CHAPTER 1

“No! No! No!” she screamed silently to herself. "What is he doing here? Aaron, you clod!"

She was perched inside the tower about halfway up, several feet back from the window to afford no profile outside and to aid in muffling the report of the rifle. She was perched with a heavy-barreled M-16, zeroed for the shot, and resting on a good, solid table with a bipod under the barrel, steadied at the stock by small bag of livestock feed she'd found beside a nearby home. Her site alignment and sight picture were perfect, the spot weld of thumb to cheek exact, her fingers ready for the exact moment of trigger break. She wanted this shot; she’d worked, planned, and waited for this shot for two solid, gut-wrenching weeks.

In the weeks she’d followed bin Batal through the mountains of Iraq, she’d discovered only two places that he might visit consistently – although not systematically – the market and a mosque. She decided to set up in this tower, knowing how difficult escape might be, but the urgency of the mission, bin Batal being a prominent target of opportunity, warranted the risk. Aaron gave her the assignment, but he couldn't know she was here. She hadn’t spoken to him in over a month, now she was contemplating the benefits of shooting him.

Through the scope, she’d seen Aaron begin to follow her target; seen bin Batal at the exchange of packages and money, but that was normal; he followed the ritual somewhere almost daily. Then Aaron’s corresponding movement nearby distracted her, but why was Aaron here of all places? She wanted to scream.

The questions ceased; unless ordered otherwise, she was taking his guy out – now. Grace watched as Aaron reached into his robe and loosed the snap on his holster.

Attuned to his environment, senses tingling and alarmed by the practically inaudible snap of something behind him, bin Batal spun to his right, dropped to his knee and jerked out his pistol, bringing it to bear on Aaron.

Grace had no shot; her control, her friend, was blocking it. She saw he was about to lose a gunfight. Thinking quickly, no longer able to draw a bead on the terrorist, she adjusted her aim slightly to the right and down, squeezing the trigger twice to kick up dust, only inches to the right of the duelists. The unexpected intrusion broke the bin Batal’s concentration, and he looked in the direction from which the bullet had come, his reaction thwarted. Aaron spun also, distracted at the same time, and bin Batal bolted away through the ancient gate, disappearing in a labyrinth of alleys, automobiles and pedestrians.

Aaron also bolted out the gate to attempt a chase, but he lost sight of his objective in the confusion of post-gunfire activity; he hadn’t even gotten his gun into play, and that would haunt him forever, along with the fact that he had been fatally distracted. Standing in the street, he turned to look back in the direction from which the shot had come. He thought he caught some movement in the tower across the square, but was uncertain; it was the best place from which to snipe a target. Disgusted with the outcome, he hurried away before the authorities could arrive.

In the tower, Grace was seething, but her instinct took control. She grabbed her weapon, broke it into two pieces, folded the bipod, slipping it all into her laundry basket. She would soon be just another citizen on her errands. Only her eyes, fierce and focused, belied her outwardly calm activity. She melted into the crowded square composing herself. Her mission was irrevocably compromised, and her target would be long gone to ground before she could even get to her apartment.

LATER IN THE BOOK:

CHAPTER 12
Gunfire drowned out the shouts behind him. Twenty yards to go. He saw the women in the car with the windows down, enjoying the fresh air after the tropical downpour. He angled toward the car on the passenger’s side. The car picked up speed. Asif burst forward as the fusillade gained ferocity, bullets kicking up divots all around him, ricochets whining away. Alerted by the noise, the woman in the passenger’s seat turned to look. Her? He recognized Grace immediately.
    At fully ten feet away from the car, he sprang onto the roof yelling, “Go! Go! Go!”
    Recognizing Asif, seeing their predicament, Grace pulled her weapon, shouting at Indra to get the car moving. Indra asked no questions and floored the accelerator of the sports car following Grace’s orders, uncertain what was happening, except for the gunshots. The tires tried to spin on the rock drive, but the limited slip drive train gained traction, and the car bolted away from a jungle alive with shouting men and staccato reports of repeating rifles.
Asif hung on to the frame of the car’s roof. To fall would mean captivity, torture and a brutal and savage death. He felt several rounds pelt the metal of the car, then the impact of the single, wayward projectile that found him.
    He lay on top of the car, almost perpendicular to the car’s line of travel. The bullet from a Kalishnikov punctured his side. He heard returning fire from the car as they disappeared behind jungle foliage around a curve in the road, finally blocking the attack of the terrorists.
Indra drove as fast as the wet, rocky, and pit-laden road allowed, paying no attention, this time, to the potholes scattered on the surface.
    They would quickly outdistance the hunters remaining on foot, until they commandeered Mr. Agapito’s car, she thought. She knew they would directly. Indra expertly shifted through the gears, getting the best performance possible from her old car, maneuvering around the curves like she was driving on rails.
    Grace kept her pistol in one hand, grabbed Asif’s hand with her other and tried to help him stay on the car.
    “What are you doing here?” she demanded, loudly enough to be heard over the wind rushing through the open windows. “Are you following me?”
    “No, not you,” Asif gasped, “the same man that you follow.”
    “Is that him back there, chasing us?”
    “No, he’s already gone.” Halting the impromptu interrogation, he said, “I’m hit. Help me in, please, so I can check it out.”
    Grace instructed Indra to slow down long enough to slide him through the window, after Grace crawled around her bucket seat into the cramped hatchback.
    They found the bullet had entered Walid’s side at such an angle, it came out his back and didn’t seem to have hit anything vital, but blood was flowing freely. The pain was excruciating. He asked for something to staunch the flow of blood, and Grace reached in her bag, bringing out a hand towel.
    “Here you go,” Grace said, as she handed him the towel, then she noticed the pistol in his lap.
    “Thank you,” he said gratefully.
    Grace let him work for a few moments before letting him know she had a gun trained at his back. They looked at one another, and he acquiesced as she reached to retrieve his pistol.
    He asked, “Do you have a place to hide?”
    “Possibly, but thanks to you, I’m driving another car with bullet holes in it,” Indra said sarcastically, letting Asif know she was displeased with his entrance.
    “I have a place,” said Asif. “Down the coast, a few kilometers.”
    “Right,” said Indra. She pushed the car for all the speed she could control, and soon they came to the main road. She slowed at the stop sign, looking both ways, then floored the accelerator turning right toward town, leaving tracks in the rock and short black skid marks on the highway.
    “The other way!” exclaimed Asif.
    Indra look at him, eyes squinting in anger, and said, “I know that; you told me. Sit back and shut up!”
    A hundred yards down the road, she pulled to the right as far as she could, making a U-turn, once again taking off, but leaving no indication she had turned around. Asif looked at her with a quickly re-assessed respect.
    “My apologies,” he said.
    Indra sneered gratitude.
    Grace kept watch behind, until they rounded the shoulder of the mountain, out of sight of the rock road. She’d let Indra keep tabs in the mirror now, while she questioned their unexpected hitchhiker.
    “Question and answer time, dude,” began Grace.
    “I-I’m following him, too,” Asif volunteered, wincing in pain. “Running into you was a happy coincidence. I’m very lucky you were here.”
    “Only dead people believe in coincidences; you know that.”
    “I didn’t believe in them either. Until now. In this situation, one might call it serendipity, instead.”
    Grace refrained from further debate, “What’s this place we’re going to?”
    “A cove; I have a boat. If you will get me there, I’ll be on my way, and you can go yours.”
    “You screwed that up, pal,” Grace scolded. “They’re after us now, so we can’t go back to town.”
    “I’m truly sorry; it was an accident, I assure you,” he apologized.
    “You’ll still have to convince me, but we’ll get your wound fixed up. Then you’d best be ready to ‘fess up.”
    He told Indra to slow down some, and began looking for his landmarks.
    “There,” he indicated a dead palm tree. Indra eased the car to the edge of the road, looking for a place to conceal it.
She said to Grace, “Take him down, and I’ll ditch the car.” Indra opened the hatchback with the lever by the front seat
    Asif eased out of the seat while Grace climbed out of the hatchback. Grace grabbed her bag and followed the wounded man down the creek bank, then into the trees toward the cove.
    Scarcely had they reached the woods when they heard a commotion. Indra found an area between two large trees covered with thick underbrush and smashed her car directly into it, hiding it from a casual search. She joined them about halfway down the slope to the cove.
    “It won’t stay hidden long,” she said, “so we better hurry.”
    They reached the boat and removed the loose branches. Asif got the first-aid kit and sat in a stern seat while Grace and Indra shoved off. Indra took the wheel; she seemed to have an affinity, and a lust, for speeding vehicles, while Grace was easily more experienced with gunshot wounds.
    As the boat sped away from the island, Grace sat in a seat across from Asif, watching disinterestedly, as he worked on his wound, displaying his knowledge of gunshot wounds. When he unbuttoned his shirt, Grace saw the small knife hanging around his neck and the butt of another pistol at his waistband. Asif looked at Grace, knowing the humiliation she felt, having assumed the Glock was his only weapon.
    He smiled, trying to appear humble, “we really are on the same side, dear lady.”
    “That’s twice you’ve skunked me. Next time it’ll be fatal. Put your piece on the deck, then the knife,” she commanded.

There is much more inside the covers of the book.

HAPPY READING, and Tell me what you think!

HOME BIOGRAPHY