by D. I. Telbat
"You stand, you watch." Oleg laughed. "You've never seen me drive."
He hit the gas as Titus buckled in and checked the carbines.
"Doesn't hurt to have more firepower, huh?" Titus threw one rifle out the window. "That one was destined to jam."
"Whenever you have firepower, you always want to use it."
"So?" Titus slammed a fist on the action of another rifle. The Palestinians were sold the worst military gear at the most expensive rates. Maybe, he considered, he could smuggle them more reliable and accurate rifles for cheaper rates. It wouldn't be the first time the Serval had undersold greedy Egyptian and Syrian arms smugglers.
"We don't want to get caught in the crossfire out here, Titus. We meet your guy who leads us to Crac Hassad. That was the deal. Then we sell that thing strapped to your shoulder, and we walk away rich. This chaos is not our fight. If we shoot anyone, then we have to take a side. I hate taking sides. We can't leverage one side against the other if we take sides."
"I think we took sides when we agreed to sell this baby to Crac Hassad and his Hamas puppets." Titus patted his canister, then looked out the window. The few people on the streets or in their doorways were watching the chopper over the skyline. "I know what you mean, though. Don't worry. It's still about the money for me."
"But you know what Crac Hassad will do with that thing."
"I can't think about that. This isn't my first sale, Oleg. Quit acting like you have a conscience. You want to get paid as bad as me. We're early enough. The sooner we can find our guy, the sooner we can sell this thing and leave."
Oleg was cruising at close to sixty near the Old City when he crested a tiny bump in the Salah ad-Din Street. As if purposefully planted to discourage speeding vehicles, the Toyota's front axle plummeted into a shallow bomb crater. The front wheels hit the far side of the crater and buckled. Oleg was thrown against the steering wheel as Titus tested the seat belt with all his weight. The SUV flipped forward at an airborne sideways angle and landed on all four wheels, facing the opposite direction.
Coughing from smoke that boiled from the open hood, the two men crawled from the cab. Oleg held his chest as he rounded the vehicle to collapse next to Titus. Titus wasn't injured, but his water bottle was split open.
"The axle is broken." Oleg took a deep breath, wincing. "I think my lung is, too."
"You can't break a lung, Oleg." Titus checked his canister for damage. His cargo was safe. He found his feet and helped Oleg to stand. They stared mournfully at the billowing white smoke from the Toyota. "Nothing like a little smoke signal to let everyone know we're here."
The Saraph gunship circled closer to investigate the smoke.
"As Seif would say," Oleg said with a groan, "you stay, you die."
Titus and Oleg abandoned the carbines in the vehicle and dashed for cover as an air-to-ground rocket blew the Toyota into scrap metal, nearly clearing the street of the obstacle. Mini-guns simultaneously spit bullets that slapped the pavement where Titus and Oleg had last stood without cover, but they were quickly a half-block away behind an empty car garage. They stopped with their backs to the wall.
"We might get paid," Oleg said, still holding his chest, "but we'll be stuck in Gaza without a vehicle. Please tell me you know where we are and how we can get out!"
"I only know Gaza by map, but I think we're just outside the Old City." Titus studied the sky to the south. "Our guy should have signaled us by now."
Gravel crunched under a boot nearby. Titus turned and fired without identifying the target. There could be only enemies around, anyway. He hadn't come this far to get shot by some militant with a third generation grudge.
A man in green fatigues crumpled at the corner of the garage. Oleg moved wide, his Beretta drawn, as Titus approached the man directly.
"Please, mercy," the man begged in Arabic. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties with curly dark hair. A wound high on his chest was leaking blood. He didn't reach for his IMI Negev light machine gun as Titus placed his gun muzzle against his skull.
"What do you know, Oleg? It ain't easy being an IDF soldier all alone in Gaza City. Honestly, I thought he was Hamas."
"You're . . . English?" The soldier gasped in accented English. "Please. I was separated from my unit overnight. Every time I try to signal a Saraph, Hamas closes on me." He moaned and pulled his hand away from his wound and stared wildly at the blood. "I need a hospital!"
Titus met Oleg's eyes. They switched to Russian.
"You pull that trigger, Titus, and we officially take sides."
"We can't walk him to al-Quds Hospital. And even if we could, they wouldn't take an Israeli soldier."
"His chances are better in a Palestinian hospital than bleeding to death here."
"Then we'll do the humane thing." Titus' finger tightened on the trigger, then he stepped away. "I can't do it. You do it."
"I'm not shooting him!" Oleg shoved Titus away from him, as if he were offended Titus even asked. "Why'd you shoot him in the first place?"
"I told you, I thought he was a Hamas soldier! It was a reflex."
"If Israel finds out you shot him, we're finished. And I'm not digging your bullet out of him."
Titus rubbed his brow.
"This isn't part of the plan. We can't get wrapped up inside Gaza!"
*~*
Chapter Four
South Gaza City, Zeitoun District
Annette Sheffield gained consciousness long before Luc Lannoy or the bearded man knew she was awake. Her head hurt and she felt blood caked on her hairline. The bearded one, who called himself Christopher Cagon, had lain her against a crumbled cement wall. He sat against the opposite wall in view of the window from where she could hear Luc mumbling in French to himself.
"Remain still, Annette," Chris said in his British accent. "Your UN friend is holding us as leverage for something. If he sees you're awake, he may hurt you. I've seen the way he looks at you."
"Then I'll play dead," Annette said. "Just give me a signal when he's coming."
"This will be the signal." Chris touched the corner of his eye. "I removed your cracked helmet. How's your head?"
"It's throbbing a little. Your chest looks worse, though."
"I irritated it to make it bleed more. Luc believes it's bad, but I can move if I need to. Can you?"
"Yeah, I can run. I ran track in college."
"Good girl. It may come to that. What distance?"
"Fifteen hundred."
"Endurance, huh?"
"Well, that was twenty pounds and thirteen years ago." She smiled, wondering if he was keeping her talking to settle her nerves. "Luc called you Chris. Who are you?"
"British Red Cross."
"You look Palestinian."
"Just blending in."
"What's he going to do with us?"
Chris touched his eye. Annette tensed, closed her eyes, then relaxed. She heard Luc move to their side of the wall.
"You were talking. Is she awake?"
"I'm a praying man. Does she look awake? That head wound doesn't look good, friend. There could be brain swelling. Her life is in your hands. Let me take her to a hospital."
"No, and stop asking."
"Who are you waiting for?"
"None of your business." Luc returned to the window.
Annette opened her eyes but didn't move.
"What does he need us for?"
"Nothing good, I'm sure."
"You said you're a praying man." She smiled at old memories. It felt strange to smile in their situation. Chris seemed to have a calming effect on her. "I went to a Bible camp when I was a kid. In Montana. I remember a rope course and a counselor named Arianna. She was so cool. She called me her little sister. I learned to pray from her. Well, she prayed every night. I just listened. That was the best week of my life."
"Not many know that peace. Sometimes tragedy happens to remind us of those more important memories. I gave my life to Christ a few years ago. I was lost and hell-bo
und, but He forgave me and set me on a new path."
"Really? I used to think I'd have regrets if I ever took that, you know, leap of faith."
"It can be scary, sure. The world is against us, so it's only natural to struggle, emotionally, physically, and spiritually. But the end is already written plain enough for us to read. You understand?"
"The Bible."
"You got it."
Annette flinched as Luc fired his pistol out the window. A man screamed and fell silent. Luc laughed, then cursed.
She tried to remember everything she could about Gaza and Hamas soldiers. They were known to think little of a woman's life, especially a non-Muslim woman. The Palestinians were a desperate people, she had come to see for herself. Hopefully, the worst rumors about Hamas weren't true—that they kidnapped foreigners, beheaded enemies, and sent children strapped with bombs into crowds.
"Tonight, when it's dark, we'll escape." Chris pointed briefly to his left. "I don't know where that corridor leads, but I'm sure there's an exit somewhere."
"You know where to go?" Annette trembled with fear.
"Yes, I know where to go." Chris touched his eye.
"Hey, you, Chris." Luc approached Chris and yanked him to his feet. Chris groaned and swayed on his feet. Annette watched, squinting covertly. Luc gave Chris a green signal flare. "Take this fifty yards down the street and let it burn. Don't light it near this building or it'll draw the wrong company. Can you do that?"
"I don't think I can. My chest—"
"You look fine to me. Light it and drop it against that far wall. If you do anything wrong, I'll shoot you. You want to get shot again? Walk back here when you're done."
Chris glanced at Annette.
"Don't touch her."
"I don't have time to touch her, yet. Just do what you're told."
"You're going to get us all killed." Chris shook his head at the flare in his fist. "Everyone in the city is going to see this."
"That's the point!" Luc clubbed Chris on the side of the head and stood over him as he fell. "Get up!"
Bleeding from the new cut over his ear, Chris stood and leaned against the wall.
"I'm sorry, friend. Just don't hit me again. I'll go."
Luc cursed in French and kicked at Chris as he walked to the front room. Annette listened, too afraid to peer around the wall to see what happened next. She expected a gunshot, but moments later, she heard Chris climb back through the window.
"I knew I was keeping you around for something. Good boy." Luc shoved Chris into the back room. "Stay there and tell me if she wakes up."
As soon as Annette heard Luc walk away, she sat up.
"Your head is bleeding, Chris. We can run now and see where that hallway goes."
"It's too dangerous in the daylight, but we may not have a choice if Luc attracts too much attention with that flare. In this city, that's about the dumbest thing to do."
"I'm pretty sure whatever he's doing has nothing to do with his UN position."
"Yeah, I agree. He said he wants to meet with someone. He's hiding behind the window, watching to see who comes to the flare. It's burned out by now, but thousands would've noticed the smoke—Israelis, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, probably even ISIS and Hezbollah." Chris gazed to his right at the corridor. "That hallway is tempting, but we'd be caught before we could ever get to safety. Right now, we just have to worry about one crazed man with a gun. In a few minutes, a whole unit could be on us, and if they're friends of Luc's . . ."
"Hey!" Luc suddenly yelled then whistled out the window. "Hurry! Here! It's me, Luc Lannoy."
Annette trembled as she listened to more bodies climb through the window.
"We need to get out of sight," a stranger said with a Southern accent. "That signal will draw everyone in Gaza!"
As if on cue, two Israeli gunships could be heard circling over the factory. Annette prayed they would move on, rather than pound the building with missiles, since no one was visible. In moments, the thumping rotors moved to the west.
Annette was too shaken and nervous to play sleep now. A tall blond man with a canister on his shoulder stepped into the back room. With him was a short muscled man, maybe in his forties, carrying a wounded Israeli soldier.
"Who is this?" Luc pointed at the soldier as the muscled man set him down next to Annette. "This isn't a hospital, Caspertein!"
"Could've fooled me." The blond man winked at Annette. "Hey, darlin'. Have we met? Titus Caspertein."
"That's Annette Sheffield. She was in my convoy when we were ambushed by Israelis. She's mine."
"The Israelis didn't ambush you, Luc," Chris argued, drawing the attention of the newcomers. "Hamas fired on you. The Israeli gunship moved in to help you, but it was too late."
"The name's Oleg," the muscled man said, and extended his hand to Chris.
"That one's my prisoner, too!" Luc slapped Oleg's hand away from Chris.
Oleg turned to face Luc more directly, but Titus stepped between them. Annette watched the tall blond man carefully. He looked more like an athlete or model than someone who would be acquainted with the likes of Luc Lannoy.
"We have lots to do tonight. Let's stay focused, huh, Oleg?"
"All I was going to say was that sounds like Hamas. They're probably already blaming Israel for shooting up the convoy on Al Jazeera television."
Annette knelt in front of Chris to study his chest and skull wounds. Titus knelt beside her, his shoulder against hers. A moment ago, he had winked at her, and now he was closer than he needed to be.
"Titus, I said don't pay any attention to him," Luc said. "He's just some Red Cross worker I'm keeping until I don't need him anymore."
"Red Cross, huh?" Titus frowned. "What're you going by, old man?"
"Christopher Cagon out of Great Britain."
"Nice. Did this idiot here stumble onto you, or are you here for me?"
"What?" Luc's voice cracked. "You know him?"
"So, old man, what do you say?" Titus chuckled and lightly nudged Annette with his elbow. She didn't see the humor. "Never thought I'd meet this guy, especially way out here."
"I haven't played that cat and mouse game for a few years," Chris said. "I went private. But you know what they say."
"Yeah, I do." Titus nodded. "You never actually leave the Agency."
"The CIA?" Luc gasped.
"Meet Corban Dowler, everyone." Titus tugged at Corban's beard and the right side detached. Annette's mouth gaped. Was no one who they seemed to be? "He's an ex-spy hunter and tracer for the CIA. I've worn enough of those beards to recognize a fake one." Titus rose to his full height and faced Luc. Luc seemed to shrink in the man's shadow, though they were nearly the same height. "Lannoy, imagine a man who can summon the most powerful resources in the world from all available countries at a moment's notice. Imagine that man minding his own business in a war-torn region. Then imagine some idiot drawing this very unique man into a deal that is vitally important to a number of bank accounts, particularly mine."
"I—"
"Yes, Luc Lannoy, you're the idiot in that story, and Corban Dowler is the agent of our impending destruction." Titus turned from Luc and paced the floor. Oleg moved closer to Luc, causing Luc's eyes to dart nervously about.
Now less afraid of Luc, Annette crawled to the IDF soldier with a chest wound. She doubted Luc would do anything to her with Titus there, who seemed to have the situation well in hand. Wherever Titus went, Annette wanted to stay close to him, even if he was some sort of greedy businessman.
"Luc, you've turned a potentially dangerous situation into an impossible situation. The only thing I can think of that would make Oleg and me feel better about this impossible situation is if he and I split half your cut." Titus stopped pacing in front of Luc, pinning the UN officer between himself and Oleg.
"I'm only getting what?" Luc glanced from Oleg to Titus. "Now I only get five-percent?"
"And you live," Oleg added. "Seems reasonable."
"What about us?" A
nnette asked Titus. "You'll let us go now, right?"
"Too dangerous, Miss Sheffield. Tell her, Corban."
"She knows." Corban tugged off the rest of his beard. "She just wants to know that we're not prisoners."
"And you know the answer to that, too, don't you?" Titus chuckled. Annette couldn't understand why the blond man seemed to be enjoying himself so much. What was there to laugh about? "Tell us, Corban. What are the stakes?"
"We know too much. You can't let us go until your deal is done." With surprising agility, Corban rose to his feet. He tugged the loose, bloody shirt off and examined the bullet hole in his chest through the black turtleneck. Without flinching, he reached into the hole and plucked out a flattened bullet. Annette held back the vomit rising in her throat. Corban tossed the bloody thing to Luc. "You didn't actually hit me, Luc Lannoy. That was from a ricochet off the wall."
"You . . . pretended a near fatal injury?" Luc fingered the bullet. "Why?"
"Luc, I told you." Titus stood in front of Corban. "This man is a legend. He could have taken you at any time. The only reason he didn't is because there was no point. He wouldn't want to move around Gaza City in the daylight, and he wouldn't leave a female American citizen behind. So tell me, Corban, how much trouble are you going to be for me?"
"I'm only here to deliver insulin to a diabetic girl, and Bibles to an underground church."
"Bibles? You found religion?"
"Christ found me, because I was lost." Annette followed Corban's eyes to the canister strapped over Titus' shoulder. "Regardless of my original mission, I'm obligated to ask what you have there? Cyanide to put in an Israeli water supply? Ricin? Potassium chloride?"
"So you know your poisons, old man. It doesn't matter. You're not stopping me."
"Just kill him." Luc raised his pistol, but Oleg pushed his arm down. "What? He's a witness. A bullet will solve this problem! Let me kill him."
"The problem is worse than another bullet," Oleg said.
"How much time do I have before people notice you're missing?" Titus asked Corban.
Annette listened and watched the men intently. Though Titus was clearly in charge, the respect he showed the older man, Corban Dowler, was startling. Titus seemed more and more like a villain, but the casual nature with which he approached every moment suggested to her that she could actually depend on him to keep her safe.