Clean Kill

by Jack Coughlin

  “A THOUSAND PARDONS, ” SAID a deep voice behind them. “Lady Patricia, Sir Geoffrey, I am so pleased that you did not suffer further harm on my account. These attacks! They never seem to stop!” Prince Abdullah was standing nearby, in total control of himself. He extended his hand to Kyle.

  “My thanks to you, sir. I have seldom witnessed such courage as shown by you and Major Summers. You saved us all.”

  Lady Pat made the introduction. “Mister Ambassador, let me present Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson of the U.S. Marines. Kyle, this is Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, the kingdom’s ambassador in Washington.”

  Kyle stood and shook the offered hand, surprised to find a muscular grip that was not the sign of a gym rat. “I’m glad we were able to be in the right place at the right time,” he said.

  “I understand that you two also dealt with a suicide bomber in a truck downstairs.”

  Kyle shrugged. Something was there behind those dark eyes.

  “My country is in your debt, Gunny Swanson, and you have my gratitude. If ever I can be of assistance, please call on me.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Swanson remained polite. The prince had used the term “Gunny” without hesitation. A civilian would not automatically make that slang connection. So was this dandy also a soldier?

  Abdullah turned to the others. “Now, I have interrupted your reunion long enough. I am preparing to fly back to Washington immediately. The kingdom has been thrown into great turmoil and I need to be at my post. Sir Geoffrey, we are all wishing you well tomorrow, and I am confident that you will be recovering quickly. It will take more than a bash on the head to slow down such a warrior as you. Your efforts to broker peace eventually will be successful. We are determined to make it happen. Lady Pat, you put on the most unusual parties.” He took her hand and kissed it, then shook hands with Delara. When he walked away, trailed by his son, his stride was one of confidence. The ruling family of Saudi Arabia would not give way easily to terrorists and plotters.

  “Interesting guy,” Kyle said. “He does that diplomatic tap-dance pretty well.”

  “He is sort of a mystery to most of us,” Pat said. “He has a hard core in there somewhere. Like when he took the little pistol to be our final guard. He did it without hesitation and I have no doubt he would have faced death without flinching.”

  Kyle felt Jeff touch his hand again. The eyes were closing because a nurse had increased the sedation flowing through the tubes. He was about to go back to sleep, but wanted to say something first. Kyle leaned close. “What is it?”

  “Don’t trust him…” Jeff managed to say, the words fading. The hand squeezed weakly, urgently. The next words could barely be heard. “They…have…nukes!”

  17

  D ELARA T ABRIZI CAME AWAKE in the big, soft bed with the covers pulled to her chin as if someone had tucked her in. Kyle. Where is he?

  It was after midnight and they had been together since leaving the clinic some six hours earlier. Delara stretched, letting her fingers touch the wooden headboard as she relished their urgent, hungry rush to sex, their clothes flying off almost by the time the door was closed. They had not seen each other for weeks and the extreme emotional situation that had brought them back together only heightened their needs. The first time wasn’t making love, it was just a confirmation that they were both still alive and in each other’s arms. The second time took a lot longer. She had fallen asleep wrapped in his arms, her dark hair spread on his chest.

  She pushed away the covers and wrapped herself in the dark blue terry-cloth bathrobe furnished by the hotel. A nightlight in the small kitchen of the hotel suite glowed a dull orange and she moved toward it soundlessly, her bare feet on deep, plush carpet and then onto chilly tile. Nobody there. She went into the darkened living room and found him standing before the big windows, staring out into the thick fog. His face was a grim mask, his eyes fixed out on the water, the chest rising and falling with heavy breaths and his fists clenched at his side. The muscles of his naked body were as taut as cables.

  Delara stopped and pulled the robe tight around her body, realizing that her lover was dreaming, almost fighting, and still sound asleep.

  K YLE S WANSON STOOD BESIDE a broad, swift-flowing river wearing full combat gear, from boots to helmet, and cradling his custom-made Excalibur sniper rifle in his arms. The Colt.45 rested in a holster at his waist and a large Ka-Bar combat knife with a razor’s edge and some grenades hung from his vest. His feet were apart but only as wide as his shoulders, giving him perfect balance. He watched with an intense alertness as the small boat approached, emerging from a rough cloud of dark ash that swirled over the water’s surface.

  “You can’t have him,” Swanson announced. It was a declaration. No negotiation.

  The Boatman giggled, and the shrill tone warbled on the night air. A filthy black robe hung loosely about him, with a tail of rotten cloth drooping over the side of the boat and into the water. With a last hard shove on the long stern oar, the bony figure nudged the boat forward. “Of course I can have him. I can take anyone I want.”

  “Not Jeff. Not now.”

  The Boatman cackled again. “Now, look at you standing there with all of those weapons. Surely you do not believe that you can stop me with them?”

  “I just wanted to show how serious I am. These weapons have provided you with a lot of passengers over the years. You owe me.”

  The boat swung broadside, facing into the current and a small wave of foam divided around the bow. The Boatman steadied it. “Yes. I am here to clean up from your work yesterday. Four more souls.” He raised a thin arm and pointed. “Here they come. Right on time.”

  Swanson detected movement and turned. Four shadowy figures with dead eyes, gory wounds in their phantom bodies, stumbled along in a single line, stepped onto the surface of the water without causing a ripple and then into the craft, taking seats, facing forward. Kyle recognized them as the terrorists he and Sybelle had killed at the clinic, but felt no pity. They had chosen their fates.

  “To hell with these guys,” he said. “What about Jeff?”

  “To hell with them, indeed.” The Boatman lowered his voice to a menacing hiss. “And with the many others who will be coming over soon. Watch how my garden grows.” A scrawny arm in a flapping sleeve swung around and pointed to a far horizon. The ash falling on the water changed to black rain. An incandescent white and orange light flashed, seeming to push a moment of absolute stillness ahead of it and a cyclone of wind swept over the water and a volcanic explosion vibrated the world. Five mushroom clouds blossomed in sequence, clawing and rolling in the sky, pushing the acrid smell of burning sulfur across the vastness.

  “Nuclear winter is coming,” said the apparition.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  The specter gave a dismissive, coughing laugh. “Ah. You cannot.”

  “What about Jeff?”

  “He is not yet dead, not for several more hours,” said the Boatman. “I will take these passengers and collect him on my next trip. I always have plenty of time. An eternity.”

  Swanson carefully laid down the sniper rifle and removed the Colt.45 from the holster, raising the muzzle until it touched his right temple. “Let me take his place. I’ll pull this trigger right now and get in your fuckin’ boat.”

  The Boatman leaned on his long oar again, preparing to shove off. “I already have you. We both know that. Right now, you remain my faithful assistant, a mass murderer who provides a remarkable stream of corpses for me. I decline your dramatic offer because you are a tool of destiny.”

  “If I blow my fucking head off, you get no more passengers from me.”

  The Boatman held out his skeletal palm inches from Kyle’s face. “Wait, then. You are irrational, but that is an interesting point. So, hmmm, I will agree to a bargain. I do not want to remove you from this plain of misery yet because I still need you here. Put down the pistol. I won’t take your friend, for he really makes no difference to me, but yo
u must continue killing.”

  There was silence. Kyle put away the pistol and picked up the Excalibur rifle. “Deal,” he said, his gaze going beyond the little boat to stare at the big explosions rocking the imaginary horizon. The end of the world.

  The boat was in motion when he looked at it again, and the Boatman was rowing away with a slow rhythm. Swanson brought Excalibur to his shoulder, locked into a standing position to shoot. He centered the scope on the head of the Boatman and pulled the trigger, sending out a heavy.50 caliber bullet that delivered a powerful kick to his shoulder. The cloth covering the Boatman’s head flicked as the bullet passed through.

  A bark of laughter came back loud and clear and strong. “Yes! We have a fair bargain. You get half and I get half. You may keep your friend, but you may not like what you get!” The boat and its dreadful captain vanished. Black rain dripped from Kyle’s helmet and raw ash flew in his face. He sneezed.

  K YLE TOPPLED TO THE carpeted floor of the hotel room when his legs collapsed. Delara rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him. His muscles shivered in iron-tight spasms and his eyes opened and rolled back momentarily, then the lids closed again. Over the years, he had developed a habit of finding a quiet time after significant battles to let his mind process the carnage he had wrought, and the Boatman often paddled in for a talk during those moments.

  The shaking eased away and his breathing steadied. The Boatman accused him of being a mass murderer and Swanson had yelled back in the silence of their private world, shouting that it was bullshit. He was no psychotic maniac, no serial killer with a placid exterior, for he took no pleasure in killing. Somebody had to do what was necessary in these times of desperation and Kyle Swanson happened to be talented in that unique line of work.

  “I am no murderer,” he said, just loud enough for Delara to hear him, and then he slept.

  He finally awoke two hours later when the first rays of the new day came through the window. The fog was gone and there was no Boatman, no mushroom clouds, but it had been more than a dream.

  He was warm beneath the down blanket with Delara asleep beside him on the carpet, her arm thrown protectively across his chest, her soft breasts against his side and her legs resting against his. Her breath was warm on his neck. Kyle Swanson kissed her lightly on the top of her head, closed his eyes again, and decided not to move.

  Another ten minutes and then they had to get back to the clinic before Jeff was prepped for surgery. Just ten minutes. Was that too much to ask? Yes. It was too much, for now there was something else. He was still putting things together, the real world and the fantasy, the nuclear weapons of the Saudis and the Boatman’s mushroom clouds. Even in his sleep he had been thinking about the new and dangerous situation that was brewing in the ever volatile Middle East.

  Sir Jeff had floated in and out of consciousness and the effects of the medication and fought to stay coherent in order to fill out the story for him. The accountants and analysts of Excalibur Enterprises, which had expanded to include an intelligence-gathering branch for major corporations, had found strange discrepancies among engineering contracts in Saudi Arabia. Jeff decided to follow the trail and had bribed and threatened enough sources to put it all together. The Saudis had spent years and millions of dollars to secretly purchase the components necessary to build a small nuclear arsenal, avoiding any sign of launching a production program that would have drawn international scrutiny. The huge expenditures and assignments had been easily masked within the massive construction and infrastructure projects that were constantly underway throughout the kingdom.

  Against impossible odds, they had five special missiles that were now operational. Jeff told him that he was sure of the location of only one of the weapons, at a small Saudi army base in the oil patch city of al-Khobz on the Arabian Gulf. Khobz and its giant port was a natural invasion point for any enemy military force, as had been proven when Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein sent his troops over from Kuwait during Gulf War One. A defensive nuke missile system could plug that hole nicely, but Kyle realized that it could just as easily become an offensive weapon that could maim an entire American naval battle group.

  The information had staggered Kyle: A country facing possible revolution had a secret arsenal of nuclear weapons. As Jeff faded back into a sedated sleep, Swanson found Sybelle Summers and brought her up to speed on the revelation.

  Using her FBI creds, Sybelle got a ride aboard a police helicopter all the way to the landing pad at the U.S. Embassy in London. Once in a secure room, she drafted a FLASH message to the Lizard back at Trident headquarters in Washington. General Middleton, she thought while writing the explosive memo, was going to have a cow when he read this. He would take it immediately to General Turner and President Tracy.

  N INE MORE MINUTES OF rest, with Delara in his arms. Swanson thought of the immense potential for catastrophe that would soon be exposed, forcing untold actions and reactions. Ten minutes might be all that he had left. It might be all any of them had left.

  18

  AL-KHOBZ, SAUDI ARABIA

  R ISHA AL- H ARBI AND HER best friends, Hanaa and Taja, were rocking at the mall. The three teenagers wore identical flowing black abayas that covered them from their shoulders to their feet. It was above the shoulders where their conservative nation’s customs could be bent a bit, and the girls had colorful scarves over their heads and had spent hours applying makeup to their eyes while shaping and polishing their nails, the only parts of their bodies that were visible. They were total social rebels.

  Risha was the worst offender. Beneath her cumbersome and tent-like abaya, she even wore pink sneakers, pink socks, a T-shirt, and a short denim skirt. Her crimson nails flashed with flecks of gold.

  “He is so cute!” Hanaa checked out the picture of a boy on Risha’s cell phone, a strong and smiling youngster with a thick mop of black hair and piercing eyes. She passed it to Taja.

  “I cannot believe that you really called him,” said Taja. “Why do you do these things, Risha? We get numbered all the time, but I would never actually call a boy. My family would freak.”

  “I have never actually spoken to him. We just text,” Risha argued. “What’s the harm? It’s not like we’re mingling or anything.” A tune from the latest boy band pounded through the iPod ear buds beneath her pink scarf and she nodded with the rhythm. The slang language of the West came easily to them because of their access to cell phones and satellite television. They were even more technologically advanced than the earlier Saudi girls of the Oprah generation. They were connected!

  “That picture is a lot more than just being texted,” Taja warned. She lifted her full niqab veil, sipped some mocha frappachino, and wiped foam from her lips. Even the Starbucks at the Khobz Mall could be a dangerous place for girls. “Erase that picture. Please. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Hanaa.

  “Gabir,” replied Risha as she theatrically hugged the portable cell phone to her body.

  “Please tell me that you did not give him your real name!” Hanaa’s eyes were wide. The risk that her friend was taking was incredible.

  “Yes. Of course. He loves me!”

  Both of her shocked friends laughed nervously. Hanaa said, “This boy, your dreamy Gabir, did not even know you existed until two days ago! He and his friends spotted you coming out of this mall and when we got into your father’s Mercedes limo, they followed us. I remember them blaring their horns and cutting around in their cars and holding out cardboard signs with their telephone numbers. You actually checked them out while I was screaming in terror.”

  Risha looked again at the picture. “Remember how Gabir actually opened the door of the car he was in and stepped out while it was still moving at fifty kilometers an hour, sliding along the pavement on his leather slippers like he was a surfer? So brave. I just had to contact him. He is my beautiful lion!”

  “Your lion wants to drive you out to the desert and rape you,” sc
offed Taja. “Then it would only be a question of who would kill you first: your father, your brothers, or the Committee on Virtue.”

  Risha looked hard at her friends. “I won’t be raped. Ever.” She opened her fashionable shoulder bag wide enough for them to see the slim knife that she always carried, a little four-inch switchblade with a smooth ivory handle that she had taken from her father’s collection. She defiantly shifted the contents of her purse some more to also show them a narrow can of pepper spray, then she snapped the purse shut. “I will kill anyone who tries to attack me or kill myself before it can happen.”

  “Nothing good can come of this. Think about what you’re doing.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing,” Risha argued. “We’re all sixteen years old now and are stuck in this awful, oily place. I’m a faithful girl and follow the teachings of the Prophet, praise be unto him, but I reject being controlled by men and stupid laws that are not in the Koran. They just make up this stuff! Women can’t ride horses. Women can’t vote. Women can’t be seen in public with unrelated males, so we cannot go on innocent dates. There is not a movie theater for us to go see in the entire country and the censors clip out the good pictures in magazines before we can see them. I’m really, really tired of all of it.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I want out.”

  Hanaa pushed back in her chair. “You have been watching too much MTV, Risha. You will be soon wearing a bikini top and bootie shorts in public. Calm down and face reality. You will stay here, just like us, and we will all be married off to some distant cousins or friends of our fathers. A dull but pleasant life with a rich man who pampers us, just like our mothers and our grandmothers.”

  “You want to leave, too,” Risha shot back. “I know you do. Remember that Victoria’s Secret catalogue that we found? What’s the point in wearing that sexy stuff if you cannot show it off?”