Chapter One Golan Heights, Israel, 9 PM
By William J Manning
Spotlights poke through the bullet-riddled walls, illuminating several used condoms on a torn couch. Love, found and lost on the battlefield, I speak from experience. An orange glow fills the bedroom as the Gatling turrets buzz. The IDF soldiers and Army Rangers rush the battlements with their rifles, filling the air with the familiar sounds of battle. I sit Indian style on a bed with tattered sheets and roll a cigarette while the fighting ensues outside. Soldiers rush past my window, their officers shouting commands. I grab my Glock 21, which is lying on my lap; I learned to keep my gun close after a mistake I made in South Africa. A knock at the door draws my attention.
“Who is it?” I bark as I stroll over to the door clutching my 45 like an old friend.
“Agent Lilith Cohen, Mr. Adler is ready to see you.”
I lower the gun. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”
Finally, I was starting to think the plug was pulled on the operation and they forgot about me. I slide my gun in my leg holster, and tie my black wavy hair into a ponytail to keep it from getting in my face. Sheathing my Karambit, a four-inch talon of double-edged steel on my belt, I step out of the house. The downpour rages like the heavens are collapsing. This is the most rain Israel has had in a year.
I stroll down the muddy streets of the war-ravaged village, spotting a mixture of American and Israeli soldiers rushing to reinforce the colossal wall. Their officers shout commands at them in English and Hebrew. The alarms wail as the Gatling turrets light up the night sky with green tracer fire; howitzers thump like drums in the distance. US Army Rangers and IDF on the battlements crack off shots with their rifles. Artillery shells hits their mark setting off deafening explosions. The cacophony of gunfire and cannons fade away, staining the air with spent gunpowder and smoke. The desperate wails of the wounded hits with a disturbing nostalgia that plunges my mind back to my soldier days when I watched helplessly as my men were cut down by a sniper, one by one they fell. When I found the asshole, half my platoon was dead or dying. It’s funny, I have been an assassin for a long time and when I look back,
I don’t even recognize me.
I take a sip of water to dilute the taste of cordite burning my throat, puffing on a smoke I pass a row of body bags ripe with the stench of death. A group of medics rush past me carrying a young female Ranger on a stretcher screaming with the whole right side of her face burned. The command center is an old high school with shattered windows and gaping holes from tank shells. It sits on a steep plateau. It’s perfect because it lets Israeli and American snipers have a nice overwatch of the entire town. The IDF soldiers in dark green combat fatigues armed with Tavors watch me with vigilant eyes. Being around these soldiers takes me back to my days in the IDF’s Caracal Battalion. I’m not going to lie, I miss it sometimes, but then I remind myself of all the bullshit I put up with.
Strolling down the dim mangled corridor, passing walls decorated with bullet holes, a floor with cracked tiles, and tattered posters hung limply, advertising the prom. Faint echoes of the past are all that remains of this place. I open the wooden door, my boss’s office, a war-torn classroom illuminated with Halogen lights powered by a generator that cast a dim greenish glow across the office. I sit in a torn black leather chair, crossing my legs and dousing the smoke on the floor while lighting another. The chair is in front of a cheap wooden desk with a silver laptop and a Star of David Coffee mug.
“Took you long enough to get this OP set up,” I comment.
Dominic doesn’t reply; he just continues staring out the window. He’s sixty-four years old and stands six foot one, a few inches taller than me and still the same ole gruff guy I met when I first became an assassin. Well, sort of, he’s gotten a bit flabby making those tropical shirts even more atrocious. His ash-colored hair is slicked back, his hairstyle hasn’t changed either. He still wears a shoulder holster for his solid black 1911 45.
He smiles, sitting in his chair. “Nice to see you again, Lilith. I trust you haven’t gotten rusty being’s it’s been a month since your last mission?”
“Nah, I’m, still your same ole Angel of Death.” I smirk.
He takes a sip from his mug. “Glad to hear it. I’m sorry to bring you on an OP that would normally be an operation for the military, but the US and Israeli troops are being strangled by red tape from their governments. So, an old friend of mine from back in the day called me up and asked if I could help him crawl under the red tape. I called you and now you are here.”
Political grandstanding has always been the one thing that hindered soldiers from doing their jobs.
“So what you’re saying is this is not an Official Hunters Op, but a favor to your friend?”
“That’s right. You’re free to walk out that door and return to America and wait for an official operation.”
I take a drag from my smoke. “I’m not gonna walk, Dom. I saw the wounded.” I take another drag, exhaling smoke from my nose. “I’ve been a victim of bullshit bureaucracy myself when I was in the IDF’s Caracal unit. So, tell your friend I will crawl under the red tape.”
“Thank you, Lilith. I owe you for this.”
“You don’t owe me shit, Dom. Besides, I was bored sitting at home.”
He nods and smiles. “You’re a good woman,
Lilith.”
I’m not a good woman, I have been lying to my husband and my best friend about who I really am, but it’s for their safety.
“So, how are you feeling, you feeling all right health-wise?”
“Yeah, I told you before I’m fine. The nanobots are working wonders. I had a few bad muscle cramps and migraines, but the symptoms are gone now. You can relax.” “Sorry to just inject a bunch of micro bugs into your blood, there was no time to test Athena. Your body was on the verge of becoming too weak for them. However, I will stop annoying you about it.”
Athena was the name they gave XT-D21 serum. “I was in a lot of pain. If you hadn’t come along when you did, I may have punched my own ticket. So thanks for being there for me, I owe you one, man.”
“I’ve known you for twenty-nine years, I couldn’t let a friend and good agent die, but being’s you’re eager to get to work I’ll skip the niceties and get to the point.” He hands me a touchscreen tablet. “Meet Rashid Sahar leader of the Red Jihad. He is responsible for the majority of the dead soldiers you saw out there. If you kill him, their whole command structure will crumble and stop his attacks on us.
But, it’s just one measly terrorist leader; ’there’ll be another to fill the power vacuum. It’s, how things work in this shithole.”
I can hear the cynicism in his voice, but that’s what this job does to you over the years; you start out with high hopes and the mindset you’re going to change the world, but as the years roll by, you slowly come to the reluctant conclusion you’re never going to stop terrorism; you’re not going to change a goddamn thing. All you can do is at least make their lives a living hell by throwing a wrench in their plans.
I open the file on the tablet, scrolling down to the pic of my target. He has lightly tanned olive skin; he’s 5’9, 335 pounds, has a bushy black beard and black hair, and ’is wearing sunglasses, a Yankees baseball cap. I glance up a Dominic.
“Hmm. Garden variety Islamic nut.” I read further down. “He slaughtered a whole village of refugees taken in by Red Cross and beheaded all the nuns working there. Do you know where he’ll be?”
“Well, we know he shouldn’t be too far from the border. We saw in the images from the drone. He likes to watch his men shell Israeli cities. So he should be close to his mortar teams and rocket batteries, but he has been known to walk around his camp, giving speeches, inspiring hatred of Jews and Americans, you know the usual drivel these assholes vomit from their mouths. He shouldn’t be hard to miss. Ironic he hates America, but he wears a
Yankees cap.” He scoffs.
Hypocrisy at its finest, hypocrisy seems to be a common trend with Islamic nuts. Most of them claim to be holy and divine, but then they’ll blow up a café full of innocent people and take underage girls as wives or you find they had a massive collection of porn.
“Most fanatics are hypocrites. Look at all the radical anti-gay politicians, for example. They bash gays all the while behind closed doors; they’re getting a cock rammed up their ass.”
He bursts into laughing and choking on his coffee.
“Oh God! You really love politicians, don’t you?”
I take a gulp of water from my bottle. “Well, politicians are always fucking each other in some fashion. Anyway, you want me to bring you Rashid’s head?”
He chuckles, nodding. “No, that won’t be necessary. We have drones watching so when he drops dead, we’ll know it.” He stands up and walks to the spider cracked window, gazing at the fires burning outside the wall. “Your marriage still holding up?”
“Yeah, you gonna lecture me how attachments are dangerous for me again?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “No, not anymore. Besides, you won’t listen anyway; you’re too committed to him.”
I slowly clap my hands, turning my head to the side.
“Yay, he finally gets it.”
He turns around furrowing his brow. “You can do without the sarcasm.” He crosses his arms. “Look, all I’m saying is you have to protect two people now. It’s not just you in your enemies’ crosshairs anymore.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I’m well aware of the danger.” He sighs. “I don’t wanna fight. It’s your life. Besides, I am very happy you found someone who loves you.” He takes a sip from his mug. “Have you told him what you really do?”
I angle my head toward his desk. “No, and it’s not because I don’t trust him. I am afraid of what he’ll think of me. I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Sometimes we have to take a leap of faith and hope the ones we love are understanding.”
“So how’s your marriage going?” I change the subject.
He turns back toward the window and takes a long breath. “Lilith, go get this done.”
I stand up. “That good huh?”
He glances over his shoulder. “Watch yourself with
Red Jihad. Something’s off about them.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Like what?”
“The weapons they have. They’re far too
advanced.”
“They’re not using the typical Cold War Era
weapons I take it?”
“No, they're using weapons like M4’s with Holo sights, M249 LMG’s, Javelin Anti-Tank missiles, and US Military grade ballistic vests.”
“Maybe they raided one of the local supply depots.” I shrug.
He places his hand on his chin. “It’s one theory. I would agree with you if it wasn’t for the fact that 5.56 rounds were dug out of all the bodies of civilians, IDF, and American troops.”
“So what you’re saying is that someone is supplying them with these weapons?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m going to get in touch with my old contacts from my Mossad days, see if they heard anything on the grapevine. In the meantime, eliminate Rashid and report back here.”
I nod. “I’m on it.” I leave his office and return to the house to pick up the sniper rifle he stashed under the bed. ***
I open my rifle case and assemble my bullpup 338 Lapua with a suppressor, scope, and bi-pod. Slapping a magazine into the rifle, I sling it over my shoulder and light a smoke. Nearing the concrete border wall, thunder roars and lightning spiders across the sky and dumps buckets of rain… again. I try to keep my cigarette lit, but it looks like it’s the first casualty of this mission, goddamn it! After tramping through mud, by the time I reach the front lines, my hair is soaked and plastered to my forehead. Damn, I feel like I’ve been swimming. I head toward the main gate, a large steel door that would take a tank shell to get through it.
An average height man in black BDUs with no name, rank, or military insignias approaches me wearing a matching beanie with dark face paint. His soldiers are wearing the same getup for the most part. He steps forward, speaking with a Texas accent.
“Hey there, Agent Cohen. I heard you needed a ride.” He smiles.
I roll my eyes and sigh. “Nobody said this was a group activity.”
“Well, ma’am. It seems we were both kept in the dark. He didn’t tell me I was going to be working with one of the deadliest assassins of the Hunters. Let me say, it’s a real honor to meet you, ma’am. Oh by the way name is Captain Carlyle Carson, Delta Force.” He extends a hand. I reach out, firmly gripping his hand. “Nice to have a fan, I guess. The Human Rights Organizations would love to crucify The Hunters if they knew we existed or they’d love to nail my ass if they could get their hands on me.”
He laughs. “Oh yeah, I heard about that incident between you and that Iraqi back when you were helping out our boys with the interrogation. You cut out his eye with a steak knife.”
I flick my cigarette into the mud in frustration after several failed attempts to relight it. “What can I say? The fucker was pissing me off.” I shrug.
He guffaws. “Well as much as I’d love to swap stories, what do you say we get this show on the road?” He walks to the SUV.
“I couldn’t agree more.” I nod.
As for the reporter who filmed me liberating his eye, well last I heard US soldiers caught up with him and he never made it out of Iraq. The bastard is in prison for trespassing. Serves him right for trying to protect the rights of monsters. If I hadn’t done what I did, we would’ve never found the nuclear weapon hidden in Baghdad or New Babylon as it’s called now.
The four operatives’ wave at me, giving greeting nods. One is a female, she’s an average height operative with a dark red bandana over her mouth and black tinted night vision glasses. She has an olive complexion like me, but slightly darker. The woman scoots down, making room for me and Carson. She leans her rifle against the door and gives me a nod. “Name’s Santino. I’m the second in
command for this group of misfits.”
“Agent Cohen. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Boxer and our shitty driver is our sniper,
Reaper.”
He throws up his middle finger. “Next time I’m on overwatch. I may put you outta my misery,” he replies.
He chuckles. “Yeah, and then you would have to explain that to your sister. Anyway, the mute next to you is our marksman, Sledge.”
“Don’t let him fool you, Agent Cohen. He’s the Jar- Jar Binks of our team. We only took him because we felt sorry for him.”
“And I am the only decent demolitions specialist in the Army.”
Sledge sighs. “And he’s full of shit too.”
“Cut that line chatter.” Carson interrupts. “Keep your heads on a swivel. We’re crossing the border.”
Reaper speeds down a dusty desert road. After ten minutes, the truck bounces like its hitting never-ending speed bumps.
“Reaper, what are you doing, son? Keep this damn thing on the road.” Carson orders.
The heavens stop crying long enough for the moon to shine on the carnage, giving the field of bodies a bluish hue. My mouth is agape at the grisly fields of slaughter. Last time I saw this many dead, I was in Yugoslavia back in ninety-four, the weather was cold as death itself. I still can’t get the expressions on those children’s faces out of my head, their look of realizing the world is not a pretty place and monsters are real. I’ll never forget their screams and how the death squads shouted filth at them just before cutting them to pieces with their AKs.
The driver swallows deep, gapes in horror, and grips the steering wheel in anger. “Sir, I am on the road, we’re driving over… bodies.”
Carson’s face fills with horror. “Jesus Christ.” He glares at me. “Tell me these are all bad guys and not refugees?”
I glance over at him and let out a long, slow breath. “A couple of days ago, a terrorist fired an RPG at the wall, causing soldiers to panic. They gunned down refugees and insurgents.”
His eyes water with tears and his mouth hangs open. “So, these people our wheels are rolling over are most likely civilians?”
I cringe as the truck rolls over another body. “Yeah.” My voice is low with dread.
His face pales. “These sick sons of bitches. They love spreading fear and death wherever they go.”
Santino doubles over, vomiting on the floor. She sits back up, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “Oh Dios! These poor people. They were just trying to get away from the war and the fucking bastardos killed them! And we’re supposed to be different from the Red Jihad?” Her voice is hot with anger.
Boxer shakes his head in disgust. “I wish we could smoke one guy and put an end to all of this.”
That was one of the saddest things about this whole Syria shit storm. Insurgents would often hide in the midst of refugees infiltrating Israel. They succeeded once, but after that, Israel and American soldiers turned them away, sending families to their deaths.
“Carson, your government and Israel’s believes it’s a necessary evil to protect our borders.”
He grimaces and gives a slow single blink. “So we’ve become the very monsters we fight?”
“Afraid so, Captain. But it’s better than inviting another Trojan horse attack.”
Santino wipes her eyes. “How many necessary evils do we justify before we become the devil?”
Carson shakes his head. “Goddamn this world,” he growls.
I take a sip from my water bottle and put the cap back on. “Based on current events, he already has.”
The heavy firepower on the roof catches my eye, along with C4 sticking out of a backpack. I turn to Carson.
“A Gatling gun with a split hatch opening on the roof and C4. You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you guys are doing more than giving me a ride.”
“We’re just here to destroy Rashid’s weapon cache and cover your escape. There’s something you should know about us Delta boys and girls. We don’t believe in fucking around. If someone so much as points at you the wrong way, we’ll rain unholy hell down on them sons of bitches,” he says, with an undercurrent of anger.
“Damn straight, sir!” She boastfully adds.
***
We stop at the foot of a large steep hill. It was a twenty minute trip across the desert. Reaper leaves the engine running. The captain and his people ready their weapons. Santino climbs to the top of the SUV, manning the Gatling gun, switching the safety off.
“All right, Agent Cohen. Boxer and I will be moving into the camp to destroy that weapons cache. We’ll meet you back here. I’m sending Reaper and Sledge to provide covering fire upon your return. And don’t you worry your head; those two are crack shots with those M4’s. Hell, they practically sleep with the damn things.” He winks.
“Good to know,” I say climbing out of the truck.
He gets out of the truck and looks up at her. “You good to go, Santino?”
She raises the armored plates around her. “Fucking
A! I am locked, loaded, and ready to fuck shit up.”
She sounds like an adrenaline junkie. Most Spec Ops people are in some way or another.
Creeping up the steep hill, the captain’s two operatives are trailing behind me, while covering me with their rifles. Once we reach the top, the two men sink to a prone position providing cover with their rifles. Advancing through the fog like a ghost, using it to conceal my movements. I crouch down and skulk toward a ruined building that overlooks the terrorist leader’s hilltop base he’s set up in a dilapidated town. I stop in my tracks when I hear a voice in the fog. I slip on my glasses and switch to thermals. It’s an insurgent on a cell. I draw my knife as he moves closer to me; it’s so dark and all the asshole has for light is a flashlight attachment on his M4 and floodlights powered with gas generators. So far, I don’t see any floodlights at the hotel. A perk to fighting Islamic terrorists; they have poorly lit bases. My uniform blends with the mud, hiding me from the approaching sentry. The asshole stands with his back to me, too distracted with his phone call to notice me. This is my chance if I’m going to take him down. Lunging at him, I slap my hand over his mouth slicing his carotid with a quick slash. He screams into my hand as I put him into a choke hold and lower him to the ground, holding him till his flailing and gagging stops.
I wipe the blade on my pants leg and sheath it. I continue to head for the building, a war-scarred twelve-story hotel. Rushing over to the flimsy looking door, drawing my 45, I place my ear up against the door. The place is quiet. I ease the door open with my shoulder, pistol at the ready. Flashes of lightning illuminate the interior, revealing a dusty lobby with cobwebs, broken furniture, and shattered windows. This was once a swanky joint. Now it’s just like everything else in Syria; an empty shell of what once was.
I stalk over to the set of rusty, rickety, spiral stairs that will take me all the way to the twelfth floor, ascending upward. After nearing the top, a glimpse of something halts me dead in my tracks.
Damn! Tripwire.
They must’ve been expecting snipers to creep up here. As much as they’ve been pissing off the Israeli and US troops lately, they’re smart to lay traps.
Oh well, it’s a problem easily solved.
Kneeling, I lightly run my finger down the wire.
Once I reach the end, I stop at the device.
A nail bomb!
Haven’t encountered one of these nasty bastards since Ireland back in 98. That one had a peace symbol, which is some fucked up irony that still boggles my mind to this day. It’s something an old enemy of mine loves to engrave on her bombs; it’s how she signs her work. The official story of what happened to The Peacemaker was she blew up a hotel, killing herself and taking thirty London cops with her. However, like most official stories, they are bullshit. Nail bombs are vicious. If you live through the explosion, you’re in a world of agony, not to mention a whole theme park of infections. I cut the wire, disarming it.
Looks like I won’t be a voodoo doll after all.
I move forward while keeping low, all the while peering down the sights of my 45. Reaching the end of the hall, there’s a perfect spot for a sniper’s perch, an old dilapidated hotel room. Crouching, I move over there, glass cracking beneath my feet.
Shit, I hope no one heard that.
I unsling the rifle and kneel in front of the window. My prey, the Yankees fan, is standing on a stage, surrounded by bright Xenon lights with an M4 slung over his shoulder, just like the rest of his men. Dom was right.
Too many of these monsters have this high-end gear.
Oh well, time to bag this bastard and go home.
I open the bipod on my rifle and set it up on the window seal, keeping it concealed, but giving me a clear shot with no obstructions. Aiming down my scope while breathing in and out, I slow my heartbeat, so as to not blow the shot. Breathing control is important for a sniper; it determines whether you hit or miss your target. Wind speed and wind direction is also a big factor as well. The scope tells me the target is seven hundred meters out; I range the rifle for that.
This reminds me of my first mission for The Hunters. I was hiding inside a ruined building about to blow away another sick asshole.
The only difference between then and now is I lost someone I loved on that mission. Glancing at a tattered lounge chair, a man with short black hair and sharp blue eyes stares at me.
“Remember to breathe, Lily. In and out. Calm your nerves, slow your breathing, calm your mind. Feel the bullet. Feel the wind in your hair, feel which way the wind is pulling your hair,” he says in a strong British accent.
A couple of tears stream down my cheeks as I move away from my rifle and slump down against the wall. Reaching in my pocket, I pull my silver flask and take several gulps of vodka, drowning my guilt. Running my hands through my hair, I tuck my knees against my chest and tell myself.
“You know he’s dead. Get off the guilt train. You had no choice but to leave him. He had no pulse. It’s not your fault!”
I take a deep breath to regain my focus.
Glancing over to the corner, I notice Edward is gone. I miss him so bad still. However, I have a husband so I need to look forward and stop stabbing myself with the past.
I return to my rifle and realign my shot. I can’t make out what Rashid’s saying, nor do I give a fuck. I flip the safety switch to red, rifle is hot. Rashid is unaware death hangs over him like a black cloud. His body language changes, he pauses and glances around.
Yeah, he feels it. That sensation you get when someone is burning a hole in the back of your head with their gaze. He continues his speech anyway, a fatal mistake.
I grin from ear to ear, blood rushing; adrenaline pumping, with anticipation. I take a deep breath, and notice the air is still, my lucky night. My finger inches over the trigger. I wait till he takes a sip of water. My rifle’s suppressor lets out a sharp hiss; the bullet rips through his skull, blowing it apart like a bomb went off inside his head. The gaggle of assholes stares in shock, watching his headless body fall off the stage. Mass confusion takes over. They frantically shoot at shadows in all directions. One of them climbs up to a fully automatic grenade launcher mounted on a pickup truck and shells the buildings, blowing out chunks of brick. It’s time to go before they find the right building.
I sling my rifle and draw my Glock, moving quickly out of the room and staying low. Exiting through the back door, I spot an insurgent standing there with his rifle shouldered. I shoot him three times in his chest. He folds and falls to the ground. Unfortunately, he fires off a shot as he lands, but he misses me.
“Damn It! They know where I am now for sure.”
Insurgents will be coming down hard on my position in a matter of seconds. I switch from a slow steady walk to a full-tilt run, watching my blind spots. Upon seeing the two Delta operatives in a prone position, I yell to them.
“Send them to hell!”
I take my eye off my blind spot for one second and a big guy blindsides me locking me in a rear naked choke. The air leaves my lungs.
“Die! You fucking Jew whore!” He growls.
I yank his arm away snapping the bone in half. I punch him, sending him flying against a concrete wall, breaking his spine.
The Gatling gun churns, lighting up the area with a stream of red tracers. A torrent of lead slices through a squad of insurgents on a roof just above me. A shock wave from an explosion knocks me off my feet, sending me tumbling down the hill. I manage to stop myself before gravity takes over. Getting back up, I see the captain push the button on his detonator. A massive explosion rocks the center of town. The popping of munitions cooking off in the flames reverberates through the buildings. Sledge and Reaper launch to their feet, advancing toward me in a two-man firing line peering down their reflex sights and killing anybody who raises a gun at me, never missing.
To my left, the Gatling gun shreds an entire platoon of insurgents, reducing them to nothing more than bloody body parts.
“Come on, chica. Get that ass moving!” Santino yells over the gunfire.
I finally enter the SUV, it slings around in the sand, speeding back toward the border. All the while, she is blazing away with the Gatling gun, sending a lead storm at the pursuing technicals. Looking behind us, the trucks are being reduced to useless hunks of scrap. Carson picks up the M32 revolving grenade launcher and crawls in the hatchback. He pushes open the door and fires. The rounds explode causing them to wreck. Other grenades land direct hits on some of the trucks, engulfing them in flames and launching them skyward. The Gatling gun destroys the rest of the technicals, turning them into flaming wrecks. The night is silent, for now. I light up one of my hand-rolled cigarettes. Despite the bumpy ride jerking me around, I manage to light it without setting myself on fire. The captain crinkles his nose at me.
“Those things’ll kill ya, girl.”
I glance at him and scoff. “Ah hell. There’s so much shit in the air nowadays. Smoking is not the leading cause of death anymore.” I take a drag, exhaling smoke.
He shakes his head and laughs. “Good point.”
Santino climbs down off the gun and sits down next to me. She takes off her glasses and bandana. “That was fucking awesome!” She gives me a sidelong glance, slowly blinking her dark almond-shaped eyes at me. “You got a first name, chica.”
I stare at her toned body and think if I wasn’t married, I’d take her to the nearest hotel and go to town on her. “Well, you did save my ass. So, I guess there’s no harm in that. The name is Lilith. Very nice to meet you.”
She fidgets with one of the curls in her hair. “That’s a kick-ass name “Lilith” very strong and independent.”
“My birth name is Lilit, but I changed it after I moved to the States to blend in more. My dad gave it to me however, Mom wanted to call me Abbey.”
Her eyes widen as she lets out a snicker. “What the hell? You so don’t look like an Abbey. Lilith is perfect for you.”
I blow smoke from my nose. “My father would agree with you a hundred percent.” Nowadays it’s not uncommon to see women in US Special Forces or in standard combat units because back in the 1930s, the feminist groups fought for a woman’s right to join combat units to serve on the front lines with the male soldiers. It took till the 60s for it to be fully embraced by the male soldiers despite us proving ourselves in WWII. We were finally accepted when the world’s first female combat soldier won the Congressional Medal of Honor for charging a Viet Cong machine gun nest in the Ia Drang Valley all the while sustaining multiple bullet wounds. Her bravery saved her entire unit from being massacred and pretty much made every misogynistic asshole’s head explode on top of it all.
She bites her lower lip with a lustful grin. “So listen, I’ll be in Tel Aviv for a few days. You wanna come back with me and get some drinks and maybe we go from there?” Okay, it’s time to throw some cold water on this girl and tell her I’m married. I blow smoke from my nose.
“I’d love that, but I have a husband.”
She lowers her head and groans. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. Insert foot in my mouth.”
I hold my hand up to her. “It’s fine I wasn’t wearing my ring.”
She giggles and takes a deep breath. “Whew! Thanks, I didn’t want to come off as a marriage wrecker.
But, seriously I am kind of jealous of your husband now.”
I take a puff from my smoke and look over to the captain. “You’re right about what you said before. You guys really don’t fuck around.”
He smirks. “Told ya.”
“Captain, did you happen to see any logos or serial numbers on the crates before you blew them up?”
He furrows his brow. “Honestly, Agent Cohen. I didn’t look. I just planted the charges and got the hell outta there. The hajis were coming down on us hard.”
“Damn.”
“Why are you concerned about serial numbers and logos?”
“My boss and I feel someone may be supplying them with those weapons.”
He shrugs. “Hmm. It wouldn’t surprise me. Arms dealers love to profit off shit like this. It’s Black Friday to them. I saw my share of it in Iraq, Afghanistan, and South America. But, you’re going to be looking for a while if it is an arms dealer. Those assholes are usually pretty good at covering their tracks. Looking for a specific one is like looking for a needle in a stack of needles.”
Smoke expels from my nose as I take a quick drag.
“Of course it is. Hell, I spent nearly a year trying to track down a specific arms dealer in the Congo.” I flick a chunk of ash out the window.
***
We pass through the gate and the truck stops in front of the command center. I hop out. The captain gets out too and hands me a piece of paper.
“Here is my cell number. Give me a holler if you ever need a favor.”
I take the paper and look up at him with a smirk.
“Aww that’s so sweet of you, looking after me, but okay, I’ll call you if I need a bedtime story or if I need to be tucked in at night.”
He crosses his arms. “Just call me if you need a favor, smart ass.”
I shake his hand. “Good-bye, Captain. It’s been a pleasure.”
I take one last drag and throw the butt down in the mud while heading back to Dom’s office.
***
He looks up at me, with a crease in his brow as I enter his office. “Well, did we stop for a mud bath between here and there?”
“Something like that,” I say, plopping down in the chair.
He throws hands up, glaring at me. “Hey come on.
Other people sit there, you know.”
I cross my legs and stare at him with a closed lip smile. “Like who?”
“The Israeli defense minister.”
I move my ass from side to side, soaking the mud in. “All the more reason to let the mud seep into the chair.”
He sighs. “Damn it! Will you quit being yourself for two seconds and give me your report.”
“Well, Mr. Yankees fan is dead. The Delta Operatives really helped with my escape. They tore the place apart with the C4 charges they planted on their stockpile.”
He laughs. “I know. I saw the big ball of fire erupting up into the sky and the unmistakable buzzing of a
Gatling gun.”
He glances at me and sighs in relief as if he found an acquired balm for an incurable wound. “Excellent work,
Agent Cohen. Unfortunately, I don’t have any more assignments at this time. If you want to finish up your time off, you’re more than welcome.”
Interrupted vacations are another part of the job. It’s why I never fully commit to plans in my social life.
“Yes, I will take it. Maybe Karl will be home for longer than a couple of hours this time and I can actually get laid this month.” I shrug.
“And on that note, I leave you to meet the Defense Minister.”
“I thought she was coming here? You mean I muddied your chair for nothing?”
“Well, I just remembered I am supposed to meet her back at the HQ in Tel Aviv.”
Wow, he’d rather talk to the defense minister than hear about my sex life? Poor guy, he must’ve hit his head while I was out.
“See you around, Mr. Tropics.” I try to contain my snickering, but it’s no use.
He scoffs. “Lilith, get your ass out of here before I put you to training recruits in Turkey.”
That is my cue to leave. Training recruits aren’t my thing. I’ve done it once and hated every second. But, an old student, Agatha Talos, came to me to specialize with swords made it more tolerable. She was such a sweet kid, but sadly she was killed in action three years ago. We never found her body. Her funeral was an empty casket to be committed to the Blue Lotus Gardens in the Hunters burial grounds, which is a large courtyard managed by thirteen women, the Lotus Maidens. They wear crowns made of twigs and have a white ash painted on their faces, blue lotus flowers on their arms, and smoky colored layered skirts. Lotus maidens have blessed the grounds; no one is permitted in the garden with shoes on. They believe shoes in the garden distorts the earth mother’s energy. Personally, I believe it’s a crock of shit, but I still adhere to their wishes out of respect.
