The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)

by Ethan Jones

  Another volley came from Justin’s left. Bullets pinged against the truck. A few ricocheted off the ground and whizzed away. The gunner had switched his position.

  Justin turned his head to the left, squinting hard. No movement. He looked through his night-vision goggles and studied the alley. Nothing. Jihadists were holding their positions.

  He glanced up and along the side of the wall behind him. This side had no windows, so he studied the rooftops. A man appeared about forty yards away. He swung his rifle over the parapet, but before he could fire, Justin double-tapped the trigger. He planted two bullets into the man’s body, and the man fell to the ground.

  Justin waited for the next gunman, if there was to be one. If the dead man had been followed by others, they were being more careful. No one’s head appeared over the parapet. Justin squeezed off a couple of rounds, to keep the gunmen down. Then he turned his attention toward the Peshmergas.

  Rojan and a couple of his fighters were advancing along the side of the wall toward the entrance to the house. Whoever was shooting from inside had stopped. Perhaps they were reloading, or hoping to lure the enemy in.

  Justin peered over the side of the truck and fired a few rounds at the entrance. He was not sure there was a target, and because of his angle, there was a low chance his burst would hit anyone. But his barrage would draw the enemy’s attention away from Rojan’s advance.

  Before Justin could fire again, a round object flew out of the door. “Grenade, grenade!” he shouted and fell back against the truck.

  The explosion rocked the area. Shrapnel and debris hit the truck, the house wall, and everything else around him. Justin stayed down, while his ears were ringing. He did not feel he was hit, but he knew in the heat of the battle, his body would ignore minor wounds. His hands were still holding the rifle. He crawled forward, toward the front of the truck, then swung open its back door. He slid across the backseat, then unlatched the other door.

  As he crawled back to the ground on the other side of the alley, he took in the explosion’s aftermath. Two Peshmergas were lying on their backs near the wall. They did not move, so if they were not dead, they were gravely injured.

  Rojan was not there.

  Justin wanted to call his name, but was not sure he would be heard over the deafening gun noises thundering from all sides. Did he . . . is he dead? Or did he go in? Rojan was known to have done crazier things in the past. But in the current situation, dashing inside the house was probably one of the smartest things to do.

  Justin shook his head. Whether you’re crazy or smart, I’m not going to let you die.

  He reloaded, then shouted at the rest of the Peshmergas mostly crouched next to the Toyota truck. “Going in. Cover me.”

  Two of the Peshmergas dashed toward him.

  Justin smiled. That’s the best cover.

  He gestured with his arm, then shouted his orders. “Get to the right, right side.”

  The first Peshmerga nodded.

  The second one shouted something Justin could not decipher.

  Justin shouted again, “Go to the right side.”

  He crossed the threshold.

  A quick burst welcomed him as soon as he took the first step. Bullets did not hit him, but his foot caught on something on the floor. Justin tumbled and fell to one knee. More bullets whizzed over his head, so he rolled onto the floor and away from the door. Muzzle flashes sparked from deep inside the house, then they disappeared.

  Everything went quiet for a moment. His eyes began to grow accustomed to the pitch-black room. He studied the layout. Two bodies were sprawled on the ground, but they were not his friend. “Rojan, Rojan,” he whispered.

  “Jus . . . Justin. I’m . . . here, here,” a low raspy voice came from the other side of the room.

  The first Peshmerga charged in and let off a long barrage.

  Justin shouted, “Cease fire, cease fire.”

  The Peshmerga stopped and dropped next to Justin.

  The other Kurdish fighter also barged in and fell to one knee on the other side of the doorway.

  “Rojan’s wounded,” Justin said to the fighter next to him. “Attend to him. You,” he said to the second fighter, “Daesh is that way.” He pointed up ahead and to his left. “Let’s go.”

  The second fighter nodded.

  Justin climbed to his feet and advanced carefully through the room. When he came near the hall, he stopped and listened. Rushed footsteps and muted shouts came from the back of the house. One, no, two female voices. The fighters were retreating. Are they taking the hostages with them?

  He began to slice the pie—the tactic of clearing a corner slowly and carefully, starting as close as possible to the wall and moving out—as he advanced around the corner and down the hall. He came to the first room to his right, and quickly cleared it. He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes were met by the Peshmerga’s firm nod.

  Justin moved forward as a light was turned on in one of the back rooms, almost at the other end of the house. Loud female cries, sounds of a scuffle, then curses in Kurdish. The hostage room.

  The light cast a dim glow in the hall. Justin took a couple of careful steps.

  A man’s head appeared in the hall.

  Before Justin could tap his rifle’s trigger, the man walked into the hall. He was holding a woman by her long hair, dragging her in front of him. A large serrated knife, pressed against her neck, caught the faint light.

  “Drop your gun,” the man shouted. “Or I’ll—”

  Justin fired a single round that ended the man’s words and his life. The bullet pierced the man’s head, which erupted in a splatter of blood. The woman screamed and dropped to the floor.

  A gunman rushed out the room, but Justin was ready. He fired once, planting a bullet in the left side of the man’s chest. Justin waited for a moment in position, but no one charged out of the hostage room.

  He glanced at the woman struggling to crawl toward him. “Hostages, where are the hostages?” he asked.

  She nodded, then gestured toward the room.

  “Gunmen?”

  A quick burst gave him the answer.

  The woman hastened her crawl.

  Justin flattened himself against the wall. “Help her, quick,” he shouted at the Peshmerga following him.

  A couple more rounds came from the hostage room. Then it was quiet for a moment, and a man shouted in Arabic, “They’re dead, the Daesh are all dead.”

  The man had an accent Justin found hard to place. He was certain it was not Iraqi or Syrian. He knew that much.

  “Come out slowly with your hands up.” Justin took another cautious step toward the voice.

  “Yes, yes, I’m . . . I’m freeing the others.”

  “Good, but hurry.”

  He kept his rifle aimed at the room. He could not really trust the man, who could be pretending he was one of the hostages. They would know if he’s one of them.

  A man appeared outside the back door, which had been left wide open. He aimed his rifle at Justin and fired a couple of rounds. They missed him by mere inches, striking the wall above his head.

  He returned fire, a quick burst that mowed down the gunman.

  “Justin, we have to go,” the Peshmerga said. “More Daesh coming at us from all sides.”

  “In a moment,” Justin replied. “Cover me.”

  He walked slowly toward the room, then peered inside. Three men dressed in dirty rags were standing near a large hole dug into the ground. A woman was being lifted carefully, so her body would not scrape against the hole’s sharp edges.

  Justin recognized the woman’s bloodstained, dirt-covered face. “Azade, Azade,” he called at her.

  She broke out in tears, and her entire body shook as she heard his voice. “Justin . . . no, it can’t be. Justin?”

  “Yes, yes, honey, it’s me.” He rushed toward her and helped the men to bring her above ground.

  She collapsed into his arms, and gave him a tight embrace. They
stood to the side for a long moment, while Azade sobbed, her body trembling, tears falling down her cheeks. Justin did not want to break the embrace, but they needed to go, before jihadists stormed the house. “Azade, can you walk?”

  “Yes, yes, I . . . I will walk.”

  “Let me help the others.”

  Azade nodded. Her big blue wary eyes glowed with hope. She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, then tried to fix the rat's nest of her long black hair. “There are . . . many people down in the tunnel.”

  Justin glanced around. A man and a woman were standing next to the wall, holding on to each other. Another man, younger than most of the others, held an AK rifle, aimed at the door. He was in a seating firing position and kept the weapon tight in his hands.

  Justin said in Kurdish, “Don’t shoot. There are Peshmergas outside. Don’t shoot.”

  The man nodded. “Okay, I’ll do that,” he replied in Kurdish as well.

  It was the same man who had talked to Justin earlier in the strangely accented Arabic.

  Another woman and two children were lifted out of the hole. “That’s everyone,” one of the men said.

  “Good, now let’s go. Anyone who can’t walk?”

  “No, we can do this,” one of the men replied.

  Others nodded.

  Justin gestured at the men. “Help the women and keep the children close.” Then he pointed at the young armed man. “You, rear guard.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied.

  “Justin, let’s go, let’s go.” The Peshmerga fighter popped his head into the room.

  Justin looked up at him as a quick burst came from the hall.

  The Peshmerga dropped to his knees, blood gushing from his side.

  Justin dashed toward him and pulled him inside the room. “Help me, now.”

  He aimed his rifle around the corner and squeezed off a few rounds.

  Someone returned fire.

  Justin shook his head. “Stay down, down,” he shouted at the freed hostages.

  He took a grenade from one of his chest rig pouches. He pulled the ring and counted to five. Then he tossed the grenade toward the back of the house and fell behind the wall, away from the door.

  The explosion came right away. Shrapnel cut through the hall and smoke began to fill it. No one fired from the back of the house, but long barrages came from the front.

  Justin peered quickly around the corner. He fired a quick burst through the thinning curtain of smoke, in case the shooter was still alive or others had taken his place. No return fire. “Clear,” Justin shouted. “Go, go, go. All out.”

  A couple of men walked out first, followed by the women and the children. Then two men carried the wounded Peshmerga, and the rest of the freed hostages filed out of the room.

  Justin glanced at the armed man. “You too.”

  “I thought I was the rear guard.”

  “Change of plans. Go!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He climbed to his feet, then hobbled toward the door. There was something very disciplined about his moves, despite limping on his left leg. And it was not only because he replied with “yes, sir.” The way he behaved, held his gun, followed orders. Yes, a well-trained Peshmerga.

  He stepped in the hall and swung his rifle around, covering the back, then moved toward the front. Justin followed three steps behind. They walked as fast as they could, with Justin turning around every other moment to watch the back exit.

  When they came to the front, a loud explosion erupted just outside, in the alley. It sounded like an RPG, but Justin could not be certain. Machine gun fire echoed from at least two directions, alternating with the rhythmical ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta of assault rifles.

  Justin found one of the Peshmergas, who was the closest to Rojan. “How does it look?” Justin asked.

  “Bad. Daesh is setting up. They want to cut off our exit.”

  “Is everyone loaded in the trucks?”

  “Yes. Three trucks.”

  “How’s Rojan?”

  “He’ll make it. Shallow shrapnel wounds.”

  “And Azade? Where is she?”

  The Peshmerga nodded. “Your . . . eh, she’s with Rojan, in the second truck.”

  “All right, let’s roll out.”

  The Peshmerga held Justin’s arm. “Wait, we should find a new way out.”

  Justin shook his head. “No. We have our exfil planned. And the overwatch team’s waiting.”

  “But Daesh knows we’re coming through that route.”

  “True, but we also know where they are. If we go another way, we have no idea.”

  The Peshmerga nodded. “All right.”

  “I’ll get in the third truck, manning the heavy gun in the back. You have enough people in the other trucks?”

  “We do.”

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  The Peshmerga nodded again.

  Justin turned to the limping fighter next to him. “You, what’s your name?”

  “Ali.”

  “Come with me, Ali. You know how to use a machine gun?”

  “Of course.” The man’s face and tone of voice expressed a hint of annoyance at the question.

  Justin held the man’s small brown eyes full of determination and rage. He had a couple of bruises and cuts around his eye sockets. Blood had caked around the left side of his face and his ear, and his crooked nose let Justin know it had been broken one too many times. “Good. Let’s hurry.”

  Ali quickened his pace and in a few seconds, both he and Justin climbed over the third truck’s bed. Two Peshmergas were already positioned along the sides of the truck reinforced with thick steel panels. Justin got behind the machine gun, straightened the ammunition belt, and checked the weapon. He fired a few rounds and smiled. Yeah, it works.

  The driver set the truck in gear, and they moved forward. It was slow at first, then the truck picked up speed. Justin’s eyes were taking in everything: the alleyway, rooftops, windows. He had not seen any jihadists yet, but he knew that was going to change at any moment.

  It did.

  Two silhouettes appeared on the rooftop of a house perhaps a hundred yards back.

  Justin let off a quick burst, which struck the men. They fell backwards on the roof.

  A third man popped up next to them. He seemed to be shouldering an RPG launcher.

  Justin clenched his teeth. An RPG round landing in the truck would kill or maim them all. Even if it struck within a few feet of the truck, they were still within the warhead’s deadly blast range.

  He fired a long volley, cutting through the gunman before he had a chance to fire his launcher. He dropped back, like the other jihadists.

  Ali and the Peshmergas also thundered their rifles, covering their exit. Unlike the Peshmergas, Ali was firing conservatively, single or double taps. This preserved the ammunition, but also allowed him to effectively focus his fire.

  The driver swung the steering wheel, quite fast. Justin held on to the machine gun. The wheels fell on a couple of potholes and the truck bounced hard. The metal ammunition box and a few RPG rounds rolled around the truck bed.

  They left most of the return fire behind, and Justin drew in an easier breath.

  It was a different situation with the front of the convoy. The lead truck seemed to be taking heavy fire, considering the noise. Ali swung on his knees and turned his attention toward the front.

  Justin tried to pivot the machine gun around, but it was stuck in place. He could not make the mounting pivot’s rusty nut turn. He tried again, pulling harder. The nut did not move. He cursed the rusty nut and whoever had put the mount together.

  The truck slowed down, since the driver could not go any further. They were now only a couple of yards behind the second truck. Justin did not like the closeness. If a jihadist fired an RPG or even a grenade, the short distance increased the chances of mass casualties.

  He took his rifle from behind his back and dropped to one knee. He set up position near the
truck’s cab and fired at muzzle flashes blinking to his left.

  A couple of rounds struck the back and the side of their truck.

  Justin turned around. His eyes examined the back alley and the rooftops for enemies. Seeing none, he dropped his gaze to a few first- and second-story windows along the houses to his right.

  Muzzle flashes came from two windows.

  Justin fired short bursts, alternating between the two targets.

  Ali also fired at both locations.

  The truck picked up speed, but Justin kept firing. He swung the gun to the left, then to the right, expecting other jihadists. One materialized around a corner and squeezed off a few rounds. One of them struck the back of the cabin, missing Justin’s legs by mere inches. Another punched the tailgate.

  Justin fired a long volley, at the gunman and at another jihadist who had just appeared from a door on the other side of the alley. Before Justin’s bullets shredded his body, the man was able to pull the trigger of his RPG launcher.

  “RPG, RPG.” Justin hit the truck bed.

  The warhead screamed through the air a few feet over the truck and slammed into the wall to their left. Shrapnel pounded the truck. Something sharp cut through Justin’s lower back. He gritted his teeth as the pain seared through his entire body.

  One of the Peshmergas dropped next to Justin, blood gushing from a chest wound.

  Ali cursed in Russian.

  Russian, that’s the accent. But what’s a Russian fighter doing helping the Peshmergas?

  Justin said, “Ali, you okay?”

  Ali nodded. “Yes, I’m all right. Shrapnel cut through my leg.”

  He tried to move it, but he could not, so he swore again, this time in Arabic.

  Justin cocked his head. He doesn’t want me to know he’s Russian?

  A volley of bullets struck against the cabin, tearing Justin away from his thoughts. He picked up his rifle, rolled to his side, and fired at muzzle flashes at the end of the alley.

  The driver took another turn, hard and fast. The left corner of the truck scraped against the wall. Another RPG slammed the wall behind them, exactly where the truck had been two seconds ago.

  The corner provided much-needed cover, and only slivers fell against the tailgate. Justin was not sure how much longer the truck or his team could take the assault. The other Peshmerga was also wounded when the RPG struck near the truck, and he was not able to fire back. Two more turns and we’re out of here.