The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)

by Ethan Jones

  He advanced in a high crawl. No one was shooting at him, so he also held his fire. “I’m nearing the first Humvee. Cover me,” he said.

  “Copy,” Vale replied.

  A third Humvee appeared through the gate, followed by a couple of tanks.

  Justin cursed and shook his head.

  Vale’s voice came into his earpiece. “Justin, two Peshmergas coming to your left. Will give you a hand with the soldiers.”

  “Copy that. You see the tanks?”

  “I do.”

  “Tell everyone on the trucks to pull back. We can’t fight the tanks.”

  “Copy.”

  He drew close to the Humvee without taking fire. His eyes quickly checked the turret. The gunner was not visible, and nothing moved in the turret, in the Humvee or anywhere else around it. “I’m taking the front, then the right,” he whispered into his mike.

  He checked the Humvee’s cracked windshield. The driver was not in his seat. No one in the passenger’s seat either.

  Someone fired at the Humvee from the left. Bullets thumped against the metal frame.

  “Cease fire, cease fire,” Justin shouted in Kurdish. “We need them alive.”

  He stepped to the side and noticed two soldiers stretched on the ground. One was gasping and holding his lower abdomen. The second was trying to reach for a rifle that had fallen next to his feet.

  “Don’t do it,” Justin shouted in Arabic as he aimed his rifle at the soldier. “I’ll blow your head off.”

  The soldier stopped and began to raise his hands. He looked at Justin, who had covered his face with his headdress, so that only his eyes were visible.

  One of the Peshmergas came from behind the Humvee. “Gunner’s dead, and so is the driver.”

  Justin cursed. “Pick him up.” He pointed at the wounded man. “Get . . .” He paused, not wanting to mention the fighter’s name, “Get your friend to help carry him.”

  The Peshmerga nodded. “Got it.”

  “Roll over. On your stomach,” Justin shouted at the other soldier.

  He did as ordered.

  Justin patted him and removed the man’s side pistol. Then Justin picked him up by the scruff of the neck. “Get up. Move!”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Shut up and move.”

  The man dragged his feet, but Justin shoved his rifle into the man’s side. “I’ll kill you if you don’t hurry.”

  “You’ll kill me anyway.”

  “No, you have my word. Now walk.”

  “Your word? You’re Daesh, men without honor.”

  Justin could not argue with the truth, but he also could not tell the man his life was not threatened. “Move it.”

  They had taken maybe ten steps when an explosion rocked the area. The tank had fired its main gun. Justin’s eyes turned to the truck as it exploded into a million pieces. “Hurry, hurry.” He shoved the soldier.

  Another RPG lit up the night.

  Justin did not turn his head to see if it hit the tank. Every second counted, and he wanted to get over the hill before the third Humvee gunner or the tank crew turned their attention to them.

  More machine gun fire echoed all around him. Justin hoped the Peshmergas were retreating as they were firing their volleys. His rifle was almost powerless against the tanks or even the Humvee, considering the ever-growing distance. Plus, the soldier would attempt an escape or would try to wrestle the gun away from Justin if he dropped his guard.

  So he shoved the soldier as they raced toward the hill. The tank fired its main weapon again. Justin only winced and prayed the missile had missed its target. A few RPGs flashed to his left and right, and more muzzle flashes from atop the hill. We’re close, we’re so close now.

  Then bullets began pounding the ground around him. Justin grabbed the soldier by the arm. They both dashed forward. The soldier had realized the danger of being killed by the bullets aimed at his captor. He needed no further motivation.

  As they reached the hill, Justin rolled onto the other side. A volley hissed over his head, and a bullet clanged against the Dushka machine gun.

  The soldier lay on the ground, while Justin gazed around. Vale was nowhere in sight. “Vale, Vale, come in,” he whispered into his mike.

  “Justin, I’m . . . down by the Toyota,” Vale’s weak voice reached his ears through the gunfire blasts from all sides.

  Justin slid behind the machine gun. He looked at the battlefield. The tank was engulfed in bright orange flames. The Toyota was about a mile to Justin’s left. He peered but did not see Vale or anyone else next to the truck. “Vale, I don’t see you. Can you make it back to the hill?”

  The earpiece crackled with static.

  “Vale, Vale?” Justin shouted.

  “Yes, yes, but will take a minute.”

  “All right. Taking fire?”

  “Negative.”

  “Copy. I’ll cover.”

  He pulled his binoculars out of their pouch on the side of his chest rig and studied the third Humvee. He noticed the occasional muzzle flash. Those shooters were beyond the Dushka’s range. A few black silhouettes were crawling around the second Humvee tipped to the side. They too were outside his reach, and they could be Peshmergas mopping up the place.

  Justin looked at the captive soldier and said to him, “Stay down, down.”

  “You’re American?” the soldier asked in English.

  Justin cursed through his teeth. The conversation with Vale had blown their cover. “Doesn’t matter who I am,” Justin replied in Arabic. “You’ll keep your mouth shut, if you want to live.”

  “What . . . what do you want?”

  “I want my teammates back. So shut up and stay down.”

  The soldier nodded slowly. “And you’ll spare my life?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  The soldier gave Justin a firm nod.

  Justin’s eyes went back to the Toyota. Three men were crawling toward the hillside. The last one turned for a moment and fired in the direction of the rolled-over Humvee. Those silhouettes are enemy troops. And they’re firing at Vale.

  Justin aligned the Dushka’s sight with the muzzle flashes flickering near the Humvee, then pulled on the dual trigger. The Dushka began to thunder, pouring forth its torrent of bullets. He knew the rounds were not going to reach the targets, but harassing fire was better than no fire. He just could not sit on his hands.

  The ammunition belt danced next to Justin, and he wondered how long before he would need to replace the belt. He glanced to his right, looking at the ammunition box, then to his left.

  As he turned his head, the soldier threw his shoulder at Justin. They rolled over the machine gun. Justin’s back struck the metal box, whose edge dug into his shoulder. But he had no time to worry about the searing pain. The soldier was on top of Justin, throwing swift, hard punches.

  Justin tried to block them, but a couple struck against the side of his head. The skin split and blood trickled down from his left ear. He kicked with his knee, then swung his fists. One of them connected with the soldier’s head, but he stayed on top of Justin.

  He threw another punch that struck the soldier in the eye socket. He screamed and cursed. Justin jabbed the soldier in the chest with a quick hook, then tried to throw him off. But he stayed in place and hit Justin again. Then his left hand grabbed Justin by the throat, while the right one delivered more punches.

  Justin kicked as hard as he could, then tried to move his head away and twist his body around. But the soldier held his firm grip. His fingers tightened around Justin’s neck. He gasped for air, then elbowed the soldier and struck back with his fists. The first one caught the soldier in the jaw. Justin’s second blow hit hard against the soldier’s throat.

  He coughed and released his grip around Justin’s neck. The soldier moved his head up, coughed again, and looked down. He pulled his arm back, ready to punch Justin again.

  Then the soldier’s head exploded as a gunshot echoed from behind
. Blood spurted from his mouth, splattering across Justin’s face. The soldier fell against Justin, who rolled him away.

  One of the Peshmergas appeared in the distance. His AK assault rifle was still trained on the dead soldier. “How are you?” he asked Justin.

  “I’m good, but why? Why did you fire?”

  “He was killing you.”

  Justin shook his head. “No, I had him.”

  The Peshmerga shrugged. He came closer to Justin and gestured at his bloodied face. “It doesn’t look that way.”

  “That’s . . . that’s not my blood.” He picked up his headdress and wiped his face. “Now he’s dead.”

  “A dead Turk is a good Turk.” The Peshmerga smirked. “His people will still want his body.”

  Justin cursed under his breath. “Well, then you’ll carry it.”

  The Peshmerga opened his mouth to object, but Justin looked over the fighter’s shoulder. Vale and two other Peshmergas had just climbed the hill. Occasional gunfire still pierced the night.

  “Vale, Vale, you okay?” Justin dashed toward him.

  “Yes, yes. One of the men was wounded, so I ran to help him. But . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Justin nodded. “Yes. Did we lose anyone else?”

  Vale shook his head. “No, I haven’t heard anything.” He tapped his radio strapped to the left side of his chest rig.

  “Good. Let’s roll out before we take more casualties.”

  Vale nodded, then glanced at the soldier. The Peshmerga who had killed him was struggling to get him over his shoulder. “Let’s give him a hand.”

  “No, he’s good. He got him.”

  “Where’s Rojan?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t seen him since we started the attack.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Do that. Ask him to meet us at the rendezvous point.”

  “Sure.”

  Justin listened for a moment. Sporadic gunfire echoed in his ears. No tanks or other heavy vehicles rolling out of the base. Maybe they’re attending to the wounded. Or maybe they don’t know how many we are, so they’re not daring to follow us. Whatever it is, we’re out of here.

  He hurried his steps toward the Toyota truck, their getaway vehicle, waiting for them in the distance.

  Chapter Eleven

  January 13

  Fifteen miles southwest of the Bashaweh Turkish base

  Northern Iraq

  Justin looked away from his laptop and rubbed the grime and the sleep from his weary eyes. He had slept less than two hours, while Peshmergas kept watch around their small hideout—four cinderblock shacks tucked behind a small hill, in the middle of nowhere. A place without a name, without running water or power. But the batteries on Justin’s laptop were still running strong. Through his global Internet link and his satellite phone, he kept his connection to the world. And by using his covert eavesdropping software, he was able to keep tabs on the Turkish base communications.

  The bloody aftermath of the battle had resulted in three dead Turkish soldiers—including the one Justin’s team had kidnapped—and a dozen or so had suffered wounds, mostly minor. The initial suspicions over the wires laid the blame on a rogue group of ISIS jihadists, who seemed to be operating without the HQ’s orders. It was not very clear, but it appeared the Turkish troops and the ISIS HQ had reached some sort of a ceasefire. So Justin was glad he had arranged for the two real ISIS fighters, who would corroborate that the attack was actually carried out with the HQ’s knowledge and authorization. But the fighters were not going to reach the Turkish base until later that day.

  Justin sighed and stood up to stretch his legs; then he rotated his head slowly to stretch his neck muscles. He glanced through the tiny window—barely enough for a fighter and his rifle to take position—at the desert landscape. All he could see was the blackness of the night, punctuated by the bright stars.

  He returned to the rickety table and glanced at his coffee cup. It was empty, and he needed fuel if he was to continue for the next hour until the first morning light. He lit up the portable gas canister that served as their stove and began to brew a pot of coffee. Once it was ready and poured in his cup, he picked up his phone and dialed Carrie’s number. She answered after the third ring. “Hey, Justin, how are you?”

  “Sorry, I woke you up.” There was an hour time difference between Iraq and Brussels.

  Carrie yawned. “Eh, it’s okay. I needed to get up anyway. What’s new?”

  Justin told her about the attack on the Turkish base. When Justin had first told her about his plans, Carrie had tried to advise him against undertaking what she called an “unwise” and “very risky” operation. Justin appreciated her sentiment, and Carrie understood his position. Justin had acted in similar seemingly reckless ways when her life had been in danger, albeit against another enemy and in another desert. And Carrie was no stranger to taking what she liked to call an “orders-adjacent approach”: as long as the main purpose of the mission was achieved, individual actions toward that purpose were acceptable.

  “I still don’t see how this helps you find who betrayed you in Erbil,” she said when Justin had finished his narrative.

  Justin nodded. “Yes, me neither. Maybe build some goodwill among the Peshmergas, which may be useful. But even if that didn’t happen, as I’ve told you, I just can’t let Azade and others suffer in the hands of ISIS. I may not be able to save everyone these butchers are holding captive, but I can save these ones.”

  “I understand, Justin,” Carrie said in a warm tone.

  “Has . . . has Flavio inquired about progress?”

  “No, but he’s getting fidgety. And he may well suspect your involvement after he hears of the attack on the base.”

  “So far, all comms point to ISIS jihadists.”

  “Well, let’s pray it stays that way.”

  Justin sipped his coffee. “Any progress on Egorov?”

  Carrie hesitated for a moment, then stifled a yawn. “Well, some developments, but I’m not sure I can call it progress. The man who drowned in the Charleroi Canal in Brussels, remember him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He seemed to have drowned. No signs of struggle.”

  “You had a look at the body?”

  “I did. Nothing. It seems he just slipped and fell.”

  “And hit his head?”

  “No, not even that. Pretty clean job, if you ask my opinion.”

  “Did the Belgian police and the VSSE ask for your opinion?”

  Carrie laughed. “They didn’t, but I gave it to them anyway. The police want to close the file. They don’t see a terrorist connection here.”

  “And the VSSE?”

  “Eh, they’re on the fence. I’m trying to point out his ties to Egorov’s asset, but they’re not convinced yet. I see their point; the victim did work with several employees besides Egorov’s asset. And I don’t have a clear connection yet.”

  “Anything new about where Egorov may be?”

  “No. MI6 suspects she was in London a few days ago, but they missed her. She could be anywhere in the world, for all we know. Or she could have gone back to Moscow.”

  “Do you think she’ll crawl into the spider’s nest?”

  “Why not, if she’s a black widow?”

  “Plus, we’re not sure if she acted on her own or under orders.”

  Carrie did not reply right away.

  Justin sipped his coffee and paced around the small room. “Carrie, still there?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m just processing what you said. That thought hadn’t occurred to me. I mean, you could be right. All we have is the FSB’s assertion that Egorov disappeared. And there are seemingly some connections to terrorists or their supporters.”

  “Yes, that’s what I was thinking. It appears she has ties to terrorists. But if one looked at me, at us, from outside and knew nothing else about our ops, they would think we too are in bed with terrorists.”

  “Very true.”

 
Justin sighed. “Can you dig deeper, see what the SVR may tell us about Egorov.”

  “SVR? Isn’t that the agency where you’re the one who has good friends?”

  Justin grinned. Agents of the SVR—Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki—or the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service were nobody’s friends. As proven by the recent joint operation to locate the Austrian asset, even when working as part of the same team, the SVR did not abide by the agreed-upon rules. “I have lots of enemies in the SVR, but none I can count on as a friend.”

  “I’ll see if our boss can pull any strings. Since SVR hates the FSB, it may be easier than if we were talking about the same agency.”

  “True. And I’ll try the GRU, since they also have no love for the FSB. And the Russian Army was operating in the area where she disappeared.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll see what I can find. I may still have a contact or two who may take my calls.” He nodded to himself.

  “All right, Justin. Anything else?”

  “Eh . . .” He hesitated for a moment. “How . . . how’s Karolin?”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “No, not today. I told her we got to Iraq just fine.”

  “Just fine? You think you’re sugarcoating it?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Well, Justin, Karolin can handle the truth, as much as you’re allowed to tell her, of course.” Carrie’s voice took on a hint of irritation.

  “I know, I know. I just . . . I wanted to see if she had said anything to you.”

  “No, she hasn’t. She’s closer to Dolina, but you know that. And if I were you, I wouldn’t ask Dolina, but would go straight to the horse’s mouth.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll do that. But you know how sometimes people confide in friends what they don’t share with their boyfriends.”

  “Still, it’s always good to learn it first from Karolin.”

  Justin sighed. “All right. If there’s nothing else, give me a call as soon as you learn something.”