Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

Wilson just nodded, turned around. Far behind, but closing fast, three State Security vehicles chased them, sirens blaring. The other cars on the road moved toward the shoulders.

Bin-Salaam accelerated.

Wilson stared at the detonator wired to his index finger and started to shake. He loved his brother Terry. Tariq al-Faisal, he corrected himself. No, he would always be Terry to him. His older brother. The good brother, that’s what his parents called him, and Wilson had to agree. No one outside the family knew that Terry had become a Black Robe. While his older brother now sat at the right hand of Grand Mullah ibn-Azziz himself, Wilson attended mosque intermittently, couldn’t keep a job…or a wife. Delia had left him a year ago, gone to live with some Catholic in Los Angeles, flaunting her body in that moral sewer. His mother wept when he finally told her of his shame. His father couldn’t look at him. He glanced at bin-Salaam, then back to the road. A failure in every sense, Wilson had been given one last chance to redeem himself. Terry had knocked on his apartment door two nights ago, beardless as a bricklayer. Terry had kissed him on the cheek, said, Gather your things, brother, I have a great gift for you.

“The apostates are getting closer,” said bin-Salaam. “Expect a roadblock soon…and aerosol flypaper to take you alive.”

Wilson rubbed his own newly shaven jaw. It itched. He patted the device in his jacket pocket. Some construct of wires and chips Terry had given him, a decoy to assure their pursuers that Wilson was the one they sought.

Don’t worry, dear brother, Terry had said. No one challenges a great triumph. State Security will fight among themselves to claim credit for bringing down the great Tariq al-Faisal. He had inclined his head toward Wilson as though his acknowledgment were a pearl of great price. You will be laughing in Paradise at their folly, laughing as you frolic with your virgins. He had smiled then, a smile that Wilson remembered from their youth, Terry beckoning the neighborhood simpleton to pet a vicious dog.

Wilson glanced behind him again.

“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,” mumbled bin-Salaam.

It had taken two days for Terry to convince him. Two days in which Wilson had barely slept, barely eaten, just prayed and listened to Terry tell him over and over what had to be done. You’re the only one who can fool them, my brother, the only one. Wilson should be happy, Terry kept saying. Dry your tears, little brother, you have a chance to bring honor to our parents, and joy to Allah-what more could you ask?

“They are very close,” said bin-Salaam. “Send us to Paradise.”

They have tests, Wilson had told Terry. They will know I am not you. Terry told him not to worry; it had all been taken care of. Bin Salaam had taken hairs from Wilson’s brush and a pen with his fingerprints and given them to a high-ranking brother in the police department. They were evidence now, part of the investigation into the murder of a purveyor of black-market electronics. Trust me, brother, Terry assured him, the apostates will believe. Just do your duty. Terry had called State Security’s hotline himself, tipped them that the Black Robe they were interested in was fleeing east on I- 90 in a late-model gray mufti sedan.

“It is time.” Bin-Salaam nodded at the roadblock up ahead, State Security fanned out around it. A foam truck laid down a wall of adhesive bubbles. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.”

Duty…duty…duty. Wilson trembled in the passenger’s seat, teeth chattering. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…”

Wilson tore at the tape around his index finger, careful not to trip the detonator. Finally certain of what to do, more certain now than he had ever been before.

Bin-Salaam reached over-“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar”-wrapped his massive paw around Wilson’s hand-“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar”-and squeezed.

For the briefest of instants, Wilson’s ears rang from the force of one hundred pounds of C-6 explosives detonating around him. It sounded like the screaming of the damned.

“What, you’re not hungry?” Deputy Chief of Detectives Anthony Colarusso held his fork an inch from his mouth, spaghetti dangling onto his plate.

“I like watching you eat,” said Rakkim. “It restores my faith in our animal origins.”

“Doesn’t take a leap of faith, just open your eyes, troop, we’re all beasts of the field here.” Colarusso slurped his pasta, a single strand whipping up into his mouth, spraying red sauce onto the napkin tucked into the neck of his white dress shirt. “Sorry about that.”

Rakkim wiped sauce off his hand. “No harm done.”

Colarusso hunched over the table, a thickset, middle-aged lawman with a bad haircut and a misbuttoned shirt. One of Rakkim’s oldest friends, one of the few who knew what Rakkim and Sarah had done to expose the Old One. One of the few who had helped. He guzzled red wine from his coffee cup. A good Catholic, Colarusso had the best arrest record in the department ten years in a row, but his professional rise had topped out because of his refusal to convert. After the Old One fled and the history books were rewritten, Colarusso leapfrogged to deputy chief. Without giving up his crucifix. Now he recruited from the old neighborhood, fought bureaucratic battles, and oversaw major busts.

Rakkim and Colarusso sat alongside each other, their backs to the wall of the private cop joint located in the basement of St. Ignatius. Ancient music rolled from the sound system: Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Aretha Franklin. Real time-warp stuff, barely audible over the din in the room, gossip and arguments and the clatter of silverware. Father Joe tended bar in his clerical garb, while Father Alberto cooked, a mug of wine always within reach.

Rakkim had been awarded many medals for service to his country, but he was as proud of his standing invitation to this bar as any citation. It had been three years since Colarusso first brought him here. Words had been exchanged that night, jabs and insults, but Rakkim had kept his cool, and even prior to his promotion, Colarusso commanded respect. Three years later, Rakkim was still the only Muslim allowed in, but Father Joe no longer threw out Rakkim’s glass when he got up to leave, smashing it into the trash.

“State Security didn’t take kindly to me muscling into their investigation.” Colarusso twirled spaghetti around his fork. “I told them al-Faisal might be their turf, but when that Black Robe prick kills one of my locals, that’s when Homicide gets involved.” The ball of pasta grew larger as he wound the fork round and round. “We agreed to disagree.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet. All I’ve done so far is keep your name out of it.” Colarusso slid the fork into his mouth, chewed. “Those two John Does…coroner said he’d never seen anybody killed like that. Acted like it was something special.”

“I got lucky,” said Rakkim.

“Sure you did.” Colarusso passed Rakkim his handheld. “Here’s something else the coroner thought was odd. Eagleton died from having his neck snapped, but that kind of thing doesn’t usually lead to much blood loss.”

Rakkim stared at the crime scene images on the screen of the handheld, Eagleton curled up on the floor, blood from his nostrils staining his shirt.

“No other signs of trauma, just the ligature marks around his neck…” Another strand of pasta whipped through Colarusso’s lips. “Doc seemed to think whoever killed Eagleton must have played with him a while before breaking his neck.”

“Al-Faisal wasn’t in there very long…” Rakkim zoomed in on the back of Eagleton’s neck. Saw two precisely spaced indentations.