Midnight Sun

by Basil Sands

  The packed collection of mansions gradually thinned and gave way to something more like what he remembered as they continued south a couple of miles. Further down the road, the scene was again wooded. The occasional average house poked through heavily treed yards in the increasingly the rural setting. A smattering of ancient-looking log cabins and a few single-wide trailers with wooden additions popped into view here and there. Many of them topped with blue plastic tarps to help the roofing stay water proof under the winter snow load. These were, of course, holdouts from the old days. Most of the area had been bought up by the richest of the rich. The larger tracts of land had become estates with a much greater degree of privacy, planting massive ten-thousand square foot micro-kingdoms on their own twenty-acre parcels of arctic paradise.

  “So,” Mike said, “got any idea what we’re looking for, other than a white Audi driven by a British Albanian guy?”

  “No, not really,” Marcus replied. “I figure it will be like the old days back in Force Recon, though. If we drive around in the area where the bad guys hang out, we’re bound to run into them, or at least their trail, at some point.”

  “How far back does this road go?” Mike asked.

  Marcus pointed south. “A little ways further, it splits up into a bunch of smaller dirt roads that wind around the hills. Most of them are steep and unmaintained dirt paths. I don’t think Farrah’s Audi will be down one of those roads—it looked too clean.”

  “Yeah, he didn’t seem like the backwoods type.” Mike jerked a thumb toward the stacked mansions that made up the Prominence Point subdivision. “You think he might be up in mini Beverly Hills back there?”

  “I doubt it. While his profile fits someone who wouldn’t mind that environment, he’d be looking for seclusion. Maybe even a defensible position.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Marcus passed the new Muslim retreat center. There were no signs or markings on the road to identify its location, and he almost missed it. The owners of the center tried to stay out of the public eye as much as possible. The only reason he knew about it at all was from a popular radio talk show earlier in the year. The host was decrying the growth of fundamentalist Islam in the US and cited that even Alaska now had multiple mosques. Marcus mulled the possibility of a connection. He never liked to base opinions on stereotypes, but he had spent too many years in the Middle East fighting men who regularly used mosques as bases for military operations in hopes of giving Western forces bad press when they fought back. One of the bloodiest days in his life took place beneath the minarets of a mosque in Iraq.

  They reached the end of the paved road. Working on the assumption Marcus had made about Farrah’s character, he turned the truck around and started another pass along the main road. A few cars had passed as they drove, mostly Lexus, Mercedes, and Volvo SUVs and a couple of minivans with middle-class soccer moms at the wheel. The majority of the area’s residents were in the city at work. The giggly sound of children playing in the summer sun bounced on the air from behind a house set back from the road. Halfway back to Rabbit Creek Road, a sky-blue minivan with a taxi light on its roof topped a rise nearly half a mile in the distance.

  “Pull off!” Mike hissed.

  Marcus obeyed and turned onto a side street.

  “What’s up?” Marcus asked as he rounded the corner.

  “That cab. What’s the likelihood someone out here would hire a cab? It’d cost fifty bucks to get a ride all the way out here. And Kharzai was in a cab just like it.”

  Marcus turned the truck around and nosed back up to the intersection. The cab passed a moment later. The rear driver’s side fender was badly dented, the back bumper twisted away from the body and pointed up like a tail. Mike caught a good look at the driver as he passed. His face jutted forward, bearded neck stretched and mouth open wide. His thick black hair quivered with a sudden motion as he bobbed his head forward, presumably in time to music.

  “It’s him,” Mike said, “but that damage wasn’t there yesterday.”

  “Yeah, just as I remember him too,” Marcus replied. Memories of Kharzai's erratic antics when they first met in Iraq nearly ten years earlier played across his mind.

  “Give him some space, then let’s pull out. It doesn’t look like he saw us.”

  Marcus waited about ten seconds, then turned onto Goldenview. Kharzai’s cab was a couple hundred yards ahead. He was traveling fairly fast, the blue Ford Freestar bounding over the short rolling hills with the grace of a turtle on caffeine.

  Brake lights flared and the van abruptly slowed, then turned off the road and into a driveway, kicking up dust as he drove to the house at the end. Marcus did not slow as he passed. Mike glanced up the dirt-and-gravel drive and saw the minivan pull behind a large garage built out of the same thick logs as the house next to it. He noted the address on the side of the mailbox that stood beside the road. Marcus continued to the end of the road, then turned onto the winding, unpaved sections and took the back route to return to the highway so as not to be seen passing that house a third time.

  Chapter 19

  Captain Cook Hotel

  2:10 p.m.

  Hilde arrived in the hotel lobby to meet Lonnie. Not finding her immediately, she took a seat on one of the wide leather chairs to wait. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Mike to let the husbands know where they were going. Before the first ring started, the distinct sound of gun shots popped in rapid succession from somewhere outside. She hung up the phone and ran toward the noise, dread filling her. Through the windows, she could see that the sidewalks and streets outside the hotel were mostly empty. She ducked through a side door onto the street just in time to see a blue minivan taxi with a mangled rear bumper turn the corner away from the hotel, not speeding, driving at a normal rate and therefore not an immediate suspect. She took a step further and saw a white van jutting from the alley behind the hotel. Its front bumper was smashed, and she saw a man sitting straight up in the driver’s seat.

  There was something strange about the man, something about the way he held his mouth. She moved forward to offer help and gasped at what she saw. A solid object jutted from his open mouth. His eyes were wide with surprise. Pain and shock were captured in the tight skin around his face. The object was the handle of a knife, its blade jammed through the back of his skull, pinning him to the seat.

  A half dozen police cars and an ambulance came charging around the corner. Someone had called 911. Hilde pulled out her pistol and ran to the side of the van, flung open the side door, and saw Lonnie lying on her back. A large man's body splayed beside her, trapping her beneath his weight. Three police officers moved quickly toward her, weapons drawn.

  “Freeze!” the police officers shouted. “Set your weapon on the ground and put your hands in the air!”

  She obeyed instantly.

  “I’m FBI,” she shouted back. “My badge is in my pants pocket.”

  She pointed with the fingers of her upraised hand down toward her body.

  “Slowly pull it out, one handed.”

  Three officers kept their weapons trained on her. She reached with one hand, and using only the tips of her fingers, pulled the ID wallet from her pocket. An officer moved forward and inspected the badge and ID in the wallet.

  “She’s legit,” he called to the others. They all lowered their weapons, but did not holster them as they moved forward.

  “What happened here?” asked a sergeant.

  “Two dead men inside,” she said. “The woman is pregnant—she’s a state trooper. I think they were kidnapping her.”

  A paramedic rushed forward. Another paramedic joined him moments later. They pulled the dead man off Lonnie, and after a quick inspection, helped her to her feet.

  “What's your name, ma'am?” one asked. “Do you know where you are?”

  “Yes. I'm Lieutenant Lonnie Johnson, State Trooper. I think I'm okay.”

  “Can you walk, Lieutenant?” One of the paramedics checked the cut on her ne
ck. A sheet of sticky blood covered her skin and soaked into her collar.

  “Yes,” she said, “I can walk.”

  They got her out of the van and led her toward the ambulance. Another medic rushed toward them with the gurney. After they took several steps, she turned to look back at the white van and froze as she processed the image of what she saw against the memories of what had happened. The knife sticking out of the driver’s mouth. The blue van. The speed. The brutality.

  Lonnie looked toward Hilde. The FBI agent moved near and put her arm around her. Lonnie glanced back. Tears filled her eyes.

  "Call Marcus."

  Chapter 20

  Farrah’s Rented House

  Goldenview Drive

  3:08 p.m.

  Kharzai got out of the van and was met by Deano as he approached the back door to the garage. He reached down and scratched the dog behind his ears, a treat for which the animal was clearly thankful. He waved the dog away and casually entered the house through the breezeway. He turned in to the small bathroom off the hallway and washed the dried blood from his left hand. He muttered angrily to himself as he washed.

  "Ugh. That guy’s mouth was entirely too big, nearly swallowed my hand.” He shook his head. "I hate to think what kind of germs a pig like that carried around."

  The front door of the house opened with a slight creak. Footsteps sounded on the foyer tiles. Kharzai dried his hands and walked out of the bathroom. Spots of dried blood fanned up from the end of his shirt sleeve. The cousins were taking off their shoes and socks in the foyer. Kharzai was always amused at how they both preferred bare feet when inside, shunning any kind of foot covering like a couple of hillbillies. Leka turned to him and scrunched his face at the sight of the blood stains on Kharzai’s sleeves.

  With a curious look, he asked, "What happened to you?"

  "Cut myself shaving."

  "Your van,” Kreshnik said in heavily accented English. “It cracked."

  “Cracked? No, I think you mean crashed.” Kharzai waved off their curiosity and changed the subject. “What’s the name of that gang idiot from the train depot?"

  "Snake," Leka replied.

  "More like worm,” Kharzai said, curling his lip in disgust at the sound of the name. “He is a pathetic excuse for a human being."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because he let his dick jeopardize the mission, that's why."

  "Who Dick?" Kreshnik asked.

  "Not who, what," Kharzai corrected. He grabbed his crotch and said, "This is a dick."

  "Oh," Kreshnik replied. “I thought that balls.”

  "It's a combination package." Kharzai waved his finger in a circular motion around his groin. "But now is not the time for an anatomy lesson. Call Snake and his second—what’s his name?"

  “Blue,” Leka said.

  “Blue?” Kharzai scrunched his eyebrows in disbelief, “What kind of a name is that? Who names their child after a color?”

  Leka shrugged. “Gang names don’t need to make sense. Just sound cool.”

  “Whatever.” Kharzai started up the stairs to his room. “Tell them I want to see them both here within the hour.”

  “What do I say is reason?”

  “Do I need a reason to see them?”

  “It helps them hurry, perhaps.”

  “I am going to pay them in advance to ensure their loyalty.”

  Kharzai took a hot, steamy shower, washing away the residues of murder. He changed his clothes and stuffed the bloody shirt into a paper bag, which he would take out and toss into a public Dumpster somewhere. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the chest of drawers in the room. He stopped and stared at the specter of a man that reflected back. He was only thirty-eight, but he felt as ancient as the mountains that surrounded the city of Anchorage.

  To the casual observer, he might actually pass for someone much younger. The thick ball of hair that exploded from his scalp was still black as night. The springy curls bounced and quivered with every movement of his head. His olive-tan skin, what could be seen between the black forest of his beard and hair, was still surprisingly smooth and wrinkle free, especially considering of bad weather and abuse he had endured in more than a decade and a half of shadowy service. His body was strong, his joints limber, and his reaction time still almost superhuman. People always found it difficult to guess his age based on his physical appearance or demeanor, most assuming he was in his early twenties rather than nearly forty.

  His own impression of himself was something different. His eyes no longer sparkled the way they did in days long past, pasted over instead by a dull imitation of life, devoid of the joy that had once marked his personality. His trademark toothy grin had faded. When he tried to smile these days, he felt that he looked more like an animal bearing its fangs. Inside he was cold and empty. Since the loss of his precious Leila, nothing had been able to bring him back. At the thought of her, a lump formed in his throat. She had been beautiful. She had trusted him. He would have rescued her out of the prison of her life and they would have settled to a wonderful new world of peace and happiness.

  At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. The reality, of course, was that she may have reacted opposite what he hoped when he revealed his true identity. But now there was no way of knowing, because his true identity had caught up with her at the same time that it caught up with her father and the terrorists Kharzai had infiltrated. The CIA had tracked him and exterminated the target with extreme prejudice. In fulfilling his mission, they killed the only woman he had ever truly loved. He had unselfishly given them every ounce of his own life, faced death nearly every day for sixteen years, then when he thought of calling it quits, they stole from him the one life that offered him a chance at redemption. He could never forgive them of that crime. Never. A knock at his door snapped his thoughts back to the present.

  “Snake and Blue are here.” Leka’s voice carried through the door panels.

  “Tell them to go behind the garage and wait for me. I will be right down.”

  Leka’s bare footsteps slapped against the tile floor and back down the stairs toward the foyer. A moment later, Kharzai came out and walked through the hall to the side door of the garage. He entered and retrieved a duffel bag from a shelf on the back wall, then walked out the rear door. Snake and Blue waited for him, smoking cigarettes in the shade behind the garage. The sun had dipped several degrees into the west and now cast an increasingly lengthening shadow to the east.

  Snake adjusted his stance, holding his arms in a casual manner that tried to say, “I ain’t scared of nothin’ you got.” The attempt at a tough, ‘gangsta’ look fell way short, due in in large part to the swollen purple bruise from the blow Marcus had laid across his temple. The day after the slap down, it was swollen and framed by a jaundiced-looking yellow tinge, the puffiness reaching to to his mouth making him look like he was pouting and about to cry. Kharzai dropped the bag on the ground as the two men cautiously walked toward him.

  “Hello, boys. Welcome to our meeting,” Kharzai said in voice like a spider inviting insect visitors into his web.

  “So, what’s this all about?” Snake asked.

  “Leka told you, right? I want to pay you. Both for work done, and for what you are about to do. There are some things we need to make sure are sealed in stone, and pre-payment seems the best way to do it.”

  Kharzai leaned down and opened the bag. He pulled out a shrink-wrapped bundle of cash. He reached behind himself and felt for his knife, twisting his lips in consternation as he remembered leaving it embedded through the thug’s skull. He stretched his hand toward Snake.

  “Hand me a good sharp knife.”

  Snake stared down at the package of money. Through the plastic, he saw that the bills were all twenties, at least twelve wrapped stacks in the larger bundle. He did the calculations in his head. Nearly twelve thousand dollars cash. Snake reached into his belt and pulled out a spring-lock folding knife. He flicke
d the thumb lug, snapping it open and handed it to Kharzai, handle first.

  Kharzai took the knife and admired it briefly. The blade was four inches long, the lower third of it serrated with wicked-looking teeth. He put the point into the plastic. Snake took a step forward, greedy anticipation glimmering in his eyes.

  “This is payment for your work at the rail yard the other night while watching over Mr. Farrah.”

  Kharzai flicked the blade across the plastic wrap, then kept going. His movement was so fast and precise that neither Snake nor Blue noticed what he had done at first. Snake flinched in surprise as a sharp, cramp-like sensation bit into his abdomen. A half second later, a tsunami of pain shot through his body in an unending succession of lightning explosions, severed nerve endings screaming into his brain. He raised his hands to his belly, expecting to grab at something solid and squeeze the pain away. His grasping fingers clamped down on loose entrails that spilled into his hands in a slimy mess of blood and digestive fluids. His intestines squirmed and slithered between his fingers like live snakes as he tried in vain to stuff them back inside his body. The stench of stomach acid and half-digested food drifted up, the steamy odor stinging his nose. His mouth gaped and he dropped to his knees, then fell to his side, his brain slowly processing what had happened. His mouth finally opened and let out a high-pitched scream that made Kharzai wince. Blue stared in horror as his boss writhed in a mess of blood and filth, making horrible noises that failed to form into words.

  “Oh, shut up, you dickless wonder.” Kharzai kicked him in the face hard enough to knock several teeth loose, then turned to Blue and pointed to himself with two fingers.

  “Hey! Eyes here, on me.”

  Blue started for the gun in the back of his pants, but Kharzai poked him in the forehead with the knife handle, then turned the blade back toward him, flicking it between his eyes.