VENGEANCE
REAWAKENED
VENGEANCE
REAWAKENED
A PROJECT MOLKA Novel
Fredrick L. Stafford
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 Fredrick L. Stafford
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher.
Contents
Contents
To My Wonderful Readers
PROJECT MOLKA
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
To My Wonderful Readers
Thank you, as always, for your ongoing and incredible support!
Please leave me an Amazon review! And if you have not done so, request your free eBook THE MILAGRO RUN!
The links to do both are at the end of this book!
Ok, let’s see what our Molka has gotten herself into this time!
Enjoy the ride!
Best Regards,
Fredrick
PROJECT MOLKA
At the peak of her warrior skills, Molka resigned from an elite special forces unit and chose veterinary medicine as her post-military career. She opened a small clinic, built a small practice, and sought to live her life in humble obscurity.
And she did—until the Traitors Scandal intervened.
Her country’s foreign intelligence service—known as the Counsel—suffered an unprecedented disaster when moles burrowed in deep for 10 years popped up and exposed the identity of almost every covert operative.
In a small state with many enemies sworn to annihilate it, the safeguarding role of covert operations is indispensable. The Counsel, gutted and demoralized, fell into panic mode.
In the short term, they used a few uncompromised retired operatives—along with some career bureaucrats who never qualified for fieldwork—to fill the gaping void. The results disappointed, to put it mildly.
In the long term, new operatives would be recruited and formally trained, but the process would take several years.
It was the time in between when the country faced the most danger.
The Counsel’s solution was Operation Civic Duty—more often called the Projects Program. They recruited ordinary citizens who held what they deemed a useful skill or skills. Each citizen recruit—or project, as they were dubbed—received some quick, very basic operative training before being sent straight out to complete what the Counsel called a task.
It sounded desperate and borderline suicidal, and it was. Even so, they found willing projects everywhere: university students, factory workers, athletes, scientists, housewives.
But the Counsel’s prize recruit was Molka.
Their best recruiter, Azzur, told her as much when he came to her office. He said she was the preferred age range—not yet 30—maintained superb physical condition, retained a useful skillset from her military service, and could claim an excellent cover. Who could be suspicious of a person who lives to help animals?
He told her that the Counsel required her help. She told him she was a patriot, but she had already done her duty. She wasn’t interested. Please leave her alone.
He smiled and left.
He came back a week later with more information for her. Azzur can always find more information. He told her all about her worst special forces mission and how that mission led to the unavenged murder of her little sister, Janetta. He said the Counsel knew the identity of the one responsible and where this one hid. And if Molka completed 10 tasks for them, her 11th task could be personal. They would give her the identity and location of the one she would die to kill.
She agreed to the Counsel’s offer.
She agreed to serve under Azzur.
She agreed to become his project.
Project Molka.
CHAPTER ONE
Apartment Carport
Azorei Hen Residential Neighborhood
Tel Aviv, Israel
Sunday, 10:08 PM
The attacker lunged from shadowed concealment and struck Molka in the chest with a side kick.
Molka—who had just exited her vehicle—flew back and slammed into the driver-side door, fumbling her purse and keys.
The attacker followed up with a front kick to her right cheek.
Molka toppled, slid down the rear fender, and collapsed onto her left side, where the carport’s concrete floor spun in a slow, blurry circle before her eyes.
The attacker—a tall, lean, early 40s white female with ponytailed dark hair and clad in a black jumpsuit and black boots—grabbed Molka’s ankles and dragged her from the carport into the short driveway connecting it to the street outside Molka’s little studio apartment.
Halfway down the driveway—lit from a nearby streetlight—the attacker released Molka’s ankles and stepped back. “Prepare to defend yourself. Mutual combat. I’m not armed.”
Molka—sporting a gray tank top, gray track pants, white cross trainer sneakers, and a high ponytail in her shoulder-length hair—was also unarmed. She had no reason to be having just returned home from an intense 2-hour sparring session with her legendary Krav Maga instructor Yossi.
The attacker spoke again. “Any time you’re ready, please.”
As Molka’s head stabilized in the quiet neighborhood’s cool, mid-April night air, situational awareness—and Yossi—screamed at her to get back on her feet.
She did and stood before the attacker at a two-meter distance. “What do you want?”
The attacker grinned. “I want to kick your ass. Unless you can stop me.”
Molka analyzed the unfamiliar face. “Do I know you?”
The attacker grinned again. “Not yet. But you’re about to, Molka.”
The attacker jumped forward and snapped off a fast, right jab and left cross to both sides of Molka’s jaw, combined with a low right leg kic
k to Molka’s left thigh.
The attacker’s punches lacked serious power.
But her long legs brought serious pain.
Take no more kicks from her.
Start kicking back and disable them.
Molka fired a jumping roundhouse into the attacker’s left thigh.
The attacker winced and staggered sideways to her right, and limped.
Molka charged and fired another jumping roundhouse into the attacker’s right thigh.
The attacker winced again, staggered to her left, and limped.
She would not kick anymore that night.
Time to have some fun.
Molka sprung, applied a neck clinch, pulled the attacker’s head down, and rammed her right knee into their chin.
The attacker dropped to her knees, folded forward at the waist, and tumbled onto her right side.
Molka moved in to execute an axe kick.
The attacker grimaced and raised their palms. “Time out. Time out, please.”
Molka paused and assumed a fighting stance.
The attacker rubbed her chin and gazed up at Molka. “Do you want to concede?”
Molka shook her head negative. “No. I want to go on smacking you around all night, sweetie.”
“Good. Then I quit.” The attacker rolled onto her rear end, took a deep breath, stood with a groan, staggered back a step, and put hands to knees to keep from falling again. “That really hurt.”
Molka relaxed her stance. “Who are you?”
The attacker straightened, looked past Molka down the street, and waved her hand.
A black car—parked facing the duo at the street’s end—started, turned on its headlights, fried rubber, and sped toward them.
Molka burst toward her apartment door.
Her keys still lay in the carport so she would have to kick in the window beside the door to get inside to cover and her weapons.
The attacker called after Molka: “Wait, Molka. Don’t worry. That’s just my ride coming to get me.”
Molka continued toward her apartment.
The attacker raised her voice to Molka’s back: “Yossi’s assessment was correct! Physically, you’re ready for your next task! We’ll determine your mental readiness during our interview tomorrow!”
Molka stopped a meter from her door and turned around. “Who are you?”
The black car screeched to a stop in the driveway next to the attacker.
The attacker held up a “one-moment” finger to the car’s driver and removed a black leather ID case from her back pocket. She took a few steps toward Molka, stopped, and opened the case for Molka’s view. “This is who I am.”
Molka reapproached with caution, paused at about a half meter away, and leaned forward to examine the case. It contained the attacker’s smiling face photo on a legit Counsel employee ID card.
The attacker re-pocketed the case before Molka could read the name. “Report to me at the ICM office tomorrow at 9 AM. There’s an official Counsel message on your secure email stating the same thing for you to verify.”
“Ok,” Molka said. “But, WHO ARE YOU?”
The attacker offered a confident grin to Molka’s puzzled face. “I’m Raziela. Your new project manager.”
CHAPTER TWO
Tel Aviv Cemetery
Monday, 8:02 AM
“Sorry I haven’t come by since I got home.” Molka crouched before her little sister Janetta’s headstone on a burgeoning beautiful day.
“No. I got home four months ago, actually.” Molka brushed some accumulated sand from the headstone’s etched inscription. “But I was in the hospital and then in an intensive rehab program, and I didn’t want to come here until I looked and felt a lot better.”
“What happened is, I took a hard knock to the head in Australia and had to have surgery. That’s why my hair is so short. They had to shave it for the operation. I thought it would never grow back.” Molka pulled her side-parted bangs over her black-framed glasses. “See. It’s growing fast now, though.”
“Oh, you like my outfit?” Molka flipped her bangs back and stroked the lapels on her black, slim-cut Prada pants suit. “You’re right. I can’t afford designer clothes. It was loaned to me for a job in Florida. I was supposed to turn it in after, but I couldn’t resist. Kind of felt like I earned something nice after what happened there. Although, I never thought I would have a reason to wear it until today.”
“Yes, I know you would never ask me to get dressed up to come to see you. I wore it because I have a meeting to go to when I leave here.”
“Ok. Listen to this: é um lindo dia. That means it’s a beautiful day in Portuguese. I think. Part of my cognitive rehabilitation therapy was learning conversational Brazilian Portuguese. I guess to help exercise and stimulate my brain. I was in a coma for a few days.”
“I’m fine now, they tell me. And I was just cleared to return to duty. And I do feel good. But I didn’t tell them about the terrible headaches I get now sometimes. I didn’t see the point because they don’t last very long. And I didn’t tell them because right after they end, I have some very dark urges swirling around in my head. Violent and twisted urges to do terrible things without remorse. Those urges also fade away shortly like the headaches, though, and I feel normal again.”
“But I’m afraid if I told them about those attacks, they might think I was mentally disturbed or something and remove me from the program. And I can’t allow that. Because I need to get back to my tasks and complete the last five. I need to do that for you, my little Janetta.”
Molka time checked her phone. “Well, I have to go to my meeting with my new manager. Yes, a new manager. They haven’t told me why I have one. I don’t know how to feel about that. You would think I would be happy, considering my rough relationship with my old one. As hard as my old manager was, though, he was pretty predictable. And you know me, I have a phobia about the unpredictable.”
“And listen to this, after meeting my new manager briefly last night…well, I never thought I would say this, but…I think she might make me miss Azzur.”
CHAPTER THREE
ICM Business Solutions
Non-Existent Counsel Front Business
Fourth Floor
10-Story Office Building
Downtown Tel Aviv
9:00 AM
“Am I in the right building?” Molka said. “Because this definitely doesn’t look like the same room I’ve visited before.”
The door to Raziela’s office—Azzur’s longtime office a few days prior—auto-locked behind Molka and left her standing in a total redecoration effort.
Azzur’s dark paneling had been stripped away and replaced with mauve-colored painted walls blended well with a stylish multi-colored area rug and a padded birchwood chair fronting a birchwood desk. And a window behind the desk Molka never knew existed—because Azzur paneled it over—allowed in the morning light through long, sheer curtains.
Raziela sat at her desk typing on a slim, silver laptop dressed business casual in a sky blue, long-sleeved button-up collared shirt over khaki pants and brown square toe-flats.
Molka continued her awed assessment. “And how did you get the years of chain-smoker stench in here to smell like pleasant potpourri so fast?”
Raziela continued typing. “Good morning, Molka.”
In the light of day, Raziela’s smooth-skinned, high cheek-boned face with large oval blue eyes—under side-parted, shoulder-length brown hair—played much more attractive than the face Molka slammed a knee into the previous night.
Molka observed her for a moment and said, “Before we begin, I have a question.”
Raziela continued typing. “Which is?”
“Would you like to explain the purpose of that little surprise visit you paid me last night?”
Raziela grinned and continued typing. “Not really.”
“Ok. Then I have another question.”
“One second, please.” Raziela continued typing for another min
ute and then stopped and looked up, viewing Molka for the first time. “Oh, I absolutely love your suit.”
“Thank you,” Molka said. “I really like it too.”
“But I would be too afraid to wear an expensive designer suit to the first meeting with my new manager.”
“Why?”
Raziela fabricated a cheery smile. “Because I wouldn’t want to seem pretentious.”
“Oh.” Molka glanced down at her outfit. “Well, I…um, I don’t mean to be pretentious.”
Raziela’s face flipped to business-mode. “Please be seated.”
Molka sat on the padded birchwood chair across from the desk and scanned the room again. “So…what happened to Azzur?”
Raziela took a sip from a silver, insulated mug beside her laptop and addressed Molka. “I was born in Caesarea 46 years ago. After my compulsory military service, I attended university and graduated with a psychology degree. The army immediately recruited me to come back to train and serve as an intelligence officer. Which I did for five years. I was then recruited by the Counsel and worked as an analyst before they moved me to field operations. I then served as the station chief in a European country until the Traitors compromised or killed my people. Then the Counsel made me a project manager. And now you’re my project. So that’s everything you need to know about me, and we won’t have to discuss it further.” She grinned. “Azzur told me with your shorter hair you could be mistaken for my baby sister. Isn’t that adorable?”
Molka ignored the valid comparison. “What happened to Azzur?”
“I’ve carefully reviewed your program file.” Raziela picked up a green folder from the desktop, opened it, and read: major defector Major General Ahmad Shamieh, trader for the Traitors Mr. Gaszi Sago, super engineer Aden Luck, the prime minister’s recklessly wayward nephew Paz Davidov, and the notorious Doctor Hubert Quintrell.” She looked back to Molka. “Your previous five tasks have involved some highly important and highly dangerous people. But the results of your tasks were mixed, to put it politely.”
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