into the mirror and even though he saw no accomplices, he still wanted to get a little distance from the carjacking site, just in case. The man was going for a short ride. Hunter sank his fingers into the guyâs hairy forearm, digging his fingernails into the skin, but he couldnât get a good grip. The arm slipped away. He hit the brakes, came to a stop, then sprang from the vehicle.
The young man lay unconscious in the dirt, his arm twisted into an unnatural position. Hunter yanked off the assailantâs headband, headscarf and beanie and dropped them onto the hood of the SUV. He wrestled with the body for its clothing, a dishdashah, the traditional white man-dress worn throughout the Arabian Peninsula. He worked the skirt above the manâs hips, exposing his genitals. Keeping with local customs, the carjacker wore no underwear. Hunter averted his eyes.
âThis is why guys in Detroit never go out carjacking free-balling under a dress. Itâs not only the cold,â Hunter said as pulled the dishdashah over the manâs head. He wadded it up and grabbed the headdress. He smiled when he found a small wad of cash. It wasnât much, but would be enough to get him by for awhile before he could sell the gold chain necklace that he always wore for such emergencies. He jumped into the Navigator to drive back to where the guy had lost his slippers.
The dirt streaked across the front of the white cotton garment would draw some attention, but even so, the man-dress would help him blend in a lot better than his 5.11 pants and Under Armour T-shirt. Back on the tango turn-pike to Ramadi, he yanked off his shirt and undershirt, then pulled the dress over his head and down to his waist. The Velcro crackled as he pulled the sheath off his leg and lay his knife on the seat beside him. Steering with his knee, he unzipped his pants and pulled them down to his ankles where they got stuck around his combat boots. Peeking up over the dashboard just enough to see the road ahead, he untied his boots and took off his pants. For a few moments he debated with himself whether he really needed to lose his jockeys, but knew he had to do everything he could to blend in. His knife could have been a spoil of war, he told himself as he strapped it back onto his bare leg, but as much as it pained him, he would have to leave the firearm in the SUV. He had no way of concealing it and passing as an Iraqi was a far more powerful defense than a single bullet.
Deciding to forego the beanie, Hunter folded the black and white checkered cloth in two and draped it over his head. The black cord of the headband smelled like a goat. He doubled it around the top of his head to hold the headdress in place, then pulled down the sun visor to check himself out in the vanity mirror. The cruel Iraqi sun had given him a deep tan that was darker than many of the locals. His beard could have been a little longer and rattier, but he could pass. Score one for the loose Rubicon dress code that had no restrictions on hair length or facial hair.
The first rays of sunlight streaked orange across the sky and soon calls to prayer would echo in the streets. He could already smell smoke from firewood and diesel fumes from generators. The Iraqis didnât let much of the day get away from them, heâd give them credit for that. He spotted a dark alley with an assortment of cars where he could change and trade in Stellaâs SUV for something less conspicuous. He looked in the rearview mirror as he started to turn.
Two Ford Expeditions sped toward him.
Rubicon .
Chapter Six
At the Pentagon, which has encouraged the outsourcing of security work, there are widespread misgivings about the use of hired guns. A Pentagon official says the outsourcing of security work means the government no longer has any real control over the training and capabilities of thousands of U.S. and foreign contractors who are packing weapons every bit as powerful as those belonging
The young man lay unconscious in the dirt, his arm twisted into an unnatural position. Hunter yanked off the assailantâs headband, headscarf and beanie and dropped them onto the hood of the SUV. He wrestled with the body for its clothing, a dishdashah, the traditional white man-dress worn throughout the Arabian Peninsula. He worked the skirt above the manâs hips, exposing his genitals. Keeping with local customs, the carjacker wore no underwear. Hunter averted his eyes.
âThis is why guys in Detroit never go out carjacking free-balling under a dress. Itâs not only the cold,â Hunter said as pulled the dishdashah over the manâs head. He wadded it up and grabbed the headdress. He smiled when he found a small wad of cash. It wasnât much, but would be enough to get him by for awhile before he could sell the gold chain necklace that he always wore for such emergencies. He jumped into the Navigator to drive back to where the guy had lost his slippers.
The dirt streaked across the front of the white cotton garment would draw some attention, but even so, the man-dress would help him blend in a lot better than his 5.11 pants and Under Armour T-shirt. Back on the tango turn-pike to Ramadi, he yanked off his shirt and undershirt, then pulled the dress over his head and down to his waist. The Velcro crackled as he pulled the sheath off his leg and lay his knife on the seat beside him. Steering with his knee, he unzipped his pants and pulled them down to his ankles where they got stuck around his combat boots. Peeking up over the dashboard just enough to see the road ahead, he untied his boots and took off his pants. For a few moments he debated with himself whether he really needed to lose his jockeys, but knew he had to do everything he could to blend in. His knife could have been a spoil of war, he told himself as he strapped it back onto his bare leg, but as much as it pained him, he would have to leave the firearm in the SUV. He had no way of concealing it and passing as an Iraqi was a far more powerful defense than a single bullet.
Deciding to forego the beanie, Hunter folded the black and white checkered cloth in two and draped it over his head. The black cord of the headband smelled like a goat. He doubled it around the top of his head to hold the headdress in place, then pulled down the sun visor to check himself out in the vanity mirror. The cruel Iraqi sun had given him a deep tan that was darker than many of the locals. His beard could have been a little longer and rattier, but he could pass. Score one for the loose Rubicon dress code that had no restrictions on hair length or facial hair.
The first rays of sunlight streaked orange across the sky and soon calls to prayer would echo in the streets. He could already smell smoke from firewood and diesel fumes from generators. The Iraqis didnât let much of the day get away from them, heâd give them credit for that. He spotted a dark alley with an assortment of cars where he could change and trade in Stellaâs SUV for something less conspicuous. He looked in the rearview mirror as he started to turn.
Two Ford Expeditions sped toward him.
Rubicon .
Chapter Six
At the Pentagon, which has encouraged the outsourcing of security work, there are widespread misgivings about the use of hired guns. A Pentagon official says the outsourcing of security work means the government no longer has any real control over the training and capabilities of thousands of U.S. and foreign contractors who are packing weapons every bit as powerful as those belonging
Similar Books
