by Kathy Reichs
“Move.”
It appeared the two didn’t like island culture. It appeared they didn’t like me. Kong shoved my left shoulder so hard with his free hand I almost screamed. My torso twisted and he slipped around me, close at my back. I forced myself not to flinch at his touch.
Bulldog moved to my side. I could have disabled them both with very little effort. A kick to the groin. An elbow to the head. Would have enjoyed it. Instead we shambled in a knot to the mustard-colored building.
Kerr’s apartment was on the ground floor in front, to the left of stairs with open spaces between the treads. The door gave directly onto the living room. She was in it, sitting on a large green pillow on the floor, knees drawn to her chest. No surprise, she was dressed in black.
Stetson was on the couch. He was wearing jeans, a pale yellow shirt with piping and snaps, no jacket. The boots were snakeskin, the toes reinforced with steel. Up close his face appeared almost boyish—plump cheeks and chin, arched brows, bangs fringing across his forehead. But not boyish in a good way. In an evil master Doctor Who way.
Kong gun-muzzled me forward. I heard the door slam behind us but not the click of a latch.
Stetson’s eyes rolled to Kong. His chin dipped slightly and he intertwined his fingers. Long fingers. Long thumbs. At the base of one was a double-J tattoo.
“Why are you harassing our friend?” Directed at me. Kong was trying for tough to impress the boss.
“Am I?”
Before Kong could follow up, Stetson placed his hands on his knees and pushed to his feet, all the while appearing to study his boots. He crossed the room slowly, gaze still down. He had long limbs, took long, unhurried strides. When he was two steps from me his arms shot out and his fingers wrapped my neck. Strong fingers. Vise fingers. I raised my hands and clawed at them. They tightened. Their owner’s eyes drilled mine. Ice-blue eyes. Mean eyes.
I tried breathing through my nose. Failed. Tears ran down my cheeks. My vision started to blur, my thoughts to splinter.
I was fighting panic when Stetson released his grip and stepped back. I gulped air. Bent at the waist to clear my brain. Wiped my face with my palms.
Kong was beside me, the Beretta aimed at my head. Bulldog was between Kerr and the couch, gun drawn and pointed at my sternum.
I straightened. Stetson pulled a hanky from his back pocket and held it out. I ignored the offering. Something in his eyes sent a chill down my spine.
Stetson pivoted and, catlike, returned to the sofa. Crossed his legs.
“Why are you harassing our friend?” Never looking at Kerr, still watching from her pillow.
“I believe she helped blow up a school in Chicago.”
“Why do you care?”
“People were killed.”
“Why do you care?”
“I’ve been hired to find those responsible.”
“And then?”
I just looked at him.
“I see.” Examining what I hadn’t said. “Why didn’t you abduct her when you first found her? Or shoot her? You seem skilled at that.”
“I’m a softie.”
“And you hoped she would lead you to bigger game.”
“And that.”
“Did she?” he asked.
“Did she?” I asked.
A few seconds of tense silence. I broke it.
“Nice tattoo.”
“Let me ask you something,” Stetson said. “You have killed one person, disabled another. You are a keen observer and an expert tracker. You eluded our people in Chicago. You found us here.”
Down a hall to my left, a door opened. A woman’s voice floated out. I couldn’t catch her words. Another woman spoke, sharper. A different door opened and closed. The room hiccuped softly, as though alien air had puffed in from outside.
Stella? I kept my breathing steady, my eyes unreadable.
Stetson had paused, distracted. Or listening.
“Is there a question in there?” I asked.
“You are good at your job. Why so slovenly today?”
“I was drinking beer.”
“You’re a clever woman. It’s a pity I have to kill you.”
“You’re a clever guy. You can think of alternatives.”
“Yes.” Smiling with zero warmth. “You are smarter than most with whom I am forced to associate.”
“And they would be?”
“Idealists who have led clean lives.” He studied me, fingers pressed together under his chin. “You are no stranger to violence.”
I said nothing.
“You can think and you can handle yourself,” he went on. “Such a shame I can’t recruit you to my cause.”
“And that cause would be?”
“Defending our way of life.”
“Against whom?”
“Those who would destroy it.”
“A fifteen-year-old kid?”
The blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“Where is she?”
The narrowed gaze held.
“What’s the JJ stand for?” Cocking my chin at the hands with their long, strong fingers.
“Jihad for Jesus.”
“Nice alliteration.”
“We are crusaders for Christ.”
“You Galahad or Gawain?”
“My name is Bronco.”
“Yippee ki-yay.”
“You are a very disrespectful woman.”
“I try my best. Who are these evil destroyers you fear?”
“Outsiders who threaten our religious freedom. Our country. Our very civilization.”
“You talking vegans?” Buying time. Where the hell was Gus?
“I’m talking those who believe in Islam and its repressive anti-constitutional Sharia law. Those who kill in the name of Allah. Those who oppress women. Those who bully the world with their suicide attacks, honor killings, stabbings, hijackings, kidnappings, beheadings—”
“Bombings.”
“Bombings.”
“Crackpot extremists don’t define a religion.” Straining to hear what was happening down the hall.
“That’s how you see these jihadists? These terrorists who wage holy war to force the world to conform to Sharia? I fear you underestimate the gravity of the situation. Islam is not just a religion. It has become a global and political military offensive.”
I didn’t respond.
“Taliban. Islamic jihad. Al-Qaeda. Boko Haram. Al-Shabaab. ISIS. Shall I go on?”
“The radical fringe.” Silence in the back of the house.
“Muslim immigration to the United States is growing at record rates. Muslim leaders are relying on our own First Amendment rights to build mosques and Islamic centers, then use those centers to recruit and indoctrinate jihadists. To promote violence against nonbelievers. Against the descendants of the authors of that very Constitution. A charter created to protect the Judeo-Christian principles upon which this country was founded. Familiar with the term Wahhabism?”
“The Saudi wing of Islam.”
“Did you know that an overwhelming majority of these centers are under Wahhabist influence? Ever hear of the Muslim Brotherhood? Civilization jihad?”
I let him rant on.
“Muslim Brothers are worming their way into positions in business, government, the schools, the military. Their plan is to destroy Western civilization not with bombs and beheadings but from within.”
“How’s that going?”
Bronco studied me a long time before speaking again. “We share a lot, you and I.”
“I don’t blow up schools and abduct young girls.”
“You know nothing.”
“Help me out.”
“The school wasn’t the target.”
A reel of CSU photos unspooled in my mind. The school. The painted boulder. The bicycle rack spiraling skyward. The vacant lot to the east. The food market beyond the lot. Synapse. “You were going for the Muslim grocer next door?”
“Don’t let appearances fool
you. The owner of that grocery donates enormous sums of money to Muslim causes worldwide. And he had plans to expand into a national chain. Expansion is the cornerstone of their scheme for civilization jihad. Slow growth, business by business, property by property, country by country.”
“You’re saying you bombed the wrong place?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of working with people as expert as you and I are. The luxury to choose. That will not be the case in the future. But, to be fair, the error in Chicago wasn’t totally their fault. The backpack was left near the store as directed. A child spotted it, perhaps decided to be a Samaritan. Sadly for him, the bomb detonated as he was returning the pack to the school. You know the old saying?”
“May you rot in hell?” Feeling a warning twist in my gut.
“No good deed goes unpunished.”
“That child was Bowen Bright.” Fury crackling through me. I wanted to kick the bastard’s nads up into his brainpan. Or worse. “He was twelve years old. They scraped his face from the pavement, tweezed his brain from the trees. The blast also killed his mother.”
Bronco shrugged.
“What happened to Stella?” Heart thudding.
Bronco gave me a blue-obsidian stare.
My breath quickened. My fingers curled into fists.
“We’re done here.” Bronco looked to Kerr. She got to her feet. He rose, and together they started toward the hall from which the women’s voices had come.
A fuse blew in my brain. I wanted this scumbag.
Fast as a heartbeat, I dropped below the angle of the two Berettas and jackknifed toward Bronco’s ankles. He yanked one foot free of my grasp and kicked out. The steel-tipped toe connected with my cheek. My head flew back and my ass slammed the floor. I rolled.
Stunned, Kong and Bulldog hesitated that one critical second. Kong recovered first and got me back in his crosshairs.
The door flew open. Gus thundered in, a Luger two-fisted at his nose, a spare magazine clamped in his teeth. Kong and Bulldog whipped toward him as one. Kong fired. Missed. Gus shot him. Kong went down with a thud and a soft little grunt.
I scrabbled behind a chair. Bulldog crouched and began working his way along the sofa. Gus fired at him from the cover of the doorjamb.
Life and death can intersect in the blink of an eye. Reaching the end of the sofa, Bulldog half-rose for a better angle. In the same instant, Kong levered up on one elbow and fired blindly from the floor. His round caught Bulldog halfway up his spine. Bulldog hit the hardwood with a sound like meat slamming ice. Kong fell back and lay still.
Silence exploded into the room.
Gus and I stared at each other, wild-eyed, panting. Scrambling to my feet, I pointed at the archway through which Kerr and Bronco had gone. “Be careful. There may be others back there.”
As I recovered my Glock from Bulldog, Gus disappeared down the hall. When I joined him, he was standing in a small kitchen, tense as a leopard ready to spring. Across from the kitchen were a bedroom and a bath, both empty. The kitchen was empty. The back door was open.
Our eyes met. Still jittery and pumped with adrenaline. Nothing stirred.
We lowered our guns.
Legs like rubber, I dashed to the living room, pulled out my burner, and took pics of the two men lying on the floor. When done, I searched for a pulse on each. Felt a murmur in Kong’s carotid. Maybe. It could have been the trembling in my fingers. Neither man seemed to be breathing. Bulldog’s parrots and leis were going dark fast.
Quick scan of the apartment. No Stella.
Using the landline, I dialed 911 and reported a shooting.
“Time to haul okole,” I said to Gus.
“Hawaiian ass?”
I nodded.
We hauled.
We legged east, weaving the maze of streets paralleling Rose. Slowly our heart rates eased. My right cheek was purple and swollen, but no one seemed to notice. Or find it unusual.
By 8:15 we were back at the Marina 7. Gus’s presence was reassuring, so I registered for another night. If we stayed longer in L.A., I’d insist we relocate. Maybe go oceanfront. Gus would like that.
While downing warm beers in Gus’s room, we studied the blurry faces printed from the Bnos Aliza video. I told Gus the Forester’s driver was the mustachioed John Doe at the Chicago morgue. We agreed that one of the pair in back was probably Bulldog.
“That’s two,” Gus said.
“We didn’t exactly catch this guy.”
“You’ve got pics. You called 911. It counts.”
I said nothing.
“Look, these asswipes didn’t grab you to have dinner at the Ivy.” Gus finished his Beck’s and wiggled two more cans from the plastic six-pack rings.
“How did you know I was in that apartment?”
“Followed the plan, baby sis.”
“We’re twins.”
“I’m six minutes older,” he said.
“And six inches shorter.”
“I ain’t no shorty. I’m a straight-up ghetto brotha.” Gus did gangsta. Badly.
“Seriously. How did you find me?”
“You pretended to tail Kerr. I tailed you. I was on the boardwalk when Dumb and Dumber made their move. I admired your restraint, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“I followed you into Kerr’s building—”
“Showing restraint.”
“While concealed behind the staircase, I noted that the door hadn’t latched. Used that to my benefit.”
“And mine.”
“Who’s the dude boogied with Kerr?”
“Calls himself Bronco. White supremacist, revolutionary type. Wants to save the world from Muslim domination.”
“By blowing up little Jewish girls?”
“The intended target was the grocer across the vacant lot.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“That’s their man.” I explained the meaning of the JJ tattoos.
“Islamophobe assholes.”
“And Bronco’s the head asshole. He’s smart, obsessed, and willing to use violence. That’s a deadly combination.”
“He give anything up on Stella?”
I shook my head. “But I heard female voices.”
“You think they’re planning something else?”
“Bronco as much as said so.”
“Soon?”
“I got that impression.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Here?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s our next move?”
“I don’t know.”
—
I got to my new room around ten. It had two double beds. The theme was grape jelly and algae salad.
I tossed my backpack onto the chair, dug out and set up the motion detector. Then I removed my jacket and took off the Glock. While undressing, I remembered the visor. Couldn’t recall losing it. Felt bummed. I really liked that dog.
Gun on the edge of the sink, I showered and did my evening toilette. Then, dressed in a clean tee and panties, I slid my MacBook Air from the pack and carried it to the bed opposite the TV. After removing the quilt, transferring extra pillows, and locating the remote, I stretched out, back propped by a double set of synthetic foam.
I found the local ABC station. A medical or police drama was winding toward the credits. Lots of sirens. Lots of angst. Since connecting with Kerr, I hadn’t checked my email or social media. I muted the TV, opened the laptop, and got online.
I’d lost all but two of my Twitter followers. Still, no one had liked me on Facebook. Overcoming the sting of rejection, I logged into the Gmail account I’d created before leaving Charleston. My inbox contained a lot of spam and one message from [email protected]. I opened it.
You’re both dead.
I stared at the words, heart beating steady and hard. Not fear. Eagerness. An anger-fueled desire to nail the dickwad who was threatening me.
Both dead? Who else?
Gus? Stella?
“Bring it on, chickenshit.” To the empty room.
As in Kerr’s apartment, I clicked the tiny triangle to the right of the reply arrow, then chose the command Show Original from the drop-down menu. A similar block of data appeared.
I copied [email protected]’s IP address, and then I went to ipTRACKERonline.com. A keystroke combo pasted the series of digits into the empty box. I hit enter and a Google Earth satellite image appeared. On it was a red circle with its root stuck into the ground.
Below the map were data organized into three categories. Provider. Country. Time. I skimmed the middle column. Country. Region. City. Metro code. Postal code.
TNT’s email had been sent from Los Angeles.
I thought about that. On TV, an ER team was trying to save a kid who’d arrived by ambulance missing a leg. The kid wasn’t responding and the docs and nurses weren’t taking it well.
I lifted my burner from the bedside table, opened Notes, and went to the list of IP addresses I’d created from the emails received by Kerr shortly before my spin through her Argyle Street pad. The only four she hadn’t erased.
I repeated the process of geolocation with [email protected].
Trailblazer had sent his missive from Corydon, Indiana. [email protected] was in Louisville, Kentucky.
The other two messages were from [email protected] and [email protected]. Both had been tapping the keys in our nation’s capital.
When I’d considered doing PI work, I’d learned of services that allow reverse lookup of email addresses. If you’re lucky, you get names, addresses, photos, blogs, family background, online profiles, social networks, neighbors’ addresses, etc. I subscribed to several and ran the names. Got nothing.
I thought about that. Not a single hit for any of the five. I suspected the accounts were created for short-term use and abandoned quickly. My MO.
Next, I checked the other photos I’d taken while in Kerr’s apartment. The passports. The delivery label from the capsules.
When I glanced up, the evening news had come on. A reporter in a flapping poncho was braving a downpour in a gale-force wind. Behind him, waves hammered a seawall. A crawler stated that Tropical Storm Atticus was barreling toward Mexico.
Really? Atticus?
