The Destiny Relic: The Gold Lust Series, #4

By Ed Mitchell

Midwest Book Review  ". . . Imagine Indiana Jones-type action with more of a grounding in real-world events and a dash of religious inspection added into the conflicts, to get a sense of the gripping politics and plot of The Destiny Relic, a satisfying foray into Middle East affairs that is hard to put down."

 

SYNOPSIS: Hank Cameron is the most hated and most hunted man in the Middle East. Framed by Sheik Sarraf for stealing a religious relic that could inflame or end warfare around the world, he is isolated in Jordan. A dead or alive bounty has been issued for his capture. Agents of the Vatican, the Israeli Mossad, and Muslim terrorists, all want what he has. Where to hide? Who to trust? Can he survive? Will the world?

This is a full-length counterterroism thriller and is book-4 in Ed's Gold Lust Series. 344 pages.

 

GoodReads Reviewer: Myrna R., UK ★★★★★
"This is a marvelous story, in fact, I will go as far as to say it is outstanding. When I started reading it I never expected it to be so good. It is one of the best books I have read for a long time in this genre. It was a thrill a minute and kept me quite breathless. I never even got up to make myself a cup of tea while I was reading. I did not put it down till I finished the last page. I can highly recommend it."

• Language: English
• Publisher: California Coast Publishing
• Release date: Feb 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780966844788

Ed Mitchell

Ed Mitchell was a foster child who later graduated from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. He went on to be an Airborne Infantry Ranger, a RAND Corporation Fellow, an aerospace systems engineer, and a community activist fighting to protect water resources in California. By weaving his real-world experiences from foxhole to space into his adventure/thrillers, Ed became a national award-winning author for Best Fiction, an Amazon #1 Bestseller, and Bronze winner of the Global Book Awards in self-published historical fiction. Autographed copies are available on Ed's website.

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife

Joanna Lakey Mitchell

who on our 31st wedding anniversary

died in my arms.

As my wife, partner, friend, muse, and most trusted

critic; you made life worth living.

Thank you for being a light for me and for many others.

Character List

U.S. Characters

Hank Cameron . . Graduate student archeology

Cholo Cantera . .  FBI agent

Digger Jorgenson . . Hank Cameron’s uncle

Sergeant Kenyan . . Friar Lawrence’s driver

Friar Lawrence . . The First Guardian

Nolen Martin . . California U.S. Senator

.

Israeli Characters

Ephraim Akhin . . Chief Western Hemisphere Actions

Selemon Eddel . . . Army doctor

Oasis Jazir . .  Mossad Senior Field Agent

.

Jordanian Characters

King Abdulla . . The King of Jordan

Ra’id al-Iraqi . . Leader of Allah’s Avengers in Jordan

Darkar . . Deputy, Sarraf Antiquities Lab

Ameen Nasser . . TV news reporter

Sana Sarraf . . Daughter of Sheik Sarraf

Sheik Sarraf . . Foremost archeologist

Prologue

Warfare has been plaguing mankind for thousands

of years. Often it is a political power struggle

hidden behind religious justification.

Today brave men and women voluntarily

take the risk of trying to end such wars, or at least

reduce the level of conflict.

Others however are often dragged into those wars against their will.

Chapter 1 — Dig

East of the Dead Sea - 3 July 

Dread shivered through Hank Cameron as he studied the low, jagged mouth of the desert cave. He smacked a gloved hand against the crumbling dirt arch to test its stability. A cascade of sand and pebbles buried his boots. Not good, he thought, tasting the bitter cloud of dust as it billowed past his face.

He knew he should wait for the others to arrive. Even his archaeology professor in Washington State had warned him when he described his search plan, Cliff cavities are very dangerous. But youthful excitement drove Hank forward to prove he had found a vault stuffed with treasure and relics of historic value.

He leaned into the dark opening. Yahoo! he hollered. The cave roof did not collapse. Still, he remained cautious. Too often his need to impress people led him into trouble. However, his confidence in using high technology to find a valuable excavation site continued to justify disobeying the orders of Jordan’s most renowned archaeologist. For the sake of Allah, just translate the documents I hired you to read. Nothing more.

With both hands, Hank tossed a heavy rock into the chamber. It crashed against something solid without triggering a rockfall, scarring an animal, or arousing bats to flash past him.

Hopefully, I won’t kill myself. Hank switched on the power pack hanging from his belt. After straightening his reddish-brown hair, he verified that the miniature body camera clipped to his shirt was recording the TV documentary he needed to sell.

As he scanned the barren desert landscape sloping up to the forty-foot-tall sandstone walls he stood between, he began speaking. This is not your grandfather’s archaeology expedition. We’re not looking for a city or a religious site mentioned in the Bible, or an old church, or even a Roman battlefield. No, we’re doing what no one else has ever tried. We’re looking for the buried wealth of merchant clans strung across the Middle East 2,000 years ago. These clans were some of the richest and most influential in the region. They accumulated their fortunes by guiding camel caravans between Turkey and Egypt, and from the Mediterranean Sea to the Persian Gulf.

He faced up the ravine. "So why are we here? Based on my research, I’ve discovered a clan’s village. Along one side of this ravine, you can see a series of side-by-side, rectangular impressions created by rocks barely sticking out of the earth. They are house foundations.

Hank put his foot on a nearby rock. "But the houses are just a hint of what’s here. Careful study of satellite ground-penetrating radar scans, that I ordered of this gap, revealed a secret. There is a deep cavity in the cliff behind this building’s foundation. I think it’s an ancient vault.

Throughout this region thousands of years ago, it was common for villages to have two-story structures. Families lived on the top floor. Animals were kept overnight on the lower level, allowing their heat to rise and warm the family during cool nights.

He turned to the cave opening. Being about twelve feet tall, such a house would have easily hidden this entrance. The homeowner, who was probably the head of the clan, would have also used side fences to block anyone from seeing movement behind the house.

Hank shuddered knowing what he would soon confront. Let’s find out what is inside. He squat-walked his muscular six-foot frame through the low opening. As his body moved from hot sunlight into chilly darkness, blindness disorientated him.

When he knelt to stop banging his head against the inner ceiling, claustrophobia assaulted him. Instantly he wanted to back out of the confining space closing in on him, burying him, suffocating him. His sphincter constricted. His mouth went dry. His mind screamed: Get out! Get out!

To counter the explosion of panic, he chanted assurances seeded by the hypnotist he visited regularly to control his debilitating claustrophobia. I’m safe. I’m helping others. I’ll be okay.

It took a minute until he could physically get beyond his fear. First, he slowed his rapid gasps. Then, with a trembling hand, he slipped a flashlight out of a hip holster and switched on the light. Upon opening his eyes, he almost bolted; blackness strangled the narrow beam. Instead, he concentrated on what little the light exposed to prevent his fear response from surging out of control again.

This is . . . this is my first entry into the cave. Several steps in front of me is a rock wall hiding whatever is deeper inside. It appears to be made of granite. It’s also darker than the local pink sandstone surrounding it. Meaning, it must have been quarried at another site and brought here. Although the surface facing me is unfinished and rough, the quality of workmanship is revealed along the joints between the rock slabs. They are all straight and cemented tight with what is probably very strong Roman cement. Amazing, after more than two thousand years, there are no cracked seams.

Hank moved the light beam as he continued describing the scene. "The cave width and height are about eight feet, once a person reaches the wall. Notice that it rises to the ceiling and disappears behind a supporting brick arch. Over the centuries, some of the ceiling in front of the arch has fallen.

"Luckily, whoever used this cave also planted a mud-brick floor that slopes down toward the outside entrance. So the debris tumbled or slid downhill, choking the entrance but leaving good access to the wall.

These man-made features substantiate that we’ve found a storage vault. But are the caravan clan’s profits here? I’d like to rush forward and find a way through the wall, but first I need to check for anything that might confirm our discovery.

Hank swept his flashlight beam across the floor. Next to the left wall, a glint of light in front of several fallen slabs of sandstone caught his attention. I’ve spotted a bone, or possibly a piece of pottery. He sidestepped to the wall trying to better see the object. It’s pottery, possibly the remnants of a candleholder or container of some sort.

With his gloved hand, he attempted to dislodge the piece from the surrounding dirt. Funny, it’s smooth and clean, almost as if it has been routinely polished.

A sharp rasping, like coarse sandpaper rubbing together, froze Hank. Oh no. Before he could jump away a brown streak shot from between the slabs of rock. Fiery pain dug into his left hand as a snake clamped its fangs deep into his thumb. Hank tried to shake the withering reptile off, but a curved fang snagged in the edge of Hank’s leather glove.

Repeated lightning bolts of fire shot into his hand. He dropped the flashlight and seized the snake just behind its diamond-shaped head. As he fell backward through the cave opening, Hank ripped the menace from the glove and tossed it into the dark. Outside in the sunlight, he lay on his back, grasping his wrist to keep the searing pain from racing up to his heart.

Another loud hiss sent a chill through his body. He looked toward the cave opening. Between his spread-eagle knees, a white-and-brown colored snake slowly raised itself off the ground. It glared at him, within striking distance of his crotch.

Aaaah! He jerked back.

The snake struck, missing its target by an inch.

Like a frightened crab, Hank scooted backward down the sloping ground with the aroused snake following.

Leave me alone, you evil shit!

Again, it rose and struck, only missing by half an inch.

Without stopping, Hank shoulder-rolled sideways onto his feet and ran down the ravine. Nausea and blurred vision caused him to stumble. Slow down. You’re pumping venom deep into yourself.

At the mouth of the ravine’s gap, a wrinkled woman listened to a much younger couple laughing. They stood between off-road vehicles and a trailer parked near a tent. All three turned when they heard Hank’s shout.

Sana Sarraf, veiled, as a proper unmarried Muslim woman should be when around single men, ran toward Hank. What’s wrong?

Snakebite. Hurts like hell.

What snake? she asked.

The bastard chasing me.

There’s no snake near you.

Sana’s college boyfriend, Habir, grabbed Hank and held him upright as he wobbled toward Sana’s Hummer truck.

Grimacing in pain Hank nodded toward the tent. Get my snakebite kit. He leaned against the rear passenger door.

Inside the tent, Sana furiously flipped open flaps around the rucksack. I can’t find it.

In the bottom right pouch. Hurry.

The boyfriend, just a few years younger than Hank, splashed a canteen of water over the lines of blood flowing down Hank’s wrist. "What type of snake was it?

Ugly, with a bad attitude.

I mean, what did it look like? the student said.

White-and-brown splotches, with devil horns on its head.

A horned viper. One bite isn’t deadly because those snakes don’t deliver a lot of poison.

Hank moved his hand covering his wounded thumb, revealing a long tattoo of swollen red punctures. He got me five or six times.

There’s no anti-venom in the kit, Sana called out.

Yesterday, I packed it.

I’ve double-checked. There’s none.

Hank shook his head trying to clear his mind. Someone removed it.

Sana jerked her veil off as she ran back to the two men. You’re crazy. Who would do such a thing?

Several on your dad’s crew hate Americans.

Sana placed the veil around his arm below the elbow and tied the ends into a knot. After slipping a pen under the knot, she twisted the cloth into a tourniquet, Quickly, she tightened it around his forearm as she had been trained in first aid like all members of her father’s archaeology team.

Habir, get him into the back seat. We have to hurry to the nearest hospital. She looked at her wrinkled chaperone. Amra, get in the front seat.

The old woman frowned. It will take us at least an hour to get to a hospital. Allah has chosen his fate.

As good Muslims, we need to try and save him.

We are the ones needing to be saved. I’ll pray for us, not the atheist.

Why is she praying? Hank asked as he crawled onto the rear seat.

Father beat me the last time just for talking to Habir at a mall. Sana sighed. We spoke about marrying in Paris after graduation. Her face turned pale. Father swore if I saw Habir again, he’d have me stoned to death and punish Amra too.

That’s stupid. One of your kings married an American movie star.

The boyfriend gunned the Hummer down the rocky hillside. I’ll find a way to protect you, my love.

Tears slipped down her cheeks. It’s been months since we’ve seen each other. This was my chance to secretly see Habir before the dig began.

Your chaperone . . . guarded you all morning, Hank mumbled.

With family, my father is ultra-conservative. Sana bowed her head. He will only see I was in the desert with an unmarried Christian Arab and with a non-believer.

Hank tried to open his eyes wider and stay alert but barely moved his eyelids. The sheik’s . . . a bad-tempered Sunni.

Amra pointed at Hank. He’s bleeding from his nose. The venom is spreading.

Sana used the broad sleeve of her robe to wipe blood off his face. Do you feel faint?

There’s . . . a way to save you, Hank said. Stop a block from the hospital. You drive . . . away while Habir carries me into the emergency room. None of the staff will see . . . you or your truck.

Someone will ask Habir how he got you to the hospital, Sana replied.

He’ll tell them a farmer drove me to town and . . . couldn’t carry me into the emergency room. After he describes what type of snake the farmer said bit me, he’ll disappear.

Hope returned to Sana’s face. That might work. She placed her hand on the old woman’s shoulder. Amra, you must never tell anyone about this trip.

You should listen to me and not marry outside your faith.

You did.

And I still suffer for it.

But I love Habir.

The old woman raised her hands in the air. Love — a curse upon women. Like me, if you marry Habir, you’ll never see your family again.

Time will heal my father’s pain. After we have children, his heart will soften.

Amra shook her head. Your father has a stone for a heart. He will send men to drag you back to Jordan to suffer sharia justice.

Hank hugged his hand to his chest. Stupid superstitious beliefs, used . . . used to justify killing relatives and neighbors.

Still your tongue, Amra replied. You are the worst type of infidel. You have no faith, no love of God.

Intolerant fools.

The chaperone glared at him. You should beg Allah to let you live.

Whether I live or die, no god is involved. It’s how fast and how much venom . . . gets to my heart and brain.

Amra turned her back on Hank. I should have never allowed my benefactor’s daughter to follow an infidel into the desert.

As the truck bounced down the dry valley, Hank thumbed open the razor-sharp blade of his utility knife. Sana, slice each puncture. Get . . . get the venom out.

Habir, stop!

The young Arab jammed on the brakes making the four-wheel-drive vehicle skid sideways.

This will hurt.

Cut it.

With each stinging slice of the blade, Hank’s tanned skin flayed open.

Ow, ow, ow, he growled.

Once Sana stopped lancing his bloated skin, she loosened the tourniquet.

Hank closed his eyes while she squeezed her hands down his forearm. Bright red blood spilled out of his wounds onto the floorboard. Now wash the venom away.

It would have been better if I had been bitten, Sana murmured, dousing Hank’s arm with water from her canteen.

Stay away from Darkar, Hank remarked as she retightened the tourniquet.

Why do you warn me about my father’s assistant?

He’s dangerous.

Other than wanting to marry me, he has never been a problem.

He’s stealing relics.

That can’t be true. He’s been loyal to our family for years.

Your father ordered me to double . . . check the translation of writings . . . on several valuable . . . Hank’s chin dropped to his chest.

Keep him talking, Habir ordered. We’ll lose him if he goes unconscious.

Sana slapped Hank hard. Stay awake!

He blinked. What was I saying?

Stealing relics, she answered.

The listed artifacts . . . physical inventory didn’t match the computer inventory.

That doesn’t mean Darkar stole anything.

I pulled the electronic history of changes . . . Hank’s lips moved silently, forming unheard words.

Sana slapped him again. Louder!

Darkar was the only one authorized to change inventory quantities. Each day he logged in . . . a quantity . . . was reduced. The last occurred two days before I started my task.

Sana frowned. Darkar could have shipped the items to another museum.

I checked . . . all transfers. No sale or loan of any of the missing items.

Did you talk to Darkar?

After I found a relic worth $200,000 in his office.

What did he say?

Threatened to send me to Iraq in a box. Hank wiped blood off his upper lip with the back of his sleeve.

Did he explain why he had the relic?

He hollered he didn’t have to answer to a non-believer. I bet he sabotaged my kit.

It would have been easier to poison your drinking water, Habir said.

This morning I picked up . . . water containers. Hank struggled to stay conscious. Telephone number in my wallet.

Whose is it?

My uncle. If . . . if I don’t make it.

Habir spoke. Sana, call the closest hospital and verify that they have anti-venom. If they don’t, find out where we should go.

Don’t think such thoughts. Sana checked the time on her cell phone. We’ll reach a hospital in half an hour.

Better to drive to the morgue, the old chaperone added."

Chapter 2 — Retribution

Bahrain - 4 July

Alone, vulnerable, and far outnumbered Oasis Jazir assessed the danger approaching her. Most dangerous was the weapons buyer for Hezbollah, stepping out of the construction site elevator. She hated Hezbollah, the Shi’ite Muslim militia infesting Lebanon and Palestine. Beyond hate, she despised the weapons buyer who had tortured and murdered her mother and sisters.

Emotions from that memory surged through her like the night wind blowing cold through the skeleton of the high-rise in which she stood. Soon you’ll pay, Oasis thought, watching the rifle-carrying bodyguards fan out on each side of her enemy. Even if I die.

The stern-faced men formed an outer perimeter beyond the weak illumination cast by the single string of light bulbs dangling from the unfinished ceiling. Several of the men relaxed after seeing nothing alarming on the recently dried cement floor. Closer to the buyer four men, wearing body armor, provided additional protection even though she, her table, and the equipment it supported had already been searched twice.

Inner bodyguards were in case she somehow carried a broken piece of glass or a few inches of jagged metal to slash the buyer’s throat. If she tried, the front man would stop the attack. And all four obstructed a shot from any far-off sniper. Though, that possibility was remote, since the pillar and flooring framework of the building stood on the outskirts of the capital city of Bahrain. Plus, a scattered platoon of soldiers had searched the few nearby shacks. Another platoon now patrolled in jeeps across tall waves of sand dunes stretching to the ocean and along the entrance road.

None of the bodyguards appeared worried because the buyer would not have stepped onto the thirtieth floor if his security chief hadn’t assured him that it was safe. They had heard the chief vouch that the woman carried no weapons. And no piles of building material were stacked on the roof above or on the floor below to hide bombs. Even the possibility of being dragged off the building to fall hundreds of feet to the ground was eliminated. Safety nets hung outside the edge of the floor where the demonstration would occur, as well as around the two floors below.

The only item Oasis had been allowed to retain was her passport. Its false identification and travel stamps, showing she was a British citizen, passed the security chief’s inspection. And Oasis knew that nothing she wore or left in her hotel downtown revealed she was an Israeli agent, trained to conduct special operations in foreign countries. But this was not a sanctioned high-value target. This was personal.

Her division chief knew nothing of her plan or location tonight. He expected her to be recuperating from her last counterterrorism mission with the United States CIA and FBI. She had reinforced that expectation with a story that she needed to heal her wounds while lying on the beach along the Gulf of Aqaba, at the southern tip of Israel. Which she did for a day, before slipping into Egypt disguised as an old Arab woman bent and moaning from arthritis.

Now, after twenty-five years, one of the last two surviving rapists she pursued approached her. Oasis noticed the buyer showed little interest in her. Not a surprise, given his disregard for women. As she expected, none of the men reacted to the thin layer of cement dust that she had scattered on the floor hours ahead of the meeting.

Now she waited beside one of the main support pillars planted fifteen feet from the outer edge of the building. Behind her glimmered distant lights in the homes, shops, and office buildings forming the sparsely populated boundary of the city. Underneath her black pantsuit, an athletic bra cinched her breasts tight to her chest to remove that distraction, making her less memorable. Gray streaks in her black hair, wrinkles applied around her eyes and mouth, plus slight jowls made her look decades older than thirty-eight.

A yard in front of her a small wooden table supported two modern night vision devices. That cutting-edge technology was what lured the buyer to meet her. She knew that he would not have met a Western woman if it were not for the importance of what she offered to sell. Thank you for coming, Sheik Shallah, she said with a British accent.

He studied her not saying anything.

She raised the night vision device. I can fit a headset on you. The front bodyguard grabbed his pistol in its holster. She stopped moving forward. Sorry. She held a palm toward the sheik. Do it yourself.

Why do you bring me these devices?

During Jewish incursions into Gaza and Lebanon—

"Jews are bastards!"

Oasis nodded. Hezbollah forces have not been able to stop Jewish units from hunting them down at night and killing their men.

Those who die for Allah are happy in heaven.

I felt Hezbollah would gladly pay my price once you confirm the thermal viewing torches will switch the night fighting advantage to Hezbollah.

That would make the evil Jews hesitate to fight our brothers at night.

Wearing these devices, jihad fighters can inflict terrible casualties upon your enemies during any future invasion.

But you are a non-believer. Why help us?

I’m not into politics or religion. I just want to sell a few thousand of these and retire.

Your skin is the same color as many Muslim women.

She answered with a lie. My father was in the British Army. He married my mother in India.

The sheik tapped the front bodyguard. Inspect one of the devices.

At the table, the bodyguard lifted the electronic and optical sections connected by webbing.

Surprisingly lightweight, aren’t they? Oasis said.

Yes, the bodyguard answered.

Watch me put my set on. Place the netting     on your head, battery pack to the rear, and barrel forward. Pull the side-tabs to tighten the head straps until the rear and front pieces are comfortably balanced.

The Arab followed her instructions. Where is the on button?

She raised the viewing section off her eyes. Don’t push anything yet. These are ten times more sensitive than the night vision goggles some of the guards are wearing tonight. Let me turn off the overhead lights first to ensure you don’t damage the light sensor. After reaching behind the nearby pillar, darkness flooded the floor. Now feel on the top left side of the front piece for the on/off switch. Push it forward for on.

Though Oasis could see the white images of the guards, she knew that most of them could only make out the edges of her silhouette as she moved in front of the far-off lights to her rear. The few who wore standard night vision goggles scanned the group near the table before turning to watch their assigned sector. Now take the protective cover off the barrel lens. Twist the dial on the optics barrel to change the magnification.

Good, very good, the bodyguard said. I can see all of our men at the roadblock and count how many jeeps are patrolling around the building.

Sheik, during the demonstration you’ll see how much better these night vision devices are than any you have ever used.

Bring a pair to me.

Oasis watched the buyer fit the night vision device to his head then glance up and down, left and right, adjusting the focus while getting used to the scene appearing inside the viewing glass. Casually she placed her left hand onto her belt buckle that contained a small, wireless transmitter. Sheik, please come up to the table. You’ll be able to better see the demonstration on the ground. She retreated closer to the pillar to make her enemy feel less wary.

When he stopped at the table, she resumed her sales pitch. A quarter-mile away you can see a small hut in the dunes. Yes?

Wait . . . yes, I see it.

Hidden behind the dunes are several men. Once your security chief calls them on his cell phone they’ll move toward the hut. One man will fire a single round and move into the shack to hide.

Abruptly a bodyguard shifted in front of the Sheik.

Notice that even though the men move below the lip of the dune these devices detect the heat shimmer drifting above the sand from several bodies. Watch how the shooter uses the wall of the hut to avoid being observed. This device is so sensitive that it will detect through the wall the heat from the recently fired weapon revealing the man’s location.

That’s impossible.

Shall we begin?

Yes, I’m ready.

Halfway through the demonstration, she saw a smile emerge on the sheik’s face. Amazing, he said, they can’t hide.

Nor can you. Oasis rolled behind the wide pillar and pressed the transmit button. Electricity flashed into the micro-detonator connected to a half-ounce of hardened high explosive inside the plastic frame of the goggles the men wore.

Once the shockwave passed, a shower of bullets splattered into and around the pillar protecting her. Rounds kept cracking past her as Oasis ran through the cloud of cement dust billowing in the air, blinding any guard from clearly seeing her movement. After counting five steps she jumped off the building.

The impact of her weight on the outer strands of the safety net, that she had cut and lightly glued back together, popped apart. Awkwardly she dropped ten feet to the second net. When she hit the lower net, also prepared by her, it separated without slowing her. The third sagged but stopped her fall. Above her the guards, as trained, continued reacting to a surprise attack with massive counter-fire.

She wiped cement dust off the barrel lens before hauling herself onto the twenty-eighth floor. No guards.

Unexpected yellow tracers flashed from a Kalashnikov automatic rifle thrust under the edge of the floor above her by a guard that saw her fall past his post. She scrambled behind a pillar avoiding the un-aimed bullets ricocheting off the hard cement floor. Once the firing stopped, Oasis ran to a forklift.

Repeatedly she smashed her clasped hands into the stiff sides of the four-inch-thick backrest of the driver’s seat until the black plastic cover separated from the metal frame. Grasping the cover, she yanked with all her strength ripping it off a hidden parachute.

The clatter of boots coming down the metal staircase caused her to grab the pistol stored with the parachute. She dropped behind the forklift as two men sprayed the darkness with rifle fire. When the bursts of deadly hot bullets ended, she knew the excited soldiers were switching to new magazines.

They had made a mistake. One of them should have slowed his fire so both would not run out of bullets at the same time. Her first shots punched through the chest of one Arab forcing the second to scramble up the stairs. But her next bullet crashed into his leg.

She swung the parachute onto her back and snapped arm and leg straps into a quick-release bracket centered on her chest. Behind her, a bell announced the freight elevator doors were about to open causing her to race for the edge of the building facing the ocean. Like an Olympic diver, she cleared the outer rim of the safety net and fell headfirst toward the ground, two-hundred-seventy-feet below.

Halfway down to the parking lot a black canopy popped open, slowing her descent. She pulled the toggles above her head