Free The Price of Freedom by Jenny Schwartz

torn vegetation had slid down in a storm of dust, pulverized.
    Ilias gathered his breath and shouted the terms of surrender. He told the hiding men in the rat tunnels that there was no escape. They should follow his instructions. The soldiers around him were seasoned professionals. They would shoot first, under no illusions as to their enemy’s trustworthiness.
    “Do this, and you will be safe,” Ilias concluded.
    Silence mocked him.
    “Three minutes,” said the captain.
    Ilias nodded and repeated the time limit to the men in the tunnels. He watched the entrance, aware of the captain checking his watch.
    At two and a half minutes, Ilias heard a soft scuffling from the tunnel. A man emerged, both hands gripping a stick with a white shirt tied to it. He was stripped to his underwear, no explosives strapped to his body.
    He stared, wide-eyed and wild at the masked soldiers. “Surrender.”
    A shot rang out from the tunnel and the man fell forward, dead.
    The tension among the soldiers tightened to a killing pitch. The captain signaled to one, who swung his weapon up. Tear gas shot into the tunnel.
    Curses and coughs echoed, then men stumbled out with their eyes streaming and their lungs fighting for air.
    “Lie on the ground! Lie down,” Ilias shouted. If they didn’t, if they continued stumbling forward, the soldiers would shoot. “Lie down.” He dragged his mask back on, grateful for the protection.
    The soldiers weren’t cruel, but terrorists had killed before in these situations, using people’s pity against them.
    The captain’s hand went down, and the lieutenant fired.
    The terrorists slammed to the ground, their arms above their heads. Only one man took the time to cushion his fall, dropping first to his knees. He was older than the rest, skinny and with a matted beard.
    Ilias translated the captain’s orders. “No one move.”
    Two of the soldiers ran forward to pat down the coughing prisoners. Ilias went with them. Tears and snot ran down the men’s faces, and their breathing rasped. He reached the skinny man. He was mouthing curses even as he struggled to breathe.
    Ilias watched for sudden movements, following the training on locating knives, guns and explosives. Men who hated kept death around them. He paused at a hard bulge at the man’s waist.
    Black eyes glared at him, seeming to pierce through the gas mask Ilias wore. The man coughed a curse and grabbed for Ilias.
    A soldier swung the butt of his gun, and the man collapsed unconscious.
    Ilias nodded his thanks. No longer needing caution, he found the cause of the bulge and the man’s defiance. A bottle, the glass green with age. Ilias slipped it into a pocket. Broken glass was a weapon. He continued extracting a pistol and knife. He moved on. None of the other men gave any resistance.
    The captain slipped off his mask. “Have them drag their comrade away from here. I’ll question them away from the gas.”
    Ilias passed on the order. He was astonished at the rough way two men grabbed their fallen fellow. He would have more bruises than just the one on his head when he woke.
    “Careful,” Ilias said.
    One of the prisoners spat. “Not for him. Umar killed Ali. He shot him in the back. Said terrorists don’t surrender, but he’s here, isn’t he?”
    “What did he say?” the captain demanded.
    “The old man’s the one who shot the first man in the back,” Ilias translated.
    “Ah. Is he their commander?”
    Ilias asked the prisoners, then grimaced. “He was.” He didn’t need to translate the men’s anger. The dead man, Ali, must have been popular.
    “Him, him, and him.” The captain pointed quickly, first to the unconscious man and then two others.
    The lieutenant called up the helicopter. The chosen men were loaded and removed for serious questioning. The others were herded down to the shade of a few spindly trees. There was a village half a mile away, but the captain wouldn’t risk his men on an unknown welcome. They all stayed