Heart of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  "Where are you going?" Rakkim taunted, jabbed him again. And again. "Stick around, I've got something for you." He danced forward on the balls of his feet, came in low, but slid in a patch of blood, one leg going out from under him.

  Gravenholtz punched Rakkim as he scrambled up.

  The blow barely grazed Rakkim's jaw but his whole face went numb. He slashed away at Gravenholtz, trying to clear his vision. The redhead hit him again and the wind rushed out of Rakkim, staggering him.

  Gravenholtz advanced, grinning, a big white slab of meat with piggy eyes, leaking blood all over himself--it might have been sweat for all he cared. "Don't die so easy--"

  Rakkim slashed him across the knuckles, slashed him to the bone and Gravenholtz howled.

  "Lester!" Baby shouted, trying to get between them. Bravest thing Rakkim had ever seen. "Lester, you were told not to hurt him!"

  As Gravenholtz started to knock her aside, Rakkim drove his knife into the soft tissue under the redhead's chin, the blade shearing up, splitting his tongue and embedding in the roof of his mouth.

  Gravenholtz screamed, hammered him in the ribs, the knife tearing free as Rakkim sprawled onto the floor, unmoving. Gravenholtz looked down at him, blood streaming from the gash in his mouth, then shuffled over to the footlocker and threw it open. He carefully lifted the lid of the small pine box, looked at Baby. "This is it?" he said, voice slurred. He plucked one of the tiny white flowers, sniffed it and tossed it aside. "You got to be shitting me."

  "Take it and go," said Baby. "Just leave us be."

  A bubble of blood popped at the side of Gravenholtz's mouth.

  "Don't go." Rakkim got to his feet, wobbly. "Stick around."

  Gravenholtz nodded, blood running down his neck. "That's the spirit." The flap of skin under his chin jiggled with every wheezing breath.

  Rakkim circled. A few more minutes and maybe Gravenholtz would start choking on his own blood. A few more minutes and maybe Rakkim would get another chance to hurt him, really hurt him.

  Gravenholtz closed the pine box, tucked it away in his pants pocket. He never took his eyes off Rakkim. Not for an instant. "Let's...let's you and me play some more, Rikki."

  A whoooooosh of deep blue flame flashed between them, and they both jerked back.

  Baby stood beside Moseby's oxygen tank. She had wheeled it over, unhooked the outlet from the metal tube and lit the pure oxygen, turned it into a giant blowtorch. "I told you, Lester, get on out of here."

  Gravenholtz shook his head. "Not till I--" He howled as the flames licked toward him, singeing away one of his eyebrows.

  "Go on!" Baby rolled the oxygen tank closer, the flame three feet long now. "I don't care what kind of armor you got, I'll roast you like a marshmallow."

  "I believe...I believe you would," said Gravenholtz.

  "That's the smartest thing you said all day," said Baby.

  "Okay," said Gravenholtz, backing toward the door. "I got what I come after."

  "What's your hurry?" said Rakkim, trying to hide the pain it took to breathe.

  "Look at the tough guy." Gravenholtz spit blood on the floor at Rikki's feet. "You break way too easy. Lucky for you the old man wants you kept alive."

  "You're making a mess all over yourself," gasped Rakkim. "Better start wearing a bib."

  Gravenholtz started toward him, but the blue flame shot out again and he pulled away.

  Rakkim let him go. Not that he had much choice. He rested his hands on his knees until his vision cleared. When he was able to stand, Baby had already turned off the oxygen tank and was bent over Moseby, who lay twisted across the hospital bed. She was crying, clutching Moseby's hand and calling his name.

  Rakkim limped over to the bed. Moseby stared at the ceiling, eyes frozen, his jaw slightly agape. Like he was surprised at what he was seeing.

  "I hate Lester," said Baby, tears running down her face. "I know...I know where he's going. When we find him...when we find him, Rikki, I want you to kill him."

  "It's a promise." Rakkim closed Moseby's eyes with a gentle sweep of his hand.

  CHAPTER 42

  Rakkim took the curve, had to hit the brakes when he saw the line of cars backed up on the four-lane highway, the cute little muscle in his jaw twitching. He and Baby were on their way to Atlanta after leaving the Colonel's camp. It should have been a day's drive, but war fever was in the air, the roads clogged, airports shut down. Gravenholtz had disappeared on his way back to Nueva Florida--Baby hoped he was having the same trouble they were. If they could reach Atlanta, the Colonel might be able to put them on a diplomatic flight into Miami. They could get there before Lester.

  "Told you we should have taken the swing-around outside of Pemberton," said Baby, one foot hanging out the rolled-down window. He had been stealing glances at her for the last five miles. Wasn't a man alive who didn't admire a barefoot girl.

  Rakkim craned his neck, trying to see how far the backup extended. He inched past an overpass with REMEMBER GRACELAND! painted in six-foot-high red letters.

  Ever since Aztlan bombed Graceland last week, getting even was all anybody talked about. President Raynaud urged diplomacy, but Malcolm Crews's sermons carried more weight, and Crews wanted war. Stuck in traffic last night, she and Rakkim had watched Crews on the dashboard TV. After the choir sang "Onward Christian Soldiers," Crews had announced a special guest. When the Colonel stepped through the curtain, the applause was so loud that the speakers almost blew. Car horns blared up and down the highway. She wished Daddy was able to hear the horns, just so he could appreciate what she had done for him. It had been her idea to pin the blame for killing the oil minister on Zachary instead of President Raynaud. Having Aztlan go after him had united the Belt, just like she said. Credit where credit is due, Daddy.

  The Colonel's private army was now over one hundred thousand men and rising daily as new recruits poured in. Word was Zachary was planning to deploy toward the southern border, picking up support as he went. The Belt president had threatened him with treason, but quickly retracted it; many of his own forces had already defected. With the airports closed to civilians, and the roads clogged with military vehicles, they made slow progress toward the Nueva Florida border.

  Red taillights stretched into the distance. Rakkim whipped out of his lane and onto the narrow shoulder. Backed up and drove the wrong way, accelerating as the side of the car brushed against the guardrail, giving off a shower of sparks.

  "Rikki, you got to be the only man in the world smiles as he's about to crash and burn."

  "That's not it," said Rakkim. "I was thinking of you turning that glorified blowtorch on Gravenholtz. Pretty brave thing to do, Baby."

  "You were pretty brave yourself, mister," said Baby. "Lester about pulled the hair out of my head--I was just glad you were there to stop him." She pushed her sunglasses back onto her forehead. "Seems to me like we're a good team."

  Rakkim drove across the median and onto the other side of the freeway.

  Baby wiggled her pink toes out the window. Rakkim hadn't disagreed with her. She was making progress with him.

  They had been on the road for almost two days, Baby occasionally dozing while Rakkim drove. Yesterday she had insisted they stop at a motel so she could take a shower. She hoped he would agree to spend the night, but he was insistent, said he'd leave her if she didn't hurry. She didn't argue, just took a long shower at their motel room, washed her hair twice, warm conditioned it too while he paced around the parking lot. She wanted to dry her hair in the sun, see how he liked that, but that would have been pushing things. Time enough for that later. He might act tough, but the way she carried on over Moseby dying had softened him toward her. Rikki was weakening by the mile.

  "You want a Coca-Cola?" said Baby.

  Rakkim held out his hand.

  Baby pulled a Coke out of the six-pack on the floor, tapped the frost button twice. Sweat formed on the glass bottle as she twisted off the cap. "Say please."

  "Please."


  "Say pretty please with whipped cream and a cherry on top."

  Rakkim snatched the bottle out of her hand, accelerating toward the swing-around.

  For a man in a hurry, Rakkim had spent way too much time at the Colonel's camp taking care of the dead first. Like the dead cared.

  After Lester took off, Rakkim had gathered up the Colonel's massacred soldiers, put them and their IDs into sleeping bags and laid them in the walk-in freezer off the mess hall. He had asked her if she wanted to say a prayer, which she didn't, but she did. After that, Rakkim had carefully cleaned Moseby's body, wrapped him in a white sheet and carried him to the top of a hill overlooking the valley. The last light of the sunset turned everything to beaten gold, as Rakkim dug the grave. He had stopped twice, gasping in the night air, not so much from hurting...more from the sadness of the thing.

  Baby picked a couple of small yellow wildflowers, laid them on the grave, and after Rakkim said some Muslim prayer, she sang "I Got a Home in Gloryland." She had a beautiful voice, and what the hell. She liked Moseby too, as far as that sort of thing went.

  "What are you thinking about?" said Rakkim, his eyes on the road.

  "Just...that I used to imagine how nice it would be to go on a long drive with you," said Baby. "Now here we are."

  "This isn't a drive," said Rakkim.

  "You think I don't know that?" said Baby. "You think you're the only one's got a heavy heart? Sometimes you just have to make the best of things."

  "Sorry...I'm just trying to get used to you sitting beside me." Rakkim looked at her. "Why didn't you just grab the piece of the cross when I was unconscious? Instead you took care of me."

  "It's...it's complicated."

  "I've got time."

  "Let's just say...maybe I'm not as bad as you think I am."

  "Maybe." Rakkim pretended to flinch as she pretended to punch him. They drove on, back the way they had come. "The Old One's a Muslim. Did he ever tell you why he wanted a piece of the cross?"

  "You're a Muslim. Why do you want it?"

  "It's complicated."

  "You got that right." Baby rested her hand on his leg. Waited for him to tell her to move it...but he didn't.

  "How did the Old One look before you left?" said Rakkim.

  "I don't know." Baby tried to keep her voice light, as though she had never considered the question before. She wondered how long Rakkim had been turning the idea over in his mind, before asking. "He looks old, but healthy. Like the Colonel." She patted his leg. "Except the Old One's got this strange energy about him. He stays up all night sometimes, doesn't seem to get tired. Why?"

  Rakkim glanced over at her. "Most Christians think the cross has healing powers. Isn't that why you put it under Moseby's hospital bed?"

  "I figured it couldn't hurt."

  "So maybe that's why the Old One wants it."

  "He's a Muslim," said Baby. "He doesn't believe in the crucifixion."

  "Maybe he figured it couldn't hurt either."

  Baby looked out the window. She knew where Rikki was headed. No wonder she was so attracted to him. A man that smart was dangerous, but once you put him in his place, once you trained him...well, then you really had something.

  "The Old One told me once he was over a hundred and fifty years old," said Rakkim, driving with one hand on the wheel. "I didn't believe it, but he's been around for a long time. Maybe he's finally feeling his age."

  "I did notice something different before I left," said Baby. "His doctor, Massakar...he doesn't look the Old One in the eye anymore. Like he feels guilty about something."

  It was true too. That's what had made Baby suspect the real reason for the Old One's interest in retrieving the cross. Daddy might tell her and Ibrahim it was all about reunification, but she knew the man had gotten some bad news from his doctor and was ready to believe in anything that might turn things around. Baby knew better. She had held the piece of wood in her hand for two hours waiting to feel something. Might as well been holding a dead branch for all the good it did.

  "There you go," said Rakkim, pleased with himself. "Piece of the cross...well, you can see how he might be tempted."

  "I could see that," said Baby, like she had never considered it before. "Time is the only thing even money can't buy."

  "Exactly." Rakkim watched her. "He would have given you anything for it."

  "You ever think maybe I didn't want anything from him?"

  "You worked for him in Miami."

  "I didn't have a choice back in Miami." Baby played with her hair. "That old bastard can pound sand up his ass for all I care."

  Rakkim laughed. First time she had seen him let loose since they buried Moseby.

  "There was another reason I couldn't do it." Baby lowered her eyes. "You know how I feel about you."

  Rakkim drove for a while before speaking and she let the silence tighten around them. "I'm married," he said at last.

  "Man like you is only at home out on the edge with the other wild things," said Baby. "You got no business being married."

  "Tell that to my wife."

  "I just might do that."

  Rakkim glanced over at her, then back at the road.

  "You can't be serious, Amir," the president said, taking the snap from his brother-in-law. He stepped back, tall and graceful, his hair perfectly tousled.

  "Completely serious," said Amir, easily faking out his coverage as he went for a pass.

  General Kidd sidled to his right, blocking the two rushers coming in from that side--the president's nephew and older brother--giving Brandt time to launch a pass to Amir.

  "Peter!" called Amir, dashing down the sideline, ten steps ahead of his pursuer.

  Peter. Amir actually referred to President Brandt by his first name. Yes, they were in the presidential compound, and yes, it was a family barbecue and touch football game, but Kidd would have sooner cut off his thumbs than address the president in such a fashion. Yet the president didn't seem to mind. They weren't that far apart in age, and Brandt reveled in the informality between him and the young Fedayeen hero.

  The president threw a high, tight spiral that dropped right into Amir's outstretched fingertips. He crossed the chalked goal line, held the football overhead in triumph.

  Amir's wives applauded from where they sat on the lawn with their children, the only women at the barbecue in burqas. Three of Kidd's wives also applauded, young and fashionable in their iridescent chadors. Fatima, his oldest wife, was home with a migraine. She always had a migraine when they were invited for barbecue and football at the president's residence. How he longed for such a headache.

  The president and Amir high-fived each other, mocking the inability of the other team to stop their relentless scoring. Forty-eight to six. An embarrassment for all concerned. As the only two Fedayeen present, fairness dictated that they be placed on separate teams, but the president wouldn't hear of it. A weak man who needed to win. When the first lady announced that the food was ready, Kidd gave thanks to Allah for His mercy.

  The first lady, her sisters, and the general's wives served the men: corn on the cob, potato salad, hamburgers and barbecued goat. The first lady herself poured the general a tall glass of lemonade, blessed him as she handed it over. After all the men were served, the children were called. The president, Amir and General Kidd sat on a blanket laid out under one of the many trees in the compound. The president's older brother started to join them, but the president waved him away. General Kidd sat down across from the president, wondering what was so important.

  The president nibbled at a grilled chicken kebab. "What do you think of Amir's idea?"

  Kidd tore a strip of barbecued goat, eating with his fingers. "What idea is that?"

  The president looked at Amir.

  "I've not mentioned the strategic initiative to my father yet," said Amir.

  Kidd chewed slowly, grinding the meat with his strong white teeth. "I'm waiting."

  "I've suggested to Peter that he address the nation
shortly," said Amir. "An address not just to our nation, but to the Belt. We'd have to contact the authorities in the Belt first, of course, ask them to drop their static generators, as would we, but that's easily done."

  "What would you have the president say?" asked Kidd.

  Amir glanced at the president, then back at his father. "I'd like him to make a formal declaration of support for the Belt against Aztlan. An affirmation that we were a united country at one time, and that though now divided, we remain united in spirit."

  "United in spirit?" said Kidd.

  Amir squirmed slightly. "Yes."

  "I have no problem with the phrase as a rhetorical device," said the president, "but the political repercussions are enormous."

  "You think we're united in spirit with the Belt?" Kidd said to Amir. "Since when?"

  "Since it became necessary," said Amir. "Aztlan is a ravening beast. We keep tossing it bits of our territory to keep it at bay, but all we're really doing is stoking its appetite."

  Kidd licked his fingers. The boy was right, but the idea of aligning with the Belt...that didn't come from him. Kidd had fought the Belt, seen the brave and the dead on both sides. He rejected Belt theology but he respected Christians. Good fighters. Passionate as any Somali. He would rather spend time with a Mississippi Baptist than a prissy modern any day. Not Amir. He despised Christians. Considered them blasphemers and idolaters, fit only for conversion or death. So who had this idea come from?

  "What do you think, General?" asked the president.

  "I think it's a good long-range strategy," said Kidd. "We currently have over fifty percent of our military tied down along the border with the Belt."

  "Exactly," said Amir. "A declaration of unity allows both nations to shift their forces against Aztlan, the true enemy."

  "National unity should be pursued quietly, through diplomatic channels," said Kidd, "not out in the open for all to see. That way, both nations can gradually redeploy their forces, building trust over a few years, and keeping Aztlan unaware of our intentions."

  "That's exactly what I was thinking," said the president.