Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup

by Isaac Hooke

  He had considered urging her to go into hiding, but somehow he doubted she would. Besides, if she kept her wits about her she should be fine.

  At least, that was what he told himself. He only hoped that her brother wouldn't complicate things.

  A little after midnight he eventually found sleep, only to be awakened an hour and a half before sunrise for first prayer.

  Over the next couple of days the checkpoints proved too far to realistically make the hit site. Each morning as Wolf Company drove out to the latest random checkpoint, nerves always gripped Ethan, but when it became obvious that the militants were proceeding far past the necessary neighborhood, his stress quickly ceded to impatience.

  By the third wasted day Ethan had become extremely antsy. If any of his fellow mujahadeen asked him a pointless question, or a civilian looked at him the wrong way at the checkpoint, he was liable to explode. When one young passerby called Ethan a pig under his breath, Ethan nearly pulled his rifle on the character.

  He sensed his window of opportunity closing. The Caliphate was seeking to consolidate its hold on existing territory, and units were being vacated from the compound daily. Wolf Company might be reassigned to Kobane or another city any time. And even if he stayed, the longer he waited to complete the hit, the greater the chance of something going wrong. Someone might discover and remove the rope Ethan had left stashed on the rooftop. The scientist might relocate to another apartment, or change the hours he left for the research facility.

  If William or Aaron were still in the city, he would have involved them, because the operation was hanging by a thread as far as Ethan was concerned.

  Finally on the fourth day Abdullah situated the checkpoint within a workable distance of the apartment and Ethan could at last perform the hit.

  That morning's duty seemed longer than usual, and he couldn't shake the tenseness that permeated his body. He distractedly checked the IDs and cellphones of passersby. The day dragged on.

  Near noon, Ethan volunteered to buy bread for the unit. He hadn't asked for the privilege in more than a week, so he assumed Abdullah would allow it. And if not, Ethan would shortly excuse himself to the toilet.

  But Abdullah nodded in consent.

  "I go with you," Suleman announced. "You take too long, otherwise."

  Ethan smiled fatalistically. "Certainly." He had never expected the operation to be easy.

  About a block from the checkpoint, Ethan was about to feign intestinal cramping as a pretext for abandoning Suleman when he heard a commotion behind him.

  A young boy repeatedly shouted the word "lawbreaker" at the top of his lungs. He pointed at a chaperoned woman who wore a niqab; a small portion of her veil was absent around the eye area, revealing a thin slice of skin between her nose and forehead.

  Suleman turned back to deal with it. "Go!" he told Ethan over his shoulder.

  Finally fate had dealt him a favorable hand.

  Ethan hurried forward, feeding on the sudden adrenaline rush. When Suleman vanished from sight behind him, he ducked into a side alley and donned his balaclava. Around it he secured the headband containing the Shahada script. When he emerged, passersby readily made way before him, that masked, menacing mujahid with the sniper rifle.

  Proceeding thusly through the streets, he paused twice to make sure Suleman wasn't following, and he reached his destination about five minutes before noon. The motorcade hadn't arrived yet.

  He crossed the street to the apartment containing his hide. The long queue of people at the bakery snaked past the lobby, and he shoved through. At the entrance he pressed multiple intercom buttons, and for a moment feared no one would answer. He could feel the eyes of the people in line on his back.

  An old woman's voice finally came over the speaker. "Allo?" She was almost unintelligible for all the static that accompanied her voice.

  "I have a delivery," Ethan growled into the microphone.

  "A what?"

  "A delivery."

  "What kind of delivery?" came the answer.

  "A registered letter."

  The door latch didn't open.

  Ethan pressed more buttons. No one else answered. He didn't want to pick the lock, not with so many people watching. Still, he was an armed mujahid. What did it matter what the common people thought?

  He was about to retrieve his lockpick set when he noticed a blazer-wearing man standing nearby, away from the lineup. He appeared hesitant; he carried several piles of flatbread balanced in one hand, and a key in the other.

  Ethan pointed brusquely at the door. The man nervously stepped forward and opened it. Ethan was in.

  Fate, you are fickle indeed.

  At the top of the stairs, he produced his working bump key and inserted it into the lock of the rooftop door. He tapped the key with his phone and jiggled it, fumbling, wasting precious seconds. The lock ultimately opened and he burst onto the rooftop.

  He ran to the ledge and crouched to observe the street. No SUVs: either the motorcade hadn't arrived or he had already missed it. He would know soon enough.

  He set down his rifle and went to the opposite side of the terrace. The coil of rope and bike gloves were precisely where he'd stashed them. He threaded the rope through the water tank supports he'd picked out days before. Once the cord was properly anchored, he threw the loose ends into the rear courtyard.

  He tested the setup with his weight. The ropes held.

  Ethan taped a scathing note onto one of the water tanks, in full view of the doorway. The message was written in a local rhetorical style that was critical of the Islamic State, and implicated the regional Al Qaeda affiliated group, Jabhat al Nusra, in the kill. Mufid had helped craft the text.

  Ethan returned to the sniping position, low-crawling to the railless ledge. Still no motorcade.

  He retrieved the Dragunov, deployed the bipod, and rested it near the brink. He had considered naming the weapon—a throwback behavior from his SEAL days—but in the end decided that honor was reserved for American rifles alone.

  He turned off his radio and placed his right eye against the PSO-1 scope, leaving his left open for situational awareness. He extended the cylindrical sunshade at the end of the 4x magnification scope, then adjusted the focus ring.

  The PSO-1 was equipped with a stadiametric rangefinder, which he ignored—he didn't need it at that close range. Besides, he trusted the thirty-three meter measurement he had made with the TruPulse a few nights before.

  It was unnecessary to compensate for bullet drop at that range, and even if he wanted to the scope's elevation knob wasn't fine-grained enough—it operated in hundred meter increments. He didn't need to adjust for windage either: not even a breeze stirred the scorching air that day. Besides, at his current range he'd need a gale force wind to blow the rimmed 54mm bullet off target.

  He aimed the targeting reticle directly at the door. The three chevrons below the main crosshairs were for bullet drop compensation beyond one thousand meters, so he ignored those.

  With the scope set up, Ethan settled in for the wait.

  The seconds ticked past, becoming minutes. Ethan shifted impatiently. Surely it was long past noon, but he didn't dare check his smartphone: he had to keep his eye on that door. Doubts filled his mind, but he quashed them with the cold-hearted discipline of the sniper that had been dormant inside him for so long.

  And then the motorcade pulled up. Ethan steeled himself.

  The militants emerged and formed a perimeter around the SUVs. One of them calmly approached the entrance and pressed an intercom button.

  Ethan focused all of his being on that door. Most external reference points left him. There was only the trigger beneath his finger and the door within his reticule.

  The militants standing in front of the door moved away as it opened.

  The scientist and his bodyguards stepped into view.

  Ethan very slightly adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger.

  twenty

  The recoil cau
sed the stock of the sniper rifle to bite into his shoulder. The violent report echoed from the buildings. Bystanders ducked. Some screamed.

  Shi's body dropped like a ragdoll.

  Ethan rolled away from the ledge and out of sight of any militants below. He snapped the bipod closed on his rifle and scrambled to the exfil point. He heard shouts from the street behind him.

  He reached the far side of the terrace and wrapped the twin ropes about his body in the dulfersitz method. He slid the rifle strap over his neck, letting the Dragunov hang over his chest.

  He was about to leap backward into the courtyard when he realized he'd forgotten the bike gloves. He knelt, yanked the gloves on, then stepped off the edge.

  He eased himself down in wide spurts, successively kicking off from the apartment. He descended a little fast, and slowed when the burn in his groin became too intense, well-aware that if the militants reached the rooftop before he'd vacated the courtyard, he was dead.

  The rope abruptly grew slack and he fell five meters before jerking to a halt, the cord cutting into his groin. Had the mujahadeen from the motorcade already attained the rooftop? More likely the rusty steel bar he'd used for an anchor had given way and lodged somewhere else, maybe against a television antenna, saving him from the fall.

  He continued the rappel, but the rope gave once again a moment later and he plunged the final two meters to the courtyard, hitting fairly hard. He rolled, expecting a water tower or antenna to barrel down, but nothing came. He tried to stand and gasped in pain—he'd sprained his left ankle.

  He bit down the agony and forced himself upright. He unwrapped himself from the rope and yanked on one end, trying to take it down, but the cord had lodged against something else up there and refused to budge.

  Damn it. He'd have to leave the rope where it was.

  Half running and half limping, Ethan crossed the dry grass; he flinched at the jolts of pain every step inflicted. His buttocks throbbed, too, from the rope burn; he touched the fabric there with one hand but his cargo pants seemed intact, luckily.

  He tripped on a small rock hidden in the grass and fell. He crawled to his feet, fully expecting a rifle report to sound from the rooftop at any moment, and with it, his world to blink out.

  It seemed an eternity, but by the time Ethan reached the cinder block fence, only a minute had passed since he fired the shot. He hauled himself over the shoulder-high block and down the other side. He landed on the sidewalk beyond, ignoring the surprised looks of the passersby.

  He limped onward, continuing his half run, half limp gait. He crossed the busy street, nearly getting struck by a car, and then ducked into the planned alleyway. As he neared the other side he removed his balaclava and headband and stuffed them into a pocket. Then he turned on his radio and slowed to a walk, doing his best to hide the limp when he emerged. The ankle was growing numb, fortunately, lessening the pain. It would probably be swollen later.

  Ethan had done it. Still, the hit felt sloppy. He'd left behind a rope. He'd injured his leg. What else could go wrong?

  A call came over his two-way radio. "Abu-Emad, where are you?" It was Abdullah.

  Ethan pressed the send button and spoke into the device, which hung from his chest harness. "On my way back from the bakery. Why?"

  "Hurry up!"

  Ethan switched to a higher channel and listened in on the general chatter. The mujahadeen were searching for the assassin. They had no description of the perpetrator so far, other than that he might be a member of Jabhat al Nusra. They'd discovered the note, then. And probably the rope.

  Ethan retrieved the pile of flatbread from Mufid, who had been waiting at the designated street corner as instructed.

  "Thank you." Ethan turned away.

  "Wait!" Mufid said to his back. "Am I done now, or do I have to keep coming back here with bread every day?"

  "You're done!" Ethan increased his pace, biting down a flare-up of ankle pain.

  "What about my money?"

  "Later!" Ethan hissed.

  When he reached the checkpoint a few minutes later, a convoy of seven pickups raced past, truck beds packed with mujahadeen. They were headed in the direction of the apartment.

  Abdullah got off his two-way radio. "We're supposed to be on the lookout for a masked fighter," he said as Ethan distributed the bread. "A member of Al Nusra has assassinated a civilian, and may be impersonating one of our brothers. Did you see anyone?"

  Ethan shook his head.

  "But the crime took place at the apartment building across the street from the bakery," Abdullah persisted.

  "It must have happened after I left," Ethan said.

  Abdullah's eyes bored into his and for a moment Ethan thought the emir was going to arrest him. He felt each heartbeat distinctly in his throat.

  Zarar broke the tension by comically tearing into a piece of bread and exaggerating the difficulty of breaking it. "What the hell did you do to this bread?" The big Afghan took a bite. "Tastes as hard as an old woman's cunt."

  "Why am I not surprised you know what that tastes like?" Ethan said, doing his best to hide his nervousness.

  Zarar grinned toothily; portions of chewed bread covered his enamel so that it looked like half his mouth was rotten.

  Abdullah regarded Ethan a moment longer, then stepped aside to speak quietly into his two-way radio.

  The others finished their bread and returned to work. Suleman lingered, giving Ethan a suspicious look before he took his place on the checkpoint.

  Ethan tried hard to conceal the limp for the rest of that day. He kept expecting Abdullah to arrest him, but the emir never did.

  Suleman was driving Ethan back to the compound in the Mitsubishi L200 pickup when the militant said, "What happened to your leg?"

  Ethan casually thrummed his fingers on the passenger door rest. "What do you mean?"

  "I saw you hiding a limp back there."

  "Oh." Ethan cleared his throat, which suddenly felt dry. "I tripped on the way to the bakery. It's nothing serious."

  "You weren't involved in the shooting today?"

  Ethan pressed his lips together. "Of course not."

  "You were gone a suspicious amount of time the last time we were in this neighborhood."

  "Was I?"

  Suleman muttered something underbreath. Then: "Do you swear by Allah against the forfeiture of your immortal soul and its burning in hellfire forevermore that you did not kill the civilian?"

  "I swear by Allah and the Quran that I did not," Ethan said without batting an eye.

  Suleman nodded. "That's good enough for me." He glanced at Ethan and affected a smile that did not touch his eyes. "I apologize for doubting you, brother."

  Ethan shot him a soulless smile in kind, but Suleman had already returned his attention to the road.

  * * *

  A few days later, when it was apparent Ethan had gotten away scot-free with the hit, he left Sam an encrypted note. Target terminated.

  He also placed a message in the gmail account he shared with Alzena. Are you safe?

  He was relieved when he decrypted Alzena's single-word reply the next day. Yes.

  He stared at that word for several moments. Then he deleted the draft and navigated to the change password screen. He entered a new password and his finger hovered over the enter key. Once he submitted that change, Alzena would never be able to communicate with him again.

  Don't get involved with assets. Leave her alone.

  Ethan should have stayed away. He should have changed the password. But he felt compelled to repay her for what she had done. And he wanted to do that personally, rather than by courier, because deep down he yearned to see her again, if only one more time.

  He canceled the password change and left the following encrypted message instead:

  I have fifty thousand pounds for you. I will drop it off this Sunday evening at nine.

  Fifty thousand Syrian pounds was the equivalent of two hundred fifty US dollars. Ethan would have gi
ven more, but his stash was running low. He probably should have written her an IOU, but he didn't want to encourage her to leave Raqqa to cash it in—despite the repressive regime, it was far safer for her to remain in the city, at least for the moment.

  He wasn't sure she'd allow it, but the next day when he checked the account, he found a message from her agreeing to the rendezvous.

  By the time Sunday night rolled around, Ethan had cold feet. There were several reasons not to proceed with the rendezvous. She may have told the Khansa'a everything, either willingly or under duress, and visiting her could be a trap. Or perhaps she had told them nothing, but her apartment was under surveillance anyway.

  Then there were the personal reasons not to go. Mainly, he liked her far too much. Or rather, desired her. He didn't expect anything to happen when he met her, of course. Nor did he really want anything to. He would go to her door, give her the money, thank her, and leave. When she sent him on his way, he would never see her again.

  He set out at eight-thirty. His ankle had returned to normal over the past few days, so he was able to proceed at a good pace. He carried his Dragunov over one shoulder, and wore his balaclava with the Shahada headband. He ran a surveillance detection route on the way to the apartment and when he arrived he circled her block twice. None of the cars parked on the road were occupied. No one was lingering on the sidewalk. Someone may have been watching from one of the apartment windows or balconies across the street, but he'd never know because of the heavy canopies.

  He decided to risk it.

  Ethan proceeded to the apartment entrance. The door was slightly ajar, thanks to a doorstop someone had placed. Power was still on to most of the city that night, so he tried the intercom button corresponding to 2C anyway. No answer came. Troubling.

  He entered, closing the door silently behind him. As he climbed the stairs to the second floor, all his senses were alert for the potential trap that might be sprung against him.