ONE DAY LATER
FRESNO, SOUTHWEST OF HOUSTON, TEXAS—DECEMBER 18, 2020—23:40 / 11:40 P.M. CST
CARL, Lead. Any more activity?”
“Negative,” Liora said. “We’ve had a bird on it for four hours. Only one car in. Unknown number of occupants.”
“Got it.” Nir resisted the urge to say Root. If anyone happened to break through their encrypted communication, this operation could not have the stamp of Israel on it anywhere. Not only could discovery cause an international incident, but he could potentially lose his job. He hadn’t even told Avigdor Neeman, instead deceiving him by saying the guys were bedding down early in preparation for Operation Bezalel tomorrow night.
“Any sign of the suits around there?” he asked.
A new voice came on. “I’m going for more of the T-shirt, blazer combination, so I know you must not be asking about me.”
Efraim Cohen. Nir’s heart sank.
“So, Lead, may I ask what in the name of Theodor Herzl’s ghost are you doing there?”
“You’re twenty years too old for T-shirt, blazer. And you know exactly what I’m doing here and why, because apparently I have an analyst team filled with big mouths.”
“Sorry,” Liora whispered.
Nir glanced at Yaron in the driver’s seat. The op just shook his head.
“Listen, it has to be done. You know that,” Nir said.
“What I know is that you are about to carry out an unsanctioned operation on foreign soil. That’s an issue, and if you’re discovered, it can become an international incident.” Nir could hear frustration in his voice—but also resignation.
“Come on. I’m a walking, breathing international incident. That’s why you love me.”
“This isn’t funny, Lead.”
Yaron sure thinks it’s funny, he thought but didn’t say as he watched his driver laugh.
“Okay, officially I am telling you not to do this.”
“And unofficially…”
Efraim paused. “She’s seventeen, achi. Just don’t get caught. And don’t kill anybody.”
“And that’s why I love you too. Lead is rolling.”
Nir nodded to Yaron, who pulled the Suburban back onto Palmetto Street from the factory parking lot where they’d been waiting. “Gear up,” he said to the rest of the Kidon team in the back seats.
Because they all flew in commercially, they didn’t have their usual gear. But a local Mossad asset had given them access to her small arsenal. Each man was carrying a Glock 22 handgun with a suppressor, which carried 15 .40-caliber rounds in the mag. Every man also had a KA-BAR Straight Edge with a 7-inch fixed blade and a can of pepper spray. Dima alone carried a nickel-plated Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun. All were dressed in black, and each pulled their balaclavas over their faces.
“Next left onto Cleveland Street, then two blocks up on the left,” Liora told them.
Yaron turned the SUV, and they rolled up the semi-residential street. Nir had emphasized they were there only to scare Arturo—Banger. No one should get hurt apart from a few necessary bumps and bruises.
“There it is,” he said, pointing to what looked like a stolen real estate sign painted over with the words Auto Repair. They pulled over 50 meters up. As they slid out of the vehicle, Nir said, “Doron, light.”
Doron’s pistol popped, and the streetlight above them went out.
“Sound off,” Nir said, making sure everyone was ready with their designation.
“One,” Yaron said.
“Two,” Doron added.
Dima followed with “Three.”
Imri, as the new guy, was designated last. “Four.”
“On me,” Nir said, and they set off up the road. There was open space around them, although just a block to their right was the busy FM 521 Road. Reaching the property line, they skirted the long drive. Up ahead was a metal building with a large roll-up door and a small standard door next to it. One large spotlight was mounted to the apex of the roof, shining down on the driveway.
Nir pointed to his eyes, reminding his team to be on the lookout. If these guys were involved in drugs and this was an auto theft chop-shop, there was no telling what sorts of weapons might be inside. With handguns pointed toward the ground, they fanned out alongside the entrance.
Nir tried the door. Locked. He pointed to Doron, who came forward and knelt in front of it. Inserting a device into the lock, he began flicking it. Twenty seconds later, he gently turned the handle, gave the door a slight push, and then stepped back.
Nir eased open the door and slid in, then stepped forward to make room for the rest of the men. At least eight cars in various states of disassembly sat inside, plus a number of roll-away toolboxes and several engine hoists. Around a corner to the left, Nir could hear voices.
He pointed for Doron and Yaron to clear the rest of the building, and Imri and Dima followed him. He inched forward and peeked around the corner. A massive television hung on a wall, and a First Person Shooter game played on the screen. Sitting on a torn and greasy-looking couch in front of the TV were three men in coveralls, each holding a controller. They were laughing and swearing at one another, and on a table in front of them sat at least three dozen beer cans—no doubt empty—various bongs and pipes, and a large bag of what looked to Nir to be weed. He also saw three handguns and an AR-15 painted jungle camouflage.
Lifting his hand, he pointed for Dima to take the far guy and Imri to take the one in the middle. Then raising his gun, Nir fired a suppressed round into the center of the television.
“On the ground! On the ground!” The three black-clad operatives moved forward as the terrified men on the couch dropped to the floor. While Dima and Nir held their guns on the men, Imri zip-tied their hands behind their backs. Dima then reached down and, one by one, lifted the bound men by their hair and dropped them back onto the couch. Meanwhile, Imri secured the handguns and rifle.
“Man, you can’t do that to me!” said the young man nearest Nir, his dark hair greased back and his mustache razor thin. “I don’t care if you’re SWAT or whatever, cop. You can’t lift a dude up by his hair.”
The name on his coveralls read Arturo. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing arms with no smudges, matching the clean condition of his hands.
This is the boss of the operation, all right. Nir leaned over and slapped him hard across the face. “Speak only when I ask you a question.”
Arturo looked shocked. It was like he knew the cop game and was realizing this wasn’t it. “Dude, you can’t do that! It’s police brutality.”
Nir slapped him again, and the sound echoed throughout the shop. Blood trickled out of Arturo’s mouth.
Nir leaned closer. “I didn’t ask you a question, did I?”
Arturo was fuming. His face was red, and he was breathing hard.
Nir slapped him again. Arturo lunged up, but Dima’s massive right foot suddenly appeared on the man’s chest, forcing him back down onto the couch.
Nir stepped back. “That time I did ask you a question. You’re not very smart, are you?” He emphasized the last words by tapping the man hard on the temple.
When Arturo didn’t answer, Nir raised his hand.
“I just didn’t understand what you were saying, bro,” Arturo spat out, cowering. “You come in here and shoot my TV. Then you cuff us. What are you doing? Is this a raid? All I have is weed, I swear.”
Nir held up his gun. “You ever seen cops with suppressors, genius?”
The other man’s eyes got really big now. “Are you cartel? Oh man! I swear, I only deal small. I boost cars—that’s my thing.”
Nir spit on the floor. “I eat cartel for breakfast, little boy. I don’t care about your drugs. I don’t care about your cars. I care about one thing. Lily Cohen.”
“Who?” Arturo’s eyes looked down when he said it. No doubt at all that he was lying.
“Lily. Cohen. The teenage girl you’ve stolen from her home because you aren’t man enough to get a woman your own age.”
“Man, I don’t know who told you that.” Arturo was getting a little of his swag back. “But I don’t know the chica. Do I look like I need to mess with teenagers?”
The guy next to him said, “Dude, just tell him where she is. These guys are bad news.”
“Shut up, bro!”
As these two were talking, Yaron said through the coms, “Lead, we found her in one of the back rooms. She’s beat up pretty bad. Two is with her. I’m clearing the rest.”
Furious, Nir reached for Arturo. But as he did, he heard a bang to his left. A compact man with scruffy beard had kicked in a side door and was aiming a shotgun directly at Nir. Nir lifted his Glock, knowing he’d never get a shot off in time.
A pop sounded from the other side of the building, and the side of the man’s head blew out.
He dropped.