“What do you mean?”

“There’s rumors floating about that Azzam is trying to get Iran to expand into Syria in a permanent presence. The Russians won’t take kindly to that, since they are trying to use the nation as their Middle Eastern outpost, so if Iran moves in and stakes a claim to bases and territory, the three-way love fest of the past four years will turn into a right bloody mess.”

This tracked with what Court had learned from Voland about Azzam sneaking into Tehran to negotiate with the Supreme Leader.

Saunders adjusted his rearview as he drove. The convoy was rising into some steeper hills now, and the British mercenary seemed to tighten up his focus on his surroundings. Court turned away from his lesson and began scanning the thick pines on the hills on his side of the highway.

Saunders continued, “So, that’s the friendly forces. Now on to the rebels and terrorists. The rebels are ten times more fractured than the loyalists, which is the only reason the regime is still around. You have the FSA, the Free Syrian Army, but really it’s just dozens of groups and clans, most of which aren’t anything like an army, and many of which aren’t even remotely free. Then there’s ISIS, who used to be just in the east and north, but now they’re in little pockets around Damascus, too. And there’s Al Nusra . . . that’s Al Qaeda. They are in the north mostly but tend to pop up wherever you don’t want them. They’ve been active around here, too.”

Court just muttered, “Jesus.”

“The Americans are way up north and way out east, fighting ISIS, which is good, but they are supporting the Kurds, which is not good.”

“And what about the Kurds?”

“Yeah, they are up north, mostly fighting ISIS, but also the Azzam regime, and they also have their own section carved out of the country. And when you talk about the Kurds, you have to split them up into tribes, factions, political groups, and the like. They aren’t just one entity, either. The Kurds fight in the SDF, the Syrian Democratic Forces, which is a group of Kurds, Sunnis, Assyrians, and Turkmen.”

“And the foreign mercs? Us. Does anybody like us?”

Saunders looked at Court and laughed. “That’s a good one, Wade. Yeah, all the militias like their own foreign contractors, but nobody likes anybody else’s. The Desert Hawks like us, because we train their special operations forces, and they use us to help fight their little denied battles.”

“Like these raids you mentioned?”

The convoy raced past a row of slower-moving cars also heading southeast; Court and Saunders looked over each vehicle as it passed.

Saunders said, “The Hawks have a particular beef with a Syrian Army unit called the Tiger Forces.”

“What kind of beef?”

“Regular old mob shite. Remember, they ain’t fightin’ a war down here.”

Court furrowed his eyebrows. “They’re not?”

“No, it’s a gang fight. The Hawks are run by a criminal overboss, and so are the Tigers. They fight over oil smuggling routes; they get into it over turf wars. In a country as mad as this, with twenty-five groups trying to kill one another, the Desert Hawks Brigade still finds time to pick fights with would-be allies. It’s bloody mad.”

Court knew all he could do was pray he would be able to get the hell out of his cover identity and on with his real job, otherwise he might get himself killed in some arcane Syrian mafia turf war that he didn’t even understand.

Before Court could speak, Saunders leaned over the wheel and looked through the windshield intently. “Have you noticed any buses on the highway in the past couple of miles?”

Court cocked his head. “Buses? I don’t remember seeing any. Why?”

“Bus drivers are the best intelligence agents on the highway. They know what’s going on. If you see buses, you know the road is considered safe enough. If you don’t see buses . . .” Saunders began scanning his mirrors. “Well . . . you tighten up your chin strap and flip off your safety.”

Saunders looked back to Court. “I don’t see buses.”

It was true. Court realized he’d seen small sedans and hatchbacks, plus a few commercial trucks, but he didn’t remember passing a bus in the past several minutes.

Just then a large, white tractor-trailer approached in the opposite lane. The vehicle was on Saunders’s side, so Court wasn’t focused on it. He was in the process of checking his rifle again when the radio came alive with animated Arabic. Court turned back around, understanding from the tone of the transmissions that something was going on.

Saunders said, “Look at the lorry.”

Court did so. The big vehicle was riddled with bullet holes. It had clearly been attacked up the road, and even though it had managed to survive, it was heavily damaged.

“Eyes open, Wade. We’re heading into it.”

After an order given over the radio, first in Russian and then in Arabic, all the vehicles in the convoy began racing faster along the road, including Saunders’s pickup. Court thought it to be a wise move, to accelerate through any potential kill zone. The enemy would be dug into fighting positions that they had chosen, whereas Court and the others in the convoy had no choice in the matter, and if fighting came, they would be fighting at a distinct disadvantage.

Court looked through the windshield to the Desert Hawks technical, just ahead. The gunner stood behind his belt-fed machine gun, and he pulled the charging handle back on the weapon to rack a round. He began swiveling the barrel left and right, ready for a fight.

Court jammed his own rifle barrel outside the open window of his vehicle and aimed it on the terrain to the south. The high rolling hills were completely covered in green trees and shrubs; Court couldn’t see a man-made structure in any direction. It seemed like the right place for an ambush, and all he could do was hope that whatever force was waiting up there in the trees would take one look at the line of Russians, Syrian soldiers, militiamen, and machine guns and decide to hold their fire till some helpless vehicle passed.

The convoy had to slow for a turn and cross a twenty-foot-long bridge that went over a small drainage culvert, and Court’s hope that the attackers passed on his convoy died when puffs of dust pocked the highway ahead of the Desert Hawks technical. An instant later he heard the unmistakable cracks and zings of incoming rifle fire.

“Contact left!” Saunders shouted, and he one-handed his bullpup rifle out the driver’s-side window and began squeezing off rounds with his right hand while he controlled the steering wheel with his left.

Court had no targets on his right, but he’d told himself he would fire if he saw anyone armed. Yes, there could be FSA men up there shooting at him, but he wasn’t just going to sit back and let them kill him.

Court was firmly engaged on the side of the bad guys now. He’d feel bad about it later, but for the moment he was going to concentrate on survival.

Just then an explosion on the highway fifty yards ahead of the pickup sent a fireball into the sky; an instant later the Russian GAZ truck that was second in the convoy slammed on its brakes. The next Russian truck locked its brakes as well, and behind it, the Syrian Mukhabarat Land Rover swerved to try to avoid the stopped vehicles in front of it.

The Land Rover slammed into the rear of the Russian GAZ.

Saunders shouted out a curse as he slowed, steering his pickup to the left, into the opposite lane, to avoid hitting the scrum himself.

Court could see what had happened now. A massive IED had been placed in the drainage culvert under the highway and detonated just in front of the first Syrian vehicle. It appeared that the explosion had gone off just a couple seconds too early, so the lead vehicle had avoided outright destruction, and it had also avoided crashing down into the crater, but now the Syrian ZIL truck lay on its left side to the left of the crater, and it blocked the westbound lane.

There was no room to continue on the road to the east because of the massive crater and the debris around it; the only way forward was to leave the highway and slowly move over brush, down through the sloped drainage ditch, and up on the other side.

Court knew this would take a minute at least, and attempting this while under fire from the hills would be madness if there was any other option.

Syrian soldiers who had survived the rollover began crawling out of the downed truck, and small bits of rock, dirt, and highway asphalt rained down on Court’s pickup.

Saunders yelled into the radio. “Reverse! Reverse!”