by Alma Boykin
“In case you don’t want to wear the jacket with that dress,” he commented, as they left the shop.
“Thank you! They’re lovely, my lord General!” she exclaimed.
He smiled and took her arm. “A lovely frame for a beautiful picture, Rachel.” She flushed a little under her cosmetics. She’d put green contact lenses in both eyes and wore tan makeup, hiding her scars and letting her blend in better with the crowds in the old city. Joschka continued. “The young clerk complimented my taste in mistresses. But more tactfully than that.”
After a few more stops, including a toy store, and a religious goods seller where Joschka bought a rosary for his youngest great-granddaughter’s pending First Communion, they found seats at an outdoor café for coffee and pastries. Rachel took off her bag and set it between their chairs, out of sight of passersby. She sipped her tea and watched the people as Joschka checked items off a list. He started to say something, but Rachel’s intent body language stopped him. “See something?”
She tipped her head slightly. “Those protesters over there. The third man from the front—he’s not moving like the rest of the group.” The group in question carried signs in Arabic, Spanish, and English demanding the return of “Al Andalus” to the domain of Islam. One young man wasn’t carrying a sign, but had a bag over his shoulder instead, and he was watching the buildings to the side of the group rather than the crowd or the other protesters. Rachel hesitated for a moment, then lowered her shields and tried to get a general read of the emotions flowing around them.
She picked up boredom, mild interest, annoyance at the blocked traffic, watchful interest from several plain-clothes police officers monitoring the protest, and an all-too-familiar “scent” of hatred, fanaticism, and nearly overwhelming sexual excitement. She laid her hand on Joschka’s arm and leaned close. “We need to get away from here. Something bad is about to happen.”
He knew her well enough not to question her. Joschka caught their waiter’s eye and paid, senses on full alert as he looked around the plaza and side streets. “More trouble,” he observed under his breath as a quartet of young men—each with a bright green bandana, scarf, or shirt—sauntered around a corner toward a Japanese tour group. Like the man who’d caught Rachel’s attention, they moved as if they were carrying something fragile or valuable in the satchels and packs, and their eyes burned with an angry passion.
“This way,” he ordered, steering her with a hand on her shoulder. She carried her backpack by one strap over the other shoulder. With her free hand, Rachel unfastened the buttons of her knee-length black coat and Joschka caught a glimpse of metal underneath.
They had just rounded the corner when all hell broke loose behind them. Something exploded and people screamed as gunfire snapped, followed by two more explosions. Joschka pushed Rachel down, but she twisted and dodged his hand, dropping her bag as she turned back toward the plaza. “Commander, no!” But she eluded him, vanishing into the panicked crowd. He cursed, grabbed her backpack, and let the crowd carry him farther away. Then he slipped into a courtyard, waited a moment, and edged his way back through the frantic people toward the plaza.
Rachel ducked and wove her way through the panicked humans to where she’d seen the quartet of jihadis. They were shooting at fleeing tourists and locals, and her lips peeled back in a snarl as she started to draw her own weapon. Then she stopped and swore—she was limited to direct self defense only. By the Debt Collector’s hollow heart! What the fuck do I do now? A cry of pain decided her, and she set to work Healing the closest injured. She’d just assisted a mother and child to shelter when a shot spanged off the stone wall by her shoulder. Thank you for the invitation, dead meat.
The Wanderer drew her pistol, eased out of cover, and dropped the gunman with a shot to the chest. One of his comrades tried to get even, only to join the first gunman in eternity when his head exploded. Rachel managed to severely wound, and probably kill, a third terrorist, and may have injured a fourth when whizzing bullets finally persuaded her to look for new cover. At least one of the policemen had also started returning the jihadis’ fire, so Rachel holstered her own weapon while she moved. As she ducked and trotted, she searched for injured. She threaded her way through a cluster of escaping tourists, letting one of the assailants get past before doubling back to the plaza again, once more in her role as a paramedic.
Confident that any remaining attackers had not gotten a good look at her, Rachel returned to Healing those who would benefit the most. She took care of four or five seriously injured people and settled down one or two who’d become hysterical. The Wanderer didn’t do anything obvious, focusing on internal wounds and bleeding control, things that wouldn’t give her away. So intent was she, and so confident that she’d eluded the surviving jihadis, that she didn’t look around or watch her back. As she started to rise from her latest patient, someone grabbed her and struck her from behind. The blow stunned her, but she still managed to hurt her attacker before another blow knocked her unconscious.
Meanwhile, the Graf-General had also begun working back through the plaza, taking charge of the people still milling around to get them moving the wounded out of the way of the arriving Cuerpo Nacional de Policía and paramedics, and to protect any evidence. Even in civilian clothes, it was obvious that he knew what he was doing, and a pocket of order began forming in the chaos of the bombing. As soon as men from the CNP and the GEO, the Spanish counter-terror branch, arrived, Joschka identified himself, briefed them, and stepped back, looking for his fiancée. But there was no sign of Rachel. He tried searching for her mind and scent, but found nothing. Growing increasingly worried, the Graf-General eased away from the plaza, retraced his steps to the courtyard where he’d left Rachel’s backpack, and dug her communications link out of the bag, dialing General Khan. “Rahoul, we have an incident. There’s been a terror attack and Rachel’s missing.”
A very angry Rachel came to on the stone floor of a musty room, her head aching. Where and when am I? She started to sit up and discovered that her hands had been cuffed in front of her, and both her pistol and boot knife were missing in action. Church bells rang nearby, and she thought she could hear a vehicle outside the shuttered window, but no human voices. She got to her knees, then stood and tried the window. The thick shutters had been locked, and she could see a metal grill through the slit between the wooden panels. Next she tried the door, but it was locked from the outside and even her claws wouldn’t get through the heavy wood. So, is it the jihadis or the police? She decided to settle down and save her energy. And let her head quit pounding.
The bells chimed another two hours before she heard someone coming. By then she’d managed to get rid of most of the concussion’s effects and was on her feet beside the door when it opened. A young man with black hair, an olive complexion, and a nasty look in his eyes, shoved into the room as if expecting to find a dazed and helpless captive. What he found instead knocked him onto his ass, kicked him in the groin and head for good measure, and was halfway down the corridor when a larger man grabbed her. Rachel’s second assailant didn’t waste any time choking her into submission, then dragging her into another room.
While the large man held her, a third figure, wearing a scarf over his lower face, undid her cuffs only to re-secure them behind her back. Rachel’s captor shifted his grip to her arms, pinning them back so tightly that it hurt. The masked figure demanded something in Spanish. Rachel shook her head and he repeated his question, including something about “político ministerio de defensa.”
“No hablo Español,” she said, then gritted her teeth as her arms were forced up, straining her shoulders. “English, not Spanish. No hablo Español,” she repeated a touch frantically.
Rachel lowered her shields enough to read her captors’ annoyance and disbelief. Scarf said something in Arabic, and Muscles released her arms. Rachel gasped in relief, lowering her head for a moment. A hand dug into her hair and jerked her head back up.
“What is your
name?” a thickly accented voice demanded.
“Rachel ni Panguar,” she replied, angry enough that her own accent came through. The men hesitated, confused by the sound.
“Who are you with?”
She looked her most innocent and confused. “I’m not with anyone. I’m here on a shopping trip.”
Mask’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie. What is your name and who are you with?”
Rachel cowered, repeating “Rachel Ni Panguar. I’m here from England on a shopping visit.”
Mask backhanded her.
An hour later the jihadis tossed her, rather the worse for wear, back into the original room. They had not learned much from her, but she’d learned far more than she would have liked from them. In the end they’d bound her hands behind her with bare steel wire, knocked her around a little more, and promised worse. Once alone in her cell, she started trying to work her hands free. After that attempt, Rachel didn’t struggle any more against the wire securing her wrists. She could feel the blood already oozing from the cuts and didn’t want to sever a vein. Although it would serve them right to come back and find their “prize hostage” dead, she snarled. Then she thought back to what she’d sensed from the three men, and her snarl changed to a hiss of fear.
Joschka finished giving the Grupo Especial de Operaciones officer his observations and statement, and then met Rahoul at the gate of the place where most of the GDF members were staying. Rahoul led him to his own room, muttering under his breath in Punjabi. “God damn her!” he swore as soon as the door shut, drawing an angry look from the Austrian. “She’s too valuable to go charging into harm’s way like this! Even if she is a paramedic. And the little fool knows it!”
Joschka started to say something equally harsh about Rahoul, then stopped himself as Rahoul pointed. “Eyes,” the officer cautioned and Joschka took a deep breath to bring himself back under control.
“It’s done. She’s probably alive, probably within fifty kilometers of here.” Joschka got up and paced a little, then settled down again. “Any suggestions?”
Rahoul ran his hand through his short black hair and took a settling breath of his own. “First, we both calm down. Can you contact her if someone boosts you, sir?”
“I don’t know. Remember, she’s an empath, not a telepath, so she works through emotion and not words. You actually might do better trying to reach her,” Joschka pointed out.
Rahoul shook his head as he drummed his fingers on the windowsill. “Only if she’s in her cat shape, my lord General. Otherwise we have to be within a few meters of each other to work well.” He stared out the window, thinking hard, then turned back to Joschka. There was a mix of emotions in Rahoul’s expression as he studied his former superior. “She’s my friend, but you love her. Or so I guess,” and the Austrian nodded. “That trumps my skills, sir.” After a thoughtful silence, Rahoul smiled, an expression that boded ill for his advisor’s assailants. “However, if memory serves, Major de Alba has a ‘cousin’ who might be of more prosaic assistance. If you can find Rachel, I believe he can get her out of wherever she is.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” Joschka turned to go, but stopped. “Thank you, Rahoul. I’m surprised you’ve not gone grey by now!”
Rahoul chuckled. “Wait until the twins get their learner’s permits! And my lord?” He put his hand on the larger man’s arm, “Congratulations, sir. You made a good choice, even if I do want to throttle her just now.”
“Let’s find her first. Then you can have whatever I leave of her,” Joschka promised.
Rachel’s head felt better, but that was the only improvement in her situation. The jihadis had questioned her again just after their evening prayers, with the same lack of success they’d had the first time. They had finally decided that she was not the Defense Minister’s mistress, but knew little else, since her ID had been in her bag. Bloody amateurs, she thought to herself, as she worked herself into a sitting position later that night. Again, she’d gained much more from them than vice versa, and what she’d learned scared her. Not for herself, no, but for the humans in and around the old city. She leaned her head against the thick stone of the outside wall and considered her options. She had to communicate with someone, and that someone had to believe her and get help. She was hungry, thirsty, and tired, and her bad leg ached, as did her new bruises.
Rachel stared into the darkness, gathering her strength. Then she reached deep inside herself, to the old fire that she’d let sleep for so long. The Wanderer fed it with images of what could happen if she failed in her efforts and felt the rage, bitterness, and fury building within. Her lips pulled back as she snarled, then reached out.
After an unguessable amount of time, Rachel found her target. «Joschka,» she called, feeling his own search.
«Rachel! Thank God! Where are you?» His mind voice strengthened as the link solidified, fed by her anger and his concern. It was still weak, but would hold long enough—maybe.
«Somewhere in the old city. That’s not important, Graf General. There’s a bomb.» Rachel smothered her own desire for rescue, hiding them from her love.
Joschka frowned where he lay in his room, deep in a focusing trance. «The bomb squad can take care of it, Rachel, where are—»
«No! Not a conventional weapon,» she corrected, blasting through the link. «A dirty radioactive bomb, in conjunction with a remote-triggered truck bomb, General. It’s somewhere in or around the Cathedral and they’re going to detonate it within the next 48 hours.»
She felt his surge of fear and the equally strong will shunting it aside. «Send me what you have from them and who to look for, Commander Ni Drako.» She did as ordered, passing along everything she’d managed to read from her captors. It drained both of them, but Rachel had no choice. Neither did Joschka, once he realized the full extent of the jihadis’ plans.
«Commander Ni Drako, I have a contact within the GEO and will personally see that they act on your information. Now, Rachel, how are you and where are you?»
She didn’t lie, exactly. «I’m fine. The creatures can’t seem to decide what to do with me for the moment, so I’m safe, just tired. I’m in a quiet neighborhood, near a street but without many pedestrians, in an old building by a church with bells.» Rachel gave him everything she’d heard and seen, trusting Joschka to sort through the information.
«Love, be careful,» he sent, and she tasted his love, pride, worry, and fear for her. She caressed him as best she could, reassuring him of her own love.
«I’ll try. I’m wearing out, Joschka. God bless.»
«I’m on the way, Hairball. Love you.» He closed the link.
She let herself slump onto the floor, eyes closed. Thank you, holy Lord God. Whatever happens, they’ve been warned.
Joschka recognized a kindred soul in “Capitan Rodrigo de Vivar.” The Spaniard’s dark green eyes were those of someone who’d spent a long time in a nasty, unforgiving part of existence, yet somehow managed to retain both his honor and his faith in the good. “This is the information I have, Capitan de Vivar,” Joschka began, outlining what Rachel had sent him.
The Spaniard frowned. “What you say, General, is very interesting. But, and I’m sure you understand, we can’t close the entire cathedral and surrounding area on just your source’s word. There have been too many false alarms recently for me to get authorization to shut down the core of the old city without very, very good and verifiable intelligence. Who is your source and how did she get word to you, if she’s being held by supposed terrorists?” The man’s distrust was obvious and Joschka didn’t blame him, even though his anger rose a notch.
“She’s a fellow soldier with both counter-terrorism and demolitions experience, Capitan. As to how she transmitted the data, all I can say is that she was part of an experimental communications development program.” Joschka hoped that would be enough to satisfy the officer, but of course it wasn’t.
“I need more specifics, General von Hohen-Drachenburg. We both know te
rrorists do not, as a rule, give information like this away, and I don’t care to be led into a trap or to have to tell my superiors that I evacuated the old city without cause.” Capitan de Vivar started to get up as if preparing to leave.
Joschka pulled out Rachel’s GDF clearance pass and slid it across the table, along with his own. “Run these through your computer, Capitan. It should clarify matters,” Joschka said, putting weight behind his words.
The man did, and to Joschka’s great satisfaction Capitan de Vivar’s eyes widened as he saw the results. “She’s your source, sir?”
“Affirmative. You see why I’m inclined to take her seriously. And why I can’t say more about how she contacted me.” Even the barest bones of Rachel’s security access and skill certifications were enough to impress most intelligence personnel, and Capitan de Vivar looked up at the Austrian with a new seriousness.
“Sí, General. Here’s a map of the Cathedral and surrounding area.” The two men pored over where and how to find the item in question.
“I defer to your expertise, Capitan. I just ask that once we find the device, you use some of your resources to find her.” Joschka shoved the surge of worry aside and forced himself to be cold. “She’s too valuable a tool to leave in enemy hands.”
“Certainly, General. And we owe her that much at least.” The men set to work.
Some time later, Rachel heard a welcome voice in her mind. «Rachel? Rachel can you hear me?»
She squinted, groping for the contact. «Affirmative. Go ahead.» Fatigue and thirst made her curt.
Joschka’s relief was plain. «I’ll be en route to the Cathedral, with some GEO members and a counter-CBN weapons team, very shortly. Do you have anything more?»
She hated to say it, but she had to. «Affirmative. They’ve moved their timetable up. You have 12 hours or so. They’re waiting for final orders.»
