Deadly Odds

by Allen Wyler

  Davidson chewed on that a moment. “What? Who? Who the hell we talking about?”

  Shifting from foot to foot, wiping both palms on his sweatshirt, Arnold explained, “Not a physical bomb. A small bit of software that’s programmed to wipe out their computers.” Now that the words were out, relief engulfed him, making him secure in the knowledge that if Karim killed him before he could destroy them, he still had successfully obtained an ounce of payback for Howie. And if he escaped? That payback would taste even sweeter.

  “Jesus!” Davidson whistled softly, shaking his head side to side.

  Now Arnold felt compelled to explain more. “See, Nawzer, their IT guy? He’s been trying to steal my system.” Although he’d told this to Davidson numerous times in recent days he felt compelled to repeat it. “Now he can’t.”

  “Aw, Jesus!” Davidson shook his head again. “Can you stop that?”

  Puzzled, he thought about that moment. “No, why?”

  “Here’s the problem. That’ll wipe out evidence the FBI needs.”

  “That’s irrelevant. They’re outside this country. The feds have no jurisdiction. And by the time they can possibly negotiate a collaborative arrangement, it’ll be too late.”

  “Shouldn’t the FBI the ones to make that call?”

  “Screw the FBI. They knew about the Jahandars before Howie was killed, and that didn’t stop the murder. This is now way too personal. But, if it’s any consolation, tell them the virus won’t trigger until midnight our time, so if they get on it right now, maybe they can salvage what they need. But I seriously doubt they’ll be able to.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” He paused. “Aw, Jesus, Arnold, Firouz is going to kill you.”

  He realized he’d gotten ahead of himself. “So what? He’s already given Karim permission for that. Makes no difference what I do, everything’s already in motion. I just have to hit them first.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  The park started closing in on him, his gut pain ratcheting up to unbelievable levels. He needed this conversation to end. “Trust me, I know.”

  Davidson didn’t seem anxious to release him. “Wait. You have another option.”

  Shit. 5:20 already. The entire afternoon seemed to be a live variation of a recurrent nightmare that went like this: as he packs for a trip he can’t seem to move fast enough to make the airport in time because every move seems mired in molasses.

  Don’t panic! Yet the harder he tried to stay calm, the worse it got. He tried to slow his mind but couldn’t concentrate even on that.

  Davidson was saying, “Just drop everything and get in my car right now. I’ll call Fisher as we drive. He can relocate you somewhere safe. Come on, let’s go.” Davidson pulled him toward the Mercedes.

  Arnold wrenched free. “No! I have to finish this, and do it my way.”

  His lawyer seemed genuinely puzzled. “Finish what?”

  At this point, he realized, his best strategy would be to simply shut up and walk away, but he owed Davidson an explanation. Sort of. “I’ve started something I have to finish. For Howie. Trust me.”

  For a long moment Davidson stayed still, intently studying his face, trying to read an explanation from his eyes. After several seconds his lawyer melted into resigned agreement. He nodded. “All right. But I’ll keep my cell on and keep any calls brief, just in case you change your mind. If so, call. I’ll come get you, no matter what time of day.”

  Arnold shook his head. “No, see, this is where we part company. I won’t be seeing you again. Ever.”

  Davidson recoiled as if hurt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. I won’t see you again. As of this moment I’m gone from the face of the earth. Arnold Gold ceases to exist.”

  “Horseshit. You can’t say that and expect me to just walk away.”

  Arnold gently put his hand Davidson’s shoulder and without saying a word, he knew this simple gesture conveyed everything his words couldn’t: heartfelt fondness and gratitude. “Thanks for everything. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. But my life here is over. And I now have a very big debt to settle. I’ve thought this through more than you can imagine. Nothing has weighed more heavily on my mind these past few days. But I have to do this.”

  Davidson nodded slowly. “All right then, I accept that.” He shook Arnold’s hand. “Great knowing you, Arnold Gold. You’re a good man.”

  36.

  Karim was standing on the front porch waiting, muscular arms crossed over his hairy chest, a nasty scowl on his face as Arnold rounded the corner to start up the curving narrow street to his house.

  Arnold slowed, wondering, uh-oh, what now? Then figured, screw him, the asshole wasn’t about to try to kill him out here in the street.

  Would he?

  Probably not.

  Unless Nawzer had found and decoded his virus. If so, all bets were off. His confidence drained.

  Turn around and run for it? He knew this neighborhood well enough to beat the odds of getting caught, besides, he’d done it before. But if he did, then what? Call Davidson and hide? No, he had to taste the satisfaction of inflicting some serious hurt on the bastards.

  So he approached the porch with his most innocent face. “What up? You look so serious.”

  Karim glared. “What took you so long?” And started the hand-washing thing again, clearly ready to get on with it.

  So, just for spite—as juvenile as that might be—Arnold paused at the bottom of the concrete steps up to the small bricked-in front porch. He turned his back to the bastard and let his eyes wander the neighborhood one final time, burning the images of where he’d spent his entire life into memory. He’d miss this place, the familiar sights and smells, with the womb-like security it bestowed. But life was always about starting over. Always.

  “Get in here!” Karim yelled. “Firouz wants results. He called several times while you were out wasting time.”

  Arnold started slowly up the stairs, thinking carefully about his next moves, going over each one once more, because he’d only get one shot. Timing would be everything. Now passing through the door jamb, he glanced at the carpet, to the spot now a shade lighter than the surrounding fabric as a result of having removed Howie’s blood. He hesitated for one final glance at the furniture so seemingly ingrained into his DNA, every piece an intimate part of his life. My past life, he thought.

  “Go, go!” Karim made a shooing motion toward the laptop on the kitchen table.

  Arnold noticed Karim sweating. “What’s wrong?” As if I really give a shit. Or don’t know.

  Karim grabbed his shoulders and shoved him toward the kitchen table. “Is not good that you’re behind schedule like this. I told Firouz when he called to talk to you that your stomach is problem, you were in bathroom. I make excuses for you. Now you are making it difficult for me. Go!”

  Arnold slipped into his chair and checked his watch. 6:15. No wonder Karim was irritated. Apparently the Law of Fecal Gravity applied to terrorist cells. Where was Davidson now? Had he handed off the flash drive to Fisher? Were the FBI geeks ready to relay the intel to whomever would take it from here? Arnold moved the mouse, clearing the screen saver, exposing the desktop. He paused to wipe his palms on his jeans, took a deep breath, and popped a Tums from the roll next to the mouse pad.

  Then he was on the instant messenger ringing Nawzer, a fresh bout of second thoughts exploding through his mind.

  The screen flicked over to the distorted webcam image of Nawzer’s face and it wasn’t happy. “Where you been? I’ve been calling.”

  “Good evening to you, too.”

  Could Nawzer see or sense his nervousness? He willed himself to act as if everything was normal but now wasn’t sure what that might be. Think about it too hard, you’ll screw up.

  Nawzer disregarded the comment. “Hold on. I’ll get the boss.”

  The boss. As if they were all one happy family working in concert for a common goal. He us
ed the opportunity to check Nawzer’s hacking progress. Amazingly, it appeared he hadn’t made significant progress since the last check. But he was still way too close to discovering Arnold’s hidden hard drive. Then again, in addition to stealing Arnold’s work, Nawzer and crew had their regular job to contend with, which now that he thought about it, he needn’t worry because all his hard drives had been totally destroyed. Regardless, once they figured out Arnold had scuttled his own ship, Karim’s order to kill him would be cast. Just give me a few more minutes.

  “Hey, my friend, how you doing?” Firouz was now peering into the webcam.

  “Sorry I’m behind. Am having some stomach problems.” Supporting Karim’s little white lie might give him pause, maybe ease the rush. Ten more minutes I’ll be done here.

  “No problem, no problem. Are you finished?”

  “Will be. Soon as we hang up I’ll upload the analysis to your computer.” Asshole.

  “Good, good. See any problems?”

  Arnold’s confidence grew. “No.” Apparently he was a better liar than he gave himself credit for.

  “Go ahead, send it then.”

  The instant messenger disconnected, leaving Arnold stone still with an aching gut and hunger for air. But with Karim watching from the doorway, he knew he should breathe normally.

  Do it!

  His hand seemed paralyzed.

  For Christ’s sake, do it!

  When is Karim supposed to kill me?

  Soon. He could sense Karim’s anticipation, and his heightened sensory system could hear the friction in Karim’s nervous handwashing.

  It was then he caught the first faint whiff of natural gas. Jesus, the computer room must be saturated with the stuff by now. For Christ’s sake, do it. Why had he wasted so much time? Time was running out.

  A fresh wave of resolve hit. He grabbed his smartphone, scraped back the chair, and was up, heading into for the back door, calling, “I’m done. Going out now to pick up some pizza. What kind you want?”

  But Karim came at him, moving fast. Karim’s iron grip clamped Arnold’s biceps so he couldn’t move. “No, no. You stay.”

  Whoa! That look on Karim’s face… this is it! Get out. Fast.

  “Aw, c’mon, Karim. Pizza. Aren’t you hungry?” Playing to the slob’s endless appetite. He reached for the door with his free hand, thinking, break free and run! Karim released his arm.

  Arnold grabbed of the doorknob. Beat him last time he chased me out the door, I can do it again and this time, ankle’s fine. The knob turned but the door didn’t move. Shit! The deadbolt was engaged and the key wasn’t in the lock like it always was. Oh shit, this is it, bastard’s going to kill me before I can get him.

  “You’re not hungry?” he asked Karim.

  Karim shook his head. “No. We wait.”

  “Wait for what?” As if he didn’t know.

  Karim’s phone rang, the sound so startling that Arnold jumped. He hadn’t noticed the terrorist’s cell on the counter next to the opened paperback. And in that moment Arnold knew it was Firouz telling Karim to go ahead, kill him.

  37.

  Stunned at what he was seeing, Arnold watched Karim reach to the small of his back and withdraw a flat black 9mm Glock. Just fucking watched him do it without even trying to struggle, his mind again flashing on Jews obediently marching into Nazi gas chambers knowing they were about to be executed, some still clinging stubbornly to the unrealistic hope of actually having a shower. Think!

  For a moment, Karim inspected the gun with a detached, clinical air about him. Like, “Let me make sure I got this straight, one in the chamber…”

  For Christ’s sake, do something!

  Yeah? What? Run? Fucking door’s locked and there’s no way around that big sonofabitch.

  Fight. Least that’s better than just standing here with your thumb up your…

  Try talking him out of it?

  And say what, exactly: I wouldn’t do that if I were you? Yeah, that sounds about right.

  Karim smiled with satisfaction that the gun appeared to be in perfect working order, just like he always kept it. His gaze came up to meet Arnold, and for a moment Arnold thought he detected a spark of regret, as if somehow they’d bonded in a reverse Stockholm Syndrome of sorts.

  Arnold held up a hand. “Stop. Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Karim’s brow furrowed, perhaps wondering if he’d heard right.

  “Smell that?” Arnold said, sniffing in an exaggerated audible manner. “Gas! Pull that trigger, this whole place goes up. Kaboom! You with it.”

  Karim stood motionless, as if replaying and evaluating Arnold’s statement over and over, word by fucking word. Arnold could almost see the syllables sequentially processing through his lizard brain: flash, gas, ignite, kaboom! Karim sniffed, turned his head slightly with his chin raised, sniffed again, as if having difficulty discerning the gas. His eyes flashed back to Arnold.

  “Is in the basement, this gas line?”

  Arnold nodded vigorously. “Yes. Want me to go check? Must be a leak.”

  Any chance to break out a window and crawl out before Karim had time to scramble down to stop me? An old chair was next to the washer and dryer, and a monkey wrench on the workbench, perfect for smashing the glass…

  Karim flicked the barrel of the gun toward the den. “In there.”

  “Hey, look, let me go down and see what’s wrong. I know the—”

  “In there. Go.”

  The good news about the den was that it wasn’t directly above the computer room. Close, but not directly over it. If he could bust out that window and slip out and ignite the gas, he might still have a chance. He pictured Karim bending down with a puzzled expression, looking at the open T-valve with the gas escaping. But was he dumb enough to actually go down there? And would he be smart enough to look in the computer room instead of only at the line to the furnace?

  Soon as they entered the den, Karim pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket.

  “Stand there,” and pointed to a spot next to the desk.

  Arnold looked at the location, thought, so what? And didn’t understand.

  Until Karim rough-slapped one end of the cuffs around his right wrist, squeezed it until the sides pinched skin, then yanked his arm down, buckling Arnold at the knees. With Arnold now kneeling, Karim secured the other cuff to the desk leg immediately below the bottom drawer. Shit! Wasn’t working out even close to the way he’d planned.

  The gas odor was growing stronger by the second and he was damned sure it wasn’t his imagination.

  “Hey Karim, it’s me, Arnold. You can trust me. Don’t just leave me here.”

  Karim, halfway through the door jamb, now his bulk filling the space. He turned and shot a dead-eyed stare at Arnold and said nothing.

  “C’mon, Karim, don’t leave me cuffed to the damn desk.” If he could just talk him into undoing them…

  Without a word the big terrorist turned and vanished around the corner.

  Arnold heard the door to the basement open followed by the clunk clunk clunk of heavy steps down the wooden flight.

  No! This isn’t how I planned it. I was supposed to go out to empty the garbage or get pizza or take a walk—just anything to get out the house—and then trigger the igniter with the cell phone.

  He jerked against the cuffs on the off chance they hadn’t been secured. But all that did was send a bolt of pain through his wrist. He tried to curl his hand and wrist into a small round mass to slip through the cuff like he’d seen a prisoner do on the TV show Lockup. That didn’t work either.

  Time was flying past. By now Karim was probably inspecting the furnace, finding the gas line.

  Jesus, he’ll be back up in seconds.

  Frantically, he glanced around the room for something to help him free his hand. Tried to push up the corner of the heavy oak desk with his back, but the damn thing weighed a ton and didn’t budge and the corner cut into his skin. He tried again, ignoring the pa
in. This time he was able to lift the desk high enough to slip the cuff underneath. If his arm were long enough to reach. Which it wasn’t.

  Glanced around the room again.

  Nothing!

  Seconds continued to fly, tick tick tick tick… Shit!

  He didn’t see any other option. More than anything in the world, he wanted revenge for Howie’s senseless murder. He wanted Karim to die at his hands, even if it meant sacrificing his own life.

  With his free left hand he reached across his body to fish the cell from his jeans. Working quickly now, so Karim would hopefully still be in the computer room to receive the full force of the blast, he opened the app to wirelessly trigger the stove igniter, figuring the rack and the computer fragments might even act as shrapnel.

  With the app now open, all was needed was to press enter and 110 volts would spark across the contacts, igniting the natural gas. But would the explosion kill him, too?

  Then again, what did he really have to lose, considering Karim planned to kill him anyway the moment he came back up the stairs? Would he rather die at his own hands or at the hands of that big stupid asshole?

  Do it now, don’t waste another second! Press the damned button, you pussy!

  Arnold swallowed hard, closed his eyes and thumbed enter.

  38.

  Arnold became vaguely aware of intense heat and violent hacking coughs, the pungency of smoke, and more coughing. Nothing like the smell of fall, when people illegally burn maple leaves raked from yards or enjoy fires in fireplaces. No, this was the smell of burning rubber and drywall, plastic, and wool.

  The stench of a burning house.

  His head pounded on the threshold of exploding.

  A split-second later he realized he was flat on his back, right arm still tethered to the desk, left knee bent at a painfully awkward angle. Slitting open his eyes, he could see only thick anthracite, nose-clogging haze, backlit with flickering glowing reds and yellows. He became aware of a familiar crackling roar.