One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [136]
“Shit, he’s headed this way,” I said.
I looked around for another exit, but we were out of luck. Short of running through the kitchen, the front door was the only way in or out. I saw the man halfway across the street and moving with a purpose directly toward our restaurant.
“He’s coming in. Hide your face.”
Jennifer picked up a menu and pretended to read it. I did the same, but my angle was horrible. At least Jennifer had her back to the guy. I was facing the entrance with the small menu the only thing hiding my features. I heard the front door open and tried to become invisible. I waited for some indication that he had walked deeper into the restaurant but heard nothing. Why’s he standing at the entrance? Move, dammit. Go to the bar. The bell on the front door chimed again. Without lowering the menu, I glanced back out the window, seeing someone running toward the hostel. With a start, I realized it was the terrorist.
“Shit! We’re burned! We need to stop him before he gets to his buddy!”
I raced past a group of startled patrons and flew out the door. I ran as hard as I could, slowly closing the distance. I saw him look back, fear etched into his face. He put on a final burst of speed, taking the steps to the hostel three at a time. He blasted through the front door, bowling over a couple at the entrance.
I came through the entrance right behind him, in time to see him fling open a stairwell door. I followed, a flight-and-half of stairs behind, then narrowed it to one flight. I heard him open the door above me. I reached the fourth floor and exited the stairwell, catching a glimpse of a man entering a room midway down the hall. I had no idea if it was the terrorist or not, but had no other options. I took off at a dead sprint.
I reached the door just as it was slammed shut, jamming my foot in the opening and letting it bounce harmlessly against the sole of my boot. Drawing back, I threw my full weight against the door, causing it to explode inward, flinging whoever was behind it against the wall.
I followed the open door into the room and recognized the terrorist on the floor. I reached out to grab him, but he scrambled away, putting the bed between us.
For a split second, we just stared at each other in a standoff, both of us panting. I saw the look of fear on his face turn to determination. I moved into a fighting crouch, preparing for the assault that was coming.
It never came.
Instead he shouted, “Allahu Akhbar!,” then turned and launched himself headfirst out of the window, shattering the glass with his momentum. The scream continued for four long floors, growing fainter, like a passing train whistle, until it was abruptly cut off when his body impacted the street below.
Before I could assimilate what had happened, I heard someone else at the door and whirled around, seeing Jennifer, out of breath from her run. She looked around the empty room, then at me.
“Where’d he go?”
82
Bakr exited the back of a pickup at the end of a rutted dirt drive leading to a crumbling two-story farmhouse. He thanked the driver for the lift, staring at the house as the man drove away. The people here and in the surrounding hills existed at the poverty level, barely scraping a living out of the hardscrabble ground. The residence was built entirely of stone and had been frequently patched with homemade masonry, with the residue of a past fire visible. Moving listlessly about in a pen next to the farmhouse were a couple of skinny goats and a small flock of chickens, all digging in the dirt to find a bit of greenery that had long since been eaten.
It had taken Bakr the better part of the day to track down Juka’s residence, and he still wasn’t sure this was it. Before walking up to the house, Bakr reviewed in his mind the tale he would spin to obtain Juka’s help. Bakr had learned of Juka’s existence through a Chechen who had come to Iraq to glean IED techniques that he could take back to his fight against the Russian invaders of his homeland.
Bakr knew that Juka was a supporter of Muslim