“I’m not convalescing.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You can sit me in a chair in my hotel room and prop me up with pillows, but I’m not convalescing. I still think something big is coming, and I want to be in on it.”
“We’ll see how you feel when you get out of the hospital,” Sarah said.
“I’ll feel the same way,” Cantwell said.
Sarah stood. “I’ll let you rest now. The doctor said I could only stay for a little while.”
“Where are the others?” Cantwell said. “My merry band of Regulators.”
“In the waiting room.”
“Chasing nurses, I bet.”
“Only the Brits. Pete Kennedy is way too dignified for that, and besides, he has a girlfriend.”
“He saved my life, Sarah. And so did you.”
The woman smiled. “We’ll talk about all that when you’re feeling better.”
“I’ll be feeling better tomorrow,” Cantwell said.
“We’ll hear what the doctor has to say about that,” Sarah said.
* * *
The TV news said only that there had been what appeared to be a terrorist attack on a group of off-duty firefighters in downtown Portland and that the attacker was dead and one of the firefighters wounded. There were no names or any other details.
They’re covering it up, Mike Norris decided. Probably fearful of causing a panic.
He lay back on his cot, smiled, and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Hey, Azar! Was one of your boys involved in this?”
There was no answer.
Norris wondered if this incident had anything to do with the deaths of the two hunters in the Willamette. The media said anti-hunting extremists had killed the men. There was no mention of terrorists or a possible rehearsal for an arson attack. Yet another coverup. He was ninety-nine percent sure that Azar was behind the attack on the firefighters in the Hilton parking lot. What was the damned Arab up to? He planned to find out.
* * *
Nasim Azar watched the same TV news as Mike Norris. He had not authorized the attack on the firefighters, but he was sure that Cory Cantwell had been among them. The news said the gunman had been Middle Eastern, so it had not been the Ukrainian, who was sulking in his hotel room, promising much but delivering little. Then who?
Azar felt an immediate spike of panic. Where was Salman Assad?
His bodyguard’s apartment was on the same floor as his own, and Azar rushed there and hammered on the door. “Salman, are you in there?” he called.
There was no answer.
The door was unlocked, and Azar pushed it open and stepped inside. “Salman?”
The answering silence mocked him.
He rushed to the bedroom. The top dresser drawer and been opened and not fully closed afterward. Azar pulled it wider . . . and his worst fears were confirmed. Assad carried a Smith & Wesson revolver, but he kept two backup firearms in the drawer, a Glock 48 and a SIG Sauer P232.380. The Smith & Wesson was there and the Sig, but the Glock, his most effective weapon, was gone.
Azar felt the room spin round him, and he sat heavily on the bed, made up and squared away, as Assad always left it. In his heart, Nasim Azar knew what had happened. Assad had hoped to please him, and he’d no doubt that his faithful servant had tried to kill Cory Cantwell in the Hilton parking lot and had died a holy martyr. According to Islamic law, a martyr must be buried in the same clothes he wore when his martyrdom took place. Assad would probably be denied that honor . . . and Azar’s heart felt that it must surely break.
But Inshallah . . . God willing . . . the noble Salman was even now enjoying his reward in heaven.
Azar’s grief gave way to rage, a savage desire to lash out at the godless infidels and kill every last one of them. And there was an unbeliever close . . . under his own roof. He picked up the Smith & Wesson .38 and swung out the cylinder, checking the loads. Satisfied, he snapped the revolver shut and then left Assad’s apartment and made his way toward the room where Mike Norris was held.
The time for a reckoning had arrived.
CHAPTER 35
The news of Cory Cantwell’s wounding upset Jacob Sensor considerably. The newly appointed head of the Regulators could be out of commission for weeks, maybe months. Damn careless of him to allow himself to get shot.
The President was having second thoughts about the whole Regulator business and wanted to know why the National Guard could not be mobilized to fight pyroterrorist attacks, thus displaying her lack of understanding of the terrorist threat and their methods. Whole forests could burn before the national guard was even mobilized.
But something had fallen into his lap that could change the President’s opinion and prove that the Regulators were a force to be reckoned with.
“Jones, tell me about that Mount Shasta terrorist cell again,” Sensor said, talking to the back of the man’s head.
“If you could call it that,” Caleb Jones said. “It’s small potatoes.”
“Tell me anyway.”
His assistant swung his chair around. He and Sensor shared a tiny, cramped office in the Capitol Building, a crucial part of the low profile Sensor kept in the corridors of power.
“They’re a homegrown bunch, college kids and wannabe hippies,” Jones said. “The CIA watches them, but all they seem to do is talk to one another about the unfairness of white privilege and what an evil empire the United States is.” Jones smiled and shook his head. “The CIA doesn’t take them very seriously.”
“I do,” Sensor said. “I take any terrorist infestation very seriously. There are two national forests near Mount Shasta, Klamath to the west, Modoc to the east. Are the members of this cell of Middle Eastern descent?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Jones said.
“Then they’re Muslims,” Sensor said.
Jones seemed doubtful. “I don’t know, Mr. Sensor. They could be.”
“And they also could be pyroterrorists.”
Jones laughed out loud. “Mr. Sensor, I don’t think those knuckleheads even know how to light a fire. By all accounts they’re a bunch of losers. They’re harmless.”
“I consider any terrorist cell in California a danger,” Sensor said. “How many of them are active?”
“Less than a dozen, about eight or nine They meet every Friday night at an abandoned fishing camp where one of their fathers keeps a cabin. The CIA report says they sit around and drink cheap beer and when they’re not discussing girls, they talk about the great jihad to come.”
“Then they are condemned out of their own mouths,” Sensor said. “Innocent Muslims don’t talk about jihad.”
“Do you want me to have them closed down?” Jones said. “I can talk to the people who now own the property.”
“No, I’ll think about it,” Sensor said. Then, “I could use a cup of coffee.”
“I’m on it, boss,” Jones said.
While the man was gone, Sensor placed a call to a contact in the CIA. The agent he spoke with said he’d call him back at home that evening.
* * *
Jacob Sensor sat in his library, his feet to the fire, a brandy in one hand, a cell phone in the other. “John, I know it’s a lot to ask, but my future is riding on this operation. You know I’ll make it up to you.”
Sensor listened and then said, “As far as I’m concerned, they’re terrorists. Yes, all of them. There must be no survivors. And don’t forget you’ll need a truck to transport the bodies to the Modoc. John, use your imagination . . . set fire to some underbrush or something. Just make it look good.”
Another listening pause, then Sensor said, “The stakes are high, John, as high as they can be. The future of our nation depends on you. We must defeat pyroterrorism or see our forests go up in flames and with them our entire civilization. Damn it, John, we need the Regulators in the field, and this is a step in the right direction.”
The man called John talked for a while, and then Sensor said, “Draw the SWAT team from as many
agencies as you need, just make sure they know that they’re killing dangerous terrorists. And, John, that’s all they need to know. Yes, yes, I take full responsibility. When it comes to choosing between my country and the deaths of a few thugs, my country must always come first.”
Sensor listened again, then said, “I agree. I’m ruthless, but we’re in a war, and ruthless men win wars. We live in a ruthless time, John, and one must be ruthless to cope with it.”
After another stop, Sensor said, “Excellent. I have every confidence in you, John, and your loyalty will not go unrewarded. Good night, and God bless you.”
CHAPTER 36
“You going to kill me, Azar?” Mike Norris said. “Well, go right ahead, damn you, and get it over with.”
Nasim Azar white-knuckled the .38. “My good and faithful servant, Salam Assad, is dead, killed by the crusader Cory Cantwell.”
“Cantwell killed him?” Norris said. “I doubt that. He’s not the killing type.”
“Then it was he or some other infidel,” Azar said.
“Then why execute me? Hell, I didn’t do it.”
“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” Azar said.
Fear tied Norris’s belly in a knot, but he pretended indifference. “Pity it ends this way, Azar. Just when I was about to throw in with you.”
Azar hesitated, then said, “The prospect of a bullet in his skull can make any man have a sudden change of heart.”
“Yeah, but I mean it.” Norris smiled. “Hell, man, you’re the only friend I’ve got. You’re the one human being who even listens to me.”
Azar thought that through, then said, “Have you reconsidered your part in the Scorching and the new Caliphate to be established in the Middle East? Be warned, Norris, I’ll know if you lie to me.”
“You have my word.”
“The word of an infidel counts for little.”
“Then how can I prove myself ?”
“I will think on this,” Azar said. He gestured behind him. “The next time I open that door I will do one of two things . . . welcome you to the brotherhood or shoot you between the eyes. I have not yet decided.”
Norris decided to play humble. “I await your decision.”
“Let me just say that right now, I’m inclined to my latter choice,” Azar said. “Norris, you are a vile person, the scum of the earth.”
* * *
The Ukrainian was used to following detailed orders, but after his failed attempt to kill Cantwell at the airport, he had heard nothing from Nasim Azar, and that troubled him. Had the man given up on the hit? If so, it was time he was paid what he was owed, and then he and Azar could part ways with no hard feelings.
He picked up his cell phone and punched in Azar’s number and when the man answered, he said, “The Ukrainian.”
“Ah,” Azar said, “good to hear from you.” Then, in reply to the Ukrainian’s question, “Yes, yes, the contract is still in effect, and I want you to complete your end of it as soon as possible. I have additional information for you concerning the man Cantwell’s whereabouts, but I don’t want to impart such data over the phone. No, don’t come here, it’s not safe. I will send someone to you with all the details. Yes, with the money you’ve earned so far. Shall we say your hotel in an hour? Where is it located? Good. The next time we meet I hope you have welcome news for me.”
Nasim Azar put down his phone, his face hardened by a veneer of hate. The Ukrainian’s clumsy bungling was the direct cause of the beloved Salam’s death, and the man must now pay the blood price for his failure. He picked up his phone again and called Adila Bukhari, a Palestinian assassin not as famed as the Ukrainian, but a true believer who had killed a number, one more than her age, of Zionists in Israel, Europe, and the United States. It was a measure of Azar’s loathing that he would risk using a woman for the task, especially one on the Interpol and FBI’s most wanted lists. But Adila, who’d lived quietly under the radar in Portland for the past two years, was beautiful, intelligent, and deadly, and she could be counted on to use her feminine wiles on the Ukrainian and then slide the knife blade between his ribs. She also knew how to keep her mouth shut.
Before she hung up the phone, the woman assured Azar that that the infidel was already as good as dead.
* * *
When the Ukrainian opened his hotel room door and saw the lovely young woman standing there smiling at him, he was convinced this was his lucky day. The visitor held up a bottle of champagne and two plastic glasses and said, “A little gift from Nasim Azar.”
“Come in, and welcome,” the Ukrainian said. Like Adila Bukhari he used English, the world’s lingua franca. Then, as the woman laid the champagne and glasses on top of the dresser, the Ukrainian said, “Did you bring the money?”
“Of course, but that’s for later. Let’s have a drink first.” She smiled as she opened the champagne. “My name is Fatima Campbell, half–Saudi Arabian, half-American. Yours?”
“Just call me Ukrainian.”
The woman was fairly tall, perhaps six pounds overweight, around twenty-four or five, her buttercup-yellow dress very short, revealing perfect legs. No pantyhose. But the tanned skin of her thighs and calves possessed their own amber glow. She wore her glossy black hair long, falling over her shoulders, and her face was fashion-model pretty, skin almost flawless, marred only by teenage acne scars on both cheeks that her makeup didn’t quite cover. Her breasts were large, made even larger by the foam padding of her bra, straps pulled tight, showing a narrow and deep V of cleavage. Her eyes were moonlight black, shining with good health. She was the kind of woman who would give any man dirty daydreams.
Adila poured champagne into the glasses and handed one to the Ukrainian. “Mr. Azar sends his best wishes,” she said. “I forgot to say that.”
“Nice of him,” the Ukrainian said. “I guess I’m forgiven.” His eyes were fixed on the woman’s breasts.
Adila sat on the end of the bed, the hem of the buttercup-yellow dress slipping halfway up her thigh. “Mr. Azar knows that things happen. How is the champagne?” she said.
“Krug Brut, 2004,” the Ukrainian said, sitting beside her. “It’s passable.”
“And what about me?” Adila said, smiling. “Am I passable?”
The man placed his hand on her warm, smooth thigh and grinned. “More than passable. Desirable.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” Adila said. “Mr. Azar would be very cross with me if I did not please you.”
“You please me just fine,” the Ukrainian said. “Why don’t you take your dress off? We don’t want to spill on it.”
“Naughty boy. More champagne first,” Adila said.
She walked to the dresser, her back turned to the man, and picked up the rare, 1920s vintage Maniago switchblade knife she’d left there earlier, covered with her purse. The Ukrainian stepped behind her and ran his hands over her hips and then up to her breasts, squeezing, as he nuzzled her neck.
Adila giggled, and then in one swift, practiced movement, she thumbed the Maniago open, turned, and expertly shoved the blade into the man’s chest. The Ukrainian’s cheeks drained of blood instantly as he staggered back and stared stupidly at the knife hilt protruding from his rib cage. An expression of disbelief replaced the shocked expression on the Ukrainian’s face.
“You . . .” he said. “You . . .”
“Me,” Adila smiled. “Now die quickly, you infidel pig. I need my knife back.”
But the woman had seriously underestimated the Ukrainian. He was a hard man to kill.
He staggered to the bedside table, pushed aside the Gideon Bible, and lifted out the Russian-made 9X18mm Makarov and turned, bringing the pistol up to eye level. He was a dead man, and he knew it, but he was determined to take his attacker with him.
Adila Bukhari realized her mistake. The Ukrainian was a lot tougher than she’d expected. She kept a Browning. 25 in her purse and dove for the gun. She never made it. The Ukrainian pumped three bullets into her back, and the woma
n fell on top of the dresser and then slid to the floor, the buttercup-yellow dress scarlet with blood.
As voices sounded in the hallway, the Ukrainian sank to his knees, his face ashen, and all the life that was in him left. He fell on his front, the knife twisting under him.
Later the police would classify the incident as a hit made by the wanted terrorist and paid assassin Adila Bukhari. The victim was a foreign visitor, possibly another hit man. Since both parties were now deceased, the authorities did not see the need to investigate any further. Lead Homicide Detective Jay McIntyre’s only comment, made off the record to an Oregonian reporter, was: “Good riddance.”
CHAPTER 37
For the next two days Mike Norris had no contact with Nasim Azar. Adelia Palmer, who was afraid of him, silently brought his food and silently left again. She also supplied him with whiskey and cigarettes, and Norris took that as a good sign . . . unless he was a fatted calf being readied for the slaughter.
* * *
Across town, Cory Cantwell discharged himself from the hospital and returned to the Hilton, where Sarah Milano propped him up in bed with pillows and warned him that he needed follow-up visits to check on the progress of his wounds.
Jacob Sensor called to give Cantwell his best wishes and then almost instantly had to hang up to accept a phone call from the President.
* * *
“Jacob, I think congratulations are in order,” the President said. “I’m told by Homeland Security that the timely actions of your Regulators averted what could have been a disastrous fire in the Modoc National Forest. I don’t have all the details, but I hope none of your men were hurt.”
“We came through unscathed, Madam President,” Sensor said. “We destroyed a very dangerous pyroterrorist cell, and our fellow Americans can sleep safer in their beds tonight.”
The President said, “As I said, I don’t yet have all the details, but how many terrorists were eradicated?”
“Nine, Madam President, all of them armed,” Sensor said. “They put up quite a struggle, but the Regulators dealt with them in short order, I can assure you of that.”
The Scorching Page 19