 
*~*

COIL EXTRACTIONS

### A COIL Short Story Collection

### Book 1

### D.I. Telbat

*~*

Copyright © 2012 D.I. Telbat

Updated 11/2019

Smashwords Edition

D.I. Telbat Author Pages

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There is no redemption without sacrifice.
*~*

_COIL Extractions_ is a COIL Short Story Collection, a sampling of D.I. Telbat's Suspenseful Fiction with a Faith Focus. The stories are based on themes and characters found in The COIL Series. You can find Short Story Collection Book 2 at COIL Recruits for Christ.

*~*

These stories are a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

*~*

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this FREE eBook. D.I. Telbat prays that you are greatly blessed with these stories. Please send your friends to the D.I. Telbat Smashwords page here to get their own FREE copy of COIL Extractions, and to discover other works by this author. It would also greatly help the author if you would leave your comments or review wherever you downloaded this book. Thank you, Reading Friend!
*~*

Dedication

To the men and women who give sacrificially

to serve their Christian brothers and sisters

in the hard places of the world,

with no seeming recognition.

But the Lord knows.

Your crowns await you in heaven.
*~*

Table of Contents

Title and Copyright Page

Dedication

Extraction: China

Angel in the Bush: Vietnam

Extraction: Eritrea

Mexican Hospice

Extraction: Pakistan

Moved by Kindness

Standing Together: An Alleyway Intervention

Extraction: Colombia

Secure Worship: Belarus & Brunei

Extraction: India

High-Wire Rescue

Operation Afghanistan: Corban Dowler Undercover

Extraction: Vietnam

Other Books by D.I. Telbat

About the Author

BONUS Chapter: _Dark Liaison_ : _A Christian Suspense Novel_
*~*

#  Extraction: China

by D.I. Telbat

Ruben Lopez checked his bullet wound as he leaned against a brick schoolhouse. He was in one of the many small cities in China's Sichuan Province. The bleeding had stopped, but he feared it would start again if he was forced to move too quickly.

The thirty-five-year-old Mexican-American forced his mind from the pain to the mission he'd been given. The mission that cold night—to extract a South Chinese Christian evangelist from his prison cell and move him to South Korea before he was executed. It had been successful to a point. The evangelist and Ruben's Special Forces team had successfully fled east toward Beijing, but then Ruben was wounded and separated from his team. Left for dead, Ruben considered his options in Qu County. He had to somehow make contact with his team again.

Months prior, the brick schoolhouse to his right had been a pile of rubble from the massive Sichuan Province earthquake. Much had changed since then, but Ruben knew that the underground house churches were running as strong as ever. Ruben's Christian special ops organization, COIL—the Commission of International Laborers based in New York—had even smuggled in hymnals through Hong Kong to a residence not far from where he stood.

With a prayer for guidance, Ruben pushed off the brick wall and walked into a paved street full of cracks and potholes. Around midnight, he'd traded his watch for a Chinese parka, and he now wore the hood and turned up the collar to hide his foreign features. In a holster high on his right side, he carried an NL-1 air pistol, a non-lethal weapon that fired up to thirty tranquilizer pellets. Though it wasn't much against a Party soldier's live ammo, COIL's operatives refused to carry lethal weapons. It would be hard to show Christ's love if they were trying to kill the enemies of Christ.

An hour later, around two o'clock in the morning, Ruben found the address he'd been seeking. The house was dark with boarded windows, but Ruben was too exhausted and weak to go anywhere else. He trudged up to the front door and knocked. Surprisingly, the door had no latch and it swung inward. Ruben felt the warmth of the house hit his cold cheeks as he stepped cautiously inside.

#######

Pastor Wu couldn't hold back his smile as the thirty people sang a hymn of worship in his tiny shop. Aware that Party agents were always near, the Christians sang in whispers, but the joy they expressed was no less beautiful.

Wu recognized less than half of the thirty who'd arrived for the service. They'd begun to trickle in the previous day from as far away as Shandong Province. As a good host, Wu shared what little food he had, but everyone had brought their own provisions as well. Those with a little rice were given pork and tea by those who had more.

Finally, the service had begun after midnight. In the shadows of flickering candles, they had gathered for prayer. Pastor Wu wouldn't speak until after the whisper singing was finished, which would go on for at least another hour. The service itself would last until dawn, at which time the guests would rest and pray through the day, then depart under the cover of darkness the following night. The thirty here would branch out to visit other underground house churches in other provinces.

Halfway through the third hymn, the shop door swung open. Wu tensed as a man in a peasant's parka shuffled into the room. The man kept the parka hood over his head and the collar covered much of his face. Public Security Bureau agents may have been informed of their gathering. Only a man with something to hide would keep his face covered, and Wu was certain the man in the parka was a Party official.

The pastor surveyed the room for other potential spies, but everyone's lips were moving to the words of the hymn. An agent certainly wouldn't sing. He watched the newcomer closely. It was common for an agent to infiltrate a service and take note of the prominent members in attendance. Wu had already been arrested twice for having "unauthorized cultic material" since he refused to use state edited sermons and registered facilities. A third offense would mean hard prison time in a labor camp for "rehabilitation"—if he endured the abusive interrogations.

His wife had been encouraging him to sell their shop and home to become traveling evangelists. Wu cringed at the thought. He'd heard that one such brother had been arrested in a nearby city and was scheduled for execution. Though China had made civil progress, civilian freedoms and rights were still greatly lacking.

Closing his eyes, Wu tried to pray, but he was distracted, listening for the squeal of brakes of the PSB arriving. They would surely arrest everyone and confiscate their small collection of Bibles and literature.

Suddenly, his eyes flashed open as he remembered he'd just received a new shipment of hymnals from Hong Kong. They were still in a box upstairs in their living quarters! If he could do nothing else, he could hide that box and get it after he was released from prison. Glancing at his wife, he tried to get her attention, but she was focused on the worship song. He took a deep breath and moved toward the staircase in the corner.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the stranger in the parka watching him.

The shop's door burst open before Wu could reach the stairs. The Christians stopped singing and shrank away from two men in military uniforms who wielded batons. A third man—an officer—entered the room, one hand on his holstered sidearm, and his other hand carrying enough zip ties to bind every Christian twice. He blocked the door.

"There's no need for this!" Wu moved toward the officer as the other two with batons began to batter the helpless on the floor. "We are peaceful!"

The officer backhanded Wu across the jaw, sending him spinning. But before Wu could fall to the ground, someone caught him and steadied him on his feet. Wu looked into the eyes of his rescuer—the man in the parka was not Chinese at all!

Stopping momentarily, the officer and his two enforcers seemed stunned. Pastor Wu knew why they were surprised—the Christians had never stood up to them before; they were always passive. The two with batons moved toward the stranger with rage on their faces.

Pushing Wu aside, the stranger drew a pistol, causing the PSB agents to hesitate. The officer blocking the door reached for his sidearm. The man in the parka fired three times at him, then the officer slumped to the floor. Pivoting, the stranger fired on the two with batons, before they had a chance to react.

The thirty Christians were speechless and frightened. Wu wiped his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand and rushed to the officer near the door.

"I've found a pulse. He seems to be injured, but I see no blood," Wu announced, as he studied the stranger and his pistol.

Taking off his hood, the man in the parka then holstered his weapon.

"Who are you?" Wu asked, stepping closer to the Latino man. "And what kind of gun is that?"

The stranger spoke, but not in Chinese. Wu recognized the English language and called for one of the men across the room that had studied English in Beijing before the Olympics. After several minutes of rough translation, Wu learned the man's name was Ruben, and discovered why he was there. Through the translator, Ruben explained that he hadn't killed the officers because his gun was only a tranquilizer.

Several men spread their coats on the floor for Ruben to lie down so one of the women could inspect his injury. It was a superficial wound and needed only cleaning and a few stitches.

"He has saved us all from arrest, but at what cost?" Wu asked his guests. The translator didn't translate for Ruben. "We are obviously not safe here any longer. It's time for us to leave. Tonight."

"Perhaps this is God's way of telling us what we already knew." Wu's wife took her husband's hand. "We must leave our place of comfort to serve Him better elsewhere. He wants us to have more faith in Him."

The other believers agreed with solemn nods.

"This man has asked if we can get him to Chengdu," the Beijing man translated for Ruben. "There's a safe house there, he says. These government men will awaken within one hour."

"You take him to Chengdu," Wu instructed the translator. "The rest of us will go our separate ways. Tell him he has saved us from torture and prison, and we'll use our extended time of freedom wisely for Jesus."

The translator spoke with Ruben, then laughed, and looked at Wu with tears in his eyes.

"Our guest says he had hoped to hear a few more of our Chinese songs about Jesus before he was forced to leave your house."

#######

Listening intently, Ruben's heart was encouraged as the group of believers sang quietly while they gathered their belongings and left one by one. Most would probably never see one another again, Ruben knew, and many would suffer greatly for the sake of the gospel.

Ruben thanked God for the great blessing of being used for His work. He now understood that the Lord had given him two missions this night.

~The End of _Extraction: China_ ~
*~*

Angel in the Bush: Vietnam

by D.I. Telbat

Nathan "Eagle Eyes" Isaacson aimed the AK-47 assault rifle at the group of villagers coming down the trail. There were ten armed men, mostly with clubs and machetes, but a couple had guns.

The jungle of the Cuu Long River—or Nine Dragons—in Vietnam's Mekong Delta, choked the ancient trail. Foliage hid Nathan so well that if he didn't make a sound, the band of villagers would pass him without notice.

Raising the muzzle, Nathan aimed it over their heads. He had bought the rifle in Tan An, a city southwest of Saigon, for this very mission. The weapon would've been deadly in anyone else's hands, but not in Nathan's hands. The ex-Marine with thick, angled eyebrows wasn't in Southeast Asia to kill, but to protect.

He fired a burst of gunfire above the approaching men. They dove into the bushes as Nathan's thirty round clip clicked on empty. The jungle would have been quiet again if it were not for the screeching birds, but they soon settled. Nathan tossed the rifle into the brush. The noisemaker had done its job; it was no longer of use to him.

"I think we got them!" Nathan yelled in Chinese, a phrase he had memorized for this one occasion.

Making enough noise for five men, Nathan barged through the vines and trees away from the trail. Pausing, he changed the tone of his voice, and yelled the Chinese phrase again. A few seconds of silence passed. If the diversion didn't work, Nathan didn't know what else to try.

Suddenly, the jungle was alive. Men were yelling, a couple wild gunshots were fired in his direction, and the villagers crashed through the trees toward him.

Anyone else would've fled in panic, but Nathan smiled. The COIL agency had been contacted to protect the bi-annual baptismal ceremony of Christians in the area. The Commission of International Laborers had responded by deploying Nathan and Juan "Scooter" Blanco.

Normally, Nathan would not have attempted a diversion alone. Drawing communist aggressors away from the otherwise secret ceremony was a two or four man job, but Scooter had been needed north of Saigon on another last-minute mission.

Nathan charged ahead of the armed party, making much noise. The sun was setting. If he could keep the diversion up for a few more minutes, no one contrary would reach the baptismal party in time to catch the Christians, and their identities would remain intact.

Though too young to have served in the Vietnam War, Nathan was a veteran of numerous campaigns and missions with COIL—for Christ.

As dusk settled over the jungle and the canopy above would hide all moonlight, he donned a night vision headset over one eye. Otherwise, he carried only a canteen and a few nutrition bars.

After a half-mile, Nathan stopped to let his pursuers catch up some. He took a swig of water and closed his eyes. For a moment, the humidity, insects, and danger were blocked out, and he focused only on his Lord, whom he served. And he prayed that Scooter's mission was also proceeding as planned.

Lives were at stake, true, but COIL men and women served a higher need.

*~*

Northeast of Saigon, Juan "Scooter" Blanco walked ahead of two Vietnamese families. The eight people had been evicted from their houses for being Christians. Earlier that day, Scooter had arrived as their village boiled over with hatred and threatened to kill them.

Though Scooter didn't speak the local language, the short, muscled Mexican from Northern California didn't need to know Vietnamese in order to walk point. He preferred to have his partner and long time friend, Nathan "Eagle Eyes" Isaacson, to back him up, but Nathan was in the southern part of the country, running around the jungle on his own mission.

One of the elderly women cried out at the sound of an approaching vehicle. Scooter could have dove into the jungle on either side of the dirt road to escape danger. But the others in the group, especially the young and elderly, wouldn't survive the jungle, which bordered the swamp that made up the Makong Delta.

So, pausing on the roadside, the two families gathering behind Scooter. They seemed thankful for a moment of rest from carrying their burdens, though they had been allowed to leave their homes with only a fraction of their belongings.

Scooter knew that the families huddled behind him because he appeared to be armed to the teeth with combat gear. Flash and bang grenades hung from his suspenders, and two NL-3 rifles, one across his back, were intimidating. But only he knew that none of his gear was deadly. Even the rifles were part of COIL's non-lethal weapon series. They shot tranquillizer pellets with an accuracy and impact comparable to a paint gun.

An old truck loaded with villagers from the north stopped with a squeal of its brakes. The villagers would not have known to intercept these families unless others had called ahead. A dozen men and boys climbed out of the back of the truck carrying clubs and blades. Though Scooter couldn't see well in the diminished light, he was certain that a few firearms were also among them.

"Go on!" Scooter ordered in English, gesturing for the driver to continue down the road. They were near enough to the big city that some probably understood English.

A couple men stepped forward and Scooter moved into the middle of the road, leveling his primary tranquilizer gun. If they rushed him all at once, he would be overpowered. But maybe he could buy enough time for the families to escape into the jungle. At least some of them might have a chance.

"God is with us," Scooter said softly over his shoulder to those in his charge. They didn't know it, but Scooter had survived against worse odds during other missions.

The border of Cambodia was only ten miles away. The two families had worn out their welcome in Vietnam, but contacts in Prey Veng had assured COIL that Scooter's travelers would be welcomed and hidden until safe housing could be found.

The two men, one with a metal club and one with a machete, moved boldly toward the Christians. Scooter fired two bursts of pellets into their chests. The shock stopped their advance, then two breaths later, the vapors put them to sleep, and they crumpled in the road.

"These people are protected by God Almighty!" Scooter announced. "Take your men and go home!"

He swung the secondary rifle into position so that he now held a gun in each arm. The second one had been Nathan's weapon, left to Scooter since his mission seemed more dangerous.

The villagers collected their two unconscious companions and backed to the truck. They yelled threats and curses in Vietnamese, then loaded up and drove away.

Scooter nodded at the two frightened families. They picked up their belongings and continued north. With a prayer of thanks heavenward, Scooter took point again, watching for a potential ambush.

The enemies of Christ could be persistent, but His followers were more so.

~The End of _Angel in the Bush_ ~
*~*

Extraction: Eritrea

by D.I. Telbat

In the dwindling light, 20-year-old Kiflu Afutoki crawled on his belly through the red sand until his head brushed against the barbed wire. Lifting his head slowly, Kiflu gazed down the bluff at the prison complex. He hoped he wasn't too close, but he'd not seen any patrols since sundown.

Kiflu narrowed his eyes at a row of twenty boxcars near the middle of the complex. Uncle Isaias Kamaren was in one of them. There were no other detention centers for Christians on that side of Asmara, Eritrea. His uncle had to be there. On the far side, he could also see a number of parked transport vehicles, seemingly unguarded.

The compound itself was left over from the country's four decades of war, oftentimes with Ethiopia to the south. Kiflu and his family hadn't been overly concerned with the ongoing border skirmishes. They'd been more concerned with the chokehold that the military dictatorship of Eritrea had on Christians.

There was no possible way that Kiflu could prowl into the complex to free his uncle and the other several hundred believers detained there. The perimeter wasn't lit, but each boxcar had a single light bulb hanging at each end, fully illuminating the area. Kiflu wasn't as afraid of the lights as he was of the several armed soldiers somewhere inside the command post, which wasn't far from the row of boxcars.

Kiflu tugged a water bottle off his jeans belt and took a swig. His water was almost gone. What a mistake it had been to hike twenty miles into the desert unarmed and without a plan, he now realized. He had acted impulsively, out of fear for his uncle. Now Kiflu was frustrated at his helplessness.

Uncle Isaias was extremely valuable to the Christian underground church in Asmara. Nevertheless, he would die along with the others who'd also been arrested multiple times for "religious solicitation infractions." Even if Uncle Isaias did survive the conditions and the torture, he would be scarred for life. Perhaps he would even be too scarred to run the printing presses he'd once operated.

Kiflu had heard many stories from the few who had dared to frequent their sparse house churches–the few who had survived the boxcar containers. The heat beat down on the boxcars, making them like ovens during the day. But the metal made them perfect refrigerators during the chilly nights. There was neither running water nor latrines. Then there were the interrogations. Kiflu shuddered at the thought of what gruesome torture occurred during the "rehabilitation" sessions.

A boot crunched in the sand not far behind Kiflu. He dropped flat, his cheek on the sand, his heart beating loudly in his ears. Anyone with eyes accustomed to the twilight was sure to have seen him already. Yet, Kiflu couldn't bring himself to climb to his trembling legs and flee. Maybe he would be shot in the back, or worse yet, detained in the compound.

He waited, but nothing happened, nor did he hear any more noise. Kiflu licked his parched lips. It might've just been a wild dog or a desert bird he'd heard. Turning his head, he gazed toward the expanse that spanned toward Ethiopia. He blinked twice before he was sure his eyes weren't deceiving him, and then he froze.

Three men, two large, and one smaller, knelt thirty paces behind Kiflu. They spoke with hand signals and hushed tones too low for Kiflu to hear. The distinct silhouettes of rifles were cradled in their arms. These weren't Eritrean troops. Their uniforms didn't bare the recognizable green, red, and blue shoulder patches. But if they weren't an Eritrean patrol, they had to be Ethiopian, and that was just as dangerous. Yet, even Ethiopian uniforms had patches, and Kiflu saw none.

Kiflu looked back at the compound. He didn't want to stand in the way of an invading Ethiopian force, but he also hated to leave his uncle behind. Praying under his breath, he asked for wisdom and direction.

When Kiflu glanced back at the three soldiers, they were no longer together. Two had split up to circle the compound from each side, and the third approached Kiflu directly, his rifle leveled.

With widened eyes, Kiflu sat up to scramble away from the advancing soldier. But the soldier didn't attack him. Instead, he knelt at Kiflu's feet to look at him. Kiflu was clearly not a threat. The man held out his hand—a white hand. Frowning, Kiflu stared at the black face before him. Black, but not African. He was American or European with black paint to camouflage with the night.

Kiflu gulped a swallow and took the man's hand. He was pulled to his feet and drawn away from the barbed wire. When they were at a safe distance, they stopped.

"Wait here," the man instructed in a barely distinguishable northern dialect of Arabic.

Studying the stranger closer, Kiflu saw that he was a sturdy, two-hundred-pound, middle-aged man with wild hair. On his right ear was a communication device. There was a thick, white scar running down the man's cheek and neck, which was evidence that he was familiar with adversity. However, the man's eyes weren't wild or violent.

The rifle cradled in his hands was no longer aimed at him. And what a rifle it was! Kiflu had served in Eritrea's military by compulsion, as did all other young men in his country, but he had never seen a weapon like this. The barrel was extra long and there was a large CO2 canister under the chamber like an air rifle.

Kiflu relaxed a little, then nodded in understanding that he was to wait there, to stay out of the way of whatever was about to happen.

Before he could communicate further, the man was off, jogging silently up to the wire. He cut the strands, then descended the slope to the compound.

Disobeying orders, Kiflu crept near the barbed wire again to watch. If these men caused enough of a distraction, Kiflu wouldn't hesitate to dart down and open the boxcars to free Uncle Isaias. They would find a way to survive the desert until they reached Asmara, but first things first.

Kiflu stood next to a fence post where he could see the whole complex. He watched with curiosity as two of the strange soldiers approached the prison control post in unison from different angles. The third climbed on top of one of the boxcars to cover his companions. Their every move signaled rehearsal and stealth.

Two Eritrean soldiers exited the control post and stretched. Then they each flinched suddenly, reached for their sidearms, and then collapsed on the ground.

As Kiflu studied the scene before him, he realized that he'd heard no gunfire. He crouched as the rest of the Eritrean soldiers poured out of their post with their very loud carbines ablaze. They fired blindly as their eyes weren't accustomed to the dim lighting. The three invaders dropped the prison guards one at a time. The last three guards made a stubborn stand from the doorway, but were quickly flushed out by a stun grenade.

Kiflu stood again, dumbfounded. He raised his hands, as if surrendering to the inconceivable, and against orders once again, he ran down the slope into the camp. When he reached the command post, Kiflu paused next to one dead Eritrean soldier, only to find that there was no blood.

"He will be well in one hour," the stranger who spoke bad Arabic assured Kiflu. "He is only . . . uh . . . sleeping."

"I approve of this, but why did you not kill them?" Kiflu asked.

"It is hard to show love of Jesus if we show no mercy and kill our enemies. Come. Help us. Open containers."

The three mysterious soldiers opened the first boxcar packed full of political prisoners. Prisoners poured out of the car around them, as did the stench of oppressed humanity. Kiflu struggled with another boxcar latch, then threw the door open. The soldier smiled as he passed and patted Kiflu on the shoulder.

"There are others," Kiflu informed. "Other Christian prisoners in other camps."

"Where?" the man asked.

"All over Eritrea! I know of at least twelve more detention centers."

The soldier nodded and sighed loudly.

"One at a time, Friend. Come, I must find this man." He held up a photograph. "He is vital to the Bible printing in the city."

"I know this man!" Kiflu beamed.

"You know him?"

"Yes, I am here for him as well. Come, I will introduce you to my uncle!"

~The End of _Extraction: Eritrea_ ~
*~*

#  Mexican Hospice

by D.I. Telbat

Rick had always considered himself a lucky guy . . . until now. Maybe God was trying to get his attention.

The doctor's words rang in Rick Murphy's ears as he sat in his parked car. He looked at the pamphlet the doctor had given him after telling Rick he had less than six months to live. The pamphlet was no more encouraging than the doctor was. The most despairing words—"inoperable tumor," and "hospice services"—seemed to jump out at him. The paper slipped out of Rick's fingers and fell to the floor as he shuddered. It wasn't possible. He was healthy. There'd been no sign of the illness. His muscled, six-foot frame was in perfect condition. At thirty-five, his thick, brown hair didn't even have a hint of gray.

Thinking about his ex-girlfriend, Sam, he knew she'd want to nurse him until he slipped away. But he didn't want that; he hated pity. In fact, Sam was the only one who would pity him. Over the last few years, Rick had become the most obnoxious and ruthless bank manager. He'd repossessed over fifty homes from hard-working families. Dozens had been forced to the streets while they had begged for Rick's mercy. Rick had pursued the foreclosures aggressively, even ferociously. His victims would see his current demise as reaping what he had sown. Now that Rick was actually reflecting upon his life, he agreed with them more than they knew.

Taking a deep breath, he started the car. There seemed to be only one thing for him to do: decide how he wanted to die. For the first time, he really considered the life he'd wasted so greedily. There was little honor or compassion in his memories of himself.

Driving home in a daze, Rick wondered when or if the tears would flow. He suspected that his tear ducts were unable to produce moisture—it had been so long since he'd wept. Parking his car in the garage, he picked up the newspaper from the lawn of his townhouse and gazed at the front page. Not that he cared about the news this day. It was a just a practiced routine.

The briefcase slipped from Rick's fingers as his whole body tingled. The man's face in the cover story—it was _his_ face! No, it was someone else, he realized, but certainly an amazing likeness. Rick was mesmerized as he browsed the article.

Francis Earl, a missionary to Chiapas, Mexico, had been arrested and was scheduled for execution in three weeks. The southern Mexican state disliked outsiders influencing their citizens, though Francis Earl had brought only the Good News, education, and medical aid to the people of Chiapas.

Picking up his briefcase, Rick went inside and spread the newspaper out on the kitchen table. Already, he'd broken routine, which was rare. Normally, he was pouring himself a brandy by now. Rick couldn't help but study Francis Earl's facial features—tan, broad-chinned, brown eyes. The missionary was a couple years older than Rick, but the similarities were uncanny.

Going into his home office, Rick scanned the bookshelves for a paperback he hadn't touched since college. There it was—his old Spanish dictionary. Flipping through a few pages, he wondered if he could recall enough Spanish for a visit to Chiapas.

Tucking the dictionary under his arm, he returned to the kitchen to examine the news article again. This was no accident, he decided. On the very day he was diagnosed with cancer, he was seeing his twin!

Rick licked his lips as the gears of his mind began working on a strategy. Hospice programs worked for some people, but Rick didn't want to go that way. He was independent to a fault. Then and there, he decided he was going to Chiapas. And he would leave this world in better form than when he'd lived in it.

Throughout the following week, Rick spent much of his time shutting down his life of pomp and financial gain. He was a wealthy man who could've retired at his young age, but his greed for more had held him mesmerized by the almighty dollar. It meant nothing to him, now.

Few asked questions since he had no friends or family, so he was able to leave work with little notice. Rick filed paperwork for a visa and passport, then bought a round-trip ticket to Chiapas.

The next week, Rick researched the Mexican state in depth on the internet. He studied the people, civil authority, and city life. In the evenings, he consumed himself with refreshing his Spanish. Like everything he set his sharp mind to, he made quick progress.

Two days before his flight, Rick made one final stop: a costume shop. Using a photograph of a Chiapas police officer in fatigues, Rick picked out a uniform with a close shade of green, and then purchased eyebrow and mustache pieces.

Back home, he packed and repacked his bags. He was leaving so much behind . . . At that thought, he had to laugh. Well, he couldn't take it with him to the grave. All the things that had once mattered so much, for the first time, they no longer meant anything to him. The only thing that mattered now was Francis Earl.

The day finally arrived. Rick Murphy flew out of Bakersfield, California, to Guadalajara, then into Chiapas. Once on the ground with his baggage, he entered a grimy airport bathroom and used a small mirror to apply his mustache and bushy eyebrows. Mentally, he reviewed his second language, since he was a Spaniard now. With a little hair dye, he looked the part.

Leaving the airport, Rick rented a vehicle for two weeks, and then drove to a villa he'd rented for one month for only $300 US dollars. It came with a plump housekeeper and two barefoot children.

After setting himself up at the villa, Rick drove to the city jail. Parking a block down the street from the police headquarters, he watched the entrance for two hours. He listened to the local radio as he waited and observed the building. Finally, the news reporter said Francis Earl's name. Turning up the volume, Rick tried to catch every word. Francis Earl's last appeal had been hastily denied. The missionary was to be executed on schedule in two days. Rick took a deep breath. This was it. He'd come too far to turn back now.

The following day, Rick returned to the prison and watched the gated entrance again, paying special attention to the process at shift change. Outside, security was minimal. The jail guards seemed to know each other. No one flashed their identifications. That worked well for Rick, since he hadn't taken time to fabricate a new identity. He would have to rely on his uniform to get him inside the front gate.

Rick watched the jail until sundown, and then returned to the villa. Slowly, he dressed in the green police uniform from the costume store. It wasn't a perfect match, but it was close enough. Getting into the jail was all about attitude; he'd intimidated enough borrowers at his bank to know. In a mirror, he practiced his coldest glare.

Adjusting his disguise a few times, he then sat down at a desk in the master bedroom and began to write a letter addressed to Francis Earl. For three weeks, Rick had been drafting this letter in his head. It was the only testament he was leaving behind. He wrote into the night, though careful to watch the time. Only Francis Earl would know what had happened in the end.

In the letter, Rick detailed his own life and habits to the missionary. Then, he advised Francis to use the second half of Rick's round-trip ticket and fly back to California, then he told the man where his money was kept and in which accounts. Finally, in closing, Rick told Francis that he hoped he would use the things God had given Rick better than Rick himself had.

An hour before sunrise, Rick drove to the prison, parking a block away. Briskly, he marched to the gated entrance just minutes before the night shift switched to the day shift. A bored-looking man in a booth looked Rick up and down.

"I'm here to interrogate your prisoner, Francis Earl," Rick said in perfect Spanish. He dropped a wrinkled copy of a judge's order from the local courthouse—fabricated, though complete with the state seal. "Shall I go to him, or will you bring him to me?"

The guard gestured at the jail's door.

"They will tell you. Go."

Rick walked through the front gate and winced at the odor of humanity and filth that reached his nostrils. He fought the urge to cover his nose as he stalked to a desk where two yawning administrators sat in swivel chairs.

"I am to interrogate Francis Earl, the prisoner, at this cursed hour," Rick fumed, as he tossed the forged order onto the desk in front of the nearest guard. "I thought we were done with him. He is about to be executed, yes?"

Both guards glanced at the paperwork, and then studied Rick. Rick hoped he could pass for a Spaniard, since he was too big for a Mexican.

"Wait for the next shift," the nearest guard stated, and he handed the paper back to Rick. "We don't deal with the prisoners."

"Don't brush me off!" Rick said with a scowl. "You think I want to sit here for the next hour? This place stinks! Is that you or the filth you keep locked up here? Tell me where the prisoner is. I'll go to him myself!"

"These prisoners will kill you," the other guard jeered. "Are you certain you want to go in there alone?"

Rick reached over the desk and snatched up a ring of keys.

"I'll be back in five minutes."

The two guards laughed at Rick as he marched away to a steel door. He tried two keys before he found the right one. Checking his watch, he saw it was nearly shift change. There wasn't much time. Swinging the steel door inward, he stepped into a long cellblock. The odor of filth was stronger here.

Slowly, Rick walked down the center of the corridor between cell doors. Over each cell a name was scribbled on a tag. At the fourth one on the right, he stopped. _Francis Earl_.

Shaking uncontrollably, Rick fumbled to find the right cell key. The prisoners were sleeping still, but if he woke them, it wouldn't be from the rattling keys; it would be from the beating of his heart.

At last, he got the door opened, and then he saw Francis. His shaking stopped. A peace swept over him. He'd made it. Taking a step forward, he quickly stepped back because of the stench inside the cell. Rick fought vomit welling up in his throat. Forcing himself to step into the dimly lit cell, he swung the door closed, though not latched. The shadowy figure sat up on the soiled mattress.

"Francis Earl? Is that you?" Rick tested in English, knowing the missionary was originally from Arkansas. "Are you Francis Earl? Speak!"

"Yes, I am he. Who are you?"

"Listen to me." Rick dug into his pockets. He drew out a battery-powered shaver and knelt in front of Francis. "My name is Rick Murphy. I'm here to get you out of this place, understand? First I need to clean you up and put new clothes on you. You're walking out the front door in six minutes. Hold still and listen carefully . . ."

Rick began to shave Francis' beard and trim his hair, working quickly, knowing that shift change was almost upon them. As he trimmed the back of Francis' shaggy mane, Rick explained his plan. Francis was to walk out of the block, set the jail keys on the guard's desk, then walk out the front door. Rick repeated the villa address several times until Francis had memorized it. A block away was a blue Ford. At the villa, Francis would find the rest of his instructions, including Rick's letter.

Next, Rick pulled Francis to his feet and stripped him of his disease-ridden clothing. The man had lost more weight than Rick had expected, but Francis was healthy enough to play the part.

Tugging off his own uniform, Rick helped Francis into the shirt and pants. Rick drilled Francis as to what he was going to do once he exited the cell. Francis repeated Rick's instructions perfectly as Rick applied the mustache and eyebrow disguise to the missionary's face. The guards would never know what hit them.

Finally, Francis was as ready as he could be. Rick checked his watch.

"It's shift change," he said as he dressed in Francis' prison garb. "Time for you to walk out of here. Don't stop. If they say anything, just tell them you've wasted your time here. They won't bother you otherwise."

"Wait," Francis said in confusion. "What about you? You have to go with me. I'm supposed to be executed tomorrow! What are you doing? My clothes . . ."

"We can't talk now. Go! Every second counts, Francis!"

Rick slapped the keys into Francis' frail hands. Francis' breath came in rapid gasps. He stepped close to Rick and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"If I could stop you, I wouldn't let you do this, Rick."

"It's okay." Rick held him at arm's length. "Just go—or all my planning is wasted. I've explained everything in the letter at the villa."

Francis backed away to the door, and then disappeared into the corridor. An instant later, Rick was locked in the cell. He tensed and put his ear to the door. The next few minutes mattered the most. Hearing voices, he counted the seconds. A door slammed, and then there was silence.

Perfect. Francis was free.

Since the firing squad wasn't due to execute Francis until the following day, at least he could relax for one day. Rick sat down on his new bed. Smiling through tears in the darkness, he flicked a bedbug off his wrist. He looked up at the ceiling where he imagined God was looking down at him. God wasn't demanding that he die this way, Rick knew, even after the selfish life he'd lived. But by dying this way, for the first time, his whole life seemed to mean more.

Rick lay back on his bed. In a way, he felt honored. Not everyone could choose to die so another could live. Maybe he was lucky after all . . . or maybe blessed was a better word.

~The End of _Mexican Hospice_ ~
*~*

#  Extraction: Pakistan

by D.I. Telbat

"It's a bumpy ride, Artie, I know!" the soldier yelled through the headset over the helicopter's noise. "Try to relax! We're about an hour from the L-Z."

Having never ridden in a helicopter, Artie's knuckles were white as he clenched his fist. Artie studied the two men across from him. The one who spoke was a big man with unruly brown hair. He had carried Artie into the chopper. The second soldier next to him was even bigger, a giant with a blond crew cut. Artie figured them to be in their early forties—not the optimal age for Special Forces operatives, but he knew they weren't regular soldiers.

"I haven't spoken English in years," Artie said as he adjusted his headset. "Do you know who I am?"

"Sure. You're Artie Stephens," the first soldier said with a wink.

Artie smiled awkwardly; he hadn't smiled in a long time, either. He glanced at the blond soldier who'd carried both men's rifles while the other had packed Artie across rocky terrain to the chopper. The rifles weren't the typical assault weapons. To rescue Artie, they had come into the Pakistani camp shooting. But there'd been no gunshots; only popping sounds came from the rifles.

"What kind of gun is that?" Artie asked the blond man over the thump of the rotors.

"Air rifle," the man said with a thick Russian accent. He held up one weapon. "Tranquilizer capsules. The enemy sleeps, see?"

Nodding, Artie faced the first man again.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Mac. This is Sven. Don't know the pilot's name. He's just a rental."

"How did you know I . . . was still alive?"

"To tell you the truth, Artie, I didn't." Mac shrugged. "We just go where they send us, and pick up who they tell us to."

The chopper occupants were silent for a time. The emptiness of Afghanistan's rugged mountains flew by as they left Pakistan's air space, heading west. Staring out the bay door, Artie was still lost in the wonderment of what he'd just been saved from.

"I was gone for a long time," Artie mumbled to himself.

"What's that?" Mac asked. "You have to yell, Artie!"

Artie tore his eyes away from the landscape.

"Everything is different now. I've been gone for a long time."

"The important things aren't," Mac said. "Trust me—if we came for you, it's because our head office was urged by people who wanted you home. How long were you gone?"

"Twelve, I think. Twelve years."

Mac and Sven glanced at one another.

"That's a long time, Artie, but it's not long enough for people to stop caring," Mac said. "You have family?"

"I did. My captors said the world believed I was dead."

"Doesn't matter." Mac dismissed the subject with a wave. "Till we can confirm a body, it doesn't matter what they tell us."

"But, I still don't understand who you are." Artie gestured at Sven's rifles. "What military uses those?"

"The tranq guns? Two reasons we use these," Mac said. "First, we cross borders all the time without permission, like this morning. The enemy isn't so upset if they wake up after twenty minutes and realize we spared their lives when we could've easily killed them. It's dangerous for us to use tranqs. There's a time lapse between contact and sleep time. But it's worth it, diplomatically."

"And the other reason?"

"You're a missionary, right?" Mac asked. "When you were taken, you were reaching the Pakistani people for Jesus Christ?"

"Yes. Two others besides me. But they were killed years ago."

"Well, what kind of voice would we be for Jesus if we were killing our enemies when Christ told us to love them?"

"What?" Artie frowned, not sure he'd heard them correctly. "Christian Special Forces?"

"We don't exist." Mac winked again. "Get it?"

"Okay, I understand." Artie watched the brown landscape zip past. They were flying dangerously low to avoid militant RPGs. "I have to know," Artie asked nervously. "Who's waiting for me? When we land, who should I expect?"

"I don't know." Mac shook his head and glanced at his partner. "Sven? You read his file?"

"This is not easy news," Sven said, warning the rescued man.

"It's okay. I've feared the worst anyway. Just tell me."

"Five years ago your wife died." Sven bowed his head as he reluctantly shared the bad news. "Your two children are in college now, but they wait in Kabul. We will take you to them."

Artie's eyes drifted down to his left hand. He opened his fist to show the two soldiers what he was clutching. It was a cross-shaped rock, perfectly crafted and polished.

"When I started this, it was a rock the size of my fist." Artie's voice choked. "It took years to chip away and polish. I made it for Susan, my wife. If it'd been found, I would've been beaten to death. Do you understand?"

"Sven and I have been captives ourselves," Mac said, nodding. "Me in India, and Sven in North Korea. We know the dangers and hardships."

"After so many years, this is all I have. I had no Bible, no prayer partner, no refuge. Only the Lord . . . and this cross . . ." Artie held the fashioned rock out to Sven. "Here, I want you to have it. It's all I have to give."

"Give it to your children. Use it to tell your story."

"I have plenty of words to tell my story," Artie said with sadness. He thrust the cross into one of the pockets in Sven's field jacket. "Please, keep it."

"It will be given a special place." Sven patted his pocket.

"Tell me," Artie said to Mac, "will there be a way I can contact my captors? Someday?"

"No one's ever asked us that before." Mac rubbed his grizzled chin. "What would you say if you could?"

"In secret, I told many of the men about Jesus Christ. If I could just get them Bibles—if they just had God's Word in Fusha, it would help."

"I see," Mac said, nodding. "Artie, sometimes we do come across missionaries in captivity who prefer to stay where they are for the ministry, rather than be rescued. Is that what you're telling me?"

"Oh, no, I'm very thankful you came for me. Believe me, their patience was growing quite thin with me. I was taking more risks every day. You saved my life. But you men are Christians. As you know, the message is more important than our simple lives."

"You want to reach out to them even after all they did to you, Artie?" Mac asked.

"Well, I do know them in a unique way."

"Most don't return to their captors," Mac said with an amused look on his face. "It's your decision, of course, but you probably want to clear it with your family. Maybe get checked out medically and all that, first."

"Like, maybe see a dentist?" Artie joked. When he smiled, several gaps in his teeth showed where teeth had rotted. "But don't think I appreciate this any less."

"It's cool," Mac assured. "No promises on a second rescue, though. That's up to the head office."

"Yes, I understand." Artie then addressed Sven. "How did Susan die?"

"The cancer."

Artie nodded sadly, and bowed his head for a time.

"I won't marry again," Artie stated decisively, raising his head. He contemplated for several seconds, and then added, "Yes, I'll set things in order, then return to Pakistan. That's what the Lord wants me to do, I believe."

"Do what you gotta do, Artie," Mac said.

"Maybe all I've been through was just training." Already, his spirits felt lighter than when he'd first been picked up.

"Training?" Sven looked puzzled. "I do not understand."

"Sure. Now I speak the local dialect perfectly. I've been to language school!"

~The End of _Extraction: Pakistan_ ~
*~*

Moved by Kindness

by D.I. Telbat

Too late, Joram realized the boat trip to Greece was a massive mistake. The forty people crammed onto the raft with two motors wasn't the problem. The lack of drinking water or the cold wind weren't the main problems, either. The problem was that the boat was full of Muslim refugees, and Joram and his family were Christians.

The whispers and pointing began midway through the eight-mile trek across the final stretch of the Aegean Sea. Joram had been an evangelist for years in Syria. After his eldest son had been murdered by ISIS loyalists in his town outside Abu Kamal, Joram knew it was time to take his wife and two remaining children to Europe. He would return to Syria as a missionary, once his family was safe.

But his family wasn't safe now.

At the other end of the raft, a man whispered into the ear of a known Muslim cleric, and pointed at Joram. It was just a matter of time now, Joram realized, before he and his family were thrown into the sea. There'd been rumors of it happening before. It didn't matter that they were fleeing ISIS violence together. All that mattered to the others was that Joram was a Christian, and the Koran gave license for Muslims to kill him. No one would stand against the cleric since some believed the man held the keys to their eternal future.

Joram strained his eyes to see the shore. Why couldn't they have recognized him as a Christian when they were a little closer to land? He and his family couldn't swim four miles in the cold waters that flowed from the Black Sea into the Mediterranean.

He studied the two other rafts in their refugee flotilla. They were packed with bodies as well. Even if Joram could guide his family to swim to another raft as it motored past, the other rafts couldn't take on more passengers. Besides, a simple yell from the cleric's men would warn the others that he was a Christian.

Looking away from the hateful stares of the people, Joram stared at the cold, dark water. Perhaps he and his family would die now, but it would be for Christ. He remembered his youngest son's profession of faith just the previous year, and his daughters' confession two years earlier.

"Papa," his son had said, "I want to be with Jesus."

"Why, Yacov?" Joram had named him after Isaac's covenant son in the Bible.

"Because He died for me and He wants to be with me."

The Muslim oppression of ISIS and the cold anger of their Syrian neighbors hadn't caused the family to hate in return. Joram prayed they remain faithful to the end, even if the end was a watery death. God was still good, and He would welcome them home.

Two men, bodyguards of the cleric, moved carefully through the raft occupants. The cleric wore casual clothing, jeans and a jacket, rather than his traditional dress. He intended to enter Europe by subterfuge and deceit. But Joram was seeking asylum—safety he couldn't even achieve on the raft.

Joram shifted his arm protectively in front of his daughter. His wife, Noor, who was Egyptian-born, shielded their son, as the aggressors made their way down the length of the boat. A struggle now would capsize or puncture one of the raft's pontoons. If he fought for his life, Joram realized, others would die this far from shore. Even though those nearest him were Muslim and hated him, he decided he wouldn't struggle, for the sake of his enemies' lives. Perhaps, by some miracle, his mercy shown toward them would draw them to Christ.

"We will go gently," he softly told Noor. His words seemed to sooth the fear on her face. "We are ambassadors of love even now. Pity them, children, but do not curse them."

"Pity who, Papa?" his son asked.

But Joram couldn't answer. He could only mumble prayers for himself, his family, and these men who had decided Christians were worthy of death by drowning.

Praying to God, Joram asked for His will to be done, whether that meant saving them from death, or helping them die bravely.

#######

Titus Caspertein, COIL agent and undercover refugee on the raft, watched the scene unfold. His Russian partner, Oleg Saratov, sat in the opposite end of the raft. For a month now, they'd been buying passage on Mediterranean transports to Europe. Apparently, the smugglers that day weren't aware of the others whom Titus had caught in the midst of atrocities.

Oleg lifted his head from under the hood of a windbreaker. The muscled Russian could pass for Middle Eastern, but Titus had applied a fake beard, contacts to hide his blue eyes, and dark brown dye to his blond hair. He couldn't communicate verbally with Oleg, but they didn't need to talk since they knew exactly what to do to guard the refugees, as well as each other.

The whispers that day had already passed through the passengers, including Titus. There were Christians on board. Nazarenes, as they were called. It was an ideal situation, Titus realized, to exercise COIL's secondary objective: support God's people. Their primary objective was to share the gospel message of Jesus Christ, which required no less boldness than their other objective.

When the two thugs started to move down the crowded raft toward the Christian family behind Titus, he shifted his semi-automatic nine-millimeter under his jean jacket. It was loaded with tranquilizer rounds that would put the assailants to sleep for an hour. Of course, having firearms on board didn't make matters less complicated. Someone else could have a gun on board, too. Or the other passengers could rush him and knock him into the water.

"Switch places with me," Titus said in Arabic to the young man next to him, a college student from Damascus he'd been visiting with.

It only took seconds for Titus to stand in the pathway of one of the aggressors, bend over, the student to slide over, and for him to sit down again. Now, Titus was nearest the water on the starboard side.

The first assailant was one row away, and his eyes met with Titus', whom he'd clearly seen change seats. Titus was a sizeable man, raised in the wild woods of Arkansas. He wouldn't be easy to move past unless he cooperated with the two men intent on harm. In his heart, Titus was ready to guard the Christian family with his life, even if it meant taking both assailants into the sea with him—if his gun jammed or was knocked from his hand before he could fire.

"Move aside, brother." The man gestured with his hand. He was younger than Titus, but his eyes showed he had lived a dark life; there was no light in them. "I'm going to the back."

"There are no seats back there," Titus said. "Go back to where you were. The boat is too crowded to play children's games at this point in the voyage."

Several passengers snickered at the juvenile slight, but they quickly ducked their heads when the militant cast a glance in their direction.

"I'm going to open up four more seats," the man said. His partner nudged him from behind. "Those are Nazarenes. They belong in the water."

"They don't look like fish to me." Titus turned his head to look at the Christian family. The four remained silent, and Titus knew their calmness in such calamity was supernatural. The father of the family nodded at Titus, perhaps to tell him that he had his back, or perhaps to convey he was ready to die if Titus didn't want to stand against the evil man, whom Titus faced again. "If you want to make more room on the boat, start with yourself."

"Move! Or you go over with them!" The man pulled up his shirt to show a sheathed dagger made for assaulting. "Are you for or against Allah?"

"If you draw your weapon," Titus wiggled his hand under his jacket, "then I'll have to draw mine. And then my men will draw theirs, and it'll be a mess. Why don't you sit down and wait? You can kill the Nazarenes when we reach Greece."

The killer thought about this for a moment as he rode a couple waves that rocked the boat.

"The authorities won't let us kill them in Greece."

"How uncivilized of them."

"What do you have?" The man frowned at Titus' hidden hand, then glanced about the boat. "And who's with you?"

"It ain't easy being out of control, is it?" Titus smiled confidently. He loved the thrill of serving God against all odds. "Sit. Down."

A rogue wave slipped under the raft. It lifted the bow, then the port side. The standing thug braced himself, but when the crest reached their row, Titus was knocked off-balance toward the water. Since he was seated, he recovered against the pontoon at his elbow.

But the assailant had been standing, and with no railing along the sides of the raft, he was pitched overboard. Titus, already leaning over the water, grasped the man's upper arm. With his left hand, Titus drew his gun from his waistband as the second thug moved toward him. Whatever the second man's intentions, Titus wasn't taking a chance. He shot a silenced tranquilizer round into his chest. The standing attacker collapsed backwards, and several passengers caught him and held him.

Titus checked the front of the raft to see that Oleg was prepared to use his own tranquilizer gun if someone moved toward Titus. Sufficiently covered, Titus holstered his gun and focused on the assailant who clung desperately to his right arm. The man sputtered against waves that splashed into his face.

"Pull me up!" The man gasped before his head was submerged again.

Using his other hand, Titus grasped the man's collar and lifted his head above the current.

"You're welcome aboard, but your knife is not." Titus didn't flinch as the thug spit and coughed cold water into his face. "Don't expect me to hold you here all the way to shore. Dump your blade!"

Unable to communicate further, the man reached down his body and drew his knife. For an instant, Titus wondered if he would slash the boat or him, but it would've meant the man's own death, since no raft would turn back in that wild water.

The thug released the knife, and Titus hauled him into the boat. Though he'd been in the water only sixty seconds, the disarmed man shivered and gasped on the bottom of the raft between rows of refugees.

"That seems like a good place for you." Titus drew his weapon once more and aimed it at the chilled man. "Anyone who would risk our lives to attack a defenseless family rides the rest of the way on the floor."

"This guy was with those two!" Oleg shouted in Arabic, offering up the stunned cleric, who swiftly raised his hands. "Maybe he wants to join his two friends."

"No, no!" The Muslim leader shriveled before Oleg, and Titus memorized the man's face so he could identify him later for the Greek authorities. "I don't know them. They're not my friends!"

"We have an hour until we reach the beach," Titus yelled to the passengers. "We can all make it safely if we remain still. Agreed?"

No one responded.

"It seems you have us under your spell, kind sir," Oleg called to Titus, resuming his role of a stranger. "Perhaps you could tell us why you didn't let that wicked man die, even though he threatened you and risked our lives."

"That's interesting you point that out, curious traveler!" Titus waved his free hand at the passengers. "Would a story help keep us all calm? Shall I tell you from where my kindness comes? Very well! I will tell you. It all begins with God's plan to come Himself to live on the earth as a Man. His name, as we all know, is Isa . . ."

Titus used Jesus' Arabic name, as Muslims knew Him, and smiled at his captive audience, especially at the children who'd been shivering from the cold wind beside their parents. He glanced back at the Christine family he'd saved. The father smiled, and that was enough for Titus to face front and continue. At the bow, Oleg winked, and waved his hand for more.

"Isa lived a perfect life of love and obedience to His Father. Isa was the perfect Son of God, but our ancestors turned against Him. They killed Him. But the true God is full of love, so He didn't hate the people. Instead, He died for them, and since He was truly God, the grave couldn't hold Him. He rose from the dead. This is who Isa truly is, and He lives today inside every believer who receives His gift of life. We need God's forgiveness for our own sins . . ."

The people stared, especially the cleric near the front, but Titus only lifted his voice louder above the sound of the motors.

As a COIL agent, he would support the persecuted, and as a Christian, he would share the love of Christ with all who would listen, especially his enemies.

~The End of _Moved by Kindness_ ~
*~*

Standing Together: An Alleyway Intervention

by D.I. Telbat

In a dark alley of Vlore, Albania, Nathan "Eagle Eyes" Isaacson faced the six thugs. They held chains, knives, or metal gloves invented to maim. Backed into the alley, Nathan stood alone in the rain.

This beating would be bad, maybe the worst he'd ever received. But it was a price he was willing to suffer for rescuing a dozen kidnapped African migrants. The Lord had made Nathan aware of the situation when he had overheard one of the young men praying for help.

Because he'd helped the refugees, Nathan caused the Albanian mob to lose thousands in slave labor, and the criminals were stirred up. It didn't matter that Nathan was part of COIL, the international network of Christian agents. The Albanians had lost money, and that meant Nathan would lose teeth—no matter his connections worldwide.

Nathan wasn't in Albania to disrupt the migrant smuggling ring, even if he had stepped up and freed those locked in the house. With more time, Nathan could've done even more, maybe permanently crippled the organization with arrests and exposure. But he couldn't stand by when a fellow brother in Christ—or any other person—was suffering. Even if it meant a beating.

As the Albanian mobsters closed on Nathan, four other shadows entered the alley. These new shadows crept against the walls and behind empty wooden crates.

When Nathan, who was taller than the six foes he faced, saw the others behind the mobsters, he held up his hands.

"Stop now, and you can walk away." But they kept advancing. Nathan stopped backing away. "No one speaks English? So be it."

A chickadee called from the darkness. There were no forest chickadees active in this neighborhood, but Nathan knew the warning. He crouched, closed his eyes, and covered his ears.

The thugs rushed forward, apparently no longer hesitant about the tall American. But an instant later, two flash-and-bang grenades exploded amongst them, then muffled clicks and thumps mingled with the drizzling rain.

Nathan looked up, then stood upright as the unconscious Albanians crumpled to the ground. The four other shadows emerged with their NL-1 tranquilizer pistols still leveled.

"When you didn't show at the hotel," Juan "Scooter" Blanco explained, "we knew you were probably in trouble."

"A few more minutes, and you would've been carrying me out of this alley." Nathan patted his COIL teammate on the shoulder. They joined the rest of the team around the sleeping thugs. "For a minute there, I thought God might let me get whipped by those guys just to keep my ego in check."

Scooter tucked his pistol under his coat as they entered the street.

"You say the word, Eagle, and we can go back and wake those guys up. Don't let us get in God's way of correcting you!"

The team members chuckled as they dispersed to blend in with other pedestrians, agreeing to meet back at their hotel.

~The End of _Standing Together: An Alleyway Intervention_ ~
*~*

#  Extraction: Colombia

by D.I. Telbat

"Jackson! You can't do this! It's suicide!"

Regardless of Eric Bosco's objections, Jackson Edwards ignored the Colombian missionary's warning. In the cockpit of his two-seater custom airplane, Jackson checked the fuel and power gauges, then reached for the bubble canopy.

"No!" Eric clamped a hand on top of the canopy so Jackson couldn't slide it closed. "Hear me out. You have to know what you're up against!"

"You have ninety seconds." Jackson checked his watch and smiled up at Eric, which seemed to cause the veteran servant's face to redden even more. "Go ahead, Eric. Speak your mind."

"Okay." Eric lifted his hand. "First of all, you don't know if this is a trap or not. You could be flying into an ambush. The guerrilla leader who called on the radio could be just baiting more Christians to their deaths."

"But what if his story is true? His conversion has put him on the run, he said. He needs to get out of the jungle now. That's what you read."

"And that's another thing! I translated that distress message for you. You don't even speak Spanish!"

"What does that have to do with flying to those coordinates?"

"You don't know Colombia." Eric shook his head. "You're from Montana. You don't understand the ruthlessness of these FARC guerrillas!"

"All the more reason to get this ex-guerrilla out of harm's way now!"

"If you go down, you'll be in the middle of hundreds of miles of jungle."

"I have a fully stocked survival pack. Remember, I _am_ a Montanan."

"What about your L-Z? There's no landing zone out there! And you'll need almost one thousand feet to take off."

" _The_ _Dove_ is part seaplane if I use the hydrofoil blades." Jackson chuckled. "Eric, would you back off? Just pray for me, okay? In a few hours, I'll be landing here with not only a recently converted guerrilla, but a new asset to reach others. This guy could even be one of the men you witnessed to a few years ago when you went through Llanos."

"Your wife is going to kill me." Eric stepped down the ladder and moved it away from the fuselage. "Are all Montanans as stubborn for Christ as you?"

"Nope. Just the Christian ones!" Jackson laughed as he slid the canopy closed.

Since _The_ _Dove_ had limited power, Jackson had already aimed his light plane by hand to face down the runway outside Villavicencia, Colombia. As light-hearted as he'd been with Eric, Jackson knew what lay before him was indeed no simple task. True, _The_ _Dove_ was a work of modern engineering with technology as sophisticated as an unmanned drone. But this was Colombia—nothing seemed to go according to plan in Colombia. Jackson had even developed an acronym to squelch his own complaining when things went awry: _G-S-K_. "God still knows," he often mumbled to himself.

_The Dove_ swooped into the afternoon sky moments later, her long, thin wings floating on thermal updrafts as gently as a glider. If he wasn't pressed for time, he could've switched off the single engine and glided for hours. But a man was in need. No time to experiment with his plane.

On the flight northeast, Eric's words of warning did reach a nerve. His wife would've been unhappy at this reckless attempt to help a potentially new convert. Sure, Jackson was just visiting Colombia for a few weeks to try out _The Dove's_ design on the mission field, but as a Christian, he wasn't deaf to pleas for help. Besides, he had to put _The Dove_ to a true test. Pilots in Colombia wouldn't use her for future operations if she weren't tested and proven dependable.

The bubble canopy provided a look behind him at the setting sun over the green field of trees. At an elevation of only two thousand feet, spotting a natural runway seemed unlikely. The jungle appeared unbroken, except for an occasional winding narrow opening in the foliage where a river twisted down the Andes slopes.

" _G-S-K_ ," Jackson said with a shiver, then banked the plane northward two points. The nose lifted gently, and Jackson glanced at the copilot seat next to him. _The Dove's_ take-off weight couldn't exceed the limit. As long as his passenger wasn't over two hundred and fifty pounds, there was plenty of room to whisk the man to civilization and safety.

The glass vision maps synthesized the landscape below, supplemented by updated GPS renderings. As he tapped at the touch-screen, the collision avoidance system altered his altitude automatically by two hundred feet to avoid the cliffs of the river system—the headwaters of the Amazon.

Darkness closed on the landscape, but _The Dove's_ panels displayed the jungle in bright color contrasts from a nose camera.

Jackson located one stretch of river on his maps that might work for a landing zone—if the river wasn't too swift. He could land easily enough on a swift river, but once he came to a stop, the plane would be washed away.

The rescue coordinates and a small clearing were a few hundred yards to the west of the river. The river section would have to work. The speed of the water would have to be determined once he stopped, and by that time, it would be too late to turn back.

Dropping in altitude, he measured the river section more carefully. It was closer to eight hundred feet long. But with the current opposing him, he wouldn't need as much runway. And taking off, if he could use the river current to gather speed . . .

He had no signal flares, so he hoped the man below understood this engine coming over the river would be his ride out of the mountains.

Jackson came in low from downstream. The slope of the mountain wasn't as gradual as he'd hoped, and he nearly stalled as he throttled back on power. When the hydrofoils touched the surface of the rippling river, Jackson maintained speed for another instant to survey the water with his own eyes, his LED landing lights as bright as the sun. The swollen surface didn't seem too choppy even with the early spring runoff from the higher elevations. There were no rocks or boulders visible. _G-S-K_.

Decreasing speed, he started to edge toward the west bank when he realized his near-fatal mistake. His port side wing tip was already dangerously close to the brush that crowded the river.

Since he'd need all the room he could get for takeoff, when _The Dove_ slowed sooner than expected, Jackson applied more power to pilot farther up the river stretch. Before the river curved to the left, Jackson cut all power and steered sharply left. The plane pivoted in the middle of the river and drifted toward the west bank.

Jackson slid back the cockpit canopy and reached behind his seat. As the plane nose nudged vines on the uneven bank, he tossed a ten-pound anchor into the bushes. Not waiting to see if the anchor held against the current, Jackson climbed out and jumped the four feet into the water on which the plane fuselage settled to a bobbing float.

The water tugged at the tail of _The Dove_ that was nearest the center of the river, but once Jackson waded through waist deep water and reached the bank, he took hold of the anchor line. He easily brought the plane into submission, then wound the anchor line around a tree and stomped the weight into the soft ground.

"And that was just the easy part," he said to the sky. " _G-S-K_."

No one emerged from the forest. Jackson returned to the plane and climbed up the submerged hydrofoil to reach the cockpit. He used a digital compass to determine a heading toward the coordinates, then he returned to the bank. After a cautious look at _The Dove_ , he jogged into the trees.

Just a few paces into the moon shadows of the trees, he heard sounds. They were sounds that were foreign to nature. Though he hadn't spent much time in Colombia, he'd hunted and hiked his whole life in Montana's untamed mountains. He knew the difference between animal sounds and human noise.

Jackson crouched in the bushes, breathing soundlessly through his mouth. Insects pestered his exposed skin, but he remained motionless. Though he expected his extraction subject to approach the plane, he knew all of eastern Colombia was crawling with communist militants. And they regularly persecuted Christians.

A man and woman came into sight, moving clumsily and loudly through the forest. The woman supported the man on one side, as if the man were wounded, but the lighting wasn't good enough for Jackson to see how bad his injuries were. Was this the man who was supposed to be his passenger?

Directly behind the couple a child carried a bundle of belongings. The boy was small, probably younger than ten-years-old. The three were moving directly toward the plane.

Stepping from the bushes, Jackson went up to the nose of the plane. The three Colombians huddled close together, but Jackson smiled and extended his hand. Here in the open, he could see the red wetness on the man's left side leaking down his green fatigues from a gunshot.

" _Mi amigo_ ," Jackson said. "My brother in Christ. _Mi hermano en Christo_."

" _Hermano_ ," the man said in response and weakly stretched out his hand and shook Jackson's. " _Necesitamos proteccion, por favor_."

" _Su familia?_ " Jackson asked, and smiled through his grit teeth as the man nodded. _Of course. I came for one and God gives me three_.

Glancing at the anchored plane, Jackson could see the current tugging at the fuselage. There were only two seats, and if he were going to clear the trees on takeoff, he needed to avoid anything close to the weight capacity.

He did the math in his head. The wounded man looked to weigh about two hundred pounds. Jackson was about the same, so both men together made up the weight limit. The woman was small, not over one hundred and thirty pounds, and the young boy with the bundle was probably under sixty.

Since Jackson had reached the limit of his Spanish, he didn't try to explain what he needed to do. Besides, they couldn't take their time since militants were sure to be in the area. They must've seen or heard the plane land.

Climbing up the hydrofoil, Jackson leaned into the cockpit to retrieve the survival pack then tossed it onto the riverbank. It was forty pounds and contained everything from a digital GPS to a sewing kit and five days' worth of rations.

Next, he recalled his flight path to the river, and programmed a return course back to Eric's landing strip. If _The Dove_ didn't have her programmable autopilot functions, he would've been forced to fly his new friends out one at a time.

Jackson waved the man out into the water. The woman came with him, and together, they helped the ex-guerrilla into the cockpit. Next, the woman climbed up and sat in the pilot's seat. Then the boy was positioned on his mother's lap, and their small bundle on the man's lap. His side leaked blood onto the seat, but there was no time to treat before they departed. Eric would know how to treat the man when they landed in an hour.

"Don't touch anything." Jackson gestured to the controls. " _Uh, no manos. Automatico, sabes?_ Okay?"

They nodded, and Jackson implemented the autopilot. He closed the canopy and splashed in the water to cut the anchor line as _The Dove_ attempted a course correction even then. To help them on their way to safety, Jackson waded farther into the river, and hung onto the tail so the rest of the plane could swing around. As soon as _The Dove_ was aimed downriver, the engines increased in power. Breathing a prayer, he released the tail, and _The Dove_ shot away, the current helping her gain speed.

Too nervous to look away, Jackson watched from the middle of the river as the plane reached take-off speed and soared into the dark sky. With feet to spare, she cleared the trees, climbed, and then banked west.

Leaving the water, Jackson splashed ashore and recovered his survival backpack. He dug out the sat-phone that doubled as a GPS locator. Though Eric would need to be told before the plane touched down, Jackson had to get moving. Guerrillas were sure to be nearby.

It was seventy miles back to Villavicencia, a two day hike under good conditions. But this was the Colombian wilderness of rolling jungle and steep hills. The trek could take three or four days, or longer, depending on the militants.

Jackson clipped the phone onto his belt, shouldered the pack, and started south along the river. After a few yards, he cut into the jungle. As he hiked uphill, he considered _The Dove's_ reliable features. She'd proven herself on the extraction mission, but yet to be determined was whether or not Jackson would get to pilot her on other missions. This part of his journey would be perilous.

But three lives had been saved, among them a man who claimed to be a Christian convert. Jackson stretched his legs into a lengthy stride, and decided the trek was worth it all. Seeing God work out the details, even through surprises, was just one of the many things he'd take back to Montana to share with other believers.

On the first hill above the river, Jackson looked down at the water. There was movement there—more than just the river's swollen current. He would need to keep moving if they were already on his trail. Even if this was their backyard, Jackson figured he had the militants outmatched. After all, _G-S-K!_

~The End of _Extraction: Colombia_ ~
*~*

Secure Worship: Belarus & Brunei

by D.I. Telbat

Jesse "Milk" Patters watched the surveillance monitor that was installed in a small room of a Belarusian church. The building doubled during the day as a community center, but tonight, it was a gathering place for believers. On Milk's screen, a tall figure in dark clothes prowled from shadow to shadow, inching closer to their building. The rest of the city was quiet.

"If that guy isn't suspicious, no one is!" Quin "Toad" LuDao stated. He was a stout Chinese paramilitary-trained soldier now devoted to the worldwide safety of Christians. "Shall we?"

Milk, an Ohio native, smiled at his COIL teammate. Both men had been Special Forces operatives of the Commission of International Laborers for four years. Milk, a handle derived because of his complexion, slapped Toad on the back.

"Tell the others. I'll keep an eye on this guy."

In the next room, fifty civilians of Belarus were having an "unauthorized gathering" to study the Bible. Their pastor and teacher, Georgi, silenced his booming voice when Toad gestured to him.

"Lights out," Toad instructed, though only a couple of them knew English. Three assigned men shut off the lights, blanketing the room in darkness. "Be very quiet."

Toad didn't need to explain the danger they were in. The post-Soviet regime had tightened its grip on religious gatherings. Members of the congregation had already been arrested and imprisoned.

Even the children in the room were quiet, which both impressed and saddened Toad. Sad that they had to be raised under such conditions. But, it was a condition that Toad had seen in many countries, even his own.

At one window, there was a rustling sound. In the darkness outside, the one they assumed to be a government informant bumped the side of the building. He cursed and moved down the wall.

If the informant discovered the meeting in progress, a police investigation and more arrests would be just the beginning. The community center might even be closed, and the Christians would be blamed.

"It's clear," Milk whispered from the small room several minutes later.

"Then why are you whispering?" Toad laughed, and the people relaxed. They talked amongst themselves as Toad joined Milk. "So, the resolution is good?"

"Works great. Three angles outside, even recording capabilities to record criminal mischief." Milk clicked a few buttons to display the lurking figure from a few minutes earlier, saved on the hard drive. "We'll store this guy's face for security purposes."

"Great. Train two of these guys and let's move out. We've got a plane to catch. We're due in Brunei by noon tomorrow for another install."

As Milk explained to a couple Belarusian men how the security camera and warning system worked, Toad stood in the other room and listened to the people sing familiar hymns in their own language. An elderly woman approached him and took his hands in hers, urging him to quietly clap with the others.

Toad grinned as he clapped with fellow Christians. They were strangers, and most didn't speak any language he knew, but they were still his brothers and sisters in Christ. He would do his part to keep them safe and allow them to enjoy secure worship.

*~*

Quin "Toad" LuDao lay on his belly on the church roof. He was perspiring in the humid night air of Brunei. Suddenly, he started to slide down the pitched tin roof. Once a Special Forces soldier in China, Toad tried not to panic, though the fall to the ground could break his leg, or worse.

A firm hand reached out, grabbed Toad's collar, and pulled as Toad scrambled back up to the pinnacle. It was Jesse "Milk" Patters, a preacher's son from Ohio and Toad's partner on this Commission of International Laborers mission.

"What's wrong with you?" Milk whispered. "We're supposed to _watch_ for aggressors, not fall off the roof _on_ them!"

Toad stifled a laugh and clung more carefully to the tin. The two field agents didn't often work separately from the rest of their COIL team, but Toad was thankful for the recent assignments with the milky-complexioned man. It gave the two of them a chance to fellowship together, even if on rooftops in dangerous countries.

"I think I see someone." Milk adjusted a night vision scope over his right eye. "Scratch that. There are _three_ bogies closing on our position."

"I see them." Toad glanced up at the security equipment they had installed on top of the church. Though this was a legally registered church, it had been firebombed four times in the past months. "You're certain you crossed the red wire with the blue wire this time?"

"Wait! There was a _blue_ wire?"

The two men somehow found a way to joke even in the face of danger. As veterans of dozens of risky operations, they knew that remaining lighthearted throughout was the only recipe against paralyzing fear. That, and faith that their God would preserve them for yet another operation.

They watched as three civilians, likely Muslim extremists, crouched and crept closer to the building. Two of the men had Molotov cocktails. The third fumbled with a lighter to light the cloth wicks.

Suddenly, a floodlight from the security apparatus atop the church illuminated the trio. The arsonists grimaced and shielded their eyes from the bright light.

A recorded voice boomed on a loudspeaker in Malay, Brunei's official language. Toad didn't speak Malay, but he remembered the message: " _Stop what you are doing! Your actions against a government-approved facility have been filmed for legal prosecution!"_

The message began to play for a second time, but the three criminals had heard enough. They scattered in the night, their mischief foiled.

Sixty seconds later, the floodlight clicked off and the night was quiet once again.

"Do you think it was loud enough?" Milk asked with a chuckle.

"If it's any louder, you won't scare the bad guys away, you'll just cause deafness." Toad tapped his ringing ear. "The question isn't if your system works. I want to know how we're going to walk away without tripping off the alarm."

"Oh, ye of little faith." Milk held up a device similar to a hand control for a car alarm. The roof apparatus chirped twice. "If we miss our plane back to the States, my wife will make that alarm seem like a whisper."

"See you on the ground."

Toad let go of the roof and controlled his slide toward the edge. After installing a half-dozen church security systems around the world, they were due for some R&R. But the forces of darkness wouldn't let them rest for long . . .

~The End of _Secure Worship: Belarus & Brunei_~
*~*

Extraction: India

by D.I. Telbat

"She is down there, in that shack."

"You're sure she's still alive?"

"We heard her cries two nights ago. We would not have called your organization if we were not certain."

They sidestepped the stream of sewage that trickled down a rut between the shelters. A few half-naked children nearby chased a chicken. This was Guruparahalli, a slum district seven miles from downtown Bangalore, India.

Lyle "Mac" McCormack walked a few paces away, cautiously eyeing the rust-colored shack toward which his contact had gestured. He knew the man from East India only as Mr. B.

Mr. B was a slender man in his thirties. His hand bore the marks of torture, left by the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, or RSS, the fountainhead of the radical Hindutva group in India. Now, Mr. B worked with the Christian underground, helping the persecuted, the Untouchables. He came alongside Mac, as they gazed sadly at the filth that spanned for miles.

"Do you have a plan, sir?" Mr. B asked.

Mac, a 43-year-old Montanan who'd given his life to the Lord many years prior, had been the leader of Team Zayin for ten years. His military experience had given him the background necessary to perform risky extractions from the most desperate situations and locations around the world.

"A plan?" Mac asked, glancing at the sky. It was nearly sundown. They had to go in tonight. The freighter to South Africa was leaving at dawn. "Sure. I've got a plan."

"Do you need me any longer?" Mr. B inquired. "I think . . . I should not be seen with you. At least, not here."

Mac nodded his agreement at the informant.

"You're right. Go with God, Friend. We will do our best, with God's help."

Mr. B bowed slightly, looked in both directions, and then slipped out of sight between residential shacks made partially of cardboard. Mac studied the target shack from afar for another five minutes, memorizing every detail. The next time he would be there would be at night. He then turned and walked down the dirt road toward Bangalore.

A quarter-mile later, Mac reached a road worthy of vehicles, and climbed into a BMW van. Sven "Russia" Madrovich sat in the driver's seat. He was a heavy, six-foot-five Russian who had backed Mac on more missions than either middle-aged man could count. One of Russia's many "talents" was his sniper marksmanship ability.

"It won't be easy," Mac admitted. "There's not much room to maneuver if something goes wrong. We'll need night vision, besides the pens."

"What is her name?" Russia asked with a rich accent.

Regardless of the countless missions they'd executed, every operation was personal to each of the team members. Both Mac and Russia had scars of their own from helping others who sought to live for Christ. And sometimes, as in another recent rescue, things had gone awry, and even Mac needed a rescue himself. Remembering how he'd received the scars on his chest and neck, he silently prayed for God's protection and safety on this next mission, as well as for this poor young woman.

"Her name is Sudkam Digal," Mac informed. Trying to get a feel for their surroundings, they sat and watched the traffic, the animals, and the people. Just two nights prior, they'd pulled two missionaries out of war-torn Afghanistan. Now they were in India. They had long grown immune to culture shock.

"She's the mother of two. Missing for five weeks."

"Every Christian suffers in India." Russia sat in reflection for a moment. "I do not mean disrespect, but why are we here for this one woman?"

"This is a heightened brand of persecution, our contact said. These people are familiar with the beatings, arrests, even the occasional execution. But this blatant kidnapping and holding—it's beyond anything the Hindutva has been willing to do so openly, until now. The police have been alerted, but the anti-conversion laws are upheld, and they won't help.

"The RSS needs to be sent a little message: that Christians are part of a body that spans the world. When they attack one member, the international community steps up in love."

Mac passed a picture of Sudkam Digal to Russia. She was a wide-eyed woman with a flashy smile.

"Pretty young woman," Russia said.

"She's been held by this RSS gang for five weeks now," Mac stated with a frown. "Don't expect her to look the same."

"Is this your way of telling me I am going in first?" Russia chuckled knowingly.

"One look at you and these thugs will probably run. Our contact says they're mostly twenty year olds."

"Yes, twenty year olds armed with knives and clubs," Russia said. "You remember, da? We have been here before."

"Yeah, I remember well. Let's go. We'll come back after midnight."

Russia started the van and made a U-turn to drive back to their rented apartment in Bangalore. This job was to be a quick one, with only Sudkam Digal needing help this time, so the rest of Team Zayin hadn't come to India with them. If the two men ran into any resistance, Mac would regret having given the other two a much-needed short vacation.

Mac thought of his Special Forces team. Besides Russia, there was Rube, who was an ex-guerrilla from Mexico. Czech was an ex-U.N. peacekeeper from the Czech Republic. It was said he could fly anything with wings or rotors. And there were other teams carrying out similar extractions in other countries. They were available to him if the need ever arose.

Each of these men and women experienced changed lives since meeting the Lord. Now they desired to use their past training and experiences to serve Him with COIL, the Commission of International Laborers.

Their last mission in Afghanistan had been particularly taxing. Each of Mac's team nearly starved and froze to death before rescuing the two missionaries from al-Qaeda kidnappers. Mac and Russia were still recovering themselves, but their discipline and determination to help Sudkam was no less.

At the apartment, Mac and Russia packed to leave India. Their gear on this mission was minimal, compared to other missions. Normally, the men were suited up as soldiers of Special Forces, though they carried only non-lethal, tranquilizer carbines. They felt they couldn't truly show the love of Christ if they were killing even the enemy.

The NL-3s fired water-soluble pellets, which contained a sleep toxin. The toxin had to be inhaled to drop an adversary for twenty minutes. Russia sometimes used the NL-X1 sniper rifle, from which high velocity tranquilizer darts were used, capable of a one-hour knockout.

Since India had been a last-minute side-job, they hadn't had time to smuggle in their regular gear. Instead, this time they carried tranquilizer pens, capable of injecting five sleep toxin shots per pen. The team had used the pens around the world, while maintaining their covers as tourists or traveling geologists.

When the men were packed, they sat on the floor, ate ragi balls and dhal, and again reviewed a satellite image of the slums of Guruparahalli.

"Park here," Mac said, pointing to a road he'd spotted earlier that was closer to the target shack. "I'll be here, behind the shack. You go in the front. Expect six men. You'll have your night vision so you can tranquilize them in the dark. Find Sudkam and put her in the pack on your back, then exit around the back to me. I'll cover you."

"I am worried about this," Russia said as he pointed at a police station outside Guruparahalli. "I would like another route to the coast."

"There aren't any." Mac cringed in dismay. "Let me call our contact. I'll see if he can line up another vehicle. We can switch cars before we reach the station just in case someone calls us in. No telling who has cell phones nowadays."

"That should do. The family will meet us at the freighter?"

"Right. Sponsors from South Africa are relocating them all. The office will set them up with proper papers."

Russia sighed. He reached out his giant hand to rest it on Mac's shoulder.

"There is only one thing left to do then, da?"

Both men bowed their heads in prayer.

"Our Lord God and Savior, we are humbled at the fact that You would use us for Your work. We come to You once again to ask for Your special protection on us as we seek to do Your will and to save Your children from harm."

"Yes, Lord, and we are always so humbled at the strength and courage of these who are suffering for Your sake. You are often seen best in the darkness where so few stand by faith alone in Your Light. We ask you to especially protect Sudkam as we seek to rescue her. We ask these things in Your Son's holy Name, Amen."

#######

Sudkam Digal knelt in the filth that had been her prison for five weeks. Welts from burns and beatings covered her body more than her thin gown, but the sores on her knees were her own doing. She'd spent most of those five weeks on her knees, praying.

Now, at what she was certain was the end of her time on earth, Sudkam refused to be found anywhere except on her knees. She no longer wept for herself. The tearful moisture seemed too precious for that. She did weep for her captors, however.

"Oh, Lord Jesus, I thank You for the life you've given me, and I pray that you use it in a way that brings honor to You. I pray You show these young men the love that You've shown to me. Though they are young and have shown me much brutality, I know You are able to penetrate their evil hearts, just as You have my own. I thank You that You have kept my spirit from breaking, for I know faith is not based on things of this earth, but on things above. You have died for these men, just as You have for me. Please help me to do no less and show them Your love."

She prayed for the safety of her family as well. They'd had their own share of persecutions since they'd all claimed Christ as Savior. Her daughter had been forced to apply vermillion at school—the red-dot mark, symbolic of Hindu devotion—but after school every day, she rubbed it off. Her son's feet had been broken when he refused to worship the image of Sai Baba, a Hindu god. Even her husband had been beaten and left for dead. But still, Sudkam loved.

In the night's darkness, Sudkam fell over, too weak to hold herself in a kneeling position any longer. Her captors had fed her only scraps and she'd lost a quarter of her body weight. Two teeth were missing due to hateful blows. Sudkam could only begin to fathom their hatred when she thought of her Lord on the cross. She could suffer a little longer; Jesus had suffered for her.

Tilting her head, Sudkam heard the sound of scuffling feet and a panicked cry in the adjoining room where the youths slept. There was a muffled shout, the sound of furniture overturning, then silence. It wasn't the first time the youths had fought, but their drinking and drug use had intensified over the past week.

Sudkam heard the door to her tiny room open. Expecting lamplight, Sudkam raised her face, but she saw only darkness. For an instant, it seemed as if she'd gone blind, but then a shadow moved before her and something touched her lightly, like a feather. She gasped and flinched from the touch. Someone was in her quarters.

"Are you Sudkam Digal?" a strange man's voice quietly asked.

"Me Sudkam Digal," she confirmed, thankful that she'd learned a little English during her youth at a mission in Karnataka.

"Come. I am here for you. Your family is waiting."

The voice was strange, but the words were comforting. Sudkam didn't resist the very large hands as they gripped her shoulders. The man moved her with ease. Gently, she was lifted from her mat and fit inside a rucksack that was tied over her head. She felt herself being lifted and jostled onto the man's back. Then, Sudkam was carried out of her quarters and outside the shack where even she could smell the slum air. The bounce was soothing as the man walked swiftly away.

Crammed tightly but safely in the pack on the back of this stranger, Sudkam silently wept and prayed.

"Oh, my God, I thank You for answering my prayers and sending this angel for me. Please rescue those young men who abused me. I pray that You save their souls before it's too late."

~The End of _Extraction: India_ ~
*~*

#  High-Wire Rescue

by D.I. Telbat

Quin (Toad) LuDao carefully aimed the crossbow at the infrared light across the Tianjin Street. Only by wearing his night vision goggles could he see the signal—important since Toad was on top of a Chinese detainment building, twelve stories off the street. No one else needed to see the signal!

He pulled the trigger, and a grapnel hook shot through the drizzling rain into the darkness. A thin cable trailed behind the carbon-fiber shaft. Seconds later, the spool at his feet stopped unraveling.

Toad counted to thirty as he waited for Jason Bruno to anchor the hook. Bruno was a burly black man who seemed invisible on the roof of the opposite building. The two COIL operatives were alone on this mission—to rescue a Chinese diplomat who was also a recent Christian convert.

Her name was Zhou Fon, and she'd been sentenced to death by the Communist Party. Her religious convictions had become too visible, and as a translator for the government, she wasn't one to keep her mouth shut.

Picking up the cable, Toad drew it tight and wrapped it around a ventilation housing unit. From his hang glider—the stealth vehicle he'd used to reach the roof—he plucked a mountain climber's belay device, and secured the cable to itself. He looped a nylon rope around the vent as well, and fastened it to a carabiner on his belt.

Stepping to the edge of the roof, Toad looked straight down twelve stories. He wasn't afraid of heights as much as he was afraid of failing the mission. Knowing Bruno, he would tease Toad for hesitating on the ledge of the roof. The two had been close friends since Toad had joined the COIL team two years earlier. They claimed that their banter kept them sharp.

Toad pulled tight against the rope and leaned out into empty space. Wind tugged at his tight, black outfit. Though it was after midnight, the lights in the windows below were bright. He counted four from the right and down . . . how many? Fon was to be housed in a tenth story cell, but there was only cement where there was supposed to be a window!

It wasn't the first time purchased intelligence reports had been wrong. Non-operatives assumed facts that operatives in the field had to find a way to work with. Toad didn't panic. He was, after all, a Christian, and panic had no place in his life. God certainly knew where Fon was housed, and Toad was eternally connected to his sovereign God.

Even while Toad was praying for an idea to locate Fon's prison window, a gust of wind knocked Toad sideways. His grip slipped on the rope, and he dropped through the air twenty feet before his flailing limbs managed some degree of coordination.

Directly in front of one barred window, Toad bounced gently on the rope, then planted his feet on either side of the window. Before he could settle his racing heart, he found himself looking into the teary eyes of a beautiful face he knew well. Zhou Fon was kneeling in front of the window of her cell, praying, even at that hour.

Toad knew her face from photographs and several failed diplomatic maneuvers over the last six months, but Fon surely didn't know him. He was, after all, a covert operative based out of New York City. Smiling, Toad waved at her, and gestured for her to get away from the window.

He couldn't have been more pleased at that moment. God had blown him off the roof ledge to drop precisely to the right window, and Fon was in the middle of her prayers! What had she been praying for? A Special Forces Christian to rappel down her building to rescue her?

From a padded pouch on his belt, Toad drew a vial of synthetic aqua regia. He squirted the acid at the top and bottom of each bar, then tore them loose. The Plexiglas was next, and the acid dabbed in a square hissed with a smelly odor.

The operative climbed through the window and set the bars and glass on the floor of the cell. Before he could straighten up, Fon's arms wrapped around his neck. Just as quickly, she released him and stepped back, covering her mouth with a hand.

"Oh, I'm sorry! What have you come for?" she whispered in Mandarin.

"For you, Fon."

"I thought the last person I would see would be the man meant to murder me at dawn."

"At dawn? I guess we're cutting it close!" Toad said, appreciating her steady gaze and attention. He hadn't seen a more beautiful Chinese prisoner—ever.

"There are others with you?" Fon asked.

"Yes, one other man. Here, I have a harness for you."

"Why . . . me?" she asked with a quiet sob. "There are many others."

"We help who we can, Fon," Toad said softly. Instantly, he realized his love for her—because of the days of preparation to get her out, and for her obvious care for others. "The rest we must leave in God's hands."

She moved close to him and rested her hands on his shoulders as he fit the harness around her. Turning her head, she gazed at her cell, which consisted of a cement bunk and a toilet.

"I hope you won't miss this place," Toad said, regretting his awkward try at humor an instant later.

"No, but I don't want to forget it. And I can't forget the ones we're leaving behind."

He drew her close and stepped to the window.

"The people I work with won't let you forget, Fon. It's remembering what God has done for us that reminds us to do what we can for others. Come, I'll help you climb to the roof."

Together, they stepped out the window where the above cable to the other building awaited their final departure.

Toad cared for every subject they rescued, but as for Zhou Fon—he felt that God had a future purpose for dropping him to her window this night.

~The End of _High-Wire Rescue_ ~

You can find Toad and Fon in the pages of _The COIL Series_.
*~*

Operation Afghanistan: Corban Dowler Undercover

by D.I. Telbat

"Who are you?" a gunman demanded, speaking the Dari language.

An AK-47 rifle was aimed at Corban Dowler. His three Afghan escorts, also armed, faced off with the Taliban force of six.

"You know who I am," Corban said in Arabic, scowling at the leader of the opposing band. They appeared to be wilderness thugs in rags, but Corban knew better. This was a Taliban patrol for a larger force certain to be nearby. Their ancestors had pushed out the Soviets, and now they warred with the US. "Let me pass. I am on a holy mission."

The overcast sky seemed to merge with the jagged, gray landscape of the Hindu Kush Mountains. The leader slid down a short rock slide to the ravine wherein Corban stood.

Now more than ever, the slightly overweight, middle-aged Corban prayed that his disguise held. A thick beard and heavy brows were applied with skin epoxy. Thick-rimmed glasses completed his identity. The disguise had never failed him before, but this was the first time he'd hiked thirty miles with a beard glued to his cheeks. If something went wrong now, he'd never see his wife and daughter back in the States again.

"Am I supposed to know you?" the patrol leader asked, this time in Arabic. "Your accent—Libyan?"

"Egyptian. I seek Imam Zia. He knows me well. I am Muhammad ibn Affal. These three are my humble servants from Kabul. We mean no harm."

The leader studied Corban's face for a few seconds, then flipped open a satellite phone as he turned his back. Corban didn't know Dari well enough to listen in. He gestured to his three escorts to lower their weapons. They obeyed, and the Taliban fighters relaxed as well.

If trouble started, the Taliban party would triumph. Though no longer a CIA agent, Corban still relied on misinformation and covert diplomacy to achieve his goals.

"I am sorry, Muhammad." The leader faced Corban and pocketed the phone. "The enemies of Allah have many deceptions. Imam Zia is my tribal elder. You will be his guest tonight, your men also."

Corban acknowledged the order as if it were a granted request, then fell in behind the fighter as they started northeast, with the three Afghan escorts following.

His three escorts had been hired three days earlier to complete Corban's facade. They were doing a splendid job, as oblivious as the others of Corban's true identity. The three from Kabul passed around snacks from their packs to the Taliban soldiers as they hiked. Tensions were left behind.

Three hours later, they reached a large encampment that lined the bottom of a cliff facing east. The opposing slope was high, offering little sunlight but providing excellent cover from spy drones and US bombers. A muddy creek trickled along the cliff where over one hundred men cleaned rifles, cooked over propane stoves, and slept. There were no tents, only dirt-brown tarps that could be rolled and packed quickly.

Corban's escorts were absorbed into the camp. The mountain fighters for Allah were anxious for news from civilization.

Imam Zia sat under a small lean-to with a fire and an assault rifle before him. Heavily armed bodyguards glared at Corban and blocked his way, but the patrol leader pushed them aside. Looking up, Imam Zia revealed intense brown eyes on a leathery face. But the harshness seemed to evaporate when he saw Corban.

"Allahu Akbar." They greeted one another with a kiss and embrace, then Imam Zia offered a seat at his fire. Cakes and tea in plastic cups were served as soon as they sat down.

"Have you changed your mind, Muhammad? You will finally sell my clan weapons after all? You know I will pay you well. It was a good poppy season."

"I wish I were here on business." Corban sipped his tea, which was barely more than tasteless, scalding water. His persona as an Egyptian arms dealer was known in the darkest corners of the world. He avoided actual sales by claiming he had a contract with an exclusive client. Nevertheless, buyers still vied for his attention. "Rather, I am here to warn you of danger."

"Warn me?" Imam Zia waved his bodyguards out of earshot. "It is no small thing for you to be here, Muhammad. I am honored you have traveled so far to warn me."

"I was in Kabul already. I am honored by you."

"But a warning of danger? I know danger every day. You see these men. We are outnumbered by hundreds, yet we are not defeated. I have become a great man of my clan since you and I met in Islamabad many years ago. What is the nature of your warning?"

"You are a man of wisdom." Corban nibbled on a cake. A jet flew high in the evening sky, perhaps taking photos of that very canyon. "The refugees north of Peshawar in Pakistan were attacked last week. Many were killed. Shelters were burned. My sources say you were there."

"It is true. I was there, Muhammad. They were Christians, a curse upon us all, spread from the West." Imam Zia spit into the fire. "What are they to you? We are both seeking Allah's way, are we not?"

"There is a story of a powerful master who beat his servants." Corban paused and brushed the dust from his sleeve. Was it Afghanistan or Pakistan dust? There were no borders in those mountains, and he had no idea how far he'd traveled. His last radio contact with his organization was from Kabul three days ago. A cargo plane was due in northern Pakistan any day now. That was his ride home—if he made it out alive. "The servants hated their master for beating them. Only when the master began to show the servants compassion, did the servants begin to adore their master and follow him with eagerness."

"I see." Imam Zia nodded as he stared at the fire. He combed his beard with his fingers. "It is a fine story, but not a warning."

"The warning is this: the servants will choose another master if the current master does not stop beating them."

"Truly?" Imam Zia's eyes widened. "I will crush anyone who comes into my mountains!"

"In time, yes, but the Christians grow weary of your raids—though deserving they may be. Potential clients of mine cannot be so reckless. Word has reached me that you will be ambushed if you attack the Christian refugees again. When I heard this, I came right away to warn you. I do not want you harmed any more than I want your reputation sullied by entering a trap."

"But it is for Allah that I punish that disease, not for myself!"

"Of course. You are a faithful example for all, my friend, but the resources that Allah has given you—are they for harmless old men, women, and children in the camps? Or are your resources for the warring infidel? We are both jihadists, Imam Zia, but I am a simple man with no clan to look after. Give me your wisdom."

Imam Zia drew a map from a pack and traced his finger along several mountain ridges. He looked at Corban, his eyes narrowing.

"Do you have interests north of Peshawar? Tell me your mind, Muhammad. Why do you care about the Christians in my region?"

"I see the promise of enterprise, my friend. Nothing more."

"I do not believe you." Imam Zia stowed the map. "I am not convinced you are telling me everything, but I trust you. For the sake of our past and for the sake of our future together, I will not raid the refugees again."

"Thank you. Your superior force is best displayed elsewhere."

Sipping his tea, Corban wanted desperately to be on his way, now that his mission was over, but he'd have to stay the night. Tomorrow, he would march east for an extraction. For now, he'd bought the refugees a little respite. Corban raised his cup to Imam Zia, hoping that this brutal leader never found out that no one was really watching over the Christian refugees, other than God Himself.

"To friends near and far."

Imam Zia drank to the toast, then they shared another cake. Corban's fake beard itched. He hoped the epoxy lasted through the night.

~The End of _Operation Afghanistan: Corban Dowler Undercover_ ~
*~*

#  Extraction: Vietnam

by D.I. Telbat

Nasser al-Burah used a hand-sized scope to study the territorial prison outside Hue, Vietnam. The jungle and humidity hadn't done the prison walls any favors; the paint was crumbling and vines had overtaken the two nearest cement housing units.

"It's getting late," Brahim "the Turk" Skah said from the ground where he lay watching the prison. "It's nearly midday. She should have signaled us by now."

"We can't go in without her." Nasser patted his younger partner on the shoulder. "Our instructions were precise."

This wasn't Nasser's first dangerous operation. He'd been a Sunni Islamic militant in the Arab Spring of North Africa. For years, he'd waited for an opportunity to exercise his deadly skills for Allah. But when Egypt had her "awakening," something inside Nasser had been unresolved, dissatisfied.

"There!" the Turk whispered, though their position in the jungle foliage was far enough from the prison to speak openly. "It has to be from her. Look, the green and white cloth just appeared in that window."

"Good. She's ready." Nasser scanned left and right, then settled his pack under a broad fern. "Forty minutes on my mark. Set, mark."

"Mark," the Turk said, and punched a button on his special operations watch to synchronize. He looked up at Nasser and smiled. "No perspiration, right?"

"I believe the English expression is _'no sweat'_." Nasser chuckled. His nerves were on edge, but he was glad the Turk was with him. Though he hadn't been a military man as Nasser had been, the Turk had been a demolitions expert in Turkey's mines east of Ankara.

Nasser stepped into the clearing and walked a wide circle to the front of the prison. If he messed up this extraction, the prison—or one like it in Vietnam—would become his new home.

He'd come far from his Muslim roots in Cairo. His failure to find fulfillment in the Arab Spring revolutions had been the very key that God had used to unlock his heart. Walking into a Christian house church had been another work of God, followed by guiding Nasser to COIL, the Commission of International Laborers, and a commitment to Jesus Christ.

After training in Mexico and several operations with weathered COIL field agents, he and the Turk had been paired together. Both men had come from Muslim cultures, but they had few other similarities besides being Christians now. This was their first solo mission together. They would've been deployed sooner, but their only common language of English had been a COIL concern. A month of intense language training together had preceded this urgent Vietnam extraction of a Chinese missionary.

Approaching by way of the parking lot, Nasser arrived at the front gate. He hoped it would be assumed he'd arrived by car.

"I'm here to visit Liu Shiwen," he explained in English, Vietnam's widely used language after Vietnamese. "I have an appointment."

The guard at the fence accepted Nasser's identification and visitation papers, then picked up a phone. Everything about this op had been prearranged by COIL, and a contact codenamed "Minnie" was to be waiting for him on the inside.

Nasser's past paramilitary deployments had been more freelance, but without precise guidelines. COIL's care for each soul, however, showed much more caution. Every detail had to be memorized before the op had been approved by Agent Corban Dowler, the founder and chief administrator of COIL.

"You were scheduled for two hours ago," the guard said. He didn't offer Nasser's identification back through the fence.

"I'm terribly sorry." Nasser bowed his head slightly—a sign of respect to the guard, perhaps, but a gesture of prayer to God for Nasser. "You heard, I'm sure, about the landslide on the highway from Da Nang."

The operative played the part of a worried import-export manager from the Middle East. COIL had taught him that the best cover during a sensitive op was one based on reality. The prison had surely run a background check. If they asked any questions, Nasser was prepared to fall back on his youth, when his father had been a dock worker in Alexandria.

"You will receive twenty minutes with the prisoner Liu Shiwen." The guard unlocked the gate. "It is not worth the drive for only twenty minutes."

"Yes, you have a good point." Nasser nodded as he moved through the open gate, then paused as the guard locked it. "I promise you this: I won't be coming back to visit this prisoner again."

The guard grunted, then led the way toward a dark entrance. Nasser had expected the front to be in better repair, but mold and cracks covered the walls even there.

Nasser was given two forms to sign and his fingerprints were taken at a desk where he was handed over to two women in crisp uniforms. They processed his paperwork and asked him questions as another male guard arrived and frisked him for contraband.

"No touching the prisoner," a stern woman of about sixty ordered. "You will not give the prisoner anything. You will not speak about the charges of the prisoner, or about the prison. You will leave when you are told to leave. If you do not comply, you will be physically removed."

The orders didn't require his agreement, he realized, and the two women continued their work. Either he obeyed, or he would be arrested. This was communist Vietnam.

"Come with me. Do not speak to anyone."

The older woman became his escort into the interior of the prison, the smell of mold and suffering humanity growing by every corridor they entered. Cells with bars on the front lined the walls. Three to ten people were inside each cell. The prisoners were dressed in bright civilian clothing, but their faces were anything but bright.

This was one of Vietnam's many political prisons—known as Ha Nam Prison, the most renowned. Recently, the Hmong, San Chi, and Dao minorities had been persecuted by villagers and the government alike for the spread of Christianity. The government fumed as villages were "infected" by Jesus, and appropriate pressures had been applied to curb the number of converts.

But nothing could stop the moving of God's Spirit, Nasser knew, any more than his hardened heart had stopped the truth from transforming his own life. COIL and other courageous organizations continued to smuggle Bibles and hymnals into Vietnam. Families who were discovered to be Christian were denied housing, their property was confiscated, and some were arrested, like Liu Shiwen.

Liu Shiwen had been incarcerated for two years. Her sentence had been served, yet the Chinese immigrant had refused to denounce Christ when her release was offered. Freedom, therefore, had been denied.

Nasser was aware that COIL didn't interfere simply because God's people suffered in their reasonable service for their Lord. Rather, COIL became involved under extreme circumstances. That fact gave Nasser confidence. He liked the thought of being a last resort, a final answer to injustice.

It was true that Liu Shiwen was a Christian teacher and missionary, but her disabled daughter required special attention. This fact had tipped the scales for COIL to extend their hand in aid. Friends had provided for Liu's daughter during the two year sentence, but the strain on the threatened Christian community had reached COIL's ears through contacts. Liu Shiwen needed to be freed now—for her work in Vietnam, but also for her daughter's sake.

After descending narrow steps, Nasser followed his escort through a puddle, then up a short flight to arrive at yet another corridor of cells. The female guard gently spoke Vietnamese into a corner cell where three middle-aged women rose to their feet from a single floor mat.

With all the twists and turns of the corridors, Nasser had lost track of his cardinal points. But a little window high up on the wall showed the sun pouring through at a high angle. He'd indeed arrived at the western-most wall of the prison housing units.

"This is Liu Shiwen." The guard pointed at a short-haired woman in a green striped shirt. She had crooked teeth, but her face was radiant with kindness. Tilting her head in a particular way, she studied Nasser.

"Hello, Liu Shiwen." Regardless of previous instructions, Nasser reached through the bars and took Liu Shiwen's right hand. Her skin was cold, and she seemed to tremble, but Nasser hoped some of his confidence was conveyed through the Spirit to her.

"My name is Minnie," the guard said softly.

"Yes, I had guessed as much." He continued to gaze at Liu Shiwen, an evident joyfulness on her face.

"I have explained to Liu Shiwen that you will help her escape right now. She will go, but she has asked if you can please take the other two with her. They are also Christians serving long sentences."

"That was not in my instructions." Nasser looked at the other two. In training, the COIL operators had taught him the impact of unplanned extractions. Resources would be stretched thin. But he also understood the consequences of leaving the two women behind. They could be severely punished. Here was a judgment call dependent on him, something the COIL directors hadn't foreseen. "What about you, Minnie? Do you want to come as well?"

"No," the guard said, "you are to hit me and leave me behind. Quickly now. Your visit is to last only a few minutes."

Nasser checked his watch. The Turk would be in place by now. He had three minutes until detonation. Minnie nudged him aside and unlocked a padlock. She slid the bolt aside, and Nasser swung the cell door wide. The three women whispered and huddled together when Nasser gestured for them to exit.

"They are afraid." Minnie shook her head. "It is so far to the front gate, they think they will be caught."

"Tell them to come out of the cell, that God will make a new gate, a door through their cell wall."

After translating, the women's eyes widened, and they inched toward him, though still clinging to one another. Once outside the cell, Nasser gripped each of them in turn by the shoulders and positioned them with their backs against the corridor wall.

"Tell them to cover their ears," Nasser said. "There'll be a loud explosion in sixty seconds."

Minnie translated, then Nasser stepped close to her.

"I'm not pleased to leave you like this."

"There is no one else here to help the others." She stood up straighter, though she was visibly shaking. "Do it now, or I will be suspected."

Nasser swung his fist and connected with Minnie's left cheekbone. She fell against the wall but Nasser caught her before she collapsed onto the floor. He easily carried her a few paces up the corridor and lay her on the floor. Her check was split and blood trickled into her hair. The cut was serious enough to leave a scar, and Nasser was sorry he'd hit her so hard.

It was strange to feel such care, Nasser reflected. Just a few years ago, he'd been a merciless soldier. Now he was tearing up over a woman's loving dedication to the people of God.

"Sleep gently, sister," he mumbled, then covered her ears as he bowed over her body. He did his best to protect his own ears with his upper arms.

A blast shook the building, the explosion so loud and devastating that nearly twenty seconds passed before he could rise and breathe through the choking air, his ears ringing. He took Minnie's keys in his hand.

Liu Shiwen and the two Vietnamese women stood where he'd left them. They covered their mouths to breathe and obeyed his waving hand to re-enter the cell. The back wall of the cell was now in rubble and a giant hole faced the jungle.

The Turk appeared in the opening wearing a proud smile. His ordnance had worked, as promised. The women stood clinging to one another, but the Turk took one woman's hand and led them out. Nasser was about to explain that they would be taking all three with them, but the Turk had already exited his new door. Apparently the Turk didn't need an explanation; two more in need were simply two more to be helped. No discussion was required.

Nasser entered the cell, closed the bars, and locked the padlock. After inserting the key into the lock, he twisted it sharply and broke it off. It would buy them a little more time, but not much. The sound of boots was coming from down the corridor.

He climbed through the rubble into the afternoon sunlight. The Turk and the other three had reached the edge of the jungle. It would be a long hike to the border of Laos, and it would be harder with two more in tow, but the COIL agents were trained for these type of operations. Nasser was a soldier and the Turk could blow up bridges as they fled.

Where there had been no door, the Lord had provided one. Now the women would be relocated with their families, and the operatives would continue their work for Jesus Christ.

The Turk paused and looked back at him, grinning. Nasser bounded after them, thankful that their first solo extraction together had been a success.

~The End of _Extraction: Vietnam_ ~
*~*

We pray you have enjoyed these COIL-related short stories. Please leave your comments or review wherever you downloaded this FREE eBook. Thank you! You can NOW find Book Two of D.I. Telbat's Short Story Collections at COIL Recruits for Christ _!_ Watch for more Short Story Collections coming soon!
*~*

Other Books by D.I. Telbat

***** _The COIL Series_ _:_ Christian Suspense

**Prequel** \- Dark Edge _:_ **FREE eBook, FREE Audio** ; also in Paperback

**Bk 1** \- Dark Liaison: A Christian Suspense Novel _:_ Audio, eBook, Paperback

**Bk 2** \- Dark Hearted _:_ Audio, eBook, Paperback

**Bk 3** \- Dark Rule _:_ Audio, eBook, Paperback

**Bk 4** \- Dark Vessel _:_ Audio, eBook, Paperback

**Bk 5** \- Dark Zeal _:_ Audio, eBook, Paperback

***** _The COIL Legacy_ _:_ Christian Suspense

**Prequel** \- Distant Boundary _:_ **FREE eBook**

**Bk 1** \- Distant Contact _:_ included in _Legacy Collection_ ; eBook

**Bk 2** \- Distant Front _:_ included in _Legacy Collection_ ; eBook

**Bk 3** \- Distant Harm _:_ included in _Legacy Collection_ ; eBook

***** The COIL Legacy Collection, **3 Books in 1 Volume** ; eBook, Paperback

***** _The Resolution Series_ _:_ _America's Last Days:_ Futuristic Novella eBooks

**Bk 1** – Resolution Book One _:_ eBook

**Bk 2** – Resolution Book Two _:_ eBook

**Bk 3** – Resolution Book Three _:_ eBook

**Bk 4** – Resolution Book Four _:_ eBook

_*_ _The Steadfast Series_ _: America's Last Days:_ Futuristic Novella eBooks

**Bk 1** – Steadfast Book One _:_ eBook

**Bk 2** – Steadfast Book Two _:_ eBook

**Bk 3** – Steadfast Book Three _:_ eBook

**Bk 4** – Steadfast Book Four _:_ eBook

**Bk 5** – Steadfast Book Five _:_ eBook

**Bk 6** – Steadfast Book Six _:_ eBook

_*_ _Last Dawn Trilogy_ , **Post-Apocalyptic** eBooks:

**Bk 1** – Dawn of Affliction; eBook

***** _The Leeward Set_ _: Where Christians Dare_

**Bk 1** – Fury in the Storm _,_ (previously published as _Sea Scribe)_ ; eBook

**Bk 2** – Tears in the Wind _:_ eBook

***** Standalones

Arabian Variable _,_ a **Covert Action** Suspense; eBook

Called To Gobi, an **End Times** Chronicle; eBook, Paperback

God's Colonel, an **End Times** Novel; eBook

Soldier of Hope, A **POW Survival** Story in Afghanistan, eBook

***** Short Story Collections

COIL Extractions _:_ COIL Short Story Collection; **Bk 1** ; **FREE eBook**

COIL Recruits for Christ _:_ COIL Short Story Collection; **Bk 2** ; eBook

Visions of Courage _:_ Stories of Courage for Each Day of the Month; **Bk 1** ; eBook

***** Coming Soon **:**

_Dawn of Oppression_ ; **Bk** **2** of _Last Dawn Trilogy_ ; end of 2019

_Dawn of Subjection_ ; **Bk 3** of _Last Dawn Trilogy_ ; 2020

_Father's Day Short_ _Story Collection_ ; spring 2020

_Mother's Day Short Story Collection_ ; spring 2020

_Visions of Faith_ : a Christian Short Story Collection; **Bk 2** ; 2020

_Visions of Hope_ : a Christian Short Story Collection; **Bk 3** ; 2020

_Visions of Redemption_ : a Christian Short Story Collection; **Bk 4** ; 2020

_Visions of Sacrifice_ : a Christian Short Story Collection; **Bk 5** ; 2020

*Visit the D.I. Telbat Author Page for info on all books.

*Subscribe here to the **D.I. Telbat weekly newsletter**.
*~*

About the Author

D.I. Telbat desires to honor the Lord with his life and writing. He is recognized as an author of **clean** , **Suspenseful Fiction with a Faith Focus**. Because of his love for the Persecuted Church, many of his stories are **about persecuted Christians** —their sacrifices, sufferings, and rescues. Subscribe to receive his **FREE D.I. Telbat Newsletter** with a Christian short story, or an Author Reflection, or his novel news, **weekly**. David Telbat also has **exclusive subscriber gifts** for you, such as his _Three For Free_ —3-novels-in-1 eBook! Find his complete bio at about the author.

*~*

Contact

ditelbat@gmail.com

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**~** BONUS CHAPTER **~**

Dark Liaison: A Christian Suspense Novel

NEXT PAGE!
*~*

#  BONUS Chapter One

Book One in _The COIL Series_

Dark Liaison: A Christian Suspense Novel

by D.I. Telbat

Corban James Dowler had been shot before. This time was no different, the pain no less. He stood in the shadow of a residential portico in Rome, Italy, gathering his senses before checking his wound. There was a dim streetlamp on the far corner but the light didn't reveal where he was hiding. The mass of moving water to his left was the Tiber River. Because of darkness, it was out of sight now, but he knew where he was. Of Rome's seven hills, the peak of Palatine was a stone's throw away. His rental car was ten blocks up the street to the north, his destination four blocks to the south.

Taking stock of the wound in his left side, Corban found blood streaming down his leg. Though it felt like a million needles, it didn't seem to be too serious. That love handle would never be the same, but he was thankful the bullet had missed his kidney and ribs.

He eased farther back into the shadows as a lean man crept into the street and then paused. The man still held the silenced pistol he'd used to shoot Corban. There was only one reason the assassin was standing in the street: he wanted to finish Corban off. The man waited, listening, twenty yards away.

Corban took off his glasses. His eyes were fine, but the glasses were part of his costume, so he blamed his current wound on his disguise. Tonight he was Muhammad ibn Affal, an alias from his past that opened more doors in the Middle East than anywhere, but resulted in misfortune in places like Rome. It was his most accessible alias, requiring little prep-time. He'd had little choice but to use it on this emergency visit to Italy.

His foe still stood in the street, listening to the night. The slightest whisper of clothing would alert this predator. Nevertheless, Corban was calm as he disassembled his eyewear. Pulling off both earpieces, he was left with two stubby, straight lengths still connected to the frame. No one ever noticed that the frame itself was unusually thick and round as a pencil.

The man in the street seemed to look right at him, but Corban knew the darkness hid him. Corban also knew his foe was debating if he should venture into that darkness to investigate.

The assassin slinked toward the portico's shadow, his pistol leveled and sweeping.

Pressing both frame lengths toward the lenses, Corban aimed each end at his foe. Since he knew the armed delay of his miniature weapon, he counted the seconds. It was calibrated for ten yards, but this was a little close to use on a man with a drawn pistol.

A tiny red laser beam shot out. When Corban saw the red dot on the man's chest, he instantly crouched low against the building in anticipation. The sharp pop of a CO2 cartridge sent a tranquilizer dart tipped with falaco into the man's chest, right where Corban's laser sight had beamed. In return, two silenced rounds from the pistol slammed into the wall over Corban's head and peppered him with white dust. Like ricin, falaco required two beats of the heart to reach the vital organs. It was a powerful narcotic that would've killed the man if the dart had been dipped in more than a tiny drop of the toxin upon preparation.

The killer shuddered on his feet, then crumbled in place.

Reassembling his glasses, Corban put them back on his face. If his foe wasn't alone, Corban would be in trouble. Though he had other non-lethal weapons at headquarters in New York City, he'd brought only the glasses on this trip.

Corban smoothed down his fake beard and mustache, both trimmed and styled in the most loyal Islamic fashion. Ignoring his trickling wound, he stepped out of the shadows and into the quiet street. Kneeling next to the killer, he checked the man's weapon: a 9-millimeter, custom-made, machine pistol with a French label. Corban had never seen one like it, which meant the man was a professional, a hunter-tracer of some type.

Rolling the man over, he dragged him out of the street. Falaco's effects would last for an hour, but no more. Though Corban was in a hurry, he was curious, as well. He checked the man's pockets. Two packs of chewing gum and a pack of cigarettes, but no matches or lighter. Corban was tempted to keep the cigarettes, but he decided against it. One never knew what the new generation of spies and assassins carried. It could be a transponder or even a bomb that would explode two steps away from its recognized body heat signature.

Studying the assassin's face up close, Corban engraved his features into his mind. The man wasn't over forty. His face was lean, cold, and clean-shaven, and he had black hair and bushy eyebrows. He appeared to be Italian. The Italian government wasn't hunting Muhammad ibn Affal, but he was on more than a few countries' watchdog lists. To them, he was an arms thief and smuggler—a terrorist. Such an alias was generally safe to use, even near Western countries that knew him well. But they were only supposed to watch him, not kill him. If someone wanted his identity gone, something in the world of terror had shifted.

Finished with his examination, Corban left the killer and jogged across the street. He slowed to a walk and entered a vine-crowded alley. Pausing every twenty paces, he listened to the night: the city traffic in the distance, a dog yelping, but no trailing footsteps.

A few blocks later, Corban put his back to a telephone pole and watched his target house and the surrounding neighborhood for several minutes. The Italian assassin, even if he woke early, wouldn't know Corban was coming here. Or would he? Every stage was a potential ambush. The Italian could've followed him from the airport, or perhaps he'd begun tailing him later. If his rental car was marked with a transponder, it didn't matter. He wasn't going back for it.

Corban kept a watchful eye on the house. It had a short, stone wall around its front courtyard. An ornate fountain sat dry and littered, molding from whatever last rains had graced its bowl. An old Audi was parked in the driveway. There were no lights on in the house. He knew it was a four-bedroom residence with a pool in the rear. The whole place reeked of neglect, but Corban expected no less. With the death threats that Tye and Sarah Mentolla had been receiving from extremists, he didn't blame them for remaining in the safety of their home and calling for help.

It was an age-old struggle that had started in the 1500s—apostate teaching versus the biblical teaching that came out of the Protestant Reformation. The Mentollas had been Christian missionaries in Rome for nine years, trained to reach apostates specifically. But the superstitions of the people had won over the washing of Christ's redemptive blood this day.

The Mentollas' dog had been killed a week ago, and the phone calls were becoming more threatening by the day. Just sixteen hours ago, their house had been stoned. Normally, other field agents would've handled this volatile situation, but they were in demand elsewhere. It was up to Corban to get them out this time.

He saw headlights far up the street. Climbing over the Mentollas' stone wall, Corban pushed through the bushes that choked a brick walkway until he reached the back door of the house. As suspected, the backyard pool was filthy, but drained. He was about to knock on the door when he heard breaking glass and shouts from the street. Jogging back to the walkway, he saw a car stopped in front of the house. A half dozen youths were throwing rocks at the windows as another lit a Molotov cocktail.

Returning to the back door, Corban kicked it in. Wood splintered before him as he barged through the frame and into the house. From there, he could see through the dining and living rooms to the front window. As he watched, the cocktail crashed through broken glass. Flames engulfed the floor and furniture.

A child cried, and Corban heard voices from down the hallway to his right. The thugs in front were lucky Corban wasn't the man he'd once been—a man who went heavily armed on every mission. He would've had no qualms about dashing into the street with his Beretta and . . .

But Corban was no longer that man. God had changed him six years before. Since then, he couldn't bring himself to kill. He had to retire from the CIA early, his pension only a few years away, yet his convictions intact. In many ways, though, he was still that old spy tracker. Even though he was fifty-six and not in the best physical condition, he still felt like a man of twenty. After years of honing his skills, he could move like a panther and think like a computer. He was the last of the old-school spies, and although he no longer used his craft for the government, he still used it—to preserve the defenseless.

Fire reflected off his forehead and glasses as he stared at the growing flames. A man shouted at him in Italian. Corban recognized Tye Mentolla right away. He'd never met his family, but Corban knew them well. In the man's arms was his four-year-old daughter, Lacy. Six-year-old Forest was behind his father, clinging to his panic-stricken mother, Sarah. Corban couldn't speak much Italian, but he didn't need to—the Mentollas were Americans.

"I'm here to help you," Corban said over the roar of the fire. The father didn't move. "Sixteen hours ago, you called your mission board in the States. You requested emergency leave. I'm here to get you out. Carry what you can. The fire's still low, but we don't have much time. Quick! We'll leave out the back."

"They said no one would be here for another week," Tye insisted. "They said the threat level wasn't high enough."

"Fine. You want to stay here?"

Coughing at the smoking flames, Tye set his daughter down on the floor.

"Quick!" he urged his family. "Go get dressed!"

His children scampered down the hallway.

"I'll get the albums." Sarah hurried to a display cabinet against a wall. A stone thrown from outside bounced off the floor and hit her leg. She screamed and dropped a handful of photos. "Tye, help me!"

"Sarah, go get your clothes and help the kids!" Tye said as he knelt to gather the pictures from the floor. He muttered a prayer for safety and kept a wary eye on the encroaching flames. "I never thought it would come to this. After all our work."

Corban spotted movement from the corner of his eye. He pivoted to face a tall form in a hooded sweatshirt looming in the back doorway. It was one of the thugs he'd seen in the street. The chiseled shape of a machete rose to strike down at Corban. Shifting his feet, Corban heel-kicked the youth in the solar plexus, sending him skidding across the patio and into the empty pool. Corban heard the thug gasping for air and knew the hooded figure would be fine once he caught his breath.

". . . and so that's when I called the board," Tye was saying. He turned to Corban, oblivious of Corban's confrontation with the youth. "What'd you say your name was?"

"I didn't say. Maybe you should get dressed, too, Mr. Mentolla."

Tye nodded and jogged down the hallway. Corban spied the growing flames while keeping an eye on the back door. Sarah soon emerged, pinning her hair up and helping Lacy into a sweatshirt, then Tye and Forest came from the hallway together, both carrying their Bibles. Sarah picked up her purse and a small bag.

"Do you have a plan?" Tye asked, gathering the stack of folders and albums. "We'll never get our car out with them blocking the way."

These were good, caring people, Corban thought as he watched Forest tug a baseball cap down over his brow. He hated to see the darkness overwhelm the light so horribly.

He turned toward the pool and the semi-darkness.

"Follow me."

~End of Chapter One~

Dark Liaison, A Christian Suspense Novel

Book One in _The COIL Series_

Available now in eBook, Paperback, and Audio!

Visit the Dark Liaison Page Here.
