by David Perry
Jason collected the pistol and leveled it at the kneeling Winstead. “That’s enough!” Winstead looked like a feral animal, trapped and contemplating his next attack. He flexed his right hand repeatedly, balling it into a fist for a beat, then relaxing it. His cheeks puffed with every breath.
Waterhouse wiped a streak of crimson from his mouth with the back of his hand. His tongue moved inside his mouth, massaging another swollen area on his face. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he muttered.
Winstead stood up to his full height. “I need you both to leave. Now!”
A dull thump sounded from beyond the window. The glass shattered, exploding tiny shards into the room. The front of Winstead’s head came off as if an explosive had detonated inside it. Red chunks of matter rained tissue, bone, and blood over Jason and Waterhouse.
CHAPTER 47
Several seconds elapsed as they processed what they’d just witnessed. In the moments that followed the disintegration of Winstead’s skull, Jason, covered in splattered blood and chunks of gray matter, dropped to the floor. He collected himself, then slid along the floor, raised himself up beside the shattered window, and checked the narrow space between the houses. It was clear. Whoever had killed Winstead was gone.
Sucking in a deep breath, he summoned a grit he’d never known he possessed, going into damage control like a seasoned pro. “Don’t touch anything,” Jason commanded, as the pool of blood from the mangled head expanded in every direction.
“Hey, dipshit, I’ve been handling murder scenes since your mama was wiping snot from your nose,” retorted Waterhouse.
“We need to search the house,” Jason urged.
“We need to call the police!” said Waterhouse.
“Not yet,” Jason countered. “Let’s see if there’s anything here that might give us any clues.”
Waterhouse picked up Winstead’s weapon and wiped Jason’s fingerprints from it. “Let the police investigate it.”
“Walter! We don’t have time to discuss this. I’ll go upstairs and search the bedrooms. You stay down here and look around. Don’t leave any fingerprints. Remember, this is for Thomas.”
Waterhouse mumbled something Jason couldn’t hear. Jason knew it was not complimentary. “Before we look around, follow me,” said Waterhouse, stuffing his pistol into his waistband.
They jogged back to the Blazer. Walter replaced the gun in the glove box and found a box of latex gloves in the bed. They returned to the house, donning the gloves as they re-entered.
* * *
Jason raced upstairs, searching as if for a ticking bomb, finding nothing. He checked the final room and returned back downstairs.
Jason saw Waterhouse kneeling over a hole in the floor holding a crumpled, paper grocery bag.
“It’s the freakin’ mother lode,” said Waterhouse with some excitement.
“How did you find this?” asked Jason, frowning.
“When the chair toppled over, one of the legs must have knocked some of the floorboards out of place. The carpet was sticking up, so I looked under it.”
Jason peered into the bag. “Holy shit.” Bundles of twenty-dollar bills bound with thick rubber bands filled the bag.
“We can’t let the police see this,” said Waterhouse. “I have an idea.” He grabbed the bag from Jason and ran out the door.
They jogged to the Blazer one more time. Jason didn’t want to let the private investigator out of his sight while he was holding the cash. Waterhouse removed the spare tire from the rack under the rear end. He rolled it quickly to the back door and into the house, while Jason carried the bag. Waterhouse punctured the black sidewall with a folding knife, and forced the bag of cash into the tire. He then replaced the tire under the chassis, ensuring the slice was against the underside of the truck. He returned to the house and dialed 911. He hung up and made another call.
“Jack, it’s Walter Waterhouse. I’m at a crime scene. I need your help.” Waterhouse gave the address.
“Who’d you call?”
“John Palmer.”
“The detective?”
Waterhouse nodded. “Believe me, we’re going to need a friend inside the department.”
As they waited, they went over their stories three times.
CHAPTER 48
Two hours after Winstead’s murder, Jason stood close by as a reluctant Waterhouse retrieved the money from the spare tire. “You mind backing up a little,” Waterhouse chirped.
Jason complied with a very small retreat, staying within arm’s length. Two minutes later, Waterhouse pulled the bag from the mangled tire. When the bag was free, Jason ripped it from the private investigator’s hand. “I’ll hold this,” he said as he marched inside.
“What the fuck?” Waterhouse spat. Muttering virulent curses under his breath, he followed Jason inside. Christine and Peter were waiting for them.
“Did you two have fun today playing cops and robbers?” Peter kidded them upon seeing their clothing. Jason and Waterhouse had both surrendered their clothing as evidence and were wearing blue police jumpsuits.
Jason filled them in on the details.
It hadn’t taken long for the police to figure out Jason and Waterhouse were innocent, as the splatter pattern indicated they’d been standing in front of Winstead when the shot tore his head open. Their statements had been taken by different detectives and must have sufficiently jived because they were allowed to go with warnings that more questioning would follow. Jason spotted Detective John Palmer at the scene and confronted him, saying Winstead’s murder was a direct result of the activities at the Colonial. Palmer admitted something very strange was afoot, but the evidence in Winstead’s death still didn’t support murder.
Jason held up the bag and told Christine and Peter how they’d discovered the money.
“How much did you say it was?” asked Christine.
“Sixty-five thousand. And that’s just what’s left. We have no idea how much he may have spent,” Waterhouse replied.
“They were paying Winstead to deliver the prescriptions,” Jason said.
“You two do realize that you’ve stolen evidence in a criminal investigation, right? If the police find out, I’m sure it’s a felony,” Peter added. “Why didn’t you just leave it?”
“Winstead ain’t gonna be needing it,” said Waterhouse. “This hunt we’re on ain’t paying none of my bills.”
Peter stared at the skinny man.
“The money stays with me until we figure out what’s going on,” said Jason. He turned to the private eye. “You’re welcome to walk away anytime.”
“Screw you, jack wagon.”
Jason stepped toward the scrawny man. “You want to mix it up, peckerhead? We can step outside anytime. ’Cause I’d hate to get your blood all over my carpet.”
Peter stepped in, blocking his brother. Waterhouse moved away and sank into a chair like a scolded child. Jason glared a moment longer at Waterhouse, then managed to focus on Christine who was asking herself a question.
“How big is this thing Daddy stumbled onto?” She leaned with both hands on the table and appeared as if she might vomit.
Jason placed a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever it is, it’s something much bigger than insurance fraud,” he said.
“What makes you so sure?” Peter opened the fridge. “You got any beer?”
“There’s sixty-five grand here. Hardly seems worth the thirty-two thousand the insurance company paid the Colonial.”
“You all should have let the police handle it,” added Peter.
“Well, we didn’t and it’s a little late for that now, isn’t it?” Jason barked. Waterhouse wanted to keep the cash for obvious reasons. Jason had another. Because it was connected to Pettigrew’s murder, he didn’t want it out of his sight until all the dots were connected.
“How do we know Winstead wasn’t just saving the money?” asked Christine.
“No way,” said Jason. “There’s a note about another payment coming
after the final delivery. And…there’s something else.” Jason pulled the folded piece of artwork from his pocket and showed them all. Peter had seen it before at Waterhouse’s place. His reaction was the same as it had been before: Jason saw his brother’s eyes harden.
“What is it?” asked Christine.
“It’s a drawing of a tattoo. Your father had the same design among his files. It was on the attacker’s arm that day at your father’s house. And I saw it on Jasmine’s forearm. In the exact same spot. I think it’s some sort of cult or group.”
Christine rose up and scowled at the mention of Jasmine’s name. Jason glanced away quickly. He handed the paper to Peter. “Don’t you have a friend in DC who can find out about this?” Jason asked.
“Yeah, I do,” said Peter. “He’s an analyst in the counterfeit division of the Secret Service. His name’s Tom Johnson. He was in my squad. Smartest man I know, got a PhD from MIT. He was recruited by the CIA, FBI, and every other alphabet in Washington. The guy’s definitely wired in, but asking him to track down some obscure symbol from a dream seems like a helluva stretch.”
“It wasn’t just from a dream. I’ve seen this before. And by your reaction, so have you,” Jason shot back.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Peter replied.
* * *
Zanns watched Cooper smile and pull a cigarette from his jacket. He took his sweet time lighting up and blowing the smoke in her direction. “The shit pile you find yourself in is getting deeper and smellier than you could ever imagine, Ms. Lily,” he drawled.
The desire to reach out and grab the weasel by the throat welled inside her. She smiled, trying to hide her murderous ire. “Your men eliminated Winstead before he could say anything. It seems to me the problem is resolved.”
“You’re wrong. Rodgers is at his meeting with the three others. You remember, we spoke about it this morning.” Cooper’s tone was patronizing and sarcastic. He continued, “As I mentioned, the house is under electronic surveillance. We’ve been monitoring his phone calls and conversations for several days now.” Cooper smiled.
“Have they mentioned a box of files?” Oliver had yet to find the files. With his flights to North Carolina, he’d been unable to continue his search.
“What kind of files?”
“Never mind, Steven. It’s nothing.”
“Rodgers and his gang are discussing Pettigrew’s death and the fake prescriptions at this very moment. They’ve found Winstead’s cash. They suspect something larger. Hammon is worried.”
I don’t care what Hammon thinks. “That’s completely unjustified!”
“There’s more,” said Cooper.
Zanns shook her head, marveling at the man’s audacity.
“They have a drawing of the tattoo.”
Cooper had Zanns’s full attention now. Her eyebrows arched. “Go on!”
“Rodgers saw the tattoo on Kader’s arm. He saw it on the intruder’s arm as well, during their struggle. They know the two are connected. Jason Rodgers is slowly connecting the dots, Lily.”
Her goal had been to retrieve the files (and the drawing of the tattoo) before anyone could connect it to their organization. Now the tattoo had been uncovered, all her plans were endangered.
The same tattoo, stenciled on all of their arms, was the Arabic symbol for Simoon, “the Poison Wind.” It was the only link to her ultrasecret group—and to the group’s architect. Zanns had made them get the body art many years ago. The select few remaining in her homeland carried the same design on their arms. If the Americans figured out who was behind the Simoon before the event, they’d cancel it, and all their work would be wasted. As much as she wanted Rodgers alive to serve as their red herring, Lily Zanns understood the deeper, more pressing implications of his discovery.
How Pettigrew came to be in possession of it, she didn’t know. At this point, it really didn’t matter. What did matter was that Jason Rodgers and his three cohorts had seen it twice and knew there was a connection to her, to Jasmine, Sam, and Oliver. Rodgers had shown it to the three other members of his team. And because of that, all four had become liabilities. Rodgers’s cronies would be rewarded with painful deaths. Jason Rodgers himself would be neutralized only after he’d served her purposes. It was time for the evidence Jasmine had planted in Rodgers’s house to be put to use.
Cooper continued speaking, his words barely registering as Lily pondered the situation. His final statement jerked her back to reality. “If this blows up because of your incompetence, the deal’s off—and you’re out twenty-four million dollars.”
Zanns studied him briefly. “Tell Hammon it will all be taken care of in twenty-four hours—including that pain in the ass, Rodgers.”
CHAPTER 49
Wednesday, October 4
Peter Rodgers traced his finger over his brother’s drawing. To the uninitiated, it resembled a fragment of an electrocardiogram, a squiggly line, nothing more. But it stirred in him distant yet painful memories. Memories he’d spent years conquering.
If there was anyone who could figure this out, it was Johnson. The last time either of them had seen it had been about thirty seconds before Lance Corporal Rodriguez had been blown into three large chunks and Tom Johnson lost both legs. Afterward, Peter had passed the intel up the chain, then went back to his other duties. In weeks, the symbol—but not the carnage—had been forgotten.
Peter dialed the number. Three rings later, Tom Johnson picked up.
“You legless good-for-nothing computer hack. You couldn’t find your ass with a GPS, a compass, and a blood hound,” said Peter.
It took a moment, but Johnson recognized his friend’s voice. “Peter-fucking-Rodgers, how they hell are you, Sarge?”
“Earning an honest living, giving Americans a choice when it comes to buying firearms. Tom, you’re not going to believe what I’m looking at.”
* * *
Both her children were soldiers of the cause and knew nothing else. They’d been indoctrinated from a young age. Zanns knew that someday they would give their lives for her purpose. But in very different ways.
Lily Zanns possessed no maternal emotions. She did not think of Jasmine as her own flesh and blood. Though she’d given birth to her in a difficult twenty-hour labor and nurtured her into a beautiful, intelligent woman, Lily viewed her daughter as a soldier to be sacrificed. Of course, she would be martyred, hailed as a heroine. But ultimately—though she did not know it—Jasmine was expendable. She was, after all, female, and therefore had no claim to her father’s birthright.
Sam was a different story. He, too, was a soldier and had been groomed for a historic fate. He was as skilled as his younger sister in weapons, hand-to-hand combat, explosives, and military tactics. His future, however, held no bounds. Because he was male and her firstborn, Sam was destined to fill his father’s shoes in a spectacular fashion. Zanns had revealed that destiny to him almost a year ago, while she mourned the death of Sam’s father. It was then that she’d told him of their real plan. Like a true patriot, he hadn’t shrunk from it, but instead relished the idea.
At that time, Zanns had been two years into planning the jihad. First they would strike the infidels a crippling blow. Then, using the momentum from the devastating attack, they would set in motion the tumbling political dominoes that would cast out the imperialistic bastards, returning their country to its rightful place atop the Muslim and Arab world.
Zanns had already begun to lay the groundwork for Sam’s ascent. Through other, trusted members of the Simoon back on the Arabian Peninsula, their coalition had been taking shape. Inside her homeland, they had reached out to potent Shi’a and Sunni power brokers and select religious leaders who were unhappy with the American occupation. Members of the Islamic Dawa Party and Supreme Islamic Council who had been wooed with the money and the promise of power were already on board. Outside her country, factions sympathetic to their cause would provide soldiers, intelligence, and funds. Hammas, Hezbollah, al-Qaeda, the Palestin
ian Liberation Front, the Islamic Jihad Union, Al-Shabaab. Each in turn would be promised a seat at the table when the new order took shape. They would cast the American pigs out of their homeland and the Middle East altogether, and then they would turn their attention to annihilating the Jews from the face of the planet.
At the head of that table would sit her son, Sam. By then he would be known by his given name, Sharif. When Sam’s bravery in striking down the infidels became worldwide news, he would be positioned to fulfill their glorious mission. His father and Allah would look down from heaven and smile upon them.
Her bastard children had been her ticket to a life of privilege because of their father’s prominence, status, and wealth. Her countrymen had starved and cowered under an oppressive thumb, but Zanns ignored those inconsistencies. After all, she loved the dictator, her dictator, Amo. Amo was his favorite, pet name. A name he let only those close to him use.
His real name was well known to the entire world—infamous, in fact. It was a name synonymous with death and suffering.
Zanns reflected as she took in the furniture, artifacts, and photos around her spacious study. She felt a brief twinge of sentiment. She recalled the turbulent twists and turns that had led her into his arms, and ultimately to this moment. Allah truly had tapped her for immortality.
Her biological parents were kind, loving souls who’d named her Delilah. Henri was a large black man with massive, gentle hands, who would lift her high above his head to squeals of delight. Imane was a dark-skinned Catholic missionary of Middle Eastern descent. They lived a quiet life in Iraq in a small village near Babil. Zanns smiled to herself. She was the only person still alive on the planet who knew that she’d been born to Christian parents.
At the age of ten, she’d returned home from school and called for her mother. When there was no response, Delilah began to look for her. Her search ended quickly and tragically.
Upon entering the bedroom of the small house, Delilah was assailed by the sight of blood everywhere. Her mother’s throat had been slashed. Her dress was pulled up around her waist. Delilah knew unspeakable acts had been perpetrated on her before she died. Her father, on the other hand, had been shot twice. His testicles had been cut off and stuffed into both cheeks.