“We’re not letting them into the cab without a fight,” Crocker whispered to his teammates beside him. “Pass that down the line.”
Mancini nodded. “Got it.”
They’d disarm the bastards before they knew what was happening. Then they’d really be fucked.
Crocker took a deep breath. He stood facing a broad man wearing a thick black robe, his head covered with a black bandana with a jihadist slogan printed on it that hung down his back, ghetto-style. An AK-47 slung over his shoulder and a six-inch knife in a sheath on a belt across his chest. Their eyes met for an instant and Crocker recognized a grizzled, determined veteran who wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.
“Sadiq,” the man grunted. Friend.
“Sadiq,” Crocker said back.
The man strode to the back gate of the Sprinter, which was now open. Crocker saw that the jihadists were unloading boxes and stacking them on the ground.
“We gonna let them take our cargo?” whispered Akil.
“Let’s see what they want first.”
Two of the jihadists handed their weapons to the others and lifted a dozen boxes, deep frowns on their faces as they walked by. Bandages and syringes mostly.
The last two stopped in front of Crocker, who was guarding the cab door. Captain Zeid stood behind them.
“Okay?” Zeid asked tentatively.
“Yeah. What’s this dude want?”
Crocker looked into the face of the leader in front, measuring the distance between himself and the man’s Adam’s apple, where he intended to thrust his forearm should he try to push past. Break the thing and leave the bastard gasping. The man’s face communicated both fierceness and exhaustion, from his gray eyes, to the droop of his broken nose, to the thick gray beard. But there was something in his frown-lined forehead and ironic half smile that made him appealing.
The militia leader muttered something in a hoarse voice, and Zeid jumped forward and pointed at Crocker. Crocker recognized the word balad (country), but couldn’t make out the rest.
The grizzled militia leader stepped closer until Crocker could smell the intense garlic on his breath. His ruddy skin, gray eyes, and other features made him look more European than Arab. Like a rugged alpine climber.
He waved his hands as if trying to communicate an important thought. “Fahima…kalla. Tabib?” he asked in Arabic. Doctor?
Crocker tried to follow. “What the fuck’s he want now?”
Zeid: “He wants to know if you’re a doctor.”
“Tell him no. I’m a medic.”
Zeid translated. The militia leader nodded, then reached out and put an arm on Crocker’s shoulder. If that wasn’t unexpected enough, he also rattled off a plea using thanks to God and min fadlak (please), and, surprisingly, khoya (brother).
“Did he just call me ‘brother?’ ” Crocker asked.
“He did, yes,” answered Zeid.
“Is he…Mohammad al-Kazaz?”
“Yes.”
The mission was getting stranger by the second. “This dude is serious ISIS and AQ. I don’t get it. What’s he want from me?” Crocker asked.
“He’s asking you to help him,” Zeid answered. “Someone he knows is wounded. As a humanitarian, a brother in arms, he asks you by the grace of God to accompany him to a house nearby to see this person.”
“Does he understand that I’m not a doctor, but a medic with limited supplies? Tell him that.”
“He knows already.”
“Tell him again.”
Captain Zeid did. Al-Kazaz puffed out his chest and nodded.
“If I agree to go with him, will he let us through?”
Zeid translated and came back with al-Kazaz’s answer. “He says he’ll even guarantee your safety.”
“If I can’t save this person, which could likely happen, will he hold me responsible?”
“No,” the militia leader said.
Crocker had dealt with all kinds of questionable characters in every dark corner of the planet. This time his instincts told him that al-Kazaz would be true to his word. Besides, if he didn’t accept the challenge, he and his men might be unable to recover the sarin, which might then fall into the jihadists’ hands.
His only other major concern was time. Quickly checking his watch, he figured that they had maybe two hours to spare.
“Just a minute,” he said, opening the cab door behind him and removing the backpack that contained his emergency medical kit. He slung it across his back and nodded.
“Okay. Tell him I’m ready.”
Al-Kazaz grinned and nodded.
“No, boss,” Akil warned. “Bad fucking idea.”
Mancini: “He’s a terrorist. What happens if he kidnaps you and holds you for ransom?”
“If he does, proceed without me.”
“Boss, fuck that. He wants to cut your head off.”
“It’s the only way they’ll let us through.”
“No, boss. The risk isn’t worth it.”
“Wait here. Behave yourselves. I’ll be right back.”
Chapter Nine
For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.
– Ephesians 2:8
He clung to the back of the Yamaha 450 dirt bike as it ripped up a narrow path, rain pelting his face, like a teenage kid on a nighttime adventure wondering if the fat lady was about to sing. Maybe he was taking his last wild ride. Maybe he should have heeded Holly’s pleas and never gone on this mission. Maybe she was right when she’d suggested in one of their sessions with Dr. Mathews that he had a death wish.
No, part of him argued back. I love life. I celebrate it and defend the freedoms it offers.
Whatever the truth, it was too late now. He was heading into something he had no control over, holding on to the back of a motorbike ridden by the enemy.
Someone had once told him that people were divided between those who took action and worriers. The worriers were often more intelligent because they considered all the possible dangers and outcomes before they did anything. But those who took action got a hell of a lot more done.
He was definitely heading into something now, recalling all he had learned in hand-to-hand combat and at SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) school. No way was he going to be kidnapped, interrogated by some fucking jihadists, and held for ransom or beheaded-even if he only had a SOG knife on him.
Refreshed by the wet night air and exhilarated by his circumstances, he focused on the vague outlines of a house ahead. He saw yellow light peeking through windows half hidden by the branches of cypress trees.
He wondered how Holly and Jenny would manage without him. Pretty well, probably. Holly seemed like she was halfway out the door, and Jenny was only a few days away from high school graduation. It’s not as if they hadn’t considered the possibility before. They’d have a new house and plenty of money from his bereavement allowance and navy pension.
The strange things that pass through your head at times like these.
“Man plans, God laughs.” It was a Yiddish saying an ST-6 commander had repeated to him when they were pinned down on a beach during his first mission to Somalia.
He remembered it now as the bike braked and slowed to a stop. Two men ran out of the house to greet al-Kazaz. He pointed behind to Crocker. A tall man in a black robe and long black beard bowed to Crocker, then took his medical pack and led him inside.
So far, so good. They seem friendly.
At the door two armed jihadists frisked him and took his knife. One pointed to a cell phone and asked Crocker if he had one on him.
He shook his head. “Kalla.” No.
The main room was lit by candles. He saw dirty mattresses on the floor, a radio transmitter in the corner, PRKs and AKs propped against one wall and a framed and filigreed Islamic quotation leaning against another. Al-Kazaz waved him forward and ducked into another room.