by Ward Larsen
When his boots touched the top of the window frame, he looped the rope twice around his lower wrist to anchor his vertical position. He bent his knees and pushed off to one side. Not unlike Davy working a swing, he shifted his momentum rhythmically, each cycle gaining separation to one side. With careful timing, he dropped far enough on the last oscillation to get a toe on the window bracket. Slaton twisted to steady himself there. He almost lost his balance, but corrected and dropped lower until he had a hand on the top window hinge. At that point, he was stabilized next to the window where he couldn’t be seen from inside. He checked the line over his head. It now angled slightly toward the anchor point on the roof.
His first close look at the curtains was encouraging. They were still drawn, but made from a particularly sheer fabric. It was time to retrieve the Glock. This was no small feat—both his hands were busy on the rope. He contorted until his stronger right hand was free, then gripped the gun carefully—to drop it now would not only leave him unarmed, but the clatter on the sidewalk would announce his arrival like a doorbell. In that moment, had anyone been looking up from the street—and no one was—they would have seen something akin to Spider-Man with a rope and a 9mm.
Slaton got another break with the curtain—aside from its sheerness, it had been drawn closed tightly at the center, leaving a gap at the outer edge through which he could see much of the apartment. At that moment there was no one in sight. The layout looked typical: a main room, beyond that a compact kitchen, and a door to one side that was certainly the bedroom. Everything was brightly lit, the furnishings unremarkable.
What was remarkable was the condition of the place. It had been turned over in a reckless search—the kind people undertook when they wanted something badly and didn’t care who knew. The contents of bookcases had been swept to the floor. Chair cushions lay askew, their fabric sliced open and foam shredded. Every cupboard door in the kitchen was open, and what had been on the shelves was now on the floor. Slaton saw a handgun on the island counter, a piece he couldn’t identify from where he was, but some kind of mid-caliber semiautomatic. Next to that was a half-eaten sandwich.
He wondered about the gun. Might it be Mordechai’s, perhaps turned up in the search? Or a careless intruder’s? And how many intruders were there?
Slaton was still studying things when, through the partially open window, he heard a wet smack, skin-on-skin, followed by a moan. Moments later he saw a thickset Asian man emerge from the bedroom. He was a few inches shorter than Slaton, with an extremely muscular build—the physique of a competition body builder, all bulk and rigidity. His skin was like a husk, and there was an odd angle to the part in his hair. No, not a part, Slaton realized. An elongated scar across the crown of his scalp. As if someone had tried to split his head with a hatchet. Scarhead. More ominously, in an all too literal sense, the man had blood on his hands. He set a ball-peen hammer on the kitchen counter.
Slaton fought an urge to go in right then. As disturbing as the scene was, he had to pick his moment. Was the man working alone? Given his method of entry, it seemed likely. But an accomplice or two couldn’t be ruled out. Either way, Slaton was looking at a sadistic man. The kind for whom throwing people under a bus wasn’t metaphorical.
He twisted away from the window, keeping an eye on the gap in the curtain. The big man began searching the refrigerator, tossing a jug of milk and an egg carton on the floor. Slaton didn’t know what he was looking for—not exactly—but he guessed it had to do with the message Mordechai sent. Have extensive new information on El-Masri. Will provide when we meet again. The fact that this man was Asian was damning in itself: he had to be tied to the bunch who’d murdered El-Masri and his family.
That didn’t bode well for Mordechai, who was no doubt in the bedroom. Slaton was glad to have heard the moan—otherwise he wouldn’t have given odds on Mordechai being alive.
There it is again, he thought. Odds.
Slaton was reasserting his grip on the window hinge when he got his worst break of the night. A police siren blared out of nowhere. He saw blue lights reflecting off a building on a cross-street. By their movement, he deemed the patrol car to be heading away, responding to some distant urban crisis. A regular occurrence in any big city. Unfortunately, the timing couldn’t have been worse. The siren would naturally draw Scarhead’s attention as well.
Through the gap in the curtain, Slaton watched him turn away from the refrigerator and head toward the window.
Dangling tenuously against the outer wall, Slaton pushed as far away from the window as he could. Scarhead wouldn’t be able to see him without getting very close to the window, and even then he would have to look to his right at an acute angle. He would easily discern that the police car wasn’t a threat. Yet there was a far greater problem: he might realize that his rope, which had been dangling squarely outside the center of the window, was no longer in sight.
FORTY-FOUR
The best fight, Slaton knew, was the one you didn’t have.
But sometimes that wasn’t an option.
He edged closer to the window frame—if Scarhead noticed the missing line, Slaton had to know. He watched him stop two paces short of the window, saw him register the fading blue lights two streets away. That was followed by a half turn, and then … a distinct pause.
Slaton tensed his grip on the line.
Had Scarhead noticed the missing rope? Had he heard the muted sound of boots scuffing for purchase on the building’s gray-brick frontage?
Whatever it was, Slaton saw him turn slowly back to the window. The look on his face, seen through the gap, was something frozen—a mental process caught in that awful abyss between alarm and indecision. Like a soldier realizing he’d just wandered into the middle of a minefield.
The next four seconds seemed like an eternity.
Slaton’s initial impulse was to lean away from the window. That proved to be a mistake. The move only increased the strain on his hands, and left him helpless to direct the Glock with any accuracy. It also put him farther outside the center of gravity beneath the rope’s high pivot point. Worse yet, by trying to back away from the window, he’d inadvertently committed himself to a return oscillation—one that would surely be seen. He made an instantaneous decision. Instead of trying to fight the physical forces, Slaton went all in.
He bent his knees and pushed hard off the wall, springing away from the stone face and arcing out in front of the window. He again tried to guide the Glock, but Newton’s Third Law got the better of him—with the rope entwined tightly around him, his gun hand was pulled low and away. He couldn’t train the barrel on his target.
He flew through the air like a bad circus act, all flailing limbs and opposing forces. To the man in the window, Slaton knew he would initially appear as no more than a shadow in the darkness. In a bad sign, the man was already reacting, setting a wide stance and raising his hands in a classically defensive posture.
Slaton had pushed himself eight feet away from the wall, but now he was heading back—accelerating like a human wrecking ball. In the moment before impact he prepared as best he could, feet together and knees bent. In the last instant he tucked his chin tight and turned his arms inward, protecting vital arteries from a smooth sheet of glass that was about to go to jagged shards.
The old window didn’t so much shatter as explode. In a crystalline shower Slaton flew into the apartment. He’d closed his eyes on impact, but on his last look he’d seen a vector taking him straight at Scarhead. Sightless, he tried to time a two-legged kick at the man’s head. He actually made contact, but not the decisive strike he’d wanted. Slaton crashed to the carpeted floor and immediately faced a new problem—he was hopelessly entangled in the climbing rope. He spotted the big man—he hadn’t gone down, but he was off balance, righting himself near a bookcase.
Slaton tried to lift the Glock, but was again stymied by the rope. Scarhead recognized his advantage—he grabbed the line. With one great pull he sent Slaton into a half
flip that spun him onto his stomach. Without time to look, Slaton tried to predict the man’s next move. He rolled to one side, and in the next instant Scarface landed where he’d been. Yet it wasn’t a complete failure—he locked onto a fistful of Slaton’s shirt.
Slaton knew what was coming. Anybody so muscled would favor a close-in fight. He would want to incapacitate his opponent, a chokehold or breaking bones. Slaton himself was no stranger to close-in fights. He had the strength of a mason, hands that in recent years had become accustomed to cutting stone and hauling mortar.
He needed every bit of it.
Slaton landed a quick elbow to the man’s nose. Scarface responded with a fist like a cinder block that glanced off Slaton’s head. Scarhead rolled on top of him and seized the rappelling line—it had ended up at the base of Slaton’s neck.
Recognizing what was coming, Slaton thrust his left hand under the line in the instant it went taut. The Asian tried to twist the rope into a nylon garrote. It worked to a point, but Slaton’s hand kept the worst of the pressure off his windpipe. Scarhead’s face went crimson as he strained to finish the job, veins bulging in his neck. Slaton’s left hand was getting crushed and his shoulders were pinned to the floor. He wondered how long he could last. Would his hand go numb, become ineffective? Or would the Asian get impatient and try something new?
Slaton knew he had to change the dynamic.
Fortunately, he had more than raw strength—he had some of the best training in the world. While his left hand was striving to keep an airway, his right, which had ended up twisted behind his back, began working. Through all the chaos, the Glock was still in his grip—the Asian probably didn’t even know he had a weapon. Trapped beneath the small of his back, the gun’s grip was squarely in his hand, but canted with the trigger out of reach.
Slaton spread his legs wide for stability.
Scarhead responded accordingly, like a wrestler expecting a reversal from his opponent.
Slaton had to build space behind his back, the slightest gap in which he could maneuver. His left hand was going numb, nerves pressed to bone, circulation nearly stopped. His right hand was relentless, determined to not lose control of the Glock. Searching for the trigger guard. Finally, after one great shift of his hips, he felt it.
Proficiency with any weapon is a perishable skill, and owing to his newfound seafaring lifestyle, Slaton hadn’t visited a firing range in months. Fortunately, the thoroughness of nearly two decades saved him. He’d learned to shoot from countless stances in training. A lesser but notable number in operational settings. Left-handed, right-handed, every imaginable grip from every conceivable position. Including, thankfully, “point-shooting” blind from his hip.
The main complication involved targeting—you had to aim not by sight, but by feel. With the gun against his hip, Slaton altered his grip to extend his trigger finger along the lower frame for a reference while curling his middle finger on the trigger. The Glock became an extension of his hand. The second problem was estimating where his target was vulnerable.
With his left hand quivering beneath the wrenched nylon rope, Slaton pulled the trigger. The Glock answered, sending a round low and toward the only available part of his target—his lower leg.
The first thing he saw was surprise in the face above him. That was followed by a grimace. The second shot produced what he wanted—desperation. Now it was Scarhead who needed to change the situation.
Slaton fired a third time, still aiming for the man’s legs. Hoping like hell he didn’t shoot himself in the foot.
When Scarhead released his grip on the climbing rope, Slaton knew he’d scored at least one hit. The relief on his crushed left hand was instantaneous. The Asian rolled clear and attacked Slaton’s right side, seeking the gun. Slaton predicted the move, and rolled in the same direction—the same essential move practiced by every street cop in the world. Protect your weapon above all else.
With his grappling getting him nowhere, Scarhead suddenly changed tactics. He leapt to his feet. Slaton expected him to go for the gun on the counter. Instead he stumbled toward the door.
The ropes had loosened from all the twisting. Slaton could move again.
He freed himself from the line and leapt to his feet as the big man disappeared. Slaton ran to the door, the Glock ready, and paused at the threshold to clear the space outside. He looked down the short hallway just in time to see Scarhead disappearing into the stairwell. There was no chance for a shot.
He ran a decision matrix.
Pursue?
The Asian had been limping badly, and a heavy trail of blood on the hallway runner would make him easy to track. Slaton looked down and saw blood on his own arm, felt a searing pain in his right thigh. Two gashes, almost certainly from broken glass. He checked each to make sure there was no arterial involvement. The lacerations were deep, particularly the one on his leg, but didn’t appear life-threatening. He shook out his crushed left hand, flexing it twice into a fist. Everything seemed to work. Circulation was returning.
With one last look down the hall, Slaton turned back inside, shut the door, and threw the bolt.
He ran to the bedroom.
FORTY-FIVE
He found Mordechai on the floor. He was bound to a chair and had been beaten savagely, his face a crimson horror. A belly wound was bleeding profusely, and one of his hands covered it instinctively. His skin had gone pale and his eyes were closed. Wispy breaths carried through lips that were trembling uncontrollably. Slaton glanced at the room around him. It looked like a Laundromat had exploded.
The first thing he did was pull out his phone and call 112, the emergency number in Europe. He gave the address and said an ambulance was needed immediately. He hung up before answering the operator’s questions. Hurrying to the kitchen, he pulled a clean dishrag from the counter and a steak knife from a drawer. He used the knife to sever the ropes binding Mordechai to the chair—short segments of the same line he’d rappelled down minutes earlier.
He lifted Mordechai’s hand and pressed the rag to the worst of his wounds. It was like putting a Band-Aid on a colander.
“It’s okay,” Slaton said. “You’re going to be all right.”
Mordechai’s eyes cracked open, the barest of slits. “I wanted…” he croaked wetly, “I only wanted to go back.”
“Go back where?”
“Mossad. I wanted back in and … and this was my ticket. When I saw what El-Masri was doing, I wanted to run an op.”
Slaton stared at him, trying to understand. He looked again at the belly wound, then noticed a bloody knife nearby on the floor. He’d undergone extensive training in combat field medicine, both care under fire and evacuation prep. Enough to know there was nothing more he could do. Not without pressure bandages or clotting agents or plasma. Mordechai’s only chance was a rocket-like response by emergency services.
“Hang in there. Help is on the way.”
Mordechai’s head slumped to one side, then suddenly righted. “There’s something you should know,” he said, coughing weakly. Blood dribbled from one corner of his mouth. If nothing else, Slaton wished he had a dose of morphine or fentanyl.
“Your family,” Mordechai said, “they’re okay. Park doesn’t have them.”
“Who’s Park?”
“The stick … look at the stick. I tricked your wife into thinking I was you … the phone you shared. I told her to buy a new one and go into hiding. She’s out there, still moving. They’re okay…” His voice faded and his eyes fluttered closed.
Slaton tried to make sense of it. His family in hiding? “You took over our private comm? You gave her instructions in my place?”
Mordechai’s eyes opened again—this time in pain, agony seizing his every fiber.
“How do I get in touch with her?” Slaton implored.
“The stick,” Mordechai repeated.
Slaton again heard sirens—a recurring theme tonight. This time, hopefully, because he’d summoned them himself. “Where
?” he asked. “Where is the stick?”
Mordechai opened his mouth as if to say something but no sound came forth. His right hand came near his lips. Then, suddenly, his eyes glazed over like a machine that had lost power. Slaton checked his carotid. There was no pulse.
He closed his eyes briefly, said a silent prayer. As he’d done too many times before.
The sirens were nearing. Slaton stood and scanned the room. A stick? The man was an engineer—he had to be talking about a flash drive. But where?
He rushed to the kitchen where he’d seen a laptop. There was no data stick in any of the ports. One siren arriving, a squeal of tires. Blue lights rolled over the façade of the building opposite like a spastic lighthouse beam. Slaton rifled through drawers that were already open, pushed aside magazines on the counter. He didn’t see a flash drive anywhere.
Scarface had been looking too. Might he have already found it? Slaton saw a jacket on a hook by the door. He rushed to it and searched every pocket. Nothing. He paused, recalling Mordechai opening his mouth.
Had he been trying to say something?
No … his hand had nearly touched his lips.
Slaton looked at the kitchen counter, saw a half-eaten tuna sandwich. He rushed over and lifted the remains of the sandwich. Beneath it was a small flash drive decorated with an Egyptian flag. One word was scrawled on the side: INSURANCE.
Shouted commands echoed in through the shattered window. Slaton pocketed the drive, took one last look through the bedroom door. Poor Mordechai. He had wanted to get back in Mossad. To be involved in operations. Wanted it so bad he’d put Slaton and his family at risk.
… this was my ticket. When I saw what El-Masri was doing, I wanted to run an op.
And so he had.
Slaton turned and ran through the front door. He headed for the stairwell, retracing the bloody trail across a carpet drawn in floral tones—pink and jade and lavender. Past the fire door he saw the glistening trail continue down the steps.