“What are you asking him?” I said, looking down at Sarah.
“This kid is just a small fry. His uncle, Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah, is the real target. I’m asking about him.”
I looked back up at our prisoner. Tailor and Hudson had stopped pummeling him for a moment. One eye was puffy and swelling shut, and blood was running from both his nose and lip. It was unpleasant, but this was war. If any of us were captured, we could expect worse. Sarah remained cool but seemed uncomfortable with what was happening. Nonetheless, she repeated her question, her voice sounding cold and harsh.
The young Al Falah spent a few moments staring at his lap, breathing heavily, blood dripping onto his clothes. He lifted his head back, still panting, and looked over at Sarah. He took a deep breath. Sarah lifted her clipboard just in time to block a blob of spit and blood. I had to give the kid credit; he’d certainly found his backbone. Not that it was going to do him any good.
“Oh, that’s it,” I said, speaking to Al Falah for the first time. I lifted my right foot and booted our prisoner in the chest. He gasped in pain, rocked back on his chair, and fell over backward, smashing his hands between the chair and the concrete floor. I moved forward, planting my right foot into his chest again, and drew my pistol. Holding the Sig .45 in both hands, I looked down at Al Falah, the sights aligned with the bridge of his nose.
“Valentine, no!” Sarah exclaimed, coming up out of her chair and putting her hand on my shoulder. “We need information from him.”
“Tell him if he doesn’t start talking I’m going to blow his head off,” I said coldly. The Calm had overtaken me, as it often did right before I had to shoot someone. Sarah had sensed the change. She hesitated. “Tell him,” I repeated, more firmly. Sarah stepped around me. Al Falah’s eyes were focused on the muzzle of my pistol and nothing else. Sarah leaned down and spoke to him. Al Falah sputtered something back.
“What’d he say?” Hudson asked.
Sarah stood up and sighed. “He says he’s prepared to die. I think he wants to. He’s scared shitless. He thinks it’ll make him a martyr.”
“Fuck that,” Tailor said, squatting down next to our prisoner. He reached into his pocket and drew his knife. With the push of a button, the blade snapped forward out of the handle. Tailor reached down and grabbed Al Falah’s face with his left hand. “Tell him that if he doesn’t start talking, I’m going to start cutting parts off him. Tell him we’re not going to kill him. I’ll just cut off his ears, his nose, his tongue, and put out his eyes, and knock out his teeth, and dump him on the side of the road somewhere. He can live the rest of his shitty life as a beggar, or he can kill himself and not get his virgins. I’m not gonna do him no favors.”
“I . . .” Sarah said, hesitating.
“Tell him!” Tailor shouted, poking the very tip of his blade into Al Falah’s face. There was no doubt that Tailor would do it.
Sarah steeled herself, leaned back down to our prisoner, and spoke to him again for a few moments. His eyes grew wider as he processed her words. He looked over to me, with the muzzle of my pistol still pointed between his eyes, then over to Tailor and the knife poking into his face. Apparently the short, scary Southerner with the disfiguring razor was the more frightening prospect of the two of us. Falah hesitated for what seemed like an eternity.
“I . . . I . . . okay,” Al Falah then sputtered, speaking English for the first time. “I will tell you. I will tell you! Please . . .”
“That’s more like it,” Tailor said. He pushed the switch on his knife, and the blade disappeared back into the handle. I took my foot off of Al Falah’s chest and holstered my pistol. Tailor and I then grabbed the back of his chair, hoisted him up, and set our prisoner upright again.
“Your uncle,” Sarah said, sitting back down in her chair. “Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah. Tell me everything you know about him.” The young Arab took one last look around the room, lowered his head slightly, and began to talk. He had a lot to say.
Stepping onto the roof, I saw Sarah silhouetted against the lights of the city. She was standing by the wall that ran around the roof of the house, smoking a cigarette. Hearing me open the door, she turned around briefly and nodded. I returned the nod, and stood beside her.
Below us was the small villa that we used for a safe house. The house itself was big, with no less than six bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, and a big common area downstairs. In addition to that, it had a huge basement. Basements were rare in homes in the Middle East. The safe house also had a tall wall around it. Next to the house was a large carport that held four vehicles. In front of the house was a sort of garden with a grove of tall palm trees and a mess of ferns at their bases.
“Are you okay?” I asked, looking out over the city. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t,” she said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “I mean, I quit years ago. I bummed one off Tailor. I just . . . sometimes when I get stressed I have one. That’s all.”
“Oh, I see. What’s wrong?”
“I thought you were going to kill that guy.”
“Sarah.” I paused for a moment while I struggled to find the right words. “I did kill a man tonight. One of Al Falah’s bodyguards.”
“I know! I ordered you to. It’s just . . . I don’t know. I’m being stupid. I’ve never been part of an interrogation like that before.”
“I was a little surprised to see you here,” I said.
“I was surprised when they called me out. I guess the other Arabic speakers were busy. Walker was probably busy pulling somebody’s fingernails out. I was told that normally I wouldn’t leave the compound much. I’m not even supposed to know where all of the safe houses are!”
“You’ve never done an interrogation like that before, have you?” I asked.
“No. I suppose you’ve done a lot of them, right?”
“Not really,” I said truthfully. “I was mostly a trigger-puller. We had intel specialists do that kind of thing.”
“Tailor seemed like he was enjoying himself,” she said hesitantly.
“Well . . . Tailor is crazy. He’s always been like that.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Years now. Since we were in Africa together.”
“Do you really trust him?” Sarah asked, putting out her cigarette on the top of the wall and looking over at me.
“With my life,” I replied. “I don’t know if I’d trust him with anybody else’s, though.”
Sarah looked at me sideways, eyebrows raised. She then let out a sardonic chuckle. “You’re funny, Mike,” she said, calling me by my given name for the first time. We stood together, looking out over the lights of the city, for what seemed like a long time. Neither one of us said anything.
“You did fine, by the way,” I said at last.
“What?”
“In the interrogation,” I continued. “You really kept your cool in there. You really seemed like you knew your stuff.”
“I’ve been trained,” Sarah said, “by, um, our employers for Project Heartbreaker. I just didn’t know how intense it was going to be.”
“It gets easier. I mean, it sounds horrible, but you get used to it.”
“I hope so,” Sarah said. “We’re just getting started.”
“You hear something?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah.” She looked back over at me. “We’ve got a list of targets a mile long. Terrorists, financiers, support people, recruiting people, you name it.”
“You know all of the targets?” I asked incredulously.
“What? Oh, no. I just got a peek at it. It’s not just names, either. It’s places. Gatherings. Events. This is going to get ugly, Mike.”
“That’s what I figured,” I said. “So, what happens to our boy downstairs?”
“Hunter’s sending someone to come get him. I don’t know what they’re going to do with him now.”
“They’ll either make a deal with him in exchange for being a continuing source of information,
or they’ll put a bullet in his brainpan and dump him in the ocean. Either way, sucks to be him.”
Sarah nodded. “His computer wasn’t even password protected, either. There’s a lot of information on there. Hunter was happy.”
“Heh . . . I’m glad. So, do you know what’s next?”
“His uncle. He’s the next target for you guys.”
“I figured. When?”
“Soon. Hunter said your chalk did so well that he’s giving you that mission next. We’ve got some more intel to gather, but that’s your next job. They’ll be sending me information to brief you soon.”
“Good.”
“Mike . . . I saw something else. You know, when I was digging around. They’re expecting heavy casualties for Dead Six. The operations they’re planning are high risk and are planned with minimum possible manpower.”
I sighed aloud, looking back out over the city. “Great.”
“You just be careful out there, okay?” she said quietly. She was staring at me intently. We held eye contact for a long time.
“I will,” I managed.
“What’s up?” Tailor said, strolling through the door onto the roof, lighting a cigarette as he went. He was unusually upbeat and had a stupid grin on his face. He paused when he realized Sarah and I were alone together. “Am I, uh, interrupting something?” he asked, cigarette in mouth.
“No, no,” Sarah said, stepping away from me. “I was just giving Valentine some info on what’s happening next.”
“We’re going after his uncle, right?” Tailor asked, referring to the captive in our basement.
“Sure are,” I answered.
The expression on Tailor’s face changed almost imperceptibly. My friend might not have been certifiably nuts, but he sure did enjoy this kind of thing a little too much. “Good.” He grinned.
Chapter 4:
Secondary Target
LORENZO
March 13
Falah had sounded nervous on the phone as he apologized for postponing our appointment due to family trouble. I played the concerned friend, even went so far as to offer my assistance, but he wouldn’t elaborate about what was wrong. It wasn’t until afterward that I got the word on the street that Falah’s favorite nephew had disappeared. The bodyguards provided by his uncle had been found shot to death, along with one of their new recruits. I’d only met the kid once. He’d struck me as another obnoxious rich kid, wannabe-terrorist asshole.
Nobody had any idea who’d taken him. It wouldn’t have surprised me if the senior Falah wasn’t waiting by the phone for the ransom call right now. There was a subset of the criminal underworld that specialized in kidnapping the kinds of targets whose parents wouldn’t involve the authorities. It was dangerous, but drug lords’ kids were especially lucrative. But I knew of most of the crews who did that kind of thing professionally, and I didn’t think any of them were operating around here.
Even the lowest of the low had families, easy targets that could be exploited for money, revenge, or leverage. Hell, I was a perfect example. Eddie had learned my real name, tracked down my family, and just like that, he owned me.
My family wouldn’t even recognize me now. My older brother, Bob, the federal agent, always the righteous, morally grounded, overachieving tough guy would certainly slap the cuffs on me himself if he had even the slightest clue about the things I’d done, and he’d probably sleep well at night afterward. But he, and all the rest, were family, and I owed them. They wouldn’t understand, but I was doing this for them.
In a way, I could understand Falah’s worry. Even scumbags had loved ones. I just hoped he got that shit cleared up fast so I could hurry up and kill him.
VALENTINE
Al Khor District, Safe house 4
March 20
0745
Tailor and I made our way into the basement of the safe house, having been rousted out of bed by Sarah. We were surprised to find Colonel Hunter waiting for us, flanked as always by a pair of his nondescript security men. Several chairs had been set up. A laptop sat on a small table, hooked up to a portable screen. Wheeler and Hudson had been called away a few days prior and hadn’t yet returned.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Hunter said. “I apologize for dragging you boys out of bed so early, but we’ve got work to do. We’re ready to move.”
“Are Hudson and Wheeler coming back, sir?” I asked as we sat down.
“I’m afraid not. I have them on another assignment right now. You two will be on your own. I have confidence in you.”
Tailor and I just looked at each other. Sarah’s face was a mask, but there was concern in her eyes.
Hunter turned on the big screen and began his briefing. “This is Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah. He’s a Saudi national by birth but has lived in Zubara for over ten years. He’s a wealthy, influential landowner and has connections to the Saudi royal family. He’s also a player.” The man pictured was short and overweight. He was wearing a traditional checkered headdress and had a thick white beard.
The picture changed. It was now a much younger Al Falah, dressed in camouflage and holding an RPD machine gun.
“This is Al Falah in 1984,” Hunter continued. “At the age of twenty-six, he dropped out of a Saudi religious university to join the jihad against the Soviets in Afghanistan. He fought with the mujahedin for two years before being wounded and returning to Saudi Arabia.”
The picture changed again. This time Al Falah was shaking hands with an all-too-familiar man, and smiling.
“We believe this picture was taken in 1997 or so. Yes, that is Osama bin Laden. As I said, Al Falah is a player. He’s very wealthy, both from his father and from his dealings in the oil and natural gas industry. He’s respected, considered pious, and has an enormous family. Though polygamy is rare in Zubara, he’s got three wives and probably nine children. He lives in a large walled compound outside of the city. Nice place—fountain, palm trees, you name it. He’s got many servants and quite a few Indonesian slave girls as well.”
Tailor and I were taking notes. Hunter told us it wasn’t necessary. Sarah handed each of us a fat manila envelope.
“Everything you need is in here,” Hunter said. “Al Falah never does anything himself. He’s always the behind-the-scenes man, the one pulling the strings and providing the funding. We believe getting shot in the ass in the ‘Stan probably led to this attitude. He raises enormous amounts of cash for various terrorist groups. He has several influential charities in Zubara, Kuwait, and the UAE that are all fronts for donating money to organizations like Hezbollah, Hamas, and Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula.”
“I’d do this one for free,” Tailor muttered under his breath.
Hunter didn’t seem to hear him. “Fortunately for us, this is one of the rare occasions where removing the man will remove the means. Al Falah does what he does through force of personality. He’s well liked and respected. He goes to Friday services at mosque . . . well, religiously. He always fasts during Ramadan. People are happy to do business with him. Your mission, gentlemen, is to kill Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah. You can use any means you see fit. You are to keep collateral damage to an absolute minimum to keep the Zubarans from getting antsy. You can request any equipment you wish, but no other personnel are available at this time. Failure is not an option. Any questions?”
“This is . . . wow,” I said, looking through the stack of documents.
“Welcome to Big Boy Town,” Hunter said, cracking an evil grin. “You boys were picked for this assignment because I believe you can handle it. I didn’t say it’d be easy. I’m giving you two a lot of leeway. Just get the job done. The best place to hit Al Falah is here,” Hunter said, pointing to a picture that had appeared on the screen. “This is a social club that Al Falah frequents. It’s a coffee house, or a tea house or something like that. Men go there to smoke hookahs, play chess, and shoot the shit. It’s also one of very few public places he’s regularly seen.”
“How often does he go there, sir?”
Tailor asked.
“Several nights a week, usually,” Sarah said. “He likes to play chess with his friends.”
“Where does this information come from, sir?” Tailor asked, looking at Colonel Hunter. “Is it reliable?” He seemed uncharacteristically concerned.
“Our intelligence assets are dependable enough, son,” Hunter replied crossly. “We have our own people as well as contacts in the Zubaran intelligence services. This is an important job. This will be our first major hit.”
“Anything else we need to know, sir?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact . . .” Another picture appeared on the screen. This one was of a pretty nondescript Gulf Arab man, in traditional dress, and was taken from far away. “Your secondary target is this man. He’s the new proprietor of the social club. He appeared on the scene a few months ago. We don’t know anything about him other than his name, Khalid.”
“Why’s he important, sir?” I asked.
“He’s hosting Al Falah,” Sarah said. “He’s a facilitator. We’ve picked up some unusual electronic chatter coming from the club. A lot of encrypted phone traffic, stuff like that. We have reason to suspect Khalid is part of the enemy’s support network.”
“Even if that’s not the case,” Hunter said, “everyone in Zubara knows who our target is and what he does. Part of our objective is to make the man on the street afraid to deal with the bad guys. So Khalid is your secondary target. Your tertiary targets are Al Falah’s bodyguards and assistants. Eliminate as many of them as possible.”
Tailor and I exchanged a knowing look. I felt a predatory grin split my face as I returned my attention to the briefing. This was the kind of job I’d signed up for.
VALENTINE
Ash Shamal District
March 25
1757
“Our boy’s here,” I said, looking through a pair of compact binoculars. Tailor was lying next to me, doing the same thing. One floor down and across the street from us, a bright yellow Hummer H2, followed by a white Toyota Land Cruiser, pulled to a stop in front of the social club. “Would you look at that?” I asked. “That’s a pretty pimp ride he’s got.” Tailor chuckled.
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