May 3
9822 Watchung Road
Essex County
Short Hills, New Jersey
3:13 P.M. EDT
Krav Maga is arguably the most vicious of the martial arts, a hybrid developed from the most lethal of other quite lethal fighting techniques.
Unlike most of those disciplines, in Krav Maga there is no emphasis either on sport application or on formalized moves and countermoves; unlike many Asian systems, there is no underlying philosophy or moral-code niceties, no bowing or honoring one’s opponent. Instead, there is only a pragmatic savagery that is itself, also arguably, reflected in the Israeli character—or more certainly, in the Israeli military, which long ago adopted it as its own hand-to-hand combat system.
Simply stated, in Krav Maga there is no allowance for mercy. The objective is singular: survival, while not leaving that option available for any who threaten your own.
• • •
The pair of captors had ordered Dennis Littrell to pull behind the house, to stop, to shut down the engine. Throughout the trip, the one seated behind Tavah Duhahi had kept his pistol pressed hard enough against the front seat so that she could feel it even through the luxuriously padded leather.
Now the pressure disappeared. Eyes still straight ahead, Tavah heard the rear door open; an instant later, she felt the May air through her own opened door.
A hand grasped her shoulder firmly.
Even before he had fully hauled her from the passenger’s seat of the rented Lexus, Tavah had launched herself into Krav Maga’s basic precept: attack first, attack aggressively—with every part of a trained, weaponized body—and attack to kill.
Still half-seated, her first blow—fingers stiffened into a spear’s point, lancing deep into the right eye of the first man, hooking as she wrenched them back—elicited a spray of blood and vitreous jelly from the gouged eye socket. Her opponent’s body staggered backward, then abruptly snapped forward as Tavah seized his auto-pistol’s slide, using the momentum of her body as she rose to twist the muzzle savagely to the side and rearward, the trigger guard snapping bone and almost amputating the entrapped trigger-finger.
Only then did her opponent scream, his collective agony finally catching up with the speed of her attack.
Tavah tugged the gun free, past the nearly-severed finger, snapping it back near her ear; in an overhand arc like a knife stabbing, she smashed the pistol, muzzle-first, down into her opponent’s forehead.
He fell like a poleaxed steer, a deep indentation where her blow had landed.
Even as he dropped, Tavah fumbled to turn the pistol, to get a shooter’s grasp on the blood-slick weapon.
But the delay gave the other captor time; he came over the trunk of the Lexus fast; as Tavah pivoted toward him, he crashed into her in a violent, bear-hugging collision. The pistol flew from her hand with the force of his tackle, spinning away under the vehicle.
They fell to the ground hard, Tavah under his weight, her arms trapped in his embrace, both their legs splayed and kicking.
Her knee smashed into his genitals: once, then again. They tumbled to the side, still entangled, Tavah now on top. Her left arm was free now, and she used its leverage to arch back as far as she could, pushing her palm under her attacker’s jaw…
… and then, like a snake striking, snapped forward and sank her bared teeth into his exposed, vulnerable throat.
She locked them on his windpipe, a pit-bull ferociousness, vaguely aware of the copper-penny taste flooding her mouth, feeling as if from a distance the crisp crackle of cartilage being crushed, too intent to hear a door flying open or even the onrushing footsteps.
Something hard and heavy smashed into the top of her head, ripping her back and away from her prey in a supernova of brilliant light that winked out as her vision slipped into a spreading cloud of gray.
Tavah rolled onto her back. As if through a mist, she saw Dennis Littrell staring at her, aghast; two different strangers now held his arms.
A face leaned into her vision, familiar somehow, fading in and out of focus, older than the mental image that superimposed itself over it, also fading in and out and misty in the widening cloud: the beard was gray now, the skin more lined, but the eyes were still as intense as she remembered…
It was no use; try as she might, Tavah could not find a name to put with the face.
Not even when he spoke, not even when he said the Arabic words: “Ma’rhaba. Ma’rhaba, za’jah.”
A part of Tavah Duhahi’s mind that still functioned automatically translated his words.
“Welcome. Welcome, my wife.”
• • •
They half-dragged, half-carried Tavah Duhahi inside, to a chair, heedless of the volume of blood, hers and that of another; it flowed freely from her nose and lips and the six-inch gash on the crown of her head, fell in already congealing thick drops from her hair and face and blood-soaked blouse. The chair was upholstered in yellow linen, the damask pattern tastefully understated.
They dumped her there, her head lolling back, leaving dark crimson stains against the fabric.
Upon her return, Ginger Dawnswood would have a major cleaning expense.