A Cold Day In Mosul (14 page)

I'll kill them all for this.

And yet, all it took was the futile movement of his hands against their binds, or the rough shove from his captors, to remind him that there was no escape. He stumbled forward weakly. Hopelessly.

I have to fight them
, he told himself.
Now's our chance. Now, while they are still off guard.

But he could not summon the resolve. His thoughts were hollow. The rage slowly deflated, and with each step he trod deeper into defeat.

I am broken. I am done. We all are.

Ethan squinted at the sudden brightness as the four of them were brought outside the black site. The sun shone against his face, though it imparted little warmth.

The Tunisian had set up the digital camera on a tripod off to the side. The red recording light was on. He panned the camera from left to right, following the four prisoners as they were loaded into the backs of separate Mitsubishi L200 pickups.

The captors shoved Ethan against a tall wooden cross in the truck bed, and lifted his bound hands over his head, looping his wrists over the top of the central post. A militant affixed an Arabic sign above Ethan's head:
This infidel has killed Muslims and plotted against Dawla.

The others were similarly bound, and the same inscriptions decorated their crosses.

The Tunisian manning the camera abruptly shouted. "You have tied them wrong!"

A Jordanian in the truck bed beside Ethan spun around. "What do you mean?"

"They are supposed to have their hands tied to the crossbeams," the Tunisian said. "Like they are being crucified."

The Jordanian shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does! Untie them and spread out their arms, then tie them again."

"These are dangerous men," the Jordanian argued. "We've bound them once, and they're going to stay that way."

"But you're ruining the video," the other said. "Come on, they're
drugged!
"

The Jordanian hesitated.

Ethan doubted he would be able to overpower these men, but he resolved to fight if the men unbound him. He tensed his muscles and glanced at William, who was in the pickup to his right. William caught his eye and nodded.

Unfortunately the Jordanian didn't unbind him. "These men stay as they are," he said firmly. "You can fix the scene in post-processing."

The camera operator tossed his arms in frustration but didn't argue further.

Ethan slumped, letting his muscles relax. Though his arms pulled at their sockets, and his shoulders positively ached, he didn't care anymore.

The trucks were paraded through the streets so that the citizens of Mosul could see and revile them, these prisoners who had killed Muslims. Most of the people seemed indifferent, as if the procession were a common occurrence. Sometimes insults were hurled his way. Occasionally someone threw a shoe or sandal at him.

He didn't care. A sense of calm and inevitability was starting to permeate him.

He understood that this was probably the last drive of his life. A part of him hoped the Mitsubishi would simply drive on and on, if only so that he could eke out a few more moments of existence. Another part just wanted to get the end over and done with.

The driver of the vehicle began sounding the horn. Ethan glanced over his shoulder, toward the front of the truck, and he saw that a large crowd had gathered in a square. The throng parted to let the pickups through.

So it was time.

The vehicles halted near the center of the square, where a single chopping block had been placed on a wooden stage. A headless bronze statue, coated in a blue patina, provided ominous backdrop behind the stage.

The Jordanian moved to the back of the cross and started to drag Ethan's wrists over the main post. Ethan's elbows caught on the sign affixed above his head, and the man struggled for a moment, scratching Ethan's arms and twisting his shoulder sockets mercilessly. Finally the Jordanian slid his wrists over the blockage and released him. Ethan's arms fell lifelessly to his waist. His shoulder sockets
ached
.

There was a commotion in the bed of the pickup beside him, and he realized Doug was struggling against his captors.

Ethan had the sudden urge to reach for the pistol holstered to the Jordanian's belt, if only to provide a distraction for his friend. But then one of the militants struck Doug in the head with the butt of his rifle, and the stunned operative dropped to one knee.

Ethan relaxed his tense muscles. It was better to wait until he had more blood flowing into his arms anyway. Besides, he doubted he would've reached the holster in time. Although... maybe if he went for it, someone would shoot him. At least he wouldn't have to endure the indignity of a beheading. But he'd probably only succeed in attracting a blow to the head like Doug.

There is no escape.

Ethan and the others were unloaded from the trucks and led toward the stage. The mind fog was slowly lifting, and as it did so, Ethan's training cut through the torpor; almost unconsciously, he scanned his surroundings, mentally marking the positions of the AK-toting militants around him. The four standing on each corner of the stage. The four more behind and below it, near the base of the headless statue. The eight dispersed in front, keeping the crowd at bay. The Tunisian, filming the whole thing on his digital camera. The four militants on the far left of the throng, and the four more on the right. The three scattered among the bystanders, probably off-duty.

The crowd itself was composed of ordinary Iraqi men of all ages. Their expressions were mostly curious, though some glared, and a few laughed and joked as if attending a sporting event. The murmurs of those in attendance ebbed and flowed, momentarily lowering in volume when Ethan and the others groggily took the stairs to the stage, then rising again as the crowd began to speculate on their crimes and identities.

The four militants on the stage converged on the prisoners, guarding one each, while those who had escorted Ethan and the others took their places in the crowd.

Dressed in a long black robe and carrying a heavy-bladed scimitar in his right hand, the executioner stood imperiously beside the headblock. His gray beard flowed to the center of his chest. He seemed an imam or sheik of some kind, though the shrapnel scars on the right side of his leathery face bespoke of a violent past.

The imposing man turned toward the throng and cleared his throat. Someone offered him a loudspeaker, but he waved it away. He began to speak, and the crowd reverently hushed.

"Salaam, fellow followers of Islam," the executioner began. "Fellow devotees of the Caliphate. Some of you may know me. I am Sheik Abu Muhsin Al Waheem, member of the Shura ruling council. Today is a great day. A day that will be remembered for years to come. You will tell your children of it. That you were here, to bear witness! For today you will watch the beheading of criminals who have committed the vilest of crimes. These
kaffir
"—infidels—"who have killed Muslims, men who came to fight for our Caliphate. These kaffir who have
spied
on us. These kaffir, who are operatives of the CIA!"

He paused as if expecting cries of outrage, or gasps of disbelief, but judging from the stony faces, the Iraqis in attendance weren't too impressed.

Ethan couldn't help but smile. The
CIA
. The man claimed to be a member of the Shura ruling council and he couldn't even get the agency of his prisoners correct. Well, the CIA would certainly have a field day explaining away their presence when the video was released.

The sheik cleared his throat, recovering. "These American swine were sent here to subvert our state from within. It was my policies that stopped them. My policies that were directly responsible for their capture. So it is I who will inflict their ultimate fate. Let their beheadings serve as an example to those who are considering such heinous acts in the future! Let their headless bodies find no peace in the hellfires! Let them roll in pig feces for all eternity! In the name of Allah the merciful I hereby dispatch their souls for judgement!"

"Takbir!" one of the militants shouted.

"
Allahu akbar
," the crowd returned, half-heartedly. The mujahadeen in attendance shouted the words loudly, more than compensating for the rest of the crowd.

"Takbir," the militant repeated.

"Allahu akbar.
"

"Takbir."

"Allahu akbar.
"

Ethan continued to sense little animosity or hatred from the crowd. If anything, the Iraqis seemed to regard him and the others with pity more than anything else. The locals came merely for the spectacle, knowing full well it could easily be one of them up there—the Islamic State was ready to kill each and every one of them for the smallest infraction, as dictated by its harsh brand of sharia law. Ethan had to wonder if anyone in the crowd even believed the sheik's boastful claims that the prisoners were spies.

The nearest militant escorted Ethan to the headblock. Apparently he would be the first to die. At least he'd get it over with. Another plus: he wouldn't have to watch the decapitation of his friends.

Ethan glanced at Sam. She looked so bony, a shell of the woman she once was. Her eyes seemed moist, and when she blinked, several drops spilled over. Ethan watched them trickle down her cheek, and he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of sadness.

"Don't weep for me," he said quietly, in Arabic. "Tonight I dine in paradise." He didn't really believe it, of course.

At the headblock, his chaperon paused to embrace him. Ethan couldn't return the hug because his hands were still bound in front of him, but for a moment he felt a surge of hope—he thought the man was going to whisper some instruction in his ear, some hint at the impending rescue, but the mujahid merely pulled away.

There is no escape.

The sheik regarded Ethan with contempt; he tilted his chin toward the headblock, and the militant beside Ethan shoved him forward, forcing him to kneel.

In the crook of the black stone Ethan saw the chips and dents where the executioner's blade had struck previously. The militant pushed his upper body forward; Ethan's head descended into that crook and he felt the cold press of the black stone against his neck. He stared into the bleak, bloodstained metal basin below that would catch his head.

"Hold him," the sheik told the fighter.

Hands pressed heavily into Ethan's upper back, firmly rooting him to the stone.

He heard the footpads on the wooden stage as the sheik moved into position.

So this is it.

Ethan was going to die there, thousands of miles from home, executed in a strange land, his carefully choreographed and edited death video uploaded to YouTube for the entertainment of radical extremists worldwide. His only regret was that all his friends and family would see it, too. He didn't mind the actual beheading so much, but the pain it would cause those who knew him was almost too much to bear.

He shut his eyes. He just wanted it to end.

I had a good run.

fifteen

T
he fire encompassed the burning child. Ethan doused the flames beneath the river, but when he brought him to the surface, the fires started anew. He quickly piled mud onto the boy's body, choking the flames of oxygen, but by then it was too late. The dead eyes of the boy looked up at him accusingly.

"I tried," Ethan told him. "I tried to save you. I told them there were civilians in the village, but they wouldn't listen. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The child's accusing eyes bored into him.

"Don't look at me like that," Ethan told him. "I tried!"

Yes,
those dead eyes seemed to say.
You tried. And yet, you are going to give up now? After everything?

"There's nothing I can do," Ethan pleaded.

There's always something. You fought to save me. You tried.

"But you died anyway," Ethan told him.

Yes, but you tried, and that's what matters. Open your eyes and try. Open them!

Ethan's eyes shot open.

There had to be a way out of his predicament. There always was a way.

Ordinary men gave up.

Ethan wasn't ordinary.

He had regained much of his strength since leaving the jail, but the weariness hadn't faded entirely. Battling it, he tried to move, but the militant held him fast. He let anger flow through his veins. Let his heart pound with rage. Let the enormity of the situation trigger his fight or flight response. The adrenalin pumped fresh strength into his muscles.

Ethan tried to move again. The militant still had him utterly pinned—his was the more advantageous position, leverage-wise.

Ethan sensed, rather than saw, the sheik raise the blade. Time seemed to slow in those last moments of Ethan's life. And although all he saw was the bloodstained metal basin below him, his other senses became enhanced: he heard the silky rustle as the fabrics of the man's robe brushed against one another, the inhalation as he hefted the weapon, the slight grunt as the sheik shifted his weight to bear the sword down.

I
will
escape.

In a last act of desperation, Ethan heaved himself to the right.

He managed to topple the headblock.

The blade struck the side of the stone, sending sparks into the air.

The jihadi beside him had placed all his weight on Ethan, and was dragged down with him. Upon impact with the stage, Ethan pivoted to the side and slammed his elbow into the militant's face, stunning him.

He sensed motion on his other side; in that split second, he realized the remaining mujahadeen on the stage were swinging their rifles toward him. Ethan didn't care. He would take out as many of them as he could before he died. Let them record
that
on video. Somehow he doubted the Islamic State would be posting the video on YouTube after all.