Sabotage: Beginnings (19 page)

“Let’s do this,” she whispered.

He knew she was aware of their fate. He sat and leveled his rifle. Justice seldom served as a spotter for a primary sniper, but he respected Batya’s skill set. He was prepared to support her shot and get them out of the shit before an ant bed of terrorists swarmed them.

Both remained silent and motionless over the next hour.

“Window open,” Justice said somberly.

“Check,” she acknowledged.

“Body in window. Not confirmed.”

“Check,” Batya replied. Her voice was low and quiet. It matched her steady, rhythmic breaths.

“Body out of window.”

“Check.”

“Body identified.” Justice’s voice up ticked.

Batya didn’t acknowledge. He knew better than to disturb her. Even as close as eight hundred yards, the shot was still difficult.

Justice arched his shoulders forward to reposition his riflescope. “Body identified.” He waited for a response from Batya. He no longer heard her slow exhales. He knew what was next.

Justice pressed an unblinking eye into his scope as he watched Batya’s single round of .50 caliber ammunition rip through the target’s body.

“Target down.” Justice whispered with a sharp snap in his tone.

Batya never flinched. “Confirmed kill?”

Justice waited for movement. His eyes struggled to remain open—he’d not dare blink and miss movement inside the complex.

“Confirmed kill?” her question was strained. “The longer we wait, the more at risk we become.”

Justice continued to wait. Assumptions about confirmed kills were a rookie mistake. These stakes were too high. Justice was willing to accept the risk of detection—they had to wait for movement.

“Confirmed kill?” Batya demanded.

“Umm, just a moment.” Justice saw potential movement from inside the complex.

A second shot wasn’t possible, but still, Batya returned, her sight fixed within the long-range scope. “Damn. It’s Dr. Shakale Atrigi,” she huffed. “Who’s behind him?”

Justice tensed. His big hand squeezed the scope and he inclined over her shoulder. He shook his head as sweat dripped off his hair like a water hose left on after a summer drink. A quick scan of the perimeter showed local police forces marshaled to pursue them.

“It’s Ben,” he said.

Two years later.

Outside of Louisiana State University’s Tiger Stadium, Baton Rouge, Louisiana

T
he Louisiana State
University campus was littered with aggressive traffic, obnoxious students and unrelenting fans. The typical Saturday night football routine involved a campus invaded with no consideration for academics. Tiger Stadium was aglow with an intoxicated uproar.

Batya Cohen cast a dispassionate eye at the circus across campus. She’d focused on her course work since her relocation. Batya had studied the United States during her spy career, but the West hadn’t been her area of focus. The Mossad had assigned her to the Middle East. Assimilation into America, especially south Louisiana’s culture was particularly challenging.

Unsure how much longer she would tolerate the insistent distractions to her academics, she endured what she considered the trivialities of campus life. The university in Tel Aviv had no football or Mardi Gras semester disruptions, but alas, Israel was no longer her home.

Once onto Interstate 10, her mind drifted as rivers of red brake lights zoomed across multiple lanes. She glanced down to the phone in her lap and back to the road—smiles helped her shake the ever-present sense of dread.

The sweet laughing face of her daughter flashed onto the text message from Justice. She’d be with them in about an hour and a half—traffic permitting. It was they who kept her focused on yet another mission.

A Mossad-trained expert assassin didn’t yield many career opportunities in America. She often wondered at the irony because of the violent gun culture of the West. Yet, she and her husband were relegated to flying below the radar and off the CIA’s agenda.

They’d entered the United States just weeks after she’d missed the shot to kill Benjamin “Ben” Franklin Ford. She realized the only saving grace was that two days later, Navy SEAL Team 6 raided the Abbottabad complex in Pakistan to kill Osama bin Laden. The Agency became enamored with the glory of that raid and soon forgot Justice and Batya—though they did not forgive.

[Be home soon. Luv U]
she texted back to Justice.

[B safe]
he replied.

She eased back in her seat. Her mind swirled with every bit of data discussed in her earlier graduate level quantitative statistics course. The tedium of the morning’s lecture had given her a headache. Her eyes ached as if each were being smashed in a drill press. Batya glanced back to her lap for more text messages, but nothing.

She couldn’t have anticipated the vehicle in front of her slamming to a screeching halt. The big truck’s red taillights flared through her misty windshield as it veered right to left across the busy interstate. She gasped, grabbing and spinning the steering wheel. She’d been trained to maneuver a car better than most NASCAR racers, but driving on the right side of the lane was still new to her.

“No,” escaped from her throat. A car crash would mean she’d go on an official police record. That would mean easy targeting by the CIA. She had to remain out of their attention.

Trained to evade or conquer, she steadied her car as the full-sized pickup finally careened into the wire strands known as car catchers mounted in the middle of the interstate. She assumed the driver was okay, but didn’t care enough to stop.

[Close call on interstate. OK]
she quick peeked down to type.

As she glanced up, her rearview mirror exploded with the red and blue lights of law enforcement. The vehicle was just feet from her rear bumper—her heart thumped until she was sure the sound resonated through her ears. She tried to recall what Justice had told her about traffic stops with US cops.

Stay calm and keep my hands where they can see them.

Batya’s index finger trembled as she aimed for the emergency flashers’ button. She eased the car onto the right shoulder. The police cruiser was stuck to her bumper.

“Shit, why am I so nervous?” She popped a look into the rearview mirror. “When did I start cursing?” She slumped back in disappointment for having compromised her core values.

“Driver, show me your hands. Now.” A voiced boomed over the loud speaker.

Her stomach ached. She licked at her lips but the tacky surface made them dry. Her eyes were cemented to the rupture of flashing police lights that invaded the compact interior of her car. The less in control she felt, the more she felt sick for not being in control. She wouldn’t allow herself to regret the move to America, but bringing a new life into an uncertain environment always kept her on edge.

“Last warning. Put your damn hands on the steering wheel.”

She huffed. Her right hand shook as it slipped into the center console and palmed the 9mm Glock. She tried to minimize the dip in her right shoulder as she shoved it beneath the seat. Her hands squeezed the steering wheel while the heel of her Nike running show nudged the pistol deeper into the wiring and brackets.

Shock zipped through her as the vibration of the cell phone buzzed close to her crotch. It was Justice with a reply to her text, but no way would she reach for it. Her tongue dabbed at the inside of her mouth as she pressed air from her lungs. The bright rotating lights seemed to have grown more intense. She tried to make out a figure in the gap between the darkness and blinding light—nothing.

“Where is he?” fearful of turning her head, she remained focused on the empty highway ahead.

Batya jumped as knuckles rapped against the passenger’s side window. She’d not seen him cross between the cars, and tried to calm her fear by agreeing that would have been the approach she would’ve taken on a lonely stretch of road.

“Get out of the car and walk to the rear,” he sneered. She looked into the flaming eye of a high-powered flashlight beamed through the glass.

She spoke slow and focused on sounding American. “Y-Yes sir,” she stuttered.

Loose gravel crunched beneath her shoes making her footing unsure. She nibbled on her bottom lip, wondering why hadn’t she driven to a lighted parking lot instead of this ink black access exit. Her left hand trailed along the length of her maroon colored sedan. She tried to avoid looking suspicious or even drunk. A field sobriety test would mean more time interacting with the officer and an increased chance of detection.

“Put both hands on the trunk of your car and turn your face away from me.” The voice turned mean and demanding.

I’ve heard, but is this how police behave on traffic stops?

“Can I please ask why I am being detained?” She regretted the question. Her voice quavered with nervousness—it would only raise his suspicion.

“How about I drag your ass to the station and I explain why I pulled you over?” he taunted.

“No, please.”

“Put your hands behind your back,” he yelled. “For officer safety.”

Maybe I should just kill him. No one would know.

Sick in her gut, Batya bounced on the balls of her feet. Humidity beaded her forehead with moisture. Strained eyes scanned from left to right—there had to be an alternative to surrendering—or killing.

She whimpered—the memory of Jabar bin Hamid rose, his stench filling her senses as clearly as it had the night he and his officers attacked her. Bile threatened to spew across the trunk of her car, but she focused more on her wobbly knees giving way.

No way will I surrender.

“Allow me to call my husband, please,” she begged.

“Fuck, no. Now do as I tell you or you’ll be sorry for resisting an officer.”

“I’m afraid,” she confessed. Her hair, now damp with sweat and thick night mist hung over her face. Her body felt like a wet rope—there was no spring in her muscles. Just seven months since she’d given birth, and her once fighting form had withered soft. Her head jerked up, and she spit air to fling the curly strands out of her eyes. That sound—the pop of electricity—a stun gun.

“Lady, don’t make me use this on you. Put your hands behind your back.” He slurred his words as if a serpent had hissed them over his lips.

Her fingers cramped from clinging to the trunk. If she eased up, she’d collapse. Words hitched in her chest and her bosom ached with the swell of an overdue breast-feeding. No way—no fucking way would she become a victim again.

“Think, Batya,” she whispered.

“Ma’am, last warning.”

“Officer,” her tone shifted. She quaked inside but her training told her to change the context of the communications. Act like the trained warrior she was—or used to be.

“What,” he blurted.

“I’m sorry for acting this way. I had a horrible experience once and this has triggered those memories. I respect your authority, and in no way am I resisting you. Honestly, I’m frightened.”

He cleared his throat, “I can understand that.” His words delivered more sincerely caused her to relax her grip on the car. “But I do need you to allow me to place these handcuffs on you so I may finish my investigation. Once everything is cleared up, I’ll remove them. But for now, it’s policy to secure you.”

“But sir, I have no idea what I did to cause you to stop me? If you would just allow me to call my husband first. I’m not a criminal.” She explained. Bowing down to this abusive officer twisted her stomach, but it was the role she felt she had to play to escape the police report.

“Ma’am, you caused a very serious car crash back there and then drove away without bothering to stop and offer aid to the victims. I have to investigate whether you are intoxicated or not.”

She slanted her vision and caught a glimpse of the man. He wasn’t physically imposing—in post-baby shape she assumed she’d defeat him. He wasn’t going to relent, and she only wanted to get home to Justice and baby Grace. Batya turned to look at him. He shuffled to his left out of sight.

Are American cops all so afraid of being identified?

The blinking spot of light that came from her sedan’s interior signaled Justice was trying to call her. He’d grow suspicious quick, but without someone to babysit, he’d be helpless to search for her. The officer seemed to respect her position and had been patient though. This was Baton Rouge—what could happen after all?

“Okay officer,” she conceded. Her arms slid down the trunk and rounded her hips until they rested on the back pockets of her faded denims. “I assure you I haven’t been drinking.”

Batya heard the crunch of gravel as the officer approached her from behind. His cologne wafted over her shoulder and his breath landed heavy against her shoulders. His hands were strong as they clamped over her right fist. She suddenly felt helpless—like she had inside the Afghani police station.

She gnashed her teeth together as the cuff bit into her right wrist between her thumb and wrist bone. Her back arched once the officer hyperextended her right elbow and jerked it toward her left wrist. Again, the bite of stainless steel and again she drew her lips back across her teeth with the bone bruising pain.