Marc Cameron - National Security

“And kill everyone around him…” Mahoney said through clenched teeth. “Maybe we should declare martial law and force everyone to stay in their homes for the next three months.” She ran a hand through her hair, mussed from the long flight. She sighed like an exhausted runner, still miles from the finish.

“No one would have the stomach to enforce a nationwide quarantine until people start dying,” Jericho said. “Most of our National Guard troops are just kids-even the ones who’ve done a tour in the Middle East. I’m not sure they’re up to shooting the local barber just because he leaves his house for food.” He studied Mahoney in the stark light of the cabin. Her eyes were wide and round, like a frightened little girl. “Palmer trusts your timetable and so do I. He’s convinced we can do this without losing too many innocents. We hold off as long as we can before we tell locals what’s really going on. As soon as it leaks out what this manhunt is really all about, there’s a very real possibility cool heads will not prevail.”

“I don’t like it.” Mahoney groaned. “It’s no good. If we’re all there is…”

“Oh.” Jericho gave her a wink. “We’re not all there is.” He punched a number in his cell phone as they walked down the boarding ladder.

“Brother Bo,” he said. “We’re on the ground. You and your boys ready for a little excitement?”

Marc Cameron

National Security

Gail Taylor, the sturdy girl behind the Avis counter at the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport, had at least three tattoos. A delicate hummingbird sipped nectar from a yellow cactus flower on her left wrist. The alluring red petals of a briar rose blossomed in the swell of pale flesh above the loose V in the front of her peach-colored cotton blouse. When she turned to retrieve the keys to his rental car, Zafir caught the glimpse of a third. It was some kind of tribal design, reminiscent of something he had seen on natives of the South Pacific islands, visible along the narrow strip of exposed flesh above the waist of her jeans and below the hem of her shirt, just where her buttocks came together.

The pious side of Zafir found such an open display of sexuality revolting. The rest of him couldn’t pull his eyes away. He was not unaccustomed to seeing women with tattoos. It was common for Bedouin women to draw intricate designs on their hands with henna during weddings and other celebrations, but none were so wanton as this.

Gail Taylor was pleasant enough. She was in her late thirties, with an oval face, and carried her extra weight around her hips. She had a graveled, whiskeyed tone to her voice that made Zafir’s heart beat faster every time she spoke. He was happy when she turned her attention away from him and to the business of her job.

Bubbling over with giddy energy, she worked through all the papers he needed to sign with an eagerness that surprised even Zafir. In all his travels, he’d never rented a car and he fretted over this one moment more than any other part of his plan-even his death. Above all else, Zafir hated to look foolish

The jiggling briar rose tattoo peeked out when Gail filled in the paperwork, leaning over the chest-high counter to show him where to initial when he declined unneeded insurance. He’d trimmed his coarse beard into a neat goatee and cut his windblown hair in the style of an American movie actor. She touched his scarred hand gently, as if it made no difference that he had a claw there instead of fingers.

Feeling heady, he pulled away, struggling to gain control of his emotions. He was not used to a woman who paid attention to him of her own accord.

“And this…” He coughed, swallowing hard. “This is the GPS?”

“Yep,” Gail said. “You just punch in the address of where you want to go.” She pressed her breast against his shoulder as she demonstrated. “It’ll even talk to you in Spanish if you want.”

“English will do.” Zafir smiled, straining to look pleasant. “I need the practice.”

“What’s the address?” Gail’s red fingernail poised over the little colored screen.

Zafir paused. In his lust to find Carrie Navarro, he’d only thought to get to the city where she lived. He’d assumed finding her in a place as open as America would be simple enough.

“West Fort Worth,” he said at length.

“That’s an area.” Gail Taylor giggled. “Not an address. I have to put in a street and numbers.” She tapped the back of his hand with a red fingernail.

“I understood everything was mapped here in the U.S.,” he said, feigning his best Mexican accent. “Can you not type in a name and have the GPS give me an address?”

Gail gazed up at him, batting big, cowlike eyes. There wasn’t an ounce of guile in them.

“Well, no… that wouldn’t get us anywhere, not with this little guy. You’d need a computer for that.”

“I have no computer.” Under the lip of the counter, out of the girl’s line of sight, Zafir clenched his good fist. He had no time for this.

“My jackass manager shut down our Internet or I’d help you look it up on our computers. I guess you could go to the library, but my guess is you don’t have a library card…” Gail suddenly brightened. “An iPhone would do. They’re just little computers anyhow. I have one in back with my stuff.”

“You would show me how to use it, this little computer iPhone of yours?” Zafir smiled, willing himself to relax, though his instinct was to strike this woman as hard as he could.

Gail mistook his seething anger for passion and lowered thick, black lashes accented by peach eye shadow to match her blouse. Her full cheeks flushed pink. “I could do that.”

Charm was not Zafir’s strong suit. He did not have to play games with women. They did as he told them to do and he did to them as he pleased. The importance of his mission pushed him forward. He knew he was a wanted man and needed to get out of the public eye as soon as possible.

“Perhaps we could go somewhere… more private,” he said, clenching his jaw.

The fleshy woman stepped back, letting her hand trail along his arm. “Mr. Ramirez…”

He hung his head, to hide the fire in his eyes. “I hope I have not been too… how do you say it… aggressive.”

“Why, Mr. Ramirez… I… I think I’d like that very much,” she said. “We meet some real weirdos here, but I can tell you’re not one of them.” She glanced at the digital clock on the wall behind her. “It’s a quarter to six. I get off in fifteen minutes. Tell you what, you buy me breakfast and I’ll help you find what you’re looking for.” She touched him on the arm again. “ Everything you’re looking for.”

“I would be most happy to buy you breakfast in return for your kindness,” Zafir said. In his mind’s eye, he saw the plump thing in a burqa. She was much too forward with him, a complete stranger. In the Kingdom, breakfast alone with an unrelated male would have earned her a hundred lashes.

“Meet me back here in fifteen minutes,” she said. “I’m so hungry I could eat a cow.” She lowered her gaze. “I can promise you one thing. I’m a lot more fun to be around when I’m not hungry…”

Zafir wiped a smeared droplet of Gail Taylor’s blood from the iPhone with the tail of his shirt. The infidel woman had been overly helpful, falling all over herself as she showed him how to use a free people-finder website to find Carrie Navarro’s address in her small, handheld computer. She’d played the part of bold lover almost to the end, giggling and winking until he’d taken the eagle-head knife out of his duffel bag and passed it slowly in front of her flushed face.

Remembering, Zafir lifted his collar to his nose and smelled the scent of the American woman that lingered on his clothing. He rolled down the window of his car and breathed a deep breath of the humid morning air.