runs by Syrian planes and the attack on the city only weeks before accounted for other damage. Remington had put Rangers on cleanup detail to make sure the streets were clear enough to navigate in case they had to. They’d been aided and abetted by the United Nations teams that had survived the attack along the border and had regrouped in Sanliurfa. Eventually citizens had joined in.
For the most part, the cleanup detail had amounted only to shoving debris to one side of the street or the other. They didn’t have time to haul the remains of the broken buildings away, and there was no real place to dump everything that had been destroyed.
Earthmovers roared and snorted like mechanical beasts all around the city as they labored to continue clearing streets. With the Syrian army and air force mostly intact, Remington had had no choice except to figure out fallback positions within the city. If they were pursued from Sanliurfa, they were going to be targets while they raced to the next city.
A moment later, Remington reached the street he wanted. It took some scouting to find streets because he was having all the signage torn down as well. In case an invading Syrian ground effort reached them and had maps, directions would be harder to figure out without neatly labeled streets and thoroughfares.
He stopped at the intersection and spotted the restaurant he was looking for. It was open. Bright flags—Turkish, United States, British, Canadian, French, and Russian—flew above the open-air café.
The fact that the restaurant was open didn’t surprise Remington. War zones brought capitalists swarming like flies to honey. Everywhere he’d served, there had always been a thriving black market and local entrepreneurs willing to risk their necks to make a profit.
He turned onto the street and took a space out front next to a station wagon loaded down with chicken crates. Evidently not everyone had finished leaving. There were still a few rats deserting the ship.
Felix Magureanu’s midnight blue Mercedes sat nearby. Though a patina of dust covered the city, the luxury car looked freshly scrubbed. The personalized license plate on the back read, DEALZ .
Local Time 0609 Hours
The restaurant’s interior was clean and well lit. The power was out; electricity throughout Sanliurfa was generally absent, except in key locations like the hospital and the mess area, where food perishables were kept refrigerated. But there were plenty of candles. The burning wax filled the air with a sweet, heavy scent.
“Welcome,” a young woman greeted. She wore black slacks and a white dress shirt. “Will you be dining with us today?”
“I’m looking for a friend.”
“You are Captain Remington?”
“Let me guess,” Remington said irritably. “The uniform gave it away.”
“I am sorry, but I see many uniforms. They all look the same to me. It’s hard to tell American soldiers from British and the others.”
“I’m Remington.”
The hostess smiled. “Good. Your friend was wondering how long he would be kept waiting. This way, please.”
Remington followed the woman across the restaurant’s floor space. Only a handful of patrons sat at the tables. A ragtag family that matched the station wagon sat near the front windows, obviously concerned about their chickens. A handful of soldiers, all of them wearing blue berets of the United Nations, occupied other tables.
A moment later, the hostess showed Remington to a private dining room in the back.
She knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a booming voice called from within.
The hostess slid the door open and ushered Remington inside. The wood paneling and tables were old and dark, looking black as ink in the uncertain shadows created by the wavering candlelight. “Would you like anything to drink?” she asked.
“Coffee,” Remington said.
“Of course.” The hostess left.
“Good morning, Captain.” Felix Magureanu sat in front of a superthin computer. He waved Remington
For the most part, the cleanup detail had amounted only to shoving debris to one side of the street or the other. They didn’t have time to haul the remains of the broken buildings away, and there was no real place to dump everything that had been destroyed.
Earthmovers roared and snorted like mechanical beasts all around the city as they labored to continue clearing streets. With the Syrian army and air force mostly intact, Remington had had no choice except to figure out fallback positions within the city. If they were pursued from Sanliurfa, they were going to be targets while they raced to the next city.
A moment later, Remington reached the street he wanted. It took some scouting to find streets because he was having all the signage torn down as well. In case an invading Syrian ground effort reached them and had maps, directions would be harder to figure out without neatly labeled streets and thoroughfares.
He stopped at the intersection and spotted the restaurant he was looking for. It was open. Bright flags—Turkish, United States, British, Canadian, French, and Russian—flew above the open-air café.
The fact that the restaurant was open didn’t surprise Remington. War zones brought capitalists swarming like flies to honey. Everywhere he’d served, there had always been a thriving black market and local entrepreneurs willing to risk their necks to make a profit.
He turned onto the street and took a space out front next to a station wagon loaded down with chicken crates. Evidently not everyone had finished leaving. There were still a few rats deserting the ship.
Felix Magureanu’s midnight blue Mercedes sat nearby. Though a patina of dust covered the city, the luxury car looked freshly scrubbed. The personalized license plate on the back read, DEALZ .
Local Time 0609 Hours
The restaurant’s interior was clean and well lit. The power was out; electricity throughout Sanliurfa was generally absent, except in key locations like the hospital and the mess area, where food perishables were kept refrigerated. But there were plenty of candles. The burning wax filled the air with a sweet, heavy scent.
“Welcome,” a young woman greeted. She wore black slacks and a white dress shirt. “Will you be dining with us today?”
“I’m looking for a friend.”
“You are Captain Remington?”
“Let me guess,” Remington said irritably. “The uniform gave it away.”
“I am sorry, but I see many uniforms. They all look the same to me. It’s hard to tell American soldiers from British and the others.”
“I’m Remington.”
The hostess smiled. “Good. Your friend was wondering how long he would be kept waiting. This way, please.”
Remington followed the woman across the restaurant’s floor space. Only a handful of patrons sat at the tables. A ragtag family that matched the station wagon sat near the front windows, obviously concerned about their chickens. A handful of soldiers, all of them wearing blue berets of the United Nations, occupied other tables.
A moment later, the hostess showed Remington to a private dining room in the back.
She knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a booming voice called from within.
The hostess slid the door open and ushered Remington inside. The wood paneling and tables were old and dark, looking black as ink in the uncertain shadows created by the wavering candlelight. “Would you like anything to drink?” she asked.
“Coffee,” Remington said.
“Of course.” The hostess left.
“Good morning, Captain.” Felix Magureanu sat in front of a superthin computer. He waved Remington
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