The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)

by Ethan Jones

  Justin nodded and waved his hand. “I was wondering when you were going to ask that. Everyone knows Raykhan is ISIS’s HQ in this area. Any order to attack such a formidable enemy as the Turkish army will have to come from there.”

  Rojan nodded. “Yes, but—”

  Justin interrupted him. “Now, wait. The Turkish military will have their suspicions, but they’re unlikely to act on those suspicions alone.”

  “So we need to give them something else that confirms the authors behind the attack,” Vale said.

  “Someone else,” Justin said.

  Rojan said, “But who?”

  “A couple of real ISIS fighters, who will confirm the attack truly came from ISIS and under orders from the HQ.”

  Rojan cursed out loud. “Justin, your idea just went from crazy to insane.”

  Justin grinned. “You know those words mean the same thing, right?”

  “Yes, but insane is like . . . like double crazy.” Rojan sat across from Justin. “Where are you going to find these fighters?”

  “Behrooz. He said he could find everything, for the right price.”

  Rojan gave Justin a small nod. “Okay, and the ISIS fighters will agree to go like lambs to the slaughter why?”

  “To save their lives. If they don’t take our message to the army, we’ll put a bullet in their heads. Of course, we wouldn’t do that, but they’ll believe we will.”

  Rojan nodded again. “I’ll gladly slash their throats and save the bullets.”

  “Exactly,” Justin said. “Once these fighters realize they have no choice, they’ll gladly be our messengers.”

  Vale’s face was twisted in a dark frown. “What . . . what if they lose their nerve and tell the truth?”

  “Or their story isn’t credible enough?” Rojan asked.

  Justin thought about his answer for a long moment. Then he tipped his head toward Vale, “That’s a valid concern, but these are trained fighters. And their lives are in their hands. They’re not going to lose their cool. If they do, the truth will sound much more unreal. I mean, Rojan, you said it yourself that this is a crazy plan, right?”

  Rojan nodded. “Yes, insanely so.”

  “Right, and ultimately it’s their word against ours. Who would you believe if you were a Turkish colonel?” Justin looked at Vale.

  He did not reply right away. “I guess I’d go with the Canadian operatives when compared to terrorists.”

  Justin continued, “Yes, and in terms of credibility, Rojan, we’ll have to hope the army believes their account. That’s all we have, as Dilawer isn’t going to move a finger. Azade and the others can’t wait until he decides it’s the right time.”

  Rojan peered at Justin. “But isn’t Dilawer discussing their release? Shouldn’t we wait for him to come through?”

  “He hasn’t really started. And when he does, I suspect not all the hostages may be freed. Dilawer only has four ISIS fighters, and there are over twelve Kurdish hostages. It may not be a fair trade.”

  “And you’re worried Azade will be left behind?” Rojan asked in a voice that sounded like more than an innocent question.

  “Look, guys, I’m not doing this only because of Azade. There are other women and men being held and used as slaves, mistreated, beaten, starved. They all deserve to be freed. And Rojan, what would you do if it was your wife and your daughter? Would you not do the impossible to hold them in your arms?”

  Rojan did not reply and looked away.

  Justin drew in a deep breath. “I know I’m asking for too much. But I would have done the same if Azade was sitting here and you were naked, tied up, and bleeding in some hole in the desert.” Justin gestured at Rojan, then moved his hand toward the Turkish camp. “I admit that this is a far-fetched, hastily put together, very risky plan. But it’s all we’ve got. And we have no time to wait.”

  A tense silence reigned for a few moments.

  Justin could see the wheels in Rojan’s mind in motion, debating the pros and cons of joining Justin. He sat back in the chair and gazed into the distance, giving Rojan the time he needed.

  Rojan cursed his situation, then the ISIS kidnappers. When he finished his string of obscenities, he said, “Justin, we’ve fought together, and we’ll fight again. It will be an honor to die along with you.” He offered Justin his hand.

  “Good, very good.” Justin shook Rojan’s hand. “Now, let’s find ourselves a few more crazies and some ISIS insignias.”

  * * *

  Justin, Vale, and Rojan spent most of the morning setting their plan in motion. Behrooz tried to squeeze as much money as he could from Justin in exchange for two former ISIS fighters. They had been wounded and captured two weeks ago and held for ransom or to be exchanged for Kurds held by ISIS. However, no one had offered any sum for the two men, whose lives seemed to be worthless. The Peshmergas who were in charge of them were more than happy to get rid of the unwanted burden. ISIS commanders operating in the area had no desire to exchange prisoners, branding whoever had been captured by Peshmergas as cowards and deserters. The news solidified Justin’s position that a rescue was the only hope for Azade and the other captives.

  In this situation, it was not difficult for Justin to convince the two men about their task, which might end up saving their lives. They were both in their early twenties, uneducated, but smart enough to understand this was their last chance. Justin was not entirely convinced they would be able to deliver the message without messing it up, so they went through a few dry runs. He ordered the older man to speak with the Turkish army officials, with the cover story that he was the only one who knew about the ISIS attack on the Turkish forces. The man improved, but not much.

  Justin assigned Vale to continue training the messenger, and went to help Rojan with the rest of the preparations. He had secured four trucks and seven Peshmergas willing to join their “insane plan.” Most of these men had fought for months against ISIS and other terrorist groups operating in the area, as well as the Turkish army, which had recently invaded a large swath of northern Iraq. All of them knew of Kurds who had been killed, wounded, or had suffered injustices and humiliation under the Turkish heel. And all of them were more than eager to fight against those they saw as occupiers of their land.

  Justin took great care to explain the purpose of their operation. They were not after inflicting pain and causing casualties among the Turkish fighters, although such a result was going to be unavoidable. Still, he tried to drill into the mind of his team members that they should make every effort to minimize the casualty count. The main goal of the operation was to seize at least one, preferably two or three Turkish soldiers. That action would undoubtedly draw the wrath of the Turks, provoking them to attack Raykhan. In response, ISIS fighters would flock to defend their HQ, leaving the village of Al-Akral and the hostages held there relatively exposed.

  It was a big gamble, but Justin had to take it. He thought about just walking away. This was no longer his war. He was not in Iraq for this mission, and his hands were full with his own worries. But he could not just turn his back on Azade. They had fought together, and Azade would not hesitate to risk her life for Justin. In fact, she had done so many a time as they battled terrorists of all creeds and flags. And as much as Justin tried to bury and deny the feeling sizzling in his stomach, he still felt something for Azade. He did not want to call it “love,” afraid of the word and aware of the commitment he had already made to Karolin. But he could not deny it either.

  He sighed and looked at the grayish Toyota truck Rojan had secured for the team. It was not bulletproof, but the Peshmergas had reinforced the hood, the doors, and the sides with steel panels, bolting them against the truck’s body. The axles also had been strengthened, to support the extra weight. Rojan was checking the run-flat tires, making sure they were in the greatest possible shape.

  Justin walked to Rojan, who was stretched under the hood. “How does it look?”

  “Eh, I’ve seen better, but I’ve also seen wor
se.”

  “Will the tires hold?”

  “Depends on what they’re firing at us. If it’s machine gun fire, then no. Nothing we have can withstand that.”

  Justin nodded. “Perhaps we’ll be lucky and get to the patrol before they open fire.”

  “Yeah, I doubt that. Can you hand me that wrench?” Rojan pointed at an adjustable wrench next to the right tire. “I want to check one of the bolts, as it doesn’t seem fully tight.”

  “Sure, here you go.”

  Rojan slid even further underneath the truck.

  Justin sat next to him. “What weapons do we have so far?”

  “PKMs and Dragunov sniper rifles. I found us a Dushka, and maybe we can secure another one from a friend.”

  “And we have enough RPGs?”

  “A dozen or so rounds. But I hope we won’t need them.”

  “Yes, me too. But it’s better to have the weapons and not use them—”

  “—than to need the weapons and not have them,” Rojan said. “I know the mantra, Justin.”

  The agent smiled and looked at Rojan getting out from underneath the truck. “And you know this isn’t going to be easy.”

  “Nothing worth doing ever is. But may the night cover our steps, and may God guide us.”

  “Amen to that. Did you send a recon team?”

  “Yes. They can’t get too close, since it’s daytime. And of course, they don’t want to be noticed. The Turks are on edge ever since ISIS attacked their base about a week ago.”

  Justin nodded. ISIS fighters had launched a volley of mortar shells and dropped bombs from drones converted to carry the explosives payload. The number of casualties was unknown, but this was the third attack against the camp. The Turkish forces were on high alert, patrolling the area surrounding the camp around the clock. Justin said, “Good, we’ll wait for their report, then fine-tune our plans for tonight’s attack.”

  Chapter Ten

  January 13

  Two miles east of the Bashaweh Turkish base

  Justin glanced through his powerful binoculars at the perimeter wall of the base. The Turkish forces had overtaken one of the villages and had converted it to suit their needs. They had erected a long T-wall—formed of steel-reinforced, twelve-foot-high concrete barriers—around the camp and crowned it with concertina wire. Each corner of the wall had a concrete tower fortified by sandbags and manned by at least four soldiers armed with heavy machine guns. The dirt road leading to the main gate was lined with zigzagging three-foot-high Jersey barriers to slow down traffic and lower the chances of explosive-laden vehicle attacks. Powerful floodlights lit up the entire area outside the walls. The soldiers had flattened it and cleared it of anything that attackers could use for cover.

  Rojan, who was lying next to Justin, whispered, “Still think we can go ahead with this?”

  Justin nodded. “Yes, we’ll wait until the patrol comes out and then attack.”

  Rojan nodded. “The patrol is late.”

  “No, they’re switching the times, to avoid ambushes,” Vale said.

  Justin turned his head to his right and nodded at Vale. “Yes, correct.” He moved his gaze back to their trucks. A couple of ISIS flags with white text on a black background were mounted on the trucks. The first one also had the ISIS insignia painted on the side. The rest of their team was spread around the area, which had a low hill hiding them from the watchtowers.

  Rojan said, “Okay, so we wait.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re growing restless.” Rojan hunched back his thumb toward the trucks. “We’ve been waiting for almost an hour.”

  “I know,” Justin said.

  Rojan cursed the Turks and their change in the patrol’s schedule.

  Justin checked his radio, then glanced again at the base. His eyes moved from left to right as he studied the towers and the soldiers hiding partially behind sandbags. One was smoking and somewhat carelessly resting against the concrete rail. They were beyond the effective range of most sniper rifles, which were accurate for about a mile. There had been cases when well-trained snipers using the British-made L115A3 Long Range Rifle had killed Talibans over a mile and a half away. But those kills had been in clear visibility, perfect daytime conditions. Justin was a good marksman, but sniper rifles had never been his favorite weapon.

  Almost instinctively his fingers tightened around his beloved C8SFW assault rifle. Its range was 440 yards, and Justin was deadly at that distance. And he hoped once the team advanced and patrol vehicles drove out of the base, they would come within his reach.

  Justin drew in a deep breath and counted the seconds in silence. They grew to minutes, and he began to grow restless. Doubts began to creep into his mind and cloud his thoughts. What if there is no patrol? What if the team is discovered before we can surprise the soldiers? What if—

  His eyes caught a slight movement at the gate, which interrupted his thoughts. Slowly but surely the thick metal gate began to roll to the side. Justin said, “Gate’s open. Get ready.”

  A tan camouflaged Humvee moved slowly through the narrow opening. A soldier was manning the heavy machine gun turret atop the armored vehicle. He was pivoting the weapon slowly to cover all angles. At least two other soldiers, besides the driver, were inside the vehicle.

  “Everyone’s ready?” Justin asked.

  “Yes.” Rojan placed his eye close to the Dragunov SVD 7.62mm rifle scope, but waited before flipping open the lens cap. Any reflection off the glass would give away their position. The floodlights were far away, and there was very little ambient light, but still Rojan wanted to take no chances.

  “Roger,” Vale said. He got behind the belt-fed Dushka, the Russian-made 12.7 x 108mm machine gun. He rechecked the ammunition belt and the dual trigger. “All good.”

  Justin glanced behind at the Peshmergas running toward the trucks. He hoped everyone was clear as to their purpose. “Wait until the Humvee is out of the barriers.”

  “Yes, yes, we’ve gone over this.” Rojan’s tone of voice expressed his irritation.

  Justin nodded, then muttered a brief prayer. Bring them to us, and let us not die tonight, but live to fight another day. Amen.

  He glanced another time through the binoculars. The Humvee was almost at the end of the snake-shaped road; then it turned to the right.

  Toward Justin’s team’s position.

  “Now!” Justin shouted. “Go, go, go!”

  The first Toyota truck rumbled forward, climbing over the hill. The driver flattened the gas, and the truck arrowed downhill.

  Justin drew in a quick breath, then glanced at Vale. “See you soon.”

  “I’ve got your back, brother.”

  Justin climbed to his feet and dashed forward. The soldiers in the Humvee had noticed the truck, but, as Justin had expected, they did not turn around. They headed forward, determined to meet and defeat the truck.

  Justin appreciated their courage, as he also was not one who backed away from a fight. But they made a mistake. A grave mistake.

  As he bolted toward the Humvee, he swung left, then right, to make himself a harder target. No torrent of bullets had poured forth from the Humvee, but he was expecting one at any moment.

  And it came.

  Muzzle flashes flared from the machine gun. Tracer rounds cut through the dark, streaming toward the Toyota truck. They struck further ahead at a distance. The volley did not subside. The gunner was trying to stop the truck’s approach, or he could not wait until his bullets hit the target.

  The Peshmergas were holding their fire. No reason to waste bullets.

  A second Humvee rolled through the gate.

  Justin turned his head to the right. The second truck, a black Ford, thundered from that direction. Then came a long volley of machine gun fire. He could not see where the rounds were landing and could only hope they hit the Humvee.

  He kept running until bullets kicked up sand in front of his feet. The gunner or perhaps one of the soldiers had turne
d his attention to Justin.

  He rolled on the ground as more bullets struck around him. Barrages erupted behind and around him. He took a prone position and fired at the Humvee. He squeezed off a quick burst, then double-tapped the trigger. Justin was uncertain if his bullets hit the Humvee, but the vehicle stopped, and no more bullets thumped near Justin.

  An RPG screamed through the air, slicing the darkness. A moment later, it exploded about twenty yards behind the stalled Humvee.

  He climbed to one knee and kept his rifle aimed at the Humvee, which seemed to be moving backwards. “Don’t let him go,” Justin said into his throat mike.

  “Copy that,” Vale said.

  He was the only one Justin could communicate with, and he would need to radio the others. Actually, Justin’s order was unnecessary, since everybody knew it was key to their operation for the patrol not to escape the ambush.

  Another RPG came from Justin’s right. This one struck only a few feet away from the Humvee. Its back doors opened and two men jumped out.

  Justin shook his head. No, no, stay in. Don’t make this harder.

  He fired single shots, attempting to force the soldiers back inside the Humvee. He did not want to kill or even wound them. The gunner was already dead or seriously wounded; the machine gun had gone silent.

  A stream of tracer rounds pounded the Ford truck. Muzzle flashes coming from the machine gun mounted at the back of the truck told Justin that the Peshmergas were still very much in the fight.

  He emptied his magazine, then slammed a fresh one into his rifle. A couple of rounds danced around his feet. Others whizzed over his head. He resumed firing, aiming at the Humvee’s hood and open doors.

  Two more RPGs flew at almost the same time. The first one missed the second Humvee by the proverbial mile. But the second one hit it bulls’-eye. The force of the impact threw the vehicle to the driver’s side.

  Justin cursed whoever had fired that fateful round. His orders were clear: try your best not to kill the soldiers. The almost perfect shot was not the best effort to miss the Humvee. But Justin understood the Peshmergas’ sentiments toward the Turkish. And in the heat of the battle, in kill-or-be-killed situations, he could not blame his fighters for trying to save their lives by killing the enemy.