by Schafer, Ben
Time froze. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the woman I loved. It felt like my heart had been replaced with acid, eating away at my insides until I was a husk. Those golden eyes flicked up at me for a moment, then closed as Azima braced herself for the inevitable.
The fatal gunshot echoed across the flat landscape. Then came another, and another. The bullets performed their grisly work with great efficiency, and the bloody corpse toppled lifelessly to the ground.
Time resumed its normal pace as Azima opened her eyes. Her expression of shock turned to disgust as she saw the remains of her would-be executioner lying at her feet. She recoiled on her hands and knees away from the man whose head and torso were a gruesome mess.
The Mustache Brothers, who had been circling around me to get a clean shot without endangering Scarface, swiveled their heads to locate the source of the incoming fire. It didn’t save them.
More bullets, this time a fully-automatic burst, chewed up the asphalt at their feet. The Mustache Brothers both went down in a heap, their legs turned to bloody hamburger by a barrage of hot lead. They stirred briefly, then went still. I realized that the bullets must have severed their femoral arteries. If they weren’t dead, they would be in seconds.
After an instant of terrifying uncertainty, I realized what had happened. It was Nadir. He disobeyed my order to stay with the truck and shadowed me. He must have taken the rifle I left in the truck and found a position where he could put it to good use. In doing so, he had crossed a line that he had vowed never to cross, and I pitied him for it. But right now, I had bigger problems on my mind.
Scarface took advantage of the confusion to fall backward. The motion tore his wrist out of my grip. He turned his awkward fall into a smooth roll. The soldier must have realized where the rounds were coming from. The movement of his roll was carefully executed. When he came to a stop he positioned himself so that my body blocked any line of sight that Nadir might have had.
As Scarface aimed his weapon at me, I searched for some way out of my situation. My mind came up blank. His roll took him out of my reach, so there was no way that I could repeat my tactic of wrestling for control of the gun. The barren pavement offered no protection, certainly nothing that I could get to in time. My own weapons lay ten feet away on the asphalt. I was truly out of options.
Scarface knew it, too. He smiled, revealing horribly rotten teeth. Apparently, this guy didn’t share Jamil’s respect for the regime’s dental plan. He was about to say something smug and self-satisfied, which would have totally ripped off my shtick, when his head jerked to the side. He stood there in shock for another moment, his expression one of utter confusion, before he collapsed. As he fell, I saw a gaping hole between his ear and his glass eye. From the blood pooling around him on the parking lot, I assumed that the round had passed directly through him.
I looked up to see Azima, who had risen to her feet. She staggered toward me. Her headscarf was missing and her hair was a tangled, uncontrolled mess. Long strips of cloth had had torn loose from her blouse, revealing glimpses of a black athletic bra underneath. Big, bloody welts covered her knees and calves from where she had been forced to the ground. Her bare feet were crisscrossed with tiny cuts and there were little bits of gravel and glass embedded in the skin. Her face was drained of all color, save for the streaks of blood and tears on her cheeks. Her whole body was trembling so severely that it appeared that she was in the grip of a mild seizure. Her golden eyes were swollen and reddened, both from the beatings and from weeping.
She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
A Makarov pistol, the same gun that had been pressed against her skull a minute ago, tumbled from her fingers and clattered on the pavement. She took two unsteady steps before she lost her balance. I rushed forward to catch her.
“Hey, hey,” I whispered. “I’m here.”
Azima cracked a thin smile, but even that tiny effort seemed to exhaust her. “He didn’t see that coming,” she said of the half-blind Scarface.
I ran my fingers along her cheek, wiping away the tears. “Leave the bad jokes to me, huh? It’s all I’ve got left.”
Her hands wrapped around mine. “You have me.” She pointed out. “And you have—” she bolted upright. “Hashim! Where is Hashim?”
I glanced up and searched the flat expanse of pavement for a sign of either Abbas or his son, but I saw nothing. Maybe he was still in the warehouse. Or maybe—
“Kyle! Kyle!” Nadir yelled. Now that Abbas’ men were no longer a threat, he was sprinting toward us. His hands were empty. I assumed that he had abandoned the gun because it would have slowed him down. He stopped and put his hands on his knees to support himself. That sprint left him out of breath. “Kyle, you’ve got to go!”
I looked down to Azima. “Are you okay to stand?”
“I think so.” She wobbled to her feet. It took some effort, but she managed to stay vertical. She put her hands out to her sides. “See, I told you I was fine.” Before she even stopped speaking, she started to waver.
Nadir and I each put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. Nadir faced me. “Kyle, he’s heading south toward the port. He has the boy.”
“And you didn’t stop him?” Azima screamed.
“I could either stop Abbas or save your life. I believe I made the correct decision.”
I clasped a hand on his shoulder. “And I’m forever in your debt.” I tilted my head toward Azima. “Can you take her back to the truck?”
Nadir nodded. “Of course.”
“Good.” I walked over to my Browning and slid it into my waistband. “Get her to the ship. Don’t stop for anything. If the Russians give you grief, I trust you to handle it. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. But if Captain Grimm says that it’s time to go, don’t argue with him.”
“You’re going after Abbas alone?” Azima asked.
“I have to. Hashim is my responsibility.”
“The hell he is,” she snarled. “He is my son.”
“And if anything happened to you, he would be forced to grow up without the most important person in his life,” I replied. “Abbas is alone and on the run. I’d say the odds are fairly even.”
A stormy sea of emotions washed over Azima’s face. She nodded once. “Go.”
I surged forward and cradled her neck in my hand, then leaned in to kiss her. Our lips met and I felt the world wash away for a brief and beautiful moment. I pulled back and looked in her eyes. “For luck,” I said.
She smiled. I ran.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ABBAS had a significant head start, but Hashim would slow him down. My only hope was that I could find them before Abbas disappeared into the labyrinth of cargo containers and loading cranes that made up this section of the docks.
To get to the port, Abbas must have gone through the same gate that Jamil, Nadir, and I used to enter the Russian base. I wondered how I would explain the situation to the guard without Nadir to translate. As I got closer to the open gate, I saw that it wouldn’t be an issue.
The young man that we had met on our way here was sprawled face-first on the pavement. There was a single, precise gunshot wound in his back. Judging from the damage Abbas’ gun had done to Jamil’s skull, it was safe to assume that the poor Russian guard’s heart had been obliterated by the shot. The only consolation was that his death would have been quick and relatively painless.
Once I was past the lush palm trees that flanked the road to the Russian base, I saw that there was a long stretch of barren soil between myself and the flat, desolate concrete that marked the nearest edge of the regular port facilities. Past that were a half-dozen small gray and blue outbuildings that looked suited for maintenance or pest control supplies.
Beyond those buildings were acres of steel cargo containers stretching out to the horizon. Groups of dock workers swarmed around these containers, preparing them to be transferred onto waiting ships or loaded onto nearby semi-trucks. Other men, and they were all men
, operated the heavy machines interspersed along the way, lifting and lowering the heavy metal containers like a giant version of those skill cranes you find in some arcades.
A sudden gleam of metal captured my attention. There, at the end of the dirt patch, was Abbas. He had his Colt in one hand and kept a tight grip on Hashim’s sleeve with the other. He practically dragged his son through the dusty soil. I pulled out my own pistol and took off after him.
Abbas saw me coming. He spun so Hashim would be behind him, then lifted the Colt and fired twice. I was still too far away for the rounds to be effective, but a lucky shot could kill me just as easily as one that was carefully aimed. I had to keep my distance until I could get to the cover of the outbuildings. Abbas must have had the same idea, and he ducked into the space between two sand-colored sheds.
I pressed myself against the wall of the closest outbuilding and slowly made my way toward Abbas’ last known location. I had to wait for a clear shot to avoid hurting Hashim, but Abbas didn’t have that handicap. I peeked around the corner, and Abbas was nowhere to be seen.
Instead of following in his footsteps, I continued to walk around the sheds until I came to a wide open space that was littered with broken bottles and scraps of paper. Short gusts of wind caught these scraps and sent them into little spirals. I stopped to listen for movement, but I only heard the surf punctuated with the occasional cry of a seagull.
I continued onward, taking each step with deliberate precision. Abbas wasn’t making any sudden moves to give away his position. I wasn’t about to do so, either. I had to resist the tunnel vision that came along with the adrenaline surging through my bloodstream. If I didn’t keep my eyes wide open for threats, I would lose Abbas forever. Worse, he could get the drop on me and then no one would be left to stop him.
An unusual scraping sound caught my ear. I was faint, and I had to stop and focus on it. It came from the other side of a large stack of leaky oil drums. The smell of petroleum was overwhelming and, when combined with the scents carried in by the tide, threatened to upend my stomach.
I pushed the bile back down my throat with an act of will. I edged closer to the source of the sound. With my weapon ready and my senses on alert, I spun around the corner.
And came face-to-face with a small colony of greasy brown rats. Five or six of the filthy creatures gnawed on a discarded apple core, likely tossed aside by one of the dock workers. The vermin scattered as I approached, vanishing into the countless little crevices along the water’s edge.
I didn’t have time to keep chasing down these dead ends. I needed to flush Abbas out of his hiding spot before he disappeared like the rest of the vermin. I could fire a shot that might make him peek out of cover, but that would give away my exact position and probably attract unwanted attention from the men working on the nearby ships.
I looked up at the birds circling above me, and it gave me an idea. I lifted the apple core into the air, praying that I wouldn’t catch the plague from those rats. The seagulls were hesitant at first, then started to dive-bomb me to get to the food. Once I was certain I had their attention, I hefted the apple core to where I had last seen Abbas and Hashim.
As expected, the birds followed the food. Within seconds, a cloud of seagulls dove and fought for the scrap of food. Among the squawks and shrieks of the birds I heard another sound: a young boy’s squeal. Whether it was from amusement or fear, I didn’t know. But I did know that Abbas had doubled back and was hiding once more in the space between the two sheds.
As soon as he heard Hashim’s outburst, Abbas knew he had to change his plan. He came out shooting, and a neat pair of bullets pinged off the oil drums near me.
In action movies, shooting a barrel of fuel causes a massive explosion that sends stunt doubles flying in all directions. In real life, it simply punctures holes in the barrels. I got splashed with the inky substance. My pants were irrevocably stained, but unless I took up smoking in the next few minutes I was going to be fine.
Abbas may not have hit me, but the gunfire did its job. I was forced to take cover rather than of move to intercept him. He pulled Hashim across the open space and toward a dark red cargo container with some kind of logo on the side. I didn’t recognize the company, but it appeared to be a globe centered on Russia with some kind of bird arched above it and a dolphin swimming underneath it.
I tried to get into a better position, but once he was safely behind cover he put another bullet in the oil drums to keep me in place. I circled around the other side of the drums and raised my pistol to fire, but Abbas was gone.
I rushed forward, then pressed my body against the cargo container and began moving parallel to the steel surface. Someone behind me shouted and I spun around to face them, but it was only a dock worker. His face was a mask of fear. I put a finger to my lips. He nodded and scurried away. This wasn’t his problem.
The deep, dull rumble of a diesel engine echoed in the canyons between the cargo containers. As I drew closer, I found myself in a wide open space approximately forty feet across. Evidently the port was undergoing some sort of renovation or expansion, and as a result there were short piles of broken concrete and rebar scattered seemingly at random.
A dark green dump truck sat idling in this space, ready to receive a load of construction waste. Lining either side of the central space were a series of portable lighting towers, the kind used by road crews and pee-wee football leagues. A yellow-and-orange crane, small compared to most of the others in the port but still over twenty-five feet tall, was busy shifting the unused scraps from these scattered piles to the large truck for disposal.
The construction debris made a perfect site for an ambush. There were almost a dozen such piles, each at least as high as my waist. Abbas would just have to wait until I walked into his line of sight. Well, two could play at that game. I crouched behind the nearest collection of junk, then peeked over the top.
It was then that I noticed something odd, something that I couldn’t see from my earlier angle. The dump truck’s engine was running, but the driver’s side door was open and the cab was empty. For all I knew, the driver could simply be taking a break. It could just be a coincidence.
Yeah. Right.
I shifted my position a little more. I still couldn’t see much, but from this vantage point I could just make out two pairs of legs under the truck’s open door: one large adult and one child. Then I understood.
Abbas wasn’t trying to ambush me. He was making his getaway. With his forces either dead or out of contact, Abbas needed another ride out of Tartus. It looked like he found one.
Without hesitation I sprinted toward the truck. I still couldn’t see anything on the driver’s side, but I figured that the time for waiting was over. If Abbas got that truck up to speed, there would be nothing I could do to stop him.
I came around the hood of the truck without slowing down. I shouted, “Hashim, duck!” a moment before I threw the full force of my body against the open door.
Abbas’ lessons must have been big on discipline. Hashim obeyed without a second of hesitation. Abbas didn’t have his son’s reflexes and took the full impact of the heavy door. He groaned as his head rebounded off of the door frame, but he stayed on his feet. Abbas may not have had the quickest reaction time, but he was as tough as, well, a dump truck.
I tried to pin him with the door, but he wriggled his way out of his confining position. As Abbas twisted free, he took advantage of his momentum to throw an elbow jab at the back of my head. I was off-balance from pushing my full weight against the door, and the blow caused me to stumble down to one knee. The Browning sailed from my grasp and landed in the dirt a few feet away.
Abbas roared as he brought both fists crashing down onto my back. I kicked out hard in the direction of his closest leg. My boot caught his knee with a satisfying snap and Abbas’ roar turned into a screech of pain.
I scrambled to my feet just as Abbas yanked his pistol from its holster. Even before he could point it in my
direction, I charged at him. I shoved the barrel up and away from my body a split-second before Abbas pulled the trigger three times.
The shots went wild, but they had an unintended side effect. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the crane operator clamber out of his cabin, his task forgotten the moment that bullets had ricocheted off of his thick glass canopy. Ironically, the operating cabin with its thick glass protection would have been the safest place for the panicked dockworker. But rational thought had given way to uncontrolled terror.
Abbas took advantage of my momentary distraction to slam his pistol down onto the bridge of my nose. Something went pop. My whole face felt like it was suddenly on fire, but I held my grip on the Colt. Half of my body was awash with pain at this point. My nose could take a number and wait its turn for my attention.
Abbas put his free hand around his wrist and began pressing the gun toward me with both arms. I couldn’t win a direct contest of strength and Abbas knew it. Instead of trying to fight him, I released his gun hand. Rather than maintaining a grip that I knew would fail, I used my hand to push his gun to his left while I twisted around to his right.
Another three shots rang out, a deafening thunderclap at this close range. I yelled out in pain. Everything happened so fast that it kind of blurred together.
Despite the flares of anguish across my whole body and the clanging in my ears, I was in a pretty good position. With a quick snap, I could get control of Abbas’ Colt and put him down. After all this time, Abbas presented me with an opening. I would be a fool to ignore it.
Then Abbas did something that most experienced shooters would call “insane.” He released his Colt, letting it tumble from the fingers of his right hand—