Marc Cameron - National Security

Zafir looked around, planning his approach. Beside him was a wrought-iron gate with a cutout of a man on horseback chasing a longhorn cow. Beyond the gate, three horses grazed with their heads down in the pasture hemmed in by the trees. He’d bought a pair of binoculars at a Wal-Mart on the edge of Fort Worth and used them to scan the neighborhood. At the fence paralleling the street, two llamas looked on stupidly as only llamas can look. Calderon had neighbors, but each house was situated on a large wooded lot, giving them plenty of space in between. Such space would give Zafir cover as he approached.

He put the rental car in gear and drove down the pitted asphalt road adjacent to Calderon’s street. He struggled to keep his heart from racing as he made the turn, now less than half a block from Carrie Navarro. Breathing deeply, he kept up his speed so as not to draw the attention of the policeman in the Crown Victoria and turned into the long limestone driveway of a gray brick two-story, three lots away from his target. There were no vehicles out front, and Zafir took the gamble that the occupants were not at home. If they happened to be home, he was prepared to kill them quickly. Americans weren’t accustomed to sudden violence in their own backyards. They would surely try to negotiate when they should be fighting.

Zafir glanced up the street, making certain his arrival hadn’t raised the attention of any inquisitive onlookers. The policeman out front was a heavy man with a glowing red face. Rounded shoulders pressed against the window and looked as if they might pop open the car door at the slightest movement. He was obviously lost in a daydream, complacent in his peaceful town, certain that nothing violent would ever happen to him. Zafir marveled that a country capable of producing some of the finest warriors in the world could be so lax at home. It looked all too easy. But no matter how overweight, policemen had radios and Zafir needed time to mingle with the population after he indulged himself with the American whore.

Gravel crunched beneath tires as he brought the rental car to a stop on the far side of the gray house. He eased the door shut without slamming it and walked across the sun-parched side yard toward the rear patio, breathing a sigh of relief when no one came out to challenge him. Tiny brown grasshoppers clicked and buzzed away from his feet. A sturdy palomino horse trotted up to the back fence and snorted, staring at him with huge brown eyes. A line of thick oak trees beyond the barn made a perfect green backdrop for the animal. Zafir suddenly found himself caught up in the moment, captivated by the beauty of the scene. To the ancient Bedouin, the horse was everything, a prized possession. The feeling was bred into Zafir to the deepest marrow of his bones. For the first time, he grew tearful at the thought of dying. He raised the flat of his good hand to his heart. Surely there would be horses in heaven.

His eyes still moist, his heart jumped in his chest when he turned. Little more than a hundred yards away, a young woman with dark hair slid open a glass door and stepped into the bright sunshine of Juanita Calderon’s redwood deck. She wore tight blue jeans and a simple white T-shirt. Even from a distance Zafir was warmed by the familiar curves and swells of Carrie Navarro’s body. She was healthier now, more full figured after having their child, but still beautiful to look on, and, he could tell from the way she threw her head, still just as brazen.

Zafir’s jaw dropped when a small child stepped through the same glass doorway and clutched Navarro’s outstretched hand. His head spun at the sight of his son. Even from a distance it was easy to see the boy carried himself with a confident air, just like his father. For a split second he thought again about trying to spare the child. His head throbbed and he wondered if it might not be too late. It did not matter now.

The Bedouin began to run, ducking quickly around the horse barn and into the dark tangle of wild grapevines, briars, and oak trees. He would kill Navarro and take the child with him. In the few short hours they had left alive, Zafir would teach him the true way of Islam. In the end, his son too would become a glorious martyr and find his reward in Paradise.

Four minutes from Juanita Calderon’s house, Quinn began to take long, slow breaths, willing his heart rate to slow. Mahoney had shown enough forethought to bring his M4 when they’d jumped in the rental car and it now hung loaded and ready, suspended on a single-point sling around his neck. He reached behind his back to touch Yawaraka-Te’s hilt, assuring himself the ancient blade was still there. He’d reloaded the 10 millimeter tucked in an inside-the-pants holster over his right kidney. If it was possible, they’d take Zafir out with long guns-giving them the safety of distance-but something told Quinn the Bedouin would be too smart for that.

Steve Akers, the chopper pilot and former Marine, dropped the bird low, skimming the tops of the trees. He followed the rise and fall of the natural terrain in what was known as NOE-nap-of-the-earth flying. It was a technique used in Vietnam to protect chopper pilots from heat-seeking missiles-go low and go fast. The technique had the added benefit of keeping the thump of the helicopter’s approach dampened by the foliage and terrain. Akers flew more like an artist than a technician and coaxed every ounce of speed out of his machine.

The side doors were slid open and a warm, humid wind roared through the cabin. In the front seat Thibodaux checked the magazine in his M4.

Mahoney stared out the open door, eyes locked on the trees as they whipped by in a green blur, less than ten feet below the skids. The wind fluttered the leg of her khakis, pressing the cloth against the smooth curve of her calf. Thick reddish blond hair whipped across her face, but she made no attempt to push it away.

Quinn tensed when she suddenly spun toward him, looking him full in the face. If she’d noticed him looking at her, she didn’t mention it.

“It’s after ten,” she yelled above the roar, tapping her watch. “We’re well inside the safety zone. If he is here, there’s a good chance he’s gone hot…” Her face was drawn, her normally rosy lips pinched and pale.

Quinn put a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her. “Palmer has the Texas Highway Patrol and the National Guard moving now to cordon off the area. We will stop this. And we’ll stop it here, one way or another.”

“If he didn’t get a cup of coffee along the way… or ask for directions…” Her chin quivered as if she might break down at any moment. “He only has to get Pandora to one other person we don’t know about and their plan has worked…”

Quinn opened his mouth to stay something else, but Akers cut him off.

“Tallyho at two o’clock!” The pilot held his hand up, knifelike and pointed right of the helicopter’s nose. “According to my GPS, that white two-story up there should be your target.” He twisted in his seat to throw a tense look over his shoulder. “And you’re not gonna like what you see.”

Marc Cameron

National Security

Carrie moved quietly, making up her plans as she went along. She had no idea where she was going, but she knew she had to move. Sitting still would drive her crazy if it didn’t get her killed. She carried Christian as she went, telling him they were playing a hiding game so he wouldn’t make a fuss. Her mother might hang up the phone and come looking for her at any moment, the guards could discover she was missing and haul her back inside. Engrossed in worry at the thought of getting caught, she kept careful watch over her shoulder as she made her way down the long flight of wooden stairs leading from the red cedar deck.