Imad Al-Kurbi was annoyed. He had fired off two full magazines at the American, carefully holding the weapon with one hand on the pistol grip and the other on top of the barrel to keep it on target as he had been taught. But he still could not hit the slippery infidel.
Imad was from the Tribal Territories of Pakistan, one of seven children, three sons, of a small mountain farm. He had been raised with an AK in his hand and considered himself a good shot, so it was doubly annoying that he had been unable to hit the American. He had left the farm when he was fifteen, entering a Wahabbist madrassa in Islamabad. There was no work in Pakistan and the madrassa fed him both food and the Word of Allah. He had left the madrassa at seventeen and, paid by the jihad, had traveled first to Afghanistan to fight the Crusader invaders, then to Iraq where he had met Nadhim who was another veteran of Afghanistan. They had planted bombs to fight the Crusaders for a year before the Crusaders flooded the country with heavy forces and began destroying the jihad in that country. When it was clear they were going to be caught soon, Nadhim suggested that they travel to Syria where jihadis were being recruited for international missions.
This mission was supposed to be simple. But it was clear that the Americans had discovered them and he had to kill this one before the word got out. However, he was out of rounds. Nadhim, though, had never gotten off a shot, so he should have a full weapon.
With that thought, Imad quietly set his empty weapon on the ground and lifted himself on fingers and toes and leopard-crawled around the table he had been using for cover. He could hear faint sounds from the American, a magazine being slid out and then another into the weapon, and he thought about sight angles. If he crossed the open area and around to the far side of the table Nadhim had been using for cover, he would stay out of sight. He got to his feet and, crouching over, darted across the gap, ducking behind the far side of the table.
Mike duck-walked sideways, keeping the room covered as he sidled over to the forge. He bent down and picked up the terrorist’s AK and switched it for his pistol. There were ten rounds left in the magazine and no more mags. That meant the other terrs might be out of rounds.
Imad listened to the faint sound of the AK magazine being removed and then either it or another being reinserted and considered what to do. Nadhim’s weapon was on the far side of the table, maybe in reach. He lay on his stomach and stretched his arm out, hooking at the trigger guard of the weapon…
There had been one of the terrorists behind the overturned table, but he was gone. His weapon was on the ground but he wasn’t there. Mike had moved left, so the terr had probably moved right. That meant he was behind the drill press, one of the overturned tables or in the office. It was unlikely he had made it to the crane. And there was the one left behind the crane, of course.
The back side of the drill press was just out of sight, so Mike sidled that way, AK at tactical present, and peeked around the corner. No “Middle Eastern Male” there. He quietly peeked over the table to see if the terrorist was on the far side, keeping half an eye on the crane. He should have taken fire from there by now, but he hadn’t so the terr was probably out of rounds.
There were two more sides to the drill press and Mike checked those, wondering where the target had hidden himself.
“Olly olly oxenfree!” Mike called tauntingly. “Come out, come out wherever you are!”
Imad didn’t speak English very well, but he recognized the taunting tone. Let the American taunt; by sliding his body almost fully under the table, he had managed to get one finger on Nadhim’s rifle and he could see the American’s legs from his current position. He began to slide the AK slowly to him and winced at the metallic scraping sound…
Mike heard a magazine being surreptitiously removed then reinserted by the crane; he ducked down behind the table, waiting. As he did that he heard a metallic sound where the first terrorist had been standing: the tango he lost track of had been out of rounds and had snuck over to the leader type to get his full weapon. Most of the head terrorist’s body was in sight, so the target must be on the far side of the table on his stomach, reaching under it for the weapon.
Mike dropped to his own stomach, looking under the table and, sure enough, there was the tango. He was half covered by the body of the leader and snatched the weapon to him when he saw Mike’s sudden movement. They locked eyes for a moment, the terrorist raising the AK to fire under the table and then Mike shot him between the eyes.
All Majali Fu’ad wanted was out. Majali was from Egypt and had been a student in Germany until the money for college ran out. He hated Cairo, where there was no decent work for a college-trained young man and very few distractions unless you were married. So he stayed in Europe, doing odd jobs, until he ended up in a madrassa in Bosnia of all places. The madrassa fed him, and if the food came with a healthy dosing of the Word of Allah he was willing to accept that as long as his bowl was filled. He’d taken this “mission” because it was just another odd job, like dozens of others he’d done over the years since college. He’d only fired at the American because everyone else did so, and it gave him a sense of security to shoot the weapon. But now he was out of bullets and a long way from Cairo. If he managed to get to the door he was going back to Cairo, finding a job, any job, and never, ever leaving again. And if anyone said the word “jihad” in his presence, he was going to punch them out. He crouched down, his eyes fixed on the door, and as more firing broke out, he sprinted for the door…
Mike lifted up to the top of the table as he heard pounding feet, putting the last three rounds from the AK into the running terrorist who slid to a halt, leaving a trail of blood behind him. His arm twitched a bit and then he was still.
Majali lay on his face, feeling the blood flowing out of his chest, and tried to crawl to the door. It was a long way to Cairo, but he would crawl if he had to. He was cold and it would be warm in Cairo…
Mike lifted up and looked around, then switched the AK for the one the leader had had, checking the leader. The leader had probably lived for a few seconds based on the blood trail, but he was dead.
Mike checked the office, cautiously, then moved from one body to the next until he was sure they were all Dead Right There. And they were.
“I really could have used a prisoner, you know,” Mike said, shaking his head in frustration. “One of you could have bothered to survive!”
Chapter Four
“Well, I threw sevens,” Mike said, sitting down and pulling out his phone. “Where are we?”
“Corner of Levakonic and Miskina,” Dukhovic replied. “I heard shooting. Automatic rifles?”
“Northcote?” Mike said, ignoring him. “Corner of Levakonic and Miskina. Up Miskina street. Warehouse with a white van outside. Van’s hot, so’s the warehouse and I took fire when I entered. I think we have the site; site is secure. Yeah, full response and get the Nuclear Emergency Search Team moving.” NEST was the premier group in the world at detecting, analyzing and, if necessary, taking apart, nuclear wepaons. “No prisoners, unfortunately, they all croaked on me. Make contact with Dukhovic; he’s going to be at the corner. I’m going to go get some sleep.”