Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup Page 17

  "Let me know if anyone comes at us from behind," Ethan said, referring to the southernmost roadblock, which was still obscured by fleeing civilians.

  He swung the Dragunov down from his shoulder and aimed past the subcompact's rear bumper, toward the line of trucks that blockaded the northwest section of the square. He aligned the metal sights over the head of a militant who peered past the truck bed of one of the Hilux Vigos. The range was about thirty meters.

  Ethan fired, ducking behind the Rio immediately afterward. Bullets ricocheted from the car's frame beside him in answer.

  Don't hit the tires. Don't hit the tires.

  "Is it really you?" Alzena said from beside him.

  Ethan refused to look at her. "Couldn't let you die because of me."

  "Oh Alrajil, what have you done?"

  "Ethan," he said.

  "What?"

  "Ethan." He finally glanced at her. "My real name." It was important to him that she knew in that moment. He opened the passenger door. "Get in. Stay low."

  Staying crouched, he maneuvered to the front of the Rio and aimed over the hood. He picked out the head and shoulders of another militant and let off a shot, then ducked. Behind him, the crowd on the southside of the square was thinning. The militants there would be able to join the fray shortly. Time to go.

  He returned to the passenger door. Alzena had obeyed him, and sat hunched in the seat.

  Ethan slung the Dragunov over his shoulder and snatched the Makarov from her. He hauled himself over her huddled form, firing through the open driver side window with the pistol as he did so. He aimed in the general direction of the northwest roadblock. It was a spray and pray tactic, with the emphasis on pray.

  He slid over the center console with its stick shift, cup holder and parking brake. When he reached the driver seat he immediately ducked beneath the window. Bullets zinged past.

  He put the vehicle in gear and peered over the dash to drive toward the northwest roadblock. He could've attempted one of the other barricades that sealed off the square instead, but decided it was better to deal with the devil he knew.

  As the Rio neared the roadblock, he leaned out the window and aimed at the tires of the nearest pickup. He fired a couple of shots, but missed. Shooting from a moving vehicle was never his forte. The slide on the Makarov abruptly locked open. Empty magazine.

  Return fire came, and Ethan ducked inside.

  He steered the Rio toward the gap between the rightmost pickup and the adjacent building, the same path he'd taken on the way in. Both sides of the vehicle received fire as the militants manning the other roadblocks engaged.

  "Stay down!" Ethan told Alzena, hoping the Rio would hold up to the battering.

  The windshield abruptly shattered in several places, leaving big, crater-like holes. A rocket-propelled-grenade exploded near the rear bumper and the blast momentarily tilted the subcompact.

  When all four wheels were on the ground again Ethan ripped past the rightmost Toyota Hilux, scraping his car against it. Bullets momentarily riddled the Rio's driver side as the militants crouching behind the Toyotas continued to fire; the shots cut out as he drove onward and the gridlocked traffic on the road obscured the subcompact.

  The sidewalk swarmed with pedestrians fleeing the square, and Ethan honked constantly, alternately braking and accelerating as the foot traffic dodged out of the way. It was difficult to see through the cratered windshield, but he planned on abandoning the subcompact shortly.

  In the rearview mirror he spotted a black Hilux Vigo racing down the sidewalk in pursuit. Following in the Rio's wake, the Toyota would soon overtake them since less pedestrian traffic hindered its advance.

  Still honking, Ethan scanned the avenue, trying to spot an exfil route. There, an alleyway across the street, about half a block distant.

  He slammed on the brakes. "Out!"

  He exited the subcompact and led Alzena by the hand, weaving between the densely packed vehicles.

  Gunfire erupted behind them. Ethan pulled Alzena low and continued toward the alleyway. He heard the characteristic screech of rapid braking; glancing over the hood of a nearby car, he saw that the pursuing Hilux had stopped behind the Rio.

  Eight militants leaped out of the truck bed and headed after them.

  twenty-four

  Ethan led Alzena forward, keeping low. Bullets occasionally ricocheted from the gridlocked vehicles around them.

  He reached the sidewalk and pulled her into the tight confines of the alley he'd spotted earlier. They raced beneath crowded clotheslines and over trash piles. The stench of cat urine was strong. Ahead, two street urchins were eating some bread, probably stolen; the pair scattered at Ethan's approach.

  As he and Alzena exited the far end, he grabbed the last RGD-5 fragmentation grenade from his harness. He squeezed the lever, pulled the pin, and waited beside the opening.

  He peered into the alleyway. The militants had only just entered.

  Ethan didn't throw the grenade immediately. When the group was about five meters into the alley, he tossed the bomb and ran.

  He heard the explosion and didn't look back.

  He led Alzena down a side street where the traffic was far less dense and he flagged down a passing Hyundai Elantra. He commandeered the white compact at gunpoint, forcing out a man in a business suit.

  Once Alzena was inside, Ethan performed a mid-street U-turn and accelerated north toward the Raqqa city limits. He set the Dragunov down on the dashboard and tore off his balaclava.

  Several Hilux pickups roared past on the left side of the road, packed with militants headed for Clock Tower Square.

  Ethan apprehensively watched the pickups in his rearview mirror. He saw the businessman trying to flag them down but the vehicles ignored him and sped away.

  Ethan exhaled in relief. He felt a little lightheaded, which he attributed to adrenaline hangover. Of course it didn't help that he'd skipped breakfast.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  His passenger grunted some quiet reply.

  "Alzena?"

  "I'm fine," she said, though she sounded far from it. "Where are we going? Where?"

  "Calm down. I don't know. Out of the city, maybe."

  "What about the checkpoints?" she said, a little hysterically. "They'll ask for our IDs. I don't have mine anymore. We'll be detained."

  "They'll let us pass." His eyes darted toward the Dragunov on the dashboard. "One way or another."

  "They're going to kill us," Alzena said. "We're going to die."

  "We're not going to die. Relax, Alzena."

  Ethan spotted a checkpoint up ahead and purposely detoured to another street. He wasn't ready to deal with the Islamic State and their ilk, not yet. And Alzena certainly wasn't.

  "How did you get arrested?" Ethan said, wanting to distract her. But the moment he asked the question he regretted it. He was certain the answer involved him, and he already blamed himself enough as it was.

  Alzena took a moment to respond. He could hear her taking deep breaths, a relaxation technique. "Sorry, I just—" Wait, those weren't breaths: she was sobbing.

  "Take your time," Ethan said.

  In about a minute she had recovered enough to talk. "I... I didn't realize it at the time, but when you came to my apartment that night, the neighbor's son observed everything."

  "The neighbor's son," Ethan said flatly.

  "Yes. Just a boy of eleven years. His door is across from mine. There is a spyhole."

  "Great."

  "When my brother visited on Wednesday, the son intercepted him and told him he had seen a strange man entering my apartment. My brother thanked him profusely and paid the child ten thousand pounds. I watched the entire transaction unfold from behind my door." She paused. "Is that how much my life is worth? Ten thousand pounds?" That was the equivalent of fifty bucks.

  Ethan tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Definitely his fault. Worse, if the child had told Raafe about Ethan, then his cover had ind
eed been blown the moment he woke up that morning. If he had remained on duty at the checkpoint, likely he would have been arrested at some point during the day. It was a good thing he had gone ahead with the rescue attempt—if he had held back under the pretense of preserving his cover, he would have never forgiven himself.

  "You don't have to come with me," Alzena said suddenly. The sorrow had left her voice, replaced by steel. A strong woman.

  "I'm a wanted man now," Ethan said.

  "But you wore your balaclava back there," Alzena countered.

  "It doesn't matter. Your brother knows what I look like."

  "Yes, but he thinks you're a different suitor," Alzena said.

  Ethan felt his brows draw together. "What do you mean?"

  "He doesn't know it was you who met me that night. In fact, he believes it was another man."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The child didn't see your face," Alzena said. "So I told my brother a different mujahid had come that night."

  "But Raafe left a message in the draft folder of the email account we shared."

  "He did. I told him that was how I communicated with the man."

  "So who does he think he was contacting?"

  "Samuel Al Jordani, the fitness professional who knew my dearly departed husband. Not you, Alrajil... Ethan."

  "You told him it was Samuel?" Ethan said in disbelief. "The alias I used to meet the scientist?"

  "Yes."

  "And you're certain he believed you?" Ethan pressed.

  "I swore on the Quran."

  "Ah." Muslim's didn't take that oath lightly. "So there's still a chance for me, then."

  "But not me," Alzena added.

  "You're wrong." Ethan spun the wheel and did a U-turn, heading back toward the city center.

  "Where are we going?"

  "You'll see," Ethan said. "By the way, if I ever bump into that treacherous brother of yours again, I'm going to—"

  "You'll never meet him again," Alzena interrupted. "He volunteered for a martyrdom operation in Damascus against the Assad regime. He's already left the city. He'll be dead by the end of the week."

  Good riddance.

  Still, by sending that email to Ethan, maybe a small part of her brother, the part that loved his sister, hoped "Samuel" would somehow save her. That was the only explanation Ethan had for the message, since the trap theory had been disproved. Unless the email had been Raafe's twisted way of gloating.

  Ethan reached the neighborhood he was looking for and parked the stolen Hyundai against the curb. He opened the door. "This way!"

  Two blocks later Ethan arrived at Mufid's lingerie shop. When Ethan burst inside, the fifteen-year-old son of the owner started to duck behind the counter, but stopped himself when he realized who it was.

  Mufid was conversing with a local near the entrance; when he saw Ethan, the shopkeeper promptly escorted out the other Syrian and locked the door.

  "What do you want?" Mufid said curtly.

  "I need you to smuggle this woman out of the city."

  Mufid stared at him in disbelief, then laughed uproariously. "Incredible! Always you come here and make insane demands, expecting me to obey without question. But now you've really done it. This time, this demand..." He threw up his hands. "The camel's back is broken. I cannot do this. Taking pictures of buildings and buying bread is one thing, but smuggling people is an entirely different matter. It is too dangerous. And you know, to be honest I am tired—to the core—of being your dog." Mufid went to the counter and stood by his son. He placed a hand around the teenager's shoulder. "You would use my son against me? Threaten to turn him in if I disobey you? Well go ahead, I say. I won't stand for your threats anymore. In fact, I would rather turn him in myself and allow the executioner to take both our heads than continue being your lowly servant."

  "I never threatened to turn him in," Ethan said in exasperation. "Look, I don't have time for this. I know you want money." He approached the counter and threw down several thousand pounds. "This is all I have. Now can we do this?"

  Mufid's eyes lit up and he quickly collected the banknotes. After he pocketed the money he said, "It is not enough."

  "I''ll bring more," Ethan said. "And write more IOUs, too, if that's what you want."

  Mufid shook his head. "As I said, you can offer all the money in the world, but what you ask is too risky. I—"

  His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted over Ethan's shoulder. Beside him, his son stared at something behind Ethan with wide, mesmerized eyes.

  Ethan turned around.

  Alzena had lifted her niqab.

  "I know someone who can do it," the son said suddenly.

  "Abdo!" Mufid said.

  "My friend has done it before," Abdo said quickly, not taking his eyes from Alzena. "Trust me, he can get her out safely."

  "How?" Ethan said, forestalling any response from Mufid.

  "My friend has a truck," Abdo said.

  "A truck," Ethan deadpanned.

  "Yes. With a custom undercarriage. My friend uses it to smuggle oil into Turkey. The undercarriage can also hide a person, instead. My friend will need money to make the journey worthwhile, of course. And to pay the proper bribes."

  Ethan glanced at the shopkeeper. "Mufid..."

  The older Syrian shifted his gaze between Alzena and Abdo, obviously torn. Though whether it was the money he was concerned about or his son, Ethan didn't know.

  "Mufid," Ethan said more firmly.

  "He is my son," the shopkeeper said finally.

  "Yes, but he is not the one doing the smuggling."

  "But if his friend is caught, he will implicate my son," Mufid insisted.

  "He won't get caught," Abdo said.

  Ethan made his tone as intimidating as he could manage. "Give him the money. Or I'll take it from you."

  Reluctantly, Mufid retrieved several bills from his pocket and handed them to his son.

  Abdo frowned. "It's not enough, father."

  Mufid glowered at Abdo, then placed several more bills into his son's open palms.

  Ethan wrote IOUs for Mufid and Alzena, to be cashed in at some future date at the nearest American embassy. He folded up each note so that only the intended recipient could see the amount; for Mufid he allotted fifty thousand US dollars. For Alzena, two hundred thousand.

  "Pieces of paper," Mufid grumbled as he pocketed his note. "Probably worth nothing."

  Ethan ignored him and turned to Abdo. "I suggest your smuggler friend wait a few days before leaving the city. Undercarriage or no, the mujahadeen are going to be on high alert over the next little while, and they'll probably search everything that comes through their checkpoints. Even if you have bribes."

  "Why, what has happened?" Abdo said.

  "I'm sure you'll be hearing about it soon enough. In the meantime, is there a place you can take her?"

  "She can't stay with us," Mufid said adamantly.

  Abdo rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner. "My cousin lives nearby. He is a rebel, too, and will harbor her if I ask."

  "All right, good." Ethan checked the time on his cellphone. It had been almost forty minutes since he'd abandoned Suleman. Did he dare risk returning to his unit? He had made it this far, and decided he might as well go through with the rest of his seat-of-the-pants plan. First, the alibi...

  He turned toward Mufid. "Do you have a car?"

  The man nodded warily. "Out back."

  "Show me."

  Mufid unlocked the front door and went out.

  Ethan glanced at Abdo. "Move her to your cousin's residence as soon as you can."

  Abdo nodded. "When father returns."

  Ethan was about to follow Mufid when Alzena spoke.

  "Alrajil." The urgency was obvious in her voice.

  Ethan glanced at her, glad that she had used his alias instead of his real name in front of the others.

  "Thank you." Her sapphire eyes shone with unshed tears.

  Ethan nodded slow
ly. He didn't trust himself to say anything, or to even embrace her. He hated goodbyes.

  Instead he turned to Abdo and said: "Take care of her." He hadn't meant his voice to catch with emotion, but it did. He felt his chin quiver.

  The youth nodded. "I will."

  Ethan quickly turned away, embarrassed by the display of emotion, and joined Mufid. He heard Abdo lock the door behind them.

  The shopkeeper led Ethan around the block to the back of the building, where a red Toyota Yaris was parked in a stall.

  "Yours?" Ethan said.

  Mufid nodded.

  Ethan went to the rear of the Yaris. "Show me the spare."

  Mufid opened the hatchback, moved a portable inflator and gym bag, lifted the rear deck board, and pointed out the extra tire.

  Ethan grabbed the tool bag and dropped his body to the pavement. With the flat edge of the wheel nut wrench, he removed the hubcap on the left rear tire, then took off two of the lug nuts and set them on the ground.

  He unlocked his smartphone and handed it to Mufid. "Record a video when I say."

  Ethan reattached the PSO-1 scope to his Dragunov and slung the sniper rifle over his shoulder.

  "Zoom in so you can't see where the car is," Ethan said. "And can't tell there's no jack. Then start the video."

  Ethan began putting on the lug nuts again. He heard the characteristic beep from the cellphone that indicated a video recording was in progress.

  Wearing a big grin, Ethan glanced over his shoulder toward the camera. "This is what we do in Dawlah. We help people in need. A man's car broke down. I saw him struggling to change the tire on his own and I stopped to offer assistance." Ethan finished re-tightening the two lug nuts, then turned to fully face the cellphone. "Come to the Caliphate. Help your brother Muslims in need. It is your duty to wage jihad. Life is jihad." Aware of how ridiculous he sounded, Ethan glanced at Mufid and made a "cut it" gesture.

  Ethan checked the recording after the shopkeeper returned the phone. It was impossible to tell where the Yaris was located.

  "When the mujahadeen come to you and ask where this footage was taken," he told Mufid. "You will tell them Shbat street. Understood?"

  "Again you put me in danger," Mufid said.

  Ethan stepped forward menacingly. "What street will you tell them?"