With Mufid distracted, Hunter inched himself along the wall, moving out of the boy’s main line of sight into his peripheral vision. The boy wiggled, trying to position himself. Jackie struggled and he smacked her harder.
Hunter couldn’t restrain himself waiting for the optimal moment any longer. She had suffered too much. He jumped onto the boy’s back, slipped his bound wrists around his head and jerked upwards. The neck snapped with a loud crack. His hands still around the neck, he lifted the body off Jackie and dropped it onto the floor.
She screamed even louder than before.
“Jackie, you’re safe,” Hunter said as he checked out the AK. He dropped the mag, pushed on the rounds and felt some give. It was a few short.
Jackie continued screeching, her eyes tightly closed.
He raised his voice. “I’m rescuing you. You’re safe. I’m American.”
She opened her eyes. “You’re one of them.” She started crying, then sobbing. He wasn’t sure if she knew where she was and what was happening or if she had totally broken with reality in order to survive.
“No. Calm down and listen to me. I’m with the US government. I’m getting you out of here.”
His arms were still bound, so he couldn’t stroke her or put his hand on her to reassure her. He sat beside her on the smelly bed waiting for his words to sink in. After a couple of minutes, her sobs faded into a whimper. Progress.
“You’re going to be okay, Jackie, but I need you to get a grip on yourself. We have to go.” He couldn’t believe he was taking time to get in touch with his softer side, but he felt like he had to after what he’d done to her. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to get far with her unless she pulled herself together.
Hunter heard a vehicle approaching the house.
“Oh, fuck. Stay here and keep low.” Hunter sat up and grabbed the AK. He rushed into the main room, tripping on his man-dress. Reaching inside the cardboard tool box, he groped around, but couldn’t find the knife to cut himself free. When he heard the engine turn off, he gave up and dashed out the back door with his hands still tied up.
Hunter circled the building, constantly trying to get a better grip on the AK. The red Nissan with his bomb in the back was parked directly in front of the house, close enough that it would take out the entire structure if it detonated. He should’ve told Jackie to run out the back and take her chances with any gunfire.
“Marhaba,” the twins called out and didn’t wait for a response from the boy. “Guess who ran out of gas in the Passat?”
Hunter wanted to spray the truck with bullets, but feared that a stray might set off a detonation. But he also didn’t dare wait long, because it would be prayer time at any moment. He was sure as hell praying already.
As one of the twins slid from the cab, Hunter fired a burst into his chest. The recoil from the AK jarred Hunter and his bound hands struggled to target the second tango. The muj ducked behind the truck, then popped up to hurl rounds in Hunter’s direction. Hunter shot another volley, then ran as fast as he could, circling around the back of the house. When he got to the other side, the tango had his back turned toward him, trying to figure out what had happened to his assailant.
“Hey, you fucking muj!” Hunter couldn’t stand to shoot a man in the back—even one of them.
The twin spun around and Hunter squeezed the trigger. The man’s face burst into chunks of pink flesh and dark blood, then he collapsed beside the truck.
The bomb.
Hunter ran as fast as he could to the truck and vaulted over the tailgate into the bed. He grabbed one red wire and yanked on it. It pulled free. Then he tugged on a yellow wire.
It came loose, disconnecting one of the two circuits.
He exhaled and let his head drop while he waited to catch his breath, but only for a few seconds. The shells could be unloaded later when he and Jackie were ready to use the truck to make their escape from this hellhole. Shaking his head, he couldn’t believe how close it had come to detonating.
He went back inside and found a knife to cut his hands free. When he walked into the bedroom, Jackie sat up on the ripped mattress, trying to pull her torn blouse shut. He took this as a good sign. The room where she had been held contained no furniture other than the filthy mattress and a slop bucket in a corner. There was nowhere even to search for her pants. Hunter pulled the dishdashah from the boy with some difficulty. His limbs were already starting to get a little stiff. Rigor happened fast in the hundred and twenty degree heat. He rolled the corpse so it was face down, more out of respect for Jackie than the dead tango. He shook the man-dress out, opened the hole for the head and handed it to Jackie.
“I’m sorry, but this is the best we’ve got right now.” He helped her get it over her head and put her arms into the sleeves like he was dressing a child.
“What happened?” she said, barely moving her lips.
“Don’t worry about it. The twins are dead and so is the boy. We’re the only ones here.” He took her arm and gently pinched her skin. It tented and very slowly settled back to normal, indicating severe dehydration, but he already knew that. “We’ve got to get you some fluids.”
“There was one more.”
“He’s at large. Out of gas somewhere between here and town—wherever the hell that is.” Hunter extended his hand to her and she took it and pulled herself to her feet.
“I want him dead.” She stared at the corpse of the teenage muj, then kicked it twice. She bent over, removed his sandals and put them on.
“You’ll get no arguments from me.”
“I mean I want you to track him down and kill him.” She wobbled from the room.
Fazul was baking in the Passat at the side of the small desert road. The twin morons couldn’t be trusted to do anything right. All they had to do was throw a can of gas into the back of the truck without hitting the IED and come back for him. They were probably indulging themselves in the pleasures of temporary married life with that American harlot. He regretted ever taking a hostage. They were too much distraction and he still hadn’t found anyone to pay enough ransom for her to make it worth his trouble. The husband had seemed uninterested.
He flipped open his cell and called his cousin who agreed to pick him up. Praise be to Allah that Omar had closed his electronics store early and was nearby, so it would only take a few minutes to swing over. He hung up the cell. If the twins were not back by the time Omar got there, he’d have him drive to the house and he’d kill both of them along with the American whore. He snatched a prayer mat from the back seat, got out of the car and used his cell phone to check the direction toward Mecca.
Any moment, it would be time for afternoon prayers.
Jackie walked through the main room and out the back door. Soldiers lived with their guns in combat and Hunter was still on the battlefield. He was not going to make the mistake of letting his guard down a second time, so he picked up the AK and ran after her. One of its sharp edges cut his hand.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Jackie said. Her eyes were glazed and she didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular.
“Sit down.” He pressed lightly on her shoulder as she tried to walk away.
“No, I have to go.”
“You’re severely dehydrated. You’re not thinking straight.” He took her by the shoulders and guided her toward the shade of some date palms about fifty meters from the house. “Sit here in the shade.”
She ignored him and walked out of the compound’s back gate and into the desert. Hunter reminded himself that he needed to be patient, when he really wanted to shake her to her senses and if that didn’t work, knock her out and carry her to safety. He followed the crazy chick into the desert.
Hunter thought he heard something and turned back to the compound in time to see a brilliant white flash, then an orange fireball rising into the sky. He shoved Jackie to the ground and threw his body over hers just as he heard the loud clap. The earth shook as the blast wave passed. A piece of
tangled red metal fell near Hunter’s head, missing him by inches. A hailstorm of concrete cratered the desert around them, then smaller debris pelleted his back. As if someone were sifting the particles by size, sand followed. Then suddenly everything was quiet and a dust cloud enveloped them, making the air hard to breathe.
He rolled off her the moment he thought it was safe and he hoped to god he didn’t re-traumatize her by throwing his body on top of hers so suddenly. The last thing he wanted was to go back to ground zero with her. He coughed, then pulled the sleeve of his dishdashah up to his face. “Breathe through your clothes,” he instructed as Jackie pulled herself up off the ground. “Everything’s going to be fine now.”
“What happened?” She pulled the dishdashah over her nose and mouth.
“Their truck bomb detonated somehow.” Except Hunter knew how. He’d pulled out only one set of yellow and red wires. He couldn’t believe he had disabled one of the parallel circuits but had forgotten the second set of wires. Too many things had been going on at once, but still he couldn’t imagine that he’d been that careless. It didn’t take long for him to convince himself that one of the tangos must have survived longer than he had thought and caused movement that had set it off. That would be what he’d tell the guys in the unit, anyway. Then he remembered he no longer had a unit.
“I have to find some water for you. Come on. Let’s hope those palms are still intact so you can have some shade to sit in.” He took her hand and helped her to her feet. Sweat evaporated so fast he didn’t notice it anymore. As soon as the dust cleared, the mid-afternoon sun would be relentless. They needed water fast.
Most of the mud wall circling the compound somehow had held together, testament to the years of baking in the desert heat. The house had not fared as well. It was gone. Disappeared. Poof. Rubble littered the ground, but not nearly as much as Hunter had expected. Some of the dust he was breathing had probably once been the house. A twisted section of truck chassis no bigger than a bicycle was all that remained of his escape vehicle. Hundreds of flies swarmed in several places. He had been in combat enough to know to avoid those spots marking fresh flesh and blood.
The house had shielded the well from the worst of the blast. Hunter dropped the bucket into it and waited for a splash. It clanked as it hit the dry bottom.
He pulled the rope, hoisting the bucket back to the surface. The well was shallow, not more than twenty feet deep. Since mud coated one side of the bucket, water couldn’t be too much deeper. The rope was long and it didn’t seem too badly frayed. Peering into the dark pit, he knew what he had to do if he didn’t want them both to die from lack of water.
Hunter tied the rope to one of the date palms. Jackie sat watching him, her arms crossed, rocking herself. No way was he going to leave his AK with the unstable lady. It was going down the hole with him.
He kicked off his sandals and threw his leg over the side. His man-dress caught on a broken brick. He couldn’t stand maneuvering in the awkward thing any longer. He had no doubt why the man-dress had never gone over in the West. They totally sucked. Man-purses like some Europeans carried at least had some practical advantages he could understand, but not the mandress. He vowed never to give a woman a dress as a gift again. It wasn’t right.
Hunter turned to Jackie and shouted. “Look the other way, okay?”
She shook her head and didn’t turn away as he propped the AK-47 up against the side of the wall and peeled off the dishdashah. He reached for the gun again, then talked himself out of taking it with him. It would be an extra hassle and it was very unlikely that a target would lean over the top and into the very narrow range of fire he’d be afforded from the bottom of the well.
He lowered himself unarmed and naked into the well. He liked fast-roping, but not without protective gloves, so he kept his descent slow.
The bottom of the well was cooler and slightly damp, a virtual spa. The mud felt somehow comforting as it squished between his toes. For a moment, he was a kid again, skinny-dipping and running up a muddy river bank in the Ozarks. He smiled to himself as he got down on his knees and started using the bucket to dig. At least there was enough sunlight for him to see what he was doing.
He dumped pail after pail of mud alongside the wall. Each successive load was wetter than the previous one. He paused to take a break, straighten up and look at the sky and remembered his grandmother telling him stories of well diggers being in such darkness that they could see stars. When he glanced back down at his hole, water was seeping into it.
Back on his knees, he cupped his hands and drank. The water was sweet—silty, but sweet. He laughed as he splashed it all over himself.
Several buckets of mud later, the well was running with enough clear water to fill the pail. He drank all he could, and then poured a bucket of it over his head. He refilled it and started to climb up the rope, using the wall for footing. Then he thought he heard a car. The higher he climbed, the louder the engine sound became.
Fazul.
Fazul stared at the rubble of his former safe house, his mouth agape. It had vanished, as if Allah had scooped it up and left only a few handfuls of dirt and stone behind. A swarm of flies buzzed near the ground and hundreds more covered something in the sand. He shooed them away from a strip of pink flesh.
“May Allah bless them and grant them peace,” Fazul said.
Omar made eye contact with him and Fazul nodded. Omar understood it was the twins.
The American whore perched under a tree, rocking herself, watching him. She was no threat. He would deal with her later—like he should have long ago. He scooped up a handful of sand and spilled it out, covering what was left of the twins.
After the last grain of sand had left his hand, he turned toward Mecca and raised his arms. “Allahu akbar.” Omar did the same. They folded their hands over their breasts, the right one on top of the left. Both men stood as they recited as much as they could remember of the Janazah.
Hunter paused, hanging on the rope about six feet below the top of the well as a car door slammed shut. It was followed by the sound of a second one, which made no sense to him. Maybe it wasn’t Fazul. His toes dug into the earth on the side of the well as he grappled for something firm enough to help him support his weight. His muscles burned as he hung there, listening to sounds that didn’t make sense. Fazul’s voice was distinct and he seemed to be praying, even though prayer time had passed.
Hunter climbed hand over hand further up the rope. Straining to hold on, he pulled himself high enough to peek over the edge. Fazul and a tall man had their backs to him as they recited a funeral prayer. He hoisted himself over the side, teetering on his belly while he reached down to where he had stashed his gun.
It was gone.
Hunter looked around and saw Jackie Nelson slowly wading through the debris. She held the AK at her side, aiming it at Fazul. Their loud prayers masked the sound of her approach. They appeared unarmed. Hunter shifted his weight to pull himself over the rim of the well.
“Jackie, no!” Hunter shouted and waved his arms, not bothering to cover his nudity. “Don’t do it. Keep it pointed at them and bring the gun back to me.”
The Iraqis spun around, but neither drew a weapon. Fazul knit his bushy black eyebrows and glared at Hunter. Hunter snatched up his dishdashah and slipped it over his head.
“You can’t shoot them in cold blood.” Hunter approached her slowly. At least when the tangos held an AK, he knew what they were going to do with it. She was so out of it, she could spin around and shoot him without warning.
“Stop. Stay right where you are or I’m taking them both out.” She looked over her shoulder at Hunter, then back at Fazul. “You, get undressed.”
“I don’t think he speaks English. And he’s not going to do that,” Hunter said.
“Before he dies, he’s going to get a taste of how he humiliated me. Tell him to strip.”
Hunter translated.
Fazul laughed and spoke in heavily accented English.
“No woman commands me.”
“Take it off, you fucker.” Jackie fired a burst at his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Fazul tore his clothes off, then put his hands over his genitals as fast as he could.
“Don’t do this,” Hunter said. “You’re not thinking straight because of the dehydration. It’s not right to execute an unarmed man. You don’t want that on your conscience all your life.” Hunter walked around her, careful to stay within her line of sight so he didn’t startle her.
“I don’t want to spend my whole life regretting I didn’t kill the fucker who kidnapped and raped me. We all know there’s no justice in this fucking country.” She continued toward Fazul. When she was fifteen feet away, she fired a burst into his groin and the hands covering it. Blood gushed from what remained of his genitals as he collapsed to the ground, moaning loudly.
The lanky Iraqi screamed, then threw his hands into the air. “I have eleven children. I have four wives to care for. Please.”
Flies lit on the meat as Fazul pawed at himself with the stubs which were all that remained of his hands. He let out an eerie howl that sounded more animal than a human.
“For god’s sake, finish him off. No man deserves to die like this,” Hunter said as he edged closer to her. The other Arab didn’t move, even though she kept the gun trained on Fazul.
“No. You know he made me watch while they executed a German oil worker? The little fucker held Wolfgang’s feet while he begged to be the one to chop off his head. What kind of people are they? You know what they did to me!” Tears streamed down her face.
Hundreds of flies crawled over Fazul as he writhed on the ground, moaning. The sand turned dark from the blood. Hunter looked away. A buddy in Afghanistan once bled out from a groin wound and Hunter knew death took a hell of a lot longer in reality than it did in the movies. The guy had the worst twenty minutes of his life ahead of him.
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