Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Sarah checked her watch again. Over an hour since the men had left. She peered through the crack, then popped out the panel. Winced as it clattered to the floor. No sound from the hallway. She eased herself out from behind the radiator, joints popping, so stiff she could hardly bend. It was five minutes before she could breathe freely.

The apartment was trashed, drawers emptied, her few items of clothing on the floor. It didn’t matter; she wasn’t taking anything with her. She walked over to the small kitchen, picked up a knife. It was cheap and had a thin blade, but it made her feel better. She walked to the blinds, peeked out the corner. The alley was dark and empty. She crossed to the door, slowly turned the handle, and opened-

The bald man leaned against the opposite wall, big and blocky, arms crossed. “Jesus lady, I was wondering if you were ever going to come out from wherever you were hiding.”

Sarah slammed the door, but he kicked it open, and when she came at him with the knife, he slapped it away, sent it flying. Then he smacked her, almost knocked her out. He was inside the apartment now, carrying her forward, his hand on her throat. When she tried to bite him, he hit her again.

“Hope you don’t mind that I sent the boys home,” said the bald man. “I just hate to share the reward…or anything else, for that matter.” He laughed, threw her onto the couch.

Sarah struggled as he lay on top of her, and she smelled the Chinese food on his breath and milk…the milk from her refrigerator, sour now, warm and rank. His eyes were gray and terribly calm, as though a woman squirming under him happened every day.

“The Black Robes want you alive and kicking,” he said, his knee pressed between her legs. “So you don’t have to worry about me doing any permanent damage. I’m not about to hurt you.” He kneed her harder, made her gasp. “See, that didn’t hurt, did it?”

“-off me,” Sarah gasped, slapping at his face. “Get off.”

“That’s it,” said the bald man, one hand unbuttoning his pants. “I like a fighter.”

Sarah spit in his face. “My uncle…I’m Redbeard’s niece, damn you.”

The bald man pulled back for an instant, then grabbed her hair and twisted. “I almost believed you for a second there, sweetheart. Nice try.”

Sarah jerked free. “It’s true.”

The bald man pinned her down with one elbow, unzipped her pants. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Redbeard’s niece. I’m Mister Dave Thompson.” His eyes were like stagnant water. “You feel better now?”

Sarah screamed.

“Louder,” he said, grunting as he slid his hand into her panties. “I can’t hear you.”

Sarah arched her back, tore at his face.

“This is what I do,” he said, panting. “This is old Dave’s job. I find little runaways and I bring them back, and sometimes, sometimes”-he slipped a finger inside her-“sometimes I get the okay to ruin them a little. To make sure no one wants them back.” He wriggled his fat finger. “That’s nice,” he whispered as she kicked at him. “You’re tight as a new glove.”

Sarah thrashed around on the sofa as his finger slid deeper inside her. She tried to bite him, but he kept out of reach.

The bald man tried to pull down her pants with his free hand. “You know the more you fight, the better it’s going to be for me, don’t you? I like educating runaways about the real world, the world outside of their daddy’s house. I’m going to give you a grade-A schooling, little miss.”

Sarah knocked over the empty container of food, chopsticks clattering on the coffee table, and she reached out, feeling around.

“Most runaways…” The bald man was groaning now, his eyes eager. “Most of them just blubber and say their prayers the whole time, but you…I can tell you’re going to be fighting the whole time.” Sweat rolled off his sideburns. “Come on, fight me. Come on.”

Sarah fumbled around on the coffee table, fingernails skittering on the glass.

“I’m not such a bad guy. You’ll see. Old Dave is going to give you a fun time, whether you appreciate it or not.” He laughed, nuzzled her breasts, came up for air. “I’m gonna split you wide-” He blinked. His mouth worked but no sounds came out. He stayed in position on top of her, frozen, one hand still in her panties. His lips quivered, showed his uneven, yellow teeth.

Sarah looked right at him. The wooden chopstick was stuck in his left eye, only the end protruding from the ruined socket. Driven deep into his brain. Red Chinese ideograms were on the end of the chopstick. Probably Good luck or something. She didn’t move, didn’t hurry. She watched as a single spot of blood appeared in the white of his other eye. A tiny rose blooming in his gray eyes, and then he was limp on top of her. She rolled him off her. His dead hand flopped out of her panties as he banged his head on the coffee table and landed on the floor in a heap. She raced for the bathroom and washed her face, washed her hands. Tore off her panties, washed herself, washed herself again. She could still feel him inside her. She wasn’t nauseous. Her hands didn’t shake. What was even more surprising was how happy she was.

When she came back to the living room, the bald man lay there, a trickle of some viscous liquid running down his cheek. He might have grandchildren somewhere, fat, ruddy kids he played ball with, little girls he brought sweets to and read to sleep at night. She kicked him in the head as hard as she could. The hollow thud was music. No more sweets, no more stories.

Rakkim sat at the table on the inside wall of the downtown restaurant, just as the message on his cell had suggested. The early-dinner crowd of beardless moderns had returned to their jobs in the high-rises, the conservatives had left for sunset prayers, but the restaurant was still busy, voices bouncing off the raw brick interior. If he and Sarah could be seen in public together, they might have gone to this kind of place, relaxed and fun and with a good mix of people. His phone beeped. Another call from Colarusso, the third since Rakkim had run into Anthony Jr. last night. Colarusso was either calling to berate him for recommending Anthony Jr. to the Fedayeen, or inviting him to Sunday dinner. Either way, Rakkim thought it was best not to respond.

A waitress approached, and Rakkim was grateful for the distraction. She was tricked out in a knee-length, blue velvet dress and plaid stockings, her hair piled into a tight beehive. She bent down, rested her elbows on the table. “You’ll want to pick up your menu and point to things, handsome.” Her nametag read Carla.

Rakkim had never seen her before. The only one of Spider’s children he ever had contact with was Elroy. Carla looked to be around seventeen or eighteen, a big-boned girl with a soft face and a button nose that didn’t suit her. She had her father’s eyes. All the kids did. Hard and dark and alert-she might carry around a touch pad to write customers’ orders, but it was just for show. She probably kept an encyclopedia in her frontal lobes and could call up any page you wanted. Rakkim studied the menu.

“He’s still working on the memory cores you gave him,” said Carla, her hand on the back of his chair, “but he pulled up the mail from the Mecca Café that you wanted.”

“Great. I’m not expecting much from the memory cores anyway.”

“Shows how much you know.” Carla put a hand on his shoulder, flirting, a trademark of any establishment geared to moderns-it brought in tips and it kept the fundamentalists away. “Spider said the one from the university computer is wiped clean, but the core from her home unit is interesting.”