The Alamo

by Roland Smith

  “Of course!” he said, beaming. “And for you, Ms. Tucker?”

  “I’ll just have some green tea,” she said. Party animal, I thought to myself.

  “Right away,” he said and disappeared.

  I plopped down across from Angela. She was slouched in her seat, the tray out, and her laptop flipped open. Angela was tethered to her laptop. I had one just like it and hardly used it. Luckily she was hyperorganized and had been doing a ton of work for our school project. I was way lucky in the stepsister department, in that regard.

  There was no way I was going to ask Angela if she was okay. One more question like that and she was likely to loosen a couple of my teeth with a well-placed tae kwon do kick. I knew how to get her talking and it was by shuffling a deck of my recently returned cards. Out of my pocket they came and I started fanning and cutting the deck one-handed. Basically I was just showing off. While the cards had a calming effect on me, they had the exact opposite effect on Angela.

  I avoided the glare and about three seconds later she was chewing her bottom lip. I sighed. She knew I knew when she did this she had something to say.

  “What?” I said quietly.

  She stared at my hands working over the deck and frowned.

  “Do you have to do that?” she said with just the slightest hint of annoyance in her voice.

  “Yes, and what?”

  “Q, sometimes I just have no idea what you’re saying,” she said.

  “You’re doing the lip thing. Don’t argue with me about it. It’s your tell. Spit it out. Something is on your mind. If you can’t say it to me, who are you going to say it to?”

  She paused and looked off to the side.

  “Something about Boone is bugging me,” she said.

  “Well, get in line, sister. There is a lot about Boone that’s bugging me. Mostly how he can pull off his … whatever it is that he does. Which reminds me, we need to come up with a name for it, like teleporting, or something,” I said.

  “I thought you said it was a magic trick,” Angela said.

  “I did. But I don’t think that anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, we’ve both seen it. It’s not a trick or a wormhole, it’s real. In a case like this, you have to look at the evidence.”

  “There’s got to be an explanation. Maybe some new kind of technology … maybe X-Ray came up with something,” Angela said.

  “Maybe, but right now I’m working on a theory where he temporarily hypnotizes us. Then he goes off and does his thing and plants a suggestion in our subconscious mind that he’s disappeared and reappeared all of a sudden.”

  “How’s that working out for you?” she asked with the hint of a smile.

  “It still has some flaws,” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” she said absentmindedly.

  “Say it. Maybe it will help me bolster my theory.”

  Angela leaned forward to make sure Marie and Art were still out of earshot. “I’ve been thinking about Boone wearing a Nazi uniform in that old photo,” she said. “What was that all about?”

  “Double agent?”

  “Maybe. I just wish we knew what his game was now,” Angela said.

  “From what we’ve seen, his game now is saving everyone from bad people,” I said.

  “Yeah. It’s just … you know my mom, despite what she said in the cemetery. She was always kind of suspicious of Boone,” Angela said.

  “I think she’s suspicious of everyone. Doesn’t that come with the job of being a Secret Service agent?”

  “I suppose. Remember how he told us the CIA recruited him right out of college? There’s no way that’s true. Unless he’s in his eighties.”

  “He is pretty old,” I said.

  “I guess,” she said. “But if he’s been around since World War II … and everybody has said he never ages and Croc looks the same. It’s just … too weird.”

  “It is. And I’m sure either he’ll tell us or you’ll figure it out,” I said.

  “Me? Why will I figure it out?”

  “Because you figure out stuff. I do tricks. And I’m not going to rest until I figure out how Boone does what he does. We really need to come up with a name for it. A code word or something,” I said.

  “You’re a magician. What about ‘presto’?”

  “Not bad. I mean, it does kind of fit. I was thinking maybe ‘poof.’”

  Angela arched her eyebrows and shrugged, clearly not as obsessed as I was with Boone’s little trick.

  Angela was quiet a while. “Don’t get me wrong. He saved Bethany and us and all that. But if he can do this thing … why doesn’t he take over for my mom so she’s not the one in danger all the time?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because your mom is impersonating one of the most feared terrorists in the world. We’ve seen him poof in and out of places but he’s not a shape-shifter or anything weird like that. I suppose he can’t change things around for her even with his power,” I said.

  Chief Steward Rogers returned with our food. I took a bite of what might have been heaven on a bun. It was the best burger I’d ever had in my life. If I were P.K., I would take every chance I had to fly on Air Force One and eat nothing but burgers. Burgers for breakfast. Burgers for lunch. Burgers for dinner and a midnight snack. I liked Roger. I could do worse when it came to stepfathers. But this whole vegetarian thing could be a deal breaker.

  Angela sipped her green tea while I gorged myself. Hunting a super-secret sleeper cell of terrorists is hungry work and the burger, fries, and shake disappeared in about five minutes.

  Just as I was about to resume our conversation, my iPhone chirped with an incoming e-mail.

  “It’s from P.K.,” I said, looking at the screen.

  The subject line read: MORE INFO FOR YOUR WH PROJECT

  P.K. had cut and pasted some info on the White House in the body of his message. At the end was a link. He knew our phones were being monitored and this stuff probably wouldn’t even get a raised eyebrow from X-Ray. I clicked on the link.

  Up came a photo in black and white. There was a handwritten caption at the bottom of it that read, “Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show, London 1902.” In the front was a guy on a rearing horse holding his hat in one hand and the reins in the other. He had long blond hair and a funny goatee. He wore a buckskin jacket and pants. Behind him was a line of cowboys on horses also rearing up as the riders waved their ten-gallon hats in the air.

  All except for the rider on the far right. His horse remained on all fours and his Stetson was perched atop his head. He was skinny and weathered-looking, with shoulder-length gray hair. Resting on the ground next to his horse was a very familiar-looking dog. Croc? Though it was a fuzzy image, the rider looked a lot like Boone.

  I turned the screen around to show Angela the picture.

  “The plot thickens,” I said.

  More Questions

  Malak strolled to the window of the study while Miss Ruby sat behind her desk. On her way inside, Malak had taken as many mental notes of the sprawling house as she could. From the back entrance, through a sitting room, a kitchen, and a formal dining room she had finally been led down a long center hallway before walking into the library. The hallway continued on to a massive front door with a stained-glass window above it.

  The window revealed an expansive front yard and beyond that pastures with more cows. There was a long drive leading up to the front of the house from a two-lane blacktop road about one hundred yards away. The drive curved off to Malak’s right about fifty yards in. She assumed it ended near the giant front door, but her view in that direction was blocked by the house. The property was completely fenced in and a big gate over the entrance to the drive had words woven into the wrought iron. Reading backward, she read, “The Firebrand Ranch.” Malak wondered if there was some significance to the name.

  “Well, sugar pie, you must just be exhausted,” Miss Ruby said. She put her feet up on her desk, displaying an elaborately t
ooled pair of cowboy boots. As she lit a cigarette, Malak studied her more closely. In addition to the ruby-encrusted watch, every finger bore a gemstone ring, each of them rubies, of course. She wore silver and ruby earrings the size of hubcaps. Looking at her made Malak’s head hurt, but she had to admit, whether she was in Texas or anywhere else, no one would ever think Miss Ruby was a terrorist. At least not at first glance.

  “That’s Robert, bringing you something to eat and drink,” Miss Ruby said just as the door to the study opened. The man who had driven her to the house in the ATV walked in. He was pushing a cart with a coffee pot, bottled water, fruit, cheese, and other snacks on it.

  “You should sit down, honey pie, and take a load off,” Miss Ruby said, the smoke from her cigarette swirling around the giant pile of hair. Robert stood next to the cart until Ruby waved him out of the study. Malak watched him as he crossed the room and closed the door behind him.

  “Seriously,” Miss Ruby said, the fake friendliness completely gone from her voice, “sit down.”

  Malak turned from the window. “I prefer to stand,” she said.

  “What went wrong in Kitty Hawk?” Miss Ruby asked.

  “Should I call you Miss Ruby or Number Three?”

  “You should answer my question.”

  “You should show more respect. The Leopard has claws.”

  Miss Ruby pushed a button on a keyboard and a monitor lowered from the ceiling. A few seconds later, Malak realized she had been right to be paranoid about being recorded. On the screen she saw herself and Number Four sitting on the couch in the Kitty Hawk lodge. Watching the scene unfold without audio was surreal, as suddenly the room exploded with action. They must have wired the house with multiple cameras, because the point of view on the screen switched and suddenly Malak was pushing Smailes toward the front door. Eben and Ziv burst through it and she fired at Eben; Smailes spun to her right from the impact of Ziv’s bullet. She returned fire, knocking Ziv backward as she grabbed and shoved the now wounded Smailes through the door.

  The video froze and Miss Ruby stared at her in silence.

  Malak held her gaze. This was a test. She was determined not to show the slightest weakness. Malak’s instincts had told her that Smailes, despite being one of the Five, had most likely never done much fieldwork. Strategy and tactical planning were his specialties, she was sure, not being in the middle of the action.

  But Malak had yet to get a read on Miss Ruby. The woman owned a giant ranch and talked tough. She also looked like she could handle herself if it was necessary. Still, the Leopard had learned that in most situations her best tactic was to never show fear.

  “I sense a question,” she said to the woman who sat smoking, her eyes never moving from Malak’s.

  “Your reputation is of one who does not leave our enemies alive,” Miss Ruby said, “yet you fail to kill two agents and you scurry out of the house like a frightened dog. I’m curious why you didn’t finish them.”

  Malak threw back her head and laughed. “Do you think I am a fool? Replay the video.”

  Miss Ruby stayed still.

  “Did you misunderstand me?” Malak asked, her eyes flashing. She was on dangerous ground. The cell had a strict hierarchy and would demand her respect. But they would also expect her to push back against any criticism of her behavior. It was a fine line to straddle.

  Miss Ruby’s hand moved over the keyboard and the video started again. She and Smailes on the couch … moving as the house was breached … Eben and Ziv coming through the door … her shooting Eben, Ziv firing and hitting Smailes in the shoulder.

  “Pause,” Malak said. The image froze at the point where Smailes recoiled from the impact of the bullet.

  “I now have a wounded comrade between me and the two agents to my front. There are an unknown number of agents undoubtedly approaching from my rear and flanks. Training dictates a shot to the center mass of each target. Anyone who has been in the field knows every special-ops team will have body armor on all their personnel. There is no time to stop for a kill shot. And even if there were, Number Four, as you called him, is injured. We cannot allow him to be arrested, nor can I leave him behind. With a standard FBI or Special Forces tactical team, I’m facing between ten and a dozen armed men. I do not know the extent of his injury. At this very point, my obligation is now to get away with an injured comrade slowing me down, not stopping to finish our enemies.”

  Miss Ruby continued to look at her silently and Malak held her gaze.

  “Play,” Malak said.

  Miss Ruby clicked another key and the video started up. It showed her shooting Ziv twice. She hoped he had not been injured seriously. Even with body armor, two .40-caliber bullets to the chest would not be pleasant. Then she nearly smiled at her concern. Ziv had sounded fine when he answered her phone call and she doubted a few bruises would slow the tough old man.

  The video ended as they exited the house.

  “Tell me what happened next,” Miss Ruby said.

  “Number Four had a boat. We took it to the mainland where an SUV was parked in a marina. He was going into shock and needed medical attention immediately. In a moment of consciousness he gave me his phone and instructions to reach a local clinic. I took him there as soon as I was able. But you already know this.”

  Miss Ruby smiled and clicked more keys. Another video, this one with audio, showed Malak pulling into the garage in the SUV, then the events inside the clinic, and ended with her calling the airfield.

  “Why did you make two calls,” Miss Ruby said, her voice flat.

  “His phone dropped the call. We were in the aftermath of a hurricane. It’s likely the cell towers were not operating at peak efficiency. I had to use the landline to learn the correct location of the plane.”

  Malak changed the subject. “What happened to Smailes?”

  Miss Ruby clicked another key and the video showed the doctor working on Smailes, then the beeping sound of his heart monitor flatlining. The doctor worked feverishly, injecting Smailes’s IV with more drugs and using defibrillator paddles, but to no avail. Number Four died on the table. The next few minutes of the video showed the doctor frantically gathering up his belongings, but two men dressed in black jackets and jeans, both wearing gloves, entered the building. One of them pointed a silenced pistol at the doctor and shot him twice in the chest. He slumped against the clinic wall, dead. The two men removed both bodies and the video ended.

  Malak kept her face a mask, doing everything she could to show no emotion at the cold-blooded murder of the doctor. She forced herself to remember that the man had gotten himself involved with the wrong crowd. He knew the danger. But in her experience, most of the low-level terrorists she met had no real idea how brutal those above them could be.

  “The doctor panicked and tried to run. There is no running from the ghost cell,” Miss Ruby said. At the push of another button the monitor blinked off and disappeared back into the ceiling.

  “Then there are no loose ends,” Malak said, pretending to sound relieved. Now it was time to go on offense. “You are lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Miss Ruby said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Yes. Kidnapping the president’s children was a stupid move!” she said.

  “Number One didn’t think so.” Miss Ruby sat back in her chair and removed her feet from her desk.

  “Then Number One is a fool! Taking the president’s children? For what? To show them on a video broadcast for propaganda? If we wanted to strike fear in our enemies, I should have been allowed to kill them inside the White House! Instead, we ran a complicated operation with unreliable people and lost too many valuable assets. And I would expect that the president’s daughter is right at this moment standing by her father’s side at some press conference, her very presence mocking us. Who came up with such a stupid plan?”

  Miss Ruby picked up a remote control on the desk and pointed it at a TV set in the corner. A news channel showed President J. R. Culpepper, Bethany, Roger, and Bl
aze along with a squirming P.K. at a podium in the East Room.

  “That was earlier this morning,” Miss Ruby said. “Your objections are duly noted.”

  Malak waited. She watched as the woman fussed and fidgeted. Lighting another cigarette, patting and adjusting her big head of Texas hair, it was as if she were struggling with a decision. Malak had no doubt Miss Ruby had been tasked with determining if the Leopard could be trusted. Finally the woman seemed to relax.

  “You did well. We expected nothing less. There is another plane on its way here. When it arrives in the morning, it will take you to Chicago where you will go to a safe house and await instructions. There you’ll meet Number Two,” she said.

  Malak was thunderstruck. She knew Angela was on her way to San Antonio. She had assumed that she would be given an assignment here. The thought of being sent away and leaving her daughter in danger was nearly more than she could bear. Careful, Malak, she thought. Don’t give anything away. You’ve come too far.

  “Is there a problem?” Miss Ruby asked. “You don’t look good all of a sudden.”

  Malak forced herself back into focus.

  “Why Chicago? Four said the next target was here.” It was a lie, he had only said she was to come here to meet the others in the Five, but didn’t give a reason why. It was an obvious assumption.

  “There is a target here. The third SUV is on its way as we speak. But that is now our operation. Your duty is in Chicago,” Miss Ruby said.

  “What is the target? Please don’t tell me it’s another kidnapping. We must not play small here,” Malak said. She paused, hoping she would get a shred of information she could pass on to Boone.

  Miss Ruby shook her head. “Once you are in place in Chicago, you’ll get the details. Four is dead, so Number One wants us to be extra careful. Risky as taking Bethany Culpepper might have been, it was a plan years in the making. And it came apart far too easily. Given recent events, we all voted to keep the targets and missions compartmentalized until we are ready to act.”

  She stood up. “Robert will drive you back to the airfield. The guesthouse next to the runway is stocked with food and drinks. You can even take a shower if you’d like. It’s comfortable and will offer you privacy. Sleep well tonight and be ready to go in the morning.”