Harbinger

by S L Shelton

  As the instruction dragged on, she became more and more impatient, and I could tell she actually wanted to spar.

  “Okay, okay, now show me for real,” she said after I’d demonstrated an arm trap.

  “What? Like full speed?”

  “Full speed, full strength,” she replied, grabbing me around the neck.

  I stared at her for a second, watching the “crazy” return to her eyes.

  “Kathrin,” I said softly, trying to back the fire down. “I’ve broken people’s arms with these traps… I’m not sure this is a great idea.”

  She broke her grip and took a step back, putting her hand on her hip in frustration.

  “Are you afraid I’ll hurt you like I did this morning?” she asked, taunting.

  I just smiled.

  “Come on,” she said, gesturing me toward her with her hands. “Come at me.”

  “No. You come at me,” I replied playfully, but the words were barely out of my mouth before she leapt forward and thrust her heel out in an impressive high kick.

  My reflexes responded without a conscious thought. It was no trouble to dodge the kick and push her leg to the side. I did have to consciously stop the automatic follow-through punch, instead giving her a flat palm shove, sending her to the floor on all fours.

  She stood and faced me, smiling—but there was intensity in her eyes, as if joy, rage, and arousal had intersected to create the perfect storm. When her feelings manifested as motion, there was no hesitation, no doubt in her movements.

  Time slowed down as I watched her attack—Another kick. NO! A feint.

  It was beautiful—like standing on the shore and watching a shark roll its hunt through the surf.

  Not just a criminal, I realized as her other foot whipped up and then arced over her other leg in a sharp swing for my temple. Again, I avoided the blow, but this time, instead of pushing it to the side I lifted my arm and trapped her ankle before gently rolling her to the ground. I panicked when I realized her head was going to hit the hardwood floor.

  “Kathrin! Watch out,” I said as I reached out and grabbed her elbow to stop the fall.

  Instead of taking my hand and lowering herself gently, she took advantage of my awkward stance, scissoring her other leg around my neck. As soon as her shoulder touched the floor, she wrenched sideways and flipped me over by my neck and shoulder.

  I pulled myself free after hitting the ground and sprang to my feet.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl,” she said, still smiling but with a piercing glare that said, “I’ll kill you if you take it easy on me.”

  That was the last time I worried about protecting her from the floor. If she wanted to get bruised up from a training session, it was her decision. It was no less than she deserved for the deception she was perpetrating on me.

  For the next thirty minutes, we engaged in exhausting combat. Her attacks got better and more aggressive each time. But once I stopped worrying about hurting her, she was no match for me.

  This clearly frustrated her, and I could tell she was leaking more and more anger into her strikes.

  “Hey!” I barked after she crashed to the floor once more after I deflected a particularly aggressive knee kick. She stopped for a moment, resting her hands on her knees, looking at me from the side.

  “Don’t take it easy on me,” she said between breaths.

  She was still smiling, but her jaw was clenched tight in anger. This was a side of Kathrin I hadn’t seen before, and I didn’t like where it was headed… She was revealing more of herself than I had expected.

  “Kathrin,” I said soothingly. “Did you learn this from your uncle?”

  Her reply was a jump kick followed by a roundhouse punch to the head—both blocked. When she threw an elbow to my throat—which I blocked—she tried to follow with a knee to my groin.

  I shoved her away, stopping her attack.

  “Did I do something to upset you?” I asked, holding my hands out defensively. “This isn’t friendly.”

  “It’s very friendly,” she said, but mid word, she spun around and attacked again. Fists, elbows, knees, and feet, all flying at me with increasing intensity and speed.

  I stopped an elbow from landing on my jaw, but found her reaching up with her other hand as if to gouge my eye.

  Whoa! That’s enough of this shit.

  I stopped her hand, restraining it in my iron grip. The blaze in her eyes told me she wanted the fight, and the restraining hold seemed to be some sort of insult to her.

  Using my arm as the fulcrum, she pivoted her whole body sideways, hooking her leg behind my neck. Then she propelled her weight forward in an attempt to flip me.

  “You asked for it,” I muttered as I let my full weight fall on her.

  The breath left her lungs under my weight as we crashed to the hardwood floor. Not waiting for her to catch her breath, I rolled her over and yanked her arm sharply behind her. A shrill chirp of pain emitted from beneath me.

  “That’s enough,” I said firmly, the bite of anger clearly contained in my voice.

  I pressed my knee into the middle of her back. Her face was securely pressed against the floor. She struggled once and then squealed in frustrated anger at the resulting torque on her shoulder. All she could do was go limp or risk injuring her arm in further struggle.

  There she stayed for many seconds, her breath laboring from her effort and from the weight of my knee in her back

  “Calm your shit down,” I whispered into her ear. “This is out of hand.”

  After a few moments she relaxed. “Okay. This is starting to feel like foreplay,” she said with boredom in her voice.

  I released her—slowly. She rose to her feet and stared at me for a second before stepping toward me, chin down, eyes up, and looking very much like a little girl pouting.

  When she was within inches of my face, she leaned close and kissed me on the lips.

  I didn’t return the gesture. “I don’t like sparring with you,” I said beneath the press of her lips. I was tempted to confront her then, but I quickly decided she needed to cool down before I broached a conversation that could be relationship ending—or life ending.

  Abruptly, she broke the kiss and slapped me sharply across my cheek. I saw it coming but didn’t even attempt to block it—if she wanted to hurt me, I was going to let her do it, unchallenged.

  She smiled and winked. “Food!” she grunted and turned toward the door.

  And just like that, combat was over.

  “And a conversation,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I replied as I followed her back across the hall.

  As I watched her from behind, I had to decide quickly if I still trusted her. When she peeled off her clothes without missing a step, moving toward the bathroom, I mentally shrugged. It’s not like she could conceal a weapon now… I might as well get cleaned up.

  I followed her into the shower, and as the hot water beat down on us, I focused loving attention on the shoulder that I had bent backward, massaging the muscle and joint with my fingers.

  Well, you seem to still fully trust me… Do I give you the benefit of the doubt? I knew I would miss this relationship if it ended, and I tried to keep that knowledge from interfering with the best overall decision.

  She responded to the touch by exposing more of her neck to me, tipping her head sideways. I kissed the vulnerable spot and pressed my awakening erection against the small of her back.

  She quickly turned. “No, no, no,” she said as if reprimanding me. “Food first. I’m starving.”

  She knows what’s coming next. She can tell we are on a dangerous edge.

  “Well, if you had eaten bacon and eggs with me, you wouldn’t be so hungry,” I replied, grinning smugly.

  “I had bacon,” she said plainly before kissing me.

  We finished showering and then went to the kitchen to make some lunch. I grabbed a dry piece of salmon from the refrigerator and two
dark beers with porcelain-hinged pop tops.

  She took bread from Amadeus and a block of cheese for herself, sticking her tongue out at me as she walked past to the eating nook. There we sat and ate. She focused on her meal—I focused on her.

  I took a deep breath. Here we go.

  “Where did you get your training?” I asked casually as I forked salmon into my mouth.

  “Oh, here and there,” she replied dismissively. “A mishmash of things I’ve picked up along the way.”

  I chewed my food and hesitated with my next words.

  “Funny,” I said after taking a swig of beer, drawing the last moment of bliss out as long as possible. “Because nearly every move was perfectly executed Krav Maga.”

  She looked up at me, seemingly confused. “Kra Mac what?”

  Eyebrow twitch. Hard swallow. Visible pulse in carotid.

  “Krav Maga,” I repeated, firming my resolve to carry through. “A martial art developed by and for Israeli Defense Forces.”

  “Huh,” she grunted. “Never heard of it… Strange.” Now she was toying with her food.

  It’s not too late to turn back now, I thought to myself, but a solid conviction pushed up inside me. I set my fork on my empty plate and sat back.

  “Not strange for an operative of some sort.”

  She looked up at me suspiciously. “I think all your spy training is making you paranoid,” she said with a nervous chuckle and a microexpression: fear.

  “Just because someone is paranoid doesn’t mean there isn’t someone after him,” I replied firmly, holding my stare.

  Her eyes dropped uncomfortably as she returned to picking at her meal. I picked up my plate and rose to take it to the sink, giving me a moment to push on. This is harder than I thought it would be. She’s digging her heels in deep, even though she knows I’ve figured her out.

  “Krav Maga. Knowledge of weapons. Living in an abandoned building with fortress-like qualities…” I paused and looked back at her questioningly. “It almost seems like a safe house of some sort.”

  She stared at me blankly, now trying unsuccessfully to remove any outward sign of emotion.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some surveillance equipment in here,” I said as I leaned against the sink.

  “Now you are being paranoid,” she said, but her voice had a nervous edge to it that I hadn’t heard before.

  “And then there’s the small matter of,” I bent and reached under the counter, “the nine-millimeter automatic under the kitchen sink,” I said, removing the Smith and Wesson M&P from its hiding place behind the bowl of the sink.

  When I rose and turned, she had already silently covered half the distance from the table to me. She froze as I glared at her, body tensed. It looked as if she were trying to decide whether to run, fight, or confess.

  “Unless this just belonged to the previous tenant,” I added before I raised it to my nose and sniffed. “Nope…fresh gun oil.”

  Her posture suddenly relaxed. “Aren’t you the clever boy?” she said, cracking her devilish grin before turning and walking back to her lunch as if nothing had happened.

  I popped the magazine out of the Smith and Wesson and pulled the slide back, ejecting the round from the barrel. It landed in my open hand.

  And it’s hot too. I hope she wasn't keeping it locked and loaded just for me.

  I sat at the table and placed the weapon, the magazine, and the ejected bullet down in front of her before glaring at her, waiting for an explanation. She kept her eyes diverted until we heard footsteps running down the stairs in the hallway—skipping every other step from the sound of it.

  “I wonder who that could be?” I asked, mocking.

  Kathrin looked up, timidly holding her head to the side before flashing an embarrassed grin. A second later, the front door burst open. I turned as she entered—an olive-skinned woman with dark hair. She was pointing a Barak SP21 pistol at my head, her eyes fixed on me like lasers.

  “Geht es dir gut?” she asked in an odd combination of hiss and growl without breaking her eye lock on me. Roughly translated: “Are you okay?”

  I heard the slide on Kathrin’s M&P slide back and then clack forward. I turned to see her placing the weapon back on the table between us—now loaded and hot again.

  “Ja. Okay,” she replied and winked at the threatening visitor. “Go back up. We’ll be fine.”

  The woman flashed her eyes toward Kathrin briefly, verifying, and then back to me before slowly holstering her weapon. She turned and left, slamming the door behind her.

  “Pushy neighbors,” I muttered before taking a swallow of beer.

  She looked at me and let out a sad sigh. “Before we get into anything else,” she started as she picked up her own beer, “I was here, doing my job when I got your message. You were already in flight, and I very, very much wanted to see you.” She took a sip of beer.

  I remained quiet.

  “Adina,” she said, nodding toward the now-closed front door, “who I will properly introduce you to later, tried to talk me out of it, but I wanted…I needed to see you.”

  The intensity in her eyes was gone, replaced with pleading.

  She’s afraid this is going to ruin our—whatever this is.

  There was real pain in her face. The microexpressions were everywhere, confirmed by a flush in her cheeks, the visible pulse in her carotid artery, and the whites of her fingertips where she was squeezing her beer bottle.

  I took a deep breath. “Mossad?” I asked plainly.

  “Yes.”

  Wow! No hesitation, no evasion. My chest tightened, threatening to release a flood of emotion that wouldn’t be helpful. So, my girlfriend is with Israeli intelligence.

  There was a sudden stomping on the floor above us. Three hard thumps.

  Kathrin looked up at the lighting fixture. “Turn it off, Adi,” she said in a raised voice, an angry crease forming on her brow.

  Another hard thump echoed above us followed by what sounded like a chair being knocked over.

  I smiled. “She’s got a temper on her, that one,” I said.

  “And she’s hard headed. She’s still listening, so be nice.” She laughed in spite of herself.

  “So I’m assuming you were Mossad when you met me in Amsterdam,” I continued.

  “Yes,” she replied. Short crisp answers. She didn’t seem to be volunteering anything—perhaps waiting until she regained her balance. But at least in the interim it seemed that she had decided to be truthful in an effort to salvage our brand-new relationship. At least that’s what I was hoping. Jesus, she’s sweet.

  “Is your real name Kathrin?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “You met me on purpose,” I said.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  Damn it!

  “You were a piece of data in a database. You sent up a flag when you booked your flight to Amsterdam within hours of the explosion. I’m research and surveillance. I was tasked with seeing if there was some reason besides grief for you to be flying over.” She took a sip of beer. “At the time, no one knew the people from the boat were still alive…no one but you, that is.”

  Have you made up your mind about the situation? Are we going to survive this after all? I knew that there was a lot more at stake here than our relationship, but I couldn’t fight the squeeze in my chest as we navigated…this. And now she was volunteering information. I had to admit that this was making me love her more.

  “Was coming with me part of the plan?” I asked.

  “No. Split minute decision by me,” she said, and then winked. “There were many factors that led to that decision. Not the least of which was your tight ass.”

  “Knock it off,” I said, doing my best to convey disapproval in my glare, but her honesty was softening me… My resolve to leave was fading.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, looking down at her bottle.

  “How long have you been a Mossad agent?” I asked.

&
nbsp; She hesitated, though with good cause…that was a deep question.

  “Never mind. It’s not important,” I said, stopping her before she had to squirm.

  “Ask me anything. I will answer what I can,” she said, almost as if she were trying to erase her hesitation. I was certain she wasn’t reading anything about my reaction from my body language—just like I was taught on the Farm. Nick would have been proud.

  “Two more questions…for now,” I said, rising to my feet and walking over to the stove. “I’ve seen you eat pork ribs and bacon.”

  She nodded with a knowing grin.

  “I thought Mossad was an all-Jewish force,” I said. “Forgive me for being obvious, but you are the blond-haired, blue-eyed paragon of Aryan breeding. How did you end up with Israeli Intelligence?”

  “What makes you think the blonde is natural?” she asked with a grin.

  I smiled and nodded downward. “Well, I have had a pretty close examination of—”

  “Again, what makes you think it’s natural?” she jumped in.

  “That’s dedication,” I muttered.

  “I am Jewish,” she said, and then she waited a moment to see if I showed shock. When I didn’t, she continued. “Well…half Jewish. My mother married a nice Lutheran German.”

  She smiled again and shot me a nervous wink.

  “Go on.”

  “My family, because of our appearance, was able to pretend to be Christian before and during the Second World War,” she continued, slowly turning the bottle with the tips of her fingers. “They helped other Jews escape the ghetto. My grandmother was just a little girl then, and the family didn’t reveal themselves even after the war for fear of reprisal.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “My mother didn’t find out she was Jewish until she was almost a teenager,” she continued, turning her bottle around nervously. “She had been raised Lutheran.”

  “And you?” I asked.

  Kathrin nodded. “I was told when I was young, but it was supposed to be some big family secret,” she continued. “It pissed me off that I couldn’t tell anyone. I wanted to be an Israeli.”