William Tyree: The Fellowship

Now sightless, Zhu trembled as the vehicle took rounds to the right front fender, and then to the grill and windshield. He heard the sound of the brass shell casings bouncing on the cement around the Mini Cooper. The disturbing clamor of the windshield crystalizing into thousands of tiny cracks. The noise of an empty aluminum magazine clanging against the cement as the gunmen reloaded.

The German shifted the vehicle into drive and stepped hard on the accelerator. They’d gotten the drop on him, but they had made one mistake. They’d mounted their attack from within a car that was very fast, but also very small.

There was just enough clear glass left on the windshield to see the gunman’s eyes get big as the SUV raced toward them. The Range Rover T-boned the Mini with a satisfying crunch. Lars’ vision was filled with white nylon as the vehicle’s airbags deployed, enveloping him and Zhu in a warm, if brief, hug. Even as the airbags deflated, he kept the vehicle’s forward momentum. He hadn’t gotten enough speed to completely demolish the car in one fell swoop, but he had enough weight and momentum to push the wreckage up against a cement column.

Lars threw the SUV in reverse. The Mini looked like a crumpled soda can. As he had hoped, the right front wheel was bent hopelessly inward, and the driver’s-side door was crushed against the column. The assailant’s left foot extended out from below the passenger’s side door. He’d put down his weapon and was devoting all his energy to trying to free himself. Lars wasn’t going to let that happen.

He backed the vehicle up further down the empty aisle this time, making sure that he could get enough ramming speed. He was astonished by how small the airbags had become after deployment. They simply rested against the steering wheel and dashboards, scarcely larger than deflated birthday balloons.

Up ahead, he saw that the second gunman was halfway out of the passenger side window. He was crawling out headfirst. “Oh my God,” Lars said as he watched one of the assailants climb over the other one to escape. “Brace yourself. No air bags this time.” Lars stepped on the gas for his second attack.

As the force of the impact breached the Mini’s interior, Lars could have sworn that he heard the sound of the driver’s head being crushed against the Range Rover’s grill. Zhu’s helmeted head was thrown against the side window in the collision, but his seatbelt held. When Lars tried to put the Range Rover in reverse, the engine stalled.

“Are you all right, Mr. Zhu?”

Zhu pulled his helmet off. He looked dazed. “No, I’m not all right. I just wet my pants.”

“A minor inconvenience, all things considered. Let’s go.”

He found his own door jammed shut. Zhu’s was sealed as well. He grabbed his TEK-9, crawled over the back seat and exited via the rear hatch. Then he went around front, getting his legs under him as he surveyed the crash scene.

The driver’s grisly torso and the gunman’s decapitated foot were visible in the hulk of twisted metal. But he could not see the gunman’s head or hands. There was no sense in taking chances. He aimed his weapon at the driver’s side door and pumped four rounds into it. One of the men groaned. Lars shot through the door again. This time, there was no sound.

“Hey!” Zhu called out. “I think I hear sirens!”

Before moving on, Lars needed to know who had attacked them. He stretched his driving gloves tight over his hands, and then gripped the arms of the mangled corpse, dragging it out of the car until it was flat on the cement. He inspected the man’s pockets and found nothing. Moving on to the jacket, he unzipped a long pouch that went diagonally across the man’s chest.

Inside, he found a piece of black fabric — about the size of a cocktail napkin — with red stripes. It was octagon-shaped, and it had obviously been made with high-quality silk. On the flip side, the octagon’s edges were stitched in golden thread, with the phrase ad majorem dei gloriam beneath it. The other side read, Paratus enim dolor et cruciatus, in Dei nomine . He was fluent in German and English, but he had never studied Latin. Dei, he surmised, had to be something having to do with God. The rest was a mystery. He pocketed it. The Shepherd would be able to read it.

Then he slid the tip of the TEK-9 barrel underneath the man’s ski mask. It lifted easily, revealing the face of a man in his late 20s. He was of Mediterranean complexion, possibly Italian.

The dead man’s mouth was formed into an O-shape. As if his last words had been “Oh,” or perhaps, “Wow.” Why was it that the dead always looked so surprised? What was it that they saw as they passed to the other side?

Lars took comfort in this. The Shepherd had once told him that he was destined to martyr himself for the Great Mission. He looked forward to whatever surprises awaited him during his journey.

National Counterterrorsm Center

Speers was waiting for Carver when he returned to his office. It was a shabby, tight little space. No windows, some particle board furniture that had been pilfered from an empty office over at the SBA building. A far cry from the luxe offices he had once occupied over on K Street.

This was supposed to be temporary, a fact he reminded himself of every day. He had avoided personalizing the space in any way for fear of cosmically elongating the time here in his own personal purgatory. Last month, he had finally brought in some lamps to replace the florescent lighting. Most of the pasty people who came into his office were much more attractive by lamplight.

“Cute kids,” Speers said, pointing to the only photograph in the entire office. The picture, unframed and taped to the bottom of a monitor, showed Carver in an orange river raft with two cherub-like kids under his arms. “Whose are they?”

“My sister’s,” Carver smiled. They lived with Carver’s sister in Flagstaff, Arizona, about 80 miles from his parents’ cattle ranch in Joseph City.

After the Ulysses Coup, as the American media had taken to describing the mutiny that had nearly toppled the American government the previous year, Carver had spent two days recovering in Walter Reed Hospital. He had then attended the funeral of his late partner, Megan O’ Keefe, before heading out to Arizona for some much-needed rest.

He avoided all news and let his messages go unanswered for days at a time. As always, the first couple of days had been hard. His parents and extended family thought he was a contracting specialist for the State Department. He had to make his life in Washington seem like the most boring, milquetoast existence possible so they wouldn’t ask too many questions. And then there were the excuses. For all the weddings, anniversaries and birthdays he had missed while working abroad. He was so tired of being the bad son, the irresponsible uncle.

But he had gotten past that. He had been there for his father’s birthday for the first time in years. And he had taken his niece and nephew fishing on Lake Mary, and they had caught their limit of Northern Pike. It had been good to reconnect. Just being around his own blood had been good for the soul. They were so normal. So happy.

He had grown tired of Washington. With the exception of Speers, everyone he knew was either single, or wanted to be single so they could spend more time on their careers. Carver hated it, but knew he was just as guilty. He had never married. Never been engaged. The manner in which he had chosen to serve his country required keeping the people he loved at a distance.

Now he stood in the hallway outside his own office. “How are the twins?”

“Sweet when I’m home,” Speers said, “But all I hear about when I’m gone is how much they cry. How they won’t nap at the right times. How she can’t get anything done.”