by S A Ison
She’d learned early on to depend only on herself. She’d gotten her education and then had gone to the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia and told them point-blank that she was an unprecedented asset they could not afford to pass her over. She’d taught herself three other languages besides her native Turkish roots. She’d become quite fluent in Farsi, figuring that would be one of her greatest skill sets. She’d been correct and had gone through extensive training with determination and a slow simmering rage. She figured rage was just part of her DNA, because it was always there, like a second skin. A lot of agents were like her, something drove them and it was usually rage. You had to have something wrong with you if you killed for a living. She figured pretty much all the agents were broken in some way. Well, maybe not Agent Vector, he was just an anal-retentive prick.
Zahara came back out to the porch and sat back in the rocking chair, then got back up and picked up Xander’s pipe. She wasn’t a smoker, but took a puff of his pipe. She smiled, she really liked it.
Ž
Reginald Watergrass slammed the heel of his palm on the steering wheel. He felt the heat of fear and frustration climb up from his chest, lodge in his throat and strangle him. Ahead of him the traffic was at a near standstill. What in the hell was going on? He’d been listening to the news about some kind of virus and everyone was warned to wear their masks, wash their hands and take precautions. Nothing really new. He’d switched from radio stations WAHR, WBHY and WBZR-FM and none of them had any explanations. Then he’d heard on several stations that some of the hospitals were being inundated with too many new patients and those folks were being evaluated, then sent home with no care given. He’d talked to his wife, Marney, yesterday and she said she and the boys were fine. They were sticking close to home.
Reggie was an electrical engineer and was sometimes called away from home for out-of-town jobs. It wasn’t often but the money was good. He’d been called away again and he was only four hours away from Huntsville, Alabama. He and Marney had gotten into it just before he left. Now he couldn’t get her on the phone and there were now mixed reports about the infected and the virus that was running rampant across the world. Some kind of pandemic but they were vague about death tolls. He wondered if the chinks were responsible for this one or the camel jockeys? Fucking scabs. He dialed up Bobby, hoping the man could swing by the house.
Bobby was a member of his Klavern. He’d tried to reach some of his other friends and neighbors, but no one was picking up and once more he felt the wave of panic wash over him. He heard the call go through.
“Bobby, this is Reg. Need a big favor. I can’t get in touch with Marney, can you swing by and take a look? Make sure her and the boys are okay?”
“Hey son, sure, but it might take me a bit. I’m at the dealership and my people have gone AWOL. Not that there’s anyone buying right now. Fuckin’ virus. You think them Chinese slanted eyed bastards did this? Anyway, got people just walkin’ round in a daze. No sense at all, they should be home in bed, not spreadin’ their sickness,” Bobby Dealer grumbled.
“Thanks. I tried just about everyone else. No one’s pickin’ up,” Reggie said and saw more taillights ahead go red and swore under his breath. It was stop, go, stop, go.
“I’m thinkin’ they’re takin’ advantage of me and just not comin’ ta work. Okay, gotta go.” Bobby hung up and Reggie had wanted to know if he’d call back? Or have Marney call him. He flung the phone to the seat beside him. His thoughts went to the fight they’d had. He had thought he’d married a conservative, old-fashioned girl but over the years, Marney had become more liberal. Especially, since Jeb and Hunter were born. He couldn’t say the N word or even coon. She’d jumped up his ass when he’d called some boy down the street a beaner. Where had his wife gone and who was the woman in her place?
He was a hard-working white man in an increasingly OTWW, other than white world and when they’d first married, his affiliations with the Klavern and KKK never bothered her. Hell, her own father had been a member. His father, grandfather had all been members. It was what he grew up knowing. He knew that some members were more zealous and hateful but he’d never been. He’d grown up being taught to respect his elders, to love his children and family and to work hard and be honest.
Granny Pat had taught him that you never hit a woman and when you spank your children, you never do it out of anger. He was taught to pay his taxes, honor his God and be the best man he could. But within the last few years, he’d seen a change come over Marney. When he’d left the other day, she’d jumped up his ass when he bitched about some homo at work. He’d left angry, not allowed to express himself in his own home anymore.
“You’re a relic, antiquated and you need to open your eyes to the real world around you,” Marney said.
“How can morals be antiquated? All I want is for my boys to grow up to be hardworkin’ men. To be honest and trustworthy. How is that antiquated?”
“You know that isn’t what I’m talkin’ about. This isn’t the 1950s anymore. Our children will inherit this world. They don’t need to be taught hate.”
Was she trying to tell him something? Was something wrong with his boys? Was he teaching them hate? He didn’t think so. He was teaching them to have a moral compass and to stand accountable. He loved his boys and wanted to prepare them for life. He shook his head and stamped down on the brake. He saw a uniform heading his way and he groaned. He put down the window and leaned out.
“Road’s blocked, y’all will have to turn around.” The policeman told each of the cars as he passed. He didn’t give any explanation and Reggie snarled with rage. The black bastard could at least tell him why and which way to go, but no, he just walked on by like he didn’t give a rat’s ass. This was some straight up Billy Bob bullshit and he’d had enough. He’d get home come hell or high water.
Ž
Just over a week later Xander stood at the stove frying bacon. He was thinking about Zahara’s arrival and her darting and snorted as he moved the bacon around the frying pan. He’d woken up a few hours later, in the late afternoon from Flea’s dart. He had been stiff, since Zahara hadn’t bothered moving him when he’d been knocked out. He snorted again at the memory. He’d not expected that and he guessed she damned well could have taken him back to D.C. if she’d been so inclined. Damn. His mouth twisted at the thought. She’d been at his cabin over a week now and didn’t seem incline to leave. She was asleep in his bed, since it was the only bed in the cabin. He grunted again. He had to admit, she was nice to have around. Xander was a loner, as was Zahara. Their profession didn’t engender friendships with civilians nor anyone else for that matter. Combine that with being secretive and paranoid, it didn’t foment relationships with those at the agency either. It was a solitary existence; assassins were notoriously distrustful of anyone but themselves. People always had agendas and agendas were dangerous. He’d learned that the hard way on two occasions, one had been in Djibouti, Africa, where he and Agent Vector had nearly been killed. He still bore the scar of the near deadly bullet wound. It had taken him months to recover from that.
He looked over to see Zahara stagger out of the bedroom. She was wearing one of his shirts. He tried not to notice her shapely legs. It was strictly platonic and he wasn’t up for a slit throat, so he stayed on his side of the bed at night. He’d found her curled up against his back that morning and had to get up and go for a cold shower. He pulled his eyes away from her legs and looked up into her mocking green eyes and a sleepy grin on her face. He’d been caught.
“You up for a road trip back to D.C.?” he asked, cracking an egg into the sizzling grease.
“No, not really. This has been great. You’ve got a great setup here, Xander, I mean that. Don’t you ever worry about someone breaking in?” she asked, sitting up at the breakfast bar. He slid a steaming cup of coffee her way and she smiled in thanks; the characteristic mocking gleam gone from her eyes. He liked it when the mocking side of her was quiet. She actually had a sweet
ness to her that he’d never known about. She kept it well hidden beneath the jabs and barbs of her sharp tongue. She was damaged goods, as was he. You had to be some kind of screwed up to do the jobs that they did and walk away sane. Well, sane was maybe a stretch. There had to be varying degrees of sanity, but he’d take whatever he could get.
She had let her guard down and he felt he was getting to know the real Zahara Demir. She was smart and sassy and he had thoroughly enjoyed her company. She wasn’t how he’d imagined her. They could sit for hours and not speak, just enjoying the quiet of the cabin. He’d taken her fishing and she had loved it. He’d been surprised. He didn’t know a lot of women, so didn’t know whether they did things like fishing or not, but Zahara had been thrilled. They had also gone hunting, though they didn’t shoot anything. Deer season wasn’t until months away. They had taken walks in his woods and essentially enjoyed the solitude.
He’d always thought that Zahara was hyper by the way she acted and spoke. But she would curl up with a book for hours and not move. He hadn’t expected to enjoy her company and had worried that his vacation had been ruined by her arrival. It had not and had in fact been enhanced. She had liked his cabin and had complimented him on it and he felt pride.
“No, see the tongue and groove knotty pine walls?” He indicated with the spatula, the walls of the cabin. At her nod, he smiled.
“When I first purchased this place, I built in sheets of steel reinforced walls, along with the bulletproof windows. Then I covered the walls with the knotty pine. Even if they burn this place down, the walls and structure stays. A box within a box. That goes for the basement as well.” He laughed at her face, which held admiring surprise.
“Basement? I didn’t see a door to the basement,” she said as she reached for the plate of eggs and bacon. She reached over to the loaf of bread and pulled out a couple of slices.
“I can toast that for you. The basement is hidden under the rug where the couch is,” he said and grinned, his eyes crinkling at the sides.
“I don’t care for toast and that is so cool. Can I see after breakfast?”
“Sure.”
“I know I’m an unwanted guest, but next time I’m on downtime, can I come and stay here? I meant it when I said I really like this place. I think it’s the first place I’ve actually felt safe and peaceful. I think it’s the pond,” she said around a mouth full of eggs. He looked at her for a long moment. He knew what she meant. Their lives were lived on the ragged edge, a bullet waiting to end them at every turn. He realized that he too felt the same way. He’d come to love this home and guarded it with covetous zeal. But he saw in those green depths, a need for a safe place. He found himself nodding and was surprised.
“Yeah, just try not to burn it down. I’ll give you the entrance code.”
“Already know it.” She snickered and wagged her head from side to side, a large grin on her face.
“Why am I not surprised?” he grunted, looking at her, then shook his head in defeat, a smile on his lips.
An hour later, they descended the basement steps. He flipped a switch and several LED lights came on. He smiled when he heard Zahara’s exclamation of awe.
“Dude, this is so freaking crazy! Wow, you’re set for World War III. Man, how much food and gear do you have down here?” she said excitedly. The walls were lined with shelving and containers neatly labeled with foodstuffs. There was a large gun safe and Xander walked over and punched in the code, not bothering to try and hide it. He knew if she wanted to, she could break in. When he opened it, he heard her gasp.
“Dayum, boy! You been holdin’ out. That’s some nice hardware you got locked up down here. You plannin’ on takin’ out the world?” Zahara laughed and he saw her hand go out to touch the weapons within. He knew like himself, she appreciated weapons.
“No, I just like having them here and when I see a nice piece, I pick it up.” He shrugged. He didn’t know if all assassins were like him, gun nuts, but he suspected that most picked up a fine weapon from time to time. How could you not?
“You home build that Remington? I like the suppressor. You use that thing on site?” she said, touching the barrel of the Remington Modified.
“Yep, have to have a suppressor, don’t want to draw attention to myself. I’ve a clearing back in the woods, for target practice. Next time you visit, we can go out and do some shooting. Most of my rifles are modified. I like the hands-on approach. All my weapons have suppressors.”
“Same here. I had to build mine out, they don’t make many sniper rifles for women, especially as small as me.” She grinned up at him and he noticed that her eyes were just the nicest shade of emerald. He made himself look away. He wasn’t used to interacting with people on a personal level. The last time he and Zahara had worked together, it had been all business. It had been odd having her here this week and getting to know her on a more personal level. He knew she was weird, but he liked her brand of weird. He really enjoyed having someone to share his cabin and his life, even if only for a short while.
“What are you carrying on you now?” he asked, curious.
“Only a few, I carry my Glock 19 in my pack with plenty of ammo. Got my Ruger 1911 on my back,” she said turning and lifted up the jean jacket to reveal a holster tucked into the waist of her jeans. She bent at the waist and lifted her pant leg to reveal an ankle holster with a Ruger SP101.
“That’s just for fun.” She grinned, then shrugged. She then lifted the front of her shirt and he saw a Sig Sauer P226. He stared at her and then started laughing. He bent at the waist and stomped his foot. He wasn’t sure why it hit him so funny, but this tiny woman had more hardware on her and it probably outweighed her. He finally stood and wiped at his eyes. She was smiling at him, a tolerant look in her eyes.
“I swear, I thought I was bad about being loaded down, but I think you’ve got me beat.” He shook his head and the hilarity threatened to bubble up. He pushed it down.
“Sure, and that’s not even counting the darts,” she said and laughed. Xander felt his face heat up.
“I take it you don’t fly much.”
“No, I won’t travel without my gear. So, I hitchhike when I want to stay off-the-grid.”
“You don’t happen to have your phone?” Xander asked, suddenly nervous.
“Yeah, but the chip’s out and I’ve got it locked in a shielded case. When I walk out of the office, I disappear. I don’t like being tracked any more than you do. I noticed that you have a smart phone.”
“That’s registered under one of my aliases. My work phone is in my apartment in D.C.,” he said, shutting the gun safe. He looked around his basement at all the modifications he’d done over the years. His cabin was off-grid but had all the technology to keep him informed of any attempted intrusions, of which, he’d only had a few. He’d contacted the local police and the perpetrators were taken away. His cabin was essentially impenetrable. It had food, water and weapons to last out years under siege.
It was comfortable, peaceful and it was his. He’d grown up with nothing. His father had been an abusive drunk and had driven his mother away. Or at least that was the story he’d been told. It hadn’t been until years later that he’d learned that his father had actually killed his mother. It was his father’s deathbed confession; he’d died of lung cancer. Xander despised the man and hated him for lying about his mother. For years, Xander hated her, until he’d learned the truth. Even now, he felt a deep sense of shame and guilt for his feelings against her. He jerked around when he realized Zahara had been speaking to him.
“What? I’m sorry, what?”
“You okay? I kinda lost you for a minute there,” she said, her eyes filled with concern. He smiled at her and shook his head.
“No, I’m fine. Just reluctant to head back to work. You sure you don’t know what they wanted?”
“Naw. I’d have told you if I had. I’m fairly sure they’re not going to be happy with me for disappearing either. I’d been on assignment j
ust before I came here.” She smiled, walking toward the stairs.
“Yeah, the agency isn’t real keen with its assets and their secrets.”
“Don’t I know it. But I think they understand at some level, at least the operatives turned desk jockeys. Keeping a low profile is pretty essential,” she said. They moved into the living room and Xander went to his bedroom. He’d already packed his bag, it was a small black roller bag, filled with ammo. Like Zahara, he felt naked without the ability to defend himself well. If that meant lugging around weapons and ammo, so be it. He smiled, remembering the guns that were scattered about Zaraha’s body.
He’d seen the news from time to time, reports about some trucker that had been murdered. He knew that riding the big rigs was her preferred form of transportation. He also knew that if some fool tried to hurt her, he’d be in for a rude awakening and he’d be dead before the sun rose the next day. He thought perhaps she did that on purpose. He’d heard that she’d been raised in foster care and if that were so, she’d more than likely suffered abuse at the hands of some of those people. The thought of someone hurting a child caused his blood to heat. He took a deep breath then blew it out. No, she wasn’t a child now and took care of the assholes who wanted to hurt women. He smiled grimly at that thought. Coming out of his bedroom, he looked around the living room and smiled at Zahara.
“Ready?”
“No, but I guess we gotta go. Thanks again for letting me stay here. I mean that. I know I intruded on your vacay, but it really has been nice. Thanks again for teaching me to fish. I really, really liked that.” She grinned impishly, her face tinting a pretty pink. His smile widened and he nodded.
“Tell you what, you come here any time, even if I’m here or not. Mi casa es su casa.”
“Thanks. So, we go directly back or what?” she asked, walking out of the door.
