Voice of Freedom

by H. L. Wegley

  Julia crouched beside them, left wrist pinned to her stomach, using it like a splint. She was useless. Just another burden.

  When the clattering on the marble floor stopped, Steve knelt on one knee and grabbed Brock’s arm. “Come on.”

  Julia and KC stood, stepping back as Steve swung Brock over his shoulders in a fireman's carry.

  Steve turned toward the door. “Let's get out of here before the whole building comes down on us.”

  KC seemed oblivious, focused only on Brock. She stroked his head.

  Julia took KC's hand and pulled her toward the front door.

  The door stood partially open. Jeff, Allie, and Pastor Michael had probably gone through the doorway and should be waiting to meet them near the stairwell.

  After Steve and KC moved into the corridor, Julia turned to close the door, but bumped her left elbow in the process. A lightning bolt of pain shot through her injured wrist. She tried to ignore the pain. After all, it was probably just a minor sprain.

  Julia pulled the door closed.

  No more heat. She had been too preoccupied to notice, but they were being slowly broiled by the flames dancing over the opening in the floor. Her cheeks were hot and the skin on her arms and bare legs stung like a bad sunburn. If that wasn’t enough, her chest now felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. Each breath took more effort than the last.

  A few feet ahead, KC reached for Brock's head, obviously wanting to stop and examine it.

  Steve glanced her way. “Keep going! To the stairs at the end of the hall.”

  Through the smoky corridor, a man's figure moved toward them from the stairwell. Pastor Michael. “KC. Thank God you're okay. What happened to Brock?”

  KC opened her mouth to reply, but only coughed.

  Julia coughed, too. It didn’t stop until smoky crud erupted from her burning chest. She spat it on the floor. The vice loosened and she could breathe freely again.

  KC hurried toward Pastor Michael. “Please pray for Brock. He's unconscious.”

  Jeff and Allie moved away from the stairwell door as another figure burst through it. Someone in protective gear. The firemen were here. But what they needed most was an ambulance.

  Steve glanced at KC as she stroked Brock's face. “He's alive, KC. But …” Steve didn’t finish.

  How much alive and for how long? Somebody obviously wanted Brock dead. Anger surged inside Julia, replacing her feelings of helplessness.

  Anger also flashed in KC’s eyes. The signs of an imminent eruption. “Somebody needs to pay for this. Hannan. And I’ll kill him, myself!”

  Two more firemen appeared. One of them carried a radio. He stopped beside them. “An ambulance will be here in two minutes. Go to the front of the building.” He looked at Steve. “Let me help you. I can carry him.”

  “No. I've got him,” Steve said. “Come on. Let's get outside.”

  Outside? In front? Wasn’t that where the attack had come from? Julia reached for Steve’s arm to stop him.

  Before she could voice her fears, KC spoke. “Steve, that shot probably came from somewhere near the beach.”

  Steve stopped at the head of the stairs.

  Julia stopped beside him. “Isn’t that the side of the building where we're meeting the ambulance?”

  Steve shifted Brock's weight on his shoulders. “I'm guessing the Israelis are all over this by now. They don't take kindly to surprises ... like RPG attacks.” He headed down the stairs.

  An RPG? So that’s what created the explosion and fire. The explosion had felt a lot like the flashbang grenade that knocked Julia out four weeks ago when Brock, Steve, and Jeff tried to rescue her.

  Julia's shoes clattered down the metal steps of the stairwell. She trailed Steve now, barely able to keep up with him though he carried Brock. At least she could breathe. The smoke hadn’t yet invaded the stairwell.

  KC kept pace at Steve’s side. “You'll check before we go outside, right?”

  “I'll check, KC.”

  “Thanks.”

  KC said thanks, but there wasn’t much thankfulness in the group at the moment. The man who had just become KC’s husband had nearly been killed. He could still die.

  Sometimes evil seemed to win on planet Earth. The Bible taught that true justice would only be realized at the end of time when God became judge and all wrongs were set right. If they had to wait until then, KC’s heart would be broken. It looked like it was breaking now, like the dam holding back KC’s emotions had cracked under the pressure. Tears streaked her cheeks.

  Inside the stairwell, at floor three, Steve stopped to catch his breath.

  When KC stopped, Julia placed her good hand on KC's shoulder. “I'm praying for him, KC. It's going to be okay.”

  As KC turned to face Julia, the dam burst. KC, who never cried, now sobbed in deep convulsions.

  Julia held KC with her good arm and let her cry, hoping and praying that it really would be okay. To have the man she had loved since she was a girl taken from her only seconds after saying their wedding vows was too much for anyone to endure.

  Tears now rolled down Julia’s cheeks, too. She wanted to wipe them away. She wanted to wipe the whole incident away. But, holding KC with her only good arm, she couldn’t.

  “It's time to go.” Steve resumed his descent of the stairs. “I hear another siren, probably the ambulance.”

  KC slid from Julia’s embrace, studying her face for a moment. KC gave Julia a quick hug, then followed Steve down the stairwell.

  For whatever reasons, KC had never developed a close relationship with Julia. At first, it had hurt her. But now a bond between her and KC had been forged. At least Julia believed it had. And she prayed KC would come to trust her, because who knew what KC might have to endure after they reached the hospital and heard Brock’s diagnosis.

  They exited the stairwell on the first floor and the front door of the building lay only a short distance ahead. Would there be more RPGs or bullets? Would there still be six of them left at the end of this day? What if someone had to die today?

  A terrifying thought entered Julia’s mind. Should she turn it into a prayer?

  Please, God, if someone must die, let it be me … not Brock.

  Chapter 3

  Fifteen minutes later, Julia, KC, and Steve sat side-by-side in the emergency-room waiting area at a large medical center in Netanya.

  Benjamin, who’d been blown out into the corridor by the explosion, had survived with no apparent injuries and had remained at the burning apartment building with Jeff and Allie, waiting for Major Katz to arrive and bring them to the hospital.

  Brock, still unconscious, had been wheeled away for an MRI, the only test the ER doctor thought would tell them the extent and nature of his head injuries.

  For the past five minutes, KC’s eyes had vacillated between glaring eyes filled with violence and haunted eyes that spilled her worries and fears onto her cheeks.

  Julia’s heart ached for her.

  Only seconds after being pronounced man and wife, Brock’s and KC’s dreams had been shattered in a violent explosion. It seemed almost as cruel as that day in the Nigerian village, nine years ago, when the jihadists came and—Julia couldn’t let her mind go there. Not now. And Julia’s prayer to trade places with Brock seemed so futile. She was helpless, unable to do for Brock what he had done for her.

  Brock had sacrificed himself for Julia. Less than five weeks ago, he had walked into torture and almost certain death to ransom her with his life after Hannan’s men captured her.

  Once again, Julia Weiss was no help to anyone, especially KC, who desperately needed comfort. That thought only brought more tears.

  Crying again. The name kids at school called her after she returned from Africa certainly fit. Weiss the wimp. Julia looked for a place to hide her face, a place to cry in private shame.

  Steve’s shoulder was the nearest thing to her. She buried her face in it.

  When his huge arm wrapped around her shoulders,
she relaxed against the strong warrior, gave in to her weakness, and let the tears flow.

  A few moments later, a crash sounded from near the emergency room doors.

  Julia pulled her head from Steve’s shoulder.

  A tall man in uniform had stiff-armed the emergency room door like a fullback shoving aside tacklers. It was Major Katz, commander of the Israeli team whose last-minute rescue had saved KC and Brock from Hannan's black ops team four weeks ago.

  Allie and Jeff followed Katz into emergency then hurried toward KC.

  Benjamin stood in the open doorway behind Jeff. The always vigilant Sayeret Matkal warrior scanned the room before entering.

  Major Katz had promised to protect them in Israel. Had Katz’s neglect permitted the attack? Julia chided herself for accusing the man who had taken huge risks and responsibilities to keep them alive.

  KC stood, glaring at Major Katz. She’d probably made the same accusation as Julia—Katz, guilty as charged—and needed a target for her anger. Someone needed to defuse KC before she exploded.

  Julia draped her good arm over KC’s shoulders. “KC, I've been praying so hard. Brock is going to be okay. He has to be.”

  At Julia’s words, KC deflated and collapsed on Julia’s shoulder.

  The emergency room went silent as KC’s anger flowed away in tears and the sobbing of a broken heart.

  When KC’s sobbing subsided, Julia released her and looked up at Allie.

  Lines of tension etched on Allie's permanently tan face deepened as she placed a hand on KC’s shoulder. “Brock isn't … I mean, he’s still—”

  KC raised her head, drew a breath, and blew it back out, slowly. “They’re doing an MRI.” She wiped her cheeks. “He’s still unconscious. The doctor thinks the MRI will tell us why and…”

  KC had stopped talking and the haunted look returned to her face. She still feared the worst. Then her face reddened and her eyes blazed as they bored into Katz.

  He winced. He'd gotten the gist of the unspoken message. “Ms. Banning, Hamas sacrificed a valuable deep cover plant to execute the attack. They—”

  “Hamas?” KC glared at the major again. “This is Hannan's doing. I’d swear it.”

  “You're probably right,” Katz said, his eyes softening. “We caught two men trying to escape from their hiding place in a beach house. One was the Hamas spy. He's dead. But the other man seems willing to talk to save his own life. He indicated that someone paid Iran who paid Hamas to kill you and Brock.”

  “Hannan.” Steve reached for Julia’s hand. “And he probably used that old scoundrel, Eli Vance, to negotiate the whole thing.”

  Before she could react, Steve grasped her injured hand and squeezed. She couldn’t stifle a groan as pain shot from her wrist to her elbow.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to squeeze so hard.” Steve looked down at Julia’s right hand protecting her left. He studied her face.

  Her eyes were welling from the piercing pain.

  Steve released her hand and Julia quickly wiped her eyes.

  “What’s wrong with your left hand?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Julia, you’re hurt aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Just my wrist. Maybe I sprained it a little.”

  Steve cradled her injured hand gently in his enormous hands. “A sprain you say. Let me see you make a fist.”

  All eyes were on Julia now. They knew she was the weakling in the group, the one who had placed them in danger several times. She didn’t want their pity, so she’d better make a fist.

  Julia curled her fingers. Her jaw clenched at the ache that crippled her wrist.

  “It hurt didn’t it?” Steve drew her gaze.

  “A little.” Julia couldn’t lie to him. Her wrist actually looked a little puffy, but maybe that was her imagination.

  “Now move your hand up and down. The full range of motion.”

  “Come on, Steve. I—”

  “Move it, or I’ll do it for you.” Steve set his jaw and stared her down.

  He would win, eventually. She needed to just get it over with. Julia rotated her hand backward a couple of inches. Her hand stopped. Surprised at the limited range of motion, she paused before rotating her hand downward.

  “Move it down. All the way.” Steve reached for her hand.

  She wasn’t going to let him force it down. Julia pushed her palm down toward her wrist and nearly screamed from the agonizing jolt that shot up her arm. But her hand hardly moved.

  All eyes were on her. On Julia Weiss, the great American wimp. Her face grew hot and, now, there was no place to hide her shame.

  Allie gasped. “Julia, you’re hurt.”

  “Yeah. She’s hurt.” Steve cradled her hand again, even more gently. “You’ve got a broken wrist. Probably one of the small bones at the base of your hand. We’re getting you to X-ray, now.” Steve stood, hooked an arm around her waist, and pulled her toward the emergency room desk. “Nurse, we’ve got another injury here. Maybe a broken wrist.”

  “Steve, you don’t know that.” More eyes focused on Julia. Maybe she could shake off the pain and persuade them it was nothing.

  Too late. Now, a whole medical team converged on her.

  The Israelis probably felt terrible about the RPG attack on their American guests. And the Israelis weren’t stupid. If there were Americans here getting preferential treatment, it meant they were anti-Hannan, like Israel, and this tiny sliver of a nation, which fought daily for survival, had a vested interest in protecting them.

  Julia stood to face the onslaught of attention.

  Steve stood beside her. “You should have said something. Julia, if you’re hurt and we don’t know it, we might be depending on you to do something you can’t do. It endangers everyone if you don’t tell us.”

  She couldn’t win. Either she was a whiny weakling or a stubborn stoic, jeopardizing the entire team. “What is it you want from me, Steve? I’m not KC Banning, I’m just Julia Weiss.”

  Julia regretted her words, words from a poison tongue. She had drawn everyone’s focus from where it belonged, on Brock and KC, to Julia whose pain was insignificant.

  Julia glanced at KC’s face.

  It held a puzzled frown.

  What was KC thinking? What had Julia been thinking?

  She fumbled for words. “Brock and KC needed us, Steve, I—they were the targets. Besides, you saved my life.”

  KC folded her arms and looked away from Julia.

  Steve stood, hands on hips, while a young woman in scrubs pushed a wheelchair toward them.

  Sixty seconds later, Julia sat in the wheelchair while the woman pushed her at a fast clip down a hallway toward a sign written in three languages. The bottom line read, Diagnostic Imaging.

  Fifteen minutes later they wheeled Julia back toward emergency.

  After her outburst about not being like KC, what kind of reception awaited her?

  Steve stood waiting for her in the hallway to Diagnostic Imaging. His eyes went directly to the blue and white, fingerless Velcro glove on her hand, extending half way up her forearm.

  She waved her injured hand at him. “It’s called a scaphoid bone fracture. Actually, I just cracked it, so it’s no big deal.”

  “No big deal?” Steve’s frown and the piercing look in his eyes said he didn’t believe that. He pointed at the Velcro cast. “How long?”

  “Three weeks, then just whenever I’m stressing it for another three weeks.”

  Steve was still frowning as the wheelchair stopped in front of her previous seat in emergency.

  KC put a hand on her shoulder, “How bad is it?”

  KC, a young woman who, all alone, had carried the fate of the nation on her shoulders while riding a motorcycle from DC to Oregon, still cared about Julia, despite her bitter outburst. Maybe she should just move ahead and assume they’d forgiven her. “Just a little cracked bone. I’m fine. Any word about Brock?”

  “No, but …” KC turned toward a dark-haired ma
n in scrubs, approaching them.

  His intense eyes and pursed lips weren’t what Julia hoped to see. She stopped breathing.

  He walked straight to KC. “I’m Doctor Shemer. Ms. KC Banning?”

  KC met the man’s gaze, drew a sharp breath, and nodded. “Brock … is he—”

  The doctor pointed a thumb back over his shoulder and snorted. “He nearly destroyed a two-million-dollar imaging system housed in a half-million-dollar room.”

  Julia released the breath she’d been holding. Was this man telling them that Brock was alive and well?

  “You mean he’s okay?” KC’s eyes widened, hopeful.

  “He is in better shape than our MRI patient table.” The doctor sighed and shook his head. “He regained consciousness while he was inside the bore, started thrashing and yelling your name. We barely got him out before he tore up the whole machine. He is one strong—what do you Americans say—dude?”

  A smile spread across Jeff's face. “Just be glad he didn't start throwing things. He can stone you to death with one rock.”

  “Yeah.” Steve said. “He—”

  “Everyone, just stop!” KC crossed her hands then flung them wide, nearly hitting Steve in the chest with her incomplete pass signal. She looked at the doctor. “What did you find? Is he going to be alright?”

  Dr. Shemer sighed again. “I guess I need to, as you Americans say, cut to the cheese.”

  “To the chase,” Jeff said.

  KC shot Jeff a glance that shut his mouth.

  The doctor continued. “We think the explosion stunned or knocked him out, so he couldn't protect his head when he fell. He has a concussion.”

  “That's all? Just a concussion?” KC gave the doctor a puzzled frown.

  “Yes. But, about his concussion … he's not, as you say, out of the irons yet.”

  “You mean the woods,” Jeff said.

  The doctor nodded. “The woods. You'll have to excuse me. I'm not really into golfing.”

  Jeff rolled his eyes. “He’s all yours, KC.”

  “Doctor Shemer, just give me your prognosis.” KC glared at the doctor with clenched fists, looking like she might drive one of them into his large nose.