by Vince Milam
The sun rose, the Mediterranean sparkled blue, and still he waited. Time to go to work, assholes. Big, big day.
Check had no illusions his efforts would end the horror of ISIS. But taking out key leaders would require them to reorganize and retrench. It bought time and sent a powerful message. He had seen the growth of the Islamic State perversion, and viewed it as a resurrection of a mindset and philosophy tied back to ancient times. Hell, everything is ancient here, he thought. The mores and structures that tied back to antiquity in this part of the world held great appeal to him. It constituted an added dimension of intrigue as he worked within the Middle Eastern mindset. But this latest manifestation—the vision of a worldwide caliphate—went beyond anything he’d experienced before. It’s the absolutism. No negotiations. Simply either them or us. And speaking of them, it’s opening hours at your friendly neighborhood ISIS office.
He waited another thirty minutes, anticipating the time of nine thirty. The office stragglers would have shown up by then and it was before the typical midmorning break.
He poured another warm Diet DP and strode around his small apartment, humming a Buddy Holly tune.
At nine twenty-nine, he sat before his laptop, his right index finger poised above the Enter key, which would initiate the firing sequences. Missile impacts would occur within thirty seconds of his tapping the key.
Check produced a loud belch, lowered his finger, and unleashed explosive hell on ISIS. Have a nice day, assholes.
Chapter 45
The night remained warm and humid as Cole drove to Nadine’s apartment. Moonlight shone through the old oak trees and the streets were still. So damn tired of this. His anger rose. Them comin’ after Francois and Nadine. And it isn’t the first time, either.
Past experiences strengthened rather than weighted his resolve. He’d dealt with a demon-infested madman in Rockport and another under hellish influence in Wales. He’d taken on a group of killers in the wilds of Syria who attacked the convent where they’d holed up. West Africa, Mexico—it should have been evident to Satanic forces that Cole Garza didn’t run from human evil. And this next killer at Nadine’s is fixin’ to find out the same thing.
He parked on the street. The large house Nadine rented to a doctor stood empty—the physician away at a conference. Cole strode across the front lawn and used the house as cover while he eased up to the porte cochere and squinted through the moonlight to watch the driveway to Nadine’s garage apartment. He waited, alert for movement. The dark thirty-foot tunnel of the porte cochere highlighted the driveway beyond as moonlight cast shadows through the overhanging oak limbs.
A scuffling noise near the garage brought his full attention. His eyes strained to fix the source of the noise, and he unholstered his pistol. More scuffling and Cole focused on the half-opened wooden gate that hid the garbage cans. A housecat howled in the distance, and springtime bugs sent sounds through the night.
An opossum, fat and immune to the worries of humans, waddled from behind the partially closed gate and made its way to the center of the driveway near the garage. It stopped to sniff the air, and must have picked up the remnant smell of human blood left from the earlier part of the day. Francois’s blood, and the terrorist’s, had been hosed off the concrete drive, but the opossum tasted the air for direction and location. The creature quit, turned, and waddled back to the garbage cans.
Cole’s heartbeat returned to near normal and he continued to wait. It was possible the killer hadn’t arrived yet, in which case he’d hide among the front landscaping and wait for the terrorist to drive or walk up the driveway. He’d follow on foot and leverage the element of surprise.
A noise above his head threw him into full alert. The small roof of the porte cochere, like the empty house, was roofed with black slate shingles. A stone-on-stone sliding sound had started, then stopped, as if someone—or something—had moved across the roof and caused two shingles to grind together.
Cole moved under the porte cochere and into the deep darkness. If someone was perched above him, they’d have to drop to an empty drive before coming after him—a move that left plenty of time to throw hot lead in the assailant’s direction. Minutes passed and Cole relaxed his stance as no more sounds came from the slate roof. Cat, raccoon, squirrel. Some critter, most likely. The underside of the porte cochere offered little hiding space other than darkness, so he started back toward the front of the house and froze.
He’d experienced it before—arm and neck hair stood at attention, the sense of company unseen, and the smell—decayed and putrid.
“All alone,” it said. “A pity.”
He turned, pistol first, toward the darkest corner of the driveway overhang. A shape, less discernible than a figure, with a faint glow of dark orange at head level.
“We expected the woman,” it said. “Perhaps another time.”
Cole pushed away the paralyzing fear, the slight tremble of his hands. Remnant DNA from the greatest warriors of the plains coursed through him, and his Comanche blood surged.
“Not going to be another time, you sumbitch,” Cole stated. “I’ve met your kind before. Face to face. And I’ve learned something.”
A low chuckle, filled with malice, drifted across the dark space. “And what have you learned, insect?”
“That y’all ain’t shit.” Cole stepped toward the shape, on the offensive. “God kicks you and your kind’s asses. I’ve seen Francois receive the power.”
He took another step. The creature remained silent.
“And Nadine asked God to chase one of you off as well.”
The dark orange light intensified and formed a set of eyes. “Yet we will always remain. Time long past and time long distant.”
Cole hadn’t asked for this encounter and had hoped such a meeting wouldn’t happen, but rational thoughts of horror and fear were buried. He was all fight.
“I’m long past being afraid of you.”
He had to ask and had to believe as he moved forward in this surreal world. He’d always kept outward signs of his faith under wraps, but those reservations and reticence fell away at this moment, in this place.
He removed his left hand from the pistol and raised it to the heavens. “I’m asking for the armor of God. I ain’t backing down, Lord.”
“The woman will not love you as you do her,” it said. “You are weak and lacking. She seeks another.”
Lies, deceit, misdirection. His lifetime habit of addressing adversaries alone faded, replaced with conviction, belief.
“Need your help, Lord. Lend a hand, Almighty God. Lend a hand and cover my back. I’m asking with everything I’ve got.” He continued measured paces toward it.
The horrid energy emanating from it began to withdraw and coalesce around the figure.
“A worm. You are but a worm,” it said. “Stretching and reaching. Seeking. Blind and helpless. A worm. A worm.” The voice now held the tone of a blast furnace—loud, fiery, and filled with hatred.
“Yeah, well, this worm has always wondered about something.” Cole fired two point-blank shots into the figure. The echo boomed under the porte cochere, filled the night air, and kicked off a round of barking from neighborhood dogs.
The figure remained, unflinching. A low evil chuckle followed. “Useless and trivial games, worm. And as we speak of worms, let us talk of your buried wife.”
“Go! To! Hell! Go to hell by the power of God, you sumbitch. The power of God!” His voice rose, pistol hand dropped to his side, and he strode toward the figure, on fire. “The power of Great God Almighty, you bastard!”
Then another sound pulled Cole’s attention. He turned as the slate tiles grated, and a body slid from the roof above him, dropping to the driveway.
A sense of departure from behind him, rapid and furious, required a quick glance over his shoulder. It was gone, vanished, and with it the overriding sense of otherworldly evil.
The man from the roof now stood in the moonlight and cocked his head behind the ba
rrel of an assault rifle. He moved the weapon and attempted to ascertain Cole’s position in the black shadow of the porte cochere.
He didn’t have the opportunity. Cole fired as soon as the assailant’s rifle became evident.
The man jerked as bullets impacted, the rifle rattled to the ground, and he stumbled back. Cole walked toward him, rapidly, and continued to fire round after round. The man fell and Cole aimed, squeezed, aimed, squeezed, as he approached the collapsing man.
Cole stood at the man’s feet as both hands continued to grip the pistol, aimed downward. His breath blew explosive through his nostrils, muscles clenched, and he glanced again over his shoulder to confirm it had fled. Then he screamed a Comanche battle cry toward the departed demon, explosive and ancient and shattering, and fired three more shots into the dead man’s chest.
Chapter 46
Flashing lights and sirens negated any need to dial 911, so Cole shoved home a fresh magazine of .40 caliber rounds and waited for the cops. His breath evened and his heartbeat began to return to normal, but fight still coursed through his veins. Fight, and a longing.
The demonic encounter set him on solid ground, his doubts long gone as to how best to handle those situations. Francois was sure right. Bullets don’t do diddly-squat. But the thought of such encounters, coupled with murderous human evil, caused him to stare at the heavens and shake his head. Appreciate your power, Lord. I really do. Thank you. But that’s enough. I’m not kidding. Please. Enough.
Five squad cars arrived together, along with two unmarked law enforcement vehicles. All seven kept their flashing lights active as several cops approached Cole in the moonlight, pistols drawn.
“Hands up and drop to the ground!” an officer yelled. “Now!”
“Sheriff Garza,” Cole replied, hands on hips and voice firm.
“Drop, now!” another officer yelled.
“Sheriff Cole Garza of by-God Aransas County. Put the damn guns down.”
The cadre of approaching officers hesitated, silent. Red, blue, and white cop lights lit the street and driveway. A lone figure worked his way through the drawn weapons and approached. “Special Agent Lew Hector, FBI, Sheriff Garza. I was here earlier today after you shot the terrorist.”
“Got another one.”
A long pause, followed by, “My, aren’t you a busy county sheriff. You sure it’s another terrorist? Or were you just bored and needed to plug someone?”
Cole cracked a slight grin as the cops lowered their weapons. Admittedly, it was more than a little strange to have two dead bodies inside a twelve-hour period at the same location, both killed by the same person. “Pretty dang sure it’s another terrorist.”
Special Agent Hector collected the dead man’s cell phone and crossed-checked the number. It was one of the twenty-one Nadine had acquired from ISIS. Within minutes of Hector’s call to headquarters, Cole’s cell phone vibrated.
“You’re a busy man, Cole,” Zuhdi said. “You alright?”
There’s a helluva good question. “Yeah. Nadine told me another one was floating around D.C. You fellows got that one?”
Zuhdi explained the death of the Lincoln Memorial terrorist. “So damn weird,” he said. “I honestly tried to find answers. We were ten feet apart. Talking. And all I received was lunacy. Lunacy, hatred, madness.”
“Glad you’re not hurt, Zuhdi. And I appreciate your efforts throughout this whole thing. Thank God it’s over.”
“I vacillate on the reason, the cause. The one I encountered was well beyond religious fanaticism. There was something else.”
“Yeah. I know.” Cole allowed the silence to sit. He figured Zuhdi would either accept the reality so well known to him and the others of the gathering, or reject the supernatural and continue to parse the roots of religious dogma, searching for a cause.
“Islam teaches about Satan. I believe those teachings are more than superstition,” Zuhdi stated after a long pause.
“Good place to start if you want to figure this out.” Cole genuinely liked and respected Zuhdi, but had no intention of sharing an ecumenical discussion or thrust his views on this man or try and provide definitive answers.
Another long pause before Zuhdi said, “I have to figure it out. You understand how personal this is for me?”
“Yep. And I imagine it’s going to be a hard row to hoe, Zuhdi.” Glad I’m not in that man’s boots. Mercy.
They chatted for another minute and parted ways. Each offered the other thanks and good luck.
Cole didn’t have the opportunity to slip the phone back into his pocket. It vibrated and flashed “Nadine.”
“Hey.”
“Hey?” Nadine asked. “Hey? I just received the report, hot off the DHS internal system. You’re standing over another dead terrorist, aren’t you? When were you going to let me know?”
“Well, I figured you’d be asleep.”
“Asleep? After you walked out all John Wayne? To go get shot?”
“Well.”
“Well? Well? I swear, Cole. I swear.”
He’d dropped back into a comfort zone of silence and minimal words. A behavioral pattern he had endeavored to change with Nadine. “How’s Francois?” he asked.
“He’s fine. Sleeping. He woke once when a nurse came to check him. She brought him ice chips to suck. He asked for wine to pour over them. She thought he was kidding.”
“That’s good news. He’ll be back on his feet irritatin’ the fire out of us before you know it.” The crashing adrenaline rush, the culmination of the ISIS attacks, and the news about Francois triggered a total release. Killed two men today. So doggone tired of this. Cop lights still flashed, radios crackled, and a forensic team showed up and began their work under portable klieg lights. Cole wandered to the front yard, sat on the grass, and flopped back, eyes to the predawn sky. Wiped out. Flat wiped out.
Francois meant more to him than anyone but Nadine and his kids. This realization had begun during the rushed drive to the hospital, was heightened as they waited for the report from surgery, and had crashed home with Nadine’s last report. The Frenchman, for all his irritating habits and obstinacy and fixation on food and clothes, was Cole’s personal tiller as they steered these strange, violent waters. Cole already missed him, and wanted him back full of, well, himself.
Cole smiled at the thought as he lay back, cell phone to ear. A toad croaked three times in succession from the damp undergrowth of landscaped azalea bushes near his head. Cop voices drifted across the lawn and he contemplated the absurdity of being stretched out on the grass listening to a toad.
“Cole?”
I’m glad I told Nadine how I feel. I owed her that, and I needed to admit it to myself. “I’m whupped, Nadine. Bone tired. Tired of the killin’, tired of us smack dab in the middle of the whole mess again.” The release was so complete, so consuming, that a lone tear ran across his cheek and dropped to the grass.
Her voice changed, became softer, threaded with concern. “I bet, cowboy. I bet.”
“One of them was here. Under the driveway tunnel.” At this moment in time and place, Cole yearned for a partner who would understand and relate to his reality. Nadine filled the need, and it was good and right to speak with low, tired, and loving tones of the event. A large part of him wished she could join him, touch him.
“Porte cochere,” she said.
“What?” The grass pressed cool against his neck and the memory of pulling the trigger on two men today flashed again and again across his consciousness.
“It’s called a porte cochere.” A pause, then she added, “It doesn’t make a rat’s ass of difference what it’s called and I’m sorry for correcting you and you were going to tell me about one of them showing up and I’m so glad you’re alright. Sorry, Cole. Don’t know why I do that. Honestly.”
Can you live with it, son? Because right there is pure undiluted Nadine May. The toad gave another succession of throaty croaks. Yeah. Yeah, I can live with that.
“I was
so tired of dealing with all this I didn’t think to be afraid. I got pissed.”
“Did it talk?”
“Yep. Lies. Lies and deceit.”
“So you called the Big Guy?”
“At least I had enough sense to do that. I’m not going to receive any style points from Francois on the prayer, but yeah, I called on God. It began to retreat. Then I shot it.”
“Shot it? Really?”
“Yep. Twice. Francois was right. No effect. But it triggered the jihadist. He’d been waiting for you on the roof. With a rifle.”
Her silence required no more elaboration on his part. He had no intention of sharing the demon’s reference to her.
“Hold just a sec, Nadine.” Special Agent Hector had wandered over to him flat on the grass and now stood nearby. Cole mused on how ridiculous the sheriff of Aransas County must have looked to the cops and agents, stretched out on the front lawn, chatting on the phone in the moonlight, wearing a hospital scrubs shirt. He didn’t give a damn.
“Eleven? Really?” Hector asked. He referred to the number of bullets Cole had unloaded on the dead terrorist.
“Man’s gotta be sure.”
“Forensics tells me three were when he was already horizontal.”
“What’s your point, Special Agent?”
Hector shook his head and wandered back to the klieg lights and cops and the forensic team.
“Sorry, Nadine. Business.”
“I’m coming over,” Nadine said. “You could use some company.”
“Please don’t. Besides, I’ve got an azalea toad to commiserate with. Stick with Francois until daylight. Please.”
“Not sure I want to know about the toad. But the glow is still with us. Radiates from under Francois’s bed. I’m not the least bit freaked by it. Comforting. Protective.” Her voice held a trace of wonderment.
“Can I use your apartment? To lie down for a while? Mule could use the company. Anything new on the apartment security side of things?” A powerful desire to stretch out on Nadine’s couch washed over him, fatigue deep in his bones. She’d given him access codes when they dated, and he wanted to make sure nothing had changed.
