Midnight Sun by Basil Sands (books to read as a couple TXT) 📗

in his hand. “Showyouwhatyou’remissing.”

Themen'slustfulglarestwistedHilde'sstomachintosickenedknots.Theleadersteppedcloser, andLonniestaredbackathimwithherpracticedevilKoreanajummaglare.Oncehewaswithintenfeetofthetruck,sheraisedherbadgetotheopenwindow.Hildedidthesame.Thegangleaderpausedinhistracks.Alookofconfusioncrossedhisface,butvanishedrightaway,replacedbyaserpent-likesmirk.

“Boys,wegotusacoupleofdykepoliceofficershere.” Hesneered at them. “Twohornybitchcopsallbythemselvesinourterritory.”

“Hey,Snake,” saida nearby man, “Ithinktheygottiredofplayingwiththeirnightsticksandcamelookingforsomerealgangstathang.” HegrabbedhiscrotchandshookitatLonnie.

Themenencircledthetruck.Someonesmashedaheavymetalpipeagainstthetailgate, and ametalliccrashechoedagainstthebuildings.Hildeflinchedatthesuddennoise.Shestruggledtomaskherfearwithanunconvincingsnarl.Seeingherselfinthesideviewmirror, she thought her expression lookedlesslikeshewasfierceandmorelikeshehadindigestion.ShecaughtaglimpseofLonnie'sexpression, hereyessparkedwithviolencethatrivaledthatofthegangbangerssurroundingthem.Aloudhisssliced throughthetensionandthebackofthetrucksankastwoofthethugspulledshortknivesoutofthesidewallsofthetires.Lonniegrippedherpistoltightly,butkeptitoutofsightjustbelowthewindow.Thefronttireswentnext.

“Leaveusalone,” shesaid. “Justturnandgo.”

“Orwhat,bitch?” saidtheleaderfromaboutthreepacesaway. “Yougonnaarrestme?”

“No,” shesaid. “I’mgoingtokillyou.”

Herpistolslidintoview, and shetraineditonhischest.Hilderaisedhersintoviewaswell.Everyonestoppedintheirtracks.Theleaderstaredather,amixtureoffearandhatredsmoldering inhiseyes.

“Youain’tgottheballstokillme.”

“You’reveryobservant,” Lonniesaid. “Womendon’tneedballs. We’vegothormones,andifyoutakeonemorestep,Iamgoingtohormoneyourassstraighttohell.”

“There’ssevenofus.” Hegesturedaroundthegroupwithasweepofhishands. “Youcan’tgetusall.”

“Maybenot,butyou’lldieforsure.” Hereyes remained locked on Snake's like a snare that trapped him, choking him with her stare. She continued, her voice a low growl filled with unbridled menace, “Andatleastthreemorewilldiebeforeyoucanstopme.I'mreallygoodwiththisthing.”

Hildeglancedinhersidemirrorandcaughtamansneakingalongthesideofthetrucktowardher.Acreepygrinstretchedhislipsasheglaredupather.Righthanded,shecouldn’tswinghergunhandtowardhim,andheseemedtoknowit.

Asuddenyelpbursttheairlikeapoppedballoon.Thewetsmackofflesh,followedbyathumpofboneonmetal,echoedfromtheback.

“Youdentedmybrand-newtruck,” Marcus'svoiceboomed,shakingtheair.Hejammedafistintotheman’sgut,thenlethimdroptotheground, “andyouslashedmytires!”

Thenextman'sleftlegsnappedsidewaysasMarcusdrove a kickintohiskneesofasthisfootwasablur.Themanscreamedashedroppedtotheground,graspingatthedislocatedjoint.AheavythudforcedagaspoutofanothermanasMikedeliveredatwo-fistedblowtohiskidneys.Hetumbledforward,knockingathirdmanoffbalance.Mikelashedoutwitha hook kickthatcrackedthejawofthemanwhohadbeensneakingtowardHilde. He crumpledtohisknees and started to raise himself back up to fight.Mikesteppedforwardandhammeredintohistemplewiththesideofhis left fist,slamminghisheadagainstthesideofthetruckwithathud, thenearlylethalforce dropping him to the ground.

“Luckyforyou,yourskullissofterthanthetruck,” Mikesaid to the moaning man. “You didn’t leave a dent.”

Marcusmovedaroundthedriver’ssideofthetruckandsweptthefeetoutfromunderanothergangster,whotoppledforward,hisdescentaccelerating as Marcusgavehimahardshoveatthebackofhishead.Theman’sfacesmashedagainstthefender,hisnoseflatteningandsprayingbloodontothetireandthegravel.

Thelastman,standingbehindthegangleader,startedlikehewasabouttofight,thenthoughtbetterofitanddroppedtokneesasifpleadingforhislife.Snakestayedfrozentotheground,Lonnie’spistolstilltrainedonhischest.

“Yourfriendsaremessedupandyou’reoutnumbered,” shesaid, “nowwhat?”

Thegangleaderstared,alookofshockinhiseyes,unsureofwhattodo.

Lonniegrinned, “Lookslikeyou’retheonewho’sgotnoballs...Snake.”

Marcussteppedinfrontoftheman.Thegangleaderfacedhim,tighteninghisexpression,tryingtopullonatoughgangbangermasktohidetheobviousterrorhiseyesshowed.Beforehecouldmovetoprotecthimself,Marcus’sfistsnappedintohisface,flatteninghisnoseandalmostinstantlyblackeninghiseyes.Thepistolfellfromtheman’shandandhedroppedtohisknees.Bloodstreamedfromhisnostrilslikewaterfromaspigot.

“Idon’ttoleratesomepunkcallingmywifealesbian,” Marcusgrowled, “andnobodythreatensher.”

Marcussnatchedthepistolfromtheground.Snakemadenomovetostophim.Marcus,agunenthusiastbyhobby,recognizedthemodeloftheweaponrightaway,aSmith&WessonM-39-2.Bytheintricateengraving,hecouldtellitwasaspecialedition,probablyworththousandsofdollars.

“Andjustwheredidyougetapieceofcraplikethis?” heasked.

“Pawnshop,” Snake said.

“Yeah,right,” Marcus said. “Youdon’tevenknowwhatyou’vegot,moron.”

“You’llbesorryyouletmelive,” Snake sputtered. Blooddropletsarchedintotheairashespoke,thewordscameoutnasalandsuppressed.

Marcusglareddownathim.Snake’sexpressionverifyingthatheregrettedwhathe’djustsaid.

“Icanchangethat,” MarcusjammedthebuttofthepistolintothesideofSnake’shead.Thetoughguyletoutashortwhimperanddroppedtothegroundwithaheavythump,likeasideofmeatdroppedtothebutcher'sroomfloor.

“Didyoujustkillhim?” Hilde asked.

“No,” Marcusreplied, “buthisheadisgoingtohurtlikecrazywhenhewakesup.”

Hemotionedtothegangmemberwhostayedwithhisleader. “Gethimoutofhereoryou’renext.”

Heimmediatelycomplied,grabbingSnakebytheshirtandunceremoniouslydragginghimintothedarkrecessesbetweenthetrainyardbuildings.Theothergangstersdraggedthemselvesandtheirunconsciousmatesthesamedirectionuntiltheyhadalldisappearedthewaytheycame.

Chapter9

Port of Anchorage

Monday,June20th

10:35 p.m.

StevenFarrahstrodeoutthedoorandintothedeepeningshadowsofthemassivefueltanksthatloomedabovethecomparativelytinybuilding.ThesolesofhisStamfordloaferscrunchedonthegravelashecrossedtheshortdistancetothewhiteAudiandgotin.Hestarteditandsatbackinthesoftleatherseat.Theengineidledsmoothly,belyingthepowerunderthehood.TherewerenotmanythingshehadindulgedhimselfinsincemovingtoAmericafromBritain.Hewasnotbigonfoodordrink,didnotdanceorgotobars,andfoundmostmoviesboring.Hewasamanwhoseentertainmentconsistedofalimitedselectionofclassicalmusic—only therelativelyquietpieces—engineeringproblems,mathematicalequations,andthenightlySudokupuzzlethathelpedhimrelaxbeforebed.TheonlyexceptionwasdrivinghisAudi.

Asthe5.2literV10enginepurred,hepressedtheplaybuttonontheconsole'smediacenter.Farahleanedback,closedhiseyes,andletaserenesmileslideacrosshislipsasthethirteen-speakerBosesurround-soundsystemcametolifewithGabrielFaure'sRequiemInParadisum.ThehauntingmelodyvoicedinLatinbyachoirofboysandmenfloatedghostlikefromthespeakers,fillingthespaceofthevehicle,soakingthroughhistension.Hisminddriftedtohisuniversitydays,recallingaquotebythecomposerthathismusicprofessorhadmadetheclassmemorize:"Ithasbeensaidthatmyrequiemdoesnotexpressthefearofdeathandsomeonehascalleditalullabyofdeath.ButitisthusthatIseedeath:asahappydeliverance,anaspirationtowardshappinessabove,ratherthanasapainfulexperience.”

Heopenedhiseyes,putthecaringear,andpulledawayfromthesmallbuilding,makingathree-pointturnthatsethimbackontheshipyardroadtowardtothesecurityboothattheport’sexit.Thewindowoftheboothslidopenasheapproached,andanoverweightsecurityofficerleanedoutwithaclipboardinonehandandalargecelerystickintheother.He bore black stubble onhischeeksanddoublechin.The semi-transparent beardwasprobablyanattemptatthemacholook,but if that was the case it failed, insteadleavinghimlookingunkemptandhungover.

“Hello,Thomas.Beautifulnight,what,” Stevensaidwithacleanupper-classBritishaccent. Most likely unknown to Thomas itwasnothisnaturalaccent. His was the thick, slang filled dialectofManchesterwhereFarrahhadgrownup,withitshard,industrialcitysoundthatsomanyAmericans,andevenmanyBritish,foundashardtounderstandasJamaicanEnglish,orinner-cityganglingointheUS.Asateen,Farrah had workedhardtosoundmoreliketheupper-classEnglishgentrythan the workingclassMancunianofhisschoolmates.

“Yesitis,Mr.Farrah,” Thomas said,handingtheclipboarddownandleaninghiselbowsonthewindowledge, the fat of his ample gut squeezing into the frame. “Donealready?Wasitaneasyfix?”

“Well,mypartisdoneatleast,” Steven said ashetooktheclipboard. “Asfarasitbeinganeasyfix,let’sjustsayitwasaneasyproblemtoidentifyandcomeupwithaplantofix.LekaandKreshnikwillbeinstallingthehardwareforthenextseveralhours.Igetpaidtofigureoutasolution, and theydothemanuallabor.Ofcourse,thedifficultpartquiteoftenisknowingwhattolookfor,isn'tit?”

“Yeah,Iguessthat'swhyyougetthebigbucks.Youknowwhattolookfor.”

“Well,Idon'tknowaboutbigbucks,” Farrah said. “Tech-Corisaprettystingycompany.”

Farrahusedthepenattachedbychaintotheclipboardtoinitialthe “out” columnnexttothesignaturewherehehadcheckedinearlier.HehandeditbacktoThomas,whoinitialedit,addedthetimeanddate,andreplaceditonitspeginsidethebooth.

“Maybeso,butIknowyouguysgotakillercontractforthepipelinemaintenancehere.AndIknowthatlatenightcallins like thispaymoreperhourthanImakeallday.Whichwouldbewhyyou'vegotanAudiandI'vegotabeat-upoldFordRanger.” Thomaspointedtohisownvehicleparkedontheothersideoftheroad. “SoIfigureyou'renotdoingtoobad,eh?”

“Well,Iwon'tlietoyou,Thomas.ItwasgoodenoughtomovetoAlaskaallthewayfromBritain.”

“Yeah,Ishould’vegotmesometraininglikethatwhenIwasintheArmy.SoIcouldgetacareer,somethinglikethekindyougot.Instead,Ididsixyearsintheinfantry,andallIgotisabumkneeandmestandinghereinafive-by-eightboxallfreakin'night.”

“Tech-Corisalwayslookingfornewtalent.Getyourdegreeandcomeseeus.”

“Hmph,collegeain'tmything,” Thomas shrugged and stood upright, “soIguessI'mstuck.”

“Speakingofstuck.Ineedtogethomeandcatchsomesleep.Iworklatenights, but thatdoesn’tmeanIgettoskiptheofficeinthemorning.” HeputtheAudiintogearandplacedhishandsonthesteeringwheel. “Seeyounexttime,Thomas.”

TheguardgaveaquickwaveandFarrahpulledawayslowly.Hedroveoutoftheportontotheroad,followingtherightforkwhichturnedintoCStreethalfamilelater.Onceintheopen,heacceleratedacrossthebridgeuntilhewasatthe Third Avenuelight.Hestopped,waitedforgreen,thenmovedslowlythroughthecrowdedsix-blockwidthofthedowntownAnchoragearea.Two-thirdsoftheyear,Anchorage is veryquietafterteno'clockonweeknights,quiettothepointthatthestreetlights are  switched from the standard “red, green, yellow” configuration toonlyflashingyellowbeaconsfromten p.m. untilsix a.m. Butoncethesummersunrisesandthesnowvanishesfromlawnsandsidewalks,thecityspringstolifelikeBrigadoon.Withunboundedenergy,thepeopleofAlaskapourintothestreetstoenjoythethree-monthreprievefrombothdarknessandcold.Downtownandsuburbsalikearefilledwithmasseswhospendtheirtimealternatelyplayingandworkingduringthenon-stopdaylighthours. Thisisespeciallytrueontheweekends.

EvenonthisMondaynight,amultitudeofbodiesmilledaboutthedowntownrestaurantsandbars.MuchtoSteven'sdismay,Alaska,amostlyconservativestate,wasnotimmunetothesamehedonismhesodespisedbackinBritain.Thepastweekhadcarriedwithitaparticularexampleofthetwistedlivesofliberalculture.TheannualDiversityPride Day,alocal,highlycontroversialevent,wasbeingcelebratedthroughoutthedowntownarea.Gayandlesbiancoupleswalkedopenlyarminarmthroughthecitystreets.Ashedrovepasttheintersectionof4thandC,hewasdisgustedtowitnesstwoyoungmenkisseachotheronthelipsonthestreetcorner.Ablackragefilledhisbeing,andthefewsparksofmercyleftinhisheartevaporated.

Fiveblockslater,hewasrelievedtobeabletoscrubthevileimagefromhismindashepassedtheDelaneyParkStripandwitnesseda group of men fighting for possession of a ball in a late-night football match takingplace ontheunlitfield,thelowsunstretchingtheshadowsofthegoalpostsandtheplayers.Stevenyearnedtogetoutofthecarandjointhem.Heabsolutelyloved football,oras the Americans called it, soccer,andhadplayedearnestlybackhomeinBritain.Itwas,inhismind,oneofthefewalmostredeeminginventionsof Westernculture.HehadplayedsomewhileintheStates,butdidnotfindagreatchallenge in it,especiallyamongmenhisownage.AfewAmericansknewhowtoplaysoccerfairlywell,mostlyyoungermen,butthevastmajority,inhisopinion,putonarudimentarygameatbest.

InadditiontostudyingpetroleumengineeringatManchesterUniversity,StevenFarrahhadbeenthestardefenderforthreeconsecutiveyears,wherehelednumerousshutoutgameswithhisaggressivetacticsandpowerfulplay.Amasteroftheslidetackle,upongraduationhewasofferedapositioninthelineupofinternationallyrenownedManchesterUnited.Theyexpectedhimtotakethemtothetopthatseason,andmanyspokeoftheyoungFarrahearningaspotonthenationalteamforthenextWorldCup.Theclubwasshockedwhenjusttwoweeksbeforethetrainingseasonwasscheduledtostart,heinformedtheteammanagerthathecouldnotplay,andpromptlyvanishedfromtheworldoffootballbeforeeversettingfootonthepitchinaprofessionalmatch.

Steven’sparents,bothnaturalizedBritishcitizens,hadbeenonholidayintheirnativeKosovojustbeforetheoutbreakoftheKosovo Warandwerestuckwhenthefightingspilledover.Theyweredrivingalongabackroad,tryingtofindawayoutofthecountry,whentheywerestoppedatawell-defendedroadblockmannedbySerbsoldiers.TheirBritishpassportsconvincedthesoldierstoletthempass,butthefewminutes’pauseprovedfatal.AnAmericanairstrikeappearedfasterthananyonecouldreact.TwomassivebombsslammedintotheSerbposition,killingthesoldiersandtheFarrahs,theirbodiesshreddedbymassesofshrapnelthattoreintothevehicle.Inthemangledheapofglass,steel,andflesh, Steven’s happylifeandhisfootballaspirationswereshattered.TheUSformallyapologized,butnothingthatcouldbesaidordonewouldbringhisbelovedmotherandfatherback.Amomentoferrorgavebirthtoanenemy,andayoungman'sathleticdreamwasreplacedbyanightmarerealityofblood.FromhiscomfortableBritishmiddle-classexistenceStevenevolvedintoacold-bloodedkiller.Thetransitionhadbeensurprisinglyshort,and even more surprisinglyeasy.HewentfromtrainingcampsinLibyaandAfghanistan,tofieldoperationsinChechnyaandKazakhstan,andfinallycovertoperationsinHolland,Germany,hisnativeBritain,andeventuallytheGreatSatanitself,theUnitedStates.

TheyearsstretchedonandthetargetsblendedintooneanotheruntilStevenFarrah,anarticulate,well-educated,handsomesocialitefoundhimselfinthemostunlikelyofplacesforaboyfromManchester.HerehewasinAlaska,withtheopportunitytofullyavengehisfamilymaterializingbeforehim.

Chapter10

Alaska Railroad Maintenance Yard

Anchorage

Monday,June20th

11:23 p.m.

“Damn,” saidthetowtruckdriver, “youmust'apissedsomeoneoffmightybadtodoallfourtireslikethis.”

Marcus  shot themanasidewayslooklettinghimknowinnouncertaintermsthathedidn'twanttotalkaboutit. At his request, thetowtruckcrewhadbroughtafullsetofthecorrecttireswiththem. Lonnie and the others watchedasthecrewquicklyjackedupthefrontoftheF250andstartedtheprocessofpullingthewheelsandmountingthetireswithamachineonthebackofthetowtruck.Astheypulledthefirsttireoffitsrim apowder-blueFordFreestarMinivan pulled up to the group. Boldblacklettersemblazonedacrossthesidesspellingthe taxi company'sname,AlasKab.

“I’llstaywiththetruck,” Marcussaid.

“Yousureyou'reokayouthere?” Mikeasked.

'Yeah,don'tworry,” Marcusreplied. “Thoseguyswon'tbeback.”

“We'llgetholdofToniaandwaitforyouatthehotel,” Lonnie stepped up to him and he gave her quick kiss on the cheek, gently putting his hand on her belly.

“You be careful. If you feel the slightest thing in your belly go to the doctor.”

“Marcus, it’s okay,” she said covering his hand with hers. “Baby handled the whole thing very well. I think he’s inherited our genetic stress meter.”

“I’llbetheresoon,” hereplied. “Mycellphoneison.Ifyou'vegottogoanywhere,justcallandI’llfindyou.”

“Gotit,” Mike said. He turned and followed his wife toward the mini-van. Hilde hadn’t spoken a word since the attack, her hands had only stopped trembling just before the taxi arrived.

Theladiesclimbedintothetaxi’sbackseatandLonnietoldthedrivertotakethemtotheCaptainCookHotel.  Mikesatinthefrontpassengerseat.Theminivanstartedtomoveimmediatelyafterheshutthedoor.Ashebuckledtheseatbelt,hecastaglanceatthedriverandfroze asifhewerelookingataghost.

“Whatareyoudoinghere?”

“Drivingyoutoyourhotel.” ThethicklybeardedMiddle-Easternmanflashedabroadsmile, his too-straight, too-white teeth flashing inthehorizontalsunlightthatpiercedthespaceofthecab,hittinghisfacelikealaserbeam. “Hi,PastorMike.”

Hildelookedupinalarmathearingherhusband’soldtitle.She,too,frozeinsilenceasshenoticedthefaceofthemaninthefrontseatforthefirsttime.

“Kharzai?” Mikesaid.

“Yup.It'sme.” Hereachedupandsnappedthebuttononthemeter.

“Whatareyoudoinghere?” Mikerepeatedhimself.

“I'macabbie.”

“Icanseethat,” Mikereplied, “buthereinAnchorage?”

“Yeah,well,it'sajob.Mindyou,it'snotasposhasKabulorBaghdad,butit'sagoodjob.”

“No,Imean,whatareyoudoinghereinAnchorage?”

Kharzai’smopofcurlyblackhair—he liked to refer to it as his Arabfro—bounced like Jell-O formedinamoldashemovedhishead.Histeeth, glisteningasifhejuststeppedoutofatoothpastecommercial,sharplycontrastedagainstthedarkbrownofhisskinand black of his beard.Agoldchainnecklacemingled with thethickbristlesofchesthairthatjuttedfromthecollarofhisshirt,whichwasopentothesecondbutton.

“Iknowyou,” shesaid. “You'retheguyfromColumbus.Thebombing.”

“Sorry,butIdon'trememberyou,” Kharzaireplied, “andIcertainlywouldrememberifIhadseenyoubefore.You'rewaytoohottoforget.” Heactedsurprisedathisownwords. “Oops,sorry. DidIsaythatoutloud?”

Hilde'scheeksflushedpink.

“Iwassurveillance,” shesaid. “Justsawyouonthecameras.”

“Oh.Isee,” Kharzaisaid,thenaddedinalicentioustone, “voyeur.”

“Kharzai,” Mike said, “thisisHilde,mywife.”

“Whup.Betterstopflirtingthen,eh?” Kharzaisaid.HewinkedatHildeintherearviewmirror,thenshiftedhiseyestoLonnie. “AndIknowyou,and I knowyouknowmetoo,veryprettyandprettypregnantlady.”

“Youwereattheaccident,” Lonniesaid.

“Cha-ching—give theladytheBahamasCruise,Johnny.” HegaveaquickflourishofhishandandmadeapartialbowtowardthereflectedimageofLonnieandsaid, “That’sright,andnowyouknowmeevenbetter.KharzaiGhiassi,cabbie.”

“Whatwasthataboutabombing?” Lonnie asked.

“Kharzaiisnotanormalcabbie,” Mikesaid, “oratleast,hedoesnothaveanormalcabbie'spast.”

“Yeah, that's what I'm already thinking,” Lonniesaid.

“Iassumeshe’swithMojo,” Kharzai said.

“Youknowmyhusband?” Lonnie asked,surpriseshowinginhervoice.

“Yeah,we'vemet.” Kharzaismiledasheglancedbackatherinthemirror. “Anoldfriendofmine,LiamClearyoftheRoyalMarines,knewhimprettywellandintroducedusinIraqbackintheday.”

“Youdon'tseemlikeyouwereintheMarines,” Lonniesaid.

“No, no, no, no. Noway,” herepliedadamantly. “DoIlooklikeaguywhowouldshavethislovelyhairforajob?”

“WhatwereyoudoinginIraq,then?”

“Killingpeople.”

LonniecrunchedhereyebrowsandlookedatHildeasiftoaskifthemanwasserious.

Hilderepliedtotheunspokenquestion. “HewasaCIAagent.”

“Andyou'veretiredtoAnchorage?” Lonnie asked.

“Retired?” Kharzaiscreweduphisfaceincontemplationoftheword. “Retired.Hrm.Interestingconcept,butno,I'mtooyoung.Andbesides,therearestillbadguysoutthere,toomuchworkyettodo.”

“Areyouonamissionuphere?” Hilde asked.

“IfIwas,Icouldn'ttellyou.”

“AsIunderstand it, theCIAisnotsupposedtooperateonUSsoil,” Lonnie said.

“Therearealwaysexceptionstotherules,” Kharzairepliedwithawaveofhishand. “Andno,IamnotonaCIAmissionuphere.Oranymissioninthestrictestsense.”

“Thenwhatareyoudoinguphere?” Mike asked.

“Vacationing.”

“What,likeafantasycabbietour?” Lonnie asked.

“No,silly,” Kharzaisaidwithasmile. “IsupposeIcantellyoubecausetheseothertwoalreadyknowwhatIdo.Ofcourse,theknowledgecomeswiththerequisite,'ifyourepeatit,I'llkillyou'clause.”

Thebabykicked hardintoLonnie'sdiaphragm.Shewincedandletoutagrunt,thensaid, “Uh,maybeIdon'twanttoknow.”

Kharzai squished up his face and said inahigh-pitched‘church lady’voice,“Toolate.” It was a good imitation of Dana Carvey’s old Saturday Night Live character. “Ihavebeenworkingundercoverinawell-knownterroristorganizationforseveralyears.Lastyear,theyattemptedtosetoffanuclearbombinOhio.I managed to get myself assigned as one of the leaders oftheteamthatwastodoit,andwiththe rather heroic helpofPastorMikehere, we were able tosendalltheotherteammemberstotheirvirginalreward.Which,bytheway,didyouknowthatnotverymanyofthose jihadi guysareactuallyawareofthat wholeseventy-twovirgins concept,andalot who areawareofitareactuallyscared to deathbytheideabecausetheones who growupintheterroristcampsandmadrassasareusuallytaughtthatwomenareevilcreaturesonlygoodformakingbabymartyrs,andtheyonlydothatrightfiftypercentofthetime?”

“Thanks for the sociology lesson,” Lonnie said.

“Anyhoo... afterthat,Igotbackintothe'organization'andframedoneofthedeadguyswiththefailure.TheleadershipthoughtIshouldlaylowforawhileandsuggestedthatIhideoutfarfromeverything.ItwaseitherhereoracaveinAfghanistan,sohereIam.AboutasremoteasanIndiana-bredPersianguycan ever dream of being.There'sneitherasinglecamelnorarealcornstalkinthiswholestate.Canyouimaginethat?”

“Soyou’re justhidingoutinAnchorage,” Mike.

“Basically,” saidKharzai.

“Andhowisitthatyougotsenttopickusupinsteadof another of the hundreds of cabbies in Anchorage?” Hilde asked.

“Thebiggerquestion,” Kharzai said, “iswhatwereapregnantAsianhottieandaknockoutgorgeousredheaddoingsittingaloneinatrucklateatnightinarailyardinanareaknowntohavegangswanderingaround?Ididn’tbelieveSnake’slady-loveconcept.NeitherofyoulooklikeanylesbiansI’veeverseen. Girlswithyourgeneticallynaturalbeautyonlydoitformoneyorcocaineinpornflicks.Andeventhenthey’reonlygood-lookingwithatonofmakeup.”

“Howdidyouknowweweresittingtherealone?” Lonnieasked,hertonethatofaninvestigatingstatetrooper.

“Youareaprettyintimidatinglady,Lonnie.Iwasimpressedwhenyouthreatenedtoshootthatleaderdude,” Kharzaicontinued. “Whatwasthatyousaid?  'I'mgonnahormoneyourasstohell.'Thatwastrulyclassic.WishIcoulduseitmyself,butbeingadude,it'dsoundkindagay,soIguessI'llhavetostickwithballsystuff.”

“Waitaminute,” Mike said. “Yousawthatwholething?”

“Yeah.Andlistenedtoo.” Kharzaiheld upacheap-lookinglisteningdeviceshapedlikeasmallradardishwithheadphonesattached.Itlookedlikesomethingthatwouldbesoldinakid’sspykit. “Pickedthisbadboyupat Radio Shack. Theboxshowedpeoplelisteningtowildlifeinthewoods,butthisispuredirtyteenagestalkertech,ifyouaskme.Workslikeacharm,though—even gottolistentoyoursweetlittlebiothere,coplady. Heart-breakingstuff,that.”

“Sonowweknowwhotherealvoyeuris,” Lonniesaid,glancingoutthewindow,herfacetightening.

“Drivingcabaroundthistowncanbeprettyboring,andIwasonmybreak,justlisteningtotheratsclamberingaroundthetrainyardwhenIpickedupyougirls.”

“Soifyousawthosethugscominginonus,whydidn'tyoucallthecops,orcomedownandhelp?” Lonnie asked.

“Fairquestion,” Kharzaianswered. “Youwanttoexplaintomewhatyouweredoingtheretobeginwith?”

“Whywereyouwatchingus?” Lonnie asked.

“Whydidn'tyoudosomething?” Hilde asked,suddenlyquiteupsetassherecalledthenearlyfatalencounterandherfeelingofutterlyterrifiedhelplessness. “Thoseguysnearlykilledus.”

“Youwereevenclosertoyourdemisethanyouthink,prettylady,” hesaid. “Iverynearlycamecruisingintoyourrescue,butthensawPastorMikeandMojocomin'inandfiguredthatbetweenthefourofyou,thosethugletswereabouttobeundone.”

“Youstilldidn'tanswermyquestion,” Lonniestated. “Whatwereyoudoingwatchingus?”

“Iwasn't.Iwaswaitingforsomeoneelse.”

“Who?” Mike demanded.

Kharzaiignoredthequestion. “WherewereyouandMojo,Mike?Isawyouguysgetoutonthehighway,butdidn'tseewhereyouwent.Shipyard,maybe?”

Mikewassilent.Kharzai rounded a corner and pulledthetaxi into the circular drive  that stopped atthelobbydoorsinfrontofthehotel.

“Like the Cash-Cab guy says, endoftheline,folks.Butinthiscase,Iain'tgotdoughforyou—you gottapayme,andthat'llbeeightdollarsandforty-twocents.”

“Soyou'renotgoingtotelluswhatyouweredoinginthetrainyard,” Lonniesaid.

“Onlyifyoutellmewhatyouweredoingtherefirst.Idon'tdonothin'forfree, not evenforaprettylittleChina dolllikeyou.”

“I'mKorean.”

“Ooh.AKimchi-Mama. Spicy!”

“Weweretrackingaterrorsuspect,” Mike said, handinghimaten-dollarbill.

“Oh,” saidKharzai. “Inthatcase,IcantellyouwhatIwasdoingthere,then.Doyouwantyourchange?”

“No,” Mike said, “keepit.”

“Sotelluswhyyouwerethere,” Hilde said.

“Yeah.” Kharzaistretchedhisleg,straighteninghisbodyandraisinghisbuttofftheseatsohecouldputthemoneyinhisfrontpocket. “Waiting forsomeonetocallacab.”

Theywaitedtohearmore.Hejustsmiledatthemashesatbackdown.

“Doyouneedarideanywhereelse?” He glanced backandforthbetweenthem. “If not,I'vegotmorefarestocatch.Gottamakealegitimateliving,youknow.”

Heemphasizedthefinalityoftheconversationbyclickingtheelectriclocksandpressingtheautomaticopenerforthesidedoors.Thenhisbeardedfacespreadintohistrademarkwide-eyedtoothygrinandhenoddedhisheadtowardthedoors.Thewomengotoutofthevanandwalkeduptothesidewalk.Mikestayedintheseat, a hard stare attempting to bore into Kharzai's will, but to no avail. Realizinghewasnotgoingtogetananswer,heshookhisheadinfrustration,openedthedoorandsteppedout,thenflippeditshutwithanangrywhump.Hesteppedtothesidewalkwherethewomenwaited.Theelectrichumofthepowerwindowbuzzedbehindhim.

“Hey,preacherman!”

Miketurned.

“Have a good night,” Kharzai said, then pressed the button for the window to rise. Its hum stopped short and went back down again, and he added, “Bewarethedudes who smelllikevinegarandstalebread.Badjuju.” He startedthewindowupagain, put thevaningear,andstartedforwardonlytobouncetoashudderingstopandbringthewindowbackdownagain.He smiled brightly, winkedatLonnieandHilde, and wiggledhisfingersinachildishwave. “G'nite,prettyladies.”

Hepulledawayfromthehotelentrance,theautomaticsidedoorspullingthemselvesshutasheturnedonto Fourth Avenue.

Chapter11

Captain Cook Hotel

Tuesday,June21st

12:19 a.m.

Steamfloatedoutofthe bathroom likea Finnish sauna,greetingMarcusashesteppedintothehotelroom.Heglanced through theopendoor.Lonniesmiledbackathimfrombehindtheglassoftheshowerstall. Whitemisthungintheairaroundhernakedbody.ThedoorslidopenwiththesmoothsoundoftheTeflonrollersagainstthemetaltrack,andshesteppedout,grabbingathickterryclothtowelfromthechromebaronthewall.Waterdrippedfromthetipsofherhairassheliftedthetowelandwrappeditlikeaturbanaroundherhead.

Withthe streamofwaterstopped,shetookasecondtowelandpattedherbodymostlydry,thenwrapped the towel aroundherwaistandsteppedinfrontofthevanitymirrorandpickedupherlotion.Theplasticbottlemadeasplatteringsoundasshesquirtedadollopof the creamy cocoa-butter mixture ontoherhand.Shemassageditontoherswollenbreastsanddistendedbelly,hopingtokeepthestretchmarkstoaminimum.Asherhandmovedgentlyacrossthetautskinaroundherbellybutton,thebabyrespondedbypressingoneofitslimbsfrom within the chamber ofherwomb.AsmileslidacrossMarcus’swearyfaceashestared,mesmerizedbytheimageofmotherandchildcommunicatingwitheachother,twoindividualpersonsinonebody.Hergoldenskinshimmeredinthebrightlightsofthevanityasbeadsofmoisturerosethroughthelotionandsettledonthesurfaceliketinydiamondsthatswelledinsizeuntiltheyletgoandslidintotheabsorbantcottontowel.

Lonnieglancedathisreflectioninthemirror. “Areyoujustgoingtostare?”

“Yeah,” Marcusrepliedwithalicentiousgrin, “unlessIcantouch,too.”

“Ican'treachmyback,” she said with a tiny pout.

“ThenhereIcome—LotionMantotherescue.”

Sheletoutaplayfullaughashedrewnearandshepassedthebottleoflotiontohim.Hesquirtedmoreofthewhitecreamontohishandandrubbeditin between his palms untilitwasaswarmashisown body heat.Thenheputhispalmsontoher skin andspreadthelotionwithlong,deepstrokesacrossherlowerback,wherethemuscleswerevisiblymosttense,pressingwithhisthumbsinanoutwardmotion.Hecurvedthetipsofhisfingers,hardeningthemintostiffrakesthathe slid downthelengthofherspine,pressingdeepintothe tight muscles.Sheleanedontothecounter,herhandsholdingher body upright, fingers grasping thecoolmarblesurface.Lonnieletouta sigh,hereyesslidingshut,facerelaxingintoanexpressionthatborderedonecstasy.

“Youareagoodhusband,” shesaid,hervoicelowand breathy. “I'llkeepyou.”

“Wereyouconsideringotherwise?”

“Aladyhastokeepheroptionsopen,youknow,” shereplied, “butsofar,you'veaccumulatedenoughpointstolastforatleastadecade.”

“You'rekeepingscore,eh?”

“It'shardtokeepscorewithyou. Therehaven'tbeenenoughbadpointstoevenmakethelistyet.”

“SoundslikeI'msafethen.”

“Safe?” Sheponderedtheword. “Securelymarried,yes,butaslongasyou'rewithme,you'reindeepdanger.”

Sheturnedaroundandpulledhimclose,pressingherlipstohisinapassionatekiss,thenslappedhisrearendhardenoughthatheletoutayelp.

Shelaughedoutloud. “YousurearewimpyforaMarine.”

“Youdon'thitlikeagirl,” hesaidback.

“Well,youcan'thaveitall—a hotwifeandshe'sapushover,too?Huh-uh,bub,thisbod'sgottabeworthalittleworkforya.”

Lonniewalkedfromthebathroomtotheclosetwherehersuitcaselayopenonafoldingmetalrack.Shesaunteredwithanexaggeratedswayingofherhipsforacoupleofsteps,thenstraightenedherbodywithonehandunderherbellyandtheotheronherlowerback.

“Ooh,sexywalkain'thappening,” shesaid,suckinginashortbreath.

Shebentoverthesuitcase,gruntingfromtheexertion,andpulledoutapairofpanties,thentookastepbackandleanedagainstthewall,twistingherleg at the hip in order to raise her foot high enough tobeabletoget it throughtheleghole.Onceherunderpantswereon,shestoodbackuptocatchherbreathbeforepullingonapairofthinfleecepajamapants.Marcuswatchedherslideonalong,loose-fittingcotton T-shirtandfoundhimselfunexpectedlyarousedatthesightofhisfullydressed,andfullypregnant,wife.

Early on, hehad that assumedhissexualattractiontohiswifewouldabateduringthepregnancy,buthadbeensurprisedtofindthathedesiredherevenmore.Hehadbeenapoetsincehewasyoung,alwaysfindingiteasiertoexpresshimselfinwordsonpaperthanheevercouldwiththosespokenfromthelips.InhistwentyyearsofserviceintheMarines,hehadpennedoverfivehundredpoemsspecificallyforLonnie,thousandsofwordsarrangedforheralone,andnevertobeseenbyanyoneelse.Hereachedupandrubbedhershouldersandneck,drawinganothersighfromherlipsashegentlysqueezedthephysicaltensionaway.  Aknockatthedoorsnatchedtheirattention.

“Whoisit?”  Marcuscalledout.

“It'sMike and Hilde,” cametheresponsefromtheotherside.

Marcuscrossedtheroomandopenedthedoor.

“I'vebeentryingtoreachToniasincewegotback,” Hilde said, “butshe'snotanswering.”

“HowabouttheFBIofficehereinAnchorage?” Lonnie asked. “It'sjustafewblocksaway.”

“Itriedtheretoo.Gottheautomatedattendantthatsaidtoleaveamessageordial911foranemergency.Ileftavoicemail,but it’s not likely that anagent will getbacktousbeforemorning.Andthisisnota911-typecall.Localpolicewillthinkit'saprank.”

“Doyouknowwhatroomyourfriendisin?” Marcus asked. “Wecouldalwaysgowakeherup.”

“Idon'tknowtheroom.Andbesides,Toniaprobably won’ttobebackuntilaftermidnightanyway.Thepresidenthimselfisn’t here yet, and she'sjustonprepdetailandso she’s probablylivingitupwithherperdiemmoney.”

“Maybeweshouldwaitdownstairs,” Mike suggested, “andcatchherwhenshecomesin.”

“Whenshedoesgetback,I doubt she’sgoingtobeinthemoodtotalkbusiness,” Hilde said.

“Idon'tthinkanythingmoreisgoingtohappentonight,” Lonnie said. “Ifyouguyswanttodosomemoresnoopingaround,that'suptoyou,butthispregnantladyhastogetsomesleeporshe won’t be functional tomorrow.”

“All right,” Marcus said. “Let’smeetupinthe a.m.”

“TheFBIofficeprobablyopensabouteight,” Hilde said. “Howaboutifwemeetdownstairsforbreakfastatseven,thenheadoverthere?”

“Thatworksforme,” Lonnie said.

“Let'scallHogan,too,” Mike said. “HecangetusanimmediateaudiencewiththelocalSAC.”

Theysaidtheirgoodnights,andMikeandHildewentbacktotheirroom.Marcustookaquickshower.Whenhecameout,Lonniehadalreadyclimbedintobed.Hejoinedher,lyingface-to-face,thebulkofherpregnantbellypressedintohisownabdomen.Thebabykickedagainstitsfather'sstomach.

“Babywantstoplaywith Daddyalready.” hesaid.

“Helikesyourtouch,” Lonniesaid.

“Orshelikesmytouch.”

“Couldbe.”

Marcussmiledandstartedtohumasofttune,ashehaddonealmosteverynightsincetheywerefirstmarriedtwoyearsearlier. LikethearmsofthemythicalMorpheus, hissonorousbaritoneandsmoothnotesneverfailed tolullherintoadeepsleep.Herstressfadedasifwashedawaybyawarmstream.Gradually,thebabystoppeditsmovement,andLonnie'sbreathingsmoothedinto a hushedrhythm.Afewminuteslater, Marcus driftedoff too.

***

Marcuswokepromptlyatsix a.m. Heneverneededaclock'sbuzzertopullhimoutofsleep,evenwhenhewassick.Whatevertimehehadtobeup,hejustwas.Lonniesleptforafewminuteslonger,butwassoonrousedbythelightandnoiseofherhusband’smorningrituals.Byaquartertoseven,theyweredressedandready.Theytookacouplestepstowardthedoor, then asuccessionofbeepsburstfromLonnie’spurse.Shepulledouthercellphone.

“Oh!Iforgottochargemyphonelastnight.Batteryjustdied.” ShepluggeditintothechargingcordonthetablebesidetheTVcabinet. “I’llcomebackforitlater.”

Theysteppedintothehall,shutthedoorbehindthem,twistingthehandletomakesureitlocked,thenwalkedtotheelevators.MarcusheldLonnie'shandastheymoved.Inspiteofthesizeofherbelly,shewalkederectandsmooth.Thefactthatherbodywasata fitness levelfaraboveaveragemadeitmucheasiertomaintainherpoise.Ratherthan shuffling withapenguin-likewaddle,she strode likeapregnantmommajaguar,heavywithchild,butstillincontrolandstilllethal.

Bythetimetheyreachedtherestaurant,araisedplatformnexttothehotellobbysetup like a European sidewalkcafe,MikeandHildehadalreadygottenatable.Steamfloatedfromtwocupsofblackcoffeeinfrontofthem.Astheyapproachedthetable,MikesignaledawaiterwhocamewithathirdcupofcoffeeforMarcus as Mike had instructed before they arrived.

“Black,nosugar,right?” Mikesaid,rememberingMarcus’spreferencefromtheirdaysinthemilitary.

“Yougotit,” Marcus said,thenturnedtothewaiter. “AndaV8withacouple of limewedgesformywife.”

“Thankyou,honey,” Lonniesaid.WhileshehadalwayslovedMexicanfood,whichshecravedconstantlynow,thesmellofV8vegetablejuicehadbeenrepulsivetoherbeforethepregnancy.Now,though,thetomato-baseddrinkwithtwolimewedgeswasmandatoryeverydayforbreakfast.

“DidyoucallHogan?” Marcusasked.

“Wedid,” Hilde said. “HeispullingupthefileonFarrahtoemailtome,andsaidhe'dputinacalltothelocalSACrightaway.Theyshouldbeexpectingusabouteighto'clock.”

ThewaiterbroughttheglassofV8andsetasmallplatewithtwolimewedges next to it.Lonniesqueezedthemintothedrink,thendroppedthegreenfruitsintotheglassandstirredwithastrawasthewaitertooktheirfoodorders.

Afterthewaiterwalkedaway,Lonniesaid, “Didyoumentionthecabbiefromlastnight?”

“Thecabbie?” Marcus asked. “Whatabouthim?”

“Oh,man!” Mike said, tappinghisfingersonthetablelikeanexclamationpoint. “Wecompletelyforgottotellyouabouthim.DoyourememberaguynamedKharzaiGhiassi?”

“KharzaiGhiassi?AlGul?”

“Yeah,that’stheone.”

“Shit,” Marcus said.

“What?” Lonniewas shocked. UncommonforaMarine,Marcus almost never swore.

“Ifhe’shere,that’sbad.”

“Why?” Lonnie said. “Hesaidhewaslyinglowafteranoperation.Ididn’t think about itlastnight,butattheaccidentscenewithFarrah,heclaimedhe’dlefthisIDathome.HecalledhimselfSamuelMcGee.”

Marcus took a deep sip of his coffee and closed his eyes for a moment, his mind firing back several years into memories he’d worked hard to put behind.

“Thatdudedoesn’ttakebreaks,” hesaid. “He’dgotoground,maybe,butneverrest.Whereeverhegoes,youwillsoonfindbodies.”

“Areyousayinghe’s serialkillerorsomething?” Hilde asked.

“Inasense,” Marcusreplied, “butheonlykillspeoplehefiguresdeserveitforthesakeofnationalsecurity,orself-preservation.Greatcovertagent,buthe’snotthekindofguycopsliketohavearound.”

“Hewouldn’tanswerourquestionslastnight,” Mike said. “I’mprettycertainhe’suptosomethingshady.”

Hildeswallowedamouthfulofcoffee.Thecupclinkedagainstthesaucerwhenshesetitdown.

“I remember the cold-blooded way he acted during that case we had in Ohio. The man was simply vicious when the action started,” she said.After a brief,thoughtfulmoment,sheasked, “Do you think he could have turned bad?”

“Anythingispossible,” Marcus said. “He’sbeeninthefieldforalongtime.WhenIknewhimyearsago,hehadalreadybeenestablishedindeepcoveramongtheterroristsinIraq.Ihavenoideawhathe’sbeendoingsince.”

Thewaiterapproachedwithalargetraycoveredwithplatesofsteamingeggs,sausage,pancakes,andbutteredtoast.Theystoppedtalkingwhilehesetthefoodbeforethem,handeddownextranapkins,andrefilledtheircoffee.Oncehewasgone,theconversationcontinued.

Mikereachedforthepepper,whichheshookliberallyoverhisscrambledeggs,thelittleblackdotsscatteringacrossthebrightyelloweggs. “Lastyear,heturnedupinOhio,posingasaterroristworkingwithaguywhohadasuitcasenuclearweapon.Hehelpedusbustthemandstopthedetonation.Likeyousaid,though,heleftbodiesbehindthatwehadtocleanup.”

Hildeswallowedabiteoftoast,thenadded, “Hekilledamanliterallytwicehissizeinahand-to-handfightinanRV,thenafewminuteslater,doveinfrontofabullettosaveacivilian,thewholewhilejokingaroundlikeitwasallahigh-schoolprankorsomething.”

“Soundslikehe'snotrightintheheadmaybe,” Lonnie said.

“Whenaguyspendsasmuchtimeinthefieldashehas,” Marcus said, “whetherit'sundercoverorindirectcombat,it has adrasticimpactontheirmind.”

Mikenodded.HisexperienceasapastorhadbroughtmanycasesofPTSD,Post-traumaticStressDisorder,tohisofficeinaprofessionalcounselingcapacity.Atadeeperlevel,though,twentyyearsoflivingviolentlyasaspecialoperationsofficerintheMarineshadputhimface-to-facewithmorehorrorsthanthevastmajorityofhisclientscouldevendreamupintheirnightmares.Overthecourseofhiscareer,therehadonlybeenthreeothermenhe'dbeenabletoconfideinwithhisownnightmares.OnehadbeenchurchelderHarryJohnson,aretired Cold WarCIAoperativewhosepastwasassecretasMike'sown.TheothertwowerePaulHoganandMarcusJohnson,bothofwhomhadbeenwithhim during mostofthebloodiesttimesofhislife.

He blinked hard, as if pinching off a stream of thought, and said, “When it comes to the residue of espionage and combat alike, I’veseenmenbreakdownintoanythingfromsuicidaldepressiontofull-onschizophrenicmegalomania.”

“Guys like Kharzai, luckily, are few