American Operator, page 20
part #4 of Tier One Series
His heart rate spiked when he saw that the approaching vehicles were indeed an SUV and a pickup, only to sink a beat later when he confirmed the late model Nissan Qashqai SUV and Toyota truck passing by were not the vehicles that had fled al-Bab. Despite this, his curiosity was piqued, and he couldn’t help but raise his spotter scope for a look. The cars drove past the parked BMW to the next intersection. The SUV kept moving north, but the pickup braked in the middle of the intersection, parking at a forty-five-degree angle to block any future traffic from all directions. The driver then exited the pickup, climbed into the bed, and picked up an AK-47, which he held at the ready across his chest.
Shit, what’s all this about?
Dempsey zoomed in and watched the shooter, who had fixed his attention squarely on the BMW, trying to peer through the tinted windows to check for occupants just as Dempsey had done. Beyond, Dempsey saw the brake lights of the SUV light up as the vehicle stopped farther down the road. The gunner in the truck shifted his attention from the BMW to whatever his colleagues were doing just up the street. As Dempsey pondered what the hell was going on, he heard the roar of an engine and the squeal of tires. The shooter in the pickup heard it, too, but by the time he’d whirled around and taken aim, the black BMW slammed into the side of the truck, sending the man flying out of the bed and onto the pavement. Dempsey winced as the dude hit hard, headfirst—a landing he suspected the man would not be getting up from. The BMW’s tires squealed again, this time in reverse as the driver expertly backed up and then whipped around the pickup to head toward the Nissan up the street.
Next thing he knew, Dempsey was up and moving toward the pickup.
What are you doing, John? he asked himself, but the SEAL didn’t answer. The SEAL didn’t like this scenario for some reason, and the SEAL was getting involved. At ten meters from the pickup, he flung the front flap of his poncho back over his left shoulder, like something from a Clint Eastwood movie, and brought his rifle up. He glanced at the body in the street, saw a pool of dark blood leaking from its skull, and glided past the dead shooter. He ducked behind the truck bed as small-arms fire echoed up the street. A burst of automatic rifle fire answered a beat later and he knew it was on.
He took a knee and sighted around the corner of the bed.
The driver’s door of the BMW was open, and a bearded man stood defiantly a half step out of the vehicle, pointing an assault rifle at a cluster of people on the sidewalk in front of a storefront apartment. Two bodies lay on the sidewalk, and a man was holding a woman hostage at gunpoint. Dempsey lowered his rifle and raised his spotter scope to his eye, just to be sure.
“Dark hair, almond skin, wearing a maroon robe . . . She’s young, fifteen or sixteen tops—definitely not Amanda Allen,” he mumbled. “Fuck, I can’t let this happen.”
Dempsey advanced, keeping to the left side of the street and out of the BMW driver’s peripheral vision. A shouting match was in progress between the two armed men, presumably over the fate of the teenager. Dempsey closed ground quickly, flanking the BMW. The man on the sidewalk saw him and his eyes went wide. He released the girl, dropped his pistol, and ran north up the street. BMW man kept his rifle raised, pointing at the girl—or maybe at someone inside the doorway to the shop beyond. He hollered something in what Dempsey thought was Kurdish. The quivering teenager took a tentative step toward the black sedan. The driver barked something at her, prompting her to cover her ears and run toward the front passenger door. Dempsey arrived just as she reached for the door handle. The driver became aware of his presence, but too late. Dempsey ambushed him from behind, releasing his rifle at the last moment, and pulling the pistol from his thigh holster instead. He smashed into the driver with his torso, knocking the man’s AK-47 to the ground. With lightning speed, his left arm snaked around the man’s neck. He then bumped out his hip to tilt his adversary off balance and pressed the muzzle of his pistol into the man’s temple.
“Stop right now, asshole,” he commanded, letting the muzzle of the pistol do the translating for him.
“Are you kidding me? Let go, dickhead,” the man wheezed, struggling in Dempsey’s grip. The distinctively New York accent shocked Dempsey, but he kept his choke hold firm. “I gotta get this girl in the car and motor before the assholes inside come out.”
Dempsey shifted his gaze and saw two new and important developments altering his perception of the situation. First, the girl was already climbing into the car of her own free will. And second, an angry-looking shooter with an AK-47 had appeared in the doorway across the sidewalk. The girl slammed the front passenger door shut.
“Let go of me,” BMW man said over his shoulder. “You’re gonna get this poor girl murdered.”
As if in confirmation, the shooter in the doorway shouted and strafed the side of the car with a volley. Dempsey released the driver and dropped to a crouch, taking cover behind the cab of the sedan. The driver did the same but didn’t waste any time. He picked up his rifle, tossed it into the car, and scrambled into the driver’s seat. Before shutting the door, he locked eyes with Dempsey.
“You got two seconds, bro. Come with, or stay here, but we’re leaving.”
It was an easy decision.
He flung open the rear passenger door and dove in headfirst as the big black Bimmer laid a strip of rubber and rocketed forward. The girl screamed, and Dempsey ducked as more rounds pinged the side and back of the sedan. Two starbursts appeared on the rear passenger-side window, but by some miracle, the rounds didn’t penetrate the glass.
“Talk,” Dempsey demanded, pressing the muzzle of his Sig Sauer into the back of the driver’s seat, center-of-mass position. “What business do you have with this girl?”
“I’m rescuing her, asshole,” the driver said and laughed. “That’s my business.”
Dempsey hesitated, unsure what to say or do. The paradox of this dark-skinned, heavily bearded Kurd talking with a thick Bronx accent and driving a BMW through the dark streets of Manbij made him momentarily wonder if he was dreaming, his body asleep back at the warehouse.
“Who the hell are you?” Dempsey finally said. “And why are your windows bulletproof?”
“My friends call me Raz. I’m sort of a guardian around here,” the driver said, flashing Dempsey a genuine smile in the rearview mirror. “This girl is Jeza, a Kurd who was kidnapped by a group of Syrian thugs. They were taking her to sell her—probably to some ISIS shitheads—as a sex slave. Human trafficking is big business around here these days. I’m the guy trying to stop it . . .” His voice trailed off. “When I can.”
“You’re American?”
“Yeah, and so are you,” the man said, his dark eyes meeting Dempsey’s gaze in the mirror again. “So what happened? Did your buddies leave you behind when they pulled out last week?”
Raz was referring to the recent departure of US coalition forces from Manbij after years of supporting the Kurdish Syrian Defense Forces in the battle against ISIS. The US presence in Manbij had been a major thorn in US-Turkish relations, and so with ISIS’s caliphate broken now, the Warner administration had made the decision to withdraw, thereby ending the unofficial and rarely reported-on policy of keeping a limited number of US boots on the ground in Syria.
“Something like that,” Dempsey said.
“Well, then you can report back to your bosses what’s happened in the aftermath.”
“And what is that?”
“Same thing that always happens when a power vacuum is created,” Raz said, the good humor evaporating from his expression. “Bad guys stream out of the cracks to fill it. This place has gone to hell since our boys left. Kidnappings, lootings, assassinations—all back.”
They tore around another corner, and only then did Raz finally ease off the gas and slow to something below white-knuckle velocity.
“What about SDF? Can’t they keep things under control?” Dempsey asked.
Raz laughed. “They try, but they got their fucking hands full, man. The Syrian military is gunning for them, and so are the Turks. It’s not a good time to be in Manbij, bro. Word is the Turks are going to strike any day. So why is it you’re here again? I don’t think you ever answered my question.”
Dempsey squinted at the face in the rearview mirror, and a memory sparked. He’d heard stories about this guy, Amraz Demir—a real-life, no-shit, crime-fighting vigilante. He’d earned himself a helluva favor chit when he saved several Navy SEALs with his up-armored BMW in Iraq. “I know who you are,” Dempsey said, the corner of his mouth curling up. “You’re Amraz Demir.”
“In the flesh.”
“I thought your bat cave was in Iraq?” Dempsey said, subtly holstering his Sig.
“It was, but I follow the action.”
“Oh c’mon, there’s gotta be more to the story than that.”
Dempsey watched Raz smile wanly in the mirror. “I spent six years in the Navy, serving as a combat medic with the Marines in the Second MEF. Saw a lot of terrible shit . . . You’re a shooter, so I know you can relate. Anyway, it chewed me up and spit me out. I got out after my tour and went back home to New York. My dad always wanted me to be a doctor . . . I tried, man, but Iraq gets under your skin, ya know . . .”
“Yeah, I know.”
“My parents are Iraqi Kurds, but I was born in America. When I showed them pictures, they didn’t even recognize Iraq anymore. Anyway, when the drawdown happened and ISIS blew up, it pissed me off. The shit these guys do to other people . . . it’s just disgusting. I’m not a religious guy, but I have a moral code. I don’t know, man, I couldn’t just hang out in the Bronx and let innocent people get slaughtered. I decided to go back, but not with the Navy. Too many restrictions; if I was going to do this, I needed to do it my way. I talked to some of my buddies and eventually found a dude to come with me. His name was Danny Weidner. We made our way to Irbil, joined up with the Kurds there and started kicking some ass. Then it got rough for a while. Danny got plinked and he didn’t make it. Once Iraq settled down, I joined a group that headed into Syria to rescue a group of schoolgirls those ISIS bastards kidnapped. Kind of a crazy suicide mission, I guess, but we pulled it off. That’s when I knew.”
“Knew what?”
The man smiled at him and laughed.
“That this was my true calling—rescue ops,” he said.
They turned east, heading deep into the city now.
“How long have you been in Manbij?”
“Just over a year. I ran some rescues in al-Bab when the fighting was really bad back then.”
“And you do this shit alone?”
Raz laughed. “Everyone else either died or moved on. I got the Batmobile here right after we rescued the schoolgirls in Al Qaim. Bought it off a guy, who bought it off a guy, who acquired it from a former Saddam-era General in Fallujah. It’s badass, right? Up-armored, bulletproof glass, plate-steel undercarriage, two fuel tanks, run-flat tires . . . practically fucking indestructible.”
Dempsey nodded. “Yeah, definitely badass.”
The Kurdish girl, Jeza, who until now had been staring like a statue out the windshield, turned to Raz—words and tears spilling from her in a torrent.
Raz answered her and gave her hand a squeeze.
Dempsey couldn’t pick out much of the exchange, but he gleaned an apology and a promise to take her home.
“So far, I’ve done all the talking,” Raz said. “What’s your story?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Dempsey said, debating how much he was willing to share. “I happen to be on a solo rescue mission of my own, but unfortunately, I had to leave my Batmobile at home.”
“Ahhh, so you think your hostage is in Manbij?”
“I lost the trail outside of al-Bab, and I was hoping to pick it back up here,” Dempsey said. “So you’re pretty wired here, I imagine.”
“Yeah, you could say that. The Kurdish community trusts me, obviously, and feeds me very well by the way.”
Dempsey nodded.
“Just ask, bro,” Raz said, shaking his head with a chuckle. “It ain’t like we’re dating.”
“Maybe you could ask around,” Dempsey said. “See if anybody knows anything about an American smuggled into or trafficked through Manbij in the last few hours.”
“Under one condition,” Raz said, with a sly grin.
“It’s a deal.”
“You didn’t even hear what I want.”
“You help me save this girl, and I’ll get you whatever you want, brother.”
“In that case, if she’s here, we’ll get her out,” he said and pointed to a series of hash marks carved into the BMW’s dashboard. “We’re doing this together now, by the way. It’s not every day I get an opportunity for a two-fer.”
Dempsey laughed. He liked this guy . . . Raz kinda reminded him of a young, well, him.
Raz reached up and pressed a button on the garage door opener clipped to his visor, just as if they were in the suburbs back home. Dempsey watched as a heavy steel gate opened, allowing access through a stout compound perimeter fence topped with razor wire. Raz piloted the BMW into a single-car garage attached to a modest single-story stone house and then closed the door behind them.
“I need an hour to get this girl to her family, and then we can get to work. In the meantime, I’ve got fresh water, coffee, lamb stew, and fruit you can help yourself to. And if you need to catch some shut-eye, I got a spare mattress.”
A giant smile spread across Dempsey’s face.
“Heaven to my ears,” he said and opened the door to climb out.
Perhaps there was a God who heard the prayers of lost souls like him after all.
CHAPTER 24
The “Demir Compound”
Manbij, Syria
1130 Local Time
Dempsey stretched across the mattress on the floor and let out a satisfied groan.
In his bone-weary state, this might as well have been a Four Seasons hotel. He considered removing his boots—the downrange equivalent of a spa massage—but couldn’t even muster the energy to do that. He had a full belly, and for the moment, he was safe. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander to all the default and dangerous places an operator’s mind tended to go when he let down his guard. He began by contemplating the hell Amanda Allen was probably enduring right now. A failed rescue—and especially one with a high body count—would not endear her to her captors. She would be punished for his failure. Every hour that passed meant more scars she would have to carry for the rest of her life. And that was on him.
Eventually, his thoughts drifted to Theobold and the wounds the DIA man had suffered during the failed raid. After that, he thought of Grimes and their parting discussion on the Boeing, and then . . .
“You left me,” a familiar voice said sometime later, a woman’s voice.
He opened his eyes and found a beautiful woman straddling his chest. She wore simple slacks, a white linen blouse, and a turquoise scarf tied loosely around her head. A dark red pinprick appeared on her blouse midchest, then began to blossom before his eyes.
“Elinor?” he said, his voice catching in his throat.
“You left me,” she said, her face contorting with anguish and rage. “You left me . . . to . . . die!”
Her punches came furiously and without warning, fists pounding his chest and face as she cried tears of blood.
“I’m sorry,” he screamed, trying to shield himself from the maelstrom of blows. “I’m sorry, Elinor.”
He woke with a start, sitting bolt upright, chest heaving. Wild-eyed, he looked around the room, but of course, it was empty. “God, I fucking hate that dream,” he sighed and then collapsed back onto the mattress. He ran the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping the sweat away. It had been a year, and still he couldn’t get the image out of his head—her writhing in pain on the dirty floor of an underground hookah bar in the Grand Bazaar. That was how he had left her. Left her to die.
And in doing so, he’d broken his creed.
In the Teams, no one gets left behind.
But in the gray world of spies, did that creed apply?
Elinor had betrayed him, personally and professionally—of that there was no doubt. Yet a part of him simply couldn’t shake the feeling that in the final moment, she’d stood with him. She could have turned her weapon on him. But she hadn’t. And that’s what haunted him. They’d been teammates; they’d shared a night together. She’d presented him to her dying father as her husband. Was it all self-serving? Had she ever been more than a very good adversary?
Only Elinor had known who she was—traitor or teammate—in those final minutes.
And she’d taken that truth to the grave with her . . . because he’d left her.
He stared at the cracking paint of the nicotine-stained ceiling.
“Atlas, this is Olympus. Do you copy?” said Baldwin’s voice in his ear.
“Of all the times you could have restored comms,” he said, grinning to himself, “you wait until I’m asleep.”
“My apologies, Atlas,” Baldwin came back. “So I presume from your answer that you are not being held captive in that compound where we hold you on the outskirts of Manbij.”
“Check.”
“That’s good because our Reaper holds a black sedan arriving at your location,” Baldwin said. “Thermal imagery confirms the driver is alone.”
“Check.”
“Who is your new friend?” Baldwin asked. “We’re all very curious.”
“Amraz Demir,” he answered, his eyes still closed.
“No shit” came Smith’s excited voice on the line. “That dude’s a local legend.”
“He’s shorter than he looks on TV,” Dempsey said with a laugh, and then with a groan, he sat up and said, “I should probably get up . . . What’s the skinny? You have any new intel for me?”
