Combat zone justice is a.., p.14
Combat Zone: Justice Is A Dark Art, page 14
“That will haunt you for the rest of your life,” said Abbas, smiling. ”You and your infidel life will be plagued by the image of that man on the ground before and after you killed him.”
Snapping the butt end of the AK-47 around hard, Tyler smashed the terrorist squarely on the cheek. As his head moved rapidly to the left blood drained from his mouth and his teeth hit the ground as his body started to crumble beneath him.
“Looks like we need to have a good memory to get rid of this bad one,” said Tyler, with anger and frustration in his voice. “The best memory I can think of is your dead body.”
“Not yet,” said Falau, causing Tyler to take his eyes off the terrorist and look up at him.
“Do you want to take him out?” asked Tyler.
“No,” said Falau walking over to the man who now had a steady stream of blood dropping from the corners of his mouth and pulled his hand up as if somehow, he could keep the blood inside. ”I'm gonna make him prove what a coward he is.”
“I’m no coward,” said Abbas feeling the pain of the broken teeth and the raw nerves being hit with blood and air going in and out of his mouth.
“If I let you live, you tell us where the EMP is,” said Falau, calmly.
“When you're in hell you'll know,” said Abbas, pulling himself back up to the standing position.
“You won't trade your life for that weapon,” said Falau.
“I’ll never tell you where it is. Al Qaeda will keep the weapon and you'll be fighting this fight for years to come,” said Abbas.
“Death before giving up what you believe in,” said Falau. “It's admirable.”
The big man walked in front of Tyler, blocking his view of Abbas.
“But would you trade the information to stop pain?” asked Falau, staring directly into the eyes of Abbas. ”Have you ever been tortured?”
“I've been tortured by you Americans,” said Abbas “you've done it to the world for years.”
“That's a nice political answer but it's not what I'm talking about and you know it,” said Falau, reaching down and grabbing the hand of the terrorist who made no attempts to pull it back for fear of the guns that were aimed at him. “If I start breaking your fingers starting with the smallest and then working over to the thumb would you give me the information then? What if I decided I'd start chopping them off? One by one until the pain became so excruciating that you could bear it no longer. Would you then give up where the EMP is? Would you give us the weapon to have us stop the torture and just kill you?”
“You're a madman,” said Abbas pulling his hand back. ”Your mission isn’t one of God. Your mission is a sick and sadistic one.”
“What if I were to pull your teeth out one at a time. What if I made you swallow each one after pulling it out? Would you then tell us where the EMP is?” asked Falau. “How about I just take my gun and start shooting from the feet up. One shot in your right foot and then one in your left. Then one on your shin on the left then one in the shin on your right. I could work my way up in six inch increments until I reached the top of your legs. Then I could start on your arms slowly ripping you apart shot by shot. Could you stand that pain?”
“You wouldn't dare. You don't have the stomach for such a thing,” said Abbas with his voice now quivering as the terrorist leader pulled himself back from the big man who strolled in front of him.
“I'm a pretty sick son of a bitch,” said Falau. “Less than 24 hours ago I was in the living room of your head of security and I was holding this exact gun to his daughter's head. If he hadn't given me the information I wanted, I would've had no issues with pulling the trigger and ending her life. Do you really think a man that would kill a little innocent girl would have any problem killing you or torturing you?”
“What if I do tell you?” asked Abbas. “You’re probably just lying anyways. There's no assurance that you would let me go or that my life will be spared.”
“Don't be mistaken your life will not be spared,” said Falau. “You will die here today. The question will be how cleanly death will come. How fast will we choose to let you die?”
“I'll take my chances,” said Abbas, looking Falau squarely in the eye and not wavering at all.
Bang! Bang!
With little movement Falau lifted the same handgun that had been used to kill the elderly man firing two quick shots that entered the left and then the right leg causing his body to drop to the ground unable to support his own weight. The screaming was instant, and the pain was immense.
Reaching down grabbing the man by the back of his shirt Falau dragged the man as he walked kicking open the door and moving out into the night where the sky had become a lighter shade of black and blue mixed together as the sun was ready to break the horizon.
Pulling the man over to the dirt bike Falau opened the saddlebag on the side of the bike pulling out a length of rope and tying it to one of his legs.
“What are you doing?” said Abbas with desperation in his voice and the pain that filled his entire body. “Why you are tying that to me?”
“Have you ever seen the old West movies from America?” asked Falau as he tied the opposite end of the rope to the back of his dirt bike.
“What are you talking about?” asked Abbas, looking to the other men on the team as his eyes were wide at watching what Falau was doing. “You men must stop him. This isn't right.”
“In the old West they would take a man and would break a leg on him or shoot him. Then they dragged him by a rope that was attached to a horse. They say that the pain is unmatched on the broken bone. Many men can’t stand the pain and they would simply pass out before they stopped the horse,” said Falau, pulling the knot tight on the edge of the motorcycle and mounting the seat. “I'm not gonna be that bad with you. I have a whole new way to get rid of you. I’m going to love dragging you for about a mile from here. I’ll then get off the bike and I'll shoot your legs two more times and then I'll shoot your arms making sure that you can’t drag your body. Then I'm going to just leave you in the middle of the desert with no water, no food and no communication. You may last a day or two, but no one will ever find you. You'll die one of the slowest the most brutal deaths you can imagine.”
Falau’s leg kicked down on the bike, starting the engine. Tyler and Shaukat moved to their bikes and hopped on quickly without hesitation.
“Don't do it! Please don't do it!” yelled Abbas. “The EMP is on the Thames River. It's on a fishing boat. It's down at the Tower of London. It's called the Maria. The boat—it's called the Maria.”
Stopping the motorcycle Falau turned back looking at Abbas whose face was filled with desperation and begging for mercy from the big man.
“Make the call Tyler,” said Falau nodding to Tyler as his friend hopped off the motorcycle and went into the closest tent. ”Let's make sure we grab everything here before we burn the place down, okay Shaukat?”
“I gave you what you want. So please don't torture me. Don't leave me out in the desert,” pleaded Abbas, looking to see if there was any sign of the big man weakening.
“What will your God think when you see him?” asked Falau, in a somber and flat tone. “What will your God think as he looks in your eyes, knowing that you sold out everything that you believe in to save yourself?”
“He'll be ashamed of me,” said Abbas, lowering his head.
“I'll give you a choice. I can leave you in the desert just as I said before or I can shoot you right now,” said Falau, tempering his comments. “If I leave you in the desert at least your maker will think that you tried to atone for the sins you've committed against him today. But that atonement comes at a steep price. Or I can simply shoot you and you will avoid the pain but have so many questions to answer in the next life.”
Through sputtering tears and gasps of pain Abbas lifted his head, showing eyes filled with shame and doubt. ”Please shoot me now.”
Bang!
THIRTY-TWO
Ring!
The phone ringing cut through Young’s concentration as he sifted through the manifests of every ship on the Thames. His concentration was locked in, but the phone was something that could easily break it. The phone had a way of coming with information at just the right time. More than one time early in his career not answering the phone had cost him a mission and led to further death.
Reaching out quickly the Englishman picked up the receiver and placed it to his ear.
“Young.”
“We got the information you need,” said Tyler on the other end, mincing no words. “The weapon is on a boat in the Thames River.”
“We came to that conclusion as well,” said Young. “But the problem is how long the Thames is and the number of boats that are on it.”
“The name of this boat is the Maria,” said Tyler. “It's disguised as a fishing boat and the men on it will not set off that weapon until they’re told to do so.”
“It’s about sunrise where you are, isn’t it?” asked Young.
“Yes. Been up for about 15 minutes. If those guys had an order to fire it at daylight than they would've already done it,” said Tyler. “Unless they’re so damn stupid they're thinking that it's sunrise in England.”
“If that's the case then we have plenty of time before the sun rises here,” said Young. “I plan to have that thing out of the water and gone within the next two hours.”
“You might just want to dump it in the ocean,” said Tyler. “The saltwater will kill that thing in no time flat. There's also no risk that it ends up in the wrong hands again. Not that I doubt M-6 and your ability to keep it contained but why even take the chance?”
“I'll keep that in mind,” said Young. “Did you gentlemen complete your mission?”
“The entire camp has been neutralized,” said Tyler with pride in his voice. “The moment we're gone this will be nothing but a memory.”
“Thank you for your help,” said Young. “Be careful finding your way back.”
Pulling the receiver from his head Young put it back in its cradle, stopping the call between him and the man he hired to go deep into the Syrian desert to destroy the terrorists.
What needed to be done now fell squarely on the shoulders of MI-6 and British intelligence.
Sliding the chair back, Young grabbed for his coat and headed for the door. Moving through the office he pulled the walkie-talkie from his hip and called to his men in the field.
“I need the location of a fishing vessel called the Maria,” said Young. “Give me a report back the minute you find anything out.”
A smattering of affirmative responses came from different men in the field.
Moving out of the building the MI-6 leader went directly to his car. In the middle of the night the shops had gone dark and the streetlights gave a soft glow as the rain had given everything a glassy look. London was not like Los Angeles or New York. Those cities stay awake 24 hours a day. There is constant motion and hustle and bustle. In the deepest hours of the morning there's still traffic and still people roaming around the streets as if it were the middle of the day. In London things are different. The city goes to sleep and the residents often live a life that is more like a small town rather than a major metropolitan city. The nightlife in the wildness of Soho and other pockets around town stayed contained. But for the most part the city would wait for daybreak before the action would start when a new day would be upon them.
Winding his way through the streets that consisted of one ways and multiple turns, Young enjoyed the simplicity the old city held. The former cart paths had just been paved over and made into streets. There was no grid system or spoked wheel system that made the streets follow a specific pattern. Instead London consisted of a charm that would have tourists and residents find themselves lost in the city that held so much charm in its back streets.
“Young come in,” said a raspy voice on the other end of the walkie-talkie.
“This is Young. What do you got?”
“The target you were speaking of has been found. It's cast anchor approximately five hundred yards up the shore near the Tower of London,” said the voice coming through the speaker. “We ran a scan using infrared. We can see that there's three people aboard. It looks like they're all sleeping.
“They're sleeping?” asked Young, confused by the information. “With everything they're involved with they’re sleeping?”
“Their bodies are laying out prone. The only thing we have seen them do is roll over. If they’re not sleeping, then they’re staring at the ceiling,” said the voice on the other end of the walkie-talkie.
“Meet me at the Tower of London down by the water. Have one of our boats meet us in the area. Contact the local police. Tell them you're coming and tell them to stay away. That is official MI-6 business. I don't want any of the local police involved with this,” said Young. “I also don't want any sirens or lights going. You pull up with everything shut down and turn off your vehicles as soon as possible. Don't worry about me getting wet.”
“Yes sir,” said the man, before the crackle of his walkie-talkie went off.
Quickening his pace, Young cut through the far end of the city, working his way along the Thames River and moving up to the Tower of London. Pulling up onto the side of the road where no other cars were parked, he knew this vehicle sitting there would stick out like a sore thumb. The odds of the car being there when he returned were slim. Local police would assume that it had been abandoned and call the tow trucks before he got back.
Stepping from the car, the Secret Service agent of so many years locked the door behind him and started to walk to the entrance of the Tower of London. The walkway was smooth, making it easy for tourists to get to and from wherever they wished. The site was a major attraction in the city and needed to have wide open space in order to accommodate the number of guests it got each year. The security also needed to be strong with the world knowing that the crown jewels were stored in the tower. The jewels were on display, letting throngs of people walk through each day to see them. Pulling up his overcoat Young felt the cold wind coming off the river and channeling up through the walkway.
Glancing across, looking at the tower as he moved by the modern area with the ice-skating rink, Young found himself again imagining what it looked like years ago when the moat surrounded the Tower of London. The different buildings that were held inside the wall had imprisoned some of the worst people in the history of the city. At times it had even held international prisoners as they waited for their deaths.
“Traitors’ Gate,” said Young muttering to himself. ”It’s a shame we can't use that anymore.”
Since he was a child, Young had always admired the Traitors’ Gate inside the walls of the Tower of London. As others marveled at the crown jewels or the museum that sat inside its walls, the Traitors’ Gate was always what would keep his interest. A simpler time when law enforcement and punishment of criminals was a more public exercise used to deter crime.
“I would love to put these terrorists in there,” said Young, thinking of the Traitors’ Gate and its long history. The gate sat on the edge of the Thames River with one side backing up to the Tower of London wall. The gate was used for royalty and dignitaries to enter and exit the tower but it also had a darker side not spoken about. When someone who would betray the crown or who committed the most heinous of crimes was captured they would be dropped into the pit. Their feet would be shackled so they couldn’t climb out. On the far wall stood the doors normally used to let the royal boats in that had a covering from the outside that was watertight. At low tide the covering would be open bringing in nothing more than a few feet of water letting the person chained inside stand with the water midway up their legs. But slowly the tide would roll in and inch by inch the water would rise until it got over the head of the criminal, drowning them. The executions that took place in that style were later deemed accidents. The gate in its original form had been designed to bring people in and out by river access. But the more sinister ways of this gate operated under the secrecy of night, preventing the public from seeing what had happened.
Making his way down, moving out onto Millennium Pier, a cruise boat silently waited for the morning tourists. They would line the boats and sit in the open-air top section being able to see all the sights of London by way of the Thames. The boats would move on and off the pier all day bringing various groups of people often on their first looks of the major sights of London. Quietly at the far end of the pier sat a small boat bobbing up and down in the water with no lights or activities showing on board.
The simple sound of gentle waves splashing against the side of the pier mixed with the sound of Young’s shoes walking along the metal pier filled the air. The waves were light and comfortable, making it easy to get to the ship that was docked just parallel to the customs house.
“Welcome aboard sir,” said the young man wearing a suit, reaching out his hand to help Young bounce his way onto the bobbing boat.
“Thank you,” said Young. “Do you know where they are?”
“Straight-ahead sir. We can be there within three minutes,” said the young man, looking back to his partner standing next to their supervisor. “Do you have instructions for what we should do once we get there? Will I be placing these men under arrest?”
“I expect these men won't give us much of a problem. I don't expect them to be heavily armed and I don't expect that they're going to give their lives for what's on that boat,” said Mr. Young. “But if shots are fired your orders are to shoot to kill.”
“Yes sir,” said the two men in unison.
The boat started its engine softly. Pushing forward on the throttle, the small craft moved its way gently up the side of the River Thames with no other traffic passing. Cutting the engine and allowing the current to do the work for them, the boat carried them up slowly to parallel the fishing boat that they were looking for.
