The Sign

by Raymond Khoury

  Matt glanced at Jabba and nodded. There was another car in the driveway. The black Durango they’d seen at the airfield. The one Maddox’s goons had stuffed Rebecca Rydell into.

  The easy part was over. It was time to crash that party.

  Luckily, they hadn’t come empty-handed.

  THE GUYS FROM THE CHRYSLER were in the kitchen at the back of the house, talking, having a smoke, sipping cold cans of Coke. Going over the events of the day. Winding down. Not really expecting to be called out again that night.

  The loud crash changed things.

  It blasted through the house and whipped them to attention. It came from the front, at ground level. From the living room. The distinctive sound of glass, exploding inward: something dense thumping heavily against the wall and landing in a dull thud while a shower of glass cascaded down onto the floor, where it exploded into tiny shards.

  The guys moved as one, the lead guy from the hotel barking orders as he rushed to the front of the house, his gun already drawn and out in front. He got one guy to stay behind in the kitchen. Another followed him halfway through the house and stopped at the central staircase, positioning himself at a door that led to the basement. The third was hot on his heels as he burst into the front living room.

  It had a wide bay window, and louvered half shutters ran a little over halfway up the glass, to a height of about five feet off the ground. In a defensive reflex, he didn’t turn on the lights, relying instead on the dim light that spilled in from the hallway. The room should have been empty, as the rental was unfurnished, and it still was, except for the glass shards that littered the wood floor. They crunched noisily under the man’s heels as he advanced into the room, sweeping his gun around. He stopped and looked up at the bay window and saw that its central portion had a huge hole punched out of it, the size of a large pumpkin. He glanced around, trying to make sense of what had happened, and spotted a rock, about the size of a football, at the foot of the back wall. His mind was still processing the idea of someone throwing a big rock through the window when something else came crashing in, something bigger and bulkier that clipped the edge of the broken glass, busted an ever wider gap through what was left of it, and narrowly missed him. It showered him with glass and splashed him with a sour-smelling liquid before it tumbled to the ground and clattered to a rest. He stared at it, dumbfounded for a nanosecond. It was a gas can. Lightweight polyethylene, red, threaded vent. Only its lid wasn’t screwed on. In fact, it didn’t have a lid. And it had spewed fuel like a Catherine wheel as it spun through the air on its inward flight, hosing him along the way and now spilling its load all over the floor.

  “Fuck,” he rasped as he lunged down and grabbed its handle, turning it upright to stem the flow of gas—only that didn’t help, as small geysers of fuel were pouring out of it from all sides, drenching his arms and legs as well as the floor around him. He saw that crude perforations had been cut into it. There was no way to stop the fuel from pouring out. Which wouldn’t have been that bad, except that a third projectile came flying into the room. This one was coming right at him, and it was lit.

  MATT WATCHED THE MOVEMENT of shadows inside the front room and flicked the lighter on. In his other hand, he held a water bottle that he’d emptied then refilled, half with gasoline, half with motor oil. A wick, in the form of a strip of dust cloth that was soaked with gasoline, was stuffed tightly into its neck, waiting for the flame. Two other identical projectiles were ready and willing by his feet.

  The rock had drawn the guys from the Chrysler into the room, in time to receive the gas can he’d cut holes into. He knew he had to move fast and hit them before they understood what was going on. He lit the rag and lobbed the bottle in. The petrol bomb arced through the cool night air and flew into the room through the broken window. A flash of light lit up behind the shutters, followed almost instantly by a bigger fireball as the flames caught the fuel from the gas can. He heard a panicked scream, lit a second bottle, hurled it in through the same opening, grabbed the third bottle, and sprinted around to the back of the house.

  THE LEAD GUY SHRIEKED as his arms and legs caught fire. He twisted around furiously, trying to bat the flames down with his bare hands, the second guy side-stepping around him in a panic, unsure about what to do to help. The flames were stubborn, more stubborn and stickier than expected—and hotter. The gasoline was easier to smother and kill off. The motor oil was a different story. It stuck like tar and burned stronger and harder. There was no way to get it off his clothes or off the skin on his hands, and it was growing, hungrily consuming everything it touched. Flames had also grabbed hold of the floor and were spreading across the wood.

  “Get it off me,” he yelled demonically as he dropped to the ground and rolled on himself, trying to suffocate the flames, unaware of the futility of his moves. Shards of glass were now cutting into his exposed, burning skin, which made the pain intolerable. The second guy took off his jacket and crab-stepped around him, looking for an opening to dive in and wrap it around him. Gray smoke was choking the room, thick with the stink of charred skin and hair and burned motor oil. The third guy, the one who’d been stationed by the stairs, was also in the room, watching his burning partner in horror. He looked around frantically, trying to find something to use to smother the flames, but the room was bare. No carpets, no curtains, no throws over sofas.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” the fourth guy shouted from the back of the house.

  “The kitchen,” the second guy ordered the third guy, “cover the back.”

  But it was too late.

  THE FOURTH GUY WAS ALONE in the kitchen. He had edged right up to the door, by the hall, trying to see what was happening while not wanting to move away from covering the house’s back entrance. He could hear the screams and see the flames and the smoke and smell the stink billowing out through the living room’s door and getting pushed through the house by the air coming in from the broken window, and it panicked him. It panicked him enough to snag his attention away from the back door and move him away from it enough to make Matt’s move feasible.

  Matt was hugging the back wall of the house and peering in through the kitchen window. He recognized the man as one of the two guys who’d escorted Rebecca Rydell off the plane, and it gave him a boost of confidence that she might be there. He registered the man’s position and decided it would do. He lit the last bottle, took three steps back to give his Molotov cocktail enough momentum to break through the glass, and hurled it with all his strength. The bottle punched its way into the kitchen and exploded against the wall inches away from the guy. He bolted sideways as flames fanned out angrily, looking for food. That split second of diversion was all Matt needed. He kicked the door in right after the throw and caught the guy flat-footed. The guy was still swinging his gun hand around when Matt put him down with two rounds to the chest.

  He pushed through the house without hesitating, scanning around for a locked door, sweeping the area with his P14. It felt weird being in there. He wondered if Danny had ever been held captive there. The feeling made him angrier. He stowed it for now and focused on finding Rebecca Rydell. His guess was they’d be keeping her in the basement, and sure enough, the door that led down, by the stairs, was shut. Not only shut, but locked, as someone was desperately hammering against it from the inside and tugging against its handle and yelling. A girl’s voice, confirming Matt’s thinking.

  He didn’t veer off to help her. There were at least four of them, and two potentially out of action still left at least two goons to deal with. Matt was easing past the stairs when another guy slipped out of the living room, on his way to help his now-dead colleague in the kitchen. Matt had a flash of recognition from the airfield. He didn’t stop to ponder it. He just lunged sideways and down as the guy from the plane loosed off a couple of rounds that crunched into the walls just as Matt let the big handgun rip. A round caught the guy in the thigh and he jerked backward momentarily, then his leg buckled and he collapsed on top o
f it. The shooter raised his gun, hoping for another shot. The strength had drained out of him and he looked like he was trying to lift a lead brick. Matt was on bent knees, down low against the wall, in a two-handed stance, and squeezed off two more rounds that took the guy out.

  Matt stayed there for a beat. He glanced up the stairs, dismissed the idea that anyone would still be up there, and just stayed where he was and waited, arms outstretched, covering the door, watching the smoke and the flames wafting out from the living room, the screaming and the stomping echoing in his ears. He knew the fourth guy had to come back out if he didn’t want to get barbecued alive. And there was only one way out of that room.

  And then he heard them. The sirens, low and grating squawks, distant but closing in. Just when he needed them. He’d told Jabba to call 911 the instant the first petrol bomb exploded, figuring he’d have enough time to storm through the house before the fire engines got there, and thinking they could come in handy if things hadn’t gone according to plan. The sirens grew louder, and he crouched lower, arms tensing up, expecting that the guy inside had heard them and would be needing to make a desperate, Butch-and-Sundance-like breakout. And then he heard something else: glass, shattering furiously, a loud crashing noise, and he understood. The guy had decided to bail through what was left of the bay window.

  A stab of panic cut into Matt as he thought about Jabba, out there on his own without a weapon, but they’d parked a couple of houses back and he imagined neighbors were probably stepping out of their houses by now and converging outside the house, alerted by the flames and the gunshots, which would give Jabba some cover.

  He waited a beat longer, straining to listen to any telltale noise that contradicted what he thought had happened, then scrambled back to the closed door. Rebecca Rydell—it had to be her—was still banging her fists against the door and shouting.

  “Hey! What’s going on? Get me out of here!”

  Matt tried the handle, but it was locked. “Step back from the door,” he yelled back. “I need to shoot the lock off.”

  He waited a couple of seconds, then shouted, “You back?”

  She said, “Yes,” and he fired—once, twice. It more than did the trick. The locks were old and basic, the door frame soft with age. He kicked the door in. Wooden treads led down to a basement where an attractive, tanned girl was cowering against the wall, her face riven with terror.

  He extended his arm down toward her, waving her up. “Come on, we’ve got to go,” he hollered over the increasing crackle of the flames. She hesitated for a second, then nodded nervously and rose to her feet.

  They stormed out of the house, past the startled faces of a few neighbors, past a fire truck that was swinging into the driveway. Matt peered through the darkness, scanning for the Bonneville, and a stab of dread cut into him as he saw that it was no longer there. A scream of horror confirmed his worst fears and he ran faster, his heart fighting its way out of his rib cage, imagining the worst. As he drew nearer, he spotted Jabba’s silhouette, flat on his back on the curb outside a nearby house.

  He wasn’t moving.

  A couple of onlookers were huddled beside him, the man checking him out hesitantly, the woman staring down, riveted with fear, her hands cupping her mouth.

  “Jabba,” Matt yelled as he slid to the ground beside him.

  In the darkness, it was hard to see where the wound was, but a pool of blood was spreading out from under him. He was having a hard time keeping his eyes open, but he caught sight of Matt and tried to say something, but coughed and was having trouble forming the words.

  “Did we get her?” he sputtered.

  Matt nodded and said, “She’s right here,” turning around to give Jabba a glimpse of Rebecca Rydell, who inched forward, her face flooded with sadness. “Don’t talk,” Matt told him, gripping his hand, tight. “Just hang on, okay? Hang on. You’re going to be fine.” He turned to the couple looming over him. “Call 911,” he shouted. “Call them now.”

  The woman raced into the house. Matt just stayed there, hanging onto Jabba—hoping to avoid the worst, cursing himself for having dragged him along—for what felt like hours but was actually less than ten minutes until an ambulance finally showed up.

  Matt stayed with him as the paramedics fussed over him before bundling him onto their stretcher with breathtaking efficiency.

  Matt kept asking, “Is he going to be okay?” but he couldn’t get a straight answer out of them. With a devastating sense of loss choking him, he watched as they wheeled Jabba into the back of the ambulance, shut the doors, and stormed off.

  He heard another siren—a police cruiser this time—and glanced at Rebecca Rydell. She was huddled on the lawn, still shivering.

  “Come on,” he said as, mouthing a silent prayer for the life of his new friend, he took her hand and led her away from the horror-struck crowd that had gathered around the blazing house.

  Chapter 64

  Houston, Texas

  “Where are they now?” Buscema asked the preacher. Reverend Darby was in his study. It was late, but he didn’t mind Buscema’s call. He owed him for giving him the heads-up on Father Jerome’s predicament. He also didn’t mind the ego boost he got from talking about it with virtually the only other person in the country outside his organization who knew what he was doing.

  “They should be landing in Shannon, Ireland, about an hour and a half from now,” he told Buscema. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to refuel the jet.” Darby sounded even more pumped than during his sermons.

  “So what time will they get here?”

  “I make it around six A.M., Houston time.”

  Buscema went silent. Then he said, “You might want to delay their arrival a bit.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I suppose it depends,” Buscema thought out loud. “You could sneak him in under the radar. Might be safer to play it that way.”

  “Or we could turn his arrival into a major event,” Darby said, completing Buscema’s train of thought. He pondered it for a moment, then said, “I was wondering about that. You’re right. He deserves to make a big entrance. We shouldn’t be sneaking him in like some petty criminal. The man’s God’s emissary, for crying out loud. We’re not like those savages. We’re going to welcome him with open arms. Let’s show the country and the world where America’s moral center really is.”

  “I can help leak it,” Buscema told him. “Just give me as much of a heads-up as you can.”

  Darby played it out in his mind’s eye. He saw it as something big. Momentous. He flashed to news footage he’d watched a year earlier, of the pope arriving at Andrews Air Force Base. The red carpet, the military dress uniforms. The president and the first lady, greeting him as he stepped off the plane. His mind went back to older footage he’d seen several times. Grainy, black-and-white footage of the Beatles, arriving at Kennedy airport, back in 1964. That was more like it. The frenzied mob, heaving against barricades. The continuous, earsplitting screams. Flashbulbs popping, women wailing. Sheer adulation. That’s what this would be like. That’s what it should be like. With him at the center of it.

  The thought put a smile on his face. It would be a defining moment. For the country and, more significantly, for him.

  I’ll be upstaging the president, he thought triumphantly. And that’s only the beginning.

  “I’ll give you enough time,” Darby said.

  “You’re going to need some serious crowd control,” Buscema opined.

  “Not a problem. The governor is part of my flock.”

  “What about beyond that? Any progress on your Christmas offering?”

  “The stadium’s booked,” the preacher confided. “It’ll be a rush, but we’ll make it happen. We’re bringing in some performers. Big names. You mark my words, Roy. I’m going to give the people of this country a Christmas they’ll never forget.”

  Buscema went quiet. The kind of quiet he knew Darby would pick up on.

  Sure enoug
h, the pastor said, “What is it?”

  “I’m just a bit concerned about sending out the right message.”

  “Meaning?” Darby didn’t sound thrilled.

  Buscema let out a ragged sigh, as if this were a tough call. “I’m hearing grumblings. From other pastors and church leaders.”

  “I know,” Darby fumed. “We’ve been swamped with calls since the news got out. Every preacher from here to California’s been on the line. Even the governor wants in.”

  “Wouldn’t be a bad idea to share that platform, Reverend. Get the word out more widely. Turn this into a much bigger and broader event. The country could use it right now.”

  “I’m the guy flying him in, Roy,” Darby noted calmly. “I got him out of there.”

  “And you’ll be the one greeting him when he steps off that plane,” Buscema reassured him. “You. No one else.”

  “The governor’s also pushing to be there. I’m finding it hard to keep ducking him.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Reverend. There won’t be any other pastors at the airport. Just you. It’ll be your moment. That’s the image people will remember when they first see him. But after that, I’d say it’s in your interest to show as much generosity as you can handle and invite as many other church leaders to join you on the big day. You’ve got to think big. You can take the lead on this. America doesn’t have a pope. It doesn’t have a spiritual leader. But the country needs one. Especially given how tough things are right now. Americans need to be inspired. To feel like they’re part of something.” He paused, just enough to let the words settle but not enough to give the preacher an opening to argue back. “You don’t want it to look like just another service at your church. This one’s for the whole country. For the whole world. You can’t be alone on that stage. But you can do it on your terms. And by extending a welcoming hand, you’ll only be elevating your own position as a gracious host . . . and leader.”