LOST AND LETHAL Page 8

  Molka stood and looked toward the east.

  Headlights from two more westbound vehicles sped toward her.

  Here come their friends.

  I can’t get into another firefight.

  Take cover before they spot you.

  Molka ran into a large rock formation two meters away from the road and concealed herself in a cranny. Not an ideal place for cover, but at least it gave some flank and rear protection. She repocketed the Glock, drew the Beretta again, dropped the empty mag, removed a spare from her front pocket, slammed it in, racked the weapon, and listened.

  The two vehicles arrived adjacent to her position with gravel under tire skids.

  Multiple doors clicked and creaked open.

  Fast cross-chatter from several men erupted: all speaking in the same language as the goatherd boy.

  The chatter silenced.

  A slight Turkish accented male voice called out in good English: “You, in the rocks. We saw you go in there. You can’t hide from us, and you can’t get away. So you may as well come out.”

  Molka did not reply.

  The fast-foreign cross-chatter of several men resumed.

  The chatter silenced again.

  The English speaker called out: “They’re telling you to drop your weapon and come out with your hands raised. They say this is your only hope to live.”

  Molka did not reply.

  The fast-foreign chatter resumed.

  The chatter silenced again.

  The English speaker called out: “They said if you don’t come out, they’ll throw fragmentation grenades into those rocks. And even if the grenade shrapnel does not reach and kill you, the rock fragments the shrapnel throws off will, or least badly wound you.”

  Molka replied in English: “I know the effects of fragmentation grenades. I’ll take my chances.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “I’m heading to Mucize.”

  “This road doesn’t lead to Mucize. The turn off is about 35 kilometers back.”

  “Then I’m lost,” Molka said.

  “By the mess you made of these dead men, I would say you’re lost and lethal.”

  “They attacked me first,” Molka said.

  “I know.”

  “How did you know that? And how did you know I speak English?”

  “Because I’ve just been having a little fun with you, Molka. Come on out. Keep your weapon. You’re among friends. I’m Tariq.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A few moments later, Molka sat in the rear seat of a ten-year-old, plain white eastbound traveling SUV while drinking an ice-cold bottled water.

  The vehicle she rode in trailed an older model plain black SUV occupied by two men wearing olive-green fatigues and gold-colored keffiyehs.

  Two identically dressed men rode in the front seats of Molka’s ride, and Tariq rode beside her, styling creased, black dress pants, an expensive light gray suede jacket with the collar turned up over an open-collar white dress shirt, and polished black leather dress shoes. He accessorized with a long, wide, fringed gold-colored scarf around his neck.

  Molka questioned his chosen ensemble.

  Totally inappropriate for the harsh terrain all around them?

  Yes.

  Did he look sharp anyway?

  Yes.

  Tariq’s grooming was on point, too, starting with his thick black hair quaffed with product to give it just the right combination of lift, texture, and healthy shine. His nails featured a recent no polish manicure, and he’d applied an enticing cologne, which somewhat mitigated the body odors from the men riding upfront.

  Tariq presented as a little too pretty for Molka’s taste, but it could be understood how other women—and especially the lonely middle-aged married ones he sometimes serviced—would appreciate his attentions.

  Molka finished gulping the bottled water and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  “There’s more in the cooler behind us,” Tariq said.

  “I’m fine now,” Molka said. “Thank you.”

  Tariq shifted in his seat for a better view of her, and his face teased with an ultra-charismatic smile. “Ahhh…the legendary beautiful women of Israel…”

  Molka smirked. “Would not be interested in you.”

  Tariq laughed. “Beautiful and sarcastic. Just my type.”

  Molka smirked again. “Lucky me.”

  “We’ve been searching for you for hours.”

  Molka nodded toward the front seats. “Who is we?”

  “These men are all Zoran the Great fighters he assigned to assist me. The little goat boy finally pointed us out here. Good thing too, because we never would have thought to come this way.”

  “He was a very nice boy,” Molka said. “He gave me water too, but his didn’t come with a pick-up line. They live very poorly in that settlement. I wish I had some money to give him.”

  Tariq’s smile faded to disgust. “I swore off that type of backcountry, backward lifestyle a long time ago. I think the people who stay in it are fools.” He grinned. “But call me your hero, because I did give him and the others some money for his kindness and all their troubles. Probably more than they see in a year.”

  “Very nice of you.”

  “I’m a nice guy. Now let’s talk about you.”

  Molka sighed. “So I guess you want to know why I left the aircraft and started walking to Mucize?”

  “I already know why.”

  Molka’s face hardened. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? I’ll have something to say about that in a minute. Where is Mucize from here, by the way?”

  “About 30 kilometers north. The turnoff from this road is just before you get to the goat boy’s house.”

  Molka winced. “I missed that turnoff. I was too busy following the goats. Any ideas on who those guys who attacked me are—I mean, were? I’m guessing drug smugglers.”

  “No, they were some of Rivin’s men.”

  “Whose Rivin?”

  “He’s the young lion to Zoran the Great’s old lion.”

  “What does that even mean?” Molka said.

  “He’s a regional rival who raids into Zoran the Great’s domain and takes or destroys anything of value. But when they tried to take you, they got destroyed instead. Very impressively, I might add. Azzur said he was sending a warrior, and he was not exaggerating. I’m just glad Uri also didn’t try to resist when they took him earlier today.”

  Molka shot Tariq a confused glance. “Who took Uri earlier today?”

  “Some more of Rivin’s men,” Tariq said.

  “Where did they take him from?”

  “From the airstrip. Right after you landed.”

  “Wait,” Molka said. “That wasn’t you who came and picked him up?”

  “No. I was still in Mucize, waiting for your satphone call. But Zoran the Great’s mountain lookouts witnessed him being taken. They were too far away to do anything other than notify me. We immediately came to get you, but you had already left on your walk to nowhere.”

  “But the vehicles that approached us at the airstrip carried Zoran the Great pennants.”

  Tariq grinned again. “An old trick Rivin uses to put his potential victims at ease.”

  Molka reached behind her head and tugged on the base of her ponytail. “I should have recognized that old trick too.”

  “Zoran the Great has no need to announce his presence in his own domain. On the contrary, he likes to move unnoticed for security reasons. That’s why he uses these older plain-looking vehicles.”

  “What will they do with Uri?” Molka said.

  “Try to ransom him back to your country. Kidnapping is a lucrative side hustle for Rivin.”

  Molka sighed again. “Then the op—I mean the task—is blown.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, we lost the pilot for starters.”

  Tariq waved a dismissive hand. “That’s not a problem. I’ll get him back. I went to school with Rivin. Before he
got kicked out, that is. We’re not close friends. But he trusts me. Somewhat.”

  “Ok. And how will you do it?”

  “Just pay Rivin myself. He’d rather accept a quick, smaller offer from me than get into a protracted negotiation with your country. Azzur provided me with some cash for such emergencies.”

  Molka’s brow furrowed. “But the task is still endangered if Uri tells Rivin why we’re here, and Rivin tells the Turkish authorities. They might pay big money for Ibis themselves.”

  “First of all, Rivin can’t go to the Turkish authorities. They have arrest warrants stacked up for him. And secondly, if Uri’s smart—and I understand he is—all he has to do is give Rivin your emergency cover story. You memorized it too, right?”

  “Yes, and I actually used it with a couple of surveyors I encountered passing through that settlement.”

  “Do you think they believed you?” Tariq said.

  “They didn’t question it. And by the direction they were headed, they had to drive right past the aircraft in plain sight on the plateau. So that would give my story some cred at least.”

  “Rivin’s not stupid, but he’s not going to dazzle anyone with deep thinking either. If Uri sticks with the cover story, Rivin will totally believe it too.”

  “But what if Rivin tortures him for information?” Molka said

  Tariq grinned yet again. “Your naivety is so cute. You don’t torture hostages in an extortion deal. Hostages are a valuable commodity. And damaging the goods only lessens the asking price. And it also might bring a rescue mission down on you. And then you lose out either way. You might kill a hostage if the ransom isn’t paid. But you never torture them. Uri’s probably being treated as an honored guest. Hospitality to guests is very important in this culture.”

  Molka’s eyebrows rose. “Ok. I hope you’re right. When will you go talk to Rivin about Uri’s release?”

  “As soon as we see Zoran the Great and inform him of the situation.”

  “Are we going to do that tonight?”

  “Yes,” Tariq said. “But first, we should go get Zoran the Great’s money. Where is the money, by the way? I tore that Cessna apart and didn’t find a trace.”

  “It’s secured,” Molka said.

  “Secured? Ah yes, the mountain lookouts said you carried something into the hills near the airstrip. They lost sight of you, though. You hid it somewhere up there?”

  “It’s secured.”

  Tariq smiled. “Of course. You’re the security specialist. It’s secured, and that’s all that’s important right now.” He patted Molka’s left shoulder and noticed her ripped shirt and wound. “Oh my, you’re hurt.”

  Molka glanced down at the injury. “It’s not too bad. Only grazed me. Just need to clean it and put a little bandage on it.”

  “You’re tough, but I know that’s painful. Pardon me a moment.”

  Tariq removed a handheld two-way radio from his jacket pocket and transmitted in the local tribal language. A female voice responded in the same dialect.

  They carried on a one-minute conversation, and then Tariq contacted a male speaker for a short conversation, and then he put the radio back into his jacket pocket. “We’ll stop off and get you treated before we meet Zoran the Great. Mucize doesn’t have a hospital or any doctors, but it does have a clinic operated by Zoran the Great’s daughter, Zilan. She was educated in the UK and speaks English better than I do. She’s an excellent nurse, who is fortunately also very beautiful.”

  “What’s her beauty have to do with her being an excellent nurse?”

  Tariq’s face teased with an ultra-charismatic smile again. “For you, absolutely nothing.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Mucize at night from a distance would make a great screensaver. Soft yellow lights from homes and buildings lay in the dark background embrace of a tall crescent-shaped mountain under a clear, clean star-filled sky.

  Stunning.

  The two SUVs reached Mucize and entered a narrow cobblestone street, which zig-zagged its way up the foothills below the crescent-shaped mountain. The drive revealed the village to be laid out as a series of ascending terraces.

  The village structures—none higher than three stories—all featured masonry construction in a distinct taupe color. Many carried ornately carved stone facades giving off a Medieval era vibe, which is probably when some were built.

  The leading black SUV pulled over and parked curbside in front of a small one-story building. The white SUV Molka rode in parked behind it.

  “We’re here,” Tariq said and exited.

  Molka exited too.

  The other four men waited in the vehicles.

  Molka followed Tariq to a white wooden door with green lettering and a red crescent painted on it.

  He opened it to a small waiting room with wooden chairs, clean white walls, and a well-worn white linoleum tile floor scrubbed clean. The air bore the scent of disinfectant.

  A little smile crossed Molka’s lips. The well-kept humbleness of the small clinic made her homesick for her well-kept, humble little veterinary office.

  A side door opened, and a woman in her late 20s appeared in the doorway. She wore clean green medical scrubs over a petite but curvaceous body. Her side-parted dark hair was rolled into a bun, and well-groomed thick dark eyebrows made her large brown eyes even more striking.

  Molka could not yet vouch for her skills as an excellent nurse, but the beautiful part was not in question.

  Tariq spoke. “Molka, this is Zilan. Zilan, this is Molka.”

  Molka smiled politely. “Hello.”

  Zilan returned her smile and spoke in slightly accented English. “You are welcome here.”

  Tariq addressed Zilan. “I was hoping that when you get done fixing her up, you would come with us back to your father’s house and be her translator. As soon as I check in with the great man, I need to go talk to Rivin and retrieve the pilot.”

  Zilan nodded. “Of course.”

  Tariq smiled. “Beautiful and generous, just my type of woman.”

  Zilan suppressed a smile, stood aside, and motioned to Molka with her hand. “Please follow me.”

  Molka moved toward the door with Tariq trailing.

  Zilan waved a finger at Tariq. “Patients only. Wait out here, please.”

  Zilan led Molka into the middle of the three little examination rooms. The white walls and worn linoleum tile inside were also clean. The room contained an examination table, a white storage cabinet, and a small side sink.

  She gestured for Molka to sit on the table and started to wash her hands in the sink. “Tariq said you have a superficial gunshot wound?”

  “It barely grazed me,” Molka said. “It’s more of a burn.”

  “What do you think of Tariq?”

  “Um…he seems nice. I just met him, though.”

  “I think I might like him,” Zilan said. “But I think I should wait to ensure I’m certain.”

  Molka smiled. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Zilan dried her hands on a sterilized towel and pulled on sterilized gloves. “Tariq said three of Rivin’s men attacked you and lived to regret it.”

  “Well, technically, they didn’t live.”

  Zilan laughed. “Yes, I see your point. That will make my father very happy.”

  “I understand Rivin gives your father a lot of trouble. Based on your father’s reputation, I’m surprised Rivin is still around to do that.”

  Zilan removed a blood pressure monitor from the cabinet, pushed up the sleeve on Molka’s right arm, and attached the cuff. “My mother blessed my father with seven beautiful daughters but no sons. Rivin was orphaned at age six and came to live in our home. My father grew to love Rivin deeply and treated him as the son he would never have and groomed him to be the heir to Zoran the Great’s domain. Rivin relished this great honor and became a ferocious fighter in his own right, totally dedicated to serving my father.”

  Zilan noted Molka’s blood pressure readin
g and removed the cuff. “But then impatience intervened in my father and Rivin’s relationship. The impatience of young men who feel entitled. Rivin, tired of waiting for my father to step aside or die, formed a group of men to remove my father by coup.”

  Zilan retrieved a no-contact thermometer from the cabinet drawer. “Rivin’s coup failed. My father executed all of Rivin’s coconspirators, but Rivin’s punishment was banishment for life. My father said he did this so Rivin would have to live with his shame. A much worse fate than death, he said.” She pointed the thermometer at Molka’s forehead. “But I believe, even after the severest of all betrayals, the real reason my father spared Rivin is that my father still loves him.”

  Molka nodded. “A fascinating story. And an explanation.”

  Zilan read the thermometer and set it aside. “I did not tell you that story to fascinate or explain. I told you as one woman helping another woman. You will soon be negotiating with my father. My father has old world views about the role of women. He is also a complicated and sometimes an extremely stubborn man. So I hope the insights I gave you about him will be of some assistance.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Molka said. “Thank you.”

  Zilan viewed Molka’s wound. “Would you like me to cut the sleeve off, or would you like to remove the shirt?”

  “I’ll remove it,” Molka said. “I didn’t bring a change of clothes.”

  Contrary to Uri’s movie-fed supposition, Zoran the Great did not live in a palatial palace.

  He lived in a large, two-story, taupe-colored, red-tiled roofed, villa-style home built into the side of the hill on the highest terrace over Mucize.

  A street leading up to it ended at a closed steel gate in a tall masonry wall. An AK-47 armed man—dressed identical to the men with Tariq in olive-green fatigues and gold-colored keffiyehs—waited outside. He spoke to the men in the black SUV, which again led the white SUV with Molka and Tariq. Zilan had followed behind both in a small silver car.

  The gate guard spoke into a handheld two-way radio.

  “It will be a couple minutes,” Tariq said. “They need to inform Zorn the Great and his wife of our arrival.”

  “Ok.” Molka’s eyes drew to movement outside on her left. Across the street, a man stood in front of a small house and videoed the waiting SUVs.