David Hagberg - End Game

Alex pushed the Range Rover through Beit Dagan on Highway 1, turning south when she reached Highway 6. They’d been at the compound now for nearly ten minutes, according to Otto. He managed to repurpose a Keyhole satellite that was permanently looking down on the region to pinpoint the compound, even to the detail that the driver of the Mercedes van was still outside and on his second cigarette, and that two men were leading a small flock of sheep off to the west.

Traffic was picking up, but Alex had gotten used to driving on the left within the first few minutes. From day one, her instructors had given her high marks: She’s nothing if not a quick study.

She was driven, had been since she was a small child battling the abuser her mother had married. Her psych eval people had reported she was not in touch with reality, but actually, she knew the difference between her fantasy world and the real one; hers was nothing more than a defense mechanism.

You did what you had to do to survive. The Army Rangers knew that score: Adapt, improvise, survive! Hoorah!

“You’ll turn off on Highway four forty-three,” Otto said. Her cell phone was in speaker mode on the seat next to her.

“How far?”

“About five miles.”

“Then what?”

“There’ll be a dirt road leading up through an olive grove. The general’s house is on the other side, just below the crest.”

Their conversation was encrypted. Whoever was monitoring the call would not be able to decrypt it anytime soon, nor would they be able to pinpoint either phone, except that their techs would guess that both phones were probably somewhere in Japan, or perhaps coastal mainland China. Otto loved screwing with the other side’s techies.

“Are you monitoring their conversation?”

“I’m getting no signal. I think they took Mac’s phone and pulled the SIM card. But I don’t think the general is your George.”

“Why not?” Alex demanded. She wanted to get there, look him the eye, and put a bullet into the middle of his forehead. What he had done to her in Iraq was far worse than anything the guy her mother had married had done to her.

“In the first place, he’s a cripple. Took a round in the spine from a sniper about eight years ago. He’s been confined to a wheelchair ever since.”

“I don’t believe it!” Alex shouted, a black rage rising inside her. She didn’t want to believe it, now that she was so close.

“He’s retired Major General Chaim Yarviv, married thirty-seven years to Merriam, three children, two granddaughters. Before he got hurt, he was deputy director of Aman.”

“No.”

“I’m sure he knew about the operation in Iraq before the second war, and he almost certainly knew George. Means he should have the answers we’re looking for.”

“Not the ones I need!” Alex screamed. She’d wanted to say the ones they wanted , but it didn’t come out that way. “George told me to come. I sent him the message, and he got it.”

“Leaves two possibilities. Either the general directed the killings, or someone else we don’t know about has done it.”

“Christ.”

“Listen, Alex. If the general is masterminding this operation — never mind the question of for what reason — he won’t hesitate to kill Mac and Pete if you barge in there, gun blazing. Think it out.”

“I’ve had more than ten years to think it out.”

“There’s no powder in the bullets. Just sand.”

“Why? Why give me a weapon? Why lead me here?”

“I needed to give them the time to make contact with George, or whoever it was who responded to your message,” Otto said. “Turn around and go back to the hotel. Once Mac and Pete are out of there, they’ll pick you up and take you to the airport. With any luck, all of you will get out of Israel in one piece.”

It suddenly struck her that Otto was not sure. “You don’t know if it’s the general.”

“I’m betting it’s someone else.”

“Why?”

“A hunch.”

“We’ll see,” Alex said, and tossed the phone out of the car.

The dirt road was easy to spot; it was the only one at that distance leading up a hill through a grove of olive trees. Alex stopped a few meters up and, making sure no traffic was coming, pointed the pistol out the window and pulled off a shot.

The Beretta bucked in her hand. Otto had been lying to her.

She continued slowly up the hill until just before the top, where she pulled off to the side of the track, parked the Range Rover, and headed away on foot.

Near the top of the hill, she checked over her shoulder for traffic on the highway, but at this distance, she would not be identifiable by anyone passing by.

She got down on her hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way to the top, where she rose up just enough to see the sprawling stone house and the outbuildings to the west. Nothing moved. She had a clear sight line to the Mercedes van, but the driver who Otto said had been leaning up against it, smoking a cigarette, was gone, and other than a small flock of sheep well off into the distance — maybe a mile away — nothing moved.

Backing away until she was well below the crest, she got to her feet. Her wrists and the palms of her hands were scraped from the rocky soil, but now that she was this close, she was mindless of the minor discomfort.

She brushed the dirt off the knees of her jeans and headed in a trot to the west, figuring she would approach the house by keeping the outbuildings between her and the windows on that side.

About seventy-five meters from the dirt road, she got on her hands and knees again and crawled to the crest. The house was to her left, the first of the four outbuildings directly below. Off in the distance the sheep had spread out over the hillside. There was no sign of their shepherds, or of any other person.

Pulling out the pistol, she jumped up and sprinted down the hill toward the small stone building, reaching its safety in less than fifteen seconds. There, she held up.

Peering around the corner, she could see the right side of the Mercedes van, but the driver had apparently gone inside.

Something wasn’t right.

She started to turn as the muzzle of a rifle touched her on the cheek.

“Please drop your weapon to the ground,” a man said.

Out of the corner of her eye, she got the impression he was one of the shepherds who’d taken the flock up the hill. He was dressed in old corduroy slacks and a bulky wool shirt. They’d been waiting for her.

“No trouble, please. You came to talk to the general, and that’s exactly what will happen if you cooperate. Your friends are already inside.”

“This pistol has a twitchy trigger. I’ll lay it on the ground,” Alex said.

As she bent down, the man stepped back, which is exactly what she expected he’d do. She batted the rifle barrel away, rose up, and jammed the pistol into the man’s face, just above the bridge of his nose.

“Assuming your Uzi doesn’t have a twitchy trigger, please drop it on the ground, and we’ll go talk to the general,” she said.

“The general is not your George,” someone said from behind her.

She looked over her shoulder.

“Not worth dying when you’re being offered what you want,” he said. He was pointing a SIG Sauer at her.

“Makes sense,” said the shepherd in front of her, still holding his Uzi.

She lowered the Beretta to the ground.

McGarvey and the others looked up as Alex came down the front hall, one of the shepherds behind her. Her jeans were dirty, and a little blood was oozing from a cut on her left wrist. Otherwise, she looked unharmed, except for a fierce look of hatred and anticipation mixed with what might have been a little fear.