Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

Nick wasn’t about to live the rest of his life with that hanging over his head. Before he knew it, he was leaning into the cab of the truck and pressing the tip of his 9mm against Kharrazi’s head.

Kharrazi didn’t flinch. “You don’t expect me to believe you’re going to shoot me.”

Nick pressed hard enough to force Kharrazi’s head back. “You don’t think I can?”

Kharrazi’s face was cool, but his eyes had difficulty leaving Nick’s gun. “I have to give you credit,” Kharrazi said. “You surprised me back there with the head-on move. It took a lot of courage to do what you did. But that was a spontaneous act. This is different. Now, you have a prisoner under custody. I am no longer a danger to you. You are too honest, Mr. Special Agent. You are not me. You play by the rules. Rules that I have no need to abide by. But you’re not about to lower yourself because of me or anyone else.”

Nick actually smiled. His face hurt when he did, so he stopped. He lowered his gun and watched Kharrazi’s expression grow smug.

“That’s better,” Kharrazi said.

“What I’m wondering,” Nick said, casual, non-threatening, an inquisitive tone.

“Why you?” Kharrazi finished for him.

“Yeah?”

“Because of Rashid.”

“So, revenge.”

“Oh, no, it’s much deeper than that. Rashid was much closer than a brother. When you were able to chase him down and arrest him, I took notice. The FBI is a large, sluggish, political system that moves at a snail’s pace. There is always one person that finds their way around the obstacles in a massive entity like the Bureau. You were that person. And I knew if you were clever enough to capture Rashid, you were clever enough to thwart our operation.”

Nick waved his hand at the crumpled truck that enclosed Kharrazi. “Your logic was obviously flawless.”

“Don’t be so arrogant, Mr. Bracco,” Kharrazi scoffed. “You haven’t even begun to see the extent of my control. There are people I can contact who would gladly finish my chores for me. Your beautiful wife will not put up with the restrictions you’ll require in order to protect her. She will be more of a prisoner than I will ever be.”

Nick didn’t need to hear any more. He pulled his handcuffs from his belt and quickly snapped one around Kharrazi’s right wrist, on the hand that was gripping the steering wheel. It took Kharrazi by surprise.

“You have a Constitutional right to remain silent,” Nick said.

This seemed to relax Kharrazi. He was being arrested and it didn’t appear to faze him.

Nick pulled Kharrazi’s left hand from his neck and tugged it through the opening in the steering wheel, under the left side of the steering column. He then snapped it together with the handcuff on Kharrazi’s right wrist before Kharrazi knew what was happening.

“What are you doing?” Kharrazi said.

Nick continued. “Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”

Kharrazi tugged on the handcuffs. He found himself hunched over the steering wheel. Both hands were on the opposite side of the steering column, which was bent upward from the collision and tight against the dashboard. He desperately tried to get his left hand to his neck, but couldn’t manage. When left exposed, the carotid artery in Kharrazi’s neck began flowing freely. Each pulse of his heart sent a surge of blood squirting from the gash like a fireman’s hose.

“You can’t do this,” Kharrazi searched for a threat, a command, a plea. When he realized there was nothing left to draw from, he repeated, “You can’t.”

Nick stood back and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “You’re right about me, Kemel. I always go by the book. So before I call for backup, I want to make sure you understand your rights.”

“I need medical attention,” Kharrazi demanded.

“Did I mention your right to an attorney?”

“This is not the way you treat a prisoner,” Kharrazi’s voice was cracking. He tilted his head down against his left shoulder, futilely trying to slow the blood loss.

Nick folded his arms. “You asked how I found you. Do you still want to know?”

Kharrazi looked like a circus animal, hunched over, squirming. “What do you want from me?”

“I found you because a very brave man by the name of Don Silkari gave his life to plant a tracking chip on you. He was courageous. Not the type of man who would bail out in a game of chicken.”

“All right,” Kharrazi’s voice was diminishing. “You made your point. This Silk guy was gutsy. He went down fighting. Is that what you want from me? Now get me help, like we both know you will.”

Kharrazi’s eyes met Nick’s and right then he knew his fate. Kharrazi lifted his head and tried to look dignified, but he was fading. His mouth moved to speak, but nothing came out. In just a few seconds, Kharrazi’s face was bleach white. The blood leaving the artery was down to a gurgle. His eyes lost clarity and became distant.

Nick came close and leaned into Kharrazi’s ear. “You picked the wrong guy to fuck with, Kemel,” he whispered.

Kharrazi turned toward Nick’s voice, but couldn’t possible have seen him. His head collapsed onto the steering wheel and the horn began to blare again.

In the distance, Nick heard the thump of a helicopter’s rotor. He reached into the cab, unlocked the handcuffs from Kharrazi’s wrists and returned them to his belt clip. He stared at Kharrazi; a crumpled heap of flesh and bones and nothing else. Nothing that could ever threaten him or his family again. He could almost see the malevolence dissipate from Kharrazi’s corpse.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Nick said. “Forever.”

The line of parked limos stretched over the horizon down Pinewood Lane adjacent to the cemetery. In a black-clad semicircle three hundred friends and family members stood around the casket that held Don Silkari. The casket was draped with an American Flag. A priest in a dark silk robe recited nuances of distinction fit for a war hero. A distinction Silk had earned. Behind the priest were enough flowers to fill an Olympic swimming pool.

Nick stood front and center, Julie clutching his left hand, his cousin Tommy to his right. Tommy still wore a large, flesh tone bandage across his cheek, while just a trace of gauze wrap could be detected under Julie’s black hat. The remainder of the front row consisted of stern looking men with practiced steely glares. Occasionally one of them would glance over at Sal Demenci, who stood to the right of Tommy Bracco. Sal was holding it together, but as the ceremony progressed, so did his temper. He kept looking at the priest as if he were speaking a foreign language. He’d shake his head and stare out over the casket, seeming to be searching for an answer.

As the casket was lowered into the ground, the men formed a line and one by one they dropped playing cards, dice and other paraphernalia into the grave. The most common item dropped was a single bullet that was palmed just before it left the donor’s hand to remain with Silk for eternity. Apparently Silk’s slight of hand act was more popular than he suspected.

Matt and Jennifer Steele dropped flowers into the opening, while Julie passed by the coffin and broke down. She caught up with Silk’s mother and the two of them shared a convulsive hug.

When it was his turn, Nick looked down at the box and tried to come to terms with his judgment. He felt the need to pray and purge his soul full of remorse. It seemed like just last week they were teenagers and Silk was showing Nick and Tommy how to sneak into Pimlico Race Track from the backside stables. The three of them risking capture so they could save two bucks for the daily double. He whispered, “Forgive me, Silk.”