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Dark Vessel (The COIL Series) (Volume 4)

By D. I. Telbat

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The explosion lifted me up and threw me backwards. I felt the searing heat against my skin as bits of shrapnel pierced my flesh in a dozen spots. When I landed on the lawn of a Bronx townhouse, it took me a few moments to recover from the jar to my skull.
Quickly, I lapsed into years of training: first, assess the situation. I was alive, though barely. If I’d been two steps closer to my four-door Lexus, I would’ve been a smoldering mass of flesh. Roy Turpin, however, hadn’t been so blessed. Flames flickered from his charred corpse in the front seat. The bomb was surely not meant for him, but who would be trying to kill me?
The night was pierced by sirens. I rolled over and crawled into the hedges of the townhouse. Had anyone seen me survive the blast? Once again, God had kept me alive for another purpose. My heart leaped at the possibilities—at that which He intended for me!
With no more than a couple minutes before emergency personnel arrived, I had to decide whether I would run or stay on the scene.
Still on my mind was a set of identifications for Roy Turpin, one of COIL’s most recent recruits. The townhouse on my left was one of my stateside safe houses—apparently not so safe. The veteran field operative inside was responsible for at least a hundred identification packages over the last ten years. It wasn’t possible that he’d tried to kill me—not in front of his own residence.
And where was my own wallet and identification? It had been in the Lexus, in the pocket between the front seats. For now, Roy Turpin would assume my charred identity, until tests showed that he wasn't me at all. For now, Corban James Dowler was dead. Rest in peace, I thought to myself, then climbed out of the bushes. There was nowhere to go but underground—if I was to survive.
I’d been recruited by the CIA when I was only nineteen. Now, thirty-eight years later, I was familiar with personal attacks—and no stranger to death squads and assassins—though I’d officially left the Agency five years earlier. As any retired agent, I’d maintained ties with old contacts for security purposes.
But I had another level of concern on my mind as I limped into the back yard of the townhouse. I ran COIL, a private agency that assisted Christians under international threat. The Commission of International Laborers had survived many attacks in the five years since I’d founded it, but this was something different. This was a premeditated terrorist attack, blatant, and on American soil. Not only did I have a handful of potential agencies to suspect for the bombing, I also had to consider my own more recent dealings with anti-Christian militias and governments overseas. COIL protected Christians so the gospel of Christ could be shared. Many would do whatever it took to shut down COIL, or me.
After climbing two fences, skirting three houses and two barking dogs, I could go no further. Two blocks behind me, the dark sky was lit by flashing lights. I seemed to be safe at the moment. Next to a mailbox, I plopped down on the curb to rest. Blood matted my scalp above my left ear, and a piece of metal rubbed on the ribs in my right side. If I continued moving without medical attention, my injuries would become worse.
From my pocket, I palmed my phone, but I didn’t dial. Whoever had blown up my car had close access to my life, maybe even my phone. If I called someone now, they’d know I was still alive. In a quick motion, I took the phone apart, disabled the power, and shoved it deep into the lawn against the curb.
My wife, Janice, would be in turmoil, along with our blind adopted daughter, Jenna, now ten. It wasn’t likely that they’d been attacked as well, but my old contacts in the Agency, or friends from COIL, would see to my family’s immediate safety. That was standard procedure. For the moment, I could focus on whoever had tried to kill me.
The death of Roy Turpin was a big loss for me. Not many had known I’d been in contact with the recently paroled ex-convict. After twenty-nine years in prison for murder, he’d been released. For two years, I’d corresponded with him. Since he’d received Christ twelve years earlier, he was open to service for God, once released. I’d been preparing him for a dangerous operation into Iran. That mission was now on hold.
A car drove up the residential street. Gritting my teeth through the pain, I used the nearby mailbox to pull myself to my feet. I didn’t want to involve anyone else, but my options were limited. God was obviously watching over me, so holding onto that faith, I waved at the headlights.
The yellow color of the cab was apparent as the car stopped. I climbed into the empty back seat.
“Manhattan,” I said. “Tenth Avenue. Chelsea.”
I spied the driver’s ID. Pakistani. My Urdu was fair, and on any other night, I might have engaged him about his homeland, then directed the conversation toward the purpose of life under God’s loving hand. But on this night, I shrunk down in the seat to get out of his sight in the mirror. Surely, he’d already noticed I was hurt and bleeding. I was counting on his cultural custom as a Pakistani to help a man in need without a fuss.
With some effort, I pried off my right shoe where I carried a few folded bills. I offered the driver a fifty-dollar bill, then sat back. That would keep him quiet, I hoped. All I needed was a few hours head start, and whoever was after me would become the prey instead of the hunter.
As we crossed Harlem River, the events of the night perplexed me more and more. Someone had gone to the trouble of strapping a bomb to my car. But they hadn’t made sure I was in it when it exploded. Perhaps it had been triggered by the radio or the window? Since picking up Roy Turpin at the train station, I hadn’t turned on the radio or opened the windows. Perhaps Roy had done so while I was in the townhouse fetching his new papers.
It hadn’t been a rocket or a missile. I'd remained conscious throughout the explosion, but I’d heard no zip or whoosh of a projectile. That meant it was a self-detonating device with a trigger mechanism. For certain, it wasn’t the type of device a professional would use, which meant whoever had done this thing had underestimated me and overestimated their bomb. There was no room for estimating in our world, so I was looking for recent enemies, maybe, who wouldn’t know better. A novice. A few came to mind.
By the time we reached Chelsea, all my wounds had clotted, but I wasn’t anxious to move, which would begin the bleeding again. After thanking the driver, I got out near the High Line rail and walked a block east. It was now after midnight, and the sidewalk was quiet. However, I’d been a spy too long not to pause and search the street for danger. Parked cars crowded the curb. Two men stood in a doorway, smoking a cigarette. There seemed to be no danger. Even if someone knew I was alive, no one could guess I’d come here. No surveillance team would be set up yet.
Entering the front door of a red brick building, I studied the apartment labels. Doctor Mick Rhogtill. Yes, that was the new name I’d given him. I pressed his apartment button three times before he answered.
“Mick, it’s Corban.” I glanced over my shoulder. No one was in sight. “Buzz me in. It’s an emergency.”
“Corban who?”
“VES KDO SEM,” I said in Slovenian. You know who I am.
The door buzzed and I tugged on the handle. My strength was fading fast, so I was happy to see Mick Rhogtill’s shaggy head peek down at me over the third story banister. There was no way I’d be able to climb three flights unassisted.
“You have seen better days,” he said in English. After descending the stairs, he carried half my weight over his shoulder. I was a few pounds heavier and past my prime, but Mick Rhogtill was an ex-mercenary, and in apparent excellent condition. “But you have also seen worse. How long has it been, brother?”
“Since you last stitched me up, or since we last talked?” I tried to chuckle, but gasped instead.
“Too long, my friend.”
Once inside his apartment, he closed his door softly and braced the door with more security locks than I had on my own home in Queens.
“Let us see what you have done to yourself.” Clearing his dining table, he helped me to climb up and lay on my back. With scissors, he removed my bloody clothes, then covered me with an army surplus blanket as he studied my wounds one by one. He prodded my ribs. “This one is the worst. Good thing you did not try to remove this yourself. You could have bled to death or suffocated on a punctured lung. But I will fix you.”
He went to work sewing on me. I dozed between sharp pains as he stitched, and the plunking sounds as he dropped shrapnel into a container.
“Plastic and aluminum,” he said. “That is all. What was it? Something blue and . . .”
“My car was blue.”
“Enough said. Well, I will tell you to stay in bed for two days, no less, but is that really an option?”
I sat up with his help and checked his needlework on my skin.
“How’s the couch till morning?” He supported me to a short couch in faded flowery upholstery. “I had to go to somebody, Mick.”
“Stay as long as you want and return whenever you need to. I may have saved some blood from seeping out of your flesh, but you rescued me from a life of murder and bloodshed. If we were keeping score, I would say I owed you.” He knelt next to the couch. “To keep up appearances, I will go to work as normal. That window opens to the roof, then the fire escape drops to the garage. A silver Buick under another name is parked there. The keys are under the front bumper.”
“Thank you, Mick.” My eyes began to droop. Had he given me a shot of something? “I’ll sort this out in the next day or two.”
“What of your wife and daughter?”
“Can you make sure they’re safe, Mick? Please use discretion.”
“I will make sure of this. No one will know you are here with me. Now I will pray for you, Corban. God knows what is happening, even if we do not . . .” As he prayed in his native tongue, I fell asleep.

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