Without question, the men entered the room and turned on the hose which had been run through a small hole in the outside wall—the prison’s version of indoor plumbing. An old cast iron tub, with most of its white paint peeled off, sat in the corner. Carter stepped into the room, grabbed the prisoner’s chair, and spun it around to face the tub.
At first, the man eyed it in confusion, but as the water level began to rise, he realized what it was for—and it wasn’t a bubble bath. Panic set in. “No! No! I told you all I know! Please, do not do this! Please, I beg of you! In the name of Allah! Please!”
The black-ops spy ignored him and removed his flack vest—it would just be in his way. His watch was next—he stuck it in his front pants pocket. He’d already locked his 9mm sidearm, backup ankle pistol, a KA-BAR, and two other knives from various hiding places on his body in a weapon locker outside the door. The fewer weapons, the less chance of the prisoner getting his hands on them—and there were plenty of torture implements around the room already. He doubted the man would ever get the drop on him or the guards, but it was better to be safe than sorry, as the saying went. Too much cockiness could get you killed.
When the water level was high enough, he nodded at the guard holding the hose to shut it off. Using a small utility knife, Carter sliced through the duct tape keeping the man’s legs attached to the chair. Grabbing the prisoner by the hair, he hauled him off across the room, disregarding the screams and begging. Struggling was useless with Akram’s arms tied behind his back. The operative threw the man’s upper torso over the edge of the tub and plunged his head under water. He held him there for a count of ten, then lifted him high enough that he could take a single gulp of air before being shoved back under again. After another count of ten, Carter let the man breath oxygen once more. Getting in the man’s face, he snarled, “You fucking lied to me, Akram. And you’ll find I’m not a man you want to lie to.”
Not waiting for an answer, he thrust the man’s head back into the water and counted to twelve this time. A count of eighteen was usually fatal.
Yanking on Akram’s scalp, he pulled him out and let him drop unceremoniously to the dirty floor. Carter squatted next to the gasping, soaking-wet man whose eyes were now wide with the fear of impending death. This time, he spoke in fluent Arabic, the most common language in Iraq, so there would be no misinterpretation. “I want to know all about Rifaah Khalaf, starting with his real name. You may be stupid enough to lie to me, but Khalaf has to be based on someone you really know. Now, unless you want me to castrate you before sending you off to the seventy-two vestal virgins you won’t be able to fuck in the afterlife, you better start talking.”
And talk the man did.
An hour later, Carter was back on the sat phone with Corporal Michaels. “Ramzi Khatib.”
“Oh, fuck,” was the response he got, not that he’d expected anything different. His blood had run cold when Akram had finally spilled his guts and given him what he’d asked for. Ramzi Khatib was a man with no soul. He killed for sport—men, women, children—it didn’t matter to the bastard. In a different part of the world, the man would be a hunted serial killer. Here, he was a psychotic leader to a bunch of radical lemmings. And now the US military knew where to find him.
After giving Michaels all the information he had, he disconnected the call. She would take it from there. Before morning, the info would be verified. If all of it was true, then the Navy SEAL team, who’d gone back to base sometime within the past hour, would be on their way to take out one of the top five most wanted al Qaeda leaders. And Carter would be on a plane out of this hell-hole. Paris sounded good right about now. There was a private BDSM club there with a pretty little submissive named Alayna, who loved when Master Carter came to town.
“God-fucking-damn-it!” Ian Sawyer’s team was just as pissed as he was, but most of them were on watch for tangos or any other threat, while Curt “Elmer” Bannerman, Eric “Wabbit” Prichard and he searched the now-abandoned bunker. Their interpreter, Rashaad, stood nearby in silence, eyeing him warily.
This was the second time Ramzi Khatib had slipped through their fingers. The first time was three months ago, after Carter—the team only knew the spy by one name—had gotten the information from the prisoner at Abu Ghraib. As soon as the Intelligence commanders had given them the go-ahead to helo into Khatib’s location and take him dead or alive, they’d been on their way . . . and had arrived twelve hours too late. This time, however, it looked as if the bastard had only gotten a three- or four-hour head start.
Once they were done searching the bunker, they’d start interviewing the remaining occupants of the little, goat herding village just north of Tikrit. It sat at the base of a hillside which was too low in elevation to be considered a mountain but came close.
“Anything?” Ian barked at the two men under his command. Unfortunately, the answers he received were “negative.” Kicking a decrepit wooden chair across the dirt floor, he tapped the mic connected to his headset. “Are we clear out there?”
Marco “Polo” DeAngelis, Brody “Egghead” Evans, and Ben “Boomer” Michaelson were keeping an eye on things from inside a hut across the dirt expanse. Reverend and Devon, were on watch from a few hundred yards up the hill. Steve “Urkel” Romanelli and Pete “Robin Hood” Archer were in the bunker with Ian and the others but had their gazes out two glassless windows. This was their first time back in the sandbox without Ian’s best friend, Jeff Mullins, and he still wasn’t used to not hearing the man’s voice over the headsets. Jeff’s retirement, though, had been due to a rheumatoid arthritis induced medical discharge, instead of being KIA or wounded in combat. He was otherwise alive and well, at home with his wife and daughter, Jennifer, who also happened to be Ian’s goddaughter. The fourteen-year-old had been affectionately dubbed “Baby-girl” by Team Four and she, in turn, called them all “uncle.”
It was Polo who answered him. “All clear. Just watch where you step. The herd of fucking goats that just went past took some nasty-ass shits not far from your door.”
“Fucking peachy—if it’s not IEDs, then it’s nasty-ass goats. Let’s start chatting up the locals.”
Most of the people in the village seemed to know very little information which could help the team locate Khatib, but there was one man in his thirties whose actions were raising all kinds of alarms for Ian. This was someone who knew more than he was admitting to . . . but not for long. Standing in the man’s three-room hut, Ian snapped his fingers toward the interpreter. While the SEALs all knew Arabic, the different regional dialects were a problem sometimes, so it was easier to have an interpreter to sort things out. “Ask him his fucking name and if he speaks English.”
Rashaad spoke in Farsi to the man who answered, “Bakar Azizi. Some English.”
“Good,” Ian spat. “Tell me where Ramzi Khatib is.”
Glancing at his wife and two children, who were under the watchful eyes of Urkel and Robin Hood, Azizi shook his head. “No. I know not who that is.”
“Bullshit!” He upended their small, wooden dinner table, eliciting a startled shriek from the woman. The young children began crying, but Ian wasn't in the mood to be lied to. Too many lives were at stake. “Search the fucking place! Egghead, get the fuck in here!”
“Copy that.”
While Devon, Jake, Marco, and Boomer were watching their six from outside, Elmer and Wabbit started tearing the place apart, looking for anything that would lead them to their target. Azizi’s shouts for them to stop were ignored. As the two teammates moved the search into one of the smaller rooms, the Iraqi stood in the doorway, pleading with them. Brody came jogging in the front entrance and Ian indicated for him to follow into the third room. They began moving everything, searching for what they suspected was there—a cache of weapons. Rugs were kicked aside, mattresses were flipped, and furniture moved. Suddenly, they heard Prichard yell, “No!”
Before they could react a small explosion rocked the hut. It hadn’t been enoug
h to knock down the walls, but everything had rattled something fierce. Ian and Brody ran from their room, shocked at what they saw. Their interpreter was dead with a larger piece of wood through his left eye. Azizi was pinned to the outer wall with an even larger, splintered piece through his upper chest in the area of the heart. He was in pain, but alive—for now. Urkel, Robin Hood, and Azizi’s screaming wife and children had not been in the line of fire from the explosion and had escaped without a scratch. Urkel began to tend to the injured Iraqi. They would need to get as much info from him as possible before he died. Ian ducked his head into the room where the blast had occurred, relieved to see his men alive on the floor. Aside from some minor injuries from the splintering wood, they would be fine—thank God.
Ian stared at what had once been a large wooden armoire-type closet. “What the fuck happened?”
Bannerman stood, then reached down to give his best friend a hand up. “Fucking Wabbit just save my life, that’s what fucking happened.” He was yelling without realizing it. His ears were probably still ringing from the blast and would be for a while.
Brushing the dirt and splinters off himself and talking almost as loud, Prichard added, “The fucking thing was booby trapped. As Elmer was about to open it, I saw that fucking rag-head start to panic. Just knew something other than us finding his stash was about to happen. Dana would have kicked my ass if anything happened to this fucking dude. My wife is determined to marry him off one of these days.”
“Like that’ll ever fucking happen.”
They stepped over to the now ruined piece of furniture. There hadn’t been anything other than the bomb and a few blankets and rags in it. Pushing the smoldering remnants out of the way, they found a trap door underneath. Not taking chances, Ian turned to Brody. “Go swap out with Boomer. I want him checking this thing for more booby traps before we open it.”
Within minutes, their EOD—Explosives Ordinance Detonation—specialist declared it safe. Boomer lifted the trap door, lit up the space with his Maglite, and whistled loudly. “Ho-ly shit! We hit the fucking mother lode, boys!”
Ian peeked into the underground bunker. It was filled with weapons of all kinds, lots of paperwork, money in different currencies, some computers, video equipment, and who knew what else. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
4
I’d gotten a report this morning from my commander that in the hour before sunrise SEAL Team Four had failed in their second attempt to capture Ramzi Khatib. What they did have, however, was a rag-head pinned to a wall teetering on the brink of death. I needed to get intel from him before he died.
My orders were simple, get my ass to the village on the double and try to ferret out any information I could from the bastard. My bag of toys was resting near my feet. I had considered getting a car battery from one of the guys in the motor pool, but I would need to be more creative than that. Electrocution was brutal and effective but, movements would jar his wound and possibly kill him before I was ready. I’d spent the last two months in interrogation rooms in Abu Ghraib, learning the tricks of the trade, so to speak. I’d been shocked when my commander had called me in and given me my new orders—I’d been requesting to be a field interrogator for almost a year before it had been approved. Apparently, after helping track down some difficult intel for operative 009-859SRU, he had recommended me for interrogation training. I’m not sure why because I hadn’t had the chance to speak to him in the months since but I’d be forever grateful for the opportunity.
Three months ago, when I had given the higher-ups Khatib’s location, I thought it would be taken care of right away. These al Qaeda fuckers always proved more elusive than we bargained for. It had taken two months of questioning and water-filled bathtubs to get a new lead on his whereabouts. Sitting at my desk in HQ, I went over all the information again—his known contacts, previous sightings and everything else we’d been able to find out about him.
Now, because I knew this guy backward and forward, I was being sent in with one of Uncle Sam’s “private contractors”—aka an undercover CIA operative—to interrogate a possible associate in a village Khatib had been in less than five hours ago. Hopefully, this would be the break we needed to track the bastard down. It wouldn’t be easy—many of these fuckers had no fear of death. My major advantage was that I was a woman—they don’t know how to handle a woman willing to kill them, even though they had no problem turning their own women into suicide bombers. Their religion was playing into my favor here.
Clutching the handle of my bag tightly, I ran out as I heard the Blackhawk start up. Army Specialist McCoy was waiting on the edge of the field where the chopper was. He dressed like a specialist and talked like one, but he was all CIA. I was one of the few people on base right now who knew he was undercover. He was there to watch over my first official interrogation and step in if needed. I had been the assistant up until now.
“Ready for this, Mic?” McCoy shouted over his shoulder as he climbed aboard, the words almost drowned out by the accelerating rotors.
“Yeah. He’s dying anyway. I’m just going to make his death take a little longer.” In truth, I was nervous as hell—my palms were sticky with sweat, and my stomach was flipping. We strapped in and rose smoothly into the air. The engine and wind noise made it impossible to talk—I was grateful for the excuse. Even with a headset on the noise was a constant thrum in the background. Losing myself in my thoughts, I mentally prepared for what I was about to do. On the flight there, I slipped on a tactical hood, covering my face from the nose down. My helmet covered my hair. I was still unmistakably a woman, but interrogators were always targets, and it was best to keep your identity concealed.
It seemed like seconds later we were landing about a hundred yards from the edge of a small village—if you could call the dozen or so huts a village. Dust flew into the air from the rotors, and I saw Lieutenant Sawyer ducking out of the nearest primitive structure, heading our way.
“You’ve got this, Mic.” McCoy handed me my bag, following behind as we ran to meet the SEAL.
“I’m aware of that.”
There was a young woman with two small children huddled outside the hut, tears streaking down their dirty faces. Only the woman’s eyes showed—she was wearing a traditional niqab which covered her to mid-chest, the rest of her body covered by a jilbab. It was a loose fitting outer garment, similar to a robe, which disguised her body shape. Her eyes were bloodshot and resigned to what was coming. I figured she knew her husband was almost dead, and that I, and the man behind me, might make his death much worse.
“Corporal Michaels!”
“Yes, sir.” I stood rigidly in front of Sawyer. His men were spread out around the perimeter, covering our asses. The heat was vicious, beating down on our covered heads. Sweat rolled down my spine under my uniform, settling uncomfortably on the small of my back. Fucking Iraq.
He glared at me, but I knew his anger had nothing to do with me. “You’re going to do whatever it fucking takes to get me my intel, because if you don’t, your ass is on shit detail until I decide otherwise. Copy?”
“Yes, sir, I copy. Don’t worry, I’m not leaving here without that fucker’s location. I want this bastard planted in the sand as much as you do, sir.”
While he was Navy and I was Army, he was a fucking SEAL. Their very presence demanded respect from anyone in a uniform, and the branch didn’t matter. From what I knew of him, he was a good man, took care of his men, and that was enough for me.
He eyed me curiously. I knew he was trying to imagine my petite body frame in the role of an interrogator who had the guts to torture someone for information. “How the hell did you end up in this job, Michaels? Don’t take this the wrong way, this isn’t a sexual harassment issue, but with your intelligence and looks, you should be sitting in a comfy office at the Pentagon, not out here in the fucking sandbox."
“Sometimes, sir, playing in the sand is a lot more fun.”
I observed what was in front of me, thrown and unsur
e where to begin. Azizi was impaled through the fucking chest—stuck fast to the wall like some sort of grotesque, modern art piece. He was panting heavily, but that seemed more from fear than anything else. There wasn’t much blood either, but that would change if the wood was pulled from the wound. Sawyer’s man, Romanelli, had stabilized the large shard with gauze so it wouldn’t move around.
The shack was small and dark, the heat hanging heavily inside. The shadowed half-light in here made the room seem to shrink in on me. A few deep breaths into my belly moved the walls back to where they belonged as I prepared to begin.
Standing in the doorway, Sawyer’s arms cradled his rifle casually against his chest. He would be the only other person present for this. If the medic, Romanelli, was needed, he would be brought back in.
“McCoy, ideas?” I dropped my bag on the floor with a heavy thunk. Kneeling down, I opened a side pocket and handed him latex gloves, then donned my own with a snap.
McCoy was opening his own bag, pulling out and then discarding most of the equipment. “Get the wife in here for starters.”
Sawyer spoke into his radio and moments later Azizi’s wife was pushed inside the hut, her screaming children outside begging for their mother. Due to my intelligence training, I’d been required to become fluent in Farsi, so I knew exactly what was being said. Good thing, too, since the interpreter was dead.
No Way In Hell: A Steel Corps/Trident Security Crossover Novel Page 3