Just as the call to prayer died away, Tailor noticed Al Falah’s friend, lying facedown in his own blood with two bullets in his back. He was still alive. He groaned slightly and tried to move. Without blinking, Tailor stepped forward, shot him in the back of the head, then jumped into the van, pulling the door closed behind him.
We backed down the alley until we came to the cross street, turned on the headlights, and sped away into the night. Tailor called Control over the radio to inform them of our success. I slumped against the wall of the van and looked down at my watch again. 1909. Not bad. Hunter had been right. It’d been remarkably easy.
Stepping forward, Tailor roughly pulled the black bag from Al Falah’s head, knocking off his checkered headdress in the process. The young terrorist looked around, still groggy from the sedative and from being clocked by Tailor. His eyes grew wide as he became aware of the surroundings and his situation. He was handcuffed to a chair in the basement of our safe house. We had him shoved off into a corner. The only illumination was from a bright lamp we’d set up. I had to shake my head at the whole scene; it was like something from a bad spy movie.
Al Falah looked at Tailor, fear in his eyes. His mouth was slightly open, but he didn’t, or maybe couldn’t, speak. He then looked over to me; his eyes darted down to the pistol on my left hip. We’d removed our jackets in order to openly display our weapons.
To my left was Hudson. Al Falah seemed especially intimidated by him. Hudson, for his part, just folded his muscular arms across his chest and stared the skinny terrorist down, not saying a word.
“Do you speak English?” I asked. Our prisoner’s eyes darted back to me. He didn’t say anything.
“I know you can understand me,” Tailor said, leaning in a little closer. He was probably right; almost all educated Gulf Arabs spoke English. “So we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the pushing-your-shit-in way. What’s it gonna be, ace?”
Al Falah, for his part, seemed to have found a little bit of spine. He closed his mouth and sat up a little straighter in his chair, staring defiantly at the wall behind us. Tailor straightened up, then looked over at Hudson and me, grinning. It seemed that Al Falah didn’t want to do this the easy way.
“Wheeler, go get Sarah,” Tailor said then, talking over his shoulder. Wheeler, who was behind us, near the stairs, nodded and headed up to the main floor of the safe house. A few moments later, he clomped back down the stairs. Behind him, Sarah gracefully made her way down, clipboard in hand. She followed him across the darkened room.
The prisoner’s eyes grew wide again when Sarah stepped into the light. He stared up at her shapely figure, and his mouth fell open again. She was taller than he was. She looked back down at him, not saying anything. Wheeler pulled up a second chair, and slid it next to her. She sat in it, crossing her legs and laying the clipboard in her lap. She clicked open a pen, leaned forward, and spoke to Al Falah in Arabic.
He looked back at us, then back at her, then back at us again, seemingly confused. Sarah repeated whatever it was that she’d said, her voice a little bit harsher. Al Falah seemingly balked at this and said something back.
“What’d he say?” Hudson asked.
“He just called me a cunt,” Sarah said. “Said he doesn’t have to answer to a woman.”
“Really?” Tailor said. Without another word, he stepped forward and punched Al Falah across the face. The terrorist’s head snapped to the side, and he cried out in pain. “Ask him now.”
Sarah repeated whatever it is she said to Al Falah. His voice wavered, but the young terrorist apparently didn’t tell Sarah whatever it was she wanted to hear. She looked up at us and just shook her head.
Tailor shrugged. “Okay, asshole,” he said and punched Al Falah again. Hudson stepped around Sarah and violently struck our prisoner himself. Al Falah’s head snapped back, and the young Arab cried out. Tailor and Hudson took turns hitting him a few more times. Hudson was strong as an ox and had to take it easy. A real shot from that man would have cracked Al Falah’s skull.
“What are you asking him?” I said, looking down at Sarah.
“This kid is just a small fry. His uncle, Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah, is the real target. I’m asking about him.”
I looked back up at our prisoner. Tailor and Hudson had stopped pummeling him for a moment. One eye was puffy and swelling shut, and blood was running from both his nose and lip. It was unpleasant, but this was war. If any of us were captured, we could expect worse. Sarah remained cool but seemed uncomfortable with what was happening. Nonetheless, she repeated her question, her voice sounding cold and harsh.
The young Al Falah spent a few moments staring at his lap, breathing heavily, blood dripping onto his clothes. He lifted his head back, still panting, and looked over at Sarah. He took a deep breath. Sarah lifted her clipboard just in time to block a blob of spit and blood. I had to give the kid credit; he’d certainly found his backbone. Not that it was going to do him any good.
“Oh, that’s it,” I said, speaking to Al Falah for the first time. I lifted my right foot and booted our prisoner in the chest. He gasped in pain, rocked back on his chair, and fell over backward, smashing his hands between the chair and the concrete floor. I moved forward, planting my right foot into his chest again, and drew my pistol. Holding the Sig .45 in both hands, I looked down at Al Falah, the sights aligned with the bridge of his nose.
“Valentine, no!” Sarah exclaimed, coming up out of her chair and putting her hand on my shoulder. “We need information from him.”
“Tell him if he doesn’t start talking I’m going to blow his head off,” I said coldly. The Calm had overtaken me, as it often did right before I had to shoot someone. Sarah had sensed the change. She hesitated. “Tell him,” I repeated, more firmly. Sarah stepped around me. Al Falah’s eyes were focused on the muzzle of my pistol and nothing else. Sarah leaned down and spoke to him. Al Falah sputtered something back.
“What’d he say?” Hudson asked.
Sarah stood up and sighed. “He says he’s prepared to die. I think he wants to. He’s scared shitless. He thinks it’ll make him a martyr.”
“Fuck that,” Tailor said, squatting down next to our prisoner. He reached into his pocket and drew his knife. With the push of a button, the blade snapped forward out of the handle. Tailor reached down and grabbed Al Falah’s face with his left hand. “Tell him that if he doesn’t start talking, I’m going to start cutting parts off him. Tell him we’re not going to kill him. I’ll just cut off his ears, his nose, his tongue, and put out his eyes, and knock out his teeth, and dump him on the side of the road somewhere. He can live the rest of his shitty life as a beggar, or he can kill himself and not get his virgins. I’m not gonna do him no favors.”
“I . . .” Sarah said, hesitating.
“Tell him!” Tailor shouted, poking the very tip of his blade into Al Falah’s face. There was no doubt that Tailor would do it.
Sarah steeled herself, leaned back down to our prisoner, and spoke to him again for a few moments. His eyes grew wider as he processed her words. He looked over to me, with the muzzle of my pistol still pointed between his eyes, then over to Tailor and the knife poking into his face. Apparently the short, scary Southerner with the disfiguring razor was the more frightening prospect of the two of us. Falah hesitated for what seemed like an eternity.