“Hey! Relax!” Baker reached out and put his hand between Carpenter and Chu before anything else was said. Chu pulled into the intersection without a word while Carpenter glared out the window with an angry snap of his head. Baker wondered what prompted his outburst. Carpenter was protective of his assets, like most case officers were, but the reaction still didn’t feel right. Baker filed it away for later as he pulled his hand away. “This is just a meet and greet. We’re not going to marry him and we’re not going to give him a medal. We’re just going to establish a dialogue. That’s all.”
Chu stopped the Humvee and Trent shot a quick glance at Baker. “Let’s hope your conversation with him goes better than our conversations with each other.”
Chapter Three: Power Play
Chu parked the Hummer across the street from the two-story flat Silence identified as Popanjar’s home and office. Baker stepped out of the vehicle in one smooth, quick motion, scanning the area in a clockwise arc from three o’clock to six o’clock, paying particular attention to those corners and shadows he would use to stage an ambush against them. He didn’t need to look in any other direction. All his men were professional. They all had their quadrants covered. There were a few lights on in the windows, and two rundown sedans puttered down the street, but Baker saw no sign of an impending attack.
Baker crossed the street with Carpenter as he called back to Trent and Chu. “We won’t be long, so try not to get killed while I’m gone. I need someone to drive me home.”
Trent leaned against the Hummer and shook his head. “You see that, Smoke? You give a guy a ride, and all of a sudden he thinks he owns a plantation.”
Chu sat in the driver’s seat, laughing. “Fucking racists”
Baker and Carpenter scanned the street as they reached Popanjar’s front door. Baker could feel the spring in his partner’s step. He glanced over to see the man smile as he rang the doorbell. “I’ve got a good feeling about this. This guy is going to be the start of something big for me.”
Carpenter said this about his last three potential assets. None of them had panned out either. “You’re gonna get it soon. You’ve put in the time and beat the bushes like no one else. You’ll get your field command any day now.”
"I hope so. I don't want to waste my best years in your shadow."
There was an electronic click, and the front door unlocked. Baker wondered why a finance broker would unlock his door in the middle of the night without even asking who they were. Then he saw the black eye of the security camera mounted above the doorframe. Carpenter sensed his question and grinned his reply. “We have an appointment.”
A single flight of dimly lit wooden stairs met them when they walked through the open door. Carpenter mounted the stairs without a word. Another door on their left was closed. Baker couldn’t read Arabic, but he imagined the sign said something to the effect of “Popanjar Financial Services: Financial freedom for the freedom fighter.” Baker followed Carpenter up to what he guessed was the Popanjar residence. A second camera gazed down at them over the door at the top of the stairs, so Baker wasn’t surprised when the door began to open before they even reached the top. He was surprised by what met them when they reached the landing.
The man’s breathing was heavy and labored, as if he had been running or climbing a mountain. His dark hair was matted down with sweat, and his bare chest heaved from exertion. The lungi around his waist looked like expensive silk, but it was disheveled. He got dressed in a hurry. They might have had an appointment, but they had clearly interrupted Singh Popanjar.
Carpenter didn’t let the image deter him. He went right into his pitch. “As-salaamu ‘alaikum, my friend. It is good to see you again.”
Popanjar’s grin was cheerful, but he didn’t show any teeth. “Valaikum-salam, Mr. Reed. Welcome to my home.” He swung the door wide to let the two men in, and they obliged him without a word.
The living room was similar to many Baker visited or raided since his time in Iraq. The blend of traditional Muslim and Persian style stood in stark contrast to the flat-screen TVs and the iPod docs on the tables. The center of the room had been prepared for their meeting. Three chairs sat facing each other on the ornate rug in the center of the room. Off to the side of one chair, a table held a tea service and a large bowl of fruit. A couple of doors were closed, maybe they led to the bedroom and the bathroom, but those normal details didn’t catch Baker attention. The most engrossing and disturbing feature in the room was next to the base of the TV.
A small boy lay in a fetal position on a dirty pillow on the floor. In the half-light of the room, his bare chest and lungi suggested hasty dressing. The child was sniffling, stifling back tears that made his whole body shiver. What had they interrupted?
Popanjar motioned to the men to take a seat, as if the boy was invisible. “Please relax in my home. Allow me to offer you some refreshments? I have several types of tea…”
Carpenter also made no reference to the crying boy as he sat down. “Thank you. We appreciate you meeting us at such a late hour…”
Baker didn’t ignore the boy and he didn’t sit. “Is he OK?” he asked, motioning with his chin toward the dirty pillow. Popanjar shook his head with a grave air, but the grin never left his face.
“My nephew is fine. He just needs to be reminded of his manners from time to time. I was forced to chastise him before you arrived. I know you do not believe in striking children in America, but in my country, it is a relative’s duty to educate the young properly.”
Carpenter rubbed his hands on his thighs, smiling up at the two men. “You have a strong sense of family, Mr. Singh. We appreciate that, even in America.”
The echo of Carpenter’s comment in the Hummer made the scene suspect. He prefers his privacy to protection. “Where are his parents? Do they live with you too?”
The grin faded now and Popanjar looked down, shaking his head with a solemn slowness. “I’m afraid they fled Karbala when the surge started. Heavy fighting forced them to flee quickly. I have not heard from them in some time.” He glanced up at Baker with a look designed to elicit pity. “I fear they might be unable to return at all.”
“I’m sure we can help provide for your nephew. We can make sure your nephew lives very well from now on.” Carpenter had a high-pitched edge in his voice. Baker could sense his struggle to get the meeting back on track, but he didn’t look at him. He looked back at the boy.
“There is a risk in keeping him here. He could be used against you. He could be forced to reveal your secrets.”
For a moment, the edge of Popanjar’s grin curled up like a feral dog. “That is not a concern at all. The boy never leaves my side.”
“You clearly have a good grasp of security. We noticed the cameras outside…” Carpenter pleaded.
Baker ignored him, focusing on Singh. “It’s good you keep him close. You never know when you might need his…services.” The emphasis on the last word got Singh’s attention. His eyebrows perked up, and he leaned in closer as if sharing a secret with Baker.
“Exactly, I have many needs.”
Baker lied. “I know what you mean.”
Popanjar opened his arms; his grin was back, wider than ever. “Mr. Reed has brought me a true friend! We will work very well together.”
“Life brings the right people together at the right time.” Baker forced a grin of his own as he motioned to the child. “I don’t mean to be rude, but is it possible for me to see him more closely? I always like to admire a man’s tastes.”
The eyes of the hawaladar brightened at the compliment. “Of course, true friends must share their passions.” Baker could feel Carpenter’s eyes boring into the back of his head. He could hear the man’s nervous fidgeting. He considered shooting his partner a look when he heard the child crying.
It was a primal, cracked sound coming from a voice overstrained from constant screaming. It had a haunting resonance suggesting weeks or months of abuse. It was the cry of the forced labor ca
mps in Potosi, the back-alley brothels in Caracas and the killing fields in Cali. But this came from a baby, a tiny boy whose childhood had been replaced with a sadistic nightmare. The sound lasted for only a second, but it expressed an entire lost life.
Popanjar dragged the boy toward them by a frail arm. The little thing whimpered, but he was too weak to struggle. There was a sneer on the hawaladar’s face as he came back into the light. He had the look of a man who just exposed a lie. “You seem troubled by my nephew, friend. Are you not impressed with my tastes?”
Baker felt the sudden flood of sweat on his forehead. He’d taken a step back, as if to get away from the source of his revulsion. He struggled to recover. “I’m concerned the police or other members of your community might find out about him. Someone could hear the noise he makes.”
Popanjar looked down at the broken boy, shaking his head again in a mockery of concern. Then there was a glance over Baker’s shoulder. It lasted for only a heartbeat, but Baker saw something in Popanjar’s face. When he looked back at Baker, there was wild conspiracy in his eyes. “That is true. My desires are a crime under Islamic law. But you and Mr. Reed are good friends. We can help each other.”
There was a knot in Baker’s stomach. “What do you mean?”
“I want to help you find the men who threaten your way of life. I want you to help me against the people who threaten mine.” Popanjar’s smile showed teeth now. Baker thought he wanted to bite something. He glanced to the back of the apartment again, as if waiting for something. “You can help keep them away. You can protect me. I need protection” He shook the little boy’s arm like a useless rag.
Baker focused on the sweaty slope of the contact’s forehead, when the reality of the situation hit him. “I understand what you need.” He mumbled through gritted teeth.
Popanjar shook his head with grave resignation. “No. I don’t think you understand. I think you look down on me. You don’t understand what I need. You don’t know what I've done.” With another wild glance behind them, he tossed the boy’s arm onto the floor. The little thing curled up without a sound. The hawaladar reached for the fold in his lungi, clutching it with a violent grip. “I should show you what you are dealing with! I need you to understand.”
Baker held up his hands. To his right, he could hear Carpenter stand up as well. “You don’t need to do that. We understand.”
“No!” Fresh sweat began to bead on Popanjar’s face. His voice began to boom through the room. His eyes darted between Baker and the back of the room. “You Americans only pretend to understand. You are sheltered and weak. You can’t stomach real power! You don’t know my life! I’ll show you. I’ll show you right now!”
Baker took another step back, bumping into the chair, but his voice was low and even. “We don’t see power the same way, but that’s fine. You don’t need to show us anything right now.”
Quivering madness filled Popanjar’s eyes. Baker wasn’t even sure if the man could see anymore. They jumped back and forth between Baker and whatever was behind them. Sweat dripped from his face. “You are going to sit! You are going to watch! If you want to know the Kata'ib al-Karbala, you are going to help me! You are going to do what I say! I need protection!”
The Glock slid out from Baker's belt and into his hands with the smooth fluidity born from hundreds of practice hours and more than a dozen shooting incidents. The manic look in Popanjar's eyes transformed first to impotent confusion and then to desperate rage in the time it took Baker to line up his sights on the target. Popanjar flinched, trying to use the boy as a shield in the last moments of his life, but the Mozambique drill Baker began ended before his target could move. In a sudden flurry of motion and the barking of Baker's gun, Singh Popanjar collapsed beside his victim. Two holes spewed blood from his chest. A third point-blank shot near his nose mangled his entire face.
Baker's action created three simultaneous reactions. Closest to him, Carpenter yelled some variation of “WHAT THE FUCK?” but that wasn't as important as the other sounds Baker heard.
The door behind them had opened with a crash. Baker turned and squatted, orienting his barrel toward the silhouette of a man holding a rifle. There were two more barks from the Glock. The shadow fell in the doorway with a heavy thud. Only then did Baker pause to deal with the third reaction. Still holding his weapon in the ready position, he unclipped the earpiece from his shirt and put it in his ear. Trent's voice was loud but controlled.
"Ghost, status?"
Baker scanned the room before sliding his gun back into his belt. Carpenter moved toward the door, his own weapon held down by his waist in both hands. The boy cringed in a fetal position, involuntary spasms of shock making his limbs quiver. Baker reached for the boy and made an effort to keep his voice clear and calm as he responded to Trent. "We're coming out hot. Two plus one..."
Chapter Four: Under the Gun
A short burst of gunfire ripped through Baker's earpiece, then Trent responded. There was no panic in his voice, but Baker heard the exertion in Trent's breathing and imagined the operator running as he spoke. "Hold position. We've got hostiles between you and the door." There was the squeal of car tires and more gunfire as Baker reached down for the boy.
"Fuck the plus one. Leave him here!" Carpenter crouched next to the door and snarled.
For a small frail child, he seemed to have the weight of a fully grown man as Baker struggled to lift him.
"Ghost! Forget him! Let's go!" The boy didn't resist, but his center of gravity sank into the floor. Baker had to squat and gather the boy in his arms like an infant.
Trent's commanding roar in his ear provided a burst of energy when Baker stood up straight again. "Let's go! More hostiles incoming!"
"Fuck!" Carpenter threw open the door and poked his head out close to the ground and fast enough to avoid random fire. Without another glance at Baker, he slid through the doorway, maintaining his low crouch. The pistol was up near his eyes and ready. Baker hefted the child in his arms and moved through the door with all the speed his burden would allow.
He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as he hustled down the stairs, remembering the mantra of his combat instructors. "Go slow," one of them once said. "Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast, so go slow." He ignored the traces of gun smoke turning the wooden stairwell into a surreal nightmare. He didn't think about the two bodies convulsing in the open doorway to Popanjar's office or the AK-47 rifles dangling in their limp fingers. He didn't focus on Trent crouched near the front door, pushing Carpenter toward the Hummer with one hand and holding up the M4 to cover him with the other. The distant wail of sirens didn't distract him. The weight of the boy in his arms didn't matter. The tang of gas in the air from the bullets wasn't a surprise. The stench of sweat, blood, and feces from the still warm corpses was a sensory assault he was used to. Baker just put one foot in front of the other, knowing his only concern was getting across the threshold and into the Hummer.
Everything changed when he reached the bottom of the stairs and passed the doorway to Popanjar's office. He didn't see the man who fired the rifle. He didn't hear the bullets. He didn't feel the 7.62 round slam into his leg. He simply went down, face-first through the front doorway. He tried to keep his balance and keep moving, but his limbs wouldn't respond. There was the roar of gunfire over his head, more shouting, and a cloud of dust in his mouth. He felt nailed to the ground
But he wouldn't quit. The echo of his instructors still hammered into his head, as he tried to find his footing. "You don't stop moving until you are dead. You don't stop fighting until you are dead. If you get shot, keep shooting back. If you get stabbed, you keep fighting. Don't let your mind give up while your body can still move. Keep moving. Keep fighting." He didn't quit, but he didn't move. He couldn't move. His arms were pinned under the boy and he couldn't feel his legs.
Something like a claw or a talon snatched him up by the back of his jacket and dragged him forward. There was an explosion of pain a
nd the feeling of thick mud in his pants then his body sank into the backseat of the truck. For an instant, the din of noise was muffled, and the stifling air of the hallway was replaced by the arctic chill of the Hummer. Then his insides revolted as the Hummer fishtailed away from the curb. Baker heaved and the nausea erupted vomit onto the floor.
Over his own dry coughs, there were sounds of support around him. Trent's voice was close to his ear, his body shielding them from any stray gunfire. "You made it, Ghost. Stay with me. You've got a first-class ride to a five-star infirmary. Just stay with me..." Baker nodded, the adrenalin from the fight keeping him focused. In the front seat, Chu snapped precise information to the support elements ready to cover their extraction, while Carpenter barked orders to prepare the surgical ward for their arrival. Baker smiled in spite of the gummy film in his mouth and the searing pain below his waist. Nightwatch was a professional squad. If anyone could keep him alive, they could.
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