Heart of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  "What do we do, Rakkim?" whispered Leo.

  "Move aside and let this tourist pass, Kissell," said Rakkim. "We'll discuss things in private. No reason to complicate--"

  "No," hissed Leo.

  "Go on, Leo," Rakkim said quietly, "I'll catch up with you later."

  "I...I c-can help," sputtered Leo. He bent down, clawing at one of the paving stones, trying to dislodge it, but his fingers slipped on the wet surface and he went sprawling.

  The triplets laughed, their whips coiling and uncoiling as they moved closer.

  "Help!" Leo scrambled to his feet, shouting to the nearby stores. "Help!"

  No answer.

  Rakkim pushed Leo into a small alcove, the doorway to a boarded-up holo shop, then took up a position in front of him. "Be ready to run...and don't look back."

  "What am I, a baby?" said Leo.

  Rakkim watched the triplets approach, taking their time. Sparks crackled from their whips. He felt calm. Eye of the hurricane. Waiting around as the storm clouds rolled in and no way to avoid it. He stepped out into the alley, eager to get started.

  The triplets fanned out, wolf-packing.

  Rakkim tap-danced for them, got a smile from one of the triplets, the one with the scar under his right eye. A winner. He pointed at scarface. "You get to die first."

  Scarface's smile disappeared. Eyes hot now. He moved ahead of his two brothers.

  Rakkim advanced in a half crouch. He kept his left arm up to protect his face, his right hand held the knife close--like a bouquet of roses for your mama, that's what his blade instructor at the academy used to say.

  A shock whip flicked, missed, not even close. Another one right behind, slightly closer, but scarface held off, closing in. Another snap of the whip. Another. They thought they were herding him, but he moved right where he wanted to be, waiting for an opening. He lunged at scarface, retreated across the wet stones.

  CRACK.

  Rakkim flinched, the whip snapping an inch from his face, sparks crackling.

  Scarface cawed.

  Rakkim dodged right, just out of reach of the other two, feinted as the whips cracked around him, then charged scarface as he moved in to catch Rakkim from behind. The man's eyes widened as Rakkim slipped by him, driving the blade into his chest with a twist as he passed. In and out, fast but not fast enough. Rakkim bit his lips shut as a whip caught him across the back--the leather jacket offered some protection, but the pain wobbled his legs as he scuttled out of reach.

  Scarface stayed standing, stayed there as the drizzle drifted down on his vacant expression, then fell to his knees, still holding the whip. Fell forward, sparks shooting out from under him.

  Rakkim smelled burned hair in the rain.

  One of the other triplets bent over scarface, tenderly turned him over. Blood spread over the stones. He looked up at Rakkim. "Fuck ibn-Azziz. I'm bringing you back in pieces."

  Rakkim laughed. "Did you rehearse that line before you left for the office?"

  "Relax, Jerry," said the other one. "Killing him isn't going to bring back Jimmy."

  Jerry stood up. "Shut up, Johnny."

  Rakkim hooted. "Jimmy, Johnny and Jerry? What are you, the three blind mice?"

  "Do something," ordered Kissell, rain dripping off his nose.

  Leo dashed from the alcove, blew past the bodyguard, splashing down the alley.

  "Let him go," said Kissell. "This is the one we were sent for."

  The two remaining triplets moved in, whips snaking, reckless now. Rakkim darted from side to side, stayed away from any solid strikes, but the glancing blows cut through his jacket and seared his flesh.

  Rakkim charged, feinted at the last minute, came in low and caught one of the triplets behind the knee, sliced his femoral artery. The man fell screaming in the alley. His brother rushed Rakkim.

  Rakkim backed up, stumbled on a patch of uneven stones and fell.

  The last triplet charged, his whip biting into Rakkim, slashing his arm, his chest, just missed his face, so close the sparks burned his cheek.

  The wounded triplet lay curled up holding his leg, bleeding out onto the stones.

  Kissell kicked the dying triplet in the back. "Get up!" He went to kick him again when the third triplet's whip snaked out, wrapped around his neck, Kissell's eyes bulging.

  The last triplet jerked his whip and Kissell's head went flying off his shoulders, bounced down the alley.

  Rakkim tried to dodge as the last triplet came at him, but his legs were numb, his movements slow. Water streamed down his face as the triplet stood in front of him, whip sizzling. He flicked the whip, the tip grazing Rakkim's chin, a perfectly controlled cut.

  "I'm going to burn off your ears first," said the last triplet. "Then your nose...your hands, your feet. I'll deliver you alive, but you're going to wish you were dead."

  "Talk, talk, talk." Rakkim wiped rain from his eyes, blood too. He raised a crooked arm to protect his face, holding his blade close. "Go ahead...do something stupid."

  The last triplet eased toward Rakkim, the whip sparking.

  Rakkim had to force himself to maintain his grip on the blade. He blinked, saw movement behind the triplet, heard footsteps splashing.

  The last triplet turned and was hit full in the face with a paving stone. Knocked backward, he lay unmoving, skull crushed.

  Leo stood over the last triplet, breathing hard.

  "You...you throw like a girl." Rakkim laughed, as his legs gave out, sent him sprawling. "Leo..." He held his hand out. "Help me up."

  Leo stared down at the dead triplet.

  "Leo?"

  Leo looked like he was about to cry. "I...I never killed anyone before."

  "Well...you picked a good time to start." Rakkim lay back on the cold stones. Rainwater eddied around his head.

  CHAPTER 26

  Lester Gravenholtz stared straight ahead as Malcolm Crews strutted across the stage of the grand amphitheater in Atlanta, posturing for the TV cameras. Crews was sermonizing his balls off, but Gravenholtz barely noticed, concentrating instead on not looking around for Karla Jean again. He about had a crick in his neck as it was. Enough was enough. You'd think no pretty girl had ever looked at him twice without being paid...which was pretty much the case, except for Baby, which was a whole nother story.

  Gravenholtz shifted in the pew. Up until Baby gave him the look, he had been loyal to the Colonel, his strong right arm, and even if the Colonel held him back sometimes, gave him a talking to when Gravenholtz wanted to lay waste to the countryside, well, that was just the Colonel's gentility, his sense of Southern honor. No harm in that. The Colonel was fair and square, when most men in his position would have taken what they wanted with both hands. Besides, there were always plenty of badasses even the Colonel thought deserved killing, so Gravenholtz had plenty of room to work out his aggressions. Yeah, it had been some good times before Gravenholtz took up with Baby.

  Gravenholtz glanced around...no Karla Jean. Fuck her. Fuck her.

  Not that Baby hadn't been worth ruining his life over. He groaned thinking of her, and the old lady next to him scooted away from him. Seeing Baby in the morning light, those creamy curves...the sweetness of every inch of her...and that dirty mind...that had been what really sold him. He balled up the tract the ushers handed out, threw it on the floor. Over and done with. He might as well have been a tissue she blew her nose in, then tossed away. Oh, she acted like things were temporary, like any day now she'd show up in his bed and put him through his paces, but he knew better. He wasn't a fucking moron.

  "I've been asked to tone down my rhetoric," said Crews, voice low, as though imparting a secret to the crowd and the millions watching him on television. "I've been advised, 'Pastor Crews, you best tone down your condemnation of Aztlan. Leave such things to the politicians, Pastor Crews, and tend to matters of God.'" The lights flashed off his pure white suit as he strode across the stage. "I've been told to tone down my defense of the Colonel, told to leave this good man to
the tender mercies of those who know more than I do about, he spat the word, geopolitics." He stood under the hot lights, arms outstretched, martyred, slowly shaking his head. "And brothers and sisters to that I say..."

  The crowd leaned forward.

  "I say, God damn the politicians."

  People in the crowd jumped to their feet, applauding.

  "God damn the appeasers."

  More people stood, raised their hands over their heads.

  "God damn those who attempt to silence your pastor."

  The crowd thundered their approval.

  Crews was talking dangerous stuff. Last night Jinx Raynaud, the president's wife, had Crews perform a private healing on her son, warning him afterward that her husband wanted Crews to quit stirring the people up against Aztlan, give him time to work things out with the Mexicans. Crews told her he answered to God Almighty, not man.

  You ask Gravenholtz, Crews didn't answer to God or man, but his approval ratings were over 70 percent and rising, which was a lot more than the president could say. It was just like Baby had predicted. The Old One was probably ready to buy her a solid gold island in the South Seas. Lot of good it did Gravenholtz. His job was to keep an eye on Crews, make sure he didn't go off track, and wait for the Old One to give him something important to do. Anything was better than this...sitting here night after night while the whole country went nuts for Malcolm Crews. The man in white. What a fucking joke.

  The crowd finally sat down, let out a collective sigh. Crews wiped the sweat from his face with a white silk handkerchief, bent down and gave it to a little girl at the edge of the stage. You'd have thought he'd cured her cancer the way the crowd reacted.

  Gravenholtz had to force himself not to look around again for Karla Jean. Man had to hang on to his pride. She said she'd be here tonight, but that was just a lie. Some excuse to get away from him. He felt his face blister up thinking about her. There had been some moments there when he actually thought she was interested in him. Not 'cause she wanted something from him, or because she was scared of him, but because she saw something in him...something nobody else did. Shit, something even he didn't really believe was there. Instead, she was just like the others. His hands twitched. Somebody was going to get hurt tonight. Somebody who had no idea what was coming his way.

  A light touch on his shoulder. "Is this seat taken?"

  Gravenholtz looked up into Karla Jean's eyes. "You're late."

  "I...I was afraid."

  "Afraid of what?"

  "Are you going to scoot over, Lester? Or you want me to stand out here forever?"

  Gravenholtz made room for her. Inhaled her perfume as she sat down, her long hair brushing against him. "Afraid of what? You got a problem with somebody, you let me--"

  "You're the problem, Lester."

  "Me?"

  Karla Jean rested her hands in her lap, nestled among the folds of her pale yellow dress like a pair of white doves. She kept her eyes down. "I have feelings for you. First time...first time since my husband died. It's a little overwhelming."

  Gravenholtz placed one of his hands over hers, covering it completely.

  "I don't want to be hurt," said Karla Jean.

  "I'd never hurt you," said Gravenholtz.

  "Men always say that."

  "I'm saying that. I won't ever hurt you, and I won't let anyone else hurt you either."

  Karla Jean looked deep into his eyes. Leaned over, rested her cheek on his shoulder.

  Gravenholtz felt a sense of peace that he had never felt before. There had never been a moment like that with Baby, not a moment that he wasn't boiling over. Karla Jean squeezed his hand and he could hardly breathe.

  "If I agreed to stay silent, who would talk about the church burned to the ground in Corpus Christi?" asked Crews. "Would the president or the opposition leaders do more than pay lip service to this atrocity in the city named the body of Christ?"

  "No!" shouted the crowd, as Crews's image loomed eighty feet high on the Jumbotron.

  "Two hundred and forty-seven good Christians incinerated on a Sunday morning and yet the Aztlan ambassador is still invited to the White House for coffee and biscuits."

  The United Nations had sent a peace envoy to Atlanta to try to work things out between the president and the Aztlan ambassador.

  "Two hundred and forty-seven men, women and children roasted alive while they prayed to God, and now...now Aztlan says, hey, it's not our fault. It wasn't a sanctioned military action, even though a team of Aztlan commandos carried it out." Crews stalked the boards, hands flying. "Not our fault, says Aztlan, it was a single rogue officer. One bad apple."

  People wept, shouted for vengeance, stamping their feet.

  "Anyone here believe that? Anyone here believe Aztlan? Anyone?"

  Karla Jean leaned close to Gravenholtz. "Lester...let's get out of here." She had a shy smile, like she hadn't shown it to anyone in a long time. "I want you to take me home."

  Gravenholtz stood up, his ears burning.

  John Moseby slipped back into the truck, shut the door. Sweat ran down his forehead, the faceplate of his radiation suit fogged over. He could see the Washington Monument through the windshield, the white limestone gleaming in the sunshine, but dangerously canted. Still standing, though. They built things strong back then.

  He had tried talking with the zombies living on the outskirts of D.C. when he first arrived, tried to bribe them for maps that charted the hot spots, but they were wary, seeing him for what he was, an outsider looking for treasure they viewed as their own. Being black didn't help either; those who talked with him didn't shake his hand or invite him into their homes. Instead, they took his money and gave him bad information and bad maps. After only three days of stumbling into unmarked hot spots, he had exceeded his recommended roentgen count, was well into the danger zone. Every minute he stayed here now risked further radiation poisoning.

  He wished he could talk to Annabelle. Just hear her voice...her laugh.

  Moseby cleared his throat, tasted metal. He plugged his suit into the truck's electrical system, turned up the air-conditioning. The suit was fine, but the truck he had borrowed from the Colonel wasn't up to the job, its shielding stopgap and the air-filtration system inadequate. His own fault for cutting corners out of haste. Sarah had pleaded with him to wait to begin his search, but Moseby had been fired up when she told him what he would be looking for.

  The cross...a piece of the cross where Jesus had been crucified, a piece of the cross upon which he had shed his blood. Moseby had been a devout Muslim once...he had become an even more devout Christian since falling in love with Annabelle. The chance to actually find a piece of the true cross in the dead city, to bring it forth into the sunlight...Sarah didn't have to convince him.

  Moseby leaned back in his seat as the truck's electrical system boosted his suit's air-conditioning. A breeze blew scraps of paper down the street, tumbling end over end like ghosts. He was never going to get this place out of his mind.

  Exploring the sunken city of New Orleans should have prepared him for anything. He had dived among the dead in the French Quarter and the surrounding districts for years, sometimes pushing them aside to gain entrance to a hotel or storefront, dead fingers waving...but this place...D.C. spooked him. The waters that had covered New Orleans on one dark night provided a screen for the emotions somehow; the soft green light, the brightly colored fish and sprouting sea grass gave a certain continuity. The dead of New Orleans rested among living things. Here...the grand buildings lay unchanged, frozen at the moment of destruction. There was no life in D.C. The dead were alone.

  Last night Moseby had sat in his truck, exhausted, breathing in the stink of his self-contained suit. He had dozed off for a few minutes, awoke disoriented, the monuments gleaming in the moonlight, perfect as a tourist snapshot, and Moseby had wanted to tear off his suit and wander the empty boulevard, go wading in the Tidal Basin and wash himself clean. He had actually reached for the toggle switches o
n his suit before he caught himself, and the recognition of what he had almost done shook him, made him put the truck in gear and peel off down the street. He raced along for a dozen blocks, knocking smaller vehicles aside, before he regained control of himself.

  Moseby sat up. Checked his gauges. Started the engine, the noise and vibration reassuring somehow. He needed to get out of here now. Get out of this suit. He'd have to contact Sarah, risky or not, and tell her he had rushed things. Maybe she could find some way to get him a better vehicle, fully shielded, maybe get him some better maps too. Knowing her, she was probably already working on it. The cross was worth dying for, definitely, but Moseby had to stay alive long enough to find it first.

  "Thanks for parking down the street," whispered Karla Jean as they stood on the doorstep of her small house. "I've got nosy neighbors."

  Gravenholtz glanced around. Hardly any lights on in the surrounding houses. No one on the street. The grass in the yards was overgrown, bikes rusting in the weeds.

  Karla Jean unlocked the door, hand trembling. "I...I feel like such a whore."

  Gravenholtz stepped inside after her, closed the door. It smelled clean...like she did. Just a single light on in the tiny kitchen. One room, a cast-iron bed in the corner. Wildflowers stuck in a cut-down Coke bottle on the nightstand. Photo-holo display facing the bed, switched off now.

  "Do you think this is wrong, Lester? I don't want to ruin things between us."

  "No...what we're doing is right. We don't gain nothing by waiting."

  "That's...that's what I told myself." She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

  Her lips were soft against him, and Gravenholtz felt like he was twelve years old again, inexperienced, uncertain and scared at the wonder of it all. He put his arms around her, surprised at how slender she was, her body taut against him.

  "We...we don't have to hurry," he gasped. "Been a while for me."

  "I can't believe that. A man like you..."

  "No, been a long while since I was with anyone like you. Maybe even never."