Aim True, My Brothers

by William F. Brown

  “Well, thank you, Sir!” Dante beamed, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Then we should adjourn to your office, Rufus. And have your two boys join us, too,” Al-Bari said as he glanced over at Arazi. “We have some business to conclude, and some unexpected bonuses to distribute.”

  “Unexpected bonuses? Well now, you are indeed a gentleman, Sir. Billy Lee and Taylor. Ya’ll come on in here now, ya hear?”

  Two hours later, after night had fallen on the York River, Ibrahim Al-Bari drove the white camper truck back to the self-storage complex in Gloucester, Virginia. Hafez Arazi rode in the passenger seat. They were four miles north of the York River Bridge, in the dark, wooded area in the rear row of the neat complex of garage-like self-storage buildings. At this hour, it was well lit, but deserted, and the perfect time to pick up the weapons and shells they had left there the night before. Al-Bari backed the camper up to the rental unit’s door and the two men got out. They stood silently for a moment and slowly looked around. The rear aisle and woods behind it appeared quiet and dark, Al-Bari thought, as he took out his key and opened the rental unit’s door. Inside, he flipped up a light switch, which turned on a single, sixty-watt light bulb that dangled from the center of the ceiling. Everything was as they left it. The weapon was still rolled in the rug. The heavy, round base plate lay next to it with the supporting rods and elevating gears, and the wooden boxes with the shells were next to them.

  “Let us get this done, Cousin,” he said. “We’ll check out the plate and the mechanisms later when we have some privacy at the campground. Here, take the other end of the rug,” he said as the two men bent down and picked the tube up, straining to carry the heavy rug out of the shed and slide it inside the camper.

  With the tube safely inside, Al-Bari stood and stretched, painfully.

  “Ah, your back is hurting,” Arazi commented. “Allow me to carry the boxes, Cousin.”

  “I am fine, Hafez, truly I am.”

  “You wait outside.”

  “No, we shall carry them out together.”

  They went back inside and each man picked up a box and carried it outside. As they reached the rear door of the camper, two large men stepped out of the shadows behind the truck.

  “My, my, will ya look at that, now, Mike,” one of them said in a thick Irish brogue. Al-Bari needed no introduction. He assumed they were two of Sean Murphy’s henchmen from Boston.

  Mike held a large .357-Magnum revolver in his hand, pointed at the two Arabs. “Put the boxes down,” he said menacingly, motioning with the revolver. “And get up against the shed, both of youse.”

  Danny stood in the center of the aisle holding a crow bar in his meaty fist as he grinned at them. He raised his other hand and pointed his finger at Al-Bari as if it were a pistol, 'shot' him with it, and blew the smoke away from his fingertip. “Just imagine, an arrogant bastard like you lettin’ the likes of us get the drop on you like this.”

  “Guess you ain’t nearly as smart as you think you are,” Mike added angrily.

  “No, you showed us no respect back there, especially to old Murph.”

  “We had you in our cross-hairs the whole time, ever since you left Boston, and now it’ll be you two Wogs who pay the piper,” Danny added.

  While Mike covered them, Danny laughed and pried the top off one of the wooden crates with the crow bar. He reached inside, dug to the bottom, pulled out a small black-plastic box, and held it up. “Radio Shack, Mate, ‘electric bread crumbs,' they call these little beauties. Like little Hansel and Gretel, you left a trail of them down I-95 that even a couple of dumb Micks like us could follow.”

  Al-Bari glared at him and at the small radio device, knowing he had been incredibly stupid to underestimate the IRA. Worse, he had been soft — soft and stupid not to kill Murphy and the other two when he had the chance.

  “We followed you the whole way down here, and tracked the box here to the locker last night, Mike and I did, but you left before we could close in,” Danny said.

  “Yeah. We wanted to steal it all back and kill you right then for what you did to John, you bastard,” Mike said.

  “You had no cause to shoot the man in the leg like that, no cause at all!” Danny agreed. “But Murph wouldn’t sanction it. He told us to stay here and wait. He knew you two would come back for it later, and he wanted to know what else you were up to down here, so we did what he said. Well, it looks like he was right, you stupid Wog.”

  Danny was big and muscular. He gave Arazi a powerful backhanded blow that knocked him to his knees. He shoved Al-Bari hard against the wall of the shed, spun him around so that they faced each other, chest to chest, and got up close in Al-Bari’s face. “John is a friend of ours and you hurt him bad, you little turd,” he said, his eyes moving as he bounced the crow bar up and down in his hand. “Well, now we’re gonna see how you like to get hurt. Maybe I will start with your right knee, like you done to John. Then, I can work on the other leg, and maybe an arm or two. That ought to fix you up good.”

  “Wait a minute, Danny. I got an idea. Let me get Murph on the cell phone,” Mike said. “He can listen in while we 'fix' this bastard.”

  “Good,” Danny laughed, as he shoved Al-Bari again, even harder, and bounced him off the wall of the shed. “Murph’ll like that.”

  Mike tucked his revolver into his belt, pulled a flip phone from his rear pocket, and began pushing buttons. The two Irishmen were grinning at each other and laughing, until someone answered at the other end.

  “It's Mike, is Himself there? Guess who we got?”

  “He's gonna love it when you tell him,” Danny said.

  “Who is this, Big Pat?” Mike asked into the phone. “Put us on speaker, you’re gonna love this too, Boyo.”

  “So, you got the Wog?” they heard Murphy’s voice ask.

  “Oh, yeah, we got him all right, Murph. You want us to bring him back? Danny thought he’d dent him up a bit with a crow bar first.”

  As the Irishmen laughed, Al-Bari saw his opening. His ice pick was pinned along the seam of the inside pocket of his jacket and he had worked his right hand inside. When Danny punched him in the chest again, Al-Bari's hand shot out with the ice pick and shoved it into Danny’s left eye, penetrating deep into his skull. The big Irishman let loose a blood-curdling scream and stood upright as if he had touched a high-voltage power line. That took Danny out of play and doubled Al-Bari’s odds of surviving, but he did not wait. As Danny raised his hands to his face, too late to stop the ice pick or the excruciating pain, Al-Bari snatched the crowbar from the Irishman’s hand. He pivoted around the big man and swung the steel bar as hard as he could into Mike’s right forearm, just below the elbow.

  Mike was still chattering away on the cell phone, which was tucked between his left shoulder and his ear, as the square-edged, blue-steel crowbar smashed into him, crushing the radius and the ulna bones. He looked down in horror as his forearm suddenly had a forty-five degree bend in it, rendering his gun hand useless. Mike’s eyes went wide. He turned his head and dropped the cell phone. It clattered onto the ground as he screamed, finally thinking to reach across his body for the pistol tucked in his belt. Somehow, Mike actually managed to get his hand on the pistol grip and his finger on the trigger as Al-Bari brought the crowbar crashing down on the side of the Irishman’s head. The .357-Magnum went off with a loud BAM! Mike staggered backward a half step, still screaming, until his legs gave out and he sat on the ground, pulling the trigger again and again. The pistol bullets buried themselves harmlessly in the asphalt, but Al-Bari was taking no chances. He took another step forward and was about to bring the crowbar down on the top of Mike’s head again, but the pistol dropped onto the pavement and the Irishman toppled over onto his side, unconscious.

  Danny was on his knees behind him, moaning. Al-Bari swung back around and raised the crowbar, but there was no need. Danny’s hands were on his face and blood was running between his fingers and down his shirt, but it was easy to see the handle of
the ice pick sticking out of his eye socket. Al-Bari paused the crowbar, drew it back again, and then stopped again, seeing how unnecessary another blow would be, as Danny collapsed onto the ground next to his partner. Slowly, Al-Bari let the crowbar slip from his hands. It fell onto the hard asphalt with a loud ‘Clang!’

  Hafez Arazi was still shaking the cobwebs out of his head as Al-Bari turned and helped him to his feet and asked, “Are you all right, Hafez?”

  “I think so, Ibrahim. I hit my head against the wall and saw flashing lights for a moment, before everything went black,” he answered as he turned and looked down at the two badly battered Irishmen. “But I guess I am in better condition than they are. My God! What did you…?” he began to ask until he saw the back half of the ice pick’s handle sticking out of Danny’s eye. “I had heard that you were good with that thing, but I had no idea how good.”

  “Not by choice, Hafez. Not by choice,” Al-Bari answered as he reached down and pulled the ice pick out of Danny’s skull, wiped it off on the Irishman’s shirt, and put it away, without showing a hint of emotion. He then picked up Mike’s cell phone off the ground. “Hello,” he said into the phone. “I assume this is you, Murphy?”

  “And who the hell is this?” he heard the fat man’s voice ask.

  “An old friend.”

  “Teraki, you son of a…” There was a pause as Murphy realized what it meant. “What’s going on? You bastard, where’s Danny and Mike?”

  “They have gone to the land of pain and repentance, Murphy, but I doubt either of them will live much longer. I warned you that men like these offer you no protection. To prove the point, when my work is finished here, I shall return to Boston and you too will be a dead man,” Al-Bari said as he flipped the phone closed and severed the connection.

  “Hafez, let us get the rest of the equipment into the camper, before someone finally comes nosing around.” They carried the base plate and the rest of the boxes of shells out to the camper and put them inside. Turning around, Al-Bari reached down, picked up Danny by his belt and dragged the big Irishman inside the storage shed. Walking back to the center of the driveway, he picked up Mike and dropped him inside too. He opened their wallets, took their money, and tossed the wallets inside with them. Finally, he tossed the cell phone, the empty revolver, and the crowbar inside with them and locked the door.

  “The ancient Greeks say that a man’s honor is a reflection of the quality of his opponents,” Al-Bari said.

  “If that is true, I fear we have none.”

  Al-Bari laughed. “Let us go, Hafez. History awaits us.”

  PART FOUR

  YORKTOWN DAY – MINUS ONE

  OCTOBER 18

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Thursday, October 18, 2:00 pm

  It was mid-afternoon and Sean Murphy sat alone at the bar in The Shamrock Boys Club in South Boston, angry, sulking, and nursing a pint of Guinness between shots of Bushmills. The rest of his mates saw the foul mood Murphy was in and knew to stay well clear. When the phone behind the bar rang and broke the tense silence, Big Pat the bartender walked over and answered it.

  “Shamrock BC… Yeah? And who wants him?” he uttered a few grunts and then turned and handed the receiver across the bar to Sean Murphy, rolling his eyes in amusement.

  “Wuddaya want?” Murphy mumbled into the phone.

  “Is this Sean Murphy?” a sexy female voice asked.

  “It could be, darlin’,” Murphy perked up a bit, “dependin’ on who’s doing the askin’.”

  “Well, I’m kind of a free-lance public relations consultant, if you know what I mean. A very nice Middle Eastern gentleman asked me to give you a call and ‘thank’ you for all the help you gave him.”

  “Oh he did, did he?” Murphy’s eyes narrowed as he remembered all the things that Teraki ‘gave’ him and his men.

  “Yes, and sometimes he hires me to make sure his friends are properly thanked.”

  Murphy’s expression began to soften. “And he says he wants to thank me some more now, does he?”

  “He said he owes you one, Sean. He said things didn’t quite end right last time and he wants to make it up to you. He says you’ll know what I mean.”

  “Oh, indeed I do, darlin’; but tell me, he hasn't come back in town, now, has he?”

  “I don't know anything about that, but he told me to call you and do everything I can to make things right with you, if you know what I mean.”

  “Isn’t that thoughtful of the man?”

  “Yes, very thoughtful,” she laughed huskily. “He said I should phone you right away and see if there wasn’t a time when we could get together so I could express his warmest regards — personally,” she emphasized.

  “Personally? What a generous man he is, a real prince.”

  “So, how about this afternoon? I’ve kept the calendar free just for you.”

  “Today?” Murphy asked suspiciously. “You know, that might be a grand idea.”

  “How about 3:00 o’clock? A little afternoon delight? I’m in a cozy apartment off Broadway in East Cambridge, at twenty-three-eighteen North Leister, Two-B, right above The Krazy Kat Lounge. Lots of rhythm. Can I count on you coming over?”

  “Oh, darlin’, I’ll be there with bells on. After all, you know how these foreigners get their noses all out of joint if you don’t accept their hospitality. It’s like an insult, and I wouldn’t dream of insulting the man.”

  Murphy hung up, and grinned at Big Pat the Bartender. “Don’t that beat all? The Wog thinks he can buy me off with a piece of tail.”

  “Want me to send some of the boys over?”

  “No. She knows more than she’s tellin’, but if I go alone I may need to sweet talk it out of her. Don’t you worry, me Boyo, I’m gonna get that Wog bastard yet.”

  Rachel Ullman took the telephone receiver from Lilah's hand and hung it up. “That was good, Lilah, very good,” she said as a thin smile crossed her lips and she handed Lilah five hundred-dollar bills.

  Lilah studied Ullman for a moment, as she took the money and tucked it in her bra. “But you’re sure that’s all you want?” she asked suggestively. “You know, I’m good at talking men into things, but I’m even better with women,” she said as she reached out and lightly touched Ullman’s hair, “especially the strong ones.”

  Ullman shrank back, pushing her hand away, repulsed, but she said nothing.

  “Another tight ass, huh? Too bad. Looks like you could use some fun.”

  Ullman turned back and glared at her. “Just do what I said. Open the door when he gets here, with lots of cleavage showing. When he gets inside, we shall take it from there.”

  “And I get another $500?”

  Ullman showed her the remaining $100 bills. “As soon as you get him inside.”

  “And I don’t have to do nuthin’?”

  “Nuthin’, except leave and forget everything. Is that clear?”

  Lilah looked at her seductively again, “Too bad, sister, too bad. I don’t know what you two are up to, but if I smell a cop or you’re trying to set me up with something, I'm outta here.”

  “I think we understand each other perfectly,” Ullman smiled, turned, and left Lilah sitting in the living room. She walked down the hallway to the small, shabby kitchen in the rear of the narrow apartment. Mouse stood in the far corner, leaning against the counter top near the sink, obviously not happy.

  “We should let Barnett and the Americans know what we are doing,” he said.

  “Why? You know what he will say.”

  “Because I do not work this way,” he said, shaking his head. “And I cannot think with the noise from that damned bar downstairs,” he said, angrily stamping his foot on the floor.

  “You will hurt your foot before they hear you. Besides, the noise may come in handy.”

  “What are you planning?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Nothing. You are the one who concluded that Al-Bari needed the money to buy something. If he bough
t it from the IRA, he dealt with Murphy; and he will be here in an hour with the information we want inside his head. I intend to pry it out of him, so you can decide if you want to stay and hear what he has to say or not. Now shut up and help me, or get out.”

  Mouse glared at her, still not convinced.

  “Barnett is not here, Egyptian. We are. Do you want to be known as the man who pissed it all away and let Ibrahim Al-Bari complete his mission? Is that what Cairo really wants?”

  “This is a very dangerous game you are playing, woman.”

  “Not nearly as dangerous as yours, Egyptian. Need I remind you that Hafez Arazi is your countryman. He carries your passport and works at your Embassy. When this business blows up, it will blow up in your face, not mine.”

  A cold offshore storm had blown in, whipping through the Cambridge streets. Sean Murphy walked quickly up Leister Street, leaning into the wind with his collar up, his balled fists jammed in his pants pockets, and his eyes constantly sweeping the streets around him. This might be Boston, but to a man with Sean Murphy’s background, every city was Belfast and Derry and he had more than his share of enemies.

  It was hard to miss the Kit Kat Club. He walked past as the deafening rhythms from the band inside boomed out the front door and down the street; and this was the middle of the afternoon. He could only wonder what the street would be like at night. The next door down was 2318, a narrow entrance to a second-story walk-up with several apartments over the bar. Inside the tiny vestibule, he scanned a bank of dented mailboxes, none of which bore names, only numbers. To his chagrin, there also was no elevator. He took a deep breath and a firm grip on the handrail, and began to labor up the long flight of stairs. Twice he stopped to catch his breath. He was fifty pounds overweight, out of shape, and a three-pack-a-day alcoholic. There were few things that could ever get Murphy to climb a steep flight of stairs like this, but Lilah offered two of them — a sexy woman’s invitation and an opportunity for revenge. For her sake, she had better be as good as she sounded, he thought.