Shock Wave, page 33
* * *
Major Drucker and his team reached the gray Toyota and pulled two dead terrorists from the backseat. A soldier went to check on the fighter who lay on the ground on the far side of the car, while Drucker approached Bridget and Will.
One of his men shouted something in Hebrew. “They’re dead,” Drucker said. “Good job, Commander.”
“It was a joint effort,” Will said, nodding toward Bridget. She helped him stand.
“You okay?” Drucker asked.
“Just my arm and an armor bruise.”
“You need to find the others,” Bridget said. “Over that way.” She pointed across the parking lot.
Drucker issued an order and four of his men followed. They took only a few steps before Faraz called out.
“Over here. I have Assali.”
* * *
Two of Drucker’s men secured Assali and tended to his wound. He was speaking to them in Arabic, already negotiating a deal.
“We have to find Johnny,” Faraz said. “And at least two fighters are unaccounted for.”
Drucker issued orders and his men formed into teams to start a grid search.
“Last I saw Johnny, he was this way.” Faraz veered off, with Bridget and Will behind him.
He spotted the blue Honda where he’d taken cover and moved toward it. He stepped over a dead fighter and turned between two vans.
That’s when he saw Johnny.
His cousin was facedown. His AK lay next to him. The ground was soaked with blood.
Faraz fell on him. “Johnny. Oh, no. No!” He turned him over.
Johnny moaned.
“Help! We need a medic over here!” Faraz sat on the ground and cradled Johnny’s head and shoulders in his lap. The wound was bad, left side of his chest, just below the heart.
Faraz brushed the hair off of Johnny’s face and patted his cheek. “Stay with me. You’re going to be all right.”
Johnny opened his eyes. “Hey, little man.”
“Oh, Johnny. Hang in there. Help is on the way.”
Johnny labored through two shallow breaths. “Tell Leila . . .” His eyes closed. His chin fell to his chest.
“Come on, Johnny. Don’t worry. You’ll tell her yourself. Please, Johnny, open your eyes.”
Two Israelis arrived with a medical bag and dropped to their knees next to Johnny. Bridget knelt down and put her arm around Faraz’s shoulders.
The medics moved Johnny off of Faraz. One man checked his pulse, then put his ear to Johnny’s nose and mouth. The other medic cut open Johnny’s shirt to expose the gaping wound. He looked at Faraz and shook his head.
“No! No! Start CPR. Get an ambulance.”
“It’s no use, sir,” the medic said. “He is not breathing and the wound is too grave for CPR.”
Faraz stared at them.
Bridget squeezed his shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Faraz.”
“It can’t be. He was . . . And then . . . Oh, God.” Faraz leaned forward and put two fingers on Johnny’s neck. He looked at the medic for some hope, but found none.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Faraz took a halting breath and let it out. He sat back on his heels. They were all silent for several seconds. Then Faraz hung his head and said the Shahada for his cousin.
He reached over and closed Johnny’s eyes. “He got the last one, protecting me.” Faraz didn’t even try to stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks.
* * *
Within half an hour, dozens of Israeli military and police vehicles crowded the parking lot. Investigators collected evidence and interviewed Drucker and his team and Bridget and Will. A mortuary crew collected the bodies.
Faraz was still sitting on the ground next to Johnny.
A medic approached. “Sir, please come to the ambulance so we can treat your wound.” She put a hand on Faraz’s shoulder, but he brushed her off.
“I’m staying with him.”
“All right, sir,” she said. “I’ll take care of it here.” The woman put down her bag and started to work on Faraz’s arm.
A member of the mortuary crew squatted next to Johnny and covered his face with a cloth. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. We’ll take care of him, now.”
The man and his colleague laid out a body bag, lifted Johnny into it and zipped it up.
Faraz kept staring. “Where will you take him?”
“To the Islamic Funeral Service,” the soldier said. “After that, we will inform his family and they will decide.”
“I am his family.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind.” Faraz stood and lowered his sleeve over the fresh dressing. “I’ll tell them.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
Forty hours later, late morning on Sunday, Bridget sat in the front seat of an Israeli military SUV. Will was in the back with a bandage on his shoulder.
Sergeant Peretz drove them north on the main highway out of Tel Aviv. The sergeant had on a dress uniform and her hair was back in the bun, but her eyes were red. Bridget doubted the woman had gotten much sleep the last two nights. She hadn’t gotten much, herself.
Every few minutes, Peretz wiped a tear from her right eye. Bridget put a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m okay,” Peretz said. “But I can’t get that eye to stop.”
“I don’t think any of us is okay.”
“So many dead. So many funerals already this morning.” Peretz sniffed. “That’s one thing we’re good at. Years and decades of practice.”
Peretz took an exit and turned onto a residential street blocked by parked cars.
“We can walk from here,” Will said.
“All right. I will wait around the corner.”
“You’re not coming?” Bridget asked.
“No. I will go later with my colleagues.”
Bridget leaned over and gave her a hug. Then, she and Will started the walk to the Ben-Yosef house.
* * *
The small front yard was crowded. A somber mix of soldiers and civilians stood speaking in hushed tones and sipping coffee or tea, or perhaps something stronger. A teenaged girl was walking around offering sweet rolls and cookies from a tray.
At the front door, a man in a dark suit gave them head coverings—a traditional skullcap for Will, a piece of black lace with a hair clip for Bridget.
She spotted General HaLevy on the other side of the living room with several men holding shot glasses. He was paying attention to another general, who appeared to be making a toast. Then the two generals and the others said a robust “L’chaim” and downed their shots.
“’L’chaim,” Will whispered. “The colonel taught me that. He said Jews always drink ‘to life.’”
“Even here.”
“Especially here, I guess.”
HaLevy turned and saw them. The big man’s shoulders were slumped. He looked ten years older than when Bridget had first met him less than three weeks earlier. He moved toward them through the crowd and Bridget embraced him.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said.
The general accepted her hug, then turned to Will and shook his hand.
“I admired Colonel Ben-Yosef very much,” Will offered. “I wish I’d gotten to know him better.”
“Yes. . .” The general seemed to want to say more but was unable.
“How are Rivka and Tali?” Bridget asked.
“Tali will recover . . . from her physical injuries, at least. She’s in hospital, sedated. We will go see her again soon. Rivka is . . . well . . . how should she be? I convinced her to lie down before we return to the hospital.”
“Please give her our condolences.”
“I will. And thank you for helping her after the attack.”
“Of course.”
“You two are leaving today?”
“Yes, sir,” Will said. “Within the hour.”
“I wish we could have stopped it,” Bridget said.
“You and your agent did a lot. Many were saved. Against this enemy, it is often not possible to save all.” HaLevy gazed out the window.
Bridget took his hand and squeezed it. “Goodbye, sir.”
“Goodbye. And as we say, ‘Let us only meet on happy occasions.’”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
Faraz stood with Leila on the tarmac of an Israeli military airfield on the coast just north of Tel Aviv. The boy, Umair, held onto her ankle-length black abaya. Leila wore a widow’s veil, but Faraz could see that her face was red and puffy and her eyes were still filled with tears.
She rubbed her shoulders against a chill, although the midday sun shimmered on the concrete behind them.
When the mortuary van arrived, Leila started crying again. She reached down and turned Umair’s face into her skirt.
The attendants removed the metal transfer case containing Johnny’s body from the back of the vehicle and carried it to a conveyor belt under the cargo door of the blue-and-white-painted U.S. military passenger plane.
There was no honor guard. Johnny had had one of those more than a decade earlier. Faraz would make sure he got another one back home, when they placed him in the grave that young Faraz had cried over that day. It already had a marker with Johnny’s name on it.
The casket glided up the belt. Two crewmen removed it and carried it into the hold.
A young U.S. Army corporal came down the aircraft steps and stood at the bottom. She wore a green dress uniform. Her hands were folded. Her head was down. She was Johnny’s official escort for his final trip home.
“She will take you to Johnny’s parents,” Faraz said.
Leila sniffed and nodded. “He told me they were dead. I always knew he had many secrets. He was . . .” She couldn’t finish.
“He chose you and Umair over all of it. I dragged him back in.”
Leila surprised Faraz with a half chuckle. “No one could drag Johnny into anything. Whatever you were doing, it was important to him—you were important to him. If I have any consolation, it is that he went to help you and he succeeded.”
Faraz thought he might cry, now. “His parents will take care of you. They are good people and they will be very happy to meet you and Umair.”
Leila nodded and raised a handkerchief under her veil to dry her tears.
Faraz squatted down to speak to the boy. “Your father was a great man and a hero, and not only for what he did on Friday. He saved many lives. He was . . . he was like a brother to me.”
Umair stepped toward him and put his little arms around Faraz’s neck. Faraz picked him up, gave him a hug and kissed his cheek, then handed him to his mother.
“You will learn more about Johnny when you arrive, things even his parents did not know. Please, if you mention his old friend Khalil, tell them nothing more about me.”
“You have secrets, too.”
Faraz nodded.
The corporal spoke up. “Sir, ma’am, we need to go.”
Faraz put his right hand on his heart and bowed his head toward Leila. “May Allah protect you.”
Leila returned the gesture. “And you, Khalil.” She walked past him and carried Umair onto the plane, followed by the corporal.
Faraz watched them through the windows. Leila walked toward the back of the aircraft, passing over the words painted on the side, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
As soon as Leila took a seat, the plane started to move. Faraz waved, but she was staring straight ahead.
The backwash from the engines hit Faraz and he turned his head to avoid it. He saw Bridget and Will alongside another American aircraft thirty yards away.
Leila’s plane turned onto the runway and accelerated for takeoff. Faraz shielded his eyes and watched it go. Then he walked to Bridget and Will.
“We have the motorcycle?”
“Just loaded,” Will said.
“Thanks.” Faraz’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
Bridget embraced him. Will patted him on the shoulder.
“The price is too high,” Faraz said. “It was too high from the beginning.”
“I don’t pretend to know what you’re going through, what you’ve been through,” Bridget said. “But we hit them hard this time.”
Faraz broke the embrace. “How many people died?” “You stopped most of it, saved hundreds of lives. And we’re already getting all kinds of intel from Assali on their operations and support system. They’re crippled.”
“Until next time.”
Bridget started to say something, but Faraz held up a hand. “They’re crippled until next time. I can tell you from the inside, they have the ideology, the motivation and the money. They won’t stop.”
“Maybe,” Bridget said. “But neither will we.”
Faraz sighed, put his foot on the first step and walked up the stairs onto the plane.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The coronavirus pandemic was the “Shock Wave” that hit us all during the writing of this book. You’d think that, without children to care for, staying at home for months on end would have been a great opportunity to get unprecedented quantities of work done. That may have been true for some, but I was firmly among what I believe was the majority of writers—stuck in some sort of pandemic malaise, doing all sorts of things, and all sorts of nothing, but very little writing.
Fortunately, there’s nothing like a deadline to light a fire under a former journalist.
I must thank all those who have been so supportive during this difficult year, first and foremost my wife, Audrey, on whom I inflict the first drafts of my work for her seasoned appraisal. Around the same time, the members of my critique group review selected scenes and provide invaluable input. Thank you wonderful writing partners Caryn, Kelly, Lou Ann, Marcie and Porter. Next come the beta-readers, who bring particular expertise to the table, and managed to squeeze a “read and reply” into their own pandemic schedules. My thanks to Marvin Diogenes, Mark Lavie and Marcie Tau.
With the near-final manuscript completed, an impressive array of authors stepped up to review Shock Wave and allowed me to attach their names to my work. Eternal gratitude to JD Allen, Brian Andrews, M.E. Browning, Marc Cameron, Avanti Centrae, Mark Lavie, Bonnar Spring, Carole Stivers, Jeffrey Wilson and Dave Zeltserman.
The team at Kensington Publishing, led by editor Michaela Hamilton, continued to provide the professional, collegial bedrock of the Task Force Epsilon operation. I am forever grateful for their hard work and support during a uniquely difficult time.
The pandemic also challenged the community of writers, which has been so welcoming to me. Deprived of our usual gatherings, the staff and leadership of writers’ groups pivoted to online events, webinars and social gatherings to maintain our connections and continue our skills development. My thanks to all those who worked so hard at many organizations, especially International Thriller Writers, the Florida Writers’ Association, and the Mystery Writers of America Florida Chapter.
And so, dear readers, the last and most important to thank are you. I truly appreciate your interest in the series and hope to hear from you via email or social media. Online reviews are always much appreciated. You can reach me through www.alpessin.com and find me on Twitter @apessin, on Instagram at alpessinauthor, and on Facebook at the Al Pessin Author page.
All best for a healthy 2022 and beyond.
Did you miss the first compelling thriller in the Task Force Epsilon series?
No worries!
Keep reading to enjoy the opening pages of Sandblast Available from Kensington Publishing Corp.
CHAPTER ONE
When the young Arab man in a business suit got out of a black cab and breezed into the lobby bar in late afternoon, no one took any notice. This was the Marriott Grosvenor House in London, a haven for visiting delegations and business barons from around the world, in a city with a sizable Muslim population. No fewer than five of the hotel’s cable channels were Arabic satellite networks.
Mahmoud ordered apple juice and took out his Times. If he had been arrested at that moment, and there was no reason to do so, there would have been nothing incriminating on him at all.
He perused the newspaper and sipped his juice. Mahmoud had left a message for a bellboy he’d befriended at a mosque in South London. The message said he would be in the hotel and needed a small favor. It asked the young man to please meet him near the service elevator off the lower lobby at four o’clock. He checked his watch, 3:55.
Mahmoud put a five-pound note on the bar and took the stairs down one level. The bellboy was already there.
“I was surprised to hear from you, Mahmoud,” he said. He did not appear to be concerned. The two were about the same age and had met several times. They were both five feet, seven inches tall, clean-shaven, and had olive complexions and similar builds. Men at the mosque had commented that they looked like brothers.
“My friend!” Mahmoud greeted the bellboy with a handshake and a smile. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help.”
“Of course. I will help you if I can.”
“Thank you, thank you. But, well, this is a confidential matter.” He looked around to be sure no one else was in the service hallway and then, as if he didn’t know exactly where he was going, Mahmoud pretended to notice a large utility closet, its door ajar.
“In here,” he said, “Just for a second.”
Now the bellboy gave him a suspicious look, but it was too late. Mahmoud pushed him into the closet and closed the door.
“No, wait!” said the bellboy
“Shhh,” said Mahmoud, “I have something to show you.”
“No, I will not . . .” The bellboy continued to protest, but Mahmoud reached under a shelf and removed a small packet, ripped it open, and pressed a cloth to the young man’s face. The bellboy passed out before he could make another sound.
Mahmoud paused. He had impressed himself; it had all gone as it did in practice. No problems. No hesitation. That gave him confidence for the work yet to be done.
Under another shelf, he found the second packet—this one with a pair of plastic gloves and a carefully forged hotel nametag. It said “Mahmoud.” Why not?
Mahmoud put on the gloves, removed the young man’s uniform and put it on himself—dark blue trousers with a black stripe down the sides, a white shirt, and a pullover tunic matching the pants. It fit well, as expected. He replaced the bellboy’s nametag with his, and made sure the passkey was in the pants pocket. Mahmoud took the money and two handkerchiefs out of his own trousers, now crumpled on the floor.
