Free Dead in Damascus: A Special Operations Group Short Story ([#0] Special Operations Group) by Stephen Templin Page A

taxi. Their new driver weaved through the roads leeward of the Anti-Lebanon Mountain, taking them under an ashen sky into a sprawl of white buildings: the heart of Damascus.
    The taxi came to a halt, and Chris, Kapua, and Hannah departed the vehicle. The mountains blocked most of the sea winds and rain from reaching them, intensifying the dry heat. Too much time in this oven could sap one’s energy and eventually cause death. As Chris and Kapua escorted Hannah on foot through the busy streets, they scanned the area for threats.
    “You know, we should really have more firepower for this,” Kapua said.
    “That’s why I picked you and Chris,” Hannah said.
    “Your asset is coming alone, right?” Kapua asked.
    “That’s the plan,” she said calmly.
    “But he could show up with others,” Kapua said.
    Hannah walked as if she didn’t have a care in the world—a façade she wore well. “Anything is possible.”
    Kapua shook his head. “We should have more firepower.”
    They passed an elderly street vendor selling chilled cactus fruit from a portable freeze box under an abnormous umbrella, and he called out his presence by tapping brass bowls together like cymbals. Nearby, a big-shouldered woman complained to a young shopkeeper that his vegetables were bruised and that he should lower the price, but he defended his produce and prices. An aroma of baked kibbeh wafted into Chris’s nostrils as he and his partners cut across a street to a restaurant called Jasmine.
    Inside, he tried to appear nonchalant while observing the customers for signs of danger. There were only a handful of diners in the place and half of the tables remained empty. Does anyone’s face or gestures show nervousness or anger? Where are their hands? Are they armed? He began to calculate how he could kill each and every person in the restaurant. To an outsider, it might seem cold-blooded, but if someone suddenly became a combatant, Chris already had a plan.
    They chose one of the thick wooden tables away from the windows, in case fireworks erupted outside. They’d arrived at their destination nearly an hour earlier than their appointed rendezvous, so they had time to spot anyone attempting to set up an ambush on them. Chris had already scanned for exits: the door they’d entered from, windows, a side door, and through the kitchen and out the back.
    The waiter arrived, and Chris spoke fluent Arabic, ordering drinks while his party “waited for a friend.”
    Kapua looked at Hannah and quietly asked, “How sure are you that Najeeb is going to show?”
    “Fifty-fifty,” she said.
    Kapua gave Chris a look of concern as if to say, Fifty-fifty, what the hell? Kapua hadn’t worked with her before, but Chris had. “That’s what she always says,” Chris said, “but the assets show.”
    “Najeeb had a falling out with AQ, and they killed his wife and child to punish him,” she said, reinforcing what she’d said earlier at the mission brief. “Since then, he has been collecting intel for us, and now he’s ready to come over.”
    They drank and talked quietly for about an hour, then a man with a scraggly beard and dirty, wrinkled clothes walked into the restaurant and fidgeted as he glanced nervously around. During the brief, Hannah had shown a surveillance photo and reported that he was in his thirties, but now he looked older.
    “That’s him,” Hannah said.
    After the man spotted her, he rushed for her table, almost bumping into a waiter. When Najeeb sat, Chris’s senses rose to high alert, and he checked for anyone who might be following.
    “You ready to go?” Hannah asked.
    “I don’t know,” Najeeb said in English.
    The waiter interrupted, handing them menus—everything was written in Arabic—then left to give them a moment to decide.
    Najeeb’s eyes darted around the restaurant before he gave his menu to Hannah. “Not hungry.”
    “Chris, can you order us something, so we can look like we’re enjoying a meal?” she asked