by Mark Dawson
“It’s an ambush,” Salim said.
The driver gripped the wheel.
“Don’t stop. Do you understand? Do not stop.”
“No, sir. I can get through there.”
“Give me your weapon.”
The driver took his right hand off the wheel and reached into his jacket. He collected his pistol and, with his attention on the road ahead, he handed it back to Salim.
Isabella knew this was the chance that she had been waiting for. She seized the man’s wrist with both of her hands and yanked down. His arm was halfway into the rear of the cabin, his elbow above the top of his chair. She pulled down again, as hard as she could, the man’s elbow bending the wrong way. She heard the pop as the tendons in his elbow hyperextended, and with a groan of pain, he loosened his grip on the pistol.
It was a Beretta M9.
Isabella reached for it.
Khalil pushed across her, trying to pin her back against her seat.
The gun fell into the footwell between the seats.
Salim shouted, “Stop her!”
The driver, his right arm disabled, lost control of the vehicle. The wheels turned sharply to the right, the rubber screeched horribly and with dreadful inevitability, the vehicle tipped over on its side and slammed down hard onto the road.
Pope settled back down again, squeezed the buttstock into the cleft between his shoulder and neck, and corrected his aim. The quartermaster had blocked the road as best she could, but the Viano kept coming. There was enough space for the people carrier to negotiate the narrow pass, but it would be tight and it would have to slow.
It would be an excellent moment for Pope to take his shot.
He saw a blur of movement from the driver’s side of the cabin, saw the nose of the Viano jerk to the right, and then watched with horror as the vehicle overbalanced and crashed down onto its left-hand side. It had been travelling quickly, and the momentum was not immediately arrested. The car slid down the road, its roof and hood all that Pope could see. Sparks gushed out from beneath the bodywork as the metal scraped against the pitted surface of the road.
The Mitsubishi was accelerating and catching the Viano quickly from the rear.
Pope moved away from the scope and raised his binoculars for a wider view.
The Viano’s momentum was finally scraped away and it came to rest.
Pope’s heart raced. The Grandis stopped fifteen feet away from the Viano. There was a brief pause, just a couple of seconds, and then the doors opened and four men disembarked.
They were wearing desert combat fatigues with black balaclavas over their heads.
They were all armed.
Isabella would have been thrown from the SUV were it not for the seat belt around her waist. The fabric bit sharply into the skin, holding her roughly in place, and she anchored herself a little more by throwing her hands forward and pressing against the forward seats.
The Beretta was gone. She caught a glimpse of something flying up at the newly upended ceiling, saw it bounce, then lost it. It could be anywhere now. Khalil was above her, his own belt holding him in place, his shoulder pressed against hers and his right arm diagonally across her chest. The driver was struggling to free himself. The windshield had shattered as the frame buckled during the flip, and the man was trying to crawl out onto the road.
Isabella shrugged her shoulder and managed to free herself from beneath Khalil’s weight. He was dazed. She reached down for the belt clip and released it. She tried to orientate herself. She was on the side of the Viano that was leaning against the road. The windows had smashed, the glass scattered liberally all about. Khalil was moaning, but he was awake and didn’t look as if he had been badly hurt. She pushed away from the seat and righted herself, her feet finding the surface of the road through the newly empty window frames.
This was her chance.
She had to get out.
She turned. Jasmin al-Khawari looked drunk. She was covered with pieces of broken glass, and her head lolled between her shoulders. Her husband, though, seemed unhurt. He unfastened his seat belt and squeezed himself between the two rows of chairs so that he, too, was upright. He blocked the way to the rear exit.
“You little bitch . . .”
Isabella turned and moved ahead, scrambling across the driver’s seat to the windshield. She would get out the same way as the driver. She clambered ahead before Salim could get to her, and as she reached out for the dash, she saw the glitter of something metallic below her.
The Beretta.
She grabbed for it, her fingers brushing against the butt, coaxing it within reach. She got enough of it, pulled it into her grip and slid her finger inside the guard. She got her feet onto the armrest of the driver’s seat, then the central console, and pushed up until she could get her body out the window without cutting herself on the shards of glass that remained in the frame, standing out like snaggled teeth.
She scrambled clear and assessed left and right. Ahead of her, to the south, the car that had moved to block the road was still there. She could see the figure of a woman inside it. Salim’s driver was to her right, standing at the side of the road. His hands were raised. Isabella thought that was odd. She raised the pistol, aiming it at him, and then saw the movement from her right.
She turned.
The car that had been behind them was parked. Four men, dressed in desert fatigues with balaclavas over their heads, were approaching. They were all armed with Kalashnikovs. One of them ran on toward the blocking car ahead. The rifles of the remaining three were aimed at the driver, and as Isabella emerged, two turned their weapons onto her.
“Drop it!”
She did as she was told.
Chapter Eleven
Pope knew that the quartermaster was doomed. The front of the Espace was too close to the shoulder of rock, and the quartermaster would need to reverse before she had the clearance to turn the car to the south and drive away. The four men with Kalashnikovs looked as if they were well drilled. Three of them trained their weapons on Salim’s overturned Viano, but the fourth man hurried to the south, passing the Viano and breaking into a sprint as the quartermaster threw the car into reverse.
The man stopped when he was thirty feet away and raised the muzzle of his rifle.
The quartermaster had panicked, crashing the rear of the car into the outcrop behind it. The gearbox protested as she tried to force it into first, and then the engine screamed as she fed in the revs whilst it was still in neutral.
Pope pressed the scope to his eye and drew a bead on the man with the Kalashnikov. He started to squeeze the trigger, then stopped. He couldn’t. If he fired, he would give away his position. He was outgunned. He couldn’t miss his target from this range, but that would leave three tangos remaining.
And Isabella was probably in the overturned car.
The quartermaster was finished, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He closed his eyes as the Kalashnikov barked. He heard the sound of breaking glass, of bullets thudding into metal, and then the firing stopped. He opened his eyes and assessed through the scope of his rifle. The Espace had been riddled with rounds. The quartermaster was slumped forward across the wheel. The driver-side window was blown out, and a large bloom of red had splashed across the window on the other side of the compartment. The shooter, his rifle still shouldered, went forward to check that the threat was neutralised.
Pope felt an itch in his trigger finger, ignored it and turned back to the overturned SUV.
The SUV had turned as it slid to a halt, and the angle at which it had come to rest hid anything or anyone who might be on the other side of it.
Pope was blinded.
“Salim Al-Khawari,” a man called. “Get out of the car.”
Isabella stood with her arms raised above her head. She had dropped the pistol; it was on the ground a few feet away. She had made sure that she didn’t toss it so far away that it couldn’t be easily retrieved, but the men were t
oo well organised to be fooled by such an elementary move. The fact that she had emerged with a weapon seemed to accord her special status. One of the men—tall and thin, with the smoothest dark brown skin—separated from the trio and approached. He flicked the muzzle of the rifle, indicating that she should step away. She did as she was told.
“Naughty,” the man said, shaking his head. He spoke with an English accent. He crouched down, the rifle held with his right hand as he collected the Beretta with his left. He stood, pushed the pistol into the waistband of his combat trousers and stepped back again. “What are you doing with that, then?”
She ignored him.
“Get out now!”
Isabella turned her head as she heard the sound of someone clambering out of the car behind her. It was Salim. He had his hands raised. Khalil was next, carefully pulling his mother out after him.
“Mr al-Khawari,” the man said.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Usman.”
“What is this?”
“You are coming with us.”
“Where?”
The man pointed to the east. “To the caliphate, of course.”
“No,” Salim said. “I’m not. I’m going home. To the Lebanon.”
Usman’s English was formal, without much in the way of inflection. “I am afraid that you are not the one giving orders here. You will do as we tell you, or there will be consequences for you and your family.”
Salim started to speak, but the man cut him off.
“Who is this?” He was pointing his AK-47 at the driver.
“My chauffeur,” he said.
The man pulled the trigger and a quick burst of gunfire spat out, cutting the driver right across the midriff. Jasmin screamed as squibs of blood splashed out, the driver hopelessly trying to staunch the sudden outflow of blood as he dropped to his knees and then toppled onto his side.
The man turned the Kalashnikov onto Isabella.
“And her?”
“She has nothing to do with us.”
“So I should shoot her, Mr al-Khawari?”
“Do what you want.”
Chapter Twelve
The passengers from the overturned SUV had been ushered away from the vehicle such that Pope could now see them. He recognised Salim and Jasmin al-Khawari and their brattish son, Khalil.
And he recognised Isabella.
One of the group of men who had intercepted the car looked to be interrogating Salim. Pope was too far off to pick up the details of the conversation, but the tone was evident.
The man was confident.
Salim was frightened.
The man who had shot up the Espace was searching it.
Pope adjusted the aim of the carbine so that he could quickly cover any of the protagonists should they make a move that might cause an immediate threat to Isabella. He had aimed the sights on the man who had been talking to Salim, and watched as the man swivelled so that he faced the driver and pulled the trigger.
He saw the driver fall dead and heard Jasmin al-Khawari scream.
The man turned the Kalashnikov onto Isabella.
Pope took aim at him and prepared to fire. He would take him out and then try to take out another. After that, he didn’t know what he would do. But he was not prepared to wait and do nothing.
The man with the rifle continued to speak to Salim. Pope held him in tight focus and started to squeeze the trigger.
The man lowered the rifle.
Pope relaxed his finger.
The man who had been searching the Espace emerged and looked up at the cliffs on the opposite side of the road. He was looking for anyone else who might have been in the SUV. Pope quickly pulled the rifle back and pressed himself down.
He could still watch the road through a cleft in the rocks. One of the others went forward and took Isabella by the arm, dragging her to the Mitsubishi. Salim, Jasmin and Khalil followed. They all got into the back of the Grandis. It was a seven-seat vehicle and it would have been cramped for all eight of them, but the doors were slammed shut and the people carrier pulled away. It rumbled to the south, squeezed past the bullet-riddled Espace and passed out of view.
Pope approached the overturned Mercedes. He got right up close. The interior of the vehicle was a mess. The windows had smashed and fragments had been thrown all the way to the back of the cabin, a fine dusting of shards that glittered in the sunlight. There was little in the way of luggage. The al-Khawaris had been forced to leave Switzerland quickly, and they had not had the opportunity to pack. There was an empty Coke bottle, and the remains of a half-eaten sandwich had been scattered across one of the bench seats. The satnav unit that must have been attached to the glass had fallen against the door. Pope jammed the muzzle of his M4A1 into the empty window, using it to brush out the remaining jagged shards, and then reached in and collected the unit.
He glanced at it. The route was still displayed, a green line that tracked through the mountains. Something about it looked awry. He tapped on the screen to zoom out, pulling back until the scale revealed the entirety of the route. It started from Antalya, as he had expected, the green line following the Turkish coast to Mersin, Adana and Iskenderun. But instead of turning east toward Syria, the route continued south. It passed through Antakya and kept going, crossing the Syrian border at Yayladagi and continuing into the shoulder of territory that was squeezed between the sea to the west and the Islamic State to the east. It did not deviate. The route continued south, pressed up against the coast, before it crossed the border into the Lebanon near Talkalakh.
The Lebanon? Why were they going there? Their intelligence was that Salim would flee to Raqqa.
Pope put the satnav in his pocket and went to the Espace.
The quartermaster was slumped to the side, her clothes soaked in blood. They had riddled her body with bullets; at least she would have died quickly. The vehicle had been badly damaged. Both offside tyres had been punctured, and a jagged stitching of bullet holes picked a path to the fuel tank. Diesel was running out of the holes. The vehicle wasn’t going anywhere.
Pope opened the rear door and hauled out the backpack. He opened the ruck and examined the contents. The man who had searched the car had not taken any of them out. There were three pairs of flex cuffs, six flashbangs, a thermite grenade, a Penflare gun and flares, a CamelBak water carrier, and a pistol belt with an escape and evasion kit. His plan did not call for all of the additional equipment, but the need to be prepared for all eventualities had been drilled into him, so he packed it all back inside. He took a claymore mine, sliding the small grey-green plastic carrying case into the pack. He added white phosphorous grenades in case he needed to lay down a smokescreen, and paused as he saw a disposable 66mm rocket. It was an American-made M72 LAW, intended to be deployed against tanks and light armour, consisting of two tubes that were pulled apart when it was readied for firing; the rocket was inside the second tube. Pope estimated that he was already committed to hauling 110 or 120 pounds, and the 66 would add another 5.
What the hell, he concluded. In for a penny. He fastened the launcher to the backpack, hauled the pack onto the road, and propped it against the car.
He heard the sound of an engine approaching. He ducked behind the chassis of the Espace, popping out quickly to glance at the motorbike that was speeding down the straight toward him. The driver would see the wreckage. Would they stop? Pope couldn’t predict it, but he wasn’t prepared to take the chance. He waited, and then, as the bike was fifty feet away, he swung out from behind the wing, raised the rifle and aimed down the road.
The bike was a blue Suzuki Bandit. The rider, a man, had started to slow as he drew closer to the stricken SUV. Now, with Pope directly ahead and with a high-powered firearm aimed at him, he had two choices: swerve and try to accelerate away, or stop. Pope fired a warning shot just to the right of the Bandit, and the driver made up his mind. The bike’s tyres squealed as the rider squeezed the brakes, the bike coming to rest when it
was still twenty feet away. The rider put down the kickstand and dismounted, his hands raised above his head as he backed away from Pope’s determined approach. The man dared not turn his back to him, but as soon as he had put thirty feet between them, he spun and sprinted away back down the road in the direction from which he had arrived.
Pope grabbed his backpack and mounted the bike. The keys were in the ignition and the engine was still running. He settled the straps of the pack so that it was as evenly balanced as he could manage, slung the rifle over his shoulder and gunned the engine. The bike leapt forward, and Pope began his pursuit.
Chapter Thirteen
Isabella sat quietly in the back of the people carrier. The Grandis was not a particularly new or powerful vehicle. The Viano would, in all likelihood, have been able to outrun it. She had made that possibility moot when she had caused the Mercedes to crash, and she wondered whether that might be something that she would come to regret. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. There was nothing to do about it now, though, so she dismissed the thought. This was not a time to be occupied by distractions. She needed to be vigilant and alert. To begin with, she needed to work out what was happening to her.
The car was musty. It had seven seats, and it was cramped. One of the men was driving, leaving Usman to sit in the passenger seat next to him. He had drawn a pistol from a shoulder holster and was aiming it back into the cabin at them. He held the gun with the kind of casual confidence that Isabella had seen in Michael Pope and her mother. He had already demonstrated that he was ruthless, with the murder of Salim’s driver. This was not a moment to push her luck. She would try to build an understanding of the new situation first.
The al-Khawaris were quiet, too. Khalil looked ill. She realised, with a moment of empathy that she quickly and easily dismissed, that he would have been frightened, too. He was immature, little more than a boy, and he had led a cosseted and spoilt life. What had happened to him over the course of the last day and a half would have been enough to frighten anyone in his situation. He had been there, on the road next to her, when their driver had been killed. He had turned away and vomited, retching up his dinner on the margin of the road.
