Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8)

by Mark Terry

  republics, Kuwait.

  Returning to Hammond, he said, “I want to check your wound.”

  “We don’t have anything to bandage it with. Leave it alone.” His words were flat and unemotional.

  “Problem?”

  Hammond said, “There’s nothing we can do, Derek. Let it go.”

  Crawling over, he said, “Let me take a look.” He reached for Hammond’s shirt, but the man caught his wrist.

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Derek looked down. Blood soaked the shirt. “You tear it open moving around?”

  “Probably. The bleeding’s not too bad, but it’s been bleeding for a couple hours.”

  “It’s not clotting?”

  “I think it’s infected.”

  “Let me take a look.” He smirked. “I’m a doctor.”

  “You’ve got a PhD. That’s not helpful.”

  “Lie still, dumbass.”

  Derek peeled back the shirt. The dressings were soaked with blood and it was red and recent. Leaning close, he sniffed. There was a strong, distinctive stench. The wound was infected, and badly.

  He reached out and laid his hand on Hammond’s forehead.

  “Am I running a temperature, Mom?”

  “You know damn well what’s going on,” Derek said. Hammond was burning up. This changed the equation.

  “My suggestion is you get your ass out of here.”

  “My suggestion is you shut your fucking mouth,” Derek said. He was wearing black and gray camo fatigues and boots. Both he and Hammond, normally clean-shaven, had given up shaving before the mission, so both of them now sported ragged beards.

  They were both distinctly Western-looking, although both had tans from spending a lot of time outdoors. But Derek didn’t think he could pass for a Syrian or even an Iranian, Iraqi, Saudi, Jordanian or Egyptian. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a keffiyah on you?”

  “Use your undershirt. You won’t be the only one.”

  Hammond had a point. It wasn’t easy taking off the outer camo shirt with his shoulder wound. The undershirt was black. He decided to just wear that. Tearing the camo shirt wasn’t easy. He used the gun site on the AK47 to tear a hole in it, and with Hammond’s help, tore it down the middle. Awkwardly he wrapped it around his head and neck. It wasn’t unheard of for the rebels to wear a scarf around their neck or even the lower part of their face.

  “How do I look?”

  “Everything the fashionable urban guerilla could ask for.”

  “Fashion Week, here I come.”

  Derek tore the remains of the shirt in half. Half he wadded up and pressed against Hammond’s wound. Hammond groaned, but didn’t comment. The other half Derek dipped into the sink and rested on his partner’s forehead.

  “Here’s the deal,” Derek said. “If it gets dark and I’m not back, try to get the hell out of here.” He hesitated. “That would probably mean I’m dead or captured again. I’ve got a kid, a little boy, his name is Lev.”

  Hammond said, “The one you have with that Russian spy.”

  “She’s not a spy.” Her name was Irina Khournikova and she was Russian and she used to be with the FSB, although now she was a part-time security consultant married to a Russian FSB agent named Konstantin Nikitinov.

  “Whatever you say. You’ll come back. Come back and get me. Find a Mercedes or a BMW, would ya? I want a luxury ride back to Turkey.”

  “If I don’t make it back, tell Lev I love him.”

  “You’re sentimental.”

  Derek stood up. “I’m coming back for you. But if there’s anything we’ve learned so far, it’s that shit happens.”

  “Derek.”

  Looking down at Hammond, he waited.

  Hammond said, “A pleasure to serve with you. If you get a chance to get out of here, take it.”

  “I’m coming back for you.”

  “I have a wife. Elaine. She’s pregnant. Tell her … ”

  “Tell her yourself. I’ll be back.”

  He turned and walked away.

  9

  Sheikh Hussein Nazif sat in the back of the truck with the bodies of his men, holding the corpse of his son in his arms. Tears did not fall. He channeled his grief into anger. Into hatred.

  Into thoughts of vengeance.

  He did not believe these two men, these two Americans, were named Bill Black and Steve Smith.

  But he did believe they worked for the government, possibly the CIA. Possibly the U.S. State Department.

  The man, Black he called himself, had said he answered directly to the Secretary of State. He found that to be an odd thing for a CIA agent to say. He wondered if it was true.

  He held Abdul’s body close to his and squeezed his eyes tight, jaw clenched.

  The explosion had slammed him against the door. When he had woken moments later, he could hear nothing, but the acrid chemicals in the air choked him and the flames roared around him. He flung himself at the door, pounding the butt of his rifle

  against the knob.

  Finally, choking, gasping, he fired his AK47 at the knob, shattering it, sending pieces of metal flying everywhere. He lunged against the door and it blew open.

  Inside, he saw the two dead men.

  In one corner, Abdul crouched, tears in his eyes, arms over his head. “Papa!” his son shouted. “Papa!” He raced across the room and flung himself at Nazif.

  “Let’s go! Stay low and hurry!”

  They raced out the door into a cauldron of flames. The air was thick with smoke and acrid fumes. He coughed, the fumes burning his nose and throat. Spots appeared before his eyes. Slowly, he sank to the floor. Abdul, terror in his eyes, turned to look at him. “Papa! Come on! Let’s—”

  The last thing Nazif remembered was a loud blast and the world seeming to collapse around him.

  And then Mohammed Senbi was dragging him down the hallway by his arms. He thrashed. “Abdul! Where is Abdul!”

  “It’s too late! The building is collapsing around us! Let’s go!”

  “Abdul! Where is Abdul!” He struggled to his feet and turned to peer through the smoke and flames.

  Where Abdul had been was a pile of burning debris.

  And now, a dozen hours later, his remaining men had retrieved the dead, including Abdul, and were taking them out of the city to bury them. To give them at least that much dignity.

  The Americans would pay.

  Oh yes, he thought. He would make them pay.

  10

  No skulking in the shadows now. It was practically noon and the sun burned through the overcast, a gray glow in the cloud cover. He walked as if he belonged there, just another rebel soldier on his way to wherever he needed to be.

  The first thing he did was circle the area, in case there was a usable vehicle close by. There wasn’t. But he walked close enough, about two blocks, from where they had been captive. The building was a burned-out husk. He wondered how many people had died in the fire.

  Moving on, Derek headed toward what looked to be intact buildings a quarter-mile away. Off to his right, north, he thought, was the heart of Aleppo, an eleventh century Crusader Citadel built on a mound about fifty meters tall. That gave him a pretty good idea where he was, at least.

  As he walked, he saw the occasional man walking by. They looked at him with wariness, but kept on walking. Four blocks away he came to an intact thoroughfare, light traffic passing in both directions. There were a few office buildings and shops.

  He studied the vehicles, seeing a lot of Fiats, Volkswagens and even more Hyundais. Walking down the street, he checked to see if anyone was watching him.

  They were.

  Everyone was watching him. A bearded man in a grocery stopped sorting fruit to watch him, expression blank. Derek wondered if it was because he looked Western or something else. With so many factions in the rebels, maybe nobody knew whom to trust. And although not much was made of the war in the media, it was coming down to an all-too-familiar situation in the M
iddle East–Sunni and Shia Muslims at each other’s throats. That was one of the peculiarities of Syria. President Bashar al-Assad, also called the Butcher of Damascus, was neither—if he had a religious affiliation, it was as an Alawite, a smaller sect of Islam.

  It was going to be hard to steal a car with everybody watching.

  A bold man walked out and stood in his path. The man was short and round, probably in his sixties. He wore sandals, black slacks, a white shirt and an embroidered vest. A gray tonsure wrapped around his bald head.

  Glaring at Derek, he spoke in angry Arabic. Derek didn’t understand a word. He moved to walk around the man, but the guy stepped into his path, still talking, wagging a finger at him now. Right arm immobilized, he shifted so the barrel of the AK47 nudged the guy in the gut and cocked his head and glared right back at him. The idiot grabbed the barrel of the gun and shouted louder. Three or four more men approached, joining in the haranguing.

  I cannot fucking believe this.

  He yanked the rifle away and shouldered his way past the group, but they clung to him, still yelling. More people were running toward them.

  Derek aimed the rifle upward and fired off a burst.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone he recognized, the doctor. The doctor caught his eye and jerked his head as if to say, “Follow me.”

  Derek pushed forward through the crowd. It had not calmed down much from his burst of gunfire, although it had thinned a bit, with some of the more cautious deciding to scatter. They let him go and he followed the doctor as best he could. He was led through several alleys. At one point he lost the doctor, then found him again. Derek hurried and caught up. “Where are we going?”

  In his heavily accented voice, the doctor said, “You are insane. Why are you still here?”

  “Trust me, I’m working on leaving. What was their problem?”

  “They are under the impression you are with the Al-Tawhid Brigade, at least one faction, the Black Brothers. The fatigues, the black rags on your head and covering your face. The Black Brothers are not popular. They are supporting the FSA, but they are far more radical, affiliated with al-Qaeda, interested primarily in overthrowing Assad and imposing their version of Sharia on Syria.”

  Well, shit. “Do you have a vehicle?”

  “Where is your partner?”

  “None of your business. But he’s in bad shape. If you have a car, I could take you to him and you could give him some more antibiotics. His wounds are infected. He’s getting worse.”

  Dr. Abbas al-Atrash gestured with one hand. “This is my clinic. We will come in the back way. We must talk. Do not speak in front of anybody.”

  Not completely trusting the man, Derek followed him through the door of a two-story building. Dr. al-Atrash pointed Derek into a room, calling out to people at the front of the building in Arabic. Derek slid into the room and closed the door.

  With some relief, he noted that it looked like any other examining room he had ever been in, with a sink, an examining table, cupboards, a stool and a chair. On the wall were posters written in Arabic script that probably promoted exercise, eating right and reducing stress.

  Derek studied the room, opened one of the cabinets, noting bandages, gauze, iodine and alcohol. The door opened and al-Atrash came in, closing the door behind him. He held up two bottles and a disposable hypodermic. “Antibiotics. For you and your partner. And Vicodin. Do you need it?”

  “I’m doing okay,” which was not quite true and not quite a lie. Derek was in pain and not moving well, but he didn’t want to take a major pain killer because he didn’t want to become drowsy. “Do you have something like Tylenol III or even Motrin?”

  The doctor went to a drawer in the cabinet, opened it and handed Derek several foil sample packets. “This should work, at least for a while. Do you need anything else?”

  “Food and water? And a car?”

  “I will get you some food. I own a car, but it’s not here. What do you intend to do?”

  “Leave as soon as we can. In the daylight if possible, but otherwise we’ll wait for dark.”

  The doctor pulled up the stool and sat down, considering Derek. “You and your partner did a horrible thing, burning down that building. You killed many people.”

  “I didn’t intend to kill anybody. We were trying to escape. They were torturing me. They wanted me to make sarin gas for them.”

  The doctor’s mouth twisted in anger. “This is madness. Total madness. Sheikh Nazif will do anything to have your heads. His son, Abdul, died in the explosion.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” And he was. He had tried to protect the kid. What the hell had happened? And what could he do about it now? “Can you get me a car?”

  “Tonight. Seven o’clock. Will that do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where will I find you?”

  “Give me a meeting location. We’ll get there and wait for you.”

  Dr. Abbas al-Atrash hesitated. Then with a bow of his head he nodded. He took a piece of paper from a pad. “Can you find this building again?”

  “I think so.”

  “What about Nazif’s headquarters?”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  Al-Atrash nodded. “Then I will draw a map from there.” He did so and handed it to Derek. He saw from the map where Hammond was hiding as well. “This will do. Where are we meeting?”

  “It’s below the Citadel. Are you familiar with it?”

  Back when Aleppo had tourists, it was a major tourist site. “Yes. But that’s very public, isn’t it?”

  “We are not meeting at the Citadel, but at a coffee shop a short distance away. Here.” He pointed to an X on the map. “It is owned by my brother. I will meet you there. Seven o’clock.”

  It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. Derek nodded. “Except I don’t have a watch.”

  “Here is mine.” It was a cheap Seiko sports watch. Derek awkwardly strapped it on. “Thank you. And the samples?” The whole reason I came to this crappy country.

  “I will bring them.”

  The doctor left and returned a few minutes later with a paper bag containing food and a couple bottles of water. He also carried two white cotton shirts and a red wool hat. “The white T-shirt will help you blend in. Pull on the hat. Do not cover your face that way.”

  “I’m too Western.”

  He studied Derek’s face. “The beard helps. Here.” He handed him a pair of sunglasses.

  Derek tried to pull off his shirt, but his shoulder had stiffened. Al-Atrash helped him remove his shirt and pull on the white shirt. Derek donned the sunglasses.

  “Yes. You look less Western. Do not be late.”

  “We’ll be there. Be careful. And thank you.”

  Studying the map, Derek said, “How do I avoid the people?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Let’s just say back in the general direction of where we first met.”

  The doctor ran a finger over the map. “Take this route. It is out of the way, but there are no stores. There will be some people, but not nearly as many. And dressed as you are, you look more like FSA.”

  Shaking the man’s hand, Derek slipped out of the back of the clinic. He took the route the doctor had suggested. A block away he ran into three Syrians in fatigues carrying AK47s. Derek nodded and continued as if he was in a hurry. One of the men called out to him. Derek pretended he didn’t hear and kept on walking, head down. Nobody came after him.

  When he got closer to their hideout, he grew more cautious, slipping into the doorway of a bombed-out building and watching, waiting to see if anyone was following or observing. After ten minutes, he left the doorway and walked further. Again he ran into people, now only a block from where Hammond waited. This time it was two women, presumably older, although both wore long wool coats and their heads were covered with white scarves. They looked to be in their fifties. They did not meet his gaze and hurried on.

  Checking again to see if he
was being observed, he finally entered the building. Hammond was propped in the bathroom, gun at the ready.

  “How are you?” Derek asked, kneeling next to him.

  Despite being propped up and holding the AK47, Derek saw immediately that Hammond was barely conscious, fighting to stay awake. He rested a hand on Hammond’s forehead. He was burning up.

  “Hang in there, buddy.” He prepared the antibiotic and injected it into Hammond’s arm. Hammond grunted, but didn’t say anything. Derek held one of the water bottles to the man’s lips, encouraging him to drink. At first the liquid slopped down his chest and he didn’t move. Derek gently tilted his head back and dribbled the water into his mouth.

  Hammond choked, spit out the water, inhaled, opening his eyes all the way. “More,” he croaked.

  Derek held the bottle to his mouth. Hammond sipped at first, then drank more.

  “Okay. Pain?”

  “Yeah.” His tone suggested he wasn’t willing to discuss it. “What’s the plan?”

  “Got a meeting place at seven o’clock. Ran into the doctor.”

  “Trust him?”

  “Maybe eighty percent. Give or take.”

  “In this country, that’s pretty good.”

  “On this mission anyway. I’ve got a little food and water. I’ve also got some Vicodin and some milder pain killers.”

  He told him about his experience and the weird moment with the people. “Not exactly a close call, but it could have turned really bad.”

  Hammond contemplated him. His eyes seemed a little glassy, but he was clear and awake. “Do you think they suspected you were Western, or do you buy the doc’s story?”

  “I don’t know. I was taking a lot on faith.”

  “Don’t we all,” Hammond mumbled. “Okay, let me look at the map. Let’s consider our options. And give me a fuckin’ Vicodin.”

  “I’ve got pita, some hummus, dates and what I think is a couple slabs of lamb.”

  “Not very hungry.”