Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

Tigard labored to stay standing. “I know…I know who I let in my house…motherfucker.”

Gravenholtz flicked his cigarette into Tigard’s face.

Popping sounds from the basement. Ammunition going off. Or Florence Tigard’s canned peaches. Whatever it was, it drew the redhead’s attention. His and his men’s.

“Come on out, Jeeter!” Gravenholtz shouted. “I’ll get you a sweet tea.”

Rakkim could see Tigard gathering himself. Bracing his one good leg as he glanced up at the redhead. Rakkim silently urged him on. Said a prayer into the burning night.

Tigard stood up, swung the scythe with all his strength.

Rakkim saw the scythe strike the redhead. Saw the blade rake across his chest. The stroke should have cut the redhead in half. Cut him wide open. But it didn’t. The redhead howled with pain as he scrambled up, his jacket sliced open, stuffing falling out. Rakkim saw blood, so it wasn’t that the redhead was wearing body armor, but it wasn’t the mortal wound Tigard’s slashing attack should have caused. The redhead seemed more angry than hurt.

“Goddamnit, that stings, you farmer fuck.” The redhead tore the scythe away from Tigard, snapped the wooden handle like it was a pencil. “Now where’s Jeeter?”

Tigard stood there, hair burned away, eyebrows singed.

“Where is he?”

Tigard stared at the bodies of his sons. His wife. Turned back to the redhead. “Jeeter…he’s inside. Guts blown out. Why don’t you go check?”

The redhead drove the broken handle of the scythe into Tigard’s chest. “Don’t tell me what to do, you damned hick.” He slammed the handle flat with the heel of his hand, the jagged end protruding from Tigard’s back.

Tigard’s lips moved silently.

“What?” The redhead cupped his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

Tigard sank to his knees. Curled up, shuddering, and finally lay still.

“Royce, bring the bird down,” Gravenholtz said into a throat mike. He examined his jacket. “That son of a bitch done ruined my flight suit.” He turned toward the pigpen.

Rakkim huddled under an enormous pig as the redhead approached. He stroked the sow’s belly, calming her. Felt the mud around him warm as the pig urinated into the soft muck.

“Here, piggy-piggy.” The redhead put one boot on the fence around the pigpen, made soft sucking sounds. “Here pig-pig-pig.”

Rakkim pressed his face into the mud, watching the redhead with upturned eyes, Gravenholtz so close that Rakkim could see the scuff marks on his jump boots. Rakkim tensed, watching the boots. If Gravenholtz pivoted suddenly or shifted back on his heels, it meant he had spotted Rakkim. Time enough for Rakkim to act then. Time enough for him to spring out of the pigpen and gut Gravenholtz before the rest of the squad opened up on him. Perhaps even time enough for Rakkim to enjoy the sight of Gravenholtz trying to push his insides back where they belonged before the bullets chopped him down. Allah was merciful, after all.

The helicopter landed in a nearby pasture. Landed gently and quietly as a dandelion seed. Two raiders dragged the body of their dead comrade into the rear compartment. One lagged behind, a beefy raider tugging the ring off Florence Tigard’s finger.

“Here, pig-pig-pig,” Gravenholtz grunted, expertly calling to the pigs, and they shuffled and snorted happily toward him. “That’s a good piggy.” He quickly reached down, grabbed a small feeder pig by the fat around its neck, hauled it out of the pen.

The pig screamed.

Gravenholtz laughed, tucked the twisting pig under one arm as he started toward the helicopter. “Great God Almighty, I dearly love fresh pork.” He pointed and the others double-timed after him. “Come on, Nelson…rest of you boys, get your ass in the bird. Breakfast’s on me.”

Rakkim watched them pile into the helicopter. Watched them clap each other on the back, their faces distorted by the flames from the farmhouse. Watched the helicopter lift off. “Keep your head down,” he called to Leo.

The helicopter floated high above for an instant, then a missile flashed and the house exploded. The pigs boiled around the pen, grunting and churning up mud, as flaming debris fell from the sky, Rakkim hanging on to the sow to avoid being trampled. The chopper veered overhead, machine guns strafing the pen, sent chunks of meat flying.

When Rakkim looked back up, the chopper was heading north at full speed. Not west. That meant Gravenholtz wasn’t interested in the recipient of the call Leo made, he was only interested in the man he thought made the call-Jeeter. Or maybe things were heating up on that mountain in Tennessee and he had no time to waste. Either way, Annabelle and Leanne were safe. For now. Rakkim stood up, bruised and muddy, splattered with blood and not sure how much of it was his own.

Leo stayed on his hands and knees, coughing. No…he was crying.

Rakkim walked over to the horse trough, started washing off the mud and pig shit. The cold water sluiced off the filth but didn’t cool his rage and frustration. He splashed his face, wanted to tear his hair out, still seeing Tigard on fire, still hearing him tell the redhead that he knew whom he’d invited into his home. The words of a dying man…and for the life of him, Rakkim wasn’t sure if Tigard was telling the truth.

Leo slowly got up. “Why…why did they stop? Why didn’t they keep on shooting until they killed us?”

“They didn’t know we were here.” Rakkim couldn’t look at him. “If they had known, we’d already be dead.”

“So they just shot up the pigs for fun?” Timbers in the burning farmhouse collapsed and Leo flinched. “You…you think it’s my fault, don’t you?”

Rakkim didn’t answer.

“I…I was talking with Leanne. We talked for hours, told each other everything there was to tell and I still couldn’t stop. I love her. You probably think that’s ridiculous…”

Rakkim walked toward Tigard, walked straight into the heat rolling off the farmhouse.

“I checked for tracers,” called Leo. “I pulled two tracker chips. There weren’t any more.” His voice broke. “I didn’t want to use the Tigards’ phone…didn’t want there to be a record. I…I was trying to protect everybody.”

Rakkim fell to his knees beside Tigard’s body. Wished him a rapid journey to Paradise. As the smoldering farmhouse hissed and popped, Rakkim bowed his head and apologized to Tigard, begged his forgiveness for bringing death to him and his family.

“I wanted to tell Leanne about Mr. Tigard,” said Leo. “I wanted to tell her how he offered me a job working on the farm. I wanted…I wanted her to be proud of me.”

Rakkim moved over and knelt beside Florence Tigard, straightened her limbs. Held her hand, feeling the heat from the burning house against his back. He whispered how sorry he was. It was too late for sorry, but he wasn’t saying it for her. He was saying it for himself, and it was too late for him too. Much too late. He folded her hands in prayer.

“I’m going to kill that redheaded son of a bitch,” said Leo. “Once we get to where we’re going…I’m going to find Gravenholtz, and I’m…I’m going to kill him.”

Rakkim felt the burden of tears lighten by an eyelash. A few days ago, Leo had been horrified at Rakkim taking care of the two Rangers. Now he was filled with the urge for righteous murder. Spider wasn’t going to recognize his son when Rakkim brought him back home.

The sun edged above the horizon and Rakkim felt the tug of prayer. Wanted to kneel before Allah, press his forehead into the dust and ask for His blessing and protection. All across the planet good Muslims were rushing to mosque, or prostrating themselves in their rooms, the fields, the desert itself, from General Kidd to the lowliest goatherd. One heart, one faith, one God. Bound together by their devotion, a current running from the Creator to every believer, intimate as a kiss. Rakkim turned his face to the sun. Except for the warmth of first light, he didn’t feel a thing.