Chapter 77
KEYS are in the visor,” Azad said.
The Kurd fumbled for his seat belt. Missed. Snagged the belt, but couldn’t drag it all the way across his chest. Feeling sorry for the man, Rapp reached over and clicked the belt home. Then he flipped down the visor.
A set of keys fell into his lap.
The sun glinted off the shiny metal as if taunting him.
With a sigh, Rapp inserted the keys into the ignition.
The engine turned over, coughed, and then caught with a rattle that did nothing for his throbbing head.
Snapping the transmission into drive, he eased the vehicle forward and out of the parking lot.
Whether the pending terrorist attack was real or just a product of the Kurd’s addled brain, Azad was right about one thing—they couldn’t stay here.
Flames engulfed the warehouse and thick, black smoke was chimneying into the cloudless blue sky.
If they weren’t already on their way, first responders would be coming soon, and Rapp didn’t want to be here when they arrived.
Wherever that was.
“Where are we?” Rapp said.
“Kuwait City.”
Rapp digested that for a moment. He must have been unconscious for hours. He’d experienced his share of concussions while playing lacrosse, but nothing like this.
He came to a main interchange. Civilization lay to the right and desert to the left.
“Right,” Azad said. “They went into the city.”
Rapp turned right.
“This is your fault.”
Rapp glanced at the Kurd, assuming he was delirious.
He was not.
Rage burned from Azad’s eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“They weren’t going to shoot the second vehicle, but you drifted out of place right before the ambush.”
Rapp replayed the last thing he remembered from the convoy—a flash of light followed by an explosion. “We were hit by an RPG?”
“Thanks to your stupidity.”
Rapp let that go in the interest of keeping the Kurd talking. Though to be fair, Azad was probably right.
“You knew the convoy was going to be attacked?”
Azad nodded. “The Peshmerga leadership made a deal with Hezbollah. A man named Abu Hassan. We help his fighters ambush the convoy and kill the DGS officers—”
“And you get a share of the chemical weapons. How’d that turn out?”
Azad scowled.
“You made a deal with the devil and you’re surprised that he stabbed you in the back?”
“The chemical weapons would have been a game changer for us. We could have struck fear in Hussein’s heart.”
Rapp wasn’t convinced this was true either, but he let it ride. There’d be plenty of time for second-guessing later. “So you and your Peshmerga friends attack the convoy, kill the DGS guards, and drive it to Kuwait City to meet your Hezbollah contact. And then what?”
“Abu Hassan was there with his Hezbollah fighters along with two Hamas bomb-making guys. One of them was named Rafique Aziz.”
“They ambushed you?”
Azad shook his head. “Hassan gave us the chance to join them. As shahids. He said we would change the Middle East forever.”
Shahids. Martyrs. The hits just kept on coming. “And when you refused?”
Azad paused for a long moment. “They shot us. Rizgar… his head exploded. I was hit in the shoulder. I played dead. They wired the warehouse to explode in order to destroy the evidence and finish off the wounded. I waited for them to leave. Then I found you.”
Rapp turned over Azad’s story as he drove east toward the city proper. Though there was still plenty that his addled brain didn’t understand, the tale had the ring of truth. Except for one point.
“Why did you come back for me?”
Azad reached across the cabin to grab Rapp’s shoulder.
The effort made the Kurd groan, but his grip was surprisingly strong.
“Because you’re American. Four years ago, you abandoned my people.
Today, you have the chance to make it right.
If these Hezbollah zealots succeed, the Peshmerga will be implicated, and the world will turn against us. You have to help me stop them.”
“How?”
“With these.”
Reaching into his pocket, Azad withdrew two items—a Glock pistol and a Motorola flip phone. The Kurd set both on the console between them.
“Will that do?”
“It’s going to have to.”