Walker Bryant opened a beer. In truth, it was a non-alcoholic beer. He had a can seamer in his apartment. Every night, he would dump about four beers out of a twelve-pack of Busch Light. He’d fill up the cans with non-alcoholic beer and seam them back up. So, everyone at work thought he was just another good old boy enjoying a beer on his lunch break. If they asked for one, he could even hand them the actual Busch Light. However, he couldn’t risk even the slightest buzz. A tiny buzz meant he missed fatal details. Details like tripwires, pressure fuses, and gas capsules. Even as a retired spy, he couldn’t stop being a spy. A deer didn’t decide he was no longer prey; the hunter does that.
His boss, Buddy Fuller, walked in, his big belly leading the way through the door. “Bryant, you on lunch?”
Walker nodded and swallowed a swig of beer. “Yessir. On lunch until 2:30.”
Buddy pulled out his phone to check the time. 2:05. “Well, hurry it up. We got a bay full of cars. Some woman says she drove two hours to get here for an oil change.”
That’s odd. You can’t swing a radiator hose in Alabama without hitting at least ten guys who can change oil.
“Two hours?” Walker asked. It was the kind of question Logan Connor would ask.
“Yep. All for an oil change. I’d like to give her the dipstick if you know what I mean.”
Of course, I know what you mean.
Buddy tugged on his belt. “Yeah, she’s hotter than a cheap muffler. Came all the way from Troy.”
Logan choked on his beer, a little bubbled up in his nose. He coughed a few times. “Troy?”
Buddy shrugged. “Yeah, Troy. It’s down by Montgomery. Got a college down there.”
Ohhhh. Troy, Alabama.
Still. Two hours just to get her oil changed in Stonewall, population 24,000? Two hours from Troy?
Under the table, he crossed his ankles to feel the reassuring shape of the pistol he kept there. Well, two pistols, one for each ankle. He checked the time on his phone. He could probably end his lunch break just a little early.
He walked out to the customer service area and his fears were confirmed. His past found him. The past had royal blue fingernails that came to sharp points. She wore black leggings over thick thighs and wide hips. Her top hung loose down over her hips. She looked every bit the mom of 2020. Her hair was blonde and skin so pale that her veins stood out in her forehead. She leaned casually on the wall and thumbed through her phone in a case that closed like a book.
To anyone observing, this woman was just an average Alabama mom. She was distractingly gorgeous even with a twenty-dollar haircut, but other than that, she didn’t stand out. It was all a lie. This was Helen, the American spy who worked for Menelaus in Benin. She flipped on Titus and gave up the entire operation.
Logan’s suspicions were correct. Troy was a signal to draw him out. He walked over to Helen of Troy. She pretended not to notice him.
He said, “Ma’am, have you been helped yet?”
She looked up and for a moment, her eyes just locked on his. She didn’t say anything for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Then, she said, “I’m taking a trip to Birmingham, and I want to get my oil changed.”
Logan gritted his teeth. “There’s a lot of oil change places between Troy and Birmingham.”
“Well, I took a trip to Africa recently. I went to Benin on a mission trip.”
“Spreading the gospel, were you?” Logan snarked.
Helen smiled at him. “I do count myself among His flock. While I was there, someone helped me out when I didn’t necessarily deserve it.”
“Is that so?” Logan’s face showed no emotion. “How was the trip?”
She returned the same deadpan expression. “It was the bomb. Anyway, I went looking for an old friend who helped me out, and I found out he worked here. I bet some of the other people from the mission could find him here too.”
Dammit. I’m blown. How? I was so careful.
“What makes you think he works here?”
She replied, “Not important. I was going to visit him but I didn’t know if that was kosher.” She put a weird amount of emphasis on “kosher.” She then said, “Well, I guess he’s not here. You’re a real mensch. Oh, do you know where I can get a Danish around here?”
Logan shook his head. She shrugged and walked out the door. He took a moment of personal indulgence to watch her hips wiggle as she walked away. She had to be about 55 years old. Some fineries do get better with age.
He started decoding what she said. Unless she was in the habit of throwing Yiddish words into conversation, she was indicating something. That was clearly about Eric Stiner, the Jewish kid he was recruiting. And what was that about a Danish? She was either looking for a pastry in rural Alabama, which was understandable, or she was talking about Denmark.
Sydney was from Denmark. Sydney and Eric Stiner. Helen found them. If she could find them, so could one of Crow’s old associates. Helen had done him a favor that would likely save their lives. He needed to move quickly, though.
He pushed open the front door.
Behind him, Buddy barked, “Hey, Bryant, where you think you’re goin’?”
Logan didn’t even turn around. “I quit.”
He started his car and drove straight for the interstate. His apartment was burned, his job was burned, and he was burned. He’d need to ditch his car as soon as he could. He took out his phone for one last call.
He dialed the number for Sydney’s satellite phone.
She picked up on the second ring. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard her voice. Not dead yet.
She said, “Thank you for calling Corleone Pizza, home of the Clemenza. Tessia speaking. How may I help you?”
Logan said, “Uh, hello there, yeah. I just got my pizza from you, and it was completely burned.”
The line went dead.
Logan snapped the phone in two and threw it out of the window, aiming for a passing storm drain. He headed for Interstate 65. It was time to carefully drive the speed limit all the way to the Tuscaloosa regional airport. He’d steal a small plane, small, quiet, and dependable. Then, fly it to some obscure airfield in the southwest, and cross the border into Mexico. After that, who knows? It felt a little unsettling to not have a plan.
* * *
Sydney Firenca thought she had a plan until she got a phone call from a dead man. The screen said “call from Wolverine.” In Marvel Comics, Wolverine’s real name is Logan. It was a lazy codename but Logan’s phone bounced phone calls through about seventeen different countries. Her phone bounced a signal through about twenty. The codenames were probably unnecessary.
He said they were burned. She hung up.
She looked around the room. Okay, so I’m burned. Anyone in this room might know I’m a spy? Then they will know Eric is too.
That would only help her so much, though. Sydney sat on a rug on a concrete floor. The room stank of sweat and bodies. She wore white linen pants, a white linen shirt, and a head covering over her hair. She was happy to have the headscarf. It helped absorb her sweat. The temperature on the eastern side of the Jordan River climbed over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. A breeze blew from east to west, blowing their stink towards Israel. It wasn’t much of a breeze, though. It was as hot as the stagnant air and felt like a hairdryer.
About one hundred other people sat in the tent with her. The floor was a permanent slab of concrete, but the structure itself was a canvas tent. Flaps were open at the back and in the roof to let some air in, but it didn’t help much. Everyone wore white linen pants and white linen shirts. No one wore shoes. The only other furniture was a podium at the front of the tent.
Most of the attendees were Arabs from Palestine and Jordan. There were a few Druze and Yezidi from Syria. There were no Israelis, but the pride of the flock was a Jewish kid, Eric Elias Stiner. Eric sat next to her on the floor with his legs folded. His hair was a glowing blond and his eyes were a shimmering green. His mother was Jewish and his father was a rapist. His J
ewish heritage made him a star pupil.
Abu Kishaa walked through the open tent flap. He wore the same white pants and white shirt with no shoes. As he walked through the group of people sitting cross-legged that he called his flock, he would stop to hold someone’s hand or kiss a baby. He seemed to linger longest on the young women. Sydney must admit Abu Kishaa was good-looking. He was probably the best-looking cult leader she ever met, and she had met several. He was desert thin with a scruffy beard and wavy black hair. He looked every bit of an Arab Palestinian.
He made his way through the flock until he got to Sydney. She clambered up to her knees and took his hand.
“As Salaamu alaykum,” he said.
She replied, “Wa’ alaikum salaam.”
He lifted her hand gently to his face and kissed the back of her hand. In unaccented English, he said, “I’m glad to see you still amongst the flock.”
Sydney noticed his perfect English before. He must have learned it in the United States.
He leaned over her and touched Eric’s hand. Eric smiled at him the way a little boy smiles when he sees his daddy. Sydney would have been lying if she said she wasn’t a little concerned about Eric. Was he ready for this job? He seemed to be getting a little too drawn into the cult of Abu Kishaa.
In perfect Hebrew, Abu Kishaa said, “Shalom. I am glad to find you amongst the flock.”
Sydney didn’t know enough Hebrew to know if he spoke it with an accent, but he spoke it effortlessly.
Eric replied with a breathy sigh, “I am honored to be in the flock.”
He’s falling under Abu Kishaa’s spell. Logan was right. The kid is too sweet and too trusting. His empathy makes him an incredible agent, but it’s a serious liability. After this job, I have to bench him.
Abu Kishaa seemed to float as he walked. He drifted to the front of the tent.
In Arabic, Abu Kishaa began his sermon. “I’m sorry for making you wait. I didn’t know what I wanted to come say today. So, I spent some time in prayer. I prayed for hours and hours. Then, like a thunderbolt, Chemosh spoke to me. The creator of Heaven and Earth gave me a vision. He said ‘my one begotten son, tell the people about the false prophets. Tell them about the deceivers, the false witnesses, and the tempters.’ So, I come to you today to say there is a false prophet in the world. There is a snake in our garden.”
Abu Kishaa reached behind the podium and pulled out an AK-47. He ran his hand over the wooden handle of the rifle.
“This wood came from the cross of the Nazarene, another false prophet. He claimed to be the son of God but I am the only son of the only god. So, I took his cross and I made a weapon.”
Abu Kishaa ejected the magazine and caught it in his hands. “You see these bullets? These bullets are made from pieces of the Taj Mahal, the Hagia Sophia, Solomon’s Temple, the Dome of the Rock. I’ve plundered all of the houses of the false prophets. There is only Chemosh and Abu Kishaa is his only son.”
“There is a new false prophet,” he said.
Someone in the crowd shouted, “Say his name, Only Son. Who is the deceiver?”
Abu Kishaa said, “You will prove your love for me by killing this false prophet. Bring me his head, and you will be by my side in eternal paradise.”
Another in the crowd shouted, “Tell us his name!”
In Arabic, the crowd started chanting, “Tell us his name! Tell us his name! Tell us his name!”
Abu Kishaa slammed the magazine back in his rifle. Calmly, he said in a speaking voice that made everyone quiet down to hear him, “The false prophet is an American named Logan Connor. Our Lord Chemosh demands he die.”
The crowd shouted in unison, “Chemosh demands it.”
Abu Kishaa pulled the charging handle to load his rifle. “We shall kill Logan Connor and bring about Heaven on Earth.”
Sydney muttered under her breath, “Damn.”
About the Author
Micheal Maxwell has traveled the globe on the lookout for strange sights, sounds, and people. His adventures have taken him from the Jungles of Ecuador and the Philippines to the top of the Eiffel Tower and the Golden Gate Bridge, and from the cave dwellings of Native Americans to The Kehlsteinhaus, Hitler’s Eagles Nest! He’s always looking for a story to tell and interesting people to meet.
Micheal Maxwell was taught the beauty and majesty of the English language by Bob Dylan, Robertson Davies, Charles Dickens, and Leonard Cohen.
Mr. Maxwell has dined with politicians, rock stars and beggars. He has rubbed shoulders with priests and murderers, surgeons and drug dealers, each one giving him a part of themselves that will live again in the pages of his books.
Micheal Maxwell has found a niche in the mystery, suspense, genre with The Cole Sage Series that gives readers an everyman hero, short on vices, long on compassion, and a sense of fair play, and the willingness to risk everything to right wrongs. The Cole Sage Series departs from the usual, heavily sexual, profanity-laced norm and gives readers character-driven stories, with twists, turns, and page-turning plot lines.
Micheal Maxwell writes from a life of love, music, film, and literature. Along with his lovely wife and travel partner, Janet, divide their time between a small town in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, and their lake home in Washington State.
Also by Micheal Maxwell
THE LOGAN CONNOR SERIES
Clean Cut Kid: Book #1 (A Logan Connor Thriller)
East of the Jordan: Book #2 (A Logan Connor Thriller)
THE COLE SAGE SERIES
Diamonds and Cole (Cole Sage Mystery #1)
Cellar of Cole (Cole Sage Mystery #2)
Helix of Cole (Cole Sage Mystery #3)
Cole Dust (Cole Sage Mystery #4)
Cole Shoot (Cole Sage Mystery #5)
Cole Fire (Cole Sage Mystery #6)
Heart of Cole (Cole Sage Mystery #7)
Cole Mine (Cole Sage Mystery #8)
Soul of Cole (Cole Sage Mystery #9)
Cole Cuts (Cole Sage Mystery #10)
THE ADAM DUPREE SERIES
Dupree’s Rebirth: Book #1 (An Adam Dupree Novel)
Dupree’s Reward: Book #2 (An Adam Dupree Novel)
Dupree’s Resolve: Book #3 (An Adam Dupree Novel)
FLYNT & STEELE MYSTERIES
Dead Beat: Book #1 (A Flynt & Steel Mystery)
Dead Duck: Book #2 (A Flynt & Steel Mystery)
Dead on Arrival: Book #3 (A Flynt & Steel Mystery)
Dead Hand: Book #4 (A Flynt & Steel Mystery)
OTHER WORKS
The First Chapter: The Collected Short Stories and First Novel: The Whistler 1964-2017
Three Nails: (A Tale of Tragedy, Testing and Triumph)
Clean Cut Kid (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 1) Page 17