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“I see you’ve come back.”

“Yes, Mike. It happens every day after work. Amazing, isn’t it?” Larry stretched and glanced over at the chessboard that Mike had set up. “Another game? You can’t be serious.”

“Indeed I am,” Mike responded.

“But I beat you six times in a row yesterday, and they were all Scholar’s Mates.”

“No you didn’t. And your use of the term ‘Scholar’ there is pejorative.”

“That’s the name of the move.”

“You’re just blustering and pretending to be an intellectual elite.”

Larry sighed. “Look, Mike, I just got back from work. I’m tired. I don’t want to play a game of chess right now.”

“Because you’re a coward and you know you lost.”

“No, it’s because I don’t feel like trouncing you again.”

“You know, you’ve got a real attitude. You didn’t come anywhere near beating me. I beat you each time.”

“When I checkmate you, I win. Not you.”

“Your claims of checkmate were unverifiable. I could still move.”

“Moving the king six spaces is not a legal move, Mike.”

Mike put his hands on his hips. “Oh really? Says who?”

“It’s the rules of chess.”

“Oh, the mysterious magic rules of chess. How convenient for you that they just happen to benefit you, huh?”

“They’re the rules—”

“I can’t see them.”

“What?”

“I can’t see them. They don’t exist. You believe in this mythical thing you call ‘rules’ that you’ve never seen with your own eyes.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You know what, Larry? You have a serious problem here. You have to win at all costs.”

Larry rolled his eyes. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the object of a game of chess to, you know, win?”

“Yes. But not at all costs.”

“I don’t win at all costs. I win by playing a good offense and a good defense. Yours doesn’t measure up.”

“You really ought to check your elitist tendencies.”

“‘Check’ them. That’s a clever pun.”

“Pun?”

“Never mind, Mike. It was obviously an accidental pun. I should have guessed it, as poorly as you play chess.”

“Now listen here, Larry. Just because you declared yourself the winner by invoking some mystery magic ‘rule’ that floats invisibly up in the air somewhere watching over us while we play a game of chess does not mean that you play chess better than me.”

“Of course not. Rather, it’s my continual slaughtering of your defense and capturing your king that shows my chess skill trumps yours.”

“Such violent metaphors! I’ll bet you beat your wife!”

Larry looked at Mike. “Okaaaaaay.”

Mike stood and gestured angrily at Larry. “I’m not going to stand for this anymore!” He stormed out of the room.

Larry sighed and soon forgot it. Tomorrow was Saturday and he planned to sleep in. Unfortunately, he was woken at eight in the morning by a knock at the door.

“Are you Lawrence Adams?” the man at the door asked.

“Yes,” Larry said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Get him!”

Before Larry could react, he was thrown to the floor. “What are you doing?”

“Dr. Graves has informed us you’re a threat to yourself.” Larry’s arms were pushed into the straightjacket.

“What?”

“That’s right,” Mike said, entering behind the men. “It’s in my report.”

“He’s a psychology PhD,” the man restraining Larry provided helpfully.

“And I’ve made my report. Larry, you exhibit all the symptoms of a disease known as Mania. You have a narcissistic flair or ‘grandiosity’ to your personality. You are quite intolerant of others. Indeed, you have an ego-centric paradigm that means you simply lack the ability to consider the thoughts and feelings of those around you. It’s all about your thoughts and feelings. Sadly, no facts, reasoning, or logic will change you. On the contrary, arguing with you simply increases your mania, and for that I apologize. I have been provoking, perhaps envoking (I’m not sure which word to use) your illness by playing chess with you.

“The fact is, Larry, when you say, ‘I and those who play chess like me are better at chess than you’ then that’s the first sign that we’re dealing with some mental illness, and we must react with appropriate humanity. That’s why you will be taken back to my asylum and given shock treatments from now on.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure after just a few months of those shock treatments you’ll be able to play chess just as well as I can, and then you can reintegrate into society.”

Mike watched as Larry was dragged out of the house proclaiming his innocence. It was sad. The insane never realize they’re not crazy.

WARNING: The following story contains graphic depictions of waterboarding and other equivalent acts. It is not intended for children.

Equivalency

It was another hot day. Sergeant Mitchell London moved down the alley with the other men in the squad. Unlike the others, London carried no weapon but for his sidearm which he could only use defensively according to the rules of war.

Not that the terrorists cared about the rules of war. They’d just as soon take a shot at London for the sole reason that he had the red cross patch on his arm. Rather than protecting him, it made him a target.

Ahead of London walked Lieutenant Arthur Hawkins. Hawkins was on his third tour in Iraq, and as a result had more combat experience than any two men on his team. This was especially true of the man flanking him to the left, Private First Class Richard Overby. Overby wasn’t even nineteen years old yet, and thus far hadn’t seen any action for the month he’d been deployed.

Overby glanced at Private Jesse Stalder who had taken up position on the opposite side of the alley near a T intersection, said: “You sure he came down this way?”

Stalder nodded. Overby gripped his M-16 in his sweaty palms, looked back over his shoulder at Hawkins. From where they stood, pressed up against the mud-brick walls of the various homes, they were relatively safe. The awning over the west side of the alley provided a bit of shade for Stalder too.

But in Iraq safety was always temporary. A few minutes earlier, they had been relatively safe inside their Stryker vehicle. Then, Stalder had seen a man glance up at them in surprise before he turned, picked up his AK-47, and darted into the alley.

Hawkins left Bravo team back at the Stryker and quickly assembled Alpha to do a quick check of the alley. Combat medic London had tagged along just in case his services were needed posthaste.

The alley was quiet, however. They hadn’t seen any movement at all since they entered, and even the traffic on the nearby road was quieter now. It was almost as if the alley simply swallowed up all evidence of life.

Hawkins felt a bead of sweat on his forehead. He ignored it. Something in the alley felt wrong and he had learned to trust his instincts over his three tours. He motioned to Stalder: check the corner.

Stalder moved forward. He carried the Squad Automatic Weapon, which could be used solo to suppress an enemy position if need be. Stalder reached the corner of the building and glanced around it. There was nothing there. He turned, shrugged toward Hawkins.

And the shot rang out. Stalder fell to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. It happened so quickly that for an instant no one moved. Then Hawkins broke the silence, yelled: “Sniper! Find cover! London, stay put.”

“Sir, he needs medical help.”

“And that sniper’s waiting for you to go out so he can take you too.” Hawkins picked up his radio and calmly said, “Bravo, this is Alpha. We’re taking fire. Take the Stryker and flank the alley to the North. Copy?”

“Roger, Alpha.”

At that, Hawkins knelt and moved toward the intersection of the houses. He glanced around the corner but couldn’t see the sniper. “My guess, he’s in that building there,” he muttered to himself. Then he moved back around the corner.

Stalder hadn’t moved. Hawkins grabbed a smoke grenade. “Smoke out!” he yelled, tossing it around the corner of the building. He turned back to London. “When the smoke’s built up enough, go get him.”

“Yes sir,” London said. The seconds seemed to stretch on for hours, but he knew that was a figment of his imagination. He also knew that figment or not, Stalder didn’t have much time for London to wait.

“Go now,” Hawkins said. He turned, moving his M-4 to cover the alley for London.

London rushed across the alley and knelt by Stalder’s side. The soldier had fallen onto his face, and London gently rolled him over. The young man had been struck in the neck. The bullet had made its way through his spine. Stalder was already dead.

London turned to call for a stretcher. As he did, he saw an object sail through the smoke screen in the alley. “Grenade!” he yelled, instinctively covering Stalder’s body.

Hawkins jumped back from the corner of the alley less than a second before the grenade exploded, sending shrapnel in a lethal radius. Hawkins was hit in the leg and he stumbled backwards.

Almost concurrently, a barrage of AK-47 fire erupted and the patter of bullets striking brick filled the alley. London had nowhere to move, he was stuck with Stalder’s body on the opposite side of the alley just around the T corner. Across and back from him, Hawkins bit his tongue at the fire in his leg. He grabbed his radio: “Bravo, where are you?”

There was no response. Hawkins tried again before he realized his radio was dead. It had been struck by shrapnel and was now useless. “Give me your radio,” he shouted at Overby. But Overby had run down the alley toward where the Stryker had originally been parked.

There was another explosion as a second grenade went off. Hawkins rolled backward until he saw the entryway into the house. He pushed the door open and slipped inside. The house was empty.

His leg was bleeding profusely now. He quickly pulled off his belt and wrapped it around his leg. He pulled one of his shooting gloves off and rolled it into a ball, placed it against his femoral artery, and tightened the belt around it as tight as he could make it. Then he fell back with his head against the floor of the house.

Outside, it had grown quiet. London and Stalder are still out there, he thought suddenly. But he found he had no more strength to get up and check on them. The world was becoming very hazy for some odd reason. Before he could stave it off, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

* * *
London felt chunks of brick strike his helmet as bullets danced against the wall behind him, but amazingly he remained unharmed. After what must have been less than a minute, the shooting ceased. London raised his head from the ground and realized that he was alone in the alley with a dead man.

Only that wasn’t quite true. Two men materialized through the smoke just over thirty yards away, AK-47s at their shoulders. London pulled his sidearm, but it wasn’t very accurate over any great distances. Their AK-47s had the advantage here. The first man spotted him, and called out in Arabic. Then, both of them had their weapons trained on him.

“I’m a noncombatant!” London shouted, tossing the pistol aside. “A medic. Doctor.”

The men moved forward. He kept his arms raised, let them see the red cross patch. They ignored it and instead, the larger of the men circled around behind him as the first kept his AK-47 pointed at London’s chest. The man behind him grabbed his right hand and pulled it back, followed by his left. The man wrapped plastic cord around both his wrists binding them tight.

The man who had tied him stepped to one side and then jerked London to his feet. He looked at Stalder’s body and his SAW and quickly picked up the weapon, putting the sling over his shoulder. Then, he picked up the body.

Gunfire erupted behind them. The first man gestured with his AK-47: move. It was toward the gunfire.

London suddenly realized that it must have been Bravo team shooting. He might be able to make a break for it.

The man beside him had other plans. He kicked the door to a house open and pushed London in. The second man followed, still carrying Stalder’s body. They made their way through the empty house, and got to the front. London could see three other men with AK-47s there in the front yard. They were taking pot shots down the alley. One of them had an RPG too, but apparently had used all his rounds.

The first man pushed London away toward a van that was parked in the back. He then yelled something in Arabic, and two of the three men rushed back. They looked at London in a surprise that quickly melted into something akin to a wolf staring at prey.

The first man pushed London into the back of the van. Stalder’s corpse was thrown on top of him. Then, the remaining terrorist who must have been providing cover fire made his break for the van. Seconds later, they were speeding out of the alley and onto the main streets.

Once the van was moving, one of the men pulled off his turban. He wrapped it around London’s face as a makeshift blindfold. The cloth was hot and sweaty, but London held his repulsion in check. Never a religious man, he found the sudden need to pray.

* * *
Lieutenant Jamison Orion, leader of Bravo team, eased down the alley toward where Alpha had been ambushed. He was flanked by his men, and all of them were nervous. The attack had apparently been a quick hit and run. The terrorists knew they had no advantage in a prolonged firefight, so they used lightning fast tactics instead. Still, the situation was always volatile. It wasn’t over until it was over.

Orion reached the T intersection. He could see evidence of the fight all around him: impact craters from the bullets on the bricks, small blast craters from the grenades, brass casings. At one part of the alley there was even blood that stained the ground crimson.

“Alpha, this is Bravo.”

Still no response. Orion was worried now. The shooting had stopped a few minutes ago as the terrorists had fled. The city streets offered too many avenues for them to seal all of them off. But Orion’s bigger concern wasn’t that they’d escape but that they’d come back, this time with a vehicle bomb.

Orion crouched by the bloodstain, his M-4 shouldered. There was a sudden thump at the entrance to one of the houses. Orion shouldered his carbine and aimed it at the house. The door opened and an Iraqi woman appeared, her hands upraised. She looked terrified, but she waved for the soldiers anyway.

Orion hesitated. The woman said something in Arabic. None of the soldiers with Orion could speak the language, however, and she apparently didn’t know English either. She motioned again in a universal sign: come here.

“Cover me,” Orion whispered to the man on his right. Then he started forward, his weapon still at the ready. The woman pushed the door open a little further and Orion saw the camouflaged leg on the floor. It was US camouflage, and it had been stained red with blood.

He remained cautious, lest it be a trap. He moved another step to examine the house rather than focusing on what he assumed was a dead body. He couldn’t see anyone in the shadows. Still, he knew it was a risk going further into the open.

Finally he glanced down at the body and realized it was Lieutenant Hawkins. The man’s chest rose and fell; he was still alive. Orion moved into the entryway. The woman backed into the corner, still scared. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless. Then, he radioed for a medic.

* * *
The van pulled into the warehouse twenty minutes later. Abdul-Khaliq al Kateb could hardly believe his luck. They had meant to prepare a trap for the Americans, but Safwan had almost ruined everything by running down the alley before they were ready. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered because they had killed at least one of the American pigs, and they had captured a second man.

Abdul hadn’t counted on capturing one live. He hadn’t planned for Allah’s bounty, but that hardly mattered at this point. They had everything set up and ready to go. They had used most of the equipment just a month ago on Boulos, the traitorous dog who had tried to pass off information to the Iraqi police. Boulos had learned his lesson. They had videotaped the entire thing and forced his wife and three children to watch what they had done to him before they slaughtered all his seed too.

They had practiced. And now they had one of the greatest demons of all, an American soldier.

Abdul stepped out of the van and opened the back doors. He pulled the living soldier out, and forced him over to the corner where Boulos had been chained. Abdul used the same restraints and he wished Boulos’s blood was still on the metal to frighten the American more.

Oh well. Allah never promised you everything.

Abdul walked back toward the van. One of the men had already dumped the body of the dead soldier onto the floor. They were taking turns kicking the corpse. Abdul let them for a while, then realized the turban blindfold was still on the living soldier. He moved back to the prisoner and read the nameplate on the man’s jacket.

“London.” Abdul knelt and pulled the turban off. “I lived in London for two summers.”

The American showed surprise. That was good, Abdul thought. It gave him an advantage.

“Yes, I know English quite good. Not good as you, but better than them.” He gestured toward the others who had taken off their sandals and were slapping the corpse with them. Then Abdul pulled out a knife from the sheath on his belt. “I think you should see this.”

Abdul turned and said something in Arabic to the others. They stepped back from the body and Abdul smiled. “Take off his shirt,” he ordered in Arabic. Firas, the youngest of them at seventeen, immediately did so. Abdul moved over to the body, turned back and made sure London was watching. Then, he plunged the knife into the dead man’s abdomen.

London looked away. “No!” Abdul shouted. “You look!”

London refused. Abdul gestured to Hatim, and the strong man who had hauled the corpse in all by himself moved over to the American. Hatim smiled grimly, grabbed London’s chin, and pulled until he was looking toward Abdul again.

“If you close your eyes I’ll have him squeeze them out,” Abdul said. He gave London a second to let it sink in before he moved back to the knife. He cut upward through the abdomen until there was a fourteen inch incision. The intestines of the pig—Abdul couldn’t think of this thing as a man—slid out onto the concrete floor of the warehouse. He helped pull out as much as he could until the pig had become an empty vessel. Then, Abdul motioned for Firas to bring him the box from the corner.

Firas did so, a smile on his face. He was eager, the young man was. Abdul smiled back and then opened the box. He pulled out the plastic explosives and packed them into the dead container beneath him. When it was full, he pulled the skin back together and used a heavy thread to sew it shut.

Abdul stepped back from the body. Firas redressed it as Abdul waited. When Firas was finished, Abdul glanced back over to make sure London was still watching. The prisoner was.

Good. Abdul knelt and put the knife at the dead body’s throat, slicing deep into the neck. His arms jerked up and down with intense passion until finally the head was severed. Abdul kicked it over into the corner of the warehouse. Then he lifted the headless corpse and, with the help of Firas, moved it into the van.

Abdul stepped back. He was sweating now. That was good. Allah didn’t like a lazy man. He liked diligent workers, and Abdul fit the bill perfectly. He motioned to Safwan and then stopped, a new idea formed.

Abdul walked back to London. In Arabic he told Hatim, “You can release his head now.” The man did so, and London rotated his head on his neck, probably popping a vertebrae or two.

“You have identification?”

“Yes. In my wallet.”

“Good.” He motioned for Hatim to lift London to his feet. Abdul took London’s wallet from his pocket and opened it. Some pictures fell out, family no doubt. Abdul ignored them. Instead, he picked up the military ID card and tossed it toward Safwan. The card landed in the intestines that he been left on the floor, and everyone broke out into laughter at that.

Except for London, of course. Abdul turned back to the American. “There is just one problem,” he said, his hand resting on London’s right arm. “They may think we found your wallet instead of capturing you. How can we prove we really have you?”

It was a rhetorical question of course, but Abdul enjoyed the way the prisoner’s eyes filled with fear as he wondered what Abdul would do next. Abdul decided not to let him wait.

He grabbed London’s right wrist and simultaneously drew his knife against the base of London’s thumb. London screamed and jerked his arm, but Hatim helped hold it still as Abdul cut into his hand. The knife found the joint and slipped through it. Then the thumb was off.

Abdul released London and held the bloody thumb up at the prisoner. “This ought to prove we have you,” he said cheerfully. Putting the thumb together with London’s ID, he gave both to Safwan and gave the man instructions. Safwan nodded and jumped into the van.

Abdul turned back toward London. It was amazing, he thought. After a while you didn’t even notice the screams the pigs made as they were slaughtered.

* * *
The pain was worse than anything London had experienced before. Even as it racked his hand, his mind was contemplating. No sir, couldn’t turn off that brain of his. He mentally calculated the odds that he could get the thumb successfully reattached. Given his current position, chained to a wall and in enemy custody, the odds were roughly equivalent to the odds that he would spontaneously combust. Even if soldiers marched in right there, and even if they had stopped the van and had his thumb in hand (so to speak), the odds that it could be reattached were still low.

How could he do his job without a thumb? He had wanted to be a surgeon after his stint in the Army was up. But that wouldn’t happen now. Not unless he got really skilled with his left hand.

The man who had cut his thumb off was busy setting up a video camera. London felt a shudder travel down his spine. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We have to survive before we can learn to use a scalpel with our left hand.

* * *
Abdul turned on the light above the camera. Everything appeared to be in working order. He smiled at London as it whirred next to him. “You threw away your gun in the alley very fast,” Abdul said, his tone slightly above mockery. “They have such cowards in a professional army?”

London bit his tongue against the pain of his missing thumb. “I’m a…noncombatant,” he managed. “A medic.”

“Ah.” Abdul waved his hand dismissively. “You are a coward. Just like a woman.”

“I’m a medic. I’m wearing a red cross on my arm. You are committing war crimes here.”

Abdul laughed. “War crimes? There is no crime in war. There is only survival and death.”

“You will be prosecuted.”

Abdul laughed again. “Arrogant American. You always think your cavalry will show up and rescue you.” Abdul stood. “Enough talking.”

“The world—”

“I said silence!” Abdul screamed. The sudden shift in his voice startled London. “If you speak again, I shall have your tongue.” He waved his knife at London’s face for confirmation. After a second, Abdul turned toward Hatim and nodded.

Hatim pushed a table over next to London. Its legs squealed against the concrete floor, a sound not unlike running a fork over a chalkboard. The table was bare except for a vice clamped to the side. Hatim calmly turned the screw, opening the vice’s gaping maw. When he judged that it was open wide enough, he stepped back and let Abdul return to the camera frame.

* * *
London swallowed hard as he looked at the table. The vice was an angry mouth, and he feared what the terrorists planned to do with it. The main terrorist—London began to call him Knife-man—was making a speech to the camera, gesturing with the knife and shouting Arabic slogans. The only thing London recognized was the occasional Allahu akbar. Each utterance of it filled him with terror.

Knife-man finished his speech and motioned toward the Big Bruiser. Bruiser grabbed London by the shoulders and pushed him toward the table.

My head! The thought shot through his mind as Bruiser forced his head toward the vice. “No!” he shouted. “Not my head!”

Knife-man kicked him in the ribs. It drove the air from his lungs, but Bruiser was too strong for him in any case. He fought for as long as he could, but in less than a minute his head was in the vice and Knife-man was tightening it.

The pressure was immense. It felt as if his sinuses were about to collapse. London lay across the table, face down, his head in the vice. The two metal plates were positioned just over his ears, and they burned as they were crushed into the side of his head.

Knife-man knelt by him, patted him on the back of the neck. Then, he jammed something cold and metallic against London’s teeth. He tasted blood from his mashed lips, heard the terrorist command: “Open.”

The metal smashed into his lips again, and he opened his mouth. It was a pair of tongs, and Knife-man pried his jaw open as wide as he could. London jerked on the table, but Bruiser sat on his back to let him know if he jerked too hard he could snap his own neck.

Knife-man switched the tongs to his other hand and pulled out a pair of pliers. He pushed them into London’s mouth, caught the man’s tongue.

“I told you to remain silent,” Knife-man said. He jerked London’s tongue down at that, then he released the tongs. London was forced to keep his mouth open now to keep from biting his tongue. It was pulled out further than it ever had been before and he had to suppress the urge to gag. Knife-man turned toward the young terrorist and said, “Firas!” He followed it with a command in Arabic.

London couldn’t tell what was going on anymore. His eyes watered from the sting of the pliers on his tongue. Knife-man spoke softly: “Did I ever tell you Firas was a first rate football player? He could kick a ball a kilometer.”

To prove it, Firas turned and kicked London’s jaw as hard as he could. The blow struck London’s chin and knocked him out cold, but not before his teeth clamped down on his outstretched tongue, severing it.

* * *
Abdul watched the prisoner go slack. Blood poured out of his mouth, pooling on the concrete floor. Even so, Abdul knew he could get more of the tongue with his knife. With the prisoner unconscious, he’d be most cooperative now.

Abdul pulled London’s mouth open again and then pushed his knife into the man’s mouth. He cut with sharp, jerky motions, not caring if he jabbed a section of London’s uvula out too. He only finished when he was satisfied he had as much of the tongue as he could get.

Only then did he go back to the camera and turn it off. He would let the prisoner regain consciousness on his own. In the meantime, they stripped him down naked and tied him face-down on the table. When he woke up, they’d roll him over. But they didn’t want him to drown on his blood while he was unconscious. That would be uncivilized.

* * *
Safwan drove the van through the streets careful to bring as little attention to himself as possible. As he drove, he picked up the cell phone and dialed a number. A few seconds later, the connection went through:

“Hello Rafiq,” Safwan said. “I have another story for you.”

On the other end of the line Rafiq took down the information. When he hung up the phone he scratched his chin for a moment. In his hand he held a news bulletin he had received just before the phone call.

The United States Army was missing two soldiers. They offered $20,000 for information leading to the return of their soldiers. Rafiq ignored the number on the bottom of the bulletin and called a separate number. If he played this right, he would be very rich soon.

* * *
London slowly came to. His mouth was on fire, yet it felt strangely…empty. He ran his tongue over his teeth, but couldn’t feel any of his teeth at all. The fire burned stronger and he realized that they must have jerked his teeth out.

Even as he thought that, his chin flared in pain and he remembered the kick. He had bitten through his tongue on impact. It wasn’t his teeth he was missing at all.

He jerked his head up, realized he was strapped down. Pain erupted from his wrists and he tried to curse, but all that came out was an “Uuungh.”

“Look who’s awake,” Knife-man said. He stepped over to the camera and turned it back on. “I was beginning to wonder if we needed to get some smelling salts for you.”

London said: “Uungh.”

The man laughed. London dropped his head again; the effort of lifting it hurt his neck too much. He was hanging off the end of a table, and he could see his hands chained to the table legs too. There were manacles, but they didn’t look right. In fact, he could see blood dripping from them, and he realized suddenly what it was.

With his thumb cut off, his right hand would have slid right out of the manacle. They had fixed that problem by bolting the manacle through his wrist. He looked at his left wrist and saw they had done the same there too, although they hadn’t cut any fingers off that hand yet.

Yet.

London screamed again, his voice reduced monosyllables punctuated with gutturals from the back of his throat.

The Knife-man had stopped moving now. London felt the man’s hand grab his thigh then, and he realized his legs had been bound so he was spread-eagle across the table.

“You said you do not fight, just like a woman,” Knife-man said. As he did, London heard the sound of a metal blade sliding past another metal blade. “I guess a woman won’t need these then.”

London screamed again, but there was nothing he could do. Fiery pain erupted, and the world seemed to spin white for a second. He couldn’t say anything, couldn’t even think. All he could do was scream.

It felt like an hour had passed, but it was only seconds. Knife-man returned and dropped his testicles on the floor in front of London’s face before he stomped on them.

London’s tears streamed down his face. Knife-man grabbed his chin and pulled his head up, looked into his eyes. “Now you have a reason not to fight.”

He dropped London’s head and motioned for the Big Bruiser. The Big Bruiser held something in his hand and as he stepped toward London, he let the end of it drop.

It was a whip. London tried to plead—he couldn’t get used to not having a tongue. Bruiser didn’t even laugh, he just looked methodically down at London, drew his arm back, and let the whip go.

* * *
Abdul watched Hatim whip the American and counted the blows in his head. When Hatim reached twenty, he raised a hand. The American’s back was raw now. Blood ran down the sides of his ribs, pooled on the table.

“Turn him over,” he ordered in Arabic.

Hatim bent and released London’s left manacle from the table. He fastened it to the loop the right arm was in, then released the right arm. He pulled it back across until it was in the left loop. London lay there, his arms crossed.

Hatim went to the other end of the table and released London’s right foot. “Hold this,” he snapped at Firas. The teen obeyed, and Hatim released London’s left foot from the table. He picked it up and said, “Turn him now,” to Firas.

They did so, pulling London over to his side and then onto his back. London screamed in agony as the open cuts raked across the table. He arched his back and Hatim slammed his fist into the American’s solar plexus.

“No, Hatim,” Abdul ordered. “See to the irons.”

Hatim frowned but obeyed.

Abdul looked at the American. He had no head support, but he was trying to keep his head up. Abdul could wait until the American gave up. With his back in pain, it didn’t take long.

* * *
Now the world was upside down. London could feel his body going into shock. He felt cold, tried not to shiver. Each shiver sent a spasm of pain through his body. He knew he was losing a lot of blood too. If this continued much longer, he could simply die from that.

Knife-man had a glass vial in his hand. It looked like a test-tube of some kind. London wondered if Knife-man had gotten a biological agent of some kind. Maybe anthrax or something. Whatever it might be, it couldn’t hurt more than this.

There was a sudden snap. Knife-man had broken the vial. London watched as the man knelt by Stalder’s intestines, which were still unceremoniously dumped on the floor. Knife-man poked and prodded them with the broken end of the glass tube. Then he stood back up and looked over at London once more.

“You must be thirsty.”

And he was. It was the loss of blood: his body needed to replace the fluids. It was also getting very hot in the room. They had built a large fire in the corner where Big Bruiser was currently working. Even so, London felt another shiver course down his body.

Knife-man stepped next to London and put the vial down on the table top. London couldn’t see it now, it hurt too much to raise his head. He could hear Knife-man at work though. Seconds later, Knife-man returned with a jug of water. He grabbed London’s head and pulled it up, then tipped the jug toward his mouth: “Drink.”

London felt the water rush into his mouth. It sloshed around and he gagged as he tried to swallow. Without a tongue his mouth felt completely different, but at least he couldn’t taste the horrible Iraqi water. It would have been worse this time because it was tinged with his blood too.

He managed three swallows before he started to choke. He coughed, shook his head. Knife-man pulled the jug up and gently lowered London’s head once more. Then he moved back to the other side of the table and picked up the vial once more.

“Tell me, my American friend, did you ever learn about a man named Tycho Brahe?”

London couldn’t answer. If he could have said something, he would have said that the name was familiar but he couldn’t place it. Knife-man seemed to tell that already.

“He was a scientist from Denmark, a true infidel. He drank beer constantly. He was a decadent swine, an American before America was founded, you see?”

Knife-man walked back to the front of the table where London could see him once more. “Do you know how he died?”

London shook his head. Knife-man continued his trek out of view once more, moving toward the end of the table where London’s feet were.

“He was at a banquet, and he drank too much beer again. After a time, his bladder was quite full. Yet he felt that it would be…impolite to leave too soon. He held his bladder so long it burst. It was a very painful way to die, don’t you think?”

Knife-man didn’t give London a chance to respond. He had moved back up to the side of the table once more. “There are many ways to make it so someone cannot urinate. An infection, for instance, could cause swelling which will block the urethra. And there are several ways to get an infection too. This is just one of those ways.”

Knife-man grabbed London’s penis in his left hand and pushed the glass vial into it with his right hand. London screamed and tried to jerk away. Knife-man gave the vial a quick twist, then snapped it off, leaving the glass inside the glans.

He returned to the head of the table. “Are you still thirsty?” he asked jovially.

* * *
Safwan stopped the van in the lot. He picked up the package that contained London’s thumb and ID. He glanced back at the corpse in the van: it was starting to stink. He’d be glad when the body dump was finished.

Safwan saw Rafiq’s car in the designated place. He would give Rafiq the information to air on Al-Haqq news, and then be on his way. When dark fell, he’d drop the body of the dead soldier and wait for it to be discovered. When the Americans showed up, or if they were unlucky and it was just the Iraqi police, he’d detonate the C-4 in the corpse, hopefully killing several of the infidels. But that wouldn’t be for a while.

Safwan exited his van and quickly trotted over to Rafiq’s car. Rafiq rolled his window down as Safwan approached. “You have it?”

“Yes,” Safwan said, glancing around. He passed the package to Rafiq.

“What are your demands for the Americans?”

“Free all our brothers and sisters from prison and give us eight million dollars, or the second soldier dies.”

Rafiq laughed. “You know they’ll never agree to it.”

Safwan smiled. “Just as we’ll never let the American live.”

They both laughed at that. “Here, let me get you your money.” Rafiq reached under the driver’s seat. As he did, Safwan turned to glance back up the road…and saw his van was gone.

“What?” he started. “My van!”

“Do not move,” Rafiq said. Safwan felt a stab of fear in his heart. He turned and saw the pistol in Rafiq’s hand.

He had left his weapons in the van.

“How could you do this?” Safwan shouted. He heard the footfalls behind him. He slowly raised his hands. “Allah will cut you down for this, infidel dog!”

Safwan spat at Rafiq. Rafiq simply smiled and watched Safwan was pulled to the ground and tied up. Only then did Rafiq grab his cell phone and dial the number he had memorized from the bottom of the bulletin.

* * *
“Lieutenant Orion? There’s a Rafiq from Al-Haqq on the phone for you.”

Jamison Orion nodded and picked up the phone. “Salaam, Rafiq. How are you?”

“Salaam, Yeshua. I am doing quite well.”

“Why do you keep calling me Yeshua? I told you my name is Jamison.”

“Yes, but you are a Christian, are you not?”

“Yes, Rafiq.”

“Then why are you ashamed to take Yeshua’s name?”

“I’m not ashamed, it’s just not my name,” Orion said. To keep this from continuing, he quickly interjected: “But that’s not why you called.”

“Of course not. I hear you lost two men and are providing a reward for them.”

“And you have information, I presume.”

“You might say that.”

“Look, it has to be actionable information in order for you to get any of the money. Unless you have someone who saw the whole thing, you’re not getting anything.”

Rafiq laughed. “I have better than that, Yeshua. I have one of your missing men. He is dead, unfortunately. But I also have the man who delivered the body. He, my good friend, is not dead.”

This is too good to be true, Orion thought, but he couldn’t squelch the sudden hope in his heart. “Where do you have this man, Rafiq?”

* * *
Abdul stood next to Hatim and looked at the glowing metal. It was ready. He nodded at the big man, then said, “How would you feel about a little target practice?”

Hatim laughed. He looked at London, still screaming and writhing on the table. “His fingers?”

“Yes, Hatim. Let us use the .22.”

Hatim smiled. When they had tortured Boulos, this had been the best part.

* * *
Knife-man returned to the table. He held a metal device in his hand. London tried to pull away as Knife-man knelt in front of him, but it was difficult to move when you were bound flat on your back to a table, your arms stretched over your head. Knife-man grabbed his left wrist and unhooked the manacle from the table. Then, he pushed London’s fingers into the metal device. There were two rings with a metal shaft on one side. One ring rested at the base of the finger and one at the finger tips. They were splayed out at the top, so as London’s fingers travelled into the next ring his fingers spread out.

Knife-man did the same to London’s right hand, which hurt more because of the missing thumb. Then, Knife-man went to his feet and unhooked both of them from the table. As he did so, Big Bruiser grabbed both of London’s wrists. When Knife-man gave the word, the Bruiser dragged London off the table. The edge cut into London’s back, riding over the area that had been whipped. London felt his voice-box crack and he almost passed out. Then he was on the concrete floor.

Big Bruiser pulled him to his feet. London could hardly walk from the pain in his groin, but Bruiser had ways to convince him to move. In short time, he stood against the wall at the far end of the warehouse. Bruiser quickly ran a chain through the metal attachments Knife-man had put on London’s fingers. The chain ran through a pulley system. Bruiser used it to pull London’s arms up over his head until London was forced to stand on his toes. He felt like each of his fingers were going to pop out of the socket at any minute.

Knife-man had returned, along with Soccer Boy who had kicked him in the chin earlier. Soccer Boy held a contraption that looked like a piece of wood with small roofing nails in it, which was exactly what it was. He placed the board under the arches of London’s feet. Now the only thing keeping him from impaling himself on the nails were his fingers, held up above his head by the chain.

As he stood there, he realized that Knife-man had turned the camera around to film this spectacle too. London clenched his eyes shut for a minute. He wasn’t sure what the terrorists were planning, but he knew it couldn’t be good.

The terrorists had lined up behind a table about ten yards away from London. There was a .22 hunting rifle on the table, as well as a box of ammunition. Soccer Boy picked up the rifle first and put in a single round. He turned, aiming toward London.

Oh no, they’re gonna shoot me.

There was a pop and a chunk of concrete next to his left hand exploded, raining dust down on London. He looked up at the wall stupidly, and only then did he see the flecks of red blood and other crater impacts there.

They were going to shoot his fingers off, one by one.

To confirm this, Big Bruiser picked up the rifle next. He fired and London felt the shot tear through his left middle finger. He screamed again, that monosyllabic “Uuungh!”

The terrorists just laughed.

* * *
Abdul let the others shoot at the American. He watched disinterestedly as they slowly made their way through the American’s left hand, and then his right. When he only had two fingers left, they had both been pulled from their sockets, and his feet had been impaled on the nails. Still, the fingers held his arms above his head until the final shot by Firas tore half of his ring finger off and gravity helped rip through the flap of skin that kept him up.

When the American hit the ground, Abdul motioned for him to be brought back to the table where he had been earlier. Abdul had already reattached the vise to the table: it would be important that the American not be able to move his head, else he could kill himself too quickly.

Hatim tossed the American on the table. Blood poured freely from both hands, staining the concrete floor. Abdul held London down as Hatim tightened his head in the vise once more. This time, he was lying on his back, staring upwards.

“Look at all that blood,” Abdul said. “We don’t want you to bleed to death, do we?”

London sobbed. It was an unusual sound with no tongue, but Abdul was getting used to it now. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll make sure that won’t happen.”

He held up the red-hot iron. Hatim had already secured the prisoner’s wrists. Abdul set the burning iron onto the skin, cauterizing the wounds. Each time the scent of burning flesh rose into the air, reminding Abdul of cooking meat. It made him slightly hungry.

When all the finger stubs were cauterized, Abdul took the remaining poker from the fire. He climbed up onto the table, stood above London. “Have you heard of the expression, ‘In the world of the blind the one-eyed man is king’?”

London cried out something, tried to jerk his head but couldn’t move it because of the vice.

“Allow me to crown you the king of the blind.”

Abdul slowly lowered the poker toward London’s left eye. London screamed and tried to roll, but he was weak from his injuries and the vice grip was strong. “Shhh,” Abdul said. “We must be careful not to go into your brain with this.”

The poker got closer. The heat of it brought tears to London’s eyes. He screamed again and again, but Abdul didn’t flinch. He kept the poker steady and methodically lowered it centimeter by centimeter.

He heard the hiss as the water in London’s eye boiled away. Then, the poker was into his eye socket, smoke rising into the air. London screamed again, and Abdul carefully pulled the poker back out. Then, he climbed off the table and grabbed the jug of water. He sloshed it over London’s face, let it pool in the burned out eye socket. He poured the remainder of it down London’s throat.

* * *
Safwan sat in the cold, dark room. He had been handcuffed, but that was it. The interrogator had talked to him for several minutes, but Safwan refused to talk to the Iraqi pig. Safwan was Jordanian, but even so he knew that the Iraqis who helped the Great Satan were worse than demons themselves, the traitors.

The interrogator had conferred with someone and had left. Safwan could hear the footfalls as the soldiers returned. This time, they brought a stretcher with them.

“Get on there,” one of the soldiers ordered. The translator repeated the order in Arabic. Safwan didn’t really need the translator, he understood English fairly well. But he supposed it was better to obey only after he heard the translator to keep up the pretense.

Safwan lay on the stretcher. The soldiers strapped his arms and legs down. Then, they raised his feet up until they were higher than his head. He felt the blood rushing down; it gave him a slight headache.

“You are going to tell us where our other man is,” one of the soldiers said, and it was dutifully repeated by the translator.

“Go to Hell,” Safwan responded.

The soldier pulled out some cellophane. “You brought this on yourself,” he said, although the translator didn’t repeat that one. The soldier wrapped the cellophane around Safwan’s mouth and nose, then poked a hole it so Safwan could breathe through his mouth.

“Last chance,” the solider said. Safwan cursed in Arabic. The soldier simply reached down and picked up a jug of water. He poured it over Safwan’s face, into the hole in his mouth. Safwan jumped in surprise, felt the water rush into his mouth. He gagged.

They’re going to drown me! He tried to spit the water out, but couldn’t. It was pouring in too quickly. He thrashed, and after a lifetime the soldier stopped. He spat the water out and gasped for air, tears streaming down his face.

“You ready to talk now?”

“Yes!” Safwan shouted before the translator could say anything. “I talk!”

The soldier put the water down and tore the cellophane off Safwan’s face. He raised the stretcher so his head was higher than his feet again. “Good. Where is Sergeant London?”

Safwan gave an address.

* * *
Abdul-Khaliq al Kateb set the camera up one last time. The American lay moaning on the table. He had turned yellow, his penis swollen. While Abdul wished he could take the time to wait for London’s bladder to burst, he knew he couldn’t do that.

Safwan had disappeared. And that meant he might have been captured. He should have arrived earlier that morning, but there had been nothing. Nor had there been any word on the news about the recovery of the dead American soldier. There had been absolutely nothing.

And that had Abdul worried. So, while he would have preferred to take his time, he knew he had gotten as much out of this soldier as he could get. It was time to slaughter him.

Abdul pulled his knife out and stood in front of the camera to give his final speech.

* * *
Orion moved into position on the perimeter. He only wished he’d be able to take part in the actual rescue itself, but that had been given to the Delta boys. He watched as the inconspicuous van plodded its way down the street toward the warehouse.

* * *
Inside the warehouse, Hatim saw the van too. “Abdul, it’s Safwan!” he shouted back toward Abdul. Abdul cursed, knowing he’d have to delete that section from the video.

“No names!” he shouted at Hatim. Still, it was good news that Safwan had returned. That meant maybe they could wait for London’s bladder to burst after all.

* * *
The van stopped outside. Faris had already pressed the button to raise the garage door. The sun reflected off the windshield, and he couldn’t see the driver through the glare. He waved anyway.
Then the door was up and the van started forward. As it crossed by him, he realized that it wasn’t Safwan at the exact instant the soldier in the back of the van shot him.

* * *
Abdul jumped in surprise at the report. Hatim had turned for his weapon but the van door was already opening. Soldiers rushed out, guns firing. Hatim jerked as a bullet tore through his lower abdomen. He collapsed to the ground, screaming in pain.

Abdul rushed toward the prisoner, knife ready. He grabbed London’s head, raised his chin and pressed the blade toward London’s throat.

The bullet tore through his elbow and his hand went numb. The knife fell uselessly to the ground an instant before one of the Delta team struck him in the side of the head with the butt of his rifle. Abdul fell to the ground in a heap. He gazed up at London’s surprised eyes before the world faded to black.

* * *
Orion heard the radio: “We have package. Repeat, we have package. Veronica. I repeat, Veronica.”

Orion’s heart leapt at the news. Veronica was the code word meaning London was still alive. The radio continued: “We’re going to need a chopper for an immediate cas-evac.”

“Roger that. We have an LZ a block west of the warehouse. Whiskey Charlie Niner, secure LZ Alpha.”

“Roger,” Orion said into his radio. He motioned to his men. “Let’s go!”

LZ Alpha was nothing but an empty field. It was used by the children to play soccer, but they quickly scattered as the troops appeared. Orion crouched down and scanned the houses, looking for any shooters.

There were none.

He heard the chopper blades overhead. The wind kicked up from overhead as he saw the Hummer pull onto the field. The chopper dropped down quickly and the Delta troops moved the stretcher into the helicopter. It took off again quickly.

Orion fell back with his men, and they returned to their Stryker vehicle. There had been no shooting for this mission, and for that he was grateful. They had gotten London too, and that meant that Rafiq would be getting the full $20,000.

“Everyone give yourselves a hand,” he said. “Mission was a success.”

* * *
It was winter. Sergeant Mitchell London (Ret.) sat on the couch in the living room as the talking heads shouted at each other. Normally, he wouldn’t have watched any of it, but they were talking about Colonel Davis.

One of the Iraqi translators that the Army used had alleged that Davis had supervised the torture of inmates. He even had proof: a grainy, cell-phone video of waterboarding.

Davis had been court-martialed for it. London watched from his remaining eye as the media played a clip:

“We need intelligence to save lives. I did only what was necessary to save the lives of my men.”

The video of Davis stopped, replaced by the face of an analyst. “Chuck, I know the rationalization is that this saves lives. But the reality is that torturing prisoners of any kind, it’s just makes us like them.”

“That’s not fair!” Chuck shouted back. “We’re talking about waterboarding here. It doesn’t even cause physical damage.”

“It’s equivalent. If we accept this there is no difference between us and them.”

“There is obviously a difference. There’s a difference between something that causes no physical harm and the torture Al Qaeda does: eye extractions, limb removal—”

“I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for now,” the main talking head broke in. “A controversial subject to say the least. Is waterboarding equivalent to torture or not? Call in and give us your opinion.”

London would have done just that. But he had no fingers to dial with.

With Memorial Day upon us, I thought I would share some excerpts from the latest novel I am working on. Since a portion of the events take place in Iraq, and since we don’t often hear stories of what it is like over there (other than from Michael Yon), I thought this fictional-yet-realistic account might serve some purpose. Remember our troops!

Posting this section does require a few caveats. 1) This is nowhere near a final draft version. 2) This is only a fraction of the opening part of the novel. 3) The full novel will probably not be finished for some time. 4) While a Sgt. from Fort Carson did look over this text for me and told me that it was realistic, any inaccuracies in military tactics, hardware, etc. remain my full responsibility. 5) Finally, this is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

May God watch over our armed forces!

—

06/04/06 0542h local

Ahmed knew he was about to die.

He sat calmly in the driver’s seat and watched the early morning sun peek out above the small brick buildings that formed the skyline. Ahmed marveled that this would be his last sunrise.

His death did not bother him. It was the will of Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate. The only thing to give him pause was the fact that he would be unable to ceremonially wash before he met Allah since that would give it all away. But it was a necessary sin, one that Allah would forgive, for Allah had Understanding and Wisdom too.

Ahmed turned his car into an alley and parked by one of the thousands of unimpressive mud-brick structures that dotted the capital city of Baghdad. He turned to the back of the vehicle and pressed the spring lever on the package. Then, Ahmed got out of the car and entered the structure he had parked next to.

A few minutes later, he stood on the flat roof overlooking the alley where he had parked. Ahmed walked to the edge of the roof and judged the distance to the ground.

It was more than ten meters, Allah be praised.

Ahmed sat down at the edge of the roof and let his feet hang off into space. Beside him was the promised duffle bag. Ahmed glanced at the sun once more, let the light play on his face in its soothing dance. Then he opened the duffle bag.

Inside, he found the uniform. It was the dreaded swine uniform of the Israeli Defense Force. Next to the IDF uniform was a large blue and white flag that bore the oppressive six-pointed Star of David.

Ahmed had to choke down the bile in his throat. He’d rather have the crescent moon than the cursed six-point star. But at least Allah knew he did not want to defile himself in this manner. Allah the Merciful would forgive this too.

Quickly, Ahmed changed into the uniform. Then he picked up the last items from the bag: an RPG with a single round, four hand grenades, and a fully loaded Uzi with three spare clips.

Ahmed was ready to meet Allah.

Four miles away, Mas’ud ibn Akilah climbed into the back of the Toyota 4-Runner. He held a newspaper in his hand, a copy of the current edition of The Wall Street Journal. Mas’ud always made sure he knew what was happening in the world. Knowledge was power; ignorance, death.

Mas’ud knew this more than anyone in his government. A Shiite cleric, he had preached for three years against the United States’ occupation. At first, many of his fellow brothers had been fooled into believing Iraq was better without the dictator, but Mas’ud showed them the truth. The dictator had been replaced by a dictator of a different sort.

Iraq used to be the cradle of civilization. It had been Arabs who had invented algebra. They had been the forefront of the world. Baghdad herself was queen and envied by all.

Now she lay occupied by forces from beyond the sea, enslaved to Democratic ideals unknown before. Now that the elections had been held, people were waking up to the truth. Voting hadn’t ended the occupation. The puppet government was groveling in fear, like a woman.

Mas’ud’s message was getting more popular by the hour. That was why he kept abreast on news from America, because knowledge was power.

Mas’ud didn’t notice when his driver took a different route than normal.

It was already hot on the roof. Ahmed cursed the heat, wished he wasn’t in the IDF uniform. The heat was bad enough without the added Zionist insult.

But it would be over soon. Soon he would be in Paradise with 72 virgins waiting for him. All he had to do was to complete his fate.

The rumble of an engine reached his ears. He climbed to his feet and readied the RPG.

Nasir stopped the Toyota and glanced into the rearview mirror. Mas’ud was still engrossed in the American paper. The fool had not noticed the vehicle had stopped.

Nasir glanced out the window toward the roof where Ahmed would be hidden.

Why hadn’t he fired yet?

Nasir’s earpiece suddenly crackled. “Why have you stopped?”

Nasir paused for a second. He had hoped he wouldn’t need to respond, but Ahmed still had not acted. Behind him in a second Toyota were Mas’ud’s bodyguards, and they were getting anxious.

“There’s a dog in the road,” Nasir finally said. He kept an eye in the mirror, but Mas’ud did not appear to care about the one side of the conversation he could hear.

The contempt in the response was palpable: “Run it over! We can’t be late.”

Nasir swallowed. Where was Ahmed? “I’m not going to kill this dog! It’s some child’s—”

His voice was cut off by the explosion.

The RPG had been a dud. Ahmed tried to fire it twice with no success. And there below him was the perfect target, idling and waiting.

He was forced to implement Plan B.

Ahmed took two of his hand grenades, pulled the pins, and let them drop from the roof. They both rolled under the Toyota and came to a stop. Ahmed waited in tense anticipation.

The explosion lifted the 4-Runner several feet into the air. Ahmed instantly leapt to his feet and began to pour down fire from his Uzi into the ceiling of the smoking Toyota. He heard the stunned shouts from the cleric’s bodyguards. Then, seconds later, the patter of bullets across the face of the brick building he stood on.

Ahmed ignored the bullets and reloaded his Uzi. He fired again and watched the windows of the vehicle burst into thousands of white crystals.

Sudden pain erupted in his shoulder. Ahmed spun to the left on impact. Even before he stopped moving, a second bullet struck him below the ribs. Ahmed dropped his Uzi and pitched forward. He landed against the edge of the roof. He exhaled painfully and looked out into space. He only had one last thing to do.

Ahmed rolled to the side and pitched off the roof. As he fell, the flag attached to his belt unfurled behind him. Ahmed saw the ground rushing up at him.

Allahu akbar, he thought. Then he struck the ground by the smoking Toyota.

The guards rushed toward the vehicle. Even though the Israeli terrorist was obviously dead, they shot the corpse repeatedly. One of the guards turned to the smoking 4-Runner. He saw Nasir slumped in the driver’s seat.

“You were in on this!” the guard spat. He jerked the door open and shot Nasir in the head to make sure he was dead.

There was a moan from the back seat. Mas’ud was still alive!

The guard pulled the door open. Mas’ud had been severely hurt, but he was still conscious. “Come on, sir,” the guard said. “We need to get off this street. There could be more assassins.”

The guard helped Mas’ud out. The cleric stood on wobbly feet then fell against a car parked there in the alley. He felt a trickle of blood sting his eye. He reached up and rubbed it carefully. Suddenly, he noticed the package in the seat of the car holding him up. It had a digital clock.

It was at 0:02.

Mas’ud didn’t even have a chance to warn anyone before it exploded.

06/04/06 0934h local

Lt. Jamison Orion stirred in his cot. He had only gotten two hours of sleep, and already Sgt. Travis Vincent was waking him.

“What is it?” Jamie asked.

“Sorry, sir. Col. Harrison needs you ASAP.”

Jamie nodded and sat up. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Five hours ago, he had been with his squad outside the villa of Ghalib Talib. Talib was quite the arms dealer. He supplied the militia with RPGs, AK47s, and an assortment of electronics that could be used to make IEDs.

He was also known to pay children five dollars to throw live grenades at US troops.

Jamie’s unit had tracked him down last night. Unfortunately, Talib didn’t feel like talking and had opened fire on them.

He only ceased when one of his own grenades blew a chunk of brick into his forehead. Jamie had spent several hours at the hospital, but Talib was out cold. The doctors had told him to rest so he’d be fresh to interrogate Talib when the insurgent came to.

Apparently, Col. Harrison had other ideas. Jamie had a sinking feeling it had to do with Talib. He had been plotting something big, and if they couldn’t interrogate him soon, the plotters could escape.

Jamie followed Sgt. Vincent into the large warehouse that held Operation Paladin’s headquarters. Due to the sensitivity of the electronic equipment inside, the warehouse was abundantly air conditioned, making it a popular spot.

For those with the clearance to get in, anyway.

Jamie had clearance. He was the point man for the infantry squad that did the grunt work in Operation Paladin, which meant he could get into the conference and briefing room. Even though it wasn’t high clearance, it was still better than sitting outside in a tent.

He took a seat at the table in the conference room. He only had a minute to wait before Col. Harrison entered.

“Hello, Lt. Orion,” the Colonel, an affable man with bulging muscles and a tight buzz-cut, said.

“Sir,” Jamie said, standing and giving the man a salute.

“We have a problem.”

Jamie nodded. “The doctors said he’ll recover.”

“What?”

“Talib. The doctors say he’ll wake soon and we can interrogate him.”

Col. Harrison waved his hand dismissively. “Forget Talib. He’s small potatoes. No, this morning at about oh-seven hundred, Mas’ud ibn Akilah was assassinated by someone carrying an Israeli flag and wearing an IDF uniform.”

Jamie’s blood turned cold. Col. Harrison continued: “Al-Haqq Television is airing video of the attack. You still have a friend working there?”

Jamie nodded. “Yes, Rafiq still works there.”

“Good. See if you can get a copy of the entire video. Supposedly, it was shot by someone at a birthday party for his daughter. But for some reason, I think I’ll stay skeptical.”

“Yes, sir,” Jamie said. The Colonel had good reason to be suspicious. If the Israelis had been behind the attack they hardly would have used their own uniforms. Of course it was always possible that a radical Jewish fringe element was involved. Jamie knew he had to keep an open mind and not make assumptions.

“Very well, then. Make the call.” Col. Harrison left the room. Jamie picked up the phone that was there in the conference room and dialed the number for Al-Haqq Television. After a short wait, he was put through to Rafiq.

“Salaam, Rafiq.”

“Salaam, my good friend Yeshua.” Ever since Rafiq had heard Jamie was a Christian, he referred to the Lieutenant as Yeshua, the Semitic name for Jesus. Jamie still wasn’t sure if it was meant as a friendly banter or a term of derision.

“Rafiq, I need to speak with you.”

There was laughter on the other end of the line. “You will not persuade me to abandon Allah that easily, Yeshua.”

Jamie smiled despite himself. “No, this is business.”

“Whatever could you mean?”

“I hear you’ve been airing the assassination of Mas’ud.”

“Ah, the video. This time, my Christian friend, you can’t excuse the Jews for what they did. Mas’ud was a very popular cleric and the Jews slaughtered him like a dog.”

“Well, that remains to be seen. Listen, my government would like to verify the tape.”

“You mean refute it.”

“No, we want to know the truth.”

Rafiq laughed. “You are so…what’s the word? Knave?”

“I think you mean naive.”

“Thank you, Yeshua. Yes, you are naive, and…innocent. You actually believe that your government is interested in the truth.”

Jamie sighed. He didn’t want to get into that particular debate with the Arab. “Look, can we have a copy of the tape?”

“We are airing it. You’ve already recorded that, I’m sure.”

“Yes, but we need to see the whole thing.”

Rafiq was silent for a moment. “Perhaps if it is the will of Allah I can do this for you. If it is His will, He will show me.”

Jamie recognized Rafiq’s ploy. “Five hundred dollars.”

“Fine,” he said. “Stop by in a half hour.”

“Thank you, Rafiq.”

“Only for you I do this, Yeshua. Allah knows I deserve something for helping another one of the People of the Book.”

“You’ll get it,” Jamie said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“If it is Allah’s will, who am I to stand in the way?”

“Okay, here’s the whole tape,” Jamie said as he re-entered the conference room. “It’s got five minutes of video before the attack.”

Jamie put the cassette into the VCR that would also feed into a computer to make a digital copy. Then he sat at the table. Beside him, a young Iraqi woman named Tahirah listened intently to the tape. “They are discussing Zahrah’s birth celebration,” she said. “Zahrah is the little one there.”

The screen showed a small girl, about eight years old. She was smiling exuberantly in the typical fashion that children did at birthday parties. It was a universal, worldwide event.

“They are speaking of food,” Tahirah said, her face wrinkled in concentration.

The tape suddenly cut. Now it showed an alley. There was a car parked there but it was otherwise bare. The camera panned over and the entire group could be seen. There were six total, one boy, two girls and three women. Adding the cameraman in, seven people were there. They were chattering excitedly, and Tahirah could not keep up with an instant translation.

Behind them, a car pulled into the alley and came to a stop. The camera panned back to the young girl. The commotion continued with lots of cross-talk before the camera focused on Zahrah.

“‘Mother, mother, do you really think I’ll get my own horse?’” Tahirah translated, now that she had a specific voice she could focus on. “‘I want—’”

The explosion cut off dialogue. It was followed by wordless terror as the group took cover. The camera panned out to the alley and zoomed up to the figure on the roof shooting an Uzi at the stricken vehicle.

The camera was jumpy, but the action was clear. The shooter took a couple of hits then fell off the roof. The Israeli flag was captured perfectly in the frame.

There was a chaotic flurry of activity around the car, a sudden gun shot as one of the guards fired into the vehicle, and then Mas’ud was pulled out of the stricken vehicle.

Seconds later, the car that had been parked in the alley exploded. The cameraman dropped the camera in shock and the video turned to snow.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Col. Harrison said. “Al-Haqq is only airing up to when the killer fell off the roof. I had assumed Mas’ud was killed by the shooting, but he obviously survived until the car bomb.”

“Who did the guard shoot before he pulled Mas’ud out?” Sgt. Vincent asked.

“I’m not sure,” Jamie responded. He looked at the digital copy they had recorded in the computer and slid the progress bar back. Then, he moved it forward frame by frame.

“He shot the driver,” Sgt. Vincent said. “He must have been in on the assassination!”

“That makes it less likely this was an Israeli action,” Col. Harrison said.

“Unless it was a rogue Mossad sleeper cell,” Jamie pointed out.

“Always the spoil-sport, Lieutenant,” the Colonel responded.

“No sir. Just a realist. We can’t assume anything.”

“Alright, let’s see if we can ID the shooter then. Any shots of his face?”

“No, I watched for that,” Sgt. Vincent replied. “We only got a profile.”

Jamie suddenly looked up. “Wait a second. When did the car show up? The one carrying Mas’ud?”

He scrolled back until he got it in frame. “Okay, the shooter is on this building,” Jamie continued. “Let’s see if he accidentally recorded anything in the peripherals.” Jamie started the video again. They watched as the camera moved, the roof of the building swinging into frame.

“There!” Sgt. Vincent exclaimed. The shooter had just dropped an RPG and was pulling out a grenade. While he was seen for less than a second as the camera continued its pan, he had turned and his face was caught.

“Zoom in,” Col. Harrison ordered. Jamie was already on it. In seconds, the face appeared.

“Recognize him?” Col. Harrison asked. The other two men shook their heads. “Okay, well let’s get that into the facial recognition program and see if we get a hit.”

Jamie typed in a command and the picture was emailed to the processing department. Jamie reset the zoom to normal, pressed Play again, and they watched the assassination unfold a second time.

“Wait! Go back!”

Jamie was startled by the command. He looked at Tahirah. “What did you see?”

“No,” she said. “Not see. Listen. To the little boy, just before the explosion.”

Jamie played it. Tahirah shook her head in frustration. “I can’t make it all out.”

Col. Harrison looked at Jamie. “Can you filter the sounds, get it clearer?”

Jamie pulled up the EQ. Then, he looped the film for ten seconds and began to fiddle with the settings.

“There! The boy says, ‘Why are we here? It’s not.’”

“Not what?”

“That’s where it repeats back.”

Jamie expanded the range of the loop.

“‘It’s not Zahrah’s birthday’! Keep it playing.”

Jamie did so as Tahirah listened and continued to translate. “A woman says, ‘Get back behind the metal! It will happen soon. You must stay—’ Then there is the explosion.”

Jamie looked at Tahirah, then Col. Harrison. “The people who filmed this knew what would happen. This was staged.”

Col. Harrison nodded. “I told you it wasn’t Israel. Call Rafiq back and see if he’ll divulge who gave the tape.”

06/04/06 1327h local

The Humvee pulled to a stop outside the television studio and Lt. Jamison Orion exited the vehicle. He entered the main office and said, “I need to see Rafiq.”

He was ushered into a conference room. Moments later, Rafiq appeared. “I did not expect to see you again so soon, Yeshua. Come to evangelize me now?”

“I’m pressed for time,” Jamie responded. “I need to know who the cameraman was.”

Rafiq shook his head. “No, I cannot tell you that. I would already lose my job for giving you the tape. This would get me in even more trouble if an innocent man was harassed because I gave you his name.”

“Rafiq, the people who made that tape are behind the assassination.”

“You come in here and lie to me?” Rafiq stood abruptly in offense.

“It’s not a lie. Listen closely to the audio just before the assassination. The woman talking to her son knows there’s about to be an explosion.”

Rafiq snorted. “Woman? Bah, you can’t trust a woman.”

“Rafiq, I need the name of who gave you the tape.”

“Allah knows such a thing is very dangerous.”

Jack pulled out the envelope. “Another five hundred.”

“I don’t know,” Rafiq muttered. “It is not a question of money.”

“What is it then?”

Rafiq turned away from Jamie. “Yeshua,” he said after a moment, “I cannot tell you what you need. They will kill me.”

“Who? Who will kill you?” Jamie frowned at his friend. “You are the one who told me, ‘I will die when Allah wills.’ Why are you suddenly afraid of death?”

Rafiq didn’t answer. Instead, he started out of the conference room. He touched the door knob, and then turned back. “Yeshua, if I tell you this, you will be killed.”

So that was it. “I can take care of myself.”

“No, you will act on this information. They will kill you.”

Jamie said nothing. Rafiq was in deep deliberation. Then, he finally sighed and said, “The man who filmed the attack is named Hadi. He is part of the militia and will kill you if you try to speak to him. His favorite wife was killed by a US soldier, and he hates all of you now.”

Jamie nodded. “Where does he live?”

Rafiq stared at Jamie for a moment. “Why are you so eager to die?”

“I will die if it is God’s will, yes?”

Rafiq stared for a moment then laughed. “Very well. He lives two kilometers south of the bridge outside. I will get you his address. And Yeshua?”

“Yes, Rafiq?”

“May we meet once more in Paradise. Because I don’t think we shall ever meet here again.”

Rafiq turned and exited the room.

It was a stark and desolate neighborhood. Sgt. Travis Vincent drove the Humvee through the winding streets until he came to a stop outside a low brick structure.

“Alright, gentlemen, stay alert,” Jamie warned. He glanced to the backseat where the two Privates and the Corporal sat. Cpl. Logan Dyer and Pfc. Frank Jeter had been with Jamie through several ops. But between them, straight off the LoDo streets of Denver, was a greenie, Pvt. Alistair Conway.

Conway was a piece of work. His first day in, he asked everyone why it was so hot in the desert.

“Because it’s a desert,” Sgt. Vincent had snapped.

Conway already had a nickname, one that would stick: Alice. It was based off his first name and their complete lack of respect for the eighteen-year-old.

Nicknames were commonly used among the men—sometimes even more so than their real names. Dyer was Killroy; Jeter was Yankee; Vincent was Chrome Dome due to his shaved head; and Jamie, coming from Alaska, was Snowman.

“Sure thing, L.T.” Conway responded. “Hey, that’s cool. You’re a Lieutenant—L.T.—and a Team Leader—T.L.”

Jamie managed not to roll his eyes.

The four exited their vehicle. Conway and Jeter were each armed with M16s. Dyer carried the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW), and Vincent, always a fan of big explosions, had the M203 grenade launcher. Jamie himself carried an MP5, which just felt way too comfortable in his hands.

After them, Abu al Khayr, their unarmed translator, followed. Despite being unarmed, he was still dressed in body armor.

“Killroy, watch the flank,” Vincent ordered, and Dyer immediately turned with his SAW. The others each took a forward sector while al Khayr walked next to Jamie and they proceeded to the door. There, they stacked up to the right. Jamie knocked on the door.

“Hadi, are you in there?”

Al Khayr repeated the question in Arabic.

There was silence. Jamie and al Khayr repeated the question again.

They could hear movement from inside. Then, the door slowly opened. It was one of the women from the tape. She quickly said something in Arabic.

“She says, ‘There is no Hadi here. You must be mistaken.’”

Jamie replied, “We know Hadi made the tape. We need to speak to him.” Al Khayr quickly translated.

The woman shook her head quickly, said something, and slammed the door.

“She said, ‘There is no tape.’”

Jamie knocked on the door again. “Open the door or we will break it down.”

There was silence from inside. Jamie turned to the others. “Okay, get ready for full breach.”

Jamie stepped back. “Hey, Tango!” Dyer suddenly cried out. The others quickly turned. An Iraqi man walked forward, arms raised. “You seek Hadi?”

“Yes,” Jamie said quickly. “Does he live here?”

“Hadi will not speak with you. But perhaps I can help.”

“I doubt that,” Jamie said. He turned to the others. “Full breach.”

“You said something about a tape? You mean the one on TV, with the Zionist. I know things about this tape.”

Jamie turned back to the Iraqi. “Like what?”

“Like how Hadi was paid $10,000 for it.”

“By the TV station, right?”

The Iraqi laughed. “No. He was paid a week ago. In cash.”

Jamie looked at the others. Perhaps this could be a good lead.

“I’m listening.”

“It is not so simple,” the Iraqi said. “If I tell you, I am in trouble with Hadi. He has an extra $10,000 now too. What do I have? Just my robe. How can I survive?”

Jamie sighed. “What do you want?”

“One thousand.”

“Forget it,” Jamie said.

“It is a pittance for you Americans. And you will want my information.”

Jamie looked at the man. “We don’t have any money with us. Besides, I’ll need to get approval to deal with you.”

The man smiled. “Is no problem. You get money and come back here, to that house. I wait for you there.”

The man turned and ran off. Jamie looked at his men for a moment. “Okay, let’s talk to Harrison.”

06/04/06 1411h local

“Do you think he’s reliable?” Col. Harrison asked.

“I don’t know,” Jamie responded. “But he did know about the tape.”

“Although we mentioned tape in the first place,” Sgt. Vincent pointed out. “He could be conning us.”

“And a thousand dollars seems a little steep, too,” Jamie continued. “Which is why, as I said, I’m not sure if we can trust him.”

Harrison rubbed his chin. “We need more info. Go back and tell him if he wants anything from us, he has to prove his value.”

“Yes, sir,” Jamie said. He turned to Vincent. “Get the team and mount up.”

“And Lieutenant?” Harrison continued.

“Sir?”

“I have a bad feeling about this. Be careful.”

“Yes sir,” Jamie said with a salute.

“Okay, here’s the street,” Vincent said. He turned the Humvee and pulled into the small road.

“Stay alert,” Jamie cautioned the others. He scanned the houses as the Humvee moved toward their destination. Thus far, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Here we are,” Vincent said. They stopped at the house the Iraqi had told them earlier.

“Watch your sectors.”

The men quickly got out of the vehicle and started to the house, weapons at the ready.

Jamie knocked on the door. After a few seconds, it opened. The Iraqi man smiled at them and motioned them in.

“You have the money then?”

“Not so fast,” Jamie said. “We need to verify the information you have is accurate. Start talking.”

“Not before you pay.”

“Give me a reason to pay you,” Jamie replied, his hands folded across his chest.

The Iraqi looked wounded. “I can tell you things.”

“My grandma can tell me things,” Vincent put in.

Jamie said, “You’re not getting anything until we know you have something worth paying a thousand dollars for.”

The Iraqi sighed. “Okay, I know where Hadi lives.”

“We know that too. He lives right next door.”

“No,” the Iraqi said. “That is his brother’s wife. Hadi lives in a different place.”

Jamie looked at his Sergeant. “I don’t know. Do you think that’s worth a thousand dollars?”

Vincent shook his head. “It’s a waste of time.”

“I know who killed Mas’ud! His name is Ahmed!”

Jamie looked back at the Iraqi. “Is this him?” He showed a picture of the shooter they had isolated from the video frames.

“I don’t know what he looks like. I only know Hadi said he would pay ten thousand dollars to his brother’s wife if her friend Ahmed killed Mas’ud.”

“We’ll need to verify that.”

“Go ask her then! She lives there, across the street!”

Jamie looked at Vincent again. “Okay. If this is true, you call this number and Col. Harrison will give you a thousand dollars,” Jamie said, handing the man a business card. “Let’s go, Chrome Dome.”

They stepped out of the house and into the street.

Seconds later, a gunshot sounded.

06/04/06 1519h local

The gunshot had come from the house they had first though was Hadi’s, but which the Iraqi informant had said was Hadi’s sister-in-law’s.

“Cover!” Jamie shouted even before the gunshot died out. He and Vincent took cover behind a dusty wagon in the alley. Dyer jumped into a doorway. Conway, al Khayr, and Jeter ducked behind a rubble pile near the Humvee.

There was silence. Jamie looked through the space between the wagon and the wall of the house. He could see nothing. The street was silent, still.

Jamie turned and motioned for Dyer. Using hand signals, he told the twenty-year-old to cover the end of the alley with the SAW. Then he signaled to the others behind the rubble pile. Only al Khayr didn’t understand the command: bound to the rear of the house.

Conway and Jeter began to move. Al Khayr looked at Jamie, fear in his eyes. He was a translator, not a soldier. Jamie waved for him to stay put.

Conway and Jeter had reached the corner at the rear of the house. Jeter took a quick glance around the edge then signaled it was all clear. The two soldiers turned to cover the others.

Jamie started down the alley with Vincent. He waved for al Khayr to join him and the Iraqi quickly ran over. Together, they reached Conway and Jeter before they covered Dyer’s approach.

When they were all together, Jamie whispered, “We’re gonna go in the back door. Keep it stealthy unless you have contact.”

The others nodded. Jamie grabbed al Khayr’s shoulder, “Stay here until we secure the building.”

Al Khayr nodded, his face pale and sweaty. Jamie glanced around the corner, and then moved around it. Vincent followed with the M203. Finally, Jeter moved after Chrome Dome. Conway and Dyer hung back to provide cover.

There still hadn’t been a sound since the gunshot. Jamie felt a bead of sweat trickle near his eye. He blinked and kept glancing around the alley.

The three stopped just past the back door of the house. They divided into sectors and covered Conway and Dyer as they made their way to the doorway too.

When they were ready, Jamie tried the door. It swung open and they could hear a young child crying. Slowly, the soldiers filed in, checking corners and securing the rooms.

The body was in the front room. It was the woman who had answered the door when they had knocked earlier. A blood trail led back down a hall, where the young girl from the video, Zahrah, sat sobbing uncontrollably.

The soldiers quickly checked the remaining rooms. They were all clear. Jamie turned to Dyer: “Killroy, you and Yankee go get al Khayr.” Jeter and Dyer rushed to go get the translator.

Jamie knelt by the young Iraqi girl. “It’s okay,” he whispered gently. She just continued to cry.

Seconds later, Dyer and Jeter returned with al Khayr. The Iraqi man looked somewhat shaken. Jamie couldn’t blame him.

“We need you to translate with her,” Jamie said, pointing at Zahrah. “Ask her if she saw what happened to the woman.”

Al Khayr did so, and the girl responded. “She says that’s her mother, and Uncle Hadi shot her.”

“Hadi? So he was here. Did she see where he went?”

The girl pointed down the street. Jamie picked up his radio: “Black Raven, Black Raven, this is Red Robin.”

After a pause: “Red Robin, this is Black Raven.”

“Black Raven, we have a murder here, and it was apparently done by Night Stalker, over.”

“Copy. Did you say ‘Night Stalker’ or did you mean ‘Night Hawk’?”

Jamie rolled his eyes. Keeping track of all the codes was hard enough without some Pfc. correcting him. “Roger, that’s Night Hawk. He has reportedly gone south from here.”

“Copy.”

“Hey, Snowman! We got a portrait of Ben Franklin here! Make that two!”

Jamie turned and walked to the kitchen where Jeter had called out. Two one hundred dollar bills lay on the floor under the edge of the refrigerator. That was a lot of money, especially in U.S. funds, to find in an Iraqi home.

“We got more than that,” Vincent replied. He had opened the cabinet and taken down a jar. “I’d say there’s at least two grand here.”

Jamie rubbed his chin, then called it in to Black Raven. They were going to confiscate it for evidence; it could be funds paid for making the video.

Jamie returned to al Khayr and Zahrah. “She saying much?”

“No,” al Khayr replied. “Just that her uncle made her get up early and pretend today is her birthday. Then he killed her mother.”

“Okay, we’re gonna take her back to base. Make sure she understands we won’t hurt her.”

Al Khayr began to whisper in her ear. Jamie’s radio suddenly flared to life. It was Blue Jay, the men in Bravo Team for this mission. They had set up a perimeter three blocks around the house.

“Red Robin, this is Blue Jay. We’ve got a guy out for a stroll with an AK two blocks west of your position. Moving to intercept.”

“Copy. We’re leaving now anyway. We’ve got a civilian with us.” Jamie released the radio lever. “Come on, ladies. Let’s pack it up.”

Jamie looked down at Zahrah. The young girl still had tears making their dreadful way down her cheeks. Suddenly, the girl broke away from al Khayr and raced over to Jamie. She fell to the floor and wrapped her arms around his left leg.

“It’s okay,” Jamie said. He helped her to her feet as he motioned toward the others to leave. Zahrah kept a grip on Jamie’s arm, and he led her to the front door.

06/04/06 1602h local

Hadi was a patient man.

When the Americans had murdered his wife of six years earlier last year, he had not exacted revenge then. Not in the heat of the moment when passions made a man foolish.

But he knew sometime he would strike. And it showed the wisdom of Allah that it was actually an American who had provided the way for him to strike back, all by asking him to do one job and to make sure it was filmed.

Hadi knew that the American government would be suspicious of the tape. That was why he had used his real name when he gave the tape to Al-Haqq. He knew the Americans would come to investigate.

So he had set his little trap. And to make sure the Americans would come, he had shot his sister-in-law in the head.

As he thought about it now, he realized he could have just fired the gun into the ceiling and the soldiers would still have come running.

But Allah was in control. It was His will that Hadi kill the woman, otherwise it wouldn’t have happened.

Now it was almost time. Hadi had seen the Americans three blocks away setting up their surveillance. He had sent Ibrahim running down the road with his AK47 as a diversion. Now, he just had to wait.

And Hadi was a patient man.

Jamie watched his men file out in front of him. Then he stepped out with Zahrah still holding on to his hand. The girl smiled up at him and suddenly stumbled.

It saved his life.

Jamie reached for the girl and felt the sudden fire erupt in his left bicep. An instant later, he heard the shot. At the same moment, Vincent cried out: “Sniper!”

The men looked for cover, but there was precious little there in front of the house. “Fall back,” Jamie ordered, and in the confusion raced back into the house without Zahrah. The others followed as a second shot struck the wall near the door.

“Where was he shooting from?” Jamie snapped.

“Southwest building, near the roof, sir,” Jeter responded.

“Did you get a visual?”

“Negative. Based on sound.”

“Okay.”

“Tango!” Dyer cried out. “Corner window on the southwest building.”

Dyer ducked back down behind the window sill.

“Yankee, can you get a shot?” Jamie asked. Jeter had gotten the highest marks on the shooting course—even higher than Jamie’s score.

“I can try.”

“Alright, Killroy, head down the hall and put that SAW in that window. Prepare to cover if Yankee misses.”

Jeter edged forward. He crouched by the window sill in the living room and took aim.

Hadi had waited until he saw Zahrah. She had picked the leader, just like she was supposed to. Unfortunately, she fell right as he took his shot.

But not all was lost. The Americans had run back into the house, just like they should have. Hadi simply picked up his cell phone and waited to see someone standing by the window sill.

Jeter took aim. The Tango still hadn’t popped back up. Jeter was getting nervous. All the glass above his head did nothing to stop a bullet. Instead, it became flying glass shards to join the party. If the Tango didn’t pop up soon, Jeter was getting to some place with more cover.

He saw movement. The sniper had relocated to a different window toward the center of the building. Jeter would have to be quick. With the butt of his M16, he broke the glass window and still moving fast, got the Tango in his sites.

But it didn’t matter, because at that instant Hadi hit the Send button on his cell phone.

The explosion obliterated the front of the house where Jeter had stood.

06/04/06 1619h local

“Give me suppression fire on that building!” Jamie screamed. The others hesitated for a moment, slightly shocked by the explosion, and then opened fire.

Jamie rushed over to Jeter. The man was out cold, and the pool of blood left no doubt he was badly injured. The bomb had been beside his right leg; the explosion had severed it just above the knee. Shrapnel ran up his other leg.

Jamie grabbed him under the shoulders and dragged him deeper into the house. “Cease fire,” he ordered his men. It was deathly quiet. He took the radio: “Black Raven, this is Red Robin, we—”

Machine gun fire suddenly erupted from across the road. “We’re under fire and need a med-evac ASAP!”

Jamie released the radio. The house was far too open now that the entire front face had been blown away. “We’ve got to get out of here, find some cover.”

“Sir, what about Yankee?” Dyer shouted. “Look at his leg!”

“I know! Get a tourniquet on him.”

Vincent was already on it. “What’s that yellow powder?” Dyer continued. “WMD?”

“Rat poison. It’s an anti-coagulant to make him bleed to death. Let’s go!”

The soldiers rushed out the back of the house, Vincent carrying Jeter.

Gunfire erupted from both directions down the alley. Jamie turned and kicked open the door of a nearby stone storehouse. They rushed in to take defensive positions. Outside, the insurgents moved too.

“Blue, we are pinned down! Can you get to us? We need a medic!” Jamie shouted into the radio. There was silence for a moment.

“Negative, Red. We’ve got four Tangos barricaded here overlooking the road. We have to neutralize them before we’re clear.”

“Copy.” Jamie turned to Vincent. “We’ve got to stabilize him here.”

Vincent nodded. Jamie turned to the others. “Killroy, keep your SAW on that doorway. The rest of you, watch the windows.”

Dyer’s SAW erupted with a roar. “Tango down,” he called out.

Jamie ducked down by the window. “Blue, we’ve got two—make that three Tangos on the roof of the building across from us. Let me know when you’re coming so we can suppress.”

Jamie leaned back and checked his MP5. Bullets slammed into the wall over his head. Jamie fired a few rounds toward the men on the roof. He saw movement in the house they had just evacuated.

“Alistair! Toss a frag in there,” Jamie ordered.

There was no response.

“Alistair?” Jamie prodded. “Alice, toss a frag now!”

But Conway had gone rabbit on them. His eyes were open but he saw nothing. His face was slack, drool on his lips. The front of his pants were wet with urine.

“Alistair!” Jamie snapped.

“I’ve got it, sir,” Vincent said. He pulled out a grenade and stood up to throw it.

“Tango! Tango! Tango!” Dyer cried out. His voice was cut off by the shotgun blast. Sgt. Vincent grunted and fell back, his grenade falling to the floor.

“Grenade!” Jamie screamed. Dyer’s SAW had walked into the insurgent and Jamie wasn’t sure he had been heard. He was already moving though, and he picked up Vincent’s grenade and threw it side-arm out the door. It went off before it hit the ground.

Jamie jumped back as bullets kicked up dust in the doorway. He ran over to Vincent.

The sergeant rolled on the ground in agony. Jamie knelt by him, looked for the wound.

It was under Vincent’s body armor. The metal plate had ridden up as Vincent stood to toss the grenade, and he had been hit in the lower abdomen.

Jamie tore Vincent’s shirt open and pulled the metal plate off. There was a six inch long gash an inch wide on his abdomen.

Even worse, Jamie could see Vincent’s pulse. He had nicked an artery.

Jamie moved quickly, thrusting his hand into the wound. He pinched the artery.

“Red, thus is Blue. We’re pinned down. Can you evac toward us?”

Jamie spat and grabbed his radio with his free hand. “Negative! We have two criticals here. If we move, they die.”

“Red, are you positive you can’t move?”

“I’m holding Sgt. Vincent’s artery closed with my fingers,” Jamie shouted. “We cannot move!”

“Roger that.”

“Black Raven,” Jamie continued, “we need a med-evac now!”

“Red Robin, we are coming as fast as we can. It won’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

He doesn’t have fifteen minutes, Jamie thought. Oh, Lord, help me. Please God, save him.

Outside, the AK47s roared.

Hadi moved through the building toward the storage shed. He met Zahrah on the ground floor.

“Well done, my daughter.”

Zahrah beamed a smile at him.

“You run home now,” Hadi said, running his hand through her hair. Then, he chambered a round and left the girl.

Across the street he could hear the roar of the big gun the soldiers had—the one they called the SAW—but that was it. The other guns had fallen silent. Three men lay dead near the entrance to the small stone building the Americans had foolishly entered. Now they were trapped.

Hadi rushed across the street and into the house by the storehouse. He waited for a minute, and then ran out, keeping near the wall, out of view from the Americans.

He paused under the window. Then, he slowly stood, peeking in.

The soldier he had shot in the arm had his back to Hadi. He was tending to a fallen comrade.

Hadi aimed his rifle. Zahrah’s stumble had caused him to miss the leader the first time.

She wasn’t here to spoil this shot.

Jamie had never been so scared. He had always assumed his fear would be for himself, but that wasn’t the case.

Jamie had made his peace with God. But he knew Vincent had not. So as he crouched there over Vincent’s body, his fingers plugging the man’s artery, he continued to pray, not knowing what else to do.

Behind him, the shadow rose. There was a gunshot, and Jamie jerked in shock.

“Tango down!” Alistair Conway said, his trembling hands pointing his M16 toward the window.

Jamie turned back to Vincent. “Hang on, Chrome Dome. Hang on.”

“Red, this is Blue. We’re on our way. Are there still Tangos on the roof?”

Jamie heard his radio, called out to Dyer: “How many Tangos left?”

“Two, sir.”

Jamie repeated it into the radio.

“We’re right behind you now. Can you suppress so we can flank?”

Dyer called out, “I’m on my last box.”

“We’ll do it,” Jamie said. He kicked his MP5 over to Dyer. “Use that and save the SAW. Alistair, suppress with him.”

The two men opened fire toward the Tangos on the roof to make them duck down. A second later, Jamie’s radio flared: “We’re in position.”

“Cease fire,” Jamie ordered. The Tangos on the roof popped back up. An instant later, Blue Jay opened fire from the building on their flank.

“Both Tangos down!” they heard a voice call out. Then Jamie’s radio: “Red, hold fire. We’re coming from the south.”

“Roger,” Jamie said. To the others, he said, “Hold fire to the south.”

Outside there were some footsteps, then a man in fatigues.

It was the medic. He rushed over to Jamie’s side. “Okay, pull your hand out.”

Jamie did. A spurt of blood followed. The medic moved quickly to clamp the artery. Then he started an IV. “Hold this,” he said, giving the bag to Jamie. Then the medic moved over to Jeter and started an IV there too.

Overhead, they heard the sound of propellers. Then a Black Hawk appeared low over the rooftops. There were a couple of gunshots, and one of the Blue Jay team called out, “Tango down!”

“Let’s get these men to the chopper,” the medic said as the Black Hawk settled at the end of the alley.

“Can you cover us while we get the Humvee?” Jamie shouted as they rushed toward the Black Hawk with Jeter and Vincent.

“We’ll get it for you,” one of the soldiers from Blue Jay said. “You just evac!”

Jamie nodded and followed the stretcher with Sgt. Vincent. After the unconscious man was loaded in the chopper next to Jeter, Jamie motioned Dyer and Conway in, and then followed. The engine revved even louder and he felt the ground suddenly lurch away beneath them.

They were finally safe. Jamie leaned back and couldn’t stop shaking.

The medic looked up from Jeter. “Let me see your arm,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Your arm. You’re hit.”

Only then did Jamie feel the dull throb in his bicep once more.

Time and Again by Peter Pike

This story is a slightly edited version of what was originally published in Aphelion webzine in 2003

“He ain’t got a head.”

“You’re very observant, Hal,” Sheriff Edward Garland replied dryly. The two looked at the body at their feet. In addition to having his head removed, the killer (or killers) had also cut off both the hands and feet of the victim before leaving the naked body in the field where it now lay.

“Someone doesn’t want this guy identified,” Deputy Harold Kilgore continued.

Ed nodded. “But why didn’t the killer dump him down the mine shaft?” The Sheriff gestured toward the open hole in the ground, a mere twenty-five yards away. “It would have taken longer to find him then.”

“Maybe he was interrupted and had to do a dump and run.”

“Possible. Check with Mike. See if he saw anyone suspicious.”

“Will do,” Kilgore said, and started toward his patrol car for the short drive to Mike Weiss’s ranch house. He paused suddenly and turned, “Hey, why do you think they took his feet too? Think someone printed this guy’s feet?”

Garland shook his head. “They didn’t want us to know his shoe size. Or maybe there was some kind of identifying mark on it, like a scar or tattoo.” Garland looked down at his right foot to emphasize the point. Two years previously, Ed had been shot in the foot when an out-of-state drunk driver decided to have a shoot out with the cops. Fortunately, the guy couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn because he was so plastered, but Garland was still hit in his right foot off a ricochet. The wound left a scar on the top of his foot and still caused him some minor pain when running.

“Alright, I’m off,” Hal said. He gave the brim of his hat a tug, and walked to the cruiser. Garland watched his friend go, and then turned to survey the scene again. Over closer to the mine’s gaping maw, Melinda Gomez was interviewing the woman who had found the body. From what Garland had heard earlier, the woman, a tourist, was just out for a spring hike when she had stumbled upon the remains.

“How long you think he’s been here?” Garland asked the county coroner, Bruce “Doc” Miller.

“Oh, best guess is two or three days, Sheriff.”

“Great. So he was killed before the rainstorm yesterday?”

“More than likely.”

Ed shook his head at the news. Any chance they would have had for trace evidence had almost certainly washed away with the rain. Garland put his hands on his hips and leaned back, looking up at the bright blue sky. With Gomez conducting an interview and Kilgore on his way to another, all the police officers in Blue Spruce, Colorado were now fully occupied. Ed prayed that no one decided to rob the General Store while they were all out. Not that it had ever happened in that sleepy little town.

Garland paced around the scene, methodically making a grid of the crime scene, looking for any clues that might have escaped the previous morning’s deluge. His heart skipped a beat when he saw a .22 shell casing. He bent down and studied it carefully. Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of metal reflecting in the sun.

It was a .38 shell. And beyond that were several other casings. Garland walked over and looked down at the pile of casings. Then he turned and shook his head at what he saw.

It was Osama bin Laden.

The photograph had been pinned to a target and nailed to a tree. Several bullet holes ran through the picture and large chunks of bark had been blasted off the tree. Someone, no doubt Mike Weiss or one of his three sons, had set up a shooting range here and had decimated the target. The shells could be from any one of their guns.

Then again, one could be from the murderer. Garland would need his evidence kit.

***

“Can you figure cause of death?” Garland’s voice was a little muffled from the surgical mask he was wearing.

“No bullet or knife wounds on the torso, and no signs of blunt trauma. It’s possible he was shot in the head, or maybe poisoned. We’ll have to do some blood tests to rule that out.”

Ed nodded at the corner. “Get a DNA test done with that too. Maybe we can find out who he is.”

“Will do,” “Doc” Miller said. “It would be easier with the head, since we could get dental records and such. But it’s amazing what we can do with science these days. Track down a killer with just a little bit of blood, OJ not withstanding. It’s amazing that will the billions of people in this world, DNA still is so unique. Only identical twins have–”

Garland laughed and interrupted his friend. “Well, without a clue as to who this guy is, there won’t be anything to compare DNA with, and that leaves billions of possibilities for an ID. I’ll put in word that we have a body and see if anyone’s missing. Maybe the guy’s been reported and we can do a DNA comparison.”

“Yeah,” Miller said, uninterested. Once he got on a topic, he didn’t like diversions from it. “As I was saying, only identical twins have identical DNA.”

“That’s so interesting.”

Miller missed the sarcasm. “Yeah, have you ever seen your DNA?”

Garland laughed. “What?”

“Have you ever run a test on it? You never wanted to know what it looked like?”

“No. Why would I care about that?”

Miller shrugged. He opened a file and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here’s a graph of some of my nucleotides. This is like the blueprint for my body.”

“That’s–”

“Just give me one hair!” Miller said excitedly.

“What?”

Miller reached out and plunked a hair from Garland’s head.

“Ow! That hurts!”

“Sorry, had to get the root of your hair” Miller said with a laugh. “I’ll just put it in this little bag and name it Sheriff Nottingham, and we’ll see what your DNA looks like too.”

“Wonderful,” Garland said as he rolled his eyes. “You really need to get a hobby.”

“I already have one. I collect DNA.”

Garland shook his head and left the coroner’s office. The joys of being a Sheriff in a small town were never-ending.

***

Ed slowly cross the street and walked up a block to the police station. The sun was setting beyond the mountains. That meant it was suppertime and he was looking forward to the break. He pushed the door to the station open and stopped.

A Federal Bureau of Investigation agent was there, judging by the identification he was holding. But his presence was not what gave Garland pause. Behind the Federal officer was Ted Patterson, the owner and operator of the gravel quarry fifteen miles north of town.

“Is he with you?” Garland asked hopefully.

The agent shook his head. “Sheriff Garland, we need to talk for a moment.”

“In my office.”

The agent nodded and started off. Garland turned to follow when Patterson blocked him.

“Not so fast, Sheriff. Those darn kids have been breaking into my shop again!”

“Look, Ted, last time you said that and I drove out to your shop what did we find?”

“Raccoons. But-”

“And the time before that?”

“Raccoons. But-”

“I’m not interested, Ted. Get an exterminator.”

“But this time someone cut the lock! Raccoons can’t do that.” Patterson reached in his pocket and pulled out the chain-lock that had once kept the fence to his shop closed.

“Congratulations, Ted. You have ruined the evidence.”

Patterson blinked.

“By picking up the lock, you’ve ruined any fingerprints that might have been on it from whoever cut it.”

Ted turned red. “But…but…but you wouldn’t come out unless I was able to show you something like this!”

Garland patted Patterson on the shoulder. “That’s because–” He stopped. “You ever heard the story of Peter and the Wolf?” Ed saw the hurt look in Patterson’s eyes and continued: “Look, I’ll swing by your place later. Right now, I have to meet with this nice Fed who’s driven up here, probably from Denver. I don’t want to waste any more of his time.”

Patterson grumbled something, then said, “You better show up then.”

“I will.” Garland ignored anything else from the shop owner and entered his office. “Sorry about that.”

“Small town politics,” the agent said knowingly. “I’m special agent Donald Feingold.”

“Ed Garland. So, what rates us a visit from the people at the FBI? It isn’t very often we get to see you guys.”

“I heard you found a body. No head. Hands and feet cut off. All identifying marks removed.”

“Wow, news travels fast,” Garland said, genuinely impressed. When it came to small town police officers, the FBI was generally either seen as a nuisance to be avoided like the plague, or an agency with God-like powers. Garland tended toward the latter.

“I’m in charge of a case involving a serial killer. This is the seventh victim like this.”

“What?” Garland was shocked. “How did I never hear about this?”

“The other murders happened in Illinois, Oregon, and Florida. This is the first in Colorado. It probably just hasn’t made the news yet. Hopefully, we can keep it that way.”

“Why?”

“Don’t want to upset the public, ya know.” Feingold winked at Garland, as if letting him in on something.

Garland nodded. “Anything we can do to help. But….” He paused, frowning. “That hasn’t stopped you from putting media coverage out on other serial killers. In fact, it might have been possible to save this person’s life if you had just simply notified us that there was a serial killer. Then the public could have taken more precautions.”

Feingold clenched his hands and his face darkened. “We have jurisdiction on this case, so we’ll take over from here. You still have the body?”

“It’s at the coroner’s,” Garland said, puzzled by the sudden turn in Feingold’s attitude. Normally Federal officers were polite, wishing to work with the locals rather than acting so high and mighty.

“It’s mine now. Hand over all evidence you have collected. You are off this case, understood?”

“I hardly–”

“Understood?” Feingold snapped. “Or do you need me to produce the court order for you? Rest assured, it’ll only take a few minutes to get here, and if you want to waste everyone’s time, we can go that route.”

Garland shrugged his shoulders, mystified. “Fine,” he said. What else was there to do?

***

“Doc” Miller sipped on his favorite beer, Miller Lite (named after “Doc” Miller, of course), and looked at the Sheriff. “So, just like that they step in and take everything you collected. Pictures, bullet casings, the body. Everything.”

“Yup,” Garland said. “I suppose it’s better that way. I mean, we don’t have the resources that the Feds have.”

“Yeah.” Miller took another swallow. He looked over at his friend. “But something else is bothering you.”

“It’s just….it’s odd.” Garland took a swallow of his own Coors.

“Well, those city folks probably think that we country bumpkins wouldn’t know what to do with a case if it hit us in the nose. He was probably overreacting due to stress or something.”

“It’s not that,” Garland responded, shaking it off. “He said that there had been a serial killer doing this, that taking the head and the hands and feet were part of his M.O. But I did a search and couldn’t find any other case like this. At least, not recently. None that would be considered as having been done by a serial killer, at any rate.”

“True. You’d think this would be well known by now. Like the sniper killings back on the east coast. You know, coverage on CNN or something.”

“Exactly! That’s what I thought. But there’s nothing. And that’s not all.”

Miller waited