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The lead man smiles widely. His teeth are brown. In return he says, “Wa ‘alaykumu as-salam.”Then the strong voice switches to English.
“You are British, correct?”
Ollie keeps quiet, and Jeremy says, “Yes, we are British.”
He speaks quickly in Arabic—“Get them both up, now!”—and two of the men sling their AK-47s over their shoulders, come forward, and gently help Ollie and Jeremy to their feet.
Jeremy allows a moment of relaxation.
It seems to be going well.
The leader smiles again, as do the other men, and he too slings his rifle over his shoulder.
Now it seems to be going very well indeed.
The man taps his chest. “I am Farez.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Jeremy says, breathing easier. Ollie seems to sense his relaxation. Jeremy says, “Again, my apologies for trespassing. My uncle George promises he can sort it all out.”
“Ah,” Farez says, “your wealthy and influential uncle George.”
He laughs and the rest of the men—except for the old man sitting against the wall—laugh as well, then Farez comes forward and punches Jeremy squarely in the face. Jeremy gasps more in surprise than pain—the code word and acknowledgment had been used!—and staggers back as Farez quickly removes his AK-47 and drives it into Jeremy’s abdomen.
He lets out a cough and he’s on the ground, and so is Ollie, and the kicks and the blows from the automatic rifles rain down, and he squirms and tries to curl into a ball to protect himself as much as possible, but the handcuffs and ropes make that impossible, and he’s drifting into unconsciousness, knowing it’s all gone horribly wrong.
Chapter5
ONCE UPONa time I had been a captain in the U.S. Army, serving as an intelligence officer, but a series of unfortunate and bloody events had led me to the precipice of a dishonorable discharge and a life sentence to the Army prison in Leavenworth, until a heavily tanned man working for the Central Intelligence Agency had offered me a way out.
His exit path meant joining the CIA, undergoing their training sessions, then accepting overseas assignments at a moment’s notice—missing my husband, Tom, and daughter, Denise, terribly—to do serious work on behalf of an unknowing and mostly uncaring nation.
It was either that or go to prison.
Some days I almost think it was worth it.
But not today.
I’m with my two very skilled and angry killers, about to crawl up to the edge of a ridge, and it’s nearing noon on this warm day in the wild mountain areas between Syria and Lebanon. The night before in our little encampment, we and our British friends could see the glow of night raids going on in Syria, not sure if the Russians, Turks, or Americans were doing the bombing—but all of us agreeing it probably didn’t make much difference.
It was a damn lonely feeling, but now I feel even lonelier. Jordan and Santiago are professionals, good at following orders—even if it’s from someone who uses sanitary products once a month—but I can feel the smoldering anger coming off them after abandoning the exfiltration point back at that wadi.
Now, instead of showering and eating good ol’ greasy and fattening American food aboard theUSS Essexnear the Lebanese coastline, we’re deep in hostile territory, with few good options facing us.
But there’s a hard core of me that knows I’m right.
To hell with our orders.
Classified mission or not, I’m not leaving anyone behind.
We three are strung out in a line and now we’re peeking over the ridgetop, using the jagged rocks and boulders for cover. By now Jordan has reassembled his .308 Remington—putting a standard tactical scope on the frame instead of the spooky Star Wars aiming system—and Santiago is using standard binoculars as well.
I say, “There it is.”
Itbeing a sad-looking one-story farmhouse and attached small barn, both made of wood and stone, with an orchard of scraggly trees, a fenced-in area where goats are doing whatever goats do, and a small courtyard off to the left, surrounded by a knee-high stone wall.
Looking through his rifle’s scope, Jordan says, “Doesn’t look like much.”
“Langley told us this farmhouse is used as a transit point for smugglers and jihadists. It’s the closest building to our ambush site. If our Brits were taken someplace, this is it.”
