The Thin Black Line

by Simon Gervais

  “I left a Range Rover with the engine running just outside the kitchen,” said Al-Nashwan.

  “Let’s go. We’ll use the sliding glass door.”

  They were able to cross the patio before Al-Nashwan’s legs collapsed under him. There was nothing Alavi could do to support him, and Al-Nashwan’s unconscious body fell to the pavement. Alavi picked him up in a fireman’s hold, fighting the excruciating pain in his wrist, and then fled for his life.

  ―

  The two IMSI operatives had positioned themselves to cover three hundred and sixty degrees. Even though the firefight had come from Alavi’s room, they couldn’t take the chance of being surprised from behind. So far nobody had entered the lobby, and the sole employee Mike had seen earlier had ducked behind his desk, out of sight.

  “I don’t know if an alarm has been raised or not, Lisa, but we have to move. We can’t get caught here. The local police is probably the most corrupt institution in the country.”

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  Mike took the lead, his pistol extended in front of him. Lisa, following closely, peeked behind him a few times to ensure no threats were coming from the rear.

  “Checking for survivors,” said Mike once they had reached the bodyguards.

  “Covering,” replied Lisa, placing her back to the wall and scanning left and right.

  Mike released the dead men from their weapons and confirmed they had no pulse.

  “They’re gone,” he said. He checked their clothes for any IDs and pocketed their wallets before taking a stance opposite his partner.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Lisa said.

  “Me neither. You’re ready?”

  His wife smiled. She’s actually enjoying this. That’s just crazy!

  Mike fired five shots at the door-lock mechanism and kicked the door open. He entered the room and immediately saw the body of the fourth bodyguard lying on the hotel-room floor, a steak knife protruding from his chest. Clearing the corner of the room with Lisa right behind him, Mike couldn’t miss the wide-open patio door. Traces of smeared blood were visible on the terrace. Mike exited the room through the patio door, his weapon at the high ready. He looked left and right. Nobody. He swore under his breath. We’ve waited too long.

  “This guy’s still breathing,” his wife called from inside the room. Mike went back in, frustrated.

  The body of the VIP was slumped against the opposite wall. He had been shot multiple times, but by some miracle, he was still breathing.

  Mike kneeled down next to him. The man looked at him with a dazed, hopeless expression. He had only minutes to live. “Alavi and Shamrock are gone. They can’t be far,” Mike said.

  “I’m going after them,” Lisa replied.

  “Keep the communications open. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Sure thing.”

  With Lisa gone, he focused his attention on the dying man.

  “What’s your name?”

  The man tried to spit but couldn’t.

  “That wasn’t smart. Listen, there’s no way around it; you’re dying. You’re in a lot of pain, yes?”

  The man closed his eyes and nodded.

  “You have a sucking wound. I can make it easier for you if you speak to me. Would you like me to do that for you?”

  “Yes,” murmured the man.

  Mike placed the man in a more comfortable position and grabbed a plastic glass from the work desk. With his knife, he cut open the man’s white shirt and placed the small plastic glass on the wound. The objective was to prevent the air from entering the lung by the hole the bullet had created.

  “Better now?”

  The man’s eyes filled with tears. “How long?”

  “A few minutes in relative comfort if you help me, but it could also become agonizing if you don’t.”

  The man didn’t say anything, but Mike knew he would cooperate. “What’s your name?”

  “Jackson Taylor.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I…I was supposed to meet with the Sheik.”

  Mike couldn’t believe it. “You know him?”

  The man was now shaking uncontrollably, but he still managed to smile. “He fucked me over. He sent Alavi and his henchman to kill me,” he said, blood pouring out of his mouth. Mike was aware that Taylor’s lungs were filling up quickly. He had a minute left at the most. The man coughed, splattering Mike’s face with his blood.

  “Who was the guy with Alavi?” said Mike, wiping his face.

  “Omar Al-Nashwan. He’s the henchman. A sick fuck.”

  Yeah, and a damn traitor, too.

  “Jackson, do you know where the Sheik keeps Ambassador Ray Powell hidden?”

  Taylor gave him a puzzled look. “Who?” he asked weakly.

  “Don’t play games with me, asshole!” Mike yelled, his frustration taking over. He removed the plastic glass, and Taylor’s breathing became erratic.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

  At the count of ten, Mike replaced the glass and repeated his question. “Where does the Sheik keep Ambassador Powell?”

  Tears were now streaming down Jackson’s cheeks. “Don’t…know.”

  Shit! He really doesn’t know.

  All of a sudden, Lisa’s voice and the sound of gunshots came in through Mike’s earpiece. “I’ve got them. They’re climbing aboard one of the Range Rovers. They’re in front of the hotel.”

  Mike could hear his wife firing her weapon while speaking. “They’re getting away, and they punctured the tires of the other Range Rover. We need to get back to our truck and chase them.”

  “All right, Lisa. Calm down and come back here. We’ll leave together.”

  Focusing on Jackson Taylor, Mike asked him another question. “Where’s the Sheik?”

  Taylor slowly rolled his head from left to right. “I…don’t…know. He has a…a yacht he uses as headquarters. Always…moving. In…my…truck…suitcase…suitcase—”

  “What’s in the suitcase, Jackson?” Mike asked. But the man’s head had rolled to one side.

  Lisa ran into the room. “Let’s go, Mike. We need to get moving. Now.”

  “We need to get back to one of the Range Rovers.”

  His wife looked at him skeptically. “Why?”

  “This guy said there’s a suitcase in one of the Rovers,” Mike explained, pointing toward Jackson Taylor. “I don’t know what it contains, but the intel might be useful.”

  “Whatever you say. I just hope the other guys didn’t leave with the wrong truck.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Alavi dreaded that someone would try to stop them. With no weapons, they had no way to fight anybody. Alavi’s heart was racing as he lumbered across the lawn of the Country Lodge under his heavy load.

  Alavi spotted the parked Range Rover as soon as he rounded the rear of the building. He reached for the rear door handle but lost his balance on the slippery road. He fell hard and couldn’t help but drop Al-Nashwan’s body. He heard a crack and correctly guessed that his mentor had just broken a bone. Although Al-Nashwan was still unconscious, Alavi heard him grunt—a good sign. He slowly got up and opened the SUV door. He carefully positioned Al-Nashwan in the backseat. Using the truck’s doorframe as a step, he reached for the jammer antennas on top of the vehicle and yanked them off, tossing them to the ground.

  Alavi had to take a few deep breaths. The shrieking pain in his wrist was causing spots to twinkle before his eyes. When the dizzy spell had somewhat cleared, he stepped down and closed the rear passenger door. He climbed into the driver’s seat and carefully engaged the transmission.

  A bullet hit the rear window, shattering it. Knowing Jackson Taylor always carried a handgun in the glove compartment, Alavi lunged for it as the second and third rounds
hit his side mirror. He wasn’t sure where the shooter was, but he fired at the other Range Rover’s tires and accelerated away.

  Following the road past his failed IEDs, he drove until he reached the first junction, where he turned left onto a paved road. Al-Nashwan needed immediate medical assistance, but Alavi didn’t know where he could get it. With no other choice, he placed a call to the number he’d committed to memory—the number he was supposed to call only in a situation of extreme urgency.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know who I am?” asked Alavi.

  “I don’t need to know who you are,” said the voice, speaking with a strong British accent. “I know who you represent, and that’s enough.”

  “We had complications, and we need to ditch a car. Also, one of us needs immediate medical assistance.”

  The voice became crisper. “Gunshot wounds?”

  “Yes. At least two,” answered Alavi.

  “What type of car?”

  “A black Range Rover,” replied Alavi, hoping he hadn’t just signed their death warrants by providing this information.

  “Can I call you back at this number in five minutes?”

  Mohammad Alavi looked behind him at Al-Nashwan, who was still slumped in the backseat. His breathing was quick and shallow and not getting any better.

  “Yes, but hurry up. My friend has lost a lot of blood.”

  “Five minutes,” repeated the man before hanging up.

  CHAPTER 51

  Kobani, Syria

  Ray Powell ate his stale bowl of stew and drank his tea in silence. His body, stricken and weak, needed the calories. His will to live, unwavering only months ago, had shattered with the news that his whole family had died.

  He’d hoped it was another one of the Sheik’s hoaxes, but deep down, he knew better. They’d taken pictures of him crying over the death of his son, no doubt to harass his government by sending them to all known news outlets. He didn’t care. He was a broken man.

  But I have one fight left in me.

  Since his kidnapping, the Sheik had moved him often, but when Powell looked around him, there was a certain finality about this cell—no windows, a thin mattress to sleep on that didn’t do much of a job to stop the damp cold from entering his spine, and a bucket to do whatever a human body needed to do.

  If I don’t get out of here soon, I’ll catch a disease and die much more painfully than with a bullet to the head.

  Even though Powell doubted that the man with the British accent who brought him his meals and emptied his bucket was the only one guarding him, he had never seen anyone else since his transfer to this location. I guess I’ll know for sure how many there are once I get out of here.

  Being unafraid of dying was a new sensation for Powell. Now that he had lost everything, he didn’t care what happened to him. His only objective was to let the world know who the Sheik’s mole within the US government was.

  The proof may have been destroyed, but my word has to count for something.

  By all accounts, the president of the United States was a good man, and Powell was ready to give him the benefit of the doubt that he wasn’t aware of Steve Shamrock’s treacherous activities. Still, he’d get exposed, and news that one of his college buddies was financing the Sheik’s terror network would see him impeached.

  But first I need to get out of this hellhole.

  CHAPTER 52

  Freetown, Sierra Leone

  Alavi didn’t know if anyone was looking for them. At least one person back at the hotel had seen them leave with the black SUV. He wasn’t sure what type of police response would be sent to the hotel—he hadn’t seen any sign of police activity—but he wanted to be as far away as possible in case anyone provided them with a description of the vehicle.

  He kept driving until he found a small alley between two decrepit buildings. He backed the SUV in and turned off the ignition. Outside, the weather had not improved at all. The noise, created by raindrops drumming on the aluminum panels of the Range Rover, made Alavi afraid that he wouldn’t hear his cell phone if it rang. Unable to find the vibrate function, he pressed the volume button a few times before cramming the phone back into his jacket pocket.

  He extricated himself from the driver’s seat and crawled over the center console. He had learned first aid in the training camp, and his hands worked fast and efficiently. He applied pressure and placed bandages on Al-Nashwan’s wounds, using the emergency kit he had found jammed beneath the front seat. Once he had done everything he could, he nervously checked his watch.

  It’s been seven minutes! I’ll give him another three before I call back.

  Then he remembered that he had left his passport at the hotel. Did Al-Nashwan leave his as well? He must have, as all guests were required to hand over their passports to the hotel upon check-in. That was one loose end he didn’t want. Although the name on the passport was fake, it still carried a picture of his new appearance. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. His last terrorist operation had been a failure, and now this!

  Al-Nashwan’s breathing had become shallow, and Alavi wondered what punishment the Sheik would bestow upon him if the organization’s master assassin were to die because of him. Without Al-Nashwan’s assistance, not only would his mission have been a complete fiasco, but he would probably be dead by now.

  When his cell phone rang, Alavi jumped.

  “Yes?”

  “What’s your current location?”

  Alavi looked through the window but couldn’t see a thing. It was raining too hard.

  “I’m not sure, but hang on.”

  Protecting the phone from the rain in his pocket, Alavi opened the door of the SUV. He climbed out of the vehicle and jogged to the nearest intersection, searching for the street names.

  “We are close to the intersection of Davies and Oxley!” yelled Alavi into the phone.

  “Fine. Someone with a white Toyota pickup truck will meet you there in fifteen minutes. When he asks you if you had lunch today, you’ll tell him that you had an apple. Understood?”

  “Yes. What about my injured brother and our SUV?”

  “Everything will be taken care of.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Kobani, Syria

  Usually the man with the British accent gave him five minutes to eat and drink. On a good day, he might have a minute more, but it had never happened before that twenty minutes had elapsed between the time the tray was given to him until it was taken away.

  Damn! What’s going on?

  If it had happened the day before, Powell couldn’t have cared less. But today? The break in routine was unexpected. And unwanted. Today was the day he had decided to make his move.

  Either it’s brave or dumb. I don’t know yet. We’ll see if I’m still breathing at the end of the day…

  As the minutes passed, Powell’s resolve began to wane. Maybe I should wait for a better time? Something is going on. It’s taking too long.

  Powell shook his head. No! Focus! Think about what these cowards did to your family. Stop thinking about yourself.

  The door of his cell opened abruptly. Powell hadn’t heard the footsteps leading to the lock being disengaged. He must have been staring at the man who had just entered because the man started shouting at him. “What are you looking at!”

  Powell diverted his eyes. “Thank you, sir,” he replied. That seemed to surprise the man with the British accent.

  “For what?” he asked, pushing Powell against the dirty wall of his cell. “You’re thanking me for what?”

  “The stew was delicious.”

  The man cocked his head to one side, looking perplexed. That’s when Powell kicked him between the legs with all his might. As the man’s head came down, Powell delivered a bone-crashing knee strike to the man’s face. Powell felt the man’s knees go limp, and he let him fall
head-first to the ground. Powell searched the man and retrieved a cell phone from a pocket of his slacks. Powell looked at the display to confirm it was charged but immediately saw there was no signal. I’m probably in a basement of some sort. Powell pocketed the cell phone and continued to go through the man’s clothes. Nothing! No IDs, nothing!

  “Ben,” Powell heard from the hallway outside his cell. “Is everything all right?”

  Shit! There’s more than one after all. Powell ran to the wall close to the cell’s door and flattened himself against it.

  “Ben? Where are you?” The accent was once again British, and Powell could hear footsteps approaching. Then he recognized the sound of a pistol coming out of a leather holster. He probably realized that the cell’s door is open. If he’s well trained, he’ll come in with his pistol up, notice his partner on the ground, and will automatically turn right to clear his corner. That’s when I’ll strike.

  Powell’s mouth was so dry that his throat hurt. His heart rate had skyrocketed, and pearls of sweat were quickly forming on his forehead and on the small of his back. I’m too old for this shit! His hands were shaking. Powell willed himself to focus.

  The man was not only well trained. He was a pro. When he came in through the door, his pistol was indeed up, but he kept it close to his chest. To Powell’s disbelief, the man didn’t lose a fraction of a second on his downed partner. Instead, as soon as he cleared the space in front of him, he pivoted to his right. Powell was on him in an instant, his hands going for the man’s pistol. But, the other man was too quick, too young. With a quick flex of his wrist, he brought the barrel of his pistol down on Powell’s head. The next second, Powell felt a powerful kick connect with his solar plexus, expulsing all the air out of his lungs. After another flick of the man’s wrists, the butt of the pistol crashed on Powell’s skull. On his knees, Powell tried to catch his breath, but the other man, still holding his pistol in a two-handed grip, elbowed him in his jaw. This time Powell collapsed on the ground, next to two of the three teeth the last strike had sent flying. He opened his eyes just long enough to see the man kick him in the head.