Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup (35 page)

He threw one of the RGD-5s. It detonated, filling the air between the two vehicles with black smoke.

"Go!" He lay down suppression with the AK. The grenade smoke obscured the line of fire from the enemy Humvee's driver side flank, so he concentrated mostly on the passenger windows.
 

"Clear!" William's Arabic voice carried from behind.

Ethan stopped firing. He had expended almost all of the AK's thirty round magazine. He pulled the pin and threw the second RGD-5, then retreated to the back of the Humvee. Sporadic gunfire erupted from the opposing vehicle.
 

He didn't need to tell William what to do.

As soon as the grenade detonated, William immediately lay down covering fire with his AK. Ethan crossed the thirty meter gap at a sprint, diving for cover behind the building at the edge of the intersection.

He returned the AK to Aaron. His friend was resting against the building, huffing, Android phone in hand.

"Someone's out of shape," Ethan taunted him.

Aaron ignored the jibe. "Black Mamba is still offline," he said between breaths, sliding the Kalashnikov over his shoulder. "I'm setting your phone to issue a notification when he comes on."

"You can do that?" Ethan said.

"Obviously." Aaron stuffed the Android and USB stick combination into Ethan's cargo pocket. "All set."

Behind him, William remained by the building's edge, occasionally firing at the other Humvee.

Ethan shrugged the sniper rifle down from his shoulder. He was about to leave his friends to find an outflanking position when two mujahadeen joined them from across the street. Perfect.
 

"Brothers," Ethan said. "Two yellow-faces are pinned in the farthest Humvee around the corner. Hold this position while we go around the block and outflank them."

The mujahadeen agreed.

Ethan hoisted Aaron's arm over his neck and proceeded onward. William brought up the rear.

"We're not really planning on outflanking them, are we?" Aaron said as Ethan led him through a ragged hole in a cinder block fence.

"Nope. We're getting the hell out. We'll be long by the time our pursuers realize they've been shooting at ghosts."

* * *

Suleman stared through his scope at the dead bodies of his enemies. While Fida'a had held the Humvee, Suleman had made his way to an overwatch position across the street and then mown down both attackers. Afterward, unsure if Emad or another was lying in wait to snipe him, he had ordered Fida'a to leave cover and check the bodies. The man had blindly obeyed.
 

"It's not them," Fida'a radioed. He sounded winded.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

Suleman jogged over to him. Fida'a was right. Neither of the dead men were Emad or his companions. He felt cheated.

Fida'a sat on the broken pavement, resting against the side of the building, his AK across his lap.

Suleman set his laptop down and opened it. Emad's signal was relatively close.
 

"Get up," he told Fida'a. "I don't want to lose him."

His companion coughed terribly, and did not rise.
 

"What's wrong?" Suleman went to him.

Fida'a smiled in the moonlight. His teeth were black—covered in blood. "I'm sorry, my friend," he said, wheezing. "But I must take my leave of you."
 

Suleman knelt beside him. Fida'a had taken an ugly gunshot wound in the chest. "Your place in jannah is guaranteed," Suleman told him.
 

"I know. Good luck to you, my brother. I will see you again in paradise."

His loyal friend closed his eyes and died.

Suleman slumped, filled with sadness. True, moments ago he had ordered Fida'a into the line of fire of a potential sniper, willing to sacrifice him to reveal the marksman's position. But he hadn't really expected his friend to die. Allah was with them. And when no shot came, that had served only to confirm his belief.

But he was wrong.

He felt utterly sapped. His mangled nose throbbed worse than ever.
 

Maybe I should just let Emad go.

No. Emad represented all that was wrong with the world—the depravity, deceit, and dishonor of the West. If he killed Emad, he would prove to himself that good could triumph over evil in the end, and that he was right in his decision to forego his infidel masters.
 

But he couldn't continue the hunt in his current state. He needed a little something extra.
 

Nose throbbing, he weakly returned to the Humvee and retrieved the autoinjector kit. The epinephrine vials had survived the crash. He loaded one and placed the injector over his heart.
 

He hesitated only a moment.

"Allahu akbar," Suleman declared, and injected himself directly in the heart.

He felt a stabbing pain in his chest and keeled over.

I have killed myself
, he thought.
 

But the pain quickly subsided, replaced by an incredible surge of energy. He lived, and more importantly, he felt more alive than ever before.

Allah was with him once more.

He glanced at the laptop.

I'm coming for you Emad.

* * *

Ethan followed the noise of heavy machine guns—the sporadic din of both sides exchanging fire, the sounds growing louder with each passing moment. He and his friends were nearing the front.
 

Ethan and William helped Aaron in shifts. It was currently William's turn, so Ethan was leading the way, Beast in hand.
 

As he crossed in front of a collapsed building, a feral dog looked up and growled before running off. He was surprised no one had eaten it yet.

Ethan heard a high-pitched whistle as a Kurdish shell pierced the air. He cringed, knowing it could easily land on top of them. The keen descended in pitch, finally ending in an explosion some distance away. The Islamic State line responded with DShK fire.

As he passed an upturned Hyundai van, Ethan's Android vibrated in his pocket. He paused, directing Aaron and William behind the vehicle, where all three of them crouched. He retrieved his phone and read the notification while William watched their flank. "Black Mamba is finally online."

"Or at least in range," William said.

Ethan keyed in a message.

"What did you say?" Aaron asked.

"Basically that we're coming over," Ethan replied. "And please don't shoot."

"How did the Mamba respond?"

"He didn't. Not yet. It'll vibrate when he does, right?"

"You bet."

Ethan pocketed the smartphone and was about to rise when a figure emerged from the darkness immediately beside him. Apparently the newcomer had been hiding in the van, or behind it, because he'd escaped William's notice.

The man's assault rifle was pointed directly at Ethan's head.

E
than lifted his hands slightly, palms up. Though he couldn't see William behind him, he knew the other operative would have swiveled his own weapon toward the man by then.
 

"What unit do you belong to?" the newcomer said, speaking formal Arabic with a Tunisian accent.
 

It wasn't a voice Ethan knew. It certainly didn't belong to Suleman.

"Wolf Company," he answered tentatively.

The newcomer came closer, emerging from the shadows beside the van so that the moonlight illuminated his features. Definitely wasn't Suleman or anyone Ethan knew.

When the militant noticed the Shahada headband Ethan wore, he lowered his AK and crouched beside him. "My apologies, my brothers. I heard you speaking English, and believed for a moment you might be Americans come to help the yellow faces."

"No, brother," Ethan told the militant. "Not American. We are holy warriors who have made hegira from England."

"But your Arabic is so good," the man protested.

"Thank you."

"I was separated from my unit," the militant continued. "May I join you?"

Ethan glanced at the others uncertainly. They didn't need a mujahid with them to stir up trouble at the Kurdish lines. But he said, "Of course, brother."

The Tunisian extended a hand. "I am Abu-Ahmed."

Ethan introduced himself and his companions.

The militant noticed Aaron's condition. "Does he need to return to the infirmary?"

"No," Ethan said. "We move forward, to the front lines."

Ethan hoisted Aaron to his feet.

The instant the four of them left the cover of the van, the triple crack of an M16A4 filled the air.
 

* * *

Suleman swept the weapon left after the initial burst, firing again, hoping to take down at least two of his targets, but the muzzle flash momentarily blinded his night vision device—the A4 didn't have a flash suppressor.
 

Suleman stared through his scope at the quiet, green-black environment. The van was positioned perfectly, neatly fitting inside his field of view, but no further movement came from the vehicle. The kaffir scum knew they were pinned.

He wondered if he'd struck Emad. It was possible. Any of the four could have been him. Well, there was only one way to be sure. And that was by killing the remainder.

Suleman settled in for the long wait. He had all night.

* * *

Blood spurted in long streams from William's trapezius in time to his heartbeat as Ethan struggled to compress the wound with his hands. William remained motionless the whole time, his eyes closed, looking very pale, his forehead steeped in sweat.

"Will," Ethan said in a hushed voice. "Come on!"

William abruptly opened his eyes and groaned. "What the hell."

"You're going to be fine, Will," Ethan said. "Just a scratch."

William shifted slightly, and winced. Then he guffawed. "I think, I think I've been shot!" he said between bouts of laughter.

Ethan was laughing too. "Yeah! You have, bro! Right through your trapezius!"

"My traps!" William roared. "The mother skewered my traps!"

Aaron shook his head in the moonlight. "Goddamn SEALs."
 

Ethan let Aaron hold the compress, then he crawled to the fourth man. Ahmed lay lifeless on the pavement beside the van. He wasn't breathing. He had taken the brunt of the attack, with small holes punched into opposite sides of his back. That burst had sounded like it had come from an M16, and the steel-tipped, 5.56mm cartridges would have easily torn their way through the Kevlar body armor under the man's fatigues. Ethan checked Ahmed's pulse. Nothing.
 

Ethan returned to William. He unsheathed his combat knife and began cutting a makeshift bandage from the hem of his own pant leg. Funny how Hollywood always made impromptu bandage creation look so easy in the movies. Only after a lot of twisting and ripping was he able to wrench the fabric free.

He secured the cloth to William's trapezius muscle, wrapping it under his armpit and tightening it until the blood flow ceased.

"How's that feel?" Ethan asked.

"Heavenly," William answered.

Ethan sat back to consider their predicament. How the hell had Suleman found them again? The streets were a warren back there, and Ethan had made several random direction changes, pausing occasionally to sweep his six. Classic evasion protocol. The first encounter he had attributed to luck. But two accidental encounters in a row? Unlikely.

Ethan grabbed his Android to check for a reply from Doug. Nothing. Worse, battery power was under fifteen percent.
 

As he looked at the smartphone it suddenly dawned upon Ethan.
 

"He has a Stingray! Goddamn it." Ethan switched the cell to Airplane mode. "How could I be so stupid? He's damn MI6."

"Who's MI6?" Aaron asked in a hushed voice. "Our sniper?"

"Yeah." Ethan sighed. "Long story."

"All right, so what are we going to do about it?" Aaron pressed. "We're stuck here behind this trash heap."

"What if we bring the van with us?" William sat up. With his trapezius bandaged, his strength appeared to be returning.

"No way we're moving this piece of shit," Aaron said. "We're pinned, bros. Thoroughly."
 

* * *

Suleman grew impatient. He decided it was time to ask for help. It was selfish to kill the remaining infidels all by himself anyway.
 

Keeping his eye glued to the scope, he reached for his harness and activated the two-way radio. "My brothers, I have important news. I have trapped four kaffir spies at the corner of the industrial section. They are hidden beside the mosque there, across from a fountain on the southern side, behind an upturned van. Any mujahadeen in the area who seek glory, come to me. We will flush them out."

Smiling confidently, Suleman released the transmit button and waited for the enthusiastic replies to start pouring in.

What he heard back surprised him.

"It's a Kurdish trick!" came the voice over the common band. "They're trying to draw us away from the front lines. Everyone stay at your posts!"

It was Emad.

Suleman cursed quietly. He hadn't struck the man after all, then.

He spoke into the two-way again. "My brothers, who are you going to believe, me or the kaffir? I have already injured them. Probably killed at least one. They are wounded animals, cornered, and trapped. This is the glory you sought when you came to this land to wage jihad. Come, my brothers! Fight with me!"

"Stay at your posts!" Emad retorted. "Or the Kurdish pigs will break through!"

"Get off the line, you idiots!" a random voice barked over the radio.

Suleman couldn't believe how easily his brothers were deceived. In despair and anger, he almost cast aside the radio. Would evil win so easily?

But then he realized his mistake. He had been using the common channel.  

He clicked scan and found another frequency in use by a squad nearby. The men were issuing terse instructions to one another—something about outflanking a group of yellow-faces.
 

"My brothers," Suleman spoke into the radio. "How would you like to become famous?"