A Cold Day In Mosul (15 page)

With his bound hands, he snatched the Makarov pistol from the holster of the man on top of him, and bent his elbows, bringing the muzzle to the stunned militant's chin. Ethan closed his eyes, hoping a round had been chambered, and squeezed the trigger. He felt hot liquid splatter his face. The Makarov's report was deafening.

He swung the pistol upward with both hands and immediately let off another shot, hitting the surprised sheik in the temple.

Strike one Shura councillor from the kill list.

He kept expecting the other fighters on the stage behind him to riddle his body with bullets, but they never did.

The adrenaline was flowing steadily through his veins by that point, overpowering the last of the drug in his system and providing his body with much needed vigor. Still lying down, he turned the Makarov toward the rear of the stage, seeking his next target.

And then he understood why no bullets had come: his fellow operatives had sprung into action, using the diversion he'd provided to overpower their own captors. William and Sam lay flat on the stage, choking the militants that lay on top of them with the ropes that bound their wrists. The trapped men kicked frantically, their beards crimped by the ropes, their faces purple.

Doug, meanwhile, was on his knees, struggling to pull an assault rifle away from the last militant, who was also on his knees.

Ethan adjusted his aim, shooting Doug's muj.

The operative dropped to the stage as the weapon came free. Good thing, because bullets grazed the air above Doug, sourced from the militants stationed behind and below the stage, beside the headless statue.

Frantic shouts marked the dispersal of the crowd. The throng knew very well what was coming next. And it wasn't going to be pretty.

Ethan turned toward the stairs that led to the stage. He shot the first three militants that appeared in turn.

The mujahadeen changed tactics then.

An RGD-5 grenade tumbled onto the platform.

Lying on his side, Ethan swiveled his body and kicked the grenade over the edge. Dangerous, but he had no choice.

A yell came from the bottom of the stairs; the fragmentation device detonated an instant later.

The stage shook as the one hundred and ten grams of TNT in the grenade detonated. Shrapnel shot upward beyond the edge of the platform and smoke billowed skyward. The liner could produce over three hundred fragments, lethally shredding anything within a radius of three meters, and injuring up to fifteen meters from the site of detonation. He felt a moment of pity for any civilians caught in the blast radius.

He heard gunfire erupt from the far end of the square, and at first he thought it was other mujahadeen, come to the aid of their fellow holy warriors. But then when he heard the return fire from in front of the stage, he realized the militants were themselves under attack. It could only be the resistance, coming to their aid.

Thank you, Abu Othunan.

Ethan raised his head to peer out across the square. A swath of fleeing civilians dropped as the mujahadeen inadvertently sprayed them with bursts of AK fire. The attack increased the crowd's agitation, and they dispersed in many directions, wildly trampling one another.

More gunfire came in from the resistance; Ethan spotted the muzzle flashes from adjacent rooftops.

The wooden planks suddenly splintered around Ethan; at first he thought the resistance fighters were firing at them, but then he realized the rapid bursts were coming from below—someone was shooting upwards from
underneath
the platform.

Sam rolled toward the back of the stage and, keeping her balance with one hand, she peered over the edge and fired the AK she had purloined. After two quick sprays from the rifle, she swiveled her body back up.

"Underside clear!" she shouted.

"Let's go!" Ethan hastily low-crawled toward the stairway that led off the stage. The others followed close behind.

He reached the area where the platform joined the stairs and looked over. Two mujahadeen hid behind the bottom portion of the grenade-blasted steps; they fired into the square, oblivious to Ethan's presence. He took them out.

The slide on the Makarov locked open—empty. He tossed the pistol, grabbing one of the AKs from a militant who had fallen near the top of the stairs.

Before proceeding, he scanned the nearby area, searching for militants. There were none left standing in front of the headless statue behind the stage. Nor any beside the pickups. No one had thought to use the vehicles as a shield, as far as he could tell. He peered under the stage. Three mujahadeen lay dead there, thanks to Sam.

Still prostrate, he pulled himself onto the stairs and let gravity drag him down. He shielded his chin with one hand, which bobbed up and down as it struck each step. The fragmentation grenade had created splinters in the wood; they jutted out at odd angles, ripping into his skin and clothes.

The bottom section was blown away entirely, and as he neared it the unsupported staircase bent, changing from a forty-five degree incline to a thirty-degree slope as the blasted end smashed into the ground.

When he reached the paving stones he immediately rolled to the right, taking cover behind the rear left leg of the platform.

He ignored the bodies Sam had shot and scanned the square beyond them with his AK. In front of the stage lay more fallen muj, courtesy of the resistance. As the other operatives took up positions around him, he spotted three militants lurking behind the decorative cement posts that dotted the square; they fired toward the resistance positions, leaving their backs exposed to him.

Ethan unleashed two separate bursts from his AK, removing two of the militants in turn, while William eliminated the third.

Ethan hauled himself to his feet.

"To the pickups!" he said, fighting through the sudden stars that obscured his vision.

He took a step but the vertigo overwhelmed him and he tripped.

Sam was at his side in an instant, helping him stand.

"I got you," Sam said. Her strength, after everything she had been through, was unexpected. She was like a solid beam at his side.

As they reached the closest pickup, assault rifle bursts came in from the square. The four operatives ducked behind the frame of the truck.

Sam peered into the driver's side. "No keys!"

Ethan had dropped to the cobblestone, and was scanning the square via the space between the undercarriage and the street. "Can you hot wire it?"

"Can't be done," Sam said, squatting down beside him.

"Let me," Doug approached the door.

Sam held out an arresting hand. "Trust me, I know how to hot wire. And it's impossible to jack this model without the proper tools. The immobilizer will shut it down unless I plug in a decoy unit, which I don't have."

Doug looked out at the fallen militants near the stage, and for a moment Ethan thought he was going to brave the line of fire to search the dead men for keys, but then he squatted down beside Sam.

"On foot, then," Ethan said, nodding toward a side street partially shielded by the truck.

"Go!" William had positioned himself at the rear of the pickup, and was strafing the square.

Ethan and the others crossed the gap from the pickup to the side street and took cover behind the buildings. Ethan paused at the edge and laid down suppressive fire as William dashed across.

When the operative reached them, Ethan turned around, ready to flee, only to discover Doug lying on the ground.

"What's going on, was he shot?" Ethan asked Sam, who was hovering protectively above him. She reminded Ethan of a mother bear who, though exhausted and weary, had reached down to the very depths of her being to find the strength to protect her cubs. A mother bear who would die before letting harm come to any one of them.

Sam shook her head, and helped him to his feet. "He just needs a moment."

William planted himself beneath Doug's other armpit. "Sam, I got him. Let's go!"

Ethan brought up the rear, while Sam led the way. The crowd had dispersed by then so that they were the only ones on the road. Easy targets. Ethan kept swiveling his torso to watch their six.

An unarmed Iraqi emerged from an alleyway up ahead. He was older, maybe in his sixties, with a grey mustache. He held his hands out in front of him and waved.

"This way." He said in heavily accented English. "Quickly!"

Sam hesitated only a moment, then herded the others toward the man and the alleyway.

"Are you a member of the resistance?" she asked him in Arabic when they had ducked into the alley.

The man laughed. "No. I will never touch a gun again, Allah willing."

"Then why do you help us?" Sam said. "If they catch you, they will kill you."

The man smiled grimly. "Let's just say I hold no love for the Islamic State."

"You are Shia," Sam said.

He looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. "Good guess."

The Good Samaritan led them through the twisting series of alleys between the closely spaced buildings. Ethan helped William with Doug, as the operative still couldn't stand on his own two feet, and was slowing them down. Wrinkling their noses, they leaped over a small, winding stream an open sewer formed in one alley.

"I used to work for the CIA," the Iraqi said. "During the war. I helped locate many insurgents. These alleyways proved quite useful when the soldiers needed to get to them without warning the entire neighborhood."

"Forget the CIA," Sam said. "I want you to work for me. Give me your number. "

The man shook his head. "I am through with those days. I am sorry."

"I can pay you well," Sam insisted.

"Some things are worth more than money. Peace of mind, for example. Knowing that no one will try to kill me today when I wake up in the morning."

"But you're a Shia," Sam said. "Living under a brutal Sunni regime. How does that give you peace of mind?"

"Good point," the Iraqi said.

The latest alley doubled back toward the street at one point, and Ethan watched black SUVs and pickups speed toward the square. The truck beds overflowed with eager mujahadeen armed with rocket launchers and assault rifles.

The route turned inwards once more, and a few moments later the group emerged on the banks of the Tigris. The muddy shoreline was littered with debris—tires, buckets, plastic bottles.

The old man pointed at the river. "Your salvation."

Ethan and the others exchanged hesitant looks. Because of the sectarian bloodletting, villages upriver routinely dumped sewage and dead bodies into the water. Who could say what parasites contaminated the Tigris? Schistosomes. Fecal coliforms. Pathogenic viruses.

"Go," Sam said.

Without a word of complaint, the operatives started running down the bank. Islamic State brigades were probably fanning out in the alleyways behind them at that very moment. The river, even if contaminated, was their best hope.

Ethan paused when he realized Sam lingered with the old man.

She clasped his hands and spoke quietly, probably giving the man some number to call if he changed his mind about working for her.

Then Sam joined them and the operatives dove into the fast moving river.

The water was cold. Maybe fifteen degrees Celsius. Ethan's breath came in abrupt, jolting gasps. He began to tread-water with the current simply to keep warm.

William remained with Doug, helping him stay afloat.

"You sure you haven't been shot, bro?" William asked him.

"Positive," Doug answered.

The water stung the thumb and forefinger of Ethan's right hand. He examined the digits: fresh globs of yellowish-red fluid discharged from the fingernail areas. At some point he must have scraped the tender nail beds, probably on the trigger guards of the Makarov or AK. He hadn't noticed at the time because of the adrenaline, but the two fingers certainly hurt at the moment. Thankfully the cold water quickly numbed his extremities. 

He did feel other symptoms of adrenaline hangover, however—specifically lightheadedness and an upset stomach. He also had a terrible headache, though that was likely brought on from lack of food.

But for all that pain, he was alive.

As Ethan bobbed up and down in the current, he watched the low-slung buildings slide past. He reflected on the last several minutes, and on how close to death he had come.

He had escaped execution at the hands of the Islamic State.

Barely.

Probably time I started looking for a new line of work
, he thought.

Unexpectedly, he began to laugh. A loud, boisterous guffaw.

The other operatives exchanged looks and then they too erupted in wild, unrestrained laughter.

New line of work? You live for this, bro.

sixteen

E
than and the others broke into a shuttered clothing store near the river and replaced their orange jumpsuits with the typical Mosul winter wear of slacks, sweaters, jackets, and winter caps. They wore gloves to hide their raw fingernails. Ethan also changed his shoes, as the used runners the Islamic State had given him were a bit tight. Donning the new gloves, socks and boots brought brief stabs of pain to his exposed nail beds.

Sam took an abaya and full veil for herself.

"You should play a man," Doug said. He was feeling a little better by then, and was able to stand on his own at least. "None of us have any IDs. If you go as a woman, we can't prove you're related to us."

"It doesn't matter," Sam said. "If they haven't already, the Islamic State will be distributing our photos to the smartphones of militants throughout the city, via Bluetooth and Airdrop. We can't allow ourselves to be stopped. Checkpoints are off limits. We have to avoid any and all fighters."

Sam strapped the rifles and magazines underneath her abaya via a jury-rigged harness she constructed out of three belts, positioning the weapons vertically so that her body shape hid them. She then had the other operatives pick out abayas and full veils for later use themselves; they stuffed the extra clothing into shopping bags and vacated the store.