Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 21
Nadya stared at the lifeless body, the young man she knew as Joshua. Somewhere, probably in Israel, he had a family. Would they ever know where Joshua died? Probably not. The Mossad was renowned for secrecy—in life and death.
Her thoughts drifted to her own family. She had a younger sister living in the U.S., but both parents had died years ago. She recalled pleasant memories from her childhood, laughing with her sister on the farm her parents owned in the Golan Heights. She was born on the farm; her parents were settlers who benefited from cheap land—land she knew was captured from Syria. It was a standard practice in her homeland. Settle the captured territory, make it part of Israel, and it will be impossible for the international community to force a return to pre-war boundaries.
The Jewish state needed buffers all around. The nation was surrounded by hostile neighbors, countries that had recently fought to destroy her homeland. She was taught that her government was justified in settling these captured territories. It was a fair price to extract from the aggressors as compensation for the Jewish lives lost, the millions of dollars and resources simply wasted.
Nadya was glad she could not see Joshua’s eyes.
She turned away from her fallen colleague and called out. “Don’t shoot!” She held her rifle out in one hand, the other hand raised. Slowly, Nadya stood.
“Don’t shoot!” she shouted again. She was scrutinizing the rock fortress.
“What do you want?” Peter shouted in return. “Why are you trying to kill me?” Nadya was looking directly at Peter’s hide between two boulders, at the left end of the outcropping.
“You shoot well. Were you a sniper in the Army?”
“Never served,” he answered. “Why are you trying to kill me?”
“Can we talk?”
Peter considered the request. It surprised him, but he did want answers. Plus he had her in the crosshairs and could drop her easily.
“Very well. You can walk toward me. I’ll tell you when to stop. And if you don’t stop when I tell you to, or if you make any threatening movement, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
Nadya stared across the open expanse. She was surprised at his determination. Most civilians would have crumbled under the fear and pressure.
“Do you understand me?” Peter asked.
“Yes, I understand.” She started walking forward, hands still raised.
Peter tracked her step by step. She walked easily, not showing any sign of fatigue. She was composed, remarkably so, especially since he’d already shot dead three of her associates. When she was close enough that they could talk without shouting he said, “That’s close enough.”
Nadya stopped. She could see Peter’s face now, at least the left side not hidden behind the hunting scope.
“Now. Carefully place your left hand on the rifle stock.”
She did as instructed, aware that he could place a bullet in her heart at any moment if provoked.
“Place your right hand on the barrel, close to the muzzle, and heave that rifle toward me. One handed! I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if you try anything.”
Nadya slid her right hand to the muzzle and flung the rifle forward. It travelled maybe 20 meters before landing muzzle first in the dirt. Even if she could somehow get to the weapon without being shot, she wasn’t confident it would cycle without first being field stripped and thoroughly cleaned. And if dirt was stuck in the barrel it might even blow up on her if she pulled the trigger.
“Okay lady, what’s on your mind,” Peter said.
“A trade. Let me go, and you walk away.”
“I could kill you now and still walk away.”
“No, you won’t shoot an unarmed woman.”
“Why are you trying to kill me? Who sent you?”
Nadya turned up the corners of her mouth. If the situation was not dire, the naiveté of the question would be humorous. “I suspect you know how this works.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come now, Mr. Savage—”
“How do you know my name?”
“I was briefed.” She paused. If Peter was surprised, he didn’t let on.
She continued. “Your knowledge of tactics is commendable. And you seem to take killing in stride, like a man who has killed before and is good at it.”
For a moment Peter wondered if her assessment was true. Is this really what I’ve become? The thought was disgusting. She was right, of course. He had shot many men, but only when they were threatening him or his family. He wanted to believe that was the difference—the distinction between being a cold-blooded killer and someone who was only reluctantly forced into self-defense. But was that boundary really as clear as he wanted to believe? In the end, people still died… by my hand.
“No, that’s not who I am.”
“Do you really believe that? Your actions here today would argue otherwise.”
Peter felt his finger brushing the rifle trigger. Why not kill her, too? No. She could taunt him, but he was not a killer. Not like she was. He was defending himself.
“Who sent you to kill me?”
“It’s always the same answer, isn’t it?” She sighed. “A government sent me, and my team.”
“You’re trying my patience. If you really think I’m a killer, remember which end of my rifle you’re looking at.”
“You know what, Mr. Savage? I don’t think you are a killer.” She took a step forward.
Peter squeezed the trigger—heard the report and felt the butt stock shoved violently into his shoulder.
Nadya saw the eruption of dirt an inch in front of her foot. Dirt and gravel sprayed against her boot and leg. She froze.
“Okay, point taken.”
“Who sent your team to kill me?”
“I work at the pleasure of a government. An ally of the United States. Your only true ally in the Middle East.”
“Israel,” Peter said. But this answer just led to more questions. “Why would the Israeli government want to kill me?”
Nadya shrugged. Even if she had known, she would not have shared that information.
“They don’t want the file on the Liberty incident released to the public,” Peter said. “Is that it? But why would they care? That happened so long ago.”
“I’m a soldier. And like every good soldier, I simply follow orders and don’t ask questions.”
“So goes the justification for murdering innocent civilians. I’ll bet you sleep well at night.”
She shrugged again. “I do okay.”
“Did you murder Emma Jones and send that woman assassin to kill me?”
“I don’t murder innocent civilians, Mr. Savage. My country is at war with terrorists who wish only to see the Jewish people wiped from the face of the Earth.”
“Maybe you missed the news, but the U.S. is also at war with terrorism.”
Nadya tugged the side of her mouth in a mock grin. “So I’ve heard. While Americans hear about terrorism in the news, my people live it every day. You have no idea what it is like to wonder if the city bus you are riding will be bombed. Or if the man or woman passing you on the street will attack you with a machete. That’s true fear.”
“The ends never justify the means.”
Nadya laughed. “You are naïve, aren’t you? The ends always justify the means. Your government, above all others, lives by that simple rule.”
The silence hung on the air: Nadya waited for Peter to make the next move, while Peter was uncertain what that move should be. He wanted to feel righteous, and yet her words stung with the unmistakable pain of truth.
She broke the silence. “So, I have answered your questions. Now, I will go.”
The Mossad operator turned and began the long descent. Peter watched her leave, conflicted. True, she and her team had brazenly tried to murder Peter. But equally true, she was now seemingly unarmed and walking away.
Peter slid down and rubbed Diesel’s head. The amber eyes peered backed at him. “I don’t know what to make of that either.”
Only after she’d covered half a mile and was within the trees again, did she key the satellite phone. “Marcus. Change of plans.”
She gave Marcus new coordinates. They would meet, rest, and regroup. This plan had fallen apart almost from the outset. She had made the capital mistake of severely underestimating her opponent.
That would not happen again.