Quinn is taking a quick breather, quietly sucking in the evening air when the first bullet flies by, close enough for him to see. He drops to the ground instinctively, looks around to assess the situation.
The mountains had been unnervingly quiet to start, seemingly devoid of life. Which either meant that Assad's guys were mostly gone or were hiding, waiting for them. And a single stray bullet could mean nothing at all. Or could be the first sign of an attack, an ambush.
A second bullet zips through the air and for an instant he sees the flash of the sniper rifle, up a bit higher on a facing ridge.
Fuck me, Quinn mutters. Knows they're pretty much fucked if there's a sniper after them. Especially with him moving at a fucking snail's pace.
He looks up ahead, can barely make out the rest of the guys and their prisoner. A single bird twitters, then flies away as a third sniper bullet zings by.
"FUCK!" comes a shout from ahead, the kind of exclamation only made when someone's been hit.
There's only the one shout and it sounds like Andy. Quinn wonders how bad his teammate's been hit, then starts to hear movement all around him and realizes they are all about to die.
Quinn commando crawls as best he can towards a low area of shrubs, gets in amongst the greenery as the first feet appear in his view.
Soldiers boots, and lots of them. Quinn holds his breath, wonders if it's dark enough he won't be seen.
Ten soldiers walk by him, towards the rest of his team and Quinn resists the urge to holler, alert the guys. He hears some action from in front, weapons fired and knows he has to move, get closer to the team.
He gets to his feet, tries to disregard how difficult that simple task is getting. The constant pain is one thing, can be ignored to an extent. But Quinn feels his leg getting weaker, less able to support his weight. He knows his wounds aren't healing, that the tissue is starting to die, the infection getting stronger. However, considering the situation, his survival is starting to be a moot point.
Shots are now flying every where and he has no idea where the rest of the guys are. All he can do is keep moving towards the action, shuffling slowly through the trees.
Thankfully all the action seems to be in front of him so he doesn't have to cover his rear, but Quinn feels naked nonetheless - injured and alone, surrounded by enemy soldiers.
He grips his weapon tighter in his hand, lets the action calm him as it usually does. If he's going out, he's going to at least take some of these fuckers with him, he thinks.
But even that thought doesn't ring true with him anymore, knows that any soldiers he kills are just grunts in the war, make no real difference to Assad or the IS or anyone else. Except to their families, the people they leave behind.
The soldiers seem to be closing in on his team, congregating towards a grove of trees that back against a granite wall. Weapons seem to be being fired at will, and there's plenty of responding fire on both sides. But there are about thirty soldiers, and only three in the woods. Andy probably hit, the others low on ammo.
Quinn approaches silently, making his awkward footfalls glide on the forest floor. Finds a well-hidden spot to take a breath, assess the situation.
He doesn't have much at his disposal - some ammo, a few grenades. He's too far for a grenade to do much good and if he gets closer he'll never get out, not the way he's moving. Which may be the choice in the end anyhow, but he's not ready to make it quite yet.
Quinn looks at his materials, comes up with a quick plan. Takes a breath and puts together a simple bomb on a timer. The familiar feeling of the action calms him, makes him feel back in control. He leaves the bomb on the ground where he's hiding, then makes his way slowly and carefully towards another area of underbrush, still a ways back from the action.
Gets to his spot without being seen, crouches down to catch his breath, gather his materials. Makes and sets another bomb, scurries off to a third location, this time a bit behind the shooting, against the rocky wall of the mountain.
It takes some time to make the distance but Quinn pushes himself through the muscle fatigue he feels, keeps telling himself to use everything he's got left. Because really, if the guys die here, he's going down with them, taking out as many enemies as he can.
Quinn climbs the side of the slope awkwardly, with slow exact movements. Tests every hold twice to make sure he won't slip on his bad side, fall and fuck everything up.
He finally reaches his little perch, readies himself with his weapon and a grenade. Imagines for a moment what will happen when he drops the grenade and the bombs go off. What he knows for sure is that the entire platoon firing on his team will stop long enough to look around, assess the situation. That might give his guys the opportunity to move out of the woods, find a better position.
Hopefully some of the soldiers come his way, to find out what happened and he will have the opportunity to take out a lot of them before they figure out what's going on. But if he's successful in drawing large amounts of the attackers towards him, there's only so long he will be able to hold out for.
Quinn takes a deep breath, pulls the pin on the grenade, gets ready for the show to start.
He throws it towards the enemy soldiers, hears it land with a soft thud, then explode with a familiar bang.
Predictably, there's action right away, shouting in Arabic and the sound of movement from amongst the soldiers. Through the dust Quinn can see a group start to move away from the larger force, coming towards him.
Just as planned, he thinks to himself. Then wonders if anything else will go to plan.
Quinn doesn't fire even as the first few soldiers get within his range, waits for the next explosion, for the second phase of the plan to get started.
The first bomb he set goes off a few seconds later, then the other one blows another sixty seconds after that. Quinn watches as all the soldiers turn, sees confusion and chaos start to build.
The soldiers underneath him don't take the bait but he can see small groups detach from the main group still surrounding his team. Immediately he sees his guys take advantage of the confusion, start firing and moving out of the woods as the soldiers spread out.
Quinn starts firing too, takes out as many soldiers underneath him as he can. Instantly he hears shots being fired back, feels chips of granite flying off the mountain next to him. He takes cover, still keeps shooting back even as he tries to assess the situation.
From what he can tell, things are going about as well as he predicted. Which didn't mean much considering he expected it to all go to shit. The Syrian Army had initially all spread out to investigate the explosions but had better communication and discipline than he had hoped and now were re-forming their platoons near the edge of the woods and up against his rocky ledge. So his distraction had given them a brief edge in the situation but their window of opportunity was closing quick and they were still outnumbered twenty to one.
He can see his team trying to make it out of the forest, attempting to give him some support from behind. But the progress they made while the Syrians were disrupted wasn't nearly enough and now they seemed to be pinned down again, Syrian troops blocking them in from all sides.
And the bullets flying around him aren't dying down either, seem to be getting even closer as the soldiers move in on his ledge, approach from all sides. Sweat beads off his forehead as he watches the movement underneath him and he knows the end game is only a few minutes off.
Quinn fires again and again, watches a few soldiers fall to the side, sees more gain ground on his perch. Bits of granite are flying everywhere now and he wonders how long he's got until they gain the higher ground, take him out from above.
He looks down again at his team, sees that they are in the same situation. Plenty of dead soldiers cover the ground near the woods but even more keep the offensive going. And Quinn can tell from the amount of fire coming from inside the trees is dying off. Which can mean they've lost guys or they're almost out of ammo. And in either of those cases, they don't have long either.
Bad fucking decision on the mountains, he thinks to himself. Even though he knows it was the only call to be made, that they all knew what might have been waiting for them.
Of course his instinct was right, the sense that it was an ambush, that the situation at the border wasn't just coincidence. Not that being right made any fucking difference now that he was looking right at the end.
Quinn sees movement near by, soldiers trying to get around his ledge, approach from above. He fires, knocks two off the side of the mountain but sees others right behind and knows he can't get them all. Figures he has about five minutes left in this world, not even enough time to repent his many sins.
He feels oddly calm, ready for it to all be over. Part of it is knowing he wasn't ever going to make it out of these mountains alive, that the struggle is over before he suffers through more days of pain and exhaustion. And then there's the part of him that knows he deserves this, that he owes for all the life he has taken.
Beyond that, he doesn't allow himself to feel regret, tells himself these are the choices he made long ago. That this is the life he was meant for, that dying alone on a mountainside is a fitting end.
And he's just saying one last silent good-bye even as he fires his last rounds, kills two more soldiers only to watch more take their places. They have the high ground now and he expects to feel his flesh ripping in only a few seconds time. So Quinn puts his weapon down, leans against the rocky outcrop.
I'm sorry I fucked up, he tells her. But this is what I deserve.
He lets her walk through his mind one last time, sees her scowl at him, hears her hurl profanities at him. It makes him crack a small smile even as he sees the enemy just metres away, trying to spot his hidey hole.
Eyes wide open, he anticipates the moment. But instead he sees a huge flash from the east, hears the blast to match. And then again, another explosion to the north, just as big.
All movement on the mountain stops immediately and Quinn hears frantic radio chatter in Arabic, soldiers shouting at each other.
Everything freezes for a moment and he knows it's the moment of truth, waits to see what happens. For a minute it looks like only half the remaining soldiers are being dispatched towards the explosions, that the rest are staying to finish him off.
And then there are two more explosions, bigger than the first two and from around the same areas. Suddenly every radio begins to squawk with orders and the soldiers begin to move again, this time all heading towards the explosions.
In a matter of minutes every Syrian army man is gone, everything dark and quiet again. Quinn finally lets himself breathe again, looks around again and again to convince himself of what just happened.
There's no movement from the woods but he thinks the team is just laying low. They were still responding with fire just before the explosions and are probably now discussing what the fuck just happened.
Which is a good question, but not really one that's essential at the moment. Quinn waits a few more minutes, thinking about possibilities, still totally shocked to be alive.
He can't even say if he's happy with the result, had not considered living through the ambush. And now he's just in the same old situation - injured and stuck out in enemy infested mountains with no possible routes to safety.
Quinn sighs, grits his teeth. Pushes himself onto his feet, leans against the granite for balance. Slowly he makes his way down from his ledge, thinks he's found a solid foothold until the rock crumbles under him and he awkwardly slides all the way to a painful landing.
Quinn lands in a heap, just managing to brace himself at the end of the fall. Takes it mostly on his chest, feels the wind getting knocked out of him and he hits the ground. Lies there gasping, making a hollow sucking sound while his head throbs and the stars spin.
He's more than a little disappointed to not be dead, that he's being forced to struggle on. But there's nothing to be done about it, it isn't in him to just lay down, give up.
So Quinn waits until he can breathe again, pushes himself to his feet. Stumbles a few steps, tries to get his body to move as required.
It takes him almost half an hour to make it the few hundred metres to the edge of the woods where he's met by low voices in hurried discussion.
"What the fuck happened?" he mutters into the darkness.
All the other voices stop for a moment before Rob finally responds.
"How the hell are you still alive, asshole?" the team lead asks.
Quinn shrugs, knows he doesn't have any answer to that question. Walks into the woods towards the sound of Rob's voice and finds his team still intact, only seeming slightly worse for the wear.
He can tell they're all still feeling the glow of survival, hears the lightness in their voices. Even Andy, who is clearly bleeding from a few places.
"Unlucky I guess," Quinn replies softly.
He feels the guys look at him, sits down away from their little circle. He knows what they're thinking, that a teammate that doesn't want to live never makes it home alive. And usually he wouldn't be inclined to share but right now he's raw to the bone, about to fall off the edge.
"Well thanks for the bombs," Rob says over the awkward silence. "We needed that."
Quinn nods, acknowledges the comment but still feels nothing.
"What about the other bombs?" he asks. "What the fuck was that about?"
The guys look at each other, clearly have no answer.
"Best guess is a rebel attack on their bases," Rob says, not sounding very confident about it. "It's the right general direction and distance."
Quinn considers the info, thinks it fits with what he heard from the soldiers' radios. An order to return to base, something about an attack.
"No way the rebels got close enough to deliver IEDs that big, this soon," he says. "They ran the other way, there's no way they could regroup to make this happen."
"Well, it happened," Rob says matter of factly. "Who else would be out here taking out Syrian army bases?"
Quinn nods to the sense in that, thinks it is the only logical explanation. But now it means they can't go over the mountains, that the Syrian army will be on the lookout, with bases throughout that territory. And they can't go back to the border with it still under Assad's control.
So again, even though they survived the battle, they keep on losing the war. Quinn looks at their prisoner, now little more than a bag of bones. Wonders how can this be worth it, all of this bullshit just for this one guy.
#
They decide to walk back down the way they came, at least knowing that area to be free of enemy soldiers. After that, well the situation was less clear. There was no way out of the country with their package, nothing that didn't require another week or two of hard travel.
But they had to get out of the mountains quickly so they make the push back down to the bottom, trying to get as far away as possible from where they had been ambushed, their last known location.
Quinn pushes himself to keep up with the group, hardens himself to the pain of continued movement. By now he's fairly certain it will be this way until the end. And that the end is not too far off.
They hit the bottom just as dawn breaks and Quinn can't believe it was just one night. That they walked in, got fucking ambushed, then somehow made it back down alive. No wonder he was so fucking exhausted though.
With no plan, little hope, they stop by a creek, find a hidden spot to take a breather. Quinn crouches down awkwardly, gulps water, splashes it on his face.
Yet again he's somehow still alive and unsure how he feels about it. Hopeless, really. That his agony is just being extended while he awaits certain death.
Still he will give it his all, whatever it is they decide to do. He sits and leans against a rock, looks out through a gap in the trees towards the road that lead to the border.
The sound of the creek and the strange calmness of their hiding spot almost lulls him to sleep but something twitches in him as he's just about to drift off, snaps him to full attention.
Quinn shakes his head, looks out towards the road again. It's quite far off but he can still see it clearly, can tell that there's a lot of activity, a horde of people walking towards the border again.
It seemed unlikely that Assad had reopened the border to citizens fleeing the country, especially if he wanted to keep rebels posing as refugees from slipping out. But it seemed equally unlikely that the rebels had somehow regained control of the border and opened it just a day after they had been overrun by the Syrian army.
But there was no doubt that a lot of people were heading towards the border again and that usually meant that it was open - local intel on this kind of shit was the best you can get.
"Hey guys," Quinn says quietly. "Looks like the border is open."
All the other guys had been half asleep too but stir immediately at Quinn's statement.
Rob takes a look and shakes his head in astonishment. "Well, that's fucking unlikely," he says with furrowed eyebrows.
Quinn knows they're all thinking the same thing - that they no longer had a zero percent chance of accomplishing the mission. Sure, they now probably had about a one percent chance but it was something.
He looks at his team, thinks it's within plausibility they could be refugees. They are all dirty and ragged, dark from a month under the sun. Lose the weapons and the special ops body language and they could pass. Except they had no documents, only minor language skills.
"We need some intel," Rob grunts, stating the obvious.
JC nods, stands up immediately. His Arabic is passable, the best of them all.
"One hour," he says, leaving the majority of his weapons behind as he starts walking out towards the road.
#
It's still not far past dawn when JC makes it back, scurries into their hideout. Quinn tries to read the medic's body language, get a gauge on the news but JC just looks tired, cautious.
JC shrugs when they all look at him in anticipation, gives his head a little shake.
"Everyone is saying the border will open at seven local time, that the rebels somehow regained control from Assad," he says. "Same story from every mouth."
No one speaks for a moment, everyone clearly bewildered at the change in situation. From the numbers that Assad had, it was obvious he had an insurmountable advantage over the rebels. Even if half the number had gone back to the mountains for the attacks on the bases, there should have still been enough soldiers to hold the border for a long time. And there was no way Assad would give up the border the day after finally regaining control.
"But that's fucking impossible," Rob says. "You're sure?"
"As sure as all those people walking to the border," JC replies.
And now they're all thinking about it, the possibility of just walking across the border point into Turkey, being at the safe house across the border by nightfall.
Not that it was likely the rebels would just let them cross the border even without their IS prisoner. So the safehouse is still a dream, even though it is so close they can almost taste it.
"So we going to do it?" Andy asks, giving voice to the question they are all thinking.
Rob looks around, shakes his head.
"I don't like this," he grunts. "It's all too fucked up. Assad comes in the day we show up. Then all his bases get blown up and the rebels miraculously regain control of the border. None of this makes any fucking sense."
There's nothing to be said to that - Rob's just stating the obvious again. They all have the experience to know it's been fucked up, that none of this shit should be happening. But it keeps on happening and they have to choose, one way or another. And really, they only had one choice.
"We don't have any other options," Quinn finally says, low and tired. "Our package isn't going to make it another three days at this rate."
He doesn't add that he won't either, that he's nearly done. But he knows his guys can see that too, read between the lines.
Rob nods grimly, obviously hating the only decision that can be made. And with that their course is set, they all get up and start to prep for whatever is to come.
They leave behind their weapons, strip out of their paramilitary gear. Each carries just a sidearm that will be tossed just before they hit the border point, enough to keep their prisoner with them.
Quinn looks at himself in just his t-shirt, confronts the clear evidence that he's wasting away. There's no more excess to be shed and he's now losing muscle mass. No problem passing for a refugee on that point, he thinks to himself tiredly.
The bandages keep the worst of his injuries hidden still but the blood still seeps through and he feels the infection burning in him. He tells himself he just has to make this one last walk to the border and then it will be over, one way or another.
With that, Quinn takes a deep breath, follows his team out into the open, towards the stream of humanity on the road.
#
The border crossing is like any other military-policed one, heavily guarded, soldiers with automatic weapons lining both sides of the road. The refugees in front of them push until rebel soldiers step in and form lanes, create some order. Quinn grits his teeth and soldiers on, nearly sure they will not make it through the crossing.
But however a slim chance it was, they had to go for it. So they file into the same lane, now weaponless, with only fear holding their prisoner to them.
Right away Quinn thinks they've taken the wrong lane, that the rebel soldier acting as a border agent is being particularly scrupulous. Every refugee was being closely examined, the border guard clearly looking for something.
Most likely an American team, with a IS prisoner, Quinn thinks with a mental sigh. To make it so far and get captured by rebel soldiers, sold to Assad, beheaded by the IS. He's too fucking tired to keep dealing with this shit, he thinks. He needs a fucking break.
Which was what he was fucking trying to do, why he had gone back stateside at all.
And now he's here, at the Syrian border, thinking about committing suicide by cop.
Quinn forces himself to take a painful breath, calm the fuck down. Makes himself ready for whatever might be coming when he walks up to the border guard.
He goes first, to get it over with. Approaches the rebel soldier, seemingly barely out of his teens. Doesn't look at the AK-47 holds casually.
The soldier eyes him up and down, forces eye contact. He does a decent job of conveying strength and Quinn makes himself act like a refugee, shrinks against the face of power.
The soldier doesn't say anything, just gives Quinn a hard look that clearly means 'don't move' and then strides off.
Quinn takes the second to breathe, to control his racing thoughts. There are no options anyways. They can't start a firefight with this many civilians around. And even if they could, they were outnumbered twenty to one. At least.
So it comes down to this - be captured and await whatever tortures that might bring. Or take the first exit available, at least die trying.
He closes his eyes, runs through his mental procedures. Stays calm, in the moment. Tells himself he can end it whenever he wants, that he's ready.
The border guard finally comes back with a superior, an older militant, obviously hardened from a life as a rebel soldier. They speak in Arabic before the older man turns to Quinn, stares at him and scowls.
The anticipation is becoming unbearable as Quinn awaits his fate. He tries to read the militant for any signs of what's to come but the man is stiff, gives off no clues.
Finally the militant speaks.
"Peter Quinn?" he asks, with only a hint of an accent.
Quinn barely holds onto his stony expression, can't fathom what it could mean that the rebels are looking for him by name. Nothing good, that was for sure.
But there's no point in lying, so he nods.
"Yes," he says, bracing himself for what comes next.
The militant reaches into his pocket and Quinn expects to see handcuffs, maybe a gun. But instead, the guy pulls out a phone, dials a number, passes it over.
"For you," he says with the same angry expression.
Quinn looks at the phone, thinks how none of this makes any sense. How could they be looking for him by name? No one in Syria even knew his name.
It makes him consider if it could be Adal on the line, the only one with this sort of ability. But something about that doesn't feel right - Adal does not interfere, step in. Ever. Or potentially blow their cover to the rebels, to Assad, to ISIS by alerting the border.
For all he knew, it could be Bashar al-Assad himself on the line with a personal death sentence for him and his team.
Finally he takes the phone, puts it to his ear. Notices that his body and mind are frozen, in anticipation of the worst.
Yet there's still the faintest flicker of hope, the thought that miracles do happen. Because that's what it would take now.
Quinn tries to speak but his throat is so dry it takes him a couple sputters, and even so he can only manage a raspy croak.
"It's Quinn," he says.
