DARK ZEAL (COIL Book 5)

by D. I. Telbat

  When she came to the tunnel end, instead of daylight, she found a dimly lit basement. Listening for anyone nearby, her boots stepped onto cement. Since she was in Israel now, she was tempted to run for the nearest exit, but she had to resist, at least until she knew no more militants were lurking.

  The building she was in was massive, and the basement level housed steam pipes and utility cabinets that spanned one hundred yards. Pausing, she heard explosions and even gunfire that seemed closer and louder than when imprisoned in the house across the border.

  Finally, near an ancient furnace, she found a set of stairs. She heard voices now. They sounded like children's voices! There shouldn't have been children in a Muslim stronghold in Israel! With her rifle aimed upward, she ascended the stairs.

  Already, she imagined what she would tell the media—about the ambush against UN vehicles, and Luc Lannoy's betrayal of his post. What would she say about Corban Dowler, Titus Casptertein, and Oleg Saratov? Maybe nothing. Those men had disappeared during the end, and she guessed Oleg was dead from Lannoy's frantic gunfire. And then there was the tall, gaunt gentleman who had stood his ground in the factory as she, Aaron, and Oleg had escaped. Had that man survived? Even now, she recalled the gunshots that early morning, and her own capture by Lannoy. It seemed unlikely that anyone good could survive in a place with so much evil.

  For certain, she would never be the same. The horrors she had witnessed—against others and herself—had caused her to cry out to God for salvation. That had become a faith she couldn't give back—a faith she didn't want to give back. She had changed, and as a new person for Jesus, she knew from now on her life would be lived differently.

  She reached the top of the stairs. A few yards away, another stairway continued to a second story, but she sensed this level was the ground level. Israeli commandos could explore the rest of the building once she ran outside and hailed the nearest Israeli civilian. Everyone in Israel carried a cell phone.

  A broad room sprawled in front of her, its wall brightly painted with pictures from the hands of children.

  Two dozen women and children hardly looked up as she walked softly into the room. Sleeping mats and blankets covered one section of the room, and the rest of the room held chairs, where several veiled women assembled machine parts. Some children colored more pictures, and others dashed about playing tag.

  As a masked militant, Annette moved near the women at the table as they bowed to their work more feverishly. In front of each woman was a pile of metal parts, but a small chunk of clay was easily identified by the wrapping paper that read C-4. The women were assembling a variety of bombs!

  Annette walked past them, avoided two boys wrestling on the floor, and reached an open doorway. Ahead was another room, the same as the last, with more women and children. Now she noticed the chalkboards and what appeared to be a teacher's desk in one corner. It wasn't a weapons factory or a military administration building. It was a school building. In the basement, the militants did what they wanted, while above, all that would be seen through a thermal imaging satellite view would be women and children, supposed displaced persons from the conflict. But how could Israel allow this right under their noses?

  The answer came to Annette before she reached the outside door at the end of a broad hallway. She wasn't in Israel; she was in Gaza!

  Throwing the door open, she turned her face to sunlight and fresh air, appreciated even through her mask. As her eyes settled on the city scape before her, her fears were confirmed. It all made sense now, and she turned to face east. Yes, she'd been held in Israel! When she'd escaped captivity, she had fled into Gaza by way of the tunnel. The militants weren't taking the drone into Gaza; they'd moved it from the Gaza school building to the house with the three garage doors. They were about to launch the drone from Israel—to target Israel!

  Now, Annette was torn. No way was she returning to the tunnel, even if it were the fastest route back to Israel. And yet, to remain in Gaza meant she had to keep the mask on. Her face, as a woman under the enforced Sharia Law, was to be veiled, so she couldn't take the mask off or the Muslims would kill her. And yet masked, she would be targeted by Israeli troops if they stormed the school building.

  A chopper cruised low over the buildings a few hundred yards away. Annette shrank into the cover of garbage piled against the outside of the school. When night came, she had to find any soldier from Israel. Or maybe she could flag down a chopper without getting shot.

  "God, I'm afraid . . ."

  Her body's muscles and wounds throbbed. She pulled a section of soiled cardboard over her head to hide. Fear paralyzed her as she imagined what she would have to do to reach safety. In the tunnel, she'd shoveled with the militants out of desperation and necessity. The full weight of the nearness of death made her weep.

  She prayed for God to send her help. It was unlikely, but she prayed anyway. Without help, she was dead. Danger surrounded her.

  "Send me someone, Lord. I don't know what to do!"

  *~*

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ethiopia

  Titus stepped out of his private Pilatus PC-24 business jet onto the sunbaked red sand of Gonder, Ethiopia. The Swiss-made jet allowed Titus to travel in luxury, and yet still frequent the crude dirt airstrips that his trade demanded. Though the twinjet could seat ten passengers, Titus had removed the rear seats for black market cargo space to be loaded through the rear cargo door.

  But on this trip, Titus had no cargo. In fact, he'd canceled all buy-sell arrangements for the foreseeable future. All that was on his radar was Annette Sheffield. He'd captured Luc Lannoy and helped Oleg. The way things were going, he might just be able to right the wrongs he'd caused during his visit to Gaza. If it weren't for him, Annette wouldn't have remained a captive in the factory. But his desire to find her had to do with more than just righting wrongs. She'd been tough, even standing up to him, and no woman besides his sister had ever done that. It also helped that Annette was an attractive model. He'd settle for a simple thanks from her now, unless she wanted to take it further—if he could get her out alive.

  The dust from his landing settled, and the animals around the farm returned to their evening activities—grazing or nipping at the scraps Bekele had left them.

  Titus sauntered into the yard he'd frequented during other layovers and cargo transports—as often as any other underground airport where the Serval was best known. Every criminal needed a hideout, and Titus had over a dozen with runways, and many more without.

  "Bekele!" He nudged a chicken from his path and stepped onto the porch of the rundown colonial-style house. "I know you heard me arrive!"

  After walking through the messy house and finding nothing but dusty furniture and bags of animal feed, Titus returned to the porch. Bekele's truck was parked in the shade of the house. The two rickety barns were the only other structures on the fenceless property. Entering the first building, Titus found Bekele's barley brewery hissing through the pressure valve. Two cows and several goats lay nearby.

  In the second barn, Titus crouched over Bekele, a fifty-year-old Ethiopian veteran soldier, retired on the war spoils of a dozen African countries. Titus chuckled at the two hens that roosted comfortably in each arm of Bekele as he slept off his recent binge.

  "Bekele, I need you. Wake up!" Titus prodded the sleeping man in the ribs. One hen clucked and ruffled her feathers. "Careful, girl. I haven't eaten too well for a few weeks. A little chicken feast would—"

  "You!" Bekele sat upright. The hens flapped away. "You owe me money!"

  "For what?" Titus waved his hand in front of his nose. "Phew! You've got to stop sleeping with the animals, Bekele."

  "You stole my favorite goat last month!" Bekele rolled over and stood shakily. "How much do you owe me?"

  "I owe you nothing. I've never taken a goat from you, but I'm willing to pay you for two pigs if you can think straight long enough to give me a price."

  "You do not owe me?"

 
"I'm in a hurry, Bekele. Your sow had piglets recently, right? I want two of them."

  "They are not weaned."

  "Then charge me extra. Bekele, focus!" Titus snapped his fingers in his face. "Ten minutes, and I'm gone. Pick out two of your best squirmers for me, and put them in a feed sack."

  "What do you want piglets for?" Bekele's eyes opened wider. "Murderer! You want to use them for target practice. Never! Test your rifles on someone else!"

  "Nine minutes." Titus' satellite phone rang. He tugged it off his belt, answering it as he left the barn. "Yeah?"

  "You called for my uncle. I am Sohayb. Are you the Serval?"

  Titus clenched his fist. Crac Hassad's nephew! Rumor had it that, after his uncle, he was the second most wanted Hamas leader inside Gaza.

  "Luc Lannoy was arrested in Pakistan," Titus stated.

  "That is unfortunate. He was bringing my uncle a gift."

  "I have the gift for your uncle."

  "The same gift? It must be warhead capable or my uncle will not pay."

  "I understand. I'll be in Egypt within the hour, alone. I know you want this gift soon. Can I still use the same tunnel?"

  "It's the only one not bombed. But my uncle is angry with you. The last gift you brought was a canister of perfume!"

  "This time, I'm bringing you two live specimens. You may use as much of their blood as you want to infect the Israelis."

  "What are these specimens?"

  Bekele approached with a feed bag and opened it to show Titus two squirming piglets, one month old.

  "Send a truck for me by midnight where the tunnel surfaces in Gaza. I'll show you myself. Have my money ready to wire."

  Titus shut off his phone and considered what it meant that Sohayb had called him. Gaza communications were jammed. If Sohayb had called him, then he couldn't be in Gaza. The nephew, and maybe even his uncle, had to be in Israel or Egypt. To continue the assault on Israel and maintain the Quran's instruction to kill the Jews, a strong hand needed to remain in Gaza overseeing the militants. Sohayb and his uncle were surely not far from there.

  "Do not cheat me!" Bekele shouted as Titus counted out several bills for the farmer.

  "Who's cheating who?" Titus shook his head and handed the retired mercenary the money. "Since when does a pair of pigs this size cost one thousand euros?"

  "You owed me for the goat last month. My favorite goat!" Bekele left the feed sack for Titus and walked away, counting his money. Suddenly, Bekele stopped and looked back. "What are the piglets for?"

  "Backup."

  "Backup?"

  "I'm going into Gaza. I'll need backup."

  "You make no sense, Titus. Muslims have a superstitious fear of swine."

  "Yeah, I'm counting on it."

  #######

  Israel

  Sohayb Hassad reviewed his phone conversation with Titus Caspertein as he returned to watch his uncle's men widen the tunnel for the drone. There'd been more men helping with the tunnel, he thought, but perhaps they'd been killed. By dawn, they would have the drone in the garage—on the Israeli side of the tunnel. As soon as a biological element could be added to the warheads, they would launch the drone and watch the news. Thousands of Jews would die, climaxing with the destruction of the Dome of the Rock, the Muslim holy site. The rest of the world would finally turn against Israel forever. Palestinian statehood, with Allah as lord over all, was perhaps weeks away, as soon as Israel was at last removed.

  At least, that was the plan. But Sohayb's mind was on different matters, even if he was obediently organizing the attack for his uncle. The American woman, Annette Sheffield, had somehow escaped. Perhaps escaped wasn't the right word. She had disappeared. If she'd gone to Israel's authorities, the IDF would've already swarmed the Israeli tunnel side, and the drone would've been discovered. But the woman had vanished without a trace in Israel. Even the media was still reporting her as a missing UN spokesperson.

  Uncle Crac had been enraged at her escape, but that wasn't all. Sohayb had shot his youngest wife in the garage. Then his uncle had struck him across the face in front of several men. The humiliation! Sohayb had questioned his own loyalties toward Uncle Crac before, but now he couldn't continue to serve the Hamas leader. How could his uncle not see Sohayb had been devoted to Allah? Was Crac Hassad's religion true if he mistreated with injustice those who were closest? After all, wouldn't Uncle Crac have executed his wife himself if she'd been caught helping the American escape, especially with her head uncovered? Everyone knew he beat his wives, anyway. What was one less wife?

  Sohayb tried to excuse his uncle's zeal by considering the pressure he was under, leading Hamas where they'd never been before by watching Israel die under its own drone strikes. But to shame him by slapping him in front of the men was a disgrace Sohayb could not forgive. He sensed his hatred—felt since boyhood, but always focused on Israel—turning toward his uncle. He prayed and hoped he and Uncle Crac were just experiencing the exhaustion from the bombings, hiding, and tunnel digging.

  At least His uncle had returned to the school on the Gaza side of the tunnel. Israel had been so condemned internationally the last year over targeting schools and hospitals in Gaza that those venues were now safer than ever to use as staging areas for launching attacks. Western media was so easily manipulated, and the effects always placed Israel in a place of blame. The Great Satan's own media was destroying the Little Satan. Everything was nearly in place, but Sohayb was having trouble rejoicing with his uncle.

  Two more events needed to fall into place, and they both needed to happen in the next few hours of darkness. Weapons dealers around the world had often answered the needs of the Palestinians. Guns, ammo, and explosives were easy to get into Egypt and smuggle into Gaza. The biological weapons were in short supply, however, and the Mossad or CIA seemed to intercept every attempt.

  But that night, Crac Hassad was meeting with two weapons dealers. Both were of world renown. The Serval was, after all, an exile from the United States. He wasn't a Muslim, but he had armed Muslim insurgencies for years. Titus Caspertein was greedy, and Sohayb was content to use that greed for the task before them.

  The other arms dealer was Muhammad ibn Affal, a true Muslim, dedicated to the cause of Allah for longer than Sohayb had been alive. Sohayb had heard the man's name even as a youth—an Egyptian ghost who moved and sold so covertly, no one had ever actually confirmed a sale. The West hunted him, yet Muhammad ibn Affal disappeared and reappeared without warning. There'd even been a time as a boy when Sohayb had determined to join Muhammad, if he could find him. But then Crac Hassad had required his help. How could he refuse his uncle?

  If Muhammad was due in Gaza, Sohayb had to meet him. He'd begged his uncle to let him be at the school building to act as security during the meet. Sohayb didn't care much about Titus Caspertein, but Muhammad was legendary!

  "More on the north side!" Sohayb guided as the men excavated the tunnel. They were so close!

  He stepped back to give the men more room. Maybe, if he could get close enough to talk to Muhammad privately, Sohayb could arrange a different future for himself. No Hamas leader lived long. Allah was certainly worthy of the Jewish blood that was shed, but there were other ways to exercise jihad. Muhammad could be the answer to his renewed restlessness—and to a departure from his uncle. All he had to do was wait a few more hours.

  #######

  Southern Gaza

  Titus sat in the passenger seat of an ambulance that zoomed north on Rasheed Coastal Road toward Gaza City. The ambulance was the only transportation vehicle the Israelis allowed to operate in the Gaza Strip. He guessed the Israelis probably knew the ambulance transported arms and militants, rather than the Palestinians' own wounded women and children. But hopefully, the IDF didn't send a missile toward him just this once. Annette Sheffield's life depended on it. He looked forward to bartering for her then delivering her safely home, showing Corban Dowler that he'd failed. Titus had to act now, before another night passed.
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br />   On the floor between his feet, Titus braced the black travel case that held the two piglets. He'd added holes for breathing and fastened a padlock on the outside of the case, but he had a zipper on the back he could use to loose the animals at the proper instant. Though he wasn't one to offend another man's religious convictions, it wasn't below him to do so to achieve a goal, especially if he believed his offense was morally justified—or a pretty woman's life depended on it. Besides, Israel used guard pigs at their Ofer Military Base to keep Muslim extremists at bay. It worked for them; it should work for him.

  *~*

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Eastern Gaza

  Corban trudged through Eastern Gaza behind Rasht Hassad, keeping an eye on Nathan, who led the way. Over two weeks earlier, Corban had crept through Gaza City, avoiding Israeli gunships and Palestinian militants. Now, he was worried only about the Israeli drone missiles. Since he had an appointment with Crac Hassad, he didn't mind running into his Hamas troops this time.

  His fears of an Israeli drone strike weren't unfounded. Across the street, a rocket smashed into a vacant gas station, pelting Rasht and Corban with pieces of roofing. Nathan was quick to come alongside Rasht and drag him to cover. Corban ran on his own to the nearest building across the street.

  "Two more blocks," Nathan said in Arabic to Corban. As a Marine, he'd learned the language fluently from several deployments to the Middle East. They couldn't be caught speaking English in a place like Gaza. "You wounded?"

  Corban, still shaken from the near miss of the rocket, checked his limbs. Just a few scratches. He gave Nathan the thumbs-up signal, and they continued. For once, Corban was happy to not take the lead, but rather follow the more agile, cautious soldier through the battle zone that included all of Gaza now.

  As they trekked, Corban thought of the risks he'd taken with his life and the lives of others, for the sake of Christ. For years, he'd escaped serious injury. Scars covered his body, but tonight was different. He wasn't fighting the Janjaweed horsemen in Sudan to protect hungry refugees. Nor was he assaulting a German castle of crazed Nazis to free imprisoned Jews and Christians. This was a mission in God's own ancient land, fighting to protect His Chosen People from a merciless attack. And those same people, the Israelites, were trying to kill him!