Eben Lavi felt like someone had punched him in the chest with a concrete fist. Malak Tucker, known in the international terrorism community as the Leopard but in reality a deep-cover Secret Service agent, had shot him during the rescue of Bethany Culpepper. Malak was on the trail of the ghost cell. In order to maintain her cover, they’d choreographed an elaborate plan for her to shoot him in his center mass while the SEAL team rescued the president’s daughter.
His ballistic vest had prevented him from being pierced through the heart, but the shot had also catapulted him into a wall and his back was killing him. Their charade had worked to perfection, but the pain was still intense. Eben had not yet worked his way up to deep breaths.
“You look pale,” Ziv said. Eben couldn’t be sure but he thought there might be a hint of sarcasm in Ziv’s tone. With Ziv it was always hard to tell. He was Malak’s father. For years he’d protected her while she chased the ghost cell. He referred to himself as “the Monkey that watches the Leopard’s tail.” It was a classic countersurveillance technique—someone watching you while you watched the target. He’d spent the last few years of his life following her—without her knowledge until only recently—guarding her back and making sure she didn’t walk into a trap.
“You are quite a comedian,” Eben said, his breath coming in short gasps. “When this is over you should take your act on the road. Preferably a road that leads far, far away from me.”
In truth, Eben was starting to grow somewhat fond of the older man. How was this possible? They should be enemies. Eben was one of Mossad’s finest agents, or at least he had been once. In Philadelphia he sent his two fellow agents back to the Institute, telling them he’d killed the Leopard, completing their mission. But so far no one had reached out to him. His status might have changed since he had gone off the grid with Boone and his SOS crew. Mossad, Israel’s intelligence agency that was similar to the CIA, had been his life. But now he sat next to a former enemy, a man who had once been a terrorist and assassin. The irony did not escape him. It would forever be necessary to guard against those who sought to do harm by violent means. But he now wondered if relationships could change and conflicts be prevented if adversaries took the time to get to know each other. What if they shared common goals? He found himself pondering this very question the more time he spent with Ziv.
Ziv chuckled. “I don’t know what you’re whining about. I’m nearly twice your age and my own daughter just shot me two times. You don’t hear me complaining. I think you should do as the Americans say and ‘shuck it up.’”
“That is not what the Americans say.” Eben winced. “It’s ‘suck it up.’”
“Are you sure?” Ziv asked.
“Quite,” Eben said.
“That expression makes so much more sense now,” Ziv said, taking a sip from his bottle of water.
They were in a nondescript hangar at the far end of the First Flight Airport in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina. After a helicopter had evacuated them from their elaborately staged raid, navy SEAL John Masters accompanied the president’s daughter on her return to Washington aboard a CIA Gulfstream jet. She was likely back in the White House by now.
The two men were quiet for a moment, each mentally replaying the events of the raid. It was a form of internal debriefing every agent did after an operation. Slowly they reimagined each step. First: Eben bursting through the front door. Then Malak shooting him in the chest. Ziv shooting the man she was with, an unsub or “unknown subject” in their trade, who had only been identified as a highly placed member of the group who ran the ghost cell, a group calling themselves the Five.
Malak shot Ziv twice. Eben had to admire the older man’s toughness. Even with the ballistic vest he wore, his chest and ribs were going to ache for days. Ziv had stepped about a little gingerly in the minutes right after the raid, but now he acted as if he hadn’t felt a thing. He was a tough old bird, Eben had to give him that.
“Are you sure you only wounded the man?” Eben asked. “It would be a tragedy if he were to bleed out before the Leopard could learn more from him.”
“The Monkey does not miss. He is wounded enough so that he is not a threat to Malak, but not so much that he should die from it. If she can get him treatment in time.”
The sound of another helicopter touching down outside the building diverted their attention. The SEAL team, at the far end of the hangar, gathered up its gear and exited through a side door. A few moments later a man in a dark suit, black sunglasses, red-and-white-striped tie, and with an American flag pinned on his lapel entered the hangar. He was carrying a small red leather box. Eben and Ziv recognized him immediately as a member of the U.S. Secret Service. When he stopped in front of them he stood ramrod straight.
“Mr. Lavi, my name is Agent LeMaire. The president has asked me personally to deliver this to you,” he said, handing the box to Eben.
Inside it Eben found a very fancy-looking watch and a folded piece of paper, which contained a note.
Mr. Lavi,
Mere words cannot measure the amount of thanks I owe you for your actions today. This watch, an Omega Seamaster, is a small token of my gratitude. On the back you will find ten digits engraved in the casing. That is my personal phone number, one that I ALWAYS answer. If at some future time you find yourself in need of assistance, no matter the hour or where you are in the world, call this number and I will take whatever action I can to assist you. This is a very exclusive club you have just joined. But you earned it.
Regards,
J. R. Culpepper
POTUS
“What does it say?” Ziv asked. Eben absentmindedly handed the note to him as he put the watch on his left wrist.
Ziv scanned the note quickly. “Where is the box for me?” he asked Agent LeMaire.
“This was the only box I was given,” the agent answered.
“Are you sure?” asked Ziv. His voice carried a mixture of confusion and disappointment.
“Yes, sir,” Agent LeMaire said.
“Please extend my thanks to the president,” Eben said. The light coming through the high windows of the hangar danced and glimmered off the watch’s crystal facing.
“I shall. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must return to Washington immediately.” He turned on his heel and was gone as quickly as he had appeared.
“It is a very nice watch,” Eben said, twisting and turning his wrist to admire it.
“Hmm,” Ziv said, standing up, ignoring Eben’s gloating. His phone chirped and he answered, listening for a few seconds.
“Understood,” he said, snapping the phone closed.
“The Leopard is on the move. The Monkey must guard her tail. Are you able to travel?”
Eben looked at his new timepiece. “I think I can make the time,” he said dryly.
Disgusted, Ziv stalked out of the hangar to their waiting car. Eben was admiring his watch. But Ziv was wondering about Malak. His phone still in his hand, he pushed the button that would connect him with Boone.