COIL EXTRACTIONS

Christian Fiction Adventure

by D.I. Telbat
~*~
A Short Story Collection
Book I
~*~
Copyright 2012 Telbat's Tablet
Smashwords Edition
*~~*
There is no redemption without sacrifice.

**~~~**
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied, and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please returen to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

**~~~**
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.
The Lord knows. 
Your crowns await you in heaven.

**~~~**
Discover other titles by D.I. Telbat at Smashwords.com:
Dark Liaison, A Christian Suspense Novel, Book One in the COIL Series
Dark Hearted, Book Two in the COIL Series

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Table of Contents

COIL Extractions
Extraction: China
Mexican Hospice
Extraction: Pakistan
*~*
Dark Liaison, A Christian Suspense Novel,
 Chapter One Excerpt
*~*
Other Books by D.I. Telbat
About the Author
Contact


**~~~**

COIL Extractions by D.I. Telbat are stories based on themes and characters in Dark Liaison,
A Christian Suspense Novel, Book One in the COIL Series, and Dark Hearted, Book Two.
*~*
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.


**~~~**

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 Coalition 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 had 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 tranquillizer 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 that he had 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 swung inward. Ruben felt the warmth of the house hit his cold cheeks as he cautiously stepped inside.

#######

Pastor Wu could not 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 had arrived for the service. They had 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 would not 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 the near and far 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 the gathering. Only a man with something to hide would keep his face covered, and Wu was certain that 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 prison time in a hard 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 had 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 that he had 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 shrunk 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 baton 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 man 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 have 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 that the man's name was Ruben, and learned 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 wound. 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 did not translate for Ruben. "We are obviously not safe here any longer. It is 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 is 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 that he has saved us from torture and prison, and we will 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. 

~End~


**~~~**

"Mexican Hospice" was contracted to be published with Skysong Press in 2009, in their Dreams & Visions issue,but sadly, the publication folded before it could be published. Though this story isn't specifically a COIL story, it is based on the same theme of sacrifice.

**~~~**

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 had 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 would 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 bank manager. He had 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, 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 had 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 had 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 he had 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 have 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, anyway. All of 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 had 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 had 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 was not a perfect match, but it was close enough. Getting into the jail was all about attitude; he'd intimidated enough lenders 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 that it was nearly shift change. There was not 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 had made it. Taking a step forward, he quickly stepped backward 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? 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 diseased clothing. Francis had lost more weight than Rick had expected, but Francis wasn't so unhealthy that he couldn't 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 could be. Rick checked his watch.
"It's shift change," he voiced as he dressed in Francis' prison garb. "It's 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 finally objected. "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 would not let you do this, Rick."
"It's okay."  Rick held him at arm's length. "Just go—or all of 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 was not due to execute Francis until the next 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 was not demanding that he die this way, Rick knew, even after the selfish life he had lived. But by dying this way, for the first time, his whole life seemed to mean something 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.

~End~


**~~~**

"Extraction: Pakistan" was first published on the Haruah: Breath of Heaven website in 2009.
Sadly, the publication later folded.

**~~~**

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 were not 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 had carried both men's rifles while the other had packed Artie across rocky terrain to the chopper. The rifles were not the typical assault weapons. To rescue Artie, they had come into the Pakistani camp shooting. But there had 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 that 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."
The chopper occupants were silent for a time. Staring out the bay door, Artie was still lost in the wonderment of what he had just been saved from. The emptiness of Afghanistan's rocky mountains flew by as they left Pakistan's air space, heading west.
"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.
"I've been gone for a long time. Everything is different now."
"The important things aren't," Mac assured him. "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 looked at one another.
"That's a long time, Artie, but it's not long enough for people to stop caring," Mac encouraged. "You have family?"
"I did. I was told by my captives that the world believed I was dead."
"Doesn't matter," Mac dismissed 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 pressed. He 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 when they wake up after twenty minutes and realize we spared their lives when we could have easily killed them. It's dangerous for us to use tranqs. There's a lapse time between contact and sleep time. But it's worth it, diplomatically."
"And the other reason?"
"You're a missionary, right?" Mac asked. "You were reaching the Pakistani people for Jesus Christ when you were taken?"
"Yes. Two others and 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 proposed nervously. "Who is 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 warned the rescued man.
"It's okay. I've feared the worst anyway. Just tell me."
"Your wife died five years ago," Sven reported, his head bowed 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 clutched. 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 explained, 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. "I want you to have it. It's all I have to give."
"Give it to your children," Sven suggested. "Use it to tell your story."
"I have plenty of words to tell my story," Artie stated 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 that 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?"
"No, I'm very thankful that you came for me, "Artie stressed. "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. "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."
"I understand." He then addressed Sven. "How did Susan die?"
"The cancer," Sven answered.
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 will set things in order, then I'll return to Pakistan. I believe that's what the Lord wants me to do."
"Do what you gotta do, Artie," Mac encouraged.
"Maybe," Artie considered, "maybe all I've been through was just training." Already, his spirits felt lighter than when he had first been picked up.  
"Training?" Sven repeated. "I do not understand."
"Sure. I speak the local dialect perfectly now. I've been to language school!"

~End~


**~~~**

Chapter One excerpt from Dark Liaison: A Christian Suspense Novel,
Book One of the COIL Series
Available at most eBook retailers.

**~~~**

DARK LIAISON, A Christian Suspense Novel

By D.I. Telbat

Chapter One Excerpt

Corban James Dowler had been shot before. This time was no different; the pain was 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 did not 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 was four blocks to the south.
Finally, Corban checked the wound in his left side. It felt like a million needles. He was bleeding down his leg, but it was not too serious. That love handle would never be the same, but thankfully, 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 that he had 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. The glasses were part of his costume. Blaming his current wound on his costume, he was Muhammad ibn Affal tonight. It was an alias from his past that opened more doors in the Middle East than anywhere, but found him getting shot in places like Rome. This was his most accessible alias that required little prep-time, and gave him 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--as much 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 came up, 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. Falaco was a powerful narcotic that would have killed the man if the dart had not been but slightly dipped into the toxin upon preparation.
The killer shuddered on his feet, then crumbled in place on the edge of the street.
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 had 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. He could just make out in the dim lighting that it was 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 to discover why this stranger carried them, 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 closely, Corban engraved his features into his mind. The man was not 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 was not 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, would not know Corban was coming here. Or would he? Every stage was a potential ambush. The Italian could have followed him from the airport or picked up his tail later. If his rental car was marked with a transponder, it didn't matter. He wasn't going back for it.
Corban eyed the house cautiously. It had a short, stone wall around its front courtyard. A fountain that once bubbled with water, now 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 particularly 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 the week before, 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 have 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. About to knock on the door, he heard glass break and someone yell. Jogging back to the walkway, he saw that a car had 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 was not the man he once was—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. Choosing to retire from the CIA early, though his pension was only a few years away, his convictions were yet 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 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 in the living room. A man shouted at him in Italian on his right. Corban recognized Tye Mentolla right away. He had never met his family, but Corban knew them well. In the man’s arms was his four-year-old daughter, Lacy. And six-year-old Forest was behind his father with his panic-stricken mother, Sarah. While Corban could not speak much Italian, he didn't need to—the Mentollas were Americans.
"I'm here to help you," Corban voiced in English 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," insisted Tye. "They said the threat level wasn't high enough."
"Fine. You want to stay here?"
Tye flinched at the crackling flames and coughed at the smoke. He 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 cabinet. A stone thrown from outside bounced off the floor and hit her leg. She screamed and dropped an armful of photographs. "Tye, help me!"
"Sarah, go get your clothes and help the kids!" Tye instructed his wife. She was still in her nightgown. Sarah ran down the hall as Tye knelt to gather the albums off the floor. Muttering a prayer for safety, he kept a wary eye on the flames so near. "I never thought it would come to this. After all our work…"
Corban spotted movement from the corner of his eye. Pivoting, he faced a tall form in a hooded sweatshirt looming in the back doorway. It was one of the thugs from the front of the house. The chiseled shape of a machete rose to strike down at Corban. Shifting his feet, Corban heel-kicked the youth in the solar plexus so hard that the young man skidded across the patio and landed in the bottom of 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."
"Oh."
"Maybe you should get dressed, too, Mr. Mentolla," Corban suggested.
Tye handed a stack of file folders and photo albums to Corban and padded swiftly down the hallway. Sarah emerged, still pinning her hair up and helping Lacy into a sweatshirt. Corban spied the growing flames and kept an eye on the back door. Tye and Forest came from the hallway together, both carrying their personal Bibles.
"Do you have a plan?" Tye asked hopefully. "We'll never get our car out with them blocking the way."
Corban handed the files and albums back to Tye. Sarah carried her purse and a small bag. Forest tugged a baseball cap down over his brow. Expectantly, they waited on Corban for direction.
These were good, caring people, Corban judged. 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 of Dark Liaison, A Christian Suspense Novel,~
Book One of the COIL Series –
Available at Smashwords.com and other eBook retailers.


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Other Books by D.I. Telbat

Dark Liaison, A Christian Suspense Novel, Book One in the COIL Series

Dark Hearted, Book Two in the COIL Series

Jaguar Dusk, a stand-alone, COIL Adventure


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About the Author

D.I. Telbat desires to serve the Lord with his life and his writing. He publishes FREE weekly Christian adventure/suspense short stories, or serialized novels, on his website/blog at http://ditelbat.com. Also on his Telbat's Tablet blog, you will find his author reflections, writing experiences, book reviews, and occasional challenges to the Christian Church. Read a full David Telbat biography on his site, as well as his publishing credits, honors, and reader testimonials. Subscribe to Telbat's Tablet to never miss a story, and receive occasional exclusive gifts!

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CONTACT:
Website/blog – http://ditelbat.com