Crocker looked back at al-Kazaz, who was grinning broadly, and said, “That’s it. I think I’m done. Intaha.” (Finished.)
“Sadiq” (friend), the burly al-Qaeda leader said, pulling Crocker into his arms and kissing him on both cheeks. This was the savage terrorist who had beheaded many of his enemies and spread fear throughout Syria and Iraq.
Crocker pointed to the box of penicillin and used his fingers and watch to explain the dosage. “Two, every four hours.”
Al-Kazaz nodded.
“As soon as you can, move him to a hospital.”
He looked confused.
“Mustasfa” (hospital), Crocker said.
“Mustasfa, na’am.” (Yes.) Al-Kazaz nodded, embraced him again, and escorted Crocker into the living room, where he wrote a note on a piece of paper that Crocker hoped would guarantee safe passage through any ISIS roadblock, then handed him something wrapped in a blue velvet cloth.
“What’s this?”
Inside was a brand-new five-inch wooden koppo martial stick-a pocket self-defense tool.
“Ihsan” (gift), al-Kazaz answered. “Shukran, shukran.”
Wait till I show this to my teammates, was the first thought that came to him. As exhausted as he was, the irony still pleased him immensely. A terrorist has gifted me with a koppo martial stick. Imagine that!
Back in the Ford F-250, Crocker dreamt it was a beautiful spring morning. He lay in his bed in Virginia Beach listening to the birds chirp outside. Golden puffs of pollen swirled through fresh new leaves. He saw the green flash of a hummingbird and lifted himself to get a better look.
The bird represented good luck, according to Holly. Beautiful, he thought. The creative magic of nature; amazing variety and wonder.
The Ford hit a pothole and jolted him awake.
“What the fuck!”
He looked sternly at Akil, behind the wheel.
“Sorry, boss, but you kept calling me sweetheart, and the road’s real torn up.”
Through the windshield he saw that they were winding down from the hills onto a flat dry plain. A few lights sparkled in the distance through the mist.
He didn’t remember the return ride on the motorcycle or any events since then. He flashed back to the kid and his swollen face in the candlelit room, al-Kazaz looking pleased, tears welling in his eyes. No threats, no Once we finish our work in Syria, we will attack the West. Just genuine gratitude.
“Boss, you with us?” Akil asked.
“Sort of. Yeah.”
Looking to his left, he saw his medical bag on the seat, which confirmed that the whole thing hadn’t been a dream.
“What happened to al-Kazaz?” he asked.
“We had to rip him off your back at the roadblock.”
“Get off.”
“Seriously. The guy was embracing you so much, we were afraid he’d never let go.”
“But he did.”
“Yeah, waved us through. Wished us good luck.”
Crocker remembered the koppo martial stick al-Kazaz had given him and found it stuffed inside the medical kit with the folded note.
Crazy surreal place, he thought.
Hassan was telling Akil how the Assad regime used malware to penetrate opposition websites. Syrian intelligence would distribute a link to a video of Assad soldiers beheading someone. When you clicked on it, it would prompt you to update your Adobe Flash software. Instead of Flash you’d be downloading malware, which would take control of your computer.
“Sophisticated mofos,” Akil said.
“That’s Idlib,” Hassan said, pointing toward the left to the lights ahead.
“Already?”
Crocker quickly checked his watch: 0148 hours.
“How much farther to the air base?” he asked.
“Another ten, fifteen minutes tops.”
If they could secure the sarin within an hour, or even two, it would give them ample time to return to Turkey before dawn. The problem was that they had no detailed map of the air base, which consisted largely of a runway and underground bunkers, and no definitive intel on the deployment, number, and disposition of Syrian Army troops and pro-Assad forces. Without the above, it was hard to even conceive of a plan until they got there.
“Breaker, Deadwood here,” he said into his head mike. “We’re approaching the road to the air base.”
“Copy.”
A huge explosion lit up the sky in front of them and shook the ground.
“What was that?” Hassan asked.
“A big bomb or rocket,” Crocker responded.
“Could be one of those Chinese FN-6s, right?” Akil asked.
“Maybe.”
The jeep in front of them pulled over to the shoulder and braked to a stop. Captain Zeid walked back and leaned in the driver’s-side window. As Crocker got out, he caught a whiff of rotting animal in the grass behind him.
“That’s no-man’s-land ahead,” Zeid said. “Dangerous territory. Assad and ISIS fight there. It’s as far as we go.”
Crocker wanted to grab him by the neck and call him a coward, but restrained himself. They might need his and Babas’s help getting back.
“Where’s the cutoff?” he asked, hearing something stir in the brush behind them.
“The cutoff for the road to Abu al-Duhur?” Zeid responded. “You will see it; maybe three hundred meters ahead.”
“What happens then?” Crocker asked, peering past Zeid to the high grass and brush behind him. Something was in there. He sensed it.
“We wait for you over there.” Zeid pointed to the burned-out remains of a petrol station fifty feet ahead and on the left.
Seeing something move in the grass, Crocker held a finger to his mouth, removed the SIG Sauer P226 stuffed in a back band of his pants, and flashed a series of hand signals to Akil. Moving simultaneously, the two men slid down a gravel embankment and circled through the low scrub brush and grass in a crouch, Crocker from the rear of the pickup, Akil from the front. The smell of putrefying animals was so thick it stuck in Crocker’s throat. On his right something moved, and he jumped and grabbed a kicking, struggling person. After pinning his ankles, he brought his right hand up to the boy’s throat. Caught him in half scream, yanked him up to his knees, and quickly swept him for explosives or weapons. The kid wasn’t armed, but he had a black stocking pulled over his face.
“What the fuck’s he doing?” Crocker asked.
The kid grunted something.
Akil held an older man, who wasn’t bothering to resist and wasn’t armed either.
The two of them wore filthy clothes and sneakers. The older man had a pair of surgeon’s shears and two different types of pliers hanging from a belt around his waist. Both carried black sacks that hung behind their backs.
Crocker and Akil dragged them over to the trucks, where Zeid leaned lighting a cigarette.
“Scavengers,” he said with disgust. “If ISIS finds them, they cut off their balls.”
Akil reached into the sack the trembling old man was carrying and retrieved a handful of teeth with gold fillings, earrings, pins, and rings.
Zeid booted the old man in the ass so he fell forward. Then he held a pistol to his head. The man whimpered as he pointed into the bushes and offered an explanation in Arabic.
Crocker pushed in front of Zeid and said, “Leave him alone. What did he say?”
“Assad’s troops stopped a truck of refugees,” Akil translated. “Raped the girls and women in front of the men, then shot them. Every last one.”
Zeid aimed a kick to the older man’s stomach, then said, “These pigs loot the bodies.”
Crocker shoved him back this time. “Leave him alone! How old’s the boy?”
“Sitta,” the boy grunted. He was only six years old.
“Claims he’s the old man’s grandson. They’re all that’s left of an extended family of twelve, originally from Aleppo. The men joined the resistance. When the pro-Assad gangs found out, they tortured and raped the women. Some of them drowned themselves in the river. Others were killed and beheaded. The boy had his eyes gouged out.”