by D S Kane
As Lee hoped, to anyone watching, a hooded green-haired wild girl wearing way too much makeup helped her frumpy old grandmother from the mall out into the parking lot. After they reached the exit, Ann and he sprinted to the SUV.
She was still shaking, but smiled in relief as they ran. “Great outfit, Lee. Ultra-sexy.”
Lee opened the gate and removed the hat, wig, scarf, and coat, then took out a satchel from the trunk bed area behind the rear seats. He handed the satchel to Ann. “Take this, get in and buckle up.” He motioned his keys to the passenger side door. Ann jumped inside as fast as she could.
The Hybrid rolled soundlessly through the parking lot, with deliberate lack of speed. “I have what we’ll need in here,” he said, patting the satchel she held.
“But where—”
“To the harbor in Baltimore. Cassie called me. Everything’s gonna be fine, Ann.” Lee thought, I hope.
“Thanks for saving my life, Lee. I was so scared. But I did remember what you taught me. Even though I was scared shitless.” Ann unzipped the satchel. “Wow, this is heavy.” She found altered identification documents for both of them, one Ruger Mini-14 modified for full automatic action, a Beretta 9mm handgun, a Benchmade switchblade, several clips of ammunition, a few computer gadgets, and some candy bars. And, a knapsack filled with men’s and women’s clothing, underwear, and wigs. She offered Lee a candy bar and ate one herself. Chewing the chocolate, she asked, “Lots of woman’s stuff here. Is this yours? You wear this stuff?”
Lee laughed. “No, it’s Cassie’s and mine. It’s called a “go bag.” We both have them. I just emptied both into hers. She told me to bring them. And, hey, if it would save you, me, or Cassie, I’d dress as a female gorilla in heat.”
She chuckled. Rummaging through the other bag, her hand brushed against another Beretta. “There’s enough weaponry here for a small war. Was this always in your car?”
“No. We keep the go bags in lockers at Union Station. That’s why it took me so long to get to you. I had to pick this up, then ride here doing ninety most of the way. This SUV doesn’t ever get stopped—it has the agency’s identifiers all over it. I never returned it after I resigned, and then I hacked the records so now, I own it. There’s no rush now.”
Ann felt total confusion. She’d been tolerating Lee for a long time, but lately she’d found herself depending on him. Very strange. Almost the way she now felt about Cassie. She tentatively reached across the seat and touched his hand holding the steering wheel. Whispered, “dad.”
He looked up, his mouth a wide “O.” Then he grinned.
“I meant it. Thanks for saving my life, uh, dad. Yeah. Dad.”
She’d said it three times. No thunder broke the sky. But she felt a warm tingling down to her core. Yeah. Dad.
He looked back at her for just a second. “I love you, too, daughter.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
November 6, 4:18 p.m.
Georgetown Park Shopping Mall, 3222 M Street, NW (at Wisconsin and M Streets), Washington, DC
Achmed Houmaz had dismissed the strange-looking child with short green hair and heavily eye-shadowed face that emerged from the rest room. He almost chuckled as she helped her grandmother from the mall. He kept his eyes riveted on the door and waited. But when Ann’s three companions left the rest room and she didn’t appear, he waited another minute before realizing he’d been made a fool of.
His face tensed and he mumbled a curse in Arabic, then ran into the parking lot looking for them. He found no one looking like either the young woman in a private school uniform or the strangely dressed girl who’d just left the mall.
Worse, he thought, this means she’d recognized him. He’d never have another easy chance to fulfill his mission and earn vengeance for his family and himself. He shook his head in fury, acknowledging his failure, and left the mall. His head dropped as he paced through the parking lot to his rental car and drove back to the cheap motel.
The late afternoon sun cast long gray shadows on the wharf in Boston where the smaller S-13 sub had surfaced. The captain spoke Russian to his first mate. “Okay Boris, rig the charges and get ready to reply to the harbormaster’s questions. I want communication as soon as possible.”
Less than a minute passed, before Boris returned and simply nodded his head. The captain then said, “Harbormaster, I am Captain Yuri Sokol of Russian submarine S-13. We are political refugees, seeking sanctuary from Russian mafiya. Please, there are almost sixty of us on board, including some Americans we rescued from murderers in Maui. Make space for us to moor the sub at your wharf.”
Houmaz sat in the dark stillness of his room at the Washington, DC motel. He thought about using the gun he’d brought to the United States in his diplomatic pouch on himself. But he wasn’t ready for death, and looked around wildly for an excuse to live. He turned on the television and watched CNN, looking for fresh news about his disaster in Tokyo. Of course, he found it. Houmaz shook his head. This was never supposed to happen. He sat on the bed, miserable, facing the screen and no longer comprehending what he saw. Outraged, he flexed his fists.
Almost an hour passed, with sports, weather, and recent politics flying past him. He was jolted back to awareness by a fluff news story. A pretty woman in a blue dress with yellow hair smiled into the camera and said, “Today, something unusual happened at the harbor in Boston. Something that doesn’t happen every day. A World War Two-vintage submarine surfaced late this afternoon.” Houmaz watched the screen show the small sub, floating a hundred feet from the wharf. “They requested permission to dock here, stating that they were fleeing from the Russian mafiya. They claim the sub carries Americans as well as Russians, and that they rescued the Americans from being murdered in Maui. Of course, Department of Homeland Security officials are now up to their necks in paperwork, trying to determine if their claim falls under what we define as a reason to seek sanctuary.”
Her companion reporter, a magnificently coiffed man wearing a charcoal suit and red tie smiled toward the screen and said, “We’ve had Cubans request sanctuary after arriving on a raft or a rowboat, but Russians in an ancient submarine claiming asylum from the Russian mafiya, not the Russian government, is a first! And, since they all left the sub and set foot on land after exiting off the wharf, the law might qualify them to make this request. They’re all back on the sub now, waiting for our government’s response.”
Houmaz remembered the telephone call from Tobelov and made the connection. He smiled as he left the bed and flew from his room to the Internet café at the entrance of the motel.
After the short trot, Houmaz ordered a double espresso. He waited his turn to use one of the rental computers, then logged onto www.gawkerstalker.com and planted a message stating that CNN reported seeing Cassandra Sashakovich aboard the submarine that just docked in Boston.
Then he logged into www.GrayNet.com, and read the chatter that the zombie patriots and amateur assassins inputted to the “Contracts for Death” page of the website. The volume had decreased significantly since Cassie had escaped Maui in the sub. But as he updated the view of the web page, his gawkerstalker entry began to have an effect. Over the hour, as he watched, the number of entries grew with increasing speed. Soon, very soon, they’ll kill you, bitch. And I’ll be there to watch.
He smiled. It wasn’t over yet. Houmaz began to feel exuberant.
As the sun sank below gray clouds, Lee drove into the parking lot. He and Ann walked to McCormick and Schmick’s Seafood Restaurant, at 711 Eastern Avenue, on Pier 5. The dinner rush in Baltimore harbor was just starting. He watched tourists and locals crowding outside restaurants that served cracked crab and other seafood delicacies, rushing to grab the limited number of tables. Ann had removed her makeup during the drive over, and left the top of the hoodie up to cover her short green hair. Lee told the hostess, “We have a reservation for three, under Swiftshadow.”
The hostess turned her face as she led them through the restaurant, and asked, �
��Isn’t that a native American name?” Lee nodded with a smile as they passed the bar, stopping at a table in the back. They’d been seated less than a minute when someone at the bar—a woman whose paisley scarf veiled her face—rose from her seat, faced their table, walked to them and sat down. Through the scarf, the woman’s voice whispered, “Oh, how I missed you. I’m so happy you’re both safe.”
“Mom?”
“Cassie? I thought we were meeting Shimmel.”
She nodded. As they rose out of their seats, she motioned them back down. “No. Sorry, but please. Stay seated. It’s too dangerous. Even here there’s a bounty on my head.” She pointed to the scarf. “This is enough to confuse any camera. But we don’t have a way to make me safe yet. Why don’t we order our dinners “to go” and take a walk down to the wharf at the end of the harbor. We can eat on the sub.”
“What sub?” asked Lee. “Isn’t the sub in you bought in Boston?”
“I acquired two subs. One’s in Boston.”
She ordered take-out dinners for five and waited for them to be packed.
Lee scratched his ear. “What’s the plan?”
“Shimmel has a plan, but it’s got more holes than Swiss cheese. We have a lot of work to do just to stay safe, and now, with Houmaz looking for you guys, you’ll have to hang with me. Maybe more literally than it sounds.”
Their waiter appeared carrying two large shopping bags. Lee paid him and they were left alone.
Carrying their shopping bags filled with food and plastic utensils, the family walked in darkness, united again at last, to the submarine docked in the harbor.
Once down the conning tower’s ladder, they hugged each other. Avram Shimmel met them in the sub’s small ready room.
Captain Rogov served them all coffee. Ivan said, “Shimmel bought two pounds of Starbucks ground French roast,” and smiled. “Tastes like heaven. Coffee in Vlad tastes like shit.”
Cassie asked Shimmel, “Will it be okay if we eat shellfish with you here?”
Shimmel nodded. “I don’t keep kosher under battle conditions. I’m hungry, too.” He pointed to the food containers, opening one up. “What is this?” He failed to hide the momentary look of disgust on his face. “Is there enough for us all?”
Cassie opened the containers and pointed to the cooked cracked crabs. “Yes. At least thirty of these little buggers. And garlic bread, and crab bisque in addition to the crabs.” She watched his frowning face. “If you’d rather not eat crab, I also brought fish and chips. Breaded deep-fried salmon.” She smiled apologetically, but Shimmel shook his head and reached tentatively for the claw of one of the crabs. He touched it then shook his head again. Cassie almost laughed as he lifted the fish and chips container from the bag and opened it.
They ate and the conversation slowed as the pile of shells grew.
After they cleaned off the table, Shimmel poured himself a cup of coffee. “We know where Houmaz was as of about an hour ago. He put a message about the Boston sub on the gawkerstalker.com website from a computer at Starbucks in downtown Washington. Wing back-traced the message about twenty minutes ago while you were at the restaurant. We can find him and kill him if he isn’t on the move, which I assume he will be. And if he is on the move, he’ll probably head for the harbor in Boston, where the other sub was reported to be. It made world news, just as we hoped. I expect that most of the zombie patriots will make their way there as well. Sashakovich, you should be going there with me and all the mercs, soon, to finish preparations. You said there was a way to determine if Houmaz is there.”
Cassie nodded. She looked at her wristwatch. “Lee, Ann, you’ll both have to stay here with Ivan. You’ll be safe here. Avram and I have to leave.”
“Don’t go, mom. I have a bad feeling about this.”
Suddenly, Ann looked grown up to Cassie.
Cassie took a deep breath and sighed. She smiled, feeling sad. “I have to find a way to make the world a safe place for you two. We’re going to try to get rid of enough of the zombie patriots so the odds of our survival increase. If we’re lucky, we might lure Houmaz there and be able to deal with him as well, but that’s less likely.” She sighed. “So, I’m going there for personal reasons.”
Lee grabbed her by the shoulders. “Personal reasons be damned. You don’t have to go.” Cassie felt Lee’s anger like a knifepoint. “You’ve been through enough. Let your black ops people handle it. They’re professionals.”
The unspoken words, “and you’re not” exploded through her consciousness as an accusation. She blanched as if slapped. “Lee, it was my decision to let the bastard live. I made a mistake. Now I have to be there when he dies. I can’t put anyone else at risk unless I am also at risk.” She reached and hugged Lee. And Ann. Then turned and left the ready room.
Shimmel blocked the doorway behind her. “She’s right. I know her almost as well as you do. If she isn’t there when Houmaz dies, she’ll live the rest of her life under a shroud of guilt about those who died to save her. Do you want her alive but damaged?”
Lee’s expression showed panic. “But she might die.”
“She’s been in worse danger, and very recently. Your Cassandra is a very hard woman to kill. And I’ll be with her.” Shimmel pointed his index finger back at his torso. “Trust me.” He looked over his shoulder as he heard the sound of Cassie climbing up the ladder at the base of the con to the sub’s deck. “We must go. Stay here. I’ll send for you when this is over.”
Bob Gault pulled his suitcase through the hallway as fast as he could. He’d arrived back from Maui and gone to the agency directly after debarking. He took the elevator up two floors and raced to Gilbert Greenfield’s office. Out of breath, he muttered, “Bug-Lok’s gone dead.”
“What?” asked the director.
“Bug-Lok. I left Hawaii yesterday and had the subject’s position. But when I got off the plane an hour ago, there was no signal. You had me reporting the subject’s movements.”
Gault knew that the “subject” was Ainsley, but hoped Greenfield didn’t know he knew. Anyway, there was no way Gault was going to admit he’d gone past his orders.
Greenfield raised his hand in a gesture that beckoned for more intel.
“Here’s the report.” He passed the older man a miniSD flash memory card.
The director sighed. “Where was the subject when you last had him?”
“At Swiftshadow Consulting Group’s office on K Street.”
Greenfield realized almost instantly that Ainsley must have been alerted to the bug’s residence in his body. He muttered under his breath. “Shit.” Then raised his voice to a more normal level. “Thanks, Bob. Please close the door as you leave.” As Gault pulled his suitcase behind him, retreating to his office, Greenfield activated the Encryption-Lok feature of his landline and keyed the President’s private number at the Oval Office.
Louis Stepponi walked to the front of the Wailea Spa and Hotel, looking for the taxi line to leave for the airport. He stood in line behind Harry Aimes. The night was stifling hot and both men perspired freely in the humidity. Most of the zombie patriots and assassins waiting at the hotel hadn’t bathed for days, and now the long line of people carried a distinctly unpleasant aroma that traveled into the hotel lobby. He’d gotten used to the stench of overripe flesh, cooked too long under the tropical sun. The amateurs and contract hitters stood in line next to each other waiting while taxis filled one by one.
The noise of construction crews filled the air, and tourists were once again occupying rooms. Stepponi wondered if the real guests speculated over the stories they’d heard on the news about the Wailea.
He also wondered if the huge throng of hitters exceeded the daily capacity of all the available aircraft to Boston’s Logan Airport. If so, some would wait for days to leave. Each wanted to get these rare seats on aircraft filled past capacity. Some would have to fly to other places and make connecting flights as their only way to arrive in Boston soon enough.
Like t
he others on line, Aimes and Stepponi had bags or satchels with them.
Neither had ever met the other. In fact, Stepponi made it a habit to never talk to a stranger, especially a competitor, and never to an amateur. But Aimes turned to him and said, “Fuckin’ bitch. Now we all have to go to Boston. That’s six thousand fuckin’ miles.”
Stepponi remained poker-faced, unwilling to acknowledge the experience they shared. Another cab stopped at the front of the line. Zombie patriots, assassins, and their luggage filled it. It departed, the twentieth one in the last hour. The silence made him nervous, and he whispered loud enough for Aimes to hear, “Such is the nature of this business.”
He’d sent his weapon to Boston via FedEx, even though it was a plastic rifle. He knew they’d be hand-searching everyone and didn’t want to check it inside one of his bags. This way, it wouldn’t trigger antiterrorism alarms at the Kahului Airport. “Look, all we do is set up, wait, try, and if you don’t get a shot, try again. Relax, old man, this might work out yet.” He smiled at Aimes. “Or maybe not. There were over three thousand of us trying to end her before the mercs saved her and murdered most of us. It’s all joss, as the Asians say. She’s one tough lady.”
“I guess. But I’m running out of time.” Aimes shook his head in disgust. He barely whispered, scowling, “Didn’t know this would be so difficult.”
At that moment Stepponi realized that Aimes was one of the walking dead, a zombie patriot, and decided that the conversation had exceeded his comfort level. He coughed, turned away, and became very quiet as he waited his turn for a cab.
The bus labeled “Remarkable Tours” contained seventy seats, all but four taken. They sat in silence, concentrating on the printed orders that General Avram Shimmel had given them.
Cassie sat in the back of the bus, alone with her desperate thoughts, thinking again about how much and yet how little had changed in her life from last year. Once again she’d fled first away from danger and then back into the teeth of it. She thought, if I survive this, I definitely have to change something. I want to be with my family. Damn, I want a normal life. This has gotten old.
