by Al Pessin
“What are you talking about?” Nic asked.
Faraz had to be careful. “You heard al-Jazar speak of a usurper, someone who recently returned to Syria. I think our commander was in a power struggle with someone, and that person attacked our camp.”
“And where do you get that from?”
“I read, a few weeks ago in the U.S., about a Syrian who fought in Afghanistan. The article said he had come home to lead a new phase in the jihad here. Al-Jazar was not the kind of guy to take orders from a newcomer.”
“And now, we go find this guy—this experienced fighter who just crushed our camp—we find him in the middle of the desert and attack him?” Nic shrugged and pursed his lips. He looked at their assembled band of survivors. “With this?”
“We find a way to take our revenge.”
“Makes more sense to surrender to him,” Nic argued.
“I ain’t surrendering to nobody,” Tasha said. “If he was a real soldier for Allah, he wouldn’t have done this.”
“Sounds right.” It was Latif, finally speaking up.
Nic took a deep breath and let it out. He scanned the others sitting around the blanket. No one looked him in the eye.
He turned back toward Faraz. “We should surrender to him, join his group.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He killed our friends.”
“Which proves he’s stronger than us. We have to join him, if he’ll have us.”
“Not happening.”
“But—”
“Not happening!” Faraz put his hand on his AK. No one else moved.
“What are you doing?” Nic asked.
“I’m with Karim,” Tasha said. Several of the others nodded.
“This is suicide.” Nic was pleading, but no one seemed convinced. He sighed and shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Commander Karim.”
Faraz wanted to say, “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m avenging Amira’s death and going after the world’s most wanted terrorist.” Instead, he said, “Ease up, Nic. We’re all in this together. We will find a way. Now, let’s go. We have to bury our friends before it gets dark.”
* * *
At the burial ground at twilight, the survivors arranged the dead alongside their graves—the Syrian fighters, including al-Jazar, in one row, the sand cats in another, separated into male and female groups. Jamal, “the coward,” was among them. He was beside Ismail, who had wanted to wear the suicide vest. In the end, the one who had sought it and the one who had feared it both found martyrdom.
Faraz put his weapon on the ground, and the other survivors did the same. He led them in a grim procession from grave to grave, pausing to pay respects as each body was lowered. Except at al-Jazar’s grave. Faraz spat into it and moved on.
Amira lay next to Cindy. Faraz knelt by her head and reached out, thinking he would open the shroud, see her face one more time. But he stopped himself. It wasn’t proper. It wasn’t what Amira would have wanted. He pulled his hand back and took hold of the sheet she was wrapped in. Nic helped him put her into her grave.
Faraz started to choke up, but he had no more tears, not even for Amira. His sadness fueled nothing but rage. He wanted to get this over with, get out of there, get to work punishing the men who did this.
He stood and moved to the area in front of the graves. The survivors gathered around him. “Anybody know the prayers?”
“I do,” Latif said.
“Please . . .”
Latif chanted the prayers in Arabic. He scooped a double handful of dirt into each grave, then returned to the others and recited, “I seek refuge in Allah. All praise is due to Allah . . .”
When he finished, they stood in silence. It was a little cooler now. A breeze threw up some of the loose earth.
“Fill the graves,” Faraz said. “Then sleep.” His voice was hoarse. He turned away from the others, took a shovel, and went to personally fill Amira’s grave. Then he handed the shovel to another man and picked up his rifle.
Faraz walked to the front of the camp, took a flashlight from the equipment pile, and turned toward the side gate. If he could sleep at all, it would be under their tree.
Chapter Thirty-three
Faraz reentered the compound around one a.m., his AK slung over his shoulder and the beam from the flashlight showing the way. He roused the others. “Gather all the explosives you can find, guns and ammo, too,” he ordered. “Load it all into the vehicles.”
He took several ammo clips and hand grenades for himself and put a hunting knife in a sheath on his belt. When they were finished, everyone gathered again in front of the headquarters for a meager breakfast of what little food remained.
Faraz unfolded the map and laid it on the blanket. “You see this? It says ‘al-Souri.’ That’s the guy I was telling you about, the one who came from Afghanistan. We leave now, while it’s still dark. We go there. We set up an ambush. We kill them all.”
He looked around the circle of partially trained foreigners. Only two looked back at him. The rest avoided his eyes. It occurred to Faraz they must have talked after he had left them the night before.
Nic was their spokesman. “Karim, we heard you last night, but you saw how strong they are. How can this group defeat them?”
“I have a plan.” It was mostly a lie. At best, Faraz had an idea. But he didn’t care. “I’ll show you when we get there.”
Faraz could sense the hesitation in the group. “Look, I know this guy.” He corrected himself. “I know about him . . . from that article. We should be fighting Assad and the infidels, but he’s making us fight each other. We take our revenge. Then we join another group. It’s that or go back to . . . to whatever you left behind.”
“I ain’t doin’ that,” said Tasha. “I’m with you, Karim. We gotta do something.”
Slowly, around the blanket, heads nodded. Faraz looked at Nic.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Might as well. What they did was wrong. We’ll make them pay.”
“What about this?” the teenager Latif asked. He pointed to the notation on the map. “It says ‘Infidels.’”
“I know. It’s probably a foreign outpost. We’ll steer clear of it.”
“What do we do with al-Jazar’s man?” Nic asked, indicating the injured fighter.
“Tie his hands behind his back and put a two-foot rope on his feet. We’ll point him toward the nearest village. He’ll get there, but not very fast.”
* * *
In the lead vehicle, Faraz took them on a circuitous route, avoiding villages, lights off, almost feeling his way in the dark. There were few road signs and not many hills or other features to guide them.
Faraz stopped at a crossroads and consulted the map. Ahead and to their right, they could see the lights of a village. On their left was a small sand dune. Other than that, the landscape offered no clues.
Nic limped over from the second SUV and spoke to Faraz through his open window. “Have you gotten us lost?” he said.
Faraz scowled at him and indicated a spot on the map. “I think we’re here. Those lights are this village.”
Nic pointed at the square on the map. “So we’re close to the foreign outpost.”
“Yeah.” Faraz considered his options. “Let’s check it out. The rest of you stay here.”
Faraz got out of the vehicle, and he and Nic walked up the dune. Near the top, Faraz got on hands and knees, and Nic did the same. They crested the summit heads first. Nic lifted himself for a better view. Faraz grabbed him and pulled him back. “Stay down. They’ll be watching.”
The small base was only a few hundred meters away. Its lights were dimmed, but on the blank landscape it still stood out. Faraz saw the familiar HESCO barriers all around—four- by three-foot wire-mesh boxes, about two feet deep, filled with earth and rocks. There were guard towers on all four corners.
To the right, the road leading to the main gate was blocked by barriers, signs, and light
towers. A similar arrangement guarded another gate to the left.
“Jeez,” Nic said. “That’s quite a little fortress. I hope we don’t find anything like that at al-Souri’s camp.”
“It’s American.” Faraz caught himself. “I think so, anyway.”
The two men lay there for a minute, staring at the base and scanning the area.
It would be so easy for Faraz to walk into the American camp—easy if they didn’t shoot him on sight. He could report what he knew and go home, maybe all the way home to San Diego. Get the rest of these idiots arrested before they could cause any more damage.
But that wouldn’t accomplish his mission—his mission, not Davenport’s—to make al-Souri and the attack leader pay. To give up on that would betray Amira. After he killed them, he could go to the Americans. He wouldn’t know anything about the big attack, the MTO, but eliminating al-Souri would count for something.
“No,” he said out loud.
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.” Faraz made one more scan of the base and its surroundings. That’s when he saw something moving.
He had to look twice to be sure, but there was no mistake. It was a vehicle heading toward the barriers. “What the heck?” he said.
“What?”
Faraz pointed.
“Those morons will get themselves killed, whoever they are,” Nic said.
“Could be.”
They could see now that it was a pickup truck. It slowed as it approached the barriers. The cabin lights went on, and a man got out, gesturing wildly. They couldn’t hear from this distance, but he seemed to be trying to explain something, maybe to ask for help.
Faraz saw the tiny shapes of American troops moving on the watchtowers to focus their attention, and their weapons, on the man and his vehicle.
Faraz and Nic looked that way, too, but they also had a wider view. Out of the corner of his eye, Faraz saw more vehicles approaching the outpost from the rear, lights off.
“Oh, shit,” he said. “Look there. It’s an attack.”
“Oh, God. Well, this should be a good show.”
Faraz felt nauseous. His thoughts pinged out of control. He needed to get out of there, to continue toward al-Souri’s camp. But he couldn’t let this happen.
The attacking force was larger than the one they had faced the night before. Faraz could see that the diversionary tactic was working. Most of the camp’s attention was focused on the decoy and his truck. Faraz figured that such a small post would have a handful of Americans, along with an unknown number of Syrian militiamen with questionable skills.
If these were the same highly trained attackers from the night before, the Americans were in trouble. His rage told him to continue to al-Souri’s camp. But his training overpowered it. Faraz didn’t have much time, and his crew was weak. But he had to try. His revenge would have to wait. Or if these were al-Souri’s men, maybe it would come right now.
“We have to get down there,” Faraz said.
“Why?” Nic said. “That’s a good-sized force come to attack the enemies of jihad.”
“These could be the same guys who attacked us last night.”
“Could be. Who cares? If they kill the Americans, we win. If the Americans kill them, we win. Anyway, we’re no match for either one.”
Faraz looked back toward the base. The sun was rising behind the attacking force on the left, which would make it hard for the Americans to see them. The attackers had stopped, possibly waiting for a signal. The man at the front gate seemed to be trying to convince the Americans to do something—open the gate, probably.
“I said we have to get down there,” Faraz said, the anger rising in his voice. He turned to Nic lying next to him. “We’re getting the others, and we’re joining this fight.”
“The hell we are. That’s suicide.”
“We all agreed I’m in charge, and I say we’re going down there.”
“Let’s go and ask the others.”
“No.”
“No? You’re crazy. How you gonna stop me?”
Faraz answered with his knife.
He reached under his body with his good left arm, pulled the knife from the right side of his belt, twisted for leverage, and drove the weapon into Nic’s belly. Nic’s eyes went wide. Faraz’s right hand came up with a handful of sand and pressed it into Nic’s open mouth, stifling his scream. Faraz moved the knife to Nic’s throat and cut deeply in one smooth motion, putting as much of his weight into it as he could. The young man’s body jerked and went limp.
Faraz was breathing heavily and sweating, despite the cool of the desert night. He held Nic until he was sure he was dead. Then, still prone, he pushed him away to bleed out into the sand.
Faraz looked back toward the camp. The attackers were still waiting, but he knew he didn’t have much time. He wiped the knife on Nic’s shirt and cleaned his hands with sand as well as he could. He’d have to hope the others wouldn’t notice any bloodstains in the half-light. He crawled partway down the hill until he could stand and run back to the others.
“Quickly,” he said. “Board the vehicles. There’s a fight going on, and we’re getting into it.”
“What?” Tasha said.
“It’s the guys who attacked us last night,” Faraz said, although he didn’t know that for sure. “This is our chance for revenge.”
“Where’s Nic?” Tasha asked.
“He’s on the dune as a lookout. He’ll come down the other side when we’re in position. C’mon, move! Weapons ready!”
They sped to the next crossroads, where Faraz led them to the right toward the American base so they could come up behind the attacking force, using the sun to their advantage as the enemy had.
Faraz floored the accelerator and roared toward the rear of the attackers’ convoy. A hundred meters out, he opened his window. Two seconds later, he hit the brakes, skidded to an angle, and started firing.
He killed two of the attackers before the rest of his force could get out of the vehicles and start shooting. The attackers spun around and returned fire.
A bullet grazed Faraz’s right arm, above his wound. He fell back in pain and slumped onto the passenger seat. Faraz’s blood stained the seatback, but he saw that the wound wasn’t too bad. As he lay there, a wave of bullets came through the windshield and open window, whizzing above him.
Faraz crawled across the seat and exited the vehicle through the passenger door, away from the fight. Two members of his team were already dead. He crouched behind the engine and put a fresh ammo clip on his gun. Faraz leaned out in front of the vehicle and emptied the clip, strafing the opposing force.
He got a glimpse of the base. All its lights were on now, most of them pointing in his direction. If nothing else, he had exposed the position of the attackers.
His comrades were firing, but not effectively. Several of them had been killed. He turned toward the second vehicle. “Take aim!” he shouted. “Don’t waste ammo!”
If he hadn’t turned his head, he might have seen the fighter mount the RPG launcher on his shoulder. As it was, he only saw it when he turned back, and then it was too late.
The grenade blew the second SUV into a million pieces and killed the four foreigners who were taking cover behind it. Faraz saw Tasha launched into the air. She landed in a lifeless heap by the side of the road.
“Oh, this is not good,” Latif said, kneeling next to Faraz.
“Damn,” Faraz said. “Follow me.” Bent over, he led Latif to the shallow gully at the side of the road. He pushed him down just as their SUV exploded from another RPG shot.
When the debris settled, Faraz heard shouting in Arabic.
“They want us to surrender,” Latif said. “We must run.”
Before Faraz could respond, Latif took off. He ran along the gully, away from the outpost. When the road turned, giving the shooters a clearer view past the burning wreckage of the SUVs, they hit him with a short burst.
Nic had been righ
t. This was suicide.
There was more shouting in Arabic. Faraz didn’t understand, but if it had been him, he would have been saying something like, “Stand up slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.” It was no better than fifty-fifty that they’d kill him anyway. But what choice did he have? At least he’d alerted the Americans. His other missions were impossible now.
Faraz had to assume this was his last chance. He threw his AK out of the gully, raised his hands, and searched his memory for the right words.
“La tutliq alnaar,” he shouted. Don’t shoot.
As he climbed out of the gully, Faraz could see that his assault had killed several of the attackers and their advance toward the Americans had been stopped.
The Americans would likely launch a counterattack at any moment.
Someone barked an order in Arabic. Two men ran at Faraz and tackled him. They pinned his arms behind his back and punched him repeatedly. One of them took his knife and grenades.
The voice in the darkness shouted more orders.
They pulled Faraz to his feet and dragged him toward their vehicles. They pushed him onto the floor of the back seat of a pickup truck. He lay on his bad arm as the men piled in. Someone kicked him in the head.
Faraz felt the vehicle turn in a tight half circle on the narrow road and take off at high speed.
Chapter Thirty-four
When they came to a stop, one of the men took Faraz by the collar and dragged him out onto the ground. The men kicked and cursed him, and he curled into a ball.
A two-word order interrupted them.
Someone pulled him to his feet, and he found himself face-to-face with an angry man whose shirt was soaked with blood on the left side. The man grabbed Faraz by the neck and shouted a question in Arabic.
When there was no response, he squeezed tighter and shouted louder.
“La ‘atahadath al-Arabia,” Faraz said. I don’t speak Arabic.
The man cursed and slapped Faraz hard across the side of his head. Faraz fell to his knees.
“Commander,” another man said. Faraz didn’t understand the rest of what the fighter said, but he was pointing at the commander’s bloody shirt.