Chapter Twenty-two

 

 

Seven miles south of the Syria-Iraq border

 

Justin peered through the dusty, cracked windshield at the winding trail in front of the battered Nissan truck. They had been traveling for over an hour and thankfully had not come across any checkpoints. Isaac had given Justin a detailed road map, and the team had followed it without any detours. So far, it had not let them down. Still, Justin could not shrug off the feeling that soon they were going to run out of good luck.

He glanced at the rearview mirror, at the faces of the two handcuffed men whom Isaac had simply described as “foreigners,” without providing any details. They were both wearing grayish thobes—the local robe that came to men’s ankles—had long unkempt beards and hair, and remained silent most of the time. The older of the two—who was perhaps in his early forties—had exchanged a few words with Justin when they had first boarded the truck and shortly after they had left the village. Justin could not determine the man’s accent, but he could tell that his Arabic did not have the accent of the Iraqis. And it did not sound like the Arabic that Justin had heard in Syria, although he could not be sure.

Isaac had labelled the two men “foreigners,” but what exactly did that mean? Were they Jordanians? Saudis? Why were they being dispatched to Syria? Isaac had described that as a “tactical” decision. Tactical in what sense? And for the benefit of who? Mossad? Syria’s newly-formed “democratic” government? Or any of the dozen rebel groups still fighting against the new regime?

Justin shrugged. So many questions, but no answers. He moved the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of the white SUV following about thirty yards behind. Carrie was behind the steering wheel and another “foreigner” was in the backseat. In the absence of radios for their communication, Justin and Carrie had agreed to maintain the same distance, unless one of them noticed something unusual. So far, that had not happened. Still, Justin felt something was going to go wrong at any moment. It usually did when they traveled these treacherous, lawless lands.

He took another couple of sharp turns, and the truck came to a long stretch that curved around a small hill. Justin sat tall in his seat and looked ahead as far as he could. Because of the darkness, the dim headlights, and the terrain, he could not see anything around the bend. He peered hard, but still saw nothing. This is the perfect place for an ambush.

Justin slowed down, then glanced in the rearview mirror. The “foreigners” were calm, and their faces showed no sign of excitement. They may be unaware, or perhaps they’re very good at keeping their emotions in check. He wished he had a radio to communicate the potential danger to Carrie. She’ll clue in soon.

He pulled his pistol out of the holster and held it tight in his right hand. Then he continued to drive slowly, following the narrow road.

Justin was expecting the checkpoint that came into view. It was a large Iraqi Army truck, which looked like an old Soviet model. Two black-clad gunmen waving assault rifles were standing on each side, and two trucks were to the side, practically blocking the entire road. Machine guns were mounted on the backs of the trucks, but no gunners were sitting or standing behind them.

One of the gunmen waved for Justin to park to the left side.

Justin peered but could not make out the gunman’s facial features. He was a bearded man wearing a black-and-white headdress. When Justin’s eyes went to the rearview mirror, he noticed the younger of the “foreigners” was sitting upright in his seat. Justin asked, “Are they here for you?”

Before the young man could reply, the older man lurched toward Justin. The man went for Justin’s pistol, but he was able to move his hand out of the reach of the man, who tried again. Justin pushed the man’s cuffed hands away, then threw an elbow that caught him in the face.

Undeterred by the blow, he lunged for the pistol. Justin raised his left fist, but before he could punch the older man, the young one threw his body over Justin and tried to wrestle the pistol away.

Left with no other choice, he turned the pistol around and pulled the trigger.

The bullet found the young man’s side.

He groaned in pain as blood spurted out of the wound, but his body remained on top of Justin.

So he fired again.

The young man shouted, then his body went limp. Justin pushed him away, and the man fell in the front passenger seat.

The old man’s fists connected with Justin’s ear. He felt the pain shoot through his head and shoved the pistol under the old man’s body. He was faster, and his hand pushed the pistol away. It was just an inch, but enough for Justin’s bullet to miss.

He tried to turn his wrist, but the old man had clenched it with both his handcuffed hands. Justin shoved the old man back with his shoulder, then twisted his hand holding the pistol. He fired another time, and the bullet struck the old man’s arm.

He shouted in pain but dove again at Justin.

He pressed the pistol’s muzzle into the old man’s chest and pulled the trigger twice.

The old man’s body stopped moving.

Justin shoved the dead weight onto the backseat, then glanced through the windshield. The nearest gunman was about thirty yards away. He seemed to have noticed the fight inside the truck’s cab and had not yet fired a round, although his rifle was pointed at Justin. But now that the movements inside the cab had stopped, the gunman was probably wondering whether his friends had overpowered the driver.

The gunman took a few steps forward, closer to the truck. He cocked his head to the right, apparently uncertain of the fight’s aftermath. He took a couple more steps.

Justin could not let him get any closer. With a quick flick of his wrist, he aimed the pistol at the gunman and fired twice through the windshield. Both bullets struck the gunman in the chest, before he could fire his rifle.

Justin dropped his head and threw the truck into reverse.

Bullets began to hammer the front of the truck. The windshield was shattered, and glass fragments rained over his head. He kept his foot on the gas and turned the wheel.

More bullets pounded the truck, and Justin felt it drop as the tires blew up. The wheels dug into the dirt, and the truck slowed down.

The torrent of bullets did not.

Justin pulled his M4 rifle from underneath the young man’s dead body, then threw his shoulder against the door. He rolled to the ground and flattened his body against the truck. Round after round slammed the other side of the truck. Justin readied his weapon and made his way to the rear. He peered over the side. Muzzle flashes flickered next to the two white trucks. Justin fired quick two-round bursts at the left-side location, then moved his aim to the right-side shooter.

Both flickers died out.

Justin looked over his shoulder. Carrie’s SUV was parked about twenty yards behind him. It was within the direct line of sight of the shooters, but he could not be certain the SUV was under fire. The windshield seemed intact, and no one was outside the SUV.

As he turned his attention toward the checkpoint, a bright orange flare went up from it.

Justin knew what it was: a rocket-propelled grenade.

He dove to the ground.

A split second later, the grenade slammed into the truck.