Fire in the Blood

by Perry O'Brien

  While he talked he removed his purchases from the shopping bag: a bulb syringe, a pack of three road flares, two boxes of waterproof matches, a rubber toilet flapper with a four-inch chain, and a refillable pressurized spray can. Using his knife, Coop carefully removed each item from its packaging, being sure to get all the tags and labels. It was easier to tell the story while doing something with his hands, but still Coop felt his throat closing up when he got to the part about finding the boy in the temple. He closed his eyes and went quickly through the rest. Then listened in the silence while Jackie typed. A slow, methodical clacking.

  He opened his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. Jackie was still typing, and while he waited, Coop pulled the final item from his bag. The hardware store hadn’t sold kitchen timers. Instead, the owner had pointed Coop toward a heavy mechanical switch called a Shabbat clock.

  Jackie cleared her throat. “Specialist Cooper, I just want to make sure you understand…”

  “Yes?” Coop noticed her voice had assumed a more formal tone.

  “We don’t normally collect evidence against soldiers.”

  “I know,” said Coop. “I just wanted someone to write it down. Thank you.”

  Jackie was silent again. Coop got up, still holding the phone, and went to the bathroom. He opened the door, wincing from the fumes. In the bathtub was a one-liter plastic bucket, and in the bucket, several chunks of styrofoam floated in a slurry of liquid soap and butane, slowly dissolving.

  “So…” said Jackie. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss about your current legal situation?”

  “No thanks,” said Coop, kneeling at the edge of the tub. With a toilet plunger he carefully stirred the mixture. “I think I’m set.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Kosta steered the van down a dark, wooded road. He came to a stop in the middle of the two-lane, cranked the wheel, and turned sharply toward a break in the trees, branches slapping the windshield as they rolled down an unmarked access trail and into the wilderness of Pelham Bay Park. It was the largest protected woodland in all of New York, encompassing three times more acreage than Central Park—this according to the guidebook Luzhim had given Kosta when he first arrived in the city. Even during the hotter months there were few visitors, and in winter the park became a frozen wasteland. Over the last few years Kosta had familiarized himself with the overgrown terrain. It was an excellent place to conduct business. Now he followed a familiar route, the trail intersecting with an old bridle path that veered south toward the iced-over pond. It was the same way he’d taken Dr. Presser; now he carried a new passenger.

  Kosta couldn’t see Sean but he heard him, mumbling from somewhere in the mud-smeared shadows. He sensed the kid was fading. Earlier that day he’d been surprised to find the crude drawings on the wall of the van, but more unnerving was the ashy color of Sean’s skin, the way his clothes hung about him like a cloak. And Kosta and begun to smell the reek of death on him, these last few days in the van, waiting for the phone call.

  Now, finally, the call had come.

  Up ahead there was an opening in the trees, where Kosta sighted a dark shape of rubble. He eased the van over, the chain-wrapped tires crunching through the snow, and pulled up next to the ruined brick building. According to his travel guide, this had once been a train station connecting the mainland Bronx with City Island, but the track had been abandoned for nearly a century. Dunes of snow were swept high against the brick walls, and the roof had fallen away to reveal blackened timber posts.

  From under his seat Kosta retrieved a bundle of blankets, tightly wrapped in tape. Inside was his rifle, a short-barreled Kel-Tec with a folding stock, a night vision hunting scope, and a noise suppressor made out of an oil filter.

  Kosta locked Sean inside the van, then followed the trail south, the rifle slung from his back. He pulled his big fur-lined coat around himself. The temperature was dropping fast. Kosta followed the path about a hundred meters as it bent around a rocky embankment, then veered off to the left, trudging upslope. The trees were thick and he grabbed at small branches to pull himself along. After a few minutes of climbing he arrived at a rocky bluff crowned in a thicket of pine. On the southwest side was a deadfall, and here Kosta took a knee, his breath coming hard in his throat. With one glove he brushed snow from the log and propped up the rifle, scoping the terrain below. The night vision optics reduced the world to a depthless green field. Kosta could make out the bright curving trail and the pond, a black abyss, and far off, the dim emerald haze of the city.

  Satisfied with his position, Kosta pulled out his GPS unit. He waited for the satellites to acquire his location, then ordered the machine to share these coordinates through a channel he’d given to the Bellantes’ representative. It made him nervous, broadcasting his position, but he hadn’t been able to devise a better way of arranging the meet. Directions would be too unreliable in the frozen wilderness, and after all, he didn’t want the bagman to get lost. Kosta was still fooling with the GPS when he heard the nearby crack of a branch.

  He looked up and listened. Something moving, out in the wind-still forest.

  Kosta brought the scope to his eye. Nothing but trees. Then came another gentle snap. Turning toward the sound, he spotted a figure in the undergrowth: a small deer, profiled between the crosshairs. The animal was no more than thirty yards away, stepping carefully through the hardened snow on the far side of the trail. Kosta watched the deer raise its head to sniff at a frost-heavy branch. It was an opportunity, he realized, to test the rifle. He hoped he wouldn’t need the weapon, but one never knew. Kosta held his breath.

  The deer bent to sniff at the snow. When it straightened, Kosta applied gentle pressure to the trigger.

  The deer lurched, a dark cherry bursting on its neck, and fell off at a stagger. Kosta tracked its fleeing haunches until it vanished among the trees. He was pleased with the silencer. There had been the clinky echo of the rifle’s action, but no gunshot.

  From his pocket came a ringing chirp, foreign in the massive darkness. Kosta checked his GPS and saw that a second dot had appeared on the screen. The bagman, approaching from the southern tip of the park. He settled back into his sniper’s nest and watched the screen. One blip inching toward the other.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Coop made his way through knee-deep snow. All around him were dense trees and dark night. The cold was getting to him, despite his winter gear: the Gore-Tex camo jacket, long thermal underwear, and the Christmas sweater, which he wore for good luck. He was sweating heavily, and every time he stopped, the sweat began to freeze and he felt a lancing pain in his feet and fingers. Eva would not approve.

  He paused to readjust his rucksack, yanking on his shoulder straps to center the weight on his back. He checked the GPS that Melody had given him. The screen showed a God’s-eye view of the park, fourteen kliks of green spread across the northeastern Bronx. Coop’s position was marked with a small dot, and a trail of pixels showed the ground he’d already covered. A brighter pathway connected him to a second dot, the other GPS, still three kliks northeast. Coop was concerned about his progress. At this rate he estimated he could cover a half klik every hour, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep up that pace.

  Coop tried to move faster, grunting with pain. The trees thinned ahead and he was surprised to see dim constellations, tiny breaches of light in the smog that hung above the city. Coop felt his heart stammer with primal exhilaration. It was the same feeling he got on missions, that nervous, hollow buzzing of his senses. In one breath he thought about land navigation, the next, a whispered cadence rose up in his mind, something from Eva’s book—one day he will make restitution for blood—and then his attention was back on the march—low temperature, uneven terrain, lots of jostling. He worried about the effect these conditions might have on the bomb in his rucksack. Coop didn’t have a particular plan for the device. He knew
he was entering an environment saturated in falsehood and misinformation, and there was no procedure for such a situation, just principles, such as the plaque on his commander’s wall: BE POLITE. BE PROFESSIONAL. BUT HAVE A PLAN TO KILL EVERYONE YOU MEET.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Coop smelled the deer before he saw it, a sudden odor of hot blood. Coming over a frozen stream he saw the animal capsized in a dark patch of snow, and Coop halted for a moment, listening. He crossed the stream and knelt beside the corpse. A dark puncture in the deer’s neck indicated where it had been hit, and Coop found a larger, ragged opening in the shoulder where the bullet had exited. He put a hand on the deer’s flank. The body was still warm.

  The wind went down Coop’s neck. He turned and looked around at the woods. The forest was cold and shadowed, with no movement in the trees. Coop checked the plugger and saw he was less than a half klik from the designated meet site. The deer was freshly shot and he hadn’t heard a thing. So that’s how it is, thought Coop. He wondered how many of them were hidden out here. Three he’d seen in the basement, four including Sean. Maybe Sean and the Albanians were working together. They screw over Theo, kill me, and walk away with the money. Okay, Coop reminded himself, but you have something they want. The money. It would be a mistake to go up there with the case. Better to hide it. Coop looked around where he stood. Trees and snow and no prints other than his own and the slurred bloody track of the fallen deer. He wanted to stash the case someplace he’d be able to find it again. Coop looked at the deer, steaming in the night. He took his Strider from his pocket and opened the blade.

  A few minutes later he was crawling up toward the bridle path. Coop heard his own breathing coming raggedly and tried to stifle his breaths as the numbing wet snow crept closer around him in the darkness. He crested the trail. The moon lent pale streaks through the forest canopy and by this light he saw the half-buried architecture of a railway station. Parked nearby, a white van.

  Coop considered his options, sifting through the frozen slush of his brain for a formal plan. He moved on his elbows and knees through the dead branches, keeping to the shadows.

  * * *

  —

  Kosta watched through his scope as a snow-covered man appeared at the eastern edge of the trail. He brought his face from the scope to check the GPS: the two glowing dots coincided. Kosta held his breath, pressed one eye to the scope and leaned forward from his position behind the deadfall.

  The figure low-crawled farther from the shadow of the trees. Kosta saw the bagman’s face illuminated within the green glow of the scope and was surprised to recognize the soldier. The one they’d questioned in his basement, who’d stabbed Buqa in the neck with those poisoned needles. Who’d made her go insane.

  Instinctively Kosta’s thumb depressed the safety catch. He let his breath escape his mouth, halting the silent exhalation as the scope’s crosshairs bobbed toward the center of the soldier’s frame. His finger paused on the trigger. The bagman wasn’t carrying a bag.

  A flutter of panic. Kosta took his eyes from the scope. He puzzled over the new information. Why send the soldier? he wondered. Were the Bellantes trying to betray him?

  Kosta turned back to the scope and found the soldier paused at the tree line. The thing to do would be to hit him in the leg. Let him cry out, see if there were any others, and if he was alone, Kosta could go down and talk to him. Find out what was going on. This new plan was just taking shape when the soldier vanished, moving backward on all fours the way he’d come.

  Kosta swore.

  He waited for a second, watching the tree line. Listening. Then, moving very slowly, Kosta eased himself up from his cover and followed the soldier down the hill.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Coop backtracked from the trail, crouching to keep a low profile. Every few steps he stopped to listen. The forest had assumed a new stillness and he was conscious of his aching, clumsy body as he struggled down the slope. His prints led him back to the killed deer. Coop took a knee amid the snow and the spilled guts and tried to get his thoughts in order. The trail was too exposed. If he were to walk out there, it would be easy for the Albanian to kill him from concealment. What Coop wanted to do was reverse that position.

  He’d noticed an outcropping of rock up the near crest. If he could place himself there, out of sight, it was just a matter of luring the Albanian down. Coop looked around at the churned-up snow. His footprints would be a problem. I can backtrack farther, he thought, back toward the rails. Then range around and settle among the rocks. He took out the GPS unit, knelt, and wedged it under the deer’s body. The Albanian will get impatient. He’ll come looking for the money, and when he finds it, I’ll be watching.

  Coop had rigged the explosive in the money case with a two-phase ignition system. Undoing the latches would cause the can to empty itself, filling the case with a payload of flammable jelly, and opening the lid would spark the detonator. The result would be a spectacular fireball—assuming the device worked. The possibilities for malfunction were endless. His hike through the woods might have shaken the components from their proper alignment, or maybe the man in the store had sold him faulty hardware. In his apprehension of these many variables, Coop was struck with a sudden insight into the mind of his country’s enemies. What faith it required, or what desperation. To take up your mission, your very life, and endow all this to the fragile clockwork of a handmade bomb.

  He was still kneeling in front of the deer when Coop heard a rustle of snow. The sound came from behind him. His thoughts fell away in a panic, but instead of turning he stared straight ahead, willing the noise to breeze past him and reveal itself as something innocuous, a rabbit, perhaps, or maybe a scavenging bird. Again came the rustle.

  Coop turned and found himself facing a hooded man.

  He wore a massive cloak of fur and snow. The rifle in his hands was pointed at Coop’s chest.

  “Ssshhh,” said Kosta.

  Moving slowly, Coop pulled his gloves out from under the deer. The knife was in his coat pocket and his hand floated in that direction, his fingers moving as if independent of the rest of him. Just a few steps away, Coop thought, his eyes fixed on the rifle. Maybe he’s alone, you can surprise him. Don’t think, do it now.

  Something stung Coop’s face. He fell sideways into the snow, covering his head with one arm while the other hand fumbled for the knife. A hot sticky pain was growing against his cheek.

  When his eyes came open Coop saw the Albanian perched calmly over him. A small wisp of smoke escaped the canister-shaped silencer. There was a new bullet wound in the deer. A warning shot, Coop realized. He’d been struck in the cheek by a fragment from the animal’s corpse.

  Now Kosta gestured with the rifle.

  “The money,” he said. “Where is it?”

  Coop couldn’t speak, lying on his back in the snow. He was still processing that he hadn’t been shot.

  Kosta took a knee and peered into the bloody cavity of the deer. He clucked his tongue.

  “You put the money in there?”

  Coop managed a nod.

  Kosta stood up, frowning. With his eyes he followed the crooked path of footsteps leading up toward the trail. He looked around at the trees and the churned-up snow.

  “You go up the hill,” he said. “You see the meeting site, but then you come back down here.” Kosta turned his face back to Coop. “What’s the deal, playboy? You don’t trust me?”

  Coop stared back. He had nothing to say.

  Slowly Kosta turned his attention back toward the deer. With the barrel of the rifle he lifted the flap of the deer’s belly.

  With Kosta’s eyes elsewhere, Coop felt his courage return. You still have the knife, he told himself. But he couldn’t translate intention into movement. Lying in the puddling cold, Coop felt a fuming, helpless anger expanding inside him, a twitching in his jaw and spine, som
ething sick and hateful. The fury so strong he could smell it.

  Then he noticed Kosta sniffing at the air. The Albanian showed his teeth.

  An acrid vapor curled up from the deer’s mouth. From under the animal’s fur came bubbles of movement, like some witchy transformation. The bomb, Coop thought, he punctured it. Incendiary fuel was leaking into the carcass.

  Kosta blinked, uncomprehending.

  “The money’s burning,” said Coop, and he kicked himself backward, scuttling over the snow to get away.

  Kosta lunged for the strap and pulled, but only succeeding in tugging the deer toward him. Now the animal was smoking furiously, black vapors pouring from the belly and mouth, the deer jerking in a miasma of seizures. Kosta circled the strap around his hand and put a boot on the twitching flank. He strained.

  A burst of guts as the case came free, and with it the burning payload, a tail of liquid fire whipping across Kosta’s arm.

  Coop rolled, turning in the snow, and he patted himself frantically, searching for any spots of heat. The jelly solution he’d made in the hotel was a crude form of napalm; even a small droplet could burn you to the bone. When he looked up, Coop saw Kosta absorbed in a strange performance. He swung the bag in a bright whirlwind, the hot coil winding snakelike around his arm. Kosta fell and punched his arm into the snow, where it hissed for a second before he yanked the limb back, screaming in fear and confusion as the blistering jelly fire climbed across his shoulder and neck. Then he began to run, howling, toward the black glimmer of the pond, as if speed could keep the fire behind him. He broke from the tree line and collapsed onto the frozen surface, crawling forward to pound his fist against the black ice. But his own reflection stood against him, warped and unyielding, while the fire spread across his back and into his hair.

  Coop stepped out onto the pond and for a moment the Albanian looked up at him, his face a dripping snarl. He still clutched the case of money under one arm. Fire drew toward the blistering hole in the case, trembling momentarily as it made contact with the payload.