by Marc Cameron
Two federal agents—neither looked old enough to shave—occupied the living room by force, trying to seem inconspicuous. She could tell from their barely concealed sneers that neither considered this a top-shelf assignment. One sat on the recliner in the corner reading a paperback spy thriller. The other stood by the window talking to his wife on the cell phone about her shopping habits and their mountain of credit card debt. Both had their jackets off and their pistols were exposed. At the foot of the one reading the book was a discreet black case Carrie knew contained some sort of machine gun. It would not be enough. Pistols, rifles, swords, or atom bombs—it didn’t matter. She knew Zafir. He was too smart. If he wanted her, she was a sitting duck. No matter where she hid or what anyone did, he’d find her. There was no getting around it. He was too close, too strong. She alternately clenched her fists and relaxed them as Dr. Soto had taught her, struggling in vain to calm her erratic breathing.
She stubbed out her cigarette on one of her mother’s china saucers, fighting off the feeling that the room was getting smaller. Her eyes shot from her little boy to the back door and she suddenly realized what she had to do. She couldn’t just sit still and wait for him to come kill her.
Smiling at the two agents as she passed the adjoining room, Carrie walked into the kitchen. Pretending to rummage through the refrigerator, she scanned for possible weapons, finally settling on an eight-inch chef’s knife from her mother’s wooden block. Wrapping the blade in a rolled dishtowel, she stuffed it down the waist of her jeans, over the small of her back. She tugged the tail of her loose cotton T-shirt over the top of her pants to cover it, then stood at the kitchen door. She motioned to Christian, touching a finger to her lips to keep him quiet.
“Hey, little man,” she whispered, fighting to keep up her tremulous smile. “Go put on your shoes.”
CHAPTER 51
Jericho stood at the edge of the highway watching the growing crowd of stranded commuters as they got out of their cars to look at the grizzly scene. A fist of worry gripped his chest. Fort Worth PD had set up barricades, keeping dozens of well-tanned onlookers in cowboy hats, big hairdos, and ball caps at bay. A Channel 4 news helicopter touched down less than fifty yards from the crash scene.
“You think the Navarro girl is okay?” Mahoney asked.
“Her mother’s house is an hour away from here by car,” Jericho sighed. He’d never felt so beaten. “She’s got protection.”
“I just called and talked to the agent in charge out there,” Thibodaux said. “Sounds like he’s about thirteen, but he swears everything’s hunky-dory. No sign of any bad guys out his way. That leaves us with zip for leads when it comes to finding Zafir.”
Mahoney took out her iPhone. “What did you say Navarro’s mother’s name is?”
“Juanita,” Quinn said. “Juanita Calderon.”
Mahoney worked the iPhone for a moment. Lights flashed in her eyes as she scrolled through a series of screens. Suddenly she groaned and turned the device around so both Quinn and Thibodaux could look at the color display. “When I type in Carrie Navarro I get a link to a photo of her accepting an award from her newspaper. Look who’s standing beside her.”
“Her mother, Juanita Calderon,” Thibodaux read the screen.
“And when I do a people-finder search for Juanita Calderon in Weatherford, Texas ...”
She touched the face of her iPhone. Both men moved in beside her now, watching the new page load. They watched a satellite image with a pulsating blue dot over a white farm house. Thick green woods crowded the neighborhood, each home with at least five acres of land.
“I’m guessing that’s Juanita Calderon’s house,” Thibodaux said.
“She’s listed in the phone book,” Mahoney said, biting her lip. “And if we can find her this easily, so can Zafir.”
The Channel 4 news chopper was just spooling down in a vacant pasture when the Hammer Team crawled through the barbed-wire fence beside it. The burly Jacques Thibodaux took the lead as they made their approach. Though Quinn was more than capable when it came to physical confrontation, in the short time he’d been working with Thibodaux, he’d found it was a time-saver to let the giant Cajun’s physique press the issue if an issue needed to be pushed.
The chopper pilot, a sensible-looking man with mussed gray hair wore a green David Clark headset with a tiny mike situated over his mouth. He busied himself on the radio while a lone reporter, who appeared to be the only other occupant of the helicopter, sat in the back seat rummaging through a giant blue duffel of camera gear and microphones.
“Hey there,” Thibodaux said, grinning. “Comment ça va, beb?”
The reporter, a thirty-something Ken doll look-alike didn’t even look up. “Tell this hick we’ve got a deadline to meet, Steve,” he mumbled to the pilot, as if he couldn’t be bothered to converse with mere mortals. “I don’t have time to talk. Tell them to run along and get away from the chopper.” His sockless penny loafers and pink oxford button-down suggested his name might be something like Biff.
Thibodaux threw a tired glance over his shoulder at the others.
“OSI.” He held up his shiny new black credential case and gold badge. “Pains me to say so, but we’re with the Air Force. I’m gonna need to borrow your helicopter.”
“Beat feet, dude.” Biff smirked, still fiddling with a foot-long camera lens. “I’m gonna have to call bullshit on that one. Our Air Force doesn’t have any jurisdiction over civilians on American soil. Posse comitatus and all.”
“You’re right... .” Thibodaux turned and looked at Quinn again. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes. “I tried to be nice,” he sighed. “Really I did.” His back suddenly seemed to flare wider as he loomed over the simpering reporter. The friendly twang fled and his voice grew deadly quiet. “Tell you what then. How ’bout this for logic? I’m bigger’n you and we’re taking your chopper.”
Biff looked up from the camera, his eyes flung wide at Thibodaux’s menacing tone.
Quinn nudged Mahoney out of the way as Thibodaux grabbed the reporter by the scruff of his starched oxford collar and heaved him out the door and into the field stubble.
The Cajun cocked his head toward the smirking pilot. “You got any problems with Air Force OSI workin’ on American soil, my friend?”
“Steve Akers,” the man said, grinning. “USMC retired. Hell, welcome aboard. That kid’s been a pain in my ass since he started. Can’t say I’m sad to see him go.”
Quinn and Mahoney scrambled in the back as Thibodaux climbed in front where he’d have more leg room. “Good to meet you, Marine,” he said, nodding in greeting as he adjusted a second headset.
“Welcome, Air Force,” the pilot said.
Thibodaux shook his big head emphatically, nearly dislodging the headset. “I’m zero-three-six-nine, pal.” He gave the numerical code for a Marine Corps MOS of Infantry Unit Leader.
Akers raised a seasoned eyebrow, then pulled up on the collective to lift the helicopter off the grass. The bird shuddered slightly, flying out of the chopper’s own rudder wash and into clean air, picking up speed.
“Thought your fancy creds said you worked for the Air Force?”
“Long story,” Thibodaux said. “I’ll tell you on the way to save the world.”
CHAPTER 52
A single policeman slouched in the unmarked Ford Crown Victoria out front of Juanita Calderon’s white frame house. This was all Zafir had to see to confirm what he needed to know. Carrie Navarro was in the house.
It was a fluke that he was even aware Juanita Calderon existed. Early after Carrie had become his guest, he’d seen to it she was given paper and a pen to write her family a letter. She’d been smart enough not to trust him, even then, so he’d sent in an underling, a young fighter from Samarra, to give her the materials. Navarro had written the letter, but the stupid boy had fallen in love with her. Zafir had caught them alone together and been forced to kill him.
Carrie’s letter had been addressed to a po
st office box, but it had provided him with a name and a city. With Gail Taylor’s iPhone and the instructions she had provided before he killed her, it had been easy enough to perform a search on that name. The P.O. box was in a place called Weatherford so when he found a Juanita Calderon in that city, he knew he had the correct place. Night after night he’d sat outside Carrie Navarro’s cell door and listened to her whimper for her mother. It made sense that the stupid cow would go there when she felt threatened.
Zafir’s heart raced. At long last he was on the brink of his long-sought objective. He licked his lips, tasting the memory of her.
He sat behind the wheel of his rental car on the adjacent block, looking through a grove of cedar trees between two houses. Juanita Calderon’s home sat in the middle of a lavish subdivision at the outskirts of town. Each house was at least two stories with a well-manicured lawn and corral. A few even had roping arenas. There was at least one boat or motorcycle parked in almost every driveway. Some had horses in small paddocks; behind their houses. Calderon’s was among the oldest, presumably it had been the ranch house before the land was parceled off for development, but it was still impressive with a sprawling, wraparound cedar deck and two huge oaks in the spacious front yard.
Zafir looked around, planning his approach. Beside him was a wrought-iron gate with a cutout of a man on horseback chasing a longhorn cow. Beyond the gate, three horses grazed with their heads down in the pasture hemmed in by the trees. He’d bought a pair of binoculars at a Wal-Mart on the edge of Fort Worth and used them to scan the neighborhood. At the fence paralleling the street, two llamas looked on stupidly as only llamas can look. Calderon had neighbors, but each house was situated on a large wooded lot, giving them plenty of space in between. Such space would give Zafir cover as he approached.
He put the rental car in gear and drove down the pitted asphalt road adjacent to Calderon’s street. He struggled to keep his heart from racing as he made the turn, now less than half a block from Carrie Navarro. Breathing deeply, he kept up his speed so as not to draw the attention of the policeman in the Crown Victoria and turned into the long limestone driveway of a gray brick two-story, three lots away from his target. There were no vehicles out front, and Zafir took the gamble that the occupants were not at home. If they happened to be home, he was prepared to kill them quickly. Americans weren’t accustomed to sudden violence in their own backyards. They would surely try to negotiate when they should be fighting.
Zafir glanced up the street, making certain his arrival hadn’t raised the attention of any inquisitive onlookers. The policeman out front was a heavy man with a glowing red face. Rounded shoulders pressed against the window and looked as if they might pop open the car door at the slightest movement. He was obviously lost in a daydream, complacent in his peaceful town, certain that nothing violent would ever happen to him. Zafir marveled that a country capable of producing some of the finest warriors in the world could be so lax at home. It looked all too easy. But no matter how overweight, policemen had radios and Zafir needed time to mingle with the population after he indulged himself with the American whore.
Gravel crunched beneath tires as he brought the rental car to a stop on the far side of the gray house. He eased the door shut without slamming it and walked across the sun-parched side yard toward the rear patio, breathing a sigh of relief when no one came out to challenge him. Tiny brown grasshoppers clicked and buzzed away from his feet. A sturdy palomino horse trotted up to the back fence and snorted, staring at him with huge brown eyes. A line of thick oak trees beyond the barn made a perfect green backdrop for the animal. Zafir suddenly found himself caught up in the moment, captivated by the beauty of the scene. To the ancient Bedouin, the horse was everything, a prized possession. The feeling was bred into Zafir to the deepest marrow of his bones. For the first time, he grew tearful at the thought of dying. He raised the flat of his good hand to his heart. Surely there would be horses in heaven.
His eyes still moist, his heart jumped in his chest when he turned. Little more than a hundred yards away, a young woman with dark hair slid open a glass door and stepped into the bright sunshine of Juanita Calderon’s redwood deck. She wore tight blue jeans and a simple white T-shirt. Even from a distance Zafir was warmed by the familiar curves and swells of Carrie Navarro’s body. She was healthier now, more full figured after having their child, but still beautiful to look on, and, he could tell from the way she threw her head, still just as brazen.
Zafir’s jaw dropped when a small child stepped through the same glass doorway and clutched Navarro’s outstretched hand. His head spun at the sight of his son. Even from a distance it was easy to see the boy carried himself with a confident air, just like his father. For a split second he thought again about trying to spare the child. His head throbbed and he wondered if it might not be too late. It did not matter now.
The Bedouin began to run, ducking quickly around the horse barn and into the dark tangle of wild grapevines, briars, and oak trees. He would kill Navarro and take the child with him. In the few short hours they had left alive, Zafir would teach him the true way of Islam. In the end, his son too would become a glorious martyr and find his reward in Paradise.
CHAPTER 53
Four minutes from Juanita Calderon’s house, Quinn began to take long, slow breaths, willing his heart rate to slow. Mahoney had shown enough forethought to bring his M4 when they’d jumped in the rental car and it now hung loaded and ready, suspended on a single-point sling around his neck. He reached behind his back to touch Yawaraka-Te’s hilt, assuring himself the ancient blade was still there. He’d reloaded the 10 millimeter tucked in an inside-the-pants holster over his right kidney. If it was possible, they’d take Zafir out with long guns—giving them the safety of distance—but something told Quinn the Bedouin would be too smart for that.
Steve Akers, the chopper pilot and former Marine, dropped the bird low, skimming the tops of the trees. He followed the rise and fall of the natural terrain in what was known as NOE—nap-of-the-earth flying. It was a technique used in Vietnam to protect chopper pilots from heat-seeking missiles—go low and go fast. The technique had the added benefit of keeping the thump of the helicopter’s approach dampened by the foliage and terrain. Akers flew more like an artist than a technician and coaxed every ounce of speed out of his machine.
The side doors were slid open and a warm, humid wind roared through the cabin. In the front seat Thibodaux checked the magazine in his M4.
Mahoney stared out the open door, eyes locked on the trees as they whipped by in a green blur, less than ten feet below the skids. The wind fluttered the leg of her khakis, pressing the cloth against the smooth curve of her calf. Thick reddish blond hair whipped across her face, but she made no attempt to push it away.
Quinn tensed when she suddenly spun toward him, looking him full in the face. If she’d noticed him looking at her, she didn’t mention it.
“It’s after ten,” she yelled above the roar, tapping her watch. “We’re well inside the safety zone. If he is here, there’s a good chance he’s gone hot... .” Her face was drawn, her normally rosy lips pinched and pale.
Quinn put a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her. “Palmer has the Texas Highway Patrol and the National Guard moving now to cordon off the area. We will stop this. And we’ll stop it here, one way or another.”
“If he didn’t get a cup of coffee along the way ... or ask for directions ...” Her chin quivered as if she might break down at any moment. “He only has to get Pandora to one other person we don’t know about and their plan has worked... .”
Quinn opened his mouth to stay something else, but Akers cut him off.
“Tallyho at two o’clock!” The pilot held his hand up, knifelike and pointed right of the helicopter’s nose. “According to my GPS, that white two-story up there should be your target.” He twisted in his seat to throw a tense look over his shoulder. “And you’re not gonna like what you see.”
CHAPTER 54
As she came off the last step, she ran headlong into Zafir.
A liquid scream curdled in her throat. The Bedouin folded his arms and looked hard into her face, sneering. She’d forgotten how tall he was. With his back to the sun, his body was a dark silhouette, larger than life. The monster’s eyes fell on Christian and his cruel mouth relaxed, hanging open in awe.
Carrie put the boy gently on the grass, without looking down. She wanted to scream, to warn the others inside that he was here. But her lungs felt heavy, her tongue refused to follow her brain’s commands. With the air-conditioning running full bore, she doubted if anyone inside would hear her anyway. Her brain screamed for a way out. She stood rooted in place, unable to lift a finger while before her eyes, this vile, evil man stooped and gently mussed her little boy’s hair like a long lost uncle. He whispered in hushed tones, speaking in Arabic, smiling softly as if he were actually capable of kindness. Carrie knew from long experience that was impossible.
The muscles in her arms twitched as she struggled to free herself from the paralysis. Half breaths escaped her nose in tormented sobs. Her mind raced, thinking of her poor child who was about to witness his own mother’s murder.