began raising his Kalashnikov, thumbing the firing selector off safe.
There were two soft thuds. Both guards crumpled in a mist of blood, shot through the head by high-powered rifle rounds fired from a rooftop more than a hundred meters away. Before they even finished falling, a group of six men who had been lounging outside one of the nearby tea stalls rose briskly and moved toward the open gate, bringing silenced Heckler and Koch MP5SD6
submachine guns out from under their loose-fitting jackets. Two of the gunmen dragged the bodies into the courtyard and dumped them in the deep shadows near one wall. Then they turned and sauntered back to stand at the gate in place of the dead sentries. No one looking out from the house would see anything amiss.
The woman pulled her own weapon, a 9mm Beretta pistol fitted with a silencer, out from under the food piled in her shopping basket. Together with Khalifa and the four other men, she drifted silently into the courtyard, carefully staying in the concealing shadows. She checked her watch quickly. Less than thirty seconds had passed. Faint sounds of music, the eerie keening of a popular Arab male singer broadcast on Syrian State Radio, filtered out through the shuttered windows of the house.
Satisfied, she signaled the assault team toward the front door of the house.
Moving in pairs, the four men sprinted up the steps. Covered by the others, the point man gently tested the solid wood door, making sure it was unlocked.
He nodded once to his teammates and held up three fingers to signal the beginning of a three-second countdown.
They tensed. One. Two. Three.
Suddenly the point man kicked the door open and burst inside, followed closely by his comrades. There were a few muffled shouts, but they were immediately cut short by the harsh stutter of silenced submachine guns.
The woman crouched near the open door, holding her pistol ready. Trembling openly now, Khalifa waited with her. The former Mukhabarat colonel was praying frantically under his breath. Ignoring him, she listened closely to the staccato reports pouring through her radio earphone.
“Hallway secure and front rooms secure. Two hostiles down.”
“Back rooms secure.”
Another submachine gun chattered briefly.
“Staircase secure. One enemy down.”
There were more shouts somewhere inside the house, followed by yet another quick burst of silenced gunfire.
“Top floor secure,” a calm, confident voice said over the circuit. “Two more hostiles down. We have one prisoner. Raid One, this is Assault One.
The house is clear. No friendly casualties.”
The woman rose to her feet. “Understood,” she said again quietly into the throat mike hidden by her abaya. “Source One and I are coming in.” She motioned Khalifa ahead of her with the Beretta.
Inside the house, bodies littered the tiled floors, along with spent shell casings. Most had been shot while reaching for their weapons a mix of Soviet-made assault rifles and pistols. The faintly metallic smell of blood blended with other odors, harsh, unfiltered tobacco, cheap aftershave, and boiled chicken. A radio somewhere still played music.
With Khalifa in tow, she took the stairs up to the second floor two at a time and made her way to an expensively furnished room at the back of the house.
Thick carpets covered the floor. There were imported teak tables, chairs, and a desk topped with a softly humming portable computer. The machine appeared undamaged. She smiled.
One man wearing a robe and slippers lay facedown on one of the carpets with his hands bound behind him with strong plastic twist ties. Two of the attackers stood close by, covering their lone prisoner with their submachine At her signal, they rolled him over.
The woman stared down intently, mentally comparing the hawk-nosed, bearded visage before her with the file photographs she had studied. Angry, red-rimmed eves stared back at her. She nodded in satisfaction. They had captured Major General
There were two soft thuds. Both guards crumpled in a mist of blood, shot through the head by high-powered rifle rounds fired from a rooftop more than a hundred meters away. Before they even finished falling, a group of six men who had been lounging outside one of the nearby tea stalls rose briskly and moved toward the open gate, bringing silenced Heckler and Koch MP5SD6
submachine guns out from under their loose-fitting jackets. Two of the gunmen dragged the bodies into the courtyard and dumped them in the deep shadows near one wall. Then they turned and sauntered back to stand at the gate in place of the dead sentries. No one looking out from the house would see anything amiss.
The woman pulled her own weapon, a 9mm Beretta pistol fitted with a silencer, out from under the food piled in her shopping basket. Together with Khalifa and the four other men, she drifted silently into the courtyard, carefully staying in the concealing shadows. She checked her watch quickly. Less than thirty seconds had passed. Faint sounds of music, the eerie keening of a popular Arab male singer broadcast on Syrian State Radio, filtered out through the shuttered windows of the house.
Satisfied, she signaled the assault team toward the front door of the house.
Moving in pairs, the four men sprinted up the steps. Covered by the others, the point man gently tested the solid wood door, making sure it was unlocked.
He nodded once to his teammates and held up three fingers to signal the beginning of a three-second countdown.
They tensed. One. Two. Three.
Suddenly the point man kicked the door open and burst inside, followed closely by his comrades. There were a few muffled shouts, but they were immediately cut short by the harsh stutter of silenced submachine guns.
The woman crouched near the open door, holding her pistol ready. Trembling openly now, Khalifa waited with her. The former Mukhabarat colonel was praying frantically under his breath. Ignoring him, she listened closely to the staccato reports pouring through her radio earphone.
“Hallway secure and front rooms secure. Two hostiles down.”
“Back rooms secure.”
Another submachine gun chattered briefly.
“Staircase secure. One enemy down.”
There were more shouts somewhere inside the house, followed by yet another quick burst of silenced gunfire.
“Top floor secure,” a calm, confident voice said over the circuit. “Two more hostiles down. We have one prisoner. Raid One, this is Assault One.
The house is clear. No friendly casualties.”
The woman rose to her feet. “Understood,” she said again quietly into the throat mike hidden by her abaya. “Source One and I are coming in.” She motioned Khalifa ahead of her with the Beretta.
Inside the house, bodies littered the tiled floors, along with spent shell casings. Most had been shot while reaching for their weapons a mix of Soviet-made assault rifles and pistols. The faintly metallic smell of blood blended with other odors, harsh, unfiltered tobacco, cheap aftershave, and boiled chicken. A radio somewhere still played music.
With Khalifa in tow, she took the stairs up to the second floor two at a time and made her way to an expensively furnished room at the back of the house.
Thick carpets covered the floor. There were imported teak tables, chairs, and a desk topped with a softly humming portable computer. The machine appeared undamaged. She smiled.
One man wearing a robe and slippers lay facedown on one of the carpets with his hands bound behind him with strong plastic twist ties. Two of the attackers stood close by, covering their lone prisoner with their submachine At her signal, they rolled him over.
The woman stared down intently, mentally comparing the hawk-nosed, bearded visage before her with the file photographs she had studied. Angry, red-rimmed eves stared back at her. She nodded in satisfaction. They had captured Major General
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