by Jade Kerrion
Shifty eyed Abdul fell in beside her, and the first guard was several paces behind.
She did not look at Abdul. Instead, she listened for the telltale change in his breathing, the betraying prelude to action.
Moments later, he sucked in a deep inhalation of air.
She spun to face him as he yanked his dagger from his sheath, and lunged at her. Zara grabbed his wrist as he plunged the blade down, and ducked beneath his upraised arm. Standing behind him, she pulled the dagger toward her body—into his body.
His eyes flared wide, too late. She had wrested control, and the laws of physics were on her side. He had dictated the force and the direction of the dagger. All she did was get out of the way. The dagger ripped a breath out of Abdul as it slid between his ribs to sink into his lungs.
Zara released her grip on his wrist and stepped back, her white robes unblemished.
Abdul crumpled to his knees before toppling sideways. The patch of dirt road beneath him darkened, the crimson stain spreading out, black as the night.
The first guard raised a cry of alarm. Instinctively, he swung his AK-47 out toward her.
Zara looked at him, aware that in her peripheral vision, the two SEALs had stepped out of the SUV, their pistols in their hands. Now that she had taken a life, she had another life to save. “What did you see?” she asked the man in Arabic, her voice quiet.
The man’s gaze flicked down to his companion. “He-he pulled the dagger on you. He attacked you. But-but—” He shuddered, his shoulders shaking with the motion, and then squeezed his eyes shut. “Allah is just and merciful.”
With a little assistance, he can be. “Go in peace.” She turned her back on the guard and walked toward the car. She did not look back even though a man, armed with a machine gun and shaken by the swift death of his companion, stood behind her.
Annie’s mouth tugged into another tight grin as she slid into the driver’s seat. Only then did he lower his guard and his pistol and climb into the car. “I wish all women were like you. Slick moves. No damsel in distress for you.”
Zara snorted. “I am a damsel. I am in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day.” She turned the key in the ignition and threw the gear into reverse.
“How did it go?” Annie asked.
“Hezbollah doesn’t want any incidents of mistaken identity. They’ll pull their men out of Baalbek by dawn. We’ll have the run of the town.”
“Won’t Nakob know that something is up when Hezbollah ups and leaves?”
“Their reputation notwithstanding, Hezbollah can do subtle. The commandant is confident they can pull it off.”
“So where to now?” Annie asked.
“Baalbek.” It’s time to go home.
8
In ancient times, Baalbek had been known as Heliopolis, the site of a massive temple sanctuary created to honor Jupiter, Venus, and Bacchus. The ruins sprawled over the countryside, less vibrant but no less impressive. Baalbek, however, had faded into a sleepy town of 80,000, catering primarily to the seasonal tourist trade.
It made Baalbek the perfect weekend retreat for a classics professor who enjoyed reading ancient Greek and Latin manuscripts while seated among the best preserved Roman ruins in Lebanon.
The house on the cliffs overlooking the temple sanctuary had been old long before Zara’s father purchased it. Back then, electricity had been spotty and water came from a well in the middle of the courtyard. Zara had been young then, idealistic enough to consider the lack of material comforts an adventure. Her mother had also enjoyed the solitude and wild beauty of the semi-arid landscape, and the weekend retreat became their family home the year her father took a sabbatical from the university.
It was their last year in Lebanon, their last year as a family.
Bashir Itani had never returned. He deeded the house to Zara when she turned eighteen, and she returned only long enough to make improvements to the home and to arrange for someone to maintain it in her absence.
Zara parked the car in the driveway and peered up at her childhood home. She drew a deep breath, but it did not dispel the dull ache in her chest. No matter. She dismissed it with a shrug. She unlocked the trunk and pulled out her two bags. Accompanied by Annie and Klah, she walked up the driveway to the house.
A large bougainvillea tree draped dark purple petals over the whitewashed concrete wall surrounding the property. A wooden gate barred entry to the compound, but Zara shook back the long sleeve of her robe and wrapped her fingers carefully around the handle; the fingerprint scanner was finicky on its best day. Two seconds passed before the lock on the gate clicked.
She pushed the gate open and walked into the courtyard. The well was still there, a crooked ring of stones around it. Was the water as sweet and as clear as she remembered? More than likely. The leisurely pace of change in Lebanon reinforced the illusion of timelessness, and of course—her gaze locked on the large brown stain on the white concrete threshold—some hurts were eternal.
Deliberately, she looked away and pointed to the large building facing the gate. Two smaller buildings flanked its sides. “The main house will accommodate most of us, but there are rooms in the other buildings too.”
“This is a lot of house,” Annie said.
Zara nodded. “Out here, you can get a lot of house for not much money. I had solar panels and a satellite receiver installed several years ago, as well as a water purifying system. This place is as self-sufficient as I could make it.”
“Why?” Klah asked.
“What do you mean why?”
“Did you intend to come back?”
“Of course not.”
Klah shrugged, but dropped the topic as he followed Annie into the main house. The Irishman moved through the building, turning on the lights in each room. Zara smoothed the frown on her face as she followed them. Her father hadn’t understood either why she had sunk so much money into restoring and maintaining a home she had no intention of living in, or of selling. Didn’t he realize the house was as much her mother’s final resting place as the lonely hilltop where her body was buried?
Klah peered out a window. The view, Zara knew, was the wall she had erected around the compound after she had taken ownership of her family estate. Once though, it would have offered unparalleled views of the ancient ruins. “How much of the area around here is yours?” he asked. “Do you get trespassers often?”
“The house sits in the middle of a four-acre plot, but property rights are loosely enforced here. If you want to see the countryside, you’ll get the best view from the rooftop.” Zara pointed at a staircase.
Klah glanced at Annie.
The Irishman nodded. “I’m on it.” He picked up the backpack he had dropped on the floor and jogged up the stairs.
“Just got word that the lieutenant and the rest of the team are on the way,” Klah said. “They’ll be arriving over the next four hours. I suggest you get some rest. We’ll move in on Nakob tomorrow.”
Zara bristled at being told what to do, especially by a man, but Klah was right; the best time to rest was before the full team gathered. She took her bags to her bedroom—the one that had always been hers—a small room next to the master bedroom.
It welcomed her back as if she had never left. Her attention flashed over the single bed and the small bureau before focusing on the far wall. Framed watercolors of toadstools, mushrooms, and wildflowers nestled in beds of grass glistening with morning dew looked as fresh as the day they had been painted. She traced a finger over the protective glass layer, remembering. She had been six then, standing on tiptoe, peering over her mother’s shoulder as Valeria Falcón Itani dabbed paint on canvas.
“What do you think, Zara?” Valeria had asked in her native Spanish.
“Why are there eyes in the grass?”
Valeria had smiled her private smile, the beautiful, dazzling one she reserved only for her husband and her daughter. “Those are fairy eyes. They are in all my paintings.” She glanced up at the fi
ve other paintings on the wall. “These are the fairies who watch over you. One for each year of your life.”
Zara touched each painting, her fingers brushing against the fairy eyes hidden in grass, trees, and flower petals. Fairies. Had she ever been that naïve?
Possibly, but she had been younger then, with a mother who cherished and protected her. Eleven framed paintings decorated the wall. The twelfth canvas, unfinished, had been placed in Valeria’s casket, beneath her folded hands. Zara had buried her childhood with her mother.
Zara pushed the blanket aside and lay down on the bed. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Don’t feel. Don’t remember.
Yet in her old room, watched by fairy eyes and surrounded by memories, the only thing she could do was remember. And remember she did—the rough hands, the foul breaths rasping against her skin, the gravel pressing against her back. She fought, but she had been a child then, too weak to save herself.
She opened her mouth, screamed once, before a fist backhanded her across her face.
Moments later, a spray of bullets ripped across the courtyard. The blood of would-be-rapists spurted over her.
It was the first and only time she flinched from contact with blood.
That day, it drenched her world.
Zara tensed against the memories. Don’t feel. Don’t remember.
In her womb, an unborn, unwanted child kicked and squirmed. Zara pressed her hand against the movement. For the first time, her touch was gentle, almost a caress. My mother died to save me. What do I do with you?
9
The sun peeking in through a crack in the curtains startled Zara awake. She scowled and reached for her smartphone to check the time. How long had she slept? Why had no one woken her?
She threw aside the covers, turned her back on the fairy eyes, and headed to the adjoining bathroom. Ten minutes later, showered and changed, she walked out of her bedroom to find her house transformed into a SEAL command center. Four pairs of eyes turned toward her. Four heads nodded a polite acknowledgment.
Zara strode past the impressive array of technology, most of which she recognized. Grass looked up as she approached. “Zara.” His lips tugged into a faint smile. “Hell of a location.”
“Serendipity.” She shrugged. “What’s the plan?”
“I’ve got two men scouting the area, identifying all possible exits. Another two are on the roof, monitoring traffic and counting heads.”
“Any luck with that?”
“Visible heads? Fourteen so far.”
Zara shook her head. “Count on fifty. Possibly more.”
Grass frowned. “Says who?”
“Hezbollah commandant for the Beqaa Valley.”
“Is he reliable?”
“More or less. He has no reason to lie and make the number bigger than it is.”
“Unless he thinks it’ll deter us from going in.”
“He knows there’s no chance of that. Found the girls yet?”
“Two possible areas.” Grass leaned over the large diagram of the temple complex he had spread out on Zara’s dining table and jabbed at two spots on the map. “Infrared is picking lots of thermal signatures. Klah’s back-of-the-envelope calculations suggest that it could account for a total of seventy or eighty bodies, split evenly between the two locations.”
“The girls and guards, you think?”
“Our best guess at this time. Not a whole lot of motion in there.”
“I’ll check it out.”
Grass’s frown deepened. “How do you intend—?”
“Females aren’t a threat here in Lebanon, haven’t you heard?”
Grass snorted. “I heard you took out a man who pulled a blade on you yesterday.” His smirk was amused.
“I enjoy working in traditionally chauvinistic societies. I can always get a jump on the men.” Drawn by the aroma of scrambled eggs, she glanced toward the kitchen. “Let me get something to eat, grab my gear, then I’ll head out.”
He held out his hand to keep her from leaving. “Zara, if you’re discovered, I don’t know how quickly the team can get to you.”
She paused. Instinctively, she pressed her hand against the flutter in her stomach. “I’ll be all right.” She was not certain if she was reassuring Grass, herself, or her child, but the familiar words steadied her. Danyael had frequently said the same—his natural optimism and courage carrying him through the worst situations. She could match his optimism and courage with her skill and her recklessness any day of the week. His compassion, not so much, but in her line of work, compassion was a liability anyway.
Compassion had been a liability for Danyael, too, but he had never given up on it. Damn fool. The thought triggered an affectionate half-smile instead of the habitual bitter twist of her lips. Her reaction surprised her. Perhaps it should not have; time healed, after all. She could not stay angry with Danyael forever.
Not when the blame was at least half hers.
Within the hour, she was ready to depart. She fastened the silencer onto the barrels of her two handguns. The extra magazines were a steady weight against her waist.
Quiet footsteps came up behind her. “All set?” Grass asked.
Zara looked at him and nodded.
Grass glanced at the computer screen, which displayed a moving image of him, captured through the micro-lens camera grafted into Zara’s cornea. “Did you test the audio too?”
She nodded again as she slid the two guns back into their holsters and drew her robe over her shoulders. Grass’s voice echoed through her earpiece, a cutting-edge military nanotechnology surgically installed beneath the skin in her ear canal.
Grass chuckled. “Never seen someone so geared up on all the best stuff. Good thing you’re on our side.”
Zara smoothed the front of her robe, her daggers and guns concealed beneath the flowing black silk, and winked at him. “It would depend on the day.”
The chuckle became a bark of laughter. “Of course.” He stepped away from her. “Unless all hell breaks loose and we have to improvise, we’ll join you down there in three hours. You know how to tell our men apart?”
“White trim on the left-hand pocket and on the headscarf.” Zara frowned. “I don’t think you should make your move while it’s still light.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It feels unnatural trying to break in during daylight.” She shrugged. “It’s probably because I have the soul of a thief.”
“We could use the light. Too many people in robes—men and women. We can’t afford cases of mistaken identity.”
“Just remember, some women can wield weapons as well as a man can.”
Grass snorted. “I don’t think you ever allow us to forget that. Good luck out there.”
The road to the temple complex meandered along narrow passageways clogged with street vendors. Zara skirted around potholes in the road as she wandered through the little village she had once called home. Trinkets made in China competed with falafel, shawarma, and fried cauliflower rolls for attention, but inevitably lost out to the aroma of grilled garlic and onions wafting from the Lebanese street food. Voices gabbled in fluent Arabic and Lebanese, ungrammatical French, and broken English. The voices around her were shriller, the cadence snappier. Like a riptide, tension shuddered beneath the thin veneer of normality.
Beneath the shadow of her headscarf, Zara watched the locals watching people—particularly strangers, particularly men. The locals knew of Nakob’s presence, and they feared—if not it—then at least the repercussions. In the distance, the temple complex, usually bustling with tourists, appeared abandoned. Even the vendor stalls clustered at the entrances of the complex had relocated several hundred feet back, presumably to avoid being collateral damage.
Zara frowned. The village of Baalbek watched and waited, although for what exactly, she didn’t know. The temple complex, isolated upon its hilltop, might as well have been on the moon. There was no way to approach it unnoticed, not even at nigh
t. The SEAL team would have to storm it, taking heavy—and unacceptable—losses along the way.
Her gaze flicked to the trickle of motion down the hilltop. A woman in a burqa left the temple complex, flanked on either side by two men. A semi-transparent cloth attached to the black headscarf covered the woman’s eyes. She even wore gloves; not a sliver of skin to be seen. She pulled along a large shopping bag on wheels; the awkward contraption wobbled over the packed dirt on the ground. She was probably a camp follower, assigned the menial task of shopping and cooking for the men.
Perfect.
With her scarf drawn about her lower face, Zara walked into the only grocery store on Abdel Halim Jajjar Street. The shop was manned by an indifferent clerk at the checkout counter, a rickety wooden desk set by the door. She wandered down the aisle and ducked into a corner out of sight of the clerk’s line of vision.
Moments later, the burqa-clad woman entered the store. The two men loitered outside the store, smoke wafting from the cigarettes clasped between their fingers.
Twenty minutes later, a burqa-clad woman left the store, pulling along a shopping bag on wheels, filled with provisions. The guards unpeeled themselves from the wall and trotted ahead of her, leading the way back toward the temple complex.
Behind the cloth covering her face, Zara rolled her eyes. If Nakob survived this assault, their leaders would almost certainly rethink the wisdom of allowing women to conceal themselves behind clothes that effectively wiped out all hints of identity.
Minutes later, Grass spoke quietly through the microphone. “We’ve secured the woman. If we get any useful intel from her, we’ll let you know ASAP.”
Zara followed the two men past massive stone blocks and fallen columns before ducking into the darkened interior of the temple of Venus. The room stank from too many unwashed bodies. Fear oozed its rancid miasma, souring the atmosphere. Her gaze traveled across the room as she counted heads. Moving her eyes too quickly would throw off the SEAL team member camping out in her living room, watching through her eyes.