Patriot Dream_A Special Operations Group Thriller

by Stephen Templin

  “What would I do with part of a city? You should accept your fate. It would be far nobler. I’m giving you that choice.”

  “I can pay you money, twenty-one thousand dollars,” Azrael huffed and puffed. “From my safe at home.”

  Minotaur looked down on him. Syrian currency had dropped so low in value that people had to carry thick stacks of cash in order to go shopping. “Syrian money?”

  Azrael continued to breathe heavily. “American.”

  “American,” Minotaur said as if it put a sour taste in his mouth.

  Azrael gasped for air. “What currency do you want?”

  “This.” Minotaur turned and nodded at Bear once more, who charged forward and slashed Azrael’s throat.

  Azrael’s body threw itself into spasms, and he screamed. “Aarglh!” Crimson liquid spurted from his neck—more than usual because he was upside down. He flapped and twisted like a fish on a hook, choking on his blood, and his excited state made him bleed out faster.

  The blood on Minotaur’s hand felt soothingly warm. “Let’s find one of Azrael’s underlings and confirm his story about the two men who killed our sniper.”

  Chapter Nine

  Tom had a vague feeling that he was dead. An indeterminate hum droned through the blackness of a dream, and he experienced a rumbling in his bones and the beat of his heart. Maybe I’m still alive.

  He lay on something hard, and dust choked him. He feared what he might see if he opened his eyes, but more than that, he feared what he might not see. He clawed his way toward consciousness.

  A faint light appeared in the corner of the darkness and spread until black lines took shape and became the legs of three Arab men. They appeared to be in their late twenties, like Tom. They were seated in the back of a truck, exposed to the elements. Tom attempted to move his hands swiftly, but there was a fog between his brain’s command and his hands’ response. Making matters worse, his hands were cuffed behind him. He struggled to his knees before he rose unsteadily and sat beside one of the men on a bench. Their hands were behind their backs, too. Tom’s vision was still fuzzy, but he could see tilted palm trees and buildings as gravity pulled him down. Where am I?

  The sunlight gradually brightened. He remembered that the Agency had sent his brother Max and him to Syria to investigate reports of a new drug to be used as part of some high-level assassination plot. And he remembered Max killing a Russian sniper for Azrael to get more information. They met with Azrael in the morning, and in the evening, they ate dinner at a restaurant in Jobar, a municipality of Damascus—the last thing that Tom remembered. Somehow he must’ve passed out.

  Where’s Max?

  Tom’s vision became clearer, and he spotted a truck in front of them and a truck behind—they were in a three-vehicle convoy. Inside Tom’s truck, one man said to a bearded man, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you two. They were looking for you, but they captured me, too. Even though I’m innocent.”

  “You deserted Daesh,” Long Beard said, using the pejorative word for the terrorist group.

  The guy shook his head. “I didn’t desert. I served my time, and then I left. I did my duty.”

  Long Beard grinned as if he were looking down on a child. “You came here for some adventure—isn’t this adventurous?”

  “They wouldn’t have noticed me missing if they hadn’t been looking for you two. It’s you they want, not me.”

  “Daesh wants all of us. And they got us.”

  Tom’s worst fear was realized—he was a prisoner of Daesh, aka ISIS. His breathing became rapid and shallow, and dust mixed in the air, complicating his breathing even more. Sweat drenched his body. The atmosphere felt oppressive. He had to get a grip before his life slipped away.

  Deserter struggled with his cuffs, as if to free himself. “This isn’t real, this isn’t real.”

  The third prisoner had a thin neck. He leaned toward Long Beard and looked at Tom sideways. “Who is he?”

  Long Beard eyed Tom and asked in Arabic, “Are you Russian? Or American?”

  Tom weighed how to answer the question or if he should answer at all.

  Deserter struggled harder and twitched as if he was losing his marbles. “Allah, help me.”

  “Shut up back there!” the driver barked.

  Beside the road, a Syrian girl in a cinnamon-colored dress pointed at the convoy, but her mother pulled her into the house.

  The trucks slowed.

  “Why’re we slowing down?” Deserter asked.

  Long Beard chuckled at him as if he were an idiot. “End of the road.”

  The trucks stopped, and a guard armed with an AK-47 opened the back. “Get out!”

  “Come on,” Long Beard said. “Let’s show them some pride.”

  Deserter balked and wouldn’t leave the vehicle.

  “Die with dignity, Deserter,” Thin Neck growled.

  Panic filled the deserter’s voice. “Tell them I’m not FSA,” referring to Free Syrian Army, the enemies of Daesh and President Assad’s dictatorship. Tom assumed that Long Beard and Thin Neck were FSA.

  “He’s not FSA,” Long Beard said.

  Deserter appealed to the guard. “See?”

  The guard snatched him off the truck. “Off the truck, deserter!”

  Deserter fell and stayed on the ground. “No, I’m not a deserter,” he pleaded. “You’re wrong.”

  “Shut up!” the guard barked.

  “No, no, no!” Deserter leaped to his feet and ran past the guard.

  “Stop!” The guard brought up his AK-47 and pointed it at the fleeing man.

  “You can’t execute me for desertion because I’m not deserting!” He kept running.

  The guard’s muzzle flashed. Pa-pa-pa-pa-pow! Deserter arched his back before he crashed into the dust. The guard closed in on him, and Deserter wiggled as if to get away. The guard fired on full auto again. Gore sprayed and Deserter became still.

  The guard turned and sneered at Tom and the others and asked, “Who wants to escape next?”

  The specter of death hovered over Tom, and his chest tightened. He was afraid—which meant he was still alive. Even so, how he handled fear could extend his life or terminate it. He remembered his father teaching him to breathe “four-and-four-for-four” to help him through stressful situations. So Tom breathed in for four seconds and exhaled for four more seconds. As he continued his four-and-four-for-four, he made a snap inventory of his person: his belt was gone, and he couldn’t feel the pressure of his concealed pistol against his abdomen. Similarly, his pockets seemed empty, and his knife was missing, too. Daesh had taken everything. Or so it seemed.

  He touched the back hem of the waist of his trousers—his razor blade in a tiny sheath and lock pick were still hidden inside, and he knew he could use the pick to unlock his handcuffs. He pushed the fingers of both hands inside his waistband and felt for a piece of fabric to pull. He rapidly found it. With the fingers of one hand he pulled—coughing to conceal the sound of the Velcro opening—while he held the fingers of his other hand below the lock pick to catch it. As he opened the hem further the razor and metal shim fell into his fingers. The metal of the pick was warm like his handcuffs.

  The guard who shot the deserter seemed to have a permanent sneer, and he sauntered to the prisoners’ truck as if he was the leader. “Out!” he barked.

  Long Beard hopped out of the vehicle, and Thin Neck followed. Tom’s white skin and six-foot height made him stand out enough as it was, and he didn’t want to draw more attention to himself by appearing disobedient, so he got out of the truck briskly. He didn’t want to lose his precious pick, and he squeezed his fingers tightly. When his feet hit the ground, his body jolted, and he dropped something. The razor. He hoped he wouldn’t be needing it. Moreover, he hoped his captors didn’t notice it in the dirt.

  “Follow me,” the leader said.

  Tom had witnessed numerous videos of the horrors of ISIS executions—images and audio unavailable to the public,
too grisly to speak of, except in a whisper. He forgot about four-and-four-for-four. The manner and moment of his death consumed him.

  Tom and his fellow prisoners followed the leader to an open area surrounded by buildings, where a black-clad man gripping an ax stood next to a chopping block, blood-stained wicker basket, and an ISIS flag. The blade of the ax was longer than any Tom had seen before—custom forged, it was horrifically beautiful. Opposite the executioner stood a man with a digital camera mounted on a tripod. Black-clad men armed with AKs stood around, but it wasn’t clear whether they were additional muscle, spectators, or what their purpose was. A fire smoldered in a barrel, its smoke stinking like burned human excrement.

  The terrorist leader put his hands on his hips and stared at the Arab prisoners. “You call yourselves the Free Syrian Army, but we will free Damascus, not you.”

  Tom covertly slipped his pick into a cuff lock and turned it. His cuff unlocked.

  “Did you hear something?” the executioner asked, his voice booming and menacing.

  The executioner’s words struck Tom like a lightning bolt of fear.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” the leader said. “To the chopping block.”

  The sound of machines began to rumble, grind, whoosh and buzz. There must’ve been a construction crew clearing debris nearby. Tom wished the construction work had started earlier to mask the sound of him unlocking his cuffs.

  When it was his turn to die, Tom planned to bow as if he was about to kneel to the block before sprinting between the two nearest buildings. Outnumbered and unarmed, he didn’t expect to get far before Daesh gunned him down, but at least he’d go out resisting. His mother had died when he was young, his girlfriend died several months ago, and his father was killed soon after. Now he looked forward to reuniting with all three of them. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing calmed, and his mind cleared. Thinking of meeting them on the other side made him tranquil. See you soon.

  The leader stood in front of the camera and ranted, “Allah’s enemies are the apostates, Free Syrian Army, Shiites, atheists, Christians, and Jews. Today we have captured three of them, and we capture more each day. Allah’s enemies cannot stop Damascus from becoming another base under our Caliphate...

  Thin Neck sighed loudly. “Are you going to shut up and do this or kill me with your boring speech?”

  The leader’s sneer faded, and he became flustered. “Cut, cut,” he commanded the cameraman before turning to Thin Neck and shouting, “You first!”

  Thin Neck reverently approached the chopping block and stood.

  “Roll camera,” the leader said.

  Thin Neck looked up at the leader and said, “Allah loves me. Can you say the same for yourself, infidel?”

  The leader screamed at the cameraman, “Cut, cut!” Then he screamed at Thin Neck, “No more talking!”

  “Yes, please,” Thin Neck said. “No more talking.”

  “You don’t hear it?” the executioner said.

  “I don’t hear anything except you and this yapping dog,” the leader barked. “And the racket from that construction crew.” He took a moment to cool down. “Roll camera.”

  Thin Neck kneeled and bowed his head to the chopping block.

  The executioner swung his ax through the air and chopped off Thin Neck’s head. Tom’s stomach roiled as he watched it topple into the bloody basket. The leader kicked the headless body over to the side, and two of his men dragged it away.

  “He died as he lived,” Long Beard said in a mournful baritone. “Fearless.”

  Tom silently recited the Lord’s Prayer: Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, in earth, as it is in heaven...

  The leader pointed at Tom. “Next!”

  Tom walked to the chopping block.

  ...and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil...

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tom eyed the space between the two buildings where he planned to run. He bowed as if about to kneel. He unlocked his other cuff. Clang. His handcuffs fell to the ground.

  “What?!” the leader exclaimed.

  A loud roar descended from above, and a giant shadow spread across the ground. Tom looked up to spot a massive bird, eclipsing the sun and belching bullets like a fiery dragon. It was a Russian attack helicopter—a Hind.

  “What?” the leader asked again in disbelief.

  “Helicopter!” the executioner shouted.

  A blast from the helo ripped into the executioner and knocked him against Tom, slamming them both to the earth.

  “Run!” the leader shouted. He and his men scattered like cockroaches.

  Tom pocketed his pick and promptly swiped the executioner’s ax from his hands. The brown handle was colored like wood, but it felt light and smooth, like high-impact plastic. Tom was an expert with bladed weapons, but this was the largest he’d wielded in combat. His father often shared his Marine Corps mantra: “Improvise, adapt, overcome.” Tom rose to his feet and sprinted for the space between the two closest buildings.

  Long Beard ran beside him. Whoosh. A rocket flew down from the Hind. Boom! Another detonation rocked the ground, blowing Tom and Long Beard spout over teakettle. Tom fought to his feet, pleased that he’d held on to the ax. He helped Long Beard up, and they raced away from the hovering beast.

  Another explosion sounded, quaking the ground, and fragments flew from the building to the left. Tom pivoted to the adobe brick building to his right and burst inside. Long Beard tumbled in after him.

  They were in the living room of someone’s house. Tom looked at Long Beard’s handcuffs and remembered he had a pick. He removed it from his pocket, pointed it at the handcuffs, and said in Arabic, “I can open those.”

  Long Beard seemed surprised that Tom could speak his language. “Please.”

  Tom set down his ax and went to work on the lock. This time was easier than when he had to unlock his own. Long Beard’s handcuffs came undone and fell to the ground. He smiled.

  Boom! The floor rumbled, and one wall heaved before falling apart and creating a gaping, ragged hole. Through a cloud of dust, Tom could see that other buildings were reduced to rubble. The Hind continued to spit death. Black-clad men shouted and cried out as they ran chaotically. One lifted an RPG and fired off a rocket at the Hind, but the helo answered with bullets from a Yak-B Gatling gun, literally cutting the man down. Tom’s building caught on fire, so he picked up his ax and said, “Time to go.”

  Tom exited the building first and turned. Smack in front of him was the Daesh leader, but now his eyes were mongo. Tom let bygones be bygones and buried the hatchet—at a forty-five degree angle between the leader’s shoulder and neck, busting through bone and life fluid. Tom’s call sign wasn’t Tomahawk for nothing. The leader folded sideways like a paper fan. Tom picked up his AK and handed the ax to Long Beard.

  On the road ahead of them was a rusted, bullet-riddled sports car with the windshield blown out and the driver kicked back like he was lost in a daydream. Tom aimed at him while approaching the vehicle, calling to Long Beard, “Watch my back.”

  “You’re American, aren’t you?” Long Beard asked.

  Tom ignored his question and carefully opened the car door.

  “We’re on the same side,” Long Beard said with the first hint of optimism in his deep voice.

  Tom glanced over his shoulder to make sure Long Beard was guarding their rear. He was. Then Tom returned his attention to the man in the car. His face looked like a sledgehammer had slammed through it, and he wore black like the other Daesh terrorists, but this jihadi’s fanatical days were over.

  There was wet goo all over the interior of the vehicle, most of it concentrated in the driver’s seat. Tom removed the body and sat in a puddle. The blood on the floorboard was slick like motor oil. He propped the leader’s AK between his legs with the barrel facing down.

  He noticed the key in the ignition. With the noise of the Hind and people running for cover or shoo
ting back, Tom hadn’t heard the sports car’s engine running, but now he could clearly hear it. “Let’s go!” Tom called out to Long Beard.

  Long Beard turned.

  Crack!

  The top of Long Beard’s head split open like a canoe rack, and he dropped face first.

  Tom didn’t know the source of the shooter, and he didn’t stick around to find out. He put the car in drive and gunned the accelerator. He’d hoped to drop off Long Beard at his destination, exchange quick words, and part ways, but that wasn’t meant to be. Now Tom had to get out of the kill zone—fast! And find his brother Max.

  Chapter Ten

  “Es-hy,” a man’s voice said in Arabic. Wake up. “Es-hy...”

  Max slowly forced his eyelids open. He lay on a floor blurry-eyed, staring down a long, thin, beige line, one of many, divided by toasted yellow squares that created long beige rectangles on the carpet. Between the thin beige lines were thick cinnamon lines and an occasional bar made up of beige, toasted yellow, and cinnamon triangles. It reminded him of lines on a carpet in a mosque, where Muslims lined up for prayer. This place was spacious enough for a hundred worshippers. The neatness of the lines was disrupted by nearly a hundred books strewn about—Qurans.

  A hand gave him a shake. “Es-hy.”

  Max blinked the sleepy out of his eyes and turned to the sound of the voice. A grandfatherly man with a white beard and wearing a white flowing robe stood above him. He had the aura of a holy man—an imam. Behind him was a microphone for the call to prayer and an arched doorway bordered with artful geometric patterns. Natural light shone down from high windows and artificial light came from a chandelier. Max sat up unsteadily. “How’d I get here?”

  The imam had a Quran in hand, and he picked up another. His Arabic was kind: “When I came in this morning, I found you here. I don’t know how you got here.” He pointed at the scattered Qurans. “This is not good. We need to pick up Allah’s word.”

  A middle-aged man in a white robe entered the room and promptly pitched in. They were the only ones here.