The address in Aleppo led Brill to a house.
Somehow, he thought Ali would give him the location of the rebel camp, but either the man didn't know it or worse he was over his fear and had warned them.
It was that thought whirring through his head as he watched a man exit the house and march up the street.
As discreetly as a light skinned Westerner could be, Brill followed at a distance in the car.
He almost abandoned it when the man he was following turned into a crowded bazaar.
He searched for a place to pull over and leave the car when he saw the man standing in the bed of a pickup truck full of others exit the crowded marketplace.
Brill jammed the accelerator to chase them.
A Peugeot crunched into his rear bumper.
Brill leaned out of the driver's side window
and surveyed the damage.
The driver of the car jumped out screaming and ran for Brill.
He grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him nose to nose, his acerbic Arabic spraying spittle on the hitman's face.
A click shut him up.
Brill pressed the tip of the pistol into the driver's chest and eased him back.
The man released his shirt and gently smoothed the wrinkles where his hands had been.
"Glad we had this talk," Brill grunted.
He slammed the gas again and took off with the shrill shriek of tearing metal after his prey.
The truck full of robed men ground down one street and nearly spilled all of them out of the back as it took a curve too tight and popped the rear wheel over a curb.
Brill could hear the yelling through his open window.
He was glad for the distraction.
While Aleppo was one of the larger cities near the mountains that separated the small country from Turkey, it had nearly zero traffic which made the Mercedes conspicuous.
Add to that the fact that it was being driven by a white man and he was really surprised the truck occupants weren't paying attention to him.
He attributed it to dumb luck, dust on the windshield and the cheap mirrored aviator sunglasses he borrowed from the glove box.
The truck continued for three blocks and pulled into an arched gate.
The turn was unexpected so all Brill could do was continue driving past and hope for luck.
It stuck.
None of the men shut the gate and he didn't see any weapons as they huddled beside the truck.
That didn't mean they weren't there, just that the men didn't have them in hand.
He needed a longer look beyond what the two second drive by provided.
There was a crumbling building up the street.
Brill pulled into the rubble filled driveway and felt around in the backseat.
He pulled up a duffel bag full of sweaty clothes, a robe and turban.
"Dumb luck," he muttered and wrapped the turban around his head.
He threw the robe around his shoulders and worked the configuration into something that would pass as presentable.
If anyone looked too closely, they would see the cargo shorts, hiking boots and loose shirt under the robe, but if anyone was studying him that closely, he was in trouble.
He tucked the pistol into his waistband and checked to make sure he could clear the weapon fast if he needed.
He strutted down the street as if he owned it because people often took a strong purposeful walk as proof someone belonged.
The studying back at the camp in Langley was paying off.
The strut could also do a lot to dissuade curiosity.
People in these neighborhoods were experts in the art of not noticing.
Hell, he thought. That's probably true the world over.
Any of his neighbors growing up would be hard pressed to remember him and those that might would never have guessed that the quiet abused kid would grow up to be a hitman for hire.
People just didn't pay attention which gave a unique advantage to the few that did.
He spied through the still open gate from the corner of his eye as he passed by and did a quick head count.
There were eight of them in a small group talking with four more off to one side by a fire pit.
Four walls, one door, two windows that he could see on the only building inside the walls.
That's where the hostages would be.
Locked up and out of sight.
He was going to have to play this fast, loose and a little on the wild side.
A style he liked.
Brill crossed over the street and hustled back to the car.
He cranked the engine, pulled a U-turn and slammed the hammer down.
The short hundred yards or so wasn't enough time to build up speed and cranking the wheel to hang a tight right into the yard shed even more momentum.
But the solid ton of German metal was strong enough to plow through the group like a scythe.
Bodies flew and crunched as the men screamed.
Brill cut the wheel and slid sideways toward the door of the house spraying up a fine cloud of dust.
He jumped from the car, drew his pistol and ran through the door.
Ambient light leaked through one window to show an empty room with a doorway leading to the second.
Brill planted his back to the wall and ducked down to peek around the frame.
A frail looking tear stained face with Iowa blue eyes and corn silk hair stared back at him.
"American?" he asked.
She nodded and clinched the bony arm of the man next to her.
"Move, move," Brill ordered and held out his hand to her.
She grabbed it with zero hesitation and held fast to the man as Brill rushed them both toward the door.
"Wait," he held them up and spied outside.
Moans and wails of prayer filled the courtyard as the dust settled.
The four men from the fire pit roamed among the broken bodies by the truck offering aid.
"Let's go," Brill hissed and shoved them toward the car.