Slade wondered why today was any different than any other day on the road, but Killer just shrugged. Sulla and his neighbor got their cars and the Deltas loaded up the bodies. The Deltas and Slade piled in while Sulla’s family packed.
“Don’t worry, the ISIS scum won’t bother us anymore tonight,” the neighbor said. “These pigs were after this family. The rest are too busy raping and celebrating — some warriors of Allah!”
Killer was riding in the front bench seat with Sulla. The back seat of his white Renault had four bodies stuffed into it. When Sulla and his family fled they were going to have a disgusting time of it. The ISIS thugs stank in life but dead they smelled like the Devil himself crapped on them.
The neighbor drove an old battered station wagon. It was a rocking, rolling ride as Slade rode on top, lying prone in the luggage rack. One Delta rode in the front seat with the neighbor and the refugee father, leaving Slade and three others on the roof, two facing front and two facing the rear. The back was filled with dead ISIS terrorists; stacked like firewood.
Slade grimaced at the Delta Force soldier next to him, a twenty year old kid nick-named Johnny Bravo. Bravo grinned from ear to ear. “Didn’t you ever want to do this as a kid?”
The sniper gave him a sour look, and answered in his best deadpan voice; that is, his normal tone of voice, “What are you talking about Johnny; we didn’t have cars when I was a kid.”
The Delta’s laughed.
The heavily laden station wagon led the way, bouncing across the pothole scarred road. After ten minutes they slowed down. The headlights groped ahead in the darkness. Slade peered through the night, picking out a rough area next to the road. Something was in the shallow ditch; it stretched on for about twenty or thirty yards, it was hard to tell.
They stopped. The night was eerily quiet. There was only a slight desert breeze, pleasantly cool after the heat of the day. The breeze carried the stench of death.
Slade hopped off the top of the station wagon to see what it was in the ditch. Switching on the rifle mounted flashlight caused Slade’s already stern expression to grow positively grim. There were bodies in the ditch, dozens and dozens of bodies. Killer went to one of them and then another, examining them. He waved Slade over.
Slade felt his stomach turn as he got closer. Killer pointed out, “They weren’t even bound when they were shot. They look like they laid themselves face down and let the scumbags machine gun them to death.”
“They didn’t even put up a fight,” Slade said harshly.
“They died like sheep,” Killer agreed, standing up. He jerked his thumb back toward the cars. “Our Tangos probably took part in the killing. Let’s hide them amongst the men they murdered. Put them at the bottom; no one will ever know we did them.”
The Deltas hid the bodies, but halfway through the grisly chore they got a surprise. A trooper called Killer over. The commander was talking with Sulla and Slade.
“What is it?” he asked bluntly, stomping over to the pile of bodies. “You better not be showing me some of their handiwork! I mean, I’ve seen everything, but these guys are the sickest bunch of bastards on the planet!”
“No sir,” the Deltas said, visibly excited, “We got a live one!”
Killer hurried over and Slade followed. Sure enough, two Deltas were extricating a boy from the bottom of the pile. He was a skinny teenager, Slade couldn’t tell how old, maybe thirteen or fourteen. He wasn’t strong enough to burrow his way out from under several layers of dead men.
The boy was shaking when they finally got him clear. The Deltas gave him some water and he started talking. Neither Slade nor Killer could keep up with the boy’s Arabic. He spat out the story in a frantic spasm of shocked terror.
When he was done, Sulla told them, “ISIS rounded up everyone in the village who was from the military or the police. They broke into the homes, killing any who didn’t follow their orders or let them rape their wives and daughters. The boy watched his mother and younger sister get raped — he thinks his sister must be dead because she was so young and so many men brutalized her — Allah watch over her!”
Sulla wiped his eyes, continuing with difficulty. “When there weren’t enough police they simply gathered all of them up, men and boys as young as twelve. They herded the men out into the street and picked out the Christians. The rest they ordered into line and marched them to the trucks. They loaded themselves in the trucks and then they were driven out here, lined up in the ditch and told to lie down. Then the shooting started.”
“Bastards!” Slade cursed.
Killer sighed and grimaced, “We got about fifty or sixty men and boys back there — I’ve got to report this. I mean, this needs to stop. ISIS is on the offensive and out in the open going from village to village.”
Slade shook his head, “B-52’s loaded with cluster bombs and the problem disappears.”
“They’ll never go for it; it sounds too much like war,” Killer said scathingly. “Unfortunately, it’ll have to wait until after the meeting tomorrow — that takes priority.”
“Wait — what about this man’s son?” Sulla asked, pointing to the refugee father who was picking through the bodies, searching for someone.
Killer nodded, and then he turned to Slade. “He’s searching for his eldest son. The son was shot while they were fleeing, but he was still alive.”
“And he left his son back there?” Slade whispered incredulously.
“Yeah, damndest thing isn’t it?” Killer said. “Anyway, he wants us to go back to the village and take a look. Maybe he’s still alive.”
“It’s a little late for parental concern,” Slade replied coldly.
“We’ll go take a look, but if there’s any signs of ISIS still in town we’re out of here,” Killer said. “I can’t compromise the mission.”
An hour later they were in a ghost town; a movie set from Hell. Bodies, furniture and trash were strewn over the streets and barren yards. Burning houses lit the place up with an evil, flickering glow. The street was lined with dozens of men and women — even children — hung on makeshift crosses, trees and telephone poles; the ISIS terrorists crucified the village Christians. It seemed as if no one was alive, and indeed, that’s what they found when the father led them to his house.
The door hung half on its hinges. The family’s main room, where they watched TV, entertained relatives and otherwise lived their lives was a room of horrors. The refugee father saw his son bound to a chair, slumped over — dead.
On further inspection, death was a release. The young man was clearly tortured. The father was distraught, asking, “Why, why would they do this? Even when I was a soldier in the Iran-Iraq war we never treated our prisoners this way. We’d shoot them — yes — but quickly, mercifully! Why would they do this; I don’t understand?”
All Slade and Kincaid could do was leave. They didn’t understand this either — any of it.
CHAPTER 5: The Operation
Abdullereda was having second thoughts. He felt like a trapped animal, but there was really very little he could do about it. He wasn’t dealing with a local gang of thugs. This was Al Qaeda. Any squeamishness on his part would result in his ignoble and painful death and the death of his estranged family as well. He had no illusions as to who he was dealing with.
The would-be terrorist found himself sweating, shaking, opening a bottle of whiskey — one hidden deep in his cabinet and only brought out when the blinds to his windows were shuttered — he didn’t remember how much he drank.
Sometime the next day, feeling miserable and guilty, Abdullereda found himself in front of the American Embassy. He didn’t like America; he hated Americans and everything they stood for. However, America was perhaps the only place in the world that might take him in, perhaps even his family. The Great Satan was his only way out of this devilish conspiracy.