First Strike (15 page)

Hand trembling, al-Jaheishi triggered the gun again. The bullet ripped into Que'san's chin, blowing off the front of his head, splattering blood across a row of cereal boxes and loaves of bread.

Al-Jaheishi stared for a moment in shock and disbelief. Then he struggled out from beneath Que'san's arms. He hobbled to the front of the store as sirens grew louder. He reached into his pocket, finding the SIM card, clutching it in his blood-drenched hand. He charged through the front door, weaving like a drunk man.

*   *   *

As two more muffled gunshots echoed from the store, Mallory stood up and moved. He registered the second gunman, who continued to focus on the store, waiting to see who would emerge and, if it was al-Jaheishi, to put a few more slugs into him.

The door swung open. It was al-Jaheishi. Their eyes locked.

Mallory charged toward him, pushing. His eyes shot back to the second gunman across the street just as he fired. Blood arced from the center of al-Jaheishi's chest as the slug nailed him. He tumbled to the sidewalk.

Mallory ran to al-Jaheishi, pushing aside fleeing pedestrians.

“
Ana tabib,
” he shouted. “
Alhusul ealaa wata alttariq!
”

Get out of the way! I am a doctor.

Mallory reached al-Jaheishi's corpse. He grabbed at his hands just as he heard a voice.

“
Ila yamassuh!
”

Don't touch him.

Mallory placed his left hand against al-Jaheishi's neck, pretending to feel for a pulse even though he knew he was dead. Meanwhile, he groped with his right hand, searching for the SIM card, patting al-Jaheishi's front pockets as he looked for the tiny object.

In his peripheral vision, he saw the gunmen as they ran toward him. He couldn't find the card. His mind raced. They were getting closer.

“
Tataharrak!
” shouted one of the men, just as Mallory noticed al-Jaheishi's outstretched arm. His fist was clenched.

Move!

“
'Annah jurih,
” Mallory said, not looking up, groping desperately for the hand, prying the fingers open. Inside al-Jaheishi's hand was SIM card. “
Ana tabib.
”

He's injured. I am a doctor.

He grabbed the card just as a sharp kick struck him in the back. Mallory spilled over sideways, then looked up.

The gunman studied Mallory with a slightly panicked look, not knowing what to do, whether he should just shoot Mallory right then and there.

Two more men came to the dead body of al-Jaheishi. He hadn't seen them. Whereas the gunman wore a button-down and dark business slacks, these two had on jeans and black T-shirts, and held Uzis.

ISIS.

Multiple sirens came from several directions. Mallory saw a red flash from the first police car as it arrived on the chaotic scene.

Slowly, Mallory stood up, raising his hands, playing the scared citizen, looking at the three gunmen just as policemen shouted from up the street and the gunmen reflexively tucked their firearms against their bodies.

Mallory stepped away from the dead man. He turned and walked slowly back toward the café. A small crowd remained, watching from afar. He pushed his way through.

Mission accomplished. Now get the fuck out of here.

When he was past the café, he looked back. It was a hollow feeling, hollow in a way that was indescribable except by the man who is staring at death. The man in the suit was less than five feet behind him, flanked by the two thugs.

“
Aietaqadat ‘annak nazarat mudhak.
”

I thought you looked funny.

Mallory ran. One gunman fired. The bullet hit Mallory in the back—a low shot, beneath his heart. He knew what he was doing.

Mallory crumpled to the ground, landing on his back.

“Where is it?” the man asked, this time in broken English.

Mallory stared up at him as the pain consumed him.

“
Where is it?
” the gunman yelled, leaning down, jamming the muzzle of the gun into Mallory's forehead.

Mallory said nothing. He stared up at the terrorist. He clutched the SIM card in his hand as blood pooled in his throat and caused him to cough and choke. He felt the thick liquid gurgling in his throat, blocking his breathing. The pain was deep, throbbing, and it spread across his body, but all he could think about was the fact that he couldn't get a breath in, he was drowning in his own blood, and he couldn't move.

Mallory closed his eyes just as crimson began to trickle from his mouth, nose, and ears.

Gunfire. He heard it. It had come from a distance. The police?

Mallory opened his eyes. He felt detached, a silent witness, like he was watching a movie. His eyes found the killers. All three of the gunmen—the man in the button-down and the two black-clad thugs—turned toward where the new shots had come from. Mallory saw confusion on their faces. The two men in black shirts pivoted and raised their Uzis. The man who'd shot him—the one in business attire—leaned down and extended the handgun, preparing to fire at him.

The killer was irate. He was saying something to Mallory, but Mallory didn't hear it. He didn't move. He felt the pain dissipate. He still had yet to take a breath, but that didn't matter anymore and he stopped trying. A calm feeling came over him.

 

19

CAFÉ MOSUL

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Dewey was half a block away from the square when he heard the gunshots. Low booms, a high-caliber rifle fired outdoors.

Without thinking, he jumped from the sidewalk to the road.

He heard two more gunshots and then screams.

Dewey hit the square at a hard sprint. A central rectangle with a statue in the middle was surrounded by streets on all four sides. The streets were lined with shops and restaurants. The sidewalks were jammed with people. The square itself was also crowded.

He entered the square at six o'clock and immediately found the café directly opposite at twelve o'clock, across two streets, on the other side of the square, several hundred yards away.

The square was in a pandemonium. People were running in seemingly every direction, crazed by the sound of the gunshots. He smelled the aroma of gunfire. Then he heard sirens in the distance, still a few blocks out.

Dewey's eyes were drawn to a row of shops at a far corner of the square. The movement was frenetic, even panicked. This was where the shooting had occurred. It was now total chaos. People poured from shops, sprinting toward the square—and the café.

More gunshots. They were like firecrackers, muffled; a pistol fired inside one of the stores. High-pitched screams and shouting. The peal of tires ripping into tar as cars tried to flee the scene.

The street was awash in people running from Dewey's right—where the gunshots had occurred—to his left—on sidewalks, in the street, across the square.

Sirens roared in short, loud, high-pitched bursts.

Dewey charged down the middle of the street in the direction of the gunfire, into a thicket of fleeing Syrians. He didn't see the taxi that was also trying to escape the chaos. It was speeding directly at him. By the time he registered the impending collision, Dewey couldn't get out of the way. The taxi swerved, but then it lurched back at him; the driver's head was turned completely around, looking back at the stores where the gunfire had started. Dewey leapt as it was about to strike; he landed hard on the front hood, caving it slightly, then rolled off. He landed on his feet and continued to race toward the far corner of the square.

The noise was fevered. Car horns mixed with sirens, the patter of feet scrambling frantically, screams and shouting.

Dewey's eyes shot right and focused: a lone individual was moving slowly along the sidewalk, struggling away from the block of shops. He was young, his hair short. Then he saw it: the man's shoulder was drenched in blood. The man dragged his leg as he struggled to move. A break in the crowd enabled Dewey to see his leg; it too was covered in blood from the knee down.

Al-Jaheishi.

Behind him, a tall man trailed at a distance. He clutched a handgun and had it trained at the injured man a few dozen feet in front of him.

Dewey stepped forward, his eyes moving left as his hand reached into the folds of the hijab. His fingers went to the strap around his right shoulder.

Sirens grew louder and multiple; without looking, Dewey registered the flashing red to a block away.

He was now across the street from al-Jaheishi and the tracker. Suddenly two more gunmen came into view. Both were dressed in black. They jogged. Each man held a short weapon that Dewey recognized immediately: Uzi.

As he moved calmly toward the scene, Dewey unclasped the strap attached to the rail of the M4. His eyes picked up the path of al-Jaheishi's eyes as he ran—or limped—for his life. Dewey followed the sight line. He saw Mallory.

Another loud crack interrupted the chaotic scene as the gunman fired. Al-Jaheishi fell to the ground. Dewey watched as Mallory moved to him.

Without looking, beneath his hijab Dewey slid the fire selector on his weapon to manual. In front of him, he saw Mallory reach al-Jaheishi, kneeling over him as if seeing if he was all right. The gesture looked Good Samaritan
,
but Dewey knew the CIA man was searching for the package.

He walked onto the square, aiming for the café. His finger was on the trigger, ready to kill if necessary but hoping he wouldn't have to.

Al-Jaheishi was dead, but Mallory was over him, soon joined by a pair of others, also trying to help. The gunmen—all three—came up behind them, but they didn't fire. Mallory looked up and said something to the tall man. Mallory reached for al-Jaheishi's shirt and started unbuttoning it, pretending to give medical aid, a performance intended solely for the three gunmen, who now loomed, weapons out and trained on Mallory.

Suddenly, the tall one kicked Mallory in the back. He tumbled over. After a moment, Mallory stood up cautiously as the two men in black descended on al-Jaheishi and ransacked his pockets.

Mallory moved backward, hands out, indicating to the gunman that he would leave. He walked away from the corpse.

Mallory's performance seemed to work. The killers paused over al-Jaheishi.

He heard shouting in Arabic from up the street. Several Damascus policemen had arrived on the scene.

Mallory was nearly to the crowd in front of the café. A few more yards and he would be clear. They would be able to get away relatively unscathed, shielded by the chaos. Dewey would return to Israel without firing a bullet.

And then the tall gunman turned to Mallory, now at least twenty or thirty feet away. He said something; the two black-clad thugs stood. All three started sprinting in Mallory's direction.

When Mallory turned, it confirmed the killer's suspicion. Dewey knew it was all over.

His left hand gripped the stock of the carbine as his right hand undid the other clasp holding the strap to the M4, letting the strap drop to the ground. Dewey swept the rifle in front of him as he ran across the square toward Mallory.

The three killers charged toward Mallory.

“
No!
” Dewey yelled, just as the gunman fired. The slug hit Mallory in the back, knocking him to the ground.

The sidewalk cleared out as those lurkers who'd remained in the café dispersed.

Dewey sprinted toward Mallory just as the tall gunman leaned down, no doubt looking for the SIM card. Dewey reached the road in front of the café. He was less than twenty yards away. He put his finger to the ceramic trigger and, in midsprint, fired. The suppressed carbine made a dull
spit.
A slug struck the tall gunman a half inch above his ear, blowing out a chunk of his brain.

The other killers swiveled; both men marked Dewey immediately. They swept their weapons through the air, but Dewey was a half second ahead of them. He flipped the fire selector to full-auto and fired, pulling the trigger hard. The dull
thwack thwack thwack
of suppressed slugs could barely be heard. The spray of bullets tore a zigzag line across the men. One of them screamed as his chest was pulverized. The second man was hit at the same moment, the slugs tearing into his neck and face, dropping him, killing him instantly.

Dewey ran toward Mallory, scanning to his right, back up the street. The café, the sidewalks, everything had emptied out as terrified Syrians fled the carnage. He kicked one of the terrorist's weapons, an Uzi submachine gun, toward a concrete bench and reached down to grab Mallory's shirt collar, dragging him to the bench, which offered a degree of protection from the gunmen, who were moving in on all sides. He dropped to the ground next to him.

He counted three police cruisers, stopped in the middle of the road back near the shops. Officers climbed in and the police cruiser lurched forward, lights flashing, siren blaring, and raced toward him. Another cruiser followed.

Dewey picked up the Uzi. He now had two guns. He would soon need to change out mags on the M4. The mag on the Uzi was almost full.

He looked down at Mallory, whose eyes were shut. Something caused Dewey to turn and scan the street near the stores, behind the third police cruiser, which hadn't moved.

What is it?

He'd seen something. He surveyed the terrain behind the police cars. All around him, the pandemonium transitioned into the quiet of fear and death, a war zone, still fluid.

Then he saw him. He was alone, standing behind a parked car almost a block back from the corner. He was dressed in business attire but held a rifle tight to his right side, out of view. He was watching Dewey with a monocular. That was what Dewey had seen—the glint of the monocular.
Sniper.

The first police car came to a screeching halt a few dozen yards from the café. Two policemen in dark blue uniforms climbed out, guns in hand, less than fifty feet from Dewey. A second cruiser stopped immediately to the left of the first, walling Dewey in to the east.