Alone and Unafraid (American Praetorians Book 3) by Peter Nealen Read Free Book Online Page B

little surprised.  While Hussein Ali al Khazraji was a hardassed old bastard and one of, if not the, most professional soldier I’d met yet in the Middle East, it was still before four in the morning.  It was awfully early for Basra.
    “Bring him in,” I said.  I tried to always have time for Hussein Ali, but the timing seemed to lend a new importance to his presence, especially in light of the conversation Hassan and I had had earlier.
    Hassan stepped aside and let the commander in, before following and shutting the door behind him.  Hussein Ali looked as grizzled as ever.  The man had a way of watching everything impassively, and yet somehow seeming amused by it all anyway, without ever cracking a smile.  He was also dressed in the same green fatigue jacket and jeans he’d been wearing when we first met him, when he was just a former colonel and militia leader.  That he was dressed that way, instead of in his tan PPF uniform, spoke volumes all by itself.
    He began to speak.  Hassan translated; while my Arabic was improving, as was Hussein Ali’s English, neither of us were confident enough in our linguistic abilities to try to communicate anything important without Hassan to translate.  In private, chatting, he and I tried to work on each other’s respective languages.  But for the important stuff, we kept Hassan around.
    “My friends,” Hassan translated, “I think I have found you already planning for what I came to speak to you about.”
    I glanced at the table, where we had several overheads of Basra, with various esoteric marks that, to us, pointed out major checkpoints and areas to avoid.  I was pretty sure neither Hussein Ali nor Hassan could read them, but the old man was sharp, and had probably guessed what they were anyway.
    “And what is that?” I asked.  A much as I found I liked Hussein Ali, when it came to my team’s safety, I stayed cautious.
    He squinted at me.  When he spoke, his voice was still low and measured.  “Daoud al Zubayri is preparing to take you and your men into custody, provided he can take you alive, and turn you over to General Qasim Saleh’s men when they get here in a few days,” Hassan relayed.  “ We must get you and your men out of the city, where he cannot find you.”
    I nodded.  “We figured it would be Daoud.”  Hassan nodded as well; after all, I’d picked his brain on the matter.  “How much time do we have?”
    “Sooner is better,” was the reply.  “We will have to be careful, since many of Daoud’s men are stationed at checkpoints and patrolling in the area.  Daoud has great ambitions.  Your men would be a good demonstration of his dependability to Saleh.  He does not want his prize slipping away.”
    It sure explained his smug detachment from the last meeting I’d had with him.  “And why do you want to help us, Hussein Ali?” I asked quietly.  I had no illusions about the man; he wasn’t doing this for sentiment, or even a sense of honor.  He was a ruthless, hard-edged pragmatist; he’d had to be to survive this long.  I suspected that Hussein Ali’s military service went back to the Saddam era.  He’d played the game through the war with the US, the following insurgency, and then the increasing chaos as the Sunni-Shi’a war raged through Syria, Lebanon, and Iraq.  He was a survivor, and survivors aren’t guided by sentiment.
    His eyes crinkled and a faint, tired smile made its way through his beard.  “Because we are coming with you,” Hassan said, even before Hussein Ali could say anything.
    Now, that I did not see coming.  Hussein Ali was the head of the PPF.  He had a reasonably secure position here.  Sure, Hassan had said that there was bad blood between him and the Iranians, and that there was a history—implied to be a bad history—between him and Saleh.  But joining us and running away?  That was a bit of a surprise.  From the looks on the other guys’ faces in the room, I wasn’t the only one