by Chuck Holton
“So how do you reconcile your sister’s plight with God’s supposed ‘loving nature’?”
He spoke with an edge that made Liz realize something more than mere curiosity was behind his question. She decided to risk big in revealing a deep place within. She felt she had no choice, both for herself and for him.
She started drawing with her finger in the barn’s dirt floor so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “I’ve got to admit, I’m having a hard time not being mad at Him right now.”
“Hmm…” He wasn’t looking at her, either. His voice held concern, but something deeper, darker was there, too.
“You know that verse, ‘All things work for good’?”
He gave a single nod that she saw peripherally.
“Things aren’t working for good.” Liz swallowed her tears. No crying allowed in Lebanese barns. “Khalil’s dead. Julie’s missing. I’m stuck here, who knows where, messing up things for you guys.”
Sweeney climbed the ladder to the loft to take over guard duty, relieving Hogan who joined Doc in taking a nap. Frank was awake now, busy disassembling his weapon.
John sighed. “Makes you wonder just what good means to God, doesn’t it?”
Liz blinked. Good means good. Nice. For my happiness. What else could it mean? She turned to him, ready to tell him that, when Sweeney called, “Coop, get over here!”
John was on his feet and up the rickety ladder in an instant.
“What have you got, Bobby?” John crouched beside Sweeney who had his eye pressed to the scope on his XM-8.
“Coming this way.”
John shielded his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. Then he saw her, a little girl, no more than nine or ten, swinging a plastic bucket and skipping toward the barn. She was obviously oblivious to their presence, and they had to keep it that way.
“Wouldn’t do any good to shoot her,” Sweeney said as if Valor shot little girls all the time. “The noise would give us away. What if we wait until she gets here and then grab her?”
Sometimes John wondered about Sweeney. “Of course we’re not going to shoot a little girl.” The very thought put a bad taste in his mouth. “We aren’t going to grab her either. Sooner or later someone’s going to come looking.”
They watched the girl, barefooted and bareheaded, as she skipped closer to them. Her mouth was moving, and John imagined her either having a conversation with herself or singing some favorite song. When she threw her arms wide and spun around, he decided she was singing.
“Well, we’d better think of something quick,” Sweeney said.
The girl was only about a hundred yards away from the barn now. She stopped momentarily and picked a flower, sniffed it, then stuck it in a buttonhole on her purple blouse. Then singing to herself again, she continued walking closer.
John patted Sweeney’s shoulder and whispered, “I have an idea. You stand fast. I’m going to get Liz and have her talk to the kid. She can pretend she’s lost or something.”
Sweeney looked at him as if he were nuts.
“You got a better idea?” John challenged. “We’ve got to keep her from seeing us.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Sweeney protested.
John turned back toward the ladder. Before he reached it, however, one foot broke through the rotten boards of the loft with a loud crash. John caught himself with one leg dangling through the broken planks and froze, hoping for all he was worth that the sound hadn’t traveled outside the barn.
It had.
Sweeney cursed. “She’s turned tail and is running back toward wherever she came from!”
John pulled his leg free, taking care not to come in contact with a couple of lethally pointed floorboards. He checked for any puncture wounds. None, though there would probably be a nasty red gouge along his inside thigh. Thank goodness for denim! He stepped gingerly to the ladder.
“John, are you all right?”
He glanced down to see Liz’s concerned face. He winced as the setting sun cut through the doorway and across her face, highlighting her swollen, discolored eye. Sitting with her in the gloom of the barn, he hadn’t realized it was so bad.
“Fine,” he mouthed, then turned and started down. “Come on, Sweeney. We’ve got to get out of here while we still can.”
Lebanese Countryside
IMAD HIJAZI STOOD on top of his aging Mercedes and scanned the surrounding hillsides with high-powered binoculars, looking for any sign of the American soldiers.
They were out there; he knew it.
When his men found the abandoned van the night before, its insides stained with spilled blood, he knew he would win. He had been able to muster ninety men from their homes, nearly one-third of the total membership of Ansar Inshallah and a testament to his power in the camp.
“We must find them!” he told the men, his voice ringing with intensity. “They have come uninvited into our homes. Our women and children must be protected! Islam must prevail!”
He was tempted to rally the men with tales of the coming Great Fire Storm, but he reined in the impulse. The fewer who knew of it, the greater the chance for its success. Besides, his gifted rhetoric had accomplished what was needed.
The men searched all night and into the morning with great diligence, but they found nothing.
Still, he was a man of great cunning. He would outthink these weakened Americans. They had to be headed for the coast, hoping to somehow be rescued by the American Navy. East toward Syria would not be an option for them, and it would be insane to attempt to cross into Israel, even with the help of the Israeli Defense Forces. It had to be west toward the water.
Imad left nothing to chance, so he stationed a man on each road leading to the coast. He also dispatched several men to drive around and ask the locals if they had seen a troop of highly armed American men with a dark-haired woman in tow. So far, nothing, and now it was getting dark again.
His superiors had argued among themselves about whether or not to involve Hezbollah in the search. That organization had many thousands of men who could respond to the call and hunt down the Americans. In the end Hezbollah’s leadership made the decision that with the Syrians now gone, it was best for their image as a legitimate political party not to do anything that might make it look as if they were terrorists.
That was fine with Imad. He smiled as he savored the thought of the invaders’ capture. It must happen soon for the timing of the Great Fire Storm, and he was the one who would make it happen. He was the one who would get the credit. Delivering the Americans’ heads on a platter would ensure his position within the movement. Between the capture of the Americans and the success of Allah’s Fire, he would be lauded throughout all of Islam.
His favorite tune played again from his jacket pocket. He fished for the phone and flipped it open. “Naaem?”
The rapid-fire Arabic voice on the other end was filled with excitement. “A man in the valley says his daughter heard someone in their barn not thirty minutes ago. He thought she was imagining things until we came asking questions.”
“Excellent. Where are you?”
“On the road to Bfaroua.”
“Stay there. I will arrive with twenty men as soon as possible. Watch for the Americans.”
He slapped the phone shut. Warmth spread through Imad’s chest.
I have them.
Southeast Lebanon
Julie lay on the cot in her new cell, its stone walls looking like they were hewn out of rock. This room was smaller than the first one, and the care she received here, wherever here was, was far poorer than at the first place. A lumpy mattress, a shaggy blanket, and no pillow. Food once a day, twice if she were lucky, and never enough to satisfy her hunger. The only thing she got on any schedule was her medicine.
It made no sense. Why did they threaten her life on one hand, then give her medicine on the other? If they planned to kill her as they said, why ease her pain?
And why wait? Why not just drag her out and do the deed?
; What’s going on, dear God?
How she had gotten to this new prison, Julie wasn’t certain. The man had grabbed her and forced her from her old jail, but after that she remembered nothing until she woke up here.
A drug of some kind, she assumed. Vaguely she remembered the prick of a syringe. Well, she had to live with the painful flare up from the rough treatment, but at least she hadn’t suffered at the time it was inflicted. If she only had a pillow to ease the pain in her neck and upper spine, she’d feel much better.
To her surprise she missed Karima. Here she saw no one. The door was opened, a tray was shoved in by unseen hands, and the door was shut. No one said a word to her.
Except the Lord. He spoke comfort to her, easing her fears, filling her with hope in the middle of her despair. She talked to Him out loud. He answered with whispers to her heart.
“I ask your forgiveness for being so shallow in my love for You.”
How great is the love I have lavished on you that you should be called My child.
“But why, Lord? Why would You love someone like me?”
I am love, and I have loved you with an everlasting love.
The comfort she received from these conversations was beyond her understanding. She just knew it was so. The sad thing was that she’d had to be in such a terrible situation before she called to Him with any real yearning, any real heart.
“I am so alone and afraid!”
I will never leave you or forsake you.
One of the deep desires of Julie’s heart became the wish to tell Liz what the Lord now meant to her. She knew her sister worried about her lack of spiritual depth and about her deliberate choice to marry Khalil in spite of the large religious differences between them. How wonderful it would be to say, “Liz, I love the Lord deeply now. I understand what you used to try to tell me.”
And she wanted to tell Charles and Annabelle that she was a follower of Christ.
“I want to confess You before men, Lord.”
If you confess Me before men, I’ll confess you before My Father in heaven.
“I will. I’ll do it if I get the chance. I promise.”
She was talking aloud when the door to her cell suddenly crashed open. She spun, heart pounding. They had come for her. It had to be that. She’d had two meals today, two bottles of water, and her full regimen of medicines. There was no reason for anyone to come again until tomorrow.
“Oh, Lord, don’t let it hurt too much. And take care of Liz and Charles and Annabelle.”
Karima walked into the room, a tray in her hands.
“Karima!” Julie wanted to throw her arms around the young woman, but she wasn’t certain how Karima would react. She was still the infidel, after all. Still, she couldn’t stop smiling. “What are you doing here?”
“I have your dinner,” Karima said stiffly, walking across the room.
The door shut behind her, and suddenly Karima was smiling also. “I told them they had to bring me to care for you.” She put down the tray on the cot. “I told them only I could keep you well.”
Julie threw her arms around her friend, for that’s what Karima had become. Karima held herself aloof for a few seconds. Then she softened and hugged Julie back. The women sat next to each other on the cot.
“Where am I?” Julie asked, hoping she’d finally get some answers.
Karima shook her head. “Please do not ask me. I cannot tell you.”
“What is this building?”
“It is a ruined fort, maybe from the time of the Crusaders, maybe from the time of the Turks.” Karima shrugged. “It is being used for a special project.”
“What’s the project? Me?”
“I do not know. No one knows. But somehow you are vital.”
Julie frowned. No matter how hard she tried, she could think of no way that she was vital to anything these terrorists would do.
Karima studied her. “They give you medicine?”
“They do. I have no idea what it is, but I don’t care. It helps.” What it might be doing to her liver or her stomach lining she refused to consider. If they were going to kill her, what did it matter anyway?
Karima studied her hands. “They play that tape of you on TV all the time.”
Julie tried to speak, but the thought of her parents having to watch her bound and on her knees gave her a lump in her throat too large to get words around.
“I have been worried about you.” Karima looked away as she said it. “Afraid they had hurt you.”
That was a costly confession for the young woman to make. It was well on the way to wondering whether those who held Julie might be wrong. She tried to hide her excitement. If Karima could question one thing, she might well be able to question others. She might actually wonder if the legalistic subjugation to Allah was also wrong.
“Thank you. You are a good friend.” She laid her hand on Karima’s.
“No!” Karima stood and ran the six steps to the other side of the room. “I am not a good friend.” She spun to Julie, her hands shaking. “Always remember that if I must choose, I must choose Allah. I must choose my people. I must make certain that Rashid’s death was not in vain.”
With that she walked to the door, rapped on it until it was unlocked, and left without a backward glance.
Southeast Lebanon
If only these guys didn’t have such long legs! They were moving through the night at a brisk pace. Though it probably felt like a walk in the park to them, to Liz it was too fast for a walk and too slow for a jog. So it was walk, walk, jog, walk, walk, jog.
Or, her personal favorite, walk, walk, jog, step in a hole. It was a good thing she had strong ankles, or they’d be carrying her.
They walked single file with about ten feet between them. She was assigned to walk behind John and in front of Sweeney. She felt the daggers the tall Southerner tossed at her back. What was his problem? All women? Just her? Or was she receiving the venom he felt for reasons she knew nothing about?
Maybe he got left at the altar. Maybe he’d just gotten a Dear John letter. Maybe his mama ran away from home when he was just a little boy wandering barefoot in the Alabama heat. Of course, if Sweeney’s father was anything like Sweeney, no wonder the woman ran.
Misogynist! She’d tell him that’s what he was, but he’d probably take it as a compliment.
At least the mental griping about Sweeney took her mind off the blister on her right foot for a while. Doc had put ointment and moleskin on it, but with every step, it still shrieked at her.
John held up his hand, and everyone stopped. Liz sank to the ground. To her surprise, so did John and Rip. She watched as they lay on their stomachs beside each other.
A soft flutter made her glance up, and there was Doc, shaking out an emergency blanket he’d pulled from a vest pocket. He let the blanket fall over John and Rip, covering them from the hips up. Then Doc, Hogan, and Sweeney stood guard, forming a perimeter of sorts around the men on the ground.
Frank lowered himself gingerly to the ground next to Liz. Aside from moving a bit carefully, he gave no sign of having been shot. His endurance seemed as inexhaustible as the others’.
“You okay?” she whispered as softly as she could. He obviously wasn’t, or he would be standing guard with the others.
Frank nodded and took a drink from his canteen.
She pointed to the blanket and the four legs sticking out. Then she spread her hands in the universal what’s-up gesture.
Frank leaned toward her. “Reading the map.”
Liz blinked. “GPS?”
“Too much light.” He pointed to the small LED penlight clipped to his vest, then to the huddle.
Liz nodded. The night was black, the moon a mere crescent so dim it shed little illumination. A light, no matter how small, would stand out clearly. The green illumination of the GPS would advertise their location as clearly as if she stood on a rock and yelled, “Over here, boys!”
Route established, John and Rip got to their fe
et. John pointed to the right. The men fell into position, Frank grunting as he rose to take his place. Rip continued on point, and Hogan brought up the rear. Liz fell in behind John again. They walked for about an hour in the direction that Liz thought was south, then turned right again. If she was right, they were heading for the coast now.
They trudged—well, the men walked, she trudged—up a rocky hillside. At the top they found a road. They hadn’t gone more than a few yards on it when the headlights of a single car flashed in the distance, then rolled toward them. Everyone dove for cover, which in this area of the country was sorely lacking.
Once again, John pulled her close, tucking her head into his shoulder, pressing his face to the ground. Pale skin would stand out in the night.
Liz held her breath, too scared to move.
“Breathe, girl.” John’s voice was a thread of sound.
“Oh.” She forced herself to pull oxygen into her aching lungs. She was still scared silly, but at least she wouldn’t pass out now.
The car sped past. No one moved for a few minutes. When John rose and held a hand to Liz, she grabbed it and let him pull her to her feet. The team fell in line. They had crested another small hill when they saw a line of cars coming their way. Liz counted at least five pairs of headlights.
Rip fell back from his point position to stand beside John. “We’re never going to get to the coast at this rate,” he muttered.
John grunted. He raised his arm and pointed to the left. South. They dropped down into a slight ravine and walked away from the road. When the ravine turned left, they continued to follow it. East. Toward Syria and Jordan.
Fatigue hazed Liz’s vision as they entered a small village. She read a sign posted by the road: Zebdine. The few houses were all dark, and not even a dog noticed their presence.
Liz looked at John’s back hopefully. Maybe he’d call a halt and let them rest for a while. Her legs felt like jelly, and with every step her shins complained loudly about their abuse.
Lord, it certainly isn’t an all-things-working-for-good thing if my lack of stamina endangers these men.
