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When they went over, Rapp caught a brief glimpse behind him, noting that both the SUV and the sedan were stopped, with the latter’s door already thrown open. The remaining man in the SUV was abit slower to react, having collided with the back of the passenger seat when the emergency brake engaged.
Rapp stayed locked to the Russian as they picked up speed, rolling and skidding down the steep gradient. His opponent threw punches to the degree he could, but the unexpected turn of events was disorienting him. Rapp, on the other hand, had spent hours mentally rehearsing this phase of his escape.
He knew that the men above would be hesitant to shoot, not only because of the danger to their comrade, but also to their prisoner. They’d been ordered to transport Rapp, not kill him. Instead, they’d chase, but at a somewhat more cautious pace.
Rapp ignored them and the body blows he was taking, instead focusing on the rocks they were careening through. Most weren’t much more than glorified gravel, but occasionally something the size of a softball would appear. He tried to snatch one up as he rolled on top of the man, but missed and went under again. Two more revolutions took him to another, this one satisfyingly jagged. He got hold of it and swung, managing to open a large gash above the Russian’s right eye, but nothing more. The man missed a desperate grab for Rapp’s arm and paid the price when he absorbed a more solid blow to the top of his skull. Not enough to render him unconscious, but sufficient to set up a cleaner shot that landed in the center of his forehead.
His strength evaporated and Rapp released him to rag-doll down the slope, while he concentrated on arresting his momentum.
Detached from his opponent, it took only a few seconds to get his feet under him and continue his journey in a gravity-assisted sprint. About twenty yards ahead, the Russian had come to an abrupt stop at the tree line. Despite his injuries, he was already on his knees and groping for the pistol on his hip.
He’d almost closed his fingers around the butt when Rapp came alongside and brought the rock down one last time. The mancollapsed onto his face and Rapp retrieved the GSh-18, glancing upslope to check the progress of his pursuers. There were only two, still fifty yards away and neither holding a weapon. More concerning was that one of the bikers had managed to stand and was staggering toward the edge of the road with gun in hand. His injuries and the fact that he was still wearing his helmet caused him to pull his first shot left. The whip of it penetrating the trees sounded like it was at least thirty feet away.
“Nyet!” one of the men picking his way down the mountainside shouted, stopping and turning toward his comrade.
Rapp took the opportunity to drop to the ground and steady the weapon he’d taken. The less-than-graceful trip down and the blows he’d absorbed had made him a little unsteady, but with the added support he managed to get off a credible shot.
The man on the left jerked and fell, managing to get a hand out to break his fall despite the impact of the bullet. It was impossible to know how badly he was hit, but it was certainly enough to neutralize the threat he posed. As an ancillary benefit, Rapp’s aim had been impressive enough to cause his other pursuer to dive awkwardly to the ground.
Rapp briefly considered trying to fight his way back to the vehicles, but it was a long way and there was at least one man up there capable of firing a gun. Further, the car and SUV could be easily tracked, while the bikes were likely too damaged to be of much use. Better to take advantage of his speed and retreat.
To that end, he bolted for the woods, dodging nimbly through them like he did at least three times per week in the mountains surrounding his home in Virginia. The lack of a trail was a drawback, but the trees were less dense than he was used to, allowing him to maintain a respectable pace.
The distance between him and the Russians opened quickly, but that minor victory didn’t outweigh the fact that he had no money, no water, and no identification. With that reality in mind, when hehappened upon a defined trail, he turned onto it. The Russians were despised in this part of Syria and the fact that they were chasing him would provide a little credibility. Maybe enough to convince someone to help him.
Fifteen minutes of consistent effort put him at the edge of a small village. The little flat terrain that existed had been planted, while simple stone houses clung to a south-facing mountainside. Tucked in among truck-sized boulders, the homes looked abandoned, but almost certainly weren’t. Hastily discarded farm implements were strewn across the fields along with the footprints of fleeing women.
Rapp took a path straight past the houses, unsure if he was going to make friends or take fire. In the end, he made it through without accomplishing either. Corralled livestock confirmed his suspicion that the village was a going concern, but apparently one that wanted nothing to do with him.
Understandable.
The trail led back into the forest and continued west. The coast couldn’t be too far away, and it would have towns where he could get lost and steal a few necessities—most urgently a phone to contact Irene Kennedy.
Occasional movement in the trees suggested he was being watched, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. Getting captured was probably his best-case scenario at this point. While his dress shoes were still surprisingly comfortable, he wasn’t anxious to try to run to the Mediterranean in them.
The ambush happened in a clearing about two miles past the village. Armed men appeared on his left and right, while a few more held back, barely visible through the foliage. Ahead, a man with an AK-47 stepped into view. Rapp slowed and finally stopped, hands raised. These men looked like just the kind of friends he needed.
Night had fallen and Rapp was still walking through the forest with five armed men behind him and four in front. At this point, it was clearthat they were just going in circles, trying to disorient him. The effort was a waste of time due to the stars visible through the canopy and the fact that the terrain was rugged enough to provide unmistakable landmarks. On the other hand, their wandering might be a good sign. No point in hiding things from someone you planned to summarily execute.
The settlement they finally came to was less a village than an encampment. Small stone huts ran along the base of a heavily forested ridge that would make them invisible from the air. Though it was a cool night, no fires had been built and no electric light was evident despite various solar panels and old car batteries stacked beneath tarps. A few women and children were scattered about, but most of the inhabitants were men in their prime fighting years. Undoubtedly outlaws of some kind—political, criminal, terrorist. Maybe all of the above. It didn’t really matter. He wasn’t in a position to be picky.
Rapp was taken to one of the more primitive dwellings and presented to the old man sitting in front of it. Or at least he appeared to be old. The beard, much longer than customary in Syria, was gray and he wore traditional Arab garb. The darkness was deep, but when he looked up, the starlight made his eyes seem a bit glassy.
“My men said you killed Russians and then escaped,” he said in Arabic. “They say they’ve never seen anyone who could move so fast through the forest.”
“Being chased by Spetsnaz is very motivating.”
The old man’s head cocked slightly, undoubtedly noting Rapp’s Iraqi accent.
“Who are you? What is the Russians’ business with you?”
Those were dangerous questions to answer. There were too many factions in Syria to count and most of them hated each other. This man could be ISIS, Hamas, al-Qaeda, or a hundred other organizations no one outside of Syria had ever heard of. An Iraqi might have raped thisman’s daughter at some point during the war or, just as likely, fought alongside him.
“My name is Mohammed Hassan,” Rapp said, picking a name that was the Iraqi equivalent of John Smith. “I only arrived in Syria a few weeks ago, but not to fight. I work for a European narcotics cartel, and we believed the Syrian government was trying to move in on our business. I was sent here to gather information.”
“And were you successful?”
“Yes. I discovered it isn’t the Syrians at all. It’s the Russians. They’re trafficking a new kind of captagon.”
