The Last Inferno

by Michael Cross

  Copyright © 2020 by Michael Cross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  The Last Inferno

  Michael Cross

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Author’s Note

  Also by Michael Cross

  Chapter One

  The night is dark and sultry. I feel the beads of sweat rolling down my back, making my shirt cling to my skin uncomfortably. It’s closing in on eleven at night and it’s still damn near ninety degrees. Not even the breeze blowing in off the Tigris is doing much to cut the heat. September in Mosul isn’t the most comfortable place to be. But it’s where I’m at, so I just have to suck it up.

  The sky overhead is clear and bright, twinkling with millions of stars and a thin crescent moon sliding upward into the sky on its nightly journey. And all around me are the burned-out husks of buildings that have been bombed into oblivion. Tall piles of rubble clog most every street around me. I can still smell smoke in the air.

  Between coalition forces and ISIS, what used to be a beautiful, historic city has been reduced to little more than a charred and smoking pile of bones. The pocked, shattered, and hollowed out shells of the mosques and other buildings that somehow remain standing a grotesque reminder of the cost of war.

  Still, life remains. Although they too are marked by the bullets and the bombs, some buildings still stand strong, hardy as weeds in the desert. Though some of the people in Mosul wander through their days in an endless haze, not knowing where their next meal is even coming from, most of them are trying to rebuild something of a life out of the collection of bombed-out, derelict buildings.

  There are parts of the city that remain somewhat unscathed. There are people who are continuing on with a relatively normal life. If life under the constant threat of suicide bombers, missiles raining down from the sky, or armed men dragging you away never to be seen again can be considered normal. But I suppose that’s the ‘new normal’ here in Iraq. Has been for the last twenty years or so anyway.

  With my hat pulled down low over my eyes and my head down, I cross the street, keeping a wary eye on the street around me. I’m in one of the sections of Mosul that are still pretty well intact. The buildings are all in mostly decent shape and are habitable—which is saying something in a bombed-out city like this.

  There’s not a lot of foot traffic, so there’s not much cover for me to blend into. And I know they’ll have spotters on the street. But this is too urgent for me to turn back now. If I walk away, she’s going to die. She’s not with the Agency. She’s not my responsibility. But still, I can’t sit back and let her be killed. I won’t.

  The street is quiet as I walk down the block. The shops all closed up for the night long ago. The gentle, rhythmic sound of Iraqi music softly echoes around the street, drifting out of an open window somewhere. Taking a last look around, I duck down a narrow alley between two buildings. Coming around the backside of the building, I enter a doorway and quickly climb the steps to the fourth floor.

  Feeling the grains of sand rapidly slipping through the hourglass, I get to her door and knock. I hear her footsteps on the wood floor, and a moment later, she opens it a crack and peers out at me. I hear her let out a breath of relief as she opens the door wider. But her expression changes as she reads the tension in my face.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks in her crisp English accent. “What is it?”

  “They’re coming for you,” I reply bluntly. “We need to get you out of here. Now.”

  “How did they—”

  “It doesn’t matter how they found out. They did,” I cut her off. “You need to grab your laptop and anything else you can’t let them find— and you need to do it quickly.”

  I push my way into her small apartment and take up a position next to her window. She gives herself a small shake and springs into action, dashing around the small one-room apartment gathering her things. She stuffs her laptop, some flash drives, and papers into a bag then zips it up. That done, she throws on her shoes and starts getting ready to move.

  The rumble of a car on the street pulls my attention back to the window. I frown as I feel the adrenaline surge through me. Four men in black ski masks toting AK-47s pile out of a dark pickup truck. They run across the sidewalk, heading into the building. I turn and walk away from the window, snatching up her bag and heading for the door.

  “Time’s up,” I whisper. “We have to go. Now.”

  I pull the .45 from the holster at the small of my back and open the door, leaning slowly out into the hallway. Heavy footsteps are already pounding up the stairs. I turn back and give her a nod.

  “Go. Down the back staircase,” I say.

  She slips out into the hallway and dashes for the rear staircase. I’m on her heels, and we descend the stairs as quickly and quietly as possible. We make the second-floor landing when I hear a loud crash and the sound of splintering wood. A split second after that, I hear men shouting in Arabic.

  It doesn’t take long for them to figure out, we slipped out just ahead of them, and as we hit the ground floor, I hear footsteps on the stairs behind us.

  “Faster, Nisha,” I tell her. “We have to go.”

  “I know, I hear them too,” she snaps at me.

  We crash through the door and sprint down the alley. We’ve only just made it out onto the street when I hear the chatter of automatic gunfire. I hear the thud and whine as the bullets ricochet off the walls behind us. I push Nisha in the small of her back to get her moving. We run as fast as we can, our feet slapping hard on the pavement.

  “Take the next left,” I call.

  We cut down another alley, and the sound of men shouting to one another in the street behind us follows closely. It sounds like they’re closer, but I can’t be sure given the way voices echo off the empty streets. It doesn’t matter though. We need to keep moving.

  “Right. Go to the right,” I growl.

  She breaks to the right, and we scamper down another alley, this one narrower than the last. It’s such a narrow lane; my shoulders are nearly brushing the sides. All one of the gunmen behind us would have to do is simply stand at the mouth of the alley and start firing. We’re literally fish in a barrel, and there’s no way they wouldn’t hit us. Thankfully the chatter of gunfire doesn’t come.

  I guide her through the warren of alleyways as fast as we can go. The echo of the gunmen’s voices continues to chase us, but I don’t think they know where we are. They’re searching, trying to find us in the labyrinth. My car is on the street ahead of us. We just need to reach the end of it and we’re home free.

  We burst out of the alley, and I pull her along to a dark Mercedes sedan that’s parked on the curb. It’s about twenty years old and has definitely seen better days, but it still runs, and right now, that’s all that counts.

  As she’s jumping into the passenger seat, I throw her bag in the back and quickly climb behind the wheel. I let out a small breath of relief when the engine turns over, and the car roars to life. I know
that’s going to bring them running, so I quickly disengage the parking brake and stomp on the accelerator. The old car shudders but shoots forward.

  I hear the chatter of their AKs and look in the rearview mirror to see two of them spill out into the street behind us. The bright flowers of muzzle flashes fill up the mirror. The dull thud of their bullets hitting the ass end of the Mercedes rocks us, but we’re already picking up speed.

  “Look out!”

  Her voice draws my eyes back to the road in front of us. The other two gunmen are standing in the middle of the street, weapons drawn and at the ready.

  Nisha reaches into my holster and grabs my .45. She rolls down the window, sticks her hand out, and starts squeezing off shots. But the two men open fire on us. I hear the chatter and see the bright muzzle flash a moment before I double down and stomp the accelerator harder. Nisha ducks back inside just in time as the slug’s slam into the windshield. The glass spiderwebs and cracks but somehow holds together. At least for now. I sit up again, gripping the wheel tightly as I try to see through the mass of lines and cracks in the glass.

  Their weapons fall silent— perhaps they’re reloading. But the fire from behind picks up again. Our tails are running, still pelting us with bullets.

  Nisha turns back now and fires off several shots at the two men behind us. One of them collapses, but the other keeps firing. Nisha keeps firing until we’re out of their range. But now the two men in front of us are just ahead.

  “Damn it. Ezra, I’m out of ammo,” Nisha says. “We must get moving.”

  “Copy.”

  I bear down on the two men in the road, gritting my teeth as I close in on them. The engine of the Mercedes roars.

  The one on the right has the good sense to dive out of the way. But the one on the left has just slammed his magazine home and is bringing his weapon to bear. It’s too late though. I cut the wheel and barrel straight into him. The man screams as his body hits the front grill, and he bounces up over the hood. The Mercedes shudders, but he crumples to the ground behind us in a heap.

  The Mercedes shoots off into the darkness, the chattering sound of gunfire chasing us the entire way. But it’s not long before we’re out of range and we’re safe.

  Chapter Two

  I slowly come awake to find myself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, the memory of getting Nisha out of Mosul still fresh in my head. I remember taking her to a safe house where we laid low for the night— but as I reach for the memories of what happened after that, I hit that opaque wall once more. I can’t remember what happened between us, but there’s a voice inside of me telling me that something did.

  I shake my head. It feels strange. Like it’s been stuffed with cotton. My eyes are so grainy it feels like I’ve got sand in them. My throat is drier than the Sahara, and my mouth is coated with a foul, greasy film that tastes like burning hair mixed with rotting meat.

  There’s a dull but constant throb in my left shoulder that makes me wince. It serves to remind me of how I got here. The memories of being ambushed by Vargas and his sicario’s on the road out of town come flooding back.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I turn my head to see her sitting in a chair beneath a window with a book in her lap. The sunlight filters in through the glass, showing off some red highlights in her hair I didn’t notice before. Her smile is wan, and she looks tired. As if she hasn’t seen her bed in quite a while. She also looks concerned. I try to quiet the miserable-sounding groan coming from me as I sit up in the bed, so I won’t worry her anymore.

  “Like hammered shit,” I reply. “But I’ll live.”

  “That was the prognosis from Dr. Eubanks,” she says with a small smile.

  “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

  Nisha shrugs. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve slept on and off.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “You’ve been in and out for a few days,” she tells me. “The wound itself isn’t serious, but you lost a lot of blood. You also suffered an infection, but Dr. Eubanks was thankfully able to clear it up.”

  She puts the book down on the table next to her and gets to her feet. I watch her as she walks across the room. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail that rises just above her shoulders. She’s wearing black yoga pants, a gray oversized sweatshirt that falls to the middle of her thighs, and pink, fuzzy socks. I don’t know why, but I find it a strange look for Nisha. I would never guess she’s a hardened spy. But I recall seeing her operate in the field and being impressed with her. She knows how to take care of herself.

  There’s a real sense of familiarity with her as I watch her cross the room. On a tall chest of drawers across the room are a pitcher and glass. She pours out a glass of water and brings it back to me. I take it in my good hand.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I swallow down half the glass, letting the cool liquid quench the fire in my throat. I swallow down the rest of the glass, then lean my head back against the headboard with a contented sigh. Nisha refills the glass and sets it down on the nightstand next to me before perching on the edge of the bed. Her eyes search mine for a long moment. I already know what she’s going to ask before she opens her mouth.

  “How is your—memory?” she asks.

  I flash her a grin. “Are you asking if I remember my name is actually Ezra Kingston?”

  She smiles and looks down at the floor, but it’s with an expression of relief on her face. Nisha finally looks up at me, a gentle smile on her lips.

  “I remember everything I did before I got shot,” I tell her. “But there are still some blank spots in my head. Things I can’t quite grasp just yet.”

  “I’m sure they’ll all come back to you soon,” she reassures me.

  “Yeah, I hope so,” I respond.

  We sit in silence for a couple of moments, but rather than it being tense and awkward; it’s— companionable. With all of the memories I’ve managed to recover, I feel a sense of ease and comfort around her I didn’t feel before. It’s not this push and pull tension between us that borders on anger and hostility that marked our interactions before.

  “I was just dreaming about Mosul,” I say.

  She nods. “You saved my life.”

  “I still can’t remember how I knew to come get you.”

  “All you would say was that one of your assets tipped you off.”

  I run a hand over my face and feel that my beard is a bit more unruly than it normally is. I’m going to have to trim it up soon. I don’t like looking like some wild bushman.

  “You were with Interpol at the time,” I say as the recollection sinks in.

  She nods. “I was. My mission at the time intersected with yours in a way,” she tells me. “I happened to be looking for a man who ran with the cell you were trying to neutralize.”

  “After we got to the safe house that night,” I start slowly, “did we—”

  She shakes her head. “No. Nothing happened. I assure you. Like I told you before, you wouldn’t betray your wife,” she says, a small, wistful smile touching her lips. “I’m ashamed to admit that I tried to convince you otherwise. But I actually respect that you stayed faithful to her. It showed me the sort of man you are.”

  At the mention of my wife, I think of her and my son and am instantly filled with that profound sense of loss and grief that nearly crippled me when my memories first came back. A physical pain lances through my heart, and a darkness deeper than the furthest reaches of space settles down over me.

  I’m ashamed that I even forgot. But the memories seem to rise and fall like the tide.

  I try to push it away. There will be a time to properly mourn them, but now is not that time. There’s work to be done yet. The first item on my to-do list being to find and confront who put out the burn notice on me that got them killed in the first place. Only when I’ve avenged them will I start to feel some semblance of peace in my soul.

  I don’t think— no, I’m certain—
that I’ll never feel whole or complete again. Mandy and Ryan were everything to me. They were my entire world. And knowing they’re gone forever has opened a hole in the center of me I know will never be filled. I’ll never know that feeling of the purest love again. But at the very least, I might be able to find a small measure of peace once I balance the ledger by finding and killing the person who took them from me.

  “How long am I going to be laid up?” I ask. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Dr. Eubanks suggested you take it easy for a couple of weeks.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

  “I didn’t think so. And neither did Dr. Eubanks,” she notes, producing a bottle of pills from the side table and shaking them at me. “Antibiotics for the infection and some pain pills.”

  “Good. Thanks,” I say as I reach for them.

  She pulls them away and flashes me a grin. “I’ll give them to you on one condition.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That you rest for a few days,” she replies. “At least.”

  “Nisha, I—”

  She frowns at me. “Your right arm is still healing from a knife wound; you’ve got a bullet hole in your shoulder, your body has been under repeated stress, and need I remind you, your leg still hasn’t even fully recovered from whatever the hell you got up to in Minneapolis. You need to take a few days and allow yourself to heal.”

  “I need to get out there,” I argue. “I need to find—”

  “I know who you need to find, and I’m more than willing to help,” she counters. “If you’re going to do this, you need to do it the right way. Not in a weakened state that’s likely to get you killed. Are you going to just rush in there without a plan? Without a contact? Without any bloody clue where you’re going or what you’re doing?”