Zara

by Jade Kerrion

  “We have to clear any action with the admiral first,” Grass insisted.

  “We don’t have time. If Yasmin’s right, Lila is currently in Alhassan’s Beirut home. If he gets word that the other girls have been freed, he’ll make a run for his home in Tehran, and it will be hell getting to him. We have to move now to extract Lila.”

  The SEAL team leader grunted. “We have no intel on the house. We’d be going in blind.” His words were a statement of fact, not an expression of doubt.

  Zara stretched her arms over her head. A muscle in her lower back tugged with the motion. At that moment, the baby kicked Zara’s bladder. Zara huffed out a breath to conceal the gasp of surprise. “His home is on the southern edge of Beirut, not far from the Syrian refugee camp. If there’s a ruckus, the government will assume it’s the refugees spoiling for fun on a weeknight.”

  “And the repercussions on the refugees?”

  She shrugged. “Depends on how motivated the Lebanese Armed Forces are feeling. They’d probably be inclined to close an eye and hope the noise dies out by morning. Regardless, the police aren’t going to like it. Ten years ago, you could have gotten away with a home invasion on a grand scale, like this, in downtown Beirut. These days, we pretend to be civilized.”

  “And the kidnapping of the girls was civilized?”

  “No, of course not, but just because we’re the remedy, doesn’t make our responses civilized.”

  “You have any friends in the government?” Grass asked.

  Zara shook her head. “Not in the legitimate government.”

  Grass stared out the window. “Any chance of getting plans on the house?”

  Zara shook her head. “His home is a two-century-old villa, and this is Lebanon. Not a chance.”

  Grass grimaced. “And what are our chances of taking the girls back to the embassy without someone noticing?”

  “We could have pulled it off when we first rescued them. We had first mover’s advantage then. At this point, our chances are practically zero.”

  “Then we’ll have to keep them here until we secure Lila. We can’t let word of the rescue get out ahead of us. Half the team will stay—”

  “You’re going to storm Alhassan’s home with four men? Can’t you at least call in the Marines from the embassy to protect the girls?”

  “No.”

  She scowled. “When did Special Forces become covert, undercover ops?”

  “We can’t risk open conflict. You heard the admiral. We’re on our own until we deliver Lila.”

  She kept her voice bland. “I always knew the SEALs were a bit crazy. Didn’t realize they were flat out insane.” She tapped her perfectly manicured fingernails on the wicker armrest as she contemplated her options. “If you want to take the whole team, I can round up local talent to keep the girls safe.”

  “Local talent?”

  “Hezbollah.”

  Grass snorted. “You may be perfectly clear on the differences between Hezbollah and Nakob, but to the girls, they don’t look any different.”

  “Hezbollah will patrol the perimeter to keep Nakob and other unwelcomed visitors away. I’ll have local women come in to stay with the girls.”

  “Are they reliable?”

  “They will be if they want to stay alive and get paid.”

  “How soon can they be here?”

  “A half hour. An hour, no more.”

  “All right. You go round them up. I want to be sure everything’s in place here before we return to Beirut. I’ll lead a team of six into the house. Klah and God will secure the perimeter of Alhassan’s house.” He glanced at Zara. “Not you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because in the Navy, we don’t send pregnant women into a fight.”

  “I’m not—”

  “According to Klah, the emotions don’t lie.”

  Zara paused only long enough to glare at Klah before turning and offering Grass a sweet smile. “Good thing then I’m not part of the anachronistic, chauvinistic Navy.”

  Grass sighed. “Zara, it’s not—do you know what my wife and mother would do to me if they heard I let a pregnant woman go into a firefight?”

  Zara shoved to her feet and strode to the door. She stopped beside Grass. “Got a tip for you, big guy.” She patted his cheek with as much condescension as she could muster. “Don’t tell them.”

  She would have continued on her way, but Grass’s words stopped her. “Someone has to look out for you, Zara.”

  She looked over her shoulder and met his eyes. “The last man who did killed ten men to save me. He’s now in prison on a life sentence. I can’t live with that kind of responsibility, or that kind of guilt.”

  “Zara, in the end, the only person we can be responsible for is ourselves. Whatever he did, it was his choice to save you. Don’t be stupid and stubborn on principle and put at risk what he sacrificed so much to save.”

  “You don’t understand.” She turned her back on Grass and glanced at Klah. “I’ll be ready to leave in an hour.”

  She tugged the headdress over her hair and walked to the village on the outskirts of the temple complex. The house she sought was one of the largest in the small town, its whitewashed walls baked brown by the sun. When a young girl answered the door, Zara spoke in Lebanese, “May I request the honor of a meeting with Amal Khoury?”

  The girl eyed Zara, but opened the door wide in invitation and ushered Zara into a room furnished with low couches and elaborate carpets. The girl murmured a polite welcome before quietly slipping out. Zara paced the length of the room, studying the faded photographs on the wall and the well-worn books on the shelves. The patter of slippers against tile warned her of an approaching presence, and she turned as an older woman walked toward her.

  Amal wore a traditional Lebanese pants and tunic in peacock blue, which matched the color of her eyes. Gray-streaked hair peeked out from beneath the edges of the scarf worn loosely over her head. Her face was lined, but her eyes were kindly.

  Zara inclined her head in respect, touching her fingers to her forehead and to her heart.

  Amal returned the gesture. “Who are you?”

  “I am Zara Itani.”

  Amal blinked wordlessly, and her eyes widened. “Zara? Little Zara?” She extended her hands and hurried forward. “You have come home.”

  Zara allowed the woman—her mother’s one-time best friend—to embrace her. Amal smelled of spices and fresh-baked bread. Odd how she brought to mind memories of Zara’s mother. Valeria Itani had enjoyed dabbling in the kitchen as much as she had enjoyed her art, but she had been far less competent. Zara had made multiple trips to the rubbish heap at the back of the house to discard her mother’s inedible experiments. She always returned to the kitchen, giggling, knowing that her mother would repay her with candied almonds. It was their little secret and private joke.

  Amal took a step back to study Zara. “I cannot believe…you have grown to look much like your mother. Even prettier. And your father? Is he well? Is he here, too?”

  “He is still in America. Umta Amal,” Zara added the honorific of “aunt” to her address of the older woman. “My haste is unforgivable in light of your hospitality, but I have a favor to ask.”

  Amal’s brow furrowed. “Ask, Zara.”

  “I shelter many young women at my home, but I must leave for several hours. The women must be protected in my absence, and I beg for your help.”

  “Young women.” Amal’s jaw dropped. “The schoolgirls. Nakob? You were the one.”

  “The one?”

  “My nephew tells me a woman marched into the temple complex and ordered Hezbollah to ‘heel.’”

  Who was her nephew? Zara winced. The situation, as she recalled it, had been a great deal less simple and a great deal more precarious. “He might have exaggerated.”

  “But you saved the girls from Nakob.”

  “With the help of many others, but I have not yet saved them all. I seek the last one, and she is in Beirut
.”

  Amal pressed a hand against her chest. Her other hand grasped the back of her couch for support. “You are…like your mother.”

  Zara braced herself for Amal’s cool disapproval. Yes. She was a gun-toting, dagger-wielding assassin like her mother.

  The older woman stepped forward and framed Zara’s face between the palms of her hands. She tilted Zara’s face down to breathe a kiss of blessing on Zara’s forehead. “Who are we to question the angels that Allah sends?” Wearing a fond smile, she folded her hands across her stomach. “I will organize the women to tend to the girls, but if Nakob should return—”

  “I will call in friends to protect the house.”

  “My nephew—he will help. I will fetch him.” She scurried out of the room and returned moments later, a familiar figure striding alongside her.

  Relief quickly followed the initial burst of surprise. Zara broke into a smile. “Nazrol. I hadn’t realized Amal was your aunt.”

  “She doesn’t talk too much about the black sheep in the family, until the black sheep can be useful.” Grinning, he inclined his head. “You did tell me not to go too far, so I delayed my return to Joub Jannine. I did not expect that you would call on me so quickly. My aunt tells me you need me to protect your home. I’m honored by your trust.”

  “I want you on the perimeter of the house. I trust you, but I don’t trust the girls not to panic.”

  “No.” He darted a glance at Amal. “My aunt will not be pleased if I make her job harder than it is.”

  “I leave in half an hour. How many men do you have?”

  He frowned. “Many are escorting the captured Nakob warriors to Joub Jannine. The commandant will not release them easily. He’ll need them to hold Joub Jannine. There will be trouble with Nakob over what happened today.”

  “Why? Do your men support Nakob?”

  “No, of course not. Nakob has incited the anger of those who previously believed they had nothing in common. Our governments and those they label terrorists are rarely united in our disgust, so it’s a new experience for us,” Nazrol said. “Even so, we do not appreciate the west stepping into local affairs like an angry teacher with a heavy hand on the cane. We can solve our own problems here in the Middle East. It usually takes several decades and generates a great deal of chaos, but we can do it.” He grinned, his eyes twinkling. “With luck, Nakob’s attention will focus on Joub Jannine, at least for the next few days.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  Nazrol looked away. His shoulders drooped on a silent sigh. “Not as long as the girls remain here in Baalbek.”

  Zara gritted her teeth. Grass had truly jeopardized all the girls for the sake of Lila Forrester. “Does Nakob have many men in the area?”

  “As far as I know, all of them are on their way to Joub Jannine, in the custody of my men.”

  “Then we have a small window of safety.”

  “Hours. No more than a day.”

  “How many men do you have with you now?”

  “Including myself? Ten.”

  It was more than the SEALs could wrangle. “Good enough. Can you deploy within a half hour.”

  “Of course.”

  Amal spoke up. “My nephew—” Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “—he and the men will watch over the house from a distance until you return. The women and I will accompany you to the house now. We will keep the girls safe to honor your mother’s memory.”

  “Thank you, Umta Amal. I am grateful.”

  When Zara returned to the house twenty minutes later, accompanied by several village women, Grass asked, “All set?”

  Zara nodded. “The male relatives of these women are the ones setting up a perimeter watch on the house. We’ve got coverage, although I wouldn’t recommend dilly-dallying.”

  “Is there anything I can say to convince you to stay here?”

  “Nope.”

  “Is there anything anyone can say?”

  “Possibly.” Zara bared her teeth in a humorless smile. “But he’s in a super max for life.”

  Grass grimaced. “All right, then. Get your gear. We’re rolling out.”

  12

  Dusk crawled across Beirut, the blue of the sky giving way to a brief burst of red and orange before conceding to darkness. The wealthier, more politically stable suburbs of Beirut lit with the bustle of nightlife, but south of Beirut, in the Shatila refugee camp, the evening hushed into a wary quiet.

  Perched on the top of a small hill, safely concealed among large rocks, Zara studied the ebb and flow of life in a refugee camp. Light occasionally accompanied the movement, but not always. Her perfect vision, further enhanced by technology, teased apart shades of gray into flickers of motion along the fringe. Palestinian and Syrian refugees peeled away from the camp, unraveling like frayed threads, spreading across the countryside.

  Everywhere except…

  “You’ve noticed it too.” Klah spoke quietly in her ear.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the sprawling compound nestled among thick clusters of trees. Alhassan’s villa was the only building of note near the slums of Lebanon yet, despite its appearance as a choice target, the refugees gave it a wide berth. What did they know that she didn’t?

  She murmured, “I don’t like it.”

  “And you don’t know why.”

  “No, and that probably bothers me more.”

  “The CIA says he’s clean.”

  Zara snorted under her breath. “Probably means they haven’t dug deep enough. No one is rich and clean in this part of the world. Did you get the satellite images yet?”

  He pulled a thin electronic tablet from his jacket and tapped on it to project a three-dimensional image of the compound.

  Zara glanced at it. “Standard eighteenth century Lebanese villa. One main house, multiple surrounding units, which may or may not be interconnected. Windows open inward, into the courtyard.” She raised her gaze to the house in the distance. “The walls are much higher than usual.”

  “According to God, they’re edged with broken glass.”

  “Did God report any movement?”

  Randy Jackson’s—God’s—voice murmured through Zara’s earpiece. “They’re like busy little bees in the compound.”

  Grass’s gruff tones picked up on the report. “Infrared shows at least twenty heat signatures in the house—many small enough to be female—and twelve patrolling the grounds in groups of three. Many of the surrounding buildings are also occupied. There are tiny gaps in visual coverage, so your timing will have to be precise. Zara, if you were holding a schoolgirl prisoner, where would you put her?”

  “Six feet underground. I don’t take prisoners.”

  Klah politely disguised his chuckle as a soft cough.

  Zara cleared her throat. “In fact, I wouldn’t hold the ambassador’s daughter within an hour’s drive of the U.S. Embassy, but if Yasmin’s correct, then you’ll probably find Lila in the main building.”

  Klah frowned. “If?”

  “If she’s a prisoner, she’d be in the main building. It’s more secure. The rooms on the second floor have small windows to thwart escapes. But if she’s a guest, she’ll be in one of the surrounding buildings.”

  “Why?”

  Zara jabbed a finger at the three-dimensional image of the villa. “You see these small dark rectangles near each of the surrounding units? Those are dipping pools. The outlines here are walls. Alhassan has set up multiple guesthouses, each equipped with private plunge pools and surrounded by privacy walls. You’re breaking into a goddamned resort.”

  “A resort patrolled by armed guards?”

  “I didn’t say it was Club Med.”

  Klah’s jaw tensed, but he nodded. “Are you in position?”

  “We’re in position,” Grass confirmed through the microphone. The eight men had claimed strategic positions overlooking the villa. “Pick, Hall. Go.”

  Two figures clad in black raced out from behind the thick bushes, toward the w
all. The two men pointed gun-like devices at the top of the wall. A grappling hook shot out. Its sturdy, military-grade climbing wire stretched taut as the hook’s sharp tip embedded into the wall and several prongs sprung from the side to secure the attachment.

  Bracing their feet against the wall, Pick and Hall climbed to the top.

  “Hold,” Grass ordered.

  Movement froze into perfect stillness.

  Zara peered through her infrared binoculars. Her breath caught and held for a moment as the red outlines of the patrol passed the sections of the wall where Pick and Hall crouched like spiders.

  “Clear,” Grass confirmed moments later. “Go.”

  In a flash, Pick and Hall swung over the wall and scurried down the other side. Zara followed the outline of their shadows as they dashed from the wall toward the shadows around the buildings.

  There was obviously no cover near the wall. Zara counted the seconds between the patrols, as she was certain Grass was doing.

  His voice snapped through the microphone. “Perry, Bland. Go.”

  The second group made it over the wall. “Annie, we’re next,” Grass said. “On my mark. Go.”

  The infrared outline of two men scrambled over the wall. One landed with the grace of a panther. The other fell rather than leapt, his body crumpling into a heap at the bottom of the wall.

  “Annie’s down,” Grass’s voice hissed out. The red outline of his body rushed toward Annie. “Bad landing. Blew out his knee.”

  The red shapes of three guards walked past the front gate toward Annie and Grass. A hundred feet, no more. Damn it. Grass was out of time.

  Zara flung down the infrared binoculars and raced toward the complex.

  “What are you doing?” Klah’s voice shouted through her earpiece.

  She tugged her headscarf over her hair and slumped against the door. Her fists pounded against the wood. Turn, damn it. Turn around. Come back to the gate.

  Moments later, the viewing panel in the door slid back. “Who’s that?” a harsh voice demanded in Arabic.

  “Help me, please,” Zara’s voice quavered. She forced a subtle Syrian accent into the lilt of her words. “Fighting, in the camp…”