The force of the explosion bounced the container into the air. Logan and Sydney fell to their knees from the impact when it slammed back down.
“Take out that tank,” Logan shouted.
Sydney picked up her sniper rifle. She lay down on the container’s roof and sighted in. Fire shot out beneath them. The flames licked and danced, and oily, green smoke billowed up at the metal heated up.
That’s silphium smoke.
“Heads up, Sydney,” Logan shouted. “We’re about to start tripping our faces off.”
A firefight is not a good time to start hallucinating.
Sydney shot the soldiers off the tanks again. Some of the Humvees were pointed at them, firing bullets up into the metal of the container. The Jubba River Militia was still in the water, though, and they were still firing. Every soldier looking for Sydney and Logan was a soldier vulnerable to a militiaman’s bullet.
The container was heating up rapidly as the fire raged inside. Eventually, it was going to be too hot to stand on. Sydney got up off her belly and took a position on a knee. Logan leaned over the edge and shot two Brothers.
Sydney slung her sniper rifle over her shoulder and grabbed her AK-47. She shouted at Logan, “Logan, we need to move.”
Logan turned to check that she was moving towards him. There were feathery white wings stretched out behind her. The sun over the Mediterranean gleamed off those wings, the feathers shimmering like pearls. She flapped her wings and floated inches above the hot surface of the container.
What?
Logan looked down at his hands and saw that he held a small reptile-like alligator in his hands. Then a monster climbed over the container’s edge, with a black face and glowing red eyes. Its claws scratched against the side as it skittered up. Logan pointed his alligator at the scratching monster, and it spat a dragon’s breath of fire out of its mouth, the flames consuming the beast. It flipped backward over the edge of the container.
Sydney flew up next to him. She opened her mouth to say something, but he heard only a sound like a choir harmonizing. They fluttered over to the railing and climbed down the ladder. Down on the surface of the container ship, gargoyles crawled around between the containers. They were black from head to toe and carried alligators of their own that shot fire.
Logan sprinted between the containers that stretched on all sides up to the sky. They seemed to reach the moon. Some of them were made of walls of liquid metal that flowed like melting ice.
Out in the water, tiny islands floated in every direction with shirtless tribesmen in loincloths. The tribesmen threw flaming spears at the gargoyles. Sydney flew beside him just inches above the surface of the ship.
On the other side of the sea, a boat appeared. Its massive sails were full of wind. Torches on the top of the ship burned red and blue. The vessel was full of knights in full shining plate armor who carried massive swords that seemed to glow with divine light.
That’s silly. You should never wear full plate on the ship. You can’t swim in that, Logan thought.
A banner on the front of the tall wooden ship read “Interpol.”
Weird. Why are they on a sailboat?
The sailboat pulled up beside the container. Several knights on board rolled a cannon to the edge of the container ship with the Jordanian military. The cannon fired. Water erupted in a massive fountain before splashing down on the boat. When the water settled, the ship was leaning sideways in the water. The sailboat turned its cannons towards the other containers and fired on them one after the other. Within minutes all three containers were tilting in the water and slowly sinking.
Sydney grabbed Logan’s shoulder. “Can you swim?” She asked.
Logan shrugged. “I’m off my face right now. I can’t see anything real.”
Sydney replied, “Me too, but we have to swim for it. This ship is going down.”
Logan replied, “We have to kill Abu Kishaa.”
Sydney seemed to recoil. “We should arrest him.”
Logan couldn’t tell if it was the hallucinations or if he really saw something, but it looked to him like she was genuinely horrified at the thought of killing Abu Kishaa.
“This is what we do, Syd. We kill bad guys.”
She responded, “But what if we need information from him?”
Logan said, “If you get a shot, will you take it?”
Sydney hesitated. Logan couldn’t be sure how long. In his intoxicated state, it felt like she paused for a full minute. Then, she said, “Yeah, I’ll kill him.”
“Great. Let’s go find Kishaa.”
They didn’t have to go very far to find Abu Kishaa. He was standing at the edge of the container ship. He looked prepared to dive overboard. Two other wives were with him. As he bent his knees to jump, he locked eyes with Sydney. He straightened up. The sinking ship caused him to stumble a little, but he kept his eyes on Sydney.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Neither said a word nor moved.
Logan shouted, “Take the shot.” It was too far for him to take it. He would have missed even when sober.
His shouting pulled Sydney out of her stupor. She swung the Dragunov up to her shoulder and sighted down the scope. If Abu Kishaa was acting, he deserved an Oscar. He seemed genuinely shocked and hurt when she aimed the rifle at him. His mouth fell open in shock, and his eyes drooped. He leaped for the water as the gun barked. Abu Kishaa disappeared over the edge.
“Did you get him?” Logan asked.
Sydney hung her head. “I got him.”
The knights came up the ladder. The Ethiopian agent Haile Gibran walked across the deck of the container ship. Other knights followed him.
He approached Logan with his hand extended. “Mr. Connor. It didn’t go as planned, but it was a good raid.”
Logan swiped at Gibran’s hand but missed it. “Umm, if you have gas masks, now is the time to use them. This smoke is serious stuff.”
Gibran nodded and said, “Where’s Abu Kishaa?”
Sydney said, “He’s dead.” She pointed to the water.
Logan looked around. The three container ships of the Rightful Custodians of the Two Mosques were sinking. The Jordanian tanks and Humvees were going with them. Most of the Jubba River Militia boats faltered as well. It seemed that Interpol turned up in time to do clean-up duty.
If that was Gibran’s plan, it was a good plan.
Gibran asked, “What’s next, Connor?”
Logan shrugged. “I was thinking I’d go back to being a mechanic. A lot less getting shot at. About the same amount of drug use, though.”
Sydney wiped tears out of her eye.
EPILOGUE
Logan made a stop in Benin to put flowers on Park Dae’s grave. Lebanese and Interpol divers dove the Mediterranean for hours, but they couldn’t reclaim Abu Kishaa’s body. Sydney insisted she hit him squarely in the head. Maybe the current pulled him out to some part of the Mediterranean they couldn’t find.
Everything about growing silphium sank with the container ships. The botanist Hiba was among the dead bodies. Dozens of other Abu Kishaa followers were rescued from the water. Most of them didn’t commit any crimes, so they were allowed to go home embarrassed. Some of them probably still believed in Chemosh or believed Abu Kishaa was the son of Chemosh. But all of history said that cults don’t survive the death of the cult leader. As long as Abu Kishaa was dead, his cult was dead too.
Logan was trying his best to believe Sydney. He knew that she felt some kind of attachment to him, but he didn’t really know the truth. He didn’t press it, and she didn’t talk about it. They were approaching Sweet River, Mississippi, about thirty miles off interstate 20/59.
Nine months passed since Kishaa, and all of his ships sank into the Mediterranean. Sydney and Logan used that time to construct new identities and build new covers. They were now Robert “Red” Ford and Randi Ford. Robert Ford was a good cover because it was the name of the man who shot Jesse James. It was common but also specific enoug
h that it was impossible to google.
They ran a crop duster and small plane repair business. Logan figured he held some kind of cosmic responsibility to pay a penance for all of his wanton destruction of small engine planes. He pulled on a pair of jeans and work boots as the sun rose over the pine trees. He packed a lip full of Copenhagen long cut. He hated the stuff, but many of his customers dipped. He learned a long time ago to do nothing to stand out. When a client offered him a pinch of dip, it was best to take it. They didn’t remember a mechanic who dipped like they did. They would, however, remember the one who didn’t.
A client called in a request and Logan spent three months hunting for the right plane. The client was coming from Dublin, Georgia, to pick up a Polish-built PZL M-15. It was the only jet-powered crop-duster available. Because it was so noisy, the aircraft was nicknamed Belphegor, after the mythical screaming demon.
Logan leaned against the railing on his porch, looking out at the white jet sitting in the grassy lot that separated his house from the shop where he rebuilt tiny airplanes. The Belphegor showed a few small rust pockets and some places where the paint was chipping, but the engine was strong.
Sydney walked out of the door behind him and leaned against the railing next to him. She cupped a coffee mug in both hands.
“Morning,” she said.
Logan leaned over and kissed her cheek. Initially, they just pretended to be married for their cover. The marriage was still something that really only existed on paper, but being here with her felt right. They seemed to be doing a relationship backward. They were married and living together before they started to figure out whether they truly felt feelings for each other.
She pulled her phone out and started scrolling.
Sydney said, “You know, I googled Belphegor.”
“Yeah?”
She said, “We’re not allowed to believe in coincidences.”
“Okay.” Where was she going with this?
Sydney finally said, “Belphegor is a demon. Originally, he was a Moabite god.”
“That’s quite a…”
Sydney needled him with her elbow. “Don’t say ‘coincidence.’ Belphegor was a Moabite god. This client is coming from Dublin. Come on now.”
“Dublin, Georgia,” Logan reminded her.
A car crunched along the gravel driveway between the grassy lot and the house. It was a beat-up old Honda Accord with a blown suspension. It was the kind of car that didn’t stand out anywhere but certainly not in rural Mississippi.
Logan spat in the dirt. “Alright, well, there’s our mystery client.”
Sydney scowled at the wad of dip spit. “I wish you’d quit that.”
Logan snorted. “Me too. But if I don’t do it occasionally, clients will notice that I have no tolerance. Can’t throw up and blow my cover.”
The door to the Accord opened. The client was bearded and even with the shaggy hair that hung down past his ears, he was unmistakable.
Logan nearly swallowed a mouthful of spit. “Hey, Eric. I didn’t expect you.”
Eric folded his arms and frowned at them. He practically growled. “Hello, false prophet.”
Logan Connor Will Return in
Tales of Yankee Power
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CHAPTER ONE
Senator Marshall Kirkpatrick was a rare creature in Washington, DC. The junior senator from Ohio was an independent. He was the only independent Ohio ever elected to the senate. More than that, he was a true independent. He liked to call himself a “Pagoda Palace pragmatist” after the Chinese food restaurant near the Capitol building that allowed customers to pick one item from column A and one item from column B. He routinely said he was picking “a little from column democrat and a little from column republican.” His position on the US Senate Judiciary committee and his actual bipartisanship made him something of a power broker in Washington DC. Both Democrats and Republicans considered him a “gettable” vote. In a close Senate, he could be the deciding vote on big issues. That made him one of the most powerful people in Washington DC and one of the most powerful people in the country.
There was somewhere that Senator Marshall Kirkpatrick had very little power, though. He was the low man on the organizational chart in his own home. His wife and daughter called the shots. His daughter, Lilian, went to Georgetown two years earlier. He tried to convince her to stay in her dorm on the weekends, to call home every Sunday, and to avoid drinking. Her mom reminded him of the parties they went to in college. Overruled again.
On this particular Sunday night, she finally got her fake driver license back from the boy on the fifth floor who made them. That was the thing about Georgetown rich kids: they all were connected. This guy’s dad worked at the State Department, and he dated that guy’s son. He had access to some kind of computer that printed convincing fake identifications. They were so good that the barcodes on the back even scanned.
Lily Kirkpatrick walked into Recessions at a little before 10pm. The bar was walking distance from campus and was popular with Georgetown students. It was popular for a few reasons. For one, it was the kind of place nobody’s parents would approve of. A subtle act of defiance. Most of the mixed drinks were cheap, though not aways served with ample alcohol. Most importantly, the bouncer working the door was about eighty years old and smoked skinny marijuana points to ease his glaucoma. The bar was usually half filled with underaged drinkers.
Lily’s State Department fake ID was definitely overkill. She could have gotten in with something she printed in the library. She and her friends breezed into the bar and went straight to the bartender. Lily ordered a Longhorn Iced Tea. It was a Long Island Iced Tea made with whiskey instead of rum.
She was with two girls from her sorority. They too carried fake IDs from the same State Department employee’s, son’s boyfriend. One of them ordered a rum and Coke. The other ordered a beer. They found an empty table in the loud bar and settled down.
They weren’t even finished with their first drinks when a pretty server their age brought over a tray with fresh drinks and set it down.
She shouted over the sound of the thumping hip-hop. “They’re from those guys.”
She pointed to a table off in the corner. In the corner, sat two guys in cuffed jeans and artificially scuffed lace-up work boots. They wore plaid button-down long sleeve shirts. They looked every bit the part of hipsters they weren’t. Lily waved and smiled at them.
After a few minutes, the guys grabbed their drinks and headed her way. Lily giggled and grabbed her friend Amy’s arm. “Oh god, they’re coming over.”
Amy groaned, “Why’d you make eye contact? Now we’re going to have to deal with them all night.”
They stood at the end of the table. One was tall and thin and wore a scarf. The other was a looking around the bar. He was obviously the shier of the two. The tall one smiled.
“Hey there, I’m Rafael.”
The shy one said, “I’m Ernesto.”
Lily, Amy, and Rachel introduced themselves. Lily scooted over so they could sit down. Rafael, the chatty one, sat next to her. Ernesto managed to squeeze his bulk into a chair.
They chatted for a while, and the boys turned out to be pretty good company. They played soccer at Georgetown on a scholarship. Ernest was a midfielder, and Rafael played goalkeeper.
They must have had pretty good side jobs because the drinks kept coming. They paid for drinks for all of the girls, but Ernesto seemed to just be generally interested in light conversation. Rafael’s focus was squarely on Lily. When the other girls talked, he sipped his drink and seemed a little bored. When Lily spoke, he turned towards her and listened intently. He laughed at her jokes even when they weren’t funny. He told jokes back. She would lau
gh and touch his arm. Rachel and Amy kept shooting looks back and forth, as if to say look at how much they’re flirting.
If they weren’t all on the way to being drunk, they would have notices something about these guys wasn’t quite right.
Lily took a sip of her drink and joked, “Oh my god, I should keep you around. I have a D in Spanish 130 right now.”
Rafael replied, “Podría ser tu tutor. Te puedo enseñar muchas cosas.”
Lily threw up her hands. “See? I have no idea what you just said.”
Rafael said, “I would love to teach you.”
Amy and Rachel rolled their eyes. It wasn’t a particularly good line. Lily seemed to eat it up.
Rafael asked, “What’s do you study?”
Lily said, “African-American Studies. My dad is so mad.”
“Por que?” Rafael asked.
“Well, he wanted me to do political studies because he’s like a big-time politician,” Lily said. “But, I mean, we’re black too. So, that should count.”
Rafael groaned, “A politician? What kind?”
Amy leaned in and said, “You really don’t know who she is? She’s Lily Kirkpatrick. Her dad is a senator. He’s Mr. Independent.”
Rafael shrugged. “I don’t watch a lot of TV.”
Lily nodded at him. “Good.”
Ernesto chimed in. “Are your parents politicians too?”
“Not us,” Amy said. “My dad is an accountant. My mom is a nurse.”
Rachel said, “Nope. My dad runs a furniture store. My mom writes travel books. She’s never around.”
East of the Jordan (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 2) Page 16
