by D. I. Telbat
Movement from inside the cistern drew Nathan's attention. He'd been sent to extract the Yemeni Christians by way of the coast. He was too late. They'd all been slaughtered. But someone or something down there stirred. Was it an animal?
A gust of wind caught Nathan's white thobe robe, but also brought the sound of a motorized engine to his ears. His beard and sun-darkened skin had helped to disguise him in a Kawkaban market, but here in the desert, if authorities detained him, his identity would be scrutinized. Though he spoke fluent Arabic, he couldn't explain why he was on the edge of the baked desert, standing over a mass grave of Christians.
The cry of a child sounded from below. Now there was no doubt; someone had survived the massacre! Ignoring the approaching vehicle—and pushing aside his own distress—Nathan leaped from the top of the cistern wall and landed ten feet below on a rock platform. Where water had once pooled, Nathan reached his hand into the stinking dead bodies and pulled out a squirming boy of about two years old.
Crying even louder, the boy clung to Nathan as he bounded up the stairs carved out of the cistern wall. If the boy was found now, he would be killed or forced into Islamic submission. His parents were dead, but Nathan was meant to rescue them. He would honor the wishes of the dead. The boy had to live!
A call in Arabic made Nathan pause at the top of the cistern. For a moment, he stared at three Yemeni soldiers. One stepped from a jeep and waved at the other two.
Nathan glanced toward the sun, then the beach. It was a mile, maybe a little more, to the coast. He could run for the raft on the beach or try diplomacy. If things got sticky, he was liable to hurt someone, and as a Christian now, that wasn't an option. The giant curved jambiya on his decorated belt was simply part of his costume. Every man wore the dagger in that part of Yemen, but he would never use it on anyone. He was no longer the heartless soldier he'd once been before coming to Christ.
Before he'd fully decided what to do, Nathan was running eastward. His heavy thobe would protect him from the wind and sand, but it wasn't aiding his flight. The heavy fabric strangled his knees as he sprinted up the first dune, causing him to fall twice before he reached the crest. Thankfully, he managed to avoid falling on the toddler.
The boy smelled like blood. He may have been wounded, but Nathan didn't have time to check for injuries. The three men behind opened fire with their AK-47s, and tiny sand explosions puffed all around him.
Finally, Nathan dove over the crest of the dune. The sunlight glistened off the shoreline an unreachable distance away. Setting the child roughly on the sand, Nathan tore off his belt and thobe. Keeping the jambiya blade, he grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt—the child's only covering. Now in only shorts, a T-shirt, and boots, Nathan ran with a swiftness that reflected the disciplined Christian mercenary he'd become. And as a reminder of past struggles, his left knee brace squeaked with each step as sand filled the joint.
Regardless of the respite from gunfire, Nathan didn't hesitate to charge down one dune and up another. The impossible distance to the coast was possible by faith, he reasoned. Perhaps this was what he needed. Faith without testing could wane, and by placing him in a situation of impossible circumstances, Nathan could see God's hand. It was all he had now.
Adrenalin pumped through his veins. His dark mood floated away, and he regretted his unchristian-like attitude. This was what serving Christ was all about: seeking God to do the impossible as he put himself on the line for others. God brought life out of death, and the boy was evidence of this spiritual lesson.
The child stopped screaming and seemed to will him faster. Nathan's breathing settled into a heart-pounding rhythm and he even smiled at the boy.
"God is with us," he said in Arabic, then focused on the plain of sand before them. The dunes were past, and only a flat expanse stretched before the water.
The jeep roared over a dune and into sight to the north, two hundred yards away. The soldiers wildly fired their rifles.
As trusting as he'd been, Nathan's heart sank once more when he realized his little raft was nowhere in sight. The inflatable he'd left on the shore had been carried out to sea during high tide. He chastised himself. Amateur mistake!
Nathan turned straight toward the surf. The ocean was only a temporary escape since he had no boat now, but he forced himself to trust God. His God indeed knew his plight.
Bullets zipped past his head. There was nowhere to hide but in the waves. Nathan stepped high, leaping over the first few waves, then dove into the rolling sea. Water filled his mouth and eyes, and he lost his hold on the boy.
Surfacing, he found the boy, now gasping and crying, and Nathan drew the child to himself. The plopping of bullets punched the water around them. A wave hid them from the gunmen for an instant, then the barrage continued. Steadily, Nathan clawed with one arm as he swam straight away from the shoreline.
He didn't dare submerge with the boy in his arms. The way the little arms were wrapped around Nathan's neck, he was certain the child was too young to hold his breath through his fear.
The gunfire stopped. Nathan drifted in an offshore current and faced the shore. The jeep and men were a safe distance away. They seemed to be arguing, but their voices were indiscernible over the water. From whatever Muslim faction these soldiers came, they were definitely hostile toward Christians—as was the rest of the country. If only Nathan had been one day earlier, he could've saved the whole lot of believers!
The struggle of treading water with dead weight around his neck now concerned Nathan. The leg brace wasn't helping, either. A degree of fear swept over him at the prospect of dying an unknown death. Most at COIL, except Corban, Chloe, and Chen Li, thought he was already dead. And Nathan still wanted to marry Chen Li, raise a family, and—
He scoffed at himself. God had just protected him from countless bullets. His raft was gone, but he was alive and uninjured. Sure, a military patrol boat was probably on the way, and Nathan guessed he couldn't tread water for more than a few hours with the boy. But God was a big God! And a big God had the capability of doing big miracles.
Nathan held the boy against his chest and leaned his head back to rest his arms, while he continued kicking to stay afloat. His boots were too heavy to swim with. Sacrifice for survival, he thought, and drew the jambiya. He managed to slice away the laces and kick off his boots. Lastly, he let go of the curved blade.
Completely dependent on God, Nathan began to pray, and even to rejoice, in a Savior so loving and kind. After all, Nathan and his little companion were potentially hours from standing before Him.
*~*
Chapter Fourteen
Uzbekistan
Corban Dowler used his fingers to press the face mask against his temples. The epoxy was sticking everywhere but there, where he was sweating the most. If only the mask would hold for one more hour.
This wasn't the first time Corban had been in an Uzbekistan prison, but last time, twenty-five years ago, he'd been a political prisoner under the guise of the KGB. Now, he was disguised as a guard in the Southern Kysyl Kum Rehabilitation Facility. After one week of surveillance, he and Titus Caspertein had identified two different prison guards they could impersonate to infiltrate the prison.
Though identities had been tactically acquired, and entrance through the guard house had been accomplished, Corban had no idea what his responsibilities should be as a guard inside the facility.
He turned a dimly-lit corner in a basement level and bumped into a tall guard wearing a dark green uniform. The crescent moon emblem on the breast pocket of the guard reminded Corban if he were caught now, he'd be at the mercy of Islamists who had an inclination toward inhumane interrogations.
"Relax, Corban," the tall guard whispered in English. "It's me. What're you doing down here?"
Corban glanced down the corridor. It was quiet except for the occasional echo of dripping water.
"I'm hiding so I don't have to speak to anyone—same as you." He checked his watch. "Less than an hour. No
problems coming in?"
"No problems." Titus touched his neck. Corban admired the Arkansas man's expertise at applying his mask. Even his blond hair was now a dark brown to match the man he'd replaced. "My Russian is better than my Uzbek, apparently. Some sergeant upstairs didn't even understand when I asked for the bathroom."
"We didn't have the luxury of more preparation time." Corban shoved Titus back as a gate closed nearby. Together, they peered around the corner to see a maintenance worker push a laundry cart in the opposite direction. "Just trust God and stay sharp."
"Hey, I'm in my element. You're the one with his face falling off." Titus gripped Corban's head and pressed hard on the mask that was detaching. "Honestly? I'm wondering if we were safer a week ago running around Gaza with Israeli gunships and Hamas killers targeting us."
"Serving Christ on the frontlines has its risks, no matter where we are."
Titus rolled his eyes and said nothing. Corban had been praying for the international criminal for the last week. Both men still bore marks of the Gaza conflict, but Titus wasn't seeing that their spared lives were gifts from God. At least, not yet.
"Going after Crac Hassad's brother still doesn't seem wise," Titus complained for the hundredth time that week. "We should be out hunting Crac, not busting his brother out of prison!"
"You have a tendency to get into trouble when you do things your way," Corban said. "If you go back to your old contacts, you're liable to get arrested by Interpol, so we do things my way. This is Israel's plan, anyway, so let's follow through."
"I'm liable to get killed doing things your way. Look at us!"
Corban scoffed, sensing the sarcasm in Titus' voice. Titus was enjoying himself. Being true to his character, the Serval was an adrenalin junky.
But Titus wasn't the only one who was restless about their plan that morning. Corban didn't like the idea of Crac Hassad, Hamas terrorist, still on the loose. Only by Interpol agent Oleg Saratov's careful genius had the biological weapon been swapped for a fake. But Crac Hassad was surely not detoured from his plan to destroy Israel. And if that weren't bad enough, Annette Sheffield was still missing. Her family had been on the news, offering a reward, pleading for her return. And somewhere out there, Luc Lannoy was hiding.
Annette wasn't the only American who was wanted at home. Corban had called home twice to talk to his wife, Janice. She hadn't pleaded for his return, but he heard it in her voice, in her soft goodbye. This had been a lengthy deployment. Usually, a week was to be expected for a well-planned operation. But it had been over three weeks since he'd held Janice, and eaten breakfast with Jenna, his adopted daughter, who was about to enter high school a year early.
"You're not dragging me along on any more of these missions for Jesus," Titus stated brusquely. "I know what you're doing. You can't change me, Corban. Others have tried. My parents used to preach to me all the time. My brother and sister drove me crazy asking me to come to Bible studies with them."
"I'm not trying to change you, Titus." Corban smiled, his mask wrinkling slightly. "God doesn't need my help to do that. I'm confident He'll do it when He wants."
Titus cursed and looked away. For nearly an hour, Titus' remarks continued, but Corban batted them aside. This wasn't the first time he'd adopted a cantankerous fugitive to show him Christ's love and sacrifice for others. In an instant, Corban could call Interpol's Oleg Saratov and have Titus picked up for numerous offences, the worst being the trafficking of biological material.
"It's time," Titus insisted, and pushed past Corban, but Corban held him back. "What now, old man?"
"We can't do this without God watching our backs." Corban placed a hand on Titus' shoulder, and for once, Titus didn't argue as Corban prayed in a low whisper for safety for themselves, for the guards, and for Rasht Hassad, the name of the prisoner they'd come for.
Corban and Titus climbed two flights of stairs to reach ground level. Since they walked together, and seemed to be about some assignment, the guards they happened across didn't pay them any mind. For certain, the stations their Uzbek doubles usually filled were waiting for them. Supervisors would be asking questions soon. Duties were being neglected, and neither Corban nor Titus knew what exact duties those might be.
Titus gestured down one wing of cell doors, and Corban stopped in the corridor. They would've continued down the prison wing, except four guards were extracting a man in ankle chains from his cell. The prisoner was Rasht Hassad.
The five passed by Corban and Titus as they moved aside. Corban hoped to make eye contact with the prisoner to check his identity. Because of a childhood accident, Rasht's right eye was white with blindness, but Rasht's eyes remained on the floor in front of him. Forty-eight-year-old Rasht looked thin and old, his collar bones showing through his threadbare inmate clothing. Once Rasht and his escort were past, the two imposters fell in step not far behind them.
Titus nodded at Corban, and Corban was reminded he wasn't working with a Christian, but a veteran of the underworld. Except, instead of stealing a banned shipment of munitions, Titus was this time abducting a Christian prisoner in order to catch his evil brother.
A crash gate buzzed open, then a heavy metal door was opened with a key. A nearby guard asked Corban a question he thought was, "Where do you think you two are going?" Corban frowned at the man and pointed at the prisoner, who was just stepping into the sunlight of a cement courtyard. Two guards with batons were waiting to begin what looked like a painful interrogation.
But to the right, Titus opened another door, accessed by a key he'd gotten from the guard he was impersonating. This steel door opened to the parking alley beside the prison. Fresh air wafted in. Corban desperately wanted to be outside in the sunlight, but instead, he turned his back to the door and hustled to catch up to Rasht, who was being strapped to the wall for his session. Glancing back, Corban saw Titus coming up quickly, the door to the alley left open for their escape. Lord willing, the transport van was still parked where they'd seen it that morning.
This was where Corban's plan ended, and he hoped Titus didn't improvise with violence. There was still a high fence and gate that caged them inside the facility perimeter, even if they could make it to the van. If they made a wrong move, they'd be trapped by the gunner in the high tower outside the prison, who could see everything that happened outside.
The guards with Rasht exchanged a few words as Corban advanced. Six guards, two with drawn batons. The odds were unlikely, but there was only one right way Corban was exiting this prison—that was with Rasht Hassad in tow.
Before Corban had rehearsed his moves to systematically engage the six guards, Titus passed him on the left. Corban thrust his hand in his pocket, then edged to his right. Three guards for Titus, and three for Corban.
From his pocket, Corban drew a pen-like device. He clicked it once, and a stubby needle sprang to attention, glistening with tranquilizer venom. As Corban whirled to attack the nearest guard on his right, he glimpsed Titus draw his own tranq-pen from his sleeve.
After a stab in the first guard's thigh muscle, Corban clicked the pen twice to wet the needle again. In a flash, he spun toward the next guard and tranqed him as well. When he turned to inject his third, he realized Titus had already reached him. One guard raised a whistle to his lips as he fell to his knees, but then he collapsed. Corban checked the others, feeling his age a little since Titus had gotten four in the amount of time it had taken Corban to take out his two.
Without taking time to gloat, Titus reached above Rasht and unstrapped the prisoner's hands. Corban grabbed one guard's ankles and dragged him through the door out of sight of the corridor.
"What's happening?" Rasht asked in Russian.
"Quiet, and do what we say," Corban said, and placed Rasht's wrists back into the cuffs the guards had removed from him earlier.
Titus shoved Corban toward the corridor, and Corban moved ahead to secure their exit to the parking alley as Titus, like an official guard, escorted Rasht. Behind him, Ti
tus closed the door to the six unconscious men, and Corban waved at him to proceed into the corridor and to the outside door. Since they weren't rushing about frantically, the few guards in view hadn't noticed the outside door was still open, and the prisoner was being led out.
Corban lingered in the corridor a few seconds after Titus led Rasht outside. All seemed quiet, but he knew they weren't safe yet.
Rasht stood with Titus at the back of the white transport van. Corban did his best to glance casually up at the tower over his right shoulder. The gunner was up there, about thirty feet above the alley. Though the guard was facing them, he seemed to be wiping at something on the front of his uniform with a handkerchief.
The back of the van was open. Corban reached the vehicle as he heard a grunt, and Rasht slumped over in a back seat meant for transporting prisoners.
"You tranqed him?" Corban asked.
"I thought it'd go smoother." Titus shrugged and tossed Corban the van keys. He grinned. "It's not easy thinking of everything, old man."
Corban caught the keys and climbed into the driver's seat. The gunner was apparently watching them now, because as Corban started the engine, the massive gate began to open. Before them was the highway that led through the Kyzyl Kum Desert.
Titus waved out the window as Corban drove the truck forward.
"Hvala puno, rostilj!" Titus called to the gunner.
Corban shook his head and steered toward the highway.
"You're losing your edge, Titus. You just called that guy a barbeque and thanked him in Serbian."
"Huh." Titus frowned. "No wonder they didn't understand me when I came through the entrance this morning."
*~*
Chapter Fifteen
Gaza City
Annette Sheffield woke with a shudder. Were they coming for her again? No, it was just a door slamming somewhere out there. Gaza. A woman—one who'd beaten her—had told her she was still in Gaza.