Covenant

39

Spencer Malik watched as Rafael approached from the shadows, gliding silent as a ghost before stopping a meter away from where he stood. The darkness obscured his features; the broad face, the skin darkened by the passing of endless suns in countless countries. A thin silken scarf covered the lower half of his face, shielding him effectively enough to prevent identification.

“Information,” Rafael demanded in his husky accent.

“I don’t take orders,” Malik hissed. “You do.”

“A shame, then, that you so often fail to carry them out.”

Malik flashed a brittle grin in the darkness, but said nothing.

“I will contact you with the coordinates as soon as I have them,” Rafael said. “Try not to screw up this time.”

Malik’s grin did not budge.

“Just get the job done.” Malik produced a small set of folded papers. “These will get you past the security at the crossing. Israel closed it some time ago, but there …” Malik stared as Rafael walked past him without another word, ignoring the papers. “Where are you going?”

Rafael turned back to face him.

“Fool, you would have me approach a guarded crossing? I will make my own way into Gaza. There is always a way in and out for those who know. Be gone.”

Malik whipped his pistol out of its holster, strode forward, and jammed the metal barrel against Rafael’s head.

“Who are you calling a fool?”

Rafael stared up at Malik for a long moment before speaking in a soft whisper, his shoulders slumping. “Forgive me, I did not mean to offend.”

Malik felt his features melting into a grin of deep satisfaction, and with his free hand he tapped Rafael’s stubbled cheek a few times for good measure.

“Run along, little man.”

Rafael nodded obediently before turning and walking away. Malik watched him stride into the night, then basked in the surge of adrenaline that coursed through his veins. Rafael was just big talk, dominated as easily as a whipped dog. A euphoric sense of well-being enveloped him as he looked down and slipped his pistol back into its holster.

It was only then that he saw the small tear in the fabric of his shirt, just below his rib cage. He tugged at the material, saw the clean cut, and cursed. The bloody Arab had held a blade to his ribs and he never even noticed.

He looked up, but Rafael had vanished.