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This was actually even better than a reception by the local baking club—a straight-up protection racket. If they could provide him with some local knowledge and keep the other hyenas at bay, they’d be well worth the twenty dollars they were asking.
“I’d be grateful.”
“We’ll take the first payment up front.”
“I don’t have it,” Rapp said honestly.
If Kennedy had done her job—and she always did—his money and gear were upstairs in a steel locker. Not something he wanted to open in front of them.
“Liar!” the young man behind him screamed and then slammed the rifle into his back again. Rapp didn’t bother making a show of stumbling this time, starting to feel his anger grow. If these two pricks could just exercise a little impulse control, everything had a chance of working out.
“I swear I can have your first payment by tomorrow,” Rapp pleaded. “My belongings haven’t arrived yet. All I have is the clothes on my back. If you want, take some tools as collateral. They’re worth something. Bring them back tomorrow and I’ll give you your money.”
The one in charge looked around, but from what Rapp could see of his expression, he wasn’t impressed. Finally, his gaze fell on the rickety steps to the east.
“What’s up there?”
“Nothing much more than a mattress.”
“Really?” he responded. “Then you won’t mind us having a look.”
“Of course not,” Rapp said, making sure his voice didn’t betray the fact that everyone’s luck had just run out.
The staircase was bolted to the wall with rusty hardware and missing its guardrail. The structure flexed dangerously as they rose, suggesting that one full-grown man at a time would have been wiser. Having said that,safety firstwasn’t exactly Syria’s national motto.
Rapp followed the older man, avoiding a broken tread and looking over at the steel, stone, and concrete debris on the ground below. Just the right combination of gravity and jagged castoffs existed two steps from the landing—a selection of rebar and angle iron that was stored vertically in a series of racks. Climbing higher would give a falling object more momentum, but also create the potential for a more comfortable landing on a large, horizontal compressor tank.
Rapp slowed when he heard the kid behind him clear the broken step. A moment later he felt another blow to his back, giving him a solid idea of his opponent’s position. Instead of tripping forward as was undoubtedly expected, he spun, sweeping an arm into the young man’s shoulder. The impact caused him to stagger left, putting a foot to the side to regain his balance, but finding nothing but air. He released the AK and windmilled his arms in a way that recalled the cartoons Rapp had watched as a child, searching for something to grab but finding nothing.
When the fall was inevitable, Rapp faced forward again, grabbing the weapon slung on the other man’s back. It was even easier to send him plummeting to the floor, but with a somewhat less catastrophic result. He bounced off the compressor before landing on his back on the concrete floor. Rapp ran down the stairs, noting that the older man was still conscious, but unable to get up or free the weapon pinned behind him.
The younger man had suffered a significantly worse fate. As planned, he remained where he landed—impaled on a piece of angle iron that had penetrated his hip and exited mid-stomach. His lower body was deathly still, while his hands pawed uselessly at the steel bar, suggesting damage to his spine. Blood poured from his mouth as his head turned toward Rapp, but the fury was undiminished in his eyes. At his age, and in the same position, Rapp imagined his own expression wouldn’t have been much different.
“Naahil!”
The voice behind Rapp was desperate, but didn’t manage much in the way of volume.
The man on the floor had managed to roll on his side, but seemed to have forgotten the rifle on his back. Instead, his eyes locked on his dying companion for a moment before moving to Rapp.
“Please! My son…”
“I’m going to take care of it,” Rapp replied calmly. “But you needto answer some questions first. Is there anyone else with you? Anyone outside?”
“No,” he said, struggling to breathe. It was almost certain that he’d broken a few ribs and maybe even collapsed a lung.
“What about your organization? How many are there?”
He shook his head. “No organization. This neighborhood is dead. Just… Just us.”
Rapp saw agony in the man’s eyes, but no deceit.
“Please… Help him. Please.”
What he was asking was clear. Idlib wasn’t a town of ambulances, emergency surgeries, and wheelchair ramps. The strong survived and everyone else died.
Rapp picked up a length of pipe, swinging it full force into the boy’s forehead and then dropping it to the ground. “You see? It’s okay. He’s with God now.”
Rapp finished the weld and then lifted his helmet to examine his handiwork. It looked like the work of an eighth grader flunking shop class, but it would do the job. With a healthy amount of grinding and a can of Syria’s answer to Rust-Oleum, no one would ever look at it twice.
