TERMINAL JUSTICE
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
5446 North Academy Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80908
A division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
The characters, organizations, institutions, and events in this book are wholly and purely fictional. Any apparent resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, any institution, organization, or events is purely coincidental.
ISBN 1-57856-023-3
eBook ISBN: 978-1-60142-831-8
© Copyright 1997 by Alton Gansky
All Rights Reserved
v3.1
This book is dedicated to
the quiet and unassuming heroes worldwide.
Acknowledgments
My thanks go to Lisa Bergren and the folks at WaterBrook Press for their support and wise counsel and to my agent, Claudia Cross, for her insights and encouragement. It’s a blessing to be associated with such a professional team.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
One: Destiny’s Knot
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Two: Darkness in the Light
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Three: It’s a Small World
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Excerpt from Tarnished Image
Prologue
JUDITH RHODES DREW IN A LONG BREATH OF HOT dusty air and slowly held out her arms. Her heart pounded, her mouth was dry, her eyes watered in fearful anticipation. She nodded once and motioned with her outstretched hands, beckoning, imploring, encouraging. Overhead a blue sky radiated with the heat of an unforgiving sun, and only the droning of the ever-present black flies broke the still air. She nodded and motioned again, watching as the dramatic act of courage unfolded before her.
His name was Namui, a Somali national, and he was returning from the dead. Seated in a fiberglass folding chair, he stared uneasily at Judith. Slowly, apprehensively, he leaned forward, and with a courage that can only be found in the deep reservoirs of the soul, rose to his feet. Judith watched as the emaciated, naked man gently swayed like a sapling in the breeze. His skin was taut and stretched over protruding bones that looked as though they might erupt through the flesh at any moment. His eyes bulged as if in perpetual panic. A small tear of pain trickled down his cheek.
Judith knew the cause of this. She understood fully that hunger had caused this once noble man’s body to begin to cannibalize itself, consuming him from the inside out. Famine-induced hunger tortured him, robbed him of the simple strength to stand and walk. Two weeks ago Namui crawled into the Barringston Relief camp and collapsed in front of Dr. Judith Rhodes’s tent. When she first saw him, confused and straddling death, she assumed that his would be the next body in the mass grave twenty meters outside of camp. She had been wrong. Rehydration treatment, medication, and, most of all, easily digested meals proved a strong enough lifeline to rescue Namui.
Tentatively, Namui took a step forward, rocked from side to side, then stepped forward again. It took five minutes for him to traverse the ten steps between them. Ten steps, Judith thought, a fine effort.
“Very good, Namui,” Judith exclaimed, making no effort to hide her joy. “You will be a wonderful example to the others.” That thought saddened Judith. There were indeed others in various stages of lingering death. She had seen it all and wished she had seen none of it. But this was her work, her calling. This was where she had to be.
Taking Namui by the arm, Judith gently led him back to the chair and helped him sit. “I’m going to give you another shot, Namui,” she said in Arabic as she removed a hypodermic needle from a medical bag that rested on a rickety card table nearby. He nodded slowly. It was clear that the small physical effort had exhausted him.
Judith crouched by the chair, and Namui leaned to one side baring a portion of his buttocks. Gently Judith inserted the needle and pressed the hypodermic’s plunger until the clear liquid was gone. She slowly extracted the needle and wiped the injected area with an alcohol-saturated swab. “You sit and rest for a while,” she said gently patting his bony shoulder. “Tomorrow you can try again.”
The deep rumbling of trucks rolled through the thick air. The sound made Judith’s heart skip. Trucks could mean anything from the delivery of supplies to roving bands of bandits. The trucks were being driven hard and fast. Forcing herself to turn around, she saw what she had feared: unmarked vehicles.
Judith’s heart rate climbed as men poured from the twelve trucks that thundered to a stop in the middle of the camp. Leading the caravan was a dark blue, late model Jeep Cherokee from which a familiar looking man exited.
Ironically she had read a briefing paper on him just the night before. Holding the pages near a gas lantern she had read the file provided by the Barringston research team. The file had included a fuzzy photo of the man. He was round faced with short-cropped hair that had more gray than black. His hairline had marched back from his forehead. His skin was smooth, and his full face revealed his well-balanced diet. The photo made it clear that the only hunger that this man knew was what he saw around him. A small crescent-shaped scar etched in his right cheek verified his identity. There was no doubt in Judith’s mind: This was Mahli, a mysterious warlord whose very name was in doubt.
Judith’s first inclination was to bolt, but there was no place to run and certainly no place to hide. Shouting a warning was useless, for only a handful of the camp’s residents were capable of running; they certainly couldn’t fight.
Mahli stood next to the truck and casually surveyed the camp until his gaze rested on Judith and the skeletal figure sitting next to her. He smiled and casually strolled toward them.
“Do you speak Somali?” Mahli asked in Somali. His voice was high and nasal. Not answering, Judith looked into his eyes and saw there a wickedness.
He grabbed her chin and pulled her face close to his.
“Do you speak Somali?” Judith recoiled at his touch and slowly shook her head. She understood the phrase and maybe a handful of others, but no more.
“Arabic?” he asked. “English?”
“Both.”
“Good.” He said in English, dropping his hand and resting it on a holstered pistol at his waist. “Who are you?”
“Dr. Judith Rhodes,” she replied quietly.
“Doctor?” He laughed. “You should have stayed home and made yourself rich off the illness of others. Here there is nothing you can do. Who is in charge?”
“I am.” She fidgeted nervously with the hypodermic in her hand.
“You? A woman?” Mahli sneered. “No wonder the West is weak.” Mahli glanced around the camp again. “I want the food and medical supplies,” he said matter-of-factly. “You will help me.”
“We don’t have enough food as it is,” Judith objected loudly.
“We have greater need,” he said calmly.
“Greater need? These people will die without the food and medicine. If you take our supplies, you wil
l be killing them.”
“It is Allah’s will.” He shrugged nonchalantly.
“Do you speak for Allah?” she asked with obvious sarcasm. The thought of losing the camp’s supplies had momentarily erased Judith’s caution.
At first Mahli did not respond. He weighed Judith’s insolence and then sighed heavily. “These people do not matter,” he said with a wave of his arm. “These are the …” He paused, searching for the right phrase in English. “Worthless. They will soon fertilize the earth.”
A wave of anger surged inside Judith. She had to stop this but had no idea how.
“We could use a doctor,” he said softly. “Especially a doctor as attractive as you.”
“What would your Allah say?” Her voice shook with renewed fear.
“We are all human and have our needs.”
“I am of more use here,” she said, quavering.
“We have many uses for you.” He reached forward and caressed her cheek.
Judith closed her eyes and tensed.
“Look at me,” Mahli shouted fiercely enough to make her ears ring.
Judith’s eyes snapped open. What she saw chilled her. A hand, black and cadaverous, had grabbed Mahli by the wrist. She was paralyzed by the phenomenal act of courage. Namui, the man who moments ago had worked himself to near exhaustion walking three meters, was attempting to rescue her from her tormentor. It was a hopeless act, a futile act, and the most gallant act she had ever witnessed.
With a sudden scream of rage, Mahli viciously jerked his hand away from Namui. The sudden force of the movement was too much for the man’s hunger-enervated bones. There was an audible snap, and Namui fell from the chair to the hard ground. Slowly he reached for his broken arm with his other hand. The jagged edge of his radius protruded from the skin. He let out a low and mournful moan that immediately brought Judith to tears. The omnipresent flies swarmed around the fresh, warm blood.
“Namui!” Judith screamed and started for him, but before she could take the two steps necessary to reach him, a hand grabbed her by the hair and viciously snapped her backward.
Judith looked at Mahli in horror. She watched his eyes narrow as he pulled the pistol from its holster. “No,” she cried. Mahli pointed the weapon at the fallen man. Her mind shouted that it was foolish to resist, but Judith had stopped listening to her mind. She now heard only her heart, and her heart compelled her to act. She lunged, not to Namui’s side, but at Mahli. She attacked with a courage forged of fear and love and struck with the only weapon she had at hand: the syringe.
Without thought and with startling speed, Judith swung the syringe at the face of Mahli plunging the needle through his left cheek. The hypodermic pierced the tender flesh and continued into his tongue.
Mahli howled in pain and swung the revolver around, striking Judith in the jaw. Judith heard her mandible crack. She fell to the ground, her hands covering her face. Mahli’s scream brought his men sprinting to his aid, but he waved them off with a quick gesture. Judith watched as Mahli slowly reached up to the syringe and smoothly withdrew its needle from his face. He studied it for a moment then dropped it to the ground.
Mahli stepped next to the fallen Judith and gazed down at her in fury. She held her jaw, blood trickling from her mouth, dripping to the parched earth. With agonizing deliberateness, Mahli raised the gun and pointed its barrel at Namui. A second later the pistol’s loud report filled the air. The flies buzzed into the air and quickly settled again.
Judith wept. She wept for Namui, whose journey had ended in an act of bravery and whose courage had been stopped by an act of cruelty. She wept for her impotence to stop the inhumanity.
Removing her hands from her face, Judith saw the barrel of Mahli’s gun pointed at her. She said nothing as his finger tightened on the trigger.
ONE
DESTINY’S
KNOT
August 2 to September 4
1
DAVID O’NEAL BOUNCED ON THE BALLS OF HIS FEET, absentmindedly ran a hand through his brown hair, and waited for the elevator doors to open. It had been a long time since he had had to look for work, and now at the age of forty he faced his first interview in years with anxiety. A normally confident and decisive man, he felt overwhelmed, intimidated—overwhelmed by the events of the last months that had strained his inner strength to the breaking point, intimidated by the executive job for which he was being considered. “Easy, man,” he said to himself. “This is just a job interview, not brain surgery.”
The doors opened and a dapper man in an expensive, dark gray, double-breasted suit immediately greeted David. David thought of his own suit, which was at least six years old and well out of style.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. O’Neal,” the man said, extending his hand. “My name is Peter Powell, and I’m the head of personnel. You may remember that we spoke on the phone. I’ve been asked to escort you to A.J.’s office.”
David stepped from the elevator and shook Powell’s hand. “Yes, I remember. It’s good to meet you face to face, Mr. Powell.”
“Please call me Peter.”
Peter was a lean African-American man of average height with salt-and-pepper hair. He had an air of confidence and wealth about him. He certainly didn’t seem like a midrange executive. When he spoke he maintained direct eye contact.
The two men studied each other for a moment, then Peter laughed a deep and genuine laugh. “Well, now that we’ve sized each other up, allow me to show you to A.J.’s office.”
They started down the corridor to David’s left. The floor was filled with plants and brightly lit. The corridor led to a large pair of oak doors. Engraved on the doors was an embossment of a thinking man holding a globe in the palm of his hand. David had seen a marble statue like it in the lobby; he assumed that it was the logo of Barringston Relief. They stood motionless at the doors for a moment before Peter knocked firmly.
“Come in,” a voice said from a speaker in the ceiling.
“Shall we?” Peter said opening the door.
David nodded and stepped across the threshold. He was stunned by what he saw. The office was cavernous. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides afforded a magnificent view of the San Diego skyline and bay. The carpet was a rich cobalt blue and had a pale yellow pattern of squares with the Barringston symbol stitched in the middle of each.
In one corner was a sitting area bordered on three sides by leather couches. A large glass table dominated the center. In the adjoining wall was a large fireplace with a hearth made of black marble.
Opposite the sitting area was a matching glass conference table. The table was the largest David had ever seen. A laptop computer was situated at one end of the table.
In the center of the office was a desk. It, like the coffee table and conference table, had a glass top, which rested on two marble columns. A smaller table to the left of the desk supported a computer monitor and keyboard.
A.J. Barringston rose from his place behind the desk and smiled. David was immediately struck with the height of the man, judging that he stood at least six foot six. He was trim but by no means thin. Unlike Peter, Barringston did not wear a suit. Rather, he wore a pair of pleated beige pants and a powder-blue polo shirt. His hair was black and pulled back into a ponytail. He was not at all what David had expected.
“A.J., I would like to introduce Dr. David O’Neal,” Peter said formally.
“Come in, come in,” Barringston said as he stepped from behind the desk and moved lithely to David, stretching out his hand. “I’ve looked forward to this. I can’t tell you how excited I am to meet you.”
David was taken aback by Barringston’s effervescence and gregariousness. Taking Barringston’s hand David said, “Thank you, Mr. Barringston.”
“A.J. please. Call me A.J.,” he interrupted. “Everyone calls me A.J. We are a big family, and we don’t hang on formality.”
“Uh, thank you, uh, A.J.” David felt off balance. “Please call me David.”
; “I shall,” he said with a laugh. “Let’s sit down.” Barringston moved toward the couches.
“If you’ll excuse me, A.J.,” Peter said, “I have a few things to attend to.”
“Certainly, Peter,” he replied. “And thanks for your help.”
Peter turned and left, shutting the doors behind him.
“Isn’t he staying for our meeting?” David asked, surprised at Peter’s sudden departure.
“Oh, no,” Barringston said with a lopsided grin. “If he didn’t approve of you, then you wouldn’t be here now.”
“I see.”
The door to the office opened slowly. A woman carrying a tray of cups entered the room.
“Come in, Sheila,” Barringston said, bounding toward the door.
Sheila Womack was every bit as stunning as Barringston himself. She was easily six feet tall and her blond hair was boyishly short. She wore a pair of black straight-legged pants that accentuated her height. Her eyes were a rich azure blue. She carried a tray with a carafe and two coffee cups.
“I thought you might like some coffee,” she said in a throaty tone.
David thought she had an odd air about her. She seemed reserved but not introverted or self-conscious. She projected poise and control but seemed, at least at first glance, to be tense, as if on guard against unseen dangers.
“Oh, Sheila,” A.J. said with a sweeping arm motion. “Come and meet Dr. David O’Neal.”
David stood and approached her. After setting the coffee on the table, Sheila offered her hand. It was large and strong and lacked the delicacy David normally associated with women.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. O’Neal,” she said straight-faced.
“It’s good to meet you. And please call me David.”
Sheila nodded slightly.
“Sheila is my personal aide,” A.J. said. “Without her I wouldn’t get anything done.”
“Please let me know if there’s anything else you need,” she said.
“Thank you,” Barringston said. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked David.
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