The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

Mingling with the villagers, Jarral was wandering among the stalls when he spotted the American exiting the far side of the village square.  Following him at a distance through the narrow winding passageways, the jihadi watched as Corbett entered the clinic. Then turning, he melted into the shadows across the street and settled in to wait.

The time passed slowly.  Bored, his thoughts returned once more to the events that had led him to this place.  The time when, as a student, he had left his native Pakistan to travel to Spain.  Reaching the city of Granada he had been repulsed by the crowds of American and European tourists whose excesses disgusted him.  At the same time, he had found himself becoming obsessed with Western girls in their tight-fitting clothes, short skirts and wanton ways.  He wondered how they could expose their bodies so openly?  Had they no shame?

Did not the holy Qu’ran command: “Women are your fields.  Go then into your fields whence you please.”  Yet despite his carnal desires, he had been unable to approach such a woman in public.  Instead, he began to frequent online porn sites, becoming addicted to virtual sex.  He fantasized about young girls, especially those suggestively half-naked nymphets who were proclaimed to be “virgins.” In turn, his repressed desires caused him to constantly pray to Allah for guidance to help him atone for his lustful obsessions.

He found himself in the midst of these preoccupations when a young woman came around the corner.  Fresh-faced and eager, he guessed by her clothes she, too, was British or perhaps an American.  But what could she be doing here in this remote village unless she had come with the Infidel?  The fabric of her jeans clung tightly to her thighs, stoking his imagination while her breasts seemed to revolt against her white cotton button-down as she hurried along the cobblestones.  He watched her enter the clinic by the front door and momentarily disappear inside. Within a few minutes she returned, heading back the way she had come.  He followed her with his eyes, keenly aware of his own lustful imagination until she vanished from sight around the corner.

Chastising himself for his impure thoughts, Jarral glanced back up the street just in time to see Amal and Khalid coming toward him.  Rising, he hurried to intercept them.  Quickly explaining that he had spotted the American infidel leaving the market and followed him here to the clinic.  He was inside now.  Perhaps Tariq, himself, was hiding somewhere within as well.  Ordering them to stay out of sight and wait for his signal, he returned to his vigil.

*****

Stepping from the clinic, Corbett shaded his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the glare of the late morning sun.  Glancing to his left, he found himself abruptly staring into the unexpected face of the man who had attempted to steal his computer at the airport only a few days before.  As their eyes locked, Corbett started across the street.  Seeing the American coming his way, Jarral felt a sense of panic.  Spinning on his heel, he began to race back up the narrow street between the houses.

“Hey… you!  Stop! ¡Deténgase…!” Corbett shouted then took off after him.

Another footrace, only this time Corbett had the upper hand. No traffic. No parked cars. He quickly closed the distance between them.  Just ahead, Jarral raced around the corner, the building momentarily blocking Corbett’s view.  Redoubling his effort, he rounded the corner only to be jumped from behind by two men – a large balding man with a beard and a dark-skinned Moroccan.  Stopping a short way up the alley, Jarral turned back to watch.

The fight was short and brutal.  The bigger man, Amal, came at him with a knife, superficially slashing Corbett’s right forearm drawing blood just below the elbow.  As Corbett spun away, the man came at him again.  Sidestepping the blade, he caught the man with a fist to the larynx, dropping him to his knees, gasping for air.  Then catching the man’s knife-hand, he drove the blade into his sternum allowing the man’s own weight to drive the knife deep into his heart as he struck the cobblestones.  With the big man dead at his feet, Corbett turned on the Moroccan.  Halfway up the alley, Jarral still stood watching, hesitating as several villagers came out to see what was causing the commotion.

Reacting to Amal’s death, the Moroccan picked up a three-foot length of pipe from where it stood propped against the side of a building and came at him.  Deflecting the blow, Corbett quickly disarmed him, then used the pipe to break the Moroccan’s forearm with a single blow.  The man howled, clutching his right arm. Pivoting, Corbett caught him with the pipe full in the face, felling him like cut timber.  But as he turned, prepared to face Jarral, he found the man had already fled, swallowed up by the gathering crowd.  With two bodies lying dead in the street, Corbett knew he could not wait for the authorities.  Shouldering his way through the growing clutch of villagers, he started to jog back the way he had come.

*****

By the time he reached the Land Rover, he found both Gorka and Ella waiting.  Several large cardboard boxes of groceries and supplies sat on the ground behind the tailgate waiting to be loaded for the trip back.  As Corbett approached, the old man was methodically devouring a small paper dish of hot peppers wrapped with anchovies that he ate with his fingers.  Reaching the car, Corbett could see a sense of relief wash over Ella’s face.

“All set,” the old man said, eating and talking at the same time. “You want I drive…?”

Ella glanced at Corbett with a helpless look and attempted to imperceptibly shake her head.

“It’s all right.  I think I can manage to get