by D. I. Telbat
Titus touched his neck. It was wet with blood. Lots of blood. His vision swam. His hand felt the detonator in his breast pocket. Men with assault rifles crowded the hall. They shouted at him as they advanced. He thought of the wicked life he'd led, and his family with whom he'd never reconciled. The fires of hell seemed his destiny, and he hadn't cared until this night.
"God, remember that I saved Your people . . ."
Titus pumped the detonator trigger twice. This time, the device in the room just a few feet away exploded.
*~*
Chapter Eleven
East Gaza City, Shuja'iyya District
Corban felt his heart sink when the mosque's central dome and nearby minaret tower exploded in a flash, then crumbled onto itself. But an instant later, he watched through his sniper scope as several children stumbled through the front door, dust billowing around them. He counted ten women and children, but no Titus. Since Corban was a half-mile away, he couldn't signal Leah to flee southwest toward her home. He watched her gather the children in the street, and then they turned to look at something to the north.
Swinging his rifle, Corban spotted three Hamas soldiers approaching the mosque at a run, AK-47s leveled on the women and children. Corban pulled the trigger, working the bolt action quickly, and fired again even as the first tranq darts struck home. The three gunmen slumped to the street.
Leah gazed south. In the dark city, she couldn't possibly see him so far away, yet she waved in his direction, anyway. Titus must've told her he was outside, Corban guessed. He checked the mosque rubble again for some sign of Titus—the one who had saved them. But he didn't emerge.
Now, with some sense of direction, Leah led the children and other women out of the street on a southern route toward Corban.
Still, Corban watched the mosque for several more minutes, praying he would see the blond man from Arkansas, but instead, he saw only smoke and concrete ruins.
When he noticed Leah and her people below his four-story building, Corban peered over the edge.
"Leah!"
"Corban! Praise His Name! You're here!"
"Go west for—"
"I know where I am, Corban. Is it safe to go home?"
"Yes, Nuri and his family are waiting for you. Where's the man who rescued you?"
"There was a bomb in our room. He stayed behind. I pray he is well, Corban."
"Go, Leah. Huldah, are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here."
"There's insulin at your house, enough for several months. Stay against the buildings as you move down the street. I'll watch over you until you get back to Zeitoun."
"You're an angel from God, Corban!" Leah praised, then hustled everyone west.
Corban used his scope to watch the streets ahead of Leah, but Hamas militants seemed drawn to the mosque now, as were a few Israeli helicopters. At the moment, Hamas wasn't hunting Christians; they were instead grieving over their demolished religious site and hideout—demolished by their own ordnance.
By the time Leah passed beyond Corban's one thousand yard range, she was a couple blocks from her apartment. He relaxed and prayed they would be safe for the night. They would have to relocate, perhaps to a refugee camp on the coast, since they would be targeted civilians from now on. Other Christians in Gaza would hopefully help hide them. Corban would check on them again in a few months.
As he walked to the stairs, Corban strapped the NL-X1 to his back and swung the NL-2 and NL-3 into position for closer combat. If Crac Hassad and his terrorists were on schedule, they were meeting with Oleg at that moment. Aaron Adar and Annette Sheffield would be taken as hostages, Corban guessed, unless Oleg had something up his sleeve.
And somewhere out there, Chloe had said Luigi was lurking. Luigi was always lurking.
When Corban reached the street, he checked his sat-phone. Israel was still jamming communications. He stowed the phone then jogged northwest toward the factory.
Though he couldn't pray for Titus' soul now that he was gone, Corban hoped the international crook had repented before God as he sacrificed his life for ten strangers.
#######
South Gaza City, Zeitoun District
Oleg Saratov was nervous. It was after three o'clock in the morning. Titus and Corban hadn't returned, and Luc Lannoy and Crac Hassad were overdue. He knew his assignment well: to arrest Crac Hassad once Titus Caspertein led him to the terrorist, then arrest Titus. But now Oleg was torn between his assignment and saving the lives of Annette and Aaron. Oleg had been in dire circumstances before. He could put a gun to Crac Hassad's head and walk out of the factory and find the nearest Israeli patrol. That was one way to save himself, no matter the odds. But he wasn't sure he could save Annette from the likes of Luc Lannoy or Aaron Adar from the likes of Crac Hassad's murderous men.
"Corban, where are you?" Oleg whispered in Russian as he eyed the street from the factory window. His Beretta pistol hadn't left his hand for hours. He had nine rounds remaining—not enough to face an army and protect two innocents.
It'd been fifteen years since Oleg had first met Corban Dowler at a Washington DC seminar on post-Cold War relations. Everyone had heard rumors of Corban's stealth in restricted countries and across closed borders. The man was a low-profile legend, nothing like the flashy arrogance Oleg was forced to tolerate in Titus. Even if Corban had moved from the government to the private humanitarian sector, the man was obviously in top form. Pinned down in the factory with foes on every side, Oleg had been comforted by the idea that Corban was on the side of good. With Corban, Oleg had hoped to take down Crac Hassad, Luc Lannoy, Titus, and maybe a dozen Hassad terrorists at the same time. But not alone without an ally, and with dependents under his care.
"We need to move Aaron," Oleg said to Annette as he stalked back into the room. "Titus and Corban won't be back in time to help me deal with this." Oleg tapped the canister strapped to his shoulder. He'd swapped the bio-weapon out with a canister of cheap perfume in Athens—with the help of a team of Interpol agents. Titus had been asleep and hadn't suspected a thing. "We need to build a stretcher to carry him, at least deeper into the building."
"You know he's in no shape to move!" Annette said from Aaron's side. "Why are you doing this now?"
Annette rose to her feet as Oleg dumped the contents of the medical packs onto the ground. Since he had maintained his brutal terrorist cover, he knew she didn't trust him, but things were about to get desperate.
"I have to rig up something to carry him. There are things I cannot explain, but without Corban and Titus here, I'm not willing to meet Crac Hassad. Take off Aaron's boot laces and tie it all—"
"Excuse me. Did you say Corban?" a voice said from the dark corridor. Oleg turned his pistol on the stranger as Annette used the flashlight to illuminate a tall, gaunt man. He chewed a wad of gum and didn't flinch from the light. "I assume you speak of Corban Dowler?"
"Who are you?" shifting to his right, Oleg could see the stranger wasn't armed. "Speak!"
"I'm a friend of Corban's. He's a friend of mine. I've been listening and watching you from back there. You must be expecting the soldiers down the street, yes?"
"They're here?" Oleg wanted to go to the window, but not with this character at his back. His accent sounded possibly Italian. "You're with Crac Hassad?"
"No. I'm not with Crac Hassad, the terrorist. And neither are you, so why do you expect to meet them?"
"He's an arms dealer!" Annette backed away. "Look at that thing on his shoulder."
"Shut up!" Oleg felt exposed, tired, and isolated. As an Interpol agent, a wrong move now could cost him his life. "Things are not as they seem. I'm not really with Titus. I'm Interpol. If you're really a friend of Corban's, then you'll help me. I'm also a friend of Corban's though it's been many years."
"He's lying!" Annette shook her fist at him. "Oleg, what are you doing? You don't need us! Let Aaron and me go with this guy and you can do whatever you want with Hassad. We won't say a thing!"
"I'
m not taking anyone anywhere," the stranger said. "I want only Corban Dowler. Where is he?"
"He left hours ago to deliver insulin to a child southeast of here," Oleg said. "Since he's not back, I can only assume Hassad militants got him."
"Then Hassad is who I shall meet. I am Francis Malvao." Francis seemed to ignore Oleg's gun as he walked over to Aaron to inspect his wound. "These stitches are secure. If you move him gently, they won't tear." Francis faced Oleg. "You fixed his bullet wound?"
"Yes." Oleg relaxed a little. Someone else who could share the burdens of the moment eased the pressure.
"If you're really a friend of Corban's then you won't let these two fall into the hands of Hassad's soldiers."
"You don't understand. I'm obligated to catch Crac Hassad, but not with civilians in the way." Oleg surveyed the man's appearance again. "You're not armed, but if you can take these two, I can slow down Hassad's men so you can get away."
"I'm not here for that. You take them. Leave Crac Hassad to me. He'll regret ever laying eyes on Corban Dowler."
"You can't be serious!" Annette moved the flashlight between Oleg and Francis. "You're really Interpol? And you're really going to face those terrorists alone?"
"They're close." Francis moved to the window. "Go out the back. It leads west. Signal an Israeli chopper. You can hear them everywhere."
"What will you do with Crac Hassad?" Oleg asked. He didn't want to run away, but he could leverage another meet since he still had the canister, once he had a plan and backup. "You have no weapons and apparently no sanity. You need to come with us!"
"As you said, things are not as they seem . . ." Francis hooked his right thumb over his belt buckle. "Go before they come inside. And pray I find Corban soon, or Gaza will become a greater zone of destruction."
Tucking his pistol into his belt, Oleg bent down to fashion a stretcher for Aaron. He was relieved someone else was about to face Crac Hassad, to slow him down if nothing else. Oleg wasn't willing to die just yet.
#######
UN escort and Belgian national Luc Lannoy led Crac Hassad's men from the south toward the dark factory. They were late, but Luc was happy they had made it at all. The many RPG launchers amongst the Hassad men had kept the Saraph gunships at bay, but Luc was surprised an F-16 hadn't dropped a smart bomb on the street, blowing them all to bits. His only guess was that Israel didn't know what these guys were up to. And that worked for Luc. If he could arrange the weapon sale, and take his share and disappear, then Hamas and Israel could do whatever they wanted to each other. Chances were, once Hamas had the bio-weapon, Israel would pay dearly.
And there was the matter of Annette Sheffield. Luc licked his lips, thinking of her beauty. If he could satisfy both parties—Titus Caspertein and Crac Hassad—Luc hoped he would get Annette as a bonus.
"Stop," a man at Luc's shoulder whispered in English. The Hassad men called him Petra. He was a young, sly man from Jordan, a trustworthy stone-faced man who Crac Hassad had sent in his stead. Crac had stayed farther to the east with his nephew in a school building. It was too dangerous for him to move, and far too risky to enter a potential trap where the biological weapon was concerned. Petra spoke Arabic to his men behind. "Stay here. We'll go ahead. If you hear gunfire, come to us." He nudged Luc with his rifle barrel. "Go first, Luc. I don't trust you."
"Fine." Luc edged into the factory, stepped over a broken door, and peered ahead for a glimpse of light where he'd left Titus, Oleg, Annette, Aaron, and Corban. Luc squeezed his pistol grip, uncertain about having only five rounds left. "Titus! Oleg! I've returned!"
"No one is here," Petra said. An explosive flashed somewhere in the city and lit up the room. The tall, still figure of a man shimmered for an instant on the wall. Petra swept his rifle toward the window. Though the lighting was bad, Luc saw a slim hand grasp the assault rifle muzzle and rip it out of Petra's hands.
"Don't move," a deep, calm voice ordered in English. "Drop your gun."
A lone man stood before Luc and Petra. Luc glanced down at the pistol in his own hand, but it was aimed at the ground. He saw no way to win against this assailant whose voice he didn't know. Were other guns aimed at them as well? Luc dropped his pistol. He hadn't anticipated an ambush. Oleg and Titus must have been double-crossed somehow. This sale had been too important to them to leave without a fight.
"You don't know me," Petra said, "but I come in Crac Hassad's name. You interfere with his destiny!"
"Crac Hassad didn't come himself? Move back." Luc and Petra took three steps back. The lone man scooped up Luc's pistol. "Are you the traitor known as Luc Lannoy?"
Luc gasped. Traitor? No one was supposed to know he was facilitating a bio-weapon purchase. If UN authorities knew, then Luc would have a complicated escape from Gaza. He certainly couldn't continue as a UN worker. Living as a fugitive would be expensive. When he found Titus again, he would demand a larger cut for the deal.
"Take your traitor and walk away," Petra said. "I have fifty men outside. If I call for them, you'll die."
"I'm not afraid to die, but I won't die. The God of Corban Dowler watches over me. Now, tell me where I may find Corban Dowler."
"Who's Corban Dowler?" Petra asked.
"You're a Christian?" Luc relaxed and sneered at the lone man. "Then you won't hurt us."
Luc dared to take a step forward, glad at the chance to show Petra his courage, but he was met by his own pistol in his face.
"Don't mistake me for a Christian just because I'm loyal to Corban Dowler. I don't care what you do tonight. I don't want anything but to know where Corban is."
"Honestly, I don't know." Luc took a step back, but his pistol was still aimed at his forehead. "I left him here. That was at sundown. Titus sent me to bring Crac Hassad."
"Where's the weapon?" Petra asked Luc. "If the weapon isn't here, then I'm leaving."
The stranger didn't speak for a moment. With one hand, he unwrapped something and popped it into his mouth. Luc's stomach growled. He hadn't eaten in hours. Where was Titus with the weapon? Luc's life depended on that weapon sale!
"If Hassad has Corban Dowler," the stranger said, "I will come for Crac Hassad to collect him."
"You threaten a merciless servant of Allah, a man you don't know?" Petra asked. "What is your name?"
"I'm Francis Malvao. I'll stop at nothing to find Corban Dowler."
"This Corban Dowler I don't know."
"He's a Christian who goes by Christopher Cagon," Luc said. "He's a friend of the Jews."
"Ah, then I hope Crac Hassad has this Zionist. I would take pleasure in killing him for Allah and for Crac Hassad. And when you come, we'll kill you as well, Francis Malvao."
Too fast for Petra to avoid, Francis Malvao whipped off his belt and swung the buckle across Petra's cheek. Luc stumbled backward as the buckle snapped next at him. Beside him, Petra fell against the wall, then collapsed, unconscious. Luc knew the effects of poison when he saw them. He moved to the side as Francis Malvao continued his assault, whipping the belt at Luc.
"Help!" Luc screamed, and didn't wait to see what happened next. Turning, he ran down the dark corridor. It merged with another hallway. He continued running, a barrage of gunfire echoing down the hall behind him.
Luc emerged from the factory building on the west side and collided with two Hassad soldiers who had posted themselves at that exit, but they were unprepared for Luc's sudden arrival. Rather than explain his presence, Luc wrenched one of the guns away and smashed both men in the faces with the rifle stock until they were still. He stole their ammunition and a canteen, then dashed across the street to the west. An Israeli chopper thumped overhead, cruising south. Luc hid against a building, then ran north.
He didn't know where to go, only to run. Turning east, he slowed to a walk. Checking his back trail, he guessed the bold man with the poisoned belt had been killed. But Luc wondered if the man had somehow escaped Crac Hassad's troops. It was unlikely, but still, Luc could live happily the rest of his li
fe if he never again had to face the committed man in search for his friend. He suddenly wished he were far away from Gaza, far away from Francis Malvao, and even farther away from Crac Hassad. If the brutal Hamas leader hadn't gotten his weapon as promised, he would blame Luc.
Jogging, Luc approached a sanitation building where three water towers loomed behind it. The towers were tall enough to keep the gunships away. He took a moment to collect his wits and laugh aloud at his fear. It wasn't like him to be so scared.
Luc had been leaking information to Hassad and other Hamas leaders for years. As a UN security officer based outside Gaza, he'd been privy to Israeli intelligence briefings. When Hassad had asked him to bring him a weapon, Luc had contacted Titus Caspertein, a known thief and arms dealer. In the months leading up to the weapon's delivery, Luc had felt anticipation. He'd been in control, fully aware he was about to become very wealthy. But now he was out of control, frightened, and without the prospects of wealth.
"What? Who's there?" Luc called in Arabic. He aimed his stolen AK-47 at the sanitation building. A noise had come from a smelly pile of garbage. A soiled mattress shifted.
Cautiously, Luc approached, licking his lips. Since he hadn't delivered the weapons as Crac Hassad had wanted, everyone in the Hassad army was an enemy. If he killed the right people, he could steal an identity and sneak out of Gaza. There were ways, tunnels, cracks in the perimeter. He had to survive now, to think of himself, and that meant he would do anything to stay alive.
He heard the distinct click of a gun hammer. Luc dove to his right, then rolled to his feet as he sprayed bullets into the heaping garbage. A muzzle flashed twice in his direction, and Luc focused his gunfire. He heard a man grunt and a woman cry out. A woman! Luc rushed toward the garbage as someone crawled through the filth in the semi-darkness. He lunged over a broken crate and caught at the shirt tail of a struggling man.
"No!" the man screamed in English. But it wasn't a man!
Luc threw Annette onto her back amongst the rotten debris and clasped his hand around her throat.
