Whelan, who’d been lying on a bottom bunk, rolled into a sitting position. “My father used to tell me that every situation poses a lesson for someone involved in it. It seems like Cliff’s is to be more discerning with whom he shares intel in the future.”
“Yeah,” Thomas said, “and ours is never to underestimate a mission.”
“If there ever is another mission,” Larsen said.
“This was supposed to be a routine hit-and-run and we went about it half-assed,” Thomas said. “We should have had more sophisticated comm gear. Then Marc could have let us know the cops were setting up. Maybe we could have gotten away if we’d had a warning earlier in the evening.”
Whelan shook his head. “Not likely. This thing was a set-up from the get-go. We entered the country unobtrusively and remained in disguise. Plus the world thought we’d been dead for twenty years. We’re not in anyone’s data bank, so facial recognition wouldn’t have been a factor. The trap was preset. The minute four or more rough-looking guys appeared in the marina, it was going to spring. Besides, using comm gear might have compromised Marc and Rafe if the Dubai cops picked up the signals. Then there’d be no one on the outside to get us out.”
“How do you think they’ll go about getting us sprung?” Larsen said. His voice wasn’t much more than a deep growl.
Whelan shrugged. “Your guess is as good as anyone’s. Just be ready to react as soon as it happens. We won’t have the luxury of time on our side. There are more than fifteen thousand cops on the Dubai force. That’s a big posse.”
* * *
Just after dusk, a three-vehicle convoy departed the Al Barsha police station. The lead vehicle was a Jeep Wrangler carrying four of Dubai’s finest. Behind the Jeep was a modern version of the paddy wagon with two cops riding up front. Four shackled prisoners and a half dozen armed guards filled the back. Lieutenant General Hammad Gamal Nazari, the chief of police, also rode with them. A troop carrier with two men in the cab and a dozen additional heavily armed cops trailed closely behind the first two vehicles.
Initially, the convoy headed south on Hessa Street, then turned left, heading east on Mohammad Bin Zayed, a main arterial road. A short while later, they took a right, heading in a southerly direction. Judging from the estimated speed of the vehicle he was in, Whelan calculated they had turned onto Umm Suqeim Road, about six klicks from the police station. He remembered from the map he’d studied that it extended deep into the vast Al Aweer desert. Another five clicks and it would intersect Emirates Road. If the convoy turned left, it probably was taking them to the Dubai Central Jail. If it continued straight, they were being hauled out into the forbidding bleakness of the Al Aweer. That meant the general’s threat to execute them would become a reality.
The convoy went straight. Whelan, shackled to the floor with his three companions, looked over at the general. He was sitting on the bench between two guards, smoking a cigarette. His legs were crossed in an almost feminine fashion. His eyes were closed, and his lips held a smug, satisfied smile beneath the carefully groomed mustache. A sheathed scimitar rested on his lap. Whelan and the other three Dogs knew what its purpose was.
Whelan said, “I take it, General, that the rule of law doesn’t apply in this country?”
“To the contrary,” Nazari said, opening his eyes. “Dubai is a model Islamic state. Things are done strictly in accordance with the law. For those who choose to ignore or violate our laws, the consequences can be dire. As you are about to discover.”
“So there’s to be no hearing or trial?”
“Why waste the prosecutor or judge’s time? Our information was completely accurate. The four of you showed up as expected, fully armed, with intent to harm a valued guest of our country.” He smiled balefully and said, “The crime is punishable by beheading.”
“Where do these beheadings take place?”
“Approximately ten kilometers beyond where this road intersects highway Seventy-Seven, there is an abandoned rock pit.” He lit another cigarette. “You are by no means the first to be executed there.”
* * *
The Al Aweer desert was drab and colorless by day, and even more so in the wan moonlight. The generally flat surface was serrated in places where washboard-like limestone ridges trapped the shifting sands like jetties on a beach. The gravel road to the abandoned pit carved its path through the ridges in a steadily southward direction. The occasional stunted acacia or ghaf tree rose up, struggling to survive in the harsh, arid climate.
Ahead of the lead vehicle and slightly to the left of the road, a man hunkered down in a small depression. A Russian-made RPG-7V2 rested on his thick right shoulder. He gripped the handle below the optical sight with his left hand. His right was wrapped around the other handle with his finger on the trigger. When the Jeep was less than one hundred meters away, Rafe Almeida sighted carefully through the optical sight and gently applied pressure to the trigger.
The weapon roared, spitting its 93mm HEAT warhead at the front of the Jeep. A second later the vehicle exploded in a fireball of twisted metal and human body parts.
The second and third vehicles in the convoy slammed to a halt. Policemen started to pour out of the back of the troop carrier. A second man rose from another roadside depression and fired his RPG-7V2. The round slammed into the exposed rear of the transport, creating an even bigger explosion. The few guards who were still ambulatory were now human torches. They staggered around, screaming at the indescribable pain until, one by one, they fell to the ground and burned to death.
Marc Kirkland tossed the grenade launcher to the ground and unslung the MP5 from his shoulder. It was equipped with the Beta C-Mag magazine and held 100 hollow-point 9mm Parabellum rounds. He swiftly skirted the inferno that had been the police transport and approached the IVECO box van that held his comrades. He saw Almeida approaching from the other side of the blazing remnants of the Jeep.
Terrified of dying in a manmade furnace like their comrades, the driver and another guard jumped out of the van’s cab. Almeida shot the driver, and Kirkland triple tapped the other man. A moment later, Kirkland was abreast of the rear of the van when its door burst open and the six guards riding in it leaped out, firing wildly into the night. Kirkland coolly cut them down in bursts from the MP5.
It had taken only a few moments, but twenty-six of Dubai’s finest were dead. Kirkland carefully approached the open rear door of the van from the right side. Almeida appeared opposite him, his MP5 at the ready.
A quavering voice, speaking Arabic, came from the interior of the van. “Do not shoot me, please. I am unarmed. Here.” A pearl-handled Colt M1911 came flying out of the van and landed with a thud in the middle of the gravel road.
“Step out of the van. Hands on your head. Any quick moves and we’ll cut you in half,” Kirkland said in Arabic.
Slowly, fearfully, Nazari climbed out and stood in front of Kirkland. “What is this? There are only two of you? How can this be? I had twenty-six armed men with me, all of them experienced officers.”
“Sometimes two is all you need,” Kirkland said.
“Yeah,” Almeida said. “Especially when they’re the two roughest, toughest motherfuckers on the face of the earth.”
“You’ve got four prisoners. We want them. Now,” Kirkland said. He motioned Nazari toward the interior of the van.
The police chief fumbled in a pocket and brought out a set of keys. He scrambled back inside and unlocked the shackles binding Whelan and the other three men. They all piled out of the van, rubbing their wrists and trying to shake off the stiffness from being tightly bound for a long period.
“Thanks, men. We owe you one,” Whelan said.
Larsen nodded. The faint good-but-still-scary smile barely creased his lips.
With a much broader smile, Thomas banged Kirkland on the shoulder. “Thanks, dudes.”
Stensen just stood in front of Nazari. The centers of his eyes glowed bright red. Nazari lost control of his sphincters.
“Things were beginning to get a little crispy,” Whelan said to Kirkland. “We were wondering when you guys would show.”
Kirkland laughed. “The Dubai heat was looking for us everywhere. The one place they never expected us to be was the execution site.”
“How did you know where it was?”
“Yeah, and where did you get the weapons on such short notice?” Larsen said.
Kirkland said, “Uncle Cliff is a resourceful guy. A Saudi friend of his got the info on you from a connection within the Dubai government. Levell arranged to have the weapons airdropped to us not far from here.”
“He found someone who was willing to violate Emirati airspace?”
“No. His Saudi friend arranged for an Aramco chopper to make a ‘training run’ with the permission of the Dubai authorities.”
“Any chance that chopper’s still around?”
“Yeah. It went to Al Minhad Air Base, about twenty-five klicks from here, to refuel. It should be back here anytime now.”
“One way or the other,” Thomas said nervously. “we’ve got to get out of here, and fast. These bonfires are going to attract one hell of a pep rally and soon.”
“What do you want to do with lizard-eyes?” Stensen said, nodding at the whimpering Nazari.
Whelan reached over and clutched the Arab’s lower jaw with his left hand. With his right, he grabbed the fleshy jowls of the man’s left cheek. “Thanks to you, from now on every time my wife looks at me, she’ll see a man who doesn’t look quite like the one she married. And every time I shave, I’ll be reminded of your ‘hospitality.’” He punctuated the remark with a mighty yank, ripping away much of Nazari’s cheek. It left a gaping hole that revealed the upper and lower jaws and teeth, and the interior of his mouth.
Nazari collapsed, screaming in agony and horror. It was a strange sound. Much of it came through a second mouth that was never supposed to have been there.
“Can I kill him now?” Stensen said.
“No. He’s still an important military figure in the Emirates and related to the Sheikh. He represents bargaining power in the event we need it.”
Stensen tilted his head to one side. “Chopper’s coming.”
A moment later, they all heard the distinctive whump-whump.
“Let’s get going,” Kirkland said. “We’re on a very tight exfil schedule.”
The twin-turbo Airbus AS365 N3+ settled gently on the hard surface of the desert, stirring up a whirlwind of sand and dust. The six men and their prisoner wasted no time piling into the all-black chopper with the Aramco logo on its side. Kirkland was last aboard and the craft already was lifting off. It leveled off at about thirty meters and swung toward the west. The pilot quickly ginned it up to 145 knots. Off in the distance, the men could see a long string of headlights speeding toward the spot they had just left.
“I hope the Dubai cops don’t have attack helicopters,” Larsen said.
Kirkland made a dismissive motion with his right hand. “This bird belongs to a company owned by the Saudis. Not too likely the Emirati want to risk going to war with that bunch.”
* * *
It took the chopper about two and a half hours to cover the more than three hundred and fifty nautical miles to the airfield in Haradh, Saudi Arabia. With the payload it was carrying, it was running low on fuel at the end. A small town in eastern Saudi Arabia, Haradh, had the good fortune to be situated atop a vast petroleum field.
Two white stretch limos were waiting at the small airport. As Whelan and his colleagues climbed out of the chopper, they were approached by a man of average height wearing a military uniform and accompanied by two bodyguards. He smiled, extended his hand to Whelan, and said, “Welcome to sanctuary.” He spoke English with a clipped British accent.
“Thanks, and you are?”
“Bandar bin Nayif al Saud, head of Saudi General Intelligence; the counterpart of your CIA. My very dear friend, Clifford Levell, asked me to be of assistance in extracting you from Dubai.”
“That’s a big favor, even for a ‘dear friend.’”
Bandar looked at the ground in front of him for a moment, then said, “I am afraid I owe him much in compensation for a very grave error on my part.”
Whelan connected the dots. “You were responsible for our being captured.”
Bandar smiled wanly. “Sadly, that is true. I confided in someone I have trusted for years. Unfortunately for all concerned, he betrayed that trust.”
“Prince Khalid bin Salmon al-Rahman, your minister of finance?”
“Yes.”
Whelan stared silently at Bandar for several long moments. Finally, he said, “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful for your hospital, Prince, but I’m going to find him and kill him.”
Bandar’s smile brightened. “Clifford told me that would be your attitude. Rest assured that I shall be delighted to provide whatever assistance I can. I now have well-founded reasons to believe Khalid covets the throne, which explains his connection with Nadir Shah.”
He had turned to lead them to the limos, when Stensen dragged Nazari from the chopper and said, “What do we do with this piece of shit?”
Nazari saw Bandar and dropped to his knees, sobbing. In obvious pain, he mumbled, “Thanks be to Allah the Merciful; he has delivered me into the hands of an ally.” He pointed to the gaping hole where his cheek had been and said, “Look what these infidel bastards have done to me.” He glanced around for his scimitar and saw it in the hands of Marc Kirkland.
“This,” Kirkland said, “is a real beauty. It’s a form of scimitar called a kilij and originated in the fifteenth century with the Turks and the Ottoman Empire.”
“How do you know that?” Stensen said, shaking his head.
“The kilij has a slight taper down the straight part of the blade. In the bottom portion, it angles sharply and becomes deeper.”
“So,” Thomas said, “you’re suggesting there are different types of scimitars?”
“Yeah, a bunch. There’s the Afghani pulwar, the Ethiopian shotel, the Turkic aldaspan, and at least a dozen more.”
“You’re the resident swordsman, considerate it yours.” Stensen kicked Nazari. Hard. “Again, what do we do with him?”
Bandar looked at Nazari, then at Whelan. “Isn’t this what you Americans call ‘payback time’?”
“Yeah.”
“Quite appropriate, in my opinion. Clifford told me of your unique physical abilities.” He pointed to Nazari’s missing cheek. “I assume you did that with your bare hands?”
Whelan nodded.
“Incredible,” he said admiringly.
“What are you going to do with him?” Thomas said.
“Ordinarily, I would feel bound by our laws to return him to his own country. The authorities in Dubai will know that an Aramco aircraft was involved in your escape, and we will have to be circumspect in explaining how that came about. Fortunately, the Kingdom has been financially propping up their profligate sheikh for years. It is a very large debt” He looked hard at Nazari groveling in front of him. “I am aware of this man’s cruelty and abuse of power over the years, and have no respect for him at all.” He paused and smiled. “It is my understanding that he was filled with great shame that you managed to escape from his personal custody. In deep remorse, he threw himself from the helicopter while in flight.”
“Works for me,” Whelan said.
Bandar stepped closer to Whelan and examined his face. “That wound requires medical attention. We have a small hospital facility here in Haradh. They will clean it and dress it, then we will take you to Riyadh and the best facilities in the land. You are most welcome to remain as privileged guests of the Kingdom for as long as you like.”
Whelan looked unwaveringly into Bandar’s dark eyes. “That’s very kind of you, Your Royal Highness, but we’ll have to pass on your offer.” He paused and looked at Larsen. “We have unfinished business, starting with your cousin Khalid.”
A Note From The Author
This novel is being published in installments. When the fifth and final installment has been published and the full novel is available, a Reading Group Guide will be available at: www.sleepingdogs.biz/reading-group-guide.html.
Note to Readers: If you enjoyed Part 3 of Endangered Species and want to follow the continuing story of Brendan Whelan and his colleagues, the tale continues in Parts 4 and 5, which will be published in serial format. An omnibus edition also will be available in print and ebook formats. The Sleeping Dogs thrillers are part of a trilogy. The first book, Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening, is available on Amazon in print and ebook formats.
A Special Preview of Part 4 of Endangered Species,
John Wayne Falbey’s latest Sleeping Dogs thriller:
PART 4
MAD DOGS AND IRISHMEN
Chapter 40—Dublin
Whelan was happy to be back in Ireland, and even happier not to be bringing his five colleagues back to Dingle. This time, Levell had arranged for the Dogs to gather at Castle Dubhán in County Wicklow. From its site near the peak of Croaghanmoira Mountain, the castle overlooked the headwaters of the River Avoca and a four hundred hectare estate—almost one thousand acres. Built in the early 1800s on the ruins of an ancient Celtic fortress, it had been the exclusive preserve of the Callan family ever since.
Endanger Species: Part 3: A Sleeping Dogs Thriller Page 8