LOST AND LETHAL Read online

  LOST

  AND

  LETHAL

  LOST

  AND

  LETHAL

  A PROJECT MOLKA Novel

  Fredrick L. Stafford

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 Fredrick L. Stafford

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

  Contents

  To My Wonderful Readers

  PROJECT MOLKA

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  To My Wonderful Readers

  Thank you so very much for your ongoing and incredible support!

  Please leave me an Amazon review! And if you have not done so, request your free eBook THE MILAGRO RUN!

  The links to do both are at the end of this book!

  Ok, are you ready to find out what happened to our Molka?

  Great! Enjoy the ride!

  Best Regards,

  Fredrick

  PROJECT MOLKA

  At the peak of her warrior skills, Molka resigned from an elite special forces unit and chose veterinary medicine as her post-military career. She opened a small clinic, built a small practice, and sought to live her life in humble obscurity.

  And she did—until the Traitors Scandal intervened.

  Her country’s foreign intelligence service—known as the Counsel—suffered an unprecedented disaster when moles burrowed in deep for 10 years popped up and exposed the identity of almost every covert operative.

  In a small state with many enemies sworn to annihilate it, the safeguarding role of covert operations is indispensable. The Counsel, gutted and demoralized, fell into panic mode.

  In the short term, they used a few uncompromised retired operatives—along with some career bureaucrats who never qualified for fieldwork—to fill the gaping void. The results disappointed, to put it mildly.

  In the long term, new operatives would be recruited and formally trained, but the process would take several years.

  It was the time in between when the country faced the most danger.

  The Counsel’s solution was Operation Civic Duty—more often called the Projects Program. They recruited ordinary citizens who held what they deemed a useful skill or skills. Each citizen recruit—or project, as they were dubbed—received some quick, very basic operative training before being sent straight out to complete what the Counsel called a task.

  It sounded desperate and borderline suicidal, and it was. Even so, they found willing projects everywhere: university students, factory workers, athletes, scientists, housewives.

  But the Counsel’s prize recruit was Molka.

  Their best recruiter, Azzur, told her as much when he came to her office. He said she was the preferred age range—not yet 30—maintained superb physical condition, retained a useful skillset from her military service, and could claim an excellent cover. Who could be suspicious of a person who lives to help animals?

  He told her that the Counsel required her help. She told him she was a patriot, but she had already done her duty. She wasn’t interested. Please leave her alone.

  He smiled and left.

  He came back a week later with more information for her. Azzur can always find more information. He told her all about her worst special forces mission and how that mission led to the unavenged murder of her little sister, Janetta. He said the Counsel knew the identity of the one responsible and where this one hid. And if Molka completed 10 tasks for them, her 11th task could be personal. They would give her the identity and location of the one she would die to kill.

  She agreed to the Counsel’s offer.

  She agreed to serve under Azzur.

  She agreed to become his project.

  Project Molka.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ok.

  This is it.

  There’s no turning back now.

  Molka inhaled anxiously, exhaled still anxious, pushed the stainless-steel handle on the etched glass door, and entered the 5-star Tel Aviv beachfront hotel’s lounge.

  She had been clothed and styled by the legendary Lady Elka in a sleeveless, body-hugging, short enough to induce a scandal, red dress, red high heels, a thin gold watch on her left wrist, and more hairspray and make-up than she usually wore in a month.

  The spacious, high-ceiling lounge—schemed with sleek lines, stainless steel, and glass—sat almost empty at the pre-lunch hour and Molka’s heels emitted audible clicks as she made her way across the white marble floor.

  Her target—a portly, bearded, middle-aged man in an expensive dark gray suit—occupied the end barstool at the black granite-topped bar.

  Exactly where Azzur said he would be.

  Her target’s two younger, bearded, hulking bodyguards—both squeezed into black suits—sat at a table a few steps from the bar.

  Exactly where Azzur said they would be.

  As instructed, Molka moved to the barstool at the other end of the bar from her target, mounted it, and crossed her legs, showcasing an ample view of her smooth, tanned, fit thighs.

  Her move did not go unnoticed by her target, who made no attempt to curtail his blatant, lecherous gaze.

  Molka encouraged him by flashing him a quick lascivious smile.

  The bartender arrived. “What can I get for you, miss?”

  “Whiskey Sour, please,” Molka said.

  “Be right up.”

  While the bartender mixed, Molka peeked over at her target’s bodyguards again. They had noticed her too. But unlike their boss, they did not view her with blatant, lecherous gazes. They viewed her with subtle concern and talked amongst themselves. Perhaps their boss fell prey to other beautiful women in upscale hotel lounges.

  Their apprehension could pose a real problem for her.

  She would need to separate them from her target.

  The bartender returned with Molka’s cherry garnished drink, placed the etched coupe glass on a hotel embossed logo cocktail napkin, and moved back down the bar.

  Molka took a minuscule sip. Chill
bumps sprouted on her naked arms and shoulders from the room’s aggressive air conditioning.

  Or maybe it was from her nerves.

  Her target waved the bartender to him. The bartender arrived, and her target kept a side glance at Molka as he questioned him.

  Was her cover blown?

  No.

  Azzur prepared Molka for such an inquiry. Her target would ask the bartender if Molka was a prostitute. The bartender would inform him that the hotel concierge only allowed a select few high-end escort girls to work the hotel lounge, and Molka was definitely not one of them. And that information would pique her target’s interest even more.

  The bartender left Molka’s target and moved back to her. “The gentleman at the end of the bar would like to buy you a drink and asks that you join him.”

  Molka caressed her target with a velvet smile, picked up her drink, slipped off her barstool, glided over to the stool beside him, mounted it, crossed her legs, and recited from the script Azzur had supplied her with. “I couldn’t help noticing you noticing me.”

  Her target smiled. “Yes, I noticed.”

  “Are you here at the hotel for business or pleasure?”

  “To me, business is a pleasure.”

  Molka feigned an impressed smile. “A man of wit. You must be a foreigner.”

  “I am from Amman.”

  “I’ve heard Amman has the most beautiful women in the world.”

  “That is not quite true,” the man said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Amman does not have you.”

  Molka smiled, seductive. “You are also a very charming man, mister…?”

  “Please call me Walid.”

  “And you may call me Orah.” Molka leaned her bare shoulder into Walid’s shoulder. “I have a confession to make, Walid. I’m very attracted to older men with wit and charm. Does this bother you?”

  “Not in the least, Orah. And I have a confession to make as well. I am a married man with five children. Does this bother you?”

  “Well…” Molka pulled the cherry from her drink by the stem, “there are married men, and then there are happily married men.” She put the cherry into her mouth and sucked it off the stem. “Which are you?”

  Walid’s eyes lusted on her lips. “I am a married man. May I buy you a drink?”

  “You mean here?” Molka said.

  “Is there someplace else you would prefer?”

  “Yes. The bar in your suite upstairs.”

  Walid smiled. “Shall we go now, Orah?”

  “Are your bodyguards coming with us?” Molka pointed a French-manicured nail at the husky table observers.

  “Are they that conspicuous?”

  Molka smiled, polite. “Let’s just say it’s clear they are watching over you.”

  Walid sighed. “My wife’s brothers. She insisted they accompany me on this trip for my safety. However, they are staying in the adjoining suite and will not disturb us.”

  Molka smiled, inviting. “Perfect.”

  “Ok, Walid, your turn to get naked now.” Molka exited the master bedroom in his extravagant suite wrapped in a small white towel, which barely concealed her breasts and crotch.

  Walid set their drinks on the bar and removed his tie.

  “Not out here.” Molka flashed a playful smile and gestured back to the bedroom. “Please wait for me in the jacuzzi next to the bed. It looks verrrry stimulating. I just need to use the little girl’s room first.”

  Walid yielded a submissive smile, moved into the bedroom, and closed the door.

  Molka put her ear close to the door until she heard the splash and slosh of him entering the jacuzzi.

  She tossed away her towel. Under it, she still wore her dress—the bottom hiked up to give the illusion of nakedness. She pulled her dress back down, scanned the room for a few seconds, and barefooted across the room to a coffee table with a crocodile skin briefcase atop it.

  She grabbed the briefcase, padded back to the bar, and retrieved her heels.

  “What are you doing?”

  Molka turned to a naked, dripping, furry Walid in the bedroom doorway. She couldn’t contain a grin.

  Ha. How did he produce five kids with that little thing?

  Walid’s face panicked on the briefcase in Molka’s hand. “You are robbing me! You are a prostitute!” He ran to the suite’s connecting door and pounded. “Yamin! Ayham! ROBBERY! HELP!”

  Molka ran to the suite’s door, exited, ran down the hallway, bypassed the elevator, and headed for the fire escape stairs.

  A moment later, the big boy bodyguards exited the suite and ran to the elevator.

  Molka fast-trotted down the ten flights and pushed through the hotel’s rear emergency exit into a service lot. She carried her heels in her left hand and the crocodile skin briefcase in her right.

  Twenty meters ahead, a white van waited with its side door open: her ride to the rendezvous point.

  Molka jogged toward it.

  The driver watched Molka approach, then his face widened in fear, and he stomped the accelerator and sped away.

  Molka stopped jogging and watched him disappear around the building’s corner “Hey! Why did you—”

  Molka’s peripheral vision quickly caught the reason.

  Walid’s bodyguards ran hard toward her from behind holding pistols pointed down at their sides.

  How did they know I would be back here?

  Well, capture is not an option.

  Preemptive strike!

  Molka dropped her heels and the briefcase and charged the threats.

  Her speed and aggression took them both by surprise.

  They stopped and started to raise their weapons.

  Too late.

  Molka pounced.

  Bodyguard one took a blink-fast roundhouse to the cranium.

  Bodyguard two took an even faster one to the temple.

  Both fell and sniffed the cement.

  Molka disarmed them: a Glock 17 and a CZ 75.

  “Please don’t harm us,” bodyguard one said.

  “Our weapons aren’t even loaded,” bodyguard two said.

  Molka pressed the magazine release button on each weapon.

  Two empty mags clanked on the concrete.

  “Why would you—” Molka viewed her watch. “Never mind!” She dropped the weapons. “I don’t have time!”

  Molka ran back to the briefcase and her heels, snatched them, and sprinted around the building.

  She reached the sidewalk outside the hotel’s front.

  She looked to her right.

  The rendezvous point waited there three blocks away.

  She checked her watch again.

  She had two minutes to get there.

  The blocks were somewhat short.

  She could still make it.

  But a barrier of lunchtime pedestrians impeded her path.

  Molka waded into the heavy foot traffic.

  She tried to fast-walk through the slow walkers.

  The citizens did not cooperate.

  She played it politely.

  “Pardon me.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Pardon me.”

  Ugh, everyone’s moving so slow.

  “Pardon me.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Pardon me.”

  She covered one block.

  I need to pick up the pace.

  Molka started to push a little.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Excuse me.”

  She covered two blocks.

  She jumped to look over top the masses.

  She spotted Azzur at the street’s end.

  He sat at a sidewalk café table: her rendezvous point.

  Molka checked her watch again.

  Thirty seconds to deadline.

  I’m not going to make it like this!

  The aggressor sets
the rules!

  Molka yelled:

  “MEDICAL EMERGENCY!”

  “CLEAR THE WAY!”

  “WATCH OUT!”

  Startled pedestrians began to part for her.

  Molka ran through them.

  Slow reactors got shoved aside.

  “MEDICAL EMERGENCY!”

  “CLEAR THE WAY!”

  “PREGNANT WOMAN!”

  Twenty seconds to deadline.

  “CLEAR THE WAY!”

  “MEDICAL EMERGENCY!”

  “PREGNANT WOMAN!”

  Fifteen seconds to deadline.

  “I KNOW I DON’T LOOK PREGNANT!”

  “THIS DRESS HIDES IT WELL!”

  “YES, REALLY!”

  Ten seconds to deadline.

  “WATCH OUT ANYWAY!”

  Four seconds to deadline.

  Three…

  Two….

  Molka dove toward Azzur’s table, slammed the briefcase onto the tabletop as she flew by, crashed into a chair, tumbled onto the sidewalk, and scrambled back to her feet. “Did I make it on time?”

  Azzur laid some cash on the table, rose, picked up the briefcase, and moved down the sidewalk.

  Molka quickly followed.

  Her fit for his 50s project manager—with a clear, dark complexion, neat, gray-specked black hair, and wearing his usual fashionable brown leather jacket—arrived at his curb-parked car and got into the driver seat.

  Molka got in the passenger seat.

  Azzur pulled into traffic. “Did you touch anything in his suite?”

  “Only the towel I used and the case,” Molka said. “As instructed.”

  “Any problems?”

  “His two security men ran up on me at the back of the hotel. That’s why my driver got scared and took off, I guess. I had to neutralize them to get away. Non-lethally, which was good because their weapons weren’t even loaded.”

  “You were to avoid contact with his security.”

  Molka shrugged. “Well, they contacted me first, so….”

  “What did the target tell you about himself?”

  “He told me his name was Walid and that he was a married businessman from Amman.” Molka smiled. “Which was, obviously, just his cover story.”

  Azzur lit a cigarette.