Enemies in Embrace: Episode 11 – Run, Leah, Run

 

"He looked at me then, truly looked, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the bruises, not the fear, not even the chains—just us, two hearts running faster than the bullets behind us."

By Julia M Cross

 

The road back into Jerusalem was narrow, steep, and filled with shadows. Father Elias drove like he had done it a hundred times, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on a leather pouch I hadn’t seen before. I didn’t ask what was in it. I was too focused on the rising tension in my chest, the way each curve of the road felt like it might swallow us whole.

The twins were asleep in the backseat, strapped in beside a basket of food and a bundle of diapers we had picked up from a convent along the Jordan River. Their breathing was soft, even. Innocent. They had no idea where we were going, or why the silence in the car felt so thick it might break open at any second.

“I have someone you need to meet,” Father Elias said as we crossed the checkpoint into East Jerusalem. The officer barely looked at our documents. The old robes, the children in the back, the crosses around our necks—they all told a story no one wanted to challenge.

“Who?” I asked.

“She was once close to Yousef,” he said carefully.

“An ex?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking.”

That answer didn’t help.

The city unfolded around us like a dream blurred by too much smoke. Minarets and domes pierced the sky. The streets were full of noise and scent—cinnamon and car exhaust, sweat and prayers. I had walked these streets once before as a girl on a school trip. Everything had felt ancient and holy then. Now it just felt like a trap.

We turned onto a narrow alley near Shu’fat. Elias pulled into a courtyard surrounded by stone walls and broken flower pots. A woman in a black headscarf stood by a door, smoking. Her eyes found mine immediately—sharp, unreadable.

“Her name is Amira,” he said as we stepped out. “She worked in intelligence. For the Authority.”

I froze. “You brought me to a spy?”

“She left that world a year ago. She’s been in hiding ever since. But she owes me.”

“And she knew Yousef?”

“She trained him. Before medicine.”

I stopped breathing for a moment. “He never told me that.”

“There’s a lot he didn’t tell you. Not to hurt you. To protect you.”

The woman stubbed out her cigarette and nodded toward the door. “Come in. Both of you. Leave the kids in the car for now. I don’t like unknowns near my safehouse.”

I hesitated, but Father Elias gave me a reassuring nod. I followed Amira into the building. It smelled like dust and metal, like secrets kept too long.

Inside, maps and photographs were pinned to the walls. Strings connected faces and places in a web of tension. I saw Yousef in one photo—standing beside a group of men in masks. Another showed him in scrubs at the hospital.

“What is this?” I asked.

“This,” Amira said, “is the price of being born where we’re born.”

She pointed to a chair. I sat.

“I don’t have much time,” she said. “But I know where they’re holding him.”

I felt my chest seize. “Where?”

“An old police station repurposed by internal security. Off the books. East of Beit Hanina. They move prisoners in and out every three days. He’s only there for one more night.”

“Then we have to go now.”

She raised a hand. “Not so fast. They’ll be expecting something. Especially after your letter.”

My stomach dropped. “You saw it?”

“Everyone saw it. You’re famous now. Or infamous, depending who you ask.”

I looked down at my hands. “I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “You just made it louder.”

She walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a file. Inside were guard schedules, supply delivery routes, and aerial photos.

“I’m going to help you,” she said. “Not for him. For you. Because I remember what it felt like to love someone I wasn’t allowed to love.”

I looked up at her. She smiled sadly. “He was Jewish. He died during the first Intifada. Shot by a boy who looked just like him.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

“We all are.”

For the next hour, we planned. I was to go in as a nurse. They had a fake ID, scrubs, and a medical bag ready. My name would be Laila Marwan. My job: to examine a prisoner who had shown signs of dehydration. Amira would handle the clearance codes. Father Elias would drive.

“It’s not foolproof,” she said. “But it’s better than going in blind.”

“What if they recognize me?”

“They won’t. You look... different now.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment.

At sunset, I sat in the back room dressing in the nurse’s uniform. My hands trembled as I tied my hair under the white cap. I looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t see the girl from Tel Aviv anymore. Not even the woman who fled with Yousef. I saw someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.

Someone brave.

We drove to the outskirts of Beit Hanina under cover of dark. Amira rode with us, feeding me lines to say, warning me what questions to avoid. She handed me a small vial before we arrived.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Ammonia and menthol. If he’s unconscious, this will wake him. If not, it’ll buy you time.”

“Time for what?”

“To get him out.”

We pulled up near the side gate of the compound. Amira went ahead and spoke with a guard. He nodded and motioned for me to follow. I took a breath, tucked the vial into my sleeve, and stepped inside.

The hallway smelled of bleach and sweat. I passed two guards and a man in a grey suit who barely looked at me. A door opened to my left. A small room. A single cot.

He was there.

Slumped against the wall, wrists chained, a bruise blooming across his jaw.

My breath caught. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

He looked up slowly. Eyes swollen. But he saw me. And for a second—just a second—he smiled.

Then he mouthed, “Run.”

The door closed behind me. I turned. A second guard had followed me in.

“You have ten minutes,” he said.

I nodded and knelt beside Yousef.

“Are you hurt?” I whispered.

“Just tired.”

I pulled out the vial and waved it under his nose. He jerked, startled.

“They said they might move me tomorrow.”

“No,” I said. “We’re getting you out now.”

“How?”

“There’s a car. Outside. We’ve got a plan.”

He laughed once, soft and broken. “Leah, you’re insane.”

“Maybe. But I’m your wife.”

He looked at me then, truly looked, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the bruises. Not the fear. Not even the chains.

Just us.

A knock on the door.

Time.

I stood. Nodded to the guard.

“Need him to walk,” I said.

The guard raised an eyebrow but unlocked the chains.

Yousef stumbled. I caught him.

We walked out slowly, hearts in our throats.

Past the hallway.

Past the desk.

Through the door.

Outside.

Almost there.

Then—

A voice behind us.

“Hey!”

We froze.

Another officer stepped into view. “That’s not Laila.”

I turned.

Yousef whispered, “Now.”

We ran.

Through the side gate.

Down the alley.

Into the car.

Father Elias hit the gas before the doors even shut.

Bullets pinged against the rear bumper.

The children screamed.

I threw myself over them.

Yousef grabbed my hand.

We didn’t stop until the road turned to dust and the sirens were only echoes.

When we finally pulled over, far beyond the reach of any outpost, I turned to him. Touched his face. Kissed him.

He was home.

 

 

 

From the romance series by Julia M Cross. Next episode releases Saturday at 8 PM.