“Good to see a son who respects his father,” said Rakkim.
“You going to give us the wallet?” said Anthony Jr.
Rakkim looked from one to the other, shook his head. “I’m carrying three or four thousand dollars. I’d hate to lose that.”
“Fucking jackpot,” said the punk next to Anthony Jr., lunging forward, eager now.
“I said be careful,” said Anthony Jr. “He’s Fedayeen.”
“He’s Fedayeen,” the first hyena mimicked in a high falsetto. He tossed his blond curls, pretended to yawn, then attacked, the bat raised high.
Rakkim stepped into the charge, dodged the bat, and jabbed him in the shoulder with his knife, just a little stick, turned, and poked the other hyena in the chest, felt Anthony Jr.’s bat whistle past his head, and stuck him in the belly, then slid the tip of the knife across the chin of the toothless punk as he swung and missed with the bat. It had been one smooth, continuous movement on Rakkim’s part, a dance move where he was the only one who could hear the music. A Fedayeen training game, one they played every day in boot camp, parry and thrust, feint and jab, using only the very tip of the knife, just enough to draw blood, not enough to do lasting damage. By the end of boot camp, most of the recruits had at least a hundred scars. Rakkim had barely a dozen.
The four of them came at him again and he stuck each of them in turn, dodging and twisting, always someplace where they didn’t expect him, the tip of the knife nipping their arms and legs, their back and sides, hands and face. They came at him again and again, howling with pain and frustration, cursing as he slipped out of reach, but still coming after him, blood flying, their trench coats in ribbons.
Rakkim slowed slightly, as though tired, and Anthony Jr. unwound, swinging for the fences. Rakkim backed away at the last moment, and the bat caught the first hyena square in the chest. It sounded like a tree limb cracking. The hyena made a small sound, more of a moist gasp, then collapsed onto the alley. His bat rolled across the cobblestones.
“What did you do, Anthony?” squealed the other hyena, rushing over to help. Rakkim had sliced his right ear, cartilage flapping as he ran. “What did you do?”
“I…can’t…breathe,” hissed the first hyena, as his brother bent beside him.
“You’re okay.” Anthony Jr. was bleeding too, but he still circled Rakkim, the bat cocked.
“Can’t…can’t…breathe,” repeated the first hyena. A bubble of blood inflated from one nostril. Popped.
“I’m getting him to a hospital,” said the other hyena. He slid an arm under his brother.
The first hyena screamed as he was lifted.
“We got a job to finish,” said Anthony Jr.
“We’re finished,” muttered the other hyena, carrying his brother down the alley.
“This ain’t right, Anthony,” said the punk with the missing teeth. His trench coat was spattered with blood, his face opened up. “This guy’s a buzz saw.”
“Okay, he’s got some moves,” admitted Anthony Jr. “So do we.”
The punk shook his head and trotted down the alley after the others.
Anthony Jr. stared at Rakkim. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“They don’t give medals for that. They should, but they don’t.”
Anthony Jr. hefted the bat, his knuckles slick with blood. “We still got to settle up for what you did to me at the Super Bowl. I stole that wallet fair and square.”
Rakkim held up a hand. “Take a breath.”
In spite of himself, Anthony Jr. did what he was told.
“Tell your father, I’m going to recommend you for the Fedayeen.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious.” The Fedayeen had a high fatality rate, but the way Anthony Jr. was going, he had better odds in uniform than on the street.
Anthony Jr. peered at him. “Don’t fuck with me. I won’t tolerate that.”
“I’m not fucking with you.”
Anthony Jr. slowly nodded. “Thank you.” He slipped the bat back into his trench coat, hands trembling. “I mean…I’d like that.”
“You won’t be thanking me once you hit boot camp, but maybe you will when you get through it. If you get through it.”
“I’ll get through it.” Anthony Jr. glanced around. “Is it true what they say? You know. Fedayeen…you’re amped up, aren’t you?”
“No, it’s not true.”
“Come on. Look what you just did to me and my boyos. They do something to you when you become Fedayeen, don’t they? New and improved, that’s what I want.”
“Fedayeen aren’t supermen.”
“No way you’re normal.”
Rakkim laughed. “Well, that’s true. The thing about Fedayeen…after the first month of basic, the docs take the ones who survive, the ones who haven’t dropped dead or quit, and they give them the cocktail.”
“What’s that, some magic potion?”
“Gene therapy. It’s a series of injections—”
“I knew it.”
“It’s not magic. Ninety-eight percent of what makes Fedayeen so dangerous is training. Training and…attitude. All the gene juice in the world isn’t going to help if you don’t have the right attitude, and all the attitude won’t do you any good without the training. In fact, attitude without the training is guaranteed to get you killed. What the cocktail does is allow you to train at a level no one else could physically or mentally tolerate. Fedayeen basic lasts for a whole year, a year of ten-mile swims and fifty-mile runs, of improvised weaponry and hand-to-hand combat in heat and cold, and in that whole time you’re lucky if you get three hours of sleep a night. The cocktail makes it possible. Fedayeen have quick reflexes. They have a high pain threshold, a perfect sense of direction, and their wounds heal faster, but it’s the training that makes a Fedayeen. Are you ready for that?”
“This cocktail…you still got it inside you?”
Rakkim nodded. “It’s permanent.”
“Once Fedayeen, always Fedayeen, that’s what they say.”
“That’s what they say.”
“I want it.”
“Tell me if you still believe that when you get through your first year.”
Anthony Jr. grinned. “You said when, not if.”
“You should go home and take care of those cuts. You want me to tell your father?”
“I can handle it.” Anthony Jr. stared at him, plucked at his lip. “Rakkim…sir, how could you leave the Fedayeen? Why would you want to?”
Rakkim smiled. There was hope for the kid yet.
CHAPTER 14
After late-evening prayers
Sarah awoke from a nightmare—Rakkim on his knees, a hand clasped to his side, blood leaking through his fingers. She awoke from that nightmare and found herself in another. This one real.
Sounds of bubble wrap popping woke her up. A scrap of packing material left in the shadow of the alley where the security light didn’t reach. A scrap she had placed in the funnel point where anyone coming in the back way would have to step. The nearby trash can overflowed with cardboard boxes, Styrofoam, and packing material. Anyone walking on the piece of plastic might think it just an unlucky break…a bit of sloppiness from the tenants, but the footsteps outside were hurrying now. Whoever was coming for her was not fooled.
She rolled off the couch, fully dressed, everything she needed in the loose pants and zippered jacket she slept in. The apartment was on the third floor, the window open to the alley below—she didn’t have time to get away, but she had time to unlock the door to the hallway and leave it ajar, as though she had fled in haste. She had time to remove the piece of wood paneling behind the radiator. It was an old building, pretransition, with thick outer walls to keep the heat in. Gas and oil had been expensive then. There was room in the wall for her to hide, a tiny space she had lined with insulation. Footsteps pounded up the stairwell as she squeezed into the tiny hiding spot. She locked the panel back into place and prayed that the seam in the dark pine was aligned with
the others. She lay flattened in the dark, the radiator hissing. Waiting. Just as she had rehearsed so many times, except that in rehearsal she hadn’t already been drenched with sweat. She thought of Rakkim and wondered if he was still angry at her for standing him up at the Super Bowl. Probably. He held a grudge. Footsteps in the hallway. Creak of the front door being pushed open. Her heart was beating so loudly it sounded like thunder.
Sarah closed her eyes, fought off the fear and the claustrophobia. With her eyes closed she could imagine that she stood in an auditorium, gathering her thoughts before giving a lecture. There were voices in the room now, and the sound of furniture being knocked over. She opened her eyes. There was a crack in the paneling from the radiator’s heat, a crack that allowed a glimpse of the men ransacking the apartment. There were two…no, three of them. She didn’t think they were Redbeard’s men…they were too loud, too clumsy. Most of them. One of them though…her eye was pressed against the crack, eyelashes brushing against the rough wood. While the others darted around, a bald man moved to the couch and placed a hand on the cushion, felt the heat from her body still lingering. She shuddered as though he had touched her.
“Go check the roof,” ordered the bald man.
Sarah saw a man in a long leather coat rush out the door, heard his footsteps beating up the stairs, not even trying to be quiet. It was the middle of the night, but the neighbors knew well enough not to investigate sudden noises.
“The bitch is gone,” grumbled a tall, freckled scarecrow.
The bald man picked up a container of half-eaten Chinese food on the coffee table, remnants of her dinner. Sniffed it. “Thermal this shithole. I’ll decide if she’s gone.” He put his feet up on the coffee table, dug in with the chopsticks. A glop of chicken and bean sprouts fell into his lap on the way to his mouth. He went back for more.
Scarecrow circled the living room, using a handheld thermal imager to look for her. He scanned the stuffed chair, the hutch, walked out the ceiling and the floor. He hit the walls too, the unit beeping as he passed the radiator.
Sarah bit her finger to stop her teeth from chattering, sweat pouring down her face.
Scarecrow kept walking. When he finished, he started toward the bedroom.
“Don’t forget to get around the closet,” said the bald man. “And behind the shitter!” He started on the leftover sweet-and-sour pork, chewing with his mouth open.
Leather coat came back. “Nobody on the roof. It’s a jump to the next building, but she could do it.” He laughed. “If she was motivated.”
The bald man licked the chopsticks clean, stood up from the couch. “Toss the place. I’ll hit the bedroom and check her personals.”
Leather coat tore a mass-produced picture of the Great Mosque in Jerusalem off the wall, examined the back, then threw it onto the floor. He moved around the room. The desk was emptied, drawers overturned. Bent the TV screen in half.
Sarah turned away from the crack in the paneling, listening to the sounds of destruction, breathing through her mouth. Roasting. She had rented the apartment months ago, hoping she would never need it. Hoped she would never need the hiding spot either. She couldn’t believe they had found her. She had been so careful. These weren’t Redbeard’s men…it had to be the Old One who had sent them. She peeked out again through the crack.
“Little missy travels light,” scarecrow said to the bald man, as they walked back into the living room. “Just a toothbrush in the bathroom, no purse, no notepad, no papers.”
The bald man sat on the couch with a quart of milk in his hand, drinking straight from the carton, and the idea of him raiding her refrigerator enraged her out of all proportion.
“I don’t know about Ibn Azziz taking over from Oxley,” said scarecrow. “They say he don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t pump whores. How can you trust somebody like that?”
“That’s what a grand mullah is supposed to be like, you heathen prick.” The bald man shook his head. “All that matters is if he pays the bounty.”
“I’ll take Oxley any day,” said leather coat. “Man knew how to throw a party—”
The bald man chucked the empty milk carton onto the floor, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “This Ibn Azziz, he’s in a hurry. We’re going to work steady with this one.”
Sarah shifted slightly in the hiding spot and a raised nail scraped her arm. The Old One hadn’t sent these three men—they were bounty hunters. The Black Robes had a small army of mercenaries under contract for their dirty work, ex-army, ex-police, ex-cons. Even so, the Black Robes had never dared to challenge Redbeard directly. Now they were actually going after his niece?
“We got here five minutes sooner, we would have caught the bitch,” said scarecrow. “I could have bought a new car with my share.” He booted an antique mahogany bookstand, shattered the thin wood. “If asshole hadn’t stopped to take a piss…”
“I got a weak bladder,” said leather coat.
“Yeah, and if you didn’t have a weak bladder, I’d be riding in style tomorrow.” Scarecrow played with one of those Filipino flip knives that went snickity-snick. “Now maybe one of the other teams is going to collect the reward.”
Other teams? Sarah tasted dust in her mouth.
“We’ll find her,” said the bald man. “Little girl can’t hide forever.”
Scarecrow jabbed the couch with his knife, drove the blade in and out without passion. “What do the Black Robes want with her anyway?”
The bald man sat on the couch watching scarecrow play with the knife. “Don’t know. Don’t care, either.”
Sarah heard liquid splash on the floor, and leather coat saying, “Ahhhhhhhhh. That’s better.”
“You’re disgusting,” said scarecrow. Stuffing from the couch drifted across the floor.
The bald man stood up. “Let’s call it a night. She’s on the run now, scared and not thinking straight. We’ll catch little miss high and mighty another day.”
Sarah listened to them shuffle out, slamming the door behind them. She didn’t move. She stayed where she was, in the cramped darkness. She hated the dark. She had slept for years with a night-light on. Redbeard had tried to break her of the habit, but even he had been forced to give up. Rakkim…Rakkim had slept on the floor next to her bed when she had nightmares. It had been the only thing that helped.
The living room was quiet. She was half dozing from the heat. How had they found her? What mistake had she made? She changed outfits every time she left the apartment. Sometimes she dressed as a good fundamentalist. Sometimes as a modern. Sometimes as a Catholic. She never took a direct route to the apartment, never went to the same grocery store twice. Still, they had found her. Her eyes burned and she didn’t have room to wipe them. She was going to have to move again. The bald man had said she was going to be scared and not thinking straight. He was more right than she wanted to admit.
She craned her neck. Squinted at the luminous dial of her watch. It had been over twenty minutes since the bounty hunters had left. Her legs ached, and her lungs were heavy from the heat, but she stayed where she was. If you can’t be smart, be patient, that’s what Redbeard used to say, his insult the price of his wisdom.
She wished Rakkim were here. He would know what to do. She had wanted to tell him what she was up to, she had argued that he could be trusted, but the answer had always been the same. Trust no one. Sarah should have told him.
Her leg was cramping and her nose itched. A few nights ago she had walked within a block of Rakkim’s club, close enough to hear the music from the Blue Moon, close enough to imagine walking in and having a drink with him, her hand on his knee under the table. Instead she had turned away, angry with herself for getting too close. The Blue Moon would be the first place anyone would look for her. In spite of everything she knew, these last few days she had acted as though it were another game between her and Redbeard, just another round of hide-and-seek. The appearance of the bounty hunters tonight had put that lie to rest. Redbeard was t
he least of her worries.
Sarah checked her watch again. Over an hour since the men had left. She peered through the crack, then popped out the panel. Winced as it clattered to the floor. No sound from the hallway. She eased herself out from behind the radiator, joints popping, so stiff she could hardly bend. It was five minutes before she could breathe freely.
The apartment was trashed, drawers emptied, her few items of clothing on the floor. It didn’t matter; she wasn’t taking anything with her. She walked over to the small kitchen, picked up a knife. It was cheap and had a thin blade, but it made her feel better. She walked to the blinds, peeked out the corner. The alley was dark and empty. She crossed to the door, slowly turned the handle, and opened—
The bald man leaned against the opposite wall, big and blocky, arms crossed. “Jesus lady, I was wondering if you were ever going to come out from wherever you were hiding.”
Sarah slammed the door, but he kicked it open, and when she came at him with the knife, he slapped it away, sent it flying. Then he smacked her, almost knocked her out. He was inside the apartment now, carrying her forward, his hand on her throat. When she tried to bite him, he hit her again.
“Hope you don’t mind that I sent the boys home,” said the bald man. “I just hate to share the reward…or anything else, for that matter.” He laughed, threw her onto the couch.
Sarah struggled as he lay on top of her, and she smelled the Chinese food on his breath and milk…the milk from her refrigerator, sour now, warm and rank. His eyes were gray and terribly calm, as though a woman squirming under him happened every day.
“The Black Robes want you alive and kicking,” he said, his knee pressed between her legs. “So you don’t have to worry about me doing any permanent damage. I’m not about to hurt you.” He kneed her harder, made her gasp. “See, that didn’t hurt, did it?”
“—off me,” Sarah gasped, slapping at his face. “Get off.”
Prayers for the Assassin Page 11