by Mike Nappa
Kidneys. Back of the neck. Rib cage. Knees.
In the end, he settled on the right kidney, pulling it easily into his sights. He noticed the Arab nearing the front door of Coffey & Hill Investigations, saw the man reach inside his suit coat for what The Mute could only assume was a gun in a shoulder harness.
He fired, one silent crack of thunder that sent a rubber bullet toward its mark.
The Arab responded almost immediately, lurching forward and losing his gun in the process. He dropped to one knee, right hand pressed on his kidney where the bullet had struck. His eyes searched the area but never came in contact with his attacker. The Mute saw him measure the distance to his gun, now on the pavement about three feet away from him, so The Mute fired another shot.
The Arab’s gun sparked and flew down the sidewalk, now well out of reach. The man rolled away from the shot until he was under the cover of the bumper on the silver GT in the parking lot.
Now the question was only this: did this Arab carry two guns or just the one?
The Mute waited. He saw his quarry steal a look out from behind the car and then dart back into cover. The idiot still hadn’t identified where his attacker was stationed.
Amateur, The Mute muttered inside his head. And if he’s an amateur, chances are good that was his only gun.
As if confirming that suspicion, the Arab lunged from behind the car, running toward the handgun on the pavement. The Mute almost laughed. He fired again, one shot into the hand outstretched for the gun on the ground, a second rubber bullet driven into the wobbly knee that tried to retreat after the failure of reaching the gun.
The Arab yelped and collapsed to the ground, where he immediately began crawling until he was safely back under the bumper of the GT.
The Mute heard a stream of profanities fly from behind the car. Then, “Okay, you win! If you wanted me dead, you would have killed me already.” There was a pause, and then hands raised above the sight line of the car. “I’m coming out.”
The Arab stepped unsteadily into view, clearly favoring the left knee that was so recently abused by a rubber bullet. He looked out and around, still unsure where to find his attacker.
The Mute stood, rifle raised, and began crossing the street. When the two men were about ten feet apart, he stopped.
“Very nice shooting, American,” the Arab said. “Rubber bullets?”
The Mute nodded, and the Arab returned the gesture.
“Now that we’ve moved from hot war to cold, Mr. America, is it okay with you if I put my hands down?”
The Mute didn’t respond. The Arab held his pose for a moment, then slowly let his arms drop to his sides, watching for any objection. When none was given, he let his shoulders fully relax while reaching back to rub his bruised kidney. He tried a grin.
“Military man, clearly,” he said with a friendly manner. “Army? Navy? Marines?” The Mute didn’t answer, and the Arab shrugged. “I’ll never understand why a man like you would fight for a country that enslaved your people like this one did. Still, there’s no accounting for taste, right?”
Has just enough of an accent to give away his heritage in the Middle East, The Mute told himself, but still speaks English well. This was clearly an educated enemy, probably with a college degree from some university in Massachusetts or New York, and a student visa in his trash can back home.
“Well,” the Arab said, “we can’t stand here all night. What’s your business, American?”
The Mute tilted his head toward the door of Coffey & Hill Investigations.
“Ah, the woman. I see.” No one spoke for a moment, then, “Well, while I appreciate your skill with that pop gun, I have business with that woman as well. I’m afraid my business must take precedence over yours. But I will make it worth your while.”
He reached toward a pocket. The Mute prepared to fire another bullet. At close range, even a rubber bullet could do real damage, but if this guy was pulling a weapon, then The Mute didn’t have much choice. The Arab saw the precariousness of his position and froze.
“No, no. No gun. See?” He slid only two fingers into his pocket and came out with a money clip. “How much is the right price, American? One thousand? Two?” He grinned lasciviously, then tossed the money clip at The Mute’s feet. “Here, take it all. Ten thousand American dollars, plus a gold clip worth another thousand. All for you. And all you have to do is turn around and walk away from here. Easy, right?”
The Mute kicked the money clip under the Ford GT. Now the Arab frowned. No more pretense of friendship.
“You don’t know what you are doing, American boy.” He emphasized the word boy. Apparently he’d also studied American history. “Do you know who I am?”
The Mute shook his head.
“I am Samir Sadeq Hamza al-Sadr. Perhaps you know of my family, of my uncle? Yes, I see you know of us. Perhaps you learned of us firsthand when you and your country failed in Fallujah?”
The Mute felt like spitting.
So, this piece of work was part of the Sadr clan, part of Muqtada al-Sadr’s Mahdi Army that had terrorized Iraq after the American invasion.
Muqtada al-Sadr’s incitation to violence and aid to insurgents in Fallujah and Najaf had extended the war in Iraq by years and cost many innocent lives. Yet the man and his clan remained a strong political force in that country—and a ruthless power broker in the back alleys of that nation. The 2014 blitzkrieg of the Sunni-based Islamic State in Iraq and Syria had weakened al-Sadr’s influence some, but the canny leader still was a force to deal with.
Fueled by steady streams of cash from Iran and by fiery, extremist rhetoric, the Mahdi Army had infiltrated Iraq’s police forces and governmental infrastructures, which meant al-Sadr and his followers still held influence in many Shiite strongholds of Iraq. That included Baghdad proper and especially the slums of Sadr City, where a million or so Shiites revered him as a patriot and holy man.
“Now, take the money and go,” the Arab was saying, “before I lose my patience with you. You have performed well. There is no shame in this.”
Samir Sadeq Hamza al-Sadr took a step forward.
“The woman is necessary to me, to my family. She must suffer for insults to our great name.” He paused to grimace and trace the outline of his broken nose with a long finger. Then, “Go, it is nothing to you. Go, American. Don’t force me to make you suffer too.”
The Mute lowered his rifle and watched as Samir’s paternal frown relaxed into a smile.
“Yes, you know—”
To his credit, Samir didn’t cry out when the butt of The Mute’s rifle cracked across the bridge of his nose. He simply dropped to one knee, silent for a moment. Then he looked up through angry eyes and spat out a curse in Arabic. He stood.
“I should kill you, American,” Samir said. “Maybe I will anyway.”
The Mute fired a bullet at the man’s ankle. Samir buckled but stayed upright. “What are you—”
The Mute fired again, this time near the other foot, then a second shot at the ground, causing Samir to leap into an impromptu little dance.
“American, you—”
The Mute shifted his stance, effectively quieting the Arab for the moment. Then he spun the rifle off his shoulder and let it clatter to the ground. Samir’s eyes glittered.
“A man your size against little me?” he mocked. “How embarrassing for you when I slit your throat.”
The Mute grinned. He felt pretty certain he could break this Samir’s neck in hand-to-hand combat, but that wasn’t in the plan, not tonight. He reached down to his hip and pulled out his Kahr handgun. He leveled the weapon at Samir’s midsection.
The Arab was speechless for a moment, then he nodded appreciatively. “I see, I see,” he said softly. “You speak loudly for a man of no words.” He nodded toward the Kahr. “This one doesn’t bother with rubber bullets. I see.”
There was a thick moment of shared silence while Samir considered his options. The Mute watched his eyes track from
the gun, to the GT, to his Mercedes across the street, and back again.
“It is not wise to make an enemy of me, American. I am a powerful man. I can reach inside your dreams to take from you anything that matters to you.”
The Mute raised the gun to strike him in the face again, but Samir covered and cowered before the blow came. He moved backward two quick steps, then sneered.
“Yes, you win this time, American boy. I see it as plainly as you. But you must know this. I will not be left unfulfilled.”
He began walking in a wide circle, with The Mute as the origin of the circle, pointing himself away from Coffey & Hill Investigations and toward the Mercedes that waited for him across the street.
“I will find this woman again. I will take her, but for your sake, Quiet One, I will not kill her.” He paused and stepped out toward the street. The Mute followed his movement with both his eyes and his gun.
“In fact, I will make sure she doesn’t die. You see, I can use a woman like this. You know what I mean by use, yes? I thought so. There are many ways to use a woman, many ways to give yourself pleasure while giving them pain. I know this. I like this. A woman like the one you protect today? Young. Beautiful. Strong. She has special virtues for agony, and I will explore them all. Long before I’m done, she will beg me for the mercy of death. When that happens, I will tell her of you, of your contribution to her life. And for your sake, I will feast on her more, refusing her death until death comes of its own accord. You have secured that for her, friend. Let that be your memory of me, of this encounter tonight. That she will live in my grasp until I no longer find pleasure in her company. That’s what you have accomplished tonight.”
The Mute felt his eyes going red with rage. The muscles in his neck stiffened to the point of pain. His mouth bent into a snarl. If he were capable of growling, it would have spilled from his mouth in this moment. He was an animal, ready to tear this man apart with raw vengeance.
I will exterminate him now, The Mute thought, and rid this earth of his disease.
Surveillance cameras, body extraction complications, none of that mattered. It was time for Samir Sadeq Hamza al-Sadr to die.
The Arab saw it happening. His nose flared and dipped. A new light flickered into his widening eyes. Fear, a sudden impulse for flight, something that seemed an unfamiliar emotion for this man. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. He stumbled backward.
As if uncontrolled by his own mind, The Mute felt his arm extend and his eyes take aim. It was nothing new to kill a man. And it would be satisfying to kill this animal. His finger began to tense upon the trigger of the Kahr handgun.
Before he could complete the action, though, the sound of an engine hummed into existence. A car, heading this way. The Mute checked his fury long enough to let the gun slide to his side. A second later a silver Camry came into view on Howell Mill Road, quickly arriving and then passing by. Random nighttime traffic. Maybe a kid on his way home from a party, completely unaware that his presence had just forestalled a murder—or justice.
Samir breathed heavily. He didn’t delay any longer. He’d been closer to death than a mouse’s whisker, and apparently that was something that finally got through to him. He turned and ran away from The Mute, ran as fast as his bruised knee and feet could carry him, toward the safety of his Mercedes SUV. A moment later, the Arab was gone, leaving The Mute standing alone in the little parking lot outside Coffey & Hill Investigations.
Now that it was over, The Mute felt his muscles shaking with the flow of adrenaline. He wondered if it had been a mistake to let that man get away from this place alive. He wondered what the consequences of that decision would be. And then he took full control of himself again.
He was here for one reason: to save Truck’s girl. And he needed Trudi Coffey to do that. Needed her map. Needed the key she’d stolen from Samuel Hill.
He turned to face the front door of the detective office.
It was time to meet Samuel Hill’s ex-wife.
26
Trudi
Trudi was transfixed by the scene as it unfolded on her surveillance monitor.
When Samir the goon had finally turned tail and run away, she felt herself exhale deeply. Only then did she realize she’d been holding her breath.
That big marine was going to kill that man.
Trudi was a little unsettled by that truth, especially in her stomach, where a delicious grilled quail dinner was threatening to revisit her. Sure, she’d seen dead bodies before, and yes, she’d fought in more than one skirmish over the years. It came with the territory. But she’d never had to take someone’s life and never seen a life stolen away either. The thought of it left her trembling.
Trudi stared at the monitor, unsure what to do next.
Samir was obviously bad news, clearly someone to be avoided. But what about this military man? Was he a friend of Samuel’s? Or from some other faction? Was he an enemy or an ally? Or neither?
Trudi dared to look at the clock on her wall. It was now 2:38 a.m. If she didn’t get out of here soon, she’d never make it back in time to fool Samuel. But could she risk going outside with that man still out there?
She turned back to the monitor and saw the man standing in the middle of the parking lot. Even from here, he looked imposing. She guessed his height at six-foot-three or something close to that. He carried a thick, muscular frame that reminded Trudi of some of the defensive linemen she’d seen wreaking havoc as part of the Atlanta Falcons football team. His hair was cropped short, like he’d just come out of basic training for the army. He wore dark Levis, a sea-green denim jacket, and military boots. And right now, he was carrying a wicked-looking handgun and a long sniper rifle.
He stood and stared for a while at the front door of her offices, and Trudi wished he would do something. At least if he busted through the plate glass in the door, she’d know he was an enemy.
Finally he turned and walked over to Samuel’s Ford GT. He laid the sniper rifle on the hood of the car and then placed the handgun next to it. Before she knew for sure what it was, he also reached inside his shirt and pulled out a long knife on a chain. He set that next to the guns. Then he strode away from the car to an open area in the parking lot. He sat down cross-legged on the cement and waited.
Trudi bit her lip.
I think that was an invitation, she said to herself. Do I want to accept?
She looked at the clock again. It was now 2:44 a.m.
Well, I can’t stay in here forever.
She stood up from her desk. For comfort, she patted the back of her jeans, where the Beretta was safely stashed. She took a step toward the front door, then stopped. She reached back over her desk and scooped up her cell phone, stuffing it in her pocket. She still wanted to hear that message from Dr. Smith, but it would have to wait until later. Right now, it seemed, she had a date.
When she opened the front door of Coffey & Hill Investigations, the man was still sitting on the ground, waiting. She shut the door behind her, unsure if she should lock it or not. If things went badly, would she be able to get back into the office and lock the door behind her before this large man could stop her? She decided it was worth the chance, and left the office unlocked.
The big man still made no attempt to move, apparently waiting for her. She took a step off the sidewalk and halted there to take a closer look at her visitor. One thing she hadn’t noticed on the security camera was the large, dark scar that crossed his neck. She winced at the sight, in spite of herself. Then she spoke.
“Well, you got rid of that goon Samir, so you must be good for something.”
The man smiled at her. To her surprise, the smile seemed genuine.
“Do you work for my ex-husband?”
The man grimaced and shook his head, clearly insulted at the idea of being Samuel Hill’s employee.
“So who are you?”
The man said nothing but instead reached his right hand over his left and removed a ring from his fing
er. He held it up.
“Go ahead.”
He flipped the ring into the air, aiming it in Trudi’s direction. She caught it in one hand and gave it a quick inspection.
“Army Special Forces,” she said. “I see. So are you a friend of Samuel’s, then?”
The man hesitated, then shrugged.
She started to toss the ring back at him, then hesitated. She decided to hold it just a minute or two longer.
“Okay, you can get up, but do me a favor and stay away from those guns.” She gestured toward the arsenal atop her car.
The man stood, unlimbering himself easily and with a quickness that made Trudi worry. This guy was obviously a fighter. Despite her martial arts training, she didn’t think she could take him. Didn’t think it would even be close. Better to stick with diplomacy instead.
“So you’re Special Forces, but you don’t work for Samuel Hill. Who do you work for?”
The man glanced around them and then pointed toward the abandoned Tacoma parked not far from her car.
“You work for Toyota?”
Now the man really did smile.
“Right, I get it. You work for Truck.” She hesitated. “Do you know he’s dead, I mean that he’s been killed?”
The smile faded, and the man nodded.
“I suppose you want the Edgar Allan Poe book. That’s all anybody seems to care about nowadays. Well, I don’t have it. I gave it to my ex-husband.”
The man nodded and then pantomimed opening a book. When he knew she understood, he pantomimed removing something from inside the back cover of the book.
“Ah, I see,” she said. “You want the secret stash.”
The man nodded, then pantomimed a sheet of paper and a key.
“So you know what was in there,” Trudi said thoughtfully. “How do you know that?”
