by David Khara
“I warned you, guys,” he muttered as he lifted his prey off the ground. “Needles make me nervous.”
Chapter 21
As Jackie reassessed the events of the High Line, she began putting the puzzle pieces of Eytan’s true intentions together. She didn’t know if it was simple intuition or her years with the CIA. Either way, she was positive that Jeremy hadn’t been used as bait, but rather as a decoy so Eytan could locate any opponents they hadn’t sighted. She’d bet a million bucks that the agent had deliberately drawn his enemies to the roof. That way, he had control over where the fight would go down.
Although she was impressed by the genius of the plan, she beat herself up for taking so long to figure it out. As for his habit of using himself as a sacrifice—and disguising it behind a front of indifference—the Mossad agent would get a big talking-to.
For now, however, her objective was getting to him as quickly as possible. Jackie had practiced rigorous strength and conditioning exercises ever since she was a teenager, and she had above-average speed and agility, even after her pregnancy. Now was her opportunity to show off her skills.
Moments later, she had made it to the front of the building, at the top of which Eytan had set up camp. She ran to the alley to find the fire escape. Jackie stopped in her tracks. This alley was a graphic illustration of the paradox of urban life. In contrast to the pristine avenues where well-heeled residents lived, worked, dined, and shopped, this was a dark and desolate world. Trash containers overflowing with garbage lined the walls. They appeared to have been picked through. The smell of human urine filled the air. Abandoned sleeping bags, filthy blankets, and cardboard panels, the remnants of the homeless men and women who had spent the night in this place, littered the ground. While it didn’t appear that any of them remained, two bloody and battered men were lying on the ground a few feet from the stairs, which were dangling down the side of the building. It looked like the men had taken a fall. They were groggy and staring at the sky. It was the ideal moment for a surprise attack.
~ ~ ~
Eytan resisted the temptation to crush the windpipe of the man whose neck he was gripping. He was spared for the moment, but Eytan had no compunction about settling this by leaving a trail of dead bodies. “War is horrible, but slavery is worse,” Churchill had said. And Eytan would never again subject himself to enslavement, no matter the cost—the death of dozens, hundreds, or if it came to it, his own. That was bad news for anyone who wanted to capture him again. In an absurd world where some people understood only violence and cruelty, war was necessary to bring about peace. He had promised himself years earlier that if he had to resort to violence, it would be because he had hope. He hoped that one day violence would no longer be necessary. He would never give up on that ideal.
He put away his weapon and ripped the little microphone from his prey’s throat, pulling out a flesh-colored wire and earpiece along with it.
“Don’t be offended,” Eytan said as he wiped the device against his jacket. “You look clean enough, but you never know. What’s your sergeant’s name?”
“I’m not telling you anything,” the man wheezed.
“Spare me your heroic special-forces bullshit,” Eytan said as he equipped himself with the earpiece. “I just killed one of your teammates in cold blood, bashed another one’s skull in, and am now holding you in a rather compromising position. Your feet are dangling off the ground, and you’re between me and your sniper boss, meaning he’ll have to tear a hole through you to get to me. Just how far do you think I’ll go to get what I want?”
Looking terrified, his hostage answered the question.
“Terry. Sergeant Tim Terry, Marines Corps.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard. All right, now you’re going to be a good little captive and keep your mouth shut. I need to have a word with Daddy. Can you hear me, Sergeant Terry?” Keeping his gun aimed at the hostage’s heart, Eytan lowered him to the ground.
“Loud and clear, Eytan Morgenstern,” Terry said. “How is it that you’re still standing after my men shot you with those sedatives?”
“Sedatives and other anesthetics have little effect on me, I’m afraid.”
“That trait’s not mentioned in your file. It must come in handy.”
“Not when I’m getting a bullet pulled out of my flesh, trust me.”
“How did you know we weren’t going to kill you?”
“I’m often in the predicament of attracting unsavory admirers who lust after my body. I’m no good to them if I’m not alive. And the team that tried to kidnap Jacqueline Walls at the sheriff’s department last night used sedatives. I didn’t see why the strategy today would be any different.”
“Makes sense.”
“Doesn’t it? So, I’m giving you the opportunity to abandon your mission without losing any more men.”
“Negative. My orders are clear. You are to join the program.”
“What program?”
“Come with me, and find out.”
“I have a better idea. How about I don’t listen to you and finish off your men.”
“Don’t waste your time. Those three are disposables,” Terry said as he took a deep breath.
Eytan released his prisoner and rolled on his side just as a bullet penetrated the skull of the curly-haired jogger. A second shot executed the metrosexual, who had been writhing on the ground after getting punched in the head. The bullet definitively ended his suffering.
“Looks like it’s time to play ball,” Eytan announced as he somersaulted back toward his bag.
“I have to bring you back alive, but no one said anything about unharmed or in one piece,” said Terry.
The Mossad agent leaped to his feet and ran toward the rooftop door, his only way down.
As he sped toward the door, the questions raced through his mind. Terry had called the men on the rooftop disposables. Did that mean the second team wasn’t disposable? And if so, why? He turned around and ran back the other way, toward the side of the roof where the fire escape had been located. The second team would be somewhere in this vicinity.
Despite the bullets flying around him, he heard a voice down below: a woman screaming at the top of her lungs, “Eytan... If you’re nearby, help me!”
Jacqueline clearly had serious issues with authority.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he propelled himself forward and leaped off the roof.
~ ~ ~
Two minutes earlier
Damn it. Here she was, cornered in another dirty alley, the same way she was in Zurich, when she first encountered the giant. Jackie was sick and tired of oafs preying on the weaker sex, even if, as in this case, weakness was a relative term.
Sure, a nitpicker would point out that she was the one who initiated the fight by kicking the first guy in the head before sending a right hook to the second guy’s stomach. But according to the laws of physics, the two goons should have been conked out or at least down for the count. And yet the blows seemed to have doubled their desire to beat her up. She was now forced to twirl in all directions to dodge her opponents’ attacks.
Jackie knew she had three things going for her. First, if the fight turned into a chase, the fake cripple appeared to be just a tad off his game. Meanwhile, the other guy, the one who had been behind the wheelchair, had an odd windmill-like swing—a technique that wasn’t working for him. And she had a gun, while the two attackers didn’t appear to be armed. But she hadn’t been able to draw her weapon, because she was busy dodging and landing blows. And the two men worked well together. Without her realizing it, they had backed her against the wall. The fake gimp went in for a kick, which she narrowly dodged. Her attacker’s foot smashed into the bricks, which crumbled under the blow. Cornered, Jackie called for help.
~ ~ ~
Ten feet before hitting the ground, Eytan grabbed the fire escape railing, which creaked under his weight and swung like a pendulum.
Startled by the noise from above, the men looked up
. Before they had time to react, the Kidon agent steadied himself against the wall, and with every bit of strength in his legs, he thrust himself backward. He landed in a crouch next to Jackie.
“You don’t have to yell,” he chided as he stood up. “I’m here.”
The two attackers bolted off.
“What’s with that? They were ready to kill me two seconds ago, and as soon as you show up, they race off,” Jackie said.
“They received orders to withdraw,” Eytan yelled, giving them chase. “We need one of them, and in a condition to talk!”
The fake gimp picked up his pace, like an accelerating car about to reach cruising speed. He quickly outdistanced Eytan, who knew he wouldn’t be able to catch up. The man’s associate, however, was still fair game.
The Mossad agent lunged, and with the help of his impressive size and reach, grabbed the slowpoke’s ankle. He brought him to the ground, caught hold of his hair, and smashed his face against the pavement. But with a limber chest swerve, the guy landed a backswing. A second swing, this time to the throat, sent the giant flying against a trash collector. Two garbage bags landed on Eytan’s head as he crashed on the pavement. Although his head didn’t hurt, his ribs did. The attacker rose from the ground, and to Eytan’s surprise, he didn’t take off. Instead, he began reporting to Sergeant Terry through his communication device, his eyes fixed on Jackie, who until now had been staring wide-eyed at the confrontation.
The man rushed toward Jackie. She dodged a right jab—just barely—then a left. The attempted punches, however, managed to destabilize her. The attacker pulled his arm back to land a hook. Eytan knew she couldn’t avoid this one, but in the blink of an eye, she made a desperate move. She placed both hands on the man’s wrist and followed his movement rather than countering it. With her firm hold, she jumped up, wrapped her legs around his outstretched arm, and secured her feet on his shoulder. Locked in place, she pulled with strength Eytan couldn’t believe. No tendon or joint could resist such punishment—he was sure of it. He heard an awful cracking. Then ripped fabric. Jackie fell backward and wound up on the ground. Eytan could see by the look on her face that she had no comprehension of what had just happened.
Eytan hoisted himself up. His vision was blurry. His balance was shaky, and his side hurt so much, he was having a hard time breathing. He estimated that he had sustained two–no three–broken ribs. Once on his feet, he watched the man run off. Eytan felt too bad to chase him. He looked at Jackie. She was sprawled on the ground, frozen still. She was holding the sleeve of the man’s jacket. And his entire arm was inside.
Chapter 22
Poland, January 1943
A man and woman were taking comfort in the generous warmth of the blaze in their stone fireplace as they sat in front of a piping-hot tureen of soup. Cecylia picked up a wooden ladle and dipped it into the dish. She slowly stirred the few carrots and potatoes in the watery broth.
Bohdan watched with ravenous eyes. The uncustomary breakfast would be the highlight of his day and was, indeed, an indulgence in these times. Like a swarm of insatiable parasites, the occupying troops had forced farmers like Bohdan to turn over a substantial portion of their crops and livestock. According to the Wehrmacht, they were to use the meager resources they were left with to survive and grow more crops. Bohdan didn’t doubt that they’d be looted all over again.
The hard yet honest tradition of working the land had become servitude. Bohdan felt not only defeated, but also enslaved.
Admittedly, everyone had little tricks for improving the situation, like burying small stashes in a nearby forest. They did it both to survive and to undermine the Germans’ efforts.
Bohdan held out his bowl to Cecylia. She gave him a healthy portion but hardly filled her own bowl. As a girl, she had been blessed with a slender figure and a fair complexion. The lines that creased her face now didn’t affect her beauty in Bohdan’s eyes. In fact, he found her even lovelier than she had been on their wedding day. He never tired of the sight of her. He didn’t tell her, though. He wasn’t the kind of man who expressed emotion, partly because he couldn’t find the words and partly because he would have been embarrassed.
They had been married for fifty years, and he still couldn’t figure out why she had been attracted to a big schmuck like him. With her effortless charm, perfect upbringing, and strong will, she could have done much better. She could have married a college professor or a doctor. So why had she picked him, a simple farmer with hardly any education? Was she attracted to his huge build, his strong hands, and his mop of salt-and-pepper hair, which had been that color ever since he was a teenager? Granted, he did have an extraordinary work ethic. Tales about him—some of which were far-fetched—had circulated in the nearby villages.
According to one rumor, Bohdan had once hauled a cart filled to the brim with wood for several miles after his ox had gotten injured. A lie. The cart had only been a third full.
Some people claimed that Bohdan could do the work of ten farmers. He didn’t deny that one. From the time he was a young man, he had been able to outperform several farmers combined. Even today he could outdo most strapping boys.
But Bohdan did consider himself a failure at one thing. He had never been able to say “I love you” to the two people who gave meaning to his life: his wife and his son, Josef. The boy, whose colossal size mirrored his father’s, had enlisted in the Polish army and had climbed his way to lieutenant. The family had celebrated Josef’s commission in the summer of 1939. That was his last visit to the farm. One month before the German forces invaded.
Since then, the couple hadn’t heard from Josef, whose picture stood on their dresser. More than three years of silence. More than three years of waiting. But Bohdan never gave up hope of seeing his pride and joy walk through the door.
He refused to consider, even for a moment, the possibility that something had happened to their son. He ignored Cecylia whenever she mentioned her fears. He would dive into his work with even more earnestness. It distracted him from any worries.
On this morning, Bohdan looked at his wife with tenderness and gratitude, then plunged his spoon into his soup.
Two knocks on the window interrupted their feast. Cecylia was about to get up, but Bohdan stopped her with a hand gesture. He pushed back his chair and walked cautiously toward the window.
“Who’s there?”
“The hungry,” someone replied in a hushed but determined voice. The farmer relaxed, stepped over to the front door, and opened it a crack to find a man with long hair the color of sand and a matching beard. People called him the Tawny Bear—or just the Bear. He was wearing a snow-speckled brown parka. A German MP40 submachine gun was hoisted over his shoulder. In his hands was a white czapka.
Bohdan stared at him for a few moments. Despite the bulldog-like expression under the beard and the fearsome reputation, the old man could still recognize Janusz, Josef’s childhood friend, now in his thirties, who had often joined them on their fishing trips.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Jablonski,” he said.
“Come in, Janusz,” Bohdan replied, glancing over the man’s shoulder to make sure he was alone.
“I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Don’t worry,” Bohdan said as he put on a thick coat, a gift from Josef. The Germans came by yesterday. They won’t be back for a little while. The crates are ready. I’ll go to the barn to get them.”
He lit a small lantern, and as he closed the door behind him, an icy breath of winter air rushed into the small dining room. The flames in the fireplace flickered for a few seconds before rising again.
~ ~ ~
Cecylia pulled back a chair. “Have a seat,” she said.
The man declined the invitation and remained standing. He had always been a gawky kid, Cecylia thought. Even if he was a hardened resistance fighter now, he still had some of that boyish awkwardness.
“Any news?” Janusz asked, pointing toward the framed black-and-white photo.
&nb
sp; “Of course not,” Cecylia answered, getting up from her chair. “Bohdan is still hanging onto the hope that Josef will come back one day. When he thinks I’m asleep, he plants himself in front of the dresser and talks to that photo for hours. Sometimes I see tears running down his cheeks. Can you believe it, Janusz? My Bohdan crying?”
Janusz walked over to Cecylia and put a hand on her shoulder.“You have to stay optimistic, Mrs. Jablonski. That’s all we can do.”
She took Janusz’s hand and gave it a tender kiss. “Optimism is no longer appropriate,” she replied. “The time for hatred has come. Can you do us a favor?”
“I don’t have much to offer, but you know I’d do anything for the two of you.”
“Be merciless,” she begged. “Kill as many of them as possible. Do whatever it takes.”
Janusz looked at his gun and cracked a predatory smile.
“You can count on me. I’m going to go join your husband. Wish me luck,” he concluded as he put on his cap.
He walked out the door, and Cecylia felt a lump in her throat. Janusz hadn’t said “see you soon.” His life was too uncertain. But even though she thought her husband was foolish to cling to the illusion that their son was still alive, she wanted to believe there was a future, a future without bullets and hatred, without cruelty and submission. She secretly held onto that hope. But for that to happen, they had to endure—and resist.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Kill as many of them as possible.”
~ ~ ~
The lantern hanging from a beam in the barn gave off a faint light as Bohdan toiled with growing frustration. He was pulling with all his might on an iron ring fixed to the hatch over his hiding place. This was where he stored extra food and sometimes weapons. But at the moment, the hatch was stubbornly insisting on staying shut. Bohdan exhaled a thick mist of warm air with every failed attempt.
