The Kafir Project

by Lee Burvine

  Totah leapt forward.

  The explosion of pain followed an instant after the muzzle flash. Totah's legs crumpled beneath him.

  As he lay on the floor, feeling the hot blood spread across his chest and run down his side, Totah thought of the Paradise he would soon find.

  He was dying a martyr, after all.

  CHAPTER 16

  AS SOON AS Sabel realized he'd missed his grab at the weapon, retreat became the only real option. Even if he had not just been shot.

  There were two other guns in that kitchen pointed his way. Including his own SIG, loaded with custom, high-powered, hollow point rounds. No time to wrestle around with the woman who lived there over her .22 popgun.

  He flew out the door into the garage then out to the yard, and continued trucking as fast as he could into the street.

  Then he headed back to where he'd parked the stolen Toyota. His tongue was still bleeding from where he'd bitten it as part of the diversion. He swallowed the blood rather than spit it out and leave a visible trail.

  Sabel stopped when he could be relatively certain no one had followed. He examined the bullet wound in his leg. Small entrance wound in the anterior, upper, right thigh. Bleeding profusely. Might involve the femoral artery. He palpated the back of the same leg. No exit wound.

  He pressed hard and felt the nerve signal light up his brain like a pinball machine. He didn't resist the signal. That wouldn't work. But Sabel possessed a rare gift. He could reimagine that same signal as a sensation of intense cold. An ability he discovered quite by accident in the mountains of Afghanistan.

  Sabel located the flattened .22 bullet in the meat of his hamstring. He began to formulate a plan for dealing with it as he continued on to the car.

  After driving a short distance away to ensure no incoming police units would cut off his escape route, he stopped briefly and grabbed a sock out of his bag. He wadded it up and pressed it against the femoral artery, right at the bend between leg and hip. Then he stripped off his necktie and used it to bind the sock into place. That would slow the bleeding, at least until he got himself to a hospital.

  He located the nearest one on his smartphone and clicked the link to navigate there.

  Less than ten minutes later, about a block or two away from the ER, Sabel pulled into a parking lot behind a closed auto parts store.

  He stopped the car and texted the Office he was going offline for six hours. Then he grabbed the little squeeze bottle of hand sanitizer from his toiletries and got out.

  Rummaging around in the stolen Toyota's trunk, he found a tool box there. He just wanted a needle nosed pliers and Philips head screwdriver, and he found them both. Good start.

  With the Phillips, Sabel punched a small hole in the back of his right pant leg over the spot where the bullet had lodged. He removed one dress shoe and placed it on the hood of the car. He'd be needing that in a minute.

  He faced the light from a nearby streetlamp. Then he shifted his pant leg around until the hole in it overlaid the entry wound. He could spot that pretty easy, even with his leg badly bloodied. Fresh blood continued to pulse out of it despite the compression bandage he'd improvised.

  Sabel slathered hand sanitizer over the shaft of the screwdriver and all around the outside of the wound. Then he slowly inserted the screwdriver tip into his leg.

  Cold. Freezing cold.

  He pushed deeper, into the wound, deeper, feeling for the angle of the bullet's path through his thigh muscle.

  An icicle, freezing everything it touches.

  He felt resistance and tested it. Yes. The bullet's path ended there.

  Sabel picked up the shoe. He grabbed it firmly around the instep with the heel down. Using his left hand, he held the screwdriver steady. With his right, he raised the shoe up about even with the top of his head.

  He swung down, hard and true.

  The shoe's heel smacked the end of the screwdriver's handle. It drove the tip through the remaining muscle, through the skin on the back of his leg and out the back of his pants.

  Sabel's concentration slipped. Pain leaked into his mind.

  He cut loose with a howl that turned into a barking laugh. Finally, he brought that under control.

  "Alright. Alright, now. Cold. It's so cold."

  He returned to imagining his leg encased in ice. The blood flowing along the back of his thigh and calf-just melting ice water, running down, dripping into his sock.

  From the hole he'd made in the back of his pants, a jagged bit of the bullet stuck out, along with the screwdriver's bloody tip.

  "Yeah. There you go."

  He grabbed the pliers, clamped down on the deformed bullet and tugged. It came out easily and all in one piece. Another nice bit of luck. He dropped it there in the parking lot.

  Driving with the screwdriver impaling his right leg like this would be a challenge. But when he got to the emergency room, no one would question for a moment that some kind of terrible accident had occurred.

  Can you believe it? Putting in a light fixture and fell off the damn step ladder. Musta landed on the screwdriver 'cause, well, there it is.

  Bullet wounds brought mandatory police response. Stupid household accidents brought a couple of wisecracks at worst, and top flight medical care. Better than he'd get from an off-the-books medicine man, even if there was one handy to him right around here. And there wasn't.

  So Sabel had done what he had to do. As he always did. Cashing in once more on his special talent.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE GUY WHO killed Edward Fischer leapt up onto her like one of those goddamn facehugger things from Alien. As she fell to the kitchen floor, Danni felt and heard her target pistol go off.

  And then he was gone.

  And then she saw the blood. On and all around her.

  "Am I shot? I think I might be shot." She started to sit up, and then thought maybe she shouldn't.

  Morgan appeared an instant later and knelt down beside her.

  She took the pistol out of Danni's hand. "Hey, just breathe. Okay? I'm gonna check you out here. Just breathe."

  Danni closed her eyes, afraid of what she might see. She felt Morgan's hands run over her head and neck first. Then gently roll her onto her side and examine her torso and legs.

  "It's all right," Morgan said at last.

  Danni opened her eyes.

  Morgan brought her face down close. "The good news is that's not your blood. The better news is it's that asshole's blood."

  Danni could feel her whole body vibrating. "I gotta get up."

  "I don't know." Rees was looking down at her with concern. "You look kind of gray. You might want to just sit there a minute."

  She picked herself up off the floor. "Yeah, I just, I gotta move."

  Morgan offered a hand. Danni grabbed it and stood all the way up. No dizziness, but a cold flush washed over her. She felt the blood draining from her face. She flung her arms out and pushed Rees aside.

  And just managed to get to the sink before she threw up.

  Danni waited until she thought she puked up everything she ate in the last month, then took Morgan with her to the master bedroom.

  Rees stayed behind with the blond guy's gun, keeping a look out. Although no one expected that dude to come back any time soon.

  In the bathroom, Morgan turned on the water in the tub. She directed it to the shower extension then unhooked that.

  Danni pulled off her blood splattered T-shirt, and knelt with her head over the tub. Morgan ran warm water over her scalp and neck. Danni splashed some on her face. She watched the red water swirling down the drain. After a couple of minutes, the water ran clear and clean again.

  "Feel a little better?" Morgan asked.

  "Yeah. I'm okay. I think."

  Morgan turned off the water and rehung the shower extension.

  Danni stood up. She let the warm water from her hair run down her bare chest and back. She stared at
the bloodied T-shirt down at her feet. It didn't look real.

  Morgan handed her a towel. Danni towel dried her hair and patted beads of water off her chest and belly.

  "Here..." Morgan took the towel and dried Danni's back for her.

  Danni closed her eyes. It felt so nice. It felt so ... right. Yeah. It felt really right. Why'd you let her go? Why didn't you fight harder to keep her?

  She wanted to say something. About how they'd made a mistake back then. How she stilled missed Morgan. But she couldn't think straight. Her head was swimming.

  She ended up by saying, "So, this isn't like a regular day for you now, is it?"

  Morgan hung the towel around Danni's shoulders. "Well, I'm definitely going to ask for a raise if this is the new normal."

  Danni turned and looked into Morgan's eyes. She felt her own eyes begin to tear up.

  Morgan embraced her then. They stood like that a long time. Silently. Holding each other as they had before, not so very long ago.

  "Do you think I killed him?" Danni asked in a whisper. "Maybe he went off somewhere and died. I wasn't trying to kill him, Kerry."

  Morgan's voice came softly in her ear. "It's okay, hon. You didn't do anything wrong. You might have saved all our lives."

  Danni pulled back just far enough to see Morgan's face. "Whoever hired that guy, they're really worried about whatever Fischer was doing."

  Morgan nodded. "Yes, they want to make sure nothing gets out."

  "So that guy in my kitchen, even if he's dead now ... this isn't over, is it?"

  Morgan hesitated, like maybe she wouldn't answer that one. "No. I don't think it is. These are serious people with serious resources behind them. But I won't let anything happen to you, Danni."

  Danni nodded then hugged Morgan again. She wanted to stay there forever. But she could tell she was going to start crying bigtime if it lasted any longer, so she let go. "I guess I should put on something warm. Come on." She turned and walked out of the bathroom.

  Morgan followed her. "Do you feel chilled? You could be a little shocky still."

  Danni stepped into the walk-in closet. She kicked the clothes on the floor there out of her way. "No, it's just the lab is pretty cold. There's cryogenics."

  "The lab?"

  "Yeah." She turned to face Morgan. "We're going to Lawrence Livermore. We need to find out what this Kafir Project is all about."

  "Danni."

  "Screw those people, Kerry. I'm not gonna let the last work that Edward Fischer did disappear off the face of the earth. Not if it's in my goddamn lab."

  Morgan folded her arms over her chest. "Listen, you can't just-"

  "Kerry, I work in that lab. You think you're gonna stop me from poking around, trying to find Fischer's stuff? Also, it's safer doing it with you there and after hours. So now's the perfect time."

  Morgan still had her arms folded, but she didn't look mad. "I'm not going to be able to talk you out of this."

  "Duh." Danni grabbed a yellow cable knit sweater off a shelf along with an old pair of jeans. She dropped her sweat pants to the floor and stepped out of them.

  "I want you to carry the gun we just got off that man," Morgan told her. "The nine millimeter. Not your target pistol."

  "No problem." Danni walked out of the closet in just her panties, carrying the fresh clothes. She liked the way Morgan was looking at her.

  And then the words seemed to just tumble out. "I missed you, Kerry. I really did. I still think about you. A lot. I think about us."

  Morgan said nothing. The silence was awful.

  Danni felt a rush of embarrassment and tried to backpedal. "And ... you don't have to say 'I missed you, too,' okay? I wasn't fishing or anything."

  Morgan nodded. "Okay." Then she stood there quietly as the agonizing seconds stretched on. Finally the corners of her lips turned up. "It would be better if I said it, though, right?"

  Danni smiled. "Eh, it wouldn't kill ya."

  Morgan smiled back. "I missed you too."

  Danni pulled on her jeans, feeling shaky and excited at the same time. "By the way, next time? Call first. You know, before you show up with Gevin frickin' Rees, and a trained assassin on your ass."

  Morgan was still grinning. "Sure thing."

  CHAPTER 18

  New York City

  ONE LAST, BRIEF errand and Doubleman could call it a night. He just needed to see a man about a murder. Wouldn't take long.

  And thank God for that. It felt good to be out of the snow and the bone chilling winter air, but the taxi smelled like a warm, wet dog. Make that a warm, wet dog doused in whatever cheap cologne this particular Middle Eastern taxi driver favored.

  It had been a difficult day. To be sure, Doubleman had certainly seen worse. Yes, Gevin Rees--the TV science guy, as Carl Truby had called him--had proven to be more of a challenge than they anticipated. On the other hand, the meeting with Truby had gone well. He okayed the back-up plan, which entailed a fair amount of wetwork. Unfortunate, because that was quite expensive. But it would still leave the Office with an acceptable profit when all was said and done.

  Doubleman didn't know who stood behind Truby in all this, but the man represented the power elite across a number of nations. Worst case scenario here? Even if this particular job turned into a loss-leader, it would open a lot of very lucrative doors.

  The driver pulled over and stopped at the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 28th Street, as he had been previously directed.

  The man that Doubleman needed stood there in a camel hair trench coat, patiently waiting. Dependable as always. Maher Faraj. The one they called the Specialist whenever another operative needed to know that he was in the loop.

  Faraj lowered his large frame into the taxi just as the light changed. The driver eased them back into the flow of traffic.

  "Thank you for making yourself available on short notice," Doubleman said.

  Faraj nodded with eyes closed, like a miniature bow. "Always."

  "The details are here." Doubleman took an envelope from his coat and offered it to him.

  Faraj accepted it, opened it. He removed the note and read.

  Doubleman watched his eyes. They were a startling shade of green. A drawback in his profession. Too noticeable. Too easily remembered. Obviously the man had skills that outweighed that handicap.

  When he finished reading, Faraj refolded the note and inserted it back into the envelope. "To confirm. The information you want includes the location of stored data and artifacts, yes?"

  "Correct."

  "Which Dr. Gevin Rees may or may not have."

  "That's right."

  "You will bring Rees to me for interrogation in San Francisco?"

  "Yes. A contact number for our man out there is in your envelope. We'll have Rees in hand very soon, if we don't already."

  Faraj pursed his lips and nodded back. "Mmm. And so the data in question, this is from a Defense Department project. Codename Kafir."

  Thick Plexiglas separated them from the driver, but Doubleman dropped his voice anyway and leaned in close. "That's correct. And not just the original project. Fischer and some others went rogue, it appears. We're just as interested in their phase II, if you like. It's all in your briefing there." Doubleman gestured to the envelope. "We think we already have one of them identified. The one they're calling Herodotus. We need confirmation there and the names of any other surviving collaborators. We want anything Rees knows that might lead us forward. Payment will be delivered as per the usual protocols."

  "Very good." Faraj tucked the envelope into his jacket.

  Doubleman leaned forward, and raised his voice to penetrate the Plexiglas barrier. "Driver, stop at this corner."

  The driver continued through the green light and up Fifth Avenue.

  "Driver, I said-"

  Doubleman felt a sharp pain in his right ear.

  * * *

  FARAJ INSERTED THE ice pick cleanly and sw
iveled the handle to tear up the maximum amount of brain tissue.

  He could never perform this procedure, technically neurolysis, without thinking of the odd English word for it. Pithing. A funny little word. Hard to say it without smiling.

  Doubleman twitched briefly and then slumped. Faraj removed the ice pick and wiped the shaft with a handkerchief. Then he held that to Doubleman's ear, to keep things neat and clean.

  They didn't always die quickly this way. And in fact Doubleman was still breathing. Probably he could not feel pain, though. All opportunities in that respect were lost.

  Faraj felt genuinely sorry for that. He never took a life needlessly. Life was precious. A death must never be wasted. Unfortunately there had been little prep time for this contract, and he'd needed more or less to improvise here.