Killing Ground

by Eric Meyer

"Story of the Islamic world," Bryce murmured.

  Nolan couldn't help wondering when the various factions would lay down their arms. When the so-called Religion of Peace stopped making war on its own people. "Amen to that. Let's see what's inside that tunnel."

  They climbed out of the Nissan and walked quietly along the dark, dusty passage. After two hundred meters, they heard voices ahead, and they kept walking. Stepping over debris, abandoned construction equipment and broken tools, he saw two people in front of them. They'd stopped, as if they were waiting. He didn't intend to wait. Not while Waverley was somewhere up ahead.

  He turned to Bryce. "Cover me. Let's see what we have here."

  Will nodded, and they held their position while Nolan crept forward without making a sound. He was twenty meters behind them when he called out, "Hold it. Stay where you are, hands in the air."

  The hands went up. A girl's voice replied, "Kyle?"

  "Rachel? What the hell's going on?” She was a dim shape in the darkness, starting to lower her hands. He could hardly believe what he was seeing, and one thing was for sure. Right now he didn't trust anyone, “No, don't move. Keep the hands up, both of you. Is that Colonel Stern?”

  "It is."

  He went forward, and they waited for him. He was so confused he didn't know how to play it. But he was also something else. More bitter than he could have believed, in that they'd deceived him. That she'd deceived him.

  "You'd better explain yourselves. What're you doing here?"

  He heard footsteps behind, and Will Bryce called out they were coming up. He relaxed a little and waited for the explanation.

  "I'm sorry, Kyle."

  He shot her a savage glare. "Start talking."

  "You remember Colonel Stern took me back to the hotel, and he walked inside. We reached the hallway, and he happened to stare out of the window into the street. A white Toyota Land Cruiser was driving past, and still carry me in his arms, he raced back down the staircase."

  "We didn't have a vehicle," Stern added, "So I had to steal one."

  "The G-Wagen."

  "That's right. As you know, I don't have any problems with locks, and I got it started, and we went after him. Sadly, I lost it on the way to Aleppo, so I called my contacts in Israeli intelligence, and they managed to pick it up on the road to Aleppo."

  "It must have been a surveillance drone," he murmured.

  "Yes, we have more aircraft in the sky over Syria than the Syrian Air Force and the Russians combined. Ours are a little more discreet. They also fed the details into the computers and came up with something interesting, an intercept of a cellphone conversation between Waverley and ISIS headquarters in Aleppo. Apparently, he offered them a substantial sum of money in return for renting an apartment for a few days, provided they gave him absolute protection. Of course they agreed, they're short of money and losing the war badly. But it meant I had an address, and so we followed him. We arrived in Aleppo and staked out the Land Cruiser in the parking lot. When he drove away, we followed, and that's all of it."

  "So you were just after the money. You're common thieves, is that it? Rachel, is that what you wanted all the time, the money?”

  She shook her head, her voice low and sad, "No. It's about my sister."

  "What the hell does your sister have to do with it?"

  "Her name is, or was, Helen Shapiro. Shapiro was her married name. She'd divorced the previous year. Her maiden name was Dayan. Helen was my older sister. Colonel Stern was what you in the West would call our godfather.”

  “How did you know he killed Helen?”

  “Helen was suspicious and Israeli intelligence had been keeping an eye on him. When we found out Waverley was coming to Syria, we came looking for justice. Like they say in the Old Testament. An eye for an eye."

  "So when we were driving into Syria it was no accident when we bumped into you."

  "No, it wasn't. And now you know all of it."

  He thought of the way she'd handled herself, and in particular the way she'd handled a gun. "So who do you work for? You're no civilian.”

  A pause. "I work for Mossad. I'm a trainee field agent, and they gave me leave to pursue this man. He killed my sister, a Jew, which was enough to sanction me and the Colonel seeking justice."

  Stern grimaced. "You must understand. It had to be undercover. Waverley is a U.S. State Department employee. We couldn't make it a public assassination."

  He wasn't looking at Stern. He was looking Rachel. "So it was all bullshit, the thing between us. You used me.”

  "Kyle, that's not true. We had something special."

  “You whored yourself to get revenge for your sister,” he spat back at her.

  "If that's what was needed, I'd have done it. But it wasn’t. Kyle, you're very special to me. You still are, even though you feel deceived.”

  “Well, well, how cozy.”

  They'd been concentrating on Rachel Dayan and Colonel Nathan Stern, and Waverley had appeared from a side tunnel. He was holding a Kalashnikov assault rifle; no doubt a present from his ISIS pals.

  "How about you all drop your weapons. Otherwise, I’ll squeeze the trigger, and you all die. Drop them, and I'll just kill one man. Nolan, you've been a total pain in the ass since Andrews Air Force Base. The rest of you start walking back the way you came. Lieutenant Nolan, I'm gonna put you out of my misery. This is goodbye.”

  Bryce nodded for them to move back and raised the gun. Nolan tensed, about to make a final, desperate lunge at Waverley. There was no chance it would work, but it was the only move he had left. He felt the adrenaline pumping through his system as he prepared to make a final, last ditch attempt to save himself. He lunged, too late. The shot was loud in the confined space. Endgame. He’d failed, and he waited for the blackness.

  Chapter Twelve

  He could hardly believe it. No way, it wasn’t possible. He was still alive. How could he have missed? Not from that short distance. Yet Waverley was still there, standing in front of him, his mouth wide open in surprise, as astonished as Nolan. He didn’t stop to question why the bullet had missed. All he saw in front of him was a killer, a man who’d done everything to wreck their mission and steal the money, and he went forward with a flying leap.

  One hand grabbed for his gun hand. Waverley was surprisingly fit and fast. He fought back hard, wrestling with him to free his gun hand, and striking out with his fist. Nolan returned the blows, jabbing repeatedly at the head, using the other hand to keep hold of the wrist holding the gun. He stopped him aiming a second shot at him, but Waverley still had his finger curled around the trigger, and he got off another round. It seared the side of his head, a lightning bolt of pain as the bullet tore a long strip of his scalp away in its passing. It was fortunate for him Waverley had either by accident or intention kept the selector on single shot. Otherwise, he’d have sprayed bullets around the narrow space of the tunnel, and it wouldn’t be a non-fatal graze to the head he had to worry about, but a fatal series of bullets stitched into his body.

  He kept hold of the wrist and wouldn’t let go. The two men fought and struggled, and he wouldn’t give up. To give up would have meant disaster and death for some of his men. As he fought Waverley for possession of the gun, he saw Bryce and Stern watching intently, looking for a way to intervene, but wary of making the wrong move that would cause him to fire the submachine gun.

  There was something else. Despite everything that had happened, he didn’t want any injury to Rachel. He hammered at the man’s head again and again, fighting the waves of pain, ignoring Waverley’s fist beating at him, and refusing to give up his hold on the wrist. He was punching on automatic, almost passing out with the pain, and at last he got a result. The man dropped the gun and immediately lunged for the ground to pick it up. With a final, colossal effort, as he was about to lapse into unconsciousness, Nolan summoned up every last ounce of his waning strength and hammered a final blow at Waverley. The head snapped back, and he fell, banging his head on the stone
floor. Ryder rushed forward, his knife held ready to strike.

  Nolan sensed everything going black. He didn’t know how serious the head wound was, and whether he would live or die, but he’d beaten Waverley and protected his people, and protected Rachel. The light faded, and he fell into unconsciousness. He came around, and Ryder was standing over Waverley clutching a bloody knife. The man was dead, staring up at the roof of the tunnel through lifeless eyes. He knew what had happened and felt sick because he’d wanted to finish the worthless piece of scum for himself. Yet he felt relieved the evil bastard wasn’t about to cause any more pain. He put his hand up to the wound, and when he pulled away, it was covered in blood. Ryder knelt beside him.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks, Lt. You were lucky.”

  He frowned. “I don’t feel so lucky. How long was I out?”

  “A couple of minutes, it can’t have been any more.”

  He looked aside at Waverley’s body. “What happened?

  A shrug. "He tried to go for the gun. I stopped him."

  "Did anyone else get hurt?"

  He looked evasive, and he didn’t answer. Nolan looked at the others, and Bryce couldn’t meet his gaze. Zeke was taking a sudden interest in an abandoned piece of machinery lying on the floor, and Vince was in the shadows. He looked back at Ryder.

  "What’re you not telling me?"

  "That first bullet was intended for you, but Rachel jumped between you and Waverley. She took the hit. I’m sorry, Boss, but she’s not good. She’s…”

  "NO!"

  He staggered to his feet and looked for her. She was lying on the ground, covered in blood, her breathing a series of shallow gasps. Her eyes were closed, and Stern was cradling her head. The Israeli looked at him, and his eyes had filled with tears.

  “First it was Helen, and now it’s Rachel. Lieutenant Nolan, they say he who seeks revenge should first dig two graves. He was right. We should dig two graves. One for Helen, and now a grave for Rachel.”

  His chest felt as if someone had beaten him with a sledgehammer. His head felt worse, but it wasn’t the pain of the wound. It was agony, the anguish of seeing her lying there. Perhaps dying. He knelt next to her and touched her face, but she didn’t respond.

  “How bad is it?”

  Stern returned a look that said it all. "The bullet entered her stomach, and it’s still inside her. I don't think she’ll live, not with such a massive wound in such a critical area. Lieutenant, this is Aleppo, a war zone. All of the hospital facilities were destroyed months ago, and I doubt there’s anywhere she can get the kind of attention she needs if she is to have a chance. We have to face facts.”

  He physically swayed with the enormity of Stern’s words of death and fought to regain his balance. "Dammit, Colonel, we have to do something. Zeke, I want you to take a look at her, see if you can do anything while we’re working out where to take her."

  “Sure thing.” He spent some time inspecting the wound, prodding around, and at times she groaned with the pain. When he looked up his expression was somber, "She has a chance, but it’s no more than a very faint one. It all depends on how much the bullet chewed her up internally, and the only way to find out is to get her to an Emergency Room. And I mean like yesterday. She’s going down fast, Lt."

  He shouted aloud, his voice filled with desperation. "Move it, all of you! We have to get her out of here! We have to find someplace to treat her.”

  He gently picked her up, Stern holding her shoulders and supporting her head. Nolan placed his arms around her back, and Zeke held her legs. They started walking back toward the vehicles at the end of the tunnel, and as they were leaving, Ryder scooped up the flight case. It was lying next to Waverley's body, like an unwanted and discarded piece of equipment. Guarded by the corpse of the man who would be rich.

  For a short time he’d been rich, but now he would enter eternity as poverty stricken as he’d been before he started the chain of events that led to the double-cross. That led to him trying to have them killed, to abandoning them in Syria. Now he’d met his death inside the dark tunnel built to provide a rail link, an idea conceived during an earlier war fought by the Syrians. A war they’d also lost. The difference was this time losing the war had cost them much of the nation’s infrastructure. Now the tunnel would serve a different purpose as the tomb of a murderer, a traitor, and a thief.

  They carried her back to the vehicle, and Nolan gently eased her onto the back seat of the Nissan. Misha watched, his expression sad. He’d seen so much fighting and so much death he was under no illusions about her condition. The wound was bleeding badly, and blood dripped from the seat onto the ragged carpet. Nolan knelt next to her, so he could hold her and prevent her being thrown around during the journey.

  "Misha, take us to a hospital with an Emergency Room. Fast!"

  "But, Lieutenant, there is no…"

  "I said take us to an Emergency Room, now! I’ll give you double money if you get us there in record time. Triple money. Anything!" He felt his world collapsing, imploding around the body of a girl he’d briefly loved. No, that wasn’t right. A girl he still loved, no matter what.

  “I will do my best.” He shot Nolan a look, “But I do it for her, not for the money.”

  He drove out of the parking lot, and as they entered Aleppo, the battle was still raging. Twice he was forced to take detours to avoid Turkish armor roaming the streets. Both times they were Leopard 1 Main Battle Tanks, and the constant doubling back and circling around the area of battle made the going much too slow. She was running out of time, just like she was running out of the blood dripping onto the floor next to him.

  "Misha, you have to drive faster. She’s not going to make it."

  “There’re too many obstructions. If I go faster I will wreck the vehicle."

  "I don't give a shit what happens to this damn Nissan. Do whatever it takes, and if you break it, I'll buy you a brand new one. Top spec. Christ, I’ll buy you a Cadillac if that’s what it takes."

  “A Cadillac won’t handle these roads well.”

  “Misha, drive!”

  He sighed. "Very well."

  He accelerated, his right foot flat on the floor, and they hurtled through the city center. Passing an epic ongoing fight between the Turks and elements of the PKK, the Kurdish Army. Bullets and shells going both ways, and at one point they narrowly avoided a PKK gun emplacement, half buried inside the ruins of what he told them was once a famous archaeological museum.

  Misha ignored them all, even when Turkish armor began swapping shells with the artillery. High explosive rounds flew overhead, slamming into buildings. In most cases they were already ruined, so the high explosive merely churned over the rubble. Several times they came close to taking a direct hit, when tank shells whistled past, only feet over the roof of the Patrol. Once, a salvo of shells slammed into a building as they were driving past, and masonry rained down on the spot they’d just driven past. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, maybe he’d consigned his soul to the heavens, or maybe to hell. Whatever the reason, he gripped the wheel hard, head pressed forward, almost touching the windshield. Working out a way through the nightmarish destruction.

  Somehow, as if by some sixth sense, he picked his way through the rubble without once easing his foot off the gas pedal. Just as they thought they were out of the worst of it, two lines of bullets tore through the thin bodywork of the Patrol, thankfully missing the occupants. They continued heading south, and at last the shooting petered out as they started to leave the city, or what remained of it.

  Suddenly, Misha swung the wheel over and skidded to a halt in front of an anonymous-looking building. Although it was easy to identify the place as a makeshift hospital, with lines and lines of wounded lying outside waiting for treatment. Men and women swathed in crude bandages, with blood leaking through. They were the lucky ones. Many had no bandages or any kind of dressings over their wounds, and so their lifeblood leaked away in the interminable wait for medical attenti
on.

  "This was a school,” he explained, “When they bombed and shelled the hospital they moved the equipment out here, at least, as much of it that wasn’t destroyed in the bombing. But as you can see, there are so many casualties, and I know most of the medical staff were killed in the attack. They have so few left, I doubt they will see her.”

  “They’ll see her. Get her inside!"

  They rushed her through the main doors into the lobby, where a triage nurse was making notes on what appeared to be a school exercise book. Nolan rushed up to her.

  “Please, she needs urgent treatment.”

  She didn’t even look up at him. “I'm sorry. We're already full. We cannot take any more casualties. You will have to take her elsewhere.” She nodded toward rows of bloody wounded lying on the floor, “They have already been waiting too long. If there was anything I could do to help I would, but we have so little."

  “Nurse, look at her, please!”

  She moved her head a fraction. Her eyes took in Rachel’s condition, and she shook her head. “We have so many more like her. I’m sorry.”

  He was desperate and almost tempted to threaten her with a gun, but she was just a nurse, overwhelmed by the war between so many different sides tearing each other apart, and destroying a fine old city in the process.

  He was struggling to work out his next move when a doctor emerged from what was originally the head teacher’s office. He said something to the nurse, and she shook her head. He started to turn away, but Nolan grabbed the guy’s wrist.

  “Doc, I need help. A girl is desperately wounded. She’s dying.”

  “No, no, we cannot help. We are already overwhelmed.”

  He tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go, and then an idea came to him.

  "Ryder, you have the case?"

  "Sure, I have it with me. It’s not a good idea to leave that kind of money in the vehicle."

  "Count out a half million dollars. Doctor, would that make a difference? Treat her now, and the money is yours. Half a million bucks U.S., and you can use it for whatever you want. You can save plenty of lives with that kind of money. Buy yourself a world cruise, a Porsche, anything, but please, treat her now. Before she dies.”