We had plenty of questions. We spent the next two hours in the classroom, formulating the plan.
LORENZO
May 3
I had been dropped off several blocks from the Hasa Market and had walked in. Umm Shamal was the middle peninsula and was relatively middle-class, so I wore jeans, a soccer jersey, and a good pair of running shoes instead of sandals. I carried the money in a small backpack.
I liked baggy jerseys. They were handy for hiding stuff, including the relatively soft Level IIIA armor vest. My STI 4.15 Tactical was on my hip, concealed beneath my shirt. Between it and the two spare longer twenty-two-round magazines on my off-side, I had sixty-three rounds ready to go. Also concealed on me was my Greco Whisper CT knife. It had a five-and-a-quarter-inch blade and was perfectly balanced. If Hosani tried anything, I was going to stick to my promise to take him with me.
There was one benefit if I bought it today. Once Big Eddie found out, that would probably get Carl and Reaper off the hook, temporarily. But he had leverage on them too, so even though they couldn’t do this job, he would find some way to use them again. Believe me, I’d thought about faking my own death rather than finishing this job. But if Eddie ever got any inkling that I’d cheated him, he’d kill every single person in that folder.
The market was bustling with humanity. It was a miniature city, with buildings made from portable stands and wandering streets of weathered stones. This was where all the small-time fishermen sold their catch, so it was the best place in the city to get fresh fish. The violence in poor Ash Shamal and rich Al Khor hadn’t really hit here yet. This was the part of town where the actual work got done. This was the home of the regular people, and they just wanted to live their lives in peace, earn their money, and raise their kids. Too bad for them they were stuck between a bunch of fanatics.
There was a line of speakers placed over the central row of booths. They were playing traditional music, which was actually kind of pretty in a haunting way. Every now and then the music would cut out and a fast-talking announcer would tell the customers about some special at one of the booths.
The fountain dated back to the British and was styled to be vaguely ancient Greek. It was out of place between all the tan brick buildings. I took a seat on the edge of the fountain, waited, and watched bus drivers and school teachers buy sea bass. My Bluetooth earpiece wasn’t very out of place in this group.
“I don’t see anything yet,” Carl said. I knew he had stationed himself at the opposite end of the market near the corner of the school. He had dressed in full-on man pajamas and baggy vest. Carl was too stocky and muscular to pass for a Zubaran, but there were a lot of foreigners in this country, actually more foreigners than natives since the boom began, and he had grown a bushy beard that would make any mullah jealous. “I’m at the bootleg DVD table.”
“Anything interesting?”
“They’ve got a Robert DeNiro five-pack. I’m watching the windows on the mosque. If I was gonna snipe you, that’s where I’d be.”
That was comforting.
“Lots of traffic, but nothing suspicious,” Reaper said. He and Jill were parked about a block away to the south.
I noted a man standing near one of the fish stands. Skinny guy, wearing Ray-Bans, he was making good use of the crowd to cover himself but was obviously watching the people clustered around the fountain, waiting for something. He had the look of a local, so that was probably one of Hosani’s men.
My phone buzzed. The text was short.
Walk north. Go to the first warehouse.
So the exchange wasn’t going to be in public. The thin man saw me looking at my phone, right on schedule, so now he knew who I was. I bent down, as if to tie my shoe, but primarily so he couldn’t see me speak. “Got the message. Moving north to the first warehouse. I’ve got at least one guy watching me. Stay low.” I adjusted the backpack and started pushing through the crowd in the direction of the docks.
VALENTINE
Umm Shamal District
May 3
1555
Hasa Market was a sprawling, confusing maze of tiny shops, stands, and carts that emanated out from an old fountain in the square. To the north were a trio of warehouses on the pier. Tailor parked our Land Cruiser between a mosque and a small schoolhouse on the west side of the square.
Hudson and Byrne were supposed to park their vehicle on the opposite side of the square. As much as we could, we always took two vehicles on a mission. It gave us a backup option should we not be able to make it to our own vehicle. Also, we figured that with all of the chaos we were about to cause in Hasa Market, we’d have less chance of getting snagged by the cops if we split up.
The situation still sucked. Four of us were going into an unknown building against an unknown number of opponents. Because we had to go through a crowded marketplace in the middle of the afternoon to get to that building, we could only bring weapons that we could conceal, i.e., handguns. Going into a gunfight with nothing but a handgun is stupid and should be avoided if at all possible.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible. Hunter had suggested that we use compact assault rifles, concealed in backpacks, that we could drop if we needed to disappear into the crowd. Gordon Willis had overruled him on that one, apparently. He said it caused an unacceptable risk of getting made.
It seemed the risk of us getting our asses shot off trying to go into a gunfight with nothing but pistols didn’t bother him. By that point I’d had more than my fill of Gordon Willis. But there was nothing we could do except carry on with the mission and try not to get killed.
Tailor and I made our way through the cluttered mess of Hasa Market, doing our best not to be noticed. We were both wearing khaki cargo pants, dark T-shirts to conceal body armor underneath, sunglasses, and untucked shirts to hide our sidearms. We looked undeniably American, but even with the recent chaos, no one seemed to pay us any mind.
The market stunk of fresh fish, and squawking seagulls filled the air. The rows of booths, carts, and shacks weren’t laid out in any discernible order. They were gaudily decorated with what looked like Christmas lights, loudspeakers playing music, and signs in six languages. Most of the shoppers at Hasa Market weren’t Zubaran citizens, or even Arabs. Most were imported labor from India, South Asia, and the Philippines.
The market sold more than just fish. Goods of every variety could be bought, from bootleg DVDs to clothes to medicine of dubious medical value imported from Asia. As Tailor and I made our way past various stands, the vendors would blurt sales offers out at us in broken English, telling us they had a great deal that was perfect for our needs.
“Lo siento, no hablo Inglés,” is all we’d say in return. Tailor and I both spoke Spanish fairly well and had decided that with this many witnesses around, we’d avoid speaking to each other in English if at all possible. Half the world spoke English, including people in the Middle East. You’d be a lot harder pressed to find a Middle Easterner that spoke Spanish.
I did have to speak English into my radio, so I squeezed the transmit button and spoke softly. “Control, Nightcrawler, target building in sight.” Tailor and I studied the warehouse though the crowd, trying to discern the best way in.
“Control copies,” Sarah replied. Hearing her voice in my ear comforted me in a strange way. “You are cleared to engage. Be careful.”