by Ethan Jones
“What’s going on?” Darin, Jerry’s teammate asked, standing a couple of yards behind.
“It’s quiet. They’re getting ready.”
“Ready to meet their virgins.” Darin laughed.
“Ready to blow us up,” Jerry’s voice turned firm and serious.
“Let’s kill them all,” Darin said.
“Oorah,” Norman said from the back alley.
Jerry’s eyes had never left the front entrance. Still there was no sign of anyone moving. While it sounded the battle was raging at the back of the house, its front was still quiet.
“Let’s roll,” Darin said.
Jerry nodded. “Eyes open,” he said.
“Roger,” Darin replied.
“Roger that,” Norman said.
Jerry bolted through the yard toward the small veranda surrounded by a low decorative wall on two sides. He had barely covered half of the distance when a volley erupted from one of the windows.
Jerry felt a couple of rounds hammering against his chest. The bullets’ impact felt like heavy blows. Out of breath, he collapsed onto his back.
“No, no, Jerry,” Darin shouted.
He dashed toward his fallen teammate.
Jerry drew in a shallow breath and felt his lungs burning. He tasted blood in his mouth, then pain shot through his body. He reached for his M4 carbine, which had fallen out of his hands.
“Jerry, Jerry,” Darin said.
“I’m okay, return fire, return fire.”
He had barely finished his words when another volley struck around him.
Darin cursed, then shouted in pain. He fired a quick burst, then slumped next to Jerry.
“Darin, Darin, what—”
Another barrage cut off his words. More bullets thumped around them, kicking up dirt.
Jerry peered through the darkness punctured by muzzle flashes. He turned his rifle and fired a long barrage. Still on his back, he reloaded and fired again.
Then he glanced at Darin, who was bleeding from his shoulder and his neck. “Darin, Darin, don’t you die now.”
He did not reply.
“Darin, Darin!” Jerry shook his teammate.
Darin’s head had fallen to the side, and he gazed at Jerry with pale eyes.
“Medic, medic,” Jerry shouted at Norman.
He hurried toward them as Jerry climbed to his knees. He ignored the stabbing pain coming from his ribcage—where the bullets had fractured or at least bruised his ribs—and fired again at the windows, then at the main door.
Norman grabbed Darin by the shoulders and gently began to carry him to the relative safety of the veranda’s low wall.
Jerry reloaded again, but before he could fire, a round metal object rolled along the veranda and fell next to his feet. His well-trained eyes and mind realized the object was a grenade. And Jerry had perhaps two or three seconds before the grenade erupted and tore up the entire area with its deadly shrapnel.
Betrayal - Book 2
Chapter Two
Al-Qaeda in Yemen safehouse
Southern Sana, capital of Yemen
Jerry did the only reasonable thing in that situation.
He rolled on the ground, picked up the grenade, and tossed it back.
The grenade bounced over the windowsill, then dropped inside the house. An intense explosion followed just a split second later, shattering whatever glass was left in the first-story windows and the main door. A spiral of dust began to seep out of the gaps.
Jerry kept his head down and behind the veranda’s wall. A spray of shrapnel flew over his head, but too far away to cause any damage. He listened for gunfire or shuffling coming from the house.
Nothing, just Norman attending to Darin’s wounds.
Jerry glanced through the wall’s slits. He swung his rifle left, then right, covering all angles. Seeing nothing, he called at Norman, “Moving in to clear the front.”
“Roger that,” Norman replied. Then he added into his throat mike, “Jerry entering the house. Friendly at the front.”
“Copy that,” came a series of replies from the other teammates.
“How’s everyone?” Jerry asked into his throat mike.
“We’re swell,” said one of the teammates. “Clearing the back.”
“God bless us all,” Jerry muttered and moved toward the door.
He stepped cautiously around the corner, pointing his rifle in all directions. A man in a black-and-white headdress and dark khaki uniform was sprawled just inside the door. Two other men were lying on the floor. The way they were stretched told Jerry they were dead, killed by bullets or shrapnel. But he stepped near them and double-checked, to make sure they presented no threat.
All three were dead. Their faces were unknown to him, but they were bloodstained, and only a faint moonlight lit up the room. Jerry would take another look once the firefight was over.
“Front of the house clear,” he whispered into his mike.
He advanced toward the hall, clearing every corner and checking behind every place where a jihadist might be hidden. He found another body slouched near the kitchen. A bullet had pierced the jihadist’s head, and there was no life left in him.
As Jerry came near the hall’s midpoint, one of his teammates rounded a corner. Jerry nodded at him, then said, “Everything clear?”
“Yes,” the young man replied.
“Targets?” Jerry asked, referring to the Al-Qaeda leaders that were supposed to be in the safehouse.
The young man shook his head. “Negative. No sign of them.”
Jerry cursed out loud. Did we get bad intel? Or did they move houses before our arrival? “Is the back secure?”
“It is.”
“All right. Let’s clean up the place. Gather anything of intel value.”
“Copy that.”
Jerry returned to the room by the main entrance. He switched on the tactical flashlight mounted on his carbine, then studied the faces of the dead jihadists. None of them matched the Al-Qaeda leaders the team was looking for. A week ago, a prisoner exchange had taken place in northern Afghanistan. Local warlords had kidnapped a senior Iranian diplomat during an official visit to Pakistan. They had sold him for an undisclosed amount to Al-Qaeda, who in turn had negotiated for the release of its senior leaders held in Tehran, the capital of Iran. Another SAD team had interfered with the exchange and had killed some of the terrorists involved. But two of the freed prisoners had escaped. After receiving seemingly trustworthy intelligence, Jerry’s team had been dispatched to finish the job.
He sighed and knelt next to one of the bodies. Jerry took a few pictures, then rummaged through the man’s pockets. He took a cellphone, then moved on to the other bodies, repeating the actions.
When he was finished, he stood up and glanced around the room. Sporadic gunfire came from the distance. Jerry could not be certain if the gunmen were approaching the safehouse, or if the gunfire was unrelated to their operation. But the team would have to leave soon.
Jerry stepped outside to check on Darin. He was stretched on the veranda, and Norman was bandaging the shoulder wound. “How is he?” Jerry asked.
“He’ll make it.”
“Good, very good.” Jerry gave Norman a gentle pat on the shoulder.
Then Jerry glanced at the safehouse. He cursed the turn of events and shook his head. Another team will have to come in and finish this dirty job. I hope it’s us again, so we can find these butchers, and kill them all.
Betrayal - Book 2
Chapter Three
Canadian Intelligence Service safehouse
Northern Sana, capital of Yemen
Four days later
Javin Pierce drew in a deep breath, then folded his arms across his chest. He glanced at Claudia, standing near the wall, then his eyes went to the asset sitting across the small oval table from Javin. “Tell me again: how did you come upon this intel?”
The man sighed, then rubbed his six-inch-long beard. “You don’t believe me, do
you?” he asked in English with a heavy Arabic accent.
Javin shrugged. “I’ve heard conflicting stories about the Al-Qaeda leaders’ location. Just trying to make sense of the situation.”
The asset leaned forward. His metal chair made a faint creaking sound. “I’m telling you the truth. This is genuine intel. I’ve risked my life, twice, to get it.”
Javin nodded. “I have no doubt about it. You’re very good at what you do. That’s why we’re here. But tell me how it happened that you secured it.”
The asset sighed. “All right, this is how it happened. My contact needed some money, so he came to me with this story.”
“Money is a good motivator for people to tell lies,” Claudia said in a cautionary tone.
The asset nodded. “Yes, but he’s not lying. He never lies to me, because he knows I’ll catch him and punish him severely.”
“Has that ever happened?” Javin asked.
“What?”
“Lying. Has your contact ever lied to you?”
“No, I just told you that.”
“Have other contacts lied to you?”
The asset nodded. “Yes, but you know better than anyone else that’s unavoidable.”
“But that’s not the case here.”
“Correct. I checked.”
“Yourself?”
“No, I sent someone to the suspected location.”
“Someone you trust?”
“Yes.”
“And they confirmed the two men were there?”
“As of an hour ago, when I called you.”
Javin nodded. He scratched the right side of his face. His week-long beard had become itchy and, according to Claudia, he now had a “scruffy” look. “I’d like to talk to him.”
The asset shook his head. “Impossible. And why?”
“I want to hear it from him.”
“He’ll give you the same story. But again I ask, ‘You don’t trust me?’”
“No, I trust you, but sometimes things are misunderstood or misinterpreted.”
The asset shook his large head. “Nothing of that sort is happening here. The Al-Qaeda leaders are holed up in the safehouse as I told you.” He tapped the map of Sana set in the middle of the table. “After the CIA’s operation, they’re unsure who they can trust. If you hurry up, you can catch them before they disappear again.”
Javin gave a thoughtful nod. He and Claudia Aquarone, his partner in the Canadian Intelligence Service or the CIS, had spent the last few days in Sana, trying to locate the Al-Qaeda leaders freed by Iranian authorities in exchange for one of their top officials. There had been a flurry of contradictory intelligence and false starts that had derailed their operation. Javin and Claudia were CIS correctors, dispatched to the field to fix other teams’ errors. In this case, they were helping finish up the CIA’s mission to eliminate the Al-Qaeda masterminds.
Javin said, “We’d like to, but we’d like to be absolutely certain before we strike.”
The asset shrugged. “This is as certain as we’ll get. If you delay . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged.
Javin nodded. “We’ll consider it. Claudia, do you have any questions?”
Claudia shrugged and brushed back her long black hair. She thought about it for a moment, then said, “No, not at this time. But we’ve got your number.”
The asset nodded. “Yes, call me any time.”
Javin stood up. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Claudia.” The asset nodded toward her.
“Take care, and we’ll chat soon,” Claudia said.
Javin and the asset made their way to the back of the small, one-story nondescript house. It was in a dirt-poor neighborhood, among a cluster of similar, cinderblock houses. The unique features of the house were its bulletproof glass windows and its location, a block away from a large intersection. A swift exit was possible in all four directions at a moment’s notice.
When they reached the back alley, Javin shook the asset’s hand. “I don’t doubt you or your story.”
The asset grinned. “Doesn’t matter, as long as the payment goes through.”
“A couple of days, as usual.”
“All right.”
The asset began to walk toward his car, a yellow Hyundai sedan that had seen better days. Regardless of how much the asset was paid—and the CIS paid him handsomely for his accurate intelligence—he kept a low profile, giving the appearance of a struggling taxi driver. But like the safehouse, the Hyundai had bulletproof windows capable of withstanding small-caliber gunfire. The asset had not skimped on equipping the sedan with a reinforced engine block and run-flat tires.
After he had swung open the driver’s door, the asset turned around and waved at Javin. He waved back, then frowned as an SUV zipped through the mouth of the alley, about a hundred yards away. Speeding vehicles at any time of day or night were nothing new. But rifle barrels jutting out of the rear windows . . . That was not something one saw all the time.
Javin’s hand instinctively went to his Sig Sauer P320 9mm pistol. He pulled it out of the waistband holster, cocked it, and held it up for the SUV driver and gunmen to see. Perhaps it might change their minds to see they were heading straight for contact.
The SUV did not slow down.
“Watch out,” Javin called out at the asset.
He turned around just as two men stuck half their bodies out of the SUV’s windows and opened fire.
Betrayal - Book 2
Chapter Four
Outside the Canadian Intelligence Service safehouse
Northern Sana, capital of Yemen
The asset dove for cover inside the car, but not before a bullet struck his left arm.
Javin fired a quick burst, then fell behind the Hyundai.
Round after round hammered the car’s windshield and the side, sending fragments raining over Javin’s head. He crawled to the other side of the Hyundai, away from the line of fire, then shouted at the asset, “Ahmad, Ahmad.”
“I’m okay,” Ahmad shouted back, then shoved open the front passenger door. He rolled onto the dirt alley, lay on his back, and pointed his HK MP7 9mm submachine gun at the incoming assailants.
Javin stood on one knee and double-tapped his pistol. He sent a bullet into the right-side gunman. The rifle fell out of his hands, and his body hung out of the window.
The gunman on the left side kept up his barrage. A couple of rounds skimmed over the Hyundai’s roof, missing Javin by a few inches.
Ahmad’s bullets tore a ribbon of holes across the SUV’s windshield. But the driver kept his foot on the gas. The SUV was drawing nearer.
Javin stepped to the left and aimed his pistol. He trained it on the gunman and fired a couple of rounds. They both missed as the gunman slid inside the SUV.
“Reloading,” Ahmad shouted.
Javin tried to find the SUV driver. He had dropped down on his seat, and Javin could not see him. Javin nevertheless aligned his Sig’s sights with the location where the driver’s head might pop up at any moment. He stood firm in the firing position, square to the target, with his right leg slightly bent, holding the pistol with both hands, and tapped the trigger.
Javin’s well-placed rounds shattered whatever glass was left from the windshield. Then he planted a few rounds in the engine.
But the SUV barrelled toward them.
Assault rifle fire erupted from Javin’s left. He recognized the hammering of Claudia’s C8SFW carbine. She said, “Javin, this way,” and pointed at the safehouse’s gate. “I’ll cover.”
Javin nodded. He glanced at Ahmad, who was kneeling a few feet away. “Let’s go.”
Ahmad shook his head and fired another barrage. “Let’s finish them.”
“They’re going to ram the car,” Javin shouted. “Come.”
The SUV was now about thirty yards away.
Ahmad said, “It’s slowing down.”
Javin fired again until he emptied his magazine. “Reloading,” he shouted a
nd stepped closer to the gate.
Claudia let off a long barrage to cover Javin.
He slammed a fresh magazine into his pistol and aimed it at the SUV. It had regained speed, if it had ever slowed down. “Ahmad, come on.”
He fired a couple of rounds, then dashed toward the gate.
Claudia emptied her magazine and fell behind the safehouse’s wall.
Javin ignored a few rounds that whizzed around him. He kept up his sprint and squeezed inside the gate just as the SUV rocketed next to him. Javin rolled onto the ground and lay next to Claudia.
She asked, “Ahmad?”
Before Javin could reply, a gigantic explosion rocked the area. Large metal pieces clanged against the metal gate and the cinderblock wall. The smell of burned flesh and plastic assaulted Javin’s nostrils, while black smoke began to cover the area.
He glanced at Claudia. “You alright?”
She nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Javin jumped to his feet and guardedly stepped near the battered gate. He pushed it to the side with his pistol, then looked around the corner. The SUV had smashed into the side of the Hyundai sedan. Both vehicles were engulfed in raging flames, and smoke was billowing three stories high. “Ahmad, Ahmad,” Javin shouted.
No answer.
“Ahmaaaaad?”
“I’m . . . back here,” he replied.
Ahmad’s weak voice barely reached Javin’s ears.
He squeezed by the rear of the Hyundai, which the crash had thrown against the wall, avoiding the leaping flames. He felt the warmth against his body and heard the fire crackling as it ate through the vehicles.
When he reached the other side, Ahmad was lying on his back. His hair was singed, and his face was black and bruised. A small flame was chewing at his jacket.
Javin rushed at Ahmad and put out the fire. “Let’s go.” Javin wrapped his arm around Ahmad’s waist.
“I . . . I can do this,” Ahmad said.
He climbed up, but his legs buckled under his weight. Were it not for Javin’s strong arms holding him, Ahmad would have collapsed. Javin kept Ahmad up, then began to carry him away from the fire.
