Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Darwin fiddled with the Cyclops, watched Rakkim in the master bathroom again. He liked the part where he lifted Marian out of the tub, cradling her against him. His clothes got wet, her dripping hair splashed his boots, but he carried her with a strange, tender respect, trying not to look at her. Darwin was going to use that very tenderness against him. That tenderness was going to get Rakkim killed.

A touch and the Cyclops downloaded the last hour of surveillance. Darwin zipped through the footage, the screen divided into quarters, one for each camera, filming in infrared now. The Warriq house was quiet and dark, the bodies removed. Too bad. He had hoped that whoever was in the taxi this afternoon might have come back for a look-see once the police had left. Whether or not it was Sarah, there was a connection. Darwin had an instinct for such things. He slipped the Cyclops back into his jacket, smiled. Maybe Sarah was waiting for a suitable period of mourning before returning to the house.

The door to the church basement swung open and Rakkim and the fat cop walked out, the two of them slightly unsteady.

Darwin was ready. He would follow Rakkim and find out where he was living these days. The old man’s people had staked out the Blue Moon, but Rakkim had stayed away. Morons. Darwin had actually found Rakkim’s apartment, but it hadn’t been used in days. Rakkim had cleaned out anything that might have been useful, but Darwin had enjoyed being there, trying on the clothes in the closet, sitting on the bed, giving it a little bounce. Rakkim probably had hiding spots all over the city, rooms and studios and garage apartments rented under fake names. Rakkim was full of tricks, but none of them would help him tonight. Darwin just needed to know where his base was, the safe spot where Rakkim laid his head and dreamed his dreams. Once Darwin knew that, the rest would take care of itself.

Darwin saw Rakkim open his car door, take out one of the cardboard boxes, and load it into the fat cop’s vehicle. He did the same thing with the second box, the fat cop not offering to help. Was there evidence in the boxes? Unlikely. If it were evidence, it would have been put into the fat detective’s car from the start. Interesting. Rakkim’s car was stolen, of course. Darwin had run the plate. So why were the fat cop and Rakkim standing around? What were they waiting for?

The door to the church opened again, and three cops staggered out, whooping it up, throwing pretend punches at each other. Rakkim called them over. The fat cop got into the act too, his voice so loud that Darwin could almost make out the words. The three cops separated, got into their patrol cars while the fat cop walked over and unlocked the security gate. The three cops drove slowly out of the parking lot, waited, engines idling, sweeping the street with their spotlights.

Oh, you are a clever boy. Darwin eased below the dashboard; the spotlight slid across the windshield. He could hear a car roll slowly past, then another, but he stayed put. The spotlight returned, a regular pattern. He heard cars accelerate, peeked up, and saw red taillights in the distance. The patrol cars were strung in a line behind the fat cop’s car, peeling off at each corner, trolling for anyone who might be following, making sure he made it to the freeway without company.

Darwin started his car, but didn’t bother trying to give chase. He had to hand it to him-Rakkim always acted as if he were being followed. A tough guy who knew how easily even the toughest could be brought down. The power of humility, a real shadow warrior move. Darwin had only known two or three of the breed; they were all easygoing until circumstances changed, then watch out. Like assassins. Drop them anywhere in the world and within ten minutes they would fit right in, become part of the human landscape. It took an effort to be invisible, though, and the slightest slip could be fatal. Eventually even the best shadow warriors were found out and killed. Except for Rakkim. The survivor.

For some reason, he thought of the young cop at the crime scene this afternoon, bright and shiny as a new penny, eager to find an apartment and move out on his own. Ah, to be young again. Darwin pulled away from the curb. He felt like another strawberry malt.

Rakkim slipped out the side door of the half-empty office tower, stepped out into the cool night air. Jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt, the hood pulled low on his forehead. R U Having Fun Yet? That’s what the assassin had asked him. A message in blood on Marian’s living room wall. Let me find you, motherfucker, and we’ll see who has fun. Rakkim had told Colarusso he didn’t have a chance against the assassin, but nothing was certain. He just needed to get lucky. Luckier than a man could hope to be.

Broken glass crunched underfoot, the sidewalk cracked and crumbling. Four A.M. and alone in Bellytown, what the locals called the rundown neighborhood surrounding the vast open-air market that kept the city fed. Four A.M. and hungover from church wine, his stomach knotted with anger and fatigue, but he didn’t want to sleep-every time he closed his eyes, he saw Marian’s face in the bathtub, her hair floating around her. A dead mermaid far from the sea. He wondered where Sarah was, and if she was safe. Most of all, he wondered if she knew what she had started.

A yellowed newspaper tumbled down the street, carried by the wind. Bellytown was poorly lit, the building lobbies barred and boarded up, home to squatters and busted retirees and immigrants from the hinterlands come to find fortune in the capital. The government had been talking about tearing it down for years, tearing it down and starting over, but talking was all that had been done.

Colarusso had dropped off Rakkim an hour ago in the alley behind the office tower, helped him load the boxes into a service elevator before driving home. Rakkim had been sleeping in a vacant office suite since Redbeard had called him in. He wouldn’t stay there more than another day or two now, just long enough to skim through the journals, then take them to his next hideout. First though, he was going to talk to Harriet.

The assassin was out there and he wanted Rakkim to know it. He was either hoping Rakkim would panic or he was just too arrogant to contain himself. Arrogance and self-indulgence were occupational hazards for assassins. Snatching lives did that to you. Such godlike power hollowed out even a strong man eventually, and assassins were weak by nature, weak men with a special gift. By announcing himself, the assassin was counting on Rakkim to lose his focus and make a mistake. It was the assassin who had made a mistake, though, and if the assassin didn’t realize it, that was another mistake.

Music came from the apartment building across the street…old music from the war before the last war, music from when people touched and held each other in public. Some ancient pensioner must be having trouble sleeping or had got up to pee and thought of better times. The music stopped, then the same song started again, and Rakkim imagined the old man or old woman playing it over and over, summoning up who knows what memories. He kept walking.

The sidewalks were filling with workers headed toward the main market, men dressed as he was, hands in their pockets, cigarettes in their mouths. Trucks full of produce rumbled through the streets, horns blaring, the air thickening with the smell of ripe fruit and vegetables. He stepped into a Star-bucks, its windows grimy, the interior crowded and loud. He ordered a double espresso and a cinnamon roll. A few moments later, the barista set down his order and he handed her $6, told her to keep the change.

The money was pretty, you had to say that much for the new regime. He barely remembered the old money, but he knew it was green and showed the faces of dead men. The new bills were brightly colored, a mix of blues and pinks and yellows, larger than the old money. No dead presidents. The five-dollar bill showed the mosaics of the Detroit armory, the ten showed the fallen Space Needle, the twenty pictured the crescent moon over the ruins of New York City, the fifty showed the capital’s Grand Mosque, and the hundred showed the holy Kaaba, the great black cube in Mecca, radioactive for the next ten thousand years.