Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

Corben slipped out of the car, trying to move as fast as he could without alarming Farouk. He raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Farouk. I’m a friend of Evelyn’s. You need to come with me.”

Farouk’s eyes darted up the street and back at Corben as he continued to back away from him, the apprehension morphing into outright panic.

“Farouk, listen to me. Ramez was kidnapped this morning by the same men who took Evelyn. It’s a trap. The cops aren’t coming for you, the kidnappers are. They’re on their way here right now.”

“No,” Farouk muttered, before turning and bolting down the street.

Corben frowned and tore off after him, cutting through the swarm of pedestrians blocking his way. Farouk wasn’t moving too quickly, and Corben reeled him in fast. Farouk glanced over his shoulder before suddenly darting into an antiques bazaar. Corben followed him in.

The narrow alleyways of this miniature mall were lined with various shops only accessible from inside the bazaar. The passages were cluttered with furniture and trinkets, a few of them old, most of them forgeries manufactured locally to exacting standards. Corben glimpsed Farouk receding into the darkness to his left. He raced after him, dodging Turkish marquetry side tables and Louis XVI chairs, flying past stunned shopkeepers who yelled out after him. He reached an intersection and saw Farouk to his right, heading down a passage towards another entrance, one that gave onto a side street. Corben accelerated, drawing on every reserve of energy inside him, and closed the gap, reaching Farouk just before the exit. He leapt and grabbed him, pushing him to one side against the glass frontage of a carpet seller.

“What are you doing?” he barked at him as he shook him by his collar. “We don’t have time for this bullshit. They’ll be here any second. I’m trying to save your life.”

Farouk stared at him with petrified eyes. His lips trembled as he struggled for words. “But Ramez…”

“Ramez is dead,” Corben rasped. “You want to be next?”

Farouk’s eyes dropped numbly as he stood there and just about managed to shake his head.

“Come on,” Corben ordered as he pointed him back towards the main entrance.

Just as they turned into the passage that led up to the street, Corben spotted the pockmarked killer. He was on the sidewalk just outside the bazaar, scanning the street for any sign of his target.

Corben shoved Farouk back behind a large armoire that hogged a big chunk of the pathway and pulled out his handgun. He motioned to Farouk to stay silent and peered out. The man was still there, scowling into the street, severe displeasure radiating from his cavernous eyes.

He was also blocking Corben’s route back to his car.

Corben glanced behind him, made sure the passage was clear, and pushed Farouk back into the bazaar. They skirted the edge of the furniture displays and turned into the side alley they had taken before.

“Come on,” Corben urged him as he led him back the way they had come, towards the side entrance he had spotted earlier.

Corben poked his head out and made sure the narrow side street was clear before emerging through the cluttered displays. Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the musty daylight, he prowled down the broken sidewalk, making sure Farouk was close behind, holding his gun low and close to his leg to avoid causing alarm.

He reached the street corner and sneaked a look towards the mosque. The Pathfinder was half a block down, tantalizingly close. Around fifteen yards beyond it was the head thug, still prowling outside the bazaar’s main entrance. Across the street, closer to him, Corben also spotted a double-parked Mercedes sedan. He saw the pockmarked man dart a glance at the car’s driver, who returned the signal with a shake of the head. There had to be at least one more man somewhere around, but he couldn’t see him.

He waited a beat, picked his moment, and told Farouk, “Move,” as he led him out of their cover. He walked quickly, keeping Farouk close, trying to get as much cover from the passing pedestrians as he could, his grip tightened against his weapon, his eyes scanning left and right at the targets ahead.

He was within reach of his car when a younger man with nervous eyes and a slit of a mouth emerged from a coffee shop to his right. The instant recognition was mutual. The man drew his gun and ducked back behind an old man who was stepping into the coffee shop. Corben’s hand hovered for a split second, looking for a clear shot he didn’t have. The frightened old man screamed and moved sideways against the wall. Corben’s shot was still partially blocked and he stayed his trigger finger. Instead, he did something else. He grabbed Farouk from behind and stuffed his handgun into the dealer’s neck.

“You want this, huh? You want me to kill him?” he blurted at the killer.

Corben pushed Farouk forward as he stuck behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the pockmarked man beyond the Pathfinder react to the commotion and draw his weapon. His advantage would only last a second or two more. He edged closer to the SUV and saw the killer from the coffee shop go clear of the passersby as he looked on in confusion. Corben turned his gun on him and pumped two rounds through his chest, the. 357s lifting him off his feet and slamming him backwards across tables and chairs.

“In the car, now !” he yelled to Farouk, pushing him towards the passenger door. All around, people were scurrying and diving for cover. He spotted the head thug, rushing over from the bazaar’s entrance, and loosed a couple of rounds in his direction before pulling his door open and jumping in.

Corben spurred the car to life and hit the gas. He pushed Farouk’s head down, yelling, “Stay down,” at him as the Pathfinder charged into the street, towards the parked Merc. His mind racing, he quickly decided he couldn’t just drive off. He was in a maze of narrow streets, and there was no telling how quickly the traffic would slow to a crawl, or even just stop. They’d soon catch up with them. He needed an extra advantage.

As the Pathfinder careened by the Merc, he stood on the brakes, lurching the heavy car to a screaming halt. He pulled out the Glock and swung it around. The surprised driver dived sideways as Corben unleashed three quick rounds at the Merc’s front tire, obliterating it and causing the Merc to drop downwards. That would buy them some time. He floored the pedal again and screeched off, but as the car accelerated, he spotted a fourth killer emerging from a side street on Farouk’s side, who trained his handgun at the Pathfinder and fired. The shots crunched through the car’s right side just as, in the rearview mirror, the hit team’s leader was shouting at the shooter as he caught up with him. Corben knew he’d be berating him for endangering Farouk. The hakeem needed him alive, which was why Corben had used him to distract the first shooter.

He glared ahead, trying to remember the fastest way out of the rat hole they were lost in. As he did, he heard a groan from Farouk.

He turned and saw the dealer wincing with pain, a crimson patch blossoming alarmingly from his side.

Corben forged ahead for about a mile, threading the Pathfinder through the early-afternoon traffic. On the seat next to him, Farouk writhed and groaned. The dealer kept checking his wound in disbelief, his blood-soaked hands pressing on it as Corben had told him to, all the time muttering to himself and lamenting his fate in Arabic.

Corben had one eye glued to his rearview mirror, but there was no sign of the hakeem’s men. He knew Farouk was in pain, but he needed him to hang on a little bit longer until Corben was sure they were safe. He finally veered off the main road close to the wide concrete canal of the now dry Beirut River, rumbled down a dusty alleyway, and pulled over by some shuttered old garages.