Mediterranean Sea
October
GENERAL QUSIM YEDID’S FIRST indication that something was wrong was when the door to his stateroom flew open and smashed into the bulkhead. His second was when his security detail lead burst in waving his Makarov 9x18mm pistol, frantically yelling at him to get out of the bed he was occupying with a tall Ukrainian redhead who had a penchant for cocaine.
Yedid sat up just in time to watch his head of security cut down as he took a burst of bullets to his upper back, dropping to the floor just shy of the bed.
The general had the lights dimmed to enhance the mood but still illuminate the lithe body of the beautiful young Ukrainian who had her head between his legs until the first two apparitions from another world shattered the sanctity of his domain. He knew instantly they were Americans. The four-eyed night-vision devices attached to their helmets were a telltale sign that his life had just irrevocably changed. Popularized by the military-inspired television shows and movies in the wake of the Osama bin Laden raid that made them famous, these technological wonders were tilted slightly up so the predators could use the light of the room as they searched for more targets.
Yedid had never been on the receiving end of an assault. He’d ordered plenty but always left the deed to others. He was more of a planner. He felt a paralyzing fear unlike any he’d ever known. Even if he had a pistol nearby, he would not have reached for it.
He was unceremoniously thrown to the floor by the larger of the two intruders and flex-cuffed with an efficiency he had seen only from the Russian advisors to the Mukhabarat, the military intelligence unit controlled by Assad.
His female friend was cuffed as well but was given a bedsheet to preserve some of her dignity and was gently led from the room, her initial screams having subsided. Even though the patch was subdued gray and black on the shoulders of the invaders, she recognized the Stars and Stripes of the United States and knew her night was not going to end at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea. She wasn’t quite as certain about the general.
Still facedown on the deck, Yedid was roughly turned on his side as someone grabbed his chin, twisting it to get a better view of his face and comparing it to what Yedid correctly guessed was his most current photo. A flashlight blinded him as another commando approached, comparing it to another photo on his wrist coach. Nodding to his Teammate, he pressed a button on his chest and said a word that Yedid knew did not bode well for his future: “Jackpot.”