and wrapped, and their bleeding was stemmed, which would put one point back on the board at a war crimes tribunal.
I glanced at Bian, who looked back and nodded. This was neither the time nor the place to discuss it, but we both knew our relationship had just changed.
Eric's men hoisted Nervous Nellie and Ali bin Pacha over their shoulders and hauled them out of the room. We departed directly behind them, leaving behind a corpse, two wounded men, and a bad memory.
Evidently, Eric had already alerted his people that it was time to egress, because two cars--the silver sedan and the cramped red Corolla--were idling curbside by the entrance.
Nervous Nellie was thrown roughly in the trunk of the silver car, and I helped place bin Pacha upright in the backseat of the Corolla, where I could keep a close eye on his vital signs.
We all piled into the cars, and Eric punched the pedal and burned rubber.
Eric had his night-vision goggles on and the car's headlights off. He was pushing at least forty through narrow streets with sharp turns that were unsafe at twenty. I couldn't tell which was the more imminent threat, a bunch of pissed-off jihadis or Eric's lead foot. Then I recalled how jihadis handle prisoners and said to Eric, "Faster."
Bian and I sat on both sides of Ali bin Pacha, and with all the sharp turns, he was being tossed between us like a broken rag doll.
In less than three minutes the buildings thinned out and we were back in the outskirts of the city. I'm usually good at remembering places I've been, and saw no recognizable landmarks, so this wasn't the same way we entered--presumably Eric was following good trade-craft and varying our route. I overheard him conversing with his team, and it sounded like one or two of the other teams were trailing us, guarding our back door to be sure we made it out with our cargo.
Bian said not a word. I felt no need to tell her how I felt. I was pissed; she knew it. Not only had she shot the prisoners, she had compounded her sins with inexcusable carelessness and twice allowed the bad guys to get the drop on her. The second time nearly got my head blown off; I take this personally. Also, our precious prisoner might not live long enough for an interrogation, this whole trip might be a waste of time, and Phyllis and I were going to have a long, one-way conversation.
Anyway, we now were out of the built-up area, bouncing along the same dusty road we took into the city, and I realized that Eric had somehow found a way to take us back through the lines of Captain Yuknis's company. I checked my watch: 3:20. I relaxed. Okay, Ali bin Pacha might expire before we got to Baghdad, but that aside, the worst was behind us. What more could go wrong?
Well, one shouldn't test the fates, because suddenly we were bathed in lights, and Eric hit the brakes hard enough that bin Pacha flew forward and slammed headfirst into a seat back.
The lights shut off nearly as quickly as they'd flashed on, and an American voice yelled, "Driver, out of the car. Hands above your head."
Eric stepped out again. This time, however, rather than the tall, lean silhouette of Captain Yuknis, the figure approaching through the darkness was short and squat, he moved with an affected John Waynish swagger, and he was accompanied by a pair of large Marines pointing M16s at Eric.
I rolled down my window and could overhear Eric and the officer speaking; arguing, actually. A minute passed, and things were not improving. Eric's voice was getting louder, and his interrogator's tone was turning nastier, and more imperious.
Great. I was here because my duplicitous boss outwitted me, my partner had just committed a war crime, my prisoner was probably bleeding to death, and--well, you get the picture.
I needed to vent, and this situation--and this guy--would do nicely.
I threw open the car door. "Sean, don't . . ." Bian insisted. "Please, leave this to Eric."
"Shut up."
I stepped out of the car and began walking toward Eric. In the near distance I heard the sound of M16 charging handles being cocked, and a little late, I recalled my Arab clothing. I stopped, reached into my pocket, withdrew my little American flag, and began frantically waving it, even as I slowly and carefully pulled the abaya over my head and set it on