Warren Murphy: Unnatural Selection

He turned his cold eyes toward the hangar.

Faysal al-Shahir was on his knees. Rooted in place, he had watched the horror from afar.

Remo walked over to him.

"You heard of me?" Remo asked.

Faysal nodded. "You are the devil's minion."

"No," Remo said coldly. "I'm the soul of America. I'm every crippled tourist you bastards push off a cruise liner in the name of religion. I'm every Marine you blow up while he's sleeping. I'm every stockbroker with two kids and a mortgage who just sat down at his desk to eat a jelly doughnut only to have the building blown out from underneath him. I'm America. And I'm pissed." He fixed his dead eyes on Faysal, boring through to the terrorist's dark soul. "Today is your lucky day. You get to live. Tell all your brother cockroaches America is coming for them. And we will show them no mercy, for they have earned none."

And Remo was gone.

Faysal didn't try to track the dark stranger with his eyes. A ghost of vengeance could not be followed. He was alone once more. And in the suddenly chill night air, Faysal heard a voice in the wind, but it was not the voice of one, but the voice of millions united. And he knew in his heart that the end would come and that when it finally did, it would not be the end that had been promised.

On his knees at the small airport, surrounded by dark woods, Faysal al-Srahir buried his face in the ground of the nation he had been taught to hate. And wept.

Chapter 3

In social situations whenever anyone asked Elizabeth Tiflis what she did for a living, her response was always the same. She'd vaguely say she was in publishing and then would promptly change the subject.

On those occasions when the hint wasn't taken and she was pressed for details, she would put a hand to her forehead, feign a headache and quickly excuse herself. After that it was the street, her car and home. One time she had even climbed out a bathroom window in order to avoid a particularly stubborn interrogator.

The truth was, Elizabeth liked talking about work about as much as she liked having a tooth drilled. To Elizabeth, her job was a necessary evil. It was just something embarrassing she had to do to pay the bills. If she could find other work, she would. It was just that the industry had gotten so cutthroat in the past decade. It was hard to get a break, especially with her background.

It was her own fault. Fresh out of college, she had taken the first offer that had come her way. How was she supposed to know that it would poison the well for future employment? But it had, and so she was stuck as copy editor at a New York publishing house. Her mother had told her time and time again it wasn't like she had anything to be ashamed of. After all, she didn't exactly work for Hustler.

"It's worse than porno, Mom," Elizabeth would lament. "I work for Vaunted Press."

"I know, dear," her mother would reply. "And I'm very proud of you. They're famous. I see their ads in the backs of all my favorite magazines."

Elizabeth had long ago stopped trying to explain to her mother that legitimate publishing houses don't advertise for clients alongside astrologers, at-home tanning beds and term-paper 800 numbers.

Vaunted Press was what was known as a vanity press. One of many self-publishing houses around the country, Vaunted would, for a fee, publish anything that came its way.

It was a lucrative market. Everyone with a word processor and fingers fancied themselves a writer. They couldn't wait to send their manuscripts to Vaunted for a "professional critique."

Although she held the title of copy editor, Elizabeth mostly just read over-the-transom manuscripts. In that she was little more than a rubber stamp. Unless it came in on a wet Kleenex, very little was rejected by Vaunted.

Elizabeth would scan a few grimy pages that spilled out of each ratty manila envelope. A little pen tick in the corner of the cover letter signified Vaunted's interest in the book.

Those whose books were greenlighted would be sent back an enthusiastic form letter stating Vaunted's interest. In a few short months after acceptance, men and women whose work had been previously unpublishable would be allowed the giddy thrill of seeing their words in print.

"As well as the thrill of being bilked seven grand," Elizabeth muttered as she walked down the main hallway of Vaunted's Manhattan offices.

"What?"

Elizabeth blinked. She'd been daydreaming again. She glanced over at the young woman walking alongside her.

"Sorry," Elizabeth said. "My mind's gone. What were you saying?"

Her companion shook her head. "Is your job bugging you again?" asked Candi Bengal. Candi was twenty-five, a secretary and had a body that was equal parts boobs, bleach and Botox. "If you ask me, you shouldn't be so bothered by it. You're doing something that makes people happy."

"And poor."

"There you go again. You think too much, Lizzie. You shouldn't think so much about work. Take me. I dance nights and weekends at that club I told you about. You think I care what people think? Hell, no. My boyfriend-the bouncer I told you about? With the snakes?" She patted her stomach.

Elizabeth didn't need to be reminded about Candi's boyfriend's snake tattoos. Candi told her anyway. She was talking about body art and weird skin rashes when the two of them reached the break room.

A delivery man was just leaving, wheeling a cart filled with empty plastic jugs. The clear blue containers bore the same waterfall logo as the man's jacket and cap.

"Morning," he said, holding the door open with his heel.

"Thanks," Elizabeth said, grabbing the door. Humming, the man pulled his cart down the hallway and out of sight.

"See, that's just the kind of guy I can't stand," Candi proclaimed as she stepped over to the small fridge. "Treating us like a couple of grandmas. You want a Loco?"

Elizabeth was barely listening. Rather than trail Candi to the fridge, she made a beeline for the opposite corner.

"No, I'm all set," she said, taking her Powerpuff Girls coffee mug from the shelf.

"I thought you didn't do morning coffee," Candi said.

"I don't. My mom lost nine pounds cutting out soda. Thought I'd give it a try."

Candi scrunched up her nose. A few men and women were filtering into the room. Most headed for the coffee machine.

"You're not gonna stop at just nine pounds?" Candi asked, tipping to get a look at Elizabeth's thighs.

"We can't all be exotic dancers," Elizabeth said thinly.

She took her mug to the watercooler and thumbed the blue tab. The tank burped as she filled the coffee mug.

"I suppose," Candi conceded. She held up her soda can. "But this is diet."

And because she was in a malicious mood, Elizabeth shook her head. "That stuff's poison in a can," she insisted. "This-" she held up her mug "-is one hundred percent natural."

A young man was waiting behind her at the cooler. She sidestepped him, joining Candi at their usual table.

"Is it really that bad?" Candi asked, concerned. "It's practically all I drink."

"Mmm," Elizabeth said, sipping from her mug. The water was just what the ads claimed. Cold and clean.

She almost wouldn't have cared if the soda was poisoned. Elizabeth cared about as much about Candi, her choice of soft drink and her biker boyfriend as she did about her own job. At thirty-five, Elizabeth Tiflis was suffering a major bout of career stagnation.

Depressed, Elizabeth took another sip of water. It was good. Powerfully so. It seemed to quench some primordial thirst she never knew was there.

"Phosphoric acid," Candi said. She hadn't drunk her soda yet. She was studying the label. "Acid? Isn't that, like, the stuff from chemistry class?"

She looked up worriedly.

Elizabeth had finished her water. She had slurped the rest down as if her throat was on fire. The empty mug was lying on its side on the table. Elizabeth gripped the table's edge. She stared at the wall, eyes blank.