Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

Jenkins cut down one of the bodyguards, then another, trying to break through, but there were too many of them. He kept moving, looking for an opening, a way out. He carved another bodyguard with a flick of his wrist, wishing again that he had gone back to Seattle with Rakkim. He would have liked to see the Egyptian girls dance in the Zone one more time. He fought on. Behind him, he could hear ibn-Azziz praying, screeching away as thunder rolled across the city.

A hot stone rested inside Lieutenant Miguel Ortiz's belly. Getting hotter too as he led his men into the outskirts of Corpus Christi, their shadows enormous in the dawn light. They moved like devils through the underbrush, brown crickets fluttering before them as they crept silently toward the white church, crawling now, close enough that Ortiz could hear them singing, greeting the morning with hosannas.

This was not the first time Ortiz and his eight-man team had infiltrated the Belt. That's what Unit X commandos did. Just last month they had taken out a nest of pirates near Galveston, men who used speedboats to intercept Aztlan pleasure yachts cruising peacefully in the Gulf. Looters and rapists and murderers of innocent Mexicans. Texans with grudges were more dangerous than a swarm of fire ants. It had been a pleasure to creep up on the pirate hideout at dawn, the team's inflatables far down the beach. Sergeant Romo had taken out their single sentry, but it had been Ortiz himself who kicked open the door to the nest, firing his machine gun in short, accurate bursts. They had not left a single pirate alive. The team had sung folk songs on the way back to the mother ship. Today, though…he didn't imagine there would be singing.

As if hearing his thoughts, the congregation inside the church seemed to raise their voices, the very walls vibrating with the sound of their singing. Up from the grave, He arose… Ortiz knew the hymn. His grandmother sang it on Easter. It was more beautiful in Spanish. There were still plenty of people back home who went to church, prayed the rosary, but most young people worshiped the old religion, the ancient gods of Aztlan. So many gods…it was hard for Ortiz to keep track of them all.

Sergeant Romo looked at him and Ortiz gave a hand signal, watched as Romo took three men and circled around the church.

Ortiz was doing a terrible thing. The people inside the church were not pirates, or Lone Star rampagers who attacked peaceful Mexican fishing villages. They were innocent. Which would do them no good at all. He rested his cheek in the sand, still cool from the evening, and wondered if he really was going to do this thing.

A family raced up the steps to the church, a father, mother and two children in their Sunday best, hurrying, and Ortiz wished their car had broken down, wished a water main had burst and flooded the streets, wished for anything that would have delayed them five minutes. The door to the church opened, the hymn booming louder for a moment- He arose a victor from the dark domain -before it closed after the family.

Ortiz was aware of the rest of his men waiting for him to give the order. He nodded his head and the three men scuttled forward, placed their satchel charges and incendiaries around the walls, then quickly backed out. Sergeant Romo came around from the other side, placed a charge in front of the door, set the motion trigger.

The men had been quiet during the insertion, quietly checking and rechecking their gear. No boasts or jokes or talk of what they would do when they got home. They attended to business and avoided looking at him. He didn't blame them.

Sergeant Romo's men rejoined them, breathing hard, eager to get back to the boats.

The thin man had come to him two days ago. Ortiz had been drinking in a tavern when a man sat beside him, a thin man who spoke accented Spanish and drew the Unit X sign in the moisture on the bar. The man wiped away the sign, then said he had a mission for Ortiz and his team. Ortiz listened, demanded to know who the man really was. Said Tenochtitlan did not order the murder of women and children.

The Belt murders our oil minister, Miguel, and you expect us to do nothing? The man ordered another round of drinks for them. Are you not a patriot?

Ortiz had left the drink untouched on the bar, but he didn't walk away. Ortiz told the man he was a patriot, but not a butcher.

The man watched him in the mirror over the bar. Said authorization had already been sent. Do your duty, Miguel.

Yesterday the base commandant had called Ortiz in, said he had gotten orders, and transport would be provided to Ortiz and his team. The commandant didn't ask where they were going or what their mission was-he was used to Unit X operating on their own.

Ortiz raised a fist to Sergeant Romo and the team scurried back through the underbrush in twos, heading toward their rally point in the pine woods beyond the town. Ortiz was the last to leave, racing through the morning, casting aside all field discipline, scared that he would be left behind with what he had done.

The charges detonated as he reached the trees, a rapid sequence of explosions, the fireball rising into the sky. Ortiz stumbled forward, almost fell. He blinked back tears, and ordered his men forward to the boats.

"I'll take them," said Leo.

The pale teenage chip jockey behind the armored glass rubbed his thumb and index finger together and Leo counted out $4,000 in hundreds, slipped them through the slot.

The chip jockey had the emotionless eyes of a crustacean, flat black eyes that should have been mounted on stalks. He lazily recounted the money, dragging out the process, then tucked the bills into his camouflage shorts. His long fingers placed the two new Chinese lithium chips into tiny glassine envelopes while his eyes did something else, maybe ran a salinization test or a plankton quality assessment. The chips slid out the one-way box onto the other side of the glass.

Leo rechecked the chips through a jeweler's loupe, nodded. "You got a demag case for these? Wouldn't want to scramble the configuration."

The chip jockey rubbed his thumb and forefinger together again.

Leo flipped him the finger, started for the door.

Rakkim waved to the chip jockey. "Good talking with you."

Leo jerked the door handle, but it didn't budge. He turned to the chip jockey. "Hey!"

The chip jockey picked his nose. Examined his fingertip. Pressed a button.

The heavy, metal-clad door hissed as the security bolts slid back into the door frame. Leo flung the door open, stepped out into the narrow alley, Rakkim right behind him. The door shut, the bolts slamming back in place.

Rakkim turned up the collar of his leather jacket against the light rain, but stayed put.

Every week it was the same thing. Leo asked Rakkim to come along on one of his buying expeditions in the Zone. The tech galleries along the lower level had the newest whizbang gear in the country, but they didn't open until after dark, and this part of the Zone was dangerous-even the police and tourists kept their distance. Leo pretended he wanted Rakkim along for company, and Rakkim pretended to believe him.

Every week they made the rounds, but they always ended up at this same chip shop, where the clerk reserved his best merchandise for Leo. Leo always bitched about the price or the condition, but the chip jockey didn't dicker. He didn't talk either. All these weeks and Rakkim had never heard the jockey utter a word. At the end of the transaction, Leo would ask for something. A demag case, a virus tracking number, a glass of water, something that should have been thrown in free after the money he had spent, and the chip jockey would demand to be paid, and Leo would always flip him off. Then Rakkim and Leo would go out for dinner. Rakkim would never understand brainiacs.