to change his mind and pulled the rifle back toward him. Instead of aiming at the head, the 7.62 mm weapon was now pointed at the soldier’s lower abdomen. A 3-round burst exploded out of the weapon and the man on the ground grimaced in pain.
The trio of gut shots would ensure the man died before help could arrive. But it also ensured a slower, more torturous and lingering demise than a head shot would have provided.
Nosiar’s chuckle became an audible laugh. He had trained his men well. The screams of the dying soldier would send a message to the civilians on the sidewalks who had survived the attack.
The gunfire was over now. The Radestani military men had been vanquished. So Nosiar raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, “Ali One to Three through Five. Did we sustain any casualties?” he asked.
“Negative,” came the responses from the men below.
“Good,” Nosiar said. “Gather up all weapons and extra magazines. If the trucks are still drivable, assign drivers and bring them with you. And make sure you shout enough ridiculous PSOF slogans so the civilians hiding along the street will believe you are from the People’s Secular Opposition Forces.” He could still feel the excitement in his chest and had to force himself to breathe shallowly. “Then proceed to the second site. Team Two may need backup.”
Without waiting for any answers, Nosiar let his binoculars fall to the end of their strap and picked up his own AK-47 from where he had rested it against the wall by the window. Without further ado, he left the hotel room and walked down the hall to the elevator. On the way, he passed a young couple who had undoubtedly heard the gunfire outside the building. Both stared at his rifle, then closed their eyes in terror and pressed their backs against the wall to let him pass.
Nosiar walked onto the elevator and took it to the twelfth floor, then walked down another hall to the other side of the building where he had rented another room. Inserting the key card, he entered and walked directly to the window, pulling back the curtains.
Below, he saw two more streets. Another busy intersection. And more parked vehicles that he recognized. As he waited, he saw the two pickups and Buick Enclaves turn the corner, their drivers looking for places to set up again.
Excitement still filled Nosiar’s chest as the vehicles pulled into parking spaces. The intersection would again be closed, and other vehicles would pull in behind to prevent a retreat. Again, the words “flying block” crossed his mind. The term had been coined by someone in the press when it had first begun to be used in the Syrian civil war. The technique, and the term for it, had caught on all over the Islamic world.
Nosiar stared down through the window once more. There was one small difference between this assault and the one he had just orchestrated on the other side of the hotel. This time, he had received prior information that the People’s Secular Opposition Forces—or PSOF as the loosely allied, poorly organized rebels fighting the Radestani government were called—were definitely bringing a truckload of supplies down the street.
That intel proved correct.
Less than two minutes after Nosiar’s men had set up he saw the semitrailer come lumbering forward a block away. Pressing the key on his walkie-talkie again, he said, “Ali One to all units. There will be great amounts of supplies in this truck. But unless there are men hidden in the trailer, we expect only a driver and perhaps a guard in the cab.”
“Ali Four to One,” came back to Nosiar. “We left dozens of dead soldiers on the other side of the building when we masqueraded as PSOF rebels. Now that we are to play the part of soldiers ourselves, we will not create as much hatred or emotional response if only two men are killed.”
“That is correct,” said Nosiar. “So you know what to do.” He paused a second. “Do I need to spell it out for you?”
“Negative,” was the response from the man on the ground. “You have trained us to know.”
As the semitrailer neared, the pickups and other vehicles pulled into place just as they had done before. But this time the men—the same men who had emerged earlier in the clothing of the rebel PSOF—appeared wearing the military uniforms of the Radestani army. One of the men on the ground—Ali Three it appeared to be through the binoculars—fired a burst of 7.62 mm fire through the side window into the driver and another into the man riding shotgun.
Another of Nosiar’s men shot the lock off the door at the rear of the trailer, then fired his own burst of autofire into the storage area. Perhaps there had been only one man in the back of the trailer. Perhaps none at all. Nosiar couldn’t tell from his vantage point. All he knew was that there had not been enough killing to suit him. There had not been enough carnage to keep the balance of power between the government and rebels going. Nosiar stared down at the sidewalks. The men, women and children had not even had time to take cover. So he spoke into the radio one final time. “Do it,” was all he had to say.
Immediately the imposters in government army uniforms turned toward the people on the sidewalks. The AK-47s from both Russia and China spit out their deadly automatic fire, cutting down innocent civilians before they could hide.
But not before they could scream.
The massacre went on for less than sixty seconds. But to the few people on the street who survived it by diving under cars or darting down the steps to basement establishments, it would seem like hours for the rest of their lives.
When it was over, Emad Nosiar simply said, “Bring the truck,” into the walkie-talkie. Then he switched frequencies again and said, “One to Two.”
“Two,” said the voice on the other end.
“It appears that everything went well,” Nosiar said.
“Perfect,” said Two. “The rebels will blame the government and the government will blame the rebels. Both sides are weakening more every day.”
“Then God should be praised,” said Nosiar.
“Indeed,” said the man going by Two.
“I am signing off the air,” Nosiar said. “We will speak when we meet again in a few minutes.”
“We will indeed.”
Nosiar smiled as he switched the walkie-talkie off, lifted his rifle and started out of the hotel room. Adrenaline still shot through his veins and he thought of Two still on the ground at the flying block site below.
Harun Bartovi was Two’s actual name. And he had truly been a gift from God. The man had worked his way up the ladder to become Nosiar’s most competent and trusted assistant. Bartovi could be counted on not only to carry out orders but also to give them, and he had the ability to think on his feet, changing plans in the middle of an operation when the unexpected happened. No one could coordinate the flying blocks the way Bartovi did, and these last two were perfect examples of his efficiency. He had remained below as a backup, ready to take up the slack if any part of his plan fell apart. But it had not. His careful and strategic planning had meant he had not had to fire even one shot himself.
Nosiar walked down the hall to the elevator. More than a few civilians lay dead below, and he would more than likely have to step over their corpses when he left the hotel. That was unfortunate because most of them would be fellow Muslims. But as he had done before, he pushed such uncomfortable thoughts from his mind.
Casualties were inevitable. Some had to die so that others could live. And
