“I understand that you are not a religious zealot, and that most of your compatriots are not zealots either. You are devout, I will grant you that, but you are also a group of educated men. To some degree, I can understand the refugees, who have known only squalor, suffering, and hopelessness, strapping explosives to their bodies, but that hardly describes you or any of the others. You were chosen because of your education, because of your ability to adapt and function independent of a group. So why would you subordinate those abilities; why would you blindly follow those who espouse hate?” Phil paused for effect; Ahmed wanted to answer, but Phil didn’t want to hear more of his derision. “Part of the answer lies in human nature, and in that respect, you are not much different from the man downstairs who wants to kill you. But that only gets you part of the way; your sin is not questioning the culture of hate that surrounded you. Instead of examining it, you ignored the responsibility of an educated man and accepted it. You allowed yourself to believe the lies because to challenge them would be to challenge those who spread them, and you were too weak to do that. You are going to die because of that weakness.”
“My death is inconsequential compared to the devastation we have brought to your country.” He smiled smugly.
Phil slowly nodded his head, and Izhan saw the utter failure of all their work and sacrifices in Phil’s mind. “The truth is that you are dying for nothing. No one will visit your father and tell him of the momentous things you achieved in the name of God.” Phil listened as the will and heart of Izhan Ahmed broke. A small part of him rejoiced at the young man’s agony, and for the first time in his life, Phil forced the Monsters from his mind. There was only silence in their absence, and he smiled. Maybe he did have the strength to survive.
The pounding from the other side of the door became more insistent, and now there were two helicopters circling the rooftop. Tears began to flow down Izhan’s face, and Phil listened to him pray. He prayed for a righteous death, one that would bring honor to His Holy Name.
Phil reached down and retrieved the small pistol that Izhan had used to shoot Sister Ellen. He turned towards Sister Mary Frances as she let out a scream. “It’s all right,” he yelled to her over the sound of the helicopters, and then turned back to Ahmed whose prayers had become more desperate. “I haven’t learned to hate yet,” Phil said and tossed the gun to the terrorist.
Sister Mary Frances stared dumbfounded at Phil. He walked towards the nun and guided her away from the door. “It’s going to be all right. He’s not going to hurt anyone.”
Phil let the door go and three men dressed in black body armor tumbled onto the rooftop. It took them only a moment to assess the situation, and in that moment, Izhan raised his gun. Both of the marksmen in the circling helicopters insured that Phil was correct.
“Father Oliver died,” Greg told Lisa over the phone.
Lisa suddenly felt empty. Amanda had come home with the news that Reisch had disappeared, and now this. “How?” She asked.
“One of the SOBs was posing as a cop,” Greg paused, and Lisa could hear him try to stifle a sob. “The guy shot Oliver. He was out by himself; if I had been there, I could have done something.” His voice was breaking. “We found him in a hospital all shot up, and do you know what he did? He goes out and finds the other bastard and kills him right before the guy shoots me. He saved me with his . . .” Lisa let her husband suffer quietly. “Honey, I have to go. I’ll call you later. There are arrangements that have to be made.”
Lisa hung up the phone and turned to Amanda. “You heard?”
Amanda nodded and went to hug her mother-in-law. “I’m so sorry, Lisa. Sorry that any of this ever happened.”
Lisa cried for several moments and then slowly pulled away. “Your eyes are moist, Amanda,” she said, wiping a tear from her daughter-in-law’s face.
“I guess I’m not totally made of stone.”
“It’s terrible, but I wasn’t just crying for Oliver. I didn’t know him as well as Greg did.” She looked into Amanda’s eyes. “He’s a good man, and he’s in a lot of pain. I feel so helpless.” She tried to stifle a sob, but it escaped as a gasp. “He won’t share it with me; he’ll take that pain and hide it in a place that I’ve never been able to reach, and it will eat away at him. Sometimes . . .” Now her tears were falling again. “Sometimes, I wonder why God has brought so much pain into our lives.” Lisa’s voice began to rise and her voice broke. “What purpose did it serve to allow John Oliver to die? What purpose did it serve to take the lives of Michael and Jacob? Why does he allow such evil to exist? My soul needs an answer beyond the knee-jerk ‘trust in God’s mercy,’ because I really haven’t experienced a lot of His mercy in the last few years.” Her voice had turned hard and angry, but her tears continued to fall.
“I had a part in that,” Amanda said, and a second tear fell down her cheek.
Lisa wanted to deny it, but there was no point in lying. “Amanda, I thank God every night for bringing you into our lives, and I know that Greg does as well.” Lisa smoothed Amanda’s hair, and then kissed her forehead. “No matter how much you change, no matter what happens to you, we both love you with every fiber of our being.”
Amanda wiped more tears from her eyes. “I know that.” She pulled completely away. “Are you stocked for the week?” She said suddenly, changing the uncomfortable subject.
“Yes,” Lisa said simply. “Are you going to stay?”
“For a little while, at least until Greg comes home.” Amanda picked up the small satchel that she had brought back from Fort Collins. “He has more of the virus, and he won’t stop, no matter how many of his terrorist buddies get killed by priests.”
“How will you find him?”
“I have no idea. I’ve lost all traces of him. I don’t know if he’s too far away, or dead, or just completely shut himself down.” She nervously opened and closed the small bag. ”I should turn this in and see if someone else can divine something from it.”
“You’re sure it’s . . . Of course, you’re sure it’s not infected, otherwise you wouldn’t have brought it here.” Lisa corrected herself. “He wouldn’t stay in Colorado; I’m guessing that he’s made a beeline for the nearest border or ocean.”
“Costa Rica. He plans to wait out our demise while sitting in a tropical jungle,” Amanda said, and Lisa stared back at her curiously. “I saw it in his mind when we were at the hospital,” Amanda explained. ”I saw everything,” she added quietly.
The check-engine light was on continuously and the temperature gauge was well past the red line. Reisch let loose a string of profanities in three languages, but his predicament didn’t change. He was going to have to find another mode of transportation, but in rural New Mexico, three hours after a nationwide curfew had been established, that was going to be a difficult task.
He had been warned that something like this might happen; Jeser’s network of support was virtually nonexistent outside major American cities, but Reisch was comfortable in his abilities. For more than three decades, he had survived so well that his very existence was questioned by some.
“You were a professional then,” Pushkin said, appearing suddenly and darkening Reisch’s already dark mood. “You followed the rules and did things correctly; you prepared yourself to complete your task and to disappear. Years ago you never would have done anything as amateurish as this.”
Reisch wanted to ask what he meant, but the answer would quickly turn into a lecture over his behavior the last two months.
“It’s not just the last two months,” his mentor said after reading his thoughts. “It’s been the last seven years; really your troubles began when you went to that sewer in the desert. You had no business passing yourself off as a security guard for a bunch of Arabs.”
“If you remember correctly, it was you who introduced me to Avanti. Besides, I’ve heard all of this before; do you have anything constructive to contribute, or did you pop in just to harangue me?”
“You rely mo
re on this mind-reading crap than training and experience, and look where it’s gotten you.” Pushkin said under his breath. “Turn the radio on,” he commanded suddenly.
Reisch glanced at the shimmering form of his old teacher and flipped the knob with obvious irritation. He changed the channel several times looking for a classical music station, but all he heard were news reports.
“Stop,” Pushkin ordered, and for a moment, Klaus didn’t know what he meant. “Did you hear that? Go back to the last station.” Reisch found the station and listened with horror.
“. . . still coming in, but what we do know is that there has been another incident in Los Angeles similar to what happened in New York yesterday. The military is being very cautious about this, but it appears as if another terrorist has been caught or killed in a suburban Los Angeles mall as he was trying to release the virus.. . . .”
A longer string of profanities drowned out the announcer’s next words. Los Angeles and New York were critical to success.
“ . . . optimism, and that the threat remains. There are no plans to modify or lift the quarantine and all noncritical people are to remain indoors. All those caught in violation of the quarantine order are being held in contamination centers throughout the country.”
Pushkin listened intently, and when the car engine finally seized he turned to Reisch. ”It seems that your difficulties leaving this country may have a purpose.” White smoke began to pour out from beneath the hood. “You should have kept the Mercedes,” he said as the stolen sedan coasted to an unscheduled stop.
Reisch climbed out of the car and Pushkin followed. They hadn’t seen any signs of life for hours; the high desert was cold, wind-swept, and completely dark. The night sky was alight with a universe of stars, and a full moon was just beginning to rise over the mountains to the east. Off in the far distance, two dark shapes glided through the thin air; a pair of eagles out for a late night flight, completely oblivious to the larger plight of humanity, or the more immediate plight of Reisch. “Three or four miles up the road, there’s a farm,” he said to Pushkin’s ghost, and pointed to a small collection of lights. He was angry, but consoled himself with the fact that he had been tested before and had always prevailed.
“I guess we walk,” Pushkin said staring up the road, and Reisch looked at him questioningly. ”We could always wait for someone to carry us, but I’m guessing it will be a long wait.”
Reisch retrieved his small oversized suit bag, slung it over his shoulder, and started down the dark street. Pushkin started in on him in less than fifty paces.
“Why do you always use German cars?” The steaming sedan had been an almost new Audi A8; Reisch found it in a Pueblo used car lot, and with less than ten thousand miles on it, he could never have anticipated its failure after another one hundred.
“Usually, they are quite reliable,” Reisch said slightly defensively. “Why do you always speak in English?”
“I speak the language you speak,” Pushkin answered.
Reisch walked on pondering Pushkin’s answer. “If they admit to finding two, they probably have found more,” the German said after a long pause. “It had to have been Amanda,” he said simply. “She saw everything.”
“You’re probably correct. It’s possible Avanti told them, or they simply stumbled on to it, but I think she’s responsible.”
“I’m responsible. I should have listened to you and everyone else. If I had done this in Miami as I was supposed to, none of this would have happened, and I’d be safely away.”
Pushkin’s silence was accusatory. “What are you going to do?” he finally asked.
Reisch thought quietly. There were still nine more moles out there; the plan could still work, but their margin of error had been erased. “I’ll wait, and do what’s necessary.” The weight of the two vials sewn into his coat became a little more noticeable.
“Morning, Greg,” Linda Stout said quietly. She was the first female detective in the small Colorado Springs Homicide Unit because seventeen years ago Greg Flynn had taken a risk.
“Hey, Stick,” he said swinging his old chair away from the window and facing the six-foot-one-inch senior detective. Lisa weighed less than one hundred and thirty pounds and the nickname had plagued her since junior high. The only person in the world who could use it without the threat of imminent physical harm was her old boss.
“I see the office still fits,” she said.
“It’s only temporary,” he said to Linda and to God’s ear. Rodney Patton was in a Los Angeles hospital being treated for the infection he had helped to stop.
“I’m sorry about your priest,” she said somberly.
“He was a good man,” Greg said softly. Oliver had been flown home to Chicago to join his sister and parents five days earlier, and both Greg and Lisa had resolved to celebrate his life and not mourn his passing. “What have you got there?”
Lisa carried a folder that bulged with police reports. “A hunch about our German friend.” Greg waved her into the office and into a desk-side chair. “We found the car he had used to run down our officer last week. It was in the garage of an auto repair shop. That same auto repair shop reported that one of their customers had a Mercedes SUV stolen from their parking lot the very next day, just before the curfew started. With all that was happening, no one followed up on it or put the two together.”
“It’s taken almost a week to make that connection?” Ordinarily Greg wouldn’t have been so critical, but the nonstop stress was eating away at his restraint.
“We’re down to a skeleton crew. The FBI took the BMW and left the grunt work with us, and frankly, we dropped the ball.” Linda looked away and Greg felt bad about his comment.
“So the bastard is probably driving a Mercedes SUV. This is a break, Linda,” Greg tried to pump up his deflated protégée.
“I hate to burst your bubble, but the Pueblo police found that car a half hour ago. It was in the long-term parking lot at the airport. It’s been there for days. I called the FBI and they’re on their way down there.” Linda shuffled through the papers in her file while Greg waited for her hunch. “The airport only had inbound military flights, so we know he wasn’t leaving. The assumption everyone is going to make is that he stole another vehicle from the lot, but I don’t think so. There are cameras on all the entrances and exits, and he knew about them.” She pulled out a security photo that showed the black hood of a Mercedes SUV; the interior was obscure by a large starburst of light. “He used some sort of laser to screw-up the image. None of the other photos for the next two days were hit by a laser. I think he stole something within walking distance, and based on his pattern, I’ll bet it was from here.” Linda had pulled out a satellite map and pointed to what could only be a car dealership. “There’s a fence along this road, and that’s the only security this place has along that section of the lot.”
Greg looked up at Linda. “This is excellent work.”
“Good, because I used your name to get the manager of that lot to check out his inventory. It didn’t make the Feds happy, but I said that you were willing to talk with the assistant director if necessary. We should know something within an hour or two.” Linda beamed with satisfaction.
Even with Greg Flynn’s good name, it took more than four hours before they heard back.
“We’ve checked three times and the entire new and used car inventory is accounted for. The only thing that may be missing is the Audi, and I’m not sure it was still here. It’s the owner’s ex-wife’s car, and she pretty much comes and goes as she pleases. She brought it in for an overheating problem about ten days ago.” Don Weiland, the general manager of Turner Jeep and Audi, told Greg over the phone. “It will take some time to get her number from our computer, but I do have another option.”
“Go on,” Greg encouraged. He was chasing down this lead while the FBI traced the seventy-three cars that remained in the airport’s long-term parking.
“GPS. I sold her the car myself, and I know
that it’s got a GPS transponder. I’ve got the security code right here; you guys should be able to access the locator service and know exactly where it is in about ten seconds.”
“This guy is a pro; if he stole the car he would have disabled any transponder in under a minute,” Greg said dismissively.
“Yes, he probably would,” the car salesman said. “If he could find it. The one we installed in Mrs. Turner’s car is brand spanking new and specifically designed to prevent anyone from tampering with it. Just to reach it, you would have to dismantle the steering column. It can be done, if you have two or three hours and a cartload of replacement parts. What this guy probably did was to dismantle the factory-installed navigation system. Trust me, if he’s still got it, you got him; just get on the Net and see.”
They had allowed him to return home and wait like everyone else for the quarantine to be lifted; except no one else, at least no one Phil knew, had a company of the U.S. Army “protecting” him. It wasn’t all bad, for six days he had hidden behind the walls he had grown up with and luxuriated in the mental isolation. The soldiers had positioned themselves far enough away that their thoughts were reduced to subtle whispers in Phil’s mind, and his biggest challenge was living without the Monsters in his mind. For the first time in his life, he was alone in his own head.
The day after returning from Los Angeles, he tried to resume The Routine, or at least as much of it as house arrest would allow. He got up exactly on time; made up his bed as he had always done; ran on the treadmill with the same intensity and precisely the same distance as always; ate exactly what he was suppose to eat, but instead of his life feeling familiar, it felt alien. Yesterday morning, he put sugar on his Wheaties and nothing happened. This morning, he quit running twelve minutes early simply because he was tired, and still nothing happened. He was seriously considering not making his bed, or perhaps getting up late to see how far his luck would stretch.
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