in two months, and thought about the possible consequences of working with ISIS. The last thing he needed was more pressure from the Mexican federal forces or, God forbid, the Americans. But what could he do? ISIS had cut off all supplies of heroin that ran from Afghanistan through Syria. Heroin demand in the US was at an all-time high. If he couldn’t supply it, the other cartels might find a source and cut in on his action. Business was business. Besides, the deal hadn’t been so terrible. He would pay a small tax of ten million US dollars, smuggle in much-needed ammunition to the ISIS fighters, and help transport a shipment for them to Mexico. In return, the heroin faucet would reopen, and no one would mess with his drug trade.

  El Gato almost jumped when a pair of soft hands rubbed his shoulders. “You look tense, Papi. Let me help you relax.”

  He turned to see one of his beautiful girls in her bikini and high heels. He smiled and took her by the hand to one of the small cabanas by the pool. It was, after all, why he had them at his villa.

  CHAPTER 5

  Northern Syria

  Apo picked up speed, the trucks behind him flashing their headlights as if he didn’t already see the approaching sandstorm himself. He glanced over at Adnan, who was fast asleep. The yellow light of the storm filled the sky ahead. It was what the locals called a haboob—a wall of sand that appeared quickly with amazing ferocity, but often didn’t last too long. A Syrian sandstorm was terrifying to witness, and the sky seemed to grow into an angry monster right before his eyes. He gritted his teeth and pushed the accelerator
harder.

  The trucks behind him were falling behind, and the second truck, right behind him, finally began honking. They wanted to stop and find shelter, and their lead truck was speeding into the storm like a lunatic. The honking woke up Adnan, who blinked a few times and then saw the giant cloud of sand rolling toward them.

  “What are you doing?” he screamed, his voice cracking in terror. “Slow down! We have to stop!”

  “Are you tired from raping that little girl?” asked Apo.

  Before Adnan could respond, Apo used the blade of his hand to chop Adnan’s throat so hard it crushed his windpipe. Adnan let out what sounded like a small bark, and his eyes went wide. Apo glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw the other trucks falling away behind him. He pulled his .38 from his shoulder holster and shoved the gun under Adnan’s chin.

  “This is for those little girls,” he sneered and squeezed the round off. It blew Adnan’s brains all over the top of the cab.

  Apo shoved the gun back into the holster and gunned the engine. The trucks continued to honk behind him, and pulled to the side of the road to look for buildings to park next to for shelter. Apo raced his truck as fast as it would go. Once over a small hill, the first of the sandstorm began to hit his windshield. He slowed down and went off road into a farm field. He dropped to a lower gear and followed the compass heading, now at ten miles an hour as the sandstorm overtook his vehicle. He hoped it wouldn’t choke off his engine.

  Bouncing along the dirt, Apo stopped for a quick second and leaned across the dead body. He opened the passenger door, which wasn’t easy in the howling wind. It took all of his strength to push Adnan out of the truck. He took an extra second to wipe the brain and goo off the inside of the cab with a rag, and threw it out after the brain’s owner.

  “The only good thing you’ll ever do in your life is fertilize this field,” yelled Apo into the wind. He spit and allowed the door to slam closed. It was now zero visibility, but Apo kept the truck moving at five miles an hour anyway, lest he get stuck in the sand. It was extremely risky, but he knew the area was mostly flat farmland. His car lurched and rocked in the howling desert winds, and sand seemed to magically find its way inside the closed cab. He pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose and kept moving, always north, toward Turkey.

  ***

  As fast as it had arrived, the sandstorm passed. Apo had been forced to stop the truck during the worst of it, and for a moment he was worried that the vehicle might be swept away or flipped over. As soon as the storm lightened slightly, he gunned the engine and bounced across a field until he was back on a road heading north. Turkey was an hour or so away, unless he ran across ISIS fighters, or hostile Kurdish forces, or American, French, or Russian air strikes—in which case it might just be forever away.

  Apo continued due north and skirted around Marea, then Tilalyan and Sawran, without incident. At Al-Yaroubieh, the number of ISIS fighters and activity began to increase. He had kept Adnan’s paperwork, and the truck had ISIS markings on it, so he wasn’t overly worried about those gun-toting maniacs. It was the gun-toting Kurds just a few kilometers up the road that made him worry. The People’s Protection Unit, which translated as YPG, held the area in this part of northern Syria. Their Kurdish kin held the Turkish border on the other side of the fence as well. A group known as the Euphrates Volcano was operating in this sector, which consisted of both the YPG and Free Syrian Army. The YPG and FSA had pushed hard several times toward Al-Raqqah and displaced tens of thousands of Syrians to expand their Kurdish territory. While the YPG and FSA had different priorities, they both hated Daesh—the derogatory name for ISIS, ISIL, or IS.

  Apo was on a long, straight dirt road that bisected hundreds of square kilometers of farmland. As he approached the small village ahead, he could see the ISIS flags and military trucks. He hadn’t been noticed yet, so he pulled off the road and drove slowly across the farm fields, bearing northwest. This was always the part of any mission that made him afraid. After surviving all types of harrowing ordeals, to be so close to exfiltration always worried him. He didn’t want to die with his escape route in sight.

  A few mortar rounds landed just north of the village, which made the ISIS fighters run around and fire blindly at unseen foes to the north. Apo shook his head.

  “This is going to be interesting,” he said quietly. He parked the truck in a stand of olive trees and killed the engine. It was time to wait for darkness and then start walking to freedom or death. The Turkish border was less than ten kilometers away, but it seemed much farther as he listened to the sounds of a war zone in the background. “If we could just fight one war at a time, I’d really appreciate it,” he mumbled as he contemplated the mind-numbing complexity of the region.

  Apo had time to kill. It was at these quiet times when he’d allow himself to visit his parents in his head and see his little sister. His grandparents had been Armenians. The Armenian genocide, or Aghet, as they called it, began in 1915. His grandparents, children at that time, were rounded up by the Ottoman government and, like another million men, women, and children, forced from their homes. Many of the people they had grown up with were raped or murdered in front of them, and they themselves were separated from their families, never to been seen again. They were forced to march into the Syrian Desert without food and sometimes water for days. When the troops decided they were far enough away, they were left alone, to either die or fend for themselves in the desert.

  His grandparents grew up in Syrian refugee camps as orphans, and eventually met each other and fell in love. They left Syria for Lebanon and had Apo’s parents in 1934. His parents lived in Lebanon until after the Second World War, when they emigrated to the US. Although Apo was born in the United States with his baby sister, he grew up in a household that spoke the languages of a family tree that had been on the run for three generations. Apo’s father preferred to speak Armenian. His mother more often spoke Arabic, or sometimes even French, as well as Armenian. Apo was blessed with having an ear for languages, and enjoyed being able to switch back and forth at will. His sister grew up in the same household and spoke almost exclusively English, slightly embarrassed by her parents’ foreign-sounding accents.

  Apo was a small boy growing up. Constantly picked on for “sounding funny” and easy to push around because of his size, he sharpened his mind and, eventually, his self-defense skills. The moment he got his driver’s license, he joined a dojo and began studying martial arts. By the time he finished high school, the word had gotten out not to ever mess with the short kid.

  When a tragic car accident took away his entire family in one flash of a moment, Apo was lost. He was a high school graduate and adult, but at nineteen, he was now alone in the world with no one to go to for advice. What would he do now? He was angry, depressed, and lost. He did what so many other lost boys do—he joined the army.

  His army career didn’t last long. His intelligence and knowledge of foreign languages had him pulled from infantry, and he went from 11-Bravo to 35-Lima almost overnight, becoming a counterintelligence agent and quickly being promoted. Immediately after 9/11, he was visited by a man named Darren Davis, who made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. From that day forward, Staff Sergeant Yessayan was just “Apo”—or whatever name he needed to be for the day. Darren Davis recognized instantly that he had just recruited one of the best agents the CIA would ever have.

  As Apo sat under the darkening sky, he looked up at the first stars and said hello to his parents and little sister, and somehow felt much closer to them here than in the United States, even though his sister had never seen this part of the world. The Syrian Desert was in his blood, in his family’s “trail of tears,” and he felt as if he could reach up and touch the stars and feel his mother’s hand again. He wiped a tear and said “Amen” to himself, and then exhaled all the sadness out of his body, refocusing on the matter at hand.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tabasco, Mexico

  El Gato had given the order. A ne
w chief of police had been sent to Puerto Ceiba, along the coast. It was a small, picturesque community of oystermen and those occasional tourists who were unafraid of traveling off the beaten path. This new police chief had arrested three Zetas transporting a boatload of drugs in from a larger ship a mile off shore. The drugs were to be transported inland, where a Zetas warehouse would be sending it out by plane to Florida.

  El Gato made a few phone calls and learned that the chief was from a small village called Occidente located between El Gato’s fortress residence and Puerto Ceiba. A “message” had to be sent, and so fifty Las Zetas enforcers were dispatched to Occidente. As the large convoy of black SUVs rolled into the sleepy town, the locals began walking out to greet the visitors. They assumed it was a tour group or important visitors, and so the villagers gathered their fruits, vegetables, and local crafts and began assembling in the town square where the trucks were heading. Men, women, and children in bright-colored clothes smiled and waved at the passing trucks, which began parking all along the small streets of the quiet community.

  The men inside the trucks waited a few minutes for the area around them to get more crowded. When the crowd had grown sufficiently, the first door opened, and one of Gato’s lieutenants stepped out and signaled the others. Instantly, the doors of the SUVs opened and the Zetas jumped out with machine guns. The roar of automatic weapon fire drowned out the screaming and chaos of the villagers, who were slaughtered as they tried to flee.

  The mass murder completed, a few of the Zetas spray-painted warnings and gang tags on the walls and buildings that surrounded the massacre. The men climbed back into their trucks and took off in a cloud of dust along the rural roads that led further inland. The entire incident had lasted only five minutes, leaving sixty-four men, women, and children dead or dying in the middle of the small town. Three of the dead were related to the chief of police, who would be resigning the same day. Whoever replaced him would be very careful about who he allowed to be arrested.