It’s now or never.
“All right,” Chris said. “Coming through.” He passed Sonny, stepped out the window onto the ledge, and crept several meters to the place where two buildings pressed against each other. He crouched down.
The faint sound of a sound-suppressed rifle came through the bedroom window. It sounded farther away than Sonny’s position, so Chris figured Hannah had added a corpse to the stairs.
Ahead on the ground lay a T-section of dirt road. A man poked his head around a building, but his gaze remained on ground level, never rising to the second floor. Chris took him out with a head shot. The HK416 produced no flash, and its sound was no louder than the puff of a BB gun. Next, a burly guy with a machine gun jogged into the T-section, oblivious to the kill zone he’d just entered. Sonny planted him in the middle of the street.
More men with AKs appeared. Chris watched them carefully, noting that either their eyes stayed at ground level or they looked up at Sonny’s window. It was as if Chris were invisible in the shadow of the second-story ledge. As fast as the AKs arrived, Chris and Sonny dropped them. Several moved in from different locations, turning left and right — confused. Chris shot them from the front, side, and behind. Soon bodies littered the area.
The sound of someone sneaking around the corner drew Chris’s attention. It sounded like two, maybe three of them. He grasped a grenade, pulled the pin, and eased the spoon so it wouldn’t fly off and make any noise. No sense in exposing his position. He cooked off two seconds, leaving only two seconds on the fuse, then gave it a sidearm toss. The men barely had time to shout before it exploded.
Chris’s heart pumped more adrenaline, which fed euphoria to his brain. He recognized the feeling. Just as he began to enjoy the slaughter, he mentally pulled himself back — there should be no joy in killing. This is a job.
On the ground in front of him, someone opened a shop door. That someone crouched and neared the doorway to take aim at Sonny’s window, but Chris had a clear shot at the crouching man. Chris gave him a sudden rug nap. At the same moment, Sonny opened fire on a position that Chris couldn’t see.
Then a man emerged who was tall like the man who’d kidnapped Chris as a child, the man whose lighter Chris carried in his pocket. His name was Kalil, more commonly known by his nickname, Little Kale. But Chris hadn’t seen Little Kale’s face then, and he had no idea what he looked like now, other than that he was impressively tall.
If you want a piece of us, come on. Come on.
Tall Man snuck between buildings toward Chris’s position. Chris aimed, but Tall Man ducked behind a truck. When he reappeared, Chris aimed, but Tall Man passed behind a pillar, blocking Chris’s shot. Then he was gone.
Chris wanted to curse, but he held back.
No one else ventured into the kill zone. Initially Chris experienced disappointment that there were no more opponents to waste. There should be no joy in killing. They’d already stayed longer than they should in the same location. Even though it seemed as if no more challengers would come, it would only take one talented shooter, someone who knew the environment better than Chris, to put an end to his evening, or an end to one of his teammates — forever. Tall Man had escaped, but he could be the one to bring back that talented shooter. Chris told Sonny he was coming in off the ledge. They closed the shooting shop and eased out of the building.
Patrolling through the streets, Chris’s rifle and backpack weighed heavier, and he was unsteady on his feet — the extended firefight had drained him. He turned around to make sure Hannah and Sonny were still with him. They dragged their steps a bit. All three of them were tired. Even so, they had to get out of there.
23
Before sunrise, they returned to their hotel room and cleaned their gear and topped off their ammo and water — ready to go again. Hannah excused herself to make a quick phone call.
When she returned, she put away her phone and turned to Chris. “You remember when we were in Iraq and my Syrian asset helped track down Mordet?”
Chris took the bullets from a nearly empty magazine and inserted them in a partially used magazine, so he’d have one whole. “Yes, his code name was Viper.”
“Well, I just talked to him, and he said he has some information. He agreed to see what more he can find out before meeting with us for dinner tonight at 1800,” she said.
“Just like that?”
“For the usual price,” Hannah said.
Chris finished loading his magazine. “Sounds a little too good to be true, but what other choice do we have?”
“He found Mordet once before,” she reminded him.
“Viper is known for being ideologically promiscuous.”
“But he’s loyal to money.”
“Anyone with money,” Chris said. “When you go to this meeting, he might already have sold you to Mordet.”
Hannah shrugged. “Anything is possible. You and Sonny can tag along in case things go south. Unless you have a better idea.”
He didn’t have a better idea, so he nodded.
During the morning and afternoon, they took turns: one resting on the bed and two standing watch and analyzing the intelligence gathered at Professor Mordet’s plantation. They were unable to figure out the password on his laptop to access his information, and the rest of the materials they’d gathered yielded little information. Chris sighed. What a waste.
As the time of their meeting approached, all three holstered concealed pistols. They departed the hotel room and drove to a nearby town, where they located the restaurant — the Mesopotamia. On the outside of the building, rows of large limestone blocks in white, tan, light orange, and basalt black alternated like good, evil, and in-between. Indoors, tall arched windows filled the Mesopotamia with light. The restaurant might not seem to be a likely target for a suicide bomber, but Chris chose a table farthest from the windows just in case someone decided to make boom-boom. And in case trouble started inside the restaurant, he noted where his escape routes were, including through a window and the back through the kitchen. He looked at customers’ hands first and then their faces — searching for danger — but no one showed any signs of malice.
Sonny pointed to a table in the corner. “I’ll take the table over there and cover you two,” Sonny whispered before veering off.
They sat at their tables, and Chris glanced at his watch—1730. Better to be early before someone had time to set up an ambush than to be on time and discover that an ambush has been sprung.
At 1745, Viper strolled through the front door and casually looked around. He was in his thirties with thick, wavy jet-black hair, like some kind of Syrian playboy. He spotted Hannah first and then Chris. Viper’s lips shifted between a smile and a frown. He stopped at their table. “Our dinner wasn’t until six o’clock. You’re early,” he said in fluent English.
Hannah stood and grinned. “You’re early, too.”
“Who is this?”
“He’s with me.” Hannah hugged Viper loosely, and his lips settled into a smile.
Chris smiled as genuinely as he could fake.
“Please, sit down,” she said.
Viper took a seat across from Hannah. “The steak here is to die for.”
“I haven’t come all the way to Syria for steak,” Hannah said.
“Of course not. Do you have the money?”
“Yes, but you know what I need first.”
“Of course,” he said as if it were a game.
A waitress came to their table with menus, but Chris, Hannah, and Viper already knew what they wanted and ordered. The waitress brought Viper and Hannah Al-Shark, malt beers. Chris had ayran, a salty yogurt beverage.