I heard the engines again now, a car roaring up the drive, another coming from behind the house. I looked for Berleand. He was sprinting toward me.
Run to the woods! I shouted.
Tires shrieking to a stop. Another burst of gunfire.
I ran toward the trees and dark, away from both the house and the private road. The woods, I thought. If we could make it to the woods, we could hide. A car sped across the grounds, its headlights searching for us. There were random barrages of bullets. I didn 't look back to see where they were coming from. I found a rock and ducked behind it. I turned and saw Berleand still in view.
More gunfire. And Berleand went down.
I rose from behind the rock, but Berleand was too far away from me. Two men were on him. Three others jumped out of a Jeep, all armed. They ran toward Berleand, firing blindly into the woods. One bullet smacked the tree behind me. I ducked back down as another volley went past in a wave.
For a moment there was nothing. Then: Come out now!
The man's voice had a heavy Middle Eastern accent. Staying low I glanced out. It was dark, night making more of its claim with each passing moment, but I could make out that at least two of the men had dark hair and dark skin and full beards. Several wore green bandanas around their neck, the kind you could pull up to cover your face. They shouted at one another in a language I didn 't understand but figured had to be Arabic.
What the hell was going on?
Show yourself or we will hurt your friend.
The man saying that appeared to be the leader. He barked out orders and pointed right and left. Two men started circling toward me. One man got back into the car and used his headlights to sweep the woods. I stayed low, my cheek against the ground. My heart pounded in my chest.
I hadn't brought a weapon. Stupid. So goddamn stupid.
I dug into my pocket and tried to get my phone.
The leader called out: Last chance! I will begin by shooting his knees.
Berleand shouted, Don't listen to him!
My fingers found the phone just as a single bullet blast exploded through the night air.
Berleand screamed.
The leader: Come out now!
I fumbled with the phone and hit Win's speed dial. Berleand was whimpering now. I closed my eyes, tried to wish it away, needed to think.
Then Berleand's voice fighting through tears: Don't listen to him!
The other knee!
Another gunshot.
Berleand screamed in obvious agony. The sound ripped at me, shredded my insides. I knew that I couldn't give up. If I showed myself, we would both be dead. Win would have heard what was going on by now. He 'd call Jones and law enforcement. It wouldn 't be long.
I could hear Berleand crying.
Then one more time, weaker this time, Berleand's voice: Don't . . . listen . . . to . . . him!
I heard men in the woods, not far from me. No choice. Had to make a move. I looked at the Victorian mansion on my right. My fingers wrapped themselves around a large rock as something close to a plan started running through my head.
The leader: I have a knife. I'm going to cut out his eyes now.
There was movement in the house now. I could see it through the window. Not much time. I got up, my knees bent, ready to spring into action.
I heaved the rock as hard as I could in the direction opposite the house. The rock landed against a tree with a thud.
The leader's head turned toward the sound. The men moving through the woods started in that direction too, firing their weapons. The Jeep veered away from me and toward where the rock had landed.
At least, that was what I hoped was happening.
I didn't wait and watch. As soon as the rock left my hand, I dashed through the trees toward the side of the house. I was moving farther away from Berleand 's cries and the men who were trying to kill me. It was darker now, almost impossible to see, but I didn 't let that stop me. Branches whipped my face. I didn 't care. I knew I had only seconds. Time was everything now, but it seemed to be taking me too long to get close to the house.
Without breaking stride, I picked up another rock.
The leader: I'm taking out an eye now!
I heard Berleand shout No! and then he began to shriek.
Time was up.
Still running, I used my momentum to hurl the rock toward the house. I gave the throw everything I had, nearly dislocating my shoulder. Through the darkness I saw the rock move in an upward arc. On the right side of the house the side I was on there was a beautiful picture window. I followed the rock 's trajectory, thinking it was going to land short.
It didn't.
The rock crashed through the window, shattering it into small shards of glass. Panic erupted. It was what I had counted on. I doubled back into the woods as the armed men ran toward the house. I saw two blond teenagers one male, one female come toward the broken window from the inside. Part of me wondered if the girl was Carrie, but there was no time to take a second look. The men shouted something in Arabic. I didn 't see what happened next. I was circling back, moving as fast as I could, using the diversion to get behind the leader.
I saw the man in the Jeep stop and get out. He ran toward the smashed window too. That was their main job here: protect the house. I had broken through their perimeter. They were scattering and trying to regroup. Confusion set in.
Staying out of sight and not wasting any time, I had managed to move back down, past my original hiding place. The leader had his back to me now, facing the house. I was maybe sixty, seventy yards away from him.
How long until help came?
Too long.
The leader was shouting out orders. Berleand was on the ground by his feet. Motionless. And worse, Berleand was silent. No more cries. No more whimpers.
Had to get to him.
I wasn't sure how. Once I stepped out from behind this tree I would be in the open and ridiculously vulnerable. But there was no choice now.
I started sprinting toward the leader.
I had moved maybe three steps when I heard someone shout out a warning. The leader turned toward me. I was still forty yards away. My legs pumped fast, but everything else slowed down. The leader too wore a green bandana around his neck, like an outlaw in an old Western. His beard was thick. He was taller than the others, maybe six two, and stocky. There was a knife in one hand, a gun in the other. He raised the gun toward me. I debated dropping to the ground or veering to the side, anything to avoid the shot, but my mind quickly sized up the situation and I realized that a sudden shift wouldn 't work here. Yes, he might miss with the first bullet, but then I would be totally exposed. The second shot would certainly not miss. Plus my diversion was over. The other men were already coming back toward us. They would fire too.
I had to hope that he'd panic and miss me.
He aimed the gun. I met his eyes and saw the calm that simple moral certainty brings a man. I had no chance. I could see that now. He would not miss. And then, right before he pulled the trigger, I heard him howl in pain and saw him look down.
Berleand was biting his calf, holding on with his teeth like an angry Rottweiler.
The leader's gun hand dropped to his side, aiming at the top of Berleand's head. With a surge of adrenaline, I launched myself at the leader, arms in front of me. But before I could get there, I heard the blast and saw the gun recoil. Berleand 's body jerked as I reached the leader. I wrapped my arms around the son of a bitch, kept my momentum going. As we toppled toward the ground, I positioned my forearm against the leader 's nose. We landed hard, my full body weight behind the forearm. His nose exploded like a water balloon. Blood smacked me in the face. It felt warm against my skin. He cried out, but he still had a lot of fight in him. So did I. I dodged a head butt. He tried to get me in a bear hug. A fatal move. I let his arms encircle me. When he started to squeeze, I quickly snaked my arms free. Now the leader was totally vulnerable. I did not hesitate. I thought about Berleand, about how this man ha
d made my friend suffer.
Time to end this.
The fingers of my right hand formed a claw. I didn't go for the eyes or the nose or any other soft target to disable or maim. At the base of the throat, right above the thoracic cage, sits a hollowed area where the trachea isn 't protected. With two fingers and my thumb, I dug full force into the opening and grabbed his throat in a talonlike grip. I was crying as I jerked his windpipe toward me, screaming like an animal while a man died by my hand.
I plucked the gun from his still hand.
The men were running back toward us. They hadn't yet shot for fear of hitting their leader. I rolled toward the body on my right.
Berleand?
But he was dead. I could see that now. His dorky glasses with those oversize frames were askew on that soft, malleable face. I wanted to cry. I wanted to just give up and hold him and cry.
The men were getting closer. I looked up. They were having trouble seeing me, but the lights from the house behind them made them perfect silhouettes. I raised the gun and fired. One man went down. I turned the gun to the left. I fired again. Another man went down. Now they started firing back. I rolled back toward the leader and used his body as a shield. I fired again. Another man went down.
Sirens.
I kept low and sprinted toward the house. Cop cars came rushing up. I heard a helicopter, maybe more than one, above us. More gunfire. I would let them handle it. I wanted to get into that house now.
I ran past Taylor. Dead. The door was still open. Erickson's body was on the front porch next to it, the knife still deep in his chest. I stepped over him and dived into the foyer.
Silence.
I didn't like that.
I still had the leader's gun in my hand. I pushed my back against the wall. The place was in total disrepair. The wallpaper was peeling. The light was on. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw someone sprint by, heard footsteps going down the stairs. Had to be a lower level. A basement.
Outside I could hear gunfire. I could hear someone calling through a bullhorn for surrender. Might have been Jones. I should wait now. There was no chance I was going to get Carrie out of here anyway. I should sit tight, cover the door, not let anyone in or out. That was the smart play here. Wait it out.
I might have done that. I might have just stayed right there and never gone into that basement if the blond boy hadn't come racing down the stairs.
I called him a boy. That wasn't fair. He looked to be about seventeen, maybe eighteen, not much younger than the dark-haired men I had just shot without hesitation. But when this teenager with the blond hair and khaki pants and dress shirt came tearing down the stairs a gun in his hand I didn 't shoot right away.
Freeze! I shouted. Drop the gun.
The boy's face twisted into some kind of hideous death mask. His gun hand rose toward me, and he took aim. I jumped, rolled to the left, and came up firing. I didn 't go for the death shot, as opposed to what I had been like outside. I went for his legs. I fired low. The teen screamed and fell. He still held the gun though, still had the twisted death-mask expression. He aimed for me again.
I jumped out of the foyer and into the hallway where I came face-to-face with the basement door.
The blond teen had been hit in the leg. There was no way he could follow me down. I caught my breath, grabbed the knob with my free hand, and opened the door.
Total darkness.
I kept my gun against my chest. Pressed myself against the wall to make myself a smaller target. I slowly started down the stairs, feeling my way with my front foot. One hand held the gun, the other searched for a light switch. I couldn 't find one. With my body still turned to the side, I took the steps slowly, left foot down a step, right foot meets up with it. I wondered about ammunition. How many bullets did I have left? No idea.
I heard whispers below.
No doubt about it. The lights might be off, but someone was down in the darkness. Probably more than one someone. Again I debated doing the wise thing just stopping, staying still, moving back to the top of the stairs, waiting for reinforcements. The gunfire outside had stopped. Jones and his men, I was sure, had secured the premises.
But I didn't do that.
My left foot reached the bottom step. I heard a scuffling sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My free hand felt along the wall until I found the light switch. Or to be more precise, switches. Three in a row. I put my hand underneath them, got my gun ready, took one deep breath, and then I flipped up all three at the same time.
Later I would remember the other details: the Arabic graffiti spray-painted on the walls, the green flags with the blood-soaked crescent moon, the posters of martyrs in battle fatigues carrying assault weapons. Later I would remember the portraits of Mohammad Matar during many different stages of his life, including the time when he worked as a medical resident named Jim+!nez.
But right now, all of that was little more than backdrop.
Because there, in the far corner of the basement, I saw something that made my heart stop. I blinked my eyes, looked again, couldn't believe it, and yet maybe it made perfect sense after all.
A group of blond teenagers and children were huddled against a pregnant woman in a black burqa. Their eyes were ice blue, and they all stared at me with hatred. They began to make a noise, a snarl maybe, as one, and then I realized that it wasn 't a snarl. These were words, repeated over and over . . .
Al-sabr wal-sayf.
I backed away from them, shaking my head.
Al-sabr wal-sayf.
The brain started doing the synapse thing again: the blond hair. The blue eyes. CryoHope. Dr. Jim+!nez being Mohammad Matar. Patience. The sword.
Patience.
I bit back a scream as the truth rained down on me: Save the Angels hadn't used the embryos to help infertile couples. They had used them to create the ultimate weapon of terror, to infiltrate, to get ready for global jihad.
Patience and the sword will defeat the sinners.
The blonds started coming toward me, even though I was the one with the gun. Some kept chanting. Some just shrieked. Some dived back behind the burqa-clad pregnant woman, looking terrified. I moved faster, heading up the stairs. From above, I heard a familiar voice call my name.
Bolitar? Bolitar?
I turned my back on the ice blue, hell-spawned monstrosity below me, scrambled to the top of the stairs, dived through the basement door, slammed it closed behind me. Like that might help. Like that might make it all go away.
Jones was there. So were his men in bulletproof vests. Jones saw the look on my face.
What is it? he asked me. What's down there?
But I couldn't even speak, couldn't make out words. I ran outside, toward Berleand. I collapsed next to his still body. I was hoping for a reprieve, hoping that maybe in the confusion, I had made a mistake. I hadn 't. Berleand, the poor beautiful bastard, was dead. I held him for just for a second, maybe two. No more than that.
The job wasn't over. Berleand would have been the first to tell me that.
I still needed to find Carrie.
As I ran back to the house, I called Terese. No answer.
I quickly joined the house search. Jones and his men were in the basement already. The blonds were brought upstairs. I looked at them, at their hate-filled eyes. None was Carrie. We found two more women dressed in face-covering, traditional black burqas. Both were pregnant. As his men started bringing the captives outside, Jones looked at me in horror and disbelief. I looked back and nodded. These women weren 't mothers. They were incubators embryo carriers.
We searched some more, opened up all the closets, found training manuals and film clips, laptops, horror upon horror. But no Carrie.
I took out my phone and tried Terese again. Still no answer. Not on her cell. Not at the apartment at the Dakota.
I staggered outside. Win had arrived. He stood on the porch, waiting for me. Our eyes met.
Terese? I ask.
Win sh
ook his head. She's gone.
Again.
Chapter 39
CABINDA PROVINCE ANGOLA, AFRICA THREE WEEKS LATER
WE have been driving in this pickup truck for more than eight hours now through the craziest terrain. I hadn't seen a person or even a building in more than six. I have been to remote areas before, but this took remote to the tenth power.
When we reach the hut, the driver pulls over and turns off the engine. He opens the door for me and hands me a backpack. He shows me the walking path. There is a phone in the hut, he tells me. When I want to return, I should call him on it. He will come and get me. I thank him and start down the path.
Four miles later, I see the clearing.
Terese is there. Her back is to me. When I returned to the Dakota that night, she was, as Win had said, gone. She had left a simple note behind: I love you so very much.
That was it.
Terese's hair is dyed black now. The better to keep her hidden, I assume. Blondes would stand out, even here. I like her hair this way. I watch her walking away from me, and I can 't help but smile. Her head held high, her shoulders back, the perfect posture. I flash back to that surveillance tape, the way I could see that Carrie had that same perfect posture, that same confident walk.
Terese is surrounded by three black women in colorful garb. I start toward them. One of the women spots me and whispers something. Terese turns, curious. When her eyes land on me, her entire face lights up. So, I guess, does mine. She drops the basket in her hand and sprints in my direction. There is no hesitation at all. I run to meet her. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me close.
God, I missed you, she says.
I hug her back. That's all. I don't want to say anything. Not yet. I want to melt into this hug. I want to disappear into it and stay in her arms forever. I know deep in my soul that this is where I belong, holding her, and for just a few moments, I want and need that peace.
Finally I ask, Where is Carrie?
She takes my hand and walks me to the corner of the opening. She points up the field, to another small clearing. A hundred yards away, Carrie sits with two black girls about her age. They are all working on something. I can 't tell what it is. Peeling or picking. The black girls are laughing. Carrie is not.
Long Lost (2009) Page 24
