The automatic rifle barrel feels cold and hard pressed against the tender skin above my left ear. Out the corner of my left eye, I see the gray-bearded face of the man I take to be Soleimani. The man holding the g*n is not easy to catch sight of, but, from what I can make out in the driver’s side-view mirror, he’s a tall, dark-skinned, black-haired man with a thin mustache covering his lip. He’s also as big as a house judging by the way he fills my mirror, and dressed like his boss—in green fatigues. He’s a goddamned Jolly Green Giant, minus the Jolly part.
Glancing into the rearview, I spot a small army of soldiers accompanying the Iranian Kud leader. Then, shooting a look into the side-view mirror, I spot another man. This one shorter, his light blond hair receding,
