El Chulupa was quiet, for now. After the beheadings, the government declared a temporary state of emergency in the region, enabling the corrupt army to impose a curfew, chase suspects and feign support of the ineffectual police force. Dozens of vehicles and hundreds of weapons, including assault rifles and grenades, had been impounded. About two dozen Zeta suspects had been rounded up, the usual suspects. The strutting narcos, usually brandishing weapons across their chests, were temporarily in hiding, or locked up being well fed. Through Paco, Ben learned that large-scale human rights violations, war crimes and genocide went unpunished. In Guatemala impunity was the rule, justice an exception.
Welcome to Latin America.
The problem was, the cartels employed most of the residents of the country in one way or another, so no one could really be trusted. A fortune by local standards, the cartels paid a finder’s fee as a recruitment tool. But like the mafia, once you got into the gangs, you never got out. The army patrolled with teenagers dressed in khaki and on foot, but the narco-terrorists knew it was a powerless force. Many of the Zetas were former members of Mexican and Guatemalan special-forces, which didn’t make Ben feel any better about the mission.
Ben and Elvis slept with one eye open the first night. Once, Ben closed his eyes and pictured Lara lounging on the sofa at home watching television. Although thousands of miles apart, they were almost in the same time zone. Her shirt served as his pillow on the bare mattress in the corner of the room. The sounds in the night were those of babies crying, occasional gun shots, and a few street scuffles outside in the alley.
Elvis slept in the opposite corner of the room with a loaded weapon at the ready. Ben’s stomach was empty and he sucked down bottles of water as if he couldn’t get enough. Thankfully, the temperature dropped to the 70’s at night. But the humidity was non-stop.
The next day they ate at the local cantina and mixed with the residents, telling them they were just passing through. Ben handed out a pack of cigarettes to a few of the locals. Well disguised as Latin Americans, both men seemed to pass the sniff test. Little did those in the cantina know, the coming night would bring another bout of unrest to their dreadful little settlement. Ben and Elvis strolled through town past their target’s dwelling absorbing every detail from behind sunglasses as they sauntered by. A ramshackle two-story building painted bright yellow, it housed one of the top Islamic State masterminds.
A woman having the appearance of a housekeeper exited the building. Stout, dark, and wearing an apron, she was all business as she stepped into the street and headed toward the market place around the corner. Once she was out of earshot, Ben and Elvis stopped in front of the building to argue. While they pretended to be fighting with one another, Ben saw a figure hovering in the doorway of the bright yellow building. Elvis shoved his hand into Ben’s chest pushing him back a few steps, shouting in Spanish. As they did so, out of the corner of Ben’s eye, he observed a figure emerging in broad daylight. It was their target, Mohammed Al Safi.
In the crowded street filled with vendors and hooligans, they ceased arguing but feigned conversation with one another. Ben moved cautiously behind the man as he rapidly strode along the dirt road. Occasionally, Ben squatted to pick up trash in the street. He whispered the target’s code name into his com, “Snake eyes, send a Jeep.” He gave the coordinates. Elvis followed but broke away from Ben. Mohammed Al Safi moved through the throng of people swiftly, but Ben kept his eyes on him.
It was almost too good to be true. Mohammed Al Safi was walking right in front of them in broad daylight, alone and seemingly unaware they were stalking him. They kept their distance and watched him turn into an alley far ahead. Ben motioned to Elvis without looking at him, and he moved along parallel to the alley. Ben was now behind the target and reaching for his knife. He was so close he could smell the hookah smoke that permeated the man’s clothing and skin.
Ben whispered in the com, “Take him alive.”
Al Safi turned as he heard Ben speak, but Elvis surprised him by stepping in front of him. He brought him to his knees with one swift kick. Ben grabbed handcuffs from his backpack and stuffed a sweaty rag into Al Safi’s mouth. As he bound his feet, Moshe’s men were not far behind with the Jeep.
Tossing Al Safi inside the Jeep as it pulled into the alley, Ben grabbed a hypodermic and injected his thigh as he struggled. Ben and Elvis hopped into the Jeep as it sped away to a steel corrugated building on the edge of town, a ramshackle place in the middle of nowhere. The door opened and the Jeep slipped inside. Ben took the limp body of Al Safi and dragged him to the interrogation room, a dug basement beneath the building where the loudest screams could not be heard.
The musty odor assaulted his nostrils as they made the quick descent down the wooden ladder to the dirt below. It was claustrophobic but utilitarian. There was one light dangling from the ceiling and a steel chair beneath it. In this tomb, two rudimentary air vents were installed in the wall, one brought air in and the other sucked it out with a tiny fan. The diesel generator was the only sound in the distance behind the building. Ben quickly strapped the target into the chair and removed the cloth from his mouth. Breathing heavily, Ben drank a bottle of water as Al Safi opened his eyes. Yes, it was good to see panic in the eyes of a man who had wrought terror on many an innocent person. Now, it was his turn.
Rendition was authorized, but no records were to be kept. Ben understood what he had to do, and it could be a long involved process or a quick and dirty one. Before he decided on a strategy to garner information, he had to gauge how much this guy had to give. More than anything, he needed the location of the two terrorists who had fallen off their radar. He began with a series of questions and tried not to appear hostile, at first. He always preferred these things to go the easy way. But, if he didn’t get the information he suspected the target had, he was prepared to do anything, including shooting him point blank. The fact that Al Safi lost control of his bladder during the first five minutes of questioning gave Ben a hint that this would be easy work.
At first the bastard prayed to Allah for ten minutes after pissing himself. Then the crying began.
After an hour, Ben had his fingers around his throat and was hissing in his ear in Arabic, “Tell me now, where are the others?” No answer. Ben stuffed the rag back in his mouth and took out the knife. He ran the blade along the man’s neck and looked into his eyes. “You want to see Allah? I'll send you there now, you son-of-a-bitch!”
Instead of sticking the knife in his neck, Ben punched him in the gut as hard as he could. Al Safi choked on the rag and had trouble breathing. After gasping and choking for a few minutes, he nodded. Ben removed the rag. “Tell me!” he yelled for the last time in Arabic.
Descriptions and coordinates tumbled out of Al Safi’s mouth in a jumble. Elvis wrote on his hand as Al Safi spoke. A green house with a balcony, names of streets, and an apartment above a bakery. But it could have been gibberish uttered to stay alive.
Ben breathed into the com, “Get someone down here with water, now! Hold him until we check out the info he gave us.” Two of Moshe’s men scrambled down into the tomb-like room and Ben gave them orders. “Keep him alive. We'll be back within two hours, hopefully.”
Elvis wanted to run, but Ben grabbed his arm. “We can’t attract attention. “The two strolled along the street using the coordinates written on Elvis’ hand. The green house with the balcony was in view, just as described, about a mile north. Two men in robes were lounging on the balcony.
Ben looked at Elvis. “You’re better at climbing than I am. I’ll distract them for a moment and you can pull one of them inside. But, first we have to make sure no one else is inside the house. And, we have to make sure they’re not armed to the teeth.”
Ben spoke into the com, “Get a mosquito drone here pronto.” He gave the coordinates and calmly walked by the house. He pretended to be lost and confused, peering at the addresses. Within ten minutes a young boy on a bicycle stopped next to them on the si
dewalk. “Mosquito inside. Check your phone.” The boy wheeled away.
Pretending to make a phone call, Ben viewed the interior of the house with the mosquito drone. No one was there at the moment. In the sweltering afternoon, the humidity had become unbearable. He glanced at Elvis, “Yup – it’s time.” Ben walked back toward the green house and glanced at the two men on the balcony. Speaking Spanish, he asked them for directions. While the conversation ensued, Elvis had made it up to the balcony.
The first guard was so intent on Ben, he didn't see Elvis come up from the side of the balcony. Elvis simply grabbed the guard by the back of the head and slammed it straight down into the balcony's rail. He vaulted over the guard, driving into the second one. He wrapped his arm around the other's neck in a chokehold and dragged him inside. Ben pushed through the sun-cracked wooden door in the back, and ran to the balcony. Stooping, he dragged the other man inside, hoping no one was observing.
Luckily, it was siesta and all local traffic, both pedestrian and otherwise, had come to a complete stop. Ben and Elvis quickly bound the two men. Ben spoke into his com, “Need two Jeeps at 29 Palm, pronto.” Within minutes one Jeep backed up to the side door of the house and the two bound men were tossed in. Ben had injected both of them and they were dead weight for the moment.
“Good job,” he said to the driver. “Now get the hell out of here. We will meet you back at the tomb.” The driver of the second Jeep opened the door and Ben and Elvis scrambled in as it moved away at a rapid rate of speed.
After reviewing photographs back at the interrogation chamber, Ben realized he now had a trifecta. Al Safir, Abdullah Mizoul and Mohammed Farouk. He couldn’t believe the run of luck. Three prisoners in the interrogation room was crowded, but manageable. Elvis kept them bound in uncomfortable positions. Both men spat at him when he got close enough to speak. They called him a pig and an infidel in Arabic. However, he remained calm. He’d been through this before and knew it wouldn’t last long.
Tom and Gus came down to relieve them. For a brief time, Ben and Elvis raced upstairs, washed up, and ate something. Ben spoke into his com, “It’s going to be a long night, guys.”
An hour later, they were back in the tomb with Mizoul and Farouk. As expected, some of their swagger was gone once the stark realization had come to the terrorists they were in for a world of hurt. Like most of the men who had come to Guantanamo, they had not even been water boarded. Now they were going to long for those interrogation techniques.
Ben and Elvis took turns questioning the two new men, as Al Safir lie motionless in the corner with his hands and feet bound. After three hours of slapping the two men around, they wouldn’t talk, and it was time to take the gloves off. The point being, they had said enough to Ben to give him the knowledge that they had information, but the fools actually believed they couldn’t be broken. He hadn’t met one yet that couldn’t be.
Mizoul was kept downstairs and Farouk brought upstairs for a little while. Al Safir had passed out in the corner, but was still breathing. Mizoul knew he was in for something, but didn’t know what. Ben asked him a series of questions and Mizoul refused to look at him. Tossing him onto the dirt floor, he pulled his bound hands up onto the metal chair.
“Fingers – you have ten of them – do you want to keep them?” He pulled out the fixed blade and ran it over Mizoul’s index finger slowly slicing into the flesh. Blood spurted, and the tough terrorist cried out in pain. Ben stuffed the rag back into his mouth and continued cutting. Apparently, this guy wanted to play rough.
Ben stared into Mizoul's eyes. “I have PTSD, bad flashbacks of being tortured by you bastards, and a knife. I can do this all day.” Ben pulled the knife. The first pass was more of a yank than a cut. But, even though he’d gotten Mizoul’s attention, the bastard wouldn’t talk.
Mizoul screamed through the rag.
After the finger was excised, Ben took another rag out of his backpack and bound the wound to slow the bleeding. Mizoul’s howling was muffled. His eyes now filled with fear, as rivulets of sweat mixed with tears poured down his face.
Ben scowled. In Arabic he shouted, “You think this is bad? Just wait. Because I'm going to keep cutting. And, once I get to your tongue, there’ll be nothing left of you to talk.”
Mizoul grimaced and acquiesced.
As soon as Ben removed the rag from his mouth, Mizoul blurted out everything. No longer did he hold back or put on an act filled with loyalty and pride. There was nothing left. Ben tossed him into the corner with Al Safir, and spoke into the com, “Bring down Farouk.”
The men led Farouk down the wooden ladder into the tomb. He took one look at the two lying in the corner, and Ben shoved him down to the dirt floor face first. Straddling his back, Ben hissed into his ear, “Tell me.”
Farouk was filled with terror. Ben took the knife and sliced off chunks of his hair. He pulled the robe off him and tossed the garment aside. Naked on the floor and trembling, Farouk cried out as Ben put the knife to his neck.
“Tell me,” Ben shouted, his voice filled with rage. He saw Farouk’s eyes glued to Mizoul’s bloody hand. “Yes, I cut off his fingers. You’re next,” Ben said in Arabic. “I might cut something else off your body. You won’t be needing it where you’re going.”
Within minutes Farouk gave him all of the information he had, and Ben even wondered if he made some of it up. There were two other detainees released earlier from Guantanamo, Ibrahim Alim Shah and Muhammed Ghafoor. The plans had been in the works for months. They were being helped by several cells in Chicago, setting up a coordinated attack in the United States, of all places. The elevated trains in Chicago would be bombed, similar to the event that occurred in Spain.
Once he got the information he called Moshe. “Tuesday is the target date. These assholes are setting up an attack in Chicago. Everything is in motion. Backpack bombs. I’ve got names and phone numbers. I’ll text them to you. Get this shit to the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security now!” He quickly sent the information to Moshe, then spat on the dirt floor, feeling as if he could vomit on the coward lying there trembling.
“What shall we do with the three stooges?” Elvis uttered.
Ben glanced at the men. “They’re toast. Even if we keep them around and pry more out of them, would it even be worth it?” The sweat trickled down his face onto his chest. Even beneath the ground, the humidity was oppressive, sweltering. No matter how much water he consumed, he seemed to need more.
Ben ordered all of the men out of the room except the prisoners. He took a deep breath and removed the Glock19 from his shoulder holster, attaching the suppressor slowly and methodically. He noticed two of the men were already dehydrated and cowering in the corner. The third was hardly awake after the slightest roughing up. Then, another thought occurred to him.
One by one, Ben dragged the terrorists into the hole his men had dug in the basement. Their hands bound, he laid them out. It looked like one of the mass graves these men were so fond of using for their killing sprees. Except, this grave would be different in more ways than one. Ben walked away to the edge of the basement, and fingered the remote control for a garage opener.
Mizoul was the only one to look up and see the cement mixer at the edge of the space above him. His eyes widened in terror, thinking he was about to be buried in cement.
It was actually much worse.
Ben touched the remote as Mizoul took a breath to scream. Fortunately for Mizoul, that meant he took a deep, deep breath of the powdered lye that poured down onto them. Ben watched as Mizoul struggled. It was like swallowing acid. For the others, it was like swimming in it.
Murder and body disposal in one neat package. The three men ceased breathing within minutes. He spoke into the com, “Get them out of here. The flies are bad enough as it is.” The men scrambled to put the bodies into bags and tossed them into the Jeep. It was black outside. A few people were milling around, but paid no attention to seven men loading stuff into a Jeep.
“Feed them
to the crocodiles. There’s a creek about five clicks from here, to the south.” Ben exhaled. Tom nodded, “Yeah, I know where it is.”
Ben dialed Moshe, “Send another Jeep for me, would you? I’m tired, bro.”
Driving back to the safe house didn’t feel safe. And, as if things had gone too smoothly, they were approaching what appeared to be a phony checkpoint.
“They’re not police,” Ben whispered into his com.
He heard Moshe’s response, “Shit.”
The men dressed in khakis were pointing AK’s at the vehicle, and Ben had to make a quick decision. Stop and get made, or drive through taking shots, and possibly be tailed. He decided to take the latter. Either way, they’d be in a precarious situation.
Ben turned to the driver. “Run it.”
The driver, who looked like a recent college graduate, didn’t even look at Ben, just smiled. The vehicle roared into second, then third gear, rapidly hurtling them through the barricade. The AK’s fired several bullets into the vehicle, but they were now doing sixty miles per hour zigzagging and turning down an unfamiliar road.
“Lose them,” Ben ordered.
Moshe laughed. “Come now, you don't think we're that stupid, did you?” He tapped his com unit and said, “Rear car, drop the caltrops.”
A medieval warfare device, the caltrops were basically a ball with four spikes coming out of it. The spikes were evenly spaced so that any way it was thrown, it still landed point up, with the other spikes acting as a tripod. It was originally used against horses and cavalry, but it worked on cars, too.
Despite losing the tail in short order, they drove for forty-five minutes, in total darkness through a rural field, then a dense jungle area. When they came upon a town, it was at least twenty miles from the inn and Ben determined it was the town of Sentini. A dot on a map, but barely that, it was slightly larger than El Chulupa. Ben observed all manner of violence taking place in the streets. Fist fights, stabbings, gun shots, drug deals, blacked out cars weaving in and out of private alleys.
Hard Man to Kill (Dark Horse Guardian Series Book 4) Page 6