Chapter Twenty-seven

 

 

Rutbah, Iraq

 

Justin leaned against the wall. He turned his rifle toward the direction of the gunfire, although he could not see anyone. That could change any second.

It did.

The silhouettes of two gunmen appeared through the dimly lit alley. Then the front of a white sedan came into view through the open gate. The headlights fell on the gunmen for a brief moment. They were dressed in brown thobes, bolting toward the sedan, about fifty yards away from Justin.

He pointed his rifle at the closest gunman but did not open fire. He hoped they would climb into the car and drive in the other direction. They were not a threat, and they were not Justin’s objective. The house where Lim was hiding was still four blocks away.

One of the gunmen looked at Justin, then brought up his rifle.

Justin fired first.

A single, well-placed round struck the gunman in the thigh. He fell against the hood of the car, then disappeared behind it.

“Engaging the enemy,” Justin said into his mike.

Across the alley, Carrie fired a quick burst. Her bullets hit the second gunman in the chest. He toppled to the ground and did not move.

The driver turned the wheel and steered away from Justin’s position.

He kept his rifle aimed at the car but fired no shots.

The driver’s maneuver exposed the wounded gunman lying on the ground. He turned his rifle toward Justin, who squeezed off a couple of rounds. They punched holes in the gunman’s chest, and he did not move.

Justin turned his head to the rest of his team. One of the fighters zipped through the alley swinging a rocket-propelled grenade launcher and ran behind the car. He bolted ahead of Justin, who shouted at him, “No, no, wait, wait.”

The fighter shouldered the launcher and pulled the trigger. The grenade screamed through the alley, leaving behind a thin trail of smoke. It slammed into the back of the sedan, lighting it up and turning it into a large orange fireball.

Justin cursed under his breath. The explosion had woken up the whole village, had given away their position, and was going to turn everyone into an enemy combatant. Whatever advantage of surprise the team might have had was now gone.

The fighter waved at Justin through the thinning dust veil left from the weapon’s breech. Before Justin could say or do anything, the fighter dashed around the corner, going in the opposite direction of the car. “Let’s go, go, go, run,” Justin said into his mike and broke into a sprint.

Loud machine gun fire erupted from at least two locations.

Justin hoped one of the outbursts, if not both, were from Isaac’s team. Stephan had a Russian-made PKM 7.62mm, the standard general-purpose machine gun, one of the most common weapons in Iraq. Justin had seen another PKM stashed in the SUV’s trunk but could not remember if Hadi had taken it with him.

Carrie raced behind Justin.

He slowed down when he reached the corner, uncertain of what lay beyond. He took a few steps and then peered around the wall. The fighter—or perhaps it was one of the village militiamen—was lying on the ground, about twenty yards away. He was not moving, but the alley was dark, and Justin could not be certain the man was dead.

Carrie knelt next to him. “Clear?”

“Negative. Man on the ground. Not sure if he’s dead.”

Justin glanced around the corner again. A couple of muzzle flashes flickered in the distance, about fifty yards away, on a rooftop. No bullets thumped around him, but Justin was not going to wait. Anyone firing toward him was considered a justifiable target.

He squeezed the trigger, sending a few bullets at the flickering fireflies, which went dark. “Isaac, where are you?”

Static, then Isaac said, “...house ... second house from ... target.”

“Isaac, I can’t hear you.”

Static again, then the line went dead.

Justin glanced at Carrie. “Isaac’s team seems to be close to Lim’s house.”

“Does he have anyone on rooftops or inside the houses?”

“No—well, I don’t know. He shouldn’t.”

The plan was clear that no one from the teams was to take up position inside the houses. The operatives were to stay in the alley, or seek cover just inside the yards, but only if it became a necessity. One of the greatest dangers of urban combat was being mistaken for the enemy and wounded or killed by friendly fire.

“Let’s go then.”

“Wait, I hear something.”

He aimed his rifle, then looked around the corner. In the middle of the alley, a small silhouette was leaning over the wounded or dead man. It had to be a child or a small adult. Justin heard crying, but then an explosion came from somewhere behind them.

Someone with a flashlight stepped out from one of the houses and dimly lit the alley.

The explosion interrupted the sobbing. The silhouette stood up. It was a small boy about seven, eight years old. He looked in the direction of the flashlight and in a wavering voice said something inaudible. The person holding the flashlight turned it in Justin’s direction and shouted at the boy in a loud voice full of terror, “Come back home, my son.”

Justin turned his rifle toward the mother. She presented no immediate threat, but only the hand holding the flashlight was visible. The other one was to her side. What if she has a pistol or a grenade?

He stood up, keeping the rifle pointed at the mother. “Cover me,” he whispered at Carrie, then shouted at the boy in Arabic, “Listen to your mother. Go home.”

The boy cocked his head, then turned his body toward Justin. “You ... you killed my dad,” he screamed.

Justin shook his head and took a couple of steps forward. “No, I did not. I’m sorry it happened.”

The boy shook his head, then crouched near his father’s body and picked up a rifle. It was heavy and unwieldy, and the boy struggled under the rifle’s weight as he tried to turn it toward Justin.

His mother hollered, “No, no, leave it. No!”

“Don’t do it,” Justin said.

He had aligned his rifle’s sight with the boy’s head. If the boy fired the rifle, especially in the automatic fire mode, it was very likely the bullets would strike Justin. The distance was twenty yards, at the most. He would hate to kill a boy, but Justin would pull the trigger if he had to.

“Put down the rifle,” he shouted at the boy.

“No, no, don’t shoot,” the mother screamed.

The boy had almost turned the rifle completely at Justin.

He lowered the sight a hair and aimed at the boy’s left leg. He hoped the bullet would cause very little, only temporary damage. He began to pull the rifle’s trigger...

Then a bullet struck Justin in the chest.