Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Sarah caressed his neck. “What happened?”

Rakkim cleared the condensation on the windshield with a sweep of his hand. “Hard to talk about.”

“Try.”

“I had hit my head when the car rolled over, and my knee was banged up, but I had my knife.” Rakkim could barely hear his own voice. “They had torches, and bats wrapped in barbed wire, and crowbars, and this one guy, this big, fat, hairy bastard, he had a golf club. What do they call those ones…? A driver. He had a titanium driver. Expensive club. Must have taken it off some rich tourist who got lost, taken it off him and beaten him to death with it probably. He swung at my head, grinning, just missed me. Had to be at least twenty of them, screaming and singing, so happy, like they had been waiting for us and now the party could begin.” He swept the windshield again. It didn’t need it, but he did it anyway. “I killed a couple of them fast, slashed their throats so they’d make a mess and maybe make the others back off.” He shook his head. “It only excited them more. I kept backing the family into the woods, trying to protect our flanks, but the father was carrying the eight-year-old, and he kept tripping in the underbrush. It was dark in the woods, and he had city eyes. Every time the werewolves made a rush at us, I would kill a few more, but there was so many of them. They didn’t have training, but they knew the terrain, and they were maniacs, painted up and howling. I half expected them to lope on all fours. I was scared. I had it under control, but I could taste it.”

Sarah rested her hand on his neck, kneading out the knots.

Rakkim smiled, but there was no joy in it. “You should have seen the mother, this good Muslim woman who prayed five times a day and had been putting aside quarters for her hajj since she was five. This good mother killed one of the werewolves, a skinny little psycho with his hair in braids-she split his head open with a rock and she never even blinked. Allah be praised, right?”

“Without the assistance of Allah, we cannot save ourselves from any evil,” Sarah recited.

Rakkim shook his head. “I found an animal path, a path so faint even I could barely see it, but it was all we had. I told the father to take his family and not look back. Said I’d stay behind and pick them off as they followed. I told him to run, but he was gasping, and there was blood running from his nose and into his little girl’s hair. The blood was black as oil in the moonlight.” He could feel Sarah’s touch. It felt as if she were inside him. “I kept telling him to go, but he handed me his little girl and darted off into the brush. Deliberately making noise, crashing and thrashing, and the werewolves…they went after him. He saved us. Nervous man with a potbelly and glasses, he lured them away. I took his little girl, and I carried her against my chest, and I led her mother and brother down the path, all of us running, and when we heard the father screaming in the distance…we kept running.” He looked at Sarah. “That’s what happened.”

Sarah kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

“I told them I would get them to Canada. I said I would protect them.”

“Where are they now?”

“The little girl…she died in my arms. I took the mother and son to Green Briar and left her with the squatters. I came back a week later, but they didn’t want to leave. The squatters had accepted them. Made them welcome. Both of them, and the daughter was buried there…”

They must have driven another mile before Sarah spoke. “You’re going to snare the assassin in one of the werewolves’ traps. You thought of it back at Marian’s house. That’s why you didn’t get rid of the tracking device.”

Rakkim nodded. He loved a smart woman.

“How are you going to work it so he gets trapped and not us?”

Rakkim slowed, let the car come to a complete stop. Turned off the lights. Wind whipped the trees, sent dead leaves skittering. The road was a slight downhill, running straight through the trees. Perfect place for a trap, the traveler eager to get past the dense forest, accelerating, taking advantage of the terrain.

“Oh.” Sarah sounded sick. “I see.”

Rakkim got out. “Get behind the wheel. If something happens…if this doesn’t work-”

“It’ll work.”

Rain streamed down his face. “If I get ambushed, drive on the shoulder and keep going. Don’t stop for me, or anything else. Go back to Jill’s. I’ll find you.”

“I’m not scared.” It was a lie, but he was glad she made the attempt. She slid behind the wheel. “Bombing the Holy City, blaming the Jews…the Old One is cursed. That’s why his plan has been frustrated. We’re instruments of God, Rakkim. Allah has power over everything. He won’t allow us to fail.”

Rakkim kissed her on the lips, savoring her warmth. “If you say so.”

Sarah reached for him, but he was already gone, trotting down the road. The wind gusted, made his clothes flap, but it felt good to be outside, good to be cold, battered by the storm. A few minutes later, he heard gravel crunching far behind him. Sarah slowly followed him, engine off, coasting, lights out. He would have preferred she stayed put, but he didn’t think it likely that the werewolves kept patrols out all night. The squatters had to be alert to attack, but no one was going to go after the werewolves. He kept his eyes open anyway, staying to the edge of the road, and when a tree limb cracked in the darkness, he crouched for an attack.

It was another mile before he saw the spike strip laid across the road. Painted flat black, nearly invisible, so well hidden that he nearly stumbled on it. He dragged it into the underbrush, listening. No one was there. He closed his eyes, waited, then opened them. No one other than Fedayeen would have spotted it, but there, through the trees…a light flickered. A candle lantern probably. Rakkim ran a couple of hundred yards past where he had found the spike strip. There were no other traps. The werewolves figured rightly that the spike strip would be enough to blow out the tires of cars going in either direction, send them careening into the ravine or crashing into a tree.

He ran back to Sarah, had her drive forward, then pulled the spike strip back into place behind the car. He tried to get into the driver’s seat, but she waved him around to the other side and started the engine. He kept expecting the werewolves to break from the underbrush, howling, face paint dripping in the storm.

“I want you to drive very slowly away-”

Sarah floored it. The tires spun, churning up gravel as they roared down the road. She hit the high beams.

“What are you doing?”

“You said the assassin would stop when we stopped and drive on when we did,” said Sarah, still accelerating. “I’d rather he was speeding when he hits those spikes.”

Rakkim looked behind him. It was a good plan. “Just stay on the road.” Far behind them, at the turnoff from the logging road, Rakkim thought he saw a glimmer of headlights through the rain, but it was just lightning flashing. He kept watch anyway.

Darwin sat in the car, headlights off, listening to the patter of rain on the roof and thinking of the handsome young police officer. He remembered the way the man had washed his feet in the bathtub prior to prayers, his long toes, and the care with which he had prepared himself for his devotions. They said that a good Muslim was always ready for death. So, in this case, Darwin had been an instrument of divine instruction, a reiteration of the need for-

The tracking receiver suddenly started beeping, startling Darwin out of his metaphysical musings. With his night-vision goggles the flashing diodes of the receiver seemed bright as shooting stars, the beeping a high-pitched keening now. What’s your hurry, lovebirds? Darwin tromped on the accelerator, wheels spinning for a moment on the wet road, leaving tire patches as he raced after them.