Robert Liparulo - The 13 th tribe

He turned and stepped into the deeper shadows near the mosque and switched on a flashlight. A white beam cut down an alley, exposing two startled cats. They darted away, and he followed slowly, swinging the beam between the walls.

After the teen had handed his butt to him on a platter, he’d cornered Gheronda and told him about it, gun and all. The old monk expressed concern, but in the end patted him on the shoulder and told him he was sure the boy and the arrival of the man were coincidental. He’d proven as closed-mouthed about the stranger as Leo. Jagger had then visited the little police station in St. Catherine’s Village. Predictably, the two cops inside had nodded, mumbled assurances, and continued playing cards.

Jagger tried not to let his frustration turn to anger, tried to convince himself he was being as paranoid as everyone else apparently thought he was.

A noise startled him. He spun around in the ally, flashing the light back toward the main gate. No huge figure with twin machine guns. No monster loping toward him. Nothing at all.

“Hello?” His voice echoed and faded.

He willed his heart to calm down, but he couldn’t quite release his grip on the baton, still resting in its quick-release scabbard. He continued down the alley, keeping the beam away from the windows.

The noise came rushing up behind him, reverberating off the walls. Loud, jangling, insistent. Jagger swung around, yanking out the baton, snapping it open. A wobbling light blinded him for a moment, until he ducked away. It was sailing down the alley at him. Then in the moment before his own flashlight beam landed on his attacker, he knew who it was.

Kich-kich-kich-kich-kich…

Tyler’s grinning face glowed in the light, bouncing up and down as he ran-his hair bounding a second out of sync. “I scared you!” he said and laughed. He grabbed Jagger’s waistband as he ran past, snapping to a stop like a dog reaching the end of a chain and nearly tugging Jagger off his feet. They spun toward each, and Tyler doubled over with laughter, his face turned up to show Jagger slits of eyes and a mouth stretched wide.

It took all of a quarter second of that face, that laughter to rid Jagger of worry and anger over the noise his son was making in this preeminently quiet place.

“You!” he said and threw a couple soft punches at his son’s belly and chest.

Tyler slapped Jagger’s fists away. “You… you… shoulda..” Tyler sucked in a deep breath. “Shoulda seen your face.” He laughed harder.

“Okay, shhh.” But Jagger himself had to laugh. He grabbed Tyler’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug.

“I thought you didn’t get scared,” Tyler said.

“I never said that. A lot of things scare me.”

“You never jump,” Tyler said. “Not when I wake you up or jump out at you… not normally.” He laughed again.

“I guess you caught me in a scareable mood.” Jagger released him. “What are you doing up anyway?”

“Mom said I could come find you. She said you need help patrolling.”

“She did?” He looked around. Amazingly, none of the windows facing the alley showed fresh lights. “Not a good time tonight, sport.”

“Why? You hardly ever patrol the monastery… and never at night.” He said it as though it was the coolest thing ever.

“There’s a reason I’m on guard tonight,” Jagger said.

“ Danger? ” Tyler’s eyes flashed big.

“Maybe.”

“Just for a little bit? Please?” He looked up the dark alley to where it ended in the jaundiced glow of another light. “Just to the burning bush?”

Jagger ran his fingers through Tyler’s hair. “All right, but then I’ll walk you home, and you go to bed.”

“Deal.” Tyler raised his hand and Jagger slapped it.

“And no more scaring me,” Jagger said.

His son’s grin stretched wide. He said, “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

“And can you not rattle? Didn’t you see the sign that read ‘Hush, monks asleep’?”

Tyler put his hand on the utility case. “It only rattles when I run.”

“Don’t run.”

Tyler agreed, and the two of them continued on down the ally, flashlight beams bobbing and weaving. Tyler shifted around to Jagger’s right side so they could hold hands.

After a few steps he said, “Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“What would you do if you found a bad guy?”

“I’d arrest him.”

“What if he fought you?”

“I’d fight back, get him in handcuffs.”

“What if he was tougher than you?”

Jagger looked at Tyler and smiled, then they did what they always did when Jagger’s masculinity was questioned: they both laughed.

And Jagger tried to push aside the memory of the teenager whupping him in the cave.

The Jeep shook and rattled over what was suppose to be a dirt road, but Toby suspected the only thing that differentiated it from the desert was that the Jeep was rolling over it. Its wheels seemed to jump on their own into pits and rocks his night vision goggles had not revealed. They traveled without headlights, so only he could see the terrain, a luminous green wasteland rushing toward them. He wondered how well the roar of the engine and clattering of the suspension carried through the desert air. He strained his arm muscles to keep the vehicle from whipping side to side and rolling, and still the steering wheel pendulumed his hands back and forth as though he were helming a schooner on high seas.

A hand gripped his shoulder from behind. Ben said, “A little slower, please.”

Toby said nothing and kept his foot on the gas. Nevaeh had appointed him driver, which meant he would stay outside the compound with the engine running while the others took care of business inside. He hadn’t complained-it wouldn’t have done any good, never did, and whining just made him sound like a kid-but he didn’t have to like it.

In the passenger seat beside him, Nevaeh pulled metamaterial gloves over her hands. The neck hole of the scaly gray shirt was rolled down, exposing her throat. She reached into the footwell and came back with a gorget. The metal collar was about four inches wide with outwardly curved edges. It hinged in the middle, which lined up with the center of the throat and clamped in the back. Nevaeh slipped it on, groaning as she did.

“Are these absolutely necessary?” she said.

“This time especially,” Ben said. “We fight a knowledgeable enemy.”

Nevaeh rolled the shirt collar up over the gorget. She reached behind her and pulled the hood over her head and face. The suit’s battery pack and computer resided in a paperback-book-sized box situated just below the shoulder blades, forcing her to sit forward in her seat. She twisted around.

“Ben,” she said, “check me.”

She switched on the suit, and when Toby glanced over she was gone, invisible even through the goggles. Only her eyes remained, hovering between him and the door pillar.

“You gotta do something about the eyes, Ben,” Toby said. “That’s really creepy.”

“And a major glitch in the suit’s effectiveness,” said Phin from the seat behind her. He stretched his eyelids open with his fingers and glared at Ben.

Toby suspected Phin’s bouncing was only partially the result of the jostling Jeep.

“So is your ‘cologne,’ ” Nev said.

“It’s psychological warfare,” Phin said. “The odor of blood freaks people out. It makes them pause, gives me an advantage, if only for a second.”

Toby caught Phin’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Well, it freaks me out that you wear it like perfume on missions.”

“‘Here’s the smell of blood still,’ ” Phin quoted. “‘All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.’ ”