by Eric Meyer
“Close enough. When we reach the outskirts of the town, turn off the main street first chance you get and let me out. I’ll handle it from there, at least I can stop a few of them.”
“On your own, Lieutenant?”
Before he could reply, Stern interrupted. “One man again so many is foolish. I can help.” He reached under his coat and pulled out a small Israeli submachine gun, a mini Uzi, “This should help even up the odds some.”
“Boss, count me in. All we need is for Waverley to take over the wheel.”
“Not me!” He was hunched into the corner of the back seat, his skin pale, “I’m a State Department courier, not a soldier. If you want to pick a fight with those people, you’re on your own. And that includes driving this vehicle. My job is here, watching over the flight case.”
“I’ll drive.”
He glanced around at Rachel. “You’re sure?”
She grinned. “When I did my Army service, I drove everything from the M1-Abrams to motorcycles. Of course I can drive it.”
“You can’t allow it!” Waverley shouted, “She’s a civilian.”
“So are you. Rachel, the job’s yours. You know what to do?”
“Take the first turn, stop and let you out, and then drive on.”
“You got it.”
He was still thinking a way to handle that truck, and he estimated there’d be somewhere between twelve and fifteen fighters on board, screaming for blood. His solution was primitive, one that had been used many times in the past, and often worked. Provided you didn’t get killed while you were doing it. A Molotov cocktail, and he remembered the glass Coke bottles.
“Colonel, there’re two empty bottles on the floor. Pick them up. We’re gonna need them.”
“Molotovs?”
“Yep.”
They were driving past the first of the stone houses that marked the outskirts of the town. They hadn’t suffered as much damage as the dwellings in Aleppo, although there were gaps with piles of broken stone where before there’d been a house or sometimes an apartment block. There were no civilians on the streets, which would make things easier. Rachel took the turn almost on two wheels, seeing it at the last moment. She drove fifty meters along the street and stopped on a dime, throwing them forward so his head almost hit the windshield. He was already spilling out the door, and Ryder exited the driver’s door. Behind them Stern leapt from the back, clutching the two empties.
“Rachel,” he shouted, “Give me one minute.”
He used a length of tube that had been on the floor; probably for the same purpose he needed it now, and siphoned gas into both bottles. It was enough, and he waved Rachel away. She sped off along the street, and the three men raced back to the main street. Nolan ripped off a strip from his T-shirt, split it into two, and put one piece in each bottle. He took out the waterproof matches he always carried, and they were ready.
They watched the truck tearing toward them, and on the back the Syrians were watching keenly for any sign of them. They got more than expected. Nolan ran to the opposite side of the street, and a man fired by reflex. And then his attention turned elsewhere, back to where Stern and Ryder were waiting. They opened fire. Two men screamed, dropped their rifles, and fell back down to the bed of the truck. The others opened fire, and they ducked inside a bombed-out house, incoming fire smacking against the stonework. Across the street, forgotten and unnoticed, Nolan put the match to each of the Coke bottles and threw them at the truck.
The effect was spectacular. Both Molotovs hit the target, the first bottle against the hood and the second against the chassis beneath the truck bed. Flames and smoke poured out from the stricken vehicle, and men screamed as their moment of triumph became a living nightmare. Several of the fighters were quick to avoid the flames and recovered fast, flinging up their rifles. Several shots zinged past Nolan, forcing him to dive for cover and return fire. But Stern and Ryder were both firing disciplined, single shots, choosing their targets. Those who’d survived the flames soon realized they’d had numbers on their side, but they’d come a distinct second in the brief skirmish. Three men made it away from the burning vehicle, one limping. Two more followed, and all that remained were bodies scattered over the street, backlit by the still burning truck.
He was about to rejoin them when he heard a vehicle roaring toward them, and in the distance he spotted an old Nissan Patrol. A man was leaning out of the passenger window, and he opened fire with an assault rifle. He dove back for cover, but this time they were more careful, alerted by the burning truck. They stopped four hundred meters short, leapt from the vehicle, and ran into a four-story structure. What had been an office building was now no more than an empty shell, although it would serve as an excellent observation point. He didn’t hesitate, catapulted to his feet, and ran toward the building.
Before he reached it, the gunfire restarted. This time Stern and Ryder had to sprint for cover under a hail of shots. He saw Ryder wince as a bullet creased his leg, forcing him to limp, and then they’d disappeared behind a low wall. They were trapped. If they came out into the open, the hostiles on that rooftop would pick them off like fish in a barrel. He increased pace, raced into the building, and started up the rubble-strewn stone staircase.
He reached the top and paused. He could still hear the shots, but unless they were deaf, they’d have heard him coming.
Four men, and they won’t be easy to handle. Unless…
He started back down the staircase, stamping his feet hard to make sure they couldn’t miss his retreat. At the first level, he raced back up, keeping his footsteps silent, and waited at the top. Two men appeared, racing through the doorway. Their eyes widened in shock as they saw him standing there with his M-16 leveled at their bellies. He fired twice, one bullet in each, and a safety shot for each man to make sure. The four bullets emptied his rifle, but they’d done their job. One fell flat on his face, the other tipped backward out onto the rooftop.
Now they knew he was there, he would need more than trickery to beat them. It needed firepower. He picked up the fallen AKMs, one in each hand, selected full auto, and raced out onto the rooftop, swerving at the last moment to avoid the hail of bullets hammering toward him. He squeezed the triggers at the same moment, and the two long bursts tore into the nearest man. The other was quicker and dodged away, diving behind the concrete structure of an elevator shaft. He went after him and raced around the side. He wasn’t there.
There was a light noise behind him. He turned fast and paused. The guy was there, standing close to the edge of the roof, his assault rifle pointed at Nolan’s chest.
“Drop your weapon, infidel.”
He didn’t have a choice, and he lowered it to the ground. He had one weapon left, after he’d loaned his Sig Sauer to Rachel. The weapon was the combat knife tucked inside his coat, but the guy was almost ten meters away. Too far for a throw, and too far to attack him head on. All he could do was delay and try to edge closer. It wasn’t going to work.
“You are an American.”
“I’m an American, right.”
“Where is the money?”
“Money?”
His expression darkened into a scowl. “If you know nothing about the money, you are of no further use to me. Allahu Akbar.”
He could see the guy’s finger tighten on the trigger. He tensed to throw himself to one side, in a hopeless attempt to avoid the inevitable. Several shots rang out, but not from the man on the roof. The burst came from down below, a small-caliber submachine gun. The Syrian fell, his back starred with red blotches where the 9mm bullets had torn into his body. Nolan ran to him, snatched his rifle away, and knelt to make sure.
He was dead, and he cautiously poked his head over the parapet to look down into the street. Colonel Stern was staring up at him, his hands changing the magazine on the mini Uzi like he’d been doing it all his life, which he probably had. He looked up, saw Nolan, and waved. “Did we get them all?”
He returned the gestu
re. “They’re all dead up here. I’ll be right down.”
He picked up the rifles and spare ammunition and ran back down the staircase. They’d arrived in Turkey with just their sidearms, but at least they were picking up more ordnance as they overcame every enemy who tried to oppose them.
The guy on the roof had made it clear they knew about the vast sum of cash, and it looked like every man and his dog inside Syria was determined to steal it from them. After they’d killed them.
He ran out into the street and nodded to Stern. “I owe you, Colonel.”
A shrug. “All part of the service,” he grinned, “The State of Israel is always pleased to help our allies.”
They were all running low on ammunition, and he handed out the AKMs he’d taken from the men on the roof. After a last look down the street to check there were no more vehicles coming in, and no sign of ISIS, they started back to rejoin Rachel and Waverley. They turned into the street where they’d left them, and there was no Toyota Land Cruiser. No State Department courier, just a small body lying on the ground, with a trickle of blood coming from her head.
He ran forward. “Rachel! What happened?”
He reached her and held her in his arms. To his relief, she was breathing, and her eyes flicked open. “I’m sorry. He got away.”
“Who got away?” But he already knew. Waverley.
“He wanted to leave, to drive away, and head for Lebanon. I told him we had to wait, and the bastard sucker punched me. He pointed behind me and said one word. ISIS. I thought they were coming, so I turned, and he hit me over the head with something heavy. I think it was a handgun.”
I didn’t known Waverley was armed, and that mistake almost cost Rachel her life.
“He got away?”
She nodded, wincing with the pain. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop him.”
“It’s not your fault.”
She put up a hand to feel the bump on her head. “It’s not too bad, but now we’ve lost the vehicle. We’re screwed.”
She was right, but then he thought about the battered Nissan Patrol the Syrians had arrived in.
“No, we have a perfectly serviceable SUV down the street. The guys who were driving it won’t need it any more. We’ll pick it up and go after the bastard. Rachel, we don’t have much time. I can carry you back to the vehicle.”
She dragged herself to her feet and smiled. “I’m grateful, but I’m also an Israeli. They bring us up to be self-reliant, so I’d rather manage.” She saw his look of disappointment and hurried on, “Although if I can lean on your shoulder, I’d appreciate it.”
“Lean away.”
They made it back to the Nissan and climbed inside. It stank of unwashed bodies and rotting vegetables. Even worse, when Ryder turned the key to start the engine, it coughed and spluttered. “This is a six-cylinder motor, and I doubt it’s firing on more than four or five cylinders. Damn Arabs, they never did maintain their machinery.”
He drove away, but it was soon obvious they’d struggle to catch up. The misfiring engine couldn’t manage more than fifty miles an hour, and that was only when they were on the straight, with a slight downhill gradient. The countryside was open to the west, and there was no sign of him. Which meant he was still on the Damascus road, and he was wondering why when he saw a movement in the distance. ISIS was still there, several klicks away, but any attempt to leave the highway and head west they were bound to run into them. Their strategy was obvious. They’d continue on a parallel course with the M5 highway, and like a spider, wait for their prey to fall into their web.
There was still no sign of Waverley when they drove through Homs, and it was evident he’d shelved his plan to head west. It could only mean he was going all the way into Damascus.
“You know about Damascus?” Stern said suddenly.
“What about it?”
“They don’t like Americans, and they’re sure to give them a hard time.”
“Which means we’d better steer clear of the cops and the military.”
“A good plan. They give a much harder time to Israelis.”
“We’ll bear it in mind.”
“And even harder time to Israeli females, if you get my meaning.”
“I get it. Anyone lays a finger on her and they go down.”
Rachel had been slumped against the rear seat, with Stern supporting her, but she overheard them and sat up. “You don’t need to worry about me. Next time, I’ll be ready for it. Whoever it is.”
“Sure, we’re just worried, is all.”
“Don’t be. You need to worry about Waverley when I get my hands on him.”
He grinned. “You’d better join the queue.”
They drove on, eating up the miles toward Damascus, albeit slowly, until Ryder glanced at him. “You know Damascus is a big city, Boss?”
“I know. Around two million people, at a guess.”
“What I’m saying is that’s a large area for a guy to lose himself in. There must be thousands of Toyota Land Cruisers driving around the city, so how do we find him?”
He was staring ahead, and he spotted it in the distance, a long line of stationary vehicles blocking the highway. “That’s easy. We ask a cop.”
“A cop?”
“Sure. There’ll be plenty of them up ahead.”
He turned and saw them. “Shit. Now what?”
“Like I said, we’ll ask a cop. We’re in civilian clothes, so there’s no reason for them to think we’re not going about our lawful business. Relax, John-Wesley, we’ll be fine.”
The queue was long, and the wait was long. Time enough for them to hide the weapons and make sure they had a good story ready for the cops. Ryder wasn’t so sure.
“You think they’ll believe us? Boss, we have American passports, but what about the Israelis?”
“I have a passport,” Rachel said.
“Israeli, sure. They’ll love that. What about you, Colonel?”
“No passport. I didn’t expect to land in Syria. If they ask to check my documents, I’m screwed.”
“In which case we’d better use the tried and test method of getting through a police check without papers.”
He stared at Nolan. “Which is what?”
“You hide.”
They were two vehicles from the checkpoint, a line of concrete bollards placed across the highway, allowing a single vehicle through at a time. Driving past the first bollards took the vehicle into a zigzag, which meant going very slow to negotiate the tight turn. They weren’t taking any chances, and a grim-faced Syrian cop sat behind the turret of a heavy machine gun mounted on a BMP-90. Watching the traffic pass. Itching for an excuse to see some action.
They edged forward, the vehicle in front went into the zigzag, and they were next.
“Passports, papers.”
They handed them over. He checked Ryder’s passport and handed it back. Checked Nolan’s and gave it back with a muttered, “American.” When he came to Rachel’s passport with the Star of David, he licked his lips. “You are a Jew.”
She speared him with a hard gaze. “Mister, the correct term is Jewess. I’m a girl, as you can see. However, my religion is my affair. All you need to know is I’m a citizen of the State of Israel.”
“A Jew.” The voice was rough and threatening. As if her religion was a crime. As if his own religion of Islam wasn’t tearing the world into bloody warfare, “You have no visa for Syria. You must come with me. You will be detained while I make further checks.”
He spoke on an impulse. “She can’t go with you, officer.”
His head swiveled to look at him. “And why not?”
“Because she’s my wife. Which makes her an American citizen.”
He frowned and relooked at her passport. “This document states she is single.”
Nolan grinned. “You know what it’s like. We just got married, and there wasn’t time.”
He didn’t go for it. “It makes no difference. She will come with me.”
The guy paused, obviously thinking, and Nolan pressed on, “Look, are you married? You know what it’s like when you tie the knot. Everything goes out the window.” He winked, “They call it love. Officer, haven’t you ever been in love?”
“Well…”
He held onto the passport but walked around the vehicle, giving himself time to think. As he got to the back, he put his hand on the handle of the trunk and opened it. He moved the parcel shelf aside, saw the Colonel wearing Israeli uniform crouching inside, and his eyes popped out like they were on stalks. He clawed for his handgun, unsnapping the holster. Stern shot him dead.
For a short time, there was a stunned silence, cops staring at them in total disbelief. The shot coming from inside the trunk, their fellow cop lying on the ground with blood pooling out of his body. Nolan reacted first.
“Ryder! Get moving now!”
“Where? We can’t get through. It’s blocked.”
“Get off the road, anywhere!”
He floored the gas pedal and swung the wheel over. The tires squealed as they drove away from the checkpoint, heading off the road into an area strewn with rocks and boulders. They didn’t need to worry about the rocks and boulders. One moment they were driving at speed, the Nissan bouncing up into the air every time it hit a rock, and the next, they were flying. At least, that’s the way it seemed. They’d driven into an irrigation channel that was almost hidden. It was several meters wide and four meters deep.
All that saved them was the absence of any water. The Nissan hit the riverbed with a hard crunch, bounced up into the air, and slammed into the side. All the time Ryder kept his foot down hard. They were under no illusions. They’d survived so far, but the Syrians knew where they’d gone. When they recovered, they would come after them with guns blazing, because they’d lost one of their own.
Nolan looked around to Stern, who’d climbed onto the back seat. “Why the hell did you have to shoot him?”
“When he saw me, he was bringing up his gun to put a bullet in me. What choice did I have? Like a said, Israelis have a hard time in Syria. There was something else. I’m not the only Israeli in this vehicle. What do you think they would have done to Rachel?”