* * *
We followed Bealle through the narrow doorway and down an even narrower hallway. The smell of burned bread filled the house. I looked over my shoulder and saw Bear shuffling sideways behind me, his broad shoulders too wide to fit square between the thin plaster walls. We turned a corner to another stretch of hall that opened up to a dimly lit room.
“What’s the deal here, Bealle?” I asked.
Bealle said nothing. He just kept walking. His rank on the team was too low to justify acting like a prick. I had wanted the opportunity to beat it out of him for weeks now. He stepped through the opening, walked across the room and rejoined his team.
I followed, stopped and stepped to the right. Bear stepped to the left.
Scott Martinez looked over and nodded. He said something in Arabic to the Iraqi man sitting on the floor. The man’s arms and legs were bound with the thick plastic ties we carried. Martinez rose from his crouching position and walked toward me. He ran a hand through his sweat soaked short brown hair and wiped blood spatter off his cheek. He stopped a few feet in front of me. Like most spec op guys, he was a good four inches shorter than me and a head shorter than Bear. There were exceptions. My eyes drifted across the room and locked on Aaron Kiser. He stood six foot two and could look me directly in the eye.
I scanned the room, my eyes inching along the yellow stained walls and ceiling. Paintings and family photos hung crooked in obvious spots. The furniture had been pushed to the far end of the room. The captive family huddled together at the other end. The man stared blankly at the floor between his bound feet. His wife sat behind him, her black hair frizzed and disheveled. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her hands rested in her lap, bound at the wrists. Hiding behind her were two small children, one boy and one girl. Their scared faces peeked over her shoulder. Their eyes were dark with fear and darted between the men holding their family captive.
I hated this part of the job. If we had something on the man, fine. He likely did something to bring us here. But why keep the family held up like this? It seemed to be the MO over here lately, at least when working with Martinez. And I had no choice but to go with it.
“Your job here,” Martinez said, as if he had read my mind, “is to provide support. No different than any other day. I give an order, you follow. Understand?”
I shifted my eyes to his and said nothing.
Bear coughed and crossed his arms across his chest.
Martinez dropped his head and shook it. A grin formed on his lips, but his eyes narrowed. We’d butted heads more than once, and I figured he had become as sick of me as I was of him.
“I’m so tired of you two Jarheads.”
I looked over at Bear and mouthed the phrase “Jarheads” at him. He laughed.
The bound man on the floor looked up. His glassed over eyes made contact with mine. I felt my smile fade and my lips thinned. The man’s eyes burned with hatred and desperation. He took a deep breath, and then looked down at the floor.
“Follow, Noble.” Martinez turned and held up his hand while gesturing toward me. He walked across the room and stopped in front of the Iraqi man and then kicked him in the stomach.
The man fell forward into Martinez’s legs. His face contorted into a pained expression while he struggled to fill his lungs with air.
“Get this bastard off of me,” Martinez said.
Kiser stepped forward, grabbed the Iraqi by the back of his head and dragged him to the middle of the room.
Martinez moved to the middle and crouched down. He looked the Iraqi man in the eyes.
“I want you to see this. See what your failure to give us any information has led to.”
Martinez stood and walked over to the man’s wife. He reached under her arm and yanked her to her feet. She gasped, and her children cried out. They grabbed at her with their tiny hands. Bealle and Richard Gallo led the woman by her elbows to the wall across from me. Martinez followed. He stood in front of the woman, leaned in and whispered in her ear.
Her eyes scanned the room and met mine. A tear rolled down her thin face. Her mouth opened slightly. Her lips quivered. She bit her bottom lip and then mouthed the word “please” to me. Martinez brought a hand to her cheek, and she started crying.
Martinez moved to his right and looked over his shoulder at the man on the floor.
“Isn’t your wife worth it?” His face lit up as he said it, and his eyes grew wide and the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a sadistic grin. I noticed his respirations increased fivefold. The spec ops leader appeared to find the exchange exhilarating.
The Iraqi man said nothing. He held his head high and his shoulders back. He stood defiant on his knees.
Martinez brushed the woman’s hair back behind her ears and leaned in toward her again and whispered something to her. She let out a loud sob and then took a deep breath to compose herself. She looked toward her children and said something in Arabic, and then she turned to Martinez and spit in his face.
He stepped back and used the back of his hand to wipe his face. Then he struck her with the same hand. Her head jerked back and hit the wall with a thud. Her body slumped to the floor. Martinez reached out with one hand and grabbed her by the neck and with his other hand he pulled his pistol from its holster, pressing the black gun barrel against the side of her head. His hand slid up from her neck and squeezed her cheeks in. The pressure of his hands against the sides of her face jarred her mouth open. He jammed the barrel of the gun in her mouth.
“Is this what you want?” He paused a moment. “Huh? Want your kids to see your brains blown all over this wall?”
I felt rage build. This was wrong in every sense of the word. I took a step forward. Bear’s large hand came down on my shoulder and held me back.
“Get the kids out of the room, Martinez,” I said.
Martinez straightened up and cocked his head. His arms dropped to his side, and then he turned to face me. He stared at me for a few seconds and lifted a finger in my direction. The woman slid down the wall and crawled on the floor to her kids.
“Noble,” he said. “I told you that you follow my orders. Not the other way around. You got it?”
“Let,” I took a step forward, “the kids,” another step, “leave the room.” I kept moving forward until we met chest to chest and eyes to chin.
I heard weapons drawn around the room and the floor creaking behind me, a sign that Bear was moving into position.
“Gallo,” Martinez said.
“Yeah?” Gallo said, stepping out of the shadowy corner he had occupied.
“Move the man to the corner, then the woman,” Martinez said.
Gallo did as instructed. The family huddled together in the far corner of the room.
“Now stay here, Gallo,” Martinez said. “Rest of you outside. Now.”
I felt the barrel of a gun in my back but didn’t turn to see who it was.
“You two leave your weapons behind,” Martinez said.
We moved back through the narrow hall to the slightly wider doorway. Bear stepped outside first, I went second, and Kiser came out behind me with Bealle and finally Martinez in tow.
The moon now hovered directly above the street, beyond the cover of the orange smoke. I scanned the street and spotted a group of men hanging out a few blocks away. Were they the same men from earlier or perhaps a new group of men not as friendly as the last? Their chatter stopped. They turned to face us. A few of them stepped forward. Were they planning to attack? That wouldn’t be a bad thing, of course. It might give us and the CIA spec ops something in common to fight, instead of each other.
“You guys keep an eye on him,” Martinez said.
I swung my head around and saw Kiser and Bealle aim their guns on Bear. Like us, they carried Beretta M9 9mm pistols. Weapon of choice, it seemed. I followed Martinez’s movements as he paced a five foot area in the middle of the street.
“Noble,” Martinez said. “Step on out here.”
I looked at Bear, and he nodded in return, and then winked. I crossed the packed dirt yard and stepped into the street.
Martinez lunged at me the moment my foot hit the pavement.
I ducked his blow and followed up by pushing his back. His momentum sent him into the side of the house. He reached out with his arms and came to a grinding halt. He turned, rolled his head. His neck and shoulders cracked and popped.
Kiser and Bealle kept their weapons pointed at Bear, but their eyes were fixed on Martinez.
I made the next move and engaged Martinez. We danced in a tight spiral, trading blows of fist and foot. Every connection sent a cloudburst of sweat and blood into the air. The two of us struck and countered with the precision of two highly trained prize fighters. We were equals now.
Martinez threw a flurry of punches. One landed on the side of my head. The blow knocked me to the ground. I knew his next move would be to kick me in the midsection. I quickly rolled and got to my hands and feet.
Martinez backed up.
I looked to the side. Saw black combat boots less than four feet away. I didn’t have to look up to know the boots didn’t belong to Bear. He wore brown boots.
Martinez started toward me. I had to time my attack just right. If I struck too soon Martinez would be out of my reach. Too late and he’d be upon me before I would have a chance to react.
I took a deep breath as time slowed down. Martinez’s boots hit the packed dirt, heel then toe, left then right. He was ten feet way, then eight, then six.
I launched into the air to the right and twisted my body. Kiser didn’t have time to react other than to turn slightly toward me. His outstretched right arm moved too slowly. My body continued to twist to the right, and I whipped my left arm around. My hand wrapped into a fist and struck Kiser’s windpipe hard and fast. He let out a loud gasp as the impact caused him to drop his gun. His hands went to his neck as he stumbled backward and fell to the ground. He tried to suck air into his lungs, but his crushed throat wouldn’t allow it. His lungs shriveled and his face turned red, then blue, and scrunched up into a contorted look of agony.
Martinez closed the gap between the two of us. It was the right move at the wrong time. What he should have done was pulled his weapon. Again, I ducked and slipped to the side, letting his momentum carry him a good ten feet away from me.
I cast a quick glance toward Bear, who held Bealle’s limp body against the building with his left hand while his right delivered punch after furious punch.
With Bealle and Kiser out of commission, I turned to deal with Martinez, who had just scraped himself off the ground and was approaching. I still couldn’t figure out why he didn’t pull his gun on me. End it quickly. He stepped over Kiser’s limp body, coming to a stop a few feet away from me.
I heard a body hit the ground behind me and then Bear appeared next to me.
Martinez lunged forward. I moved to the side and brought a fist down across the bridge of his nose, sending him to the ground, hard. Bear picked him up, and then drove two hard blows to the man’s face and then tossed him onto the ground next to Bealle.
We reentered the house with our guns drawn and confronted Gallo. He gave up without a fight.
“You people should leave,” I said to the family. “Tonight. Now.”
Bear removed the thick plastic ties that bound their arms together.
The family huddled together. Each parent scooped up a kid.
“Follow us out and then go.” I grabbed my M16 from its resting spot on the wall and then led the family down the narrow hall. I stopped by the door, took a deep breath and then stuck my head outside. It was deserted. Martinez and his men and even the group of Iraqi men down the street had bailed. I saw flashing lights reflecting off the surrounding buildings as sirens filled the air.
“Bear,” I called down the hall. “We need to get out of here.”