Act of Terror

by Marc Cameron

  “His wife’s name is Camille,” Fargo offered, trying to save some semblance of dignity. “Maiden name was Bottini. Her friends call her Cornmeal.”

  “Cornmeal,” Bundy chuckled, turning back to the door. “That’s messed up.”

  Sergeant Bundy pounded with his fist, rattling the entire house. Fargo felt his flesh crawl.

  “Maybe they’re not home,” he muttered, half under his breath.

  Bundy looked over his shoulder again and shook his head. “I hear footsteps. They’re home.”

  A shadow drifted across the glazed oval window and the door flew wide open.

  “Help you?” A pregnant woman leaned into the narrow gap between the door and the frame. Mussed, coal-colored hair was pulled back in a faded blue bandana. Her white T-shirt stretched tight against the beginnings of a swollen baby-belly. A small child wearing nothing but a sagging diaper clung to the leg of her gray sweatpants.

  “Gunny Thibodaux hereabouts?” Bundy asked, without introducing himself.

  “Who would be askin’?” The woman glared with haggard green eyes under a furrowed brow. Fargo thought she might be attractive if she put on a little makeup and lost the baggy sweats. She certainly filled out the white T-shirt with more than just her belly.

  Fargo stepped up next to Bundy, drawn forward in spite of his nerves. He opened his black credential case and held it at belt level. “Army CID. Actually, we’re trying to find a friend of your husband’s. Jericho Quinn.”

  Camille touched the corner of Fargo’s credential case, looking back and forth from the photo to his face.

  “Your picture don’t favor you at all.” She smirked.

  The snot-nosed kid at her leg reached up and tugged at the case, trying to have a look of his own. Fargo yanked it back and slid it in his suit pocket.

  Camille tossed her head, blowing dark bangs out of her eyes. “Listen, boys, if you’ll excuse me I got baths to give and supper to cook. Leave your card and I’ll tell Jacques you stopped—”

  Without warning, Bundy shouldered his way inside the house. Fargo’s gut lurched into his throat, but he followed dutifully.

  Camille’s look shot daggers as both men barged past.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doin?” she spat.

  Bundy scooped up the little boy and rubbed the top of his head—as if he had the capacity for affection.

  “Hey, kid.” His smile was half snarl. “You look like a tough little guy.”

  “Porca vacca!” Camille’s growled from somewhere low in her chest. The sound of it made Fargo’s jaws lock up.

  The woman’s face twisted into a silent scream. Her shoulders began to shake. “You put my baby down right damn now or so help me ...”

  “After we’ve talked awhile,” Bundy whispered, drawing the little guy to him. “I need something from you fir—”

  “I said put my baby down!” Camille launched herself at Bundy, claws out, grabbing for the child with one hand and slashing out with the other.

  Bundy kicked her hard in the belly, shoving her away as he pushed the baby out in front of him as a shield.

  Camille went down hard, falling flat on her bottom with a loud whump. Shaking her head, she sprang back to her feet in an instant, enraged past the point of seeing.

  “Okay, okay, Mrs. T.” Bundy grinned a savage grin, like someone who held all the cards.

  She grabbed the squalling baby and backed away toward the wall, eyes smoldering with rage. Her face had gone pale and she kept one hand on her stomach. The kick had hurt her more than she was admitting.

  Fargo felt his stomach churn. This was all getting so out of hand.

  “I think you’d best calm down, Cornmeal,” Bundy hissed through clenched teeth. “I’d hate to see your kid get hurt because you lost your temper.”

  “Me ne frega!” Camille screamed, flicking the fingers of her free hand under her chin in disdain. “I don’t give a damn what you’d hate.” Tears welled, but pride kept her sobs bottled up as if she might explode.

  Bundy stepped sideways over a pile of folded towels, putting some distance between himself and the furious mama bear. His eyes shot to Fargo as if to say: “Your turn.”

  Fargo held up both hands, trying to gain control of a deteriorating situation. He couldn’t help but think that if the gunnery sergeant came home now, they were dead.

  He gulped. “You have to understand, Mrs. Thibodaux. This is a matter of national security. A friend of your husband’s—Jericho Quinn—has vanished, along with his family.”

  Camille kept steely eyes trained on the men while she maneuvered her little boy behind her. “And that gives you leave to come in here and terrorize me and my kids?” She shook her head emphatically, her voice barely above a whisper. “I said get out of my house or I’m callin’ the cops—”

  Bundy clapped his hands together with a loud pop, causing everyone in the room, including Fargo, to jump. “Cornmeal,” he sneered, wagging his bald head. “We are the cops. Now, it’s important for you to know Jericho Quinn is wanted on some very serious—”

  Camille snatched up an eight-by-ten photograph of her husband in his dress blue uniform and hurled it at Bundy. The heavy pewter frame caught him square in the shoulder, shattering the glass, then bouncing off the far wall.

  “It’s important for you to know,” Camille hissed, “that I don’t aim to let anyone come bargin’ in my house uninvited! I am not gonna stand here and listen to a single word from you.” She took a half step toward them with an aluminum baseball bat she’d grabbed from behind the door.

  Bundy licked his lips. For an agonizing moment Fargo was afraid he might actually shoot the woman. Instead, the trained Echo simply raised his hands and walked toward the door. Once outside, he turned to look back. “Tell your husband we stopped by,” he said, a little too smug for Fargo’s taste.

  “Oh, I’m gonna tell him, all right.” Cornmeal Thibodaux’s lips pulled back into a hysterical laugh. “And when I do, he’s gonna shove this baseball bat up your ass.” She patted her little boy on the head without looking down. “Don’t worry, sugar. Ass is a Bible word... .”

  The house shook when Camille slammed the door behind the two intruders. Brad, her youngest, stood beside her in a sagging diaper. Already rattled, he jumped at the sudden noise and threw back his head to bawl at the ceiling. The older boys were playing down the street. That was a blessing. Both took after their daddy. Only nine and eleven, neither had a smidgen of patience when it came to a bully. Camille was sure they would have done something stupid with the two suits. They probably could have taken the one named Fargo—but the bald one had a mean bone. He was dangerous. Camille had run into men like him when she was tending bar, before she met Jacques. They were men who had a rip in their moral fabric, men who not only lacked a conscience, but reveled in the pain of other folks.

  The look he’d given her sweet little boy made her legs go weak.

  “Mama.” Denny, her seven-year-old—and the most sensitive of her boys—stood at the top of the stairs, flanked by his five- and three-year-old brothers. The three held hands, sobbing quietly as they looked down with their blinking doe eyes that always made her think of Jacques. They’d seen the whole horrible episode.

  “Mama,” Denny stammered, his little voice graveyard quiet. “Were you gonna really hit those men with my bat?”

  “If I had to, sugar.” Not much of a crier herself, emotion showed itself in crimson blotches on her neck.

  “Why was he holding Brad?” Denny was the official spokesman, but all three boys stared down at her, demanding an answer.

  A wave of nausea swept over her and she had to use the bat as a crutch to keep her feet. She caught her breath, patting the top of a squalling Brad’s head. She was a Marine wife, and these were Marine sons. There was no need to lie to them.

  “He was trying to scare me,” she said.

  “Why?” Denny demanded.

  Camille suddenly thought of the other boys playing up the s
treet. A stabbing pain shot low across her abdomen, arcing like an electric shock. A veteran of six pregnancies, she’d never felt a pain so severe.

  Overcome with nausea, she dropped the bat and fell to her knees. She doubled over, cradling her swollen belly, trying to keep from throwing up.

  Denny ran down the stairs to cup his mother’s face in both hands. “Mama! What’s the matter? Should I call nine-one-one?”

  She pulled him closer, tears of agony streaming down her cheeks. “You gotta promise me something, sugar.”

  Ashen faced, the boy nodded quickly, but sounded unconvinced. “I’m gonna go call nine-one-one—”

  Camille grabbed him by his T-shirt as he turned to get the phone. Of all her boys, Denny was the one most likely to obey her.

  Her shoulders began to shake uncontrollably. Searing pain grew like a pool of hot acid in her gut. She pulled her son close to her, using him as a support to stay upright for just a little longer. “Promise me you won’t tell your daddy about those men.”

  “But Mama ...”

  “Promise!” Camille screamed like a crazy woman.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Denny stammered. “I promise.”

  Camille fell back onto a pile of laundry, writhing, imagining she was in hell. She was vaguely aware of her son’s voice talking to the 911 operator.

  She prayed that her little guy would keep his word. Jacques could never know about the men. He was sure to kill them if he found out—and that would land him in prison.

  “Oh, Jacques,” Camille whispered, the pain growing more intense. She felt the room close in around her. He couldn’t go to prison. She felt sure she was bleeding to death inside. With her gone, the boys would need him more than ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Washington

  Congressman Hartman Drake sat against the edge of his desk, accidentally knocking a stack of loose papers onto the floor. He ignored them, focusing on the glossy photographs in his hands. In the great scheme of things they weren’t half-bad pictures. Damning, sure, but the angles were incredible and did a wonderful job of showing off his physique.

  He wasn’t a tall man, barely five feet seven, but the two hours a day he spent in the House gym showed in the way his arms and chest swelled under the starched white shirt. He was particularly proud of the fact he’d been able to bench-press three hundred and fifty pounds for three clean reps on his forty-fifth birthday. His office was rife with photographs of him skiing, horseback riding, mountain climbing, and sky diving. If it was adventurous, he did it, took a photo, and put it on his wall. The lurid photographs he now held in his hands would have fit right in with the other trophies.

  Drake peered over the top of the photographs at his aide, David Crosby. “Nietzsche had it right, you know.”

  “About what, sir?” Crosby sighed, pale eyes casting around the room like a cornered animal.

  “ ‘The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.’ See?” The congressman glared, half grinning, across the top of his black reading glasses. “I’m normal. Anyone other than you see these?”

  Crosby, a freckled Midwestern law school graduate with a sparse blond beard, shook his head emphatically. “I open all the mail myself.”

  Drake breathed a sigh of relief. If he could trust anyone it was his smarmy assistant. He’d helped the kid cheat on his bar exam. Crosby was bought and paid for.

  There were three photographs in all, each showing Drake completely nude, getting athletic with the same busty brunette. They were of excellent quality and left little doubt as to Drake’s identity. In a way, he felt bad for depriving others of a look at the pictures.

  The congressman chuckled a little despite the situation. The bitch must have had one of those hidden nanny cams. He held up the bottom photo for Crosby to see. “Come on, Dave,” he leered. “Tell me you wouldn’t make the beast with two backs if that came along and threw herself at you. I mean, if these get out, who’s gonna blame me? Besides Kathleen, I mean.”

  “Congressman.” Crosby swallowed hard, shying away from looking too long at the photograph of his boss and the brunette. “It’s obvious this is an attempt at extortion. And the timing could not possibly be any worse.”

  Drake nodded, almost absentmindedly. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off that last photo. The girl was drop-dead gorgeous, there was no question about that—with bouncing, pixie-cut hair that made him think she might be Tinker Bell’s evil twin. But this particular photo caught his quads at just the right flex... . At least if the photos got out on the Internet, he’d have nothing to be ashamed of in that regard. It was a crying shame Kathleen wouldn’t allow a camera in the bedroom.

  Drake shook his head, forcing himself to focus.

  Crosby went on with his whimpering worry fest.

  “Roger Grantham’s test results came back positive for lymphoma,” he said. “He’s giving a press conference in an hour.”

  Drake slid the damning photographs back in the envelope. So, Grantham would step down as speaker of the House. The job was as good as his.

  “You have unprecedented support from the public since you came out with the list,” Crosby said. “Tatum Hanks wants the job, but you’re the party’s certain nomination for speaker.”

  “You think so?” Drake loosened his blue and silver bow tie and undid the top button of his starched shirt. Hanks was majority whip. In other circumstances would get the party nod. But Crosby was right. In the wake of all the terrorist killings, the public and most members of Congress were lined up behind Drake.

  “So what are we going to do?” Crosby said, fidgeting with his hands.

  “David.” Drake smiled. “We are going to make certain I become speaker of the House.”

  “Sir, I mean what are we going to do about the photos? If they get out, we’re screwed.”

  Drake chuckled. “Interesting choice of words, considering.” He put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “There wasn’t any note?”

  Crosby shook his head, looking pale. “No, just the photos.”

  “Don’t look so glum, David,” Drake said. “Remember, I know this girl. I know where she lives.”

  “Do you want me to call someone in to help us ... I don’t know ... take care of the problem?”

  “Come on, Dave,” Drake belly laughed. “I’ll handle this myself. I step out on my wife once in a while. I’m not some mobster who has people whacked because they cross him. How would that look for the guy who’s about to be the number-three guy in the line of succession for the presidency of the United States?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  New York City

  Mujaheed Beg stood against the peeling yellow wallpaper of the crowded hotel room looking over his shoulder out the window. Six stories below, the clang and clatter of garbage trucks on Thirty-ninth Street helped to drown out the soup of angry voices in the suite with him. The Mervi brooded sullenly, keeping his back to the wall. It angered him that the doctor had insisted on his presence in New York when he was so close to finding out more about the dark woman who had almost stumbled onto him at Arbakova’s house.

  Still, the doctor was his employer. When he’d called to tell Beg to take the five-o’clock Acela Express out of Union Station for New York, the Mervi had grudgingly complied.

  Now he found himself at the Eastgate Tower, standing in a room that was, as many rooms were in Manhattan, little larger than a closet. The hotel was just a short distance from the United Nations. Groups of foreign nationals were the norm, even in the day and age where men with dark skin and a Middle Eastern look were viewed as potential terrorists anywhere else.

  Dr. Badeeb sat on the edge of the queen bed. He lit his sixth cigarette of the evening with the butt of his fifth, grinding out the old one in a glass ashtray on the mattress beside him. He picked a bit of tobacco off his lip and waved away the plume of blue smoke that encircled his face.

  Over the course of the last two hours, eight othe
r men had slipped into the room one at a time, each with dark faces and even darker dispositions. Some smoked, sitting on the low dresser beside the television. Others squatted along the wall, peering sullenly over black beards and thick mustaches.

  The room smelled of old cigarettes, burned coffee, and body odor. Beg was a creature of the desert and yearned for the smell of wind, or at the very least, fresh blood.

  “Brothers,” Badeeb said, waving his cigarette in the air. “Please, we must remain calm. Think of all our young friends. They have become martyrs in our struggle. Do you not see the news and what the Americans are doing to one another?”

  Mustafa Mahmoud, a gaunt firebrand from Lahore, threw up his hands. He had the only chair in the room. “I must ask you the selfsame question, Doctor. Do you not watch the news? This infidel congressman, Hartman Drake, is to be the next speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives.”

  A murmur of consent hummed around the other men in the room.

  Mahmoud continued, his words clicking off his tongue. “Have you not heard what this man says about Pakistan or Palestine or the entire Middle East? He would bomb all Muslim countries off the map if given the opportunity.”

  Badeeb pressed the flat of his right hand to his chest. “I understand your worry,” he said. “But we are compelled to continue with our original course of action. Assets are in place. We have traveled much too far to alter plans at this point in time.”

  Mahmoud stood abruptly and stared directly into Badeeb’s sweating face. Beg moved forward a half step. Watching. The others in the room fell completely silent.

  “My brothers,” Badeeb said, waving Beg to stay back. “I promise you. I myself will take care of Drake when the time is right. I am certain he will be invited to the infidel wedding.”