Hunting in the Shadows (American Praetorians) (29 page)

             
Larry, apparently realizing the same thing, slid up to me and put his mouth near my ear.  “It should get shallower at the end,” he whispered, barely audible even in the evening quiet.  “I think this one does a dogleg and then stops just shy of the road.”

             
“I think you’re right,” I replied, just as quietly.  “I don’t want to get too close to the road, though.”

             
“I’m just thinking of how much noise we might make getting out of this fucking canal,” he whispered.

             
“If we didn’t rouse anybody getting into it, I don’t think we’ll do any worse getting out,” I said.  I pointed, carefully.  “There, about another twenty-five meters.  We’ll get out there, and get into the shadows between those two houses.”

             
With a good deal of effort, we slithered up out of the water and onto what amounted to a yard.  There was short, scrubby grass on the ground, though it petered out pretty quick when we approached the road.

             
Another hardball road ran toward the warehouse, and we had to get across.  As tempted as I was to sprint it, under the circumstances, I kept to a calm walk as I moved into the shadows on the other side.  Larry waited until I was set before following me.  Quick movement draws the eye, especially in low light.  Walking normally and relatively slowly made it less likely that we’d be made at a distance by some random hajji out later than usual, or a PPF car on patrol.

             
Granted, there was a curfew in Basra, and if we got spotted by the PPF, we were probably done anyway.

             
We started working our way into the scattered, ramshackle buildings on the edge of the Tareq neighborhood.  I was looking for an abandoned building, or even a ruined one like we’d holed up in in Kirkuk a few nights before.  We needed somewhere to go firm.  Then I could contact Jim.

             
A short distance past the road, we found it.  The house was little more than a foundation, with three of the exterior walls all the way up, and the fourth only partially begun.  There were stacks of bricks inside and out, and a couple of wheelbarrows just left lying around.  It would do.  We hunkered down in the corner, and I pulled the waterproof case with my cell off my belt.

             
“Kemosabe,” Jim answered on the third ring.

             
“Hillbilly.  Running a little late.”  If I’d said I was sorry, that meant we’d been taken.  “Running a little late” meant we were held up, but still at large and in fighting shape.  “We might need a ride home.”

             
“The van will be there.  What kept you?”

             
“Tareq wanted to play on the northwest field,” I said.

             
The entire conversation had been scripted.  There was a reason for that.  We didn’t know how much the PFF or the IP were monitoring cell calls.  Since we were using the phones instead of tac radios on this particular operation, we wanted to make sure anything we said would just sound like regular everyday talk, and wouldn’t give anything away other than that there were Westerners in the city talking about mundane bullshit on their cell phones.

             
In that mundane bullshit, however, we had communicated that we were free, no casualties, and that extract would be at the open field to the northwest of Tareq.  Now all that was left was movement to extract and linkup.  Not that that was necessarily going to be easy or safe.  Extract is usually the most dangerous part of any operation, and I had no doubt that this could well be the same, especially as I saw the reflected light of a PPF car’s red and blue lights flash on the southern wall.

             
We stayed in place until the lights had passed, and everything was dark and quiet again.  I didn’t know if Tareq was regularly without exterior lights, or if the power was out in this part of town.  In Iraq, it could be either, I’d found.  The loss of oil revenue coming in from the West had hit the country pretty hard; only the Chinese oil interests had kept things above water.

             
We crept out into the open, forcing ourselves once again to move normally and slowly.  We had only a quarter mile to go to reach the extract point, and it would take a little while for the vehicle to get there, particularly if they were trying to avoid taking a straight-line route, which I knew they would.

             
There was a lot of open ground between the houses, all of it bare dirt and dust, with the usual trash scattered around—bottles, cans, and the ubiquitous black plastic bags that they put everything in in the markets.  We had to watch our footing to keep from making too much noise just from the garbage.  Even the crunch of pebbles under our boots sounded horrifyingly loud.

             
Just as we got to the one major road crossing we had before getting to extract, we had to duck back behind a building and drop to the ground, snugged up against the wall.  A PPF car had just turned down the road, its lights flashing, and slowly cruised along through the neighborhood, apparently just patrolling.  We stayed there for a minute or two after it had passed, facing in opposite directions, waiting to make sure there wasn’t anyone coming back to investigate, in case they might have seen something.  Once I was sure we were alone, I tapped Larry’s boot and got up, heading across the road as quickly as I could while still staying stealthy.

             
It was when we got to our extract point that we realized a flaw in our plan.  In the imagery we’d looked at, the open green area at the northwest corner of Tareq had looked like a field.  It wasn’t.

             
We were looking at a stagnant pond, edged by reeds.

             
“Dammit,” I muttered under my breath.  I didn’t want to get back in the water; with the night as warm as it was, I was almost dry from the canals.  The more I thought about it, though, it probably meant a better hiding place while we waited for extract.  Without any further ado, I led the way into the reads, and sank down to a kneeling position, just my head and shoulders out of the water, and waited.  Larry followed like a tired bear.

             
A long five minutes later, a white panel van pulled alongside the road just a few yards away and stopped.  The driver got out and popped the hood, dangling a blue pocket light over the engine as he did so.  That was our ride.  I pulled my own microlight out and flashed it three times.  The blue light flickered twice.  I got up and started moving.

             
Bryan was the driver.  He just pointed to the back doors, which swung open to reveal the open back of the van, with Nick sitting against the driver’s side seat, an M60E4 across his knees.  Larry and I sloshed our way in and swung the doors shut, just as Bryan got in and started the engine back up.  Then we were moving, heading back to the safehouse.

Chapter 17

             
Everyone was up by the time we got back.  Actually, from the looks of things, I don’t think anybody had gotten any sleep at all since things had gone pear-shaped in the market.  Jim grabbed my hand in the crushing grip he got when he’d been worried.  “Starting to think you guys were dead,” he said.

             
“The PPF probably would have let everybody know if that was the case,” I said.  “I take it you guys have been monitoring them?”

             
He nodded.  “Of course.  They’re still looking for you.  Something about spies or terrorists.”

             
“Figures.  The IA is saying something similar, why not the PPF?”  I stripped off my windbreaker, which was pretty crusty from the canal water.  Every piece of gear I’d taken with me was going to have to be pretty thoroughly cleaned, starting with my rifle, which I immediately set down on the counter in the kitchen and started to strip down.  I looked over at Haas, who was standing nearby.  “So what the fuck happened?” I asked.  “Did your boy Jaf flip?”

             
He shook his head.  “Jaf’s still here.  If he flipped, he’s being awfully ballsy about it.  No, I think the point of failure was Jaf’s contact.  He’s been trying to call him for the last eight hours, from multiple numbers, and he’s not answering.”

             
“Did he flip, or did he get burned?” I asked, more speculating than expecting an answer.

             
Haas shrugged.  “No way to know, short of tracking him down.”

             
I shook my head.  That probably wasn’t a good use of time or resources.  “Next step?” I asked.

             
Haas’ lips compressed in a thin line.  “The next step is a little bit of a tangent, but it’s necessary.  We have to get the Jaf family out of the city.”

             
I paused.  It made sense.  If the contact had flipped, or been burned and made to talk, the PPF knew that Jaf was involved.  We didn’t know how much the PPF was under the IRGC’s control, but from today, there was obviously enough to make our lives very difficult.  This was also a part of the world that didn’t think twice about going after someone’s family.  “Where are they?” I asked.

             
He grimaced.  “Across town; their house is in Manawi Al Lajim.  Pretty close to the center of Basra.”

             
“Shit.”  The last place we really wanted to go at the moment was downtown Basra or anywhere close to it.  “Has he contacted his family?  Have we started making arrangements so that we can get in and get out?”

             
“He has,” Haas replied.  “I’ve heard him arguing with his wives.”

             
“Awesome,” I said, without enthusiasm.  Muslim men are allowed by Islamic law to have up to four wives.  From all accounts, that could sometimes end up being a handful, particularly in somewhat more modernized places, like southern Iraq.  “They’d better be ready to go when we roll up, or I’m leaving their asses there.  I’m not going to sit on a street corner and argue with some broad in a hijab for half an hour because there’s some vital family heirloom that absolutely
has
to go.”

             
“He’ll make sure they are,” Haas assured me.  “He keeps a pretty firm hand on his family.”

             
I grimaced.  “I don’t know whether to say, ‘Good for him,’ or, ‘Fucking jackass,’” I said. “As long as we can get in and out with as few hiccups as possible, fine.  Staying clear of the PPF is going to be interesting enough.”  I jabbed a finger at him.  “And if we do this, he had better come up with some solid leads on the IRGC’s ops, or I’m kicking him out of a moving vehicle right in front of the nearest PPF station.”

             
Of course, none of it turned out as planned, including my threat.

              “Son of a bitch,” Bryan muttered from the driver’s seat.  I couldn’t blame him.

             
Manawi Al Lajim was a maze.  Actually, it wasn’t a maze…mazes are actually thought out.  There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the way the neighborhood was laid out.  I don’t think there were two parallel lines in the whole place.  Streets that should have been parallel came together in a V, side streets turned into dead ends, and there weren’t any directions that made sense.  We’d had to go back to Tamuz Street three times already.

             
Jaf was in the back of the van, but he wasn’t being exactly helpful.  He kept trying to call his house, and then yelling at us that we had to turn around and go take another street.  I was starting to suspect he was running us in circles, stalling to give his wives time to get ready.

             
It was already midmorning, and I was starting to get angry.  We were tooling around out here, wasting time, with the PPF looking for us from the day before, and this guy was playing games, as near as I could tell.  Haas said he was all right, but I had yet to see the evidence of it.

             
Finally, he stuck his head and shoulders between our seats and pointed.  “There, that house there,” he said, pointing emphatically.

             
“About damned time,” I muttered, as I pushed his hand back.  “Are they ready?”

             
“Almost,” he said.  “Few minutes more.”

             
“Motherfucker,” I snarled.  “They’ve had all day to get ready.”  I told Bryan to pull us up to the house, then turned to Jaf, who was looking offended.  “You’ve got five minutes to get your family in this van or we are leaving,” I said.  “You have to get through to them that we cannot afford to take any more time.  Understand?”

             
He nodded, finally, and got out of the van, walking in the front door.  I checked my .45 in the glove compartment, and scanned the neighborhood as I did so.  I already had my hackles up, and I was expecting the PPF to show up any minute now.

             
My thoughts were interrupted by a burst of AK fire from inside the house.  I bolted upright, looking around for bad guys, seeing nothing.  My TRP was already in my hands, almost without my noticing it.  I was wishing for the M1A in the back, but I didn’t think I’d have time to grab it.

             
There was another, longer burst from inside, as somebody ripped off an entire magazine.  I was about to kick open the door and head in after Jaf, when a man in a track suit, his face covered by a white-and-black checkered keffiyeh, ran out of the house.  He had an AKS-74 in his hands, and raised it toward the van.  I was already halfway out the door.  I launched myself the rest of the way, landing roughly on my back, as Bryan blasted away with his 1911, awkwardly held out the driver’s side window.  I rolled onto my side, punched the pistol out, the tritium front sight settling just below the keffiyeh, and fired twice.  Dark, wet spots blossomed on the dark blue running suit, and he crumpled.  Another man, this one dressed in black pants and a dark brown jersey, with a keffiyeh wrapped around the lower half of his face like an Old West bank robber, appeared in the doorway, an AK with no buttstock in his hands, and I shot him twice in the chest.  Bryan’s round hit him in the side of the head, blowing half his face off in a shower of gore and bone.

             
I reloaded as I clambered back into the van.  “Go!” I barked.  Bryan didn’t need any urging.  He floored the pedal and we went careening down the street with a squeal of tires.  Two more men with their faces covered, one with a keffiyeh, the other a ski mask, ran out into the street with rifles and fired at us.  Three rounds hit the van with loud
bang
s.  I was tempted to return fire, but we were moving too much, and soon Bryan wrenched the van around a corner, almost putting us up on two wheels.

             
I speed-dialed Haas.  “Jaf is dead,” I told him, “presumably his entire family with him.  We’re on the way back.”

             
“He’s not the only one,” he replied.  He sounded shaken.  “Half my contacts have gone off the grid in the last half hour.  I’m on my way to meet one who got away.  He says it looks like the Sadrists are liquidating as many Sistani loyalists as they can find.”

             
We sped past another house, where I saw four armed men come out, their faces covered.  Two blocks down, I could see a group of five, armed with AKs and G3s, barging through a compound gate.

             
“Yeah, we can see it out here,” I said.  “Lots of breaking and entering, and no sign of the PPF.”

             
“That’s because probably half the PPF is in plainclothes with masks on, kicking in the doors,” Haas said.  “Remember what I said about divided loyalties?  It just solidified in spades.”

             
“Get your contact,” I said, “and get him to Point Fox.  I doubt they had time to interrogate Jaf, but in case they did, I’m considering that safehouse burned.”

             
“Are we continuing the mission?” he asked.

             
“Damn straight we are,” I replied.  “Just because the city just got a little more non-permissive doesn’t mean we’re leaving.  If the IRGC is coming in through here, we’re going to fuck them up.”

             
That being said, we now had to be more careful than ever.  I was being this open over the phone because with the purge going on, it was probable that the PPF and the Iranians were focused on the moderates in their midst rather than on us.  We’d have to tighten up soon, but given what was going on, clarity of communication was vital.

             
I called Jim back at the safehouse.  “Get out, get to Point Fox.  The Iranians and the Sadrists are purging the opposition, house by house.  Jaf is dead; we have to consider the safehouse no longer secure.”

             
“Roger.  Meet you at Fox,” he said, and hung up.  That was all the information Jim needed.  He’d get it done, and I had no doubt that the whole team would be at Fox in an hour, with the safehouse in Sharqiyah completely sanitized.  Jim would likely prefer to burn it down, but that would attract too much attention.

             
Bryan pulled us out into the traffic circle and onto Tamuz Street, where we headed south at a more sedate pace, trying to blend with the traffic.  I hoped the bullet holes in the back of the van weren’t too obvious, at least until I looked around at the state of a few of the other vehicles on the road.  The guy driving along in a sedan with no side doors wasn’t going to comment on a couple of holes in the back door of our van, and either somebody had gone to town with a drill on the sides of that hatchback, or it had gotten shot up a lot more than we had.

             
  It took less than twenty minutes to get to Point Fox, even with the roundabout route that Bryan took, swinging north into Hayy Al Khafaat before swinging all the way out into Al Hayyaniyah, driving around for a little bit, and then moving into the Hayy Al Khalij Al Arabi, where Fox was located.

             
It was a nerve-wracking ride.  There wasn’t much traffic for the time of day, and that seemed cautious, furtive.  People were going to ground in their homes, as gunfire and a few explosions echoed across the city.  It was the Night of the Long Knives in broad daylight, and we were out and about in the middle of it.  Neither of us said much, and when we did, it was in terse sentences, pointing out possible choke points, areas we wanted to avoid, or possible bad guys.  I had undone my seatbelt and reached into the back, pulling my M1A up into my lap, mostly covered by a jacket, and had my hand on the pistol grip the entire time.  If we ran afoul of the Sadrist hitters again, I wasn’t fucking around with a pistol.

             
The Hayy Al Khalij Al Arabi was a pretty affluent neighborhood.  Haas had rented a townhouse there, ostensibly as a businessman in the construction supply business.  How much business he would find these days, if he was legit, was an interesting question, but not one that got asked.  As long as the landlord didn’t show up while we were there, the place was ours.  Regular and early rent payments pretty well ensured he’d stay out of our hair.

             
Bryan pulled up to the gate and grabbed his OBR from the back, similarly throwing a jacket over it on his lap.  I shoved my M1A against the center console, checked the pistol on my hip, and got out to open the gate.  It was unlocked, only requiring lifting the metal bar that slid down into a hole in the concrete.  I swung the gate inward, and Bryan pulled the van inside the courtyard.

             
It wasn’t that large, especially with the trees growing in front of the house.  It was going to be a tight fit to get the van, the pickup, and the sedan inside.  We might have to park one of them on the street.  It wouldn’t be too out of place, but it would mean we were down a vehicle during the day.  With what was going down in Basra, I didn’t want to show our faces in daylight if we could help it.

             
We stayed with the van until the sedan showed up with Jim, Little Bob, Juan, and Paul.  All of them were wearing local dress to blend in to casual observers.   As soon as they pulled through the gate, Juan and Little Bob jumped out, pulling rifles and kitbags out of the trunk.