Son of Syria

by Schafer, Ben

  “Enough of this posturing,” Abbas sighed. He pointed two fingers at his men, then to me. “Kill him.”

  Azima screamed, “No!” She struggled to wrestle free from Jamil’s grip, but it was no use.

  The soldiers on the gangplank lifted their rifles. Just as their fingers touched the triggers, Jamil shouted, “Wait!”

  The soldiers hesitated and looked to their commanding officer. Abbas’s face turned scarlet with rage. “What are you doing?” he asked, his words strained with a quiet intensity.

  Jamil gulped audibly, but he held his ground. “Sir, if we kill this man now, we lose any intelligence he may possess. When I called you, it was for support, not to have you take over my mission. Our orders were to watch and not interfere. Orders you chose to disobey.”

  He held up his free hand in a placating gesture. “You have personal reasons for being here, and I understand and support that. But we both have superiors expecting answers. Do you want to tell them you threw away the mission because you couldn’t control your anger? More importantly, do you want it to be known among the legions of junior officers desperate to claim your job that you cannot keep your,” his eyes flicked to Azima and then back to his commander, “home life under control?”

  Tension was thick in the air. Abbas and Jamil held their staring contest for almost a full moment before Abbas finally whispered, “I hope that this assignment has not made you sentimental, old friend.”

  “You know me better than that,” Jamil replied. “This man will suffer. And he will die. But not until he tells us everything we want to know.”

  Abbas considered his words for a moment. I think the prospect of my torture and death made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. With a gesture, he ordered his men to lower their guns. Azima slumped in relief, the sudden shift almost tearing her away from Jamil’s grasp. I didn’t share the sentiment. I was glad my bullet-ridden corpse hadn’t been dumped into the harbor. I also knew that Jamil’s plea hadn’t saved me but simply delayed my execution.

  And I was certain that they would get me to talk. It would take a long time, but it would happen. I had been trained to resist torture, and during that training we were taught that everyone breaks at some point. There would be no one coming for me. The Order couldn’t afford a rescue mission that would get bloody. Even if they could find me and were willing to risk the potential exposure, there were too few Knights to be of any use. My best hope was a quick bullet when the regime decided that I was not worth keeping alive.

  I was on my own, and I was running out of time.

  “Colonel, why don’t you spend some time with your family?” Jamil suggested. “I can stay here with the men to keep an eye on the prisoners.”

  Jamil released Azima and shoved her forward toward her ex-husband. Abbas caught her and held her with one meaty hand. With the other, he ran a finger along her cheek, making a mockery of the tender gesture. “That sounds like an excellent idea, Lieutenant.” Azima shuddered at his touch. Abbas gave a tight smile at her reaction. “You can start the interrogations.” Abbas cocked his head toward me. “Save the American for last. I want to break him personally when I return.”

  Jamil snapped a smart salute. His whole bearing had changed. He no longer appeared to be the pudgy, out of shape man that I had come to know. His spine was ram-rod straight, his gut disappeared, and there was new intensity to his features. This man was definitely a soldier.

  Then I noticed an odd detail. Jamil refused to look at Azima directly. I could tell that Abbas caught it, as well. From what I knew of the Syrian officer, he would have taken Jamil’s attitude as one of superiority and disdain, echoes of his own thoughts. But I could see a touch of sadness in Jamil’s eyes. This wasn’t arrogance or disgust.

  It was guilt.

  Jamil was effectively signing Azima’s death warrant and he knew it. Abbas had his son again, and he had to know that Azima would never stop trying to escape. Azima had warned me that Abbas would not hesitate to kill anyone who tried to interfere with his legacy. Now he had the chance.

  Abbas stared at his wife the way a lion eyes a gazelle: utter contempt coupled with the threat of inevitable violence. “It hasn’t been the same since you left, my dear,” Abbas hissed. “Hashim was devastated when his mother never returned home. But he moved past his sorrow.” He gripped Azima’s wrist and Azima whimpered in pain. “And he will again.”

  I surged forward. “Let her go, you slimy piece of—”

  The butt of a rifle struck my temple.

  The world went black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  WAKING up hurt.

  I blinked my eyes open and found myself in a cell. Well, I called it a cell. There was little light in the cramped space, but from my best guess I was stuck in a storage closet aboard the ship. They removed anything that I could have potentially used as a weapon, which meant that there was nothing else in the room with me. I tried to move my arms, but they had been zip-tied securely behind my back. I pressed my weight against the bulkhead to steady myself as I rose to my feet.

  The zip ties were annoying, but Cuvier had taught me how to deal with these things. You just lean forward, spread your hands out as far as they can go, and slam down on your lower back as hard as you can. Repeat the action a few times and the effort will pop open all but the most heavy-duty special purpose restraints. My arms were cramped and stiff, but the technique didn’t call for a lot of dexterity. Easy as one, two—

  Ow.

  I had forgotten about the injury to my left arm. I tried the maneuver a couple more times, but I just wasn’t able to get the strength I needed. Time for Plan B, then. I felt my way along the bulkhead for a seam, something to rub against the zip ties to cut through them. Apparently my captors were smart enough to know that trick, because they had chosen a room with virtually no sharp seams to use. There were a few bolts sticking out of the bulkhead, but they would do me very little good in the short time I had available. I was on a clock, and that left Plan C.

  I usually hated plan C. If Plan C was any good it would be Plan A.

  I lay down on the cold floor and reached for my shoelaces. Normally this would not be a problem, but the combination of my injury and the position of my hands behind my back made the simple procedure slow and painful. As quickly as I could manage, I untied and removed the laces on my left boot, which I could access more easily than my right. The original laces of every pair of shoes issued by the Order had been replaced with stronger and more versatile paracord for use in emergencies. I was pretty sure this qualified.

  It took me a solid minute to remove the laces and get the paracord gathered in my hand. Now came the tricky part. I had to tie a bowline on each end of the cord to secure it to the front of each of my boots. I had to do it completely based on touch alone, but I had practiced this. This is where my training paid off. It took much longer than I would have liked, but I finally finished tying the knots.

  I heard muffled voices through the door along with heavy footsteps. They were coming closer. I was running out of time. I looped the paracord around the zip tie, then awkwardly tossed each end in the general direction of my feet. Without my hands to assist, I had to use the bulkhead to stabilize the paracord while I passed my boot through the bowlines.

  By the time that was finished, the voices and footsteps were almost on top of me. Now came the easy part. With the paracord secured to my boots and wrapped around the zip ties, all I had to do was pump my legs back and forth like I was riding a bicycle. I didn’t have a lot of slack in the cord, and my legs were positioned in a kind of squatting position. I had to be careful. If I rushed it, the cord could slip from my boots and I would be forced to go through the lengthy process of slipping the bowline back in place.

  The friction from the sawing motion melted through the plastic zip ties in short order, but those seconds felt like a lifetime. Any moment, that door could open and soldiers could come pouring through. If they caught me, there was no chance I would get another
shot at this.

  The zip ties broke with an audible snap and flew off my wrists. I moved my arms around to restore the blood flow, then started to reinsert the paracord back into my boot. But I was out of time.

  The door creaked open, and the sudden shaft of light was so intense that it was impossible to make anything out on the other side beyond vague shapes. I was forced to almost shut my eyes to block it out, but I kept the presence of mind not to bring up a hand to cover my eyes. Instead, I hid both my arms behind my back, projecting the illusion that I was still bound. I even threw in a bit of restrained struggling for theatrical purposes. Eat your heart out, DiCaprio.

  As my eyes adjusted to the light, I made out the blurry outlines of two men. Both had rifles slung over their shoulders. “—don’t know why the lieutenant wants to talk to this one,” one of the shapes said to the other. “Didn’t the colonel say that the American was only to be interrogated when he returned?”

  “You worry too much,” the second shape replied. The two men entered the room and loomed over me. “This American dog is not worth the colonel’s time.” He drove a combat boot into my abdomen and I wheezed. “Oh, did that hurt?” the second voice mocked. “How about this?” He swung his leg back to kick me again.

  A second before the blow landed, my arms snapped forward and wrapped around the man’s boot. I twisted savagely and a distinct crack echoed in the tiny space. The soldier started to howl, but a quick palm strike to his larynx turned the cry for help into a desperate gasp for air. The man’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.

  The other soldier reached for his gun. He was smart enough to realize that there was not enough space for his rifle, so he grasped his sidearm instead. The soldier started to aim the weapon at me. I placed my left forearm against the inside of his wrist and looped my right arm beneath his elbow. A quick jerking motion yanked the gun out of my face.

  The momentum of the move caused the man to stumble forward. Normally it should have been easy for him to recover, but as he staggered he tripped over the outstretched arm of his colleague and slammed into the bulkhead. He was knocked out cold and toppled onto the other soldier, who was still taking short, wheezing breaths.

  I stood motionless, listening for any footsteps that would indicate that more soldiers were on the way. After a few tense seconds, I allowed myself to breathe again. I checked both men. The soldier on the bottom passed out when the heavier soldier on top landed on him. They were both unconscious, but alive.

  I stripped the soldiers of their radios and made sure that they were turned off. I took the sidearm of the man who had tried to shoot me, another Browning Hi-Power like the ones carried by the soldiers in Kafroun. Their rifles wouldn’t be very useful to me in the claustrophobic enclosure of the ship’s corridors. I removed the magazines from the rifles as well as the second man’s Browning to render them useless. Finally, I removed the combat knives the men had strapped to their thighs. I didn’t have the time or material to tie the men up, but I didn’t want to leave them with anything they could use to ambush anyone else who came into the room.

  When that was all done, I crept out into the corridor and closed the door behind me. It was in desperate need of oiling, and I cringed as it squealed shut. The situation was less than ideal. A rough outline of the ship had been provided during my briefing, but I had no idea where I was or where the others were being held. I needed answers, and the boys inside the broom closet were not in a talkative mood.

  I reached the first corner and stopped, listening for any movement. There was none. I slipped around, “slicing the pie” to ensure that no one could get the drop on me. I held the Browning out in front of me and hoped I would not need it. The element of surprise would evaporate as soon as I fired, and I did not know how many soldiers Abbas left behind.

  About halfway down the corridor on my left was a stairwell. There was a small map fastened to the bulkhead that detailed emergency procedures. It was written in Greek, but pictures are universal. It allowed me to get a better understanding of where I was: Deck 3 on the starboard side, three levels beneath the main deck.

  As I studied the map, I heard the squeal of a door somewhere above me. I ducked out of the stairwell and lay in wait for whoever was coming. I heard two sets of footsteps on the stairs as well as the sound of someone being dragged between them.

  I waited until the men were almost on top of me before I struck. The first soldier never realized he was in danger. I rushed out of the small crevice that had served as my hiding spot and slammed his head into the bulkhead with as much force as I could muster. The poor kid’s skull cracked when it struck the metal and he fell to the deck. It was unlikely that I had killed him with my assault, but he was definitely out of commission.

  The second soldier, however, put up more of a fight. In the time that it took for me to subdue his comrade he dropped his prisoner and took a step toward me. He was positioned behind and to the right of me and landed a pair of heavy blows to my ribs before I could react. Those hurt. Then his hands grabbed the back of my shirt and tried tossing me into the wall, but I shrugged out of his grip and I spun to face him.

  This guy was big, but I’d fought bigger. I’d even walked away from a couple of those fights without needing medical attention. I assumed a defensive stance and dodged another rapid punch. All I had to do was wait for an opening, then take him down before he could yell for help.

  It was easier said than done. Whoever this soldier was, he had some real training. His fists kept coming, never doing more than minor damage but forcing me to stay on the defensive. I weaved and ducked, but couldn’t get close enough to land a solid punch. At this rate, he didn’t even need to call for help. He could just keep me occupied until someone came to check on the missing patrol. I did not have the luxury of time.

  I decided to change the game and rushed at the soldier headlong. He sidestepped, but I managed to wrap my arms around his torso. I was rewarded with a rain of heavy punches to my ribs and back for my trouble. The mass of bruised flesh that was my back still hadn’t recovered from the explosion in Rastan that morning, and it lit up with pain. I tried to shove the soldier to the ground, but he pushed back and we remained locked in a stalemate.

  Then my opponent let out a brief yelp and fell backward. The sudden shift threw me off-balance, but I turned my fall into a forward somersault. As I rolled to my feet, I spun on my heel to meet the inevitable counter-attack.

  At that instant, I heard a muffled gunshot. I winced, fearing the worst. But I had not been the target.

  A wound the size of a dime appeared on the left side of the soldier’s head and the man slumped to the deck. Behind him, Captain Grimm had propped himself up on the bulkhead and held a Browning pistol in his hand. He must have taken the weapon from the man I slammed into the bulkhead. His wrists were bound with zip ties just as mine had been, though his arms were in front of his body.

  “It’s about time,” he muttered. “I thought the two of you were gonna dance all night.”

  “I’ve had more accommodating partners, that’s for sure.” I gave him a cursory examination. “You okay?”

  “Hell, I’ve never felt better.” He raised his hands, showing me the zip ties. “Could use a hand, though. Or both of mine, if that’s how you want to see it.”

  I took one of the knives that I had stolen from the soldiers in my “cell” and sliced through the thin plastic. Captain Grimm rubbed his wrists, which were raw and bloody. His knuckles were bruised and torn open in a number of places. He had not been a docile prisoner, either. “You took your sweet time getting out. I was getting concerned.”

  I laughed. “You were worried about me?”

  Captain Grimm scoffed. “Of course not. I was worried that I’d have to retake the ship all by myself. I’m too old for that crap. Kicking that much ass would have strained my back.”

  I smirked. “Well, I’m glad I could save you the trouble.” The captain grunted. I think he was try
ing to laugh. He was clearly out of practice. I looked at the body at my feet. “Do you think someone heard that shot?”

  “I hope so,” Captain Grimm said. He sounded, well, grim. “I want these bastards to be afraid. I want them to regret ever setting foot on my ship.”

  “I regret setting foot on your ship,” I muttered.

  Captain Grimm took another stab at laughter. It failed just like the first attempt, but I got the point. “Well, I know what will cheer you up. That spy that came with you—”

  “Jamil,” I said. “Or whatever his real name is.”

  “Whatever you wanna call him, the bastard’s got himself set up in the mess hall one deck above us. That Abbas fella left eight men with him.” He looked at the men lying at our feet. “Six now.”

  “Four,” I corrected. “I took out two soldiers on patrol.”

  “Look at you, Mr. Big Shot,” Captain Grimm rolled his eyes. “When they were moving me, I saw them bring in the other people who came with you. The balding guy and his old lady. They’re being interrogated as we speak.”

  “I’m sorry, but how does that cheer me up?” I asked.

  “With the patrols taken out of the picture, the rest of the soldiers are all gathered in one place. If we can get in there—”

  “We can end this in one strike,” I finished.

  “Damn straight,” Captain Grimm grunted.

  “Works for me.” I gestured with my Browning. “Lead the way.” We started to ascend the stairs. “Once we get to the mess hall, I assume that you have a way to get inside without sparking a massacre?” I whispered. I didn’t have the captain’s faith that there were no more patrols wandering the halls.

  He wasn’t taking any chances, either. He replied in the same low voice, “Like I said, there are five guys in there, including your buddy. They’re preoccupied with their little question-and-answer segment right now. They won’t see us coming.” He must have sensed my doubts. “Hey, I don’t get it either. If this was my show, I’d divide the crew and put an armed guard in front of every door. But whoever is in charge has other ideas. My men are locked up nice and tight two decks below us, but there’s nobody down there with them.”