by Chuck Holton
They would pay.
The guards at the checkpoint had confirmed that the infidels had not left the camp by the main entrance. That meant they knew about one of the smugglers’ gates, and they would only know that if they had help from Lebanese intelligence. There was one more reason to support the overthrow of the government that was little more than a puppet of the Zionists and Americans anyway.
He was surprised the commandos had come after the girl, but then Americans had a foolishly high opinion of women. It was surely the will of Allah, or perhaps just sheer luck, that they had moved her earlier that day. If they lost her to the American invaders, they would lose their means of distracting attention from their real agenda.
His chest swelled with joy that he had the foresight to suggest they move her as well as their stockpile of this fascinating new secret weapon, what some were calling Allah’s Fire, to a more secure location until their next operation. No one needed to know that he’d merely been concerned about petty thieves and collaborators, and that the arrival of Special Forces commandos had never once crossed his mind.
He narrowed his eyes. What if the commandos had been looking for the secret weapon? If that was so, their appearance only confirmed his belief that the exotic material put real fear into the hearts of the imperialist infidels. He smiled. The next time they used Allah’s Fire, it would not only strike a blow against the West, it would cause the whole world to tremble at the mention of the name of Ansar Inshallah.
For too long, among those who resisted in the name of Islam, other groups garnered the lion’s share of the funding, attention, and respect, while the Followers of God’s Will were virtually unknown. Soon, however, that would change. Ansar Inshallah, and by extension Imad Hajazi, would get its deserved recognition.
And the bodies of some American soldiers would only make that recognition sweeter.
Imad had not found it easy to achieve his present position within the camp and within the organization. It had been necessary to show himself zealous, but not so much that he might be asked to martyr himself. He became cunning enough to acquire the good graces of those in power in the camps, especially Abu Shaaban, but ruthless enough to climb a mountain of dead bodies to take that power for himself when the time came. He learned to see opportunity where others saw only tragedy, and that vision was what carried him now.
The loss of the warehouse would most certainly have repercussions with his benefactors. However, if he could capture the American soldiers—they had to be American; he’d heard them speaking English as he fled the building—if he could affect their capture now, he would look like the hero. No one would dare say a word about the loss of the warehouse.
Suddenly jets roared overhead, and Imad laughed. He knew how the politicians in Beirut worked. They would deny knowing anything about the incursion at Sainiq, an incursion they undoubtedly approved, and the jets, all self-righteous about protecting Lebanese soil and airspace, would chase away the American rescue helicopters.
The abandoned commandos were his.
A tune by his favorite musician erupted from his pocket. The car fishtailed a bit as he grabbed for his phone. He hit the on button as he fought to keep the aged vehicle on the road. “Yes? Where are they?”
“We just heard that the white van was seen heading east toward Habbouch!”
Imad hit the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. East toward Habbouch? Why would they go that way? Were they lost? They should be trying to get to the coast since their aircraft had deserted them. Or were they still searching for the blond girl?
“Have someone put up a roadblock on the way to Habbouch, and tell everyone else to meet me at Zaica.”
He hung up the phone and pulled the car into a tight U-turn.
They must not escape.
Lebanese Countryside
JOHN BRACED HIMSELF between the front seats of the speeding cargo van as it labored up a hill. He hollered back at Hogan, “How we looking, Buzz?”
“They’re gaining on us!”
Great. This night just keeps getting better and better.
He didn’t bother trying to read the map anymore. It would be impossible inside the lurching van. He looked over at Rip, holding on to the dash with one hand and staring intently at the luminescent screen of his GPS in the other. “Where are we headed, Rubio?”
“Don’t know for sure, Coop, but we’re headed out into the country going almost due east.”
“That’s what I thought.” Anything uphill in this country was east. While it was more than wise to get away from the city, going east meant mountains and harsh terrain. East meant the Bekaa Valley and then Syria. Not good. “We need to be going west, toward the coast.”
Liz was sitting behind him, holding on to the back of the driver’s seat for dear life. Liz! What had he gotten her into by dragging her along? Well, maybe she’d gotten herself into it, but now it was his responsibility to get her out.
Rip squinted at the GPS again. “It doesn’t look like there are many roads off of this one, but like I said, the base map in this thing isn’t real detailed for Lebanon.”
They sped along a road that ran along a ridge, the ground falling away steeply on each side. They passed occasional buildings perched on the crest, and the lights of other villages were visible, probably perched on distant ridgelines.
John turned to Sweeney, who had his eyes glued to the road. “Take the first turn that doesn’t look like a dead end.”
“What does a dead end look like, boss?” Sweeney’s hillbilly accent dripped sarcasm.
“Just turn at the first real intersection you see. We’ve got to lose these guys.” He patted his vest pockets with one hand. “I don’t think we have enough ammo left to hold them off for too long. Besides, we need to find a way back toward the coast.”
“Roger that. Looks like a little village up ahead. Yep, there’s a road going off to the right. Hold on.”
John turned and yelled to the guys in the back, “Grab on to something!”
Sweeney barely slowed at all for the turn, realizing too late that it was more than a ninety-degree change of course. John thought the van was going to roll from the centrifugal force and tumble down the side of the ridge.
Liz made a little squeak as she was flung about, but he was too busy holding on himself to help her. Incredibly, the van held the road, swerving at the last moment to miss a parked car, then accelerating.
“Good driving, Sweeney.”
“You can tip me later, boss.” His voice was calm and totally controlled. Bobby was having fun.
“Okay, looks like we’re now headed south toward some town I can’t pronounce,” Rip said.
John nodded. “South is good.”
“No, it’s not!” yelled Sweeney. “Roadblock! Get down!” He jerked the wheel to the left, sending everyone sprawling again.
John held on tight as the van sideswiped another parked car just as an RPG streaked by the passenger window, exploding somewhere behind them with a sound like a train wreck. He grabbed Liz, still hanging on to the driver’s seat as best she could, pulled her to the floor, and draped himself over her.
Rip yelled, “Left, Bobby! Go left there!”
The van rocked again as Sweeney cut the turn short, skidding around the corner.
It sounded like someone was slamming a pickax into the side of the vehicle as rounds punctured its thin metal flanks.
Liz whimpered, and John pulled her close, burying her head in his vest. He didn’t know what else to do. Please, God, we need some help here! The thought came so suddenly, so automatically that it shocked him, then disgusted him. He’d wanted to give up on God.
But I haven’t given up on you.
The thought threaded its way through the chaos in the van into his heart, but he slammed his mind shut against it. Instead, he concentrated on Liz.
“It’ll be okay,” he whispered in her ear.
He thought he heard her give a slightly hysterical gasp of laughter, but he wa
sn’t sure.
Hogan knelt at the back window and returned fire with his XM-8. Brass ejected from his weapon and pinged around the inside of the lurching van.
Then as quickly as it began, the shooting stopped. John lifted his head cautiously.
“I think I got at least one of ’em,” Hogan announced as he kept watch out the back window.
John pushed off the floor. “Anyone hit?”
“Fine up here,” answered Rip. “Liz?”
“I…I think I’m okay.”
“Doc?”
“Good to go.”
“Hogan?”
The big man grunted, then said, “Hey, I got an idea.” He swung the butt of his weapon and smashed out the other rear window. A chorus of surprised voices erupted inside the van.
Hogan looked at them. “Take it easy. I know what I’m doing. Now we got two firing ports. Baldwin! Get yourself back here and give me a hand.”
Frank, who had been sitting on the floor of the van, started to rise. “Okay, you crazy…aaggh!” He clutched his side and sat back down hard.
“Whoa, let me see.” Doc Kelly crawled over to him. “You’re bleedin’, Frank!”
Frank held up a hand and looked at it. John couldn’t see any blood in the blackness, but apparently Frank could. “So I am.”
“Fix him, Doc,” John ordered.
“We’ve still got jihadists on our tail! About half a mile back!” Hogan hollered.
Things were going from worse to catastrophic. John spun to Rip. “Where are we, Rubio?”
“Still heading south-southwest. Looks like there’s a turn east coming up in about a mile.”
“We may not make it that far,” Sweeney yelled. “The steering is acting squirrelly. I think they may have gotten one of our tires back there.”
Figures. But what did he expect? It was obvious they weren’t getting any help from above. He might as well have asked the tooth fairy to intervene on their behalf. Whatever happened next would depend on him and his men, on their proficiency, cunning, and skill. It was up to them and them alone. For some reason, the thought was anything but comforting.
Doc had a penlight out and was inspecting Frank’s wound. “It got you in the side, just below the vest, but it doesn’t look like it hit anything important.”
“Everything’s important,” Frank countered, sounding snarly.
John couldn’t argue with that. “Is he able to walk?”
“I’ll be fine.” Frank grunted as Doc poked.
“Hold still. Just let me get a collagen bandage on it.”
“Make it quick, Doc!” Sweeney shouted from the front. “We’re going to have to bail!”
“There’s a T-intersection up ahead,” Rip said. “Go left there.”
“Left?” John shook his head. “We need to head west.”
“Trust me, Coop. I’m on the map.”
“Okay.” John trusted Rip’s judgment. “Hogan, how much of a lead do we have?”
“Thirty seconds, maybe a little more.”
“Should be enough,” Rip said. “Once you make the turn, there’s an immediate right that goes back south. Take that, and we may be able to lose them.”
“Can you cut the lights?” John asked.
Sweeney downshifted. “Yep. But the brakes will still light up. I’ll try not to use ’em.”
“This should be interesting,” Frank muttered through clenched teeth as he held his side in anticipation of the jostling.
“Hold on to something!” Sweeney flipped the lights off and downshifted again. He jerked the wheel, cutting the corner tight.
John checked Liz as he braced himself against the passenger seat. She looked scared but didn’t say a word, just held on to the back of the driver’s seat for dear life. He smiled to encourage her, but he wasn’t certain she saw. Maybe now she’d understand why he hadn’t called her back three years ago. Not that he thought tonight was doing much to rekindle her feelings for him.
Sparks flew behind them as they rounded the corner on the rim of the left rear tire. The ride immediately got much rougher, and Sweeney fought to keep the van on the road.
“Right! Turn right! Right here!” Rip pointed frantically at the side road. Sweeney used the brakes to make the turn, and John was sure this time the van would topple.
“Made it!” Rip exclaimed when they had all four wheels, or what was left of them, on the ground once more.
“Not for long,” Sweeney muttered.
“Okay, we’ve got to get out,” John said. “Frank, how you feeling?”
“I’ll feel better once we’re walking. Sweeney’s driving hurts more than the gunshot.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Sweeney skidded to the side of the road, and every door opened as Task Force Valor piled out with Liz in tow. John quickly surveyed their surroundings. The ground sloped off on either side of the road into what looked like some kind of orchard. “Follow me,” John hissed and headed down the embankment.
It was steeper than he originally thought, but the terrain worked in their favor.
They half ran, half slid down the embankment for several hundred meters. Once Liz cried out when she slipped and landed on her backside, but Hogan pulled her back up, not even breaking stride. By the time the ground began to level off, they could hear shouts from above and then a few shots.
“Everybody, keep going!” John waved the men on. “They’re firing blind. Rubio, take point.”
The group slowed once they reached the bottom of the draw where the vegetation grew more thickly. Shortly they came to a stream, swollen with recent spring rain. John pushed his way through the underbrush until he found Rip. “Can we get across?”
Rip scanned the bank. “Looks like we could get across over there.” He pointed downstream.
“Let’s do it.”
They had to backtrack a bit, but eventually they made it to a place where the stream riffled quickly over a bottom of small stones and sand. Sweeney and Hogan took up positions on the near side pulling security to the rear as John sent Rip across.
When he heard a low whistle from Rubio signaling that the far bank was clear, John tapped Doc’s shoulder and motioned for him and Frank to cross. Frank looked extremely annoyed with life as he held a hand against his injury, but he seemed to have no trouble keeping up. Next, John put a hand on Liz’s shoulder and motioned her across.
She looked up at him. “Where are…?”
He quickly put a finger to her lips and shook his head—silence was essential. Her eyes held his for a brief moment, and then she stepped into the stream and waded across.
John tapped Sweeney, then turned and followed Liz. Sweeney and Hogan followed him.
Once they were all safely on the far bank, Rip took point again, leading the group away from the road at a right angle. They traveled in single file at a slightly slower pace, and John was glad that clouds were obscuring the sliver of a moon. For the first time in what seemed like hours, he felt like they might actually escape.
After about twenty minutes, the terrain began to rise again. Would Liz be able to keep up as the night wore on? He studied her. If she was feeling fatigued, she wasn’t showing it, even as their path grew steeper and steeper.
Rip held up a hand to halt. John made his way forward until he could see what was ahead. A road. He turned and signaled to Doc that a danger area was ahead. Doc passed the signal back.
After watching the road for a few minutes, John decided it was deserted. A couple of houses were just visible off to the west, but no lights were showing. One by one, the team skittered across the road, then continued down the embankment on the other side.
The team plodded past fields of sprouting crops and through stands of olive trees. John worried a bit about being tracked by the terrorists once daylight came. Rip must have had the same concern because he mostly avoided newly plowed fields, sticking to their hard, uncultivated edges as much as possible.
An hour later Rip again signaled a halt. John
went to him and whispered, “What’ve you got?”
“It’ll be getting light soon, Coop. We’d better find someplace to hole up.” He pointed ahead. “Looks like an old stone house or barn or something. The area is pocked with partially built structures that never got finished because of the war. Most are still uninhabited.”
John nodded and motioned for Liz and the rest of the team. After they quietly assembled and crouched in a semicircle around him, he whispered, “We’re going to do a quick recon of this building up ahead. If it’ll work, we’re going to hole up here and get some rest. You all stay here. Rip and I will be right back.”
Stone Barn, South Lebanon
JOHN WASN’T SO BAD after all.
Liz had to admit that she hadn’t been sure there for a while. First he sat in the café, looking like a handsome beached whale. Then he burst into the warehouse, all decked out in body armor and a helmet with night goggles covering his eyes like some ridiculous double periscope. He shot a man dead, yelled orders, practically forced her to go with them whether she wanted to go or not.
Not that she wasn’t glad he and the team took her along. If she’d been left behind, she would have been shot as dead as poor Azmi.
Then he’d protected her with his own body those times they’d been in danger. And he asked the men to share a bit of their food with her, which they willingly did, all but the big blond guy, Sweeney. He did it, of course—she figured John’s request was really an order—but he hadn’t been very gracious about it. The rest of the team seemed to like playing Sir Galahad to her damsel in distress.
Now they sat in the barn, waiting for daylight to go. But since it was nearly summer, the daylight lingered and lingered. Liz was itchy from sitting. She never sat this long unless she was using her laptop or was in front of her PC at the paper.
