Midnight Sun

by Basil Sands

  “Lucky for you, your skull is softer than the truck,” Mike said to the moaning man. “You didn’t leave a dent.”

  Marcus moved around the driver’s side of the truck and swept the feet out from under another gangster, who toppled forward, his descent accelerating as Marcus gave him a hard shove at the back of his head. The man’s face smashed against the fender, his nose flattening and spraying blood onto the tire and the gravel.

  The last man, standing behind the gang leader, started like he was about to fight, then thought better of it and dropped to knees as if pleading for his life. Snake stayed frozen to the ground, Lonnie’s pistol still trained on his chest.

  “Your friends are messed up and you’re outnumbered,” she said, “now what?”

  The gang leader stared, a look of shock in his eyes, unsure of what to do.

  Lonnie grinned, “Looks like you’re the one who’s got no balls...Snake.”

  Marcus stepped in front of the man. The gang leader faced him, tightening his expression, trying to pull on a tough gang banger mask to hide the obvious terror his eyes showed. Before he could move to protect himself, Marcus’s fist snapped into his face, flattening his nose and almost instantly blackening his eyes. The pistol fell from the man’s hand and he dropped to his knees. Blood streamed from his nostrils like water from a spigot.

  “I don’t tolerate some punk calling my wife a lesbian,” Marcus growled, “and nobody threatens her.”

  Marcus snatched the pistol from the ground. Snake made no move to stop him. Marcus, a gun enthusiast by hobby, recognized the model of the weapon right away, a Smith & Wesson M-39-2. By the intricate engraving, he could tell it was a special edition, probably worth thousands of dollars.

  “And just where did you get a piece of crap like this?” he asked.

  “Pawn shop,” Snake said.

  “Yeah, right,” Marcus said. “You don’t even know what you’ve got, moron.”

  “You’ll be sorry you let me live,” Snake sputtered. Blood droplets arched into the air as he spoke, the words came out nasal and suppressed.

  Marcus glared down at him. Snake’s expression verifying that he regretted what he’d just said.

  “I can change that,” Marcus jammed the butt of the pistol into the side of Snake’s head. The tough guy let out a short whimper and dropped to the ground with a heavy thump, like a side of meat dropped to the butcher's room floor.

  “Did you just kill him?” Hilde asked.

  “No,” Marcus replied, “but his head is going to hurt like crazy when he wakes up.”

  He motioned to the gang member who stayed with his leader. “Get him out of here or you’re next.”

  He immediately complied, grabbing Snake by the shirt and unceremoniously dragging him into the dark recesses between the train yard buildings. The other gangsters dragged themselves and their unconscious mates the same direction until they had all disappeared the way they came.

  Chapter 9

  Port of Anchorage

  Monday, June 20th

  10:35 p.m.

  Steven Farrah strode out the door and into the deepening shadows of the massive fuel tanks that loomed above the comparatively tiny building. The soles of his Stamford loafers crunched on the gravel as he crossed the short distance to the white Audi and got in. He started it and sat back in the soft leather seat. The engine idled smoothly, belying the power under the hood. There were not many things he had indulged himself in since moving to America from Britain. He was not big on food or drink, did not dance or go to bars, and found most movies boring. He was a man whose entertainment consisted of a limited selection of classical music—only the relatively quiet pieces—engineering problems, mathematical equations, and the nightly Sudoku puzzle that helped him relax before bed. The only exception was driving his Audi.

  As the 5.2 liter V10 engine purred, he pressed the play button on the console's media center. Farah leaned back, closed his eyes, and let a serene smile slide across his lips as the thirteen-speaker Bose surround-sound system came to life with Gabriel Faure 's Requiem In Paradisum. The haunting melody voiced in Latin by a choir of boys and men floated ghostlike from the speakers, filling the space of the vehicle, soaking through his tension. His mind drifted to his university days, recalling a quote by the composer that his music professor had made the class memorize: "It has been said that my requiem does not express the fear of death and someone has called it a lullaby of death. But it is thus that I see death: as a happy deliverance, an aspiration towards happiness above, rather than as a painful experience.”

  He opened his eyes, put the car in gear, and pulled away from the small building, making a three-point turn that set him back on the shipyard road toward to the security booth at the port’s exit. The window of the booth slid open as he approached, and an overweight security officer leaned out with a clipboard in one hand and a large celery stick in the other. He bore black stubble on his cheeks and double chin. The semi-transparent beard was probably an attempt at the macho look, but if that was the case it failed, instead leaving him looking unkempt and hung over.

  “Hello, Thomas. Beautiful night, what,” Steven said with a clean upper-class British accent. Most likely unknown to Thomas it was not his natural accent. His was the thick, slang filled dialect of Manchester where Farrah had grown up, with its hard, industrial city sound that so many Americans, and even many British, found as hard to understand as Jamaican English, or inner-city gang lingo in the US. As a teen, Farrah had worked hard to sound more like the upper-class English gentry than the working class Mancunian of his schoolmates.

  “Yes it is, Mr. Farrah,” Thomas said, handing the clipboard down and leaning his elbows on the window ledge, the fat of his ample gut squeezing into the frame. “Done already? Was it an easy fix?”

  “Well, my part is done at least,” Steven said as he took the clipboard. “As far as it being an easy fix, let’s just say it was an easy problem to identify and come up with a plan to fix. Leka and Kreshnik will be installing the hardware for the next several hours. I get paid to figure out a solution, and they do the manual labor. Of course, the difficult part quite often is knowing what to look for, isn't it?”

  “Yeah, I guess that's why you get the big bucks. You know what to look for.”

  “Well, I don't know about big bucks,” Farrah said. “Tech-Cor is a pretty stingy company.”

  Farrah used the pen attached by chain to the clipboard to initial the “out” column next to the signature where he had checked in earlier. He handed it back to Thomas, who initialed it, added the time and date, and replaced it on its peg inside the booth.

  “Maybe so, but I know you guys got a killer contract for the pipeline maintenance here. And I know that late night call ins like this pay more per hour than I make all day. Which would be why you've got an Audi and I've got a beat-up old Ford Ranger.” Thomas pointed to his own vehicle parked on the other side of the road. “So I figure you're not doing too bad, eh?”

  “Well, I won't lie to you, Thomas. It was good enough to move to Alaska all the way from Britain.”

  “Yeah, I should’ve got me some training like that when I was in the Army. So I could get a career, something like the kind you got. Instead, I did six years in the infantry, and all I got is a bum knee and me standing here in a five-by-eight box all freakin' night.”

  “Tech-Cor is always looking for new talent. Get your degree and come see us.”

  “Hmph, college ain't my thing,” Thomas shrugged and stood upright, “so I guess I'm stuck.”

  “Speaking of stuck. I need to get home and catch some sleep. I work late nights, but that doesn’t mean I get to skip the office in the morning.” He put the Audi into gear and placed his hands on the steering wheel. “See you next time, Thomas.”

  The guard gave a quick wave and Farrah pulled away slowly. He drove out of the port onto the road, following the right fork which turned into C Street half a mile later. Once in the open, he accelerated across the bridge u
ntil he was at the Third Avenue light. He stopped, waited for green, then moved slowly through the crowded six-block width of the downtown Anchorage area. Two-thirds of the year, Anchorage is very quiet after ten o'clock on weeknights, quiet to the point that the streetlights are switched from the standard “red, green, yellow” configuration to only flashing yellow beacons from ten p.m. until six a.m. But once the summer sun rises and the snow vanishes from lawns and sidewalks, the city springs to life like Brigadoon. With unbounded energy, the people of Alaska pour into the streets to enjoy the three-month reprieve from both darkness and cold. Downtown and suburbs alike are filled with masses who spend their time alternately playing and working during the non-stop daylight hours. This is especially true on the weekends.

  Even on this Monday night, a multitude of bodies milled about the downtown restaurants and bars. Much to Steven's dismay, Alaska, a mostly conservative state, was not immune to the same hedonism he so despised back in Britain. The past week had carried with it a particular example of the twisted lives of liberal culture. The annual Diversity Pride Day, a local, highly controversial event, was being celebrated throughout the downtown area. Gay and lesbian couples walked openly arm in arm through the city streets. As he drove past the intersection of 4th and C, he was disgusted to witness two young men kiss each other on the lips on the street corner. A black rage filled his being, and the few sparks of mercy left in his heart evaporated.

  Five blocks later, he was relieved to be able to scrub the vile image from his mind as he passed the Delaney Park Strip and witnessed a group of men fighting for possession of a ball in a late-night football match taking place on the unlit field, the low sun stretching the shadows of the goal posts and the players. Steven yearned to get out of the car and join them. He absolutely loved football, or as the Americans called it, soccer, and had played earnestly back home in Britain. It was, in his mind, one of the few almost redeeming inventions of Western culture. He had played some while in the States, but did not find a great challenge in it, especially among men his own age. A few Americans knew how to play soccer fairly well, mostly younger men, but the vast majority, in his opinion, put on a rudimentary game at best.

  In addition to studying petroleum engineering at Manchester University, Steven Farrah had been the star defender for three consecutive years, where he led numerous shutout games with his aggressive tactics and powerful play. A master of the slide tackle, upon graduation he was offered a position in the lineup of internationally renowned Manchester United. They expected him to take them to the top that season, and many spoke of the young Farrah earning a spot on the national team for the next World Cup. The club was shocked when just two weeks before the training season was scheduled to start, he informed the team manager that he could not play, and promptly vanished from the world of football before ever setting foot on the pitch in a professional match.

  Steven’s parents, both naturalized British citizens, had been on holiday in their native Kosovo just before the outbreak of the Kosovo War and were stuck when the fighting spilled over. They were driving along a back road, trying to find a way out of the country, when they were stopped at a well-defended roadblock manned by Serb soldiers. Their British passports convinced the soldiers to let them pass, but the few minutes’ pause proved fatal. An American air strike appeared faster than anyone could react. Two massive bombs slammed into the Serb position, killing the soldiers and the Farrahs, their bodies shredded by masses of shrapnel that tore into the vehicle. In the mangled heap of glass, steel, and flesh, Steven’s happy life and his football aspirations were shattered. The US formally apologized, but nothing that could be said or done would bring his beloved mother and father back. A moment of error gave birth to an enemy, and a young man's athletic dream was replaced by a nightmare reality of blood. From his comfortable British middle-class existence Steven evolved into a cold-blooded killer. The transition had been surprisingly short, and even more surprisingly easy. He went from training camps in Libya and Afghanistan, to field operations in Chechnya and Kazakhstan, and finally covert operations in Holland, Germany, his native Britain, and eventually the Great Satan itself, the United States.

  The years stretched on and the targets blended into one another until Steven Farrah, an articulate, well-educated, handsome socialite found himself in the most unlikely of places for a boy from Manchester. Here he was in Alaska, with the opportunity to fully avenge his family materializing before him.

  Chapter 10

  Alaska Railroad Maintenance Yard

  Anchorage

  Monday, June 20th

  11:23 p.m.

  “Damn,” said the tow truck driver, “you must'a pissed someone off mighty bad to do all four tires like this.”

  Marcus shot the man a sideways look letting him know in no uncertain terms that he didn't want to talk about it. At his request, the tow truck crew had brought a full set of the correct tires with them. Lonnie and the others watched as the crew quickly jacked up the front of the F250 and started the process of pulling the wheels and mounting the tires with a machine on the back of the tow truck. As they pulled the first tire off its rim a powder-blue Ford Freestar Minivan pulled up to the group. Bold black letters emblazoned across the sides spelling the taxi company's name, AlasKab.

  “I’ll stay with the truck,” Marcus said.

  “You sure you're okay out here?” Mike asked.

  'Yeah, don't worry,” Marcus replied. “Those guys won't be back.”

  “We'll get hold of Tonia and wait for you at the hotel,” Lonnie stepped up to him and he gave her quick kiss on the cheek, gently putting his hand on her belly.

  “You be careful. If you feel the slightest thing in your belly go to the doctor.”

  “Marcus, it’s okay,” she said covering his hand with hers. “Baby handled the whole thing very well. I think he’s inherited our genetic stress meter.”

  “I’ll be there soon,” he replied. “My cell phone is on. If you've got to go anywhere, just call and I’ll find you.”

  “Got it,” Mike said. He turned and followed his wife toward the mini-van. Hilde hadn’t spoken a word since the attack, her hands had only stopped trembling just before the taxi arrived.

  The ladies climbed into the taxi’s back seat and Lonnie told the driver to take them to the Captain Cook Hotel. Mike sat in the front passenger seat. The minivan started to move immediately after he shut the door. As he buckled the seatbelt, he cast a glance at the driver and froze as if he were looking at a ghost.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Driving you to your hotel.” The thickly bearded Middle-Eastern man flashed a broad smile, his too-straight, too-white teeth flashing in the horizontal sunlight that pierced the space of the cab, hitting his face like a laser beam. “Hi, Pastor Mike.”

  Hilde looked up in alarm at hearing her husband’s old title. She, too, froze in silence as she noticed the face of the man in the front seat for the first time.

  “Kharzai?” Mike said.

  “Yup. It's me.” He reached up and snapped the button on the meter.

  “What are you doing here?” Mike repeated himself.

  “I'm a cabbie.”

  “I can see that,” Mike replied, “but here in Anchorage?”

  “Yeah, well, it's a job. Mind you, it's not as posh as Kabul or Baghdad, but it's a good job.”

  “No, I mean, what are you doing here in Anchorage?”

  Kharzai’s mop of curly black hair—he liked to refer to it as his Arabfro—bounced like Jell-O formed in a mold as he moved his head. His teeth, glistening as if he just stepped out of a toothpaste commercial, sharply contrasted against the dark brown of his skin and black of his beard. A gold chain necklace mingled with the thick bristles of chest hair that jutted from the collar of his shirt, which was open to the second button.

  “I know you,” she said. “You're the guy from Columbus. The bombing.”

  “Sorry, but I don't remember you,” Kharzai replied, “and I certai
nly would remember if I had seen you before. You're way too hot to forget.” He acted surprised at his own words. “Oops, sorry. Did I say that out loud?”

  Hilde's cheeks flushed pink.

  “I was surveillance,” she said. “Just saw you on the cameras.”

  “Oh. I see,” Kharzai said, then added in a licentious tone, “voyeur.”

  “Kharzai,” Mike said, “this is Hilde, my wife.”

  “Whup. Better stop flirting then, eh?” Kharzai said. He winked at Hilde in the rearview mirror, then shifted his eyes to Lonnie. “And I know you, and I know you know me too, very pretty and pretty pregnant lady.”

  “You were at the accident,” Lonnie said.

  “Cha-ching—give the lady the Bahamas Cruise, Johnny.” He gave a quick flourish of his hand and made a partial bow toward the reflected image of Lonnie and said, “That’s right, and now you know me even better. Kharzai Ghiassi, cabbie.”

  “What was that about a bombing?” Lonnie asked.

  “Kharzai is not a normal cabbie,” Mike said, “or at least, he does not have a normal cabbie's past.”

  “Yeah, that's what I'm already thinking,” Lonnie said.

  “I assume she’s with Mojo,” Kharzai said.

  “You know my husband?” Lonnie asked, surprise showing in her voice.

  “Yeah, we've met.” Kharzai smiled as he glanced back at her in the mirror. “An old friend of mine, Liam Cleary of the Royal Marines, knew him pretty well and introduced us in Iraq back in the day.”

  “You don't seem like you were in the Marines,” Lonnie said.

  “No, no, no, no. No way,” he replied adamantly. “Do I look like a guy who would shave this lovely hair for a job?”

  “What were you doing in Iraq, then?”

  “Killing people.”

  Lonnie crunched her eyebrows and looked at Hilde as if to ask if the man was serious.

  Hilde replied to the unspoken question. “He was a CIA agent.”

  “And you've retired to Anchorage?” Lonnie asked.