LOST AND LETHAL Read online

  Find that road and follow it.

  Molka cupped her hands over her sunglasses again and viewed the valley closer. No dirt road was visible from her position. Just boulders, large rock formations, and the empty southern horizon her transportation disappeared into.

  Molka tossed the entrenching tool into the Cessna’s back seat, closed the baggage compartment hatch, and closed both doors. She would have liked to lock it up, but it did not come with keys. And even if it had, Uri would probably have taken them with him too.

  She debated leaving her Beretta or at least the Baby Glock in the aircraft to reduce weight on a waterless march but decided a big piece of mind was worth a little extra pain.

  Molka took a deep breath and cursed Uri again on the exhale.

  Alright soldier, stow that anger for now.

  Move out.

  CHAPTER 14

  The trek down from the plateau to the boulder and large rock formation strewn valley took longer than Molka figured because it was farther away than it first appeared.

  No big surprise. Distances can be deceiving when crossing such wide-open ground.

  The boulders ranged in size from up to Molka’s knees to over her head, and the nearest rock formation appeared the size of a small house.

  Together they concealed something from her earlier scans: about 200 meters ahead, the narrow, dirt east-west road.

  Molka jogged until she reached it.

  The road’s crunching gravel under her boots gave comfort.

  She had something definite to follow.

  And she had the company of fellow westbound travelers.

  Approaching the road some 75 meters away, about 15 goats walked with a small boy herding them from behind.

  The boy’s head movements and stares revealed that he’d spotted both Molka and the Cessna up on the plateau.

  That couldn’t be helped. But maybe he could help her confirm she was heading the right way.

  Molka stepped off the road and waited.

  The white, brown, and black goats reached her and continued down the road with the unique “goaty” stench the bucks emitted. A stench she could never forget from her teen years on her grandfather’s kibbutz.

  The boy reached Molka and stopped and stared again. He was about 10 years old with dark skin, short black hair, and clear dark eyes. He wore black dust covered sneakers, jeans, and a red shirt with a white Adidas logo. He carried a long stick for herding purposes.

  Molka smiled and spoke to him in English. “Hello.”

  The boy turned his head toward the plateau, pointed at the Cessna, and spoke rapidly in a language that hit Molka’s ears as somewhat Arabic, somewhat Persian, and somewhat Turkish. Had to be the local tribal language.

  He looked back to Molka, still chattering, and pointed at the aircraft again.

  He’s asking if that’s my plane.

  Molka nodded affirmative, held out her arms to make airplane wings, and then pointed at herself.

  The boy stopped talking and stared at her again.

  Now what?

  Ask him about Mucize.

  She pointed west. “Mucize?”

  The boy continued to stare.

  “Mucize?”

  The boy continued to stare.

  “Mucize?”

  The boy continued to stare.

  Her throat was parched from thirst and stress.

  She really needed some water.

  Goats need water too.

  Where are the goats going?

  To water?

  To Mucize?

  Maybe he spoke some Arabic.

  The boy continued to stare.

  What’s the Arabic word for water?

  I’ve heard it before.

  Is it maa?

  “Maa? Maa?” Molka opened her mouth, pointed, and then repeated, “Maa? Maa?

  The boy smiled and pointed west. “Maa. Maa.”

  Molka smiled and nodded. “Maa.”

  The boy smiled again and ran to catch up to his goats.

  Molka ran to catch up to him.

  CHAPTER 15

  It wasn’t Mucize the goats entered with the boy and Molka still following them.

  Mucize lay at least another 30 kilometers away.

  And Mucize was a village and what they reached wasn’t big enough to be one.

  It was more like a settlement with four small, rough constructed cinderblock homes. Two apiece sat on each side of the dirt road, which ran on into the distance. All the homes mounted cylindrical gray water tanks on their flat roofs, and if anybody was home, they kept to themselves.

  The goats cut between the two houses on the left. The boy and Molka turned the corner with them. The goat’s destination appeared in the form of a pen pasted together from various sized wood planks, logs, and sticks. A rusty metal gate waited open.

  The goats penned themselves, and the boy closed the gate behind them. He then ran up to Molka and pointed at an old hand-cranked rusty water pump behind the nearest house. “Maa. Maa.”

  Molka smiled and nodded. “Maa.”

  The boy smiled back and ran to the goat pen.

  Molka moved to the water pump and cranked the handle. Brownish water spurted out on the dusty bare ground. She kept cranking until the water cleared, and then scooped quick palm-fulls of metallic tasting well water into her mouth.

  Ick. They drink this every day?

  I guess you get used to it.

  Or not.

  Molka wiped her mouth on her sleeve and viewed the two houses across the road. About 100 meters behind them lay a plowed field in which sixteen men, women, and children worked with hand tools. The house’s occupants? Probably. Perhaps some were the boy’s family. Maybe all of them were. They labored without words or pauses.

  Hard work in a hard land for a hard life.

  Molka time checked her watch: 11:34AM. The goats walked slow. She lagged behind the pace she wanted to set. Get moving.

  She glanced over to the goat pen. The boy carried a large metal bucket and dumped something into the pen. Feeding time.

  Molka caught the boy’s eye, smiled, and waved. “Thank you. Goodbye.”

  The boy stared at her for a moment and went back to his goats.

  Molka moved back between the two houses and toward the road.

  She emerged from the little alley, stepped into the road, and…

  LOOK OUT!

  Molka jumped back.

  An eastbound beige Land Rover SUV swerved to miss her.

  Molka stumbled, tripped, and fell on her rear end.

  The Land Rover braked hard and stopped.

  Two men exited the vehicle: driver Jäger and passenger Fuchs.

  Both wore identical sunglasses, khaki work shirts—with the sleeves rolled neatly above the elbows—khaki cargo pants, and tan colored, laced boots. Their headgear diverged with Jäger sporting a brimmed khaki cap and Fuchs donning a desert camo floppy bush hat.

  Fuchs remained next to the SUV while Jäger ran to Molka’s seated position. He reached her, knelt, and spoke to her in Turkish.

  Molka shook her head, rolled the dice, and went with English again. “Do you speak English?”

  Jäger answered in clear German-accented English. “I do. I also speak a little Israeli Hebrew, if I hear your accent right. Are you injured?”

  “No,” Molka said. “Just a close call.”

  “I am so sorry. Allow me, please.” Jäger reached a hand down to Molka.

  Molka took it.

  Jäger pulled her up. “I have to say, seeing an Israeli woman like you, or any woman like you for that matter, in a place like this is…somewhat unusual to put it mildly.”

  Molka smiled. “Well, the explanation is…

  Remember, Molka, simple lies are the best lies.

  Use the emergency cover story from your briefing tablet.

  Molka continued. “I’m a tourist. My boyfriend’s a pilot, and we flew our private plane into Mucize yesterday and flew out this morning for Mardin. But
we had an engine problem and had to land beside the road back there.” She pointed in the right direction. “He hiked back to Mucize to get help. I was supposed to wait in the aircraft but got impatient and decided to walk to Mucize myself. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  “Seen who?” Jäger said.

  “My boyfriend. Taller skinny guy with a beard, light blue jacket, red polo shirt, blue jeans… maybe riding in a pickup truck or SUV with someone?”

  Fuchs spoke up. “Is he an Israeli too?”

  Molka looked past Jäger to address Fuchs. “Yes. He’s an Israeli too. Does that make a difference?”

  Jäger smiled. “We have not seen anyone around here besides you. We just crossed the border a little while ago. We are part of a surveyor firm hired to layout a new natural gas pipeline.”

  Be nice to them, Molka.

  Maybe they’ll give you a ride.

  Molka smiled again. “How interesting. I’ve always been fascinated to learn how such things are done.”

  “Yes, it is fascinating work.”

  Molka pointed at Jäger’s desert tan combat boots. “Oooo…I like your boots.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Brand new Danner’s, right?”

  Jäger viewed them. “Are they? I would not know; the company issued them to me.”

  Molka pointed to her boots. “I’m a Bates girl myself.”

  Stupid convo, Molka!

  Shut up about tactical footwear!

  Molka continued. “I mean, my boyfriend bought them for me. He wouldn’t let me wear my cute UGGs out here.”

  “I see,” Jäger said. “Well, I am glad you are not injured, and again I apologize.”

  “Thank you. I would…um…love to hear more about your fascinating work.”

  Jäger grimaced. “If we only had more time. But we are on a very tight schedule. And we would give you a ride to Mucize, but we are going in the opposite direction.”

  “No worries.” Molka brushed the dust off her backside. “I wasn’t going to ask you for a ride anyway.”

  Darn!

  Jäger smiled. “Good luck.”

  Molka forged a smile. “You too.”

  Five kilometers out of the little settlement, Jäger glanced over at Fuchs, who had sat in silent since they left. “Problem, Ernst?”

  Fuchs reached under his seat and pulled out his pipe case. “I’m confident the indigs around here will believe our surveyor cover and not mention us to a nice local warlord fighter, but I’m not so confident the Israeli tourist woman will. Her people are predisposed to be suspicious of Germans.”

  “I do not believe that to be true. And by the way, why did you ask her if her boyfriend was Israeli too? Have you become radicalized?”

  “No. I was trying to catch her in a lie.” Fuchs removed his pipe and placed it in his lips. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to light this until we get there. I know how you hate smoking in vehicles.”

  “Thank you,” Jäger said. “But why do you believe the Israeli tourist woman was lying?”

  “Because according to my map, that road she’s on doesn’t lead to Mucize. It passes seven kilometers to the south and dead-ends at an old, abandoned settlement.”

  “Then, she is lost.”

  “We should go back and make her loss permanent.”

  Jäger grinned. “Same old, Ernst. What was that Latin phrase you used to say before an operation?”

  “Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius. Kill them all and let God sort them out.”

  Jäger shook his head. “You are a ghoul, Fuchs.”

  Fuchs continued. “They’ll say she should have stayed with her aircraft. Anything could have happened to her out here. It wouldn’t be the first tragic disappearance in a desolate region.”

  “Even so,” Jäger said, “we should not risk having our imprint on her tragedy in any way.”

  Fuchs shrugged. “On the other hand, as the finest officer I ever served under would say, ‘If it can be helped, never leave anything to risk.’”

  Jäger gave a slow nod. “I suppose I cannot disagree with my own words.”

  “What then?” Fuchs said.

  “We will put the question to Rivin as to what should be done about her as soon as we get there. And then let him do it. That is what he is being paid for.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Five and a half hours after leaving the little settlement and walking the dirt road through another broad valley strewn with boulders, large rock formations, and devoid from any human habitation in any direction, Molka expected to see Mucize on the horizon.

  She did not.

  The road continued into infinity through more boulders and large rock formations.

  Molka walked on.

  Two hours later, the sun set.

  All-encompassing darkness surrounded Molka like an army of night stalkers.

  She should have reached Mucize well beforehand.

  Either she had made a gross miscalculation about the pace she needed to cover 40 kilometers, or she was lost.

  Molka removed her sunglasses and placed them atop her head, moved a few meters off the road, and sat with her back to a boulder. Her feet throbbed. The Bates boots she bragged about featured top quality, but her model was designed for stealth, speed, and flexibility in a tactical operation, not for 40-plus kilometer road marches.

  Now what?

  She could keep moving forward and hope for the best. Or return to the aircraft and wait for Uri to show up and ask her for the money. Maybe he already had. No. He was probably just sitting down to the huge welcoming feast in Zoran the Great’s palatial palace which was proceeded by beautiful dancing girls and feats of skill and strength from Zoran the Great’s fighters.

  Ugh. I could use a huge feast!

  I’m so hungry!

  Make a decision. Choose the sure thing. Return to the aircraft and wait for Uri. At least she could get water again in the little settlement.

  She viewed the sky: clear night. Wait and rest a bit until the moon came up for a little illumination.

  Molka tipped her head back against the boulder and closed her eyes.

  My first task couldn’t have started any worse.

  But the good news is, it can only get better from here.

  Right?

  Gravel crunching under fast-rolling tires woke Molka.

  The headlights from a westbound vehicle about a half kilometer away approached.

  She checked her watch: 8:11PM.

  She’d dozed for over an hour.

  The vehicle continued its fast approach.

  Maybe they knew where Mucize was. She could ask them. Maybe they would even give her a ride?

  Molka stood and moved roadside.

  In her home country, hitchhiking was an accepted practice. In her college days, that was how she and her friends got around on weekends. But she wasn’t in her home country now. What if in the particular section of the country she was in, hitchhiking wasn’t socially acceptable? What if it was even considered impolite? Or worse yet, what if it was considered an explicit threat?

  Best to prepare for all eventualities.

  With her right hand, Molka drew her Beretta from the SOB holster, racked it, and held it behind her back.

  Her left hand rose into a wave position, and a friendly smile crossed her face.

  The vehicle continued speeding toward her.

  She took a half step back for safety.

  The vehicle’s headlights alit her.

  She broadened her smile.

  The vehicle sped past.

  Darn!

  The vehicle locked its brakes and skidded to a stop.

  A dust cloud shrouded it for a moment, then white backing lights shown, followed by a dark green SUV with homemade black and brown camouflage.

  The SUV backed parallel to Molka and came to a stop.

  The tinted passenger window dropped.

  A red keffiyeh wearing, bearded man’s face appeared.

  He raised an
AK-47 and aimed at Molka.

  Molka’s Beretta hand came from behind her body and up.

  His face flashed shock on her weapon, and he cocked his.

  Molka fired first.

  Her .40 caliber hollow point entered the man’s forehead.

  Blood, skull fragments, and brain matter expelled from the back of his head and onto the driver.

  Molka assumed a combat shooting stance and then aimed at the driver.

  Before she could fire, the SUV’s opposite side rear passenger door flew open.

  Another red keffiyeh wearing, bearded AK-47 shooter clambered out.

  He raised the weapon over his head and fired blindly on full auto over the SUV’s roof toward Molka.

  A round creased her left shoulder.

  She ignored the searing pain and dropped flat.

  She faced the shooter’s boots from beneath the SUV.

  She fired twice into his right ankle.

  He fell hard onto his side and screamed.

  His left cheek entered her sights.

  She fired again.

  His head exploded into a gruesome pulp.

  The driver stomped the gas.

  The SUV, still in reverse, threw gravel.

  Molka scrambled to her feet and stumbled back.

  The SUV’s front end swung around toward her.

  Her sunglasses fell from her head.

  The SUV’s tire crushed them.

  She spun and ran down the road.

  The SUV finished turning around and ran after her.

  She couldn’t outrun it.

  She stopped, spun back, assumed a combat shooting stance, sighted the driver’s position, and emptied the magazine into the windshield.

  The windshield buckled under the impacts and shattered.

  The SUV cut hard left, rolled over a hip-high boulder, and flipped onto its roof.

  The engine cut off, but the headlights still shown.

  Molka unlocked her Beretta’s slide and re-holstered it, drew the Baby Glock from her right front pocket, racked it, and then ran toward the driver door to eliminate any further threats.

  Molka reached the SUV and crouched to view into the driver’s window.

  The unmoving driver no longer possessed a human face.

  More crunching gravel under fast-rolling tires sounded on the road.