Sins of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  Leo snorted. “Spare me the melodrama.” He looked over. “Rikki?” He turned around, peered into the night. “Rikki?”

  Rakkim scooted silently across the road and into the underbrush, moving at a forty-five-degree angle from the idling car. The ground felt spongy underfoot. He heard Leo’s calls faint in the distance and kept moving. The kid was more trouble than he was worth, just like he had told Sarah. Civilians. She was the woman he loved, the woman at the right hand of the president, but she was still a civilian.

  Starlight shone in the eyes of a squirrel watching from a low branch. Rakkim eased deeper into the brush, not making a sound. A deep gully ran along the other side of the road. He walked across a narrow plank half hidden by tall grass, circling around to the treeline, keeping low, staying quiet. He settled in, closed his eyes, let his night vision kick in and then opened them.

  From his vantage point Rakkim could see a mile or so in either direction. No lights. No movement. No sound but the wind in the trees and small animals skittering overhead. No one waiting in ambush on the other side of the kudzu. No need to wait. The roadway fronting the kudzu, that narrow half lane of cracked asphalt, had been dug away for ten feet, replaced with a scaffold of wood and black plastic, a false front sprinkled with dirt. Cars approaching from either direction would see the encroaching kudzu and drive onto the shoulder; the embankment would give way, flipping them into the ditch. Next morning, the folks who laid the trap would check for survivors and any other loot that fate had sent their way, then winch out the wrecked car so as not to alert the next victim.

  Gnats buzzed around his ears as Rakkim stared into the gully. He picked out a couple of glimmers among the rocks—a piece of shattered windshield maybe, or a hubcap that the locals had missed. Hard to make it on farming alone in this part of Texas, what with the drought and the kudzu sucking up all the groundwater. The survivors probably got ransomed or sold off. People did what they needed to survive. Then went to church on Sunday, said their prayers, and laid it in the lap of God.

  Rakkim touched his pocket, reassured himself that the shekel of Tyre was still there. He pulled it out, examined it in the starlight. The silver coin was tarnished and worn, pitted in places, but the profile of the emperor or whoever he was on the front was clear enough. Another sneering, overfed, thick-necked bastard with a crown of laurel leaves on his brow attesting to his divinity. Two thousand years later and nothing had changed. He turned the coin over, tilted it, catching the light. A giant eagle rising up, ready to strike…probably trying to get at the suety son of a bitch on the other side.

  “Where did you go?” said Leo as Rakkim slid behind the wheel.

  Rakkim backed up, eyes on the rearview mirror. Faster, accelerating.

  “Tell me what’s happening,” pleaded Leo as they bumped over the rough road.

  Rakkim backed into the wide spot in the roadway, turned around, and headed back where they had come. “We’re taking another route. This one’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “Right.”

  Bugs splattered against the windshield like popcorn, the ultrasonics embedded in the glass disintegrating them. The crickets’ undulating sound stopped as they approached, started up again as they passed.

  “I still don’t know why we’re going to New Orleans,” said Leo. “We need to get to Tennessee as soon as possible, not waste time with Moseby’s wife.”

  “There’s no way Moseby would have left without talking to his wife. They would have had to kill him first. We need to know what he told her.”

  “You could have said something. I’m part of this too, you know.” Leo fiddled with the radio, tuning in static more than anything else. “You’re lucky to have me with you.”

  Rakkim flipped him the coin. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  Leo held the coin between his thumb and forefinger, spun it round and round. “It’s heavier than I thought.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Leo hefted the coin, rubbed his fingernail along the raw edge. “This big shot you’re interested in is an End-Times Christian. Suddenly you cancel your request for a gold coin, and ask Stevenson for a Roman coin, and it’s got to be silver.” He lightly touched the surface of the shekel. “Wasn’t that hard to see what you were up to. Not like it was non-euclidean geometry. I mean, what good Christian wouldn’t want one of Judas’s thirty pieces of silver?” He handed the coin back. “Your only mistake was you don’t really know your history. Judas got bought off by the priests of the temple, and they didn’t use Roman silver. The only coins accepted at the Jerusalem temple were shekels of Tyre. That’s what Judas walked away with. That’s what you’ve got to show this End-Times gangster in Tennessee.”

  Rakkim put the coin away. Glanced over at Leo. “Does anybody other than you know things like that?”

  “Most people are pretty stupid…no offense.” Leo tuned the radio again, taking his time. Finally found a station. “I figured it was best if you used the right coin, just in case. To fool somebody else, you have to fool yourself first. That’s the way it works, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s the way it works.” Rakkim laughed. “Thanks.”

  Leo sang along to the radio, his voice surprisingly strong and sweet. He waited until the song finished before speaking. “Those two Rangers you killed…they had guns, but you only had a knife. So, I guess it was kind of fair.”

  “Fairness had nothing to do with it.”

  “Just a knife…” Leo sniffed. “Could you teach me how to—”

  “No.” Rakkim hesitated. “I thought the whole thing disgusted you.”

  “It did, but now when I think about it…” Leo chewed a fingernail. “They were bad, weren’t they?”

  “When I pushed their car into the river, I saw at least two more cars down there. So yeah, I’d say they were bad.”

  “I learn fast,” said Leo. “You could just show me a couple Fedayeen moves…”

  Rakkim’s laughter echoed.

  “You’re probably just worried I’ll get better than you, that’s why you don’t want to teach me.” Leo yawned. “Piggly Wiggly Diner,” he said as they passed the sign. “Maybe we should stop and see what they got cooking. I’m hungry.”

  Chapter 17

  “Mr. Moseby.” Colonel Zachary Smitts strode across the field-tent that served as a command center, his uniform still dusty from his recent arrival. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking hands. “I apologize for keeping y’all waiting this last week, but I had some shitbirds to attend to.” He nodded at Gravenholtz. “Besides, I know Lester here is good company.”

  The two guards at the entrance chuckled, then stopped abruptly at the expression on Gravenholtz’s face.

  The Colonel led Moseby into the command center, limping slightly. His high black boots were worn but polished to a bright sheen, his tailored gray uniform hugging his lanky frame. Somewhere in his sixties, the Colonel still cut a gallant, if slightly vain, figure with a pair of ivory-handled automatics on his hips, and his long hair dyed too black. One of those backwoods cavaliers Southerners had venerated for two hundred years.

  “While I was busy here, these outlaws swooped down on towns under my protection, stealing and raping and murdering,” said the Colonel, handing a videocard to Moseby. “I’m a good Christian, Mr. Moseby, but I won’t abide an insult.”

  Moseby saw a sweep of dismal pine trees on the card, men hanging from every limb, arms tied behind their backs as they swayed in the breeze. Every seam in their grimy faces stood out as the high-def images rolled across the card. Close-ups of unshaven men, hatchet-faced crackers in jeans and jackets, eyes bulging, blood crusted around their nostrils. A blue-bottle fly perched on one man’s blackened tongue, gauzy wings shimmering in the dawn’s light.

  “Attending to such scum is a wearisome business,” said the Colonel. “Seems like there’s never a shortage of men who need killing.”

  “You should have let me take
care of them like I asked,” said Gravenholtz, the redhead’s voice shaded with insolence. “No need to bother yourself with such chores.”

  “It’s my responsibility,” said the Colonel. “Our folks need to see the face of authority. Need to see that authority exact a swift and certain justice. Besides, you would have taken an unseemly pleasure in the accounting. The idea is to give our enemies nightmares, not our own people.” He winked at Moseby. “In Lester’s case, his bite is even worse than his bark.”

  In the field-tent command center, technicians hovered over video monitors in the rear. The faint crackle of voices floated in the night air. Moseby had tried a few times to sneak into the center on one of his late-night excursions, but it was too well guarded. Since Gravenholtz had him brought here a half hour ago, he had memorized the layout, noted potential weaknesses in the security perimeter. From where he stood, he couldn’t see the video screens, but he could hear desperation in the voice leaking from the headset of one of the techs.

  “Lester taking good care of you?” said the Colonel.

  “Fine,” said Moseby. “I didn’t realize it was a unit tradition for Lester to give the new man a sponge bath, but he insisted.”

  The Colonel blinked, then roared with laughter. Banged Moseby on the back.

  Moseby saw Gravenholtz rub his knuckles and remembered how the redhead had sledgehammered the shadow warrior.

  “Relax, Lester,” said the Colonel. “You got to learn to laugh at yourself.” He squinted at Moseby. “Sponge bath. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, he’s a Christmas present with a bright red bow,” said Gravenholtz.

  The Colonel sat down, propped his boots up on a table. “They say you’re a finder, Mr. Moseby. Are you really as good as I’ve been told?”

  Moseby turned his head slightly, tried to see what was on the video screens in the rear, but the angle was off. “I get lucky, that’s all.”

  “That’s what they said about me at Memphis, when we sent the towel-heads scurrying back to Kansas.” The Colonel winked at him. “I’ll take a lucky man any day.”

  Moseby detected an edge to the Colonel’s easy banter. The man was worried about something, his eyes sliding away, preferring to watch Moseby indirectly, taking his measure at his own pace, without himself being examined. A good tactic. Most men wouldn’t have even been aware of it, lulled into mistakes by the Colonel’s charm.

  “You’re not the first finder I brought here, Mr. Moseby,” said the Colonel. “The others came well recommended too, but the task…the mission proved too much for them.”

  “Useless fucks,” said Gravenholtz.

  “Some of them have worked out better than others, but none of them have really worked out,” said the Colonel, ignoring Gravenholtz. “We’ve opened up a dozen tunnels, got three that still might yield something. I’m an impatient man, John, it’s been my curse, but I’ve made the best of it. I pay top dollar for success, but I have no tolerance for failure. None whatsoever.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Colonel,” said Gravenholtz. “This one feels wrong to me.”

  “Now, now, Lester, no need to insult our guest.” The Colonel eyed Moseby. “Still, I do hope I haven’t been misled about your abilities.” He stroked one of his long sideburns with a thumb. “I heard last year some big Catholic church in Savannah hired you to locate some religious gewgaws swept into a limestone cavern during last year’s floods. The underground was a vast honeycomb filled with everything from wrecked cars to drowned cows bloated up like gray balloons. Took you three weeks, but they said you found the Madonna they were looking for. Is that a true story?”

  “Colonel, if you want me to find something for you, I’m going to have to be briefed. All I know is your people are opening up a lot of old coal tunnels.”

  The Colonel looked at Gravenholtz. “You haven’t acquainted this man with our situation?”

  “I don’t trust him,” said Gravenholtz. “Thought it best to wait until you got back.”

  “Goddamnit, Lester…” The Colonel ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. I need an update myself.” He looked at Moseby. “You believe in God, John?”

  Moseby almost laughed but the Colonel was serious, head inclined toward him, waiting for an answer. He was handsome, his long hair slick with pomade, blue eyes hard as turquoise. In spite of all his accolades during and after the war, the Colonel’s only decoration was the Congressional Medal of Honor from the former United States that hung from a silk ribbon around his neck.

  “Consider yourself a good Christian, do you?” asked the Colonel.

  “I do my best,” said Moseby. “Figure we wouldn’t have needed salvation if we weren’t sinners.”

  “A fine answer,” said the Colonel. “What church do you attend?”

  “Calvary…Calvary Baptist,” said Moseby.

  “Deep-water Baptist?” said the Colonel.

  Moseby nodded. Remembered the preacher anointing his head with a smear of oil before pushing him backward into the Susquehanna River.

  “That’s good,” said the colonel, fixing him with those hard blue eyes. “A deep-water Baptist is just what I need, because, you see, boy…” He beckoned him closer. “…what you’re looking for is under a hundred feet of water at the bottom of a coal seam, a lake of black water cold enough to shrink your pecker to the size of a pinworm.”

  Gravenholtz laughed.

  “Look at him, Lester,” said the Colonel. “Look at him. He didn’t even flinch. I think we may have found our answer to prayer.”

  “Speak for yourself, Colonel,” said Gravenholtz.

  “What am I looking for, Colonel?”

  “That’s not important, not to you anyway,” said the Colonel. “Two or three men should easily be able to raise it. The hard part is finding the right lake. This part of the mountain is mostly limestone and shale, so there’s tunnels and plenty of lakes to choose from, but we’ve narrowed things down. We’re getting close.”

  “If I know what I’m looking for, I’ll have a better chance of finding it,” said Moseby.

  “The Colonel gave you his answer,” said Gravenholtz.

  “Lester said you brought your own equipment,” said the Colonel. “Anything else you need, just say the word.”

  “What’s the current status of the digs?” Moseby waved toward the video stations. “Sounded like there was some kind of problem going on.”

  The Colonel looked at Gravenholtz.

  “Number three is still proceeding on schedule,” Gravenholtz said to the Colonel. “Number seven was another dud.”

  “What about number four?” said the Colonel. “They back yet?”

  Gravenholtz slouched, scratched at his front teeth with a grimy thumb. “Number eleven’s gone to hell. Had a cave-in a couple days ago. Seemed like half the mountain gave way.”

  The Colonel started toward the video stations. “You should have informed me immediately, Lester.”

  Moseby was right behind him.

  “Didn’t see the need for it, Colonel,” said Gravenholtz. “Not like we can do anything.”

  The Colonel stared at the video screen. Turned and glared at Gravenholtz, then turned back to the screen.

  “How y’all holding up, boy?” drawled the Colonel.

  The man on the video screen sat slumped against a boulder, head resting in his hands. The low-light camera cast a greenish glow on everything.

  “Travis?” said the Colonel, louder now.

  The video tech switched the sound to the external speakers.

  The man’s face on-screen glistened with dust, his hair and eyebrows silvery. A young man made old by rock dust and fatigue. He looked around. “Colonel?” He got awkwardly to his feet, dirt falling off his coveralls. Saluted.

  “At ease, Travis,” said the Colonel. “Save your strength.”

  Travis licked his lips. Breathing hard. The whites of his eyes stark against his grimy skin. “Sir…are you coming for us?”

 
; “We’re doing our level best,” said the Colonel.

  Gravenholtz, standing beside the Colonel, rolled his eyes at Moseby.

  “Air’s getting pretty bad, Colonel,” said Travis.

  “Just hang on, boy,” said the Colonel. “I’ll be back in a few moments. Got to check on the progress of the rescue team.” He touched a button, cut the sound. Turned to a technician in the corner of the command center. “Well?”

  The technician covered the microphone of his headset. Shook his head. “Whole tunnel is unstable, sir.”

  “Don’t want to say I told you so, but I did, Colonel,” said Gravenholtz. “Ain’t no big deal. They were on their way out when the roof come down—the lake they found was just a puddle. Nothing there but creepy crawlies.”

  Moseby peered at the video screen. Watched as Travis sat back down again, panting now. He reached over, flipped the switch. “Travis? I’m John. Could you move the camera? I want to see the rock face where the cave-in occurred.”

  “Sure,” said Travis. “Sure.” He got up slowly, picked up the camera. The screen view bobbled as he staggered down the tunnel, the light from the camera bouncing off the walls. The sound of his breathing echoed. “It…it was down here.”

  “Hey!” said Gravenholtz. “That’s not your business!”

  “Stand down, Lester,” said the Colonel.

  Moseby leaned closer to the screen. “Travis, could you please hold the camera still?”

  “Okay,” said Travis. “Hard, though. Can’t decide if I’m freezing or roasting.”

  “Just do your best,” said Moseby. The image steadied, and Moseby felt an ache in his stomach.

  “I’m tired, sir,” said Travis. “You mind if I lie down?”

  “No…not at all,” said Moseby. “You should rest, Travis.”

  Travis sat back down, slumped forward.

  “You should have called me when it first caved in,” Moseby said to Gravenholtz. “Might have had a chance drilling a slant tunnel. It’s too late now.”

  “Who died and made you boss?” snarled Gravenholtz.