DARK ZEAL (COIL Book 5)

by D. I. Telbat

  "Actually, I let him think it worked. I'm not as young as I used to be, Nathan. Titus is just too strong for me. He might've gotten violent if I didn't go away."

  Corban saw the anger pass across Nathan's sunburned face. The ex-Marine was protective of his friends.

  "Well, I can't say I'm sorry it didn't work out with him, Boss. It hasn't been easy the last few months." Nathan's broad shoulders sagged.

  "Working alone takes a special calling. You've made a phenomenal impact for Christ."

  "Here I am blabbering. This is the first time I've seen you in person since the Caribbean. How're Janice and Jenna?"

  "They're in the Lord's hands. Jenna is almost as tall as me now." Corban turned to the debris of the church. "We can hardly build churches fast enough to stay ahead of the Tamil separatist destruction—if that's who did this."

  "Do we need to pay someone a little visit?" Nathan's shoulders lifted again with boldness. "It's been a while since I took the offensive. You have a couple NL carbines in the country?"

  "The COIL plane is all loaded, but we're headed back to Gaza. I had hoped to use Titus for backup, but since he's on the run, I can't risk going in alone. As you know, two are better than one. You ready?"

  "Just tell me what you want me to do."

  "Gaza's a total war zone. Let's get back to the plane. I want you to meet Rasht Hassad. Somehow, we have to perform a bait and switch, and get everyone out of Gaza alive."

  *~*

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gaza Strip

  Crac Hassad was about to lose his composure. Everything in Gaza seemed to be imploding. The tunnels from Egypt had caved in, except for three. That meant Hamas weapons from the Muslim Brotherhood had slowed to a minimum. Without a steady flow of rockets and weapons, how could he arm his freedom fighters? Allah demanded the lives of the infidel, and Hassad was not fulfilling that duty!

  The two towns in Northern Gaza, Beit Lahia and Beit Hanoun, from where many of the rockets were fired, had been hammered so terribly by IDF war planes that Hassad had to pull his launch platforms back to Gaza City. Two of his missile teams had retreated as far south as Khan Younis.

  Hassad, on the second floor of a school building in the Gaza Strip, peeked through a glassless window. The school hadn't been bombed, but nearby homes and other weapons caches had been, which had blown out the windowpanes. No, Hassad had been careful to protect the school from the Israeli bombers. The UN had been influential with that, making sure Israel didn't bomb the documented civilian building. Now, Hassad allowed no more than one Hamas freedom fighter to approach or depart from the school at a time. That way, Zionist drones couldn't say conclusively that the school was being used as an attack center, which, of course, it was.

  If the Israelis ever did bomb the school, it would be to Israel's shame, since Hassad had turned the first level of the building into an orphanage for the many parentless children. Yes, bombing the school would incur a massive body count. The world would scream at Israel, as the media often encouraged, and Hassad would simply find another command center. After all, he had killed his own family to make it appear the Mossad had killed them in Iran. Fighting for Allah required many sacrifices.

  Killing Jews for a living required patience as well, Hassad considered, and with his soul, he reached out to Allah for strength each day. So many setbacks, but not all was lost. Sure, the biological weapon two weeks earlier had been fumbled by Luc Lannoy, but Luc had called from Pakistan. Another weapon was being purchased and would be flown into Gaza within the week.

  For every tunnel Israel bombed, Hassad recruited another dozen freedom fighters to the cause. Each tunnel entrance was hidden inside someone's residence or shop, and each bombing destroyed a residence. The survivors had nowhere to turn but to come to Hassad for help. He gained many recruits this way. And he'd become very wealthy from Western charity organizations giving to what they thought were Palestinian aid efforts. Thus, Hassad didn't mind the bombings. With every bomb, he grew richer and his fighters multiplied.

  "We are invincible!" Hassad whispered at the window, gazing out at the fires of the city. "Well, at least I am invincible . . ."

  For months, he'd moved unscathed throughout the Gaza Strip. The Israeli Air Force bombed and their ground forces invaded, but Hassad believed Allah was protecting him for a special task. There were still enough weapons caches to continue the fight for two more months. By then, he imagined a cease fire would be organized so he could smuggle in more weapons to re-arm his men.

  Even Fatah, the political party within the Palestinian Authority, had joined the rocket firing. When they had run out of their short-range Qassam rockets, Hassad had given them Grad and M-75 rockets. Beersheba and Tel Aviv, home to thousands of Jewish civilians, were under constant alert. The Iron Dome, Israel's missile defense system, could barely keep up with Hassad's heightened attacks.

  Luc Lannoy, his Belgium ally, had failed as yet to provide the lethal material for his warheads, but Luc had gifted him in another way. The American celebrity, Annette Sheffield, would serve a purpose he was only now beginning to embrace. Soon, the whole world would believe Israel had killed her. It would be the final element to drive a wedge between America and Israel. Without America, Hassad believed Israel would crumble. Without America, Hassad's plans would be unleashed upon Israel, and—Allah be praised—all of Palestine would be his!

  "Uncle?"

  Hassad turned from the window to face his nephew, Sohayb. He was a worm of a man, barely thirty, but as loyal as a soldier could be to Allah. No one had sent out more suicide bombers than Sohayb. The man was a genius with TNT, and had wired young enthusiasts himself in order to kill the enemy. Yes, jihad was alive and well in the heart of his right hand, Sohayb, who was more important to him since Petra had been captured by Israel.

  "Yes, my nephew?"

  "The drone is complete." Sohayb's face beamed. "We are ready to move it into place."

  "The controller?"

  "I have sent him through the tunnel. The Israelis may look for him in Gaza, but he will be on the Israeli side of the border in our safe house."

  "Allah be praised."

  "When the controller is killed, the drone is programmed to slam into the Dome of the Rock." Sohayb adjusted his shoulder holster and sidearm. "The IDF will be condemned after that. No Muslim in the world will be able to restrain himself. No Jew in the world will be left alive, not after an Israeli drone destroys one of our holiest sites."

  "I told you I was a genius." Hassad raised his chin. "When I rule, you will rule with me from Jerusalem, my nephew!"

  "Praise Allah. I only wish Father were here to witness our triumph."

  Sohayb's joy seemed to wane, and Hassad considered a lie to keep the young man's zeal afloat.

  "Your father would be proud of you, as I am." Hassad embraced his nephew. "Your father is at Muhammad's side, looking down with pride upon you as you carry on Allah's work. Tell me: what of the tunnel expansion? Everything relies upon the development. The drone must get through to Israel, Sohayb. All of Gaza is relying on you. If you fail me, I swear—"

  "Perhaps two days, Uncle, if we do not stop digging."

  "Send word to the launch sites. They must not stop firing, even if it costs more lives. We cannot risk the Israelis finding us here. The rockets are our shield."

  "Yes, Uncle. I'll tell them. One last thing: you said you wanted to arm at least one of the six drone missiles with a germ or chemical. You must give that to me soon, or we'll have to launch the drone without it."

  "I'm waiting for the delivery to arrive. Focus on the tunnel as you're told, Nephew, and I'll pray Allah provides a weapon worthy of his name."

  Sohayb returned to the school basement where he needed to supervise the labor on the tunnel. Hassad didn't join him. He hated tunnels himself. Cave-ins were a constant threat. The risk of leaving Hamas without a spiritual leader was too great. Besides, Sohayb had accomplished more than anyone else under Hassad's command.

&nbs
p; Hassad wasn't really a commander, though. The men needed little urging. They only needed direction, purpose, and some training. Their hatred drove them, parallel to his own hatred.

  As long as Sohayb never discovered the truth about his father, everything would remain perfect. Even as loyal as Sohayb was, Hassad still hated his brother's son. After their strategies were implemented against Israel, Hassad planned to silence his brother's prodigy once and for all.

  "May Allah speed Luc Lannoy safely to us!"

  *~*

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lyon, France

  Interpol Agent Oleg Saratov was in a sour mood. For months, he'd accompanied Titus Caspertein, acting as his partner, all for the chance to arrest Crac Hassad, Luc Lannoy, and eventually Titus himself. But when the moment had come, Hassad had evaded him, Lannoy had escaped, and Titus had been adopted by Corban Dowler, who everyone knew still had deep CIA ties.

  The pile of reports Oleg had to complete for the head office of Interpol in Lyon, France, had provided good healing time for his bullet wound, but his hip was still sore. He wanted retribution, and the looks from others in the office made the Russian agent feel as if he'd failed the whole world. Three dangerous criminals were still on the loose, free to endanger countless civilians with weapons carelessly bought and sold.

  Titus was as dangerous as anyone on his list, Oleg thought. Sure, Hassad was an extremist in Gaza and wanted to kill just about everyone for his god. And Lannoy was corrupt and had selfish motives. But Titus was smart enough to have built a smuggling network underground. He had the wits and the funds to purchase, transport, and deliver the deadliest weapons on earth. And his carelessness made him scoff at risk. The man had lost all concern for any moral cause and for purposes that weren't for his own gain. When a man no longer cared, he could do any evil thing. A man with brains and resources who had stopped caring—that man had to be put down.

  But Oleg's dark mood evaporated when he received the email from Corban. Titus Caspertein was on the run again, and probably in Karachi, Pakistan, chasing Luc Lannoy. At that news, Oleg sneered. If Lannoy was involved, a profit was meant to be had, and where there was money and risk, Titus would also be attracted.

  Grabbing his cane, Oleg hobbled out of his third floor office and down the hallway to the director of foreign assignments, which was a diplomatic name for covert operations. Oleg knocked twice, then barged in on Director Harcoff, an aged man originally from Iceland.

  "Saratov? Why don't you come in?" The blond director gestured to a black soft chair, then frowned. "Did you sleep in your clothes again? Oleg, I don't want more complaints about you."

  Oleg set his cane aside and tucked his shirt tail into his slacks, then tried to smooth down his uncombed hair. In the field, his appearance as a slob was an asset, but in the office, some of the women upstairs had actually complained, saying a homeless man was prowling through the cafeteria. He'd just been in search of a sandwich!

  "Director Harcoff, you know I haven't been here in months. I don't have a home in Lyons."

  "There are hotels, Oleg, and clothing called pajamas. Please, make an effort. We represent the best our nations have to offer."

  "Yes, sir." Oleg seated himself, flinching from the pain in his hip, but then his grimace became a grin. "Titus Caspertein is on the run. The CIA and IDF contact, Corban Dowler, has informed us if we want him, he's in Karachi. He sent us an address."

  "They won't interfere? I'm worried less about Pakistan than the Mossad or CIA." Harcoff glanced at his corner cabinet. "Few international criminals have a file as thick as Caspertein's. It would mean much to this office if he were brought to justice. But look at you. You're barely able to walk."

  "I can manage. This isn't a mission. This is an arrest. And it's two for the price of one. Luc Lannoy, the Belgian UN observer is there. Dowler said he's trying to buy another weapon to sell to Hamas militants. You've read my briefings?"

  "You trust this Corban Dowler? He's the one who harbored Caspertein two weeks ago."

  "We have different goals, but his intel is always true. His man, who we now know was the spy, Luigi Putelli, is the one who saved my life by buying me time to escape with the American girl and Israeli soldier. Differing goals or not, Corban Dowler and his people can be trusted. They're on the side of right in ways I cannot exaggerate."

  Harcoff stood and gazed out the window at the ships on the Rhone River in the distance. Oleg wondered if he missed being in the field. Rumors were that he'd been an Icelandic Special Forces commando in his youth. Now, nearly seventy years old, the man who was still all shoulders and chest, operated vicariously through the next generation of operatives.

  "How many will you need?"

  "Give me four. We can surveil for two days, then move in. I believe we could be back in a week."

  "Put it together." Harcoff faced Oleg. "A dozen countries want Caspertein, and Belgium is embarrassed by this Luc Lannoy. Bring them in, Oleg."

  "Yes, sir." He rose and took up his cane.

  "And Oleg? Dead or alive will do."

  "I understand."

  As Oleg packed and filed emergency requisition orders, he reviewed Titus' tactics. They didn't call him the Serval for nothing. The man was downright sneaky. If anyone could avoid the net Oleg had planned, Titus could.

  Betrayal. The word had continued to play on Oleg's conscience. He and Titus had truly become friends. Titus was a likeable man, to a degree. To develop trust, Oleg had joined Titus on several smuggling and buy-sell arrangements. They'd risked their lives and stared death in its hollow eyes—together. Could Oleg really shoot the Serval? He might have to, if Titus gave him no choice.

  Sixteen hours later, Oleg flew over the Hindu Kush Mountain Range and landed in Karachi at the nation's largest airport. The strife in the region, especially in the northwest, had destabilized the city. It had become a melting pot of criminal contacts, extremist ideals, and underground cargo—human and otherwise. The capture and death of Osama bin Laden years earlier in Abbottabad was an exception to the lack of law and order in the struggling country. Police action wouldn't interfere with the transactions in Karachi. Wealth was prized more than the compromise of religion. And if the police did make a show of force, money had a way of dissolving national allegiances.

  All this Oleg considered, with teeth clenched, as he carried his bag through the airport, leaning on his cane along the corridor. Two of the four-person Interpol team he'd requested waited outside the airport for him. They'd flown in hours earlier to secure equipment and firearms, and to confirm the address of Luc Lannoy.

  Oleg and his men didn't speak as they took his bag and he climbed into the waiting car. Titus Caspertein was near, Oleg sensed, and there would be no escaping this time. Deep down, Oleg knew he would shoot and kill Titus, given the chance. He simply didn't want someone like the Serval alive to get revenge if he didn't kill him. No, Titus Caspertein had to die.

  *~*

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ashkelon, Israel

  "May I have everyone's attention?" Israeli Colonel Kalil Yasof called the Forward Command briefing room to order. "For our American guests, I will speak English this morning. Is that acceptable? Good."

  Corban stood against the cement wall of the sparsely furnished room. A table and a few chairs had been provided for the Israeli commanders and coordinators. Nathan Isaacson stood against the opposite wall, and Chloe sat in one of the chairs amongst the IDF officials. They were busy taking notes and logging data into their laptops as Colonel Yasof used a digital projector to draw his orders on the wall for each contingency of the pending operation.

  The only civilian in the room was Rasht Hassad—the ultimate pawn in this most recent Gazan conflict. Corban had rescued the Christian from the Uzbek prison and brought him back to the Israelis to be used to capture his brother, Hamas terrorist Crac Hassad. Rasht had been tortured in Uzbekistan for his faith in Jesus Christ, though few had believed Corban when he'd reported that Crac Hassad's own broth
er was truly a devout Christian missionary. For years, the man had been a refugee from Iran, but even while homeless, he'd become a pastor in Uzbekistan, preaching over the radio airwaves when it was too dangerous to share Christ any other way. Now, the nearly fifty-year-old man was to be the IDF's key to a cease fire. Corban had his doubts. Crac Hassad was a radical Muslim. Why would he care about his brother who was now a Christian? And just because Corban had brought the terrorist's brother to Israel didn't mean he'd allow the IDF to place Rasht in unnecessary danger.

  Yasof continued his briefing as he revealed his tactics. Corban glanced at the wall occasionally to memorize the features of the colonel's plans. Otherwise, he was prayerful and watchful over the room occupants. He was indeed Israel's ally, but the IDF was in a desperate state. The whole world was pressuring Israel to end the conflict, though the world didn't quite grasp the danger Palestinian extremists presented, particularly their leader, Crac Hassad. There were others in influential positions in Gaza, both political and religious, but at the present, Hassad was the one with a bull's eye.

  Since Corban's interests were spiritual in nature, and not political or militaristic, he prayed for the eyes to discern the difference. Israel would have to rely on something other than worldly means to end the conflict in Gaza. Corban had a spiritual vision where people—Jews and Palestinians alike—could be reconciled to God through Jesus Christ alone. His secondary ambition, and his only other purpose to remain in Israel, was to recover Annette Sheffield. The US State Department had authorized Corban to act on behalf of the president to broker her release. No American civilian was in Israel who knew more about the situation to pursue Annette's interests.

  Acting as diplomat or not, Corban was in operative mode and would allow Chloe to speak for him since their ideals were the same. Looking across the room, he could tell Nathan was in operative mode as well. They both wore the standard COIL gear: a desert tan-colored parka with a zip-out fleece for cold nights; battle dress uniform pants with pockets, buttons, and zippers resistant to tearing; tactical all-weather boots; uniform rappel belt with a front clip for quick action; and a black assault pack with three days of supplies and gear. Their COIL weaponry—the NL-X1 sniper rifle and NL-3 rifle—leaned within reach of each of them, which had drawn no special attention since everyone but Chloe and Rasht were also armed with state-of-the-art weaponry. And since a biological or chemical attack seemed imminent, a modern gas mask and germ warfare kit had been provided to everyone in the room.