Chapter Eleven

 

 

Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel

June 17, 3:25 p.m.

 

McClain’s Gulfstream landed at the Ben Gurion Airport exactly at a quarter after three. He was escorted by two Mossad agents to the VIP lounge in Terminal 1 at the southeast corner, where Justin and Carrie were waiting for him. They exchanged pleasantries and talked about their flights, but made no mention of their business, the Berlin operation, or the informant. Besides the Mossad agents shadowing them with their constant presence, the lounge was most likely wired and their conversations were probably being recorded. Israelis took their security very seriously. They did not spy on their enemies; they did not spy on their friends; they spied on everyone.

Director Gabriel Cohen, McClain’s counterpart in the Mossad department of Political Action and Liaisons—in charge of maintaining good relations with friendly foreign intelligence services and foreign governments—was running late because of a crisis in progress. A Palestinian worker had plowed the heavy shovel of his bulldozer through a Jerusalem city bus stopped at an intersection before local police had been able to neutralize him with three bullets to his head. The terrorist attack had killed three Israelis and an American tourist who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Three other passengers were in critical condition in hospital, fighting for their lives.

So McClain, Justin, and Carrie spent the next half an hour at the airport, exchanging war stories with the Israeli operatives. McClain told them about his time stationed in Berlin during the Cold War. The young Mossad agents shared their experience of the first time they fought Hamas militants in the streets of Ramallah. Justin recounted the time he broke out of a Libyan prison, while Carrie described the time she dropped out of a burning plane shot down by the Taliban over the Kandahar deserts in Afghanistan.

It was almost four when Cohen walked through the door of the small lounge. He gave a curt apology for the delay as they shook hands, and McClain made introductions. Cohen was a short, stout man with a handful of smooth silvery hair he kept an inch or so longer than his senior position with Mossad warranted. He had deep brown eyes that cast intense gazes, and strong muscular arms. Despite walking with a slight, very imperceptible limp in his left leg, he stood ramrod straight, his pinstriped suit fitting almost perfectly on his solid frame.

“How was your flight?” Cohen asked McClain.

“It was long, but we had a smooth ride. No turbulence.”

“Lucky you. Down here, it’s all turbulence, but we’ve grown accustomed to it. Our way of life.” He shrugged. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, we are.”

Just outside the lounge doors, they were joined by a tall man in his forties or perhaps early fifties who had just ended a phone conversation. Cohen introduced him as Deputy Director Daniel Roth from Special Operations department, which was responsible for carrying out most of the actual spy activities of Mossad. Special Operations was also known as Metsada, and their wide field of expertise included the so-called “sensitive assassinations” of a delicate diplomatic nature.

Roth was a tall man with a shaved head and a thick neck. He had chiseled facial features, a large aquiline nose, and a strong jawline. His aqua-blue eyes were calm, but there was a hint of tension just below the surface. The warm dry weather that had pushed the temperature north of ninety degrees had no effect on Roth. His face showed no sign of sweat and the collar of his white shirt was crisp and clean. His cream-colored jacket sat snug around his broad shoulders and his muscular chest, and revealed a sizable bulge on his right side. A large pistol or a small sub-machine weapon was sitting in a holster, and Roth was not making an effort to hide it.

Justin wondered if the man had come from the Israeli Defense Force or another military unit of Israel’s armed forces. The CIS file on Roth was blank.

Roth exchanged knowing nods with Cohen, whose face tightened into a small frown just for a split second. Justin interpreted that as a clue to something having gone awry in one of their operations. He focused his eyes on Cohen’s face, but the Mossad director gave no other hints of distress and did not give any details.

“This way,” Cohen said in a terse voice. The update from Roth had soured his mood.

McClain nodded and the group followed Cohen and Roth down the corridor. They moved through the terminal, and Cohen kept a swift pace regardless of his condition. They passed through a series of doors and halls. A big cardboard sign caught Justin’s attention. SHELTER was written in large green letters in both Hebrew and English, along with an arrow and the silhouette of a man running while bending over. The sign pointed passengers and personnel in the direction of the shelter in case of bombings.

Justin had read about Hamas’s recent threat to attack the airport and airplanes flying in as payback for Israeli soldiers killing two young Palestinian men who had attempted to cross the border near Ramallah. But no aircraft had been grounded at Ben Gurion and there had been no disruptions in the air traffic. The airport was placed on high alert, though, and its security presence had been increased. Justin spotted a couple of agents in civilian clothes surveying the crowd of passengers flowing through the airport complex.

They stepped outside through a side door. The relentless heat assaulted them as soon as they opened the glass-and-steel doors, but thankfully Cohen’s motorcade was parked just a few feet away from the door. Two young men in blue jeans and gray hoodies stepped out of the shaded area from the left and the right sides of the entrance and opened the doors of two armored silver GMC Suburbans with their FOB keys. They were the drivers, who looked like any other young men in their late twenties or early thirties. That was exactly the point, to allow them to blend and become invisible in any crowd.

Cohen and McClain got into the second vehicle and the two Mossad agents went with them. Roth rode shotgun in the lead GMC, while Justin and Carrie sat in the back. They buckled their seatbelts under the watchful eye of Roth. When he was satisfied they were ready, Roth radioed the second vehicle. Upon receiving their confirmation, he nodded to the driver to fire up the engine.

The convoy made their way in silence through the half-full parking lot. A large jet—Justin thought it was a Boeing 767—was just taking off in the distance. Two security officers along with two German shepherd dogs were patrolling the area outside the airport’s main entrance. Justin assumed the dogs were trained to sniff bombs terrorists might attempt to carry into the airport in their luggage.

Roth checked his side mirror for the second vehicle as they merged with the busy traffic of Highway 1. The driver of a windowless white van had not allowed the rear GMC to follow the front one. Roth frowned at the jerk move of that driver, but seemed to relax when the GMC reappeared behind them.

“How real is Hamas’s threat to strike the airport?” Justin asked.

Roth craned his neck. “Very real. They’ve improved their M-75 missiles and have increased their production. Last month, they fired a few dozen. All but one missed the runway.”

Justin nodded. The 200mm caliber M-75 missile was the pride of Hamas. Based on technology given to Hamas by Iran and named after Ibrahim Makadmeh—a former top commander of Hamas, assassinated by Israeli Apache helicopters—the missile had a range of about 50 miles. It had become a game changer, placing most of Israel within the M-75’s deadly range.

Roth continued, “The bastards have added M-302s to the arsenal. They buy or steal them from Syrian rebels and smuggle them through Iran.”

Justin nodded again and pursed his lips. Iran had been a long-time backer of the Palestinian cause, providing Hamas and other militant groups with weapons, funding, and training. A devious proxy war was being fought in the region, with the United States and other allies providing full support to Israel, and Iran and other Muslim countries extending sometimes open and sometimes secretive assistance to the Palestinians. Recently, a wave of jihadists with links to al-Qaeda and ISIS was rumored to have hit the Palestinian Territories, threatening the prospects of a peace deal.

“What measures are you taking against them?” Carrie asked.

Roth examined her face in the rearview mirror. He must have concluded her harmless question simply asked for information from one intelligence operative to another and with no implications of blame, because he replied, “We’re focusing on cutting off the trade routes and discovering and destroying the shipments before they make it into their hands. While it’s good our Iron Dome intercepts and shoots down most missiles individually, my preference is to wipe out the entire convoy or blow up the warehouses.”

Roth scanned the vehicles around them, on the lookout for any suspicious movement. They were in the middle lane traveling toward Tel Aviv at seventy miles per hour. A mixture of Western-imported and Japanese sedans, SUVs and trucks surrounded them as traffic flowed with a steady pace. The highway actually had five lanes, but the two leftmost lanes were designated for buses, taxis, and other vehicles that had gone through the High Occupancy Toll Lane Administration tollbooth. A two-foot-high steel guardrail separated these two lanes from the rest of the highway.

Roth said, “But it’s getting harder and harder to secure valuable, usable intel. Hamas is getting extremely suspicious, executing their own people at the first hint of doubt. Two weeks ago, they publicly executed ten men on rumors they were our collaborators, after one of their masterminds was killed in an attack for which they blamed us.

“And they’re also getting better at hiding in the tunnels that span pretty much their entire border, moving from one safe house to another sometimes every night, and making sure the names of their commanders and main officers remain a secret.”

Carrie said, “The attack that killed the mastermind—”

Roth cut her off. “That wasn’t our work. We don’t operate like that, with precariously put together homemade bombs one can’t be sure will work. Our intel tells us the Hamas man died of blunt trauma to his head and was found underneath brick and concrete rubble. Assassinating Hamas commanders is too important for us to leave things to chance.” His voice was firm and harsh.

Carrie shrugged. “I wasn’t implying Mossad was behind that hit in Gaza. I was going to ask how it happened and who you suspect.”

Roth gave her a small nod. “Eh, everyone jumps to the conclusion Mossad has its fingers in every killing of our enemies in the territories or elsewhere in the world. I wish we could, but we don’t.”

Roth’s way of apologizing for his outburst.

Carrie locked eyes with Justin, and she gave him a knowing look. He understood Roth’s sentiment. Mossad was, almost every time, identified as the agency responsible for a string of assassinations over the recent months. Two Iranian nuclear scientists killed in the heart of Tehran. A Saudi billionaire who committed “suicide” aboard his luxurious yacht off the coast of Spain. An agent of Russia’s Federal Security Service, FSB, fished out of Moscow River. The billionaire was suspected of financing Palestinian terrorists, and the FSB agent of helping with Syria’s chemical weapons program. And Mossad had not done much to disperse this aura of suspicion surrounding its activities. Their standard policy was to “neither confirm nor deny” any allegations about their involvement.

Justin leaned forward and to the left, shifting more toward the middle seat. “What about the Ramallah hit on the IFB’s chief, Nassar?”

Roth’s bushy eyebrows almost touched as his forehead sank into a deep frown. “That op was unsanctioned by the agency. A team of kidons acting on their own. A mistake.”

“A mistake?” Justin said.

“Yes. A mistake because of the op’s execution and timing. Besides its being a personal vendetta, the team infiltrated hostile enemy territory with bad intel, without proper communication with the agency, and without backup. It was bad timing, because of the ongoing peace talks.”

The way Roth was describing the mission it seemed it had been doomed from the beginning. Justin again wondered why the team of agents had embarked upon it, if they were aware of all these circumstances. Did their thirst for revenge muddle their senses? Did they discount the real threats and misjudge the operational situation? Or was it something else?

Roth said, “I agree with the result. Nassar’s hands were drenched in the blood of innocent Israeli children. But that hit was the hardest blow to date to the peace negotiations.”

Justin said, “Since you brought it up, where does Mossad stand regarding these talks?”

Roth shifted in his seat and thought about it for a few long moments. “There is Mossad, and there are the politicians.” He raised his left arm and scratched his head. “Mossad is for peace, but against a blanket amnesty instigated by the other side of terrorists, or so-called ‘freedom fighters’ or ‘martyrs’. Everyone who has committed carnage against my people should pay in full for their involvement. Politicians, eh, it seems they want peace at any price, willing to compromise the ideals we’ve fought for so hard and for so many decades.”

“But everyone in Israel wants peace, right?” Carrie asked.

“Yes, peace, but is it worth it? What concessions are we making in exchange for this peace?”

Rhetorical questions, so Justin stared at Roth without saying a word.

Roth shrugged and gave them a big shake of the head.

Justin looked out the window as they drove for the next few minutes in silence broken only by brief radio communications between Roth and the other vehicle. They were getting closer to the Shappirim Interchange near the entrance to the capital. Fields stretched on the right side while industrial business parks occupied a long stretch along the highway.

Roth looked through the windshield, then reached into the glove compartment. At the same moment, the driver turned the steering wheel to avoid a black object that appeared on the highway right in the middle of their lane. Justin peered at the object, and it seemed it was just a large X sprayed onto the asphalt in black paint.

Because of the GMC’s sudden swerve, Roth dropped whatever he was taking out of the compartment. He leaned between his feet to pick it up as they came near an overpass.

Justin was still gazing through the windshield. His eyes caught a glimpse of a black-clad silhouette that emerged right over the overpass’s concrete rail. It was the silhouette of a man shouldering a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

“RPG, RPG. Overpass,” Justin shouted.

The driver jerked the steering wheel. The GMC swerved hard to the left, into the other lane. It crashed into the guardrail and the back of a black truck, swinging the truck around and putting it between their vehicle and the overpass.

The RPG warhead tore through the sky and smashed into the highway. It missed their vehicle by a few feet. Shrapnel showered the back of the GMC.

A blue sedan and a beige van skidded on the asphalt and came to abrupt stops on the right lane amid the explosion’s debris.

The Mossad driver opened his door and jumped outside.

Roth tried his door, but it was jammed from the crash. He slid across the driver’s seat, then threw out the floor mat, uncovering a secret compartment underneath the GMC’s floor. He pulled out an Israeli Tavor TAV-21 assault rifle and cocked it.

Carrie was crouched by the back wheel when Justin crawled over her seat and dropped to the ground next to her. She stole a glance of the overpass and said, “Two gunmen at eleven and two o’clock. One swinging an AK.”

Bullets thumped against the GMC’s armored doors and its bulletproof windows. If the gunmen’s arsenal included only the Russian-made Kalashnikov 7.62mm assault rifle, they would have been safer inside the vehicle. But the thin-skinned GMC was useless against a 40mm RPG round. It would burn through it like a hot poker through a marshmallow.

“Where’s the RPG man?” Roth asked. His view was blocked by the black truck.

Two women in their fifties had managed to climb out of their truck, but were now shaking and wailing. The Mossad driver was trying to calm them down but was struggling to get them behind the cover of the truck.

Carrie peered at the overpass from behind the GMC’s mud flap. A couple of rounds raised sparks off the rear of the vehicle inches away from her face. “Two o’clock.”

“Gun, give me a gun,” Justin said to Roth.

He didn’t hesitate but handed Justin his Tav-21. Justin nodded his thanks and weighed the weapon in his hands, feeling the power that urged him to pull the trigger and pour forth a stream of bullets at the assailants. He slipped near Carrie, who glanced at him.

“Where’s mine?” she said.

Justin looked up at Roth, who was just pulling another Tav-21 from the weapons cache. He shook his head while holding the rifle with his left hand, and pulled out his pistol from his holster.

Carrie squinted at the pistol—a Beretta 9mm semi-automatic—but picked it up anyway. In a gunfight, a pistol was better than no gun.

Justin squeezed a quick burst at the overpass. His bullets lifted up concrete slivers from the rail, but missed his target. The gunmen returned fire and Justin fell behind the vehicle as bullets pierced its side.

On the other side of the vehicle Roth fired his assault rifle. Then he advanced to the truck to secure a better position.

Justin turned his head toward the second GMC. It was stopped behind a white Audi sedan, about twenty feet away. The two Mossad agents were crouched behind it and alternating their shots at the attackers.

At that exact moment, another RPG round whooshed toward the second GMC. It slammed right into the hood, which exploded into a bright orange fireball. The hood’s cover flew away and the windshield cracked but did not shatter. The vehicle shook because of the powerful hit but stayed in place. Black and gray smoke billowed from the fire, its flames licking at the windshield.

“Carrie, rescue McClain and Cohen.” Justin gestured toward the burning vehicle.

Carrie nodded. “Cover fire,” she said.

Justin dropped to the ground and popped out near the van. He fired a long barrage, a heavy curtain of suppressive fire. It kept the gunmen down for a few moments, sufficient time for Carrie to sprint to rescue their boss and his Mossad counterpart.

A gunman appeared at the right side of the overpass. He swung his RPG launcher over his shoulder, but Justin planted two rounds in the gunman’s chest. He fell over the rail and plummeted head first to the highway twenty feet below.

The second gunmen’s AK crackled from the left side, at Justin’s eleven o’clock. He swung his rifle toward the gunman and fired a three-round burst. One of the bullets struck the gunman in his left arm. He dropped his AK over the rail.

Everything fell quiet for a moment. Justin scanned the overpass and its surrounding area. No gunmen.

His eyes found Roth, who gestured at Justin that he was going to the second GMC. Justin nodded his understanding. He and the driver could man this position.

Earsplitting bursts came from two different locations at the same time. Someone was hammering with a machine gun and another one blasting away with an assault weapon that did not sound like the Tav-21.

Justin crawled back behind the first GMC, but that was no longer a safe place. Bullets pounded the doors. Three black-clad assailants had materialized across the railroad tracks that ran along the Highway 1 median. One of them was firing what looked like a PK at the second GMC. The other two had concentrated their firepower on Justin. They were shooting as they advanced over the scraggly shrubs edging the highway’s shoulder lane.

The driver fired a couple of rounds, but the gunmen’s barrage mowed him down. He fell against the truck’s door, near the two women who had crawled to somewhat safe positions under the truck. Blood gushed from his chest and his neck turned to the side at an unusually sharp angle.

Justin inched his way to the three-foot-high concrete barrier buffering the highway as more bullets struck the barrier. He pondered his options. His rifle was almost empty. He had not counted the rounds he had fired. He had maybe three or four left—sufficient if he did not miss. Crawling back to the GMC or the truck was out of the question. That move would leave him exposed to the assailants’ fierce fire while he crossed the high-occupancy designated lanes. He decided to stay in his position and strike at the right moment, when the gunmen would attempt to cross over the barrier.

He crawled alongside the barrier, heading toward the second GMC, and away from the kill zone. Gunfire echoed from all directions. Justin kept his head down, and so he could not tell the source of the shots. He figured Roth, Carrie, and the other Mossad agents were returning fire on the advancing assailants.

Justin advanced about ten feet, then two bullets stopped him dead in his tracks. The rounds struck the safe side of the barrier and bounced less than a foot away from his face.

He looked to his left. A gunman had appeared in front of the Audi sedan with his rifle pointed at Justin. A second gunman was firing at the second GMC. Where the hell did they come from?

“Get up,” the gunman shouted at Justin.

Justin hesitated. His right hand was still wrapped around the handle of his Tav-21, but the gunman had the clear advantage. It would take him just a split second to squeeze his rifle’s trigger and send a volley of bullets into Justin’s body.

“Get up,” the gunman bellowed even louder than before.

Justin ignored the shout. It was not his habit to take orders from terrorists or surrender to them. Plus, if he climbed to his knees or his feet, he risked getting hit by the barrage from the attackers on the other side.

The gunman took a couple of steps toward Justin. He did not shoot, and Justin interpreted that as a good sign. The gunman was not going to kill him. Justin was worth more to him alive than dead.

Justin cocked his head to the right in a swift, unexpected gesture. He hoped to divert the gunman’s attention in that direction and seize that split second to turn the situation in his favor. But the gunman did not fall for that trick. He kept his gun trained on Justin.

The agent had no intention of being kidnapped or giving up without a fight, so he rolled to his side and lifted his rifle.

The gunman was faster on his weapon.

He fired a single round that pierced Justin’s right forearm. The intense pain lanced through his entire body. The rifle grew heavy in his hand and fell out of his tight grip.

Justin glanced at the bullet wound and the blood oozing from his arm. He stretched his fingers toward the rifle’s handle a couple of inches away, but his hand refused his brain’s command. Justin cursed out loud and tried again in vain.

“You don’t listen and you don’t give up.” The gunman kicked Justin’s rifle away, a couple of feet beyond his reach. “What else do you not do?”

If Justin’s eyes could burn, the gunman would have been consumed by a hot blaze.

In a calm voice, Justin said, “I don’t die in your hands.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The gunman stood over Justin, keeping his rifle a few inches away from the Canadian’s head. Justin stared at the brand new HK assault rifle, wondering how he could pry it from the gunman’s hands. Then Justin’s mind went to Carrie. Did she see this?

A loud burst came from up ahead, from the second GMC. The gunman did not seek cover or bend over. He did not even flinch. “They’re not coming for you. No one is coming for you,” he snapped at Justin in a voice dripping with hate and scorn.

“We’ll see about that,” Justin said.

He took a few shallow breaths and winced as the stabbing pain speared up and down his spine.

Two other gunmen appeared at the barrier. One of them raised his PK and fired toward the GMC—a long, wild blast, the heavy machine gun bouncing in his hand. The second gunman picked up Justin by his shoulders with his strong black-gloved hands. As he brought Justin up, the agent noticed the gunman was about three inches taller and perhaps fifty pounds heavier than him. On his feet, Justin threw a left fist aimed at the gunman’s head, but the man deflected it with ease and punched Justin in the stomach. The hard blow sucked the air out of him.

Justin doubled over and wheezed a deep cough. He exaggerated his reaction to the blow, to give the appearance of weakness. If the captors believed he was already broken and powerless, perhaps he could turn their sense of superiority to his advantage so he could escape.

“Get up and get going.” One of the gunmen shoved him from the back.

Another earsplitting PK barrage.

Justin stood up as two of the attackers grabbed him by the arms. He cringed as one of them squeezed his forearm right next to the wound. They tried to drag him over the barrier, and Justin folded his knees and let his body drop down, becoming dead weight. He was not going to help them carry him to his captivity.

He felt someone kick him hard on his back, then on his left side. They’re encouraging me to move, but it will take more than a few kicks.

One of the gunmen called someone named Suleiman for help in getting the infidel to the car. Justin turned his head as Suleiman fired the last of his PK rounds, dropped the heavy machine gun to the asphalt, and came running. He wrapped his arms around Justin’s feet and in a big powerful snatch scooped him up like he weighed less than a feather.

The three gunmen wrestled for a moment with a flailing Justin, who windmilled his arms around and snaked his body, trying to wriggle out of their grasp. But now they had a firm hold on him, six strong hands lifting and pulling him with enough force that he could not counter it.

“Carrie! Carrie! Help, help,” he shouted at the top of his lungs as more gunfire erupted around him.

“Shut your mouth. Shut up.” One of the gunmen kneed him in the side of his head.

“Carrie, help! Help!”

His back scraped against the sharp edge of the barrier. Justin felt the coarse surface cut into his vest and his skin. He clenched his teeth, ignored the pain, and focused his mind on an escape plan.

They finally hauled him over the barrier in what felt like a very long time, but Justin knew it had not been more than eight, ten seconds. If Carrie had not heard his cries for help and no one had noticed his capture, his best chance at shaking off the attackers was before they stowed him away in their car’s trunk.

They dropped him down and dragged him over the railroad ballast. Justin felt his combat boots crackling over the gravel and dug his heels deep. He hoped it would slow them down and make it harder for his captors to heave him, but they kept lugging him like a bag of dirt. He seemed all but unable to stop them.

What can I do? What do I do?

He bent his right leg and kicked to the side, aiming to hit and trip the gunman, but he was too far to the side. Justin repeated the same action with his left leg. The tip of his boot caught the gunman’s ankle, and he lost his grip on Justin’s arms and shoulders for just a moment. Justin’s body dropped to one side. His head bumped against the hard-packed gravel.

That fall saved his life.

A bullet whizzed over his head and struck the gunman’s leg. A spray of blood splattered Justin’s face as the gunman dropped to his knee. Another bullet penetrated the chest of the second gunman, missing Justin’s shoulder by an inch or two.

Justin’s back hit the gravel and he hurried to flatten himself behind the rail. It did not offer much cover from the storm of bullets, but it was better than being out in the open. He prayed he would not get hit in the crossfire. The Israelis had employed their Hannibal tactic: indiscriminate, overpowering fire in a last-ditch effort to avoid the capture of one of their men, even if it meant killing him in the process. The conventional wisdom was that “a dead soldier was better than a captured one.”

While he delighted in the Israelis’ loyalty in considering him one of their own, he wished their bullets did not ping so close to his head. One round almost clipped his ear as it ricocheted off the steel rail. Another two rounds struck dangerously near his legs.

But the barrage had done its job. The three gunmen were lying stiff around Justin. He stared at them without daring to raise his head because of the continued shooting. More gunfire exploded from behind him. Justin assumed it came from the car where the attackers had been planning to stuff him.

He examined the chest of the closest gunman, the one who had shot him in the arm. No discernable breathing. Justin swiveled his head around slowly and his eyes fell on the other gunman. Three bullet wounds in the chest told him the man had expired before hitting the ground. The third gunman was out of his line of sight, but an AK was visible about a foot away from Justin.

He stretched his arm over the railroad track. Two bullets stitched up the gravel near his hand, but he was able to yank the assault rifle by its khaki strap. He rolled onto his stomach and readied the rifle.

Justin had not yet fired the first bullet when he felt a sharp blow to the side of his head. The rifle fell from his fingers. A hand came from behind, seizing his throat. One of the gunmen was still alive and was choking the life out of him.

Justin jerked back his head. Fast and hard. A snapping sound, like breaking bones, was followed by a high-pitched squeal. But the hand kept its stranglehold. Its fingers dug deep into Justin’s neck. He felt his carotid artery pulsating, and his lungs began to struggle for air.

The gunman threw his body over Justin, weighing down on him. The hand that kept squeezing was followed by a second one that began to twist his neck.

Unless someone intervened, he had only a few seconds to save his life.

With a loud gasp, Justin groped for the assault rifle. After what seemed like an eternity, his fingers finally found it. He wrestled with the weapon as he turned it toward the gunman’s head.

The gunman had clued in to Justin’s plan. He tightened his vise-like grip on Justin’s neck, hoping to finish him off before he could fire the AK.

With what felt like his last breath, Justin squeezed the trigger. The AK bounced in his hand and the recoil almost threw the gun out of his hands. But he fired a long burst. The bullets hissed just over his head and the hot spent casings grazed his face. The hands stopped crushing his windpipe.

He shrugged the dead gunman off his shoulders and took a few breaths to refill his depleted lungs. He returned his AK to its initial shooting position and aimed it at the car up ahead—a blue BMW sedan parked at the highway’s shoulder—and wondered if there were any more bullets left in the magazine. The shooting had ceased, but Justin stayed down for another few moments.

He looked up just as a gunman emerged from the back of the BMW. The gunman fired a quick burst, five or six rounds, which kicked up gravel near Justin’s position, but missed him.

Justin held his rifle as steady as he could with the pain throbbing in his arm. The wooden butt stock of the AK was planted firmly in the crook of his shoulder. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and pulled the trigger during the natural respiratory pause.

A single bullet struck the gunman in the left side of his chest. He fell against the BMW’s door, then tumbled to the ground.

Justin kept his eye on the rifle’s sights, ready to fire again, but it was not necessary. No other gunmen came from the BMW.

He heard heavy footsteps crunching on gravel, then heard Carrie’s voice. “Justin, Justin, are you okay?”

He turned his head just as Carrie leaned over him. He smiled to reassure her he was truly well. “I’m fine. How are McClain, Cohen, Roth?”

Carrie noticed his gunshot wound. “We’ll have that looked at. Can you lift your arm?”

Justin nodded. “Yes. Flesh wound.”

He shuddered from a new jolt of pain that pierced his arm. He had put some of his body weight on it as he climbed to his feet.

Carrie said, “McClain and Cohen both got clipped good. Could be life threatening, and they’ll need some hospital time. And so will you.”

“I’m fine.” Justin shrugged.

He checked on the gunmen strewn around him. As he had thought, they were all dead. But the agents’ rules of engagement were rules they lived by: confirm all enemy forces have been neutralized before proceeding to another battleground quadrant.

Carrie moved up ahead, keeping the BMW under the sights of her assault rifle. Justin wondered where she had gotten her TAV-21 and hoped it was not from a dead Mossad agent.

“Car’s clear,” Carrie said.

She raised her hands to push back a crowd of curious onlookers. A few cars had stopped in the closest lane and people were watching the unfolding spectacle. A couple of brave or stupid young men—Justin could not tell—had gotten out of their cars, recording the events on their smartphones.

“Move on! Get going. Nothing to see here. Get on with it,” Carrie shouted and gestured at the drivers who had slowed down the traffic.

They began to roll away, slowly at first and then picking up speed as they cleared the area, only to be replaced by others stepping on their brakes as they neared the site of the incident.

Justin shook his head. He could never fully understand the irresistible draw to gape at someone’s misfortune. Maybe it was a certain amount of schadenfreude—the joy of seeing the misery of others that subconsciously made people feel better about their own situation. Or maybe it was just human nature to stare at something unusual, albeit horrific, happening in front of their eyes.

He waited until Carrie returned and they walked back to their convoy. Carrie checked on the driver of the first GMC. Her head shake told Justin he was gone.

Justin reached the second GMC and flinched at the sight of the burning, bullet-ridden vehicle. The orange flames had spread to the front tires and were burning through the windshield. The 7.62mm caliber bullets of the PK heavy machine gun had shredded the steel-reinforced doors and the shatterproof glass of the windows.

McClain and Cohen were nowhere to be found, but Justin’s gaze caught Roth barking orders on his phone. He was standing far away from the burning GMC in case it exploded into a fireball, with his back resting against a white van. Its doors were opened and one of the Mossad agents was fumbling with a first-aid kit.

Roth put his phone away as Justin and Carrie approached him.

“How is Cohen?” Justin asked.

“He’s got a side wound, possibly a shattered femur, and has lost a large amount of blood. But he’ll make it if we get him to a hospital soon. Your boss fares better. A round went through his left shoulder, but nothing serious that will kill him. Unless there are complications.” Roth took a deep breath, then he fired a stern glance at the other Mossad agent, who had just appeared from the other side of the van. “Where the hell is that ambulance?”

“On its way, sir. Should be here in five minutes.”

Roth swore and hit the side of the van with his fist. “The bastards planned this ambush to perfection. Immobilize us with RPGs, then cut us to pieces with PK barrages. Kidnap any survivors and hold them hostage. And in the heart of my country. The bastards.” His fist slammed against the van’s side, causing a deep dent.

Justin turned his head toward the overpass.

Roth gestured toward it. “One of my men has cleared it and is looking after the scene until the police arrive. They should have been here by now.”

“I know we lost the driver. Any other casualties?”

“Three civilians caught in the crossfire.” Roth pointed toward the truck the first GMC had crashed into, then jerked back his thumb in the direction of the white Audi. “Our losses would have been much greater, but you noticed the man with the RPG. We all could have been killed in the ambush. So thank you.”

Roth stretched out his hand and Justin shook it. “You saved my life,” the Canadian agent said and cocked his head toward the concrete barrier. “A few more seconds and they would have succeeded in stuffing me in the BMW’s trunk.”

“I know our methods are controversial, but they work. If they had kidnapped you, we would have to pay a hefty price for your head. That is, if they did not decide you were more valuable as a prop in their propaganda videos. In that case, your head would be severed from your body.”

Justin nodded thoughtfully. He had seen gruesome video images of executions and had even witnessed first-hand a horrific display of beheadings just a couple of months ago during his covert operation in Aleppo, Syria. He was really glad Roth had intervened, albeit with a heavy hand, and had snatched him away from the clutches of death.

The jarring shrill of an ambulance filled the air, and its driver pulled up in the designated lane. Four paramedics hopped out of the back and rushed with gurneys toward the van.

Justin stepped out of their way and followed the paramedics’ well-calculated moves. They first lifted Cohen and then McClain onto the gurneys. Both men’s faces were pale but peaceful and blood caked their suits. They were quickly loaded into the ambulance, which raced away with the same goose-bump-inducing shrill, leaving behind a small cloud of exhaust smoke. Cohen and McClain were now out of Justin’s hands and in the hands of God and of the capable surgeons of Tel Aviv’s hospitals. Justin could not do a thing to save their lives or speed up their recovery, other than whisper interceding prayers. But he could do all that was in his power to find out who had planned this ambush and dispatched the attackers. And he was determined to do exactly that.

“Where do we start?” he said to Roth.