Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

One of the tanks circled around to the rear of the compound, flattening a storage shed.

The compound exploded in a fireball of orange light, windows blown out from the force of the detonation.

“I was just a teenager when the old regime fell,” said Stevenson as burning debris drifted down, “and I sure as shit don’t like what replaced it, but there’s times…” He spit over the side again. “Makes a man wonder how something that started out so good could have rotted out like an old pumpkin. Government turning on its own people, murdering kids…” He pulled out an auto-pistol and emptied the clip, his face contorted as he howled at the sky.

People in the crowd answered the shots, dozens of rounds fired off into the sky, the gunshots punctuated by rebel yells and shouts of “Amen!” Leo cowered along the edge of the roof, hands over his head, as though that would protect him from gravity. Rakkim stood tall as the crowd blazed away, tried to imagine the sound of gunfire in any city in the Islamic Republic and couldn’t. Just owning a gun was a capital offense, and even the police almost never used their sidearms. Colarusso had been a cop almost thirty years and had never fired his weapon other than on the pistol range. The National Guardsmen in the crowd opened up now, their rifles on full auto, aiming at the stars. Good luck.

“Koresh should have let the Feds arrest him,” said Rakkim, the flames reflected in his eyes. “Should have turned the other cheek. If Koresh was the second coming of Christ, that’s what he was supposed to be all about, right?”

“First time around, Jesus turned the other cheek. You see where that got him. Next time he’s coming as the warrior Christ leading the troops at Armageddon. That’s why Koresh named this place Mount Carmel-’cause the Bible says that’s where the battle takes place. Christ and his people going toe to toe with the satanic hordes.”

Rakkim scanned the crowd. “Who knew you could buy snow cones at Armageddon?”

“It’s not funny,” said Stevenson, his gnarly face livid in the rockets’ red glare.

The tanks retreated as the flames leapt higher with a whoooosh; the steeple upended, falling through the second story. The crowd, which had been restless during the tank assault, almost eager to see the climax of the reenactment, stepped back from the railing and fell silent. The three nuns crossed themselves, bowed their heads.

Stevenson turned away. “I seen this every week for the last ten years…you think I’d be used to it by now. Tomorrow morning they’ll start building it all over again.” He shook his head, his voice hoarse. “Damn ancient history, that’s all it is.”

Leo stood beside Rakkim, the two of them watching the compound until there was only ashes and smoldering embers.

The crowd dispersed slowly toward the parking lots, people pushing baby carriages along the walkways. A doll fell off a baby carriage as the father pushed past the three nuns, and the young nun Rakkim had made eye contact with earlier bent gracefully down and picked it up. Returned it to the father. The nuns kept up with the crowd, and Rakkim noticed the two Rangers studying them as they passed, then start after them.

Stevenson put a hand on Rakkim’s shoulder. “Don’t get carried away.”

Rakkim watched the two Rangers flank the young nun. The black one pulled away her head scarf, twirled it around a finger. The white one grab-assed her while she slapped at his hands. The Rangers laughed as she fled, weeping, after the other nuns.

“Those two are even more out of control than usual,” said Stevenson. “Christians get along well enough, but there’s still plenty of good ol’ boys don’t like Catholics. Not near as much as they hate your people, but some folks never forgave the pope for kowtowing to the Muslims the way he did. I understand the situation, two popes assassinated inside of a year, but if the pope can’t stand up for what he believes in, who can?”

“What those two assholes did, that had nothing to do with religion,” said Rakkim.

“You’re probably right about that.” Stevenson rocked on the heels of his cowboy boots. “It’s just damn criminal stupidity not to pay your centurions. Any fool knows that. You don’t feed the guard dog, sooner or later somebody’s gonna get bit.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Rakkim.

“Damn. Here I thought I was going to skate.”

“You got some old Roman coins in that collection of yours?”

“I got a little of everything, you know that,” said Stevenson.

“I need a silver coin from around the time of Christ,” said Rakkim.

“Like an imperial denarius? I’ve got plenty of those.”

“As long as it’s silver. I only need one.”

“What are you going to do with that?”

“This Malcolm Crews sounds a lot like David Koresh. You said it yourself-boys like that, money doesn’t mean anything to them. It’s all about heaven and hell.”

“What’s that supposed-”

“Forget the denarius,” said Leo. “You want a shekel of Tyre.”

Rakkim stared at Leo.

“What?” said Leo. “Like I can’t correlate the data?” He tapped his forehead. “Me smart.”

“I don’t know what either of you are talking about,” said Stevenson, “but a shekel of Tyre is a rare coin. I’ve only got one.”

“One’s all I need,” said Rakkim, still staring at Leo.

“Stay away from Houston,” said Stevenson. “There’s typhus-”

“You already told me,” said Rakkim.

“Stick to the backroads. You might run into bandits, but there’s military press-gangs all over the interstates. And watch out for Mexicans.”

Rakkim slid behind the wheel of the rusted-out Cadillac. “I got it.”

“You’re going to want to take Highway Twenty-seven because it’s quicker, but don’t do it,” said Stevenson. “Rangers coop under the big overpass watching for trouble…or folks they can bring trouble to. Had a lot of tourists go missing lately. Women turning up weeks later, kind of condition they’d be better off dead. Best you take the long way around Waco. Rangers aren’t the worst that can happen either. You drive down a country lane and see somebody broke down by the side of the road, don’t stop. I don’t care if it’s a sweet-faced blonde holding the baby Jesus.”

“Why, hello, miss,” cooed Rakkim. “Are y’all in need of assistance?”

“Okay, I deserve that.” Stevenson fumbled for a fresh cigarette. “The Caddy’s got puncture-guard tires and upgraded body armor. She’s fast too. Ugly but fast.” Stevenson handed Rakkim a gun. “Here. Nothing fancy. I know you don’t want to attract attention, but it’s a solid, reliable piece. Twenty-four slims in the magazine.”

Rakkim tucked away the gun. Familiarized himself with the controls. A real steering wheel-no autopilot, no verbal controls, no crash-avoidance system. Redneck iron all the way. Perfect.

Stevenson patted the sides of the Caddy-once pink, now a dull red. “Forty years ago, this baby was the most widely produced car in the country. Most of them are still in operation. Can’t beat a turbo-twelve for reliability.”

“It’s crap,” Leo muttered. “I’m just glad nobody I know will ever see me in it.”

Stevenson inclined his head toward Leo. “You must really need this asshole.”

“That’s what they tell me.” Rakkim started the car, listening. “Me, I’ve got my doubts.”

“Used to be the Chinese made sneakers for us because them coolies worked cheap.” Stevenson spit. “Now they build factories in the Belt because we’re the ones working for peanuts. Cars, clothes, toys, fireworks. Cheap labor, that’s all we got to offer.”

“Best tobacco in the world,” said Rakkim. “That’s still true, isn’t it?”