Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

Massakar looked up, blinking. "Master?"

"How long do I have?"

"I…I can't-"

"Make an educated guess, Doctor."

Massakar seemed to draw strength from being addressed by his professional title. "Three or four years, if the rate of decline continues uniformly. Less if there is a cascade effect on the major organs, which is…possible." He tugged at his lower lip. "Increasing your rejuvenation sessions to twice a month may help, but-"

"Thank you for your assessment."

Massakar fell to his knees, kissed the Old One's hand.

The Old One beckoned him to rise. "This information…it must be our secret. Not all of my subjects are as steadfast as you."

Massakar wiped his eyes. "Shall I send in the Abyssinian to dress you?"

"No, I think today…I shall dress myself." The Old One waited until Massakar backed out of the recovery room and closed the door behind him before slipping on his clothes. He took his time. Buttoning his white cotton shirt. Zipping his trousers, the gray summer wool English trousers from the cramped shop on Savile Road that smelled of pipe tobacco. Tucking in the shirt, his abdomen still firm. Slipping the titanium cuff links through the fabric with a faint sound, the click of the bezel. The silk necktie slid through his fingers as he tied a perfect Windsor knot, his thumb pressing a dimple. He pulled on his socks with their pattern of tiny clocks…ironic now. Wiggled his toes in his handmade leather shoes. Every sensation was suddenly heightened by Massakar's diagnosis. A blessing, he told himself. Allah has given me a blessing. First he gave me time. Then he gave me an ending. Yes, a great blessing.

He didn't believe that for an instant.

His reflection in the mirror showed a healthy, vigorous man in his sixties, although he was over 150. He was still almost six feet tall, his stature undiminished by the years. Smooth-shaven to allay suspicion. A strong, prominent nose. Dark eyes, alert as ever. Thin lips, a sign of cruelty, an elder in his tribe had noted long ago, but the Old One was not cruel, not at all. He was clear. He was certain. The elder was dust now, all of them dust.

The Old One stepped briskly through the door into an anteroom, and then through the private door into his suite…found Ibrahim, his eldest son and chief advisor, waiting. And Baby. The two of them glaring at each other.

Baby was twenty-three, slim and high-breasted, the poisonous flower of Southern womanhood. A daughter he had forgotten until a year ago, one of the many seeds planted across the earth, beautiful girls raised among the kaffirs in the Belt and Russia and China, raised among the faithful in Arabia and Europe. Most he never even saw, just occasionally read reports of their marriages to powerful men, and the steady stream of information they fed back to him. The power of the marital bed. Baby had shown up at his Miami compound last year without an invitation, along with a human killing machine named Lester Gravenholtz. Gravenholtz offered some unique possibilities, but it was Baby who was the true prize. No wonder Ibrahim hated her.

"Father," said Ibrahim, bowing.

"Father," said Baby, voice sultry with promise. Her dress rustled around her long legs as she bowed, her honey blond hair falling onto her bare shoulders. She wore a simple, brightly colored silk dress cut high up one thigh in the contemporary Cuban style, the spoils of one of her many shopping trips with his concubines. She looked up at him as she rose, her mouth ripe and wanton as a plum.

Ibrahim straightened, taller than the Old One, hard and stern as a knotty stick. "I told this creature that you and I had private matters to discuss."

"You're up late, child," the Old One said to Baby. "It's almost dawn."

"I was restless," drawled Baby, hazel eyes playful. She walked slowly toward him, hips swaying. "Thought I'd come by and see if you wanted company."

"Her spies told her that I was on my way to see you," said Ibrahim. "She can't bear to think that I-"

"Her spies ?" The Old One looked at Baby. "Barely a year in our company, and already she has cultivated a network of informants. What a remarkable woman."

Baby curtsied.

"I don't find her nearly as amusing as you do, Father," Ibrahim said tightly.

"You don't find anything amusing." The Old One flung open the double doors and stepped out onto the veranda of his penthouse on the fortieth floor of the Grande Hotel, Miami. One of his many corporations owned the hotel, the Old One keeping the top seven floors for himself and his retinue. "Leave me, both of you."

"But, Father," said Ibrahim, "we have to talk about-"

"Are you still here, boy?" Old One leaned against the pink marble railing, watching the Atlantic roll in. He stayed immobile until he heard the door to the suite close behind them, then allowed himself a small sigh. He slowly closed his fists lest they start to shake and undo his confidence. Best to survey the world that Allah had laid out for him, rather than linger on his own sudden mortality.

He stood there, marveling as the moonlight turned the peaks of the waves silver. Raised in the desert, he still found the ocean overwhelming in its beauty, the sea air clean and bracing. Ibrahim disapproved of his being outside, had ordered digital chaff generators built into the walls to prevent eavesdropping, and stationed heavily armed fishing boats offshore to protect him from missile attack. Foolishness. Well-intentioned, but foolishness just the same. Anyone could be killed. Ask Darwin. The Old One's expression twisted at the memory of his prized assassin, dead now over four years. Such a loss. Darwin specialized in killing those who could not be killed. The rich and powerful surrounded by bodyguards, politicians hidden away behind high walls and vast armies, protected by rings of elaborate technology. All had died at the Old One's command. Now Darwin too was dead, and the Old One could still not understand how it had happened.

The breeze shifted, brought the smell of ripe decay to the Old One's nostrils, as though some vast leviathan had been slain in the deep, and only now had risen to the surface, stinking in the moonlight.

Just before dawn, barely an hour after he left the Bridge of Skulls, Rakkim approached the sentries on one of the main checkpoints out of New Fallujah. Jenkins might have given him up and issued an alert, but Rakkim didn't break stride as the sentries hefted their weapons, muttering to each other.

"I need a vehicle," Rakkim demanded, his green kaffiyeh flapping in the wind.

The lead sentry, a haggard man with a curling beard, bowed to him, pointed at a sedan nearby. "Take my car, shahid, and may Allah bless you on your path to martyrdom." The other sentries bowed, muttered their own blessings, afraid to meet his gaze.

Rakkim ignored them as he got into the car and drove off.

Shahid. Martyr for God. One who found eternal life through blowing himself to pieces, sending the infidel to hell as he himself ascended. Shahid, high praise in New Fallujah, praise wrapped in fear.

Rakkim was no shahid, but what was he? Jenkins had been right, Rakkim was no shadow warrior, not anymore. An assassin can only be killed by God or another assassin…that's what Jenkins had told him. So, how had Rakkim killed Darwin five years ago? How was such a thing possible? Rakkim had asked himself that question more times than he could count.

Darwin was the superior warrior, faster, more agile, unburdened by conscience, the greatest assassin the Fedayeen had ever turned out. It should have been Rakkim who died that day, bleeding from a hundred cuts as Darwin taunted him…until Rakkim threw his knife into Darwin's laughing mouth. An impossible throw but he had made it. He still saw Darwin's lips working around the hilt of the knife, trying to speak, his last words inaudible to anyone but God. That should have been the end of Darwin, but it seemed that both heaven and hell had rejected the master assassin.