Sins of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  Rakkim tucked away the gun. Familiarized himself with the controls. A real steering wheel—no autopilot, no verbal controls, no crash-avoidance system. Redneck iron all the way. Perfect.

  Stevenson patted the sides of the Caddy—once pink, now a dull red. “Forty years ago, this baby was the most widely produced car in the country. Most of them are still in operation. Can’t beat a turbo-twelve for reliability.”

  “It’s crap,” Leo muttered. “I’m just glad nobody I know will ever see me in it.”

  Stevenson inclined his head toward Leo. “You must really need this asshole.”

  “That’s what they tell me.” Rakkim started the car, listening. “Me, I’ve got my doubts.”

  “Used to be the Chinese made sneakers for us because them coolies worked cheap.” Stevenson spit. “Now they build factories in the Belt because we’re the ones working for peanuts. Cars, clothes, toys, fireworks. Cheap labor, that’s all we got to offer.”

  “Best tobacco in the world,” said Rakkim. “That’s still true, isn’t it?”

  Stevenson nodded. “Ozark opium poppies are world-class too. Hell, without tobacco, dope, and Coca-Cola, the Belt wouldn’t have any hard-currency foreign trade at all.”

  Rakkim revved the engine.

  “You got the coin, right?”

  Rakkim patted his pocket.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Stevenson.

  Rakkim floored it, spraying Stevenson with a rain of pebbles.

  “Now are we going to Tennessee?” said Leo.

  “Not just yet.”

  Chapter 14

  Anthony Colarusso parked his car on the shoulder of I-90, got out with a groan, and walked toward the blast site carrying a paper-bag lunch that Marie had packed for him. Five days after al-Faisal’s car had detonated at the roadblock and two lanes of the freeway were still roped off, traffic whizzing by in the remaining two lanes. His baggy gray suit flapped around him as a semitruck barreled past. The air smelled of diesel and something worse. Colarusso reached into the bag, unwrapped the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, nibbled on half while he paced off the site.

  Must have been some big fucking firecracker. C-6 shaped charge with all the trimmings, according to State Security’s official report. About fifteen feet of asphalt had buckled, one whole section melted from the intense heat of the explosion, shards of metal driven deep into the softened tar. Blast killed a couple of SS officers manning the barricade, injured three more. Real geniuses. Like who could have possibly considered that a fleeing Black Robe homicide suspect and his bodyguard might choose to go out in style, and take some company with them. Muslims…there were plenty of good ones, but Colarusso had never met a Black Robe he didn’t want to kick in the ass.

  His tongue probed the space between his right canine and bicuspid. Dislodged a piece of peanut and spit it out. He had only been telling Marie for twenty-seven goddamned years that he preferred creamy peanut butter. Probably a sale on crunchy, buy two jars and get one free. Or maybe it was her way of showing him who was boss. If it wasn’t for the bowing and scraping five times a day, he’d be tempted to convert and get him a good Muslim wife. One who didn’t talk unless spoken to, and didn’t make that face when he came home late. He took another bite of sandwich. Strawberry preserves…his favorite. Homemade too. Marie picked the berries herself, cooked them up in a big kettle every summer, her face steamy from the heat, hair lank across her forehead. She was a lousy cook, but her preserves were something else.

  He squatted down, examined the blast pattern, trying to sketch out the debris field in his mind. He ran a hand over the fused asphalt, noted where it was indented, then looked in the opposite direction. Evidence markers from the State Security forensics team waved in the weeds beside the freeway, but they weren’t planted out nearly far enough for the force of the explosion. Another reason to question the official finding that al-Faisal and his bodyguard had killed themselves rather than face arrest. State Security had been in a hurry to claim jurisdiction over the case. In an even bigger hurry to issue their report and put the case to bed. Not that police didn’t do the same thing, but Colarusso didn’t like being overruled under the best of circumstances and no way did this qualify. Particularly with a Bombay strangler involved. Sick fucks.

  Joints popping, he stood up, scratched his ample belly. Probably best to keep the wife and religion he had. His knees were in no shape for all that praying, and besides, Marie might have put on ten pounds with every kid, but she still had that nasty grin that got to him, got right to him no matter how tired he was. She gave him that grin and he still felt like the football hero. All-state linebacker, three years running. Loved to hear the crunch of a good hit, see the surprise on their faces, like where did you come from? Colarusso would get up, pretend to adjust his pads and helmet, and look for Marie in the stands. She’d wave, not fooled for a minute. Yeah, save the good Muslim wives for the good Muslim men, Colarusso would stick with a wild Catholic girl any day.

  Gnats floated around his mouth, and he wiped his face with one arm, got a smear of peanut butter on the sleeve of his suit jacket. He licked it off. Made it worse. Kept licking until it was gone. Thought he tasted spaghetti sauce from last week too. About time to get it dry-cleaned. Almost. He moved slowly toward the weeds, eyes on the ground. Make sure, Anthony, that’s what Rakkim had said when Colarusso told him that al-Faisal had blown himself up. Make sure. Good advice under any circumstances.

  He looked up as another car skidded up onto the shoulder. Fancy vehicle, opaque, armored windows, reinforced bumpers.

  Two men stepped out of the car, shoes shined to mirrors and decked out in tailored black suits. Typical State Security. The short, stocky one looked at Colarusso like he had a bad taste in his mouth; the gangly one walked easier, almost friendly, a farm kid playing dress-up. They each kept a hand inside their jackets.

  “Don’t hurt yourself, boys, I’m Deputy Chief Anthony Colarusso.” He saw the gangly one scan the pin on his lapel, confirming his status. “Just checking out the neighborhood.”

  “Your rank doesn’t mean anything here—all that matters is that you’re trespassing,” said the shorter one, his hand still inside his jacket. “State Security’s got this scene boxed up, so climb back in your ride and haul ass back where you—”

  “Relax, Napoléon,” said Colarusso, “you’re going to give yourself a hemorrhoid.”

  The stumpy one stepped closer.

  “It’s all right, Jay,” said the gangly one. “We’re all—”

  “I asked you once, I’m not gonna ask you again,” said the stumpy one.

  “Just a second.” Colarusso fished around in his paper bag, moved the half sandwich aside and looked up. “Nope. I checked, but there’s just no give-a-shit in here, not even a little piece.”

  The gangly one laughed. It sounded like a hiccup.

  The stumpy one jabbed Colarusso in the chest. “I could take you down, you fat Catholic fuck. You’ll end up in the goddamned emergency ward with a saline drip in your arm and a catheter in your dick.”

  “Sometimes, when I can’t sleep”—Colarusso removed a speck of lint from his jacket, watched it float to the ground—“I think about all the dizzy bastards threatened me over the years, all the tough-guy yak…” He yawned, stretched his mouth wide. “Sends me right off to dreamland.”

  The stumpy one’s eyes went dead.

  “Jay,” said the gangly one. “Go on back to the car, I’ll take it from here.”

  “I don’t want to go back to the car,” the stumpy one said softly.

  “Please, Jay,” said the gangly one. “I hate filling out paperwork.”

  The stumpy one glared at Colarusso. “You got no idea how lucky you are.” He turned on his heel, stalked back to the car.

  “You like to live dangerously, Chief,” said the gangly one. “Jay teaches hand-to-hand combat to the recruits just for the opportunity to beat people up.”

  “I never intended to use my h
ands,” said Colarusso. “Figured I’d go brain-to-brain with him, where I have the advantage.”

  The gangly one laughed again. He was older than he looked at first, the bones in his face prominent, his eyes steady. “Never met a cop who wasn’t a joker. That’s the only bad thing about State Security, everybody’s so darned serious.”

  “Not you, though,” said Colarusso. “You’re a fun guy.”

  “I enjoy my work, if that’s what you mean.” The wind from passing cars lifted the blond hairs on the gangly one’s neck. A tiny vein throbbed along his jawline. “You really shouldn’t be here, sir.”

  Colarusso sidled back into the weeds, eyes on the ground.

  “What are you looking for?” asked the gangly one, keeping up.

  “Whatever you State Security boys missed.” Colarusso saw a glint in the grass, bent down and picked up a small piece of blackened metal. Tossed it to the gangly one. “See what I mean?”

  The gangly one flipped the piece of metal back onto the ground. “We have five or six boxes of debris just like that. No evidentiary value.”

  “I know,” said Colarusso, still walking, “that’s why I didn’t keep it.”

  The two of them paced the outskirts of the site for another ten minutes.

  “The full report has been sent to all law enforcement agencies,” said the gangly one.

  “I read it,” said Colarusso.

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Some folks love going to the movies.” Colarusso shrugged. “Me, I just love crime scenes.” He heard the buzzing of flies. Followed the sound. Parted the weeds. A swarm of bluebottles drifted up, a couple bouncing against his front teeth before hovering overhead. Colarusso wiped his mouth, reached down and picked up the small, blackened, curled-up thing that the flies had been feasting on.

  The gangly one squatted beside him. He used too much cologne. “What is it?”

  Colarusso held the blackened thing between his thumb and his fore-finger. Held it a couple inches from his face, and turned it over. “I think…I think it’s an ear.”

  “I’ll take that,” said the gangly one, his voice hard now. Serious as any other State Security officer. He pulled a latex glove onto his right hand. “I’ll take it, please.” He held out his hand.

  Colarusso stood up, still holding the ear. “What’s your name?”

  “Billings.” He snapped his fingers. The glove muffled the sound. “The ear? I’m afraid I have to insist.”

  “You like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Billings?”

  “What?”

  “PBJs. You like ’em?”

  “Yes. I like them.”

  “Plain or crunchy?”

  “Sir…”

  “It’s a simple question,” said Colarusso. “Not like you’re being interrogated or—”

  “Crunchy. I prefer crunchy peanut butter. Okay? Now may I please have the ear, because it is most definitely evidence?”

  Colarusso reached into the paper bag, handed Billings the other half of the peanut butter sandwich. Dropped the ear into the bag and stuffed it into the pocket of his suit jacket. He started walking toward his car.

  Billings traipsed along beside him. “Deputy Chief Colarusso, it is within my authority to arrest you…”

  Colarusso kept walking.

  “…and take possession of the item in question,” said Billings, voice rising.

  Colarusso kept walking.

  “Give me the goddamned ear,” demanded Billings.

  Jay, the stocky one, got out of the car, walked briskly toward them. He had a gun in his hand. Kept tapping it lightly against his thigh with every step.

  Colarusso kept walking, neither increasing nor decreasing his pace. Just kept walking. While the two State Security agents conferred with each other, he got into his car, looking straight ahead, and drove away. It wasn’t until he reached highway speed that he realized he was soaked with sweat.

  Chapter 15

  “Hey! Stevenson told you not to take Highway Twenty-seven,” said Leo.

  “We need gas,” said Rakkim.

  “You got half a tank,” said Leo.

  “Sit back and shut up,” said Rakkim. “Go over the periodic table or something.”

  “Dad told me you took some getting used to. He didn’t tell me how much.” Leo pulled computer chips and switches from his top pocket, bits and pieces he had stolen from the toys in Stevenson’s shop, examining them in the flex light from the dash, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go to New Orleans. Don’t I get a vote? Don’t I?”

  Rakkim followed Highway 27, checking the darkness on the sides of the road as often as his rearview. The tourist rush from Mount Carmel had thinned out hours ago, but traffic flowed on, mostly truckers, restless teenagers, and families where the dad was too cheap to stop and get a motel. Twice he slowed, approaching gas stations, but the stations were surrounded by flatland and he drove on, Leo too busy working with his tinkering to notice. A few miles farther, a Freedom gas station blinked OPEN ALL NITE near an overpass. Within the shadow of the overpass, Rakkim spotted a Texas Rangers cruiser. He pulled into the station.

  The air smelled sweet and syrupy, almost rank. Rakkim looked around. Combines chewed their way through the surrounding fields of sugarcane, headlights gleaming on the bright green shoots. Rakkim undid the gas cap as the attendant hurried over, a middle-aged guy, in a faded but neatly pressed khaki army uniform.

  Massive hurricanes from the big warm had pretty much shut down oil production from the Gulf, the few rigs left expropriated by the Aztlán Empire. Coal and imported oil supplied most of the energy needs of the Belt, but the chain of Freedom stations was owned by retired vets, and sold only ethanol, with every drop coming from domestic sugarcane.

  “Fill ’er up?” said the attendant, lifting the hose.

  Rakkim pressed his credit chip against the pump, heard it chirp. “Thanks.”

  “Come from Mount Carmel?”

  Rakkim nodded, watching the cruiser over the man’s shoulder. peters was stitched above his left breast pocket, sergeant’s stripes on each arm. A combat infantryman badge was his only decoration. The only one needed. “Where did you serve, Sergeant?”

  “Where didn’t I serve?” The attendant still had the military posture, shoulders back, stomach in. A little stooped, but clean-shaven, his gray hair buzzed. Probably still did a hundred push-ups a day. “How about you, boy? You look like you seen some action.”

  “Did four years in the Kentucky National Guard, but it was just mostly smoking cigarettes and watching the border. Never even saw a towelie the whole time.”

  “I don’t much like that term,” said Peters. “Insults the Muslims and insults the men who died fighting them.”

  “I apologize, Sergeant.”

  Peters nodded. “No harm done.” He checked out Rakkim’s car. “Nice machine. Old but solid. Might run a little rough for a few miles, but she’ll adjust.”

  “I know. Worth it, though, isn’t it?”

  “Damn right,” said Peters, jaw jutting. “Some folks and their fancy new cars won’t run anything but gasoline, no matter where it come from or what it cost. I ain’t talking just money, either. If we had grown cane a hundred years ago, we might still have the country. The whole country.”

  “Amen,” said Rakkim.

  Peters grinned. “What did you think of Mount Carmel?”

  “Impressive…not sure how accurate the reenactment was, but—”

  “Accurate? I saw it on the TV with my own damn eyes,” snapped Peters. “I was just seven years old, but I knowed there was going to be a reckoning.” He shook his head, disgusted. “It’s in the history books. Don’t they teach you Kentucky boys anything?”

  “Well, sir, I wasn’t much for school,” said Rakkim, still watching the Rangers’ cruiser.

  “Well, here’s your lesson for the day, youngblood,” said Peters, replacing the hose nozzle onto the pump. “W
hile Muslims were attacking our embassies all over the world, the U.S. government was busy gassing kids in Texas, shooting a nursing woman in the mountains of Idaho, and taking a little Cuban boy at gunpoint and sending him back to practically the last commie on earth. Didn’t need a weatherman to tell which way the wind was blowing.” He banged the gas cap back into place. “I talk too much sometimes.”

  “No, sir, you don’t.”

  Peters opened the door to the car, waited for Rakkim to get behind the wheel. He nodded at Leo, but his eyes never left Rakkim. “That overpass up ahead, you can’t see them from here, but there’s two Rangers holed up underneath there like a couple of hairy spiders. You be careful. Don’t give them any excuse to pull you over.”

  “I’ll be careful, Sarge.” Rakkim pulled out of the station, driving slowly at first, then gunned it past the overpass.

  “What are you doing?” shouted Leo.

  Rakkim checked the rearview. Saw the cruiser pull out from the overpass, headlights on. The cruiser followed, but kept a distance. The Rangers must be waiting until Rakkim and Leo were near their special spot. Someplace private, where no one would interrupt their fun.

  Leo kept glancing behind them as Rakkim continued to accelerate.

  A few miles later, Highway 27 narrowed from four lanes to two, the trees thicker as the road paralleled a river. Oncoming traffic continued to thin out at this late hour.

  The cruiser’s light bar flashed blue-blue-blue behind them, the Rangers coming up fast.

  “What do we do?” said Leo, his face bathed in blue light reflected off the windshield.

  “We obey the law,” said Rakkim, looking for the right spot to pull over. The right spot for the Rangers. They would know the terrain, the perfect place. There it was…a gap between the trees, only briefly visible from passing vehicles. Rakkim slowed.

  “Please don’t do anything stupid,” said Leo. “Anything else.”

  Rakkim eased into the clearing, tires crunching up dry branches. “Whatever happens, don’t react. Stay thick as a brick.” He got out of the car, keeping his hands in plain sight as the cruiser came to a stop, headlights pinning him. Rakkim waved, looking sheepish. Leo got out, stood by the side of the car, staring at the ground.