by Roger Weston
“Any complaints about me?” he said with an artificial smile.
“Should there be?” Chuck’s customary response.
Ted looked to the side. “No.” His eyes shifted back to Chuck. “Are you mad at me?”
“You haven’t been knocking on your neighbors’ doors past midnight begging for cigarettes and spare change, have you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m a changed man. I’ll walk and step and die before I do the wrong thing.”
“Come on in then. I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.”
“You sure it’s okay?” Ted shuffled over to the little wood table with a stained coffee maker that held the morning’s brew.
Chuck grabbed a large canister of cheap grind from the cabinet next to his desk. “Don’t worry about it. Dennis isn’t here.”
“Cold’s fine.”
Chuck knew better than to argue. He put the tin can back.
Ted added seven packets of sugar to his foam cup and twirled the little red stick as cold brown liquid splattered on the floor. “Any complaints about me?”
“Not yet.” Chuck got up and walked to the window. He scanned the nearby apartment buildings for half open windows that could accommodate a sniper’s rifle. There were no newly-opened ones since the last time he checked.
“I won’t bother you anymore,” Ted said. “I’ll be going.”
Chuck turned from the window. “Okay, then. You haven’t seen anybody on the property today that doesn’t belong, have you?”
“No. Can I stop by tomorrow for a visit?”
“Sure, but if you see anyone who doesn’t belong, tell me right away.”
“Are you mad at me?” Ted glanced at Chuck for a second and then back at the door.
Chuck patted him on the back. “No, of course not.”
Ted started down the pathway that led to his apartment.
Chuck watched him and wondered what sort of meds Ted’s social workers had him on. He was glad there were compassionate souls in the world willing to work with people like Ted.
Chuck locked the front door and pulled the blinds shut. It was a few minutes before closing, but he was going to Lydia’s for dinner and didn’t want to be late. Her dad had just started a new job, and they were going to celebrate. Aung Ying’s American dream was finally coming true. To Chuck it seemed as if just a few days ago they were living the American nightmare. Aung had lost one job after another after arriving in the States. He was a hard-working guy who had survived years of war and famine, yet he couldn’t seem to adjust to the American way of life. He was torn to shreds by his failure to provide for his beautiful daughter and grandchild. But tonight was a new start. Exodus had found him a new job. Aung Ying was one step closer to providing for his family.
Chuck walked down the hall to Dennis “the Apartment Manager’s” office to turn on the alarm before he left for the night. As he entered the office, he noticed a number of packages had arrived for tenants who weren’t home. Someone had dumped them haphazardly all over the floor. As he carefully weaved his way around the pile of boxes, his thoughts returned to Aung Ying and Lydia. He had encouraged them to come to America. After months of persuasion, Aung finally agreed. Chuck told himself that his captivation with Lydia had nothing to do with it. He also tried to convince himself that his job as a recruiter for RUMAN had nothing to do with it either. He simply wanted what was best for Aung Ying and Lydia. He had assured them that in America they wouldn’t have to worry about violence and strife.
It had been just a few days ago that Lydia had told him how excited she was to attend the university and how she had submitted her paperwork the previous week. Lydia dreamed that her infant daughter wouldn’t ever have to know the type of harsh life she’d left behind in Burma. Chuck remembered the look in Lydia’s deep ebony eyes when she shared her plans with him. He smiled. The joy in her voice affected him in ways he didn’t expect. For a brief moment, he almost forgot about his wife and the pain that had tormented his heart since her death.
As he lifted his hand to punch the code in the alarm keypad, his arm bumped the corner of Dennis’s file cabinet. A stack of paper fluttered to the floor, and Chuck cringed. A file had been left on top of the cabinet. He kneeled down to pick up the mess. Dennis would have a fit in the morning if he noticed anything out of place. As Chuck straightened the stack, a name on one of the papers caught his attention. The name was Abdi Abdi and the word Terminate was slashed in red through it.
Chuck stared at the paper for a moment, pondering the meaning. RUMAN, his employer worked closely with Exodus, a relief organization that brought legal immigrants from foreign countries to America and helped them settle in. Exodus paid the immigrants’ rent for six months, got them jobs, and counseled them on American life. Basically Exodus tried to help hurting people, victims of political and religious persecution.
But in some cases, immigrants didn’t adjust well to life in America. That’s where Chuck came in. As a recruiter for RUMAN, Chuck’s job was to befriend them. If they weren’t able to adapt to the American way of life, he would offer them another option. They could return to their home countries with a stipend and protection in exchange for vital information. Spies for the United States.
Holding the file, Chuck stood up. He remembered the name Abdi Abdi. He was a young Somali man who had lived at the apartment complex for a while. A month ago, Exodus had found him a good job with Lawson Roofing. Abdi seemed to like it and was evidently doing well from what he’d told Chuck. But then he’d been fired, and Chuck encouraged him to return to Somalia as an American agent. Abdi refused and disappeared shortly after.
Chuck shut his eyes and squeezed his forehead. Apparently, Abdi’s failure to adapt wasn’t because he couldn’t assimilate into a new culture.
It appeared RUMAN was setting the immigrants up to fail so that they would be motivated to spy for them. Chuck knew that most people, if they suffered enough, would do anything. He frowned and returned the stack of paper to the file on top of the cabinet. Locking the front door, his forehead flushed with heat as he thought about Lydia’s father. Aung Ying had also been fired several times and without cause.
Chuck turned his back on the office and walked past a row of brick apartment buildings that were lined up like dominos. Wire cages encased the windows on both floors, and towels and sheets hung in place of curtains. When he passed the “D” building, he noticed that one of the previously-opened windows was now closed to just a crack. He looked for the barrel of a rifle. As he narrowed his eyes, he saw a brown hand reach down from inside the apartment and slam the window shut.
Behind him came a rustling noise.
He spun around and reached under his loose shirt, wrapping his fingers around the butt of his Colt .45, which was snug in his shoulder leather.
He was about to disturb the peace, but hesitated. A boy’s head poked out of the dumpster.
“Niko,” he said, easing his finger off the trigger.
The Bosnian boy crawled out of the dumpster. His shoulder sagged, and his chin dropped.
Chuck lowered his gun. “What are you doing in there? I told you to come see me if you ran out of food.”
“I don’t want to bother you,” the boy said.
“Come over here. How’s your old man?”
Niko looked up, but then lowered his gaze and shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” Chuck said. “Don’t worry.” He gave him thirty dollars. “Tell your father I’ll look out for you.”
The boy took the money and ran away. Chuck shook his head.
He returned the gun to his holster and hurried down the sidewalk until he came to building “K” and Lydia’s apartment. He knocked softly.
When she opened the door, her eyes gleamed with hope and anticipation. Sliding her arms around his waist, she turned her face up and laid her lips on his.
Chuck held her for a moment then closed the door.
When Lydia’s father came out of the back bedroom, he greeted Chuc
k warmly and gestured for him to sit at the table.
Chuck’s forehead flushed with heat again as he thought about the file that he’d seen in Dennis’s office. What was happening to Aung Ying was what had happened to Abdi. What scared the hell out of Chuck was that Abdi Abdi wasn’t the only one to have disappeared. Several immigrants who’d lived at Clearbrook and refused his offer had gone missing as well.
“Dead beats,” Dennis had said. “Skipped town when things got tough.”
Maybe. At the time, the explanation seemed credible. But now it was clear that Dennis hadn’t told him the whole story. Chuck got up and turned on the television.
He turned to Lydia. “Where’s the baby?”
She smiled. “I left her at the sitters.”
Chuck reached for Lydia’s hand and gestured for her and her father to follow him. Lydia started to say something, but Chuck put his finger to her lips. He led her by the hand and said, “I want to show you something.” They followed him outside and down the parking lot.
“Where are we going?” Aung Ying said.
“Come with me,” Chuck said, leading them toward the main road. “We have a serious problem. The people from Exodus aren’t who they say they are. They’re not here to help you.”
“Then who are they?” Lydia said turning toward Chuck, searching his eyes.
“It’s complicated.” Chuck looked at Aung Ying. “You’re not taking any more job referrals from Exodus.”
“I have a job now.”
“It won’t work out,” he motioned for them to keep walking. “Tomorrow I’ll move you to another place. I’ll help you get a new job, one you won’t lose.”
“Move us?” Lydia said. “Tomorrow?”
“Look, you’ve just got to trust me. I don’t want to scare you, but nine other people over the past six months have had problems like yours—and they disappeared.”
“What?” Lydia stopped.
Chuck gently took her by the arm and nudged her. “Keep walking,” he said. “Smile. Act like we’re just taking a normal walk. They might be watching.”
“Who might be?” Aung Ying said. “What happened to those people?”
Chuck patted him on the back and forced a smile. “Try to relax. The manager told me they skipped town because they couldn’t pay rent, but I don’t think so anymore.”
“What do you think?” Aung Ying said his voice strained.
“Listen, a secret government intelligence agency runs this apartment complex. I was told that they were trying to recruit refugees for intelligence gathering and that this would be a good opportunity for certain immigrants, but whatever they are doing goes a lot deeper than that. There’s no way I’m leaving you and Lydia in a dangerous situation.”
“I trusted you,” Aung Ying said.
“I’m sorry,” Chuck said. “I never would’ve brought you here if I thought it was dangerous. I care the world about you and Lydia. Get the baby from the sitters and grab your important legal papers. Be ready to go in the morning. Leave everything else. Meet me at 8 a.m. in front of the pipe factory.” Chuck put his hand on Aung’s shoulder. “Don’t talk to anyone. I promise I will find you a safe place.”
Chuck looked down the line of windows. It occurred to him that if RUMAN operatives were staked out in one of those apartments with a parabolic mike, they would have heard every word he just said. He hoped traffic from the road had drowned out his voice.
CHAPTER 2
Next Day, Birmingham, Alabama, 8:00 a.m.
Chuck squeezed through a hole in the ivy-covered fence of the abandoned concrete pipe factory. He weaved his way through cracked sections of pre-cast cement pipes and rebar that were strewn across the two-acre yard. Drawn by the shadows, Chuck entered the massive factory through a graffiti-covered door. A cargo ship could have fit inside the hollow building it was so big. Crouching down by a jagged tear in the aluminum siding, he watched the way he’d just come to make sure that nobody was trailing him. Moving out into the parking lot in the front of the building, he waited for Aung Ying and his family to arrive.
Aung wasn’t expected at his new job until nine. Chuck knew that when the people from Exodus found out that Aung hadn’t shown up, they would pass the word on to RUMAN. Once RUMAN found out, they would look for him. By then Aung, Lydia, and the baby would be gone. Chuck would take them to his safe house for a couple of days. Then they would leave the state. But where were they? He looked at his watch. It was 8:15.
After several minutes he saw them. Without the baby! Aung Ying and Lydia walked briskly down the sidewalk and veered into the factory grounds toward him.
Moving out of the building into the parking lot to meet them, Chuck saw a small group of elderly folks waiting at a bus stop.
One pace ahead of Lydia, Aung hurried over to Chuck, tight lines stretched across his face.
“We want to return to Burma,” he said. “I don’t want to stay in America. I want to go back home. We want to leave now.”
“Where’s Amy?”
“I took her to the sitters when I was getting ready,” Lydia said. “When I went to get her, they’d gone to the store. We have to go get her.”
Chuck inhaled deeply and looked at Lydia. She was avoiding eye contact with him. Chuck replayed Aung Ying’s last statement in his mind. Did he say “we” want to leave? Why wouldn’t she look at him? Desperate for a life raft, he shifted his gaze back to Aung Ying.
“What about the American dream?” Chuck said, his voice cracking slightly. “What about all that you’ve sacrificed for a better life? It’s going to happen for you. Soon. Why go back now?”
Aung looked away for a moment. His neck muscles bulged. “We will go back. You said you would help us.”
Chuck looked at Lydia. “You’re going back?”
“Maybe I’ll have to,” she said, compressing her lips.
Chuck looked down at the ground and closed his eyes for a moment. He stood there, unable to speak. Then he realized that she’d said maybe. He had thought about making their relationship permanent, but it had only been a year and a half since his wife’s death. Finally, he looked at Aung Ying and made his mouth work. “Okay. Just be patient. It takes time to arrange these things. We have to go get the baby. We don’t have a lot of time before they realize you’re gone.”
“Then we leave. I come to America for better life. I come so my daughter will be safe, and it’s not safe here.”
Chuck looked Aung in the eyes. “She will be. I guarantee it.”
“You already lied to me. I don’t trust you.”
Chuck’s eyes blinked several times. “Aung, I promised you that life would be better for you here. I will help you, so it will be.” Chuck paused and pressed his fingers against his temple for a moment.
Today was a serene and peaceful day in America. This was the land of opportunity, a refuge for the oppressed and the persecuted.
He sensed movement at the corner of his eye. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a white man dressed in cargo pants and an untucked shirt approach the gate—pistol in hand. The elderly people at the bus stop saw him, and one started walking in the opposite direction. A couple of young men who were coming up the sidewalk stopped and froze. As the assassin made eye contact with Chuck, he dropped to one knee.
“Get down,” Chuck said. As a shot rang out, he pushed Lydia to the ground behind a section of two-foot pipe. He saw Aung Ying duck by another section. Chuck still needed cover, so he rolled and scrambled behind a tube that was ten feet closer to the shooter. The pistol barked and bullets just missed him, spraying cement chips in his face. He drew his Colt .45 and swung it over the big pipe. He was just about to fire when a car screeched around the corner and nailed the assassin. The man flew about ten feet and landed in a grotesque roll. The car drove over him, the engine roaring as the driver poured on the gas, and the front wheel spun over the killer’s neck. The gunman got stuck in the undercarriage and was dragged underneath as the car jumped the curb back onto the road. Aft
er twenty feet, the man came free, and the back tire rolled over his body.
As the car sped down the road, Chuck couldn’t take his eyes off the vehicle. He knew that car. What the hell was going on?
An old woman shrieked, and Chuck saw one of the young men run to the body and kneel down by it.
Chuck looked over at Lydia. Fortunately, she and Aung Ying were alright although they looked scared.
“Wait here,” Chuck said. “Just for a minute.” He glanced over at the crowd gathering by the crime scene. Seven people now. All of them probably from the neighborhood, but he couldn’t assume anything. He shoved his pistol under his belt and covered it with his shirt.
He pulled sunglasses out of his waist pack and put them on. He scanned the area for another assassin. He had to get Lydia and Aung Ying out of the area, but there was no way he could leave yet. He remembered the car and walked toward the road, his eyes searching the scenery for unexpected movement. Witnesses and locals were standing around, keeping their distance from the body, except for two men who were crouched over the recently-retired assassin.
When Chuck got there, one of the men was heaving on the killer’s chest.
“Will he make it?” Chuck said.
The other guy shook his head. “Nobody could survive that. Car went right over him. His neck and ribcage were crushed.”
Chuck looked at the man who was trying to revive the assassin by heaving on his chest. Chuck winced at the thought of all those grinding broken ribs.
“What happened?” the first one went on. “I saw him shooting at you. I didn’t think you had a chance.”
The second man gave up in frustration and stood. He was a hefty, middle-aged black man with a doughnut beard and a threadbare shirt. “You see that? See that lunatic? Didn’t even stop. Kind of sick world is this? Didn’t even slow down.”
“I’ll check his pulse,” Chuck said.
“Already did. He’s dead.”
“You get the license plate?” Chuck said.
“Better believe it.” The man pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
