Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

“Mother?” Sarah indicated Michael listening from atop her shoulders.

“I’m just saying”-Katherine slipped her arm into Sarah’s-“after what we were living with, Islam seemed like an answer to prayer. The pope was a ditherer, and the Protestants…Your father used to say, When a religion loses sight of what true evil is, it’s no longer a religion, it’s a bowling league. Islam offered the clarity of right and wrong, good and bad, and I embraced it eagerly. I make no excuses…” She squeezed Sarah’s arm as the Black Robe pushed his way through the crowd, a tall, scrawny man with a sharp nose and a mouth full of crooked teeth. “We were happy to trade away a little freedom for the comfort of a clear set of rules.” She eased them out of the path of the approaching Black Robe, a tall, scrawny ascetic. “We just didn’t count on who would be setting the rules.”

Sarah slightly inclined her gaze as the Black Robe passed, as did her mother.

“Aii!” shrieked the Black Robe, clutching his bare head.

Michael giggled, shook the black turban that he had snatched from the Black Robe.

“Insolent bastard!” barked the Black Robe, snatching his turban back, the fabric unrolling onto the ground.

Michael laughed, clapped his hands.

The Black Robe raised his flail, whipped the long, flexible wooden rod back and forth, then swung at Michael.

Sarah caught the blow on her raised arm, gasping at the pain. She clawed at the Black Robe’s eyes and he hit her even harder, enraged now.

“Give me the brat, you harlot!” the Black Robe sputtered, flailing at her.

Sarah stumbled to the ground, shielding Michael with her body, taking the blows that rained down on her back. Everyone around them made room, silenced by the Black Robe’s fury, unwilling to try and stop him. Christians did not lay hands on a Muslim cleric. Ever. She cried out as the Black Robe’s whip lashed across her kidneys. Her stunner was in her pocket, a palm-size device with enough juice to zap the Black Robe or anyone else into unconsciousness. Illegal for a woman to possess, of course. She reached for the stunner, felt it, but the Black Robe’s flail kept thrashing her. Like being stung by a swarm of wasps…

“Mercy!” Katherine approached the Black Robe, palms pressed together in supplication. “In the name of Allah the Merciful!”

The Black Robe spat in her face, raised his arm to strike Sarah again, and Katherine kneed him in the groin, the force of her knee lifting him off the ground, his robes fluttering around him like the petals of a black lily.

The Black Robe collapsed, lay there groaning beside a crushed snow-cone cup, his mouth making feeble movements as he tried to breathe.

Katherine pulled Sarah to her feet. Sarah’s veil had come undone.

Clutching Michael to her, Sarah ran through the crowd, Katherine right behind her.

“S-stop them!” The Black Robe stood partway, then fell back down, clutching himself. “Stop them!”

The crowd closed ranks after Sarah and Katherine, so that the fleeing women and child were lost from the Black Robe’s sight.

Rakkim watched Bill Tigard heft a trash can full of slop, must have weighed two hundred pounds at least, and dump it into the pigpen. Watched him toss the empty can aside and reach for another one, Tigard grinning as the hogs rushed in, squealing. He lurched slightly as he moved down the fence, an old bullet wound in his hip, a souvenir from Tigard’s wilder days, he had told Rakkim once-a wink to his wife-before he found Florence and the Lord. Another wink-in that order. Sweat rolled down his bare arms as he worked, his skin shiny and black in the sunset, bulging with muscle. It had been ten years since Rakkim had last seen him. Tigard was still a powerhouse in faded overalls, but his short hair was sprinkled with gray and he had a tire around his middle.

Tigard sang to the pigs as he fed them, urging them on, as though they needed encouragement. Most of the big pork farmers used one- and two-acre concrete pens and automated food delivery systems, but Tigard was a small farmer, proud and independent, a traditionalist out of need and preference. His fat hogs wallowed in mud, his slops came from his fields, his kitchen, and bags of Indian Jack sorghum. He and his family fed the hogs with their own hands, butchered them with their own hands when the time came.

Tigard moved down the wire fence surrounding the pen, humming softly to himself. Rakkim moved closer, silent as a shadow. Step by step, closer still. Near enough now to see Florence’s precise stitching on his overalls. Near enough to see a single drop of sweat nestled behind his right ear. Near enough to recognize the song he hummed, a gospel tune…“The Old Rugged Cross.” Rakkim hummed along with him, insinuating his sound into Tigard’s deeper bass. Oblivious, Tigard hoisted up another trash can. Rakkim reached out a hand-

“Step away from him, mister, or I’ll blow yer balls off.”

Rakkim turned slowly. He heard the trash can drop but kept his eyes on Florence in the doorway, holding an assault rifle. He glanced down. Saw a tiny red dot centered on his crotch. Rakkim spread his arms wide. “Easy target, Florence, blessed as I am. You get more points for a brain shot.”

Tigard grabbed Rakkim by the front of his jacket, lifted him off the ground. “Who the…” He stared. A smile slowly arced across his broad face. “Rikki?” He wrapped his arms around Rakkim, half smothered him in his warm embrace. “Don’t shoot, Mother, it’s Rikki.”

“Rikki?” Florence walked quickly over to them, a slender woman whose high cheekbones seemed carved from mahogany. “Is that really you, boy?”

Tigard set Rakkim down.

Rakkim kissed Florence on each of her high cheekbones. “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

Florence laughed. “You still kiss like a Frenchman.”

“You hungry?” said Tigard.

“Does a Muslim have calluses on his knees?” said Rakkim.

“Come in the house and wash up,” said Florence. “I’ll have dinner on the table soon as Bill’s done with the hogs.” She trailed a hand across her husband’s broad back. “I’ll tell the boys Rikki’s here.”

“I’ll stay out here a little bit.” Rakkim walked ahead of Tigard, picked up a sack of corncobs, and poured them into the trough. “Old man looks like he could use some help.”

“Just don’t hurt yourself,” said Tigard, scooting past him. “You probably haven’t done an honest day’s work since you left here.”

Florence went back to the house, shaking her head, the assault rifle across her shoulder. The house was two stories, small but well kept, with white sideboards and green trim. Flower beds ran down the sides, red and yellow tulips ablaze with color. Antique farm tools flanked the back porch: hay rakes, shovels, a huge scythe that only Tigard could have ever wielded.

Rakkim waited until the kitchen door slammed behind Florence. “Since when does she greet visitors with a gun?”

Tigard grunted, shifted the trash can to the other shoulder. “Been some trouble lately with raiders. Livestock taken, buildings burned. Next county over a farmer and his whole family were found shot dead, wife raped beforehand. City folk probably-wore out their welcome in Birmingham or Decatur and decided their country cousins were fair game. They come here, they’re going to wish they never left home.”

“You still have your dog?” said Rakkim.

“Jeff died a few months ago.” Tigard poured out the last of the slops. “I still get weepy when I think about it.”

“You should get another dog. It’s cheap security. Or, if you want, I could set up a basic system tomorrow. Nothing fancy. Heat-activated solenoid on the main access road would be better than nothing. We’ll go into town tomorrow and get what we need.”