by Mel Odom
22
BULLETS RAKED THE ALLEY around Bekah as she sprinted. At least two struck her body armor and another glanced off her helmet, but she never broke stride. Stopping or turning back was a certain path to death. On the other side of the alley, she slammed into the wall between the door and the window on the first floor.
Pike fell into position on the other side of the door.
In a former life, the building had housed a business. A faded sign with fresh bullet holes hung overhead. Bekah couldn’t read the Somali words written there or on what was left of the shattered plate-glass window beside her. More scars from bullets cratered the building’s front, and not all of those were new. War was an old thing here.
Tyler and Trudy kept a constant barrage of fire going, drawing the attention of several of the gunners inside the building, but Bekah knew the al-Shabaab were aware of Pike and her at the door.
“You ready?” Pike looked at her. Dust covered his broad face and blood wept from two long scratches on his left cheek.
Bekah nodded. “Do it.”
Whirling around, Pike drove his shoulder into the wooden door. Hinges shrilled as screws tore from the jamb, and the door flew inward and broke at the same time.
Bekah spun around and raised the M4A1 to her shoulder as she peered through the broken window. The room held a counter and broken shelves that had been Swiss-cheesed by scavengers looking for wood and metal they could use or sell. A few pictures of breads remained on the wall, along with a chalkboard with more Somali writing and advertisements from other vendors.
Shadows moved on the other side of the room, and the dust filling the area gave Bekah pause for a moment. Then she spotted the red-and-white-checked keffiyehs and the assault rifles in the hands of the men. She opened fire as Pike rolled against the counter on the left side of the room.
Ejected brass spun and glinted as Bekah fired, and the rifle chugged repeatedly against her shoulder. Bullets cut the air around her and knocked jagged pieces of glass from the window. The two terrorists went down, sprawling at the foot of a narrow stairwell.
“Good shooting.” Pike got to his feet with ease and took the lead.
Swapping out her empty magazine for a full one from her ammo rack, Bekah stepped up onto the window ledge and plunged into the room with her rifle at the ready. She followed Pike’s lead as he checked the bodies of the men on the floor, then stepped over them to cover the stairwell. He paused as Bekah caught up with him.
She nodded and let him go first, covering him as he went as much as she could and making sure their exit route remained clear. Having a group of terrorists take away their retreat would leave them trapped on the stairwell like fish in a barrel.
Pike was almost at the landing when another terrorist peeked down from the next set of stairs. Bekah trotted up behind Pike and fired upward, driving the man back to cover as splinters ripped from the stairwell railing.
At the same time, a door in the hallway near Pike burst open and another terrorist aimed at Pike’s head from only inches away. Bekah scrambled to get a clear shot but couldn’t because the angles were all wrong. She knew she was about to see Pike die, either by the man beside him or from the guns hidden above.
Instead, Pike’s left hand flicked out, caught the offending rifle muzzle, and yanked. The terrorist flew toward Pike and managed to squeeze off a burst of bullets that chipped plaster from the wall beside the Marine’s head. A white cloud wreathed Pike as he stepped forward slightly while still holding his opponent’s rifle. He swung his elbow into the man’s face and knocked him into the wall behind him.
Tossing the AK-47 to the floor, Pike stepped forward again and wrapped one big hand around the back of the terrorist’s neck. Spinning, Pike brought the man around and turned him into a human shield as he raised his M4A1 under the dazed terrorist’s arm and fired the weapon one-handed.
Bullets chewed along the stairwell and ripped splinters and plaster from the walls and the railing. Return fire caught the terrorist as he screamed and tried to break free. But Pike’s inexorable grip on the back of his captive’s neck held him in place. In the space of a heartbeat, the fight left the terrorist and he hung limply against Pike.
Another terrorist spilled down the stairwell in a loose-limbed sprawl. Bekah followed the gunman’s progress automatically, then pulled her aim off him when she realized the guy was dead.
Pike dropped the dead man he held and shoved another magazine into his assault rifle while he headed up the stairs again.
After a brief glance at the front of the shop to make certain there was no one behind her, Bekah followed Pike. The steps shivered and felt uneven, showing years of wear and tear as well as the newer damage from the bullets.
Another dead man sat on the next landing. His sightless eyes stared out of the gloom, and his weapon lay abandoned across his knees. For an instant Bekah thought the man might still be alive, but then she noticed that half of his head was missing, swathed in a torn and bloody keffiyeh.
She followed Pike up the stairs and had trouble breathing the thick air swirling with dust and smoke. She and Pike moved in unison, and she always made sure her weapon pointed away from her partner’s back.
“Indigo Eight, what is your twenty?” Lieutenant Bridger sounded out of breath.
“Taking out a sniper nest that has my people pinned down.” Bekah swung around the next landing and stepped out into the hallway after Pike.
“Affirmative. All Indigo teams are en route, and we have air support coming.”
Bekah pictured the building in her mind as she stepped after Pike. She tried to remember all the twists and turns she’d taken, struggling to figure out where the snipers would be.
The hallway was narrow, but the rooms on either side of it looked like they’d been small shops, not residences. Large windows held pieces of glass. There was a small drugstore with empty shelves, a clothing store with broken mannequins, and other shops, barren and unidentifiable.
Evidently Pike had a better grasp of the layout, though. He glanced back at her and waved to one of the doors ahead of them as he fell into position against the wall. He freed a grenade from his combat webbing.
On the other side of the door, sharp rifle bursts cracked. At first Bekah hadn’t been able to get a handle on the direction the gunfire was coming from because the sounds of battle echoed all through the hallway.
Pike looked at her, and she nodded. He leaned around the doorway and tossed the grenade inside. Bekah closed her eyes to preserve her vision. Three seconds later, the deafening explosion filled the room, and bright light tore away the shadows in the room as well as in the hallway.
Immediately, Pike spun into the doorway and entered. Bekah followed and took a flanking position to Pike’s right. There was a wall at the back of the room, obviously once intended to set off another room, but now the wall was filled with holes that had been knocked through the plasterboard.
Three al-Shabaab gunners struggled to overcome the effects of the flashbang. The grenade caused disorientation through sound as well as light, and they’d gotten a full dose of it. Still, disorientation didn’t put them completely out of the fight.
One of the men lifted his AK-47, and Pike and Bekah both opened fire, knocking him back. Blood covered the wall behind him. Another man got off a short burst that chopped through the wall next to Pike. Holding his ground, Pike fired, and the terrorist jerked back and slumped to the ground.
The third man threw down his weapon and held his hands up, speaking rapidly in broken English. “I surrender. Do not kill me.”
Pike held his rifle centered on the man, and Bekah thought he was going to pull the trigger anyway.
“What’s the matter, Muhammad? Not ready for all those rivers of wine and virgins?”
“Do not kill me. I beg of you.” The al-Shabaab terrorist placed his forehead on the ground.
Pike fished a zip tie from his kit and moved forward. “Cover me.”
Bekah did, but she also
opened her team channel on the MBITR. “Trudy.”
“Yes.”
“You guys okay down there?”
“Yes. You and Pike?”
“We’re fine.”
Pike finished binding the terrorist’s hands behind his back and stood with his rifle.
“That truck’s coming back.”
Bekah moved to the window, mirrored by Pike, and they both looked out to see the pickup truck with the machine gunner mounted in the rear deck racing back through the alley below. The machine gunner blazed away at the buildings.
Bekah watched helplessly as the pickup driver suddenly braked and shouted, throwing his arm out the window in the direction of the wall. From the way he’d come, the Marines hiding behind the wall were visible. “Indigo Eight, move. They’ve seen you.”
The three Marines got to their feet and retreated as the al-Shabaab vehicle opened fire.
Bekah shoved her weapon through the open window and squeezed the trigger, managing to take out the machine gunner before the other gunmen drove her back. She hated feeling helpless, knowing that her team was about to get cut to ribbons.
The pickup swerved into position below the window but remained where it could cover the Marines on the ground as well. Another al-Shabaab man had already taken over the machine gun and had opened fire, driving the three stranded Marines to cover.
Bekah knew she had to get down there and turned to get Pike, surprised that he wasn’t at the window with her.
Pike picked up one of the dead men from the ground and easily carried the body over to the window. Shots thudded into the dead terrorist, but Pike ignored them while he reached for an oil lantern that sat on the floor. He opened the lantern, emptied the contents over the dead man, then tucked a spherical antipersonnel grenade into the corpse’s pocket. Taking a flare from his kit, he set the corpse ablaze, pulled the grenade pin, and heaved the dead man through the window.
The gunfire from below intensified for a moment.
Horrified by what she’d just witnessed, certain that Pike was the most callous man she’d ever met, Bekah watched the dead man plummet toward the bed of the pickup truck. His arms and legs flailed, and for an instant he looked like he was still alive.
Then the corpse landed amid the al-Shabaab gunmen, and the burning oil spread among them. Someone grabbed the dead man’s foot in an effort to yank the body clear of the pickup. Then the grenade went off. Shrapnel blew through the surrounding gunmen, killing or wounding everyone in the back of the pickup.
By then Pike had heaved himself over the window as well and hung by his fingers to stretch out to his full height, then let go. The drop to the ground was about fifteen feet. He landed on his feet and went down into a three-point crouch before lifting his rifle to the ready.
Although she didn’t like the risk of turning an ankle, Bekah liked the idea of leaving Pike on his own even less. She threw a leg over the window ledge and followed suit, hanging by her fingers, then releasing. She didn’t try to land standing up. She tucked and rolled, dissipating the force of the landing, and came up with her rifle in her hands.
Pike was already in motion, running toward the driver’s side of the pickup.
One of the men who had been blown free of the pickup by the grenade lay on the ground nearby and tried to point his pistol at Pike. Bekah raised her weapon and fired from ten feet away, killing the man at once.
At the driver’s window, Pike slapped aside the rifle muzzle that someone tried to thrust into his face. He shoved his own weapon into the pickup cab, ducked, and emptied the clip. He slid away as the vehicle jerked into sluggish motion, shoving another magazine into his weapon automatically.
The pickup rolled to a stop a few feet away. Pike went forward, yanked the door open, and stepped back from the driver’s body as it spilled out. Bekah flanked him, peered over his shoulder at the dead men inside.
“We’re clear here.” Pike scanned the nearby rooftops.
Bekah did the same, thinking that surely some of the al-Shabaab were still present, still wanting to close the jaws of their trap. But no one was there.
23
“YOUR DEATH does not have to be a painful thing, old man. It can be a simple passing from this place to the next.” Korfa Haroun gazed at the bound man lying at his feet.
The man was a withered bag of bones. His days of strength were years behind him. He lay naked and ashamed on the hot ground. Dark bruises already blossomed on his face, chest, arms, and legs. One thing was certain: the old man could take a beating.
That wasn’t courage, though. That was pride and stubbornness. The old man knew he was going to die and was determined to be as troublesome as he could be.
Remaining in a squatting position beside the old man, Haroun gazed up at the small collection of families that lived southwest of Mogadishu. Less than a hundred people camped near one of the small, seasonal tributaries that trickled into the Shebelle River. The tributary was nearly a memory now and scarcely flowed from a light rain that had occurred days ago.
Soon the stream would turn poisonous due to stagnation. Then the old man and his people would have had to move on. Of course, now they wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Those people stood under a nearby copse of junipers, watching the events unfold. There was no fight left in them. The men had their heads bowed in shame because there was nothing they could do to prevent the death of their elder—or their own deaths, for that matter. The women huddled behind the men, holding their crying children to their breasts and trying to soothe them. They had been without water to drink all morning. Haroun had seen to that. He knew the cries of the children ate at the minds of the adults.
Haroun had children of his own, and he knew how much parents could love them and want to protect them. He loved his own children. But things had to be kept in perspective. In this instance, children were a means to an end.
The children of such people as these, people who were unable to care for themselves and refused to align themselves with him and with the true path of Islam, were lice upon the earth. All they existed to do was take up precious resources and get in the way. They would grow up and be as demanding as their parents—and as helpless to care for themselves.
Haroun was surprised that the man he pursued didn’t see these people that way as well. Or perhaps he did and used them as surely as Haroun now did, but for his own ends. Haroun intended to ask that man those questions if he got the opportunity when he caught up to him. And he would catch up to the man.
“Are you still listening, old man?” Haroun stood and kicked his captive in the side when the man did not respond.
The old man bleated in pain and struggled to roll away from his tormentor, but that was not permitted. Haroun stepped on the old man’s shoulder and pinned him to the ground. The old man squinted up against the blinding glare of the sun beating down on all of them.
Haroun kept his face uncovered and let the man see him. “Defy me, and I will kill one of the children and drown you in his blood.”
“I hear you.”
“Good. I tire of your pathetic resistance.”
“Why do you do this to us, Haroun? We have done nothing to you.”
Haroun smiled. “How is it you know my name, old man?”
“I lived in the city. Before this. I lived there and I knew who you were.”
“Good. Then you know what I am capable of.”
The old man closed his eyes for a moment and shuddered. “I do know.”
Haroun reached down and picked up the rope that was tied to the old man’s feet. The other end of the rope was secured to the rear bumper of a pickup only a short distance away. “Your death can be very hard.”
“You intend to kill me no matter what I do.”
Haroun nodded. “I do. Your death will be a much louder message to the man I seek. And to those who would take the meager gifts he leaves. I will find him, and I will kill him for the trouble he has caused me.”
The old man’s fac
e constricted like a wrinkled fist, and he closed his eyes tightly. Tears trickled from under his lids, and Haroun knew the old man would regret those.
That weakness did not touch Haroun. He had seen men break before. He had broken many of them. It was not a hard thing to do with the proper leverage.
“Kill me if you must.” The old man spoke hoarsely.
“I must.”
“But spare the others.”
Haroun paused as if he were giving the matter serious contemplation. Then he shook his head. “No. The only option you have is for a swift, painless death or a slow one filled with agony. The future of those people was written when they took that man’s goods.”
The man swallowed, and calmness descended over him. In that moment, Haroun knew the old man had accepted his death and the deaths of all the people who looked to him for direction. “Ask me what you will.”
“What is the name of the man who brought you the medicines and other supplies?”
“He did not give a name. I did not ask.”
“Why?”
“Because one does not question God’s generosity.”
The answer displeased Haroun, and he slapped the old man’s face. “You do not get God’s generosity from someone such as that man, you old fool. For generosity you must ask me.”
“You were not here to ask.”
Haroun smiled. “Did anyone else call this man by name?”
“No.”
“Did you hear any other names?”
The old man thought for a long moment as blood trickled over his lips from the injury caused by the slap. “There was a man. His companion. A tall, powerful man. He called this man Afrah.”
“Afrah.” Haroun had heard the name mentioned in other places. He still did not know who this Afrah was any more than he knew the man Rageh Daud. Still, the answer was enough to let him know he was on the proper path.
“Yes.”
“Was the leader called Daud?”
“I never heard that name.”
