by Amy Jarecki
As they drove through the war-torn streets of Latakia, past burnt out cars and crumbling buildings that used to be people’s homes, the clock on the dash read 10 p.m. Not far out of town, the city lights faded, and the van’s headlights were all that illuminated the road ahead. At 11:48 p.m., they turned onto a dirt road. Ten minutes later, they stopped at a check point guarded by men armed with AK47s and had their faces covered. They spoke Arabic, the driver telling the men he was bringing in another virgin. All eyes shifted to Olivia while she stared at them through the shroud of her burka.
Your biggest nightmare has arrived.
One of the guards made a call. “Another’s coming your way.”
After they drove around a hill, an encampment came into sight, dimly lit by a pair of opposing streetlights. From her seat in the back of the van, from the mishmash of corrugated iron and plaster it looked like they were approaching a derelict compound. But after the van continued through a narrow tunnel, an oasis appeared as they rolled to a stop in an enormous courtyard, complete with a fountain in the center. It sure looked like an al-Umari smoke screen—derelict facade, hiding great wealth inside. Olivia had no doubt the roofs of the buildings were covered with anti-aircraft material to camouflage the compound from spy satellites and planes, otherwise this place wouldn’t have been missed.
But the thugs didn’t take her in through the front door of the mansion looming in the shadows at the rear of the compound. Two armed guards and a woman with a withered face cloaked by a black chador met them at a side gate and glared hatefully while Yakov nudged Olivia ahead with the point of his AK47.
Olivia glanced at him over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked in English.
He just laughed.
The woman pointed her rifle down a poorly lit path covered by anti-aircraft netting. Obviously, they assumed Olivia couldn’t speak the language, which was how she wanted it for now. The less they knew about her the better—and all they had to go on were the fake documents they’d already confiscated.
Led along a fence topped with razor wire, she said nothing and followed until the guards stopped outside the door of a two-story building clad with metal siding. It reminded her of an auto repair garage or a neglected factory—peeling paint, cracked glass in the window.
Inside the door, they were met by two armed women. No one said a word. The withered-faced woman number one, appearing to be the bitch in charge, used the point of her AK47 to force Olivia into a shower room with no stalls or curtains, just broken shower heads. She pointed to a bench and said, “take off your clothes” into a phone. An app translated the Arabic into English.
That’s when Olivia noticed the pressure washer hooked up to a faucet on the wall. This could get ugly fast.
“Hey, I’m good with having a shower.” Olivia held up her hands. “No problem.” After two days in the smelly hold of the fishing trawler, she’d gladly lather up, even with female terror-rabs from hell watching. She removed the burka, and the boss-woman shouted, waving the gun, telling her to stop.
Olivia again raised her hands, holding up the burka.
Squinting, the boss-woman moved in and pinched Olivia’s chin, then turned her face from side to side none too gently.
A weight in Olivia’s stomach dropped to her toes. Did she look too old? Logan had thought Dr. R’s injections had made her look like a mannequin.
Shit!
“You’re the prettiest one yet,” the woman said.
Olivia pretended not to understand, and shifted her gaze between the two guard-women who stood on opposite walls, their rifles at the ready as if a seventeen-year-old girl was capable of anarchy…which she was, though twelve years older.
Shoving Olivia backward, the woman indicated for her to continue to disrobe.
“What is your name?” Olivia asked, removing the abaya.
When the woman didn’t respond, Olivia asked the question in French.
“Jadaa,” she replied that her name was grandmother.
Olivia snorted. “I sincerely doubt that.”
The woman made an angry face, gesturing to Olivia’s sundress. “Take everything off!” she shouted into the translation app.
Olivia pulled off the dress, finding a fist-sized bruise over her ribcage. But she kept her mouth shut and, once she’d stripped, the woman grasped her by the shoulders and backed her into the stall.
One of the guards flipped the switch on the pressure washer.
Jadaa picked up the nozzle.
“How high do you have that thing turned up?” Olivia’s stomach squeezed into a hard lump.
The stream hit her like a continuous blast of a paintball gun. Paintball hurt, but it was bam and done. This jet was a cleansing off a layer of skin with freezing cold water. Jadaa moved the wand like a fire hose, side to side, up and down. Olivia’s tender ribs hurt while she crossed her arms, spinning away from the sting.
“Stop!” she shouted, moving her hands up to protect her eyes.
But Jadaa just walked closer.
Her skin raw, Olivia dropped to her knees and curled into a ball. “I’m clean. Stop. Please!” She squeezed her eyes shut, the world spinning. Rage shot through her limbs. If only she could grab the nozzle, she’d rip it from the woman’s hands and use Jadaa as a human shield while she turned the jet onto the guards. Her hands shaking from the desperate need to take charge, Olivia forced her mind to one thing.
Revenge.
She was too close to al-Umari to expose her cover.
At last she was inside the murderer’s operation and she had to stay alive. A little skin abrasion she could endure if it meant success at long last.
Her mind controlled her pain.
She would brave this humiliation and torture to invoke her own justice. Her time was nigh.
After Jadaa turned off the pressure washer, she tossed Olivia a towel. The woman’s eyes were filled with hate.
“She isn’t crying,” said one of the guards.
“No.” Jadaa crossed her arms and regarded Olivia intently. “There is something different about this one. She’s a fighter.”
Olivia was given an abaya and hijab to wear. Nothing for her feet, no knickers, no bra. Once she was dressed, Jadaa and the female guards took her further into the building and climbed a flight of stairs. Everything was dim. Paint chipped from plaster walls. Jadaa used a key to unlock a door and gestured for Olivia to enter.
Though it was dark and difficult to see to the back wall, the long room was filled with countless bedrolls, each containing a sleeping girl.
Holy Moses, the rescue mission just exploded into an exodus.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For the past forty-eight hours, all ICE had to rely on was the microchip in Olivia’s head. Logan had been picked up by a French patrol boat that refused to enter Syrian waters on the basis that they didn’t have permission from the Assad regime.
Logan was about to explode. This was freaking war, and the goddamned French were waiting for permission? Every attempt he’d made to persuade the captain otherwise had fallen on deaf ears.
Logan fumed in the small office he’d been given below decks. At least there, he could accomplish something. He established a makeshift command center and, five minutes ago, Asa had connected him with a satellite feed. He used a wireless earbud and microphone as he examined the terrain on the screen in front of him. “Get me ashore in Syria, ASAP!”
“I’m on it,” said Garth through the speaker. “The captain will receive orders to tie up alongside a NATO vessel before this meeting ends. It operates under the guise of a lobster boat.”
“As long as it has access to the port, I don’t give a damn what the boat’s used for.”
“You should. They’ll be carrying ID that’ll ensure you get your boots on the ground.”
“That’s good enough for me.” Logan used the touchscreen to zoom in on the blue dot indicating Olivia’s location. “Christ, she’s deep in ISIS territory.”
“D
id you think it would be any different?” asked Garth.
Logan continued to study the satellite image, pinpointing the Islamic State roadblocks. “The only chance we have of making it past al-Umari’s front line is if we go in undercover. We’ll never get ground forces inside—not without a shit-ton of casualties.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“I led a similar infiltration into Afghanistan during the bin Laden campaign.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Bottled water. It’s hard to move. Send in a truck with a paneled van trailer, driven by a local who’s one of us. The team hides in the nose of the trailer, pallets of bottled water fill up the back.”
“Then what?” asked Garth. “There could be a thousand troops down there. You wouldn’t have a chance.”
“That depends on how many girls we’ll need to extract.” Logan calculated the distance from the compound to the shore to be about a hundred miles. “And our best bet is helos.”
“Right.” The CO frowned from the box at the top right of the screen. “I’m hoping Hamilton sends a message soon.”
Logan didn’t hold out much hope for that—not with all the gun-slinging guards on the deck of the fishing trawler. Olivia would be locked up and guarded twenty-four-seven. “Yeah, if only ICE would have added a microphone to that chip, the job would be a hell of a lot easier.”
“The techies are working on the next gen,” said Garth.
“Not fast enough.” Logan shifted his attention back to the map on the screen. “Like I said, we’re gonna need air support—Apaches, Chinooks.”
“Roger that.”
Logan tapped his finger. “Allied forces need to be on full alert.”
Garth’s eyes bugged wide. “I thought I was the CO here.”
“Sorry, sir. I am responsible for this op, and…”
“And?”
His jaw twitched. “Ah…I’m concerned for Commander Hamilton’s safety, sir. I wanted to be on the boat with her.”
“That wouldn’t have worked,” Garth scoffed. “You would have ended up dead.”
“She’s my work-spouse. I feel like my actions got her into this mess.”
“You are misguided and incorrect, Commander. My decision got her inside enemy territory and don’t you forget it. Hamilton is one of ICE’s best assets, and if anyone can handle herself inside, she’s our girl.”
“Yes, sir.” Logan moved his finger over the screen and tapped until he zoomed in on the encampment. There was camo everywhere, but if he looked close enough, he could make out the general diagram. There was even a dirt airstrip at the back. “Before we go in, I need to know which of those buildings is housing the girls. I want numbers. Send in a drone and get me off this damned patrol boat…sir.”
“Working on it.”
Logan zoomed out, a plan forming in his head. The first thing he needed to do was wheedle himself into hostile territory without drawing suspicion—do a little reconnaissance of his own. He wasn’t about to order a missile strike without getting Olivia out and rescuing those girls she went in to save.
***
Garth’s idea of giving Logan a team was reassigning Mike Rose to Latakia with the promise that things were in motion. The CO’s excuse? Allied forces couldn’t be moved in one day. It reminded Logan too much of the bloody Navy. No one wanted to make a decision until the opportunity to strike had passed. It happened on every mission. Opportunities were constantly missed because no one could pull the pin. The elimination of red tape had been the one thing that intrigued him about ICE from the beginning. And now that Garth was trying to bring in firepower external to ICE, all the bureaucracy was rearing its ugly head.
Logan didn’t operate like that. He made decisions on the fly to save lives. He used the intel available and decided on a course of action. If it was the wrong choice, he’d live with it, but acting was always far better than sitting around and picking his proverbial nose.
He blew out a sigh. At least things were moving forward and Garth had proven he wasn’t one to sit on his laurels.
The car picked him up outside the McDonalds. Unbelievable. The port city of Latakia had been decimated by civil war and the American chain hadn’t been touched. What did that say about jihad’s perceived evil of westernization?
“Rodgers.” Speaking with a Scottish burr, Rose reached over to shake his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, mate.”
Logan gave Mike’s hand a firm grip. “The same.”
“Garth told me about your water bottle idea. Bloody brilliant.”
“Have you got a truck lined up?”
“Aye, lorry, drivers, water, bribes.”
For the first time since they embarked on Project Cat House, Logan felt like he was gaining. He grinned. “I’m liking you better already, mate.” Mike had a mop of thick red hair, blue eyes and a rusty complexion. He gave the asset a once over. “How do you manage to move around these parts with hair like that?”
Mike flexed his guns. Jeez, the man looked like a fitness fanatic who pumped iron five hours a day. “I have my sources. Otherwise, I lay low or wear a turban.”
Logan filled him in on the details until Mike turned on the blinker to indicate a turn into an alleyway behind a bombed-out building.
“What’s here?”
“Our ride…and the water you ordered, a few toys I had stashed away, that sort of thing.”
After driving through the alley, they arrived at a loading dock where Mike pulled in beside a truck with a van trailer. “Come with me,” Mike said. He led him up a ramp. “Meet our drivers Alif and Malik.”
Logan shook their hands. “Have you done this before?”
“Yes, sir.” They both looked to be early twenties, black hair, olive skin, thick accents.
“Are you Syrian natives?”
“I was born in Lebanon, but I have a Syrian passport,” said Alif.
Malik pointed to his chest with his thumb. “I’ve lived in Latakia all my life.”
“They’re part of the NATO allied forces.” Mike took him into the warehouse. “They risk their necks just by breathing.”
“Have you used them before?”
“Och aye, many times.”
“Good.”
Mike pulled a paper map from his back pocket.
“No tablet?” asked Logan.
“Electronics are too easy to trace.”
“Even with Jon’s encryption?”
The Scot shrugged. “I’m old school. Never light up the damned things when I’m in enemy territory. Works for me.” He pointed to a red X east of Aleppo. “This is where our wee lassie is. Any intel on the numbers we need to extract?”
“Not yet. We need drone surveillance.”
“How many do you reckon?”
“We know of five.”
“Bet you could double that.” Mike returned his attention to the map. “While you’ve been cruising the Mediterranean, we’ve secured a house here. Five miles west of our target.”
“Good. Any drones?”
“We have an old unit in our go kit. Flash bangs, M4s, grenades, that sort of thing.” Mike ushered him to a military crate and opened it, gesturing inside.
Logan reached for a gun sling and attached an M4. “Do you think we’ll get this gear through the check point?”
“Around here, one never knows.”
“You got bribes?”
“Four cartons of Marlboros.”
“Cash?”
“I prefer guns over cash, but if that’s what it takes, there’s two hundred US dollars in an envelope in the glove box.”
“Are we ready to roll then?”
“The lorry has been waiting for you, mate.”
Together, they watched while Alif used a forklift to load the military crate into the nose of the trailer. Logan and Mike sat atop it with enough room for their feet while Alif used a forklift to fill the remaining space with shrink-wrapped water bottles on pallets. Fortunately, the roof of the trailer was made f
rom milky-colored plastic to allow natural light. The smartest thing was the stacks of water bottles on either side. If the inspectors tried to shine flashlight down the walls, it would look like the truck was completely full. The other positive was weight. No sane person would want to offload a ton of water to conduct an inspection.
Once underway, the ride was about as comfortable as driving through a pothole-infested dirt road in the mountains of Montana while sitting on a block of cement. Worse, once they approached the noon hour, the temperature in the trailer climbed until it was almost unbearable. The two men drank water nonstop.
“How’d you get involved with ICE?” Logan asked, wiping the sweat away from his eyes.
“Was in the SAS, then got a visit from Lindgren.”
“Were you given an ultimatum?”
“More or less.” Mike took the cap off another bottle. “It was time for a change. The pay’s better and I like running my own ops the way I want.”
“But you’re working with me?”
“A favor to Garth. If there’s anything worse than ISIS conducting public executions, it’s ISIS kidnapping innocent kids and forcing them into human bondage. I canna abide it.”
“Agreed.” Logan tapped Mike’s bottle with his own. “Thanks.”
A thud sounded while the truck slowed to a stop.
Both men froze while the engine idled. Logan had been through this type of drill before and there was no doubt they’d just reached the edge of ISIS controlled territory.
Right now, their lives rested in the hands of Malik and Alif. If those men didn’t put on a command performance, the two ICE operatives in the back of the van might as well take cyanide because they’d make too tempting a propaganda display while ISIS savages carried out public beheadings and posted them on the internet. Logan’s heartbeat roared in his ears while he kept his breathing shallow.