by Don Bentley
Learning the itinerary and location of a high-ranking leader was no small intelligence feat. How had this information about not just one but two such officials from different nations been discovered? Maybe the more important question was, what was a Mossad officer doing in Iraq in the first place?
My brain raced, even as Curly fired a jab into Benny’s solar plexus. Apparently, slaps weren’t getting the job done. Time to move on to sterner stuff. Actually, it would have been nice if Benny had answered a question or two. There was more going on here than met the eye. Much more. And I was still playing catch-up.
Then again, maybe the opportunity to finally seize the initiative was sitting right in front of me if I was audacious enough to take it. As I’m sure Laila would attest, the list of my shortcomings was both long and not particularly distinguished. Fortunately, a lack of audacity wasn’t among them.
As Curly reared back his fist for another strike, I snatched his wrist with one hand and drove the combat knife into the base of his skull with the other. The angle was wrong and the lighting poor, so I didn’t sever the spinal cord right away. Instead, Curly’s eyes bulged, and he struggled. He opened his mouth, but I transferred my grip, sealing his lips with my hand and smothering his cry.
Then I stabbed him in the neck again and again like a runaway sewing machine.
Anyone who says they prefer killing with a knife is either a liar or a psychopath. It’s messy work under the best of conditions, and these were far from that. What I did to Curly wasn’t enjoyable, but it was necessary. After several terrible seconds, it was done. Curly was dead, I was alive, and a new collection of gore graced the grimy floor.
After wiping the knife clean on Curly’s pant leg, I slid it back into my pants before relieving the now-dead Hezbollah commander of his sidearm—a Glock 19. Curly and I couldn’t be further apart on matters of ideology, but we shared the same taste in pistols. Perhaps there was a chance for peace in the Middle East after all. Press-checking the gun, I verified that a round was in the chamber, and then let the slide action forward.
With the pistol’s comforting weight in my hand, I took a minute to take stock of things. They weren’t good. I was covered in the blood of two dead jihadis and sharing cell space with a half-dead Mossad officer. While I was certain there was a punch line in there somewhere, my exhausted brain was having a hard time finding it. Even so, at least I’d bought myself a bit of breathing room.
Or at least that was what I thought for two glorious seconds. Then a pounding from outside the cell rattled the walls, ending my time of peaceful reflection. For a moment I was concerned about following proper prison etiquette. What was the polite thing to do—ask the knocker to enter or open the door myself? So many choices and so little time. In the end, the decision was made for me.
The cell’s door swung open.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Now, if this had been a Michael Bay film, the slowly opening door would have revealed a stack of kitted-up Unit assaulters ready to help me escape. Hell, even if it had been a run-of-the-mill shoot- ’em-up flick, an element of SEALs with gelled hair and designer sunglasses would have been on the other side.
Unfortunately, this was not a movie. The open door didn’t reveal saviors from any military branch. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with the tubby Iranian guard and his ever-present clipboard.
Apparently, our surprise was mutual. The man’s sleepy eyes grew alarmedly wide as he looked from me to Curly’s body and back again. A particularly suave spy might have been able to defuse the situation with an artfully turned phrase or two. Unfortunately, suave is not my style. In moments like this, I revert to my Ranger pedigree as a blunt-force object. And that was fine, because a little blunt force goes a long way.
Hoisting Curly’s limp body in front of me, I shoved the Glock into his back and pulled the trigger three times. In case you were wondering, a corpse does not make the best suppressor. But it will do in a pinch. The three slugs hit the Iranian in a remarkably tight grouping, considering the circumstances. The rounds punched through his solar plexus and breastbone, exiting in a spray of gore. The Iranian collapsed.
Now I had the blood of three dead jihadis on my clothes.
Dropping Curly’s remains to the floor, I grabbed Sleepy by the feet and pulled him into the cell, which was now getting a bit crowded. Time to go. Popping my head out of the doorway, I did a quick peek down the hallway. Empty. Things were looking up.
And then Sleepy’s radio started to squawk.
My unfortunate lack of suaveness aside, I am pretty good with languages. I speak decent Arabic and can get by in Pashto. Not enough to order a four-course meal, but I can coordinate an ambush with Afghan partners or tell my wife her eyes look pretty with that dress. At least that was what I thought I was saying. In any case, for reasons known only to the Almighty and Allah, Pashto and Farsi were distant cousins. So while I couldn’t translate the words broadcasting from Curly’s radio verbatim, I understood enough to know that the person on the other end wasn’t happy.
Welcome to the club.
Grabbing the Mossad officer under the armpits, I hoisted him to his feet.
“Wakey, wakey, Benny,” I said, dragging him toward the door. “Your rescue team is here.”
So, calling myself a team might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but probably no more so than labeling what I was attempting a rescue. A misguided attempt at escape that more than likely would result in the deaths of us both was a much more apt description.
Then again, no one has ever accused case officers of being overly honest.
“Get your ass in gear, Benny,” I said, straining against the spy’s deadweight. “In case you haven’t heard, Iranians aren’t so fond of Jews.”
Benny’s eyes fluttered as we stumbled out the door, and his legs started to bear some of his weight. While I wanted to believe that my rousing speech had prompted the Israeli’s newfound spirit of cooperation, it was just as likely that Curly hit like a girl. Either way, the Mossad officer was finally regaining his senses.
Benny mumbled in Hebrew as he propped himself against the wall with manacled hands.
“Couldn’t agree more,” I said, stooping down to scoop up the still-chattering radio and clip it to my belt. “But if you want to have a more substantive conversation, you need to switch to one of the three languages I speak. Okay, two and a half. My wife refuses to teach me how to swear in Pashto.”
Benny gave his head a shake with the vigor of a dog shedding water from his coat. Then his glassy eyes found mine.
“You’re American?” Benny said.
“Of course,” I said. “Who were you expecting? The French?”
“Can you uncuff me?” Benny said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause I didn’t have time to grab the keys from the dead guard. Believe it or not, I didn’t come here just to rescue you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To save the day, Benny. That’s what Americans do. Can you walk?”
The Mossad officer closed his eyes as he swayed against the wall. But to his credit, he nodded.
“Good,” I said. “Because Elvis is leaving the building.”
Leaving Benny leaning against the wall, I edged down the hallway to the next intersection, leading with Curly’s pistol. In the day’s first bit of good news, the hallway was clear.
For now.
I ran back, grabbed Benny between the shoulder blades, and steered him down the hall with one hand while holding the Glock along the length of my leg with the other. If I had been in Benny’s place, I would have been pretty happy to move from a cell crowded with dead men and covered with gore into a relatively empty hallway.
Unfortunately, the Israeli didn’t seem to share my opinion.
“Where’s the rest of your team?” Benny said, the words lispi
ng past his battered lips.
“Outside,” I said, pushing him down the hallway.
“How far?”
“About six thousand miles, give or take. I’m not exactly sure where we are, so the exact distance is a guess.”
Benny mumbled something in Hebrew that I’m fairly certain translated to Why the hell couldn’t the Iranians have killed me when they had the chance?
I understood how he felt. As Laila had reminded me on countless occasions, my humor was an acquired taste. Also, it became progressively more acquired the closer I came to death. Since our chances of getting out of this hospital-turned-prison were somewhere in the neighborhood between slim and none, I was probably about as funny as a corpse.
“I don’t understand,” Benny said, stumbling as his shackled feet tried to keep pace.
“That makes two of us, amigo. Here’s the deal—I’m not sticking around, and I figured you probably didn’t want to either. The jihadis seem to think you’re a Shin Bet bodyguard, but I don’t imagine that would have held up too much longer. Consider yourself lucky.”
“This is luck?” Benny said.
“For sure. We might actually make it out of here.”
“I find that unlikely.”
“Fair enough. But I guarantee that if I’d left you in that cell, sooner or later someone would’ve discovered that you’re not a Shin Bet anything.”
This brought Benny up short. “You know who I am?” Benny said.
“Damn, son. Have you not been paying attention? I already told you I’m American. We know everything. Keep moving. My Farsi’s for shit, but even I can tell that the gentleman on the radio is less than pleased.”
As if on cue, the walkie-talkie blasted out another string of gibberish. And this gave me an idea.
“You speak Farsi?” I said, guiding Benny past Sleepy’s now-abandoned desk.
“I’m Israeli,” Benny said, glancing at me over his shoulder. “We know everything.”
“No one likes a smart-ass. Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” I said, looking down the length of the still-deserted hall as I thought. “When I hold the radio to your lips, use your best scared-shitless Hezbollah accent to yell that the compound is being attacked.”
“Which side?”
“I don’t know. Pick a cardinal direction and go with it.”
“You don’t know where we are?” Benny said.
“I didn’t exactly get a tour on the way in. Besides, you’ve got a three-in-four chance of getting this right. Try to be a little vague when you scream.”
Benny let loose with another stream of Hebrew. I still didn’t know what he was saying, but I had a sneaking suspicion his words weren’t too complimentary to Americans. Or maybe just me. But that was okay. Perhaps this was the point in our relationship where we really started to bond. Kind of like Riggs and Murtaugh in Lethal Weapon.
“That’s the plan?” Benny said, switching back to English. “I scream something vague in Farsi, and we hope for the best? That’s it?”
So much for bonding.
“Pretty much. If you don’t like it, your cell’s that way. Shalom.”
“Okay, okay. Give me the radio.”
Pushing the transmit button, I held the radio to his lips, waited for Benny to start speaking, and then fired two shots down the empty hallway behind us. Benny shouted, and I released the transmit button.
“What was that?” Benny said, saliva frothing on his lips.
“I wasn’t buying your performance,” I said, “so I decided to help you sell it.”
“You could have told me!”
“Nah—you seem like more of a method actor. Now, keep quiet for a sec.”
I shoved the pistol down the back of my pants and then turned the radio’s volume and squelch knobs to maximum. This time when I transmitted, a buzz of static greeted me. Locking the transmit button in place, I set the radio on the floor and then helped Benny down the hall.
Was it the best escape plan I’d ever hatched? Nope. But believe it or not, it actually wasn’t the worst. Locking the radio into transmit mode was known as hot miking. By setting the radio to continuously broadcast, I’d essentially created a poor man’s electronic jammer. Until the jihadis switched frequencies or located my radio, no one would be able to transmit. Hopefully, between the lack of radio communications and the confusion Benny’s transmission had helped to create, we’d be able to slip out of the hospital-prison undetected.
Hopefully.
My battalion commander in the Ranger Regiment always said that hope was neither a method nor a combat multiplier. Then again, I was pretty sure he’d never tried to escape from an Iranian detention center with a shackled Mossad officer in tow. Come to think of it, maybe having Benny along for the ride wasn’t so bad after all. Between us, we had two of the three Abrahamic faiths covered. All I needed was a Muslim to join the team. Then the Almighty would hear our desperate prayers on all three channels.
I thought about sharing this little insight with Benny, but didn’t get the chance. Mainly because at that moment, three people rounded the corner, coming toward us.
For an instant, I’d thought that perhaps the Almighty had decided to cut me a break. Two of the three newcomers I knew, and one was even a Muslim. Then I realized that no, my relationship with the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob was back to the status quo. He was either pissed or amused—most days I had a hard time telling which. My simple escape plan was about to get complicated. The Muslim in the group was Zain, and he had a gun.
A gun that was pointed at Virginia.
THIRTY-EIGHT
If I’d been a normal person, this would have been a fight-or-flight moment. Unfortunately, normal and I had parted ways long ago. So when I saw Zain, Virginia, and an Iranian Quds Force operative dressed in his fancy olive drab uniform, I had a shoot-or-don’t-shoot moment instead. As in a do-I-think-I-can-put-a-bullet-into-two-bad-guys-before-they-put-a-bullet-into-me moment.
And this is where the calculus of the situation was not in my favor.
Anyone who knows anything about gunfights will tell you that action beats reaction every time. In this instance, Zain’s action had begun the moment he saw me. His eyes had widened, and his index finger had begun taking the slack out of the pistol’s trigger.
Since I’d been fiddling with the radio with both hands, my pistol was still in my pants. This meant that no matter how fast I was on the draw, Zain’s action would beat my reaction. I could be mad about it, but in the end, my anger wouldn’t change a thing. Physics was still physics.
So rather than go for my pistol, I tried something else.
Letting go of Benny, I raised both hands in the air, palms facing Zain, fingers spread. I was hoping that de-escalating would buy me time to somehow change the equation in my favor. But it turns out that my old commander was right—hope was neither a method nor a combat multiplier.
Zain fired his pistol.
And Virginia screamed.
Then the Quds Force operative slumped against the wall before sliding to the floor.
“My friend,” Zain said, pointing his pistol downward as a smile stretched across his face. “It’s good to see you.”
“Pistol on the ground,” I said, drawing the Glock from my pants. “Now.”
This time I had action on my side. The Glock was locked out in front of me, the front sight post centered on Zain’s head. I’d begun my trigger press as the pistol was coming onto target, and the slack was almost gone. The shot would break any second. For all intents and purposes, Zain was already dead.
He just didn’t know it yet.
“Wait,” Virginia said, stepping across my field of fire. “We’re here to rescue you.”
Few things piss me off more than someone stopping me from killing a person who needs killing. Then
again, I was pretty sure that Virginia was still one of the good guys. At least she had been before I’d escaped from the Devil’s henchman, broken up a Hezbollah ambush on an American convoy, survived a helicopter shootdown, and given mouth-to-mouth to a dead jihadi.
I’d been busy.
“There’re only two of you, and one of you’s wearing handcuffs,” I said, pointing at Virginia’s shackled wrists. “This doesn’t look like much of a rescue.”
Virginia said something in return, but Benny’s hysterical laughter drowned out her reply.
So unprofessional.
“The handcuffs were part of our ruse,” Zain said, handing Virginia a key he pulled from his pocket. “I needed a way to get her inside the compound. Who’s your prisoner?”
“I found him in one of the cells,” I said. “I figured he could use a lift.”
“Ah, the Israeli,” Zain said, nodding with approval. “Good thinking, my friend. He’ll definitely be useful. Come, come. We don’t have much time.”
Reaching past Benny, I grabbed Virginia’s sleeve and pulled her to the side, clearing my line of fire. “Zain,” I said, pointing my pistol at the Syrian one-handed, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you are at the top of my shit list. How did you know I was here?”
“Please, Matthew,” Zain said, waving away my pistol like he was shooing off a bothersome fly. “It is my job to know things. First we leave, then we talk. Otherwise the diversion is wasted.”
“Diversion?” I said.
At that moment a series of deep whumps echoed through the building as the walls shook and the lights flickered.
“Mortars,” I said.
“Diversion,” Zain said. “My men are shelling the compound.”
“Interesting approach,” I said as bits of plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling like snow. “How do they know they won’t accidentally hit us?”