LOST AND LETHAL Read online

  He moved past Molka without comment or glance, walked behind his desk, laid his weapon atop it, placed his radio beside his weapon, and sat.

  During her time in the IDF, Molka had seen many high-ranking commanders. All looked authoritative, but she could tell some just acted the part while others personified it.

  Zoran the Great was not acting.

  Zilan moved to Zoran’s side.

  Zoran spoke to her in their native language.

  When he finished speaking, Zilan translated to Molka. “My father asks that you please sit.”

  Molka sat in the right-hand chair facing the desk.

  Zilan continued. “My father says he asked to see you because he has a question. My father says that Tariq told him over the radio that the man you came here with was taken as a hostage by the cowardly dog Rivin and that Tariq now seeks to gain the man’s release. My father’s question is this: should Tariq not be able to secure the man’s release, will your country send another man to complete the negotiation of our deal?”

  Molka answered. “No. In such a case, I will finish negotiating the deal and consult with Tariq about an alternate way to get Ibis out of the country.”

  Zilan translated to Zoran.

  Zoran replied.

  Zilan translated to Molka. “My father says, then we no longer have a deal.”

  “Why?” Molka said.

  Zilan translated to Zoran.

  Zoran replied.

  Zilan translated to Molka. “My father says a warrior should only negotiate with another warrior.”

  Molka answered. “Please tell your father, I am a warrior. The man who came with me is a pilot.”

  Zilan translated to Zoran.

  Zoran replied.

  Zilan translated to Molka. “My father says you do not look like a warrior. You look like a pretty girl from Tel Aviv who should be keeping a fine home for her husband and raising many healthy children.”

  A pang of anger shot through Molka.

  What an insulting—

  Wait. He’s testing me.

  Remember from your briefing info Zoran the Great loathes weakness.

  Stand your ground.

  Molka looked Zoran in the eye. “Please tell your father I served for five years in the IDF, most with an elite special forces unit and saw much combat. And less than two hours ago, I killed three of Rivin’s men who attacked me.” She stiffened and leaned forward in her chair. “And I may be a pretty girl from Tel Aviv, but I am also a warrior. A warrior equal to any of Zoran the Great’s fighters, and perhaps even a warrior equal to Zoran the Great himself.”

  Zilan’s eyes widened. “Are you sure you want me to tell my father that?”

  Molka leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “Tell him. Word for word.”

  Zilan translated to Zoran.

  Zoran glared at Molka, threw up his hands, spoke rapid words with a gruff tone, stood, and stamped from the room.

  Zilan followed him.

  Molka sat alone.

  So…that didn’t go over as well as I’d hoped.

  Nice job, Molka.

  A few uncomfortable moments later, a composed Zoran—trailed by Zilan—reentered the room.

  He sat behind his desk again and addressed Molka in a calm and measured tone.

  Zilan listened and then translated to Molka. “My father says he should not disrespect the cultures of outsiders as he does not abide outsiders disrespecting our culture. For this, he apologizes.”

  Molka answered. “Zoran the Great’s words are wise and thoughtful. No apology necessary.”

  Zilan translated to Zoran.

  Zoran nodded to Molka and replied.

  Zilan translated. “My father says if Tariq returns with your pilot, it will not be until morning. But there is still much work to do tonight. A group of smugglers has entered Zoran the Great’s domain without Zoran the Great’s permission and has occupied the small village of Umut, where they are terrorizing the villagers. But tonight, their terrorism will end very badly for them. Perhaps the pretty warrior woman from Tel Aviv will accompany us? I’ll be going along too as a medic.”

  Molka addressed Zilan. “I’m not sure I should involve myself in a local dispute. That’s not part of my task.”

  “If your task is to negotiate a deal with my father, you should consider this invitation as part of it.”

  Molka viewed Zoran’s weapon on the desk. “Because claiming to be a warrior is one thing. Proving it is another.”

  Zilan smiled. “You are beginning to understand him.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Three, 10-year-old, mud-spattered, plain SUVs waited in the driveway outside Zoran’s home: one white and two black.

  An olive-green fatigue and gold-colored keffiyeh wearing driver leaped out of the white SUV and opened the front passenger door for Zoran and the two rear passenger doors for Molka and Zilan.

  All boarded, and the three-vehicle convoy departed.

  The driver negotiated the narrow, descending switchback road with expert deftness until they reached a large fenced in area just on the Mucize’s outskirts.

  Another armed fighter opened a gate in the fence and let the SUVs pass.

  They cruised across a large dirt lot—filled with dozens of older, plain-looking SUVs and cars and two dark green BTR-80 armored personnel carriers with 30-millimeter cannons—and parked outside an unremarkable, white aluminum, barn-like building.

  The driver leaped out again and opened the doors for everyone. All dismounted, and Molka followed Zoran and Zilan through a door into the building.

  Inside the cement floored space, olive-green fatigue and gold-colored keffiyeh wearing fighters in the dozens—ranging in age from about their early 20s to late 40s—clustered around rows of long tables stacked with various military gear and weapons.

  They broadcast an excited male’s conversational din, and a cloud of their cigarette smoke hung above them in the fluorescent lighting.

  Except for the huge green flag with a gold lion emblem in the center hanging on the far wall, the scene was not unlike some field staging areas Molka had witnessed during her time in the service.

  Zoran’s fighters noticed his presence, cheered, and began a chant.

  Zilan put her mouth close to Molka’s ear to be heard. “Please wait here. I’m going to change clothes.”

  “Alright,” Molka said.

  Zilan departed, and Zoran approached his admirers, who poured from around the tables and formed a large circle around him. He raised his right hand, and the cheering and chanting ceased.

  Zoran then spoke in short, forceful sentences. Molka did not know what he said but knew the context: a commander’s final pep talk before leading his men to battle.

  When Zoran finished speaking, another cheer and chant erupted, and the men broke into five separate units, each with its own commander issuing orders.

  Zoran observed them for a moment until Zilan joined him.

  Zilan had changed from her scrubs into dark blue cargo pants and a dark blue jacket, and she carried a large red trauma kit bag, giving her an EMT look.

  Zoran conversed with Zilan for over a minute, and then Zoran moved to a nearby gear table, picked up a powerful night vision rifle scope, and approached Molka with Zilan following.

  Zoran stood before Molka and spoke.

  Zilan translated. “My father asks if you are carrying any weapons and if so, please show him.”

  Molka drew her Beretta from her SOB holster with her left hand, pulled the Baby Glock from her front right pocket with her right hand, and presented them for Zoran’s inspection.

  Zoran nodded his approval.

  Molka resecured her weapons.

  Zilan continued translating. “My father says he now understands that you would not wish to get involved with a local dispute. So he asks you instead remain with me during the battle observing from a distance, with this night vision scope, and act as my security. If you are agreeable.”

  Molka lo
oked at Zoran and nodded.

  Zoran the Great handed Molka the scope, called out to his fighters, and led them toward the door.

  The convoy of over 20 nondescript SUVs and cars carrying 125 Zoran the Great well-armed fighters exited the staging area through the gate, left Mucize, moved onto a two-lane road, and—with practiced precision—spaced out to give the illusion of normal traffic.

  Molka again rode in the rear passenger seat of Zoran the Great’s white SUV sitting next to Zilan.

  During the ride, Zoran communicated with several men using his two-way radio.

  After almost 20-minutes, the convoy turned off the two-lane road onto a one-lane dirt road and—still maintaining their spacing—rode on for about another 10 minutes.

  The convoy closed into a tight formation for a moment and then pulled over as one and stopped on the dirt road’s side.

  With quiet precision, the fighters exited their vehicles, formed back into their five separate units—with their commanders at the head—lined up, dropped to one knee on the roadside, and awaited their orders.

  Zoran and his driver then exited.

  Molka took Zilan’s visual cue to do the same.

  The night cooled a little more, and the moon at full rise gave adequate light to operate without the use of night vision.

  Zoran moved to the SUV’s front, and his five unit-commanders left their men and joined him.

  The men low-talked for a moment, and then all looked ahead down the road as three fighters emerged from cover in a roadside ditch 20 meters ahead and jogged to Zoran.

  Molka identified the three men as advance scouts who had the smuggler-terrorist-controlled village—probably located further up the road—under observation.

  After the scouts made their report and rejoined their units, Zoran issued orders to the unit-commanders, and they rejoined their men.

  A moment later, five fighters—carrying only long combat knives—reported to Zoran. He issued orders to the men, and they jogged down the road and vanished into the dark.

  Zilan whispered to Molka. “Those men who just left are known as the ‘Reapers.’ They will eliminate the sentries of the smuggler-terrorists. We will be advancing shortly after.”

  Molka drew her Beretta, checked it, re-holstered it, took a knee, and engaged her breath control technique.

  Even though she would only observe the attack while providing security for Zilan, the old pulse racing and skin tingles that always challenged her before an op with the Unit reemerged.

  A muted radio call sounded on Zoran’s radio. He responded, unslung his weapon, and moved to the front of the five-unit column.

  All the fighters rose into a ready position as he passed them.

  Once at the column’s head, Zoran led his men forward at a fast pace down the road.

  Zilan and Molka walked at the rear of the last unit.

  The road continued for about 100 meters to the crest of a hill and dropped down at a steep angle.

  The column descended the hill and disappeared over the edge like an olive-green with gold specks waterfall.

  The unit-commander of the men Zilan and Molka followed stepped out of line, spoke to Zilan, handed her a two-way radio, and jogged to catch his men.

  Zilan addressed Molka. “We are to wait here.”

  “Alright.” Molka raised the rifle scope to her eye and viewed the village below.

  About three dozen small homes—all resembling the goatherd boy’s—surrounded a large, open village square.

  The village sat blacked out except for three houses, and Zoran’s five units split up and moved with stealth and quickness to surround each.

  A few moments later, a firefight erupted.

  Bright muzzle flashes lit up the village.

  Zilan addressed Molka. “What is happening down there?”

  Molka kept her eye on the rifle scope. “It looks like they’ve caught the enemy totally by surprise and have them pinned down in three houses.”

  After several minutes of continuous fire, a call came over the two-way radio Zilan held.

  She replied and turned to Molka. “A wounded prisoner has been taken. They are bringing him to the village square for me to treat.”

  Zilan picked up her trauma kit bag and jogged downhill toward the village.

  Molka jogged close behind.

  They reached the cobblestone paved square. Long tables outlining the space indicated it as a market during the day.

  Next to one of the tables, a Zoran fighter stood guard over the seated wounded prisoner: a short, thin, bearded man wearing a way too large woodland camouflaged BDU jacket over jeans and white socks without shoes. His left hand dripped blood.

  Zilan crouched beside him and examined his injured hand.

  Molka put the scope back to her eye and viewed the firefight.

  The firing slowed to intermittent.

  The operation was winding down.

  Zilan wrapped the prisoner’s wound.

  Molka lowered the scope, tucked it into her belt, and said, “It’s almost over.”

  “Good,” Zilan said.

  The prisoner flicked his right wrist, and a Glock slipped from concealment up his sleeve into his hand.

  Like a scurrying rat, he scrambled fast around the crouching Zilan, crouched behind her, pointed the weapon to her temple, and yelled at the stunned fighter guard in Turkish.

  Molka thought about pulling her weapon.

  But even if she could clear the holster without the prisoner seeing, did she have a makeable shot?

  The prisoner’s diminutive size allowed him to conceal his whole body behind Zilan with only a tiny sliver of his face visible.

  The shot would have to be perfect.

  Even a centimeter off target would be tragic.

  Too risky.

  Don’t draw.

  The prisoner yelled at the fighter guard again.

  The fighter guard laid his weapon on the cobblestones, stepped back, and raised his hands.

  Zilan’s face showed anxiety but not terror.

  The prisoner looked to Molka and yelled at her.

  She knew he was telling her to raise her hands too.

  Molka raised her hands.

  A Zoran unit about 15 meters away marched a group of five more prisoners with their wrists bound behind them toward the square.

  The prisoner behind Zilan yelled at the fighter guard again.

  The fighter guard yelled to the approaching unit.

  They paused, confirmed the threat, laid their weapons on the ground, and began to untie their prisoners.

  Zoran ran into the square with two other men.

  He viewed his Zilan’s death peril, stopped 10 meters away, laid his own weapon down, and ordered the two men with him to do the same.

  Molka assessed the situation.

  When the five other prisoners got their hands free, they would pick up the Zoran fighter’s weapons and either massacre everyone in the square or take Zoran hostage and order him to make the rest of his fighters surrender and then massacre everyone.

  Conclusion:

  Can’t allow those prisoners to get armed.

  She had to make an immediate high-risk move.

  And only get one chance.

  In less than a blink, Molka leaped toward the crouching pair and fired a hard side kick into Zilan’s chest.

  Zilan and the prisoner rolled as one like a ball onto their backs.

  In another sub-blink, Molka dove on the shock-faced prisoner clamped a side wrist lock on his gun hand, pulled the weapon from his hand into hers, sprung to her feet, and dropped a knockout ax kick to his temple.

  After a stunned moment, the fighter guard grabbed his weapon and yelled at the fighters untying the prisoners.

  They stopped untying and retrieved their weapons.

  Zoran and the two men with him recovered their weapons and ran toward Zilan.

  Molka helped Zilan to her feet. “Sorry I had to kick you so hard. Are you ok?”

&
nbsp; Zilan beamed. “Yes, thank you. That was amazing. Thank you.”

  Zoran arrived, embraced his daughter, and then faced Molka and spoke.

  Zilan translated. “My father says you have the bravery and fierceness of a true warrior. He thanks you for my life and for saving him from great shame. He says he is in your debt. And so am I.”

  Molka shrugged. “Don’t think of it.”

  After the last group of prisoners was led away toward the vehicles, every home in the village lit up, and jubilant people gathered in the square by the dozens ranging from cane-walking village elders to swaddled babies.

  A three-man band formed with a stringed instrument, a long flute, and something resembling a large tambourine and started playing upbeat folk-style music.

  About two dozen adult villagers formed a long line—all holding hands—and danced in time to the music with synchronized side-to-side and forward and back movements.

  The village children formed their own dance line and mimicked the adults.

  Adorable.

  As Zoran watched the dancers, a smile cracked open under his mustache, and he clapped along to the beat.

  Zilan did the same.

  Molka wanted to clap as well, but as an outsider, it might be considered rude. Instead, she tapped her boot until someone tapped her shoulder from behind.

  She glanced behind her.

  Tariq.

  He held a large plastic bag. He grinned at Molka, moved past her, jogged to the dancing children, opened the bag and passed out what looked to be candied treats.

  The children swarmed him with gleeful shrieks.

  When the bag emptied, he joined the adult dance line and kept in perfect step with a joyous expression.

  The song ended.

  The people clapped.

  Tariq clapped too and jogged back to Molka.

  “Where’s Uri?” Molka said

  Tariq grinned again. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done that. I forgot how much fun it was.”

  The band started a new song, and the dancing resumed.