Chapter 3:
The Zoob
From there we were herded into a large, unmarked white bus. The bus’s windows were so darkly tinted that you couldn’t see out. The cargo from the plane was off-loaded onto the bus and a pair of trucks. The entire caravan was leaving the airport through a back gate within a half hour of the plane touching down. Compared to the seemingly endless flight from the United States, everything happened remarkably fast once we hit the ground.
I wasn’t able to see anything of the city as we passed through it. The brief glimpse I got between the stairs of the jet and the door of the bus had told me little. It was cooler out than I thought it’d be, probably in the sixties. The air smelled of dust, burning natural gas, car exhaust, and an inadequate sewer system. It reminded me of Mexico.
The drive from the airport was long, but as near as I could tell, it was because we were winding our way around a cluttered city. I assumed the driver, who was one more of Colonel Hunter’s security men, was taking a roundabout route to wherever it was we were going. It was the better part of an hour before the bus came to a stop. We all stood up in the aisle, clutching our backpacks, waiting for the line to begin moving, as Hunter’s security guys tried to hustle us along. Tailor and I were two of the last ones off.
Stepping out into the cool night air, I took in my surroundings. We were in some kind of large compound surrounded by twenty-foot walls. The walls were made of stone, and looked old. Inside the walls were five large buildings, all of which looked new, plus a few old buildings off to one side.
“This some kind of fort?” Tailor asked.
“Looks like it,” I replied. “Those buildings are new, though. So are those lights,” I said, noting the new amber streetlights in the compound. “Looks like it’s been improved over the years.”
“This is Fort Saradia,” Sarah said from behind me. I turned around quickly when she spoke, a little bit startled. Tailor looked at me funny and cracked a smile but didn’t say anything.
“You know about this place, don’t you?” Tailor asked.
“We got briefed before you guys. This place was a fort for the British in the nineteenth century. It was expanded over the years. The Zubarans used it as a small army depot for a long time. That’s why half the wall looks new. They closed it down about twenty years ago. I guess they were going to turn it into a university or something, but that didn’t pan out, either. Now it’s a protected site.”
“And that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Tailor asked. “Because no one will come poking around, and those walls mean people can’t see in.”
“Pretty much,” Sarah said.
“We can’t spend all of our time here,” I mused. “If we keep going in and out of the same place all the time we’ll get spotted eventually.”
“Nah, I bet this is just a staging area,” Tailor suggested. “We probably won’t spend much time here.”
“You guys won’t, but I will,” Sarah said, grabbing her duffel bag as one of the security men tossed it onto the pavement. “All of my equipment is set up here.”
“See? Like I said, it’s a staging area,” Tailor repeated. “A command center.”
“There’s my bag,” I said. My large GI duffel bag had been dropped onto the pavement. I stepped forward and slung it. “So . . . where do we go now?” I asked. Tailor and Sarah just shrugged. Looking around, I could see that everyone else was just as puzzled as we were. A couple of the buildings looked like dormitories or barracks, but none of us knew what to do now.
The small cluster of security types standing around was no help. They’d hardly acknowledge us, much less tell us anything. Four of them were carrying carbines, too, so none of us got too pushy. All they would tell us was that Colonel Hunter would be along to brief us again. I wondered why they felt it necessary to have the briefing outside in the parking lot instead of in a building or something. I was tired, and so was everyone else. After a few minutes, I set my duffel bag down and sat next to it. Others did the same. A few minutes after that, the bus backed out of the large gate it had come in and departed, leaving us to sit on the ground.
Probably twenty minutes later, a white Toyota Land Cruiser came rolling up from the interior of the compound. It stopped a short distance from where we were all sitting. The doors opened. From the passenger’s side, Colonel Hunter climbed out and strode toward us, flanked by yet another security guy. Most of us stood up as he approached.
“Gentlemen, welcome to the Zoob,” he said, raising his voice so all of us could hear. If you don’t know already, we’re currently at Fort Saradia, a few miles outside of the city. This will be our base of operations for the time being. Over there,” he said, pointing to our right, “is the dormitory. Each of you has been assigned a room there. Your name is on the door of your room. The doors aren’t locked. Grab your gear, find your room, and get some rack time. We’ll be getting you up for more briefings in a few hours. Any questions?”
One guy spoke up. “Sir, what—”
Hunter cut him off. “Tough, I’m not answering any now. Move out!” Without so much as another word, Colonel Hunter and his entourage of security men piled into Land Cruisers and drove off, leaving us to carry our bags all the way to the dormitory. Tailor and I looked at each other, shrugged, and picked up our bags.
The dormitory had three levels. The stairs were on the outside of the building, with a set on either end. They led to an enclosed walkway that was flanked by rooms on either side. Tailor and I made our way down the first level, checking the doors on each side for our names. Each person’s name was written on the door in magic marker.
I found my room eventually. It was on the north end of the third floor. “Valentine” had been written on the door. Someone had also drawn a rough picture of a heart with an arrow through it. Grumbling something unpleasant, I opened the door and stepped into the dark room.
A dusty smell filled my nose, and it took me a moment to find the light switch. As the old fluorescent light above my head flickered to life, it revealed a Spartan little room. It couldn’t have been more than twelve foot by twelve. It looked like a college dorm room that had been abandoned years before. The walls were bare white cinder block, with no decorations. A simple bed with a thin mattress was shoved into one corner. A military-surplus wool blanket and a small pillow had been tossed onto it. Against one wall was a set of metal shelving. A small closet was situated on the other wall.
I set my bag down and began to explore my new room. On the far wall was a window and a door. The window was darkly tinted, and didn’t open. The door opened outward to reveal a small balcony. From my balcony, in the cool, dry night air, I could see over the wall of the compound. The amber glow of Zubara City could be seen to the east. The wind was gusty and cold, so I went back into my room.
The other door in the room led to the bathroom. I crossed my room and pulled that door open. “Hey!” someone yelled, startling me enough that I stumbled back into my room. It had been a woman’s voice. A second later, Sarah McAllister appeared in the doorway.
“Hey!” I said as she stepped around me, walking into my room like she owned the place. “What the hell?”
“Are you stalking me or something?” she asked.
I felt my face flush. “You’re in my room!”
“I guess we share a bathroom,” she said.
“I guess,” I said. “Weird that they didn’t separate males and females.”
“This isn’t summer camp,” Sarah said, grinning.
“Do we have a shower, then?” I asked, poking my head back into the bathroom.
“Sort of,” Sarah replied. To my right, at the very end of the room, was a square section that looked like the base of a shower. At about knee high, there was a spigot and two knobs. The spigot led to a hose, which in turn led to a shower head, clipped to the wall just above the spigot.
“Huh? So . . . what are you supposed to do, sit down in this thing?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah said. “You could use the spray-hose to wash yourself, I guess. There’s nowhere on the wall above to clamp it, so we can’t use it like a regular shower. Also, there’s no curtain.”
“And what the hell is that?” I asked, indicating another spray-hose. This one came out of the wall next to the toilet.
“It’s for washing your feet,” Sarah explained. “Most toilets over here have them. Local custom is you wash your feet after using the bathroom.”
“What about your hands?” I asked.
“That’s optional,” she said, smiling.
“So this is it, huh? A shower, um, thing with no curtain, a toilet with a spray-hose on it, and a bare tile floor with a drain. Zubaran bathroom technology is a bit wanting.”
“I’m going to take a shower,” Sarah said. “Or I’m going to try. So get out of here. The door doesn’t lock, so don’t open it until I’m gone. Stalker.”
“I’m not stalking you!” I protested as Sarah shoved me out of the bathroom and slammed the door in my face. “Psycho,” I muttered to myself as she turned the water on.
Exhausted, I kicked my boots off and climbed into bed. Pulling the rough wool blanket over me, I rolled over and was asleep in minutes.
I was abruptly woken a short while later. I sat up in bed, startled, not entirely sure where I was at first. Sarah stood over me, wearing nothing but a short pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. Her hair was wet. She smelled nice; she looked good.
“Hey, Valentine,” she said. “Do you have any toilet paper?”
“Huh? What’re you doing in my room again?” I mumbled.
“Toilet paper. There isn’t any. Did you bring some?”
“Actually, I did.” I sat up. “I always bring toilet paper.” I reached over and dug into my duffel bag. I handed her a roll that was wrapped in a plastic bag. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s everything,” she said, stepping back into the bathroom. “Nice try, though.” She flashed me a smile before closing the door again.
“You’re welcome!” I yelled at the door before laying back down. I had a smile on my face as I rolled over to go back to sleep.
There was a lot of physical fitness training, too. It had been less than a year since I’d left Vanguard, but I’d gotten pretty out of shape. The first morning they had us running laps around the inside of the compound I thought my heart was going to explode. Tailor was even worse off than I was, since he was a smoker.
What we weren’t getting was any firearms training, which bothered me, but I understood why. Fort Saradia didn’t have a range of any kind, and was only a few miles outside of the city. There was no way to do a lot of shooting without drawing attention.
At least we did have weapons. I’d been inside the main building a few times and had caught a glimpse of the arms room. It was stocked with some of the most modern equipment I’d ever seen, and it was all brand new. Our armorer was a jovial guy named Frank Mann. He sported curly black hair and a bushy black mustache, and was eminently proud of his arms room. He’d been around the block a few times himself, so he, Tailor, and I became friends. In any case it’s always a good idea to make friends with the armorer.
Tailor and I didn’t tell him about the handguns we’d smuggled. Even though they’d prohibited cellular phones and some other items, they’d never bothered to search our belongings. I suspected Frank wouldn’t care. He was as big a gun nut as Tailor and I, and I’d seen him packing what I assumed was a personally owned Glock .45 several times.
Toward the end of the month, things began to pick up. Every day it seemed that there were fewer and fewer of us. The word was that we were being divided up into small groups and sent off to safe houses to begin conducting operations. Sarah hinted that they’d been watching us to see whom we got along with, and who we’d work well with. Frank told me that he’d been issuing weapons to the people that were leaving. It seemed like things were finally going to begin. I was excited; sitting around in the compound had grown tiresome.
On the very last day of the month, I was told to report to the small briefing room in the admin building. It was mid-afternoon as I made my way across Fort Saradia. The sun was high in the sky; it was warm but not hot. A strong wind blew from the north. Every time it would gust, it’d kick up another huge cloud of dust. Other than the howling wind, the compound was quiet.
I was apparently the last one to arrive in the small briefing room. Colonel Hunter and Sarah were standing at the front of the room, talking quietly. A laptop was set up on a table, hooked up to a projector. A portable screen stood at the head of the darkened room.
“About time,” Tailor said, sitting at one of the desks with a notebook.
“Are we taking a test or something?” I asked, sitting next to him. I briefly wondered if this was one of those crazy dreams where you’re back in school and have to take an exam you haven’t studied for.
“They’re shipping us off,” Hudson said from across the room. Sitting next to him was Wheeler, the guy who kept asking questions on the plane. He and Hudson had both been in the Rangers together. Wheeler was a slim, freckled red-head. Despite being from New York, he was a country boy. Wheeler had grown up hunting in the woods of upstate New York, or as he always pointed out, the “unpaved” part of the state.
“To where?” I asked.
“Downtown,” Colonel Hunter explained, facing us at last. “You boys are ready. I’m shipping the four of you off to one of our safe houses in the city.”
“Al Khor,” Sarah said. “It’s the upper class of the three peninsulas of Zubara City. It’s where most of the government ministries are and where most of the Westerners live. It’ll be easier for you to blend in there, but you will operate throughout the city.”
“So, we’re the last ones to leave, and we’re getting an easy assignment,” Tailor said. “Did we screw up somehow, sir?”
“You’re the last team to leave, Mr. Tailor, but you’ll probably get the first mission. I’ve actually been impressed with you boys, so I’m assigning you all to the same chalk.”
“Just the four of us, sir?” Wheeler asked.
“You’ll be fine,” Hunter replied. “Mr. Tailor, you’re in charge of this chalk.”
“Yes, sir!” Tailor answered crisply. I groaned. Tailor kicked me in the shin under the desk.
“From your records, I know that Mr. Tailor has the most combat experience of you four,” Hunter said. “Mr. Valentine, you’re second-in-command.”
“But, sir,” Wheeler protested, “I mean, no offense to Valentine, but Hudson and I have been through a lot. We did two tours in Afghanistan together.”
“I know that, Mr. Wheeler. However, Mr. Valentine has seen combat in Afghanistan, Africa, Bosnia, China, Central America, and Mexico. I didn’t make the chain-of-command decision lightly. Do not question me, ginger.”
Tailor snickered.
“Holy shit, Val,” Wheeler said, looking over at me. I just shrugged.
“Moving along,” Hunter said, “your first target is this man.” Sarah pressed a few keys on the laptop. An image of a young Gulf Arab man, probably no older than me, appeared on the screen. He was wearing the traditional thobe and headdress. He had a baby face, with a thin mustache and a neatly trimmed beard on his chin. “His name is Abdul bin Muhammad Al Falah. He’s a young up-and-comer in the Zubaran terrorist network. He’s used his family’s money and political connections to try to make a name for himself.”
“He looks like a kid, Colonel,” Tailor said.
“He’s twenty-six,” Hunter replied. “He’s also, by all accounts, just a spoiled rich man’s son. Our intelligence assets believe this is all a game for young Mr. Al Falah. And he’s not been directly involved in any terrorist operations so far.”
“So why is he important?” Hudson asked.
“He has connections. They’re grooming him to be a player when he gets older. Your first assignment, gentlemen, is to locate and capture Mr. Al Falah.”
“Capture, sir?” I asked.
“The junior Al Falah knows people,” Sarah said, still sitting in front of her computer. “He’ll be a very useful intelligence asset. He’s relatively young and inexperienced, too, so it should be easier to extract information from him.” Her voice was colder than usual as she spoke.
“Miss McAllister is right,” Hunter said. “We need him alive, for the time being. You will interrogate him.”
“Are we supposed to make him talk?” Wheeler sounded nervous with the idea. “Aren’t there, like, rules about that now?”
Hunter scowled. “Rules? Does extracting information from this young man make you uncomfortable, Mr. Wheeler?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You’re not in the army anymore. This young man has been helping recruit the assholes who’ve been blowing up your old compatriots. I don’t want rules, gentlemen, I want results.”
“So, how are we supposed to find him?” Tailor asked.
“Our intelligence assets are working on that, Mr. Tailor,” Hunter replied. “You’ll be assigned to observe him yourself, and you’ll be given a list of places he frequents. He’s not a difficult man to track, and he has no reason to suspect he’s in any danger here. Zubara has been a safe haven for terrorists for years. This should be an easy one.”
“I’ll be assisting during operations,” Sarah said, taking over from Hunter, “as a sort of dispatcher. I’ll be in radio contact with the other operational teams. I can update you on intelligence, give you instructions, and assist in translating if you need it. You’ve all been assigned radio call signs. Wheeler, yours is Ginger.”
“Hey!” Wheeler protested. Tailor broke out in a laugh.
Sarah ignored our adolescent humor. “Hudson, you’re Shafter.”
“So the black man gets to be Shafter, huh?” Hudson growled. “Hell, why not Dolemite? Or how ’bout Black Dynamite?” The room immediately fell silent. Sarah looked at Colonel Hunter, not knowing what to say. Hudson could only maintain his indignant expression for so long before he started laughing. “Lord, girl, where did you come up with these?”
“They’re randomly chosen by computer,” Sarah insisted.
“Bullshit!” Wheeler snorted. Hudson slapped the desk and let out a raucous laugh.
“Gentlemen,” Hunter warned, frowning. Kill joy.
Sarah continued. “Tailor, your call sign is Xbox.”
“Xbox?” Tailor asked, sounding laughably butt-hurt. “Seriously?” Wheeler folded his arms across his chest and gave Tailor a look of smug satisfaction. I chuckled.
“And Valentine, your call sign is Nightcrawler.”
“Nightcrawler?” I repeated. “How did you come up with that?”
Hunter finally cracked a smile. “You should’ve heard some of the ones she came up with for the other boys. Mr. Walker’s call sign is Lilac.”
“I thought you said they were randomly chosen by computer?”
Sarah tried as hard as she could to look innocent. “They are! Why would you think otherwise?” She flashed me a little smile and winked. Tailor, noticing, kicked me under the desk again.
“Roger that,” Tailor responded, his voice very hushed in my earpiece. “I see him, too. He just passed my position.”
“Ginger, Control,” Sarah said over the radio, her voice very professional. “Do you have a positive ID on the target?” It was very important that we had the right guy, after all.
“Uh . . . stand by.” Wheeler and Hudson were both in our van, which was parked farther down the darkened alley to the south. To the north was the target building. It was a small building, only one story, constructed out of stucco and brick like most of the older buildings in the city. It looked out of place, though, surrounded by several huge, new, corrugated-steel warehouses. On the south side of the target building was a bright amber light. The rest of the alley was dark. Previously, our intelligence assets had made sure the other nearby street lights were out of commission, vandalized with a pellet gun.
“Control, Shafter,” Hudson said. “I’ve got a positive ID on our target. He’s got three others with him.” The van had an impressive assortment of gadgets and equipment, including state-of-the-art night vision and thermal optics.
“Copy that, Shafter,” Sarah said, ice in her voice. “You are cleared to engage. Capture the target. Kill the others. Control out.”
It was on. Shrouded in darkness, I peeked around the corner, looking north, up the narrow alley. Abdul bin Muhammad Al Falah and three compatriots slowly made their way toward me, talking loudly in the darkness. Al Falah and one skinny man were dressed in traditional Arab thobes, dark ones because it was cool out, and checkered headdresses. They were flanked by two serious-looking men in brown suits, probably bodyguards. Our target had what appeared to be a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Good. It was likely we’d get at least some intelligence from his computer. Al Falah and his friend were having an animated conversation, their voices echoing loudly down the narrow alley. They acted like they didn’t have a care in the world as they approached me.
The building at the end of the alley was some kind of terrorist hangout, used mainly for recruiting and propaganda. Al Falah frequented the place. Almost every night he would take a walk down the alley with another potential recruit. He’d go on and on about the jihad and other bullshit, wowing the recruits with his family connections and promising their families large monetary rewards if they would sign up to kill Americans. At first, I couldn’t believe how brazen they were, walking down a public street discussing this stuff. After a few days, I realized that this was the reason we’d been sent to Zubara in the first place. They’d never see it coming.
“This is Xbox,” Tailor whispered, his voice hushed in my earpiece. “They just passed my position. Four of ’em. The target, another individual, and two big fuckers, probably guards.”
“Roger,” I said, still peeking around the corner. Tailor was hiding behind a wall that separated the target building from a warehouse to its south. In the darkness, Al Falah and his escorts had walked right past Tailor’s position without noticing him. His bodyguards were complacent, it seemed. Good. Complacency kills.
I looked down at my watch. The final call to prayer of the day would begin at any moment. There was a mosque only a block away. Once the call to prayer began, the traditional music would start blaring over a set of loudspeakers. This would last for a couple of minutes, and would give us a little cover if we had to make some noise.
I was wearing tan cargo pants, a black shirt, a black jacket, and a tan baseball cap. I looked unmistakably American, but I was dressed similarly to most of the Westerners running around Zubara, except for the holster on my left hip and the body-armor vest under my shirt. I reached under my jacket and drew the Sig 220 pistol I’d been issued. With my other hand, I reached into my jacket’s inside pocket and pulled out a suppressor. I quickly screwed the two together, while taking one last look around. The sky was glowing from the lights of the city, so much so that I couldn’t see any stars, even though it was clear out. All around us were typical city noises; we were only one block away from a busy main thoroughfare. The alley itself was peaceful, save for the prattling of Al Falah and his friend.
Suddenly, from the north, a recording of a man singing in Arabic began. It was 1907. The call to prayer had begun. I took a deep breath. “This is Nightcrawler,” I said, whispering into my radio. “I’m moving.” With that, I stepped around the corner, suppressed pistol held behind my back, and began walking purposefully toward my target. I kept my head down, so the brim of my ball cap hid my eyes. I hunched over, trying to hide how tall I was. My heart was pounding, but I wasn’t really scared. I doubted Al Falah’s half-assed bodyguards were much of a threat.
“Xbox moving,” Tailor whispered. To my north, past Al Falah and his compatriots, something moved in the shadows, another figure coming up behind them on the sidewalk. Tailor’s shape was silhouetted against the amber light of the building at the end of the alley. The bodyguards hadn’t once looked behind them yet.
I was getting close now. Looking up, I saw that the two bodyguards had noticed me. One stepped in front of the rest and began to approach. The other hung behind. Still, neither had looked behind them. Tailor continued his approach unnoticed.
The lead guard said something to me in Arabic, his voice raised to make himself heard over the blaring music. Al Falah and the other man stopped. I didn’t understand the language, but I definitely got the gist from the tone of his voice. The thug was a tall man, with a bushy mustache. His right hand was beneath his brown jacket, resting on the butt of a gun. I made eye contact with him for the first time. He held his left hand up, signaling me to stop, still talking. He grew angry when he realized that I was a foreigner and took another step closer. He was only a few feet in front of me now. Young Mr. Al Falah had an obnoxious grin on his face; his friend seemed nervous.
My eyes darted to the left. Tailor was right behind the other bodyguard. His hands came up, extending his own pistol. He fired a shot; the muffled pop of the suppressed .45 round discharging was barely audible over the singing that echoed through the alley. Tailor’s target dropped to the sidewalk.
The bodyguard in front of me turned around quickly, having heard the discharge. Before he knew what was happening, I had my own pistol up and put a .45 slug into his left ear. My gun was on Al Falah before the body hit the sidewalk. He and his friend both turned to face me, eyes wide, staring at my pistol. Tailor’s .45 popped twice more, and Al Falah’s friend fell to the ground, two gunshot wounds to his back.
Al Falah looked down at his companion, then turned around to see the muzzle of Tailor’s suppressed pistol. He turned back to me, skin pale, eyes fixed on my pistol, and raised his hands slowly. A puddle formed on the sidewalk beneath him as his bladder let go.
An instant later, Tailor snapped open a collapsible baton and struck Al Falah on the neck. He cried out in pain and dropped to the sidewalk, falling into his own piss. I watched the street while Tailor zip tied our prisoner’s hands. Al Falah looked up at me one last time before Tailor pulled a black bag over his head.
“Ginger, Nightcrawler,” I said over the radio, “We got him. Get up here.” I unscrewed the suppressor from my pistol and reholstered it. I then snapped open my automatic knife, cut the shoulder strap on Al Falah’s bag, and pulled it off of him.
Without turning on its headlights, the van sped up the alley, coming to a stop right next to us. The sliding side door opened. Hudson jumped out, grabbed Al Falah, and effortlessly threw him into the van. He climbed back in, and I followed, laptop bag in hand.
Just as the call to prayer died away, Tailor noticed Al Falah’s friend, lying facedown in his own blood with two bullets in his back. He was still alive. He groaned slightly and tried to move. Without blinking, Tailor stepped forward, shot him in the back of the head, then jumped into the van, pulling the door closed behind him.
We backed down the alley until we came to the cross street, turned on the headlights, and sped away into the night. Tailor called Control over the radio to inform them of our success. I slumped against the wall of the van and looked down at my watch again. 1909. Not bad. Hunter had been right. It’d been remarkably easy.
***
Stepping forward, Tailor roughly pulled the black bag from Al Falah’s head, knocking off his checkered headdress in the process. The young terrorist looked around, still groggy from the sedative and from being clocked by Tailor. His eyes grew wide as he became aware of the surroundings and his situation. He was handcuffed to a chair in the basement of our safe house. We had him shoved off into a corner. The only illumination was from a bright lamp we’d set up. I had to shake my head at the whole scene; it was like something from a bad spy movie.
Al Falah looked at Tailor, fear in his eyes. His mouth was slightly open, but he didn’t, or maybe couldn’t, speak. He then looked over to me; his eyes darted down to the pistol on my left hip. We’d removed our jackets in order to openly display our weapons.
To my left was Hudson. Al Falah seemed especially intimidated by him. Hudson, for his part, just folded his muscular arms across his chest and stared the skinny terrorist down, not saying a word.
“Do you speak English?” I asked. Our prisoner’s eyes darted back to me. He didn’t say anything.
“I know you can understand me,” Tailor said, leaning in a little closer. He was probably right; almost all educated Gulf Arabs spoke English. “So we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the pushing-your-shit-in way. What’s it gonna be, ace?”
Al Falah, for his part, seemed to have found a little bit of spine. He closed his mouth and sat up a little straighter in his chair, staring defiantly at the wall behind us. Tailor straightened up, then looked over at Hudson and me, grinning. It seemed that Al Falah didn’t want to do this the easy way.
“Wheeler, go get Sarah,” Tailor said then, talking over his shoulder. Wheeler, who was behind us, near the stairs, nodded and headed up to the main floor of the safe house. A few moments later, he clomped back down the stairs. Behind him, Sarah gracefully made her way down, clipboard in hand. She followed him across the darkened room.
The prisoner’s eyes grew wide again when Sarah stepped into the light. He stared up at her shapely figure, and his mouth fell open again. She was taller than he was. She looked back down at him, not saying anything. Wheeler pulled up a second chair, and slid it next to her. She sat in it, crossing her legs and laying the clipboard in her lap. She clicked open a pen, leaned forward, and spoke to Al Falah in Arabic.
He looked back at us, then back at her, then back at us again, seemingly confused. Sarah repeated whatever it was that she’d said, her voice a little bit harsher. Al Falah seemingly balked at this and said something back.
“What’d he say?” Hudson asked.
“He just called me a cunt,” Sarah said. “Said he doesn’t have to answer to a woman.”
“Really?” Tailor said. Without another word, he stepped forward and punched Al Falah across the face. The terrorist’s head snapped to the side, and he cried out in pain. “Ask him now.”
Sarah repeated whatever it is she said to Al Falah. His voice wavered, but the young terrorist apparently didn’t tell Sarah whatever it was she wanted to hear. She looked up at us and just shook her head.
Tailor shrugged. “Okay, asshole,” he said and punched Al Falah again. Hudson stepped around Sarah and violently struck our prisoner himself. Al Falah’s head snapped back, and the young Arab cried out. Tailor and Hudson took turns hitting him a few more times. Hudson was strong as an ox and had to take it easy. A real shot from that man would have cracked Al Falah’s skull.
“What are you asking him?” I said, looking down at Sarah.
“This kid is just a small fry. His uncle, Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah, is the real target. I’m asking about him.”
I looked back up at our prisoner. Tailor and Hudson had stopped pummeling him for a moment. One eye was puffy and swelling shut, and blood was running from both his nose and lip. It was unpleasant, but this was war. If any of us were captured, we could expect worse. Sarah remained cool but seemed uncomfortable with what was happening. Nonetheless, she repeated her question, her voice sounding cold and harsh.
The young Al Falah spent a few moments staring at his lap, breathing heavily, blood dripping onto his clothes. He lifted his head back, still panting, and looked over at Sarah. He took a deep breath. Sarah lifted her clipboard just in time to block a blob of spit and blood. I had to give the kid credit; he’d certainly found his backbone. Not that it was going to do him any good.
“Oh, that’s it,” I said, speaking to Al Falah for the first time. I lifted my right foot and booted our prisoner in the chest. He gasped in pain, rocked back on his chair, and fell over backward, smashing his hands between the chair and the concrete floor. I moved forward, planting my right foot into his chest again, and drew my pistol. Holding the Sig .45 in both hands, I looked down at Al Falah, the sights aligned with the bridge of his nose.
“Valentine, no!” Sarah exclaimed, coming up out of her chair and putting her hand on my shoulder. “We need information from him.”
“Tell him if he doesn’t start talking I’m going to blow his head off,” I said coldly. The Calm had overtaken me, as it often did right before I had to shoot someone. Sarah had sensed the change. She hesitated. “Tell him,” I repeated, more firmly. Sarah stepped around me. Al Falah’s eyes were focused on the muzzle of my pistol and nothing else. Sarah leaned down and spoke to him. Al Falah sputtered something back.
“What’d he say?” Hudson asked.
Sarah stood up and sighed. “He says he’s prepared to die. I think he wants to. He’s scared shitless. He thinks it’ll make him a martyr.”
“Fuck that,” Tailor said, squatting down next to our prisoner. He reached into his pocket and drew his knife. With the push of a button, the blade snapped forward out of the handle. Tailor reached down and grabbed Al Falah’s face with his left hand. “Tell him that if he doesn’t start talking, I’m going to start cutting parts off him. Tell him we’re not going to kill him. I’ll just cut off his ears, his nose, his tongue, and put out his eyes, and knock out his teeth, and dump him on the side of the road somewhere. He can live the rest of his shitty life as a beggar, or he can kill himself and not get his virgins. I’m not gonna do him no favors.”
“I . . .” Sarah said, hesitating.
“Tell him!” Tailor shouted, poking the very tip of his blade into Al Falah’s face. There was no doubt that Tailor would do it.
Sarah steeled herself, leaned back down to our prisoner, and spoke to him again for a few moments. His eyes grew wider as he processed her words. He looked over to me, with the muzzle of my pistol still pointed between his eyes, then over to Tailor and the knife poking into his face. Apparently the short, scary, Southerner with the disfiguring razor was the more frightening prospect of the two of us. Falah hesitated for what seemed like an eternity.
“I . . . I . . . okay,” Al Falah then sputtered, speaking English for the first time. “I will tell you. I will tell you! Please . . .”
“That’s more like it,” Tailor said. He pushed the switch on his knife, and the blade disappeared back into the handle. I took my foot off of Al Falah’s chest and holstered my pistol. Tailor and I then grabbed the back of his chair, hoisted him up, and set our prisoner upright again.
“Your uncle,” Sarah said, sitting back down in her chair. “Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah. Tell me everything you know about him.” The young Arab took one last look around the room, lowered his head slightly, and began to talk. He had a lot to say.
***
Stepping onto the roof, I saw Sarah silhouetted against the lights of the city. She was standing by the wall that ran around the roof of the house, smoking a cigarette. Hearing me open the door, she turned around briefly and nodded. I returned the nod, and stood beside her.
Below us was the small villa that we used for a safe house. The house itself was big, with no less than six bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, and a big common area downstairs. In addition to that, it had a huge basement. Basements were rare in homes in the Middle East. The safe house also had a tall wall around it. Next to the house was a large carport that held four vehicles. In front of the house was a sort of garden with a grove of tall palm trees and a mess of ferns at their bases.
“Are you okay?” I asked, looking out over the city. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t,” she said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “I mean, I quit years ago. I bummed one off Tailor. I just . . . sometimes when I get stressed I have one. That’s all.”
“Oh, I see. What’s wrong?”
“I thought you were going to kill that guy.”
“Sarah.” I paused for a moment while I struggled to find the right words. “I did kill a man tonight. One of Al Falah’s bodyguards.”
“I know! I ordered you to. It’s just . . . I don’t know. I’m being stupid. I’ve never been part of an interrogation like that before.”
“I was a little surprised to see you here,” I said.
“I was surprised when they called me out. I guess the other Arabic speakers were busy. Walker was probably busy pulling somebody’s fingernails out. I was told that normally I wouldn’t leave the compound much. I’m not even supposed to know where all of the safe houses are!”
“You’ve never done an interrogation like that before, have you?” I asked.
“No. I suppose you’ve done a lot of them, right?”
“Not really,” I said truthfully. “I was mostly a trigger-puller. We had intel specialists do that kind of thing.”
“Tailor seemed like he was enjoying himself,” she said hesitantly.
“Well . . . Tailor is crazy. He’s always been like that.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Years now. Since we were in Africa together.”
“Do you really trust him?” Sarah asked, putting out her cigarette on the top of the wall and looking over at me.
“With my life,” I replied. “I don’t know if I’d trust him with anybody else’s, though.”
Sarah looked at me sideways, eyebrows raised. She then let out a sardonic chuckle. “You’re funny, Mike,” she said, calling me by my given name for the first time. We stood together, looking out over the lights of the city, for what seemed like a long time. Neither one of us said anything.
“You did fine, by the way,” I said at last.
“What?”
“In the interrogation,” I continued. “You really kept your cool in there. You really seemed like you knew your stuff.”
“I’ve been trained,” Sarah said, “by, um, our employers for Project Heartbreaker. I just didn’t know how intense it was going to be.”
“It gets easier. I mean, it sounds horrible, but you get used to it.”
“I hope so,” Sarah said. “We’re just getting started.”
“You hear something?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah.” She looked back over at me. “We’ve got a list of targets a mile long. Terrorists, financiers, support people, recruiting people, you name it.”
“You know all of the targets?” I asked incredulously.
“What? Oh, no. I just got a peek at it. It’s not just names, either. It’s places. Gatherings. Events. This is going to get ugly, Mike.”
“That’s what I figured,” I said. “So, what happens to our boy downstairs?”
“Hunter’s sending someone to come get him. I don’t know what they’re going to do with him now.”
“They’ll either make a deal with him in exchange for being a continuing source of information, or they’ll put a bullet in his brainpan and dump him in the ocean. Either way, sucks to be him.”
Sarah nodded. “His computer wasn’t even password protected, either. There’s a lot of information on there. Hunter was happy.”
“Heh . . . I’m glad. So, do you know what’s next?”
“His uncle. He’s the next target for you guys.”
“I figured. When?”
“Soon. Hunter said your chalk did so well that he’s giving you that mission next. We’ve got some more intel to gather, but that’s your next job. They’ll be sending me information to brief you soon.”
“Good.”
“Mike . . . I saw something else. You know, when I was digging around. They’re expecting heavy casualties for Dead Six. The operations they’re planning are high risk and are planned with minimum possible manpower.”
I sighed aloud, looking back out over the city. “Great.”
“You just be careful out there, okay?” she said quietly. She was staring at me intently. We held eye contact for a long time.
“I will,” I managed.
“What’s up?” Tailor said, strolling through the door onto the roof, lighting a cigarette as he went. He was unusually upbeat and had a stupid grin on his face. He paused when he realized Sarah and I were alone together. “Am I, uh, interrupting something?” he asked, cigarette in mouth.
“No, no,” Sarah said, stepping away from me. “I was just giving Valentine some info on what’s happening next.”
“We’re going after his uncle, right?” Tailor asked, referring to the captive in our basement.
“Sure are,” I answered.
The expression on Tailor’s face changed almost imperceptibly. My friend might not have been certifiably nuts, but he sure did enjoy this kind of thing a little too much. “Good.” He grinned.