Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  The door inched open. Another dark, human shape appeared in the doorway’s shadow.

  Sohrab’s fingertip brushed the trigger.

  “Here she is,” Jake said, notching his head back toward the sound of Miriam’s feet scraping stone. “Now let Eve go. And, Alayan?”

  “Yes, Mr. Eldar?”

  Jake couldn’t take his eyes off Eve as she clung to the third Arab standing at the foot of the stairs. His soul ached for her. So close… “The business between us has nothing to do with my daughter. I want your word you’ll let her get out of the way before we finish this.”

  “Our deal is made, yes? Why I agree to this?”

  “Because you think you’re a soldier and not a thug,” he hoped out loud. “Soldiers don’t shoot children. Thugs do.”

  Was that a smile? “You tell this maybe to the Zionist army?”

  Miriam snapped, “You first. Tell those bastards of yours to stop firing rockets at farmers.”

  “As the Zionist army shoots artillery at Lebanese women and children?”

  “Sure, after some Hezbollah zayin kills Israeli women and children.”

  “That’s enough,” Jake growled. Miriam muttered a Hebrew curse. “Come on, Alayan, it doesn’t cost you anything. Let her go, let her get to safety, then it’s just you boys and us.” He was glad he had his hands in his pockets; he could sop up the sweat on his palms. He and Miriam were helpless so long as the Arabs had Eve. He wouldn’t put his daughter in the crossfire, no matter what it cost.

  Alayan pursed his lips and seemed to consider Jake’s request. After a moment, he nodded. “We are soldiers. Okay.” He then motioned to the man holding Eve.

  Just another two steps, Sohrab urged the woman. Just a bit more, then you’re mine.

  He noticed movement at the edge of his scope’s field of view. He nudged the rifle’s muzzle to the right.

  Rafiq climbed the stairs toward Eldar and the woman. He held the brat in his arms.

  What? Did the plan change? What was he doing? He was supposed to just let her go.

  Sohrab snapped his aim back to Eldar. Rafiq’s head was in the way now.

  Sohrab would finish his job. Too bad for that weakling Rafiq if he got in the way.

  Jake watched the Arab approach, every nerve ending in his body on red alert. Was this the Rafiq guy Ziyad had mentioned? Was he going to get in a close-range shot, using Eve for cover? Jake wrapped his hand around the Glock’s grip; if that’s how they were going to play it, he’d make sure he took someone with him.

  He glanced at Alayan. The man’s eyebrows bunched together, his mouth crushed tight. Who was running this show?

  The Arab stopped on the top step, even with Jake. He supported Eve’s weight with one arm, wrapped the other around the back of her head, pressing her face into his neck. Eve’s little body shuddered in his grip.

  Jake and the Arab exchanged stares for a moment. Then the Arab made a gesture with the first two fingers of the hand behind Eve’s head, pointing twice to the landing. He very slowly, carefully knelt.

  Jake squatted warily, keeping his grip on the pistol, trying to figure out the plan.

  The Arab gingerly set Eve on her feet, pulled her arms from his neck, and turned her to face Jake. Tear tracks glimmered in the lamplight below eyes that went huge when she saw him. The strip of duct tape across her mouth muffled her whimpers as she squirmed in the Arab’s grip. “Please listen,” he whispered. “I kept Eve away from the others. She’s scared, but she’s fine.”

  This must be Rafiq. His English had no accent; he could be the Channel 5 weatherman. “Um… thanks.” Eve reached to Jake with both arms, but Rafiq held her back. Jake held out his left hand for her to grab. “It’s going to be okay, Bunny,” he murmured to her.

  “There isn’t much time,” Rafiq continued. “There’s a man in the trees behind us. Don’t go that way.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Jake hissed. “Who are you?”

  Rafiq’s eyes sagged. “I used to be a soldier. Now I kidnap children.” He guided Eve into Jake’s embrace. Even trembling and snuffling, she felt so good. “Send her into the chapel. When I step away, they’re going to shoot. I’m sorry.”

  Both the Arabs on the sidewalk had their weapons ready. This Rafiq wasn’t joking.

  Jake kissed Eve’s forehead, her cheeks, the side of her head, and stroked her hair. He wanted to hold her tight and never let go, to rip the tape from her mouth and hear her voice. But there was no time. He had to focus on staying alive and keeping her safe. Safe wasn’t with him.

  He nudged her away, then took her face in his hands, kissed her nose and whispered, “Bunny, I need you to listen and do exactly what I say. This is very important, understand?” She nodded. “Remember at the house a couple days ago, when you ran away from the bad guys?”

  She nodded hard, hurt in her eyes.

  “I need you to do that again, when—”

  Her “No!” was clear, even through the duct tape. Eve yanked his coat collar with both hands.

  “It’s just for a few—”

  “NO! NO!” came out “Nnnn! Nnnn!”

  Jake held up a warning finger. “Listen to me.” The fright in Eve’s eyes turned into stubborn. She was just like her mother. “When I say ‘go,’ you run as fast as you can through that big door, okay?” She glared at him. “Jasmine’s in my bag, under the bench. You need to get her and hide and keep her safe. It’s just for a few minutes. You can take the tape off inside. Okay?”

  Anger and fear fought in her big eyes. Her little fists tortured his collar. Finally, she nodded.

  Jake pulled Eve against him, held her tight. “I love you so much, Bunny,” he whispered in her ear. “I always, always will. And I’ll always look out for you, even if I’m not around.” I will see her again, he told himself. I will. Somehow.

  With an exchanged nod, Jake and Rafiq stood simultaneously, their eyes locked. Eve clamped her arms around Jake’s hips and buried her face in his stomach.

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” Rafiq said. “That was a mistake.”

  “No shit. Is that bastard Gabir here?”

  “The man to your left, with the dressing. I see you already know he did it.”

  Jake flashed a glare at Gabir, who had his pistol trained on Miriam. Anger shot lava up his throat. Jake slid the Glock out of his pocket. You’re going down, asshole.

  Eve jerked on the front of his coat. She stared pop-eyed up at him. He tried to blank his face so he wouldn’t scare her any more than she already was. “Remember what I said, Bunny?”

  She peeked at Rafiq, then back to Jake, then nodded.

  He took one last, hard look at Rafiq. “Go.”

  SEVENTY-EIGHT: Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn, 22 December

  Alayan’s anxiety spiked higher than the chapel dome. What was Rafiq doing? What was he saying to Eldar? Was he betraying them all? He steadied his aim on the back of Rafiq’s head, now blocking Eldar’s face as the two of them stood. If that dog turns with a gun in his hand…

  The woman crouched in the doorway’s shadow, aiming a pistol at Gabir, who aimed his at her.

  The child scrambled through the chapel door.

  A thunderbolt rammed through Alayan’s body.

  Time turned to rubber cement for Jake. His senses were impressions, snapshots.

  Alayan crumpling to the sidewalk. Falling slow, as if through water. The crack of the sniper’s shot echoing for hours.

  Jake on one knee, Glock trained on Gabir, three white dots lined up on his sights. One shot, two. Holes in the Arab’s billowing coat. The man’s slow grunts rippling out like waves. The ping of spent casings on stone.

  Gabir shooting at Miriam one-handed as she flung herself to the ground. The hollow thump of a hammer hitting a body. A gasp from Miriam.

  Miriam on her side, grimacing, weapon held straight out in both hands. Twin muzzle blasts like lightning. The clank of bullet on metal, a spray of blood on the van’s white paint. Gabir stumblin
g over the curb, toppling behind the van.

  Rafiq in mid-stride dashing down the stairs. One bloody hole in his back, then a second. No weapons sounds, just his cry of surprise. Sprawling forward, hands out, head back.

  Another crack, lower-pitched this time. A tug on his ear, the buzz of a huge, angry bee.

  Time returned to normal speed.

  “Miriam! Sniper! Theirs!”

  Miriam crawled over the half-wall, dropped to her hands and knees on the steps just as a second bullet sprayed her with more shards of stone. She huddled below the wall, took stock. A mule with giant steel hooves had kicked her in the gut. No blood, though; the vest had saved her again. This sniper would hit her before she got another three steps. Now what?

  The rifle sounded again. She croaked out to Jake, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. He’s too damn close.”

  Another shot. She braced for the zing of lead striking stone at nine hundred miles per hour, but realized that should have already happened. Kaminsky’s sniper? The echoes died away enough for her to hear the first police sirens in the distance. She and Jake had survived so far; just a few more minutes. “Now what?”

  “I—where the hell is Alayan?”

  Sohrab let off his fourth round, then flattened to switch magazines and get his bearings. Someone had shot at him from his left, not from the direction of the chapel. Police? Would they have a sniper here? Was this a trap?

  Alayan, Gabir and Rafiq were all down. Sohrab had heard the shot that hit Alayan, but not the one that got Rafiq, which meant someone had a silencer. A second sniper? He snatched up his night-vision monocular, probed the darkness. He couldn’t see either of the Jews, but he knew where they were. Alayan’s prone form inched past the van’s nose. Gabir was behind the van. As Sohrab watched, Rafiq’s arm draped itself over his chest.

  Something shrieked into the stone a foot away from his head, pelting him with fragments. The sniper with the silencer must also have a night-vision scope. Madar sag! Hunt or escape?

  The splat of a bullet smashing into granite was loud in his ear, louder than the rifle shot he heard an instant later. He brushed the splinters from his face and let his anger guide him. Forget the Jews. Time to hunt.

  Alayan panted face-down on the asphalt immediately below the driver’s door. Crawling twenty feet had drained his strength more than running twenty miles. The sniper’s bullet had exploded inside him, and now every inhalation was like drowning and every exhalation forced blood into his mouth.

  Snipers. Not one, but two, at least. How had Eldar managed it? It wasn’t the police; they’d be swarming the area by now. This was something else.

  It was over. His team was gone. He’d failed, and because he’d failed, the Party would fling itself off a cliff. He deserved to die here with his men.

  He coughed hard, each spasm grinding his rib cage. Alayan spit out a mouthful of blood, then let his head sag onto his crooked left arm. He could stay here, rest, let the blackness now fuzzing the edges of his vision engulf him. So easy. So hard to move.

  A thought staggered through the thickening fog in his brain: you can’t let them take you. Not alive, not to be paraded on television, not to be the toy of every policeman and spy in America. That would be the ultimate humiliation. He’d lost his weapon somewhere by the chapel. He had to get away, to die someplace hidden, anonymous, to spare what was left of his family the curse of his captivity.

  Get away.

  The left side of his chest sloshed when he pushed himself onto his side. Reaching for the open door’s sill was nearly as hard as grasping the nearby treetops. He gasped when he hauled himself semi-upright, clutching the steering wheel and the door’s armrest. The blood from the hole in his chest streamed down into his waistband.

  Somehow he managed to lever himself into the driver’s seat. He sagged against the wheel, trying to scrape up enough strength to close the door. A drumbeat echoed in the back of his head: failure, failure, failure.

  Alayan jammed the gearshift into “drive” and wedged his foot on the gas.

  Gur slithered through a stand of trees, sliding his feet through the grass to keep from snapping any fallen twigs. The nearest rifle shot had come from just ten meters or so ahead.

  He rounded a thick tree trunk, leading with his Beretta. A rank of tombs curved along the face of the rise until the gloom swallowed them, every one a great hiding place. Damn Eldar for choosing this place, if he did.

  A shadow peeled away from the top of one of the tombs and scrambled toward the ornate mausoleum a few meters upslope at the crest of the ridge. Gur automatically fired at the ghost, who snapped a quick shot behind him with the rifle Gur had heard a few seconds before. The ghost dissolved into the darkness.

  Gur flopped against the sheltering side of a tree trunk. The man he’d been stalking now held the high ground; Gur wasn’t young enough or dumb enough to chase after him in the open.

  He heard a shot farther along the slope, a smaller sound than the Hezbollah shooter’s. Another sniper, but whose? Sasha had said someone else took out Alayan. If there was another sniper, then Gur and his team would have to avoid becoming targets themselves.

  Three hostiles down including the leader, according to Sasha. One on the run. Both covers and the child still alive. A good few minutes’ work. But now sirens approached from the north and west, and a supernova flash in the western sky told him a helicopter was on its way.

  He keyed his radio. “Pull out, we’re done here.”

  Sasha’s voice squawked, “What about their sniper?”

  “Let the other party take care of him.”

  “Alayan’s heading your way!” Kelila barked.

  Gur checked the car park. The van jerked away from the curb and rolled toward the road.

  Kelila had watched the covers and the two friendly snipers do their work the way she would a television program. It had been so fast and clean, it hadn’t seemed real. But then the Hezbollah guy in the trees pinned her down, and now he was gone, Schaffer sheltered in full view of Kelila’s hide, on her side, gun at ready. Would Schaffer shoot her by mistake?

  The van shuddered forward.

  No! No escapes! This ends here! Schaffer or not, Kelila had to do something.

  She bounded out from behind the big headstone, Beretta in her left hand, and fired twice into the blackness of the open back door. Kelila charged across the grass toward the retreating van, hurdled the big Arab’s body, held up her right hand toward the steps. She yelled “Friend! Friend!” in English, hoping that was enough.

  Movement snagged the corner of her eye. She glanced toward the steps. Eldar and Schaffer both tracked her with their guns, but didn’t shoot.

  Kelila poured on the speed, sprinted toward the van now rapidly pulling away from the curb. Get inside. Finish him.

  The van swerved onto the road leading to the front gate. It veered and overcorrected, slowed and lunged forward unpredictably, helping her close the distance.

  The driver oversteered and took down an ornamental streetlight. The bulb’s pop-flash seemed to freeze him for a moment—enough for her to catch up. The engine revved just as she leaped through the void and slammed into the hard, ridged metal floor inside. The van lurched beneath her, helped her roll to her knees.

  Alayan hunched over the wheel, breathing hard, his head wobbling from side to side as he hauled the van away from a row of monuments. Kelila leveled her pistol. She could—should—kill him right now. At this speed, she’d survive the crash. She hadn’t had any qualms about shooting these Hezbollah assholes since one of them killed her husband in the 2006 war. But she was a professional. Alayan’s information had value, even if his miserable life didn’t.

  “Stop now!” she barked in Arabic.

  Alayan looked back over his shoulder, almost lazy, like he had nothing but time. Blood coated his face from his nose down. “Or you’ll shoot me?” he choked. “Please do.”

  She shot him in the right thigh.

  The van s
werved right and smashed into the hillside.

  Sohrab crouched behind triple white headstones and waited. He’d been able to retreat to a hillock just overlooking the gingerbread-Gothic front gate without getting killed by either of the other snipers or the man with the pistol, whoever he was. Once he’d figured out they were tracking the sound of his rifle, he stopped shooting. He had a better weapon.

  He peeked his monocular between the grave markers. The vivid lime-green form of his closest tracker darted past the monuments on the other side of the road, rapidly growing closer. This one had slung his rifle across his back and now constantly painted a wide arc with the pistol he gripped in both hands.

  Sohrab unclipped his black, collapsible steel baton from his belt, pressed the release button, and silently extended it to its full two-thirds of a meter. That first time they’d tried to kill the Jew woman in Philadelphia, he’d used it to put down that muscle-bound cop with two strokes. This new enemy wouldn’t be any harder.

  He could hear the man’s footfalls now, even over the growing chaos of sirens. A light tread, but not light enough. Sohrab tensed, masked his breathing, bounced on the balls of his feet to keep his knees and ankles limber.

  A pistol and a pair of small black-gloved hands slid past the monument into his sight.

  He brought the baton down hard on the man’s wrists, felt the bones give but couldn’t hear the crunch over the reflexive pistol shot. Sohrab popped up, aimed a vicious backswing at the man’s throat. The gunman fell to his knees as if he’d been dropped from a great height. He tried to clutch his throat, then toppled onto his side. His pistol tumbled out of his useless hands.

  Sohrab bent over the choking, gasping man and knocked the black baseball cap off his head. A knot of light-colored hair spilled out. The hands, the fine-featured face, the hair…a woman? Another damned woman had been hunting him? This wasn’t the one from the train station. Where did they all come from? They belonged at home with their children.