Heirs of Cain

by Tom Wallace

  Frances Casey was worried. Something just had to go wrong.

  “My dear, this food is absolutely splendid,” one of the generals said to Frances’s niece Cynthia. “Simply marvelous.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Cynthia said.

  “Don’t let him fool you, young lady,” Ambassador Froning said in a voice heavy with Texas twang. “The general has been eating Army chow so long, he thinks McDonald’s is gourmet. He has no idea just how good this food is.”

  Cynthia smiled awkwardly and walked back into the kitchen.

  “Everything going okay?” Frances asked.

  “So far, so good,” Cynthia answered.

  “Well, keep on your toes.” Frances carried a pitcher of iced tea through the swinging door. “Anyone need a refill?”

  “I could use another shot,” Froning said. “How about you, Abdul? Care for more tea?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  His perfect English surprised Frances. “How did you learn to speak our language so well?” she asked.

  “I’ve spent a great deal of time in this country,” Abdul said. “Most of it during my college days.”

  “Oh, so you went to school in the United States?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Mind if I ask where?”

  “I earned degrees from Georgetown and Princeton. After that, I worked for several years at the United Nations.”

  “Well, little wonder you speak English better than I do.” Frances finished filling the ambassador’s glass. “I’m surprised there isn’t more security.”

  “There’s more than you might guess,” the ambassador said, looking around. “You simply don’t see it. Here but not here, if you know what I mean.”

  Frances nodded. “I guarantee you one thing—if your people here now are half as thorough as the man who was here this morning, then you have no reason for concern.”

  The ambassador put his fork down. “What man?”

  “Oh, George something or other. Let me think for a minute and maybe his last name will come to me. I’m just terrible with names.”

  “What time was he here?”

  “Before eight.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Oh, medium height, dark, very handsome. He looked Native American.”

  “General Marshall, did you have someone in here at that hour?” Froning asked.

  “We had no one here until ten hundred hours. And no one fitting that description.”

  The ambassador looked at Frances. “Did the man specifically say he was with the government? That he was here to inspect the security?”

  “Yes, sir, he did. Said he was with the FBI. He sure gave the place a good going over, too.”

  Froning’s expression hardened. “You’re positive he said he was with the FBI?”

  “FBI … yes, that’s what he said.”

  “And you can’t recall his name?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Froning stood and said, “General, why don’t you have a couple of your men come in and take a look around? Just to be on the safe side.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.” General Marshall rose and walked outside. He returned seconds later, followed by two military policemen.

  Frances looked at the grandfather clock: 12:28. Now she was more than worried; she was anxious, tired, frazzled. What she wanted most at this point was for the ambassador and his entourage to finish up and move on. This business of playing host to government leaders and foreign big wigs was for someone else. Her blood pressure was high enough without the added stress and strain that went hand in hand with entertaining a group like this.

  One of the MPs asked Frances to show him the way to the alley out back. She forced a weary smile and led him through the kitchen. While he made his way outside, Frances went into the walk-in freezer to get some steaks that needed thawing for tonight’s customers. The coolness of the freezer felt good. Finding an upturned Coke case, she pulled it beneath her and sat down, deciding her frazzled nerves needed a rest and the goings on out in the restaurant could proceed for a few minutes without her. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  At least, thank God, the disaster she feared had not come about.

  Frances Casey couldn’t have been more wrong.

  The explosion was so violent it blew Frances off the Coke case and backward into the steel wall. Fortunately for her, a stack of empty cardboard boxes served to soften the impact. As she rolled to the floor, she was acutely aware of the ringing sound in her head, a sound that intensified with each heartbeat. She was equally aware of the pain gripping her body, especially the sharper pain in her left leg and left shoulder.

  Feelings are good at a time like this, she reminded herself, because it means everything is still alive, still functioning. She tried to roll over but couldn’t. Lifting her head, she looked outside the freezer door. A thick cloud of black smoke casually drifted by. Frances again made an effort to stand, only to fall back against the boxes. Although the pain was becoming more and more intense, she was certain of two facts: she was going to live, and she was going to pass out. There was yet another fact, one final truth, and it filled her with great sorrow.

  She was the only survivor.

  The shapely redhead paused to check the hem of her skirt. During her inspection, she lifted her eyes and smiled at Collins as he entered Pete’s Bar. “Damn thing is forever coming loose,” she said.

  “Need some help? I have killer hands.”

  “I’m sure you do.” She motioned to an empty chair at the table. “Care for some company?”

  “I’m waiting for someone. Sorry.”

  “Lucky girl.” She touched his arm. “I assume it is a woman you’re waiting for?”

  Collins nodded.

  “You can never be too sure these days,” she said. “Oh, well, if things don’t work out, give me a buzz. Amy Brandenburg. I’m in the book. I’d love to meet you for a drink sometime.”

  Yeah, me and the rest of the first infantry, Collins thought as he watched her walk away.

  “Some dish, that Amy,” Pete Daley said, slipping into a chair next to Collins. Pete, a heavyset man with a perpetual grin and dark bushy eyebrows, owned the bar. “Know what her nickname is?”

  Collins shook his head.

  “Target. Know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because everybody takes a shot at her.” He laughed loudly. “Hell, Mick, she’s been invaded more times than France.”

  “You could get sued for a line like that, Pete. Better watch your tongue. We live in PC times.”

  “You know, I’m surprised you haven’t had a sample of that,” Pete said. “Big man on campus like you. How come you haven’t given her a ride?”

  “Too much competition; that’s why. Besides, I’m getting too old for the chase.”

  “That’s some crappy philosophy you have. If every guy adopted that line of thinking, we’d never get any nookie. We’d all be sitting at home playin’ with ourselves.”

  “There’s worse things than not having sex.”

  “Oh, yeah? Name one. Other than dying, of course.”

  “Let me think about it,” Collins said.

  “Think all you want, Mick, but you won’t come up with a satisfactory answer. Know why you won’t? ‘Cause there ain’t nothing better than sex. Nothing, I’m telling you.”

  “What about the absence of art in the world?”

  Pete frowned. “You’re putting me on, right?”

  “No, I’m dead serious. Think about it. No Michelangelo, da Vinci, Shakespeare, T. S. Eliot, Emily Dickinson, Citizen Kane. That would make for a pretty grim world.”

  “Maybe for you, but for this old infantryman-turned-bartender, not being able to score a little snatch would make my world a whole lot grimmer. You keep Citizen Kane. I’ll take the dames.”

  “Rosebud.”

  “Huh? Rose who?” Pete leaned forward and pointed a finger at his own face. “See this mug, Mick? It ain�
�t no threat to George Clooney, right? Women don’t break down walls to hang out with me. Never have, never will. I’ll do whatever it takes to score, anytime, anywhere. I have no shame.”

  “I never thought you did, Pete.”

  “Know what your problem is, Mick? You’ve been sitting behind a desk too long. You need to come down out of that ivory tower, get to know the common folks. Forget all that theory bullshit, and spend some time in the trenches. See what warfare is like in the real world.”

  “Like I said, Pete, I’m too old for any more wars.”

  “You’re only too old when they put you in the ground or when you can’t get it up anymore. Otherwise, you gotta keep pluggin’ on.”

  “And now with Viagra, one of those concerns has been put to rest. Right?”

  “Tell you one thing, Mick. If I ever get a hard-on—I mean, an erection—that lasts more than four hours, I ain’t goin’ to see no doctor.”

  “I would hope not.”

  “I’m takin’ full advantage of those four hours; that I can promise you. I’d have me some serious fun.”

  “And make the dames smile, right?”

  Pete quickly bounded out of his chair. “Would you look at that?” He began walking toward the end of the bar, where a tall, bony man was violently shaking a woman. “Hey, asshole, leave the lady alone.”

  The man, his slender arms covered with cheap tattoos, pushed the girl away and began moving toward Pete. “Who you callin’ an asshole?” he shouted.

  “Who am I looking at, genius?” Pete retorted. The two men stood face to face in the center of the dance area. Pete reached out, grabbed the man’s arm, and began leading him toward the front door. “Put ‘em on the pavement, pal. I’m not so desperate that I need your business.”

  The man jerked free of Pete’s grasp. “Bad mistake, tubby. No one lays hands on me ‘less I want them to.”

  “Tough guy—is that it? Well, let’s see how tough you really are.”

  The man backed away several steps, dug into his pants pocket, brought out a switchblade knife, and flicked the blade open. “Keep your fuckin’ hands off me or I’ll carve my name on your fat ass.” He spit out the words with venomous anger. Then, emitting a loud, primal scream, he jabbed the knife forward, making contact. Having inflicted damage, the man, now even more wired and fanatical, brought the blade to his mouth and licked away the blood.

  Pete clutched his forearm, stepped back, and saw the blood begin to ooze through his fingers. “You lousy cocksucker.”

  The wild-eyed man drew the knife back, prepared to strike again, when he suddenly realized Pete was no longer his primary concern. Someone else was about to enter the equation; someone closing in rapidly from his left—a blurry figure moving at blinding speed. He whirled toward this new threat, cognizant of a terrifying reality: this was a challenger of a different sort.

  “You want some of it, too?” he snarled, lunging forward in the general direction of the new threat.

  But the man’s attacking movement amounted to nothing, his strike coming two full seconds after his target had disappeared. As the knife sliced through empty space, and long before he could comprehend what was happening, he felt his legs begin to buckle, the result of a sweeping kick. He struggled to keep from tumbling backward, but a second blow—he couldn’t tell if it had been administered by hand or foot—ended those hopes. He crashed to the floor, and it wasn’t until three seconds later that he realized two things: first, he had dropped the knife; second, it didn’t really matter.

  His kneecaps, both of them, were shattered beyond repair. It took only a second after those messages hit his information center for him to feel the unbearable pain shooting through his body.

  “Oh, goddammit, my legs! They’re broke! They’re broke!” he screamed. “Help me, please! Somebody help me!”

  Pete, wide-eyed and holding his bleeding arm, looked down at the screaming man writhing on the floor, then up at the man who had expertly inflicted such damage. His brain circuits were overloaded with a mixture of excitement and disbelief.

  “Damn, Mick, you made scrambled eggs out of that poor bastard’s knees,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “He’ll be lucky to ever walk again.”

  No answer.

  Pete continued to shake his head. “You didn’t learn shit like that sitting behind a desk. No way.” He looked down at the man on the floor, then up at Collins. “Where did you learn that?”

  “High school judo class.”

  “High school was a long time ago.”

  “It’s amazing how quickly some things come back to you.”

  It was amazing how quickly things came back. Amazing and exciting. Perhaps even mystical. Things never forgotten: riding a bicycle, kissing, easily dismantling a knife-wielding attacker. How long had it been now? How long since he had executed a serious martial arts move, especially one against an armed and dangerous opponent?

  He couldn’t remember.

  And yet—

  All the critical elements were still present: the instincts, the quickness, the maximum use of energy and space, the look in his eyes.

  The look.

  That’s what Pete zeroed in on after the initial rush of excitement had abated. “Goddamn, Mick, you should have seen the look in your eyes,” Pete said, shaking his head. “You looked like one cold-blooded killer, man, like some kind of icy-eyed executioner. I’ve never seen you look like that before.”

  After wrapping a towel around his wounded arm, voice still filled with excitement, Pete again said, “Damn, Mick, you should have seen the look in your eyes.”

  Collins didn’t have to be told. He’d seen the look—been the look—more times than Pete could ever know. Or ever begin to suspect.

  The look was crucial. Without it, all the other skills somehow didn’t matter, regardless of how sharp they might be. He understood this perhaps better than any living man. The look, he knew, was why he had survived. Anyone in the killing business would tell you an assassin without the look is destined to become a victim.

  Funny thing about the look—it can’t be taught. You either have it or you don’t. Some of his finest pupils, top-of-the-line talents, though in possession of great killing skills, simply didn’t have the look. Without it, they had no chance of succeeding. Not in this business. And he couldn’t tell them to go work on it, to sharpen it like a physical skill. It didn’t work that way. It was in your DNA, or it wasn’t. And without the look, reassignment was the only alternative.

  Collins left Pete’s place a little past midnight and drove home. Turning onto the darkened, narrow street that led to his house, he recalled how one of his most talented students, code name Cobra—Collins never forgot a code name—had reacted upon learning he was a washout: “What the fuck do you mean, I’m out? I’m as good as anyone in the house, and you know it.” It was the standard response, one Collins had heard countless times.

  “Sorry, Cobra, you don’t have what it takes. You think you do, but trust me, you’re badly mistaken. You can’t cut it when it counts the most—when it’s blood time.”

  That’s really what it all comes down to: how you react at the last split second. When it’s your life or the other guy’s.

  Blood time, as it was known inside the Shop.

  Collins looked in the rearview mirror. A thin smile danced across his face. Pete had remarked how Collins’s eyes looked like gray shadows. An excellent observation on Pete’s part, much keener than he could ever imagine. For in those gray shadows, Pete had seen the very essence of what Collins and others like him were all about.

  Every assassin’s eyes are gray at the moment of the kill.

  But now, at this moment, Collins’s eyes narrowed, his smile faded. Thoughts flashed forward, past bled into present. Something wasn’t right. He knew it, could sense it, even though he was still several hundred feet from his driveway. It wasn’t the yellow taxi turning around at the end of the street that caused concern; rather, the black sedan parked across from h
is house set off the warning signals.

  Collins pulled over to the curb, turned off the lights, and cut the engine. He sat in the darkness until the taxi passed and turned onto the freeway ramp. After exiting the car, he quickly moved to within twenty feet of the house. A light in the living room flickered briefly, then went out.

  Who turned on that light? Who was this intruder? What nameless fool had been dispatched to take him out? There was no way he could answer that. His list of enemies was long, going back decades. Two countries—Russia and North Vietnam—were reputed to have put a two million-dollar bounty on his head. There was never a shortage of takers when that kind of money was involved.

  But the who was irrelevant. All that mattered was that someone had finally come to collect.

  He smiled. These were the moments he coveted and appreciated, the minutes and seconds of uncertainty, when plans and contingencies were open to endless possibilities. The moments before actual confrontation, before fates and outcomes were decided.

  Before blood time.

  Bullshit.

  He loved nothing better than the combat, the killing.

  Blood time.

  His time.

  How long had it been?

  Too long.

  Collins sprinted toward the back door, staying low to the ground, a shadow among shadows. He felt good … confident. The intruder, whoever he might be, wasn’t a foe of equal stature. Too sloppy, too indifferent to details to be considered a worthy foe.

  And yet, one never takes a foe lightly. Never. Regardless of the situation.

  In his world, that was the first commandment.

  Collins opened the back door wide enough to slide through. Once inside, he crawled to the end of the hallway, reached up to a table, and took down a crystal decanter. He removed the lid. Running his fingers gently across the rim, he felt the serrated edges. Sharpened by endless hours of meticulous, patient work, they were more deadly than a hundred razor blades.