Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

First…he would squeeze this Jew of his secrets like a ripe pomegranate, then cast him aside. He still had hopes for Rakkim, wanting one last chance to turn him. Rakkim was too unique a talent to simply discard. Under the Old One’s tutelage…anything was possible. Sarah was different, as dangerous as her husband, but indifferent to the Old One’s temptations. Blame that on Redbeard’s blood coursing through her veins-the high-minded State Security chief had blocked the Old One for years, then had the rank audacity to die peacefully. Insult to injury. Sarah was the last of Redbeard’s bloodline, she and her son. The Old One would gladly snuff them both out, but they might be useful in bending Rakkim to his will. Love enslaved more men than all the conquerors of history, a lesson the Old One had learned at great cost. He basked in the memory as sunlight poured through the one-way window, feeling the heat stir his bones.

The Old One snapped his fingers, summoned one of his courtesans, the Yemeni with the coarse black hair and a mouth that tasted like honey. He inhaled, already smelling her perfume.

Al-Faisal had actually offered to see if there was some way for the Old One to watch the president’s face while he died, every panicked twist and contortion. The Old One had declined, concerned that any such capability might jeopardize the plan, but he appreciated al-Faisal’s initiative. The Black Robe had been invaluable in the past, would be even more important in the future. Last year, al-Faisal had snapped the neck of a meddle-some police captain during noon prayers, done it so quickly that the policeman’s fellow worshippers had thought the man died of a heart attack, and al-Faisal, who was leading prayers at the time, never raised his voice. Such devotion…

The door to the anteroom swung open and the Yemeni entered, bowed low, her thick black braids flying around her shoulders.

“Flower of Allah, how lovely you are,” said the Old One.

Sarah winced as she stared at the images projected onto the wall of her office. All the pretty girls and boys, foreign advert models in forbidden swimwear, African kids with tiny white seashells stark against their skin-the view from Eagleton’s desk chair. In the upper-right quadrant of the wall was the original five-by-seven holographic card, Eagleton looking back at her while he forced his penis down the throat of a young woman. Sarah imagined him sitting at his desk, building God only knew what while his imagination ran free. The wall was a puzzle, the holo card the key. One of Eagleton’s games, hiding his intentions in plain sight to prove how superior he was to everyone else. She shook her head. At this moment, he was superior, because every moment she spent looking seemed like a violation, and she still had no idea what he was hiding.

She should have been spending her time on better things. Plenty of other items on her agenda, from the president’s upcoming state visit to Aztlán, to the fact that Rakkim was still unaccounted for. The last she had heard was a call from Getty Andalou a week ago. The Colonel had reached out to a woman in Columbia City and she had hacked the KGB file Spider had created. Take a bow. No worries, Getty had said. Maybe for him. She turned, hearing Michael’s laughter through the open door, and her mother laughing with him. Yes, there were much better ways for Sarah to spend her time than trying to help Anthony Colarusso with a case that everyone said was already closed. Al-Faisal had blown himself to pieces, and whatever he had bought from Eagleton had been destroyed with him. Still…She got up and quietly closed the door.

The images of the latest Japanese electronic gear and Italian sports cars on the wall somehow had the same unsavory sheen. In fact, all the images the tech engineer had on his wall had a similar cool, ironic feel, from the mass-produced photos of political and religious figures, to the touristy postcard from the surfing beach in South Africa. Even the in-memoriam card honoring the Russian astronaut killed by a speck of space debris had a tiny hole burned into it at the exact spot the poor man had been struck. Ha ha.

She had tried downloading various screens onto the hologram. Hundreds of screens. Different colors, different filters, all kinds of high-resolution screens that someone like Eagleton would have liked. She ran the holo at high speed and low speed. She spent hours following various parts of the image through 360 degrees of rotation, with particular emphasis on the reflection in the young woman’s eye. Nothing. Once she thought she had broken the code, crying out with delight as a South African diffraction screen showed a string of minute, mirror-image words beyond the reach of the woman’s lips, a ring of words around the base of Eagleton’s penis. When she made the necessary adjustments, the words read, Wish you were here. She felt just as she had the day she ran from Eagleton’s shop, turned back to see him stroking himself and smiling at her.

Loud cries from the other side of the door, Michael shrieking. She jumped up before she realized they were cries of joy. She reached for the door, curious now. The door opened before she could get to it…

Rakkim stood in the doorway, holding Michael in his arms. He shifted the boy, made room for Sarah as she threw herself on him.

She winced as he embraced her, the welts on her back from the Black Robe’s beating fading but still tender.

“What is it?” said Rakkim.

Sarah held him tighter. “Nothing,” she breathed into his neck. “Nothing, now.”

Hours later, the call to late-night prayer echoed through the streets, and Sarah turned her head. She had no idea that so much time had passed.

Rakkim smiled down at her. “Yes, it’s late. Good thing you’re already in bed.”

She clamped herself around his cock, made him laugh, and the vibration ran through both of them. He eased himself deeper inside her, and she locked her legs around his waist. “Now I’ve got you,” she whispered. “You’re trapped.”

“Just where I want to be too.” He kissed her, and she held the kiss as he rocked deeper and deeper, the two of them working back and forth against each other, grinding away the time lost and the miles between them, the differences and the doubts, until their cries echoed louder than the call to prayer.

Sarah buried her face in his chest for a moment, then lay back on the sheets, the two of them still holding hands. He had cooled the bruises on her back with kisses, the Black Robe’s fury a fading memory. For her, anyway. She had heard the change in his voice when he saw the marks, gently asking her for details about the man’s appearance. There was a time when she would have demurred, said the Black Robe had paid enough, that there was already too much violence in the world and no need to add to the tally. Not now. She remembered every detail of the man’s face, his crooked teeth, the shape of his beard, the red dots on his earlobes, signifying his high rank…the scar on his right wrist wielding the flail. Rakkim would see to the rest of it.

Rakkim kissed the sides of her mouth.

She inhaled him, eyes half-closed. “Your sweat smells different. Steamy…ripe. You smell like the Belt. It’s not bad…just different.” She slid a hand along his thigh. “Not bad at all.”

A light knock on the door. “Am I interrupting?”

Sarah pulled the sheet over them. “Come on in, Mother.”

Katherine opened the door, walked in with a tray of sliced fruits and cheese, a pot of tea. “I thought you might need some nourishment after your…exertions.”

“Thanks for interrupting,” said Rakkim. “I think your daughter’s trying to kill me.”

Katherine allowed herself a small smile. “Runs in the family.” She set the tray down at the foot of their bed.