by Isaac Hooke
There was a simmering tension to the air during the meal. Most of those he considered friends in the unit were either dead or in the infirmary. The newcomers didn't know him, and gave him wary looks while he ate. The others, firmly in Suleman's camp, regarded him with outright hostility.
When he finished eating, the recriminations began, courtesy of Suleman's toadies.
"Once the kaffir spies tell us everything they know," Fida'a announced. "They will be beheaded."
"Good," Ethan said without enthusiasm.
"They will wake up in hellfire every day," Fida'a said. "And burn with endless pain."
"Good," Ethan repeated.
"Suleman says you visited them almost every night when we were in Raqqa," Raheel interjected. "Is this true?"
Ethan glanced at Suleman. The man wore a malicious grin. His eyes shone with that particular fervor of his, along with something new: Hatred.
It was amazing how quick his fellow mujahadeen were to turn against him. Hard to believe he had once considered these men brothers.
"I didn't know they were kaffir spies at the time." Ethan said. "I'm as angry about the whole thing as you are." He turned away. "Now if you will excuse me, I want to read the Quran."
He returned to his designated spot, pulled out a flashlight, and put on a show of reading his clothbound copy of the sacred book. Surreptitiously, he prepared himself for his outing, wanting to minimize the noise he might make later: he grabbed the duct tape from his pack and slipped it into a cargo pocket. He stored his balaclava in another pocket. He placed the Dragunov within easy reach.
Eventually the call for lights out came. He turned off the flashlight and stowed it in his harness.
Ethan lay back and waited, biding his time. His mind was too active for any sleep, especially since he had slumbered throughout most of the day.
He listened to the gentle pops of the M-37 mortars and the sluggish rat-a-tat of the DShK heavy caliber machine guns, audible despite the distance from Kobane.
He occasionally checked the time on his smartphone, careful to block the illumination with his body, and when midnight came at long last, he shut off his cellphone for good.
Clandestine time.
He was about to arise when he sensed movement behind him. He spun around.
A dark silhouette loomed above him.
"Let's go for a walk," Suleman whispered menacingly.
thirty-four
Ethan grabbed his Dragunov and stood. He was already wearing his knife and radio, and otherwise had everything else he needed, so he calmly followed Suleman into the foyer.
The man paused by the main entrance. "After you."
Ethan reluctantly moved through the doorway ahead of Suleman. He braced himself, expecting a point-black bullet to the back of the head.
But no slugs came. If Suleman had wanted to kill him, of course he wouldn't do it within sight of the unit.
The militant took the lead in the street beyond. Rooftop blazes lit the way—the stink of burnt tires was particularly strong that night.
Suleman followed a path that evaded the night patrols. As acting emir of the unit, he might have been able to explain away his defiance of the curfew. However, the fact he avoided the patrols spoke volumes as far as Ethan was concerned.
Suleman entered an abandoned house and turned on his flashlight, illuminating the insides. He relaxed on a couch in the guest room, and beckoned for Ethan to sit across from him. He set the light source between them on the coffee table, positioning the flashlight so that it shone toward the wall, indirectly illuminating their faces.
Suleman grinned widely and then, strangely, began disarming himself. He put the M24, Beast, on the floor, along with a Makarov, and a Glock hidden in his boot. He unsheathed his combat knife and set it down, too.
Ethan merely watched, dumbfounded.
"I was a soldier in the Iraqi army," Suleman began. "Stationed in a small town just to the east of Mosul. My village was invaded by Islamic State holy warriors. We were divided into two groups. Rafidites"—a derogatory term for Shia, which meant rejectors—"and Sunni. The Sunnis were spared, the Shia rejectors executed on the spot. I was with the Shia. I watched my friends die. But when my turn came, I was spared. Do you know why?"
Ethan remained silent.
"Because of Allah. He acted through Abdullah that day, and had the emir save me. Abdullah, the executioner, the savior. He brought me in when all others shunned me. He spared me when he could have easily taken my life. That day I realized everything I had believed in, everything I had followed, was a sham. Everything. So I threw it all aside and embraced Islam. True Islam. And I joined the Islamic State. Not just in body, but mind."
"Why are you telling me this?" Ethan said.
Suleman stared at him for a long moment, then strangely the fervent look faded from his eyes, replaced by sadness.
"I am an officer of the MI6," Suleman said softly, switching to English.
That got Ethan's attention. He sat straight up.
"Surprised?" Suleman continued, speaking with a distinct British accent. "I have been embedded almost four years. So long that I've almost forgotten my former life. What I once was is but a memory. This role, it has consumed me. I never meant to lose myself. It just happened. Moments of absolutely clarity, such as now, where I remember who I was and what I stood for, are rare. Usually I dismiss these moments. Tell myself I've moved on. That I've found Allah and the true path. But not this time. Finally I've found someone who understands me. Someone who can set me free."
Ethan shifted uncomfortably. When entering deep cover, there was always the chance of losing oneself in the role. It was why operatives underwent such extensive psychological screening. Even so, to keep up the charade for four years... Suleman was living proof of what could happen when a man was embedded for too long.
Assuming, of course, that Suleman was telling the truth.
Ethan waited for him to reveal more, but when the man remained silent, he spoke.
"Why are you telling me this?" Ethan repeated in Arabic. He refused to give up his own cover so easily.
"Isn't it obvious?" Suleman said simply, still in English.
Ethan studied the man uncertainly, then he slowly slid the Dragunov from his shoulder. He aimed it at Suleman's chest.
The supposed MI6 officer closed his eyes and began quietly reciting what sounded like a passage from the Quran.
Ethan let the aim of the weapon drift toward Suleman's head. Killing him would solve several potential problems. But if he was telling the truth, and really was an embedded operative, that made him a fellow Selous Scout...
He lowered the rifle. "I'm sorry. I can't do it."
Those eyes shot open. The fervent look had returned, and that intense hatred burned stronger than ever.
Suleman snarled. "Then you will die, kaffir." He reached down and grabbed the Makarov from the floor.
Ethan vaulted across the coffee table and smashed away the pistol with the stock of his Dragunov.
The man bolted upright, crashing into him. In moments Ethan found himself wrestling with Suleman on the floor. The flashlight shone from the rug beside him—one of them had knocked over the coffee table somewhere along the way.
Ethan managed to get on top. Suleman wrapped his hands around the Dragunov, struggling to wrench it from him. Ethan released the rifle and slammed the heel of his palm into the underside of his opponent's nose.
Suleman slumped instantly as the septal cartilage crunched against the nasal bone. Blood flowed from his nose onto his cheek, trickling onto the frayed rug in audible drips. His chest cavity raggedly heaved in and out.
Ethan snatched up the Dragunov, and then grabbed the other weapons Suleman had laid on the floor, starting with Beast. He slid the Dragunov over his left shoulder, Beast his right, stuffed the spare Makarov down the back of his cargo pants, the Glock in his boot. He stowed the extra combat knife in his other boot.
Ethan seized the man's ammo clips and
tucked them into his harness. He discovered the PVS-22 Night Vision clip-on in one of Suleman's pockets, and mounted it to Beast's forward Picatinny. Finally he removed the quick cuff from Suleman's left bicep and attached it to his own, adjusting the tightness.
Suleman had remained motionless the whole time, completely debilitated.
"Kill me," Suleman finally gurgled. A small red bubble burst from his lips. Blood was evidently pouring down his throat from the mangled nose.
"No," Ethan said.
"If you let me live I'll hunt you down for the rest of your days, I swear it. I can't let you go. Not after what I told you."
"You can certainly try to hunt me." Ethan took out his cellphone and snapped a photo of Suleman's face. He'd send it to Sam if he ever got the chance. He still wasn't entirely sure he believed Suleman's story, and Sam was the only one who could set the record straight.
With the duct tape he'd stowed in a cargo pocket, Ethan bound and gagged the lethargic man, folding Suleman forward to secure his hands to his feet like a trussed pig. He left him there like that, lying on his side: if the militant worked hard, he should be able to wiggle outside by morning and someone would set him free.
Ethan hurried across the street and hid behind a small house. Tires burned on the rooftop. He donned his balaclava, hauled himself over a cinder-block fence, slunk through the backyard, and crossed into a murky alley beyond.
When he was about two blocks away from Suleman he ran a surveillance detection route, partially doubling back in case the acting emir had instructed one of the others to follow. But no one tailed him.
With that, he dismissed Suleman from his mind entirely. Whether the man was truly an MI6 operative or not was irrelevant from that point forward.
Finding a dark alleyway, he checked the offline map on his phone. He reoriented himself until he was facing the destination building, which he had marked earlier, then he memorized the route and put the Android away.
He arrived at his target and retrieved the USB stick and TruPulse range finder he had stashed in the debris earlier. He plugged the USB into his smartphone on the off chance that Doug was in range, but as expected, the operative embedded among the Kurds appeared offline. Too bad. An airstrike would have proven quite a useful distraction.
He crept onward, keeping close to the buildings. Shortly thereafter the makeshift sharia courthouse came into view.
The two AKM-wielding guards of the night shift stood on either side of the entrance. The electric lamps over the twin doors shone brightly, no doubt thanks to a dedicated diesel generator somewhere inside.
Keeping to the shadows, Ethan circumnavigated the building. There were no windows of any kind. He found another entry in the rear, though it too was well lit and watched by armed men.
Ethan maneuvered to the unguarded eastern flank of the building. He climbed a nearby palm tree and swung himself onto the three-foot ledge that bordered the wide pyramid topping the structure.
He skulked along the perimeter until he reached the front. He perched there, above and a little behind the two main guards. They stood roughly three paces apart. The perfect distance for what he planned.
He stealthily lowered himself from the ledge until he was hanging there, his back to the men, his boots two and a half feet above the ground.
Then he let go, letting his knees bend so that he landed in a crouch. He tried to touch down silently but a couple of the magazines in his harness rattled. He sensed the guards moving behind him.
Ethan twisted, withdrawing the combat knife at his belt with one hand and the spare blade from his boot with the other. He stood up, stepping forward, spreading his arms, burying each knife into the necks of both men. Composed of 55-58 HRC stainless steel that tapered to a spear point, the almost pure black, six and half inch long Voron-3 blades slid easily into the flesh, the silver-tipped cutting edges meeting little resistance.
The two militants gargled sickeningly. One fell, but the other struggled to bring about his AKM. Ethan yanked the knife forward, ripping the cartilage of the man's larynx open in a stream of gristle and gore. He collapsed.
Ethan dragged both bodies, one after the other, into the foliage that grew along the base of the building. He turned off their two-way radios and washed the blood from his hands with water from their canteens. There was nothing he could do about the crimson stains he'd left behind on the pavement, however.
Ethan opened the main doors and slipped into the foyer. Keeping close to the wall so that none of the guards in the central chamber beyond would see him, he proceeded into the overflow room with its hardback chairs. He approached the hallway on the other side of the room, knowing a mujahid awaited on watch within.
He calmly removed his balaclava and entered.
The militant on duty straightened instantly. A youth scarcely out of his teens, he sat in a chair near the closed door to the left, where Ethan had heard Aaron shouting earlier.
The militant fingered the trigger on his AK, but otherwise kept the weapon lowered.
"Salaam," Ethan said. "I am here to pick up the prisoners."
* * *
Suleman trembled in the guest room. Not from cold, as the air was warm. Nor from the pain he felt in his smashed nose. No, he trembled from sheer, unmitigated rage.
He had given himself up to Emad, believing him a true brother. Believing Emad understood him. Suleman had revealed everything to him and made his peace.
But Emad had humiliated Suleman. He had refused to grant his martyrdom request. For that, and for the knowledge of Suleman's true identity that he had obtained, Emad could not be allowed to live.
Suleman fought against his binds but it was useless.
Then he heard movement in the foyer. The silhouette of a man appeared.
Beneath Suleman's gag, he smiled.
thirty-five
Ethan stared down the young guard.
"I was not told there would be a pick up," the mujahid said.
"They are to be transferred to Raqqa immediately," Ethan said authoritatively. "Radio your emir, you will see."
"Judge Mohamed is my emir," the youth said. "He is asleep."
"Then either wake him," Ethan insisted. "Or allow me through."
The youth hesitated. "I will wake him. Come." He beckoned toward the hall, indicating that Ethan should walk in front of him.
Ethan moved casually past the militant; when he was only slightly in front, he spun to the left and gave the youth a controlled knifehand strike to the neck. He hit the carotid sinus at just the right angle, with just the right pressure, to fool his brain into thinking his blood pressure had shot through the roof.
The militant crumpled as his medulla oblongata hurried to compensate.
Ethan disarmed the man and seized his two-way radio. He tried the door. Locked. A quick search of the militant's cargo pockets yielded a key ring.
As he unlocked the door the militant stirred. Ethan grabbed the man by the wrists and dragged him inside.
Aaron lay bound and gagged in one corner of the room, but when he saw Ethan he brightened visibly. One of his eyes was swollen shut. The right portion of his lower lip was a fat, purple mess. The big man still wore his fatigues, and likely had similar bruises over the rest of his body. He was barefooted. Gauze wrapped his left thigh and right shoulder—gunshot wounds? Smaller bandages covered his index fingers and big toes, likely where his nails had been forcibly removed.
Ethan felt sick to his stomach. They'd all undergone torture training and knew what to expect, but still... at least in training they knew it was going to end. Real life didn't afford that luxury. And the worst the instructors had ever inflicted was a good water boarding, that or leaving them tied up naked and soaking wet in subzero temperatures.
The momentarily forgotten youth was struggling in his arms. Ethan clocked him in the face, letting out his anger, and the mujahid went limp. Ethan duct-taped his mouth and then his wrists. By the time Ethan got to his feet, the youth was fighting again. Eth
an sat on him and finished the job, securing his hands to his ankles just as he'd done with Suleman.
He ripped the tape from Aaron's mouth.
"Ow," Aaron complained. "You took away some of my beard, dammit."
Ethan had to smile. The resiliency of the human spirit never ceased to amaze him. Even after all he'd been through that day, Aaron still had his sense of humor.
Ethan cut away the rest of Aaron's bonds.
His friend shifted, wincing. "Damn I'm stiff."
"I know you're happy to see me, but come on."
Aaron rolled his eyes. "I said stiff, not stiffy."
Ethan helped him stand.
"Gah!" Aaron exclaimed. "Man, that's pain."
Ethan folded Aaron's uninjured arm over his neck. "You were shot?" He nodded toward the bandaged shoulder.
"Yeah," Aaron said. "Leg and shoulder. That could be a new shampoo. Beats dandruff better than the leading brand."
It wasn't funny. The shoulder was one of the worst body parts to take a bullet. Most of the time such a wound resulted in permanent disability, as the deltoid was simply too compact of a unit—with several highly specialized structures crowded into such a small space there was really no "safe" path for a bullet to travel. His friend would have to endure several reconstructive surgeries, and months, if not years, of rehabilitation.
Ethan tried a few tentative steps. "You're heavier than you look."
"That's what your wife always told me." Aaron's breath came in strained heaves.
Ethan peered into the hall to make sure the way was clear, then he helped Aaron through the door and locked it behind him, sealing the militant within.
Luckily, Ethan found William in the adjacent room. The other operative seemed better off than Aaron, though he had similar bruising on his face, and gauze also wrapped several of his fingertips and toes. He hadn't been shot, however, and that probably made all the difference.
After Ethan freed him, William was able to help with Aaron—he wrapped one arm around the injured operative's waist, careful to avoid his damaged shoulder.