Operation "Charlie Foxtrot"
Part 7
***

Al-Musharraf Neighborhood

Images swam in Scream's head. He wanted to open his eyes, but felt them to be too heavy to budge for his eye muscles. Or, maybe it was all just a feeling of fatigue and the images were what was going on around him. The sounds hitting his eardrums seemed dull and distant, and the images somewhat swirly in color and clarity.

He heard fragments of words and phrases that didn't seem to make sense from one to the next. He thought Angel was calling out, "Sarge, are you still with us?" with a panicked tone.

"We have to move!" came from Dim, and Scream felt an urge to tell the private to shut the hell up.

"Come on, this way!" That was Doc. What would the Corporal be doing telling his squad what to do?

He felt a stinging sensation in his side and a heavy weight on his back. His head swam as the blurry images became clearer.

Scream didn't see the barren deserts of Iraq, or the endless, sand-colored rows of apartment blocks in the Al-Musharraf neighborhood. His hands weren't wearing gloves or wrapped around the warm plastic and composites of his M-4A1 carbine.

He felt the sun warm on his face, and the sloshing of water against a retaining wall was at his feet, which dangled in a small canal. He was in a public park in Massapequa, a quiet corner of Long Island. The water was cool against the soles of his feet and his toes, and in the corner of his eye, he spotted a blue paddle boat approaching with one seat empty. The occupant of the other seat had a young, teenage face, light blonde hair, and a beauty that made Scream's heart flutter.

Her name was Jillian, and she was the girl Scream had a crush on at sixteen. Why was she so vividly in view? Scream asked himself, as his conscious mind tried to invade the images his subconscious was causing him to see.

Scream felt a thump on his chest. You can't get thumped when no one's around you, he considered. It was strange. The sergeant hadn't experienced such a conflict between his conscious mind and unconscious. Slowly, the image of the county park in Massapequa on the summer day long gone began to fade. His eyes didn't feel so heavy.

Scream willed the lids to rise, and he instantly felt the tug of an elastic band around his head. Pure oxygen filled his nostrils, and a slightly portly, blonde Army nurse filled his field of vision.

He's coming to, Doc!" the nurse called out.

Doc, the medic, appeared above Scream, who was lying on a canvas litter. He held a pair of medical shears in one hand, and was pulling aside his web gear with the other.

"You're out of the objective, Sarge," Doc said. "We'll take good care of you at the battalion aid station..."

***

Enlisted Family Housing
Fort Hood, Killeen, Texas

The military neighborhood looked a lot like suburbia for the part of Texas that Fort Hood occupied. That is, with the exception of the ramrod-straight streets running in a parallel cross-hatch pattern, dividing the development into uniform sections. Each section had blocks of sixteen houses built around common parcels, allocated for a variety of purposes, such as a primary school, playground, MWR branch office, and so on. The neighborhood had been planned with the precision of a combat engineer's drawings.

Individual homes sat on patches of sandy ground, allocated for the housing because it had little value for the commercial concerns in and around the Army base. Some of the residents that could afford to, had attempted to put down sod trucked in from elsewhere. Much to their dismay, however, the sod often turned brown because the heat always overpowered the watering, and scrub took over everything.

The neighborhood had an odd quietness to it, especially when half of the residents were deployed with their tactical units. The parents left behind, or childless spouses tried to occupy themselves with their work, or keeping up the pace of life with the neighborhood's children. Dependents of individual units pulled together to support each other, while all of the smaller groups banded together to address larger concerns while their husbands and wives were away in the combat zone.

Only a handful of the families were whole while the bulk of the 3rd Infantry Division was fighting over in Iraq, maintaining the fragile peace that the United States Army had gone to establish. They were the administrative troops that kept the base going - and they were the infirmed, the wounded soldiers brought home and awaiting their eventual fate.

A blue, Chrysler minivan rolled noisily up one of the neighborhood streets, named for a famous and dead soldier who served at Fort Hood. Although the van's paint job was clean, one of the rear doors sported a deep dent, and it was quite obvious by the sounds of it coming down the street, a muffler problem was already in the works.

The van's driver knew the neighborhood well, cruising the street at a cautious twenty-five miles per hour, in order to avoid attracting the attention of the base's Military Police patrol, which had jurisdiction over the housing complexes. The Chrysler finally slowed to a crawl, and turned off the street into a short, paved, cookie-cutter driveway in front of the small, bungalow-style cookie-cutter Government Issue house.

The house was silent when the minivan driver climbed out of the vehicle, gathered up a giggling child, and put her house key into the front door lock. The click of the lock disengaging could have echoed all the way to Dallas.

Terry Ryder, a beautiful, oval-faced brunette of twenty-two, pushed open the door of the house, hesitant to call out for her husband in case he was resting. She looked around the house's small sitting room, making a mental note to gather up some toys that her child had left out. After sitting the toddler into a play pen with a giggle and kiss, Terry finally ventured to speak.

"Bo?"

"Bo, are you home?"

Terry shrugged to herself, unpacking the small plastic grocery bags into the kitchen's refrigerator. She had inadvertently swept aside a hand-scrawled note from her husband that he would be at the Fort Hood running track, thinking it was old. Her husband, Private 1st Class Bo Ryder, had been badly mauled by a mine blast while serving in the 3rd ID in Baghdad, and had been sent home to her with a prosthesis replacing one of his legs.

Bo had been through a lot, including trouble with his own father stealing back pay that the Army was supposed to have sent his family, and a long, painful recovery from the leg amputation. His faith in the Army had never shaken, even though his faith in himself had waned often. And through it all, Terry stuck by his side. The disappearances to the base track were somewhat frequent, and Terry knew not to worry. The doctors and some other injured vets had suggested that Bo get back on his feet in any way possible, and he was finally taking the suggestions in stride.

When she had the groceries stowed in their places, a gleeful shout from outside drew her attention. Terry's face crunched into an inquisitive expression, which changed to a bright smile when she looked out the front picture window of the house to see Bo jogging almost normally around what passed for their front yard. He still favored his good leg, making every other stride look like a wobbly limp on the prosthesis, but he had a great big smile on his face - and was moving as if he never lost his own limb.

Terry skipped out the front door, uttering a scream of joy as she ran to her husband and threw her arms around his neck in a loving embrace. For the first time in a long while, Bo's eyes glowed like they did before the couple had been divided by the Iraq war. Their lips met instinctively, pressing together in a hot, steamy, passionate kiss that sent tingles up Terry's spine.

"Look, baby!" Bo said. "I ran here from the track without falling flat on my ass once!"

"That's so wonderful, sweetheart!" Terry replied, feeling her husband standing tall and loving the moment. "Junior will be ecstatic to be able to play with his Daddy again!"

"That's nice and all about Junior," Bo replied, a long-lost burning in his eyes coming back to him. "But it's high time that Terry and Bo had a little play time..."

Terry let out a soft yelp when one of Bo's hands slipped down to the waistband of her jeans and gave it a playful tug. "We have to put Junior in his crib, Honey. Are you sure you're up to it?"

Bo placed one of Terry's hands against the inside of his thigh and she felt something that she had almost written off as lost a long time ago. "Which room do you want to start in?" she asked with a sexy giggle and bat of her eyelashes.

***

Camp Victory, Western Baghdad
Enlisted Personnel Tent Area
Late Evening, local time

"So, how does it feel with the big dog off sniffing someone else's fire hydrant?" Private Banner, another enlisted member of Lieutenant Underpants' rifle platoon asked of the members of Scream's squad. He leaned against one of the tent poles in the center of the sleeping quarters, helping himself to a bottle of warm beer from the squad's stash.

"Feels fine not being yelled at all the time," Smoke replied from a reclining position in his cot. He nodded in Banner's direction and chewed on the end of a plastic straw, rolling it back and forth between his teeth. "You're gonna owe us for that beer, troop. The Rawhide Squad don't issue letters of credit to anyone, same platoon or no."

"I'll go back to the tent and bring in our squad's barter bag," Banner said, raising the opened glass bottle up to his lips.

"Sorry, pal," Angel said, snatching the beer out of Banner's hand before he could down a swig. "No credits, remember? You get the barter bag an' we'll think about letting you pay for this."

Banner hurried out of the tent, cursing under his breath, while Angel downed the first swig of beer in the bottle. He passed it to Smoke, who mockingly raised the bottle in toast.

"Here's to getting back without the threat of court-martial for totally fucking up," Smoke said, taking his share of the bottle and passing it to Private Nassiri, who was cleaning out his rifle with CLP and his wire brush kit.

Nassiri accepted the bottle and downed a swallow for himself. "Amen to that Smoke. Too bad the Sarge caught it."

"We can't go see him in the hospital tents until Sergeant Murphy says it's okay," Dim interjected. "Wonder what the El-Tee is gonna do, what with us missing our fearless leader."

"Shit, Dim," Smoke said, beckoning for the beer from Nassiri. "You're such a buzz kill. Makes me want to drink your part of this bottle."

"You wouldn't dare," Dim replied, swiping the beer from Nassiri's hand and taking his turn. He dangled the almost-empty bottle between two fingers as Smoke took the bottle and finished the dregs.

At the entrance of the squad bay, the tent flap moved with a rustle, and a tough-looking soldier walked inside. His eyes flashed through the space quickly, taking stock of the men inside. Behind the sharp eyes and the roughly trimmed, ruddy beard and moustache, the noncom's brain assessed the Alpha Company fire team one by one at lightning speed.

"Where's that barter bag?" Smoke called out, hearing the movement of the tent flap but not looking at who was standing just inside of it.

"Shut up, Private!" Sergeant 1st Class Mack Gerhardt shouted. The red-haired, ex-Ranger turned Delta Force special operator stood tall with hands on hips as Smoke spun around in his rack with a startled look on his face.

"Who are you?" Angel asked from his place near the center of the tent. With one boot, he surreptitiously slid the unmarked cardboard box that held the squad's beer stash under the closest rack.

"I'm Sergeant Freely," Gerhardt said. "Your company CO said this rabble needs a temporary squad leader, while yours is layin' out and fingerin' the camp nurses. Well, little boys, I am it. I'm a Ranger-qualified squad leader, and from the looks of things, you guys could use a little more training and discipline."

Smoke nursed a chuckle at the visitor. "Your initials wouldn't happen to be I. P. would they?"

Gerhardt snorted as his eyes burned a hole in Smoke's forehead. "I. P. Freely. Very funny. I take it you're the squad's fuckin' stand up comedian?"

"I try, Sarge," Smoke said defiantly. "And we ain't doing shit till we see your orders that say you're in charge of our little country club now."

Gerhardt strode past Smoke's bunk, kicking it over and causing Smoke to tumble onto the sandy floor of the squad bay. He shoved Angel to one side and yanked out the box of beer bottles. "I'll show you my orders," the Delta warrior growled, pulling out a bottle. He smashed it on the ground at his feet and watched Smoke cringe. "Consider yourself lucky that you're not picking glass outta your goddamn hair over at the dispensary, troop. The rest of this stash is mine until you guys figure out the score."

Gerhardt tucked the box under one arm and spun on his heel, glaring at the grumbling soldiers to see if they had any plans to protest. "You people have a briefing with me in twenty-four hours for our squad's new assignment. You'd better get your headgear straight and sleep off all your baby thoughts now. Because if you do something that threatens my life or the mission, I'll shoot you myself and make it look like an accident." He left the tent without another word said.

"Motherfucker," Smoke growled. "Who is this yahoo that Captain Baron stuck us with?"

"Probably some short-time reject from the Brigade replacement pool," Dim mumbled.

"Kinda makes you wish we had Sergeant Silas back right now, doesn't it?" Nassiri asked no one in particular. He didn't expect anyone to answer.

***

Meanwhile, at the
Alfa Company Command Tent

Captain Baron trudged into his command tent, pulling back the canvas flap that divided his Spartan work area from the fully enclosed sleeping area that could've housed several people comfortably. He was tired from the events of the urban patrol operation, and didn't want to occupy his thoughts with what he would do to discipline Lieutenant Hunter for his cavalier treatment of an entire squad of soldiers.

Granted, Hunter never liked Sergeant Silas since the officer was put in charge of the platoon. But that friction wasn't Baron's fault, nor was it really Sergeant Silas'. Hunter had a "power trip" attitude, and Silas just happened to point it out first. Hunter didn't realize that his life on the front lines wasn't inside of a vacuum. Baron had often informally interviewed the noncoms that had to work for each of his platoon leaders and his other staff members, to see whether his decisions were effective, and whether he needed to make adjustments to the working parts of his company.

None of the reports concerning Hunter were glowing at first. Sergeant 1st Class Murphy was on the verge of biting back a request to transfer to another open platoon sergeant slot, in any company of the Brigade, just to get away from Hunter. But, life in the Army wasn't that easy, especially in the war zone. He had to turn Murphy down.

Manpower was tight, he remembered explaining to Murphy, and Baron's job was to make as much use as possible of the people he had available, especially since attrition due to injuries from counter-insurgent patrols and investigating roadside IED's was thinning out his line platoons. He even recalled mentioning that the battalion S-1 - the officer in charge of personnel - was giving all of the company commanders the run around over requests for replacements.

"We're still waiting for our next allocation," had been the excuse at every battalion officer's meeting. None of the senior members of the staff could do much more to help the situation, including Lieutenant Colonel Dougherty, who commanded the infantry battalion. Dougherty was fairly well acquainted with both the Brigade's commander and the ADC of the 3rd Infantry Division, so if he couldn't make waves to get people fast tracked to Camp Victory, there was little else possible but to wait.

That all meant Baron would not be reassigning people outside the company, and he had to take a tough stance on requests at times, scaring the noncoms into being a bit more tolerant of their officers, Hunter especially.

Although Baron would never really admit it in front of witnesses or other officers, he quietly advised his NCO's on how to stroke Hunter's ego a little without getting caught. So long as nothing illegal happened, and no one got hurt or fragged, the captain was content to allow his men to play small-scale mind games with Hunter. That advice had placated Murphy, who worked closest to Hunter, and Silas seemed to be an expert at keeping Hunter in check. The other squad leaders could also hold their own.

With a groan, Baron leaned back onto his Army cot and unlaced his combat boots. Hunter was one headache that the captain didn't want to saddle himself with when he needed sleep. A quickly scrawled sticky note with Hunter's name on it was stuck to the top of Baron's PASGT helmet and the deed was done for the time being. At the very moment that Baron slipped the ALICE suspenders off his aching shoulders and tried to bring himself to sleep (without even taking off his grimy battle dress uniform), a voice came from the working area of the tent.

"Captain Baron? Captain Baron, sir?"

The voice belonged to one of the less-experienced privates in the company, assigned to the fire watch patrol and local security for the company's quartering area. Because it was a nightly responsibility of the company to provide its own security, the sergeants often broke in the newer privates by handing them a shift or two a week on the overnight detail, just to see how they handled themselves. Baron heard the grinding of the private's boots on the rocky sand as he crossed the work area and stood just on the other side of Baron's privacy flap.

"Sir? Are you there? It's Private Hutchins."

"I'm here," Baron replied. "This had better be important, Hutchins."

"It is," a second, quietly intense voice said. The privacy flap moved to one side, and Colonel Thomas P. Ryan, the C.O. of the Delta Force black operations unit "Alpha Team", entered. He kept a respectful distance from the captain's cot, resting his palms flat against his hips. "My name is Colonel Young. I'm from Divisional Intelligence."

"You picked a helluva time to debrief me, sir," Baron said groggily, swinging his legs back over the cot's edge and rising to a seated position.

"That's why I'm not ripping you a new one for not snapping to, soldier."

"You're a generous man, sir," Baron stated sarcastically.

"Listen. It's not you that I'm interested in. Part of your OPLAN in al-Musharraf was to turn over a suspected insurgent safe house. There were certain people of interest there, that our boys are really keen on locating and extracting information out of. The squad your Lieutenant Hunter assigned to that building might have seen them, based on the preliminary AAR's you turned in."

"Could be," Baron said. "The team leader got put down by a booby trap, obviously set to protect something. Later searches turned up nothing of consequence aside from evidence that people were hiding out there."

"I want to intensively debrief each member of the squad that was there, including your Staff Sergeant Silas, when the medicos say he's well enough for it. I don't know how long it will take before our people are satisfied with what we could glean from them, so I need those soldiers taken out of your official roster for the time being. Call it restricted duty if you like. They may have to be taken to our Intel Center at Division and work with the HUMINT people, so don't expect to see them lollygagging around camp. You got me?"

"Understood, sir. Will you arrange for replacements while you have my people?"

Colonel Ryan grinned at the thought of impersonating a high ranking general to light a fire under an unsuspecting personnel staffer. "How many people does your entire company need? I'll see what I can do to get you reinforced on short notice."

***

The Ryder residence, Fort Hood

Terry Ryder tossed her long brown hair back as she raised her head off the chest of her husband Bo. She wore a satisfied smile on her bright red lips, and sighed happily as Bo's chest heaved slowly up and down under her bare breasts.

"How was that, babe?" Bo whispered when he felt her stirring.

"It was great, honey," Terry replied, brushing her lips across his and running her fingers through his hair. "You were incredible. I knew you always had it in you."

"I guess I was feeling too sorry for myself to do anything about life," Bo mumbled, a pensive look on his face. "Thanks for sticking with me."

"Why wouldn't I stay with you? We're both a part of Junior's life, if you haven't forgotten about him."

"I remember Junior, Terry. I- I mean... Well, I'm not sure what I mean..."

"I love you too, Bo Ryder," Terry whispered, nibbling on an earlobe while she embraced her husband and lover. "No need to explain it."

***

Somewhere in Western Baghdad

Two men, dressed casually in neutral-colored shirts, faded blue jeans and wearing traditional Arab kefiyeh to cover their heads, sat atop the roof of an empty apartment block that was under re-construction. In the distance, the steady drumming of AH-64 Apache gunships and UH-60L Blackhawk transports echoed through the air, as the deadly American combat helicopters performed their logistics duties or patrolled over the most dangerous sectors of the city.

The two men were on the run, having barely escaped the noose of the Alfa Company sweep through the al-Musharraf neighborhood. They spent no more than a few minutes of rest anywhere, keeping to back alleys and abandoned buildings as they humped their deadly cargo to a new hiding place.

Fortunately for the Americans, the two Syrian terrorists had left some of their key components behind, but it wasn't irreplacable. They just wouldn't be able to make any hasty IED's until they found a new roost and obtained more materials from their Iraqi co-conspirators. It was an annoying delay for the two men, who were singlehandedly causing the most havoc in the Baghdad AOR with their car bombs and IED's.

With their primary safe house raided, and possibly even kept under surveillance by the American intelligence services, the Syrians had to follow their way to another Iraqi insurgent cell. There had been no time to warn the next cell through the Iraqi insurgents' clever communications network. So, there was no guarantee that the men would get anything other than a hot reception, from American soldiers and Iraqi police, or from their own freedom fighters, thinking they were infiltrators.

"Come, Ali, we must take shelter to avoid the patrols," Mustafa, the Syrian bomb maker, insisted to his fellow countryman and partner.

"I need rest, Mustafa," Ali said. He was the expert in electronics and detonators of the pair. "I am not as young as you."

"You say that all the time, Ali," Mustafa replied with a snort. "Perhaps you are really becoming a woman."

Ali swung an outstretched hand and swatted Mustafa across the back of the head. "You would be wise to not forget your place, boy. As long as we are careful, we can almost hide in plain sight of the infidel. They are most complacent until stung, but even then, it takes time for a large giant to awaken.

"It is also so for the American Army. The Marines are more ferocious in comparison, but they cannot be everywhere. This is not like pounding away at the Amal militias in the broken bones of Beirut City, or rolling car bombs into Israeli kibbutzim on the wrong side of the Beka'a Valley.

"The Americans are organized well and do not scare easily. They would stand in the face of death, sometimes stupidly, and they stand true to their convictions, as we do. Some of them are yellow dogs, just as some of our people are cowardly.

"If we were not on opposite sides in our ideology, perhaps some of these ferocious infidels might even be good jihadists. So long as you respect your enemy's abilities, you can plan for them. As good as you are, Mustafa, you have much to learn."

The Syrians' reflection was broken by the sound of crumbling gravel and masonry. "Shh!" Ali hissed, glancing over his shoulder at the scaffolding and the hole in the roof that the pair had climbed through. There was no movement or other sounds, but that could change at any moment.

"Hide the AK-47's and our knapsacks behind those construction materials, Mustafa. Quickly, boy!" Ali pointed to a pile of building materials that had been delivered for the engineers or civilians that were repairing the apartment block, while Mustafa scrambled to deposit their weapons and knapsacks out of plain sight.

Ali worked the slide of an aging Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol, locking and cocking the reliable Belgian automatic. He remembered stealing the weapon from an Israeli commando during an enemy raid on his terror cell's training camp. It had served Ali well for many years since. With the pistol readied for action, and Mustafa returning to where the men had chosen to rest themselves, Ali tucked the pistol into the small of his back, under the waistband of his jeans. Draping his loose-fitting shirt over the bulge, he reclined on a folding chair and watched the roof access hole silently.

Mustafa took his chair and looked around nervously, fumbling a sharp knife in its scabbard between his hands after tucking his own pistol, a Russian 9mm Pistolet Makarov, under one thigh with the butt sticking out slightly for his fingers to find without delay.

The men didn't have to wait long to discover they were no longer alone. One of the civilian workers assigned to the construction site scrambled up the scaffolding and poked his head out the roof access hole. There was a clink of glass bottles as he hoisted a canvas satchel onto the flat roof and crawled up after it, his back to the two Syrians. Once on the roof, and fully believing he was alone, the worker pulled out a bottle of liquor and chugged at it eagerly.

Ali and Mustafa were silently amused by the worker's behavior. The mullahs in Damascus, at the Islamist Society where the pair was recruited into the Jihad, were quick to decry the evils of alcohol and how it blurred one's purpose, how it dulled one's ability to see the will of Allah in his actions. More and more, in their minds, the rank and file Iraqis were straying from the One True Path and the teachings of their Quran. It was the very motivation for leaving Syria and smuggling themselves across the Iraqi western desert. They would be heroes, by driving the influence of the infidel out of Iraq.

The worker hiccuped after polishing off a liter bottle of some clear liquor. Ali rose to his feet and began to walk slowly toward the worker. When he was a few feet away, he hissed, "You are straying from the faith, brother."

The worker was startled but he didn't show it. A strapping young man in his late twenties, the Iraqi civilian sported muscles in his arms that were well developed from daily manual labor on construction projects. Ali noticed the calluses and scratches on the worker's bare knuckles, which indicated that he might be something of a brawler besides a hefty drinker. "Who are you?" the worker asked suspiciously.

"Who we are is of little consequence. Alcohol is the work of Shaitan according to the Sura of the Quran." Ali added, "It is a sure path to sin."

"What is of consequence is that you are trespassing," the worker said. He took a step forward and stretched to his full height, but the effects of all the liquor he had taken in were visible. The booze had reduced his inhibitions and made the worker somewhat more aggressive than if he had a moment to think things through soberly. His meaty hands clenched into fists as he reached for his unlabelled bottle of some sort of American hooch. "Leave now and I shall not report your presence to the police."

"You're in no condition, sinner," Ali said slowly, walking with a careful and deliberate stride closer to the worker. His hands were empty. Mustafa leaned forward in his place to listen to the exchange.

"I see the hands of Shaitan around your throat already," Ali continued. "You will not threaten us with your infidel talk. You are a traitor to your faith by allowing yourself to be influenced by the Americans, who probably give you this swill and are greedy to keep your money. Do not stray from the path, my brother."

The worker glanced around in desperation, his ability to balance dulled by the liberal amounts of drink he had already ingested. Although strong and probably able to endure physical pain to some higher degree from the liquor, he could still bleed. Seeing no weapons within reach and Ali drawing nearer, he broke the end of the glass bottle in his hand and held it defensively in front of his body.

"Stay away!" the worker said with a shudder in his voice. Ali kept closing the gap between the two men, and Mustafa got to his feet. Mustafa quickly slipped his pistol into a pocket while Ali had the worker distracted, but held up the knife casually, to make sure the Iraqi knew he was armed.

"There is but one punishment for your kind of sin," Ali said menacingly. The Syrian fully believed in his mission to spread the true path of Islam in the world, and felt it his responsibility to be the weapon of Allah on Earth. Even if he was simply protecting himself and Mustafa from discovery, he never faltered in pointing out the laws of the Quran in everything.

The men came to within arm's reach of one another, and the worker stumbled backward defensively one more step, feeling that he was at the edge of the hole cut in the roof when his work boot heel couldn't press down on something solid. He swung the broken bottle at Ali and lunged forward, hoping to drive the Syrian backward.

Ali stood his ground calmly, twisting his torso to one side and deftly avoiding the thrust of the worker's improvised weapon. In a split second, he considered reaching for his Browning Hi-Power, but then felt it wouldn't be necessary right away. He grabbed the worker's wrist, keeping it immobile and not allowing the bottle shards to be brought to bear on him once more.

"The wage for your sin is death," Ali said. "So says the Quran. Allahu akbar!"