by Ethan Jones
He sighed and returned his eyes to the bodies. Protected only by thin plastic gloves and simple white masks, the three men of the forensic team were working on the bodies, taking pictures and making notes. Let’s hope the DNA confirms he’s gone for good. The commander cursed under his breath.
As he shuffled back to his SUV, his cellphone rang. The ring tone informed him it was Suleiman. “Yes, what’s going on?”
“We got something. My men are tracking the Iranian and the woman.”
“Where are they going?”
“Not sure yet. They’re in two small cars, seven or eight people.”
“Small cars? That’s unusual. Al-Razi likes machine-gun-mounted trucks or SUVs loaded with weapons.”
“Yes. My two men are right behind them and will find out what’s going on and where they’re going.”
“Good work. Keep me informed.”
The commander smiled to himself in the rearview mirror as he sat behind the steering wheel. He thought about calling his other man, a police officer assigned to Issawi’s unit. The commander reached for his phone, but then dismissed the thought. No, Makram will call me if he discovers anything important, or to inform me about the movements of Javin or the American agent. But it’s strange that the woman and al-Razi are going somewhere without the rest of their team … What is going on? What if Makram isn’t aware of what’s going on? The commander frowned, picked up the phone, and dialed Makram’s number.
Chapter Twenty
CIS Safehouse
Two Miles North of Mosul, Iraq
“Makram, what are you doing?” Issawi called to the police officer who was still on his phone.
They were both in the alley outside the house, but the officer was standing about twenty yards away from the house. Other officers were loading a box of ammunition and a light PKM machine gun in the back of a tan Toyota truck.
Makram turned around and ended the call. He put the phone back into the side pocket of his blue uniform and jogged to his commanding officer. “Urgent call, sir. I had to take it.”
“Urgent, huh? Your brother again?”
“Yes, his business isn’t going well.”
“He needs money?”
“Among other things. I’ll go help them now.” He swept to the side a few strands of his black wavy hair a gust of wind had blown across his forehead. He took a few steps, then said as an afterthought, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“In the city?”
“Yes, not far.”
Issawi turned around as Javin stepped into the alley at a hurried pace. “Are we ready?”
“Almost.”
“We’ve got to go, now.”
“We will. But look, there’s no way we’ll be there on time. The suspected safehouse is on the other side of the city. With the checkpoints and the detours ... I’m not sure how long it will take.”
“We’ve got to hurry.”
Issawi shrugged. “It will all be over before we even arrive—”
“Yes, yes, I know, so let’s not waste more time.”
Issawi shrugged. “All right, we’ll give it a try.”
Javin closed the truck’s tailgate and hopped in the front passenger seat, while Makram and the two officers climbed in the back, with Makram sitting in the middle. Issawi turned the truck around, then hit the gas. The Toyota roared and jerked forward, sliding on the dirt road. He kept his foot on the pedal, and the truck zoomed through the empty intersection and rocketed toward Mosul.
Makram said, “Does anyone know where we’re going?”
“What did I tell you?” Issawi replied.
“You didn’t tell me anything, that’s why I’m asking.”
“Why do you want to know?” Javin asked.
As a rule, they did not give the rank and file specifics about operations. Rampant corruption and allegations of leaks made secrecy paramount. Just a week ago, a CIA operation to capture another high-value target had failed, and suspicions rested on someone giving away information from inside the Iraqi police force.
Makram shook his head. “Just so I know, so we can be prepared.”
“We are prepared; we do this all the time,” Issawi said.
“Maybe Makram’s scared,” said one of the police officers in a teasing tone.
“And he needs to get into a new pair of pants,” said the second officer.
They all laughed but for Makram. “Yes, you guys are very funny. Al-Iraqiya station called earlier. A bomb blew up one of their comedians. They’re looking for new talent, and, since you have these explosive jokes, you should apply…”
“I’m good,” the first officer said and made a hand gesture.
“How about you?” Makram asked the second officer.
“I’ll give it a try. On the topic of people calling, your brother called.”
Makram frowned and seemed to be caught by surprise.
“When?” Issawi said.
“Oh, five minutes ago. When he was on the phone...”
“What?” Makram said. “No, you ... you’re wrong—”
“You said you were talking to your brother at that time?” Issawi adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see Makram’s face.
Makram nodded but said nothing.
Javin turned slightly on his seat.
“What’s going on?” Issawi said.
Instead of a reply, Makram pulled out his pistol. “Don’t move,” he shouted at Issawi and pointed the pistol at him.
Javin dropped his eyes to the pistol just as one of the officers pushed Makram’s hands away from Issawi and toward Javin.
The gun went off.
Javin winced as the bullet pierced the seat and struck him in the side. The bulletproof vest took the brunt of the force, but the impact still knocked the air out of his lungs. He coughed, but felt no blood in his mouth as he struggled to breathe.
Issawi hit the brakes.
The move pitched everyone forward, but the scuffle in the backseat continued. The officer sitting behind Issawi was fighting to pry the pistol out of Makram’s hands. But his fingers were wrapped tightly around the grip.
Javin turned to face Makram as he fired another round.
The bullet hit Javin in the chest.
The impact was weaker than the first, but his body still shook in pain. He wheezed and gasped for breath. The force of the bullet threw him against the dashboard, but Javin lurched forward with his right fist, which connected with Makram’s nose. Javin then threw a left hook that sent Makram’s head crashing into the glass behind him.
The second officer punched Makram in the face, then in the throat. Subdued and almost unconscious, he flopped over the first officer. By now, that one had retrieved the pistol and pointed it at Makram’s head. “Don’t move. Don’t you move!” He pistol-whipped Makram across the face.
The man remained still as blood began to trickle from a couple of cuts.
“Take his phone,” Issawi said.
The first officer threw a punch at the irresponsive Makram.
“That’s enough,” Javin said. “He’s no longer a threat.”
“How are you?” Issawi asked.
Javin ran his hands over the inch-long tear in the top layer and the woven fabrics of the front of his bulletproof vest. The bullet was lodged in there. He flicked it onto the floor and inspected the tear. The ceramic hard armor plate had withstood the bullet, but now it felt coarse and thin. If another fateful bullet would hit the same exact spot, it was very likely to go through. “I’m okay. The vest is ruined.”
“Don’t worry about it. We have tons of them.”
“Not in the car,” said the first officer.
The second officer handed Issawi the phone taken from Makram. “Here you go, sir.”
Issawi tapped the screen, and he was prompted for a password. “What’s the code?”
Makram returned a blank gaze.
The first officer slapped Makram. “Answer the question,” he shouted i
nto the man’s ear.
Makram peered hard and seemed to think about the reply. He shook his head, but the officer slapped him again. Then the officer shoved the pistol into Makram’s throat. “Give up the password.”
Makram coughed blood and spat out a string of numbers.
Issawi entered them into the phone, which came to life. He scrolled through the recently called numbers.
“Who did he call?” Javin said.
“I don’t know. Local number in Mosul.” He leaned over Makram. “Who is this man?” He waved the phone close to Makram’s face.
The man closed his eyes and shook his head. “He ... he will kill me if I ... if I tell you.”
“I will kill you if you don’t tell me.”
The first officer tapped Makram on the head with the pistol’s barrel. “Think about it, or I’ll blow your head off.” He pressed the muzzle of the gun against Makram’s temple.
He said nothing, but shook his head again.
“I will kill you,” the officer said.
Javin said, “Leave him. We’ll find the number later. We’ve got to go.”
“You’ll need a new vest,” Issawi said.
“I’ll be fine ... As long as I don’t get shot again.”
“We’re not going to a party.”
Javin shrugged. “I’ll stay in the back. Maybe even wait in the truck.”
Issawi grinned. “As if. You’ll be the first one to charge.”
“I’ll let you have the honor this time.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“Handcuff him, and we’ll go.”
“Oh, he’s not going anywhere,” said one of the police officers.
Javin winced as he rested his back against the seat. A jolt of pain stabbed through his side and zipped through his entire body. “Hand me his phone.”
“Why?”
“I’ll send the numbers to Tom. Maybe the CIA will get a hit in their databases...”
Issawi frowned. “Can’t we do this without the CIA?”
“We can, but this way it will be faster.”
Issawi dropped the phone into Javin’s outstretched hand. “Where’s Tom now?”
“The assignment to Erbil took longer. He should be back to Mosul tonight.”
“He’ll miss all the fun.” Issawi hit the gas, and the truck arrowed forward.
“More for us,” Javin said.
Issawi tapped the brakes slightly as the truck rounded a corner and sped toward the jihadists’ safehouse.
Chapter Twenty-one
Judaydat al-Mufti Neighborhood
Five Blocks Away From the Jihadists’ Hideout
Southeast Mosul, Iraq
The two teams split up as they neared the outskirts of Mosul and turned into one of the main roads leading to the neighborhood, less than two miles from the city’s airport. Claudia was in the backseat of the second car, holding her trusted C8SFW carbine across her lap. A thin young man who went by the name of Sabri was next to her. He had been fiddling with the trigger guard of an almost brand-new Russian-made AK-105 rifle. The constant clicking and tapping was irritating her, but she did not want to say anything. The man was already nervous, and his forehead was drenched in sweat. He rubbed it with the back of his arm, and she noticed his hand was shaking. The young man’s bulletproof vest was scraped in the front, with two marks where bullets had struck. They had not pierced through, but the spots looked threadbare. The vest was also a couple of sizes larger than Sabri’s small frame, and he had not secured the straps properly, in order for the vest to wrap tightly around his chest and back.
She thought about pointing it out, but in all likelihood the young man would shrug off her advice. So she reached across her body and rearranged her bulletproof vest straps. There was nothing wrong with them, as she had done everything by the book. But her move caught the attention of Sabri, who asked in heavy accented English, “What are you doing?”
“The bouncing car loosened my straps. Don’t want a bullet to go through.” She fixed her chest rig as well.
Sabri looked at his vest and pulled on its straps. He ran his hands over the front, then the side, tightening everything. When he was finished, he had fixed the chest rig as well.
Claudia gave him a nod and pointed at his rifle. “Where did you get that?”
“Dead Russian fighter. He didn’t need it anymore.”
“Was he with the army?”
“No, Daesh foreign extremist. I took the vest from him as well.”
“Must have been a large guy.”
“He was,” said the fighter sitting in the front passenger seat. He was a man in his late forties, whom al-Razi had appointed team leader. “And tough as a camel. He was shot twice in the head, and still kept fighting.”
When the driver made a left turn, Claudia glanced out the window at the rows of one- and two-story houses lining the narrow road. Some of them had been renovated or at least cleared of most of the debris. Walls had been defaced with graffiti cursing ISIS, Al-Qaeda, and other terrorist groups that had been operating in the area. Some of the writings were in English, a clear sign they were for the benefit of foreign journalists who had flocked to the city shortly after the fall of ISIS. “Which one is the safehouse?”
“We’re a ways off,” the driver said. “Another turn left.” He pointed up ahead. “Then, it’s the fourth one.”
Claudia nodded. She lowered herself in the seat so that she could observe rooftops and windows of the houses far away. A group of police officers and a ragged crew of militias without uniforms had set up a checkpoint about ten houses further back, near the entrance to the area. They had not stopped the two cars, as al-Razi had called ahead to clear the way. Now the teams were deep into the heart of the neighborhood. Claudia had already seen a few rough-looking characters brandishing AK rifles and PKM machine guns, but of course, she could not be certain what side they supported. Allegiances were very fluid in Mosul, especially now that the situation was even more fragile, with rumors of active ISIS cells operating around the city and potentially staging a comeback. There was news of insurgents escaping the onslaught of the Syrian Democratic Forces in Syria and infiltrating Iraq through the western border.
The driver made the last turn into the alley.
Claudia tightened the grip around her rifle as the houses closed in on them. She had no idea how far away al-Razi’s team was. They had had no communications since they had split up, because al-Razi was worried the jihadists might be listening to their radio frequencies. So the only way Team Two would learn about the operation’s progress was when they heard the gunfire, followed by the ISIS rats escaping their burning nest.
Her eyes took in the target house. The car had just passed the first one from the intersection. Two more to go. Maybe ten, fifteen seconds at the most, considering the large potholes in the debris-littered alley.
Two gunmen appeared atop the third house, the one they were just approaching. She hesitated for a moment, considering they had seen many friendly militiamen. Pointing them out would take everyone’s attention away from the operation’s objective.
Then one of the men turned his rifle at the car.
The driver had seen the hostile gesture too. He hit the brakes, then turned the steering wheel.
Too late.
Bullets struck the front of the car, or skimmed over the hood. A couple pierced the windshield, but none hit anyone in the cabin. The driver jerked the wheel again, and the right side of the car brushed against the coarse cinderblock wall. “Get out, get out, everyone,” he shouted.
Claudia pushed the door, but it banged the wall. The gap was too small for her to slide through. “Move over so we can get out,” she said, then gestured with her hands.
The driver slowed down and drove away from the wall as more bullets hammered the car.
She crawled outside at the same time that the driver rolled onto the ground next to her. He raised his rifle over the hood and returned fire.
Claudia took a knee next to the back of the car. The rear window erupted, spraying glass fragments over her head. She pivoted on her knee and swung her rifle toward the shooters. One of them had disappeared behind the roof’s parapet. The second one was reloading.
She fired a quick burst. At least one of the bullets struck the shooter in the chest. He wavered on his feet for a moment, then folded over the parapet and fell down head first.
The second shooter reappeared about eight feet away from his initial location. A rocket-propelled grenade launcher had replaced the rifle in his hands.
Claudia had anticipated the shooter’s move. She shifted her rifle an inch to the left and planted three bullets in the shooter. He collapsed backwards.
Claudia glanced at the driver, then turned her head to the right as Sabri crawled toward her position. Although there were no visible targets, she fired a couple of rounds to cover his advance. “You okay?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Not hit?”
“No, not yet.” He smiled.
The driver spoke to Sabri in Arabic, and he shook his head. The driver cursed out loud, then jumped to his feet and fired a long angry barrage at the house. He did not hit anyone, not only because there were no gunmen in sight, but also because the rifle was bouncing wildly in his hands.
“What is he doing?”
Sabri sighed.
“Where’s the team lead?”
Sabri shook his head, then gestured toward the driver. “He’s gone ... his cousin is dead.”
Claudia nodded, then said, “Tell him we still have to go on with our op.”
Sabri shouted at the driver, who kept firing his rifle until he emptied his entire magazine. As soon as he dropped down to reload, bullets pounded the other side of the car.
Claudia locked eyes with the driver. “We can’t stay here. Here,” she gestured with her hand, “here’s not good. The first RPG will blow us to pieces.”
Sabri nodded as he translated her words.
Claudia said, “The target house is just across the street. But who lives on this side?”