For an instant Court was worried about this turn of events, but he wanted to slip away from the bar for a few minutes to call Paris, so it very quickly occurred to him that nothing would serve his purposes right now like a good old-fashioned bar fight.
That said, he had no illusions that if a brawl did kick off, it would be anything like a normal bar fight. There was one inebriated Desert Hawks major and five foreign mercenaries against ten or fifteen Tigers paramilitary men. He saw that at least one guy in the mix had a pistol. He doubted any of the mercs here with him were armed, and if Walid did have a piece, in his inebriated state he was probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else.
It was clear to Court that a fistfight in a bar in a nation as wrecked as Syria wouldn’t be the same as one in most other places. If it did come to blows around here, it probably would end with somebody getting killed.
And if a fight did start, it would help Court’s cover if it happened organically. If he just picked up a chair and threw it at the Syrians now to instigate action, everyone in the room would point him out after the fact, he would be the least likely in the room to slip away, and the suspicions that would arise from this would threaten his entire cover and his operation here.
So he hoped a confrontation would start without him being the one identified with starting it.
And to that end, things looked like they were going his way. The Russians were up and heading over towards the commotion, with a couple of the Tigers in tow.
A big Russian stepped up to Court, and he spoke in English. “You take this guy’s mobile phone?” It appeared one of the Tigers was a Russian speaker, and he wanted a translator he thought would be on the side of his friend missing the device.
Court stood from his chair, not aggressively but certainly not passively. A group of a dozen Russians and Syrian special forces men stood around the KWA table now, so all the other KWA men at the table stood up, ready to defend themselves if necessary.
Court lifted his shirt and turned around, exposing his bare stomach and back. In English he said, “This guy is full of shit. I don’t have his phone.”
The Russian spoke in Russian to the Syrian special forces man, Walid butted in with a comment of his own, and several Arab men began shouting at Walid.
Court stepped forward a half step, and the big Russian saw it as a provocation. He put a hand out and shoved Court in the chest. It was an aggressive move, but it didn’t constitute the opening to a brawl. Court realized if he started slinging punches it would be obvious he was the one who started the fight, and if that happened, it would further single him out among the other patrons in the bar.
Walid and the Tiger soldier whose phone was now in a garbage can in the back alley began yelling at each other again, and the KWA men had more or less squared off against the Russians. Brunetti—the Argentine—put his finger in the face of another Syrian and began threatening him in Spanish that was understood by no one else in the room save for Court.
The semispontaneous fight Court had been hoping for was gathering steam. But none of the confrontations going on in the room had crossed the line to the jumping-off point where all the testosterone present would lead to the massive melee he was looking for.
An idea came to Court that he hoped might just make the fight break out without him being the one to throw the first punch. The big Russian—still looming over him—looked like he was about to turn around and go back to his seat, so Court addressed him in Russian.
“My friend here with the Desert Hawks thinks you Russian Air Force guys are pussies because you are afraid to fight on the ground like men.”
The man looked at Court cockeyed. Court’s mastery of Russian wasn’t complete, but he’d clearly gotten his idea across. The Russian turned to Walid and pointed angrily but he spoke to Court in Russian. “Take this militia loser out of here before we beat his ass.” Court put his hands up, as if to say Okay, and he smiled, and the Russian Air Force soldier glared a moment more before looking back to his friends. The Tiger Forces men seemed to think the drama was over, so they, too, seemed to relax their guard a little.
But Court turned back to Walid, and as he did he dropped his smile and adopted an expression of astonishment.
Walid saw the look on the Westerner, and he’d heard Court speak to the Russian in his own language.
In Arabic, Walid asked, “What did he say?” He looked to Saunders for the answer, but Court understood the question, and he replied in Arabic.
“Something in Russian. Just talk. Forget it.”
But all Court’s facial cues were controlled to give the impression the man had said something horrible while pointing to Walid. Not satisfied with Court’s answer, the Syrian major shouted now. “What did he say?”
The Syrian men turned back towards the table with the mercs and the Desert Hawks officer.
Court took a brief moment to weigh his options. He had been in the Middle East many times with the Goon Squad years ago, and back then he and the guys had a running tally of all the creative ways people swear in Arabic. Court’s personal favorite was Khalil aire wa kloo, which meant “Pickle my dick and eat it.” But for purposes of sending Walid over the edge right now, he decided to take a bigger tool out of his toolbox. “He said, ‘Yelan el kees hali khalakak.’”
Court knew there might have been a ruder phrase to an Arabic man than “Curse the pussy that made you,” but if there was, he sure couldn’t imagine it.
Walid’s eyes narrowed, and then they flashed over to the Russian. The big Russian saw the anger, and he froze to evaluate the Arab’s look. The special forces soldier missing his phone turned to the Russian in surprise, not having heard what the Russian had said but hearing Court’s translation over the music.
Other Arabic speakers near Court’s table gasped.
It was as if all the air in the room had been sucked away in a breath.
And then, in the center of nearly twenty angry men, Walid was the first to move.
With a jolting and frantic motion, he reached behind his back, under his shirt, and he pulled out a gun.
CHAPTER 36
Court hadn’t known that Walid was in possession of a firearm, which meant the major had done a good job concealing it, both from Court and from the bouncer downstairs. Apparently the other contractors also were clueless, because they all reacted with shock and surprise.
Broz was closest to Walid, and he saw the pistol as the militiaman swung it up towards the Russian. The Croatian’s reflexes were damn good, but consistent with the principle that action beats reaction, all he could do was stick a hand out for the gun as the Syrian leveled it at the Russian.
Walid got a shot off but managed to miss a room full of people and hit the ceiling. Broz disarmed Walid with a shoulder shove and a pull of the weapon, but not before the Tiger Forces man who had been looking for his phone pulled his own pistol.
Anders, the Dutch KWA man, kicked a chair across the floor and it slammed into the Tiger’s legs, knocking him forward. His weapon went off before he had it leveled, and the round struck the table between Saunders and Brunetti, and by now all the women in the bar and half the men had either hit the deck or begun running for the exit. The other half of the patrons, including all the Russians and the Syrian Tigers, had enough training to know better than to turn away from a gun when it was in range of their backs, so some of the men attacked in the direction of Broz to get the pistol he’d yanked from Walid, and the others began swinging at what they perceived to be the greatest threat within reach.
The bar fight that Court wanted so badly had begun, but he was already regretting it.
The big Russian was only four feet away from Court, and he turned to grab a vodka bottle off a table behind him. On Court’s right Saunders, Brunetti, and Anders began mixing it up with a group of Syrians. Court counted three Russians grabbing bar stools and coming his way, while Broz swung the pistol he’d pulled from Major Walid up towards the Tiger Forces man who, while now flat on the ground, still had his gun raised.
But the gun in the hands of the man on the floor was accidentally kicked away by a Syrian who tripped and fell on his back, and at the same time, Broz was tackled hard from the right.
The weapon the KWA contractor held skidded away from him and across the floor.
Court ducked a flying bar stool, deflected the swing of the vodka bottle by the big Russian who’d accosted him, and fired a hard forearm into the man’s trachea, temporarily collapsing the man’s windpipe and dropping him to the ground. To his right Saunders had been tackled by a Syrian, and together he and his attacker rolled over the table where Court and the KWA men had been sitting.