tanks and pipes littered the landscape. A steel vat had been torn apart by shrapnel from some kind of distiller that had exploded beside it. A few meters past it, a cement tower had partially crumbled, its rubble nearly blocking the road entirely.
Ethan drove past a row of tanker trucks; the first vehicle was upturned, the second had a ruptured tank, the semi portion of the third had been crushed by falling debris.
There were lots of hiding places out there. Too many.
"On your three," Ethan announced, pointing out a sniper on the rooftop of a partially collapsed outbuilding to the right.
"And your nine," Doug said. "On the tanker."
Ethan glanced to his left. Sure enough, an assault rifle poked from the upper walkway of the long cylindrical tank there.
"On a scale of one to ten," Doug announced. "My spidey sense is registering a five."
"A five?" Ethan said. "Mine's more like an eight."
"If they wanted to kill us, they would've launched an RPG the moment we pulled up."
"Maybe." Ethan forced a smile. "Or it could be that they simply want to torture the hell out of us first."
Ethan stopped the vehicle in front of the large warehouse the refinery had been built around—a long, rectangular two-story affair.
"Let's get this over with, shall we?" Ethan said.
The two of them exited the Land Cruiser, retrieving the weapons and associated magazines from the floor cache. Ethan secured the provided holster to his ankle and shoved the Glock subcompact inside, then slid the strap of the A4 snugly over one shoulder.
He locked the doors and proceeded toward the main building with Doug.
The air felt cool, though he was sweating underneath his layered clothing. He studied the long, gray building. Some of the nearby towers had fallen onto the structure, caving in portions of it, potentially offering alternate methods of egress should they need it.
The pair climbed four concrete steps and opened the blue-painted metal door that led inside. The environment was relatively well lit within: the far wall had collapsed at some point, allowing the sunlight to illuminate much of the area.
Tall, steel shelves filled with empty wooden pallets divided the interior into long sections. Metal towers that had broken through the structure had collapsed several shelves in a row on either side like dominoes. The areas immediately surrounding the fallen units lay in shadow. A flatbed trolley sat in one corner. An old forklift the other.
Doug walked toward the shadows. "Salaam," he said, extending his arms, palms up.
No answer came.
"Salaam!" Doug tried again, louder.
Still nothing.
"Why don't they show themselves?" Ethan said. "It's not like they don't know we're here."
On cue, several men emerged from the shadows. They were dressed in desert fatigues and caps, with contrasting black balaclavas covering their faces so that only their eyes and mouths showed.
The two operatives raised their hands in surrender as the men surrounded them. Ethan counted twenty masked opponents, each pointing an AK at either himself or Doug. The encircling aggressors had spaced themselves perfectly, so that no one stood in the crossfire of anyone else.
"Salaam?" Doug tried again, weakly.
seven
E than heard footsteps echo from deeper inside the warehouse; he turned toward their source, and in moments another fighter emerged from the shadows. Like the others, he wore light desert fatigues. His matching cap was pulled low over his brow, but his face was otherwise uncovered: a hooked nose complemented rather small, round eyes, giving him a slightly avian look. His cheeks were hollow and his skin wan, as if he suffered some illness. He had a star-like discoloration above his right jawline—a shrapnel scar, Ethan thought.
The fighters parted to let the newcomer into the circle.
"Emad," Doug said, using one of Ethan's aliases. "Meet the leader of Liwa Al Mosul , Abu Othunan." The former meant The Mosul Brigade. The latter, Brother Ears.
The resistance was
Ethan drove past a row of tanker trucks; the first vehicle was upturned, the second had a ruptured tank, the semi portion of the third had been crushed by falling debris.
There were lots of hiding places out there. Too many.
"On your three," Ethan announced, pointing out a sniper on the rooftop of a partially collapsed outbuilding to the right.
"And your nine," Doug said. "On the tanker."
Ethan glanced to his left. Sure enough, an assault rifle poked from the upper walkway of the long cylindrical tank there.
"On a scale of one to ten," Doug announced. "My spidey sense is registering a five."
"A five?" Ethan said. "Mine's more like an eight."
"If they wanted to kill us, they would've launched an RPG the moment we pulled up."
"Maybe." Ethan forced a smile. "Or it could be that they simply want to torture the hell out of us first."
Ethan stopped the vehicle in front of the large warehouse the refinery had been built around—a long, rectangular two-story affair.
"Let's get this over with, shall we?" Ethan said.
The two of them exited the Land Cruiser, retrieving the weapons and associated magazines from the floor cache. Ethan secured the provided holster to his ankle and shoved the Glock subcompact inside, then slid the strap of the A4 snugly over one shoulder.
He locked the doors and proceeded toward the main building with Doug.
The air felt cool, though he was sweating underneath his layered clothing. He studied the long, gray building. Some of the nearby towers had fallen onto the structure, caving in portions of it, potentially offering alternate methods of egress should they need it.
The pair climbed four concrete steps and opened the blue-painted metal door that led inside. The environment was relatively well lit within: the far wall had collapsed at some point, allowing the sunlight to illuminate much of the area.
Tall, steel shelves filled with empty wooden pallets divided the interior into long sections. Metal towers that had broken through the structure had collapsed several shelves in a row on either side like dominoes. The areas immediately surrounding the fallen units lay in shadow. A flatbed trolley sat in one corner. An old forklift the other.
Doug walked toward the shadows. "Salaam," he said, extending his arms, palms up.
No answer came.
"Salaam!" Doug tried again, louder.
Still nothing.
"Why don't they show themselves?" Ethan said. "It's not like they don't know we're here."
On cue, several men emerged from the shadows. They were dressed in desert fatigues and caps, with contrasting black balaclavas covering their faces so that only their eyes and mouths showed.
The two operatives raised their hands in surrender as the men surrounded them. Ethan counted twenty masked opponents, each pointing an AK at either himself or Doug. The encircling aggressors had spaced themselves perfectly, so that no one stood in the crossfire of anyone else.
"Salaam?" Doug tried again, weakly.
seven
E than heard footsteps echo from deeper inside the warehouse; he turned toward their source, and in moments another fighter emerged from the shadows. Like the others, he wore light desert fatigues. His matching cap was pulled low over his brow, but his face was otherwise uncovered: a hooked nose complemented rather small, round eyes, giving him a slightly avian look. His cheeks were hollow and his skin wan, as if he suffered some illness. He had a star-like discoloration above his right jawline—a shrapnel scar, Ethan thought.
The fighters parted to let the newcomer into the circle.
"Emad," Doug said, using one of Ethan's aliases. "Meet the leader of Liwa Al Mosul , Abu Othunan." The former meant The Mosul Brigade. The latter, Brother Ears.
The resistance was
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