Gulf Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  No special ops teams would engage.

  “Fine, I’ll get him out myself,” I’d said. I guessed they had been spectacularly impressed that I’d discovered not only that my husband wasn’t dead, but I’d found my way here to Iraq and confronted the right guy, John Grey, that they thought that was probably something I’d attempt.

  And I would.

  Grey and his buddies were going rogue for this operation, but he figured that, like Angel, he was living on borrowed time after his escape from his torture prison experience.

  Strategies were quickly basted into place. It was going to be tricky since we knew the compound in their underground jail.

  Grey’s informant lived inside. The scenario went that Grey was going to visit with his wives. Three of us, me and his two CIA buds who were small enough to get away with the ruse would dress in burkas. We’d move into the compound and straight up to the informant’s apartment.

  Snipers would be positioned.

  A helicopter would be at the ready.

  Operation “Get Angel The Hell Out Of There” was in play.

  We were waiting in the truck. Disguised. Under my Burka I wore my tactical vest and plates. I also wore a bag that replicated a fake pregnant stomach. It would make me untouchable by the other men at a glance. And too, it was a wonderful way to bring in medical supplies.

  I would probably feel like I was a kid dressed up like a ghost for trick-or-treating if this wasn’t life or death.

  I’d sat back for the planning stages.

  We were supported by Nutsbe back in the Panther Force war room.

  Deep launched a pocket drone from the East hilltop.

  “Nutsbe. I have control of the drone,” Nutsbe said.

  Through the binoculars, I watched it tracking a grid over the space.

  Grey called his informant to come get us. The man drove his truck out to “pick up his friend and his friend’s three wives.” The man spoke Kurdish, and I was glad that no one would speak to me or wonder why I didn’t reply. Under this burka, I was, in essence, hiding in plain sight.

  “Blaze. There are men in each of the watch towers,” Blaze said. “I’ll take north and east.”

  “Deep. Roger that,” Deep answered. “I’ll cover south and west. If the shots are pretty, they’ll drop straight down and be hidden. After dark, no one will notice.”

  By “pretty,” Deep was saying that they needed to try to hit the brain stem.

  “Nutsbe. I have three men in the courtyard with rifles.”

  We had the schematics out. The informant leaned over the hood of his car and was explaining where everything was.

  I pulled Striker aside. “I say, since I changed out my Indigo berka for the black, that I shadow walk my pregnant belly around and find him.”

  Grey leaned back. “And if you’re caught?”

  “First, I’m never caught. Second, I’m pregnant. I think I could do a pretty good rendition of a fierce contraction.”

  Grey translated that, and his informant, Assad, threw back his head and laughed, smacking Grey in the chest, pointing at me and making some comment that brought a grin to Grey’s stony face.

  “So here’s the deal,” Grey said turning to us. “We go in. We search for Angel where Assad says he’ll be. We pull Angel out. If we get caught, we go down guns blazing. Put a last bullet in your front pocket for yourself. You don’t want to get captured.”

  “That was sunny,” Gator said.

  Gator was in the armored vehicle that could plow through the gate if need be to pick us up along with Jack and Striker manning the big guns.

  They hadn’t uttered one word about me being incapable or unprepared for this mission. I was one of the team.

  Now, not to let them down.

  Or Angel.

  This wasn’t a contracted mission. They were here on General Elliot’s orders.

  I wondered for a moment why Strike Force was so gung-ho about going after Angel, a man they’d never met. Then I remembered that Doc had said we were all part of the same warrior clan. We’d fought side by side over our lifetimes.

  I believed that.

  Here we were powering forward.

  The pick-up truck moved through the arch, massive wooden doors stood open. They would close after sunset. We’d have to convince the guard to open it back up. We figured that getting me home to my mother for the birth of my fake baby would convince him.

  Hiding Angel on the floorboards, we hoped to drive Angel back through the gates. But I’d learned that druthers meant nothing on missions. Things going sideways was the norm.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  We were inside. I was sedately walking between Jones and Smith, Grey’s CIA buds. We all had our fingers running along the trigger guards on our 45s under the voluminous cloth of the burkas. Smith and Jones trailed silently behind Grey and Assad as they joked, and they moved inside.

  We continued the subterfuge as we headed to Assad’s apartment. They told me not to turn my head and look around, to face forward, and act like I was a gosling following Grey, the mama duck, to the pond.

  I could see very little through my burka screen anyway, especially with the ambient light dimming.

  Buds in my ears, Nutsbe came over the comms. “Nutsbe. You have incoming. Two pickup trucks. I’m counting fourteen heads. They have rifles, and they’re churning gravel. Twenty minutes.”

  The door to the apartment shut. “I wonder what that’s about,” Jones said ripping off his burka and taking a position by the windows.

  “This is fine. It’s probably some of the Taliban who are coming for a meeting with our elders. You were planning to stay in here until dark anyway. They’ll be gone by then.” Jones was translating the conversation between Grey and Assad over the comms so everyone could hear the information.

  “This happens often, Assad?”

  “Frequently, yes.”

  “So not unusual. No one’s concerned about your coming in with me and my wives?”

  “Not at all. Everything’s fine.”

  I watched his body language, and I believed him.

  The men sat outside in the courtyard in a circle. Food was served. They said their evening prayers. The sun set.

  I was sitting with my back to the wall, my feet on the floor with bent knees, and my burka flipped up in the front resting on my combat helmet with my night vision. I really preferred not to do stealth in the dark with night vision and a burka, to be honest. I had never practiced it and had no idea how this was going to go.

  We rested there an overlong time; I was ansty. It came as a relief to hear Striker over the comms. “Striker. Go time, Lynx.”

  I flipped my burka down then decided this was insane. I pulled out my KA-BAR

  and cut out the mesh panel.

  Jones and Smith would come with me to the back stairs. We walked as a huddle of three wives. Since the door at the top was the only way in or out they’d guard the top entrance.

  Once we got to the stairs, I was on my own.

  “Lynx. Moving,” I said.

  “Striker. Take your time Lynx, slow and steady wins the race.”

  “Copy.”

  I took in a breath, calmed my system and projected out the greys of the shadows around me. The light was dim. I didn’t appreciate all of this extra cloth. I two fisted my pistol, front end heavy with a suppressor. I wondered if I shot it off through my burka, would it catch on fire?

  Curious minds want to know, I said to myself.

  Down, down, down.

  “Nutsbe, do you copy?”

  “Nutsbe. Your breaking up, Lynx.”

  Down, down, down.

  “Nutsbe, do you copy?”

  …

  “Nutsbe?”

  Yup, we thought this might happen. I was on my own with no way to communicate with my team.

  Footsteps echoed off the tile hallway. I stilled. Slowing my pulse, slowing my breathing. A man in long robes came closer, an electric lantern in his hand. I lowered my
lashes to look from the waist down, so this person would feel no eyes. I wish he’d leave. Instead, there was a rattle of keys, the screech of a door.

  I chanced a glance to see if he had gone in somewhere. There was a slap of hand against flesh.

  I moved further down the corridor past the open door. The room was dimly lit with the lantern on the floor, casting eerie shadows.

  He stood wide legged in his leather sandals. There was someone in front of him tied to a chair. I couldn’t tell if this was Angel or not.

  The man reached out his hand and grabbed the man’s hair and lifted his face. His mouth was bloody and laughing. “What’s so funny, you little shit.” The man spat out in Arabic.

  “What’s so funny is that you’re about to die,” Angel slurred.

  The man threw his head back laughing. And when he did, I dragged my KA-BARR across his carotid. Blood spurt from the wound. Just in case he could still cry out, I reached up and wrapped my hand around his mouth and nose.

  My brain kicked in. How did I get my knife in my hand? How did I cut him? I looked around and saw the burka lying on the floor and had no idea how my body had moved through the steps.

  “You came.” Angel breathed out.

  “Of course, I came.” My hands were shaking so hard that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to cut his bindings away without slicing off his hands while I did it.

  I started with his ankles tied to either leg of the chair.

  I moved to the ropes on his hands. I didn’t trust myself. I couldn’t even pick the knots. My fingers weren’t cooperating. I bent down and grabbed the rope in my teeth and yanked my head back, making progress.

  Footsteps were banging down the stairs.

  I moved in front of Angel and took a knee, resting my elbows against my ribcage to steady myself, ready to pull the trigger on anyone who rounded the doorway.

  I pulled up when it was burkas, and Jones’s voice. “Don’t shoot.”

  “You didn’t answer your comms,” Smith said, moving behind Angel and finishing the job I had started.

  “There’s no signal down here.”

  “They’ve got trouble brewing. Glad she found you man. You’re not out of the soup yet.”

  I looked back at Angel when he didn’t answer. He looked zoned out of it like he had no idea what was going on around him, his mouth and eyes were open. I was grateful for the wheeze in his breath that told me he hadn’t just up and died.

  “What are the instructions?” I asked.

  “No idea, we just came down to get you. There’s a fight brewing out front. Right now, it’s a lot of yelling. Come on, Angel, don’t give up, man. Stay with us. We’re getting you out of here.”

  Angel made a valiant attempt to bring his head upright and to close his mouth.

  “No time to waste. Leave these damned burkas off, I’ll carry him,” Smith said. “Jones take point. Lynx cover my six, and Three. Two. One.”

  I grabbed the burkas and shoved them into my pack and made a quick scan to make sure that we left nothing behind with the body. I hoped this didn’t burn the asset.

  I’d let Grey figure that out later.

  Angel choked on his moans as Smith dragged him over his shoulders, fireman-style. I rounded my pack onto my back. With my knife stuck back in its holster, I reached up and dragged my night vision goggles into place then reached forward to do the same for Smith.

  “We ready then?” Jones asked. “On me.”

  I pulled my gun and wrapped it in one hand, laying my other hand on Angel’s back to steady him.

  Off we moved back down the hallway toward the stairs.

  General Coleridge was right, this was where he’d seen Angel, down. The task drawing looked very similar to the structure we were in. He’d drawn downward arrows. And yes, there was a helicopter out there. We just had to get to it.

  I focused on Angel, dangling from Smith’s shoulders and wanted desperately to get him some first aid.

  Jones was over the comms. “Nustbe, do you copy?”

  Static.

  We climbed and now I could hear gunfire.

  “Nutsbe, do you copy?”

  “Nutsbe. I copy Lima Charlie.” Loud and clear. “Sit rep.”

  “Bravo. One tango down. We have the package. I repeat, we have the package with injuries.”

  “Nutsbe. The Taliban are firing their weapons into the air. Grey is reporting a lot of commotion. The situation is unclear and unstable.”

  “Copy.”

  “Striker. How bad are the injuries? Life threatening?”

  “Bravo. Possible. We’re not in a position to assess.”

  “Striker. Bravo team hold.”

  We hovered at the top of the stairs.

  “Striker. Bravo team move to southwest corner by the guard tower. The door on the western side. Transport will meet you there.”

  “Copy,” Jones said.

  Smith bent at the knees and as he powerlifted, he moved Angel up to a better position on his neck.

  “Striker. Alpha team is proceeding to secondary exfil location. Delta standby,”

  “Blaze, copy”

  “Deep, copy.”

  “Grey, join up with your Bravo team.”

  “Grey, Copy.”

  “Striker. Extraction helicopter inbound.”

  And all of our ducks were in a row.

  Now to leave the Taliban to their fight up front as we slink out the back gate and get out of here alive.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  I sat on the bed, barely recognizing Angel. His beard and hair were shoulder length. His face was battered. He’d lost another two teeth.

  He was such a brave man. I appreciated the sacrifices he made to help others. And I understood, at a rudimentary level, I was never supposed to be part of his equation. I was never supposed to be in the picture. Through circumstances outside of our control, we had forged a relationship that wasn’t part of our life’s plan. He’d gone his way. I’d gone mine.

  But if he knew I was coming, it meant our connection hadn’t been any easier for him than me.

  When he woke up, he didn’t say anything to me. Just held my hand. Tears dripped now and again. I knew these feelings of being saved after all hope was lost. I’d lived them. Quiet was good. A chance to recalibrate.

  Angel had been captured eleven days ago. From the burn marks left on his body, they had been using electrical shock to get him to tell where he’d taken the stolen slaves.

  He’d resisted all that time.

  He’d called to me all that time. He just didn’t know he was doing it.

  “I owe you an apology.” His voice was hoarse. “You can’t imagine the guilt I’ve carried for the last two years.”

  I could, though. I knew. “Grey told me what happened. How about you tell me from your point of view why you thought that making everyone mourn your death was best. If you had just told us your plan, let us know you were out there being a hero, do you think I wouldn’t let you go?”

  “Lexi, you were nineteen when we got married, a virgin because I got drunk and passed out on our wedding night. We’d known each other for three weeks. I thought you’d say yes, go do your thing, save those people. But then there you would be. I knew you wouldn’t cheat on me or move on, and so I trapped you into a terrible relationship. That life wouldn’t be fair. If you thought I was dead. You could move on. You moved on, right? Striker?”

  “Yes. I’m engaged to be married. Can you image the place you put me in? A bigamist?”

  “I didn’t think I’d live this long, to be honest. I’m surprised to be here today.”

  I bit my lip.

  “Working where I work, fighting against who I fight. ISIS is pure evil, and they have done terrible things to the Muslim peoples.”

  “Yes. I agree.”

  “They have networks all over the world. If they found out who I was and that you were my wife, or Abuela Rosa was like a mother to me, they could use you against me. Horribly. What I went through was not
hing compared to what they would do to you in front of me if they caught you. That you came here and risked that is…horror is the only word my brain is feeding me right now. When I agreed to work black ops, I said I had to do it as a dead man. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that you were always with me. Always right there. I even told Grey that someday you were going to show up looking for me.”

  With a deep breath in and a long sigh out. I petted his hand. “I didn’t move on. I couldn’t move on. I tried. But that part is not your fault. I understand that you’re doing with your life what your purpose has always been. I get that. I laud you. I want this for you.”

  He closed his eyes and the tears dripped from behind his lashes.

  “When you’re done with your work here, I think we’ll be friends. I’d like that. Now that I see you again, I know that I’ll always love you. But I am not in love with you. I don’t think of you as my husband. Family, yes, always.”

  He opened his eyes.

  “I am going to allow Grey and the CIA to work this out. I want a divorce as quickly as possible. I want that divorce decree to be sealed to protect everyone. I want your permission to whisper to Abuela Rosa what is happening. She is suffering, and I can’t allow you to do that to her.”

  His face turned red.

  “She’ll understand. She’ll be proud. But she can’t suffer this way. You fill her dreams.”

  “Are you happy? Are you okay?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  ***

  Striker was waiting for me outside the hospital room.

  He wrapped his arm around me, and we walked down the long corridor. “Did you get everything worked out?”

  “He agreed to divorce.”

  “How did you feel? Did the operation work?”

  I offered him a tired smile. “I felt friendship and absolutely nothing else. No shimmer. No irrational bond. Just a member of my Abuela Rosa’s family.” We took a few steps. “Kaylie?” I asked.

  “Prescott’s with her. When she’s released from the hospital, they’re going to go get her daughter in Turkey. Her sister, Melody, has Kaylie’s son in Virginia. The DNA sample came back as a positive match. But anyone who sees him says it’s obvious.” He kissed my head then reached to push the door open.