Jaffa, Israel
19:40
Bruce ducked behind the black Impala. The hood was cool. Zachary’s GLD signal had pointed to this location. He surveyed the surroundings. A large two-story building stretched across a sprawling parking lot. The place was rundown: it had broken windows and dirty white paint peeled from the cracked walls. The blacktop crumbled beneath his boots. A rickety sign hung above two solid-looking wooden doors. It said, “Imperial Palace.”
A black Mercedes was parked to the side of the building. Bruce dashed to the entrance of the abandoned complex and turned the doorknob, but it didn’t budge. A thumb scanner was mounted to the side of the entrance. Bruce shrugged and placed his thumb on the pad. Nothing happened.
On a hunch, he removed a Zippo from his pocket and heated the bottom of the scanner, rotating the lighter to get an even heat. After a minute, the door popped open.
Bruce peered inside. The foyer was deserted. A banged-up reception desk stood to the back, and a large marble stairwell led to the second floor. Rusted metal chandeliers hung from a stained, patterned ceiling. Muffled voices sounded upstairs and he sneaked his way to the top.
A long hallway with a scuffed red carpet led to dozens of rooms on either side. A dim light emitted from the bottom of the first door to his left.
He kicked the door open and entered, pointing his pistol left and then right, scanning the room. Three men dressed in army uniforms sat at a table, playing cards. They looked up, startled. An Israeli officer stood up from a sofa, hands held in the air.
Bruce pointed his pistol at the men. None of them were armed. They wore US military uniforms, marines. Bruce hustled over to the officer and jammed the Beretta against his temple.
“Where is he?” Bruce asked.
“Bryden, is that you? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the officer asked, bending his neck back uncomfortably. “Lower your weapon, that is an order.”
“Where is Cohen?” Bruce asked again, grabbing the man’s neck with his dinner-plate-sized hands.
The man’s face and neck flushed red. “Bryden, let’s talk about this. Who is this guy to you?”
Colonel Aaron Weinstein.
Bruce had met him a couple of months ago during his graduation ceremony. He remembered he was from the Israeli Air Force, but he didn’t recognize the men with him.
“Why are they here?” He pointed the gun at the soldiers.
“They’re guards. Captain Cohen has been arrested for treason,” Weinstein said.
Bruce shoved the gun against Weinstein’s temple, hard. “Zachary Cohen is my commanding officer. I do not know if he is a traitor. I do know Captain Cohen has been taken forcefully, against his will.” He cocked the gun. “And someone slit his wife’s throat. So you better get him out here and explain to me what the hell—”
Weinstein moved in a flash. He jerked his head back and connected solidly on Bruce’s chin. Bruce fired blindly, but the bullet whizzed over Weinstein’s head and thumped into the wall. Weinstein turned and shoved Bruce back then rolled towards the door. Bruce fired a quick salvo of shots and Weinstein cried out, but he managed to scramble through the door.
Bruce pointed the gun at the three soldiers. They hadn’t moved.
“You’ll only get one of us before we’re on top of you,” one of the men said.
Bruce rolled his shoulders. “Well, decide which one it’s going to be and do it fast.”