KURDISTAN
Sneaking through the darkness of the small Kurdish village, Chavva paused for a moment behind a stone wall that lead to the mosque butted against the mountain. She was tired, but wouldn’t think of sleeping. It was far more important for her to have that shaky edge. That feeling of pure energy that most would associate with hunger and fatigue, but what she had always felt as an inner power. Something like a wolf that hadn’t killed in a week.
It had been a long journey from Odessa. After seeing Jake Adams at the Istanbul airport, she had taken the flight to Diyarbakir, acquired the truck, and rode the bumpy dirt tracks into the heart of Kurdistan. All the while she had thought of Jake, wondered what he was doing at the airport. Hoping he was still safe. She couldn’t get him out of her mind.
She pressed her shoulder against the stone wall and listened carefully to voices from her past. There were screams of horror and wonder. How could this be happening? Tears rolled down her cheeks and she sobbed with pain. A pain that would end only with her last breath.
●
Deep within the catacombs of the mosque, Mesut Carzani, the new Kurdish sultan, set the phone down and smiled. He turned to Baskale, his trusted Gazi.
“Everything is working as planned,” Carzani said. “The Americans are on their way. The same man who had chased you across Texas.”
Baskale looked surprised. “They sent that man after me?”
Carzani nodded.
It was more than Baskale had dreamed for. A chance to meet up with the American again. “How do you know?”
“Let’s say...we have friends in interesting places.”
Sitting back in the shadows of the dimly lit room, the man finally rose from the chair and approached the two Kurds. “What about the other American from Odessa? Jake Adams? Is he with them?”
Carzani smiled. “Of course, Omri. He’s the last one to...take care of from there.”
Omri Sherut gazed at the two men for a moment. He knew there was another, but he didn’t want to mention that person’s name. He would take care of that one on his own.
Carzani put his hand on Baskale’s shoulder. “Go to the men and let them know the Americans are on their way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Allah is with you.”
●
On the outskirts of the village a lone woman in a long peasant’s dress, with a scarf covering her hair, made her way along the dirt road. She had kept to the side of the road since dropping off the Fiat, but her feet were sore and she couldn’t help feeling tired. She was traveling on adrenalin and nothing else. Her mission was too important to let a little pain stop her.
Suddenly a man stepped out of the bushes and trained his M-16 on her. “What are you doing here old woman?” the man asked in Kurdish.
She didn’t understand him, but she slowly stepped toward him.
He pulled the bolt back and let a bullet slam into the chamber.
She was now just inches from the muzzle.
He asked her to move along, shifting the muzzle with a nod of his head. He was young. Shaking. Scared.
As the barrel turned, she caught the end with her left hand, and straight kicked the man in the crotch. He sunk to his knees in pain, dropping the rifle into her hands. She jammed the gun butt into his skull and he immediately crashed to the ground. She dragged him back into the bushes and checked his pulse. He was alive. She thought about letting him live, but changed her mind. She couldn’t let anyone know she was there. She pulled the man’s knife from the sheath on his hip, and with one quick jab, penetrated his chest and drove the blade into his heart.
He wiggled for a moment, and then went limp.