Imad stepped behind him, placed the muzzle of the pistol against the back of his skull, fired again. The tattooed man fell forward.
The goateed man was yelling, ‘Please, Jesus, don’t, please, don’t. . .’ as he tried to get up, one hand on the ground, the other hand against his side.
Imad moved again. Pistol barrel against the rear of the head.
Another shot.
Vladimir closed his eyes.
The girls were screaming and crying and then there were two more shots.
Then silence.
The Russian opened his eyes.
Imad strolled back, smiling, the pistol now tucked in his waistband.
‘We have work to do,’ he said.
Vladimir said, ‘Yes, we do.’
He swallowed and followed Imad back to the Jeep Wrangler. It took a while. From the gear of the rock climbers, he and Imad took out ponchos and tarpaulins. Once the material was spread over the bodies, it was easier to work, for they didn’t have to look at their victims’ faces, didn’t have to look at the blood and exposed bone and brain tissue. Vladimir worked with the Arab in wrapping up the bodies and tying them tight with bungee cords.
It took some work, but the bodies and the gear were eventually placed in the Wrangler. Vladimir was breathing hard and his legs and arms hurt when they were through. He said, ‘It looks like you have experience with this, wrapping up bodies.’
Imad laughed. ‘Yes. Bodies in the desert. Some experience. We don’t have time to bury them, so to wrap them up like this is the next best thing. Keeps animals and vultures away for a while, so there are no curious people wanting to know why the animals are excited. Not good enough to last very long, but long enough for us to be on our way.’
Vladimir nodded, rubbed his shaking hands. Imad said, ‘I will drive this Jeep away and be back in a few minutes. It shouldn’t take long to get out of here.’
Another nod. Vladimir couldn’t think what to say to the boy.
He walked back to the truck and started packing up gear they had used. He stripped away the heavy brown paper and then put on the new license plates. Using large decals, he followed the design schematics and made the truck into something else.
Imad came back after a bit, whistling, and they broke down the scaffolding, not saying anything except what had to be said to get the job done. Vladimir watched the boy work, wondering what was going on behind those calm brown eyes, those eyes that had seen what had to be done and whose owners had then done it. Killed four complete strangers, two young men and two young women, with hardly a moment of hesitation or guilt.
And he, the mighty doctor from the old, terrifying Soviet Union? He had almost pissed his pants like a Gorky Park drunk at the thought. But the barbarian youth, he had killed when necessary - and had done it with skill.
Now the truck, smelling of fresh paint, was loaded. Vladimir went up into the cab. Imad turned the key, the diesel engine grumbled into life and, once more singing some Arab tune, Imad maneuvered the tractor-trailer truck back out onto the dirt road. In a matter of minutes they were on the interstate highway, heading east. The air-conditioning had kicked in and Vladimir felt himself relaxing, just a bit. He said, ‘Where did you put it?’
‘Put what?’
‘The jeep. The bodies.’
Imad said, ‘The Jeep went down a ravine. The bodies stayed inside. The Jeep may be found tomorrow, or next week, or next month. And by then, who cares?’
Vladimir looked in the rearview mirror. The sun was beginning to set. If all went well, they would be in Memphis in just under two days.
‘You...you did well, back there,’ he said.
Imad grinned. ‘Thank you. And hold on, I have a souvenir for you.’
The boy steered with one hand as he put his free hand into his pants pocket. Out the hand came, stretched across the cab interior.
‘Here,’ Imad said. ‘Evidence. Just for you.’
Something metallic tumbled into Vladimir’s hand. He looked down. Empty shell casings. Imad said, ‘Evidence. A good shooter picks up after himself. So this is my gift to you. Evidence of what I just did.’
Vladimir looked at the little bits of worked metal, wondered how things so small could be so deadly. And he thought of the canisters that rested comfortably behind his head, back there in the trailer, ready to kill millions. Also small and deadly.
He rolled the passenger’s-side window down, stretched his arm out, and tossed the empty brass casings to the side of the road.
Imad laughed again. Vladimir rolled the window back up, and kept quiet for another hundred miles.
~ * ~
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was dusk as Brian Doyle finally emerged from Mamma Garrity’s home in Cincinnati, trying to factor in what he had learned and what it might mean. He was thinking these things through as he got to his rental car, which was when they jumped him.
Brian’s first thought as he heard the approaching fast foot-steps and felt the hands grabbing him was, oh man, did we fuck up, and won’t our partner laugh his ass off at what just happened. And then the punching and voices started.
‘Get the motherfucker...’
‘Grab ‘em . . .’
‘Shit ass, where’s your fuckin’ wallet. . .’
Brian was spun around and he threw a punch, caught someone a glancing blow on the side of the face. He took quick stock - four of them, four young ‘uns, pukes, scrotes, yutes, whatever you wanted to call them - and he lashed out with a fist, catching one of them on the nose. A yelp and then something sharp sliced through his shirt and there were more punches, and his belt felt so light, so fucking light, because back home he’d be carrying his Motorola hand-held, a quick toggle of the panic switch or call for a 10-13, requesting back-up, but now there was nothing.
Save for one thing.
He reached around to his rear waistband, breathing hard and struggling, the young men clearer now in the glow from a nearby streetlight, more hands punching and slapping at him, something warm on his chest, and he got it, he got his 9mm Smith & Wesson out, out enough to slap one guy in the head with it, and the sight of the metal got everybody’s attention. Like a sudden breeze they were gone, their sneakers slap-slapping on the sidewalk as they faded out.
Now Brian was tired, very tired, and he leaned back against the hood of his rental car, the pistol wavering in his grip. It was heavy, as heavy as he could ever remember it.
‘Shit,’ he said, his mouth dry. ‘Damn.’
He touched the front of his shirt. It was wet. He touched it again. The cloth had been tom away. Now he felt lightheaded. He put the pistol back in his waistband holster, touched his skin again.
It burned.
And it was very wet.
Brian held up his hands to the illumination from the street lights.
His hands were covered with blood.
~ * ~
From the Homeland Security building in Washington State that had first detected the border crossing of Vladimir Zhukov and Imad Yussef Hakim, the information was reviewed, enhanced and sent upstream to the Homeland Security office near Spokane that was responsible for the entire Northwest United States. A helicopter was dispatched to the Customs border crossing and by day’s end two very tired and confused Customs officers were being debriefed by an ex-Air Force Special Operations Master Sergeant named Jason Janwick. This man loved his country, loved his service, hated terrorists, and would be out capping them with his crew had it not been for a bad heart that threatened every day to drop him like a gut-shot deer, and while he didn’t particularly like his present job it was the best he could do.
Now he was talking to a bright Customs officer named Tanya Mead, who seemed almost relieved as she gave him her read on what had happened earlier in the week with Zhukov and Imad. Janwick kept his eye on her as she talked, gauging her response, seeing what kind of words she chose and how she said them. Janwick had a pretty good built-in bullshit detector - you had to, when you worked with guys
who sometimes packed each other’s parachutes - and he liked what he saw. He sure as hell hated the fucking message he was receiving, but he liked her.
With the two of them in this small meeting room were members of his staff, some of whom joined in with the questioning. When they were done, he stepped in.
‘These two - they had valid travel documents and identification. Correct?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s correct,’ Tanya said.
‘Accents?’
‘Yes - both very slight. Hard to pin down.’
Janwick said, ‘You’ve given us some good information. What else can you tell us?’
‘Sir?’
Janwick tried to be patient. ‘Something that we’ve not asked you. Something that stuck in your mind. Anything else you can come up with.’
Tanya said, ‘Well. . .’
‘Go on.’
‘I think they hated each other.’
‘What?’
The young woman looked around the room for a moment and said, ‘You see a lot of truckers crossing where I work. Part of the job. Most times it’s single truckers ... it’s expensive for trucking companies to send out a two-man crew. And when you see a two-man crew, sometimes it’s a man-and-woman crew. A married couple. And when you do get a two-man crew...they, well, they get along. They have to. Otherwise they’d end up killing each other or abandoning their partner at a rest stop somewhere. But not these two. It’s like...it’s like the older guy couldn’t believe he got paired with that younger guy, and the younger guy, it was like it was all he could do to keep himself from cutting the older guy’s throat. I think they really hated each other.’
Janwick saw his team taking notes. They were a good bunch. He said, ‘You’ve done well, Officer Mead. If you like, we can get you back home tonight. Or you can spend the night here. We’ll put you up in a nice place. Oh. And one more question.’
‘Sure.’
He said, ‘I know this is forward and all that, but would you like a new job?’
‘Sir?’
Janwick liked the expression on the young woman’s face. He also liked to surprise people. He said, ‘Would you like something different? We could get you out of Customs, get you here in my group. Working for me. Hours would be longer, pay probably wouldn’t be much better, but I can guarantee you it’d be a hell of a lot more interesting.’
That made Tanya Mead smile. He liked her smile. He liked intelligent young women - please, no sex involved, he was happily married and though he had a wandering eye he never once thought of cheating - and this one looked like a keeper.
She said, ‘I think that’d be fine, sir. But my supervisor might have other ideas.’
Janwick looked at a notepad in front of him. ‘Right. The gentleman who flew in with you. The one who wouldn’t let you search the truck. Known as “Captain Commerce”, right?’
Tanya tried to hide a smile and failed. ‘That’s right.’
‘Don’t worry about it. He’s no longer working in the Customs Department.’
‘Sir?’
‘Gone. Out. If he’s lucky, he’ll be a night-shift stockboy at WalMart in a year or two. Officer Mead, thank you for your service.’
Tanya took the hint and left the conference room. Janwick’s staff, a good mix of young men and women, looked at him expectantly. He took a deep breath, tried to ignore the tightness in his chest. He said, ‘I need to make some phone calls. When I come back, I want a plan in place to get the photos of these two characters and a description of their truck out to every law-enforcement agency within...Paula, how long have they been in-country?’
‘Forty-three hours.’
‘Right. Forty-three hours. Work out how far they could get in that truck within forty-three hours. Postulate no overnight stops. Just occasional fuel stops. Write up a “be on the lookout for” alert. Work a geographical arc, showing the territory they might have covered. Want to know what possible targets might be in that arc. Nuclear power plants, dams, shopping malls, airports, weapons facilities - everything. And we want that BOLO in the hands of every cop, customs, sheriff, game officer inside that arc. Got it?’
No replies. Just nods. Janwick stood up.
‘Good.’ He left the room, thinking that his crew might not be as tough or as smart as his Air Force buds but they were good enough for what had to be done.
~ * ~
Adrianna Scott stood in Terminal B at the Memphis International Airport, tapping her left foot, knowing that it was a nervous gesture, knowing it was something that she couldn’t control. Their flight was leaving in under a half-hour, and Victor Palmer stood with her at the gate, sweating some in the cool air.
‘He’s late,’ Victor said.
‘I know.’
‘And he hasn’t answered his cellphone, or his pager. What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know, Victor, I just don’t know.’
Which was only partially true. She knew that Brian was gone, and had been gone for the day. He had been upset with her earlier and who could blame him? A night of anger, a night of arguments, a night of recriminations...followed by a night of passion, a hot night for both of them, and then, in the morning...the cold shoulder from her to him.
But what else could have happened?
Just days away from attainment, after years and years of all this work and sacrifice, to complicate things even more with a love affair with someone who was not only a co-worker but a cop with a cop’s suspicious mind - she couldn’t allow it.
So.
Where in hell was he?
Brian had been telling the truth yesterday: the only real reason for his presence on this trip was to sway the General’s opinion, to appeal to that rock-solid and insane patriotism that most military types cherished, like a piece of the True Cross or something, and it had worked. And for that Adrianna felt no guilt.
So why the guilt now?
Victor said, ‘We’ve got to start boarding, Adrianna. Even with our clearances, we’ve got to get to our seats. They won’t hold the aircraft for us.’
‘I know.’
Maybe Brian was done with it all, had taken a flight back to his beloved New York City, ready to take whatever heat the NYPD might deliver for backing out from his commitment to the Tiger Teams. Knowing Brian, maybe that’s what he’d done. She wouldn’t put it past him. She knew he was growing restless with the Tiger Teams, was getting ready to break out, and this little trip out Memphis way had probably tipped the scale. Still. . .
Maybe he was hurt. Injured. Dead.
Jesus, she thought, that’s morbid .. .
But easy. It would be easy.
She looked over at Victor. ‘Let’s get on.’
He said, ‘Aren’t you going to put out an alert? Maybe Brian’s been in an accident. Or worse.’
Adrianna touched his arm - the one not carrying the canister, hooked up to his wrist - and said, ‘Brian’s a New York police detective. He can handle everything and anything that’s thrown at him. If I put out an alert, that means a lot of involvement from a lot of agencies, looking for him. Suppose he’s on a drunk? Or at a strip club? Having a Memphis police SWAT team raid a joint, looking for him...well, the embarrassment would be something else.’
‘If I was missing, I sure as hell would hope you would take it more seriously, Adrianna.’
She started to the jetway, Victor trailing next to her. ‘Victor, if you ever went missing I’d put out an alert within the half-hour. It’s not your nature to be anything but predictable and punctual. Brian is neither predictable nor punctual. I’ll give him one more day to report in before getting the world spun up.’
Adrianna strode down the gentle incline, thinking of what she had just said. And another thing, too, was that it would be easier for all concerned. Final Winter, just days from kicking off, and having Brian out of the picture...that would make it so much simpler.
For two reasons.
The first, of course, was that she didn’t need to have his questioning mind at wor
k, the closer they got to the day.
And the second . . .
A possibility that she found hard to believe, even in her most private thoughts.
She was falling in love with him.
And that could not be tolerated.
At the open door, leading to the cabin, a male flight attendant smiled and checked her boarding pass.
‘Welcome aboard,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Adrianna replied, thinking that those were probably the two most honest words she had uttered today.
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