Harvath decided to trade a little expediency for some added safety. They would loop around the west side of town to avoid as much as possible.
The road system, though, was medieval. Narrow, dusty streets sometimes ran for only a couple of blocks before looping back on themselves or dead-ending. It reminded Harvath of the maze of streets on the Greek island of Mykonos designed to disorient pirates. It was going to be a nightmare getting through.
They took their NVGs off and turned their headlights on. With their keffiyehs helping to disguise them, they moved quickly around the southern edge of the town.
If Zelten was a watch face, they were at about the eight-o’clock position when Haney radioed that they had someone on their tail.
“Everyone stay cool,” said Harvath as he instructed Staelin to make the next right turn. “Let’s see if this is for real.”
The Land Cruiser made the turn, followed by the technical. It was one of the neighborhoods Harvath had wanted to avoid.
The houses, pockmarked and scarred from fighting during the revolution, were packed tightly together. Some were in better shape than others.
Parked cars lined the street. Electric lines were strung from one building to the next. There was no movement. It was quiet. Very quiet.
“He’s still behind us,” said Haney.
“Roger that,” Harvath replied. Turning to Staelin, he said, “Take the next right.”
The Delta Force operative obeyed and they headed down another crowded block of homes.
“How are we looking now, Haney?” Harvath asked, as he tried to get a good view with his side mirror.
“Not good. Still on my six.”
Pointing out the windshield, Harvath told Staelin, “Take this next turn up ahead,” and repeated the same to Haney over the radio.
“Roger that,” they both replied.
As soon as they had made the turn, Harvath said, “Now floor it.”
The big SUV’s engine roared as it rocketed down the street—this one paved and complete with intermittent streetlights. Looking in his side mirror, he was finally able to see the vehicle tailing Haney. It was another technical.
Either this guy had just gotten lucky or somewhere someone had spotted them and had called it in. It didn’t make a difference now. They needed to lose him.
“Three o’clock,” Barton exclaimed from the backseat.
Harvath swiveled his head to the right. Paralleling them one road over was an additional technical. Fuck. “Make sure they don’t box us in,” he told Staelin.
The Delta Force operative nodded. “What do you want to do?”
He wanted to get the hell out of there, but with two tails and more likely inbound, that was impossible. He had to come up with an alternative plan, fast.
Keying up his radio, he announced to Staelin and Haney, “Left turn up ahead. Then the second right.”
When the men acknowledged the directions, Harvath turned to Barton. “Hand me that Russian grenade launcher.”
Once he did, Harvath double-checked to make sure it was loaded and then told everyone what he was going to do.
Suddenly, there was the crack of gunfire from behind. The militia was shooting at them.
“Contact rear! Contact rear!” Gage shouted over the radio, as he turned in his seat and began firing through the shattered rear window of their pickup.
“Don’t slow down,” Harvath ordered his team. “Left, then second right.”
Arriving at the left turn, everyone braced as Staelin pulled the wheel hard. The tires screamed as the heavy SUV spun around the corner.
“Push it! Push it!” Harvath urged, and Staelin gave the Land Cruiser even more gas.
They had to be doing at least eighty. Next to them building facades whipped by. Then, an intersection. Had a car been passing through at the same time, it would have been a coffin-measuring festival.
There was a blur of more buildings and finally the next road.
“Right turn. Right turn,” he announced.
Staelin applied the brakes, but only enough so as not to lose control in the turn. As soon as he was through it, he slammed the gas. Up ahead was their target—an Islamic cemetery.
“Get ready to jump,” said Staelin.
Making sure his gear was secure, Harvath cracked open his door and then nodded.
When they reached it, Staelin slammed on the brakes and yelled, “Go! Go!”
Harvath hadn’t even hit the ground before the Delta Force operative had once again put the pedal to the floor.
Jumping from a moving vehicle, even one that had just slammed on its brakes, was an invitation for a serious injury. It became an engraved invitation when you did it in the dark. As he hit the ground, Harvath rolled, and kept on rolling, until all his momentum was dissipated.
In Islam, the deceased are buried in a shroud and placed on their right side without a coffin, facing the Kaaba in Mecca. A small grave marker is used—usually less than twelve inches high.
Getting to his feet, he ran for the only cover available, a small row of date palms.
But Harvath hadn’t come to the cemetery to hide—at least not totally. He had come to take out the two technicals that were following his team.
By the time he reached the trees, Haney had already raced by. Now came the gray pickup that was chasing him, with its heavy machine gun mounted in the back. A militia member with an AK-47 was leaning out the front passenger window, firing.
He had no idea where the second technical was, but it had to be close. Without wasting any more time, Harvath ran for the other side of the cemetery.
At the corner of the property was an intersection where three roads came together. It would give Staelin and Haney a greater opportunity to bring the technicals into his crosshairs.
As Harvath ran, he hailed the drone team and told them to get the Reaper back over his location. Killing the sparkle, they turned it around and set it on a heading for Zelten.
In the distance, Harvath could hear sporadic gunfire. “Haney,” he demanded over his radio. “SITREP.”
It took a moment for the Marine to reply. “Three blocks out,” he finally yelled. “Still taking fire.”
Switching his attention to the other vehicle, he said, “Staelin. SITREP.”
“Four blocks away. No sign of—” the Delta Force operative began.
He was interrupted by Morrison. “Contact left! Contact left!”
From their direction, Harvath could hear another barrage of gunfire. He broke into a sprint.
At the edge of the cemetery was a rock the size of a Dumpster. What its significance was, or what it was doing there, was beyond him. All he knew was that it had an unimpeded view of the intersection and provided a perfect place to set up shop.
As he reached it, he relayed to the team that he was in place and ready for them to draw their tails into the kill zone.
“Coming in hot!” Haney immediately replied. “From the west.”
“Roger that,” Harvath answered, as he unfolded the grenade launcher’s stock and flipped up its rear sight. Shouldering the weapon, he disengaged the safety, and positioned himself against the rock.
“Thirty seconds,” Haney said over the radio.