“Yadahu! Yadahu!” (Hands!), Crocker shouted in Arabic. “Let me see your hands.”
The guy wasn’t moving. Still, Crocker remained cautious. “He reaches for anything, waste him.”
Both of the big man’s arms were trapped underneath him and he wasn’t moving. Suarez stepped over him to get a look at his face.
He leaned closer and exclaimed, “Boss! Boss, look. I think it’s Babas!”
“Babas? You mean Zeid’s friend?”
“I think so, yeah. Check it out.”
Crocker knelt down to get a good look and recognized the thick brow and long nose. Also saw that the man’s spine had snapped near his neck.
“Shit,” Crocker said with a groan. “He’s toast.”
They listened to him breathe his last. Watched his body tremble and relax.
Suarez: “What do you think he wanted?”
“Unclear, poor guy,” Crocker answered, shouldering the 416. “Let’s check the jeep.”
Nothing except a loaded AK on the floor, a Glock 9mm in the glove compartment, and an old copy of Penthouse stuffed under the seat, along with a half-eaten falafel. The vehicle itself was unsalvageable, with a broken rear axle.
Suarez: “I think he was trying to help us, boss.”
“Could be. Yeah. If he was…damn shame.”
The light Suarez was holding washed across Crocker’s head. “Hey, boss. What happened to your face?”
Crocker ran his hand along it, finding shallow slashes and coagulating blood. “Grass back there sliced me good. Let’s go.”
Davis, in the Sprinter, was on the phone. Seeing Crocker, he put his hand over the receiver and said, “Ankara’s sats picked up our GPS signal, and they’re mad as hell. Want to know why we’re moving and where.”
“Have they cleared air rescue?”
“Negative. But they informed me that they tried to put up a Predator but were overruled by HQ because of the heavy Syrian air force activity.”
“So nothing’s new.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Tell ’em they’re fucking useless, and we don’t need their help!”
Chapter Fourteen
If you come to a fork in the road, take it.
– Yogi Berra
There was no room in the trucks for Babas, so they buried him as well as they could, uttered a prayer, took his weapons, and proceeded. A Syrian helicopter passed low overhead. Nerves were fraying. Hassan and the women were almost delirious with fright. Crocker asked Suarez to sit with the latter and try to keep them calm, and instructed Hassan and Mancini to keep driving in the direction of the border. He kept an eye out for headlights, roadblocks, and anything in the air.
He used gauze and peroxide to wipe the blood off his face and arms. Stung like hell, especially along the side of his mouth. His watch showed that it was approaching midnight. The handheld Garmin GPS indicated that they were less than twenty miles from the border.
All they needed now was a little luck.
Just when it looked like the road ahead was clear, they heard the roar of jet afterburners as three MiG-21s tore past at low altitude. A panicked Hassan almost steered the F-250 off the road.
“What was that?”
“Ignore everything else and drive.”
A minute later the landscape ahead lit up with multiple large explosions. Then the road itself jumped as if it was trying to shake something off.
“You think they saw us?” asked Hassan.
“Likely,” replied Akil.
“Pull off,” ordered Crocker. “Hide the trucks.”
“Here? Again?” Akil said.
“Yeah, again.”
“Where?” Hassan asked. “I can’t see anything.”
“We’ll find a spot.”
“Deadwood, it’s Breaker,” heard Crocker through the earbuds. “Ankara reports that Assad’s jets are pounding an FSA convoy ahead.”
“Great.”
“What do we do now?” Hassan asked.
“Stop asking questions, and keep your eyes on the road.”
They watched the MiG-21s climb high into the clouds, then dive for another pass. The land ahead lit up again and shook.
Akil pointed to the Ford’s heat gauge and said, “We’ve got another problem, boss. This baby’s overheating.”
Crocker leaned forward and saw the thermostat had reached the danger zone.
“What should I do?” Hassan asked.
Crocker saw a dirt road ahead that snaked into some hills. He pointed to it. “Turn off there. Pull into that clump of trees and stop.”
“Then what?”
“Then we try to fix this shitbox.”
Mancini, who knew vehicles and engines, did a quick inspection under the hood and came back with bad news. It wasn’t a hose he could patch. Instead, a round had torn into the radiator and done extensive damage.
“Give me a solution.”
“All the fluid has leaked out,” Mancini replied. “I might be able to rig something around the radiator, don’t know what. But it’s gonna take time.”
Crocker didn’t like the idea of sitting there with the MiGs so close and Assad’s units maybe moving into the area for some kind of mop-up operation.
“Guys, we’re gonna have to pile everyone and everything into the Sprinter.”
“Don’t know if we’ll fit,” said Davis.
“Either that or we leave you here and come back for you tomorrow.”
“Very funny, boss.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Screw that.”
“Then let’s start unloading.”
The men were sweating hard, stripped to their waists, arranging and rearranging, taking special precautions with the sarin and the baby. It reminded Crocker of packing the family station wagon for a vacation when he was a kid.
Eight canisters, a baby, three women, Akil, and Davis all crammed in back. Jamila held little Tariq like he was the most precious thing in the world.
We’ll find a way, thought Crocker.
Suarez siphoned out the remaining diesel fuel. He even took the spare tire, just in case. Then squeezed himself into the cargo bay against the door.
Mancini, Hassan, and Crocker sat shoulder to shoulder in the cab, Mancini at the wheel. No room to scratch an itch.
“Hey, Akil, how are you doing?” Crocker asked into the head mic.
“Bleeding’s stopped. I might live.”
“Good. Keep drinking water.”
“Tell Manny he drives like shit.”
“Manny, Akil says you drive like shit.”
“Tell Akil to stop whining like a little girl.”
The badly potholed road they were on didn’t appear on any of the GPS or sat maps Ankara Station had provided.
“You want me to call Ankara and ask if they can pull up something better, or send us some better sat imaging?” Davis asked through the earbuds as they approached a moderately steep hill.
“First let’s see if this baby can handle the weight.”
The 161-horsepower engine whined and struggled. They chugged uphill at twenty-five miles an hour sounding like a tugboat. Passing over the crest and into a little valley Crocker spotted a farmhouse with a bombed-in roof to the right. A wooden shed with a faint yellow light in the window stood near a patch of willow trees.
More bombs exploded to the northwest. Crocker said, “Stop, Manny. Pull over.”
Then he grabbed Hassan’s wrist. “Let’s take a look.”
“Why me?”
“I need your language skills. Akil’s hurt.”
“But-”
“Davis, you come too. I’ll hold your hand.”
Crocker was already outside, weapon ready and in a crouch, holding Hassan by the arm with his free hand.
“What’re we looking for?” Davis asked.
“Help, a road map, directions, a fucking helicopter. You back us up.”
He and Hassan ran hunched over and came up under the window. Inside they saw a skinny old man with a dog, listening to an old cassette tape player and darning a pair of socks. Strains of “Hey Jude” by the Beatles passed through the weathered wooden slats. Crocker flashed back to his high school girlfriend Kelly, who learned the song on the guitar and sang in a whispery, sweet voice. She had the prettiest mouth he’d ever seen and green eyes.