Cloudburst

by Pearson, Ryne Douglas

  The second doors were clear. Maybe Jackson had done what Frankie said and gone as far away as he could—the last room. They’d see, but there were two doors to check before that.

  Oh shit! Art’s door swayed back at his touch. Everything was so damn silent at that instant that he heard Eddie’s doorknob hit the stops—locked.

  Then there was a flash, but no sound—he thought. It was so quick. Another flash, and another. And then the sound, three quick explosions—POP POP POP—followed by a trailing roar, like thunder echoing in the mountains. Art was going low, falling into the doorway, his gun coming around, pointing in and up as the room’s interior came into view.

  Marcus Jackson stood about five feet inside the doorway, nearest the hinge wall. He was dark, and dressed in equally dark clothes, though there was some light sneaking in from—what were those, boards?—the outside. It shone from above on his shoulders. There was a look of surprise in his white eyes, Art saw very clearly.

  Two cracks reverberated off the walls. Art had fired. The man was propelled back and up from the impact, his hat jumping off to the side. He fell against the far wall, making a sick thud as his head struck the solid wood of yesteryear’s construction, and there was the metallic sound of a gun hitting the tile floor.

  Then all the sounds absent during the fury of the moment flooded back into Art’s head—sirens, radio calls, traffic sounds from a block away, and...

  “Eddie!”

  He was slumped on his side against the door. His eyes were semi-open and fluttering, and a strange gurgling hiss came from his mouth in a broken rhythm. And the blood—it was forming in a pool at the top of Eddie’s body, but Art couldn’t see where from.

  “Seven Sam, agent down,” Art said calmly into the radio. “Suspect also down.” He backed across the hall close to his partner, keeping his own gun centered on the dark form sprawled on the floor in the room.

  Frankie bounded up the steps, followed by the LAPD cop. Their guns were held low, two-handed.

  “Oh my God...” Frankie said as she moved down the hall.

  “It’s dark in there,” Art said. One hand cradled Eddie’s head.

  The motor cop pulled his flashlight. He and Frankie entered the room with both guns aimed in a serious way at Marcus Jackson. He was lying in a heap, his head flopped to one side. Frankie slid the gun away with her foot.

  “Cover him,” she instructed the cop. “I’ll cuff him.”

  It didn’t appear to be necessary, but it was procedure. Dead or not, a downed suspect was cuffed. Frankie would just as soon make sure he was dead, but...she rolled him over and pulled him away from the wall. There was a pool of blood and a single hole in his back. When she turned him back she saw two distinct entrance wounds in his black T-shirt. Two perfect center mass hits. There was no pulse, she discovered, feeling very soiled by the blood on her hand.

  “Check him for weapons and stay with him,” Frankie ordered. She picked up the gun by its barrel and examined it before laying it back down and going into the hall.

  “Sir, it’s a .357.”

  Art was gently stretching Eddie out flat. He heard a siren approaching and willed it to be the paramedics. Eddie had taken three slugs, though the Kevlar had luckily absorbed two of them. They were dark indentations in the fabric covering, one at the sternum and the other a couple inches above. Jackson wasn’t a trained shooter, not having compensated for the gun barrel’s rise as it recoiled from each shot. They had “stitched” up the vest. The third struck Eddie in the throat, slightly below and to the left of his Adam’s apple.

  “Ed, you hang on,” Art said loudly, hoping Ed would hear.

  Dan bounded up the stairs. “Paramedics are here... oh Jesus!”

  Art felt the bullets, each one, as though they had struck him. His gut hurt. All the agents were there now, standing back as the paramedic firemen started working on their comrade.

  “King Four,” Art said into his radio.

  “King Four.” The voice was subdued. They had heard the “agent down” broadcast.

  “Get a forensics team in there and lock it down tight. Anything obvious?”

  “Only a bag of cash. Close to a million, I’d guess. Copy?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Who’s down?”

  “Eddie—looks bad,” Art answered, knowing he had to be honest. It did look bad.

  “Yeah. Ten-four.”

  Art looked in the room at the cuffed corpse. What was the toll now? Thirty people dead since this ail started, at least that he knew of, and how many that weren’t known yet. And maybe Eddie. Why? Someone at the top wanted to link this with the hijacking. Just fucking fine. It wasn’t enough that Jackson and his brothers had gotten a cool million for helping with the slaughter at Seventh and Figueroa, and it wasn’t enough that the shooters had sacrificed themselves. Hell, the whole damn thing started with the death of that little girl, an innocent. And why had it come this far? Hadn’t there been enough vengeance, and wouldn’t there be enough funerals? Whole families were destroyed by...

  “Oh my God,” Art said aloud. His face showed fear, and anger.

  “Sir?” Frankie saw something on his face.

  “Frankie, you have the scene. I’ve gotta get to the office.”

  “Okay,” she answered.

  Art leaned in over one of the paramedics. “Ed, hang in there. I think we figured this one out Just hang on.” He looked to one of the men working on his partner and friend.

  “We don’t know,” the paramedic answered the look.

  It didn’t reassure Art, but it wasn’t a death warrant. He ran down the stairs, all the way to the bottom, and sprinted past the tangle of emergency vehicles to his car a block way. The vest came off and was tossed across the front seat to the passenger side. Art checked his holster before getting in—it was secured with the snap strap. His weapon had saved his life once again, but he hoped that, unlike the time many years before, his partner would survive.

  The intersection was clear now, blocked that way by the city cops. Art had no traffic to fight going east, back to the Bureau office.

  * * *

  It was almost seven when Art ran into his office. Carol was on her way out after a semi-normal day, unlike the previous two.

  “I need you, Carol,” he said. “It’s important.”

  She sensed the real urgency in his voice, like time was an important commodity right now. “Okay. What can I do?”

  “Get the evidence bag from the Hilton. I think it came over earlier. There’s one with a picture we took from one of the shooters—it’s of a young guy and a little girl.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Is Jerry around?”

  “No.”

  Art wanted to bounce his thoughts off someone, but he couldn’t wait. He might catch hell for going over his bosses, something he’d never done. Time. Time was a problem. “Get me a line to the director. Don’t get him on, just yet,” Art admonished her. Carol started back for her desk. Art grabbed her arm gently. “Carol, Eddie was shot.”

  “Dear God,” she responded, her voice cracking. “How bad?”

  Art shook his head. “I don’t know. It looked bad.” He rubbed her back. “I thought you should know. Now, we’ve got to do this, and you’re my right arm. Get the evidence, and the line to the director, okay? I’ll find Jerry.”

  “Okay.” She wiped her eyes and walked away.

  * * *

  Jerry Donovan took the news like any man in charge of others would. He also listened as Art quickly explained a theory, but took no position on either side of it. That was all right with Art—a least he didn’t shoot it down.

  The senior agent thought the idea was credible. It made sense, and it came from Art. That was enough. But his subordinate had also made a major error in judgment. Jerry wasn’t about to say anything at this stage, but there was going to be a change. He hated the fact that he had to make that decision.

  “Go to the director with this,” Jerry said. />
  “First I’m going to confirm something.”

  Jerry gave him the go-ahead and left.

  Art dialed the number and waited. After it was answered he found himself waiting again while Meir Shari was tracked down by an assistant, half a world away. It would be the very early morning in Tel Aviv, just the time when someone wanted to be bombarded by questions.

  The evidence bag was on his desk. In it was the picture.

  So this is all about you? Art asked the smiling girlish face. She had dark, curly hair, and big brown eyes.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. Shari. This is Arthur Jefferson, Los Angeles FBI.”

  “Good morn—well, I believe it is good evening for you.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry to accost you this early in the morning, but something very disturbing struck me a short time ago. The Khaled brothers have been identified as the killers of the president—your assistance was invaluable. Well, I was wondering if there was possibly a third brother?”

  “I don’t know. What makes you ask?”

  “This picture that we found, it looks like Nahar Khaled, but then it also looks like the older one. And they look very much alike themselves. What I’m getting at is a possible link to another event. Apparently someone in our government thinks the assassination could be related to the hijacking, and that would make sense when trying to figure out a reason.”

  “Can you hold on while I check? We may not have a file on another brother, but there might be a notation of one in a family reference. It is a chance.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Art wondered if he was creating something where nothing was. No. Something was fitting together, making sense. If there was a third Khaled, he could be the link, but beyond that he would provide the reason for this all. The assassination, as strange as it might seem, might have been only a prelude to a greater attack, one that the Khaled brothers had been cajoled into. They had a true sense of vengeance, and Art really couldn’t blame them for that honest emotion. Someone had used them.

  “Arthur.”

  “Yes?”

  “You are truly a psychic. There is an older brother. Saad Khaled. There is a notation that the little girl’s body was released to her brother for burial. The two others were deported by this time, so it had to be another. We find that sometimes deportees sneak back in and use the names of others. That does not appear to be the case here.”

  “Dear God, Meir...” Art had figured right, and the rest now made complete sense. He had the link, the motive, the players, and most important of all, the intent. “I have to go. Thank you so much.”

  “Good luck, and shalom.”

  Art had no time to waste. The last news he’d heard was that the aircraft had left the Canaries. He buzzed Carol and asked for the director.

  What had been a murder investigation with probable international ties now was small in comparison to what he knew was going to happen. Art was relieved, but still found himself taking deep breaths to compensate for the tightness in his chest.

  Chicago

  He was no longer in his Army uniform. That had been stripped off him during booking and was replaced by a white jumpsuit. His left hand was cuffed to the table, which was bolted to the floor for obvious reasons. Sammy’s hastily arranged attorney from the PD’s office sat next to him.

  “Gentlemen.” His name was Bob Lomax, the special agent in charge of the Chicago field office of the FBI, and at the moment, he was one pissed agent. Word had spread that a brother agent was lying in the hospital, a bullet in his body, an event only slightly mitigated by the fact that the perp had bitten the big one. So you’re his brother. Have we got a surprise for you. Lomax was a tough agent, but one blessed by both street and administrative finesse. There was a need here, for information. All else was secondary—he could hate this man later.

  “Lomax,” the attorney began, “this is highly irregular. You won’t release my client to custody, instead you keep him—keep us—in here.” He motioned to the cubic room. “Let’s all get some sleep. How about it?”

  Bob Lomax smiled at the lawyer, then shifted his happy gaze to Sammy. “Sam, guess who’s here to see you. Well, actually he’s here to see us, but maybe we can arrange it so he can drop by.”

  “Who...who are you talkin’ ‘bout?” Sammy asked. He was shooting looks between his lawyer and Lomax.

  “Your brother,” Lomax answered, his smile becoming cheeky.

  “Marcus? He’s here?”

  “No, he’s dead.” The smile disappeared instantly. His face was flat, physically and emotionally.

  “What?”

  “Lomax, what the hell is this?”

  “You, mister attorney, had better listen carefully, just in case your client is too grief-stricken to comprehend what is happening.” He turned back to the youngest Jackson. “Your brother shot and seriously injured an FBI agent in Los Angeles before he was killed. Now, you can and will be held as an accessory to assault on a federal law enforcement officer, plus multiple counts of conspiracy to commit murder, and anything else we can find. You are had, Mr. Jackson. We have you cold. The cases that held the weapons used in the assassination were found with the stencils still on them. Marcus wasn’t too bright, huh? And interestingly there was an inventory done just prior to a certain duty shift you worked, and those weapons were logged in—still in their packing crates. But,” Lomax said sarcastically, bringing a finger to his lips, “some of your fellow soldiers just finished another inventory and—guess what?—the weapons are gone. Can you believe that?”

  “This is unheard of!” the lawyer protested, which only earned him a wave-off.

  “And you know what? Your brother Ernest is next door saying that he knows nothing about any of this. He says his El Rukn days are far behind him, and he does have a hell of an alibi. So, it looks like you’re going to take this rap all alone.”

  “My client has not even been arraigned, Lomax!”

  “He will be...alone.”

  Sammy tried to stand but was held down by the restraint. “No way! Ernie was the one, man.”

  “Sammy!” his attorney shouted. “Keep quiet.”

  “You shut up! This is my life, man. I didn’t do all this alone. Ernie set it up, man—him and his Rukn bros.”

  “Do you want to talk, Sammy?”

  “Hell yes!”

  Lomax looked to the frustrated PD. “Shall I get a DA in here, and a crew?”

  “Go ahead, why not?” he answered, giving his client a glance filled with pity. Stupid kid. “It’ll get thrown out, anyway.”

  “You think so?” Lomax walked to the door. “I’m not so sure.”

  For the next thirty minutes Sammy Jackson spoke slowly and clearly into the microphone, telling all, while the video camera saved every sickening moment of it.

  Fifteen

  PENANCE

  East of Benghazi

  He was not of Berber descent, which meant he had spent most of his early life in or near the city. The vast openness of the desert was alien then. He had come to appreciate it later as commander of the 3rd. Its location, far enough from Benghazi to render the city lights’ glow an afterthought, made it an ideal spot to stargaze. Stars cast a light all their own on moonless nights, of which this night was not one. There was a small sliver of a crescent high in the sky. It would begin to fade soon. Muhadesh looked to the east. No trace of the coming day was yet visible.

  It was quiet and cool. The engine of the jeep was off and losing warmth. Muhadesh felt the little remaining on his butt as he leaned against the hood. He wore his blousy dress greens and the beloved mottled-pattern commando parka. At his side was the World War II vintage Makarov from al-Dir.

  “My friend, what would you think of me?” He asked the sky. Al-Dir, the warrior patriot, would shoot him, Muhadesh knew. “You have not done what I have. You killed our enemies.” I killed our people, he added silently, afraid that his friend might somehow appear in the darkness.

  The Americans had gi
ven him a way to relieve his guilt, to exorcise the ghosts that haunted him, or so he thought. He had no particular love for the Americans, but he did love his homeland. Why, then, had he betrayed it? To avenge those I have murdered, he would answer, knowing there was a more correct response. He had to hide his guilt. Masking his own culpability was essential. I am alive. So many had died because he had chosen life for himself. I could have said no. Yes, he had saved lives with his treachery, but he wondered if the number saved was not hopelessly outweighed by those who had perished at his own hands, and those slaughtered by his students. I am alive, while they are damned to eternal sleep.

  Muhadesh walked away from the vehicle. He faced north. The ocean was far away, yet he felt himself drowning where he stood. Again the quiet surrounded him, driving away his thoughts, and then he heard it: faint, still, and far away. It was an unmistakable sound. He slid the right side of his parka back.

  * * *

  It was a world of noise in the blackened cabin. Both side doors of the SH-60 Oceanhawk were fully open, with camo-clad Marines dangling their legs out, their M-16s pointing downward into the darkness. The night-vision goggles on their eight faces looked like stubby binoculars pasted on welding goggles. Each of the two pilots wore them also, as did Dick Logan.

  “Pickup in two minutes,” the pilot announced, though he didn’t know exactly who he was picking up—a friendly, he had been told. He was flying at fifty feet in his hastily painted helicopter—he liked the “mean” look of its squat, black body—trying to pick out a man-size object, which was supposed to be there, but might not. He had flown special ops in the Gulf War, over similar terrain, and was familiar with the reality that “packages” weren’t always where they were supposed to be, when they were supposed to be there.

  “FLIR is showin’ nothin’,” the right-seater said. The Forward Looking Infrared sensor would pick up any ambient heat, such as that generated by a man’s body, on a narrow track out a few hundred meters to the helicopter’s front.

  “Right. Mister, is this guy supposed to signal us, or what?”

  “That’s not in the plan,” Logan answered honestly. To either side of him the eight jarheads swept their areas of observation.