by C. R. Daems
When Itzig rose, I shot her in the chest and began moving quickly toward Itzig's private guard, who I knew was going to be a problem. The impact drove her stumbling backward, her face twisted in anger as her right hand fumbled under her apron. My second shot hit her in the head, sending her sprawling backward onto the couch.
Shet was drawing his weapon as his head turned in my direction but too late. I was now within a step of him. As I had observed, he was loyal and brave. Telling him to freeze—even with a gun pointing at him—wouldn't have stopped him from trying to save his employer, not even at the cost of his life. My hand slammed down on his gun hand as I swept through his legs. He and the gun went airborne.
"Why?" Itzig shouted as he backed farther away, while looking for someplace to hide.
"Sorry, Shet, but the alternative would have been to kill you. You're a dedicated man and would have tried to kill me, thinking you were saving your employer. Before Mr. Itzig has a stroke, why don't you go see whether I shot an innocent waitress or a very pretty and clever Assassin? I'm wagering she has some kind of a compact pistol with a silencer under her apron."
I stepped back and picked up Shet's Barak SP-21. He looked to be debating some foolish move, but after a few seconds he rose and walked to the woman, knelt, and patted her down. Then he lifted the apron and looked back to me. In her waistband a pistol with a silencer was clearly visible.
"Leave it, Shet. The police hate it when anyone messes with their crime scene." I put my gun away and walked to the table, picked up my egg sandwich, and backed up against the wall just as the FBI hallway guard burst into the room, gun drawn.
"How?" Itzig asked.
"Lots of clues. She's wearing someone else's clothes, her shoes are too expensive for her salary, she watched our positions as she set the table, she was right-handed but offered the room charge with her left hand, and she had predatory eyes." She screamed Assassin if you weren't ogling the good-looking woman or seeing what you expected to see rather than what was in front of you.
"You shot her without giving her—" Shet began.
"A chance to shoot me. Neither she nor I were looking for a fair contest. She was seconds away from killing all three of us, which would have upset a lot of people."
"What if you had been wrong?" Itzig asked, obviously in shock on several levels.
"What if..." I said, leaving the other alternatives to his imagination and taking a bite of my egg sandwich.
* * *
The FBI took charge of the scene and moved Itzig to another suite. While that was going on I got a call from Witton.
"Are you all right, Megan? I just got a call from the Committee. They said a Kazak was involved in an assassination attempt on the Israeli Envoy."
"I'm fine." I went on to explain what happened in detail, because I knew he would have to brief the Committee.
"I think you did the right thing, but the Committee might wonder why you didn't ask her to surrender rather than shoot her without warning. It would be a reasonable question, given that the police and the FBI would be criticized and possibly tried on criminal charges for not giving a warning when they hadn't been threatened.
"I wouldn't surrender to an Assassin, so why would she have surrendered to me? She was a professional and had a bullet-proof vest on, so she might have considered the odds of winning in her favor. Even if I won, it might still have resulted in my client's death from a stray bullet."
"I agree. I think our protocol is right and, of course, so long as you aren't killing innocent people no one is going to argue." He hung up.
"Megan, the Israel-Palestine relations committee has moved my testimony to three o'clock today. When are you being relieved?"
"I'm your shadow until you leave America."
"But you shot..."
"Because of who we guard, Kazaks have immunity and are not subject to the same rules as the police or FBI. The shooting will be reviewed but by a separate agency after my current assignment has been completed."
"A very interesting concept. Perhaps we Israeli need to consider a similar agency." He studied me for a moment before continuing. "Do you think the threat is over?"
"I have to assume it's not, otherwise I'd relax and we could both get killed. It might well depend on what you are here to tell the committee and whose interest that affects."
"I'm going to share our intelligence on an American firm's plans to sell weapons to the Iranians," he said quietly, and I immediately wondered where I could buy an Ares-16 with an under-slung grenade launcher and a month's worth of ammo.
* * *
"I concede you understand Assassins better than the rest of us," Reynolds said as we prepared to leave for the congressional panel hearing. "Do you think there will be another attempt?"
"Yes, definitely."
"When and where, do you think?" he asked as if I could possibly know.
Not that I hadn't given it a lot of thought—surprise is the Assassins' advantage. There would certainly be plenty of excellent opportunities: in the hotel going to the car, driving to the capital building, in the building hallways, and in the conference room. I thought the car the least likely because of the lack of getaway.
Professional Assassins aren't suicidal by nature. Usually they are very cautious and methodical. A sniper on the way to the car was a reasonable option if they could count on us bringing him out the front which, after one attempt, didn't seem reasonable—so in the hotel or in the congressional building. I thought the hotel the least likely since they couldn't be sure when we would leave and which exits, etc. That would appear suicidal, unless ...
"Today, in the congressional building," I said, having reached what I thought the most logical choice.
"I disagree. The hotel is my choice. Fewer police and people." He gave me a knowing smile.
I hoped he was right but was sure he wasn't.
"There will be a diversion of some kind. Ignore it," I said. That was the only way the Assassin could get away in a secure building. One shot, and he disappears in the panic.
Reynolds had four men assigned to accompany Itzig out of the hotel. They were on full adrenaline alert as we proceeded down the hall to the elevator, through the lobby, and into the waiting Chevrolet Suburbans. Reynolds and the other two FBI men were noticeably relaxed on the ride to the capital building, believing the threat was over and the rest normal security.
My mind was quiet in anticipation of the probable assassination attempt. To his credit, Itzig didn't look nervous but rather deep in thought as he reviewed his folder of notes—typical martyr, duty above all else. His security looked alert.
Mani leaned closer to me. "Diversion you think?" he asked, obviously having heard me talking to Reynolds.
I nodded. "Ignore it. Everyone else will be focused on it."
He leaned closer to Shet and they whispered.
When we reached the capital building, the driver waited until the agents had gotten out of the second vehicle. With two agents leading the way, two following, Shet and Mani to Itzig's left, and me to his right, we proceeded into the building, through security, up the stairs, and down the hallway to the conference room. I attempted to scan every person, but in reality there were too many coming, going, and waiting. I had to hope I was right and wait for the diversion to signal the start of the action. I felt calm and ready.
We were sequestered in a side room, waiting for the committee, which had been on a thirty-minute recess awaiting Itzig's arrival. When he was called, the FBI took up positions around the room. Shet and Mani stood off to the side nearest Itzig. I followed Itzig to his seat and took up a position standing behind him. I had scanned the audience, which seemed to be half reporters. Kneeling in front of the raised committee platform were another ten photographers.
"Kazak Megan, I presume," said the woman Chair, looking directly at me.
I nodded.
"Do you have to stand?"
"Yes, ma'am. Protocol."
"Well, protocol here demands you sit
."
"Ma'am, Mr. Itzig has already had one assassination attempt, and another one is likely before he finishes his testimony, therefore—"
Multiple bangs interrupted me, and I could hear panic had erupted in the room behind me. It took all my willpower not to turn toward the noise and instead to focus on the front of the room. As I scanned the area, I swept my leg through the legs of Itzig's chair, while pushing him backward and drawing my Glock.
The committee members had either ducked behind their table or were making a mad scramble for the exit behind them. But the photographers all saw this as an opportunity for a Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph and were either up on one knee or standing and taking pictures of the action.
I saw a slight flash from a camera and immediately felt a burning pain in my side, which turned me ninety degrees. Rather than fight it, I continued to spin to a sitting position, which gave me a view under Itzig's table of the kneeling photographers and the legs of the ones standing.
One photographer knelt in an attempt to bring his camera-gun to focus on Itzig.
I shot him in the head twice. As I uncoiled back to a standing position to see better, the pain lanced through my side and I saw flashes of white. When I could see again, the photographers were scrambling left and right to get away from me. Feeling exposed, I shouted, "Kazak Megan, Mr. Izig's security," as I turned to face the audience.
Reynolds had his agents empty the room while a paramedic examined Itzig and me. Itzig had a few bruises from me slamming him to the floor. I had a bullet in my side, had lost a lot of blood, and was transported to the hospital against my objections, thinking I should stay with Itzig. In reality, I would have been hard pressed to defend Itzig against a couple of one-year-old babies with rattles.
* * *
I woke with tubes in my mouth and up my nose, an IV in my arm, machines beeping, and the smell of antiseptics. I felt all right until I went to move and my body sent waves of protest to my brain. As I waited for my brain to calm down, I saw Witton rise and approach the bed.
"What happened?" I asked, after a nurse removed the tubes from my mouth, as I tried to collect my thoughts.
"Before or after you deserted your client and took to your bed?" Witton asked without smiling, although his eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Is he alive?" I was seriously concerned. Security, whether American or Israeli, tended to be reactive and hesitant to act—not that I blamed them. They were handicapped and not trained for professional Assassins. The Committee had gotten it right when they adopted the Kazak organization and gave its members immunity.
"Yes, thanks to you. The committee cleared the room and held a closed-door session. Afterward, the committee held a press conference where it was disclosed that Itzig had testified and was returning to Israel. They thanked the Israeli government and Itzig for the intelligence they had shared with the United States and reiterated how strong the bond was between the two countries. Itzig left this morning."
"Why are you here?" I asked.
"To find out how my agent got shot and determine if she needs more training." Witton did smile this time. "To make sure you're all right and find out when you'll be ready for another assignment."
I snorted a laugh and instantly regretted it, as my side felt as though someone had stabbed me. "I guess you'd like my report, but only if you'll record it and have someone type it for me." I hated written reports. Typing it was easy. It was the ten subsequent edits to make it readable that I found so annoying.
"Deal. The Committee will be interested in hearing the details and then patting themselves on the back at being so clever as to have assigned a Kazak to Itzig."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
What Next?
"You were lucky," Jody said as we sat in my condo two weeks later.
"No, I was dumb as a rock. Never, I repeat, never stand directly behind your client. I pushed him out of the way and took the bullet intended for him."
"Is that why you've been moping around for the last week? When you told me the wound wasn't that bad, I expected you to be off to Europe or Australia or somewhere, chasing men."
"I like simple, and suddenly my life has gotten complicated," I said and received a worried look from Jody.
"I thought you loved this life. Getting shot change your mind?"
"I do love this life. That's not the problem. Witton and the Committee have heaped too many decisions on me...and then there is Jason."
"Let's start with Jason," Jody's smile broadened, and she leaned forward.
"It's not that the attempted rape put me off men. Quite a few try to use force to some extent or other, but it's getting harder to find good hookups—men you enjoy when you aren't in bed. Jason is fun to be with in and out of bed."
"So what's the problem—other than you weren't looking for a steady and I was, but you found one and I haven't? I would slap you silly except you're in rehab."
"The problem is: why would he want someone like me? It would be like being married to a combat marine. I'd be gone most of the time and he'd have to worry about me being killed when I wasn't with him...and what man wants a woman who’s a combat soldier?" I really was feeling sorry for myself.
"He does or he doesn't. Don't try using logic. It doesn't work with love. Now, what else?"
"Witton has given me several options. Apparently, the Israeli Envoy, Itzig, was impressed with the Kazak concept. He has convinced his government to start a Kazak program of their own. He would like me to design the program and to consult. The State Department likes the idea. Alternatively, I can continue on as a lone agent, but he would like me to spend some time on the Hill, consulting. It's too much!" I whined.
"Start with Jason. He's the key to what you will want to do next." Jody smiled.
"I'm scared...of commitments...of what he will say," I mumbled. "But you're right.
To be continued.
