Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

Stevenson nodded. “Ozark opium poppies are world-class too. Hell, without tobacco, dope, and Coca-Cola, the Belt wouldn’t have any hard-currency foreign trade at all.”

Rakkim revved the engine.

“You got the coin, right?”

Rakkim patted his pocket.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Stevenson.

Rakkim floored it, spraying Stevenson with a rain of pebbles.

“Now are we going to Tennessee?” said Leo.

“Not just yet.”

Anthony Colarusso parked his car on the shoulder of I-90, got out with a groan, and walked toward the blast site carrying a paper-bag lunch that Marie had packed for him. Five days after al-Faisal’s car had detonated at the roadblock and two lanes of the freeway were still roped off, traffic whizzing by in the remaining two lanes. His baggy gray suit flapped around him as a semitruck barreled past. The air smelled of diesel and something worse. Colarusso reached into the bag, unwrapped the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, nibbled on half while he paced off the site.

Must have been some big fucking firecracker. C-6 shaped charge with all the trimmings, according to State Security’s official report. About fifteen feet of asphalt had buckled, one whole section melted from the intense heat of the explosion, shards of metal driven deep into the softened tar. Blast killed a couple of SS officers manning the barricade, injured three more. Real geniuses. Like who could have possibly considered that a fleeing Black Robe homicide suspect and his bodyguard might choose to go out in style, and take some company with them. Muslims…there were plenty of good ones, but Colarusso had never met a Black Robe he didn’t want to kick in the ass.

His tongue probed the space between his right canine and bicuspid. Dislodged a piece of peanut and spit it out. He had only been telling Marie for twenty-seven goddamned years that he preferred creamy peanut butter. Probably a sale on crunchy, buy two jars and get one free. Or maybe it was her way of showing him who was boss. If it wasn’t for the bowing and scraping five times a day, he’d be tempted to convert and get him a good Muslim wife. One who didn’t talk unless spoken to, and didn’t make that face when he came home late. He took another bite of sandwich. Strawberry preserves…his favorite. Homemade too. Marie picked the berries herself, cooked them up in a big kettle every summer, her face steamy from the heat, hair lank across her forehead. She was a lousy cook, but her preserves were something else.

He squatted down, examined the blast pattern, trying to sketch out the debris field in his mind. He ran a hand over the fused asphalt, noted where it was indented, then looked in the opposite direction. Evidence markers from the State Security forensics team waved in the weeds beside the freeway, but they weren’t planted out nearly far enough for the force of the explosion. Another reason to question the official finding that al-Faisal and his bodyguard had killed themselves rather than face arrest. State Security had been in a hurry to claim jurisdiction over the case. In an even bigger hurry to issue their report and put the case to bed. Not that police didn’t do the same thing, but Colarusso didn’t like being overruled under the best of circumstances and no way did this qualify. Particularly with a Bombay strangler involved. Sick fucks.

Joints popping, he stood up, scratched his ample belly. Probably best to keep the wife and religion he had. His knees were in no shape for all that praying, and besides, Marie might have put on ten pounds with every kid, but she still had that nasty grin that got to him, got right to him no matter how tired he was. She gave him that grin and he still felt like the football hero. All-state linebacker, three years running. Loved to hear the crunch of a good hit, see the surprise on their faces, like where did you come from? Colarusso would get up, pretend to adjust his pads and helmet, and look for Marie in the stands. She’d wave, not fooled for a minute. Yeah, save the good Muslim wives for the good Muslim men, Colarusso would stick with a wild Catholic girl any day.

Gnats floated around his mouth, and he wiped his face with one arm, got a smear of peanut butter on the sleeve of his suit jacket. He licked it off. Made it worse. Kept licking until it was gone. Thought he tasted spaghetti sauce from last week too. About time to get it dry-cleaned. Almost. He moved slowly toward the weeds, eyes on the ground. Make sure, Anthony, that’s what Rakkim had said when Colarusso told him that al-Faisal had blown himself up. Make sure. Good advice under any circumstances.

He looked up as another car skidded up onto the shoulder. Fancy vehicle, opaque, armored windows, reinforced bumpers.

Two men stepped out of the car, shoes shined to mirrors and decked out in tailored black suits. Typical State Security. The short, stocky one looked at Colarusso like he had a bad taste in his mouth; the gangly one walked easier, almost friendly, a farm kid playing dress-up. They each kept a hand inside their jackets.

“Don’t hurt yourself, boys, I’m Deputy Chief Anthony Colarusso.” He saw the gangly one scan the pin on his lapel, confirming his status. “Just checking out the neighborhood.”

“Your rank doesn’t mean anything here-all that matters is that you’re trespassing,” said the shorter one, his hand still inside his jacket. “State Security’s got this scene boxed up, so climb back in your ride and haul ass back where you-”

“Relax, Napoléon,” said Colarusso, “you’re going to give yourself a hemorrhoid.”

The stumpy one stepped closer.

“It’s all right, Jay,” said the gangly one. “We’re all-”

“I asked you once, I’m not gonna ask you again,” said the stumpy one.

“Just a second.” Colarusso fished around in his paper bag, moved the half sandwich aside and looked up. “Nope. I checked, but there’s just no give-a-shit in here, not even a little piece.”

The gangly one laughed. It sounded like a hiccup.

The stumpy one jabbed Colarusso in the chest. “I could take you down, you fat Catholic fuck. You’ll end up in the goddamned emergency ward with a saline drip in your arm and a catheter in your dick.”

“Sometimes, when I can’t sleep”-Colarusso removed a speck of lint from his jacket, watched it float to the ground-“I think about all the dizzy bastards threatened me over the years, all the tough-guy yak…” He yawned, stretched his mouth wide. “Sends me right off to dreamland.”

The stumpy one’s eyes went dead.

“Jay,” said the gangly one. “Go on back to the car, I’ll take it from here.”

“I don’t want to go back to the car,” the stumpy one said softly.

“Please, Jay,” said the gangly one. “I hate filling out paperwork.”

The stumpy one glared at Colarusso. “You got no idea how lucky you are.” He turned on his heel, stalked back to the car.

“You like to live dangerously, Chief,” said the gangly one. “Jay teaches hand-to-hand combat to the recruits just for the opportunity to beat people up.”

“I never intended to use my hands,” said Colarusso. “Figured I’d go brain-to-brain with him, where I have the advantage.”

The gangly one laughed again. He was older than he looked at first, the bones in his face prominent, his eyes steady. “Never met a cop who wasn’t a joker. That’s the only bad thing about State Security, everybody’s so darned serious.”

“Not you, though,” said Colarusso. “You’re a fun guy.”

“I enjoy my work, if that’s what you mean.” The wind from passing cars lifted the blond hairs on the gangly one’s neck. A tiny vein throbbed along his jawline. “You really shouldn’t be here, sir.”