Angels of Wrath (19 page)

~ * ~

ifty yards away, Rankin moved warily toward the front of the truck, trying to see what had become of the man who’d been in the cab with Fouad.

Something moved on the other side of the truck. Rankin couldn’t get a target and held his fire.

“Rankin?” whispered Thera in the radio. “Where are you?”

“I’m near the truck.”

“Someone’s coming down from the north end of the road. I’m pinned down up here.”

“I’ll come for you when I take care of this.”

“I’m just warning you, asshole,” said Thera. “I’ll take care of this.”

Rankin continued around to the passenger side of the vehicle and eased toward the cab. When he saw that it was clear he swung up into the interior and was crossing over to the driver’s side when he snagged himself on the large shifter at the center of the cab. He forced a slow, deep breath from his lungs, twisting back and then spreading himself along the seat, moving forward again. When he reached the side he slid down into the well beneath the dashboard. He couldn’t quite see all the way down the side of the truck to the back. Pushing out to get a better angle, he spotted someone and goosed the Uzi, striking him in the head with the second burst.

Not sure now how many other gunmen there were nearby, Rankin leaned out from the side of the truck, hesitated a second, then dove forward about a half second before Oda began firing into the cab from the passenger side.

As Rankin rolled into the dirt, bullets followed him to the ground. Oda dropped to his knees and fired under the truck, his bullets spraying wildly. Several struck the oil pan and one the feed from the gas tank to the engine. Oil and diesel fuel began seeping and then pouring downward. Rankin, fearing that the liquid or at least its vapors would ignite, rolled backward and got into the brush.

Fouad in the brush smelled the diesel, too. He didn’t think the diesel was volatile enough to easily ignite, but the smell gave him an idea.

“Set the truck on fire,” he yelled aloud in Arabic, speaking quickly. This brought an immediate response from Oda who began firing in his direction. Rankin clambered to his feet and hunched by the wheel, waiting for a chance to fire.

~ * ~

hera took out a pin grenade and threw it into the area between the two cars. As it exploded she ran along the road to her left, waiting until the gunman began firing again. When she saw that he was firing at her old position, she crossed to his side. She dove down as the bullets began firing in her direction. For ten or twenty seconds she didn’t breathe, her mouth in the dirt. Then she sidled to the left, down a slight incline that ran along this side of the road. She expected to find the gunman in the ditch but didn’t. Confused, she stared in the direction of the car, then glanced over her shoulder, worried that he had managed to outflank her after she crossed.

If that was the case, her best bet was to take his old position. She began working toward it. When she was about ten feet away, Thera finally saw the gunman up on the road, pressed against the side of the vehicle. She moved her M4 to the right and squeezed the trigger. The first two slugs caught her enemy in the ankle. He howled and fell backward, managing to roll away behind the car. Thera jumped to her feet, raising her weapon high and firing, more to keep him pinned down than in hopes of hitting him, since she was off balance and firing blind. She leapt up the embankment, spun left, and fired a long burst into the body sprawled on the ground. A tracer spit from her barrel, a cue that she was near the end of the box. She pulled her finger off the trigger, heart thumping, knowing that she had hit her target several times but not yet convinced he was dead.

~ * ~

ack by the truck, Fouad moved to his left, eyes scanning the darkness as he looked for Oda. The fuel continued to run from the truck; he could hear it splashing when the gunfire on the roadway faded away. Something moved before him and he fired, two, three, four shots, the bullets whizzing into the brush.

Rankin leapt up as Fouad began to fire, running to the back of the tanker. Oda, hiding behind the fender at the front, raised his gun to fire at Fouad, but Rankin pulled his trigger first. Oda curled backward, dead.

Rankin slid to one knee, scanning quickly to make sure there were no others.

“Thera. Hey!” he yelled.

“Hey, yourself,” said Thera over the radio. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You got the man who came down?”

“Yeah. I got ‘em all.”

“Where’s Fouad?” she asked.

“He’s over on the other side of the cab. Fouad!” Rankin yelled.

Fouad, arms trembling, lowered his weapon. “Rankin?”

“Stay where you are until we have this sorted out. I’m on the other side of the truck, opposite you.”

Rankin ran to Oda’s prostrate body. The bullets had caught him across the neck, nearly severing it. Blood gurgled down over his shirt, pooling around his shoulders.

“Thieves,” said Fouad, walking over.

Rankin looked up. “I told you to stay by the side of the road.”

The Iraqi stared at him, but he said nothing.

“They wanted the truck and figured we were easy pickings,” said Fouad. “Fortunately, they thought we were amateurs and didn’t take us seriously. We were lucky.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” said Rankin. “Let’s make sure they’re all dead, then let’s go see your Kurd.”

~ * ~

ouad rode with Thera back to town, clinging to her as she worked the bike around the narrow streets before they got to the café where he believed he would find the Kurd. The bulletproof vest under her coveralls exaggerated the firmness of her body, but even without it he thought he would find her flesh stiff and hard, not so much the product of exercise or deprivation but an expression of will, as if to be a warrior she had shed everything soft from her.

She had beautifully curly hair, just long enough to peek out of the back of her helmet. She would be quite a pretty wife.

Fouad poked her side as the last turn came up, afraid she would miss it. When she stopped, he felt his legs wobble, his equilibrium shaken by the ride.

“You look like you could use a drink,” said Thera, pulling off her helmet.

“A devout Muslim does not drink.”

“Are you devout?”

Fouad stared as she unzipped the front of her coveralls, forgetting for a second that she had clothes on beneath it.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said, pulling the coveralls down. She left her bulletproof vest on, dropping her oversized
jibab
over it and the matching baggy pants.

“I wasn’t insulted,” he said.

The image of her undressing stayed with him as he led them inside. Fouad had not seen the Kurd, Abu Nassad, in four or five years. But he recognized the man the instant he saw him across the room, and as their eyes locked he felt the other man’s fear.

There was no reason for Nassad to fear him any longer, but the emotion was reflexive. Fouad approached him across the room, standing over the table and leaning toward him menacingly, though his voice was mild. “I hope you are well, Abu Nassad.”

The Kurd blinked. “Yes.”

Fouad sat in one of the empty chairs. The man sitting next to Nassad looked first to Fouad and then to Nassad before rising and walking over to the other side of the room. The two other men remained sitting, looking at their coffee impassively. There was a pipe on the table; Nassad offered Fouad a smoke, but he shook his head.

Thera and Rankin sat at a table nearby, Thera watching the room and Rankin watching Fouad and the Kurds.

“I’m looking for information about someone,” said Fouad.

“I don’t sell information.”

“I do not buy.” Fouad wished he had a cigarette, not because he felt the need to smoke—he had never been much of a smoker—but because it was a useful prop. There was so much that could be done with it. “Khazaal was here, and I would like to know where he is now.”

Nassad’s face turned pale.

“He’s here still?” asked Fouad.

“No.” Nassad shook his head. “The devil has gone.”

“Very well. Where?”

“It seems to me, Fouad, you owe me a great deal. When last we met you extorted a bribe from me. I would like my money back.”

Fouad turned his anger into a trite frown, as if he weren’t insulted, as if he weren’t angry at being held up by a man whom he could have had executed, whom he could have executed himself. “Where did he go?”

“The old ways do not work anymore,” said Nassad, the effort in his voice obvious. “You cannot intimidate me.”

Oh, but I can, Fouad thought. He leaned across the table. “Where?”

“How much do you want?” said Rankin behind him.

Nassad, who had started to slide back in his seat, sat upright immediately. “Five hundred American.”

“Fifty Euros,” said Rankin.

“Nothing,” said Fouad.

Rankin reached into his pocket and threw a fifty-Euro bill on the table. “Everything you know. Or the Iraqi will show you how angry he is.”

Nassad reached for the bill, but Fouad threw his hand over it.

“Khazaal, the pig, was here,” said the Kurd. “He left in the morning. He paid for a car with a jewel. He’s traveling with jewels, not cash. He has necklaces and gold. Many of them. In a case his bodyguard keeps. Ask his hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

“The Palmyra.”

“Where did he go when he left?” said Rankin.

Nassad shrugged and reached for the money. Fouad let his fingers touch the edge of the bill.

“How many jewels?” said Fouad.

“Khazaal and I are not on speaking terms.”

“What was he trying to buy?”

“Here? What would you buy here?”

“Which direction did he go in?”

Nassad stared at Fouad. Was it fear that he saw in his eyes or defiance? Both maybe.

Rankin, meanwhile, slipped around the back of the Kurd. He had slipped the palm-sized Glock 22 into his hand and pressed it now against the man’s skull. “Answer my friend’s question,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“I think west. Mansura, maybe. He asked about a car and flights out of the airport. I believe he was going to the coast because he said something about the sea.”

“Lebanon? Or Syria?”

Nassad shook his head.

Rankin studied Fouad’s venomous look. It was the hardest expression he’d seen on his face since they had come. Fouad wanted to kill the Kurd. The emotion reassured Rankin; until now the Iraqi had been a blank to him, with no visible emotion, a dangerous mask that could not be trusted, especially in an Iraqi.

“Let him have the money,” Rankin told him. “Whether he deserves it or not.”

Fouad lifted his hand. As the Kurd reached for the money, one of his companions at the table sprang at Fouad, only to find himself spinning and then wrestled to his knees by Thera, who pressed the sharp edge of her knife against the soft part of his neck near his Adam’s apple.