Omega Ops

As Israel looked out of the helicopter at the massive aircraft carrier he and his men were about to board on this rainy March day in 2010 in an attempt to seize the precious cargo, rumored to be at least one nuclear-grade weapon, 5 tons of guns, and at least three million dollars in stolen money, he could only think of one thing: Is Liverpool winning or will I have to pay that rat Yamor his money? You see Israel (Iz for short) isn’t affiliated with any armed forces. He isn’t a secret agent for the CIA, MI6, Mossad, or ex-KGB. He doesn’t secretly assassinate powerful men as they sleep. Israel is simply a loser who owed powerful men too much money…wait I’m getting ahead of myself. Lets start back at the beginning, in that bar on the North side of Gallipoli on a hot summer day in 1997.

These were happier days. In Josef’s Bar, located on the very coast of the Aegean Sea, sat Israel O’Conner, all five foot 10 inches, 165 pounds of his tan, scrawny, almost muscular Irish-Italian frame. He had been waiting for almost two hours for that man, code-named “Fallen Eagle,” to come in and tell him what the deal was with the tickets he was promised. You see Israel is a huge Liverpool Soccer Fan. He loves the matches, the players, the uniforms, everything. The problem is he is a bum. He has never worked an honest day in his life, usually moving various drugs and guns for the local warlords. Anyways, that is a story for another day.

As he sat there waiting, stroking his black goatee, drinking his AL-HASSAN! beer, he began to notice how hot it was. His jet-black hair was hanging down in his face now, and he hated it when this happened, he thought it made him look trashy.

“Hey! Josef! Turn on the A/C, will ya?” Iz yelled out to the bartender as the stout Russian finished serving a couple of customers at the counter. They looked Arabian, he thought to himself.

“No, Izzy. Do you know how much it costs to run that damn thing in this country?” the longtime resident replied.

“Apparently, it’s more expensive tha’ your best customers comfort!”

“My friend, you wish you were my best customer. Do you ever put money in the tip jar?”

Now, as Josef said this, Israel turned at looked at a jar he’d never seen before. The weird part was it was full of cash!

“Josef, where’d all the money come from?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would. Tha’s why I asked.”

As the two men continued their argument from across the bar, a mysterious group of strangers walked into the room, not catching either’s eye. They immediately took seats in the corner of the bar, away from the crowd. Now, Josef’s, is usually a quiet place and today was no different. There were approximately 14 people in the main bar area, including Iz, Josef, the five strangers, and a group of other local regulars. Israel and Josef continued to argue for maybe ten minutes before She walked in and instantly everyone knew She was there. Katerina Fillmore, the 19-year old French orphan, who Israel had seen grow up from a wee lass with the constant runny nose and bruised, cut knees from rough-housing with the boys into the beautiful, angelic figure who stood before him. She had always considered him somewhat of an older brother/father figure and, hey, Israel didn’t mind because he knew if he didn’t have a shot at her (which he didn’t), he might as well have a best friend.

“Israel!” she said as she ran up to him and threw her arms around him in the embrace commonly seen between old friends and siblings who haven’t seen each other in quite awhile. “I haven’t seen you in forever!” And the truth was, she hadn’t. She’d left for France almost two years ago, still a young girl, out looking for parents who didn’t love her enough to keep and raise her.

“Aye, I know what you mean. Its been almost three years now, luv. I thought I’d never see you again. Was a damn foolish thing you did running off like that.” And again, he knew it was. Grabbing the first train out of a home that loved her to search for one she never knew. It was so daft and immature, plus no matter how much he’d never admit it, it made Israel sad to see her go.

“Israel! Don’t talk to the young pup like that, you’ll make her cry!” Josef said in his thick accent.

“Ya stay outta this Josef! Let them deal with their problems,” said one of the locals.

“Yeah, let ‘em be!” chimed in another.

“Fine, fine, you people will backstab anyone won’t ya? Even the guy who serves ya beer…” he trailed off in and unintelligible mix of curses and Russ-English.

Now, Israel turned to Kat. “Why’d you do it luv?”

“I had to find out something’s for myself, Iz,” she said softly, almost to where he couldn’t hear her already soft voice.

“Well, how’d the search go?” he countered back angrily.

“I didn’t find them,” she was beginning to cry, “I didn’t find anyone,” now she was broken down and everyone, including the strangers, was looking.

“Ah lass, don’t go to crying now, the whole trip wasn’t a waste I bet,’ he said with a grin, always having a soft spot for the girl.

“Well,” she said with a sniffle, the tears clearing up and the light returning to her face, “I did meet Vincent.”

“Who?”

“Oh Vincent de Sparrzo, my boyfriend of five months now.” And almost on cue he walked into the small bar, her suitcase in one hand, his in the other.

And with this, a sick look came over Israel’s face, for the good times were over, and the bad times had just begun again, all with the opening of one door and the entrance of one man. And with this one man entering the door, he moved his hand to his belt to draw his gun.