the Second Horseman (2006)

by Kyle Mills

  "That wasn't our fault, sir. Those things were for sale and we were told to go get them off the market. It might not have worked out perfect --"

  "Obviously not."

  "But what if we hadn't done anything at all? They would have still been sold to terrorists and at least a few of them probably would have ended up in your country. There would have been no warning then. They'd have just gone off. In Jerusalem. Or Tel Aviv. Or both."

  The prime minister, whose name Brandon still couldn't remember, actually smiled. "You're an extraordinarily convincing young man, Brandon. Have you ever considered politics? I feel almost compelled to thank you for delivering a planeload of nuclear warheads to terrorists bent on Israel's destruction."

  Brandon wasn't exactly sure how to take that and he glanced back at Catherine for help. She didn't even seem to know he was there. She just stared into the glare coming off the water, trying to see the faces of those three thousand dead.

  "Just for the sake of argument, Brandon, what do you think would be fair compensation?"

  "I'm not trying to be greedy, sir. A couple of passports and two plane tickets to South Africa would do it. We could even fly coach."

  The man's smile grew wider for a moment, but then disappeared when he fixed his gaze on Catherine. "There's been a great deal of debate as to what to do with the two of you. It seemed very clean to send you to look for the final bomb and then to just lose you in the detonation. But when you survived, the situation became more complicated. Of course, most of us still agree that weighing you down and throwing you off the ship would be in everyone's best interest."

  "Not ours," Brandon said.

  "No, I suppose not. But you have to understand that both my country and yours are very interested in keeping what has happened quiet."

  "So you're going to kill us," Brandon said, subtly nudging Catherine in a futile attempt to get her to participate in the conversation that was going to determine whether she lived or died.

  "I don't know what to do with you, Brandon. I really don't."

  EPILOGUE:

  "Do you think this is enough?"

  Brandon waved a hand through the thick smoke enveloping him and peered at the large bowl in Catherine's hands. Who would have thought she would be a gardening prodigy? The lettuce leaves were a uniform, unblemished green, and the tomatoes were perfectly round and bloodred.

  "Looks good to me. Oh, and when you come back out, could you bring some beer? The cooler's almost empty."

  She had short blond hair now, a smaller, straighter nose, and slightly elongated eyes that went a long way toward relocating her Spanish heritage to somewhere in Asia. Combined with the smile that seemed to grow broader and more relaxed every day, sometimes even he didn't recognize her.

  Their surgeries had been done in Argentina, where they'd lived in complete seclusion for a rather painful and tedious five months. Once they were fully healed and had their carefully prepared cover stories straight, the Israelis had provided them with passports and greased the skids for permanent residency in South Africa. He took back everything bad he'd ever said about those guys, despite their repeated refusal to pay for him to get Brad Pitt's chin.

  "Kind of a lot of smoke," Catherine said, coming around the elaborate stainless steel grill he'd bought. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

  "Hey, who's in charge of the meat?" He flipped a kudu steak that was partially on fire and waved her away.

  A quick roll of the eyes and she started toward the house, weaving through the people drinking and talking on their lawn. He watched her until she disappeared, enjoying the sway of her skirt and the flash of newly whitened teeth as she passed by their guests.

  Being cautious by nature, Catherine had been against hosting a block party for their new neighbors. It was understandable in light of the fact that they were wanted not only in connection with the Vegas heist, but for questioning in the murder of an FBI agent who'd been found parked outside Richard Scanlon's house.

  Strangely, the possibility of her eventual appearance on America's ten most wanted list didn't seem to weigh on her all that much. Or maybe it wasn't that strange. The deaths of all those people in Israel -- estimates had stabilized somewhere in the thirty-five hundred range -- made everything else seem irrelevant. He'd done what he could to convince her it wasn't her fault, but nothing worked. In Argentina, she'd practically lived in front of the television, face wrapped in bandages and teetering on the edge of clinical depression. It had been so hard for him to just sit there and helplessly watch.

  Finally, when they'd been relocated to Cape Town, he'd decided that if he couldn't convince her to forgive herself, then he was going to help her learn to live with it. He'd bought a couple of motorcycles and talked her into heading out across Africa with him. When they returned two months later, she was starting to come out of it. Flashes of real happiness were more and more frequent.

  Of course, they still kept up on what was happening. Edwin Hamdi's disappearance had gotten a lot of press at first, including speculation that it was somehow connected to the terrorists who had placed those nukes all over Israel. Now, though, it was almost as if he never existed -- even a Google search couldn't find current information on the investigation. Not so surprising, he supposed.

  As for Israel, it was back to what passed as normal in that part of the world. People were returning in droves, while Syria and Egypt's armies continued to hover on the borders, trying to decide whether to try to take advantage of the chaos. The conventional wisdom, though, was that it was all for show. Israel had made it subtly clear that after being the victim of a nuclear attack by Arabs, they wouldn't hesitate to return the favor.

  Brandon flipped a few more steaks and shot a squirt gun at a particularly stubborn flare-up, wondering for the thousandth time if the world wouldn't have been better off if they'd just left Israel to its own devices.

  Catherine reappeared in the doorway of their new house, and started toward him with a tray full of neatly sliced vegetables.

  "You forgot the beer."

  She set the tray down on the edge of a table and came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning into his ear. "I met your new friend."

  "New friend?"

  "Dominic. He's not from the neighborhood, is he?"

  "Uh, no. Just a guy I met."

  "Seems nice."

  "Yeah, he is."

  "He tells me he works for a bank. A vice president, I guess."

  "Yeah. I think that's right," he said, grabbing a stack of cheese slices and using them to top the burgers.

  "A bank, Brandon?"

  "So?"

  She dug a knuckle painfully into his ribs.

  "Oh, come on, Cath. Now who's being paranoid?"

  "So this is just a coincidence? You're saying I owe you an apology?"

  "Hell, yeah. A big apology."

  Her grip loosened and she leaned her chin on his shoulder for a few moments. "Okay, then. I'm sorry."

  "You should be," Brandon said, wiping his hands on a towel. "I'll tell you something, though. They do have atrocious security here . . ."

  Table of Contents

  Start