Fallen Angel

by John Ling

  Kendra quick-stepped past the computers in the clearing.

  She entered the reception area.

  Onyx was dragging Ryan backwards. They were almost to the door.

  Onyx pressed his gun against Ryan’s temple. He yelled in English, ‘Get back. Get back.’

  Kendra spoke in Farsi, ‘Agha-yeh Movahed, it’s over. Let him go.’

  Onyx frowned at the mention of his real name. ‘Over? No, it’s not over.’ He tightened his grip, choking Ryan and causing him to whimper. ‘Allow me to walk out of here and I will release him. Otherwise I will kill him.’

  Kendra stared into Ryan’s eyes. ‘You don’t want to do that. That would be a mistake.’

  ‘I will kill him.’

  Kendra inhaled. She steadied her aim and acquired a sight picture. She flicked her weapon’s selector switch to semi-auto. But Onyx was careful to keep his body directly behind Ryan, blocking any possible shot.

  Damn it.

  Kendra exhaled, her mouth dry, her chest stitched tight.

  That’s when she heard Jim’s gravelly voice. ‘This is Sierra One. I have the solution.’

  ‘Scorpio,’ Kendra whispered.

  Onyx smirked. ‘What did you say?’

  The glass door behind Onyx cracked, and it sounded as if an angry hornet had buzzed into the room.

  Onyx’s hand – the one holding the gun – exploded, splattering Ryan’s face with blood. Severed fingers pinwheeled through the air. The gun dropped, and Onyx screamed, loosening his grip on Ryan.

  Ryan managed to swing his elbow back into Onyx’s stomach and squirm out of his grasp.

  Now.

  Kendra advanced as she shot Onyx. Twice in the chest. Once in the forehead.

  Onyx stiffened and staggered, thudding against the glass door before sliding down to the floor, leaving a trail of crimson behind him, his face contorted in a final death stare.

  Breathing through her teeth, Kendra yanked off her night-vision goggles. Then she reached out and enveloped Ryan in the fiercest hug, never wanting to let go.

  ‘Kendra? Is that you?’ Ryan stammered, shivering.

  ‘Yeah, baby. It’s me.’

  PART FOUR

  .

  45

  It was a pristine morning.

  Clear skies.

  A gentle breeze.

  Kendra held Ryan’s hand as they approached the burnt-out husk of the Farmers department store. The entire intersection had been cordoned off with yellow tape and warning signs.

  There was a feeling of desolation here; melancholy.

  It was the one spot in the entire city centre that traffic no longer visited.

  Ryan laid a wreath of fresh flowers at the sidewalk memorial, placing it amidst the overflowing mounds of gifts and cards and pictures. Then he stepped back and studied all the items on display for a moment. He bowed his head. His eyes fluttered.

  Kendra squeezed his hand. ‘What are you thinking, baby?’

  ‘I’m thinking...’ Ryan hesitated, and he sighed. ‘Well, I don’t know what to think. I feel sad. And responsible. And confused.’

  Kendra gave a small nod, understanding that words couldn’t possibly do justice to all the pent-up emotions. ‘It’s survivor’s guilt. I know. I’ve been there.’

  ‘Does it ever get better?’

  ‘Yes. If you take things day by day.’

  Ryan gave Kendra an uncertain smile, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. He drew her close and breathed in her hair. ‘My parents are inviting you for dinner. They want to say thank you. And they want to start over.’

  ‘Mm. A second chance?’

  ‘Yeah. A second chance. Seems like we shouldn’t take that for granted.’

  Kendra knew exactly what Ryan meant.

  As a show of gratitude for stopping Onyx, the prime minister herself had personally intervened in their case. She had classified all evidence that the Farmers blast was an act of terror and adjusted the facts so that it looked like the Hosseinis had been kidnapped for ransom, only to be rescued at the eleventh hour.

  Ambassador Ali Hatami, for his part, had smoothed things over between both governments by organising a clandestine relief fund. It would take care of the survivors of the bombing, as well as compensate those who had lost loved ones.

  However, any admission of guilt was off the cards. All backchannel inquiries with the ultraconservatives in Tehran were met with the staunchest of denials. No, Onyx wasn’t part of VAJA. He was a common criminal, exiled from Iran long ago because of un-Islamic activities. And, naturally enough, they refused to accept any responsibility for his actions. And maybe it was just as well that they didn’t. Maybe it was cleaner that way.

  For Kendra and Ryan, the first couple of days after were tough. There were a lot of tears, a lot of explanations, and they struggled to reconcile all the contradictions.

  At times, the anguish almost seemed to be too much.

  But – thank God – they had come out of that storm okay.

  They were settling down now, finding their rhythm, healing.

  No, it wasn’t perfect, but it was as good a start as any.

  Kendra looked up at Ryan and gazed into his eyes. ‘I’m glad I found you again. And as ugly as all of this is, we’ll find the light at the end of the tunnel. We will.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘I have to.’

  Ryan gave her an earnest smile this time, and cupping her face, he pressed his lips to hers, tender at first, then passionate.

  The kiss went on and on.

  And Kendra never wanted it to end.

  46

  Kendra met the Hosseinis for dinner at the Pacifica Hotel.

  This was unusual, to say the least. Taarof – Persian hospitality – usually demanded that the hosts invite a guest into their home and cook a meal for them.

  However, after recent events, Kendra could understand why the Hosseinis couldn’t return home to Remuera. It was now a place of haunted memories. Where innocent blood had been shed.

  The trauma was still fresh.

  So staying at a hotel was the best option.

  For her part, Kendra was nervous about meeting Leila and Saeed again. She wasn’t sure what they would think of her, especially considering the acrimonious history they’d shared. So she had fussed over her hair and make-up. She wanted to look soft and demure. She figured the Hosseinis liked soft and demure.

  In the end, though, Kendra didn’t have to worry about surface appearances at all.

  Leila and Saeed seemed genuinely excited to meet her, and they were quick to embrace her and kiss her cheeks. They were warm and obliging, and as they sat down for dinner and the wine and conversation flowed, all Kendra’s doubts and fears melted away.

  It was obvious that the Hosseinis had changed. They were now more mellow, less judgemental. Eager to give her the acceptance and respect that she had craved for so long.

  At one point, Leila even reached across the table and held Kendra’s hand. ‘Astaghfirullah. We misjudged you. We should not have. We are in your debt.’

  Kendra could only smile. ‘There is no debt. This is what friends do.’

  Saeed gave a hearty chuckle and tapped the table. ‘Only the best of friends.’

  Ryan raised his wine glass. ‘Well, then. To friendship.’

  Kendra raised her glass as well. ‘To new beginnings.’

  And with that, they clinked their glasses together, turning a new page in their relationship. The past didn’t matter anymore. Only a better future.

  47

  ‘Well, Kendra, you certainly seem happier than the last time I saw you. Can you tell me what’s changed?’

  Kendra was seated on the sofa in her therapist’s office. Dr Ropata was studying her through half-moon glasses, a measured smile on his lips.

  Kendra sighed. ‘Well, a lot’s changed. I’ve reconnected with old friends. And I’ve come to realise that there’s more to life than just putting myself in a box and ago
nising over the past.’

  ‘You want to break out of that box?’

  ‘I want to expand my horizons, yeah.’

  ‘Good on you for making such a conscious effort.’

  ‘Well, I have hurt, and I have been hurt. But I make my own choices. I see no reason to hide it. I am who I am. What’s important from here on out is the future.’

  ‘That’s right. Mark Twain once said that we should plan for the future because that’s where we’re going to spend the rest of our lives.’

  ‘Makes sense.’ Kendra chuckled and nodded. ‘Right now, though, I’m happy. Hell, I’m happier than I’ve been in ten years. And that’s more than enough.’

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Hello there. John Ling here. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading my story as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.

  Do you have questions? Comments? Critiques? I’d love to hear from you. Please get in touch with me by visiting my website at johnling.net.

  You can also sign up for my mailing list by clicking here. You’ll be kept up to date on exclusive events and giveaways. Yes, I have lots of cool stuff to give away. Don’t miss out.

  I look forward to hearing from you!

  Cheers.

  EXCERPT: The Blasphemer

  Abraham Khan is a Muslim who dreams of changing the world. He’s liberal, pro-Western and determined to speak out against the extremists who have hijacked his religion. That makes him a target, and the consequences hit him fast and hard – an armed fanatic smashes into his home one evening, trying to kill him. He survives the harrowing attempt, just barely, but will he survive the next one?

  Maya Raines is the special operator brought in to protect Abraham. She is tough and committed. The very best at what she does. Always one step ahead of the threat.

  But Abraham is no ordinary principal – he will not hide, and he will not stay silent. And as rage explodes on the streets and the nation is propelled to the brink, Maya will have to ask herself the hardest question of all: how far would you go to protect one man’s right to speak?

  When you want to know how things really work, study them when they’re coming apart.

  —William Gibson, Zero History

  PART ONE

  .

  1

  Samir had decided that tonight would be the night.

  As he sat in his car with the engine off, he stared at the house across the street. The rain had eased to a trickle, and he could see movement past the windows. The man of the house was helping his wife set the table for dinner. Curtains billowed, hiding the man’s face. But Samir knew it had to be him.

  The apostate.

  The blasphemer.

  Samir exhaled, feeling so many things at once. Joy and hate. Faith and doubt. Excitement and fear. Which was which? He could no longer tell. Pain started to bloom in his temples, and he could feel it reaching into his eyeballs, stabbing him in sync with his heartbeat. That damn headache was back.

  He clenched his jaw, trying to tough it out. He didn’t want to medicate himself. Didn’t want to risk dulling his senses, blunting his edge. But in the end, the migraine proved too crushing, too searing, and he relented. A bit of pain was good for the spirit, yes, but too much would be a hindrance.

  Opening his glove box, he pulled out a paracetamol blister pack. The foil packaging crackled and popped as he pressed out two pills. He had no water, so he dry-swallowed them. It took him three tries and a fair bit of retching before they went down.

  Breathing through his teeth, he was tempted to lean back against his seat. To close his eyes. To wait for the pain to fade. But he stopped himself. For a week now, he had barely slept and had eaten only a little. The fasting had purified his soul but wrecked his body. Nodding off now would be too easy. Far too easy. So he forced himself to stretch, to straighten.

  Yes, tonight would be the night. God had chosen him to be a mujahid. A holy warrior. He knew he had to obey.

  Unzipping the bag beside him, he pulled out a pistol. It gleamed black, looking like the ugliest thing, its icy metal chilling him through his glove. Biting his lip, flexing his fingers, he raised the gun, uncomfortable with how big and heavy it felt. It was a Norinco. A .44 calibre. The Asian guy who had sold it to him had called it the Desert Eagle of China. Top-shelf quality. Rock-bottom price. Superb stopping power. Two hundred dollars had sealed the deal.

  But now, thinking back, he wondered if he had been too hasty. Perhaps he could have haggled for a lower price. Perhaps. But, ah, what did it matter now? He had his weapon, and it would serve its purpose.

  Reaching into his bag once more, he drew out an ammunition magazine. It held seven rounds. Remembering what the seller had taught him, he checked the gun’s safety catch, making sure it was secure. Then he tilted the gun to one side, lining up the magazine with the bottom of the handgrip, slotting it in smoothly until it locked into place. Finally, holding the gun straight, he reached for the slide above the barrel. Pulling it, he chambered a round with a satisfying click-clack. Oh yes. He had to admit that the sound gave him a small thrill. Made him feel like a real soldier.

  Soldier.

  He relished the word.

  Retrieving another magazine from his bag, he slipped it into his jacket’s left pocket, while the gun went into the right. That gave him a total of fourteen rounds to play with. Inshallah, it would be enough.

  Samir bowed his head. ‘Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim...’ In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful. He recited the eighty-seventh surah, a favourite of the Holy Prophet. ‘Success comes to him who grows, who remembers the name of his Lord, who performs his prayer. It is better to forsake the ways of the world, for heaven is everlasting. Yes, this is inscribed in the scrolls of the ancients...’

  Samir nodded, inhaling deeply.

  His migraine had dimmed to an insignificant throb.

  Alhamdulillah.

  He was ready.

  Pulling his jacket’s hood over his head, he pushed his car door open, stepping out on to the sidewalk. A puddle splashed under his shoe. Raindrops prickled his face. He shut his door and locked it.

  That’s when footsteps came up behind him. He froze, and adrenaline spiked in his stomach. Had he been discovered? Had someone called the police on him? Shaking, he fumbled for the gun in his pocket, his thumb finding the safety. All he had to do was flick it off and the gun would be ready to fire. And he whirled, ready to unleash hell. But – damn it – it was just a woman with an umbrella walking her dog. Twisting his lips, feeling foolish, he swallowed the knot in his throat and relaxed his grip on his gun, but not by much.

  The dog sniffed at him, its tongue lolling and dripping saliva, and he backed up against the side of his car. He didn’t know what breed it was. Didn’t care. The imam at his mosque had warned him about the uncleanliness of dogs. Yes, they were useful for guarding and hunting. But as pets? Playthings? Never. It was haram – forbidden.

  The woman smiled at Samir. But he just stared. Yes, he could kill her right now if he wanted to – her and her filthy dog. Stroking the curve of his gun’s trigger, he allowed the fantasy to linger, watching as they rounded the corner. When they were gone, he shook his head and exhaled. He had been so close – too close – to losing control.

  God is challenging you. Placing obstacles in your path. Seeing if you are worthy. But... of course you are worthy. You will not deviate from the path. You will not falter. Your heart is pure. Your faith is strong. Your cause is just.

  Samir shook his head harder and crossed the street.

  The house was one of the prettiest in the neighbourhood. A large two-storey, it sat last on the block, shaded by a willowy tree, its lawn decorated by bonsai shrubs, flower beds and a bubbling fish pond. A short white fence completed its charm. Made it picture perfect. Like a postcard image. More than anything, Samir wished it would burn. All of it.

  He approached the house from the back, his eyes darting to make sure he was alone. Nervous energy pulsed through him, warm and dizzyi
ng. His body tensed, like a spring coiled up to its tightest.

  Do it. Just do it. Do not hesitate. Never hesitate.

  He broke into a running start, jumping the fence, clearing it, the breeze tousling his hood. But his landing on the other side was clumsy. He slipped on the wet lawn, the soles of his shoes squeaking, and he dropped to his knees, skidding as he did, the freshly cut grass loose, its earthy smell tickling his nostrils.

  Jerking his head this way and that way, he panted, his heart thundering. Had someone heard him? Curses. He almost lost his nerve. Almost clambered back over the fence. Almost ran away. But – no – he crossed his arms over his chest and clutched himself tight. Head bowed, he whispered rapid-fire verses about courage and fortitude and self-belief and staying the course.

  Restrain your fear. God is with you. God is always with you. Do not deviate from the path. Not now. Not when you are so close. For it is not your will that matters. It is God’s will. Always God’s will.

  Slowly, surely, his panic eased, and when Samir looked up, he realised that nothing had stirred around him. No lights came on. No footsteps approached. No one shouted. Nothing. He was safe.

  Alhamdulillah.

  God had preserved him despite his clumsiness.

  Alhamdulillah.

  He started to move. Keeping himself low, he inched towards the pond. Colourful fish darted as he drew close.

  Curious, he dipped his fingers into the bubbling water. It was warm. Artificially heated. He scoffed. How could it be that the apostate treated his fish better than he treated his own people?

  In his mind’s eye, Samir remembered something he had seen in the news – a kafir helicopter strafing and rocketing a Muslim home, turning it into smouldering rubble. Heinous. Yet, as bad as the kuffar were, the apostate was worse. Much worse. For he had chosen to side with them.

  Traitor.