No, Faysal knew with growing certainty, this man running toward them up the runway and about to touch the tip of the Cessna's wing-heaven knew what he intended to do once he reached it-was not with the United States government. He was just an average American. And in this holy war, all Americans were targets.
"He is just some harmless fool," Faysal said. "When he gets close enough that there is no risk of hitting the plane, shoot him. Use a silencer. We will dispose of the body in the woods."
Faysal tightened his jaw, which, despite a morning ritual of Nair and painful home-hair-removal strips, was still speckled with the dark stubble of a Riyadh street beggar.
Faysal was certain all would still go exactly according to plan. He was certain of this straight up until the moment the running stranger ripped the wing off the Cessna.
The cluster of Arabs near the hangar blinked, stunned.
It was true. Their eyes had not lied.
The stranger's fingers had seemed to barely brush the surface of the wing. With a shriek of metal, it tore away from the main body, leaving ragged strips on the fuselage.
As the gathered men watched in growing shock, the wing and its suddenly dead engine fell back on the runway. The Cessna, coasting forward with one wing engine, began to spin away from Faysal and the rest.
"What manner of man is this who can tear a plane apart with bare hands?" one of the men near the hangar breathed.
Faysal barely heard. He was listening to a new sound.
Over the crashing of the tumbling wing and the spluttering of the Cessna's one dying engine, Faysal al-Shahir heard a terrible sound that froze his very marrow. It was the sound of a man whistling. Strong and confident, it carried across the small airport.
During his time in America, Faysal had deliberately stayed out of the sun to keep his skin as light as possible. But at this moment, that particular precaution proved unnecessary. As he watched the plane roll out of control and heard the first strains of that sweet, terrifying song, the color drained from the face of Faysal al-Shahir, leaving behind a sheet of ghostly white.
"That is no man," Faysal whispered with certainty, his voice laced with doom.
Faysal al-Shahir knew well of Heaven. For their coming sacrifice on Earth, he and his fellows in the Martyrdom Brigade had been promised an eternity of palaces and plentiful concubines in the next life. And Faysal knew equally of Hell, home of torment for the unworthy. For its wealth and power in this world, America had made a pact with Satan. And before Faysal was the proof.
For many months, throughout the al-Khobar movement there had been rumors of an agent from Satan's realm who had come to Earth. America's unholy bargain with the prince of the underworld had come with a protector, a creature in the shape of a man who struck without warning and slaughtered without mercy. On the soil of Asia and Europe and America had this creature trodden. And death had followed.
While the troops grew fearful, the al-Khobar leadership tried to squelch these tales of the unstoppable devil who wielded an invisible sword in the name of the hated West. Faysal had never believed the stories. Until this night.
When the awful melody started-the whistling song described by witnesses to horrors beyond human comprehension-Faysal knew with certainty that it was all true. And if rumor could be trusted, no force of man could stop this creature. Death was coming for them all.
Helpless in the chilly Arkansas night, Faysal al-Shahir could only stand and listen to the approaching song of America's Hell-summoned demon.
AS HE TORE the left wing off the speeding Cessna, Remo Williams continued to whistle a peppy version of "La Cucaracha." He was still whistling as he let the wing slip from his fingertips.
As the wing banged and spiraled away behind him, Remo was already ducking under the belly of the plane.
The crippled Cessna whipped around in a 180-degree arc.
Remo came up on the other side. A sharp hand caught the leading edge of the second wing. The momentum of the plane sliced around his stationary hand.
The second wing plopped off into his upturned palms. He caught it with a tidy flourish and a click of his heels.
"La-la-la-la-la-la-la! Ole!" Remo sang as he flung the wing with its dead engine deep into the dark woods.
The Cessna rolled to a dead stop. As it did, the small door popped open and two furious men sprang to the tarmac. With shouts of angry Arabic, they aimed rifles at Remo.
"U.S. health inspector," Remo announced to the men, ignoring the guns leveled at his chest. "We had a tip at HQ there'd be a cockroach incursion tonight. And what do you know? Here you are. Prepare for fumigation."
The two new arrivals sized up the thin young American in his black T-shirt and matching chinos. They seemed to regard him more as an annoyance than a threat. They shouted to the men over at the hangar.
The men who had been awaiting the plane were already racing over. Only Faysal al-Shahir remained rooted in place.
All five men surrounded the thin young man who had torn the Cessna to shreds, seemingly with his bare hands.
"Who do you work for, American?" asked one of the new arrivals, a higher-up in the al-Khobar organization.
"Funny you should ask," Remo said. "I've just spent half the day sorting that one out. But I think Upstairs has gotten the message now. Technically I'm a free agent who hires out to one guy at a time. One boss, one set of orders. Simplifies the chain of command, don't you think?"
"Who is, as you say, 'Upstairs'?" asked one of the al-Khobar agents, prodding Remo with a rifle barrel. "Is this American slang for CIA?"
"Didn't you hear? We decided we didn't need the CIA anymore. That is, until we got attacked and needed something to give the politicians a fig leaf for blowing our spy budget on daffodil stuff like measuring cow farts and making sure little Timmy gets a free lunch at school. And what's with that anyway? In my day parents were able to master the complexity of smearing peanut butter and jelly on two slices of bread."
Obviously the terrorist wasn't satisfied with this response. His gun barrel jammed harder into Remo's ribs. Or at least it tried to. To the terrorist it felt as if Remo's rib was hinged. It swung out of the way of the barrel.
"What are you doing here?" the al-Khobar leader asked.
"I told you, I was sent to crunch cockroaches. My boss is wired in to this stuff. Don't ask me how he does it. But he figured out what your plan was. How next week you were going to blow up a couple of little bridges out in the middle of nowhere. Then with the authorities distracted in the heartland, how a few hours later you were going to fly planes loaded with explosives into commodities exchange buildings in big cities. Chicago, Atlanta, wherever the hell they are around the country. He even found out that you'd gotten smart this time and bought your own flight school here, rather than run the risk of taking lessons somewhere else. And he knew a couple of big shots were coming in to oversee the final stages of everything. That's you. I've already taken out the rest of your teams. You fellas are the last."
As Remo spoke, the two new arrivals glanced at each another with growing shock. Their latest scheme was only supposed to be known to the upper echelon of the al-Khobar terrorist organization. Yet this American had just recited all of the broad details.
To insure secrecy, the various al-Khobar cells around the country operated independently of one another. It would take hours to track them through channels to find out if they had indeed been dismantled.
In the meantime, there was one thing that could be done.
The time for questions was over. Exchanging tight nods, the two newest men promptly opened fire on the American agent. The other terrorists fumbled with their guns and followed suit. Barrels flashed and bullets screamed through the night.
Remo danced around the volley of lead. "Now, you've probably noticed that I don't have any cans of pesticide," he said as the men continued to fire. "That is because I am an environmentally friendly, completely organic exterminator. Spraying is for sissies. For dealing with the really big co
ckroaches like yourselves, we enviro-organo-exterminators adhere almost exclusively to the bang-crunch method." He held up a finger. "Observe."
He vanished.
The stunned terrorists stopped firing.
When they twirled around to look for Remo, they found that he had somehow reappeared ten feet from where he had been standing, directly behind one of the baffled terrorists. The man had only an instant to wonder why all of his companions were suddenly staring directly at him.
Remo grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. "Abra cadaver," he announced.
And with that, the terrorist was airborne. A human missile, he zoomed at the crippled Cessna. When he hit the fuselage, the plane went bang and the head went crunch.
As the dead man crumpled to the runway, the remaining terrorists wheeled back on Remo.
"Of course, if you don't like bang-crunch, we've got other options," he said.
"Kill him!" an al-Khobar leader screamed.
The men opened fire once more. Stray bullets peppered the tail of the plane, somehow missing the thin American who was even now advancing on the group of desperate terrorists.
"There's pop-splat," Remo said.
Blurry hands found the sides of a terrified terrorist's bleached head. A single squeeze and the dome of his skull went pop. The splat came a few seconds later when his cannon-launched brain hit the roof of the distant hangar.
"Or maybe crack-crack-whomp."
A twirling toe took out the kneecaps of one man with successive cracks. A nudge as Remo darted by sent the tumbling terrorist to the ground with a whomp so powerful it shook the near runway and collapsed the man's skeleton to a formless lump encased in a shroud of purple polyester.
"Or thump-bong."
A thump from an unseen heel sent a head sailing from a set of shoulders. The decapitated head landed in a trash barrel near the closed hotdog stand with a rattling bong.
All told, it took no more than ten seconds. When Remo was through, there was only one al-Khobar terrorist left alive on the runway. The man stood in shock, gun hanging slack from his shaking hands, as he stared down at the dismembered, flattened corpses that had been the pride of the al-Khobar Martyrdom Brigade. He dropped his gun.
"I surrender," he cried in English, falling to his knees. "See, I love America, in all her sinful decadence." To prove it, he pressed his lips to the ground.
As he gave the ground a sloppy, wet kiss, a shadow cut between the al-Khobar leader and the nearer runway lights.
Remo loomed above, his face now grave. "But you know," he said, not listening to the terrorist leader's words, "if you want to know my personal preference for cockroaches like yourself, there's nothing in my book that beats just plain old squashing."
He put his heel on the al-Khobar leader's head, just behind the ear. Very slowly, so that the man could feel every fused section in his skull separate, Remo proceeded to squash the man's skull. The terrorist screeched and howled in what was the most excruciating minute of his life, but which was only prelude to his eternal punishment.
When he was done, Remo cleaned the sole of his leather loafer on the dead terrorist leader's shirt.
He turned his cold eyes toward the hangar.
Faysal al-Shahir was on his knees. Rooted in place, he had watched the horror from afar.
Remo walked over to him.
"You heard of me?" Remo asked.
Faysal nodded. "You are the devil's minion."
"No," Remo said coldly. "I'm the soul of America. I'm every crippled tourist you bastards push off a cruise liner in the name of religion. I'm every Marine you blow up while he's sleeping. I'm every stockbroker with two kids and a mortgage who just sat down at his desk to eat a jelly doughnut only to have the building blown out from underneath him. I'm America. And I'm pissed." He fixed his dead eyes on Faysal, boring through to the terrorist's dark soul. "Today is your lucky day. You get to live. Tell all your brother cockroaches America is coming for them. And we will show them no mercy, for they have earned none."
And Remo was gone.
Faysal didn't try to track the dark stranger with his eyes. A ghost of vengeance could not be followed. He was alone once more. And in the suddenly chill night air, Faysal heard a voice in the wind, but it was not the voice of one, but the voice of millions united. And he knew in his heart that the end would come and that when it finally did, it would not be the end that had been promised.
On his knees at the small airport, surrounded by dark woods, Faysal al-Srahir buried his face in the ground of the nation he had been taught to hate. And wept.
Chapter 3
In social situations whenever anyone asked Elizabeth Tiflis what she did for a living, her response was always the same. She'd vaguely say she was in publishing and then would promptly change the subject.
On those occasions when the hint wasn't taken and she was pressed for details, she would put a hand to her forehead, feign a headache and quickly excuse herself. After that it was the street, her car and home. One time she had even climbed out a bathroom window in order to avoid a particularly stubborn interrogator.
The truth was, Elizabeth liked talking about work about as much as she liked having a tooth drilled. To Elizabeth, her job was a necessary evil. It was just something embarrassing she had to do to pay the bills. If she could find other work, she would. It was just that the industry had gotten so cutthroat in the past decade. It was hard to get a break, especially with her background.
It was her own fault. Fresh out of college, she had taken the first offer that had come her way. How was she supposed to know that it would poison the well for future employment? But it had, and so she was stuck as copy editor at a New York publishing house. Her mother had told her time and time again it wasn't like she had anything to be ashamed of. After all, she didn't exactly work for Hustler.
"It's worse than porno, Mom," Elizabeth would lament. "I work for Vaunted Press."
"I know, dear," her mother would reply. "And I'm very proud of you. They're famous. I see their ads in the backs of all my favorite magazines."
Elizabeth had long ago stopped trying to explain to her mother that legitimate publishing houses don't advertise for clients alongside astrologers, at-home tanning beds and term-paper 800 numbers.
Vaunted Press was what was known as a vanity press. One of many self-publishing houses around the country, Vaunted would, for a fee, publish anything that came its way.
It was a lucrative market. Everyone with a word processor and fingers fancied themselves a writer. They couldn't wait to send their manuscripts to Vaunted for a "professional critique."
Although she held the title of copy editor, Elizabeth mostly just read over-the-transom manuscripts. In that she was little more than a rubber stamp. Unless it came in on a wet Kleenex, very little was rejected by Vaunted.
Elizabeth would scan a few grimy pages that spilled out of each ratty manila envelope. A little pen tick in the corner of the cover letter signified Vaunted's interest in the book.
Those whose books were greenlighted would be sent back an enthusiastic form letter stating Vaunted's interest. In a few short months after acceptance, men and women whose work had been previously unpublishable would be allowed the giddy thrill of seeing their words in print.
"As well as the thrill of being bilked seven grand," Elizabeth muttered as she walked down the main hallway of Vaunted's Manhattan offices.
"What?"
Elizabeth blinked. She'd been daydreaming again. She glanced over at the young woman walking alongside her.
"Sorry," Elizabeth said. "My mind's gone. What were you saying?"
Her companion shook her head. "Is your job bugging you again?" asked Candi Bengal. Candi was twenty-five, a secretary and had a body that was equal parts boobs, bleach and Botox. "If you ask me, you shouldn't be so bothered by it. You're doing something that makes people happy."
"And poor."
"There you go again. You think too much, Lizzie. You shouldn't think so much abo
ut work. Take me. I dance nights and weekends at that club I told you about. You think I care what people think? Hell, no. My boyfriend-the bouncer I told you about? With the snakes?" She patted her stomach.
Elizabeth didn't need to be reminded about Candi's boyfriend's snake tattoos. Candi told her anyway. She was talking about body art and weird skin rashes when the two of them reached the break room.
A delivery man was just leaving, wheeling a cart filled with empty plastic jugs. The clear blue containers bore the same waterfall logo as the man's jacket and cap.
"Morning," he said, holding the door open with his heel.
"Thanks," Elizabeth said, grabbing the door. Humming, the man pulled his cart down the hallway and out of sight.
"See, that's just the kind of guy I can't stand," Candi proclaimed as she stepped over to the small fridge. "Treating us like a couple of grandmas. You want a Loco?"
Elizabeth was barely listening. Rather than trail Candi to the fridge, she made a beeline for the opposite corner.
"No, I'm all set," she said, taking her Powerpuff Girls coffee mug from the shelf.
"I thought you didn't do morning coffee," Candi said.
"I don't. My mom lost nine pounds cutting out soda. Thought I'd give it a try."
Candi scrunched up her nose. A few men and women were filtering into the room. Most headed for the coffee machine.
"You're not gonna stop at just nine pounds?" Candi asked, tipping to get a look at Elizabeth's thighs.
"We can't all be exotic dancers," Elizabeth said thinly.
She took her mug to the watercooler and thumbed the blue tab. The tank burped as she filled the coffee mug.
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