Chapter 7
The sand crinkled under her boots, the dusty pathway providing the only source of audible company in the deserted alleyway. The wind had all but died down completely, leaving an eerie sort of silent vacuum in its place. No longer was there the off-distant sound of machine gun fire rattling throughout the air. No longer were there the occasional explosions of RPGs hitting their targets. There was nothing that sounded remotely dangerous in the surrounding environment. There was nothing but her own boots that was causing any noise whatsoever. Nothing but silence.
That was what was so worrying.
In her experience, Ziva had never encountered a situation where silence meant anything that foreshadowed a good turn of events. It was a void- emptiness that cloaked what was just beyond the next corner. She didn't like that. In combat, at least she knew what she was facing; she had an idea of how to confront her threat and she could take the necessary steps to neutralize that threat before it could materialize- quickly, cleanly, and with no collateral damage.
But there was no confirmed threat that she could see here. No militant present to attack, no gunfire to give her a position. Just a silent threat- the silence which concealed an ever present, yet unknown danger. She could feel it in her gut; all her time spent with Mossad had taught her that if there ever was no sign of a threat at all, it usually meant that there was a very big one that was well concealed. It was these threats that that were the most dangerous; you could be caught off guard at any moment, and if you were unprepared for such an occurrence, you wouldn't be going home at the end of the day.
How could she describe the situation she now found herself in? Separated from her team, wandering down a long and twisted alleyway which contained nothing but brick walls, a couple of houses on either side, and the occasional rat for company- it was not a situation she relished and would long for on any day of her life. Though the truth was, she felt slightly more at peace here when she was alone, away from the group she had joined at the behest of her father. Even though they were effective as a unit, on a personal level she wasn't sure she was entirely comfortable with her situation. Korella was alright, she decided. The team leader and CIA operative was a highly efficient commander who knew his field work and didn't take any funny business from anyone, including his own squad. It often put him at odds with certain members of the team, but overall he had kept a tight order and was able to bring his squad home alive at the end of each day. She respected him for that.
Raynes got on her nerves slightly, but she didn't let him get to her. She had known plenty of- what was the expression the British always used?- cheeky individuals in her life, but none quite so capable of spinning endless witty remarks with such apparent ease and with no fear of reproach or punishment from Korella. The Manchester native was a highly efficient marine, there was no question of that, but she often noticed when he made those remarks, he would cast his eyes down first, as if he was almost afraid of showing the first impression he would make when looking directly at the person he was talking to. Then, of course, he would glance up, having gotten himself completely under control, and went back to blabbering on with traditional British humour. It was a weakness, she recognized- a weakness that he was apparently unaware of, and if she could see it, there was a good chance that any enemy he ever may encounter could see it as well.
Mjele was a study in contrast to her; on one hand he seemed like a well-intentioned soldier whose views of the world had been slightly hardened by all the hardships he had been a part of. On the other hand, he seemed to grow more and more distant with each mission. She didn't get a bad feeling from him- more a feeling of cool disposition. He seemed to withdraw more and more as the days went by. She could understand his situation; the more you immerse yourself into the world of violence and unrest, the more likely you are to remove yourself from the rest of the world and surround yourself with things you have grown accustomed to. It happened far too often in the IDF; she had seen in numerous times- too many times actually. All the disorder and instability you combat on a day-to-day basis, you find yourself drawn to, and even impressed by if you're not careful. She didn't think he had come to that just yet, but you could never tell unless you directly asked the person about it. Once or twice, she'd tried to raise the subject with him, but he had just brushed it and dismissed any allegations about that, saying that hardening is an inescapable fact of life in this business, and that he had the means to keep himself in the real world. That was all very fine but thinking something was a lot different than actually experiencing it. There were times when she wondered about his mental state and whether he was iron-headed as he tried to portray himself.
And then there was Asher…
Ziva frowned. It seemed that whenever she thought of her Canadian partner, all she got was a sense of displeasure and an odd sense of foreboding. It was as if everything she had come to associate with him was somehow steadily working against her. His attitude, she thought definitively, was definitely not one she had come to approve of. His skills, as she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, were unquestionable; she'd even go as far as to say he was nearly a match for her when it came to hand-to-hand combat. Nearly- that was the thing she kept reminding herself. It wasn't a matter of pride; it was a matter of her own safety. Anyone who was at least capable of matching her, she kept her eye on, friend or foe…
Which one was Asher truly to her? He was on her team- he was fighting the same enemies as she was- but was he truly with her? She honest to God could not answer that. It seemed that every single time there was a chance to show her up or make her doubt the strict code she followed, he took it. Damascus was a clear example of that. In Damascus, it seemed as is his sole objective was showing that he was better at what he did than her. It seemed as if he was intent on showing her that he was better at what she did than her. That disturbed her. As good as she was at her job, she never tried to prove anything to anyone. She never looked at it as something to give free reign to every time she needed to accomplish a goal. It was a skill that had saved her life when it was danger- that was it. It was not something to show to everyone else as an example of her capabilities. That was the main difference between him and her. The other one, and she had to admit to herself that it scared her a little bit to think of it, was that unlike Asher, she never felt she had to lose her humanity to do what was necessary. She was still her own person- for better or worse. How long ago had he let his own morality, if he ever had any, slip away into the dark abyss of chaos?
These questions troubled her greatly. Walking along the alley with her gun held in the ready position between her legs, she wondered if there was even a possibility that this mission could be accomplished without repetitions of the last one. Knowing Asher as she did, she was beginning to think that was a complete impossibility.
Keeping her eyes on the path, she took notice of her surroundings. The alleyway, which had been running straight for several hundred metres, had a sharp curve to right, the cracked brick wall giving way to a solid yellow one which seemed to carry on past the corner.
Ziva gripped her gun tightly. According to the intelligence gathered, the square which the three paths the team members had split up to take should be just around this very corner. The reconnaissance photos taken prior to the mission had indicated it was a large open space with a single road leading towards the building occupied by the target. During her assessment, she had calculated that it was a very high risk area with little in the way of cover and a very good area for snipers. Ziva wasn't sure how well trained any militants they encountered would be in sniper attacks, but she wasn't willing to leave anything to chance.
Pressing herself against the wall just beside the opening to the square she took a deep breath. Gripping her gun tightly in front of her, she looked directly in front of her, waited a single moment, and then quickly spun around the wall, aiming the gun directly in front of her.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
There are few things a field operative can train for. They can train for combat, train to resist interrogation, train for any possible obstacle that is placed in their way. It is what they are supposed to do, what they should do, what they need to do in order to accomplish their goals.
But few things can prepare you for what affects your mind. What you see in this line of work and how it affects you are entirely up to chance. If you're capable, you can get past it and move on without suffering any lasting effects.
How many people can confidently say that they are capable of seeing an entire square filled with bodies lying everywhere, all badly massacred, some alight and still on fire, right in front of their eyes? Civilian bodies? Those of women and children among them?
Ziva could not accurately answer that. In fact, she wasn't sure she could answer that at all. Even if she could, she didn't think she'd believe herself. The fact that she was merely standing in shock at the scene instead of assessing the situation and determining the best course of action confirmed that in her mind.
"Oh my God…" Ziva wasn't sure if the little voice she had heard was her own voice or the voice in her head. Regardless of which it was, it accurately reflected her own personal view of the situation. What other reaction could she have? Technically, as an experienced Mossad agent, she should have had a calm and collective one, but she wasn't thinking as a Mossad agent now. She was thinking as a human being.
Holding her gun in one hand, she walked slowly forward towards the nearest body; a little boy, probably no more than eight years old, lying on his stomach facing towards her. His eyes stared blankly into her own, lifeless, as though searching for answers. Ziva felt like he was asking her personally, 'Why did this happen to me? What did I do?'.You existed, little one, she thought. You existed.
Kneeling beside the boy's body, she slowly brought her hand towards his face and brushed her fingers over it. She was a little surprised, and then slightly sickened, to discover that his body was still warm. Her first thought, that of a Mossad officer, was that this meant that he had been dead only a short while and that whoever had killed him could still be close by. Her second thought, that of a human being, was what she could have done to prevent this, to save the life of not only this young innocent kid, but also the countless other people that now lay scattered like trash in this square. If she could only have moved faster, instead of being slowed down by her own personal thoughts and concerns, she might have been able to stop this massacre from ever taking place. Could she have stopped it from happening? That was a question that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Staring back into the boy's eyes, Ziva tightened her mouth into thin line. This was something she had seen before, but for some reason it had never had such an impact on her. She wondered if the boy had met his end quickly and painlessly, hoping that was indeed the case. For a moment, she was glad that she couldn't see his front, as there were no apparent injuries to back part of his body; she was worried about what she may discover if she were to turn him over.
Lost in thought for a second, Ziva's attention was suddenly distracted again. There was something that had caught her almost unaware- a sound of some kind not so far from the square. Her Mossad instincts and mind immediately took over; she quickly spun around and held her gun at a ready position.
There was nothing and no one in the square, except for herself and the countless corpses. Nothing to confront, nothing to shoot at. Yet she was sure she was not mistaken; she had definitely heard a noise somewhere close to her. She couldn't see it, but it was certainly there. The unseen threat was almost as bad as the unendurable silence she had not long ago been concerned about. The only difference is, with this one there was a definite threat. While she could prepare slightly for that, she had no idea of exactly what she was facing. All she knew was that she was in a wide open space with virtually no cover and no way of escape that was secure- a very, very bad position to be in.
Keeping her gun in front of her, she suddenly twisted her head around. She had heard it again- it was growing stronger; a steady rumble and low roar. An increasingly intense noise that seemed to converging upon the square.
Ziva looked back and forth, twisting her head in one direction after another. Although the noise was definitely growing stronger, she had no idea where it was coming from. With no definite lock on which direction she should cover, she had no way of keeping herself from being completely exposed to the threat. She felt the hairs on the back of her scalp begin to rise up in fear…
Breathing rapidly, she listened as the roar continued to get louder. She hesitated for a moment, racking her brain frantically, trying to determine what the sound was. It was so very familiar. It sounded very much like…
Her mind expelled the words motorcycle engine a split second before it occurred. The low rumble suddenly turned into a loud roar, emanating from right behind her. Whipping around, she saw it- a huge motorcycle flying through the air right towards her. It had seemingly come out of nowhere, rising from the depths of hell like demonic creature. Focusing her eyes on the bike, she noticed the rider was carrying a very large machete in one of his hands. He swung it downwards as he descended, the blade coming right towards her face…
Ziva threw herself to the side just in the nick of time. She heard the crash of the motorcycle land just a few feet away from her, followed by the roar of the engine as it sped past. Rolling on the ground several times, she got herself into a kneeling position, aiming her gun towards the rider.
The motorcycle stopped about thirty metres away from her and spun around. The rider, brandishing the machete in the air, let out a shout in Somali.
Ziva's eyes zipped away from the original target, focusing on the sole path towards the target area. A second biker had appeared, revving his bike engine. This one had no machete, but that didn't ease her mind one bit. Hearing another engine roar behind her, she turned around just in time to see another rider with a machete come at her full speed. She just barely moved out of the way in time as the machete was coming towards her head.
There were now at least half a dozen motorcycles, some of the riders brandishing machetes in the square now, zooming all around her, navigating not so carefully between the bodies lying in the square. Ziva stood up and whipped her gun around. She swore under her breath; no hope of landing a clear shot on any of them. The blur of them racing around her was kicking up quite a bit of dust, obscuring her view, rendering her pistol training largely useless.
Ziva spun around again. Two of the riders, both with machetes, were now lined side by side, accelerating towards her at a frightening speed. Taking aim, she squeezed off a round from her pistol, followed by another. Continuing to fire, she heard the rounds bounce off the motorcycles, but it did nothing to stop or slow them down. Unable to get a clear shot at the actual attackers, she could do little to actually eliminate the threat. Gritting her teeth, she flung herself to the left just before the bikes ran her over. She landed hard on her left shoulder, and clenched her teeth as she felt a wave of pain soar through the affected area. She ignored it and willed herself to stand.
Looking around her, she knew she would never be able to fight off all these enemies by herself. The odds were just too much- she had finally run into an obstacle she could not surpass. She had been wrong- it was an external threat that she would end up being taken down by. It was this threat that would be the very last one she ever encountered…
Turning to the left, she saw a lone rider speeding towards her at top speed. Drawing in a deep breath, she prepared her weapon. She would not let her fear overwhelm her, she decided. If she was going to go down, she was going to go down fighting.
Then, as if on cue, it happened. The rider, speeding towards her with a maniacal look in his eye, suddenly flew off the bike to the side, his face consumed by a cloud of his own blood. He rolled around several times before coming to a permanent stop. The bike fell to its side, skidding off away from her.
Brows furrowed, moth slightly open, Ziva looked around in confusion. Though she could see no one, there was no mistaking what had just happened- someone had just shot the rider dead clean off his bike.
On the other side of the square, the sniper re-adjusted his focus and peered down the scope. Another rider was zooming from the opposite direction towards Ziva. Taking aim, he coolly focused on his target and pulled the trigger. A loud crack echoed throughout the square and the rider, hit directly in the chest, flew backwards in a back flip off the motorcycle, dead before he hit the ground.
Ziva spun her head in the direction of the noise, where she saw the cause for sudden turn of events. On the other side of the square, crouching behind the burnt-out wreck of a car was Asher. His sniper rifle resting on the car's hood, he had a look on his face that ranged somewhere between determination and satisfaction as he squeezed off another shot. A machete wielding rider was hit directly in the chest and was blown backwards right off the bike. A second biker, right behind this one, couldn't turn fast enough and hit the first rider's body head-on. The bike flipped over so that the wheels were facing upward. There was a sickening crack as the rider was crushed under the mass of metal.
Catching her breath, Ziva turned around and saw the rest of the unit racing into the centre towards her position. Korella was keeping the front covered while Raynes and Mjele watched the back and covered the left and right areas respectfully.
Across the square, a small smile crossed the lips of Asher as he pulled the trigger of his sniper rifle again. The bullet exited the barrel and seemed to move in slow motion, spinning round and round, like a heat-seeking missile, before it finally struck the gas tank of one of the motorcycles. The entire bike suddenly exploded and burst into flame, sending the alight rider flying through the air.
Ziva, mesmerized by the scene, was suddenly brought to reality when she heard the roar of another bike behind her. Turning around, she saw the rider zoom directly towards her. Acting quickly, she brought her pistol up in front of her and quickly squeezed off three rounds. They all hit dead centre, and the biker crumbled off the bike, sending it spinning out of harm's way.
Hearing another roar, she whirled around to see the final biker about fifty feet away, revving his engine up for one large charge.
Taking aim at him, she pulled the trigger, but the hammer merely clicked, signalling the magazine was empty. Letting out a cry of frustration, she pulled the gun close to her and pulled out the useless magazine.
The rider swerved his back wheel back and forth, preparing for the attack…
Ziva looked up just as the biker punched the gas pedal, racing towards her at top speed. She sharply drew in a breath as she watched the biker zoom directly towards her. She could see the wild-eyed look on his face as he prepared to run her down like an animal…
There was a sudden crack and the biker, hit in the back of the head, flew forwards off his bike, landing on the dusty ground. The motorcycle was skidding across the square and crashed heavily into a wall.
Standing on the other side, Korella slowly lowered his scoped assault rifle, a look of- she'd have to say pride on his face.
Nodding towards her direction to Raynes and Mjele, the three quickly jogged over towards her. Ziva, slightly out of breath, but otherwise alright except for the pained shoulder, walked over to greet them.
"I can't say how good it is to see you, sir." Ziva said truthfully.
"I can't say how glad I am to see you in one piece, David." Korella's voice was half-concern, half-business. "We raced here as soon as we heard the commotion." He stared at towards all the bodies. "Unfortunately, it looks like we arrived too late for a good many innocent people."
"Speaking of which, just what the hell happened here?" Raynes asked earnestly.
"The reach of al-Shabaab," rumbled Mjele. "Extremist bastards kill anyone who remotely disagrees with their harsh interpretation of Islamic law, even if they have to do it Rwandan-style."
"But, there are dozens of bodies here!" Ziva exclaimed, wide-eyed. "Children among them! What harm do children do to them?"
"The new generation," replied the South African. "If they don't get them quickly, they may start thinking for themselves." His mouth formed a tight line. "And we all know the biggest threat to any group that suppresses anything is free thought."
"Be that as it may," interrupted Korella, "I still wish we could have gotten here sooner."
"You're getting slow on your feet, Jack." Asher's voice interjected. Ziva turned to see her partner saunter towards the group, in no rush, still carrying his sniper rifle with a bemused expression on his face. "Your kill tally is getting lower with each mission- one terrorist out of, what, seven?" He scoffed. "I expected better from a CIA operative."
"This is not a goddamn contest Ballack!" Korella barked. "We're out here trying to stop extremist militants and terrorists from launching attacks against innocent people- both in our countries and in theirs- not to see how many kills we can get in a day. I would advise you to keep that in mind and watch what you do and say very carefully. If not, I might just feel the need to remove any internal threats we face as well as external ones permanently! Is that clear?"
Asher, his face rather impartial and still looking bemused, replied, "Chrystal."
"Alright." The American turned back to the rest of the squad. "Now, the way the intel has been presented, the target is in his safe house approximately half a click to the north. The only path to it is down that alley." He pointed to the opposite side of the square. "And since it's a pretty safe guess that we lost the element of surprise during our little interruption here, I'd advise you all to prepare yourselves for the fight ahead. David," He looked towards Ziva. "Take a moment to collect yourself, and then join us at the entrance to the alleyway."
Ziva nodded. "Understood sir."
Korella motioned to Raynes and Mjele. "Let's go, guys."
Ziva took several deep breaths. That had been a little too close for comfort; at least her comfort. She had missed dying by a tiny margin that time. And she was in no mood to experience that again anytime soon.
She turned towards Asher, who was still holding his rifle and looking at her with a look of the upmost interest. She felt her frustration level increase. Part of the reason she had come so close to death was because of him and his uncaring attitude. She had no patience for anyone who didn't tackle such situations seriously.
Walking towards him, she said in an irritated voice, "Speaking of being slow on your feet, you sure took your time getting here!"
A smile creased his face. "I always made far better entrances than you," he replied, pointing towards her.
"And what entrances would those be, Asher?" Ziva asked heatedly. "The one that involves coming to the aid of your teammate at the very last second? Or the one that involves massacring every living thing in sight?"
"Enjoy it while you can, old partner." Asher's tone was smooth, as was his face. "Sooner or later, the time is going to come. And one day," he raised his eyebrows and shook his head, "I'm not going to be there to help you."
Throwing him a cool glance, Ziva walked past him towards the exit alley. Behind her, she heard the Canadian continue to talk.
"But don't worry; you've got nothing to fear. Why should you? After all, you're exactly like me. You just haven't realized it yet…"
