The second checkpoint we hit went even less smoothly. Jamal sailed right through and pulled off to the side just like the last time, and again the FSA group minding the passageway wanted to see what was in the shipping container. This group was much larger than the last and from the looks of them nothing to fuck with. It didn’t take long for a burst of gunfire to ring out, followed by a few seconds of silence and an answering burst. Then all hell broke loose and we heard AKs spraying from all directions within the cluster of vehicles that had accumulated around the truck holding the container.
“They’re fighting!” the Moroccan yelled.
“No shit!” I said, grabbing the blankets and pushing them against the wall of the van.
“What are you doing?” he asked, removing his blindfold.
“Putting the blankets against the walls in case any bullets pierce the truck.”
“That won’t do anything.”
“It’ll do better than nothing,” I said, motioning to what he had next to him.
This was around the time I looked at Theo, who had also removed his blindfold to peer out the window. His eyes were puffy and full of tears, but none slid down his cheeks.
“Hey, I know that guy from Anadan!” the Moroccan shouted suddenly. “He lived next door to my wife! I’m gonna try to escape!”
“Are you fuckin’ nuts?” I yelled, grabbing him. “You have a bullet in your leg and as soon as you open the doors they’re gonna light up everyone in this truck!”
I swear that lunatic didn’t even know the guy. We were an hour and a half from Anadan.
As the fighting continued I locked eyes with an FSA jihadi. His hair was all gelled back and he wore a huge grin on his face. In his hand was an RPG. I held up my wrists to show the hand ties so he’d know we weren’t hostiles.
“That guy’s going to blow himself up!” the Moroccan yelled, pointing in the opposite direction.
And it looked like he was right. Standing about twenty feet from us in front of the container was one of our escorts in a suicide vest—with his finger on the detonator, ready to blow.
“No, that guy is gonna blow us up!” I said, and I pointed to the kid holding the RPG as he raised it to his shoulder, his eyes again locked with mine, and in the same motion, turned to point it at the truck carrying the shipping container.
A few very long minutes later the firing stopped, and then a jihadi I had never seen before walked right past our window and screamed “Allah Akbar” so loud I could see the vein popping on the side of his head. Then dozens of other fighters started to do the same.
“Someone’s dead,” the Moroccan said.
“Allah Akbar!” jihadis screamed from all directions as Crop Top swung into the passenger seat and a new face jumped behind the wheel and took off.
Al-Nusra had lost two men during the firefight—and they were not happy about it.
I can’t be sure, but the ride felt like it was about two and a half hours long. It finally ended after we’d pulled through a fancy concrete arch and up a long driveway. The driver parked and got out. We fixed our blindfolds so as not to get caught peeking, but not before I got a look at several other prisoners in green smocks walking blindfolded toward a large house, some carrying blankets.
A second later the back doors opened and we were ordered from the vehicle. When we went to grab our blankets they told us to leave them and take only our spare clothes. We were led around the side of the massive home to join a group of POWs, all of us then forced through a door and down a few steps into the basement. From what I could see under my cap, at one time it had probably been a beautiful apartment for either guests or the caretaker. The smell of gasoline upon entering was so powerful that at first I thought we were in some kind of bomb-making lab, but it was just the other prisoners. They were soaked in it from the ride.
The first room was empty except for a bunch of construction materials, and we were ushered down a narrow hallway. The screaming from the guards was intense—they were clearly angry about losing two of their men and taking it out on us. At the end of the hallway was Crop Top, screaming Yala! Yala! nonstop and dealing every prisoner an openhanded blow to the back of the neck as they passed through the door into the cell. When it was my turn to get hit I saw stars.
Crop Top was screaming out instructions in Arabic, and I followed the lead of the prisoners before me. Once through the door everyone crowded to the back wall and crouched down. The terror in the air was as thick as the scent of gasoline. It felt like we were awaiting the firing squad. I was still blindfolded and had no idea which other prisoners were in the room aside from Theo and the Moroccan. When the door finally slammed shut and locked there was silence, not a sound except for the heavy breathing of the men. I was the first one to remove my blindfold, and I couldn’t have been happier when I saw who was beside me: it was Ali, the English-speaking POW and the first friend I’d made at the
