Sandstorm

by Alan L. Lee

  With the heavy traffic load, they had no choice but to coast around the House and Senate buildings. Peters was impressed with his driver’s innate knowledge. “Something tells me you’ve done this before.”

  “Yes, sir,” was the response as a shapely brunette in a floral dress crossed in front of them at a stop sign. “I certainly have.”

  Rolling into the heart of the District along Massachusetts Avenue, Peters took note of the time. Sadly, this distraction would have to come to an end. There was much work to be done. Once at Langley, he’d spend a large chunk of time getting briefed by legal before having to return to the District for a late-morning sit-down with Janway’s husband at his firm. They had debated sending a legal representative with him, but decided that doing so would send the wrong message. In the final analysis, Champion felt Peters’s down-to-earth disposition would make the sympathy he expressed believable and possibly get Paul Janway to relax somewhat. If legal teams got involved and motions started flying back and forth, everyone would lose.

  The sight of a Starbucks ahead reminded Peters that he had yet to get his morning latte. He knew that by now Champion would be on at least his third cup of coffee, so he’d brownnose it and get his boss some quality ground beans. The man did love his coffee.

  “Drop me off at the Starbucks on the next block,” Peters requested. There was absolutely no place to park, so Luis stopped the vehicle in traffic and was more than willing to double park for as long as it took, no matter how many angry looks or horns he had to endure. Peters told him the dedication was unnecessary. Grabbing the door handle, he said, “Shouldn’t take too long, so just drive around the block. No need to piss people off. Do you want anything, Luis?”

  It was the second time this morning Luis was impressed with his passenger. This had been only the third time in over a year he’d chauffeured Mr. Peters around. Luis was flattered that the man had cared enough to remember his name, let alone be considerate enough to ask if he was thirsty or hungry.

  “No thanks, sir. But I appreciate you asking. I’ll just circle a couple of times and pick you back up in a minute.”

  Exciting the vehicle, Peters followed procedure and buttoned his sport coat, in order to conceal the holstered weapon he would probably never have to fire. He entered the noisy, packed coffeehouse. It was always amusing to him how a company like this had found the formula of appealing to people’s laziness and desires in one successful swoop. Too busy to make coffee at home? Or too lazy? Whatever the answer, it added up to profit.

  There were so many people engaged in their own distractions that Peters, trying to pay attention to the line moving, totally missed the stunning blonde passing by him on her way out. He did manage to casually catch a glimpse of her from behind as she opened the door. His attention got diverted to his cell phone. The customized beeps indicated it was an urgent message. Grabbing his phone, he stepped out of line and speed-dialed Langley. The line was answered on the first ring.

  “This is Peters, I just got notified to call.”

  His eyes widened as he was relayed information. He headed toward the exit.

  “Where?” he shouted into the phone, pressing it firmly against his ear, trying to hear over all the noise. The answer stopped him dead in his tracks. He immediately looked up and began searching faces in the coffeehouse.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Shit, I’m there! I’m standing right in the place. I’ll get back to you.” He ended the call, pocketed the phone, and in the process unbuttoned his jacket. Looking over the crowd, he didn’t see what he hoped to find. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph and then bumped his way past grumbling patrons to the front of the line.

  The cashier said, “Excuse me sir, but there’s a line,” and motioned for the customer behind Peters to step forward. Peters quickly flashed his identification and holstered weapon before holding up the photo of Nora.

  “Have you seen this woman? She might have just been here. Paid with a debit card.”

  The freckle-faced girl was now a little nervous as her coworkers began to take notice. “No, I haven’t, but…” She looked behind her. “Steve. Steve!” She motioned frantically. “Get over here!”

  A slightly older man came sauntering over, wondering what the urgency was. She pointed to the man from the CIA. Steve took a look at Peters’s credentials and immediately straightened up. Peters hurriedly tried again. “Have you seen this woman? She paid with a debit card just a few minutes ago.”

  The worker produced a look of admiration. “Yeah, I served her.” He glanced beyond Peters into the seating area. “She was just here, took a seat. But I don’t see her now.” Peters didn’t bother saying thank you as he rushed for the exit.

  With all the noise in the coffee shop, few people noticed the momentary change in its pattern, and yet Alex registered the slight commotion unfolding at the cashier’s counter. Though he couldn’t hear everything, he did hear “Seen this woman?” when a man held up something in his hand. Alex went into a state of disbelief. This couldn’t be happening this fast. From his window seat he could see that Nora had a slight head start as she strolled down the street. Still, she was clueless as to what was now taking place. Alex had to deal with the situation fast. What concerned him most was not knowing if the man had backup waiting outside. Alex calmly rose from his seat and managed to maneuver himself a few steps behind the man as he hurriedly pushed through the exit door. Alex’s appearance on the street so soon—without having sent anyone a text with instructions—was a warning to others in place that something was wrong.

  The bright sun greeted Peters as he frantically looked up and down the street and across it, examining every woman moving. He stopped when he saw the woman who had momentarily caught his attention in the coffee shop as she was leaving. He began walking at a faster pace toward her as she sauntered down the street. His mind was in rapid mode, analyzing. Long blond hair. Physically fit. Just left the coffeehouse. Had to be. But it didn’t make sense. No matter, that would get sorted out later. He was now just a few yards behind. Close enough to be heard.

  “Nora,” he shouted. “Nora Mossa.”

  The woman didn’t stop. She didn’t speed up or slow down either. She seemed oblivious to his calls. He could be wrong.

  “Nora Mossa. Stop!”

  This time the woman came to a halt. Peters reacted by slowing down to almost a crawl. He inched his hand closer to his holstered weapon as he approached.

  “Nora Mossa,” he said, under control. “Turn around … very slowly.”

  She did not move, keeping her back to him instead. He was now five feet away, and his hand firmly gripped his weapon, ready to draw if necessary. At that instant, Peters’s peripheral vision caught a figure reflected in a storefront window. It was a man. That much he could tell, and that the man was directly behind him. Gun now out of its holster, Peters tried to turn, but the blow that descended at the base of his neck was lightning fast and well placed. It made the nerve endings in his body go haywire. A swift kick was delivered to the back of his already buckling right knee. The gun dislodged from Peters’s hand before he hit the pavement. He could see his weapon being kicked away by the same foot that had brought him down. That foot then reversed itself and came crashing into his face, sending him into near unconsciousness. Peters didn’t give in totally to the dizziness that enveloped him, but he couldn’t move a muscle in his body. He did manage to hear his assailant yell at the woman.

  “Get going.”

  Peters wanted to look up and assess the situation, but he couldn’t. He merely saw the man’s shoes walk out of view, and then he blacked out.

  Alex paused until Nora got into a waiting car that spun off down Connecticut Avenue, then he returned to the man lying on the ground. Knowing he had to work fast and hoping no one in the growing curious crowd had the presence of mind to use a camera or mobile phone to capture the moment, he kneeled and checked the fallen man’s pockets. He found a photograph of Nora, taken r
ecently, and replaced it. He then quickly inspected the man’s wallet. Satisfied, Alex got up and darted across the street.

  “Idiot,” Luis said under his breath as he hit the brakes to avoid hitting the man in a gray shirt and dark slacks that ran right out in front of his vehicle. He watched the asshole duck into the morning crowd before disappearing down into the Dupont Circle Metro Station. Luis continued on his way, and not seeing Peters waiting outside the coffeehouse, he slowly maneuvered the sedan around the corner. He paused to take a look inside to see if Peters was on his way out, but was then drawn to an area up the street that seemed to captivate the interest of a number of people. The sedan continued its lazy progress. Luis strained his neck to see what was going on. Through a couple of legs he managed to see the figure of a man lying on the ground. And then he caught a slight glimpse of the man’s clothing. Luis slammed the brakes again and was out almost before the car was shifted into park. He was not polite as he pushed people aside. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. He checked to make sure Peters was still breathing. Relief set in when the man began moving.

  “Sir, we need to get you out of here. You need medical attention.”

  Luis, although small in stature, was in excellent shape from his bike riding, so picking up Peters and putting him over his shoulder was not that difficult a task. “Anybody see what happened here?” he asked the parting crowd.

  A man wearing a short-sleeved flannel shirt that screamed tourist spoke as Luis made his way to the car. “Some guy hit him from behind and knocked him to the ground. Robbed him too, I think.”

  Luis nodded as he gingerly deposited Peters in the back seat and was then caught off guard as the Good Samaritan stood behind him holding a gun.

  “He dropped this too.”

  Luis slowly stepped to the man’s side and gathered the weapon delicately from his hand.

  “I’m on vacation from Louisiana.”

  Luis nodded. “Sure you are.” Seconds later, tires screeching, the sedan headed for the nearest hospital, which Luis determined was the George Washington University facility.

  As soon as Luis’s tire-induced echo dissipated, another car came flying up the street, horn blaring and lights flashing as it barely dodged pedestrians and cars. It made a stop that jolted its occupants forward. Doors flew open and two men rushed into the Starbucks. Onlookers on the street weren’t sure how to react as everything was happening so fast. Shortly after the two men entered the coffee shop, another car appeared; it, too, carried a set of men, whose movements mirrored the first.

  Parked across the street the entire time, a white van inconspicuously pulled out of its parking space and joined the morning traffic. Duncan smiled behind the wheel, satisfied he had taken good pictures of the license plate numbers of the two vehicles that hurriedly arrived. The smile, though, hid what he and Alex had feared the most. Nora Mossa indeed had a serious problem.

  CHAPTER 12

  He wore an Armani jacket that covered a jacquard sweater tucked neatly into pleated trousers. Expensive, cushioned sneakers made his feet feel special as he moved easily through the growing mob of people, each step well placed on the historic pavement. His casual manner indicated familiarity with the surroundings. To him, the City of Lights never looked better than it did at the onset of dusk. He had traveled the world and seen countries and cities at their best and worst. He always felt Paris was the most beautiful.

  A slight gust of wind filtered in from the Seine, making its way through most of the narrow streets of the Île Saint-Louis neighborhood. Every now and then, the breeze tousled strands of his jet-black straight hair back and forth along his forehead. He loved Paris, but on occasion, he missed his homeland. He tried not to think of it often, and the only reason it entered his mind this time was because of the man he was to meet shortly. He didn’t need to reference a calendar or diary. It had been fifteen years since he last set foot in Israel. The reason for his exile was simple. It was not a safe place for him.

  At age nineteen, having never forgotten a face, especially those faces, he’d exacted his revenge. His actions set in motion what eventually became an occupation and the reason why he had to stay away.

  They had been violent men who most assuredly were going to make more families grieve. Their attacks against Jews were so frequent, they had forgotten most of their victims. He was far removed from that young man now. Sometimes not even old photographs could restore the memories of innocence and optimism.

  His world had been shattered in an instant on a bright sunny day in his hometown of Netanya. He had run for blocks, as he was apt to do at ten years old, in order to catch up with his father as he got off work from yet another day of protecting Israelis from the worst. Despite the daily dangers he faced wearing a military uniform, his father always preached there was good in the world. Not all Palestinians were murderous monsters. The good ones, in fact, often lived in fear of those who were set on never giving peace a chance—by which he meant the militant groups Hamas and Hezbollah, about whom he had nothing good to say. To him, they were savages worthy of oppression.

  With sweat starting to soak his clothing, he had nearly caught up with his father when he gleefully called out. As his father turned with a smile upon hearing his son’s voice, two men encroached upon the decorated soldier from behind. A large hand covered his mouth, yanking his head backward in the process. The young boy slowed down, recognizing danger. When he saw the huge blade appear, he ran as fast as he could. His father tried to resist, but the other man helped to restrain him. In seconds, a wave of crimson dotted the wall of the building his body fell against. The two men were smiling when the boy came in low, swinging his fists with all his power. His father was on the ground, making the most awful sounds. The boy’s blows were fierce for one so young, and even as the man hit him hard in an attempt to drive him off, the boy didn’t pause. Finally, the boy had no choice but to end his onslaught because the pain of the knife inserted into his back was too much for him to withstand. He fell forward next to his father, unable to do anything as his father’s life drifted away.

  For nine years, he lived with that day. If he had run faster, would it have made a difference? Had he been stronger, could he have helped his father subdue the bastards who had attacked him from behind, like cowards? Over time, he had dreamed about what he’d do if he ever caught up with the pair. He’d learned the assailants were skilled killers for Hamas, well financed and protected. Eventually, however, he’d realized his thoughts of revenge were mere dreams. He didn’t possess the stomach to kill. In having to take care of his mother, he’d developed a gentler side. He’d tried so hard to make her laugh. It was obvious he had become her life. In response, rather than go abroad for college, he decided to stay close to home. The hate had eventually escaped him. Or so he thought—until the day he saw them through the window of a restaurant.

  They were laughing. To conceal his glare, he pretended to look at the menu. He remembered they’d also been smiling after they’d taken his father’s life. Since he’d only been ten when fate brought them all together, they would not know him now, but their faces were ingrained in his mind. A life filled with brutality and constant anxiety had taken its toll on them, but there was no mistaking who they were.

  His hands started to shake, and he was unsure of what to do. His mother was shopping at a boutique down the street. He wanted to run and tell her that the men who destroyed their happiness were eating breakfast. But in the time it would take, they might disappear once again. Besides, what could she do? How would he prove to the authorities these were the men responsible for a decade-old murder?

  Instead, he made a decision that would change his life. He entered the restaurant and made his way to the kitchen area in the back. He encountered a waiter and asked if the manager was on duty. The waiter raised an eyebrow and mockingly laughed, referencing the time. Thinking on the spot, he informed the waiter he was a new hire reporting for work. Since the restaurant was filling up, any help was welcom
e. He was given an apron, a pat on the back, a menu to learn quickly, and then orders to get busy.

  The killers were cleaning up the last portions of their meal. From his vantage point, he could tell they were low on orange juice, and there were coffee cups on the table. He grabbed a waiter heading back into the kitchen, asked where the coffee and juice was, and rushed to get both. Sweat beads formed in mass on his forehead, and the hairs on his neck stood on end. He approached the two men, praying for his knees not to buckle.

  “More?” he managed to get out of his throat, holding up the pot of coffee and carafe of orange juice. It took every bit of concentration he possessed to keep his hands from shaking. The one he had tackled nine years ago and tried to beat with his then-tiny fists turned and said yes to coffee. The one who took his father’s life and stabbed him in the back waved him off. His eyes were lifeless and menacing. He was not an attractive man by any standard. His face bore the scars of many altercations.

  At that moment, the young man knew if he went through with his developing plan, Dead Eyes would have to be taken care of first. He sensed the man was the more dangerous of the two. Later, he would wonder how he arrived at that conclusion so readily, surprised it came to him with such clarity. As he started to leave the table, the man with scars called out to him. He turned around slowly, fearing he’d been identified, a knife waiting for him.

  “Yes, sir?” he said, making eye contact.

  “Bring the check,” the man said gruffly before returning his attention to his companion. The young man nodded and headed for the kitchen. Once behind the safety of the doors, he found a large sink and threw up. Rubbing cold water over his face and neck, he continued to bend over the sink until he started to gather himself. He looked around the kitchen and discovered what he was looking for. He sauntered over and took the most impressive knife off the rack, carefully concealing it in the back of his pants at the waist. His next move was to the waiter’s station, where the customer checks were kept. He picked up one with a particularly large tab and made his way back to the table.