by Thomas Waite
Where’s all my good karma?
“We are so fucked,” Cal said. “I hope they didn’t notice who shot most of their buddies.” He raised up a lethal-looking gaff. “I swear I’ll slit my fucking wrists with this before I let them get their claws on me.”
Jimmy understood the impulse, but grabbed the gaff just in case Cal was serious. A tug of war ensued.
The choppers were still hovering above them, feasting the way sharks might soon on their dismembered bodies down below.
“Wait, what’s that?” Jimmy said, pointing to a U.S. Navy Cyclone-class patrol boat streaking toward them.
They both dropped the gaff, which barely missed Jimmy’s big toe.
The patrol boat was a long ways off but it sure gave the bearded killers pause. Happy Daze had slowed way down, though the 150 yards still separating it from Sexy Streak left Jimmy and Cal well within rifle range.
A chopper pilot, maybe sensing some serious bang-bang potential below, brought his camera crew closer—and promptly drew fire from the ISIS warriors.
Then the real guns started to roar. The navy opened up with a Bushmaster, sending a screaming trail of 25 mm shells that tore across the water and into the large white cruiser. Jimmy heard the boat’s fiberglass hull ripping open. It sounded like bubble pack getting stomped by a dozen fat bikers. It sounded good.
But Happy Daze was still afloat, and ISIS was still fighting back. A furry-headed guy with a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher fired his mini-missile right at the navy boat. Not a heat-seeker, though, judging by the way the American captain veered out of the way.
But a sophisticated missile did make an appearance moments later. In a wild flurry of return fire, sailors sent a laser-guided Griffin racing directly toward the cabin cruiser. The newly anointed captain of Happy Daze was the only member of his crew with reflexes fast enough to dive into the water.
“Down,” cried Jimmy.
BOOM.
A heated shockwave flew over Sexy Streak’s gunwales, rocking Cal and Jimmy sharply.
Jimmy raised his head and searched the sea for where Happy Daze had been.
The navy had thrown a strike.
And you’re out.
Jimmy was cheering. The cruiser had been blasted to melted bits, a furious geyser of flame rising from its ruins, fiberglass and flying limbs falling into the sea around it.
“I’m never complaining about my tax dollars again,” Cal said. “That was so fucking great.”
Jimmy and Cal watched the patrol boat motor within a couple hundred feet of the destruction. Men with automatic rifles stared down their scopes, searching openly for survivors. Jimmy couldn’t fathom anyone living through that onslaught.
But somebody had.
The captain who’d dived from the cruiser was hauling himself over Sexy Streak’s outboard motors, wielding a blade as long as a ruler. Cal, closest to the stern, backed up in shock. A sailor shot and missed the intruder, who ducked and lunged forward.
“You stupid Americans,” he screamed in a distinctly Boston accent. Christ, he sounded like JFK.
Then he lunged toward Cal, growling, “I’m taking you with me.”
Jimmy swung the gaff as hard as the Louisville Sluggers he’d used to smash home runs in American Legion baseball, sinking the steel hook into the side of the bastard’s head. The dude fell to the deck, flopping like a big game fish.
Cal smashed the anchor down on the man’s bloody skull.
No more flopping.
Cal raised up the weight to finish him off.
“No,” Jimmy yelled. “He’s still breathing. He can tell us stuff.”
Jimmy heard the helicopters right above them. He was so sick of the whup-whup-whups that he raised his middle finger and waved it freely at them, less forgiving of the media in that moment than of the madman bleeding at his feet.
Then he turned to the sailors, gave them a thumbs-up, and shouted, “We got us a live one.”
• • •
Don marveled at McMasters. So did the FBI agents who’d stopped their interview with him to watch the action on Don’s kitchen TV. He’d seen wild times himself in the smuggling trade, but nothing to rival the near capture of two brave young Americans by terrorists, the wholesale destruction of an oil line to save the Gulf of Mexico from a much bigger disaster, and the launching of a laser-guided missile to obliterate a boat full of bad actors.
And then hand-to-hand combat, featuring McMasters and a man with a blade big enough to skin a lion. After watching all that Don felt guilty for ever agreeing with Lana that McMasters was the Kato Kaelin of the Gulf Coast. Hell, Jimmy McMasters felt like someone whose company Don would enjoy. That young man was, in a word, incredible. You go, boy. You go, Don thought as another agent yelled that he had a visitor.
“You mind?” Don asked the pair who’d been reconstructing the shooting with him.
“Go for it,” said the senior agent. Both appeared more engaged at the moment by the action on screen.
As he eased himself off a stool, the last Don saw of McMasters was the boat racer flipping off the TV crews that had probably just immortalized him. Don was certain that billions of views would agree: The country needed its heroes, even the most unlikely ones.
He headed out to the rubble that had once been their living room, spotting Sufyan Hijazi standing in the street outside the taped-off evidence area. The young man looked worried.
“Is she okay?” he asked as Don made his way over.
“She wasn’t here,” he replied. “Have you heard anything from her?”
Sufyan shook his head. “How about Mrs. Elkins?”
“She’s fine. But an FBI agent was badly wounded. Some fools blew up the house trying to get to Emma’s mom. It got ugly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had to shoot them.”
“Did you kill them?”
Don nodded. “I’m getting questioned about that now. It should be over pretty quick, and then I was going to check on the agent. You want to come with me?” He thought it would be good to get Sufyan away from the scene of the bombing; the young man looked disturbed by what he was seeing. But Don also wanted pick Sufyan’s brain about Tahir, if he could do it subtly enough.
Turned out, subtlety wasn’t necessary.
“My uncle’s gone,” the boy blurted. “Sometime during the night, I think. He just disappeared.”
“Did he leave a note? Anything?”
“No. Maybe one of his old enemies grabbed him.”
“I doubt that. Your uncle’s one tough son-of-a … gun. How’s your mom?”
“She’s worried, too.”
“I’m guessing your uncle has good reasons for whatever he’s doing.”
Nothing but empty words, and Don knew it. Tahir could be plotting the final death throes of the entire country. “Let me finish up inside and we’ll take my truck.”
But first he texted Lana the news about Tahir.
• • •
Lana and Cairo were racing toward Baltimore when she received Don’s message. Instinctively, she checked her rear-view, half expecting to see Tahir on her tail. Which made no logical sense—he could have left for Baltimore hours ago, if that was where he’d even headed. But she had reason to suspect that he might be pursuing Emma because he’d been trying to hack into her phone, according to Galina.
The Russian had texted her twenty minutes ago with good news: Senator Willens had canceled his demand that she appear before his committee.
“Like a miracle,” Galina had added.
She and Lana both knew better, though. Galina was wisely avoiding any allusions to efforts her boss might have undertaken on her behalf. The real miracle workers were the doctors and nurses trying to save the life of seven-year-old Alexandra. Now they wouldn’t be obstructed by Marigold Winters’s petty power grab.
Lana looked over at Cairo. The Malinois held his gaze firmly on the road ahead. Her own eyes returned to the phone as they sped toward Baltimore. She
spotted Em’s GPS signal in front of a building. Em was likely entering Planned Parenthood.
“Stay there, kiddo,” Lana murmured. “And don’t do anything rash. I’m coming.”
• • •
Emma waited in an examining room for Dr. Mohammed Abbas. She didn’t feel good about a Middle Eastern obstetrician. Probably a Muslim. With my luck. Which hadn’t been the greatest lately.
Dr. Abbas walked in moments later. He wore black-rimmed glasses and sported a neatly trimmed beard. He put out his hand in greeting. Em took it. “Let’s check your blood pressure,” he said next.
And her pulse, as it turned out. A nurse had done both less than ten minutes ago, which Emma mentioned to him.
“But I bet you’re a little more anxious now because you’re meeting a doctor named Mohammed, and I’ll bet you’re thinking, ‘What’s he doing working here?’”
“No, not really,” Emma lied.
He smiled, pausing to look at her numbers. “Anyway, your blood pressure’s up a little, but nothing to worry about.” He sat in a chair across from Em, who was perched on the end of the examining table. “Are you anxious?”
“A little, maybe.”
“Most women are when they find out they’re pregnant, especially for the first time. You’ve shown good sense coming in. Do you have any concerns about your pregnancy?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t want to be pregnant. I’ve made that pretty clear to everyone. I’m in high school. I’m going to college. It’s the last thing I want.”
“So please tell me what you want.”
“I want to terminate.”
“It says here,” Dr. Abbas looked down at his tablet, “that you don’t want your parents to know. Why is that?”
Emma told him about her mother’s wounded leg. “And she’s got a very important job in Washington. She has no time for this.”
“I know who your mother is. I know she’s very important, but I’m sure she has time for you. At moments like this a girl needs her mother, and I think your mother would want to be with you, unless there’s something about her that makes you think otherwise.”
“It’s not about her. It’s about me. This is so private.”
“Did you leave a note at least, to let them know you’re okay?”
“No, and I realized last night that I should have. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry about that.” He pulled out his phone. “Call them. At least tell them you’re okay.”
“I can’t. She’ll know where I am. I’ve been so caught up with getting away I never thought to—”
“Emma, find a way to let them know you’re okay. I have a fifteen-year-old daughter. I would be petrified if she did this to me. We love our children more than anything in the world.”
Emma believed him and had to force down tears.
“So you don’t know what’s happened, do you?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you’ve been caught up with other things, but I have to tell you something.”
“Is my mom okay?” she asked quickly, suddenly terrified.
“Yes, your mother is fine, but your house was attacked this morning and part of it was blown up. Your mother and father and dog are all fine, and—”
“Wait a second! My house was bombed? Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding. Two men blew up the front of the house but everyone is okay. The two men were shot and killed, and only one person inside was injured. That was an FBI agent who was wounded. But he’s doing well. Look, I’m not sure you should be making this decision on your own when so much is going on in your life.”
“It’s really private. Can’t you understand that? And I’m seventeen. I’ll be eighteen soon.”
Don’t get all worked up, Emma warned herself. Be mature.
“What about your boyfriend?”
“He knows I’m pregnant.
“What does he want? Do you know?”
“Yes, he’s”—she paused, and in hesitating felt as though she had said the word that now had to follow—“Muslim.”
He nodded. “So am I.”
I knew it. Here it comes.
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t understand and respect your feelings. That’s what’s most important here. I’m not making any judgments about you, and it would be good for both of us if you didn’t make any about me. Maybe your boyfriend isn’t, either.”
“No, he definitely wants the baby.”
They talked for another ten minutes. Dr. Abbas appeared to listen carefully as Emma did her best to sound level-headed. Inwardly, she experienced a growing sense of panic that despite his reasonable demeanor, Dr. Abbas would insist on bringing her parents and Sufyan into the discussion.
He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a tissue. “Where are you staying while you’re here? Where did you sleep last night?”
“In my car.”
“That’s not safe, Emma. The receptionist has the address of a residence we refer women to. It’s safe and comfortable, and it’s nearby. If you need money, we can arrange your stay for you. I want you to think about your decision for twenty-four hours.”
“Is that so you can think about it?” She was so tired of waiting.
“No. If tomorrow you want to terminate, I will have you scheduled. You have my word.”
Your word? She didn’t want his word. She wanted to be on his schedule for the abortion as soon as possible.
At the front desk, Emma got directions to the home where other clients had stayed, and then headed out to her car. The location was about two miles away.
They would be the longest two miles of Emma’s life.
EMMA FELT OUT OF her element in the heart of Baltimore. She wished she could hurl herself forty-eight hours into the future when she’d have all this behind her: pregnancy, abortion, the city itself.
But maybe it won’t ever be. She’d read about women who’d regretted ending their pregnancies, but also others who’d been doubly glad they’d had them. Almost all agreed, though, that it was complicated and made you more complicated. Your body, your mind, your soul. Changed you in so many ways. After everything Emma had endured in the past two years—almost getting blown up by a backpack nuclear bomb; kidnapped by a Washington DC drug lord, who turned out to be an old business associate of her father’s—she didn’t know how much more complicated her life could get. But she supposed the women who’d been writing about abortion on the Web—pro and con—knew a lot more about the subject than she did.
She swore when she saw a parking ticket on her windshield. The whole country’s falling apart and they’re still giving these things out? She wanted to tear it up, but didn’t dare.
Instead, she pulled it out from under the wipers and threw it on the passenger seat. Then she looked around and put the address into her phone. Right away her phone told her to drive north, adding, “Turn right on West Mulberry Street.”
“Okay, okay,” Emma replied to her phone. “Just give me a chance to get this thing started.”
She fired up the Fusion and drove dutifully north.
More directions followed, taking Emma past men with grocery carts, sleeping bags, filthy blankets, and plastic bags filled with empty cans and bottles. One stumbled to the driver’s-side window, his vacant eyes staring at her.
“Get me out of here,” Emma whispered, as if the voice on her phone might respond to a desperate request.
Instead, it told her to turn left in one block.
Emma did.
“Oh, crap.”
From the homeless to the nearly so: dilapidated housing with broken porch railings and rotting stoops loomed before her, along with the people sitting on them.
Watching me, she realized.
A second later, the vehicle stopped running. Died right in the middle of the street. Cars parked on both sides, leaving her to block the right lane.
Emma tried the starter repeatedly. Not a spark. Dead-dead-dead. Sh
e pounded the steering wheel. A car eased around her. Then it was gone. She was alone.
No you’re not.
Two guys were walking up. Gold chains around their necks, jeans around the bottoms of their butts, undershorts showing. Ball caps askew—Orioles and Wizards.
“Hey, girl. Need some help?” asked the bigger, bulkier one. His short bony friend looked on, smiling.
The smaller one promptly started talking a line, too. “Sure she does. Come on, sweet sister, pop the hood on your Fu-sion.” Making a dance out of those two syllables.
“I’m going to call Triple A,” she said through the closed window.
“Sure, you do that,” the big guy said. “You must think you’re in Bethesda and they’ll come running.” He was laughing now, looking at her high school parking permit in the corner of the front window. “Good luck with that shit. Last time I called, I waited days.”
The shorter one laughed, too, and slapped palms with his buddy. “Triple A. Yeah, you’ll be waiting. Least you got some company. Pop the hood. I work on cars. I might be able to help you.”
Did she dare? Did she dare not?
She released the hood. It rose before her. She couldn’t see what the bony guy was doing. The bigger one tapped her window.
“What do you think we’re gonna do? Eat you alive? You can come out.”
Shit. She froze. She wished Sufyan were here. Or his dad. That would show she wasn’t prejudiced. But maybe she was to react like this. Or was it just showing good sense? She didn’t know, wondering if some bigot banging around her brain really was making this seem so much worse.
There were now five guys crowding around. No women.
Emma called Triple A, giving the dispatcher the cross streets. “How long?” she asked.