the Second Horseman (2006)

by Kyle Mills

  Yusef had always been the weakness of the plan -- his uniqueness, his irreplaceability. Virtually everyone else involved was expendable.

  Ironically, perhaps, Ramez was in some ways an acceptable, if unwitting, substitute. Based on the information Yusef had provided, his young protege was an educated, reliable man dedicated to the cause of peaceful Arab self-rule and not just senseless bloodshed. The problem was the Ukrainians. It had taken them a great deal of time to become comfortable with Yusef -- a man who had spent years carefully building his credibility. It seemed unlikely that this Grigori would be interested in beginning that courtship process all over again. Not when they could sell to other buyers.

  Of course, that simply could not be allowed to happen. Hamdi had purposely hidden the existence of the warheads from the American government and, therefore, was solely responsible for the government's inaction. If these weapons were sold and used in an attack on the United States, it would be his fault.

  He put his elbows on the desk in front of him and let his head sink into his hands. This plan had been so long in its development -- perhaps since he was a child, watching the newly christened Israelis march arrogantly through the land of his ancestors, taking what and who they wanted.

  The sound of an opening door drifted in from the outer office, followed by a quiet knock. The only light in the room was provided by a small desk lamp, and Hamdi adjusted it so that it shone directly outward.

  "Come."

  The door swung open and Brandon Vale came through, prompted by a shove from one of the men behind him. He was wearing only a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with the slogan RUNS WITH SCISSORS.

  "Have a seat, Brandon."

  He didn't immediately obey, instead standing there trying to put detail to the figure behind the light. After a few seconds, he gave up and dropped into the chair in front of Hamdi's desk.

  Despite the uncertainty of his situation and the hair still matted from bed, he appeared much more intelligent in person than in his photos. It was hard to quantify exactly -- something in the subtle shifting of his features as he took in what was around him. It was enough to cause Hamdi himself look around at the dim, empty office, to make sure there was nothing Brandon could use to identify it later. If indeed there was a later for him.

  "I take it you wanted to see me?" Brandon said finally. He didn't sound or look afraid, but the overall effect wasn't bravado or even genuine courage -- more an acceptance of the fact that there were things he could control and others he could not. A very sensible philosophy.

  "Richard Scanlon isn't in charge of this operation. I am."

  Brandon nodded.

  "I've seen to the closing of all your accounts -- I even had that little safe-deposit box in Chicago emptied. I assume you're smart enough to know what you're dealing with here?"

  Brandon crossed his legs, bouncing a bare foot casually in the air as he spoke. "The fact that Scanlon didn't come up with this all by himself? That someone is backing him? Sure. Why not?"

  Hamdi waited to see if he would say more. He didn't.

  "Richard has a great deal of confidence in you. He seems to actually believe you'll succeed in this theft."

  "And you don't?"

  Hamdi didn't answer the question, because he honestly wasn't sure of the answer. "Let's just say that I've been anxious to meet you. A man with so much power --"

  For the first time, a hint of doubt crossed Brandon's face. "Power?"

  "Of course. The lives of millions of people are in your hands."

  Doubt turned to irritation. "You guys have really got to quit saying that."

  "My apologies. May I ask you a personal question, Brandon?"

  "Seems like you can do anything you want."

  "An astute observation. Tell me, how do you feel about the position you find yourself in? Does a person like you even care?"

  "It's a little late for an interview, isn't it? Seems like I already got the job."

  Hamdi's smile would have been imperceptible, even if Brandon could see his face through the light. Scanlon was right. In his way, he was an impressive little bastard.

  "I swear I don't know what's wrong with you people," Brandon continued. "Of course I care. Notice that no one's ever been hurt in a job I've done? Can you say that? I bet I have more of a respect for life than you."

  Hamdi leaned back and watched the bouncing of Brandon's foot become manic.

  It was hard to believe that the planet's future -- or lack thereof -- was going to rest on the narrow shoulders of a thirty-three-year-old thief.

  Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  Daniel leaned back carefully, listening to the creaking wood for any sign of collapse. The building behind him, a massive structure with a gracefully arching roof and enormous holes that had once held windows, was in the final stages of its existence. He'd entered earlier through one of the many openings in its walls to explore, but the combination of darkness and debris made walking too dangerous. So now he was sitting in the dirt, back pressed against peeling boards, gazing out at the moonlit landscape.

  Not that there was much to see. A flat plain extending to a distant mountain range that had swallowed the stars. It reminded him of an even more primitive airfield in Pakistan he'd visited years ago. What a cluster-fuck that had been -- one of those missions that had the look of disaster even from the warmth and safety of an aircraft carrier. A lot of people had died that day. But not as many as would die if he screwed this up.

  He looked at the glowing hands of his watch for what must have been the thousandth time and for the thousandth time felt a brief surge of adrenaline -- something he'd thought he was long past.

  Not so surprising, really. This wasn't exactly a typical operation for him. No government absolution, no high-tech military backing him up, no authoritative voice vibrating his earpiece. It was so much more complicated than that. Now he was taking orders from a nutty little crook no older than he was. And worse, he was unable to completely douse the spark of pride he felt at having been chosen by that crook for the only completely autonomous part of this mission.

  Daniel pushed himself to his feet and started toward the dark runway in front of him. In truth, Brandon wasn't all that bad. Get him in shape and teach him to shoot, and he wouldn't be the worst guy to have watching your back in combat. Hell, with him on board, they'd have not only found Osama bin Laden, but made a killing selling all his stuff as souvenirs.

  A distant star started moving a little too steadily, catching Daniel's eye and prompting him to pick up his pace a bit. This particular airfield was possibly the only thing in the operation that was almost completely free of drawbacks. It was about ten miles from the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing, and manned by no one. As Brandon had continually pointed out, though, that didn't necessarily mean it wasn't going to blow up in their faces. No complacency. Ever. In some ways, Brandon was very much an iPod-listening, Birkenstock-wearing, slightly mumbly version of Daniel's old team leader.

  The light drew nearer and Daniel leaned his shoulder against an old shack about thirty yards from the fuel pump that would be the helicopter's destination. He was wearing a pair of black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black cowboy boots that made him virtually invisible if he stayed still.

  He resisted the urge to raise a hand to protect his face against the sudden hurricane of dust, instead just closing his eyes and ignoring the million little needle pricks against his cheeks.

  The chopper blades wound down and he slowly opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the glare of the helicopter's lights and watching the pilot jump. He seemed relaxed, confident. Not entirely unexpected since he'd made this run no fewer than a hundred times over the years with no problems.

  Daniel waited until the man finished fueling before he started forward, screwing a silencer into the end of his pistol. Of course, it was just for show. A dead pilot wasn't going to get him very far.

  "Nice rig," he said. "I used to fly one just like it."

  The man dro
pped the hose and jumped back, staring as Daniel separated from the darkness.

  "Who are --," he started, but then fell silent when the end of the silencer touched his forehead.

  "Okay, so I was a little low when I guessed three hundred pounds."

  Brandon adjusted his grip a bit, sliding his hands deeper into the unconscious woman's soft, damp armpits. The man holding her feet -- Carl something -- continued teetering backward obediently, but looked like he was ready to kill someone.

  The wooden sidewalk they were staggering across ran along the front of a Shell station built to look like an elaborate Old West stage stop, and it was a little too uneven to be practical. Things got a bit easier when they stepped onto the gravel parking lot and headed for a car parked away from the well-lit pumps. Brandon had originally chosen a nondescript economy car for the job, but based on the size of the station's night cashier, he'd had to go with an old Lincoln Continental instead. It wasn't just theater-seat and coffin manufacturers that had to adapt to the widening of America.

  After a couple of precarious swings, they got the cashier into the foam-lined trunk. Carl reached up to close it, but Brandon stopped him, arranging the woman into what seemed like a more comfortable position and wiping away the spit running down the side of her mouth. Not exactly a featherbed, but no harm would be done beyond a drug hangover and a stiff neck.

  "Couldn't we have left her?" Carl asked, rubbing one of his wrists. "They'd just figure she had a stroke or something. Bitch must weigh half a ton."

  "What if she got an on-the-ball emergency room doctor who figured out she'd been drugged and brought her out of it while we're still on the road?" Brandon said, carefully closing the trunk.

  Carl grimaced -- a surprisingly menacing expression -- and climbed into the driver's seat while Brandon ducked his head through the passenger-side window. "Park out on the highway and let me know if anyone comes up the road."

  "I know. You already told me a hundred fucking times."

  Carl, never one to hide his irritation with taking orders from an ex-con, stepped on the gas and forced Brandon to jump back in order to avoid getting hit.

  "Screw you, too," he yelled when he was sure Carl was out of earshot.

  He turned back toward the gas station, sliding his hands under his shirt to protect them from the cold night air. The gas station was perched on top of a mountain, about twenty yards west of a two-lane rural highway. The thin air couldn't hold the heat of the day, but neither could it seem to hold the bright fluorescent lights illuminating the pumps. They carved a circle a couple hundred feet wide and then faded into the shadows of the surrounding pine trees.

  The phone in his pocket began to vibrate and he reached for it, taking a deep breath before picking up. When he heard the unmistakable noise of chopper blades, he let the breath out loudly.

  "You're not going to believe this," Daniel shouted. "But it went perfectly! We're coming up behind the convoy now. ETA about two minutes to them and about another hour to your position."

  "You're the man, Daniel. Call me if there are any problems."

  "You got it. I'm out."

  "Yeah!" Brandon shouted, raising his hand and turning toward two men walking a well-groomed poodle in the grass off to the side of the station. "We got the copter!"

  Not only did they seem ambivalent about the news, they refused to even look at him.

  His fault he supposed. They were the guys he was using to take control of the two chase cars protecting the semi. The problem was that both of them would scare their own mothers. They had faces, physiques, and body language that pretty much screamed former CIA assassin. And in order to counteract their "I'll twist your head off like a bottle cap" aura, he'd had to resort to desperate measures.

  The answer to the question "How do you make two overly muscular guys with buzz cuts nonthreatening?" had come to him in a dream. Gay couple.

  And not just any gay couple. To soften these guys, he'd had to go flamboyant -- leaving them wearing a fair amount of pink and more than a little fringe. Sure, he could have gone the less humiliating hippy or handicapped routes, but what was the fun in that?

  "One hour," he shouted, turning toward Catherine. "Everybody got that? One hour!"

  She was sitting on the curb in front of the little general store eating what he estimated to be her fourth ice cream cone. When she'd taken the first one, she'd actually left money for it on the counter. Of course, he'd pocketed it.

  "What do you think?" he said, walking up to her. "So far, so good, huh?"

  "We haven't done anything yet," she pointed out. "This is the easy part. Isn't that what you told us a hundred times?"

  He smiled and sat down next to her. "The reality of being an outlaw's a little more nerve-wracking than the fantasy isn't it?"

  She nodded miserably. "All I can think about is what will happen if we get caught. You know I haven't spoken to my family at all since this started? I have this elaborate scenario built up in my head where my mom's crying into one of those phones you talk over in prison -- you know, the ones where you're separated by glass?"

  "Yeah, I'm familiar with them."

  She scrunched up her face in an apologetic wince. "It's not so much the possibility of going to prison as the fact that I can't exactly go on TV and tell everyone that those nukes are out there. Everyone would just think I'm a regular crook --" She winced again. "I just keep putting my foot in it tonight, don't I?"

  "No worries. I understand what you're saying. If you want a piece of advice, it helps to try to live in the moment. If you think about right now and not a few days in the future, this is a hell of a rush."

  "I guess. Not exactly the rush I was expecting, though."

  "What were you expecting?"

  "The thrill you get from, I don't know . . . sky diving."

  "And what did you get?"

  "The slow, crushing stress of waiting to find out if your biopsy's malignant."

  He laughed out loud. "You paint such a pretty picture. You're right, though. You have to have a screw loose to do this for a living. And you have to be a complete lunatic to enjoy it. Which is probably a good thing. The world doesn't need too many of me."

  "I don't know," she said. "There are a lot worse out there."

  He pretended not to have noticed the compliment or the tone with which it was delivered. "Well, cheer up. I guarantee you there are no cops lurking in the woods and

  you can believe me when I tell you that I have no scruples at all about divulging top-secret information. I will personally tell your mother and the rest of the world what stand-up people we are if it comes to that. But who knows? It might not. It's only two A. M. and we've already got the copter and the cashier. Life is good."

  "Thanks. I feel so much better," she slurred through a mouth full of ice cream.

  "Oh, come on. You do a little, don't you?"

  She smiled almost imperceptibly. "Okay. Maybe a little."

  Brandon leaned over and grabbed the Coke sitting next to her, tossing it ten feet into an open garbage can.

  "Hey! I was drinking that!"

  "Not too many bathrooms once we get going," he said, starting around the side of the building. "And you've had enough caffeine."

  It took a few moments for Brandon's eyes to adjust to the building's shadow and pick out the two men hidden in it.

  "You two hear that?"

  "Yeah. One hour. We're ready."

  "Where'd you get that stuff?" he said, pointing to their clothing. They were both dressed entirely in black, with strategically padded pants and plastic body armor covering their arms, knees, and torsos.

  "The motorcycle stuff you got us was sturdy as hell, but it was a little heavy," one of them responded. "Daniel found this. It's for mountain biking."

  "Is it going to be enough?"

  "We hope so, sir."

  Brandon shrugged. "Me, too. So, one hour. And stop calling me sir."

  "Are you absolutely sure I can't help you find anything?" Bran
don asked.

  There were a lot of drawbacks to his plan, but the inability to control stupid shit was practically a theme. And a perfect example of that theme was the jackass who was now wandering around the tiny store examining every item of snack food as though it were a precious gem. There hadn't been so much as a rabbit hopping across the highway in the last forty minutes and then this pinhead rolls up in his bright yellow Hummer.

  "You should check out the Smart Food. That stuff kicks ass," Brandon said hopefully.

  The man gave him a brief smirk and then went back to reading the ingredients on a box of Ho Hos.

  Brandon glanced out the glass door and saw his gay couple watching. If this dumb-ass didn't make a decision soon, his morning was going to take a significant turn for the worse.

  "Cheetos?" Brandon suggested, stealing a quick glance at his watch as the man started toward the counter carrying a bag of chips. He was one of those flashy young rich guys who seemed to have no time for anyone but themselves, which was a good thing, since Brandon was completely undisguised. The bitter truth was that everyone and his brother was going to know he pulled this job. Not only were there basically flashing neon signs pointing to him at every turn, but all those bastards needed to nail you these days was a little flake of skin or a hair. A quick match with a similar cast off from his prison bunk would add yet another conviction to what was becoming an overly long list of convictions.

  "Ten minutes!" Brandon shouted, stepping through the glass doors and watching the taillights of the Hummer turn onto the highway and disappear.

  Catherine was already sitting in the decoy truck hidden a few hundred yards up the road, and his gay couple was still walking their now somewhat tired poodle. Brandon was about to check his watch again when he caught the sound of a distant helicopter. Carl's voice crackled to life in his ear a moment later.

  "I got the chopper and what looks like three sets of headlights. They're approximately five minutes from your position."

  "Did everybody get that?" Brandon said, using the throat mike hidden beneath his turtleneck. "Five minutes."

  They all responded and he started back to his cash register, feeling the giddy lightheadedness he always did when a job was about to go down. This time, though, there was a less familiar glimmer of dread beneath it.