by Brad Taylor
He sat in the darkness and thought of the intertwining of events. It was always a mixture of circumstances. On the surface, none seemed to matter, but all were intertwined. Random events that shaped future events, but there wasn’t any overarching purpose. Like the fox in his youth. An animal following his nature had caused the loss of their livelihood and had driven his sister to prostitution. She had become a favorite of his Kaibil battalion commander, and because of it, his village had been targeted by rebels. He in turn had exacted his revenge. Had started on his path.
Nothing but random events.
Throughout all of the brutality he had searched for meaning. Searched to find some fingerprint from the hand of God, but had failed. And the woman here was but one more piece of evidence. He would kill her, and nothing would stop that.
He had worried about his soul. Worried that he would burn in hell for his actions, but there was no hell. No greater being that would punish him. The journalist had been wrong and he had been right. There was no such thing as good or evil. Only interconnected events. God couldn’t punish him for actions that He could prevent. And He had never once prevented anything the sicario had done.
He slid out of the car, crouching between it and the one next to him, and began to stalk, his thoughts saddening him.
He wanted to believe in destiny. Wanted to believe, like the journalist, that there was good and evil in the world, and that following one path led to salvation. Even if it meant he would burn in hell for eternity. That one moment of truth would be worth the price.
But it wasn’t to be. The girl would die at his hand, whether she was good or evil. Then Booth would die. Then he would die, years from now, probably in a bathroom, much like Peter, after slipping on a bar of soap.
There was no such thing as justice. It was all random events.
He slid between the cars, staying out of the rearview mirrors of his target. He approached at a crouch, slinking along the ground. Moving forward one step at a time, he kept his eyes on the driver’s-side door. He reached the rear quarter panel of the car and paused. He slowly rose up and saw the girl leaning forward, as if she were listening to the radio. Focusing on something else besides her immediate surroundings.
He pulled his knife and scooted forward. He took one breath and flung the door open. She turned in surprise. He grabbed her shoulder and jerked her out of the car, intent on stabbing her in the heart. From the ground, she kicked his leg, breaking his balance, then began to scramble away on her back like a crab.
He fell on top of her, surprised at her reaction. He grabbed her hair and twisted her head. She screamed and brought her knee up, hammering his inner thigh. He grunted and brought the knife down. She parried the blow with her forearm, the blade slicing her flesh.
Fighting like a banshee, she hammered his face with the same forearm, causing his vision to explode in stars. Still holding her hair, he slammed her head into the pavement, then felt a blinding pain in his right arm. He tried to raise it and couldn’t. He felt another searing pain in his lower back, burrowing into his kidney, and rolled over, seeking the source.
He saw the Arab from the museum above him. The killer now taking his payment. He rose to his knees, the Arab crouching over him with a blade dripping blood. He felt the warmth of his body leaking around his waist, spreading on the ground. And he was finally at peace. Finally understood.
He said, “Of course. It’s you. So there is no bar of soap.”
The killer stared at him through his thick glasses, slight of build but breathtaking in his destruction. The sicario staggered backward, slapping a bloody hand against the car for support.
He looked up and said, “Tell me, please, do you fear what you have done? Do you believe in judgment?”
The Arab remained still and said, “I fear what I have done now. I fear that I have prevented my freedom. Because of you.”
The sicario smiled. “Destiny. Not random. The fist of God.”
His hand slipped in his own blood, causing him to slide against the car. He struggled for purchase, sagging forward. He looked his killer in the eye and said, “Thank you.”
He began to fade, the vision of the killer replaced by one of his mother, cooking in the kitchen of their little hovel in Guatemala. The smells as vivid as the day they’d happened.
He fell onto his face, his body hitting the pavement and splashing the blood rupturing out of his vital organs.
He heard his sister outside, calling him. Telling him it wasn’t his fault. Beckoning. His body left the hut and he found her, sitting in a yard full of chickens, petting a fox on the head.
77
With Decoy, Knuckles, and Blood surrounding us, I dragged Booth back up the stairs and into the light. The clock was at one minute and counting. I threw him into a chair and shoved the computer in his face.
“Turn that shit off. Right now.”
He made another comment about a lawyer, and I slammed his hand onto the table, running my knife against the back of his knuckle. The people in the bar went crazy at that scene, but my little protective security detail kept everyone at bay, and Booth saw the light. With sweat dripping from his greasy, traitorous head, he decided that admitting he could stop the attack would be better than losing his thumb.
He accessed the computer.
With forty seconds left, he made one dumb comment about not being responsible for what “we” had put on his computer, since it had been outside of his control. I placed the knife against his neck. Not sure whether I was serious, he looked at me with dishpan eyes and began typing, disabling all the little software booby traps. Which was a good call, because I was way, way serious.
The clock kept ticking. I said, “What the hell are you doing? Shut it down.”
He said, “I’m trying to. I have to get through my security.”
At five seconds I said, “Just so you know, your life is tied to this. It doesn’t go down, and you do. Permanently. Right here and right now.”
His fingers trembling, he tapped a few more keys, and the clock stopped.
I sagged against the bench, drawing deep breaths. Booth said, “Can I go now?” I popped him in the face hard enough to bounce his head into the wall.
* * *
Seven thousand miles away, Bricktop hit his release point. His headset chattering incessantly now, he talked to both his wingman and his copilot in a robotic monotone, maintaining the myth of calm over a military net, like every pilot before him. He opened the bay doors. The two MOABs sat silently, dumb pieces of metal holding more destructive power than anything on earth outside of a nuclear bomb.
He hit the release, and they fell to earth, now alive and seeking information to guide them to their target. They locked on to the GPS signal and began to glide, shifting left and right, furiously attempting to please their master by destroying themselves precisely where they had been ordered.
* * *
Abdul Hakim cracked the door to his house, peeking out at the cloistered confines of Palmyra. To the east he saw the glow of the infamous Tadmor prison, where President Assad’s father had imprisoned many, many members of the Muslim Brotherhood for daring to defy him in a fight before Abdul had been born. Farther out he saw the lights of the Palmyra airfield, a military enclave that the regime apparently would do anything to protect.
Seeing nothing outside the door, Abdul touched his brother’s arm and began walking down the alley, the houses so close together there was nowhere to hide should trouble appear.
A flash over toward the airfield caught his eye. He held up, pushing his brother into a wall, straining to see what had caused the light. A second later the earth split apart as if the Devil himself was escaping, the violent action muted solely by the distance.
Two seconds later the shock wave hit, and he and his brother were flattened on the sidewalk, buffeted with debris from a strike nearly a mile away. Abdul sat up a
nd stared uncomprehendingly, watching a mushroom cloud rise exactly like in an old TV show, wondering if Israel had struck with nuclear weapons.
Unaware of how close he had come to dying because of a fragile radio signal.
* * *
Bricktop looked out the window of his B-2 and saw the impact, feeling immense pride. A round-trip mission of national importance, from the heart of the United States. Just like the doctrine that had led to the creation of his aircraft during the Cold War. There was a reason for his weapon system. For the money spent on his capability.
After all, no snake eater had done a damn thing for this operation.
* * *
Jennifer felt like her head had been smothered in cotton. She fought the fog, some internal instinct telling her it was vital but not consciously knowing why. Her brain began to clear, and she saw the man who had attacked her slip against the car, then slam face-first into the pavement, his body across her legs.
She began to rise and heard, “Don’t! Don’t move.”
She turned and saw the Ghost. Standing above her with a knife.
She pulled her legs out from underneath the body and he shouted again, “No, no, no. Stay down. Please.”
She stopped her movement and looked into his eyes. She knew what he had done. Knew he had saved her life. She rose into a crouch, saying, “I can’t.”
He said, “I know.”
And attacked.
78
I exited the bar out the back, dragging Booth with me and letting Knuckles, Decoy, and Blood handle the repercussions. It was a mess, but we knew what would happen going in. They had the cover story down, which was to act like a bunch of drunk service members here on temporary duty to NORTHCOM, at Peterson Air Force Base. With Booth out of the way, there was nobody who would contradict the story.
They’d either talk their way out of it or spend a night in jail. Either way, the Taskforce would back them up, and they’d get turned over to the “military” pretty quickly. Since I was out of the military and a full-fledged owner of a company that the Taskforce was worried would be exposed in twenty-four hours, I decided to take charge. Fleeing, as it were.
We came out the back patio and crossed the parking lot, me dragging Booth by the elbow. He kept complaining, moaning about how his rights had been abused, and I was considering just punching his lights out. The only question was whether carrying his dead weight would be worse than listening to his bullshit.
We crossed the alley and for the first time I noticed a scuffle near my car. Near Jennifer. I released Booth’s elbow and began to run, seeing it wasn’t a scuffle but a full-fledged fight to the death.
The battle spilled into the glow of a streetlamp, and I saw the Ghost trying to kill Jennifer. The image was completely surreal, like a nightmare come to life.
What the hell is he doing here? He hates me so much he gave up freedom to find me?
I reached the fight and hammered him in the small of his back, bringing him to his knees. I kicked the knife out of his hand and jerked his head up by the hair, causing his glasses to fly off. I raised my hand for a killing blow and heard, “Stop!”
I paused, seeing Jennifer with her hands on her knees, gasping for air. She looked up and said, “Don’t hurt him. Leave him alone.”
“What the hell are you talking about? He’s trying to kill us.”
The Ghost began to flex in my hands, and I lowered my grip, placing his head between my arms. I whispered in his ear, “Don’t move.”
He complied with the command, going limp.
I dragged him past Jennifer, to our car, and saw a body.
Jennifer rose up. Her face was pummeled and I saw a wicked slash on her forearm, bringing forth the rage again. I flung the Ghost against the door and he sagged to the ground, staring up at me.
I thought about killing him outright, and Jennifer said, “Pike. Don’t.”
Staring into his eyes, I said, “Why not?”
“He saved my life. He killed the man on the ground. If he hadn’t intervened, I’d be dead.”
For the first time, I looked closely at the body. It was the strange kidnapper from Mexico, which confused me even more. As is my nature, I decided force was the answer. I leaned into the Ghost, taking his hair into my hand and banging his head against the car door.
“What the fuck are you doing here? What’s going on?”
Jennifer grabbed my arm, stopping the assault, and the Ghost spoke. “I was trying to escape. But I guess you can never escape your destiny.”
He smiled at some inside joke and I turned to Jennifer. She said, “I don’t understand it any more than you. He saved my life, Pike. He really did.”
I felt movement over my shoulder and saw Booth doing a shuffling, rambling run. Like something out of a zombie apocalypse movie.
What the hell? Now this?
“Jennifer,” I said, “would you mind keeping that asshole from getting away while I have a conversation here?”
She took off, and I turned back to the Ghost. He looked up at me serenely. No fear and no regrets.
“What happened here? What’s she talking about?”
“She saved my life in Mexico. I made the mistake of returning the favor.”
His words sank in, but I was having a hard time assimilating them. It made no sense. The guy was a master terrorist who killed without remorse. Why the hell would he protect Jennifer?
“Are you telling me you saved Jennifer’s life here? Tonight? Interceded on her behalf?”
He smiled without any humor and said, “Unfortunately, yes.”
If what he said was true, he was putting me in a very awkward position. I couldn’t very well pummel the man who had saved Jennifer’s life. There had to be some ulterior motive. “But why? Why would you do that?”
I saw Jennifer coming across the parking lot, dragging that waste of flesh we knew as Arthur Booth. The Ghost said, “Because she helped me once, at great risk to herself. You give up what you are, and you are lost.”
“But you were trying to kill her just now. I don’t get it.”
His eyes closed and he said, “I don’t understand either. I’m sure you’ll get my answer in due time, inside my cell.”
79
I watched the Dulles runway lights approach and wondered what news was waiting on me about my team. I’d talked to Kurt immediately after leaving Blondie’s, and the decision had been made for me to pack up what I could and get Grolier Recovery Services out of the blast radius in Colorado Springs. We were still working to stop the Anonymous leak, which was set to fire in a little under twenty-four hours. If we couldn’t, the Oversight Council had decided that CNN’s making a link to the mess in Colorado Springs would be enough to cause further digging. Jennifer and I had bundled Booth, the Ghost, and the computer cell onto the Gulfstream with orders to get to Taskforce headquarters in DC, leaving the rest of the team behind.
The Oversight Council had been ecstatic at our success, of course. Initial reports from Operation Gimlet were positive, and the GPS constellation had held. No Wall Street collapse. No collapse of our cellular network or power grid. No collapse of our military capability. Three hundred million citizens of America went about their daily lives not realizing how close they’d come to Armageddon, but it was par for the course for the Taskforce. The public’s not knowing was the definition of success.
On the other hand, the Oversight Council did know, and I thought they were cheering a little bit early. On the phone call I had reminded Kurt the mission wasn’t over until extraction was complete. We still had some cleanup with Knuckles and the rest of the team. He was working it, and I wondered what had transpired during my flight.
We touched down and I dialed my phone. Kurt answered, saying he was in the Dulles FBO with a support package and was ready to receive. While I waited inside the plane, babysitting our detainees
, the support package traveled out as if they were a maintenance crew, bringing all sorts of containers and tools to the aircraft. They entered and I pointed to Booth, saying, “Him first.” They went to work.
As they stuck a needle in his arm, sedating him, the last image I had of Arthur Booth was him blubbering in hitches, tears running down his cheeks. He was shoved in a container and wheeled away. I had no idea what they’d do with him, since he was an American citizen, but honestly, I didn’t really care.
The Ghost had sat silently, waiting on them to return for him. Stoic. Understanding his fate. Certainly no tears.
I could tell Jennifer was conflicted about the whole thing, but it was what it was. He was a terrorist who had killed Americans. Had tried to kill both Jennifer and me on different occasions. Had almost blown up Knuckles with an IED. Had come close to killing a ruling citizen of the United Arab Emirates and our own envoy in an attempt to destroy peace in the Middle East. If it hadn’t been for the Taskforce he would have succeeded, cheering about the deaths.
And yet he’d saved Jennifer from the Mexican hit man. Something that mattered greatly to me.
Americans liked a black and white world, with everything clean. Some men wore the black hats, and some wore the white. Black was pure evil and needed to be eradicated. White was the shining knight and could only do good. The problem was I knew the truth. I wore a white hat, and I had seen and done things that couldn’t even charitably be considered worthy of the color. And now I was looking at a man on the other side who had done something that was.
I said, “I want to thank you for what you did. Unfortunately, that’s all you’re going to get.”
He looked at me, remaining silent.
I waited, and when he didn’t respond I said, “You and I both know you didn’t help in Mexico. But you did in Colorado, and that means something.”
The Ghost barked a short laugh. He paused a moment, then spoke. “Means what, exactly? I get your gratitude? The truth is I saved your lover in a moment of weakness. It was a mistake, and I’ll now pay for it.”
