Alexa - OMNIBUS: Alexa - The Series, #1

Legionnaire

June 16, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

16:20

Sarah dashed downstairs to answer the door. She wasn’t expecting Zachary back for another half an hour. She put her eye to the peephole. A tall, brawny man with slick black hair tied back in a ponytail stood, hands behind his back. He wore a dark suit, a tie, and Ray-Bans. Official looking. She tucked a tuft of hair behind her ear and opened the door.

Can I help? she asked.

The man removed his glasses and folded them into his breast pocket. Sarah Cohen?

Yes, how may I help you? she asked again.

Before Sarah could react, he slammed his fist into her face. He grabbed her arm before she hit the ground then lifted her and carried her into the house. Blood streamed from her nose, and the man cursed when some of it dripped onto his shoe. He dumped her on the couch and fetched a paper towel from the kitchen, then cleaned the blood spatters in the entrance hall. He went back and fetched a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and dropped it on a side table next to Sarah.

She sat up unsteadily. The man was busy in the kitchen, cutlery clinking and the kettle boiling.

Don’t move, Sarah, he called from the kitchen. Put the bag on your face, your nose is broken. The man sauntered out of the kitchen, a steaming cup in his hand, and popped a toothpick in his mouth. You’re going to have black eyes; use the bag. I hate ugly bitches.

Who are you? Sarah sobbed, taking the makeshift ice pack and tenderly placing it on the side of her face. What do you want?

He chuckled, pointing his thumb at his chest. Me? My name is Miguel Perreira. He rolled the toothpick in his mouth, smirking at Sarah. What I want? He gave a small shrug. To kill your husband. He cost me lots of money. He tried to kill my partner. My partner wants, how do you say . . . Perreira rolled the toothpick in his mouth, examining his nails. He looked up and said with a crooked smile, . . . revenge. He spoke with a Spanish accent. You know why he tried to kill my partner?

Sarah stared at the intruder, a cushion clutched to her chest. What are you talking about? Zach is a computer programmer. He works for IBM. You’re insane, mister.

The tall man tsk-tsked. Ah, you’ve been told lies too, I see. Your man Zachary, he is good at keeping secrets. He grinned, flashing a gold-capped tooth. But not from me, you will see, he said, wagging a finger. Miguel Perreira glanced at his watch. Your little man should be here in thirty-five minutes. Tonight is your dinner date, no?

She swallowed then nodded.

He drained the cup and placed it on the table. "Your pretty baby hijita is visiting grandmama tonight. Now is the time for your shower, to put on the tight black dress."

He casually leaned against the wall, examining his nails as he spoke. You know you are taller than your little man when you wear your Prada shoes? It does not bother him, no? he asked, sucking his teeth. He continued without waiting for an answer. I phoned the restaurant, Pastel. Told them you are not coming no more. No one will miss you tonight. He spoke casually, not once looking up. So it seems there is one thing for you to do now.

What? she asked, cringing into the chair.

Get off your clothes.

Why? she asked, her arms clutching the cushion. What are you going to do to me?

Perreira glanced her way then chuckled. Why? You need to be ready for the little man. I like the black G-string you always wear; I think maybe the little man likes the red one, no? He grinned and sauntered towards her. Maybe you will get lucky tonight.

Please, sir. Just leave us alone. We have nothing to do with—

Perreira hit her across the face with the back of his hand. "Get your clothes off, bitch!" he roared, spittle flying from his lower lip. 

She slumped to the ground, whimpering, holding her cheek.

He strode towards her. Do Jewish bitches not listen to their men anymore? Get up and take the clothes off, he shouted, grabbed her arm and propped her against the wall.

She started crying.

I’m waiting.

Sarah Cohen stared at Perreira, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Then she unbuttoned her blouse.

––––––––

Zachary Cohen drummed his steering wheel to the beat of Phil Collin’s In the Air Tonight. He took the turn to his home off Ben Gurion Road and rolled down the car window. This particular autumn evening was a balmy one, but the damp ocean breeze cooled him down. Dark storm clouds were forming in the distance; he made a mental note to remember the umbrella. He was looking forward to tonight.

Thursday date nights had become a tradition in the Cohen household, his father having started it. Zachary had never understood why the man was always chirpy on Thursdays, why his mom used to skip around the house with a twinkle in her eye. Now he did.

He noticed the black Chevy Impala in front of their gate when he drove past the house. He drew up in his driveway, slid out of his car, and jogged up the steps of his terraced lawn, humming the last octaves of the song.

He pulled open the door. Strange, it was unlocked. Sarah, I’m home.

As he entered the living room, he was struck on his temple, hard. He struggled to retain his balance when someone blindsided him from behind and a fist slammed into his chin.

Shit, this couldn’t be happening. How did they find him? Zachary Cohen went down for the count for the second time in his life.

––––––––

Zachary Cohen recovered from the blow and shook his head, then he heard his wife groan. He tried to prop his head up and felt blood trickle from his scalp. He shifted to an upright position and grimaced, touching his head.

Sarah was lying on the couch, naked. A man stood next to her, caressing her shoulder with his fingertips.

Zach stood on shaky legs then stumbled towards his wife. What the hell do you want?

The man grabbed Sarah around the waist with one arm and lifted her effortlessly, like she was a rag doll. He stood behind her, holding her body upright, then pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt and held it to Sarah’s throat. Her head slumped forward and she moaned, barely conscious. Her face was swollen and puffy, and her nose was bleeding.

I need to know everything about how you found us—the mole, where did you get your information—everything, he said, tracing the tip of the knife over Sarah’s breast. It left a thin, red line on her exposed flesh.

Who are you? Zach asked, trundling forward, unable to control the quiver in his voice.

The man shrugged then licked his bottom lip. I have personal interests in this case. You were the bastard behind the sting. So I’m taking a shortcut, straight to the master brain.

Screw you! Zachary screamed, pursing his lips to stop them from trembling. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Let her go, he said, clenching his fists.

The man tsk-tsked, shaking his head. He had a toothpick in his mouth and rolled it from side to side when he spoke. Be a nice little man, Zachary. I know where Rebecca is; grandmama has a cute place, he said, resting his head on Sarah’s shoulder, fluttering his eyelids.

Zachary growled and charged. The man dropped Sarah and drove a fist straight into Zachary’s face. Zach stumbled and fell, moaning, holding his hands to his face.

Oh, dear God, was Sarah OK?

Crouching on his hands and knees, Zachary tried to shake off the dizziness. He stood up but slumped back to the ground. He crawled towards Sarah, pulling himself forward by his hands on their newly-varnished mahogany floor. He slipped, hitting his chin on the ground.

He watched in stunned silence as the man sauntered to Sarah. Zach lifted a hand. Please wait, I’ll tell you everything.

The man knelt beside her, if examining her, tangled a fistful of hair in his hand, and glanced at Zachary. He lifted his eyebrows.

Please, please, I’m begging you. Don’t do—

The man shrugged and lifted her head off the floor and slit her throat.

He turned to Zach and nodded, pleased with himself, then walked to the kitchen, whistling. The man opened and closed drawers and cupboards, searching for something.

Zach sobbed, slapping his palm onto the ground. Oh God, no! he screamed, sucking in shuddering breaths. Please, God, don’t let this be happening.

The man appeared from the kitchen, holding zip ties. He pushed his knee on Zachary’s back, pulled his arms behind him, then tied his hands. A cloth smelling of beeswax was stuffed into his mouth. The world spun around on its axis. The man picked him up with a soft grunt and hauled him over his shoulder. He was carried out of the front door, the man not bothering to shut it. A trunk popped and Zachary was dumped inside. He groaned and blacked out again.

A minute later Zachary smashed into the side of the trunk as the car jarred over a pothole or something in the road. He spat the rag from his mouth and struggled to remove a tiny transmitter from his jeans pocket. He pushed a button on the side of the device then took a deep breath and shouted, Get Becky!

The car swayed and bounced beneath him and he blacked out again.

––––––––

June 16, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

16:48

Bruce Bryden examined the Glock then worked the cotton patch attached to the cleaning rod into the barrel. The gun lay disassembled in thirty-odd pieces, neatly in their order of reassembly. He nodded, satisfied every part was spotless. He stood and fumbled for the GLD when it vibrated in his breast pocket. He fished it out, a blue light flashing at the base of the unit.

Code blue. Shit.

He held a button on the transmitter and listened to the barely-audible message. He replayed the recording and listened closely. Zach’s voice was muffled, it sounded like he was driving. He strained to hear Zachary Cohen’s panicked words. Get Becky.

The GLD needed a computer and mapping software to locate the agent. And Bruce, who was not a strong believer in technology, had neither. He made up his mind and jumped into his Jeep; Zachary had a computer at home.

He arrived at Zachary’s home a couple of minutes later. Something was wrong. The front door stood open, and splotches of blood were visible on the white pebbled pathway.

Bruce crouched next to the open door and peered inside. Sarah lay naked on the ground, a pool of blood spreading beneath her disheveled hair. He bolted inside and kneeled beside her. Her throat had been slit, and her breathing was labored and shallow.

He barged into the kitchen, filled a jug with water, and splashed it over the wound. The carotid artery had been severed. He gently lifted her head. Judging by the amount of blood, her throat had been cut a couple of minutes ago. He dialed 102. The operator answered. This is Esra speaking, what is your emergency?

I have a woman with a fatal neck wound, I need an ambulance! Bruce shouted, groping for the severed artery then pinching both ends with his thumb and forefinger.

Certainly sir. We’re in luck, I have a unit on standby at Ben Gurion.

Thank God. Patch me through to them.

He heard a click, and after a short silence, someone answered, a wailing siren in the background. I need to speak to the medic. I’m with the patient, Bruce said.

Hello, Seidmann here. You're with the patient right now? the paramedic asked.

Yes, severed carotid, two pints of blood lost. I have managed to stop the bleeding, but hypoxia will set in within a few minutes. Bruce held his ear to her mouth, clutching the phone to his shoulder. She’ll be brain-dead by the time a surgeon tends to her.

Right, we’re close to you. I’ll radio Dr. Goldblum, our vascular specialist.

Within five minutes, the paramedics arrived. One guy was clutching a two-way radio to his ear. Uh-huh. OK, OK, OK got it. We’ll have her in ICU in ten minutes.

He nodded at Bruce and knelt next to Sarah. I’m going to insert a stent to stabilize the blood flow. The doctor is waiting at the hospital. He looked up at Bruce with pursed lips. You a doctor?

Bruce ignored the question and shifted his focus to finding a computer. He ran upstairs to find Zach’s office in a mess. Empty floppy disk boxes and CD cases lay scattered everywhere. Drawers had been pulled out and tossed to the ground; their contents lay strewn throughout the room.

Bruce wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers, picked up the phone, and dialed Zach’s mom. It rang twice before Ruth Cohen answered.

Hello?

Hi, Ruth, Bruce here. Is Rebecca with you?

Yes, why? What’s—

Stay there, lock the doors. I’ll see you soon.

He disconnected the call, then he pulled the PC towards him and plugged the GLD directly into the serial port at the back. He opened a command shell and launched the mapping application. A minute later a satellite image appeared, a blue blip flashing in the center of the map.

Got you.

––––––––

June 16, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

17:29

Zach squinted and opened his eyes. He was still in the car, speeding and rocking along. His head was pounding. He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed. Sarah was dead. He lashed out, kicking the side of the car and screaming. He slammed the back of his head into the floor of the trunk and blacked out again. A minute later he came to and whimpered. It was his fault; he had screwed up. He swallowed, trying to control his breathing. How could this have happened?

Thursday date nights, that’s how. Never, ever establish routine, the academy had taught him.

He grinded his teeth. Shit, no! he shouted, slamming his feet into the side of the trunk. Someone, get me out of here.

This wasn’t helping. He steadied his breathing, trying to swallow away the bile in his throat. He relaxed, remembering how it had all begun.

In his teens, his parents used to go out on Thursday nights. Every Thursday night, they never skipped a day. He remembered how it had disgusted him. He used to think they were too old for that crap; they were shirking their responsibility towards their kids.

Once he had mockingly asked his father about the Thursday night ritual. You’re too old for all this lovey-dovey crap, Dad, he had said, trying to get some sort of reaction from the older man. Any kind of reaction would have been good.

David Cohen had scowled at him for a long while and then looked away, staring at the horizon. I guess it’s a natural law.

What?

Sons are put on this earth to trouble their fathers.

Zach remembered it was a year later when he called his father outside. He had turned twenty-two, and he had wanted to ask his father a serious question. They settled on the porch, sipping a beer and enjoying the sunset.

Do you remember Sarah? he asked his father.

The Rodberg girl? You brought her over during spring break.

Zach nodded.

Pretty girl. A good family, his father said, looking at the horizon, as was his manner.

Well, I’m finishing with school next year, and I was thinking of doing my military service here in Israel.

David Cohen turned to face his son. That’s good, Zachary. You have a moral responsibility, his father said with a faint smile.

Sarah and I are in love, and we want to get married before I join the army, he blurted out.

David Cohen studied the label on his beer bottle, contemplating his answer. This was the moment Zach had dreaded; he wouldn’t be able to reconcile with his dad if he didn’t give him his blessing. After a long while, David Cohen looked at him, fixing his eyes on him. You ready to become a man, Zachary?

What do you mean, Dad? Zach asked. "I am a man."

David Cohen narrowed his eyes. You’re a man when I say you are. The older man stood and placed his beer on the porch then disappeared into the house. A while later he came back holding two pairs of boxing gloves. Here, put them on. David pulled the gloves over his own fists and tightened the laces with his teeth.

Why, Dad? Do you want to fight me? Zach scoffed.

Yes, son, I do. I want to beat the crap out of you.

You can try, old man. Zach pulled the gloves on then danced around his dad, trying the fancy footsteps he had seen the boxers do on TV. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

The punch was telegraphed and slow. David Cohen threw a whopping roundhouse right-hand that connected solidly to Zack's chin. While he had seen the punch coming from a mile away, he couldn’t believe it. His dad was the most good-natured person he knew. Zachary slumped to his knees, the earth spinning. He tried to shake the blow off.

What was that for? he moaned, moving his jaw.

His father towered over him, poking his fist in his face. For all the derogatory remarks I had to endure from a snot-nose kid like you. I’ll tell you what happens on Thursday nights, he said, clasping his son’s arm and pulling him to his feet. Your mom and I fall in love again. We talk about anything but kids or homework or work or you, you damn smart aleck.

Zach stood groggily, shaking his head.

Look at me. David Cohen connected with an uppercut to the solar plexus.

Zach fell with a grunt, clutching his stomach.

We remember what made us fall in love with each other in the first place. And now, thank God, you’ll be moving out of the house, and we can go back to the way things were. He roughly tapped the back of Zachary’s head with a gloved hand. We can fall in love again. Hopefully Sarah will be as good to you as your mom is to me, then you’ll understand.

David Cohen sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, then stuck out his hand. Stand up; I feel better.

Zach allowed himself to be pulled up. Geez, Dad, I didn’t know you were upset about the things I said. Why didn’t you tell me to shut up?

Because you were a child. Today, you’re a man; it's different. He pulled the glove from his hand and placed his hand on Zach’s shoulder. Let me give you a piece of advice, boy. One day you will be wiser, and then you need to reach out to the person who cares about you. Your spouse. Not kids, not family. Your wife, she is all who matters in life.

So I have your blessing? Zach asked with a grimace, out of breath.

You do. If the wedding is in Jaffa. And your mom gets to choose the dress.

The older man then turned around, shaking his head. Hopefully they teach you some boxing skills in the army . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zach was shaken awake from his daydream when the car swayed once more and slowed to a screeching halt. He swallowed at the lump in his throat. His dad had been right. A part of him was gone, like his heart had been ripped out. He didn’t want to live anymore.

––––––––

June 16, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

19:15

Zachary Cohen was tied to a chair with his head slumped, his chin resting on his chest. His eyes were puffy and swollen shut. It felt like he had been dragged around by his hair. Fresh blood streamed from a cut on his cheekbone, down his neck, and soaked his white shirt a crimson red.

Someone sloshed a bucket of icy water over Zachary’s head. He spluttered and coughed, lifted his head, tried to focus through swollen eyes. He was in what looked like a hotel room, an ancient and ramshackle place. He panned around the room. No bed. Faded wallpaper hung in strips from the wall. A metal table stood in the center of the place.

His kidnapper casually sat on the table. He had one leg off the ground, the bucket on his lap. Wake up, little man.

Whatever, Zachary thought. He wished they’d kill him already; he had no reason for living anymore. Zachary giggled. Yes, sir, on the double, sir, he said, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

The man strode over and punched Zachary in the stomach. I want the name for the agent who tried to kill my partner.

Zachary bent forward and coughed, spitting blood from his mouth. He glanced at the man with a grimace. The reason I’m still alive is because I know the answers to your questions. Why is this important to you? Who are—

A man sauntered into the room. He wore a black pinstripe suit and a silky blue cravat which covered his chest and throat, tucked into a crisply-pressed, light blue shirt. "My dear, dear Captain Zachary Cohen."

Zachary swallowed. Callahan? You—you’re alive?

Callahan stood in front of him, his hands shoved into his pockets. Your agent attacked me with a garrote and left me for dead. He spoke with a wheeze and stopped to swallow after every couple of sentences. Callahan nodded towards the ponytailed man. Perreira managed to revive me. I couldn’t swallow for a month, crushed trachea, you see? He sauntered over and stood behind Zachary. This has become personal. He squeezed Zachary’s shoulders. There was a mole, you have his name.

Screw you.

Callahan sauntered to Zachary’s front, then he grabbed the armrests of the chair and leaned forward, his face close to Zachary’s, their noses touching. Captain, we’re counterintelligence operatives. Many people could die. The smell of stale tobacco smoke lingered on his breath. If you have a mole, I need to know who it is. We’re on the same team here.

Zachary snorted. OK, go ahead, amuse me with your bullshit.

Callahan stood up and fiddled with his cuff links. All right, here is the truth. The British employ me to spy on the Cubans. I have other, let us say, less official duties, as well. He stood straight and shoved his hands in his pockets, pacing the room. They compensated me well. I had an open checkbook, and we had made a bit of money on the side by siphoning some of these funds to our personal accounts. He turned around to face Zach. Someone must have known about this; why else would they have ordered a hit on me?

Zach smiled. Would you like to revise your story?

What?

Zachary sighed. Would you like to change your bullshit story, Callahan?

Callahan frowned but said nothing.

You’re leaving out pertinent information, Zachary said, licking his lips.

Perreira cast a questioning glance at Callahan. What has he left out?

The contraband. The tons of shit Platinum Private were shipping to Cuba on a weekly basis. Paying for it with British defense force funds, Zachary said with a grimace, changing his position in the chair.

Perreira sniggered. Ah, that.

Callahan waved a hand. Look, we need to know if the mole is on your side. And you must know. You managed to find me.

How do you know he didn’t order it? Zach asked and pointed his chin at Perreira.

Perreira slammed the palm of his hand onto the table. We’ve had to stop our work for four months now. We cannot trust nobody. Now I’m starting to feel poor. And I don’t like to feel poor.

Zach frowned up at Callahan. Could you please tell me who the hell this guy is?

Callahan shrugged. His name is Miguel Perreira. My agent in Cuba, employed by the CIA. He is my contact with Castro, and he also helps out in Southern Africa.

Perreira frowned and sucked his teeth. Your agent?

Callahan smiled coldly and patted Perreira on the shoulder. Sorry, my business partner.

Pereirra smiled then nodded. Better. He strolled towards Zach and put his foot onto the chair’s edge, between Zach’s legs. He rested his arms on his knee and leaned forward. Your pretty wife is dead. Your daughter is next.

Zachary closed his eyes, his head slumped on his chest. Shit, Rebecca. Bruce would be close. He made up his mind. OK, I'll tell you. Leave Rebecca out of this. This will take a while.

Bruce had better arrive soon.

Callahan and Perreira pulled some chairs closer and sat.

Who was the mole? Callahan asked for the fourth time.

––––––––

June 16, 1992.

Jaffa, Israel

19:35

Zach glanced up at Callahan. You want to know who the mole was?

Callahan nodded, leaning forward in his chair.

Zachary smiled faintly. You were. You had your own special agent assigned to watch over you. Bruce Bryden.

Callahan's eyes widened. Bryden? Why?

To keep an eye on you, Callahan, Zach said and licked his chafed lips. You behaved erratically, missing check-ins and disappearing off the radar for extended periods of time.

So I was red-flagged by Shabak?

Zachary nodded slowly. No department is better equipped to root out rogue agents. 

Callahan stood up stiffly and held his back with both hands. You sent a rookie agent after me, a greenhorn who couldn't complete the job?

Zachary shrugged but said nothing.

How old is Bryden anyway?

Twenty-eight. But he’s special.

Special?

Zach leaned back in his chair. The first time we met, I found him to be an enigma; I couldn't place him. He spoke Hebrew with a funny accent. A big guy. He was gentle and laid-back, but there was a sense of danger about the man. I couldn't put my finger on it, Zachary said and licked his lip again. Could I have some water?

Perreira filled a glass and held it to Zach's lips. He gulped it down, spilling some on his chest.

Go on, Callahan said, tapping his foot.

I drew his military records and found out he had been referred from the reconnaissance unit in the South African National Defence Force. He had breezed through the Mossad training, graduating at the top of his class.

Callahan checked his watch. Let us hurry this along. I need to know who I’m dealing with.

According to Bruce’s DISC profile, he is a high ‘D’ and ‘C’ personality type. Independent, dominant, and meticulous.

Perreira whistled. Those are bad. In Cuba they call them the accountants of death.

Callahan cast Perreira a worried glance. Where do you fit in?

Zachary leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. I was born in the States. Mom is a housewife, Dad is a doctor, Orthodox Jew. His folks passed away in the Holocaust, and he instilled a strong spirit of Jewish patriotism in me. It had always been my desire to give something back to the Jewish Nation. Graduated at Caltech with a masters in information systems. Came back to Israel to complete my military service and later recruited by Shin Bet due to my particular set of skills.

Callahan raised an eyebrow and exchanged glances with Perreira. Why target me?

Well, your GLD would go silent for hours at a time. Which meant you went underground, physically.

GLD? Callahan asked.

Yes, the beeper we issued you with. I developed the Geolocation Device. It uses multiple satellite signals to locate the person it's tracking.

Callahan removed the device from his pocket, threw it on the ground, and stomped it to pieces with the heel of his shoe. You made this beeper?

GLD, Zach corrected him. It cost millions of dollars to develop. The core unit is made from titanium, virtually indestructible.

Callahan scratched through the pieces of plastic on the floor, then he picked up a silver piece of metal that looked like a pill. So when my signal went off the grid, as you say, some red flags were raised?

That and something else.

What? Callahan asked, glancing from the pill to Zachary.

He shrugged. Well, you told us.

Bullshit.

Zachary closed his eyes and sucked in a raspy breath. I fitted a larger storage unit to your GLD. It would record everything and send us the recordings in thirty minute intervals or whenever there would be satellite coverage.

Callahan nodded. OK, so what?

In one of the conversations, you mentioned a secret mission the Israeli Defense Force was planning on the PLO Headquarters in Ramallah.

Callahan had a blank look on his face.

A conversation you had with the Palestinian terrorist, Salah Safouri.

Callahan nodded slowly. The target was Abu Musa, codename Fatah al-Intifada.

That's the one.

You heard that?

Zachary said nothing.

Callahan turned to Perreira and slapped his shoulder. How's that for implicating yourself?

Perreira frowned. He didn’t say anything.

––––––––

June 16, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

19:40

Bruce ducked behind the black Impala. The hood was cool. Zachary’s GLD signal had pointed to this location. He surveyed the surroundings. A large two-story building stretched across a sprawling parking lot. The place was rundown: it had broken windows and dirty white paint peeled from the cracked walls. The blacktop crumbled beneath his boots. A rickety sign hung above two solid-looking wooden doors. It said, Imperial Palace.

A black Mercedes was parked to the side of the building. Bruce dashed to the entrance of the abandoned complex and turned the doorknob, but it didn’t budge. A thumb scanner was mounted to the side of the entrance. Bruce shrugged and placed his thumb on the pad. Nothing happened.

On a hunch, he removed a Zippo from his pocket and heated the bottom of the scanner, rotating the lighter to get an even heat. After a minute, the door popped open.

Bruce peered inside. The foyer was deserted. A banged-up reception desk stood to the back, and a large marble stairwell led to the second floor. Rusted metal chandeliers hung from a stained, patterned ceiling. Muffled voices sounded upstairs and he sneaked his way to the top.

A long hallway with a scuffed red carpet led to dozens of rooms on either side. A dim light emitted from the bottom of the first door to his left.

He kicked the door open and entered, pointing his pistol left and then right, scanning the room. Three men dressed in army uniforms sat at a table, playing cards. They looked up, startled. An Israeli officer stood up from a sofa, hands held in the air.

Bruce pointed his pistol at the men. None of them were armed. They wore US military uniforms, marines. Bruce hustled over to the officer and jammed the Beretta against his temple.

Where is he? Bruce asked.

Bryden, is that you? What the hell do you think you’re doing? the officer asked, bending his neck back uncomfortably. Lower your weapon, that is an order.

Where is Cohen? Bruce asked again, grabbing the man’s neck with his dinner-plate-sized hands.

The man’s face and neck flushed red. Bryden, let’s talk about this. Who is this guy to you?

Colonel Aaron Weinstein.

Bruce had met him a couple of months ago during his graduation ceremony. He remembered he was from the Israeli Air Force, but he didn’t recognize the men with him.

Why are they here? He pointed the gun at the soldiers.

They’re guards. Captain Cohen has been arrested for treason, Weinstein said.

Bruce shoved the gun against Weinstein’s temple, hard. Zachary Cohen is my commanding officer. I do not know if he is a traitor. I do know Captain Cohen has been taken forcefully, against his will. He cocked the gun. And someone slit his wife’s throat. So you better get him out here and explain to me what the hell—

Weinstein moved in a flash. He jerked his head back and connected solidly on Bruce’s chin. Bruce fired blindly, but the bullet whizzed over Weinstein’s head and thumped into the wall. Weinstein turned and shoved Bruce back then rolled towards the door. Bruce fired a quick salvo of shots and Weinstein cried out, but he managed to scramble through the door.

Bruce pointed the gun at the three soldiers. They hadn’t moved.

You’ll only get one of us before we’re on top of you, one of the men said.

Bruce rolled his shoulders. Well, decide which one it’s going to be and do it fast.

––––––––

June 16, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

19:55

Callahan lit a cigarette and offered one to Zach, who shook his head.

He took a long drag, his eyes narrowed, the smoke swirling over his face. Where were you when all of this was going down?

At home. I could coordinate everything from there.

Callahan nodded and blew some smoke through his nose. I believe you. But you still haven’t elaborated on how Bryden infiltrated our den. That place was a fortress.

Zach lifted his shoulders. We always knew the Dizengoff shopping center had underground tunnels, but the plans were lost so we didn’t know its extent or size.

Callahan paced around the room, his hand on his chin. Go on.

Bruce had been tailing you for a while, he said, glancing at Callahan. You entered the clothing store but never came out.

Callahan nodded. The shop’s name was Toma. I saw him on the security camera footage. When I confronted him, he told me he was shopping for some chinos.

Zachary laughed. Bruce doesn't wear chinos. Bruce better damn well hurry up; he couldn’t keep this charade going on for much longer.

Zachary continued. He counted how many people went in and out of the store, and the numbers didn't add up. He straightened in his chair, trying to let the blood circulate to his hands. Seventy-five people entered the shop, but sixty-eight came out. We knew it had to be some secret entrance.

Callahan nodded. So you caused a diversion.

Yes, we broke into the shop above Toma. We opened the taps and flooded your shop.

I remember. I had to access our facility through the basement because Toma was underwater. Did Bryden follow me inside?

Zach nodded.

Callahan fiddled with a cufflink, deep in thought. How did he get past the security we had in place? We had a guard patrolling the entrance of our complex in the basement parking of the Dizengoff center.

Zach shrugged. He created a diversion.

And what about the thumb scanner? How did he get past that?

Zach chuckled. The thumb scanner had a built-in failover mechanism; it was a piece of crap.

Callahan looked up. What failover?

You implemented a Korean-manufactured lattice security system, at least three years old. A known weakness of the system was that it is susceptible to heat. The plastic melts and a system override kicks in, automatically opening the doors when it senses temperatures above a hundred and forty degrees.

So what, man? Perreira asked with irritated wave.

Zach sighed. The product was designed as a clocking system for mines. When a fire occurred, the doors needed to open.

How do you know this? Callahan asked.

It’s my job to know everything there is to know about securing Mossad HQ. Your system failed my checks.

Perreira grinned. Funny you didn’t think about that at your own place.

Zach glared at him.

All right, what did you use to get in? A lighter? Callahan asked.

Zach took a deep breath and continued. Yes. We simply had to heat the sensors in the corners of the motherboard.

So you heated it and the doors opened up? Callahan asked incredulously.

Precisely.

––––––––

Bruce pointed his gun at the three soldiers. C’mon then!

The man on the left lunged at him and was rewarded with a third eye between the other two. Bruce turned towards the second soldier, but the man grabbed the nozzle of his Glock and twisted it around, breaking Bruce’s trigger finger.

The soldier yanked the gun back and easily dislodged it from Bruce’s hand. He released the cartridge, tossed the gun into a corner, and then turned to face Bruce.

Bruce studied the soldier. He was fresh-faced, couldn’t have been older than twenty. He was shorter than Bruce, five-ten he guessed. Broad-shouldered with muscular arms, ranked as a sergeant, the workhorses of the military. The man had numerous tiny cut marks on his forehead and chin. This guy had been in a couple of bare-knuckle fights.

The soldier hunkered forward, hands in front of his face, in a boxer’s stance. Bruce kicked out and landed hard on the soldier’s thigh. He then hammered three blows into the man’s shoulder, and the soldier covered up, the way Bruce knew he would. The sergeant dropped his arms to let the sting out. Lactic acid would build in the arm, rendering it ineffective within a couple of seconds. Bruce shifted his focus to the second man but had to jump back when the sergeant pulled a knife from an ankle holster, rolled towards Bruce, and lashed out at his hip. Bruce shimmied and narrowly avoided being cut.

He twisted and connected the man flush on the chin with his elbow. Not a perfect blow, but it stunned the soldier momentarily. The soldier to his left saw a non-existent opportunity and rained punches onto Bruce.

Wrong move, pal.

Bruce took a couple of glancing blows on his arms, feinted right, and connected with a perfectly-timed knuckle punch to his attacker’s throat. The man’s eyes bulged, and he slumped to the ground, clutching his neck with both hands.

Bruce waved the sergeant forward, trying to shake the pain from his broken finger. They both looked up as Weinstein stumbled into the room.

Hold it right there, Bryden. Weinstein pointed a gun at Bruce’s chest.

Bruce slowly lifted his hands. Shit.

Weinstein raised the gun to Bruce’s head and then pointed it to his own.

What the . . .?

Bruce closed his eyes and the shot reverberated through the room.

The sergeant glanced at Bruce in bewilderment and raised his hands in front of his chest. Look, I want nothing more to do with this. He jerked his head in Weinstein’s direction. I took my orders directly from the colonel. The colonel is dead; I’m relieved from my duties.

Bruce nodded his head and the sergeant spun around, heading towards his injured colleague who was still writhing around on the floor. Weinstein lay in a pool of blood, his feet beneath his bottom, slumped on his side.

Wait, Bruce called.

The sergeant stopped and turned around, reluctantly.

Why did you not use my gun to shoot me? Why aren’t you armed?

The sergeant strode to a door at the far end of the room and opened it. This is what we were guarding.

The door led to an adjacent room. Inside stood an assortment of cardboard boxes and wooden crates packed to the ceiling. What is it?

The sergeant shrugged. Explosives. Ammunition. Land-to-air, air-to-air. Nimrod antitank missiles, Baraks. You name it.

Bruce whistled.

A stray bullet could have blown this whole damn city up, the sergeant said.

Bruce checked his broken index finger. It stood out at a peculiar angle, starting to swell. It throbbed like a bastard. That was a smart move, Bruce said, holding his finger in the air.

The man studied Bruce with narrowed eyes. He stood lightly, like he had springs attached to the soles of his feet, ready for any retaliation.

What’s your name, Sergeant?

The man relaxed. Allen, sir. Staff Sergeant Neil Allen.

Bruce retrieved his gun and magazine clip then pried Weinstein’s gun from his fingers. Where is Cohen?

Sergeant Allen waved his thumb, like a hitchhiker. Down the passage.

––––––––

June 16, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

20:13

Callahan paced around the room, his hands behind his back. He turned to Zachary. How did he get past the security cameras?

Zachary licked his lips. You were running an MVS 3.8.

Speak English, Perreira said.

It was a massive mainframe that could operate a smallish city’s infrastructure on its own, Callahan said, staring blankly at the wall.

So what? Perreira asked.

Zachary glared at Perreira then continued. Bruce helped me hack into the mainframe by mounting a special tape with my software on it. Afterward, I was able to manipulate your security system.

What did you find? Callahan asked, a slight panic in his voice.

Everything checked out. Your organization, code named The Dalerians, had been allocating funds assigned to you by the UK government. You were supposed to set up safe houses in Europe for their undercover agents and military.

We did, Callahan said.

Zachary glared at Callahan.

Callahan nodded, fidgeting with his cufflinks. I’m not revising my ‘bullshit story,’ as you called it, until I find out exactly what you know.

Zachary sighed then licked his lips. As I said, everything seemed kosher. After monitoring payments authorized by you, I picked up an allocation of funds that were supposed to be transferred to the British embassy in France.

Callahan fidgeted with the seam of his pants. So what? 

I traced the account to whom the payment was made. It led back to Platinum Private.

Captain Cohen. There is nothing suspect about the transactions I authorized, Callahan said, his face turning red. The government pays private vendors all the time.

Zachary shook his head, smiling. You screwed up with the payment to Platinum Private. They have no affiliation with any government entity.

Enlighten me on how you came to that conclusion, Callahan said, plonking down on the edge of the table.

You were running a racketeering ring, paying millions of pounds per month to private beneficiaries, all of whom linked back to Platinum Private.

And you found all this by checking the bank records? Callahan asked with a smirk. Impossible.

Zachary rolled his head on his shoulders and closed his eyes. You were using a normal typewriter to type faxes you would send to your operatives with their instructions. Fortunately, you had a CCTV camera behind your back. I could read everything you typed.

And what do you know about the Cubans? Perreira asked.

Platinum Private is a shipment company, handling the transfer of goods between countries. Callahan supplied Cuba with western contraband. There is a trade embargo between the West and Cuba. Zach looked up defiantly.

Go on, Callahan said.

You were shipping tons of shit to Cuba. Playboys, LP records, ketchup. The latest shipment was two thousand VHS recorders, five hundred air-conditioning units, and fifty Chevy SUVs. Zach turned to face Callahan. You purchased the items by stealing some cash from the British government and then selling the products at inflated markups.

Callahan chuckled nervously, a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek. He dabbed at it with a blue handkerchief. The Cubans do enjoy the Western luxuries, even if they don't say so.

Perreira chuckled.

All of the ‘sundries’ payments totaled more than three million pounds per month. You were handling millions of pounds worth of currency per day, receiving cash for information and haphazardly allocating some to yourself.

Who else knows about this? Perreira asked, standing up.

Zachary shrugged. Everybody.

Shit, Callahan said, mopping his brow.

Perreira held up a hand and cocked his head, listening intently.

What’s wrong? Callahan asked.

You hear that, man? Perreira asked.

What?

I heard a gunshot, Perreira said.

So? Probably Weinstein doing his job, Callahan said.

Perreira shook his head and strode to the door, peeking outside. No, there are three marines, but I heard one shot. I told Weinstein to kill all the soldiers. They knew too much about our operations.

Perreira and Cohen glanced at each other with sudden comprehension. Callahan strode towards Zach, grabbing him by his chest. Where is your beeper thing?

Zach shrugged, smiling. GLD.

Callahan pushed Zachary back in his chair then turned around, scanning the room. I’m getting the hell out of here.

"No, I'll kill the bastardo." Perreira opened the drawer and fumbled for his pistol. He grabbed a Beretta then tossed the table over on its side and ducked behind it.

––––––––

The door stood ajar and Bruce peered around the corner. Zach sat there squirming, tied to a chair. He cast Bruce a wide-eyed glance and gestured with his chin to somewhere inside the room. Bruce nodded then peeked inside. Towards the far end of the room, a metal table had been upended. Sun-bleached curtains stirred in front of an open window.

A man with a black ponytail stood up from behind the table and a silver Beretta barked as he fired at Bruce.

Bruce jerked his body back behind the wall as concrete fragments shattered from the doorway. Zachary’s body stiffened and his eyes widened in fear. Zack tried to scream, but then a bullet exploded into his chest. He stared down to where the bullet had ripped into him, and then his body jolted as two more bullets slammed into his gut and shoulder.

Bruce barged into the room, trying to distract the assailant by firing in the direction of the table, struggling to pull the trigger with his middle finger. He kept his eyes on Zachary, who had slumped forward, his chest moving slowly up and down.

Bruce grabbed the arm of the chair and lugged Zachary out of the room as shots ricocheted against the wall behind them. He stumbled as a searing pain cut into his calf. He limped out of the room, dragging Zachary in the chair behind him, returning fire. The trigger clicked as he emptied Weinstein’s clip.

Bruce caught his breath as he lifted Zach’s head, feeling for a pulse. He was still alive, but blood was oozing from his wounds. He checked the magazine in his gun and steadied himself, sucking in three sharp breaths and skipping back into the room.

Ponytail-man stood up from behind the table, taking aim at Bruce. Bruce kneeled, firing a volley of shots. Ponytail-man roared as a slug exploded into his hand. He dropped the gun and clutched his bleeding hand, trying to stem the flow of blood.

Bruce fired again, but the gun just clicked, empty. He tossed it in the corner and unsheathed his knife. He stood ready, balancing on one leg.

Ponytail-man rushed forward with a snarl. Bruce threw a short right, but the man blocked it and head-butted him in the face. Bruce’s vision went blurry.

Win at all costs.

He dropped to his knees, supporting himself with one hand. The man reacted as Bruce had expected, launching a kick at his head. He caught Ponytail-man’s leg under his arm and stood up. The man bounced around on one leg, trying to keep his balance.

With his free hand, Bruce stabbed the man’s leg, hacking, trying to sever the femoral artery. He slashed and pulled back a couple of times, ripping through the guy’s pants and exposing sinew and flesh.

The guy bucked and rolled, but Bruce held tight, stabbing continuously. He could see huge gashes, bone and tendons sticking out. Bruce pushed forward and swept the man’s free leg from under him, ramming him into the floor. He mounted his chest and thrust the knife with both hands towards the man’s face. The man caught Bruce’s arms, blood dripping from the wound onto his chin and chest.

The man was strong, but Bruce leaned into the blade with his upper body, the tip of the blade inching ever closer to the man’s nose. Both men strained, shaking with the effort. Bruce knew he was winning this fight. The blade inched closer to the man's red, swollen face. He wanted to finish this quick; Zach needed a doctor.

––––––––

Perreira blinked. His entire being was focused on a shiny blade with an ivory handle that loomed large in his vision. The letters B.B. were engraved lengthwise on the blade. It had a serrated upper edge, used for scaling fish or sawing off branches. Or his leg. He snarled as the blade gouged his cheek.

Then the effort stopped. Gunshots rang out and Bryden rolled off of him. A second later Callahan’s face filled his blurry vision. Callahan grabbed him by the belt and flung Perreira’s arm over his shoulder, pointing the gun at Bryden.

Perreira tried to walk, but his leg was useless. Callahan had to drag him towards the window, glancing over his shoulder all the time. Then Callahan rested against the windowsill, gave Perreira a shove, and pushed him over the ledge. He managed to break his fall with his healthy leg and rolled to minimize the impact. Callahan jumped out and dragged him into the idling Mercedes.

Callahan slammed the car into gear, and Perreira lurched back as they screeched away. Bryden leaned out of the window, glaring at them. They powered around the corner and Perreira flopped onto the backseat, spent. Why didn’t you shoot him? Perreira asked, breathing heavily.

I was out of ammo. We have a room full of bombs but not one single nine millimetre clip!

Perreira groaned, clutching his injured hand into his armpit. I swear by my father’s grave, Bryden is going to suffer for what he has done to me.

Callahan glanced at the rearview mirror. "Don’t forget about Cohen. He started this all. He cost us our livelihood."

Perreira closed his eyes, nodded. "Sí, sí. They will all die. I will wipe them off the face of the earth!"

June 18, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

Bruce Bryden and David Cohen stood up as the doctor entered the waiting area. The man walked towards David and smiled encouragingly. Bruce put his hand on David's shoulder.

David. Good news. Zachary had internal bleeding, but we managed to get it under under control. He's a tough nut.

David Cohen looked relieved.

And Sarah? How is she? Bruce asked.

Stable. I think she’ll be fine. She needs rest, but she has recovered well. He nodded at Bruce. You saved her life.

Thank god, David said, squeezing Bruce’s shoulder. Becky wouldn’t be able to cope without her.

The doctor stuck out his hand and greeted the men. David sat with a relieved sigh and glanced up at Bruce. That was close. Too close.

Bruce kneeled in front of the older man and grabbed his knee. David, we need to get out of here. You guys are sitting ducks. It's a question of time before they regroup and try again.

David Cohen shook his head. No Bruce, we're Cohens. He punched his leg, a determined look on his face. And Cohens do not run from anybody. We stay and we fight.

––––––––

September 7, 1992.

Jaffa, Israel.

Zachary Cohen wiped cold beads of perspiration from his brow. He pulled the needle from his vein, loosened the tourniquet, and sat back with a sigh. He put the lighter, a bag of meth crystals, and hypodermic needle in a tin and tossed them in the glove compartment. Zachary rolled down his shirtsleeve and grabbed his leather jacket from the passenger seat of the car.

He flipped the rearview mirror down towards him and studied the reflection. A pale, gaunt face stared back at him, dark circles beneath the eyes accentuating the ashen skin. He brushed his curly black hair with his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and prepared himself mentally.

Zachary pushed himself out of the car and strolled towards the entrance gate of a neat, whitewashed villa. A white-pebbled pathway led to the front door.

Some weeds had appeared between the white stones. Brambles sprouted in one of the flower beds. He bent down and tore them out halfheartedly, leaving the roots behind. This annoyed him intensely. He clawed at the embedded tubers, gouging the earth with his thumb. He stomped on the small hole he had made and cursed as a dizzy spell gripped him. He shook off a meth shiver and steadied himself against the gate, regaining his balance.

Symbolic of everything my life has become. Why would she want to stay here?

He opened the gate and crunched up the pathway towards the two-story home. His home. Rang the doorbell, two long buzzes and a short one as he always did when returning. He turned around and sauntered into the garden, inhaling the heady odor of the sweet alyssum blooming in the unkempt flowerbeds. Zach experienced another pang of guilt.

I should be here.

The front door flew open and Becky came bounding down the stairs, an expression of pure joy on her face. She swung a backpack in her hand. She buzzed towards him and launched herself into his arms with a child’s exuberance. He grabbed her and tossed her into the air, catching her gently. She giggled delightedly. Zach put her down, pouted his lips, and tapped them with his finger. Give daddy a kiss.

Becky planted a kiss onto his mouth and hugged his neck, her lips to his ear.

I missed you, Daddy. Come on, let’s go, she said bouncing up and down excitedly.

Sarah appeared in the doorway in a wheelchair, hugging her arms insecurely.

I missed you too, my baby. I want to say hi to Mommy first, OK?

She nodded, her dark hair bouncing on her shoulders.

Zach climbed the stairs to the porch. Sarah was watching him, a mixture of tenderness and uncertainty on her face. He kissed her forehead and kneeled next to her.

You’ve been gone for a long time, Zachary, she said and cupped his chin. Is everything OK?

He nodded.

You’re a good man, Zachary. She hesitated. That man said things about you—

He stood up. I cannot get into that now, Sarah.

It still doesn’t change who you are, she said and pursed her lips. Who you are to me.

He breathed deeply then squeezed her shoulder. I miss you.

So why don’t you come back? Nothing has changed. You need to stop beating yourself up like this. This wasn’t your fault, she said, slapping her thigh to enunciate her last sentence.

Zachary threw his hands in the air. Back? Come back here? he hissed through gritted teeth. Becky looked at them with wide eyes.

He sighed and glanced down at Sarah, his shoulders slumped. I need to sort some things out first. You know that. He stared at her, imploring Sarah to understand.

Rebecca was becoming restless. Let’s go, Daddy. You promised, remember?

He smiled at her. She had her mom’s long, dark hair.

I remember, baby, Zachary said, picking her up. He walked back to the car, threw Becky’s backpack onto the backseat, and fastened her into her car seat.

Sarah called to him. Revenge won’t solve anything. Bruce is on this. He’ll get those bastards. She absentmindedly brushed at the scar on her neck.

I know, Sarah, he said wearily and waved her away. I’ll see you later.

Zach climbed into the car and relaxed. He took a deep breath and looked back at his daughter. Let’s go to the zoo, baby.

Yay, she shouted bouncing up and down in her chair, beaming her marvelously exaggerated Becky smile.

He put the car into gear and sped off without looking back.

This can't go on forever. He yearned to sleep in his own bed again. To hold his wife in his arms. But he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

––––––––

Sarah rolled the wheelchair back into the house, shut the door behind her, and sat still for a moment. She straightened her dress and sobbed, rocking back and forth in the wheelchair.

Yaya shuffled down the stairs. He still doesn't want to come back? she asked her daughter-in-law.

Sarah nodded, wiping tears from her eyes.

Yaya knelt next to her Sarah and embraced her. He is like his father in that way. Once he puts his mind to something, he won't stop until he finishes. She gave Sarah a hug. It will all be OK, you'll see. Cohens are survivors; we always get through dreadful situations like these.

Sarah sobbed and nodded with pursed lips, trying to fight back the tears. I know, Mom, she whimpered and looked up, seeking solace from the gods she hoped were there. I know.

November 13, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

Rebecca's eyes flew open as a powerful hand clamped over her mouth. A large man was looking down, sneering at her. He had a golden tooth and a toothpick in his mouth.

He had a blade strapped to his arm, but he didn’t have a hand.  He dragged the blade across her neck. I’m going to slit you like I slit your momma, little girl.

Rebecca bit his hand and shrieked.

––––––––

Sarah ground the cigarette into the ashtray then closed a photo album she had been paging through and put it on the side table. She glanced at the flashing LCD clock on the VCR.

3:15 a.m.

She stood wearily, scooped up the overflowing ashtray, and emptied it into the dustbin. She felt numb, emotionally drained.

The past month had been pure hell. She had to cope with almost losing her husband. Then the distance he had kept from her and her own physical pain. She knew she needed to get her energy back, to be strong for the family. At least he had come back. She didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse.

She sighed then switched on the kettle and lit another cigarette. He was using drugs. He was impossible to live with. Yaya said it was the guilt; it was eating him up from the inside.

The staircase creaked and Zachary shuffled down, holding on to the handrail for balance. He cast her a furtive glance but said nothing.

How are you? she asked.

You know, he said and shrugged. The sleeping pills helped for a couple of hours, but it’s tough.

We should take Bruce up on his offer. Get Becky out of here, somewhere safer.

He shook his head. I’m not giving up on my daughter, Sarah. He glared at her. He looked like shit, unshaven, and he refused to sleep in their bed, preferring the one in the guest bedroom.

He’s a good man, Zachary. He loves Rebecca like his own. And she is fond of him as well.

The ceiling squeaked as padded footsteps sounded above them.

Is she awake? Sarah asked, surprised.

Zachary shook head. She was asleep when I left her. He turned around. I’m going to bed.

Sarah followed him as he ambled up the stairs. She peeked into Rebecca's room. A hooded figure was hunched over her body, and then Rebecca screamed.

Zach swung around, slipped, then ran into Rebecca’s room and leaped towards Rebecca's assailant. The gun flashed before the shot echoed in her ears. Zachary groaned and fell to the floor, clutching his stomach. Another shot rang out and Sarah dove down the stairwell, stumbling her way to the kitchen.

She rummaged in a drawer and found what she was looking for, then she spun around and fired haphazardly up the stairs. The footsteps ran away from her and then a crash as glass broke. A dull thump as the assailant landed in the garden outside, urgent footsteps as he ran down the blacktop, making a hasty escape.

Sarah bounded up the stairs. Rebecca was kneeling next to her father, her black hair forming a curtain in front of her face.

Sarah put