The Devil's Shadow: A Gun-for-Hire Thriller

by J E Higgins

  “I’m also worried about Abida and Mahira. They seem a little too excited to enjoy the youthful culture of this place.” She cautioned as she folded her arms. Abida and Mahira were their two daughters. At ages fifteen and seventeen, they were both turning into young women and eager to take advantage of the new world. They found themselves enjoying a much more socially liberal culture than the strict religious puritanism of Islamic Pakistan. Both girls were eager to explore this less restrictive world ─ exploration neither of their parents was keen to support. While she had been completely in favor of bringing her three sons along to expand their horizons and saw it as a beneficial experience, Fatima had been adamant that her daughters should remain in the safety and under the strict tutelage of their grandmother in Islamabad. Somehow things had not worked out that way, and the girls got to join the family in Mexico.

  “I think the experience here will benefit them,” he said in an attempt to calm his wife’s nerves. “I know this place may prove tempting for vice, but I have faith in our girls. The fear of being placed in the care of their grandmother will be a driving force in their behavior. But, I think they need to see a little of the world as well.” He smiled down at his wife, who allowed herself a slight positive cracking of her lips in reply.

  “Sir.” A deep husky voice speaking Urdu interrupted the couple’s private moment. A towering hulk of a man emerged from the doorway matching the husky voice perfectly. Havildar sergeant Hamid Malaka was the perfect picture of a combat soldier. His body was lean with skin well leathered from years of rough living in harsh environments. At first, he appeared far older than his forty years, but he was a formidable soldier with an athletic body and an agile mind.

  Before being tagged to serve as head of Hosani’s security detail, Malaka served as a company havildar major for the SSGs elite Musa unit, Pakistan’s commando unit designated for covert and irregular warfare missions across borders with hostile neighbors or behind enemy lines. In the past, it was the unit singled out by India for a series of brutal attacks on Indian soil linked to the Pakistan army. In his own service, he had done his share of cross border raids into India. He had also been on several operations into Afghanistan where he had worked closely with factions of the Taliban insurgency against the occupation forces led by the United States.

  “We have confirmation that the surveillance cameras will arrive tomorrow. If that actually means anything,” Malaka’s husky voice denoted a strong flavor of irritation. “They should be the exact models I requested, but I’m not holding my breath.” He shook his head. “I don’t have any trust in these embassy assholes. So far they have been nothing but worthless shit eaters when it comes to ensuring proper safety for a man of your position. And, in a country known for brutal violence and kidnapping, if you or your family were to be harmed because of this, I would castrate all the bastards of the embassy security staff for being so derelict.” It was only after he had finished his ranting that he noticed the presence of Mrs. Hosani staring back at him with blinking eyes.

  “Oh, my apologies ma’am,” Malaka said, embarrassed at using such rough barracks talk. He was, as of yet, unaccustomed to being in such elegant surroundings. He had spent his career in military barracks working with soldiers who came from a similar background as his own ─ a Pathan raised in the rural farmlands of the western provinces. He, as well as many ethnic Pathans or Pashtuns, as they were known in Afghanistan, found gainful employment in the ranks of the military. His education was thorough but hardly encompassed the aspects of more cultured and refined social circles. He found it difficult to adjust to such an environment.

  “This is not a barracks!” Mrs. Hosani said, barely managing to contain herself from shrieking. “My God, I hope he does not speak with such vulgarity when dignitaries are here.”

  General Hosani waved his hand in a forgiving gesture at Malaka, as he moved to embrace his wife. A tight hug and a supportive kiss on the forehead was enough to calm the woman’s nerves. She departed the room in a brisk walk having thought of another ‘crisis’ that needed her attention. Hosani was now alone with his security chief. Malaka began his humble apology again. He was cut off by another slight hand motion from the general, who moved over to the large polished oak desk he was temporarily using to conduct business. “Please continue to focus on our security measures.” His voice was calm as he sank into the leather chair behind the desk. “Right now, my chief concern is ensuring my home is safe, if not from potential terrorists and kidnappers, then certainly American intelligence.” He looked over at Malaka who was standing with his hands behind his back and a stern, professional look plastered on his face.

  The general continued. “I also want to know about any intelligence threats we have received from the embassy. They were a little concerned with my accommodations but rather negligent in offering any viable intelligence towards possible threats I may encounter.”

  Malaka stiffly nodded his head. “I quite agree, sir. I have spoken to the intelligence officer here. He did, however, warn that violence amongst drug gangs here is high, and we should be leery about where we choose to travel when outside of this district.”

  Hosani leaned back in his chair and raised his eyes towards the ceiling. “What is your own assessment of the intelligence officer?” He knew very well that Pakistan, like most countries, staffed their embassies with intelligence officers that were covertly hidden within the Foreign Service employees. He also knew that not every country was recognized with the same level of importance. While many were staffed with highly intelligent intelligence officers who were motivated and competent at their jobs, diplomatic missions of lesser importance tended to be a dumping ground for the less capable or those doing the bare minimum required to collect a paycheck. Mexico, at present, vacillated in its level of importance.

  “His initial introduction was less than impressive,” Malaka explained. “His performance of his duties seemed basic at best, and I’m reasonably sure he has a better knowledge of the activities of the vice business here than what is happening in the Mexican government.”

  Hosani chuckled, “From my understanding of this country, the controllers of the vice around here are the government.” Hosani was no stranger to the culture of political intrigue. His father had been a rising army officer back in the early 1970s and still had close ties with the former Pakistan chief martial law administrator, General Yahya Khan.

  After Khan’s ouster from power by his own military commanders, his father went on to build his career in the Inter-Service Intelligence, the all-powerful military intelligence organization, where he worked as a deputy to Major General Akbar Khan, then the head of ISI and one of the few to survive the military purges by civilian elected president Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. He was one of the officers who worked vigorously to cultivate stronger ties between the military intelligence community and the right-wing Islamic political parties that had been the dominant political force in Pakistan prior to the rise of Bhutto.

  When General Zia ul-Haq seized power, it was with his father’s help and culminated in his father’s immediate assent into the new president’s inner circle. Maktar al-Anwar Hosani had witnessed it all. He learned quickly that it was not enough to be a competent and skilled soldier, one had to be an astute and effective politician able to study the political climate carefully and adjust accordingly. His father’s strongest lesson, power did not reside with formal titles. It rested with those who could enforce their will.

  “I am not happy that you and your family preceded the rest of my security detail,” Malaka continued. “This country is dangerous enough. But, between the protection of the house plus you and your family, nine men spread me incredibly thin.”

  “Until the rest of your detail arrives, my family will be relegated to the house grounds, and my travels will be limited to business purposes only,” Hosani explained to Malaka’s relief. “So, you shouldn’t be spread too thin.”

  Chapter 3

  Outside the Hosani house, two of Ha
mid Malaka’s men attentively patrolled the grounds of the estate. To anyone passing by they looked ordinary enough touring the grounds dressed in tan slacks and white cotton shirts. The only anomaly to their wardrobe was the blue and grey windbreakers that completed their attire and fit loosely on both their frames. Such a clothing mistake was easily forgiven by onlookers as just a bad fashion choice by ignorant foreigners.

  That was exactly the image the two men were trying to achieve. As professional Special Forces soldiers, trained for covert infiltration and clandestine commando missions, they both knew better than to look obvious as security. Instead, they walked about lazily talking to each other and greeting passersby with the goofy behavior westerners expected from foreigners from the Asian world.

  In reality the two men, like the details before them, used such opportunities to closely assess all those who passed, studying the vehicles that drove by too slowly for signs that the occupants were observing the estate with more than idle curiosity; or the pedestrians who showed signs of being something different than the ‘friendly’ neighbors they purported to be. The guards would play their friendly role smiling and waving making poor attempts to speak the few phrases of Spanish they knew to the locals, who indulged them politely enough before making their departure. Afterward, when they were alone, the guards would move out of sight and proceed to jot down notes over their recent interaction. Hamed would be briefed at the end of the shift, then compile the notes to develop his intelligence picture of the location.

  It was mid-evening, around 2230 hours when the guards caught sight of two women walking down the sidewalk. The ladies appeared to be in their late thirties and, by all accounts, came from the neighborhood or appeared to come from financial circumstances that would allow them to live in such a location. They walked briskly in their yoga pants and snug fitting shirts that outlined the contours of their firm hourglass bodies. In the week and a half that the Pakistani’s had been at the house, the woman walking past had become part of the routine. The ladies walked by giggling and chattering away in what the soldiers could only assume was the universal topics of girl talk. They would come by at roughly the same time every night, except for weekends, decked out in their trendy workout clothes and day packs.

  The ladies brushed past the gate that separated the property from the rest of the world. As usual, they gave little notice to the two Middle-Eastern men walking about the yard a few meters from them as they continued on conversing obliviously. The guards followed them with their eyes until they disappeared from view. One guard stood watch while the other jotted the encounter in his notes, then the second guard made notes of the incident separately. As the night afforded little visibility, these guards were less concerned with writing notes inconspicuously than teams that had the morning and afternoon shifts.

  A few minutes later, their attention was drawn by a strange yet distinct sound of several booted footsteps coming from somewhere nearby. Speaking into the small microphone under his jacket, the man in the blue windbreaker reported the noise and that he and his comrade were moving to investigate. A second later, a voice responded acknowledging their report and told them to stand by while their report was checked.

  The guards moved toward the gate in the far corner. As they did, the guard in the blue jacket moved ahead while the guard in the grey jacket hung back several paces to the right and slowly lifted his arms towards the left side to provide cover. They arrived at the far corner in time to see several men trooping quickly down the sidewalk in the direction of the house. The light gleaming from the few street lamps were enough to show the troop was dressed in tactical gear and carrying combat weapons in the tactical ready.

  Grey jacket reached under his windbreaker, seizing hold of the HK-MP5 that was concealed by the oversized bulkiness of his jacket. He heard a whistle cut through the air as something whizzed past him. A second later he saw the face of the man wearing the blue jacket explode right in front of him spilling a liquid cloud of blood and brain matter into the air. Grey jacket had no time to process the carnage before a hard jolt tore into the back of his head slicing his brain stem and tearing through the lower half of his face killing him instantly.

  The men dressed in battle gear made it to the entrance of the gate where they were met by the same two women who had walked by only moments before. They were no longer behaving like the spoiled upper-class housewives they had spent the last several days pretending to be while they recced the Hosani house. The smiles and joking conversation were now replaced by deathly silence and stone-cold facial expressions revealing the professional killers they were. In their hands, they held Israeli made Jericho automatic pistols that were common weapons of the Mexican Federal Police. Their rifles had been fitted with sound suppressors which, along with the subsonic ammunition they chambered, made the weapons soundless to anyone not in close approximately.

  Without a word, the man leading the combatants moved past the two women and made for the gate entrance. Placing a long steel wedge into the bolt of the gate lock, he held it firmly in place as another man behind him struck the wedge with a powerful blow from a hammer. The door flung wide open at the first hit. The women moved in ahead of the rest of the group and situated themselves on both sides of the door as they dropped to one knee and faced outward towards the street. This allowed the battle clad men to move past them to the front entrance of the house while additional teams moved quickly around both sides of the house to cover the back.

  They moved steadily in a tight tactical line. The first few in the line aimed their weapons towards the door and windows on the lower floor, while the last half of the line focused on the windows of the floor above. Arriving at the door, two ranks dispersed into a loose semi-circle surrounding the entrance. Once staged, the men with hammers and wedges moved up to the house. Like the gate entrance, they forced the door open with a powerful blow to the bolt lock. The two men stepped back as two others, who had stood right behind them, slipped past the entrance. They had slid the M-4 military carbine rifles they carried behind their back and transitioned to the Five-Seven automatic pistols holstered on their tactical vests to allow for easier movement inside the narrow confines they were entering.

  They slipped through the entrance concurrently, sweeping the room with their weapons first capturing the stairwell in front of them and then maneuvering in opposite directions catching the entirety of the room finishing with the far corners. They held their positions as the rest of the team began filtering in behind them to take up positions along the wall. They directed their weapon muzzles at the upstairs railing and the downstairs hallways that led to the kitchen and the living room.

  Malaka knew something was wrong as he moved briskly to the stairs to investigate the strange crashing noises. He reached for his Glock 17 and held it clutched tightly in his hands parallel to his chest. He had also radioed the men on his ready reaction team to mobilize when he wasn’t able to contact his mobile team outside. At the head of the stairwell, he spotted men below decked out in black military fatigues and tactical gear. They wore nylon masks with the white images of skeletal faces painted across them, a common choice for cartel hit squads in Mexico.

  Instinctively the veteran commando leaped back from the stairwell when he realized he had presented himself as a target. He heard the abrasive talking amongst the assailants and, though he couldn’t understand them, he could guess what they were saying. He backed up several more feet from the stairs avoiding the barrage of gunfire that tore through the edge of the upper step. He could feel the shower of hot steel spraying inches from his face. Desperately, he spoke into his microphone again to the ready reaction team trying, in the brief few seconds he had, to explain the totality of the situation. Surrounded by the baritone echoes of gunfire around him, he could only make out the faint sound of a response from the other end. It was enough to tell him his men were still functional and that he was not alone.

  Switching tactics Malaka dropped to the floor and maneuvered toward t
he railing where he figured he had a better chance of defending his position. He inched forward to get behind the hardwood vanity that provided a semblance of cover. Angling himself so he had a view from the railing and could cover the stairs, he returned fire with a few well-aimed shots. His Glock pistol was not the best to be pitted against the carbine rifles, but he figured it was enough to save them from the men trying to storm the stairs. He hoped his men, with access to an arsenal of bigger weapons, were rallying and preparing for some sort of counter-attack. It would still be a meager response to the large number of assailants he saw downstairs, but they should be able to hold out long enough for a police response.

  Hearing the gunfire, General Hosani sprang into action. His immediate instinct was to take arms and join his men in the heat of battle. But he remembered his duties. Grabbing his weapon, a Glock 17, just like his security chief’s, he raced down the hall in the direction of the bedrooms his family occupied. Behind him, he could hear the familiar sound of combat going on just a short distance away. He felt like a coward not going the other way despite the fact that his actions were to protect his family and not an act of desertion.

  He caught sight of a terrified Fatima racing hysterically towards him. She was talking fast, making little sense, and shaking wildly as she ran up to her husband. He clutched her tightly in his arms trying to calm her. “Children?” He spoke into her ear as they continued on down the hallway. His youngest sons were in the first room they reached. Flinging open the door they found the two small boys huddled tightly in the corner shivering with fear. Recognizing their parents, the two crying boys darted across the room. Gathering them up Hosani and his wife moved rapidly to the next door ─ the room that housed their two daughters. They tried to rush inside but found the room barricaded by some heavy object. Hosani called out to his girls. A face emerged through the small opening in the door. It was his oldest son, Pervez, holding his cricket bat over his shoulder.