DARK ZEAL (COIL Book 5)

by D. I. Telbat

  Nathan nodded at Corban, as if to say, "Just like we prayed last night, I'm ready for anything. I've got your back, and God's got us all in the palm of His mighty hand. I'm just glad to be here." Corban smiled and nodded back. A lot could be said through a nod. Operative mode was like that: not much needed to be said since the senses were alert and the body was tense for action.

  "This is Operation Wolf Hunt," Colonel Yasof explained, his presence commanding silence. "Crac Hassad is the wolf, and we are the hunters. Our latest intel puts Hassad east of Gaza City, so we'll breach the Strip's perimeter north and south of Karni Crossing—two teams. Each team will be supported by two Merkava battle tanks, equipped for urban fighting. Two Saraph helicopters will also escort each team into Gaza, and I'm committing a drone for each team with instant intel piped through. We've been tasked with one Sufa warplane for laser or coordinate smart-bombing. Personnel will be transported in and out in Namer heavy armored carriers. No one else dies during Operation Wolf Hunt.

  "Many of you have been introduced to our American . . . observers. They'll be accompanying each team. This is Nathan Isaacson and that's Corban Dowler. During Operation Wolf Hunt, they'll provide support for our secondary priority and that is to locate and recover American civilian Annette Sheffield. She's presumed a hostage. You each have her photograph.

  "Don't anyone think our American observers are passive participants. Aaron Adar fell into the enemy's hands two weeks ago. Corban Dowler and Annette Sheffield kept Aaron alive and got him home. The mutual care we have for one another will unite us and keep us safe.

  "Our latest intel says Crac Hassad is attempting to acquire another biological weapon. This cannot happen. If it does, or if a weapon has already been smuggled into Gaza from the Mediterranean, we have to get it back, whatever it is, at all costs to prevent a biological attack against Israel. While Operation Wolf Hunt is under way, airstrikes against tunnels and militants will continue. Hamas has intensified their own firing, which may indicate cover for something ugly on the horizon. All IDF ground forces have been pulled back from eastern Gaza City, al-Qubbah specifically. The only people you'll see in Gaza will be one or another of the factions that are trying to destroy every man, woman, and child of Israel. We cannot afford to lose this battle, my friends. The world is watching. Be aware, there may be civilians on the streets, but at night, they'll mostly be inside. Let's never forget our code, Ru'ah Tzahal: 'Defend the State, its citizens and residents; love the homeland and remain loyal to the country; and maintain human dignity.' We move out in two hours. We breach Gaza at sundown. You have your orders. You are dismissed."

  As the officers filed out of the room, Corban signaled Chloe to intercept Colonel Yasof. Corban was aware the two had known each other during Chloe's Mossad days. Approaching the colonel a step behind Chloe, Corban appreciated that Nathan remained wary against the wall.

  "Colonel Yasof, what about Rasht Hassad?" Chloe asked. At the mention of his name, the dark-eyed man rose from his chair and stepped forward. "COIL has unofficial custody of him, having rescued him from imprisonment in Uzbekistan. We acted on your intel—that Crac Hassad had a brother. We're responsible for him."

  "Of course." The colonel scratched at his left hand, and Corban noticed the veteran was missing his pinky finger. "The world may not have connected an Uzbekistan prison escape with a Hamas leader, but the Palestinian Authority knows us too well. They know we have Rasht. They filed an official warrant for his arrest, saying he killed several women and children in Khan Younis."

  "But I have never been to Gaza," the quiet man said. "And I have never killed anyone."

  "We know it's a lie," Yasof said, "but . . ."

  "Yasof!" Chloe guffawed. "You can't be seriously thinking about giving him to the PA! His brother is behind this. They'll kill him just because he's a Christian!"

  "I know. They want him badly. Rasht, we need to somehow use your brother's hatred to our advantage." Yasof sighed and looked at the floor. "Israel is desperate. Offering you to them may draw your brother out. We may even find out where Annette Sheffield is, or trade you for her, Rasht."

  No one spoke for a few moments. Corban began to formulate a plan. Rasht was their leverage against Crac Hassad. His idea was risky, but it could work.

  "I am not a soldier, or even a member of the nations at war here," Rasht said. His face displayed sadness, his resignation apparent. "But if it ends this conflict and helps this missing woman, I will offer myself as an exchange."

  "I fully object to that!" Chloe protested. "Yasof, how manipulative of you to place that upon his conscience!"

  Corban stepped aside as Chloe continued to dismantle the colonel's best intentions, though the colonel maintained his idea as the only possible way to draw Hassad into the open, if the conflict came down to negotiations overnight.

  Nathan approached Corban and set a hand on the shoulder of his shorter boss. Their heads came together to speak quietly in German.

  "I've got a plan, Nathan." Corban glanced back at Yasof, who watched them closely, but he was out of hearing range. "It'll change Yasof's plans, and it'll put us in the path of death. I just don't see Operation Wolf Hunt really working. Men like Crac Hassad are experts at evading the Israelis. And this idea to offer up Rasht will just get him killed."

  "What's your plan? You know I'm up for just about anything, Boss."

  "I know, but I still want your permission." Corban calculated a dozen moves. He needed to bring in other COIL resources, but most of them couldn't be there by nightfall. "Okay, I was going to keep it a surprise, but . . . Chen Li's on her way here to meet you."

  "What?" Nathan grinned. "You ol' softy, Boss! Janice is really turning you into a romantic, isn't she? Wait. What permission do you need from me?"

  "I figured you and Chen Li could enjoy a little of Israel while we waited for word on Annette. But now, I'm thinking we should just go get Annette ourselves. For my plan—you, me, Chloe, Rasht, and Chen Li—we'll all be in danger. But we need to go in tonight while Operation Wolf Hunt keeps most of Hamas busy."

  Nathan stared at Corban, their eyes locked. Corban knew it was a lot to ask, and Nathan certainly couldn't make decisions about his fiancée's life, but Corban couldn't proceed without Nathan's permission.

  "Can you team her with me?"

  "No, you'll be teamed with me. We can't risk our women around Muslim fundamentalists. I want Chloe and Chen Li to handle our over-watch. We'll pair them as a sniper team as you and I deliver Rasht."

  "Flush Crac Hassad out?" Nathan rubbed his jaw, still bearded from his Yemeni mission. "It's risky, especially if you want to do this without the IDF."

  "No one can know. Not even Yasof. Or we're dead when we get in front of Crac Hassad. We may be dead anyway, if we run into an Israeli F-16 missile. I have in mind to arrange additional COIL backup, but nothing that can be set up tonight."

  "Let's do it. May God help us. I'm in." Nathan chuckled, which Corban thought was a good sign. Eagle Eyes was starting to sound like his old confident self again. He'd just needed a little friendly company and fellowship. "Chen Li is well-trained. She and Chloe will make a good team, but I don't think Chen Li is sniper-trained."

  "That's okay." Corban winked. "Chloe is."

  *~*

  Chapter Twenty

  Israel / Gaza

  Annette listened past her own whimpering to the noises of the house. Her cheek was split open and she felt a few loose teeth from her last beating from Crac Hassad's four wives. Since she was beaten every time a meal was delivered, she had decided to use that time to speak boldly for Christ.

  When the door had opened that morning, she'd stood in the corner and said, "I know you're about to beat me. But let this be known: you are beating me because I'm a child of God, a believer in Jesus Christ. I don't hate you for what you must do."

  Then, as their fists and feet had rained down on her, through gritted teeth, she had recited John 3:16. She felt bad she hadn't been a Christian earlier, or that she ha
d no other Scriptures to rely on from memory, but it seemed an appropriate verse, something God had helped her remember from her selfish youth.

  There was a sense of joy she couldn't identify, just knowing she wasn't being beaten without a reason—but she was being beaten because of her faith in Christ. The abuse had seemed to intensify the last few days since she'd become bolder, but somehow, it seemed worthwhile.

  The house was quiet. Could it really be empty? Once in a while, she heard distant explosions, vehicles outside, and war planes above—but the house seemed to be unattended now.

  She stood in front of the door, her left foot wrapped in a torn strip of blanket. Her right leg was normally stronger than her left, but her right knee was swollen nearly twice its normal size, thanks to one of her tormentor's heels. Permanent damage didn't trouble Annette; she just wanted to be free. If she stayed much longer, her four Palestinian friends were liable to kill her.

  Annette's first kick cracked the door frame. Sure enough, they had underestimated her, and overestimated the security of their hostage room.

  If someone was in the house, Annette wasn't about to wait for them to stop her. She gasped and cried out, kicking the door up high, where she believed the dead bolt was fastened.

  When the door finally gave way, the frame didn't just splinter. It burst open on dry hinges. For an instant, Annette stared into the unveiled face of one of her captors, a young woman no older than Annette. Muslim women didn't have to wear veils at home in the company of other women, so Annette had wondered why the four wives had worn full coverings when they'd beaten and fed her. Now, Annette no longer wondered. The poor woman's face was swollen and bruised, apparently from beatings she'd received either from Crac Hassad or his other wives.

  Annette stepped through the door, and the wife backed away. She didn't dare attack Annette without her cohorts, but Annette remained ready to defend herself. Glancing to the right, she saw a window and a flight of stairs that descended to what she guessed was the street level.

  "Come with me," Annette said. "You don't need to live like this any longer."

  The woman blinked, and opened and closed her mouth several times. Finally, she turned toward the stairs.

  "Follow me."

  Annette didn't have to be told twice. She limped hurriedly after the woman. At the ground level, they heard men's voices speaking Arabic. The wife gestured at Annette, and the two retreated up the stairs then beyond the hostage room, into the recesses of a hallway that smelled like damp earth.

  Suddenly, a masked figure stood in front of them. The wife attacked him instantly, silently, and Annette joined her. She had to get free. Who knew what America and Israel were being forced to concede to the terrorists because of her!

  The masked man was armed with a rifle. While the wife entangled his arms, Annette stepped behind the man and kicked him low in the back. Under the woman's weight, the two crumbled onto the floor. He must've hit his head hard enough, because he lay still an instant later. Annette ripped the man's mask off and drew a knife from a sheath on his belt.

  "Come!" the woman urged, moving toward the dank smell. "Others are coming!"

  Annette cut the laces on the man's combat boots and tugged them off. She couldn't run away barefoot! Snatching up the rifle, she rushed after the wife.

  The hallway sloped down to a wide garage, empty, but large enough for three trucks. The floor was of dirt. One of the three garage doors started to open. The wife darted to the left where light bulbs lit up the back of the garage. There it narrowed into a tunnel, sloping down into the earth. Containers and oil drums crowded the tunnel mouth. The wife hid between two drums, and Annette crowded beside her as voices rose from the garage. The unconscious man had evidently been found.

  A Toyota truck was driven into the garage and the large door began to close. Outside the door, the day was turning to dusk. To Annette, approaching darkness seemed the perfect time of day to escape on foot.

  "Let's go!" the woman whispered, and emerged from her hiding place.

  Annette reached to pull her back, but the woman was already gone, running for the closing garage door. Helplessly, Annette watched as she sprinted past the Toyota. Her timing was completely off. The wife squirmed under the door as it closed on her waist. The chain above ground to a halt. The wife screamed and twisted in fright, halfway outside the garage, drawing everyone who hadn't already seen her try to escape. Gunmen rushed to the door and raised it while pinning the woman to the floor.

  "Run!" the woman yelled, her voice outside echoing back through the garage. "Run!"

  But Annette didn't move. The terrorists now assembling clearly believed Annette had already escaped through the door. Two men with handguns exited the garage. One went left, the other right. A tall skinny youth wearing a shoulder holster gave orders in Arabic, then stepped over the woman, who seemed injured from the garage door. With chills running up her spine, Annette realized the woman wasn't wearing her veil, as required by Sharia Law.

  The skinny man drew his sidearm and aimed it at the disobedient wife's head. Annette looked down at the rifle in her hands. Was it loaded? Was the safety on? She felt inclined to help the battered wife, but how? A dozen armed men now surrounded the woman on the floor.

  The gunshot, even thirty yards away, hurt Annette's ears. She slid farther back behind the drums, panting, trying to control her breathing and shock. The youth had just executed one of Crac Hassad's wives! That meant he had authority—merciless authority.

  Settling her gasps, Annette gazed at the smelly black boots in her lap. Removing the shredded laces, she shoved her bare feet into the footwear. Since she was six feet tall, the boots were close to her size, though wide. Using a couple of lace scraps, she tied the top boot eyes together and pulled the mask over her head. From the earthen floor, she gathered dirt, spit on it, rubbed her hands in the mud, then smeared it underneath her mask. The holes in the mask now wouldn't show her pale skin around her eyes and lips. She smeared more mud over her hands and arms.

  The men in the garage remained standing over the woman's body, discussing something. Annette gazed into the darkness of the tunnel. There were more voices coming from in there, and activity, like digging. It seemed to be the only escape from the garage. If she didn't move soon, she'd be captured again, and the skinny leader with the shoulder holster didn't seem like he was in the mood to show mercy to a woman.

  Annette prayed for help and silenced a sob as she started to cry. Corban Dowler. He had to be near. She'd settle for Oleg Saratov, or even Titus Caspertein at this point. Just not Crac Hassad or Luc Lannoy! Shuddering at the thought of capture again, she rose to her full height in the shadows of the tunnel mouth. Air wafted down into the tunnel. A draft meant an exit, somewhere. Did that mean they had tunneled into Israel? Of course. Why else would Crac Hassad dig a tunnel? The thought of freedom in Israel made her dizzy.

  There was nowhere else to go. She squared her shoulders, held the rifle across her chest, and entered the tunnel.

  *~*

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Karachi, Pakistan

  Titus Caspertein's conscience bothered him, and he blamed Corban Dowler. For years, Titus had suppressed the good morals of his youth so he could commit unspeakable criminal acts. Every inclination his flesh had, he fed it. Weapons brokers loved the ex-American's rebellious attitude, and loose women loved his rough but handsome features, topped off by a head of blond hair, almost the color of wheat. What he didn't steal or enjoy for free, he bought with his riches.

  Nothing in his criminal career helped him make sense of his pursuit of Luc Lannoy into Karachi, Pakistan. For years, Titus had called himself one of the good guys, just with his own set of rules. No one could blame him for looking out for number one, right? It wasn't like he actually fired the missiles he sold, or pulled the pin on grenades he smuggled to militants. But living next to Corban Dowler for just a few hours in Gaza, had intimidated his version of self-righteousness into the dark recesses of his heart
—the darkness he liked to pretend wasn't really there.

  "I'll show you!" Titus spat as he stood in an alley of a slum neighborhood of Karachi. He wore no disguise and made no apologies for his Western appearance. As the smuggler who was called the Serval, he would capture Luc Lannoy and prove to Corban Dowler he was as good as anyone else.

  But deep down, Titus knew Corban would never buy an act of justice for a change of heart. True Christians—men like Corban—didn't judge matters by appearances, but by the standard of Jesus Christ. And that left everyone wanting and at God's mercy for any righteousness at all.

  Across the street, Luc Lannoy, the tall Belgian from Gaza, poked his head out of a doorway that Titus himself had frequented over the years. Lannoy looked up and down the crowded street, then hopped over a drainage gutter of raw sewage. Four armed men followed Lannoy, their rifles held ready for use. They seemed determined in their local uniforms, their gait hurried enough to send several civilians scattering out of their path.

  Titus didn't care to spend much effort capturing Lannoy. The traitor to UN policies was going down. Lannoy was like all the other men Titus had done jobs for over the years—too corrupt to realize they were being used for darkness.

  After flexing his gun hand for action, Titus drew a cell phone from his pocket and gazed after Lannoy's party. Titus didn't want to kill Lannoy, just wound him enough to capture him. The explosive charge he'd placed down the street was small, but adequate. His Glock 18 handgun would take care of whatever the explosive didn't. They were just about in place, now. . .