cool out, and checkered headdresses. They were flanked by two serious-looking men in brown suits, probably bodyguards. Our target had what appeared to be a laptop bag slung over his shoulder.
The building at the end of the alley was some kind of terrorist hangout, used mainly for recruiting and propaganda. Al Falah frequented the place. Almost every night he would take a walk down the alley with another potential recruit. He’d go on and on about the jihad and other bullshit, wowing the recruits with his family connections and promising their families large monetary rewards if they would sign up to kill Americans. At first, I couldn’t believe how brazen they were, walking down a public street discussing this stuff. After a few days, I realized that this was the reason we’d been sent to Zubara in the first place.
“
“Roger,” I said, still peeking around the corner. Tailor was hiding behind a wall that separated the target building from a warehouse to its south. In the darkness, Al Falah and his escorts had walked right past Tailor’s position without noticing him. His bodyguards were complacent, it seemed.
I looked down at my watch. The final call to prayer of the day would begin at any moment. There was a mosque only a block away. Once the call to prayer began, the traditional music would start blaring over a set of loudspeakers. This would last for a couple of minutes, and would give us a little cover if we had to make some noise.
I was wearing tan cargo pants, a black shirt, a black jacket, and a tan baseball cap. I looked unmistakably American, but I was dressed similarly to most of the Westerners running around Zubara, except for the holster on my left hip and the body-armor vest under my shirt. I reached under my jacket and drew the Sig 220 pistol I’d been issued. With my other hand, I reached into my jacket’s inside pocket and pulled out a suppressor. I quickly screwed the two together, while taking one last look around. The sky was glowing from the lights of the city, so much so that I couldn’t see any stars, even though it was clear out. All around us were typical city noises; we were only one block away from a busy main thoroughfare. The alley itself was peaceful, save for the prattling of Al Falah and his friend.
Suddenly, from the north, a recording of a man singing in Arabic began. It was 1907. The call to prayer had begun. I took a deep breath. “This is Nightcrawler,” I said, whispering into my radio. “I’m moving.” With that, I stepped around the corner, suppressed pistol held behind my back, and began walking purposefully toward my target. I kept my head down, so the brim of my ball cap hid my eyes. I hunched over, trying to hide how tall I was. My heart was pounding, but I wasn’t really scared. I doubted Al Falah’s half-assed bodyguards were much of a threat.
“
I was getting close now. Looking up, I saw that the two bodyguards had noticed me. One stepped in front of the rest and began to approach. The other hung behind. Still, neither had looked behind them. Tailor continued his approach unnoticed.
The lead guard said something to me in Arabic, his voice raised to make himself heard over the blaring music. Al Falah and the other man stopped. I didn’t understand the language, but I definitely got the gist from the tone of his voice. The thug was a tall man, with a bushy mustache. His right hand was beneath his brown jacket, resting on the butt of a gun. I made eye contact with him for the first time. He held his left hand up, signaling me to stop, still talking. He grew angry when he realized that I was a foreigner and took another step closer. He was only a few feet in front of me now. Young Mr. Al Falah had an obnoxious grin on his face; his friend seemed nervous.
My eyes darted to the left. Tailor was right behind the other bodyguard. His hands came up, extending his own pistol. He fired a shot; the muffled pop of the suppressed .45 round discharging was barely audible over the singing that echoed through the alley. Tailor’s target dropped to the sidewalk.
The bodyguard in front of me turned around quickly, having heard the discharge. Before he knew what was happening, I had my own pistol up and put a .45 slug into his left ear. My gun was on Al Falah before the body hit the sidewalk. He and his friend both turned to face me, eyes wide, staring at my pistol. Tailor’s .45 popped twice more, and Al Falah’s friend fell to the ground, two gunshot wounds to his back.
Al Falah looked down at his companion, then turned around to see the muzzle of Tailor’s suppressed pistol. He turned back to me, skin pale, eyes fixed on my pistol, and raised his hands slowly. A puddle formed on the sidewalk beneath him as his bladder let go.
An instant later, Tailor snapped open a collapsible baton and struck Al Falah on the neck. He cried out in pain and dropped to the sidewalk, falling into his own piss. I watched the street while Tailor zip tied our prisoner’s hands. Al Falah looked up at me one last time before Tailor pulled a black bag over his head.
“Ginger, Nightcrawler,” I said over the radio, “We got him. Get up here.” I unscrewed the suppressor from my pistol and reholstered it. I then snapped open my automatic knife, cut the shoulder strap on Al Falah’s bag, and pulled it off of him.
Without turning on its headlights, the van sped up the alley, coming to a stop right next to us. The sliding side door opened. Hudson jumped out, grabbed Al Falah, and effortlessly threw him into the van. He climbed back in, and I followed, laptop bag in hand.
Just as the call to prayer died away, Tailor noticed Al Falah’s friend, lying facedown in his own blood with two bullets in his back. He was still alive. He groaned slightly and tried to move. Without blinking, Tailor stepped forward, shot him in the back of the head, then jumped into the van, pulling the door closed behind him.
We backed down the alley until we came to the cross street, turned on the headlights, and sped away into the night. Tailor called Control over the radio to inform them of our success. I slumped against the wall of the van and looked down at my watch again.
Stepping forward, Tailor roughly pulled the black bag from Al Falah’s head, knocking off his checkered headdress in the process. The young terrorist looked around, still groggy from the sedative and from being clocked by Tailor. His eyes grew wide as he became aware of the surroundings and his situation. He was handcuffed to a chair in the basement of our safe house. We had him shoved off into a corner. The only illumination was from a bright lamp we’d set up. I had to shake my head at the whole scene; it was like something from a bad spy movie.
Al Falah looked at Tailor, fear in his eyes. His mouth was slightly open, but he didn’t, or maybe couldn’t, speak. He then looked over to me; his eyes darted down to the pistol on my left hip. We’d removed our jackets in order to openly display our weapons.
To my left was Hudson. Al Falah seemed especially intimidated by him. Hudson, for his part, just folded his muscular arms across his chest and stared the skinny terrorist down, not saying a word.
“Do you speak English?” I asked. Our prisoner’s eyes darted back to me. He didn’t say anything.
“I know you can understand me,” Tailor said, leaning in a little closer. He was probably right; almost all educated Gulf Arabs spoke English. “So we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the pushing-your-shit-in way. What’s it gonna be, ace?”
Al Falah, for his part, seemed to have found a little bit of spine. He closed his mouth and sat up a little straighter in his chair, staring defiantly at the wall behind us. Tailor straightened up, then looked over at Hudson and me, grinning. It seemed that Al Falah didn’t want to do this the easy way.
“Wheeler, go get Sarah,” Tailor said then, talking over his shoulder. Wheeler, who was behind us, near the stairs, nodded and headed up to the main floor of the safe house. A few moments later, he clomped back down the stairs. Behind him, Sarah gracefully made her way down, clipboard in hand. She followed him across the darkened room.
