by Joshua Hood
“Are you in charge?” she asked, stifling a smile.
“No, ma’am, but I seriously need you to take a few steps back,” he said as his hand slipped down to the pistol on his hip.
“What the hell is going on here?” a tall, rangy man with a thick grayish goatee and a scar running up the side of his face demanded from the back.
“I was just telling this lady that she needed to take a few steps away from the Osprey, Chief.”
“Do you have any idea where you are right now, son? Do you think they are going to just let any chick walk around here if she ain’t cleared to be here?”
“Uhh, I didn’t think—”
“That’s right, son, you didn’t think. Go grab the rest of the gear and try not to piss anybody off,” the man said, jumping off the ramp and sticking out his hand.
“Please excuse him, ma’am. He’s new and partially retarded. My name is Gunny Jeremiah Charles, but you can call me Chief.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Chief. My name is Renee. I’ll show you guys where to drop your gear.”
“Damn fine to meet ya, Renee,” he said, taking a plug of tobacco out of his assault shirt pocket and biting off a chunk. “Can I offer you some? It’s the good stuff, not that store-bought shit,” he said with a smile.
“No, thank you, Chief, maybe later,” Renee said with a laugh.
The tall marine reminded her of actor Sam Elliott, and she imagined that in another life he could have been a cowboy. His laid-back demeanor and the warmth in his eyes put her at ease, and she took an immediate liking to the man.
“Where are you from, Chief?” she asked as the rest of his team began unloading from the Osprey.
“I’m from California but spent most of my youth around Colorado. My family owned a little place around Sterling. Ever heard of it?”
“Can’t say that I have, but I’ve only been out West a few times.”
“Well, hell, ma’am, maybe when this is all over, you should go check it out. It’s God’s country.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Renee said, glad to hear a cheerful voice for once. “How many men did you bring?”
“I’ve got six plus me. The captain had to head stateside because his brother was on the George Bush when it went down.”
“Did you see it go down?”
“Yes, ma’am. We were on the amphib ship when she sank. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. Word on the street is that the boy responsible is just over there in Iraq.”
The operators were members of the Marine Raiders, an elite force that traced its ancestry back to World War II. The unit was skilled in direct action and deep reconnaissance. The Raiders were the new kids of the Special Operations community, but by no means untested. The Marine Corps Special Operations Command (MARSOC) pilot program, or Detachment One, had made their name in Iraq, and when the unit was officially stood up, it conducted combat operations in Afghanistan.
“The brief is scheduled for 2100. If you can follow me, I will show you where to put your gear,” Renee said.
“I’d appreciate it.”
The hangar was bustling with activity as Colonel Anderson and his staff worked through the operation timeline while team leaders poured over the maps and imagery. Gear and weapons were spread out in orderly piles, with men checking their equipment or relaxing before the brief.
Renee’s thoughts drifted to Mason, and a knot of worry drifted up from the pit of her stomach. She had been trying to get ahold of him since sending the intel she had gotten from Dustin, but he wouldn’t answer.
Her iPhone chirped in her pocket, telling her that she had a new email, and she was just about to check it when she saw Warchild striding toward her.
She cursed silently, continuing to look down at the iPhone, hoping he would leave her alone.
“Hey, can we talk?” he asked as he drew near.
He was the last person in the world she wanted to talk to right now.
“I don’t have anything to say,” she said with a sad smile.
“Well, then, just listen. Parker told me what happened, and I just wanted you to know that he didn’t tell me shit.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Why the fuck would I lie? I have no idea what he sees in you,” he said with a laugh, “but I just wanted you to know that it didn’t come from him.”
Renee knew when she was being played. Parker was the only one she’d told about David.
“He made his choice.”
“Hey, just trying to look out for my buddy,” he said, holding up his hands before turning to leave.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“Sorry I whacked you in the face.”
Warchild smiled and reached up to touch his black eye. “I guess I deserved it. You’re all right.”
“Okay, you two, save it for the enemy,” Sergeant Major Mitchell rasped as he strode into their midst. He turned to address everyone assembled. “The briefing has been moved up. I need all team leaders and squad leaders to give me an ‘up’ on men and equipment in thirty minutes.”
“Roger that,” the men chorused.
Renee stepped to one side and finally checked her phone. The email contained a picture and a short message from Mason:
“Found the gardener. Please confirm.”
She felt the breath catch in her throat at the sight of the mangled body. Yet enough was intact that she could confirm the identity. She slipped over to the operations area to see if she could use one of the computers. Renee found an open laptop and quickly typed in her pass code.
“Hey, what are you doing at my station?” Sergeant Judson, one of the intel guys, asked from his place near the coffeepot.
“I need to check this,” she said, holding up her phone as she furiously logged in to one of the databases the task force shared with the CIA and the NSA. If there was any information on al Qatar, the program was the best place to look.
“Renee, you’re going to get my ass in a sling,” Judson said as he came up behind her. “What the hell are you looking at?”
“I just got a hit on one of our targets. One of ours thinks that al Qatar might be dead,” she sort of lied.
“Who told you that?”
“Just let me check it out real quick, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Can you at least let me sit down, so you don’t piss off Anderson?” he begged.
Renee got up, letting Judson have his seat, before forwarding the pic to his email.
“I sent it to your email.”
“Okay, hold on.”
He clicked on his mail folder and saved the image to the desktop. Once the icon popped up, he uploaded to the database and hit the Search button.
“This could take a minute,” he said.
“I’ve got nothing but time,” she said, staring at the computer.
She settled in for the long haul and watched the screen as it flashed face after face of known terrorists. Renee knew that the database was massive, and willed it to go faster as she looked over at the men checking their equipment. It hurt having to ride the bench on this one, but she knew she was lucky even to be allowed in the hanger.
Renee was about to go grab a cup of coffee when the computer dinged, and a face popped up on the screen.
It wasn’t al Qatar.
CHAPTER 39
* * *
General Vann opened his eyes. Realizing that he was tied down, he tugged desperately on the restraints holding him to the chair.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t get any more blood on the carpet,” Mr. David said.
Vann said something that couldn’t be understood behind the duct tape placed over his mouth.
The spy rose to his feet. “I will make sure I clean up the other spot before I leave. I’d know how upset Katy would be,” he said, stepping closer. “Unfortunately, neither one of us has a great deal of time, and while I will be leaving soon, you will not. But before I kill you, I am going to give you the opportunity to choose how much pain you wan
t go through.”
David tucked his pistol into his waistband and lifted a roll of clear painter’s plastic from the backpack. He began unrolling it beneath the chair, insuring that he slipped it under the general’s legs.
“I know what you’ve done, so I hope you won’t lie about it,” he remarked. He took out his knife and cut the plastic before unrolling another section. “What I don’t know is who you are working with and how far up this goes. That’s where I need help.”
Once the area beneath the chair was covered, David placed the roll back in the bag. In one vicious swipe, he tore the tape off the general’s mouth.
“You’ve made a mistake,” Vann blurted out. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The response was a hard, ringing slap to the man’s temple. “Do you remember when we were in Iraq?” David asked. “You used to observe the interrogations I would conduct? They called them interrogations, but we know what they really were, don’t we? It was torture.”
“Don’t do this, please, David.”
“The CIA taught me how to break a man. But it was what I learned on the job that was the most effective. You’ve seen the results for yourself. ”
“Look, there has to be a way we can work this out,” Vann begged.
“Right now I have a gun and a knife,” David said lightly, “but if I go down to your garage, I bet I will find all sorts of tools. Hedge clippers might be interesting. How about a jigsaw—do you have one of those?” David watched the general shrinking in his seat. He adopted a harder tone. “Why don’t we start with who you are working with?”
“I can’t.”
David placed the tape back over Vann’s mouth and shrugged.
“I’ll be right back. You know, any man worth his salt owns an electric drill.”
The spy took his time going through the garage, knowing that the longer he was away, the more Vann would panic. He found a milk crate on the floor, into which he placed a hammer, a pair of bolt cutters, needle-nose pliers, and a small blowtorch from the workbench, and headed to the door.
He wasn’t going to enjoy this. He was hoping that Vann would tell him what he wanted to know without putting himself through a great deal of pain. But David had been doing this long enough to know that they always resisted at first.
“Sorry I took so long,” he said, placing the crate on the floor next to Vann’s feet. “So, here’s what I found,” he said, taking out the tools and placing them on the floor.
David saved the blowtorch for last. He lifted it out and held it before the general’s eyes.
“You know who is really good at this? Mason Kane. And by the way,” he added, “if you are wondering, he is very much alive.”
The gas came on with a hiss that startled Vann, and when David gave it more gas, it flickered from a light yellow to a rushing blue. Vann’s forehead began to sweat as David moved the flame closer to his face.
“I hate that you’re making me do this,” he said before placing the flame on the center of the general’s chest.
Vann jerked in the chair as the room filled with the smell of burning flesh. He tried to flip the chair backward, but David held him roughly as he flicked the flame down to his abdomen.
Vann’s eyes bulged as he screamed, and the veins in his arms rippled as he tried to break free.
David pulled away the blowtorch. “Now, let’s try this again. Who are you working for?”
CHAPTER 40
* * *
Do you have a phone?” the young woman asked Mason as the truck bounced across the undulating desert floor. From up in the cab, the ground looked flat, but the rocky ride told another story altogether.
The deuce-and-a-half had been a stalwart of the American military since World War II, and like the Willys Jeep, it was renowned for its reliability—but not for its comfort. Mason felt like he was being beat to hell, and he longed for the comfort of the Land Cruiser that was trailing them.
“I have a sat phone,” he said as he pulled the bulky Iridium out of his pocket and switched it on.
The phone took a few seconds to come on, and when it finally began tracking the satellites, he saw that he had four missed calls from a number he didn’t recognize.
“Whose number is this?” he asked Zeus, holding out the phone so that the Libyan could read the number on the tiny LED screen.
Zeus looked up from the cigarette he was trying to light, his face a mask of annoyance. “What am I, a telephone operator?”
“Do you know the number or not?”
“By Allah,” he muttered before looking at the screen. “It’s Renee’s,” he said, and then refocused his attention to connecting the flame of his lighter with the tip of the cigarette.
“Can I use your phone, or are you going to tease me with it?” the woman asked.
“First, tell me your name,” Mason demanded.
“It’s Sara.”
“Okay, Sara, you know my name, and the grumpy one back there is Zeus.”
“Great, can I see the phone now?”
“One more question. Where the hell are we going?”
“I told you we were going to my uncle’s. Now give me the phone.”
Mason was trying to figure out his next move. With al Qatar out of the picture, he figured his job was finished. He knew that after he made sure the civilians were safe, he had to get Grinch and Blaine back to the task force. But he wasn’t sure what he was going to do himself.
Boland’s death had changed things, in that it had set him down a path with no way out. He needed Zeus at his side, but a part of him knew that he was condemning his best friend to death. Now that al Qatar was dead, he felt a sense of relief.
He handed Sara the sat phone, and she punched in a series of numbers while trying to drive the truck. She was beautiful in that Persian way. Her dark hair and pale skin gave her an exotic elegance. Yet it was her fierce green eyes that really attracted his attention. They shone with an inner strength that drew him to her, and for a second he allowed himself to dream of a life outside of war.
“Hello?” she said after placing the phone to her ear. “Yes, yes, I am fine.”
Mason could hear a man’s voice on the other end of the line, and he forced himself not to listen in.
“Yes, we are coming, but I have some Americans with me,” Sara said, pulling him away from his thoughts.
Mason knew that the Kurds and the United States had a complex relationship, with America doing much of the taking. Fighting for the most powerful nation in the world entailed a certain burden, in that America wasn’t always the most faithful ally. US policy was usually a one-way street. If you could help its interests, then America would help you, but Mason knew better than anyone that the United States was a fickle friend.
“Good, we will be there soon,” Sara said, hanging up.
“I hope your uncle likes Americans,” Mason said as he took back the phone.
“No one likes Americans,” Sara replied, garnering a chuckle from Zeus.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked the Libyan.
Zeus poked his shoulder from the backseat. “She is right, no one likes you.”
“I’m not talking about me,” he said, but in reality, he knew he was.
Sara was quick to clarify her statement. “I am in your debt.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“The same thing that always happens,” she said bitterly. “Men come from the south, and we are left alone to fight them.”
“Okay, but why?”
“Because this is our home.”
“All right, but what were you doing in Mosul? You are a Kurd, are you not?”
“My uncle sent me to get his wife,” Sara said softly, “but she was killed by those men.”
“Why would he send you? You’re just a—”
“Just a what?” she demanded angrily. “A girl? Can not a girl fight just as well as a man?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Mason backpedaled. “Who
a,” he thought, “have to watch out with this one.” Then she muttered something under her breath.
“What was that? I missed it.”
“I said you are all the same. You think that only men can fight for what is theirs.”
“Oh, is that right?” Mason said, getting a little heated himself. “If men are all the same, then why did we save you back there?” Zeus groaned behind him, and he turned around to see the Libyan shaking his head.
“What?”
“That is not something you want to say in a situation like this,” Zeus said.
“She started it. I just wanted to know where the hell we were going,” Mason protested.
“You must forgive my friend,” Zeus said to Sara. “He is a good man, but he does not understand women.”
“Fuck him,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Ahh, shit, look, I didn’t mean to say that, I just . . .” He trailed off, not knowing what to say next.
“It is fine,” Sara said, her voice cracking. “If you had not showed up, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Those men, where did they grab you?”
She explained, “My uncle is a powerful man in Erbīl. When he learned that the fighters were coming north, he tried to warn the US, but they didn’t listen. He sent my brother to Mosul, and when he didn’t hear back from him, he sent me. I was told he never made it to my aunt’s house.”
“And the others?” Mason asked, motioning to the back of the truck.
“The fighters had lists of people given to them by the Iraqi police. They were going from house to house, rounding up the undesirables and taking them outside the city. These new fighters have only been there for a few days and have already killed so many. Baghdadi is a terrible man.”
“Who?” Mason asked, not recognizing the name.
“Abu Bakr al Baghdadi, the man responsible for bringing the Syrians into Iraq. He is a brutal, hateful man.”
It was the same story Mason had heard years ago when they were looking for Abu Musab al Zarqawi, the Jordanian militant who’d inherited the al Qaeda mantle in Iraq. The clerics had learned long ago that they could cloak their violent rhetoric in the Koran and get their followers to conduct unspeakable horrors in Allah’s name.