The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  "Watch him," Suleman told the guard who had come with them, and then he withdrew from the room, closing the door. Ethan was left alone with the other man.

  He closed his eyes, doing his best to clear his mind, trying to pretend he wasn't confined to a windowless interrogation room with a militant ready to unload an AK into his chest.

  The door opened some time later; a man in a white robe and skull cap entered. He wore rimless glasses with rectangular lenses. Suleman stood at his side.

  The newcomer took a seat on the floor opposite Ethan, while Suleman remained standing.

  "I am Judge Mohamed Al'Sharia."

  Ethan nodded slowly. "It is an honor to meet you, judge. I am Abu-Emad."

  "I know who you are," Mohamed said. "Do you know what crime you are accused of?"

  "If fighting for Allah and doing His will is a crime, then I am guilty," Ethan declared.

  Mohamed pursed his lips. He exchanged a glance with Suleman, then returned his attention to Ethan. "You are accused of being an American spy."

  Ethan feigned complete disinterest. "Fascinating. And what evidence do you have against me to support this wrongful claim?"

  "We captured two spies this morning," Mohamed said. "Emir Suleman was passing the courthouse when I announced the capture later in the day, and he recognized the two captives bound before me as associates of yours."

  "Associates?" Ethan said. "I have many associates in this camp. I did not know it was a crime to befriend those we fight with. May I ask the names of these associates?"

  "Abu-Wafeeq and Abu-Aadil," Mohamed answered.

  Ethan feigned puzzlement.

  "Don't try to pretend you don't know them," Mohamed said. "Emir Suleman says you met with them in camp the first day of your arrival."

  Ethan glanced at Suleman. So the man had followed him. Ethan hadn't run a surveillance detection route that day, and looking back, he wished he had.

  "He says you often conferred with them in Raqqa as well," Mohamed continued.

  Suleman had been spying on him for a long time, then. He had probably been trailing William and Aaron, too, which is why he 'happened' to be passing by the courthouse earlier.

  Ethan let anger seep into his voice. "I convened with them, certainly, and considered them my friends at the time, but I swear to you, I thought they were foreign fighters like me, here to wage jihad for the Caliphate. I had no idea they were spies. I'm very disappointed in Abu-Wafeeq and Abu-Aadil, if what you say is true. My tongue has been too loose in their company. I trusted them. Trusted." He moved his gaze between Suleman and Mohamed. "Though what really hurts, what really stabs at my warrior's spirit, is that you suspect me of complicity. Me! I, who have come here to lend my Dragunov, and my life, to the cause! I, who have killed in the name of the Caliphate, and Baghdadi, Prince of the Faithful! I, who have saved the life of my fellow mujahadeen!" If necessary, he could call upon Abdullah to testify for him in regards to the latter.

  "Ask yourself," Ethan continued indignantly. "If I were truly a spy, would I do all of these things? Would I?"

  Mohamed reverently produced a cloth-bound book. "Would you swear to your innocence on the Quran?"

  Ethan pretended to hesitate, like any devout Muslim would when presented with the gravity of such an oath.

  Suleman's face darkened. "If he is an infidel, then swearing on the Quran means nothing to him."

  Ethan rested his palm on the sacred book. "I swear I am not an infidel."

  Mohamed nodded. "Do you swear you are not a spy of the Assad regime or the Americans?"

  "I swear I am neither."

  Mohamed swiveled toward Suleman. "You didn't find any evidence on his person? The USB stick? Range finder?"

  Ethan was suddenly relieved he'd stowed those items on the way to the sharia court.

  Suleman snarled at Ethan but didn't otherwise answer.

  "Emir!" Mohamed said.

  Suleman reluctantly shook his head. "There was no USB stick or range finder."

  "And what of his belongings in the barracks?" Mohamed said. "They have been searched?"

  "Just a moment." Suleman spun around, speaking into his two-way radio. When the muffled response came he faced Mohamed once more. "His belongings have been searched. There is no evidence." He sounded extremely disappointed.

  Mohamed regarded Ethan thoughtfully. "I am satisfied of his innocence."

  Suleman bit his lip and for a second Ethan thought the militant was going to contest the judge, but then he looked away.

  "May I go?" Ethan asked.

  Mohamed nodded. "Suleman will escort you to your unit. I apologize for the inconvenience."

  Ethan stood, but then paused. "May I make a request?"

  "You may, but whether I grant it is another matter entirely."

  "I feel that my honor has been sullied by these former friends of mine," Ethan said. "As a form of redress, when the time comes, may I be given the privilege of executing them?"

  "They will likely be executed in Raqqa," Mohamed said. "So your request is unfortunately impossible." He waved a dismissive hand. "Allah yusallmak."

  Ethan followed Suleman into the main camp. Before reaching the Wolf Company barracks, Suleman said over his shoulder, "The judge may have set you free, but I know in my heart that you are involved with the infidels. Though you swear on the Quran, your shifty eyes betray you. I will be watching you, Abu-Emad. And when you misstep, I will be there with my rifle to send you to hell."

  When they arrived at the house, Suleman gave back the combat knife, radio, and cellphone. Ethan made a mental note to perform a thorough malware check on the phone later.

  Suleman slid the Dragunov down from his shoulder and returned that too, along with the spare ammunition.

  "What about the M24?" Ethan said, eying the powerful sniper rifle resting over Suleman's other arm.

  "Mine now," Suleman said, turning away.

  Asshole.

  Almost everyone was still asleep. Ethan, feeling incredibly sapped himself, moved to his spot and lay down to catch more Z's. His belongings were shifted, he noted.

  He closed his eyes, feeling guilty because William and Aaron were likely being interrogated at that very moment, but there was nothing he could do until dark.

  He had difficulty falling asleep. He tried not to think about what was happening to his friends, but he couldn't quench the images. There would be some light torture performed at first, maybe some pulled nails or genital electrocutions. But when they were shipped back to Raqqa, the interrogations would begin in earnest. Broken bones. Chopped fingers. He shuddered at the thought.

  Ethan wondered how long it would be before they divulged his cover, along with the identities of the assets they'd collected since arriving in Syria. Several people would disappear throughout the region over the next few weeks if Ethan failed.

  No pressure or anything.

  He was awakened for prayers at sunset, and afterward ate the cold chicken and rice that Raheel had fetched for supper.

  There was a simmering tension to the air during the meal. Most of those he considered friends in the unit were either dead or in the infirmary. The newcomers didn't know him, and gave him wary looks while he ate. The others, firmly in Suleman's camp, regarded him with outright hostility.

  When he finished eating, the recriminations began, courtesy of Suleman's toadies.

  "Once the kaffir spies tell us everything they know," Fida'a announced. "They will be beheaded."

  "Good," Ethan said without enthusiasm.

  "They will wake up in hellfire every day," Fida'a said. "And burn with endless pain."

  "Good," Ethan repeated.

  "Suleman says you visited them almost every night when we were in Raqqa," Raheel interjected. "Is this true?"

  Ethan glanced at Suleman. The man wore a malicious grin. His eyes shone with that particular fervor of his, along with something new: Hatred.

  It was amazing how quick his fellow mujahadeen were to turn against him. Hard
to believe he had once considered these men brothers.

  "I didn't know they were kaffir spies at the time." Ethan said. "I'm as angry about the whole thing as you are." He turned away. "Now if you will excuse me, I want to read the Quran."

  He returned to his designated spot, pulled out a flashlight, and put on a show of reading his clothbound copy of the sacred book. Surreptitiously, he prepared himself for his outing, wanting to minimize the noise he might make later: he grabbed the duct tape from his pack and slipped it into a cargo pocket. He stored his balaclava in another pocket. He placed the Dragunov within easy reach.

  Eventually the call for lights out came. He turned off the flashlight and stowed it in his harness.

  Ethan lay back and waited, biding his time. His mind was too active for any sleep, especially since he had slumbered throughout most of the day.

  He listened to the gentle pops of the M-37 mortars and the sluggish rat-a-tat of the DShK heavy caliber machine guns, audible despite the distance from Kobane.

  He occasionally checked the time on his smartphone, careful to block the illumination with his body, and when midnight came at long last, he shut off his cellphone for good.

  Clandestine time.

  He was about to arise when he sensed movement behind him. He spun around.

  A dark silhouette loomed above him.

  "Let's go for a walk," Suleman whispered menacingly.

  34

  Ethan grabbed his Dragunov and stood. He was already wearing his knife and radio, and otherwise had everything else he needed, so he calmly followed Suleman into the foyer.

  The man paused by the main entrance. "After you."

  Ethan reluctantly moved through the doorway ahead of Suleman. He braced himself, expecting a point-black bullet to the back of the head.

  But no slugs came. If Suleman had wanted to kill him, of course he wouldn't do it within sight of the unit.

  The militant took the lead in the street beyond. Rooftop blazes lit the way—the stink of burnt tires was particularly strong that night.

  Suleman followed a path that evaded the night patrols. As acting emir of the unit, he might have been able to explain away his defiance of the curfew. However, the fact he avoided the patrols spoke volumes as far as Ethan was concerned.

  Suleman entered an abandoned house and turned on his flashlight, illuminating the insides. He relaxed on a couch in the guest room, and beckoned for Ethan to sit across from him. He set the light source between them on the coffee table, positioning the flashlight so that it shone toward the wall, indirectly illuminating their faces.

  Suleman grinned widely and then, strangely, began disarming himself. He put the M24, Beast, on the floor, along with a Makarov, and a Glock hidden in his boot. He unsheathed his combat knife and set it down, too.

  Ethan merely watched, dumbfounded.

  "I was a soldier in the Iraqi army," Suleman began. "Stationed in a small town just to the east of Mosul. My village was invaded by Islamic State holy warriors. We were divided into two groups. Rafidites"—a derogatory term for Shia, which meant rejectors—"and Sunni. The Sunnis were spared, the Shia rejectors executed on the spot. I was with the Shia. I watched my friends die. But when my turn came, I was spared. Do you know why?"

  Ethan remained silent.

  "Because of Allah. He acted through Abdullah that day, and had the emir save me. Abdullah, the executioner, the savior. He brought me in when all others shunned me. He spared me when he could have easily taken my life. That day I realized everything I had believed in, everything I had followed, was a sham. Everything. So I threw it all aside and embraced Islam. True Islam. And I joined the Islamic State. Not just in body, but mind."

  "Why are you telling me this?" Ethan said.

  Suleman stared at him for a long moment, then strangely the fervent look faded from his eyes, replaced by sadness.

  "I am an officer of the MI6," Suleman said softly, switching to English.

  That got Ethan's attention. He sat straight up.

  "Surprised?" Suleman continued, speaking with a distinct British accent. "I have been embedded almost four years. So long that I've almost forgotten my former life. What I once was is but a memory. This role, it has consumed me. I never meant to lose myself. It just happened. Moments of absolutely clarity, such as now, where I remember who I was and what I stood for, are rare. Usually I dismiss these moments. Tell myself I've moved on. That I've found Allah and the true path. But not this time. Finally I've found someone who understands me. Someone who can set me free."

  Ethan shifted uncomfortably. When entering deep cover, there was always the chance of losing oneself in the role. It was why operatives underwent such extensive psychological screening. Even so, to keep up the charade for four years... Suleman was living proof of what could happen when a man was embedded for too long.

  Assuming, of course, that Suleman was telling the truth.

  Ethan waited for him to reveal more, but when the man remained silent, he spoke.

  "Why are you telling me this?" Ethan repeated in Arabic. He refused to give up his own cover so easily.

  "Isn't it obvious?" Suleman said simply, still in English.

  Ethan studied the man uncertainly, then he slowly slid the Dragunov from his shoulder. He aimed it at Suleman's chest.

  The supposed MI6 officer closed his eyes and began quietly reciting what sounded like a passage from the Quran.

  Ethan let the aim of the weapon drift toward Suleman's head. Killing him would solve several potential problems. But if he was telling the truth, and really was an embedded operative, that made him a fellow Selous Scout...

  He lowered the rifle. "I'm sorry. I can't do it."

  Those eyes shot open. The fervent look had returned, and that intense hatred burned stronger than ever.

  Suleman snarled. "Then you will die, kaffir." He reached down and grabbed the Makarov from the floor.

  Ethan vaulted across the coffee table and smashed away the pistol with the stock of his Dragunov.

  The man bolted upright, crashing into him. In moments Ethan found himself wrestling with Suleman on the floor. The flashlight shone from the rug beside him—one of them had knocked over the coffee table somewhere along the way.

  Ethan managed to get on top. Suleman wrapped his hands around the Dragunov, struggling to wrench it from him. Ethan released the rifle and slammed the heel of his palm into the underside of his opponent's nose.

  Suleman slumped instantly as the septal cartilage crunched against the nasal bone. Blood flowed from his nose onto his cheek, trickling onto the frayed rug in audible drips. His chest cavity raggedly heaved in and out.

  Ethan snatched up the Dragunov, and then grabbed the other weapons Suleman had laid on the floor, starting with Beast. He slid the Dragunov over his left shoulder, Beast his right, stuffed the spare Makarov down the back of his cargo pants, the Glock in his boot. He stowed the extra combat knife in his other boot.

  Ethan seized the man's ammo clips and tucked them into his harness. He discovered the PVS-22 Night Vision clip-on in one of Suleman's pockets, and mounted it to Beast's forward Picatinny. Finally he removed the quick cuff from Suleman's left bicep and attached it to his own, adjusting the tightness.

  Suleman had remained motionless the whole time, completely debilitated.

  "Kill me," Suleman finally gurgled. A small red bubble burst from his lips. Blood was evidently pouring down his throat from the mangled nose.

  "No," Ethan said.

  "If you let me live I'll hunt you down for the rest of your days, I swear it. I can't let you go. Not after what I told you."

  "You can certainly try to hunt me." Ethan took out his cellphone and snapped a photo of Suleman's face. He'd send it to Sam if he ever got the chance. He still wasn't entirely sure he believed Suleman's story, and Sam was the only one who could set the record straight.

  With the duct tape he'd stowed in a cargo pocket, Ethan bound and gagged the lethargic man, folding Suleman forward to s
ecure his hands to his feet like a trussed pig. He left him there like that, lying on his side: if the militant worked hard, he should be able to wiggle outside by morning and someone would set him free.

  Ethan hurried across the street and hid behind a small house. Tires burned on the rooftop. He donned his balaclava, hauled himself over a cinder-block fence, slunk through the backyard, and crossed into a murky alley beyond.

  When he was about two blocks away from Suleman he ran a surveillance detection route, partially doubling back in case the acting emir had instructed one of the others to follow. But no one tailed him.

  With that, he dismissed Suleman from his mind entirely. Whether the man was truly an MI6 operative or not was irrelevant from that point forward.

  Finding a dark alleyway, he checked the offline map on his phone. He reoriented himself until he was facing the destination building, which he had marked earlier, then he memorized the route and put the phone away.

  He arrived at his target and retrieved the USB stick and TruPulse range finder he had stashed in the debris earlier. He plugged the USB into his smartphone on the off chance that Doug was in range, but as expected, the operative embedded among the Kurds appeared offline. Too bad. An airstrike would have proven quite a useful distraction.

  He crept onward, keeping close to the buildings. Shortly thereafter the makeshift sharia courthouse came into view.

  The two AKM-wielding guards of the night shift stood on either side of the entrance. The electric lamps over the twin doors shone brightly, no doubt thanks to a dedicated diesel generator somewhere inside.

  Keeping to the shadows, Ethan circumnavigated the building. There were no windows of any kind. He found another entry in the rear, though it too was well lit and watched by armed men.

  Ethan maneuvered to the unguarded eastern flank of the building. He climbed a nearby palm tree and swung himself onto the three-foot ledge that bordered the wide pyramid topping the structure.

  He skulked along the perimeter until he reached the front. He perched there, above and a little behind the two main guards. They stood roughly three paces apart. The perfect distance for what he planned.