Promise To Defend. Don Pendleton
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it with a careless toss. He noticed a few of the hostages, all bound by ropes but not blindfolded, sneak looks at him, maybe memorizing his features in case they were rescued. Or just to satisfy their own morbid curiosity, a look at their executioner, perhaps. He allowed himself a smile. Let them look.
He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, replaced it in his pocket and unconsciously smoothed the hairs of his mustache with the thumb and forefinger, raked back his thick black hair with the fingers of the same hand. At five feet ten inches, he had a wiry build of a welter-weight boxer and the ramrod posture of a soldier. He’d been both for many years, but that was before he’d lost everything and been forced to change professions.
Scowling, he gripped his weapons belt with both hands and hitched it higher up on his hips. He rested his right hand on the worn grip of the Heckler & Koch VP70 pistol, one of the few things he still possessed from his former life. He’d been a commander in Saddam Hussein’s fedayeen army, had lived comfortably with the government salary and an endless supply of money, food and sex extorted from civilians. He’d provided a good life for his family. But all that changed after the Americans invaded the country and Baghdad fell. He’d stood and fought, both during the invasion and as an insurgent in the ensuing occupation. He’d pretended it had been out of a sense of nationalism, a conviction that the infidels wouldn’t sully his homeland with their damned occupation. In reality, though, he just had hoped to wear the Americans out, make them go home. As that possibility had become increasingly distant, he’d fled the country and journeyed to Syria where it had been all too easy to parlay his military talents into mercenary work.
That’s how he’d met the American, David Campbell. The man had sought him out, wanting him to help pull off an impossible mission. And when it had come time to discuss price, Campbell had—how did the Americans say it?—made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. So he hadn’t.
The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. He looked and saw another man, face wrapped in a scarf, approaching. He held an AK-47 by its pistol grip, let the muzzle point at the floor. Although the wrap obscured most of his features, Jasim could see the man’s furrowed brow, his narrowed eyes, all telegraphing his concern.
The man—Tariq Hammud, who Jasim considered his closest adviser—kept his voice barely above a whisper, addressing him in Arabic.
“Sir, you expose your features to these people. Is that wise?”
“Is it wise to ask such a question?” Jasim countered.
“I mean no disrespect. But I was told we must keep our identities secret. At least, that’s what the American said. Has all that now changed?”
“Have I said it’s changed?”
“No.”
“Do you take orders from me, or from the American? Are you now a loyal subject of the infidel?”
The creases in Hammud’s brow deepened and his voice took on a cold edge. “Of course not.”
“But you suppose that I am a loyal subject of the American and should follow his orders to the letter. Am I understanding this correctly? Or perhaps that I should behave like a woman and cover my face in public. Is that it?”
“Never,” Hammud said, his voice rising in volume. “To suggest such a thing would be an insult.”
“My point exactly. We are agreed, then, that I may expose my face as I choose, rather than when given permission?”
“Of course. I was in error to suggest otherwise.”
Jasim suppressed a smile as he watched the other man squirm. “Did you come only to harass me about this?”
Hammud shook his head. “No, we found Fisher. He wants to speak with you.”
“He has news?”
“He says so.”
“We’ll see. Have we secured the grounds? Nightfall is only a few hours away. We will be at our most vulnerable.”
“We’re taking the necessary precautions.”
“Fine. Tell Fisher I will meet in him the library.”
“I’ll have him taken there.”
Jasim grabbed the suitcase that stood next to his ankle. He strode past the hostages, making a point to meet their gazes as he passed. As expected, most of them looked away. However, he caught one man, a Marine dressed in camouflage fatigue pants and matching T-shirt, glowering at him as he walked by. His hands were bound behind his back, his legs tied at the ankles, his boots removed and discarded.
The Arab halted and stared into the American’s pale blue eyes, held his gaze for several seconds. Another Marine, secured in a similar fashion, was situated several feet away.
“What are you looking at?” Jasim asked.
“You killed my sergeant, you piece of shit,” the Marine replied.
“Tom, let it go,” the second Marine warned.
Jasim smiled. “You should listen to your comrade. He has the right idea.”
Color spread through the first Marine’s neck and inflamed his cheeks.
“Kiss my ass,” Tom said.
With lightning-quick movements, Jasim fisted the VP70 and aimed the weapon at the second Marine, the one who’d uttered the warning. Jasim stroked the handgun’s trigger, unleashing a 3-shot burst that reduced the man’s skull to a crimson spray. The remaining Marine’s eyes bulged with anger and shock, while other hostages gasped or screamed.
“You son of a bitch.” Despite his bonds, Tom struggled to come to his feet. Jasim watched the man’s struggle with amusement.
Jasim swept the gun around the room. Hostages screamed and flinched, some were paralyzed with fear while others balled themselves up to form smaller targets.
“I made it clear from the beginning that heroics would cost lives. Resistance would cost lives. That includes your incessant yammering. For every ill word you speak, someone dies. So choose each word carefully.”
The Marine’s face beamed pure hatred. The Marine’s lips had tightened into a bloodless line and his skin had turned an angry scarlet. After a long pause, Jasim said, “Nothing else to say? Good.”
Holstering his weapon, he spun on his heel and started for the library, whistling as he went.
A few minutes later he stood in the library, smoking a cigarette. The door handle rattled, grabbing Jasim’s attention. Turning, he saw a slender, pale man with unkempt hair enter, escorted by a pair of Jasim’s men.
Jasim gestured toward a nearby chair. “Mr. Fisher, sit.”
Fisher did so. Lacing his fingers together, he set his hands on his knees and studied his thumbnails while Jasim looked down at him. Fisher, a low-level embassy worker, had been feeding Jasim and the others intelligence on the embassy for months. From what Jasim understood, the American had been frequenting underage prostitutes in Monrovia’s slums. When confronted with photographs and promises of cash, Fisher had been all too happy to betray his own country.
“You killed somebody else,” Fisher said.
“You have an issue with that?”
Fisher shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I have no issue with anything.”
“Good,” Jasim said. “You had something you wanted to tell me.”
“One of the women, Barb Kendall, she’s CIA.”
Jasim felt his gut twist into a knot. Heat radiated from his face. “Why am I just now learning this?” he asked.
Fisher tensed visibly, anticipating a blow. “I just found out. I overheard her discussing it with the ambassador. I always thought she was a public-information officer. I guess that was a cover.”