What the hell. Cantwell felt his pulse race, and his mouth was dry.
He rose from the cot and walked to the window. A full moon filtered silver light through the tree canopy, and shadows spread like pools of ink on the forest floor. Cantwell found it hard to breathe . . . as though the night reached out to strangle him and he felt its evil.
Something wicked this way comes . . .
Cantwell crossed the floor, took the Glock 19 from his pack . . . black, ugly and reassuring . . . and made his way downstairs on cat feet. He heard Sarah’s soft breathing and the plop . . . plop . . . plop of a dripping tap in the kitchen and he felt the thump of his heart in his chest.
Outside the air smelled fresh, of pines, and somewhere close an owl asked its question of the night. The Glock up and ready, Cantwell walked to the end of the dirt track and looked into the moon-splashed gloom. There were cars, trucks, and vans parked everywhere, the detritus left behind by exhausted firefighters. All was still, silent . . . tranquil.
Cory Cantwell lowered the Glock. Now he scolded himself. Like a child he’d wakened from sleep and become afraid of the dark. Just that and nothing more.
Footsteps behind him!
Cantwell turned, bringing up his gun.
It was Sarah Milano, dressed in Catrina Welsh’s frayed gray robe. She had her Colt Python in her hand. “Cory, are you all right?” she said.
Feeling embarrassed, Cantwell said, “Yeah, I’m fine. I thought I heard something.” Then, “It was probably an animal. Something big, maybe a coyote.”
Sarah smiled, the moonlight caressing her. “Hondo, you’re sensing Apaches.”
Cantwell didn’t return her smile. “Yes, that’s it, Apaches, out there in the darkness.”
“I know. I feel them too,” Sarah said. “But it’s not Apaches, Cory. It’s a much less honorable enemy.”
“And a much more dangerous one,” Cantwell said.
He looked at his watch. My God, it was twelve-thirty. He thought he’d gotten out of bed just a few minutes ago . . . but he’d been out there alone in the darkness for half an hour.
CHAPTER 15
It was twelve-thirty at night, and Mike Norris was very drunk. As soon as Nasim Azar answered his phone, he yelled, “Azar, you son of a whore, you killed a cop!”
“Please, Mr. Norris, do not shout. It’s unbecoming of you,” Azar said. “A mistake was made.”
“A mistake!” Norris shouted. “Killing an LAPD police officer was just a mistake?”
“The guilty one has already returned to Portland, and he will be punished,” Azar said. And then, slightly angry, voice raised, “I lost an operative too. A good man.”
“I don’t give a damn about who you lost,” Norris said. “I told you, Azar, no violence. How the hell did it happen?”
“The police patrol up there around the Hollywood sign,” Azar said. “One of my men set the fire and was caught in the act. The police officer shot him.”
“Just like that . . . shot him?”
“Yes. There was no warning.”
“That’s a damned lie,” Norris said.
“The man who witnessed the incident knows he will soon die. Why would he lie about it?”
“And it was this man who killed the police officer?” Norris said.
“Yes, with a rock.”
“Azar, you’re a sorry piece of trash,” Norris said. “I hate your guts.”
“Harsh words, Mr. Norris. Remember, we’re waging a war on the ignorance of the National Wildfire Service. A certain amount of collateral damage can be expected in any conflict. And as I told you, the guilty party will be punished.”
“And who the hell is this guy?” Norris said. “Another Arab?”
“His name is Hamed Sarraf, an Iranian. He brought disgrace to me. He’s a pig.”
Norris said, “Damn you, Azar, you told me you’d set one fire as a demonstration. From what I saw on TV there were fires all over the hills and up and down the coast.”
“My people set only one fire,” Azar said, “the one at the Hollywood sign.”
“Then who’s responsible for the others?” Norris said.
“I don’t know,” Azar said.
Norris wanted to reach through the phone and throttle him. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Those other fires were set without my knowledge. I suspect an arsonist terrorist cell is responsible.” Then—a nice touch, Azar thought—he added, “Your enemies and mine, Mr. Norris.”
“Azar, do you know the danger we’re in?” Norris said. “A police officer dead . . . we could be charged with being accessories to murder.”
“Our secret is safe, Mr. Norris. Have no concerns on that score. The lips of the only one who can tie us to the killing of the police officer will soon be sealed forever.”
“Handle it, Azar,” Norris said. “I don’t want to know any more.”
“It shall be done,” Azar said.
“We have business to discuss. What about the drones to take out the Wildfire Service cameras?”
“That is well in hand. I have purchased three so far and have hired a man, well, a boy really, to operate them and show others how to do the same.”
“Who is he? Another damned Iranian?”
“No, a white boy. A computer nerd. He calls himself a gamer.”
“I want to talk with him,” Norris said.
“I can arrange it,” Azar said.
“Maybe this afternoon,” Norris said.
“When you’re sober,” Azar said.
“I’ll be sober. What’s the kid’s name?”
“Randy Collins. He’s eighteen. And small for his age.”
“I don’t give a damn so long as he can fly drones into cameras. Can we trust him?”
“He’s being paid more money than he’ll ever earn again in his life.”
“Then I’ll see you around three,” Norris said.
“I look forward to it,” Azar said, lying through his teeth.
* * *
“I beg your mercy, master,” Hamed Sarraf said. He was in his late teens, thin and dark, five-foot-six and no more than one hundred twenty pounds. He wore a tan nylon windbreaker, jeans, and white Adidas athletic shoes. He was tightly bound with cord to an upright wooden chair. Earlier he’d been badly beaten, and his bottom lip was split, both his swollen eyes almost closed.
There were four men with him in a disused carpet storage room tucked away on the bottom floor of the warehouse, Azar and his bodyguard, Salman Assad, and two others, all fanatical Muslim jihadists.
“Allah is merciful, Hamed, I am not,” Azar said. “You will not die for killing the policeman, but because you have shamed me.”
“I had no other recourse, master,” Sarraf said. “He would have shot me as he did poor Mohamad.”
“Allah be praised, Mohamed Samara died a martyr’s death,” Azar said. “Even as we speak, he is enjoying the delights of paradise.”
“Better if I had joined him,” Sarraf said.
“Better for you,” Azar said. “You are a pig.”
“Then kill me, master,” Sarraf said. “Give me the gift of martyrdom.”
“Too late for that,” Azar said. “Now you cannot die as a martyr.” Then, after some thought, “This much I will do. I will let it be known to your loved ones that you died a martyr’s death at the hands of the infidels.”
Sarraf could not cry tears of joy because of his swollen eyes, both of them a black, yellow, and purple mess, but his voice caught in his throat as he said, “That is indeed a great mercy, Nasim Azar. My father and mother will rejoice.”
Azar drew his Beretta .25 from a pocket holster and glanced at his watch. “Hamed Sarraf, you are two minutes away from a paradise so glorious that you have never conceived of it. Yes, you brought shame to me, but die in the knowledge that you struck a blow for Allah, in this, the holiest of all wars and, though not a martyr, you will surely be rewarded.”
Sarraf sobbed with joy and gratitude as Azar
placed the muzzle of the little pistol between the young man’s eyes. He looked at his watch again . . . then pul led the trigger. For all its diminutive size, the .25 round is loud, and its blast racketed around the room, the tinkle of the ejected cartridge case lost in the roar. The single shot was enough to shatter Sarraf’s brain and bring instant death.
His ears ringing, Azar raised the Beretta high and yelled, “Allahu Akbar!”
And the others cheered, knowing that Hamad Sarraf was at that very moment entering the gates of paradise.
CHAPTER 16
When Cory Cantwell got up and came downstairs, Sarah Milano was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of her. She’d showered already, and her hair lay over the shoulders of her borrowed robe in damp ringlets. She wore no makeup, but Cantwell thought her beautiful, as though he’d hit the jackpot and woken up beside Angelina Jolie.
“Two calls,” Sarah said, bursting his bubble. “Both of them from Jacob Sensor.”
“And good morning to you,” Cantwell said.
“Good morning,” Sarah said. “Coffee’s in the pot by the stove.”
Cantwell poured himself a cup and sat at the table. He rubbed the stubble on his cheek and said, “No sign of Catrina Welsh?”
“Not yet. But I’m sure she’ll want her cabin back soon.”
Cantwell glanced at his watch. “Seven o’clock. She must’ve pulled an all-nighter.”
“When I rose at six, the firefighters were already moving out,” Sarah said.
“More fires?” Cantwell said.
“I don’t think so. They’re probably making sure the fires they put out yesterday don’t flare up again.”
“Sarah, I need a cigarette,” Cantwell said. “Want to step outside with me? Catrina doesn’t smoke, and I don’t want to fog up her kitchen.”
“So you’ll fog me up instead, huh?” Sarah said. But before Cantwell could answer, she said, “Just joking. There’s a bench out there where we can sit. Aren’t you interested in what Sensor said?”
“Yes, but not right now. Give me a chance to wake up and drink some coffee. Sensor is hard to take first thing in the morning.”
“Sensor is hard to take at any time,” Sarah said. “He comes on like a bull in a china shop.”
* * *
“Nice in the sun, isn’t it?” Sarah said, stretching her arms above her head.
Cantwell nodded. “Yeah, it is. Warm.”
“Now are you going to ask me about Sensor’s phone calls?”
Cantwell drew deep on his cigarette and said, exhaling blue smoke, “Normally, I’d say yes, but . . .” He nodded in the direction of the dirt track. “It looks like we have a visitor.”
Merinda Barker walked through dappled sunlight toward them, a tall angular woman dressed in the olive-green shirt and pants of the National Wildfire Service. She looked pressed and crisp, and her thick, black hair was pulled back and tied in a neat bun.
Uncomfortably conscious of an unshaven chin and bare feet shoved into unlaced shoes, Cantwell stood and said, “Miss Barker, nice to see you again.”
The woman’s smile included Sarah, and so did the knowing, amused look in her eyes. Sarah saw that look and wanted to say, “Lady, this is not what you think,” but she thought that would be petty . . . and anyway, who would believe her?
“You wished to speak with me, Superintendent Cantwell,” she said.
“Do you have a few minutes?” Cantwell said.
“Yes. My crew is on standby.”
Sarah said, “Miss Barker, you can sit here on the bench. There’s room for three of us.”
“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind,” Merinda said.
“Then I’ll get right to the point,” Cantwell said. “I’ve been a placed in command of a specialized unit of smoke jumpers. For want of a better name, we call ourselves Punishers.”
Sarah smiled and said, “Cory, sorry to interrupt, but you now have an official name . . . Regulators.”
“Huh?”
“Jacob Sensor’s idea,” Sarah said. “Apparently he’s a Wild West history buff. The Regulators were a group of young men who rode with Billy the Kid in the Lincoln County War. They formed a deputized posse that sought revenge for the murder of their boss John Tunstall. This happened in 1879, and when Mr. Sensor called this morning, he explained it all at some length.” Sarah read the dismay on Cantwell’s face and said, “Sorry.”
Cantwell looked at Merinda Barker. “Did you get all that?”
“Billy the Kid . . . I believe I saw a movie about him,” the woman said. “I think Bob Dylan was in it and James Coburn.”
“Well, anyway, I’m forming the . . . Regulators . . . unit and I thought you’d be a good fit,” Cantwell said.
“What does the job entail, Superintendent?” Merinda said.
Cantwell didn’t try to dress it up. He laid it out in all its rawness. “We catch pyroterrorists in the act of setting wildfires, and we kill them.”
If Cantwell had said, “I raped your grandmother,” Merinda Barker couldn’t have been more shocked. Her eyes got big, and she stood in a stricken silence, trying to find words that would not come.
“Now, do you want to sit?” Sarah said.
“I think I’d better,” Merinda said.
“Sorry to lay it on you like that, Miss Barker,” Cantwell said. “But anti-terrorism is a dirty, violent business, and you’d be a part of it.”
Merinda retreated into the safety of something she understood. “I’m a firefighter, Mr. Cantwell. I have no training as a smoke jumper.”
“The unit won’t become fully operational for a year,” Cantwell said. “Once we assess your aptitude for the job and you pass muster, we’ll have time to train you.” He stared hard into the woman’s black eyes. “You need to ask yourself if you can handle the task. It’s no small thing to kill a person, even a terrorist.”
Merinda nodded. “I need time to think it through. It’s not an easy decision to make.”
“Take all the time you need,” Cantwell said. “Miss Milano will give you a phone number where you can reach me.”
The young woman looked at Sarah and said, “Are you a . . .”
“Regulator? No, but I’ve had some experience,” Sarah said.
“Have you killed a terrorist?” Merinda said.
“Let’s just say that I’ve recently been involved in such an action,” Sarah said. “The job Superintendent Cantwell is offering you is not for everyone. If I were you, I’d think long and hard before I accepted it.”
Merinda Barker rose to her feet. “My grandfather is an elder of the Cherokee Nation and a very wise man,” she said. “I’ll ask his advice.”
“Miss Barker, as of now, the National Wildfire Service’s anti-terrorism unit is top secret, and the fewer people who know about it, the better,” Cantwell said. “This is a decision you must make for yourself, and for now at least, you must speak of it to no one.”
Merinda nodded. “I understand.”
Cantwell tried to lighten the mood. “Think on the bright side . . . if you accept and you qualify, you can expect a raise in salary, such as it is.”
The woman’s smile was slight. “More money was always important to me, but right about now it doesn’t seem to matter that much.”
Cantwell nodded. “Well, Miss Barker, you’ve got some thinking to do. And this conversation never happened. You know that, huh?”
“It never happened,” Merinda said. “Not a word of it. And I wish that was the truth.”
* * *
“Well, what do you think?” Cory Cantwell said.
“Did you have to scare the hell out of her?” Sarah Milano said.
“She’s in a scary business. She can handle it.”
“I think she’s iffy at best.” Sarah said.
“Really? I think she’ll go for it. Her ancestors were warriors.”
“All our ancestors were warriors of some kind or another.”
“Or at least they carried the
warriors’ luggage,” Cantwell said.
“Speak for your own ancestors,” Sarah said. “I’m sure mine were warriors.”
“You’re probably right,” Cantwell said. “Maybe my ancestors carried your ancestors’ luggage.” Cantwell lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke and words. “What else did Sensor have to say?”
“He says he knows who hired the helicopter and the hit man to kill him,” Sarah said.
“He told us that before,” Cantwell said.
“I know, and it’s a measure of how important it is to him,” Sarah said. “He said it’s nothing to do with his war on pyroterrorists, but his trade and anti-immigration policies. Those don’t sit well with the liberal wing of the Democratic party.”
“And someone paid to have him knocked off for that?”
“Apparently there are some radical socialists out there who want him dead. Billionaire socialists, if you can believe that.”
“I can believe it,” Cantwell said. “In this country socialism is for the rich, and capitalism is for the poor since state policies assure that more resources flow to the rich than to the great unwashed.”
Sarah smiled. “Did you think that up all by yourself ?”
“Hell no. I read it somewhere,” Cantwell said. “What else did Sensor have to say?”
“Only that he’s found you a new recruit, a smoke jumper up in Washington State who made quite a hero of himself,” Sarah said.
“Smoke jumpers do that every day,” Cantwell said. “What did the guy . . . is he a male?”
“Yes, he is.”
“What did he do that’s different?”
Sarah paused for effect, then said, “He took out four pyroterrorists with the .44 Magnum Ruger revolver he carried for protection against bears and other critters.”
“Name?”
“Peter Kennedy. Sensor called him Pete.”
“Where did this happen in Washington?”
“Glacier Peak, a still-active volcano in the middle of nowhere. Well, it’s seventy miles northeast of Seattle in some mighty rough country.”
“How did it happen?” Cantwell said.
“I don’t know all the details,” Sarah said. “Sensor plans to fax a full report later today. I’ll tell Catrina Welsh to look out for it.” She pulled her robe over her naked knees. “Exciting, huh?” she said.
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