The Capo in Love

Hila

The Monk was pulling out all the plugs to flush her out, thought Hila grimly as he watched his men crawl over the last place she had just vacated in time, a few moments before his men had turned up. But the Israeli agent was trained to blend into the crowd and not be detected. Her training helped her to disappear even when she stood before the men in plain sight. The group of homeless folk on the road had accepted her presence without curiosity and dressed in clothes that made her look old and frumpy, haggard and dirty, she was easily identifiable as one of their own.

Now she sat, huddled beside a pile of old shopping bags, beside an old woman who was mumbling incoherently. The Monk’s men, led by Kasparov, a giant of a man with a pock-marked face and thick red lips, stood in a frustrated group, looking down the alley. She avoided their eyes, like the rest of her brethren as they walked around, trying to decide where Hila Zaidi had vanished to.

She knew that she was running out of