He kept his eyes firmly shut as the man dragged him back inside, pushed him down into the chair, and secured his hands with the rope Jamie had left on the floor.
13
Sasha sagged against the shed’s splintering wood. Oh, Lord. Oh, God. Oh, Heavenly Father.
All the years of Catholic religious education came back to her in a rush, and she heard herself whispering the Lord’s Prayer as she struggled to believe what she’d just seen.
Yes, she thought, please, deliver me from evil. She focused on breathing until her shallow, juddering breath returned to a rhythmic pattern. Then she crept toward the man on the ground.
He’d been shot at exceedingly close range. He hadn’t moved. He was almost certainly dead, and Clive was, at least for the moment, alive. Battered, bloodied, and brutalized. But alive.
Still. She had to check. He might have survived the gunshots. She couldn’t just let him bleed out. Even if he was one of the men who’d attacked Clive. She wasn’t that cold.
She squatted on the ground near the fallen man, fumbled for his wrist, and pressed two fingers to his blood-speckled skin in a vain attempt to locate a pulse. He was definitely dead. The trigger man had been a pro. Even she could see that. He’d shot through the center of the T zone, likely severing the man’s brain stem. No brain stem meant no breathing, no blood flow, no heartbeat. No life.
She wiped her fingers in the dirt and stood. She hated to disturb a murder scene, but she had to check one more thing. She nudged his hip with the toe of her sneaker, firmly, and rolled him onto his back. His t-shirt was twisted under his body, riding up to reveal his midsection and the butt of gun she thought she’d find shoved into the waistband of his boxers.
When she’d been watching the group of men at the train station, she’d spotted the outline of what she thought was a weapon tucked under his shirt. And she’d assumed that at least one—but probably both—suited men were also armed. So she’d maintained a careful distance from the trio as she’d stalked them through Tannerville’s sea of shanties, shacks, and sheds.
Her Krav Maga instructor’s admonition rang in her ears. Daniel liked to turn the popular sports advice ‘you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take’ on its head: “A hundred percent of the shots your attacker doesn’t get the chance to take will miss you.”
Not quite as pithy as the original to be sure, but his version was more applicable to her life. She’d promised Connelly she wasn’t going to take any unnecessary risks, and she’d keep that promise. Even if it meant disarming a guy whose brain matter was smeared all over the ground.
She leaned over, eased the weapon out of his waistband, and held it gingerly. At least the guy had had the sense not to blow off his package: the safety was engaged.
Now what?
She looked down at her yoga pants and long-sleeve t-shirt. She wasn’t dressed to conceal a gun. But she couldn’t risk any of the other players getting his hands on it and using it against her or Clive. She pursed her lips and scanned the backyard.
A faint smile creased her lips. She could take a page from Clive’s playbook—in a manner of speaking. She hurried over to a heap of rubble, mainly piled-up broken bricks and bits of rock from what had likely been a retaining wall in the distant past. She dug through the hill and created a hole. She placed the gun in the space she’d made and piled the construction debris on top.
She stepped back and considered her handiwork. She was confident nobody else would stumble on the hiding spot in the short term, but would she be able to find it quickly if she needed it?
She surveyed the collection of trash scattered throughout the alley. Finally, she settled on a bent metal rod. She had no idea what purpose it had originally served, but she shoved it into her hill of bricks as if she were planting a flag.
It would do. It would have to. She needed to figure out how to get Clive out of the house before the shooter returned and she was outnumbered. That was another one of Daniel’s nuggets of wisdom: “Always play the odds.”
She pressed herself flat against the side of the house and edged her way to the back door, which hung open, swinging crookedly from a busted hinge. She crouched low—well below eye-level, where she was less likely to be spotted—and peered inside.
14
Omar eyed the captive. Judging by the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the man was on the verge of full-blown panic. Frankly, Omar was surprised the man had hung in this long.
Soft. It was the word that sprang to mind to describe him. Large, but not solid, with the smooth hands that came from a lifetime of office work.
A low moan sounded. The prisoner stared at him with wide, desperate eyes.
Omar’s chest tightened. He glanced once through the shattered and haphazardly boarded-up window to see if Youssef was making his way back with the runner. Jamie, Donny had called him. But all he saw was an empty, eerily still street. He knew he should ignore the man’s distress.
Yet, he found himself crossing the room and dropping into a half-crouch in front of the chair. He considered how he could communicate a message that he wasn’t to be feared. But anything he might say that would wipe the abject fear from the man’s face would endanger both their lives, not to mention his objective in this assignment, if Youssef learned of it.
He shook his head, a quick short motion, dismissing the notion. Too risky. But he peeled the tape from the man’s mouth.
He panted. “Thank you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bloch. Clive Bloch,” he croaked.
Omar nodded, a silent acknowledgment. He wanted to ask Clive Bloch what he’d done to earn Zayed Al Sharqi’s anger, but the less he spoke, the better.
“Water, please. I need water.”
Omar surveyed the filthy, dilapidated space. There was no water. No food. No facilities. There was a pile of empty beer cans in one corner. Donny and Jamie had had different priorities.
He locked eyes with the man. “I can’t leave you alone. But when my partner returns, I’ll make sure you get food, water, and the chance to relieve yourself. You have my word.”
“Jazāk Allāhu Khayran,” Bloch croaked.
Omar rocked back on his heels at the man’s use of the traditional Islamic expression of gratitude: May God reward you with goodness.
“You practice Islam?”
Bloch shook his head. No.
“You’re not Muslim?”
“No.”
“But you know the scripture?”
“Sure. No one faith has a monopoly on the truth. I dated a woman who practiced Islam. I learned enough to be interested. I look to your Qur’an, as well as the Torah, the Bible, and the teaching of the Buddha and others for wisdom and guidance. I find a lot of compassion in the Qur’an.”
Omar stared at him, stunned. It was a common perception in the United States that Islam was a hard, violent, and unyielding faith—one aligned with jihad and death, not one of mercy and compassion. He understood why. Too many barbaric terrorists like Youssef Farooq and Zayed Al Sharqi had hidden under the mantle of a distorted version of Islam to justify their deeds. He also understood that Clive Bloch was beseeching him to show the mercy that the Qur’an taught.
The sound of footfalls on the warped and rotting porch obviated the possibility of any answer. Omar sprang to standing, hurriedly shoved the tape back over Bloch’s mouth, and was leaning against the wall when Youssef stumped through the door with a bag of groceries.
Omar took the bag from his arms, while Youssef struggled with the swollen door, shoving it back into its frame and turning the flimsy lock.
“You didn’t find him?”
Youssef blasted him a blistering look. “No. I imagine I wounded him though. I shot until I had to stop and reload. Like most river rats, he scurried quickly.”
Omar paused a beat. He’d spent a lot of time with hardened men, but Youssef was in a class by himself. He seemed utterly unfazed by the fact that there was a corpse in the yard. Omar
hadn’t bothered to check Donny for a pulse. Youssef’s double-tapped kill shot would have severed his medulla instantly. Donny was as dead as they come.
Youssef looked around the abandoned shack with an expression of disgust.
Omar couldn’t blame him. Every surface was covered with a thick layer of dust. Several of the windows had been busted—by kids throwing stones, judging from the fist-sized rocks that littered the rotting floorboards—and shards of glass glinted up from the floor.
There was no electricity, and the water had long since been turned off. The sharp, sick odor of sewer gas escaped from the defunct toilet in the corner and filled the small space.
On the other side of the room, a dorm-sized refrigerator hunkered against the peeling wallpaper, its door hanging crookedly from the top hinge. A mold-covered sink and a rusted-out double burner hot plate completed the kitchen.
“Did you call Al—?” Omar asked, as he unpacked the meager provisions from the brown paper bags and lined them up on the filthy counter. Four bottles of water. Two wrapped deli sandwiches. Two bags of potato chips. A roll of toilet paper, which was optimistic, because there was no running water and no functional toilet.
“Not here.” Youssef’s eyes flitted toward Bloch—a warning to say no more in front of their captive.
Omar nodded his understanding, studiously avoiding looking at Bloch. He waited a beat. Then, “Whatever comes next, he must eat and drink.”
Youssef snapped his gaze back to Omar and frowned, narrow-eyed and suspicious. “What?”
“It’s the merciful action, Youssef, to show this man some compassion.”
A shadow crossed Youssef’s face. He said nothing.
Omar pressed, “You know as well as I do what the Qur’an says. The good deed and the evil deed are not equal.”
Youssef exhaled. “Share your meal with him if you like. I won’t waste food on a pig.”
Omar crossed the room with a bottle of water. He removed the gag from Bloch’s mouth and raised the bottle to his mouth.
“Drink.”
Bloch drank greedily for several seconds. Then he completed the Qur’an verse that Omar had begun, “Repel evil, and, behold, your enemy will become your friend.”
Although Youssef pretended not to notice the exchange, Omar saw how his eyes widened and his nostrils flared in surprise.
Good.
Omar’s personal code of ethics would only allow him to continue to keep Bloch captive under the most humane conditions he could create. If Youssef were to soften toward Bloch because of his familiarity with Islam—and if Omar exploited the hatred Youssef clearly harbored for Aliviyah—perhaps the situation would be tenable for a day or two. Long enough to persuade Bloch to tell him about the money Al Sharqi wanted.
It was a long shot. But it was the best plan he could conceive of on the fly. He couldn’t risk blowing his cover. He was too close to bringing Al Sharqi’s organization to its knees.
Omar didn’t believe in miracles. But he did believe in fortune. What he needed now was a major stroke of good luck.
15
Sasha sent up a prayer of thanks for the giant stroke of good luck the Universe, God, or perhaps Allah had dropped into her lap. The new arrivals definitely planned to kill the dead guy’s friend when they found him, but—at least for the time being—they seemed inclined to let Clive live.
That meant she had time. Time to creep away to the pay phone and call the authorities and Connelly. Time to make a decent plan that might have a chance of success.
She was straightening up to stand so she could slip through the backyards and make her way to the phone booth, when her luck took a turn.
“I need to make a phone call,” the younger, more Americanized man told the shooter.
She froze, half in her crouch, half out.
“Brother Omar—”
“Youssef, it can’t be avoided. There is someone I must tell. Not about the plan, just that I will not be home tonight.”
The one named Youssef frowned deeply. “This is why I tell Zayed to send me bachelors only. A man whose loyalties are divided is dangerous in battle, not reliable.”
Sasha raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t as if this dude were asking for her opinion, but in her experience, a man or woman with something to live for tended to put up a fiercer fight than did some brainwashed automaton.
Apparently Omar shared her view, because he laughed in his partner’s face. “What a load of BS. Anyway, Zayed Al Sharqi isn’t in charge anymore. You know it, I know it, and she—”
Youssef was not amused. “Do not disrespect Zayed to me. And certainly not because you believe that she-devil is actually in charge. She’s a tool, a puppet. Nothing more. And I don’t appreciate your coarse manner. Go, make your call. I will tend to our prisoner.”
Sasha frowned. She was going to have to get in line for the phone. She wondered why these guys weren’t using their mobiles. Surely they had a signal. Although she did have to admit that it was good criminal enterprise hygiene to avoid cell phone calls. After all, one never knew when the government was listening.
Omar headed for the front door. He paused on the threshold. “What do you intend to do with Donny’s body?”
Youssef shrugged. “Let it rot?”
“Who’s being coarse now? As humid as it is here, he’s going to begin to smell quickly. We can’t afford the attention.”
“I’ll attend to it. Make your call.”
Omar banged out the front door. Sasha wheeled around and took off at a sprint toward the small gardening shed. She squeezed inside as Youssef stepped out into the yard, grumbling under his breath.
She drew her shoulders in and pressed herself against the back wall of the dark, hot shed, making herself as small as possible. She held her breath and tried not to think about how many spiders, beetles, and other creepy-crawly critters were currently hanging out in the shed with her. Her head instantly began to itch, and she gripped her hands together to keep from raking her fingers through her hair to dislodge the bugs she now imagined were crawling all over her head.
“… shovel …”
She heard only a snippet of Youssef’s muttering, but it was enough to send a chill coursing along her spine and shoot her pulse into overdrive. He was probably planning to bury Donny. And the logical place to look for a shovel would be … in the gardening shed. Where she was effectively trapped. One way in, one way out.
She forgot all about the imaginary spiders in her hair as she felt around in the dark as quietly as she could. Broom. Net of some kind. Heavy shovel. Bingo.
She lifted it and ran her hand down to the tip. No, actually, a gardening spade. But it was the same difference.
She raised it over her left shoulder and gripped it two-handed, waiting for the door to open.
As she waited, a series of instructions looped through her mind: Don’t hesitate. Don’t try to talk your way out of this. Don’t negotiate. He’s a killer. And he’s armed.
The door creaked open. She blinked in the brightness of daylight and swung the spade like a bat, aiming roughly for his liver. A head shot would have been cleaner, she knew, but their height disparity was such that she would have been pulled off-balance if she’d tried to swing higher.
For one near-hysterical moment, she thought to herself, another argument for wearing four-inch heels: better leverage for bashing in an attacker’s brains with a spade.
As the head of the spade connected with the bottom two ribs on Youssef’s right side, she heard her father’s voice imploring her from the sidelines of a softball game to follow through on her swing. So she did. Youssef collapsed instantly.
She stood over him, hovering the pointed spade tip over his throat in case he tried to retaliate, but he was incapacitated. She wasn’t surprised. The impact from the shovel had definitely cracked his ribs and likely ruptured his liver. Right now, he was breathless, dazed, and suffering from more pain than she cared to imagine. Which made this an excellent time to free Clive and
get out of town while they could. She tossed the spade to the ground and raised a foot to step over the killer who lay in her path.
The distinctive quiet click of a safety being disengaged sounded just behind her left ear. She froze, mid-step and raised her hands above her head.
“It occurred to me that Youssef might not have noticed that Donny was carrying. So I came back to make sure he kept the weapon when he disposed of the body. It’s lucky I did,” Omar said in a low voice.
She didn’t dare turn her head to get an exact location on him. She contemplated driving her head back blind and hoping she connected with his chin. But after a beat, she dismissed that thought. She might only get one chance to get herself and Clive to safety. She had to make it count.
“Lucky for your friend,” she agreed.
He grabbed her left arm, which told her he’d witnessed the blow she’d delivered to Youssef’s liver and knew she was left-hand dominant, and dragged her through the yard toward the shack. She was careful not to glance at the brick pile as he pulled her past it.
16
Clive barely glanced up when he heard the ruckus out behind the house. He was still shocked and sickened by Donny’s murder and his own brush with death. At least Jamie had managed to get away. For now.
He frowned down at his hands. Did the fact that he felt relieved for Jamie mean he had Stockholm syndrome? He didn’t want to identify and empathize with his captors. He just wanted to get out of here with his life.
But, he had to admit, if he had to stay and could choose, he’d prefer to be held captive by Jamie and Omar. They had each shown him some small kindness or, at least, humanity.
He snorted. Omar may have given him some water, but he couldn’t pretend he was a great guy. Not if he worked for Al Sharqi.
In Absentia Page 7
