“Let’s waste ’em,” Akil responded.
“Stay calm,” warned Crocker.
“I am calm. But I can feel their hatred from here.”
Through the open window Crocker tried to see what was going on ahead. Three men with black beards and black headscarves approached, carrying automatic weapons. He lowered the 416 below the seat but kept one hand on the stock.
As the jihadists spoke to Hassan, Crocker wondered what they wanted. He had $500 in cash concealed in the soles of his Merrell boots and flash grenades hidden under the seat.
“Deadwood, this is Breaker.”
“Hold on, Breaker. We’ve hit an Islamist roadblock this time. Should be moving soon. Over.”
“Here’s hoping you’re right.”
Most people in his situation would have freaked out, but Crocker and his men remained calm, their heartbeats steady. The men of Black Cell had been selected, in part, because their bodies produced an abnormal amount of an amino acid known as neuropeptide Y (NPY), which regulates blood pressure and also works as a natural tranquilizer, controlling anxiety and buffering the effects of stress hormones like norepinephrine, also known as adrenaline. It gave them a major physical advantage in pressure situations.
One of the bearded men leaned in the open passenger window and asked in Arabic, “Journalists?”
“Humanitarian workers,” Akil answered.
“British?”
“No, Canadian.”
“Jewish?”
“No.”
“Christian?”
“I’m Muslim,” Akil said.
The bearded man bowed. “Thanks be to Allah. Allah is great.”
“Yes,” Akil repeated, “Allah is great.”
“How do you pray?” the man asked. “You show me.”
“I’m not going to show you,” Akil answered. “But if you want to know if I’m Shiite or Sunni, I’m Sunni, born in Egypt.”
“Go with God, my brother. Allah is great.”
As the three men shuffled away, Hassan said under his breath, “They’re foreigners. Probably from Iraq.”
“Is that a problem?” Akil asked.
“I hope not,” Hassan responded. “We’re all supposed to be fighting for the same cause.”
Crocker remembered that Fatima had told him that her half brother was naive about politics. How could foreign jihadists not be a potential problem, given the nature of their mission?
Recorded Arabic chanting drifted back from where the bearded soldiers were gathered.
“That’s Anasheed,” Hassan explained.
“What’s that?”
“It’s kind of like jihadist rap. Words with percussion. The lyrics have to do with Islamic beliefs and some current events. There’s no musical accompaniment, which they believe gets around the prohibition in the Ahadith that says music is sinful.”
“What’s the Ahadith?” asked Crocker.
“The sayings of Mohammad.”
“Translate the lyrics.”
“Oh, sons of Zionists, the wrath of God awaits like a powerful lion. Let them shed our blood and it will run over the soil, but they will never settle in the land of pilgrimage-”
Davis, through the earbuds, cut in. “Deadwood, this is Breaker. Nevada recommends that we abort.”
“Abort?”
“Yes, that’s what they said. Abort. Over.”
“Who’s they?”
“Grissom and Anders.”
“Did they say why?”
“Because we haven’t reached the target, and we’re already meeting ISIS resistance.”
“Tell Nevada that this isn’t ISIS resistance. Not yet. Tell him that we came expecting resistance, and we’ll probably meet it. But we’re not going to let that stop us.”
“Roger.”
“Call them back and tell them. And ask them to stop calling us with bullshit.”
“You sure you want me to convey the last part?”
“No. Erase that.”
“Good call, boss. Roger and out.”
Captain Zeid started toward them, paused to light a cigarette, and stopped. He grinned and shook his head as though he was starring in his own movie.
“Extremists…don’t smoke,” he said, slipping the Marlboro back into the pack.
“What’s the holdup?” Akil asked.
“We might have some problem,” Zeid said casually.
“We kind of deduced that, Sherlock.”
“What’s the problem?” asked Crocker.
“ISIS is about to launch an operation, so they won‘t let anyone through. They think we could get in the way. End up what you call collateral damage.”
“Nice of them to be concerned,” said Crocker. “Did you explain that we’re delivering medical supplies to some clinics in Idlib?”
“I told them this, yeah.”
“What did they say?”
“They have orders from their leader not to let anyone pass.”
“Tell ’em we’ll take full responsibility if anything happens.”
“I did.”
“Then tell them I want to talk to their leader.”
Zeid nodded. “That’s not a problem; he’s on his way.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Who?”
“Not sure. But they are part of a group…loyal to Mohammad al-Kazaz. Maybe one of his lieutenants.”
Crocker’s attention perked up. Al-Kazaz was a feared leader of ISIS and a member of al-Qaeda with close ties to Ayman al-Zawahiri, the Egyptian cleric who had cofounded the movement with Bin Laden back in 1989. He was born and raised in the nearby city of Aleppo, jailed by Assad for ten years, and was rumored to have fought alongside Bin Laden in Afghanistan. He had recently brokered a peace between al-Nusra militia groups and those allied with ISIS. In the jihadist world a major player, and according to Ankara Station the guy who had been posting plans to attack the West on jihadist websites that called him the Fox.
“Al-Kazaz?” asked Hassan. “Oh, no.”
“Okay if their leader wants to inspect the trucks?” Zeid asked.
“As long as he doesn’t mess with us and is only interested in looking at the cargo in back,” Crocker responded.
Zeid explained that militia commanders sometimes traded men, weapons, pieces of land, even hostages and captured boys like pieces of candy.
“So he might want a portion of the medical supplies?” asked Crocker.
“Either that or he will want to take one of you for his harem.”
“That’s not happening,” Akil remarked.
“Don’t worry. You’re too ugly anyway.”
Ten minutes later Akil and Mancini were leaning back on the hood of the Sprinter, talking about the new Israeli Tavor TAR S21 assault rifle, equipped with a MARS integrated laser pointer and 4X sight for precision firing, that they had all test-fired recently. It was as if they were back at the firing range at the ST-6 base in Dam Creek.
“I prefer the ergonomics of the Galil ACE,” Mancini said, referring to another advanced Israeli-made assault weapon. “And it can fire seven hundred rounds a minute, so it packs a nice punch. Yo, boss. You ever see a Soviet Korobov TKB-022?”
“You mean that short gas-operated automatic with the reddish-brown plastic housing developed in the sixties?”
“That weird-looking gizmo, right.”
“Got a chance to fire one once at Fort Bragg. Had this messed-up ejection chute that pushed out spent cartridges above the barrel.”
“Awkward.”
“Looked cool, but never went into production, as far as I know.”
“Nah. Never did,” Mancini said, shaking his head. “The Soviets had some real talented weapons designers. Korobov was one of them.”
Hearing the growl of approaching motorcycles, they grew quiet. A current of excitement passed through the air and hit Crocker in the stomach. He quickly measured the distance between where he stood and the SIG 226 in the truck’s backseat.
These guys were ISIS and AQ-in other words, Islamic terrorists. Part of him wanted to waste them right there.
The motorcycle engines stopped and were followed by shouts of Allahu akbar that sent shivers up Crocker’s spine. Boots squished the fresh mud as four jihadists hurried toward them with Zeid leading the way.