Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Kyle shrugged. Something was there behind those dark eyes.

“My country is in your debt, Gunny Swanson, and you have my gratitude. If ever I can be of assistance, please call on me.”

“Thank you, sir.” Swanson remained polite. The prince had used the term “Gunny” without hesitation. A civilian would not automatically make that slang connection. So was this dandy also a soldier?

Abdullah turned to the others. “Now, I have interrupted your reunion long enough. I am preparing to fly back to Washington immediately. The kingdom has been thrown into great turmoil and I need to be at my post. Sir Geoffrey, we are all wishing you well tomorrow, and I am confident that you will be recovering quickly. It will take more than a bash on the head to slow down such a warrior as you. Your efforts to broker peace eventually will be successful. We are determined to make it happen. Lady Pat, you put on the most unusual parties.” He took her hand and kissed it, then shook hands with Delara. When he walked away, trailed by his son, his stride was one of confidence. The ruling family of Saudi Arabia would not give way easily to terrorists and plotters.

“Interesting guy,” Kyle said. “He does that diplomatic tap-dance pretty well.”

“He is sort of a mystery to most of us,” Pat said. “He has a hard core in there somewhere. Like when he took the little pistol to be our final guard. He did it without hesitation and I have no doubt he would have faced death without flinching.”

Kyle felt Jeff touch his hand again. The eyes were closing because a nurse had increased the sedation flowing through the tubes. He was about to go back to sleep, but wanted to say something first. Kyle leaned close. “What is it?”

“Don’t trust him…” Jeff managed to say, the words fading. The hand squeezed weakly, urgently. The next words could barely be heard. “They…have…nukes!”

D ELARA T ABRIZI CAME AWAKEin the big, soft bed with the covers pulled to her chin as if someone had tucked her in. Kyle. Where is he?

It was after midnight and they had been together since leaving the clinic some six hours earlier. Delara stretched, letting her fingers touch the wooden headboard as she relished their urgent, hungry rush to sex, their clothes flying off almost by the time the door was closed. They had not seen each other for weeks and the extreme emotional situation that had brought them back together only heightened their needs. The first time wasn’t making love, it was just a confirmation that they were both still alive and in each other’s arms. The second time took a lot longer. She had fallen asleep wrapped in his arms, her dark hair spread on his chest.

She pushed away the covers and wrapped herself in the dark blue terry-cloth bathrobe furnished by the hotel. A nightlight in the small kitchen of the hotel suite glowed a dull orange and she moved toward it soundlessly, her bare feet on deep, plush carpet and then onto chilly tile. Nobody there. She went into the darkened living room and found him standing before the big windows, staring out into the thick fog. His face was a grim mask, his eyes fixed out on the water, the chest rising and falling with heavy breaths and his fists clenched at his side. The muscles of his naked body were as taut as cables.

Delara stopped and pulled the robe tight around her body, realizing that her lover was dreaming, almost fighting, and still sound asleep.

K YLE S WANSON STOOD BESIDE a broad, swift-flowing river wearing full combat gear, from boots to helmet, and cradling his custom-made Excalibur sniper rifle in his arms. The Colt.45 rested in a holster at his waist and a large Ka-Bar combat knife with a razor’s edge and some grenades hung from his vest. His feet were apart but only as wide as his shoulders, giving him perfect balance. He watched with an intense alertness as the small boat approached, emerging from a rough cloud of dark ash that swirled over the water’s surface.

“You can’t have him,” Swanson announced. It was a declaration. No negotiation.

The Boatman giggled, and the shrill tone warbled on the night air. A filthy black robe hung loosely about him, with a tail of rotten cloth drooping over the side of the boat and into the water. With a last hard shove on the long stern oar, the bony figure nudged the boat forward. “Of course I can have him. I can take anyone I want.”

“Not Jeff. Not now.”

The Boatman cackled again. “Now, look at you standing there with all of those weapons. Surely you do not believe that you can stop me with them?”

“I just wanted to show how serious I am. These weapons have provided you with a lot of passengers over the years. You owe me.”

The boat swung broadside, facing into the current and a small wave of foam divided around the bow. The Boatman steadied it. “Yes. I am here to clean up from your work yesterday. Four more souls.” He raised a thin arm and pointed. “Here they come. Right on time.”

Swanson detected movement and turned. Four shadowy figures with dead eyes, gory wounds in their phantom bodies, stumbled along in a single line, stepped onto the surface of the water without causing a ripple and then into the craft, taking seats, facing forward. Kyle recognized them as the terrorists he and Sybelle had killed at the clinic, but felt no pity. They had chosen their fates.

“To hell with these guys,” he said. “What about Jeff?”

“To hell with them, indeed.” The Boatman lowered his voice to a menacing hiss. “And with the many others who will be coming over soon. Watch how my garden grows.” A scrawny arm in a flapping sleeve swung around and pointed to a far horizon. The ash falling on the water changed to black rain. An incandescent white and orange light flashed, seeming to push a moment of absolute stillness ahead of it and a cyclone of wind swept over the water and a volcanic explosion vibrated the world. Five mushroom clouds blossomed in sequence, clawing and rolling in the sky, pushing the acrid smell of burning sulfur across the vastness.

“Nuclear winter is coming,” said the apparition.

“Not if I can help it.”

The specter gave a dismissive, coughing laugh. “Ah. You cannot.”

“What about Jeff?”

“He is not yet dead, not for several more hours,” said the Boatman. “I will take these passengers and collect him on my next trip. I always have plenty of time. An eternity.”

Swanson carefully laid down the sniper rifle and removed the Colt.45 from the holster, raising the muzzle until it touched his right temple. “Let me take his place. I’ll pull this trigger right now and get in your fuckin’ boat.”

The Boatman leaned on his long oar again, preparing to shove off. “I already have you. We both know that. Right now, you remain my faithful assistant, a mass murderer who provides a remarkable stream of corpses for me. I decline your dramatic offer because you are a tool of destiny.”

“If I blow my fucking head off, you get no more passengers from me.”

The Boatman held out his skeletal palm inches from Kyle’s face. “Wait, then. You are irrational, but that is an interesting point. So, hmmm, I will agree to a bargain. I do not want to remove you from this plain of misery yet because I still need you here. Put down the pistol. I won’t take your friend, for he really makes no difference to me, but you must continue killing.”

There was silence. Kyle put away the pistol and picked up the Excalibur rifle. “Deal,” he said, his gaze going beyond the little boat to stare at the big explosions rocking the imaginary horizon. The end of the world.