“Dog meat, maybe?”
“That’s Asia, bro, and less common than you’d think. Maybe a little horse here, but mostly lamb, I’d bet.”
“Been reading brochures again?”
“When in Rome.”
“Something tells me cleanliness ain’t high on their list of priorities,” Brian said, nodding at a vendor who was cutting up raw chicken on a cutting board; his canvas apron was speckled with blood.
Dominic laughed at this. “Hell, didn’t they have you eating bugs at SERE?” referring to Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape school.
Like all Marines, Brian had been through recruit, entry-level A SERE, but he’d also been pushed through the remaining B and C levels, reserved for forward operating combat units and aircrews.
“Yeah, bugs at Bridgeport, snakes at Warner.”
Navy and Marine Corps B and C SERE was held at a number of sites, including the Mountain Warfare Training Center in Bridgeport, California, and Naval Air Station in Warner Springs, California.
“So what’s a little horse meat?”
“Maybe on the way out, okay? We getting close or what?”
“Yeah, but we got time to kill. We’ll make a pass of Bari’s place at dusk, get the lay of the land. Wait for dark to go in.”
“Sounds good. What time is-”
As if on cue, a loudspeaker down the alley crackled to life and emitted the muezzin’s call to prayer. Around them, the alleys slowly went silent as locals stopped what they were doing, unfurled their prayer rugs, and knelt for the ritual. Along with the other non-Muslims, Brian and Dominic stepped aside and remained quiet and still until the ritual was completed and normal activity resumed. The Carusos started walking again. Dusk was fading quickly, and lights were glowing to life in windows and outdoor cafés.
“Can’t say Islam is my cup of tea,” Dominic said, “but I’ll give them this: They’re dedicated.”
“Which is the problem when it comes to the radicals. That kind of dedication is the first step toward suicide bombing and flying planes into buildings.”
“Yep, but I can’t help wondering sometimes if we’re talking about the bad-apple theory.”
“Say what?”
“One bad apple in the barrel. In this case, there are plenty of really bad apples, but probably still a pretty small minority.”
“Maybe so, maybe not. Kinda above our pay grade, though.”
“I mean, think about it: How many Muslims in the world?”
“Billion and a half, I think. Maybe two.”
“And how many of them go around blowing themselves up? Better question: How many are radical terrorists?”
“Twenty or thirty thousand, probably. I get your point, bro, but I don’t worry about the good apples. Who and how you worship is your own business-up until you start getting divine messages to blow the shit out of innocent people.”
“Hey, no argument here.”
They’d had this discussion before: Was broad-brushing a whole people or religion merely a mistake of morality, or was it also a tactical mistake? When you see whole chunks of a demographic as the enemy, does that keep you from not only spotting the real bad guys but also recognizing an ally? Like almost every country on earth, America had had enemies turn to friends, and friends into enemies. The Afghan mujahideen was a case in point that Dominic had often cited. The same rebels the CIA had helped drive the Soviets out of Afghanistan had morphed into the Taliban. The history books would forever be debating how and why that had happened, but there was little arguing the truth of the thing itself. One issue the Caruso brothers agreed on was the similarities between a soldier’s perspective and a cop’s perspective: Know your enemy as best you can, and be flexible in your tactics. Plus, both of them had seen enough shit in their lives to know there was no such thing as black-and-white in the real world-and that was especially true of their roles at The Campus, where gray was the norm. There was a good reason why spooks and special operators were often referred to as “Shadow Warriors.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Dominic added. “I’m only too happy to pull the trigger on any mutt who threatens my country. I’m just saying, the guy who fights the smart war is usually the winner.”
“Amen to that. There’s probably a few million Soviet soldiers who’d argue that, though. Stalin shoved them into the meat grinder of the Eastern Front like they were cattle.”
“Always an exception to the rule.”
Brian stopped to check their map. “Almost there. Next left, then right down an alley. Bari’s apartment is the third door on the left. Painted bloodred, according to Ghazi.”
“Let’s hope that ain’t a bad omen.”
They found the right alley ten minutes later and ducked through the arch. Soldier that he was, Brian’s night vision was better tuned than that of his brother, so he was the first to realize the man walking toward them down the alley was none other than Rafiq Bari. He was not alone but rather was flanked by a pair of men, each dressed in dark slacks and long-sleeved white shirts open at the neck and untucked at the waist.
“Local heavies,” Dominic muttered.
“Yep. Let’s let them pass.”
Bari was walking fast, as were his bodyguards, but both Bari’s body language and that of the two bodyguards told the Carusos that Bari wasn’t under duress. The relationship was clearly of an employee-employer nature.
Brian and Dom reached the red door first and kept going, letting Bari and his party pass on their left. Brian cast a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Bari slipping a key into the door’s lock. Brian turned back forward. The door opened, then slammed shut. The Carusos turned left at the next corner and stopped.
“Never gave us a second look,” Dominic said. Bari’s bodyguards were probably street-level thugs who assumed a familiarity with violence was training enough for the job, and they’d probably be right in most circumstances.
“Bad luck for them, good for us,” Brian replied. “He was moving quick, though. He’s either in a hurry to catch Wheel of Fortune or he’s on the move.”
“Better assume the latter. Time to improvise.”
“The Marine way.”
Twenty feet down the alley, they found an open archway on their left and stepped through into a small courtyard with a dry circular fountain in the center. It was almost fully dark now, and the corners were cast in deep shadow. They took a few moments to let their eyes adjust. Leaning against the far wall was a trellis covered in dried vines. They walked over and tested the wood; it was brittle.
“Boost,” Brian said, then stepped to the wall and formed a saddle with his hands. Dominic stepped into it, reached high, and snagged the top of the wall. He scrambled up, then looked down and gave Brian the wait one-hand signal and crawled away. He was back in three minutes. He gave an all okay nod, then leaned over and helped Brian up.
“Bari’s door leads to an inner courtyard. Open doorway on the east wall. One bodyguard there. Bari and the other one are inside. I can hear them banging around. Sounds like they’re in a hurry.”
“Let’s do it.”
They loaded their Brownings, affixed the suppressors, and started across the roof. To their left, in the alley, there came the sound of a dog barking, then a dull thump. The dog yelped and went silent. Brian held up his closed fist, calling a halt. They both knelt down. Brian crept across the roof, peeked over the edge, then returned.
“Four men coming down the alley,” he whispered. “Moving like operators. Or police.”
“Maybe the reason Bari’s in a hurry,” Dominic observed. “Let it play out?”
“If it’s the police, we got no choice. If not…”
Dominic shrugged, nodded. They’d come a long way for Bari; they weren’t going to give him up unless they had no other option. The question was, if these new players had come to kill Bari, would they do it here or take him somewhere else?