After the End Read online

  Yesterday I was in Manhattan and now I’m in barren territory that’s been bloodied over the centuries by the Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Turks, Kurds, and now—

  Nazim speaks sharply to Yusuf, and they turn to me, AK-47s pointed in my direction and at a trail intersection marked with piles of stone.

  Yusuf says, “Sorry mister. Don’t move.”

  Chapter 16

  But I do move and instantly drop and roll—as if I had suddenly caught fire—as Yusuf and Nazim shout with surprise and pull the triggers on their automatic rifles. There’s the familiar stuttering roar of 7.62mm rounds as bullets zip over my head.

  I don’t know what the hell is driving them but that’s for me to contemplate later. I take a breath, wait, and they fire again. I recognize Nazim as the bigger threat, so when he’s lit up by the flash from his AK-47, I quickly fire off two rounds from my SIG Sauer, dropping him hard to the ground.

  I roll again, keeping head and vital body parts down. Yusuf starts wailing and fires off another burst.

  There are two logical options available to me. I could wait for another burst of fire from the young man and put him down to join his cousin. Or I could crawl away and follow my landmarks to make my way back to the fence and into Turkey.

  But when have I ever been logical?

  I move quietly, circling around to the other side of Yusuf. He’s yelling at me in Arabic and fires off another long burst—fire discipline is definitely not his strong suit—and when he empties his magazine and struggles to replace it, I get up and run at him and roll him over like an NFL player angry at the world.

  His AK-47 goes flying off and he hits the dirt hard. I throttle him for a moment, then grab a handful of his greasy hair and slam his head hard against the rocky ground.

  Once I have his attention, I say in a loud whisper, “What the hell was that about?”

  He’s bawling and speaking Arabic, so I slap his face twice and say, “English. What just happened?”

  “You…you…you killed my cousin!” he yells.

  “Keep your damn voice down!”

  He says, “Nazim…you killed my cousin…”

  “Yeah, well, you guys shot first. Was this a robbery? Or a ransom?”

  “I can’t tell you, mister…”

  Not a very proud moment but I have to keep at it. I could have killed him or safely retreated, but by doing so, I wouldn’t have gotten what I wanted: intel. Were these two just trying to rob me or hold me hostage?

  Or something else?

  I throttle Yusef again until he almost passes out, give him one more head slam, and then he says, “Please…stop…”

  “What was the deal, then?”

  “Nazim…poor Nazim…”

  “It’s going to be poor Yusuf in about ten seconds.”

  I give the area a quick glance. I can sense movement out there, shadows moving here to the site of the gunfire eruption.

  “I…we…we were told to take you to the meeting place…that trail junction…and to wait for others to get you…”

  “Who others?”

  “Nazim…he knew…”

  “Why? Ransom? Something else?”

  “I…was told to talk to you…the man who was looking for Jack Zach…”

  I make out a knot of men at the trail juncture, the one marked with rocks, and decide it’s time to bug out. I grab his arm and say, “Move…and keep down.”

  I half drag Yusuf along with me and as we head back to the border fence, “Who talked to you about me? Who was it?”

  “Some…American…”

  “What was his name? Where did you meet?”

  “He was a big man, wide and—”

  A burst of automatic gunfire and I drop to the ground. Yusuf pulls free and he starts running away, holding up his hands. There’s another stutter of gunfire and Yusef runs off the trail. There’s a sudden thump! of an explosion as he trips over a land mine and pieces of him go windmilling into the air.

  Chapter 17

  I’m hoping the sudden noise of the explosion will shock my pursuers for a few seconds, since I’ll take any additional second I can get.

  I stay as low as I can but I trot quickly along the stone trail, checking off the landmarks as I get closer to the fence.

  There’s an occasional shot back there, but no muzzle flash.

  Swell. That means they’re a step up in professionalism from the poorly departed cousins, because they use flash-suppressors to help hide their locations and carefully fire their shots without standing up and spraying the landscape.

  I pause, roll, and take cover by a collection of head-sized stones.

  Which seems swell, part two. I can only see flickering shadows back here, but as I approach the fence, I realize I’m now backlit by the refugee camp’s bright lights.

  Like a moving target that can’t be missed.

  From my place of concealment, I fire off twice—hoping the rocks will block the flash of light from my SIG Sauer—and keep on moving, moving, moving.

  I eye the fence line…if I can pass through that, at least I’ll be back in Turkey. Not meaning I’ll be safe, but at least I know one friendly face.

  I pause once more, my breathing sharp and hard, and take another two shots at my pursuers.

  They fire back, rounds whizzing overhead, one snapping at a near rock.

  They’re good.

  Not very good, but good enough.

  I keep on moving.

  There’s the fence line, up ahead, the place where the gap had been cut open.

  And it’s blocked.

  By three, maybe four shapes, holding AK-47s.

  Okay.

  Blocked at the rear, blocked at the front.

  Land mines out there somewhere.

  I throw myself down flat on the dry ground and look back.

  Shadows move in my direction and get more distinct as they come closer to me.

  I hear a voice, speaking accented but clear English: “Give it up. You can’t move.”

  I keep my mouth shut.

  The pursuers get closer.

  The shadows out there by the fenceline get more distinct.

  Three men block my approach.

  My SIG Sauer has a twenty-round magazine, and I have fourteen shots left.

  Better be enough.

  Because I have no intention of staying here and being captured. I don’t want to become the latest hostage who’s kept for years before being beheaded or burnt alive.

  I stand up and start running to the fence and to Turkey, shooting as fast as I can pull the trigger.

  Chapter 18

  Running to the fence isn’t as suicidal as it sounds. First, the three men are backlit—just like me—and they make easy targets. While I was running full-bore at them, I fired and moved in zigzags, making me a hard target to hit. Second, these gents made a classic mistake: because they blocked me fore and aft in straight lines, they set it up so they couldn’t quickly fire without hitting their friends.

  The three shapes collapse and I keep on firing, to make sure they’re down for good and not faking it. My pistol’s slide slams back and stays in position—indicating I’m out of ammo—and I push the magazine release, popping out the empty, and I grab a full magazine from a pouch at my side, and—

  Instantly drop it.

  Moron.

  I turn and reach to the ground, waiting to be slammed or hit, wounded or killed. When I pick up my magazine, slide it into the pistol grip, and free the slide, I’m thinking I’m one lucky son of a bitch, because…

  Nobody’s following me.

  What?

  I turn to the fence line and the opening, and beyond there, I see little flickers of light, like fireflies, and a whispering noise going past me.

  I move past the crumpled shapes on the ground and carefully step through the cut-out fence, now back in Turkey, and a familiar voice calls out: “That you, heathen?”

  I holster my SIG Sauer. “That’s right, Padre.”

  I
go farther into Turkey and Peter emerges from the darkness, by a waist-high pile of trash and broken boxes near the crumpled shipping containers, dressed as before, except he has on a Kevlar vest, identical to mine.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  “Doing fine, except there are some bad guys chasing me.”

  “No more,” he says.

  “For real?”

  He turns and says, “Aza! We’re clear over here.”

  Another man steps from the shadows, small and bulky looking, holding a rifle that’s complete with night vision scope and sound suppressor at the end of the long barrel. He has on a black baseball cap, brim at the rear, a checked black and white scarf, and dark pants and shirt. He’s late thirties, with a fierce-looking Fu Manchu mustache, and he nods.

  He fades back into the darkness and I say, “Pretty brave, being an armed Kurd here in Turkey.”

  Peter nods and says, “Aza is here because, a few years back, when I was stationed in Kurdistan…well, I did his father a service. So now Aza’s my permanent bodyguard and looks out for me in other ways. Like covering a friend who’s hauling ass with a squad of bad guys chasing him.”

  “I didn’t see him when I arrived or when I left.”

  “Pretty good at his job, eh?”

  Back at Peter’s trailer he says, “What the hell was that all about? You did a crappy job, sliding out with Aza picking you up so easily.”

  “You knew I was crossing the border?”

  “Yusuf’s a good worker, but he also has a smuggling sideshow going on over in Syria. I didn’t think he was going to give you a tour of the camp.”

  “So you and Aza were waiting at the crossing, making sure I was covered if need be.”

  “Good thing I was,” he says. “I may be atoning for my sins, but I sure as hell ain’t no pacifist who leaves old friends hanging. And why were you so intent on getting across the border anyway?”

  “Yusuf told me that Jack Zach was over there.”

  “You believed him?”

  “Enough to go with him.”

  He turns and looks back into the darkness of Syria. “Where’s Yusuf?”

  “Tried to run away from me through a mine field. Didn’t work out for him.”

  Peter says, “Jesus, you can’t stay away from trouble, can you?”

  “Apparently not.”

  Inside the trailer it’s dark and crowded, with cardboard boxes and mismatched chairs. Peter shuffles around and comes back with two cold bottles of Efes Pilsen and opens them both. I take a long, refreshing slug and he says, “You looking for Jack Zach…a private job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pays well?”

  “Not a damn dime.”

  “That’s the Owen I know,” he says. “What do you need now?”

  “I need to get back to the airport at Gaziantep, preferably with my head intact.”

  Peter smiles. “Demanding cuss, aren’t you?”

  “Like you said, you know me well.”

  Chapter 19

  After spending less than a day in Turkey and Syria, I’m retracing my steps, thinking of my time there and what had happened to me. I’m getting the feeling that Yusuf, Nazim, and the other gunmen were not only up to no good, but that they had somebody with money and authority employing them.

  But for what reason? To get me? Lots of opportunities for bad folks over the years to “get” me, and nothing had ever happened. So why now?

  To protect Jack Zach?

  If so, who was doing the protecting? His new Taliban buddies? Not likely. They were thousands of klicks away and they usually had problems doing anything outside of their provinces. They didn’t have the reach.

  Was Jack Zach protecting himself?

  Not by hiring losers like Yusuf or Nazim. He’d hire better losers with polished shoes and nice suits and law offices in downtown Manhattan.

  There were lots of things to think about, but for now I’m relaxing in the first class section of an Air France Boeing 777, heading back to JFK. I’ve paid a good chunk of cash to upgrade myself, and considering that desperate and dirty time back in Syria, I think it’s money well-spent. Each seat is a little luxurious space pod with a television screen, and dinner somewhere over the Atlantic includes tournedos and a choice of five different wines.

  I sleep, and before I know it, we descend and land with a soft whisper. In minutes, we roll up to Terminal 1. With my false identification, I get through Customs.

  And there you go. Allison is waiting for me on the other side, and I’m pretty sure it’s not a good sign. She has on her uniform of black blazer, white blouse, black slacks, and black heels. It sounds plain but still, she looks pretty damn good.

  Allison comes up to me and says, “We have a problem.”

  All right, I’m certain it’s not a good sign.

  “What’s up?”

  She motions me to follow her and we find a quiet corner. The terminal has lots of big white tubes and trusses overhead, like some crazed architect’s idea of what the future would look like in the go-go 1980s.

  Allison says, “We need to get down to Georgia.”

  “But will the devil beat us there?”

  She swears at me with the grace and accomplishment of one so long working in the shadows of the government service, and says, “Cut it out. You got everything you need?”

  I hold up my carry-on. “Right here.”

  “Then let’s haul ass. We got a flight leaving in thirty-five minutes to Atlanta, and we’re in the wrong terminal.”

  She starts walking at a fast clip and I keep right up with her.

  I ask, “What’s the trouble?”

  “I’ll brief you on the drive out of Atlanta. No one can listen in then.” She takes a glance at my unshaven face and slept-in clothes. “How was Turkey?”

  “Turkey was fine, save for a brief and violent excursion into Syria.”

  “What happened?”

  I smile at her. “I’ll brief you on the drive out of Atlanta.”

  Chapter 20

  We crash in an airport hotel, and the next morning make the hour drive to Barnes. After our promised mutual briefing, we roll back in front of the nice home in the nice neighborhood of the nice town of Barnes, Georgia. Right away, I sense that something is off.

  The landscape and the road and the kids playing around are the same, but there are two young men working on the porch of Ray and Marilyn’s house.

  We wait for a minute in the car. “That’s where it happened?” I ask.

  “That’s right,” she says. “At about the same time you were spreading peace, love, and understanding in Syria.”

  “Interesting timing,” I say.

  “Let’s go.”

  Outside the air smells much more refreshing than it did in Turkey, without thousands of desperate people clustered around in trailers and white tents.

  I say, “You know how we travelers would sometimes stop and ask each other, ‘Hey, what day is it?’ I feel like you need to tell me what month it is.”

  “Whatever month it is, it’s a month of problems,” Allison says.

  We get up to the porch and the workers ignore us, but I can’t ignore what’s resting against the porch railing: the original door to the house, with its center shattered and blasted out. There’s also a peppering of shotgun pellets in a pattern around the opening, and I note the scent of burnt gunpowder.

  The two workers have unpacked a new door from a cardboard covering, and we pass them as we walk into the entryway and the converted parlor. A temporary green cloth screen on casters is shielding most of the hospital bed, and there’s a chubby male medical aide assisting Ray, whose good eye is closed. I spend a second looking at the bare flesh, the sutured skin, the burn tissue and bandaged stumps, and I look away.

  There’s something new in the room, leaning against the near wall: a Mossberg Model 500 .20-gauge pump-action shotgun.

  Marilyn comes in from the other room, anger coming off her approach and eyes. She
has on khaki slacks and a red turtleneck shirt that’s sleeveless, and says, “About time you two clowns showed up.”

  Allison says, “We got here as quick as we could. Give us the whole story.”

  “Ever since you two noble folks left, Raynie and I have been harassed. Late night doorbell ringing, hang-up phone calls, two broken windows. Then somebody slipped this flyer under the front door.”

  Ray cries out and the medical aide says something soothing, and there’s a sob and silence. Marilyn clenches her jaw and goes over to a bookcase, where she picks up a folded sheet of white paper. She passes it over and Allison opens it. I read it next to her:

  BACK OFF. EVEN BRAVE VETS CAN DIE BY ACCIDENT.

  It’s printed in a plain black sans-serif font from an inkjet printer, practically impossible to trace.

  Allison passes the paper back to Marilyn and she crumples it up and throws it on the floor. I ask, “So what did you do?”

  Marilyn says, “I put a nice bag of stinking trash out there, where they delivered the note, hoping they’d get the signal.”

  I try not to smile. I’m a little scared of this woman. “What happened next?”

  “Last night, I thought I heard somebody on the porch. I went around to the side window, saw two men. They were bent over, like they were trying to break in.”

  “Did you warn them?” Allison asked.

  “Fire first, questions later, Raynie always told me,” Marilyn says with steel in her voice. “I grabbed the shotgun from the rear closet, blasted right at them.”

  Another soft moan comes from behind the curtain. Allison glances at me and then to Marilyn. “We…can stop, if you want. That’s not a problem. If you have any regrets.”