Sins of the Fatherland (Scott Jarvis Investigations Book 6)

by Scott Cook

  We’d both lost our guns, but I saw the glint of something appear in his right hand just before he lunged.

  In combat, it’s almost always wise to meet aggression with aggression. This is especially true in hand to hand fighting. That doesn’t mean you don’t defend yourself, as boxers and martial artists do. However, if you turn and run or stay on the defensive, it can mean a loss. If you’re facing an armed attacker, this is even more important.

  So when he lurched forward, slashing out with his knife hand, I threw myself sideways and rolled, tucking my knees up to my chest. This caused my dance partner to miss and over balance. I then threw my feet out, connecting with his right hand and the side of his head.

  He let out a strangled cry of rage and pain and went toppling to his right. I heard rather than saw the knife clatter to the concrete and I threw myself forward, getting my left hand around his throat and sending my stiffened right fist into his gut.

  He grunted and tried to roll. I clamped down with my left hand and wrapped a handful of his shirt in my right. That’s when the knee came up between my legs. It wasn’t a good shot, the angle being bad, but it was enough of a hit to the jewels that I felt bile rising in my throat.

  It put the brakes on enough for him to wriggle free and lunge for his knife, which had landed a few feet away at the top of the broad steps leading down to the pool. I gritted my teeth, swallowed my gorge and surged forward, wrapping my arms around his torso and pulling the two of us close together. Our combined momentum kept us moving and we rolled to my right and began bouncing down the concrete steps.

  After what seemed like an interminable length of time… time enough for me to smack my head, bang my left funny bone and my right knee and to bark my left shin, we ended up at the bottom of the stairs in a heap of scrapes, bruises and dizziness. We both lay there, no longer connected, gasping and groaning.

  My nuts felt like somebody had stepped on them and my vision seemed blurry. I could see enough to notice that my opponent was beginning to struggle upright.

  Somewhere in the back of my rattled mind, I felt a grudging admiration for my opponent. He was smaller, both in height and width and probably didn’t have my brute strength, but he was resilient as hell. He’d managed to get mostly upright onto his knees again.

  That’s when a foot shot out and connected with the side of his head, rolling his eyes back and sending the man toppling onto his back in an unconscious heap.

  “Hey,” Clay said breathlessly, “you alive?”

  “Not sure…” I grumbled, trying to catch my breath, “I hope not… cuz this blows ape…”

  Clay helped me to my unsteady feet and pressed my weapon into my hands, “The three other guys are dead. Santino and Conklin have split. We’d better go too, I’m sure the cops are on the way.”

  “They left?” I asked.

  “I told them to,” Clay said, “We can’t get wrapped up with law right now. Let’s get this fucker and get to my truck. We’ve agreed to rendezvous at your office.”

  “Christ…” I grumped, “Can you carry us both?”

  “Come on, ya’ big puss,” Clay jibed, “Get an arm under Ahkmed here and let’s roll.”

  I felt like I’d been in a clothes dryer for the past hour. I felt weak, sore, dizzy and my wedding tackle needed a little tender loving care. I asked Clay about this but he was disinclined to render any assistance.

  We half carried and half dragged the semi-unconscious hit man back up the stairs and through the lobby. A tall portly man wearing a short sleeved shirt and too-wide tie tried to intercept us as we plodded across the lobby toward the main entrance.

  “What’s goin’ on here, guys?” He asked in a nasally voice that belied his two hundred and thirty plus pounds, “We’ve notified the police and—“

  “We’re Federal agents,” Clay said authoritatively, “This man is wanted by Homeland Security. It took considerable effort to capture him. Please stand aside, sir.”

  “You don’t look like Federal agents…” the man, probably the night manager said without much conviction.

  “Undercover operation,” I offered, “You can contact the Orlando branch office downtown at nine a.m. Ask for special agent Veronica Moss. Use the code name Sea Snake. She’ll verify. For now, though, please do not interfere.”

  “Oh…” The man replied with all due solemnity, “Okay then… thanks for keeping us safe.”

  “It’s why we’re here, sir,” Clay said officiously.

  We stepped out into the night and piled into a golf cart. The manager followed us, looking a little bewildered.

  “Our vehicle is parked out on the main road,” I said, “May we borrow this cart for the short ride? I can leave it just outside the gate for you to retrieve.”

  “Of course, sir,” The manager said obligingly, “You look a bit battered, agent… uhm…”

  “Marlowe,” I said, “Comes with the territory.”

  “Are you okay?” The man asked in a touching show of concern.

  I smiled back and gave him a thumbs up as I settled into the back seat and kept a hand on my prisoner’s shoulder, “Oh, God yeah. Trouble is my business. Have a good morning, sir.”

  Clay accelerated and we roared away, recklessly making our getaway at breakneck speeds in excess of twelve miles per hour. He steered around the circle and toward the entrance to the property. As many as two or even three of our hairs were most certainly raised.

  “Jesus…” Clay muttered, “Agent Marlowe…”

  “Hey, you started it,” I said, “Damn, I feel like a bag of smashed asses.”

  “You really oughta learn to fight,” Clay needled, “Maybe Wayne can give you some pointers.”

  “I really try…” I sighed.

  “Well, that’s a start,’ Clay jibed and chuckled.

  “Oh, no… not fighting… I mean I try to be a good person. Don’t lie, cheat or steal—“

  “Except from bad guys,” Clay pointed out.

  “—except from bad guys,” I stated, “And yet… and yet I’m apparently destined to suffer throughout my life by being surrounded by smart asses.”

  “You bring it on yourself, when you think about it,” Clay said as he steered through the exit and toward his truck.

  “Don’t blame the victim,” I chided. I started to chuckle, “We’re federal agents, sir… Geez…”

  Clay scoffed, “Dude… operation sea snake! Where do you come up with this shit?”

  “Who the hell are you bastards?” our new buddy mumbled from the front seat as his marbles began to reassemble. He spoke in a heavy Middle Eastern accent. From his tone, I determined that he was not enjoying our witty byplay.

  “We’re bastards?” Clay shot back, “Wow.”

  “How dare you break into my quarters?” The man tried to rage indignantly but it came out more of a peevish mutter, “I shall lodge protest with embassy.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, “You go do that, Ahkmed.”

  “My name is Tamir Bin-Kazar!” The man barked, sounding a little more with it now, “How dare you—“

  I back handed him across the side of his head, “Cut the shit! Lodge a complaint… fuckin’ turban winding mother fucker. You cooperate and talk nice and maybe I won’t slice your balls off and feed them to you. How’s that sound, Jafar?”

  Clay snickered. I wasn’t normally one to use ethnic slurs. At least not with any hateful intention. Wayne and I kidded each other with white guy and black guy stuff, but it was more satirical. Partly to make fun of racism.

  However, I was angry now that we had this piece of garbage in our clutches. And if I could speak disrespectfully and make him angry by using inappropriate language, then he might slip enough to reveal something.

  Clay pulled up behind his truck and popped open the bed cover. He withdrew a roll of duct tape and came back over to the cart, “Now you play nice, Aladdin, or this will go far less pleasant for you.”

  “You’re making big mistake!” Our captive growled, “
You shall—“

  “I know, I know, punkin,” I soothed, patting him on his shoulder as Clay began pulling out a length of tape, “Death to infidels, Allah shall punish us, blah, blah, blah. You be a good little camper and we’ll stop for a nice pulled pork Sammy.”

  Clay guffawed, “You’re such a dick.”

  “Sticks and stones.”

  We proceeded to tape his hands together and then his ankles. I placed a small piece of tape over his mouth as well.

  “I thought you wanted him to talk?” Clay asked as we got into the truck and began to drive away.

  “Sure, but not right now,” I said cheerfully, “Now I want him to suffer.”

  As we turned left onto Central Florida Parkway, a trio of Orlando patrol cars sped past on their way to the resort.

  “Something tells me it’s gonna be a long morning too…” I sighed.

  Chapter 24

  Conklin and Santino had gotten downtown well before us. We located the black sedan in the mostly empty parking lot under I-4 and pulled in.

  “Special delivery,” Clay said as we got out and he went to open the bed cover, “Rag head in a bag.”

  “He’s really full of piss and vinegar tonight,” I said to my companions, “you guys okay?”

  “Right as rain,” Conklin said, “Unfortunately, the three guys back at the hotel didn’t make it. Would’ve liked to have at least one of the Americans.”

  Santino sighed, “You all right, Scott? You look like you’ve been through the ringer.”

  “Oh, just ducky,” I said airily, “Got my nuts wracked, punched in the head and tumbled down a flight of concrete stairs. All in a night’s work.”

  We dragged Bin-Kazar out and Conklin and Clay each took an end and we walked across the street, into the Richardson building and rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. I was more than a little surprised to see that the lights were on in my office.

  “Uh-oh,” I whispered as we got close, “I think things are about to get complicated…”

  I hefted the Sig, edged closer and slowly turned the knob. When it stopped, I flung the door out and dove into the office, rolling and coming up on one knee, my weapon trained in front of me.

  It was a nice move, but I wished I hadn’t done it. My body was sore and scraped and it hurt like a bastard. And the laughter that accompanied the maneuver didn’t help any, either.

  Sharon sat on my sofa, casually flipping through a magazine, “Nice move, Starsky and Hutch. Kinda dramatic, though, ain’t it?”

  “What…?” I asked, lowering the weapon and getting painfully to my feet.

  “Jesus, you look like dog shit,” Sharon stated.

  Conklin, Clay and Santino entered now, dragging a struggling Bin-Kazar with them. Sharon’s brows rose at this and then even higher when she saw my guests.

  “What the fuck…?” She breathed in abject bewilderment.

  It was nice to see somebody else get a shock tonight.

  “Hiya, Sharon,” Clay said with a grin, “What brings you hear at this hour?”

  “Uhm…” She was totally thrown off, “Charles Conklin… Santino…? Wow, it’s like old home week at the old Jarvis place, huh?”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I grumbled and sat behind the non-existent secretary’s desk, “Bring out a couple of client chairs, lads. Tie him to one and we’ll get started. Sharon, I’m not sure why you’re hear… but you may want to take off now. This isn’t going to be pretty.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me, “Scott… I’m here because OPD received an anonymous tip. They said that you were responsible for that shootout over at the Hilton Grand Vacations.”

  “And they woke you up to deal with it?” I asked.

  “No, I was standing watch,” She replied, “Stepping in for the night supervisor. I said I’d go talk to you myself while the uniforms and detectives went to the hotel to see what really happened.”

  “Who would’ve called on Scott?” Clay asked, taping Bin-Kazar to one of my chairs.

  “Not sure,” Sharon said, “The person disguised their voice… but it sounded like a woman.”

  I held my head in my hands for a moment, “God… this is getting complicated. Well, the voice was right, Sharon. And this piece of shit here is the only survivor. One of the hit men who attacked Hank Lambert yesterday… and probably killed Morgan.”

  Sharon’s face darkened at that, “Who is he?”

  “Tamir Bin-Kazar,” Santino said, “One of four men, two Americans and two Arabs that were hired out of St. Louis. Good to see you again, Miss Nolen.”

  Sharon smiled at the handsome Mafioso. He sure had a way with the ladies, “A pleasure. So you guys are gonna tune him up and make him talk?”

  “Yup,” I said, getting up and ripping the tape from the Arab’s mouth.

  He grunted in pain before glaring around at Sharon, “You are police officer? Arrest these men! They attack us and kidnap—“

  “Shut your filthy fuckin’ falafel muncher,” Sharon barked, “I suggest that you start talking, Mister. And I’d better like it.”

  Bin-Kazar scowled and looked around at us. It was plainly evident that he wasn’t getting any assistance, and he knew it. He set his jaw and stared at the wall.

  “Who hired you?” I asked.

  Bin-Kazar said nothing.

  “Answer me,” I said coldly.

  Bin-Kazar laughed. It was harsh and derisive, “you don’t really think that I will tell you anything, do you, Jarvis? You think that beating me will make me break my oath?”

  The Arab spat contemptuously on my carpet and laughed again. I smashed the heel of my right hand into the side of his head, snapping it sideways and producing a satisfying grunt from my prisoner.

  “Scott,” Sharon said, “We don’t have much time…”

  I understood what she meant. Sharon had come there first to warn me and give me something of a buffer. Yet sooner or later, the machinery of the law would move and this would have to stop.

  “Let me take him,” Santino suggested, “I’ll bring him someplace where we can… talk more freely. I have friends in this town, as you know, Scott.”

  I glanced at Santino and then back at the Arab, “You hear that, Bin-Kazar? My friend here is with the mafia. Do you know what that is?”

  Bin-Kazar only shrugged and smirked, “Ask me if I care, infidel.”

  “He isn’t bound by the law,” I said.

  The Arab only scoffed, “You are ridiculous. You are like children playing at a man’s game. Do you know what I would do to you, Jarvis, if you were my prisoner?”

  I smiled at him and turned to enter my inner office. I kept a few things locked in my filing cabinet just in case. In case of what I was never sure, but you could never go wrong with a little preparation. Aside from my backup Colt 1911, I kept some odds and ends in the bottom drawer of one of the cabinets. Among these useful bits was an unused and factory sharp KA-BAR. I pulled this out, slid the leather sheath off and made my way back into the waiting area.

  “Would you use this?” I asked, placing the point of the blade against his throat.

  He admirably maintained his cold hard stare. Yet I thought I saw the slightest flicker of fear in his eyes. It was so fast, though, I can’t be certain.

  “You don’t have the balls,” He growled, “Why don’t you fetch that Yahoodi whore you’re working with. She at least might be man enough to do what needs doing.”

  “Who are you with, Bin-Kazar?” Conklin asked, “ISIS? Al-queda? Are you operating independently backed by a Fatwa?”

  The prisoner scoffed, “I am not a terrorist!”

  I scoffed this time, “No, of course you’re not. You’re a freedom fighter, right? Given free rein to kill the unbeliever and you use that flimsy excuse to commit horrendous atrocities.”

  “I am a Colonel in the Holy army of the Hamas!” Bin-Kazar exclaimed in righteous anger, “Fighting to liberate my people from the Zionist occupation!”

  ‘Oh, please�
��” Sharon sighed, “Do we have to sit here and listen to this shit? He’s not going to talk, Scott.”

  “He already has,” I said, lowering the knife, “You’ve told me two things thus far, shit for brains.”

  Bin-Kazar spat, “I make no secret of my associations.”

  Clay snorted, “No secret? I’m sure you entered this country and announced to customs that you were with the Hamas, right? No forged identities? You people are so full of shit. You lie and act with disgusting dishonor and only proclaim who you really are after you get caught or commit your surprise attacks.”

  Bin-Kazar only glared.

  “You’ve told me that you know who I am,” I said, “I never told you my name, so somebody else did. Further, you’ve told me that whoever this party is, they also know about Imani Tariffa’s true identity. And you’ve also confirmed a Palestinian connection.”

  “Go to hell!” The Arab shot back, his face a little paler than it had been a moment before.

  “You first,” I shot back.

  As if on cue, the outer office door opened. Before any of us could say a word or react, a figure dressed in black and wearing a ski mask leaned around the doorframe and extended a gloved hand. In this hand was a small, suppressed weapon that puffed three times. The arm and head vanished and the door swung closed.

  Conklin was the first to react. He bolted for the door and shoved it open. He jerked to a stop just before he’d have sprinted out into the corridor, though. The pane of glass in the outer door, which was now perpendicular to the opening, shattered as several silent rounds impacted.

  “Shit!” Conklin yelped as he lurched backward.

  It took several seconds for surprise to be replaced with cold realization. When I turned my gaze from Conklin to Bin-Kazar, it became clear.

  There were three neat holes in the man’s chest and the front of his black shirt was turning blacker still as his heart’s blood soaked it. He gazed stupidly at me for what seemed like an interminable second, tried to draw in one last breath and then the life left his eyes. His head drooped forward and hung like a rag doll.

  “Holy Christ…” Sharon breathed.

  “Gregorio, Charles,” I said coldly as I went to peer out of my windows in the inner office, “Get out of here. Get in your car and drive back to the condo. Hurry. Clay, you get in your truck and go home.”