Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

“I can hardly fucking wait,” said Rakkim.

Crews whooped it up. “That’s the spirit. I’ve been hoping for somebody like you to turn up. There’s only so much I can do with these mush-heads.”

Rakkim glanced at the skeleton men. “The Colonel has only a fraction of his forces at the site, but they’re well equipped. I’ll get word to you in a couple days. Let you know if the Colonel has found the silver yet, and where the best point of attack is.”

“There’s an abandoned Stuckey’s on Highway Ninety-nine, not more than a half hour’s drive from the mountain. You show up anytime, day or night, I’ll know.” Crews grabbed Rakkim’s arm, turned his palm up. “You ever wonder why you were chosen to walk through the fire and make it back alive?”

Rakkim shook him off.

“You ever ask yourself, Why me, Lord?”

Rakkim didn’t answer. It didn’t matter to Crews.

“It’s because we’re special. We have brains and ambition. Not like the rest of this trash.” Crews crowded in on him again. “God needs someone to do the dirty work. He’s sick to death of humanity, but he doesn’t have the stomach to do what needs to be done. Last time he got fed up, he drowned the whole world. Maybe he can’t bear to do it again. That’s where we come in. God brought you and I together at just the right moment. Think about it, pilgrim. I got hundreds of righteous maniacs with too much time on their hands, and suddenly you show up with a piece of silver Judas himself once grabbed on to. Hell’s bells, for all I know maybe there is a splinter of the true cross buried under that mountain along with the silver.”

“All I know is if God’s sick to death of us, who could blame him?”

Tariq al-Faisal tripped on the hem of his brown burka as he walked inside. If he hadn’t grabbed the edge of the table, he would have fallen on his face.

Yusef closed the door, dismissed his wife, who had accompanied al-Faisal to their home. “Are you all right, imam?” Credit the man with the good sense to keep his smile hidden.

Al-Faisal threw back the face sack of the burka, sweating. “Someday I’ll have one of my wives tell me how she walks in these things.”

Yusef pressed his hands in supplication toward a tall, muscular Somali. “This is-”

“I am acquainted with our brother Amir the Fedayeen,” said al-Faisal, kissing the man on both cheeks, sensing his resistance. “Salaam alaikum.”

“Alaikum salaam.” The raised scar on Amir’s face was stark against his smooth skin.

“My bodyguard, Sulayman,” said Yusef, indicating a huge, bare-chested Arab with a bristly beard and silver hoops through his earlobes. A scimitar hung from his waistband, doubtless at Yusef’s insistence. Yusef was the worst kind of fundamentalist, aping tradition without truly internalizing it…and thereby needing the trappings of faith. Unlike al-Faisal, who was as comfortable hoisting a stein of bootleg beer as throttling an adulterer, both actions equally in the service of Allah.

Al-Faisal and the bodyguard exchanged greetings.

“And this is our brother Bartholomew,” Yusef said, beckoning toward the moderate who stood nearby, a rigid young man with a precisely cropped beard, and black shoes shined bright as mirrors.

“Salaam alaikum,” Bartholomew hurriedly murmured, head bowed.

“Alaikum salaam,” said al-Faisal. “Thanks to you and Amir for coming. Our master rejoices at your faithfulness.”

“I am honored,” said Bartholomew.

Amir stayed silent.

“Imam, if I may,” said Bartholomew. “Is your false attire necessary? I was told the authorities had determined you were dead.”

“Are you frightened to be in the presence of a corpse?” al-Faisal said lightly.

“No…no, imam,” said Bartholomew.

“Good.” Al-Faisal pulled off the burka, threw it on the floor. He wore the clothes of a modern underneath, with red trousers and a tight white shirt marked with silvery piping, accentuating his lean frame. “Yes, State Security has concluded that I died a martyr’s death when I detonated a car bomb, but there is a policeman…” He sat down amid the cushions on the floor, waved Bartholomew and Amir to do the same. He waited while Yusef poured them tea. “…a fat Catholic who is still making inquiries, poking his snout where it doesn’t belong.”

“What is this Catholic’s name?” Amir said softly.

“I’m grateful for your interest,” said al-Faisal, “but I shall talk of this policeman in my own good time, inshallah. Besides, Amir, our master values you too highly to see you troubled by such small matters.”

If Amir was flattered, it didn’t show in his face or eyes.

“May I ask…?” Bartholomew sipped his tea. “You have the device, imam?”

Al-Faisal smiled. The young brother was eager, but his hand was steady, not the slightest rattle of the teacup. All their lives depended on such steadiness. He reached into his jacket, handed Bartholomew the device.

Bartholomew handled the device cautiously, turning it over and over. Metallic, dappled with electronic readouts. No bigger than a child’s fist, yet big enough to change the world. “It looks exactly like a standard systems analyzer.”

“Performs exactly like one too,” said al-Faisal. “You could take it apart, field-test all the components, and you still wouldn’t see anything amiss.”

“Eagleton made this?” said Bartholomew, still examining it.

“An atheist, and a pervert, but talented.” Al-Faisal picked up a sweet from the tray Yusef had put out, popped it in his mouth. “Pity I couldn’t allow him to live.” He wiped powdered sugar off his lip with a forefinger, sucked it clean. “Still, if you’re successful, Allah willing, then we won’t have need for such men in the future.” He reached for another sweet. “Sulayman? How long have you been in Yusef’s employ?”

“Eleven years, lord,” said Sulayman. “As soon as I completed my enlistment.”

“You were Special Forces, yes?” Al-Faisal nibbled a candied date. “A noble calling, but compared to Fedayeen…”

Sulayman glanced at Amir, then back at al-Faisal.

“You did apply for Fedayeen?” said al-Faisal.

“Yes,” said Sulayman, teeth gritted.

Al-Faisal stood up gracefully, so quick that he was beside Sulayman before the man could react. He traced a fingertip across the bodyguard’s bulging biceps. “A bull of a man like you…your failure couldn’t have been from lack of strength.”

“Brother?” Yusef said to al-Faisal. “Surely-”

Al-Faisal pulled down Sulayman’s right eyelid. “You’re clear-eyed, so you must be intelligent…”

Sulayman placed his hand on the hilt of his scimitar.

Al-Faisal patted Sulayman’s hand. “Indulge my curiosity a moment longer, great warrior.”

Sulayman’s eyes blazed.

Al-Faisal stepped back. “How you must have resented those who succeeded where you had failed…men like Amir.” He peered at Sulayman. “I’m trying to understand why you would have betrayed us.”

“I…I have not,” started Sulayman.

Amir was already on his feet.

As Sulayman drew his blade, al-Faisal plucked the silvery piping from his shirt and whipped it around Sulayman’s neck. He grabbed both ends…jerked…and Sulayman’s head rolled off his shoulders in a fountain of blood.

Yusef cried out, covered his mouth.

Amir stood beside al-Faisal, his Fedayeen knife in his hand.

“I didn’t know,” blubbered Yusef. “I had no idea…”

“It is done.” Al-Faisal tossed the silvery strand of razor wire aside. His white shirt was splattered with red. He turned at the sound of Bartholomew vomiting. “Bring the young brother something to settle his stomach, Yusef, and fetch me a clean shirt.”