by D. I. Telbat
Though Chloe and Chen Li were somewhere ahead and above them, they could do nothing against the gunships or warplanes or drones that could fire a volley of rockets from miles away. Their trust was in God, for they had no one else.
Nathan stopped at a street corner with Rasht and waited for Corban. Darting across an alley, Corban caught up to the two and knelt on the cracked pavement. He tried to block out the idea that Israeli spy planes could be watching them right now, ready to blow them off the street because they seemed to be up to something sinister.
"That's the school." Nathan pointed to the east, then took a swallow of water from a canteen. "Look! There . . . and there."
Corban peered intently at the school building. Sentries, under the cover of the building's metal awnings, stood with rifles and RPG launchers.
"Our instructions are to approach the building one at a time so it doesn't appear from the sky that the school is trafficked by militants." Corban drew a pair of handcuffs from his pack. Rasht offered his wrists, and Corban lowered his voice to speak English to the missionary. "Remember, the middle chain is just aluminum. And three links have an intentional crack in them. With a little force, you can break them yourself. Got it?"
"I'm more worried about bullets," Rasht said. "But I will trust you both."
"We're all trusting the Lord, but I thank you for your confidence." Corban glanced at the skyline to the southwest. "And somewhere near, we have a shooter who will secure our escape."
"We're in God's hands." Nathan slapped Corban on the back. "See you inside."
Without further words, Nathan walked calmly into the street toward the school building. The militants under their cover didn't move, since Crac Hassad had surely informed them to expect Muhammad ibn Affal. Corban counted Nathan's footsteps. Israel could fire at anyone they thought was an armed militant. To the west, north, and south, the ground battle had begun. It would be a night of death.
Corban checked the time. Colonel Yasof and his two sweeper teams had been in Gaza for almost four hours. By now, they would've realized their intel was wrong on where Crac Hassad was hiding. Sometime the next day, Corban would stand before Yasof and have to explain why he'd gone in without the Israeli soldiers. And then Corban would expound on what a nonbeliever could never understand, and share the gospel with the colonel: that God intended men to receive life from the hands of those who had life, as messengers for Jesus Christ. Allah's servants were lost men in sin's bondage, and that meant they needed Christ's gracious gift of faith and repentance, not a bullet in the name of justice. Christians didn't look for what was right or wrong, he would tell the colonel, but what was Christ-like. The IDF, in contrast, had one job: to protect its people. Christians had one job: to proclaim the gospel of peace by word and deed.
Nathan reached the school. He looked back and waved, then stepped through a darkened doorway. Since Gaza was in a blackout—its electricity cut off by penetrating bombs—the street was lit by the moon and the flashes of distant explosions.
Rasht, with his wrists bound in front of him, walked into the street. Corban understood the reason they were walking one at a time was to protect the sanctuary of the school, but he would've much rather run across the street as fast as he could. The IDF probably figured soldiers usually moved in groups, not alone. But even crossing the street alone to the school was no guarantee they would be safe, because Israel's methods couldn't always be predicted. They hunted for terrorists, and if Israel was suspicious, they sent a missile.
Once Rasht was across the street and into the same doorway, Corban touched his face. The beard was in place. He checked the blue canister under his shoulder, then the NL-2 under his parka.
"Lord," he prayed, and stepped forward, "do what You do for Your people . . ."
Halfway across the street, Corban stopped and listened to the wind. Looking up, he saw a firebrand flying across the dark sky, the size of a match to the unfocused eye, but growing. By the time his eyes focused on the deadly missile, it was too close for him to do anything but fall to the ground. Covering his head, he lay on his side in a fetal position. Noise, heat, and shrapnel washed over him. The pressure of the blast on his internal organs hurt more initially than the lacerations to his body.
When he lifted his head moments later, one of his ears was bleeding, and he wasn't sure which way to face. For an instant, he forgot where he was as he tried to breathe. When he felt hands on him, helping him, he almost spoke in English, then his senses returned.
He leaned heavily on the thin shoulders of a masked militant, until he recognized Nathan, who picked him up like a child and carried him to the school doorway.
Once inside, Nathan set Corban on the floor. A dozen armed men gave them space, but still lingered in the foyer of the school entrance.
"Please tell me how to assist you, Sheik Muhammad," Nathan offered, kneeling next to him. He spoke loud enough for all to hear, Corban realized, perhaps to remind Corban in his daze to continue his act. Someone brought an LED lamp and held it low as Nathan gave Corban a cursory examination. "Are you hurt badly?"
This time, Corban was hurt badly. Shrapnel had dug into his back and shoulders. One of his legs was numb, but he could still move it adequately. Since he was Muhammad ibn Affal, there was no time for treatment of his wounds. Lives depended on his identity remaining intact, his authority and legend demanding what they had come for—Crac Hassad and Annette Sheffield, if she was still alive.
"Help me stand, my son," Corban requested, appreciating Nathan using the sheik title. A sheik was a man of religious bearing that would parallel the authority of a general amongst Islamists.
Nathan lifted him to his feet, and the thin masked Hamas militant moved up to steady him again. Corban looked into the eyes and recognized a plea for help. It was Annette Sheffield! She carried a rifle in one arm and wore baggy clothes and men's boots, but it was actually her!
"Thank you, my son," he told her in Arabic, knowing she couldn't understand, but it was more for Hassad's men that they understood he affirmed her, as he had Nathan. Holding her close, he nodded at Nathan. "Take me to the meeting. Let us meet this night of death with an end to all of Israel."
The militants seemed to approve, and parted for Nathan and Muhammad. Two men led the way deeper into the school, and Corban looked up at the ceiling. Israel had fired at who they thought was a militant outside the school. It was just a matter of time before they fired at the school itself.
"Corban?" Annette whispered as they passed through a doorway. Somehow she had recognized him from their time together in Western Gaza in the factory.
"That obvious?" he risked in English.
"No, just expected." She touched his cheek, and Corban realized she was pressing his beard onto his face where the adhesive was failing.
"Stay close. You can lose the rifle. You're with me now."
They were shown into a room, and Corban was thankful Nathan anticipated his weakness and provided a chair. Annette helped steady him as he sat, and then stood back. Discreetly, in the dimness behind other LED lamps, she set her rifle against the wall, then returned to his side, her left hand resting on his right shoulder. As other men filed into the room, Corban noticed Nathan give him a concerned look. Corban fought to think clearly through his pain. If he didn't get a message quickly to Nathan, Nathan could become protective and expose Annette. All it would take was for someone to speak to her in Arabic, and she was finished.
"Thank you, my son," Corban said to Nathan, aware that many others were listening. "Between Ahmen Shofar and yourself—I am preserved by your faithfulness."
Corban saw Nathan silently repeat the name on his lips. Ahmen Shofar. Annette Sheffield. Realization replaced his confusion.
"Of course, my sheik." Nathan bowed his head briefly. "May peace and protection be yours by your servants."
Sitting up straight in the chair, Corban browsed the men around him. Someone brought him tea and he sipped it. He felt blood trickle down his spine. A piece of met
al was protruding there as well as in his shoulder. With so much requiring his attention, he tried not to think about the permanent damage possibly done by moving around without immediate treatment.
Rasht! Corban spotted the cuffed man held by two sturdy militants at the edge of the light. He appeared calm, like a man resigned to die so another could live. Except, Rasht didn't need to be surrendered now since they already had Annette!
There seemed no time to strategize. A new group of militants entered the room, crowding it even further. Corban recognized cautious bodyguards. One didn't stay alive as a Gazan leader for long without vigilant guards.
The first man of notice, in his early thirties, was a bright-eyed militant with a shoulder holster. If Corban read his face right, the young man was smiling—in a room of Muslim thugs! He had an air about him—pride mixed with anger. A dangerous combination.
The next man of influence was definitely Crac Hassad, Rasht's older brother. They had the same eyes. Corban looked back at the young smiling man. He, too, had Rasht's eyes. The younger one had to be the son of one of them, but which one? And how could Corban leverage it all for their safe exit—with Crac Hassad as their captive?
Corban rose and embraced Crac Hassad, kissing him on both cheeks, and receiving the same, as if they were brothers. A chair was brought for Hassad, and the lanterns were moved closer. The men on the fringes of the light were quiet.
"It is an honor, Muhammad ibn Affal," Hassad said. "Your presence is a gift from Allah."
"And I come bearing gifts." Corban patted the blue canister, bringing a smile to the terrorist leader's face. Otherwise, Hassad's dark eyes were hard to read. "May I introduce my right hand, Dirk Salverskein. He has been with me for many years."
Corban lifted his chin in mock pride. Dirk Salverskein was an alias Nathan had used during other operations, as a ruthless German financier and socialist.
"We are honored by your attention, Dirk Salverskein," Hassad said with a slight nod.
"The honor is mine," Nathan said in perfect Arabic. "May justice from heaven wrap your fate in Allah's embrace."
If he could've covertly done so, Corban would've given Nathan a cautionary glare for his veiled threat, but there were more introductions to be made.
"And Ahmed Shofar." Corban gestured to Annette. "He is one of my more public voices. Therefore, his face is more important than even my own. He will remain silent on this night for this reason. You understand."
"Of course." Hassad nodded in respect. "I have my own important faces. This is my nephew, Sohayb Hassad, worth ten men. But we are not here to boast of our gifted men. We have long-awaited business to conclude. You have with you our vindication. The Jordan will run red with Jewish blood tomorrow."
"Though we do not all partake of this struggle," Corban said, "the world is watching."
He silently prayed for Rasht. The Christian man hadn't told him his own son was serving in Hamas, or maybe he hadn't known! The fact that he was holding his composure was remarkable, and very well may have been keeping them all alive. Corban didn't want to introduce his fake captive at all, but even with Annette located, Rasht might still play a part in unbalancing Crac Hassad enough for a well-timed capture. Only the shadows kept Rasht hidden from his brother and son.
An explosion shook the building, a missile targeting something or someone a few blocks away. Corban's palms were sweaty.
"Did you bring the chickens?" Corban asked.
Crac Hassad lifted his hand, and Sohayb signaled other men. A square plastic container was brought into the room and set in the middle of the group.
"It is sealed, as you requested." Hassad reached down and tapped the top of the transparent plastic. "Bring the chickens!"
A sliding door on the plastic top was opened and two grown chickens were placed inside. They flapped their wings in the confined space, then investigated their new house with curious pecking.
"Dirk?" Corban eased the blue canister strap from his shoulder, with Annette's help, and handed it to Nathan. "Please demonstrate for us all."
"Yes, my sheik."
Nathan took the canister and connected it to a one-way valve on the plastic container. The men in the room shuffled closer. With the skill of a professional magician, Nathan inspected every angle of the seal with great care. Finally, he looked up at Corban, who gave a solemn nod. The militants leaned toward the container. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, especially Corban. Several militants covered their mouths and noses, as if that would protect them from lethal nerve gas.
When Nathan turned the canister lid slightly, a brief hissing could be heard as compressed gas escaped, then he closed the valve. Instantly, the two chickens became agitated, and in a few more seconds, fell over still. Nathan disconnected the canister and cradled it delicately, then stepped back to Corban's side.
"Most impressive." Hassad's eyes seemed to twinkle as they gazed longingly at the canister. "The same effect on dogs? Jews specifically?"
"The same, though with a few seconds delay, depending on body mass." Corban was completely fictionalizing now. COIL chemists had produced the compressed tranquilizer at the last minute as requested, but no one knew its exact properties. As long as no one knew how to check a chicken's pulse, the ruse was safe, and no one would know the chickens were merely asleep. "It's a nerve gas with deadly potential. Dispersed properly, this mixture will kill thousands."
"Where's the rest?" Hassad wiggled his fingers as a child anticipating a delicious candy. "You said you had a truckload."
"You and I have not met before," Corban said softly, even warmly, "though we have been active in the same war between good and evil."
"Yes, I sense a kinship with you as well. Allah has given me a peace about you. But the rest of the gas?"
Corban had to buy time. There was no other gas. He already had Annette. Now, he had to think about escaping with Rasht, with Crac Hassad in custody as well.
"The rest of my men came over the wall after us." Corban waved his hand casually. "They will begin to arrive in one hour. We will complete our transaction then."
"More men?" Hassad appeared nervous. "How many more? Israel is always watching."
"Eight men, each with a canister. You asked for six. The others, I give them to you for free. Consider them my gift."
"The IDF may catch them."
"Which is why others have been recruited. They are experts at stealth. Soon, they will arrive. We may wait, yes?"
"Of course. More tea! And remove the chickens."
As Corban intended, the men dispersed at the announcement of the need for more waiting. What they'd come to see had been seen, and their whispered excitement spread all around. Hassad excused himself and left the room. Two men remained to guard Rahst, but no one had given any indication that he'd been recognized as yet. Corban knew it was just a matter of time before he was asked about his cuffed prisoner.
Nathan crossed the room to the doorway, the canister in his arms. He looked back at Corban, perhaps watching for a signal to do something, but Corban didn't signal him. All he'd done was buy them time to think and prepare. Lives depended on Corban's next move. One thing for sure: when he and Nathan did make their move, Crac Hassad needed to be in the room. The terrorist leader was leaving with them whether he liked it or not.
*~*
Chapter Twenty-Six
Eastern Gaza
Titus exited the ambulance and the driver drove the vehicle into a garage with no door. Explosions like lightning lit the intersection before him, and Titus walked into the street toward what appeared to be the school building he'd been told to enter for the meeting. He carried the animal travel case in his fist, the two piglets snorting and squealing as they were jostled about.
A few hours hadn't been enough time for Titus to secure an actual biological weapon to use for the purchase of Annette from Crac Hassad. It wouldn't be the first meet he'd entered where he'd have to bluff his way along—maybe with a little persuasion from his Glock in his hols
ter.
At the door of the school building, he was met by two men with rifles.
"I'm Titus Caspertein, the Serval. Crac Hassad sent for me." Titus was poised, perhaps daring them to interfere. Confidence had been his ticket through countless barriers, but now there was more at risk than merely his own life.
In previous weeks, these extremists were merely his latest clients. Now, he felt he'd never had greater enemies. The events over the last few weeks had somehow changed his moral compass. Realizing he wasn't invincible, and not nearly as righteous as he'd believed, was made apparent by the impact certain people were having on his life—such as Corban Dowler, Annette Sheffield, and Oleg Saratov. Though he was only willing to admit it recently, there'd been other genuine Christians in his life he should've been encouraged by, rather than disgusted—people like his brother and sister, Rudy and Wynter. Did they still pray for him? He hoped he lived through the night to find out.
Titus was led through several dark rooms, and eventually arrived at one lit by LED lamps set in the center of the floor.
"Crac Hassad will be here soon. Please wait." His escorts left.
Several Gazan gunmen stood in the room at the edges of the lamp light. A bearded man sat in a chair, and a masked man lurked over his shoulder. Next to Titus, a bearded giant leaned against the wall. This giant held a blue canister protectively—a canister similar to the one Titus had brought to Gaza the first time. So, he wasn't the only one supplying Hassad this night.
"Sounds like popcorn out there," Titus said in Arabic to the bearded man with the canister. "It ain't easy feeling Israel's full wrath, huh?"