“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.