T
he car turned out to be a dust covered bucket of rust that had been a Mercedes in a previous life.
Where the paint still showed through it was the color of sand and the Nazi swastika on the steering wheel emblem told Brill it was a relic from a war gone by.
He pressed the ignition button and the diesel engine roared to life with a throaty reliable rumble.
He was pleasantly surprised by how well it handled as the car made the return trip to Idlib with zero problems.
He pressed the accelerator deeper than he would have normally liked in such an antique but the time was far shorter than it took for him to reach the compound just a few hours before.
Brill located the green door and parked the car on the street in front of it.
He stood to one side as he knocked.
The screaming started again before the third rap fell.
The same dark eyed girl opened the door.
She had just a moment for her eyes to pop wide when a hand slapped on top of her head and jerked her back out of sight.
Ali leaned around the edge still yelling at her.
"Hello Ali."
The man's eyes doubled in size and he had just enough time to sputter a yelp before Brill reached in and yanked him out into the street.
A single shoe spun off of his foot and skittered across the rough stone pavement.
Brill shoved his head against the rear passenger panel.
It crumpled with a resounding crunch.
Ali wailed.
The hitman double checked the street and door to make sure no one was sneaking up on them.
He pulled his pistol and stuck it in Ali's nose.
The man's wail trailed off to a whimper.
"You set me up."
"No, no," the Syrian started to sputter.
Brill clicked the safety off.
"Okay, yes, okay," Ali whined. "I did okay."
"I don't care why," said Brill. "Just tell me where the girl is."
"Aleppo," Ali blurted. "They never moved."
"So you sent me on a personal vendetta."
"I beg you," Ali sobbed.
Brill leaned back so he wouldn't get blowback on his clothes.
Movement caught his eye.
The girl knelt next to the wall crying in silence as she watched.
He took two steps to the side to get an angle on the door in case some brave soon to be dead person decided to rush to Ali's aid, but it was just the girl and her quiet tears.
"Who is your fan club?"
Ali stopped whimpering and shouted, waving the girl toward the door and the relative safety of the house. She didn't budge.
"My sister," he cried. "She should not be out without a veil."
The rest was lost in a string of Arabic which she ignored like a practiced pro.
"Don't let her watch you kill me," said Ali. "She should not see this."
Damn it, thought Brill.
That was the second Syrian to make a noble gesture for their family member in the last hour.
For a population that suffered piece of shit terrorist groups to exist in their borders and kidnap do gooder documentary crews, it was an admirable trait.
"Where in Aleppo?" he sighed.
Ali mumbled out an address.
Brill repeated it in his head and jerked the dazed man out of the gutter.
"Anyone there owe you money?"
Ali shook his head no.
"If I come back here, I'm killing everybody," said Brill. "You. Your sister."
The dog three streets away barked.
"The dog. Nobody here gets out alive if you're lying to me."
Ali's head bobbed out a yes.
Brill dropped him next to his sister.
He pointed the pistol at one, then the other to get their attention.
"Nobody," he said.
Brill jumped back into the car and backed out of the street.
He had to get to Aleppo before Ali recovered his bravery and called to warn them.