Sins of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  “You ever drove a tractor?” asked Tigard.

  It took Leo a moment to realize he was being addressed. He shook his head.

  “Neither did Rikki before he showed up at our front door,” said Tigard. “That’s how we got to be friends. He saw me and the boys plowing late at night, and asked if he could help.” He made a depression in the mashed potatoes with his spoon, carefully half filled the depression with gravy. “Not many folks would stop to help a stranger. Regular Good Samaritan.”

  “The twins couldn’t have been more than nine years old,” said Rakkim, smiling at the memory. “Matthew steered while James worked the controls.”

  “We had a couple hired hands, but the press-gangs came by one day and that was that,” Tigard explained to Leo. “Don’t know what we would have done if Rakkim hadn’t come along. No way we could have gotten the planting finished. We were already a week behind.”

  “You would have done it,” said Florence, watching the family eat. “You and the boys. We might have only gotten half a crop, but we would have tightened our belts and made it through. The Lord will provide.”

  “The Lord provided Rikki, that’s what the Lord provided,” said Tigard.

  “That’s what you call a mixed blessing.” Rakkim added more gravy to his mashed potatoes. “What are you going to do when the boys go away?”

  “These last couple years, James has been shifting us to less labor-intensive crops,” said Florence. “More acres of alfalfa, okra, and yams, less of corn and soybeans.”

  “Better prices too,” said Matthew. “The hybrid okra James got us into travels better, which allows us to sell to the Brazilian market, and with beef exports up, the price of alfalfa has tracked the same direction.”

  “Mom and Dad are going to be okay, Rikki,” said James. “Matthew here structured some loan with a bank in Atlanta that’s going to allow Dad to buy a couple of robo-tractors. All he has to do is program them and they’ll drive themselves to the fields and do whatever is needed.”

  “Planting, disking, fertilizing, harvesting, you name it,” said Tigard. “I don’t even have to turn on a darn switch.”

  Florence patted her husband’s thick wrist. “William feels the new tractors make him obsolete.”

  “A farmer who doesn’t get dirt on his hands isn’t a farmer,” said Tigard.

  “Production should increase seventeen percent,” said Matthew, “and that includes payment on the loan.”

  “You still got your pigs, Dad,” said James. “Anytime you want to get dirty, they’ll be there waiting for you.”

  “One thing about working on a farm,” Tigard said to Leo, “you won’t ever go hungry.”

  “Bill says you’re good with electronic things, Leo. Bill’s not one to brag, but he fixed our grid antenna so it taps into the Brazilian satellite system. He says their weather reports are much more reliable than anything the Belt provides.” She spooned more mashed potatoes onto Leo’s plate. “Maybe tomorrow morning he’ll show you what he did to it.”

  Leo looked up from his plate, curious now.

  “Farming’s a good life,” said Tigard. He glanced at his wife. “Everything’s sweeter when you’re close to the land.”

  Florence flushed.

  “So what do you think?” Tigard asked Leo.

  Leo blinked. “Are you talking to me, sir?”

  “You’re an Ident, aren’t you?” said Tigard.

  “His contract is already paid for,” said Rakkim.

  “So I’ll buy it out,” said Tigard. “Tell the contract holder I’m offering twenty percent above the price he paid.”

  “Bill…” said Rakkim. “It can’t be done.”

  “You want me to work here?” said Leo.

  “Dad, really, the robo-tractors will make your life so much easier,” said Matthew.

  “I get four weeks’ leave after basic,” said James. “I’ll be back every chance I get.”

  Tigard nodded, jabbed at his fried okra with his fork. “I know. It was just an idea, that’s all.”

  “You thought I could cut it working on your farm,” said Leo, beaming. “Mr. Tigard, sir, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “Like I said, it was just an idea,” said Tigard.

  “I could do it too,” said Leo. “I’m not very strong, but there’s nothing I can’t figure out. Tomorrow, before we leave, I’ll rig you up a surveillance system so good that if anyone walks up, you’ll know the color of their eyes.”

  “That’s real nice of you.” Florence spooned more mashed potatoes onto Leo’s plate. Added a couple of pork chops. “Maybe when you finish your contract you’ll come back for a visit. You’re always welcome. Friends are always welcome at our table.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Leo. “I’d like that very much.”

  “What brings you by after so long?” said Tigard. “It’s not like we’re on the main road.”

  “I need a favor,” said Rakkim.

  “You got it,” said Tigard.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Rakkim.

  “What kind of favor?” said Florence.

  “Last time I was here, Bill said he had a cousin in Addington,” said Rakkim. “I want an introduction.”

  “Addington?” Tigard peered at Rakkim. “I gave you more credit than that.”

  “Nice little town, from what I hear.”

  “It’s a nice town if you don’t need to breathe. Nice town if you like black lung,” said Tigard.

  “Nice town,” repeated Rakkim, “but they say the folks there keep to themselves.”

  “They don’t like strangers because the only reason folks come to Addington is to try and find the Church of the Mists, and the only people looking to do such a thing are damned fools.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” said Rakkim.

  “Leave Leo here, then,” said Florence. “No sense getting this poor boy killed too.” She smiled at Leo. “You pick me some blackberries, I’ll make you the best pie you ever ate.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Leo, “but I have to stay with Rikki. Somebody has to keep him out of trouble.”

  Tigard pushed his plate aside with a clatter of silverware. “Trouble is all you’re going to find in Addington.”

  Chapter 24

  Rakkim listened to the rain beating on the roof as he lay in bed with Sarah, Michael between them. Michael grasped Rakkim’s finger, hanging on as Rakkim lifted him up, the three of them laughing. Their laughter faded, changed into something else…something ugly.

  Rakkim sat up, fully alert now, already out of bed. He’d slept in his clothes. Stepped into his boots. Rain pounded on the roof, louder than the dream. Where was Leo?

  Soft sounds from the closet.

  Rakkim jerked the door open, dragged Leo out. “Hey…hey,” said Leo.

  Rakkim grabbed the security phone from him and threw it against the wall.

  “Hey!” said Leo.

  Rakkim dashed into the hall, beat on the opposite door. “Bill! Raiders coming!” He heard movement inside, ran back and grabbed Leo by the wrist. “Get out the window,” he said evenly, keeping his anger in check.

  “I don’t hear anything—”

  Rakkim pushed Leo through the open window, the kid squawking as he slid down the wet roof, clawing at the shingles. “Rakkim!” Leo clung to the edge of the roof with both hands, eyes wide, blinking in the rain. “Help me!”

  Rakkim slid down the roof, landing nimbly on the rocky ground. Just in time to catch Leo in his arms. Rakkim slung him over one shoulder, hopscotched across the pavement to avoid leaving footprints on the muddy ground. He could hear Tigard in the house, calling to his kids.

  “Put me down,” said Leo, squirming, as Rakkim carried him toward the pigpen. “What are you doing? I don’t hear anything.”

  Neither did Rakkim. Not yet. What had awakened him was something subtler. A perturbation in the air pressure. Not the storm. Something else. Something worse. Rakkim walked through th
e horse trough, stepped onto the railing of the pigpen, and jumped in among the squealing beasts.

  “What are—” shouted Leo before Rakkim pushed his face into the mud.

  Rakkim pulled Leo deeper into the mass of pigs, dodging their hooves and snouts as best he could. “They’re going to have thermal imaging,” he said in Leo’s ear, smearing them both with mud and pig shit, thickly coating their hair.

  “Who’s going to have…?” Leo’s voice trailed off as the helicopter floated in over the trees.

  The pigs huddled around Rakkim and Leo, complaining at their intrusion into the pen, trying to settle back in the mud.

  Rakkim gently eased Leo alongside a huge sow, tucked him against her bulging flank. The sow nuzzled Leo, then reared back, tore at his hair, squealing, starting the others going. Rakkim had his knife poised to drive the tip into the sow’s ear…then reversed it, slammed the hilt into the base of her skull. The sow sighed, collapsed, breathing heavily. He pushed Leo farther under her body, where he’d be protected by her blubbery flesh, then watched the helicopter hover near the farmhouse. He hoped Tigard had time to get Florence and the boys into the basement shelter.

  Figures rappelled down from the helicopter, seven, eight, nine of them in light combat gear, landing gently on the ground. They fanned out around the farmhouse, short-stocked assault rifles swiveling. One of them sauntered through Florence’s flower bed, crushing red and yellow blossoms with every step of his combat boots. He glanced at the pigpen, then moved toward the house, directing the others with hand signals.

  The helicopter opened up on the farmhouse, its high-speed Gatling miniguns blazing away in the rain, the nitrogen-cooled machine guns disintegrating the walls and ceiling, setting the house on fire. With twelve spinning barrels, and a firing rate of ten thousand rounds a minute, the Gatlings turned the whole place into a kill zone.

  The pigs squealed, beating against the rails of their enclosure. Rakkim dragged a pig against him and hung on, banged and bruised, part of the mass of muddy beasts, lost in their heat and panic.

  “Abort!” the team leader shouted into his headset. “I repeat, no incendiaries! Goddamnit, I want Jeeter alive!”

  The helicopter made a lazy arc over the burning structure, still firing. One side of the house exploded, a fireball rising. As the chopper dipped over the pigpen, Rakkim heard music blaring…“Sweet Home Alabama.”

  Rakkim saw the second story burning, the room they had been in just a few minutes ago crackling. He felt the mass of pigs hunker down into the mud, grunting their complaints as Rakkim crowded them.

  The team leader moved closer to the farmhouse, hands on his hips. He removed his helmet, tossed it aside, reveling in the heat. In the light from the fire his red hair was the color of blood.

  The chopper hovered overhead, guns bristling but silent now. Its searchlights illuminated the burning house, as if this were an old Hollywood movie premiere.

  The back porch collapsed in a wave of sparks, the heat rolling out like a tidal wave. The pigs burrowed deeper into each other, restless in the glow from the burning farmhouse, rain splattering against their broad backs. Rakkim had to grind his teeth to stop himself from shouting. Clutched at the mud to keep from making a move. He could cut his way through the raiders, or at least cause enough confusion to make his way into the basement…but there was no way to get away from the helicopter and its Gatlings. Rain dripped down his neck as he buried himself among the pigs, working himself deeper and deeper.

  The redhead slung back his machine gun. “Jeeter!” He lit a cigarette. Cupped it in the rain as he watched the house burn. His silhouette was tall and muscular, slouching as he faced the cinders. “Jeeter! You still in there, boy?”

  The door to the basement clanged open. Black smoke poured up from below as James and Matthew charged out, coughing, firing their rifles wildly. One of the raiders went down before the twins were caught in a full-auto crossfire, cut to chunks, blood spurting down their chests. James tried to stand and the redhead shot him in the forehead.

  Bill Tigard stumbled out, his overalls on fire, carrying Florence in his arms. Her head flopped with every step, half her face blown away. He held her close, his bare feet making sucking sounds in the mud with every step.

  The redhead laughed, and Rakkim remembered the file he had read on the Colonel. Remembered comments on his second in command, Gravenholtz, a maniac from the border brigades, a redhead with skin like sour milk and a love of killing, a true infatuation with pain. Now he had come a-calling.

  Tigard gently laid Florence among her flowers, then staggered over and grabbed the old scythe from the back porch. The scythe hung loose in his hand, the rusty blade cutting a furrow in the soft earth as he dragged it behind him.

  Gravenholtz waved his men back, still smoking his cigarette. “Anyone in the barn?” he said into his headset. He nodded, watching the fire.

  Tigard wiped the rain from his eyes, trying to focus.

  “Jeeter!” Gravenholtz called to the basement. “Real disappointed in you, Jeeter. Deserting your post sets a bad example. Where would we be if everybody got to make their own rules?” The thought seemed to amuse the redhead. He noted Tigard staggering nearer with the scythe. “Lookee, boys, it’s Father Time.”

  Tigard’s hair and beard were burning now. Rakkim could hear the rain sizzle on him.

  “You best be careful who you invite into your house next time,” Gravenholtz said to Tigard. “A man like Jeeter, man who betrays his comrades’ trust…no telling what he might have done to you and your family if I hadn’t showed up. Hell and rye whiskey, if you had an ounce of respect, you’d thank me.”

  Tigard labored to stay standing. “I know…I know who I let in my house…motherfucker.”

  Gravenholtz flicked his cigarette into Tigard’s face.

  Popping sounds from the basement. Ammunition going off. Or Florence Tigard’s canned peaches. Whatever it was, it drew the redhead’s attention. His and his men’s.

  “Come on out, Jeeter!” Gravenholtz shouted. “I’ll get you a sweet tea.”

  Rakkim could see Tigard gathering himself. Bracing his one good leg as he glanced up at the redhead. Rakkim silently urged him on. Said a prayer into the burning night.

  Tigard stood up, swung the scythe with all his strength.

  Rakkim saw the scythe strike the redhead. Saw the blade rake across his chest. The stroke should have cut the redhead in half. Cut him wide open. But it didn’t. The redhead howled with pain as he scrambled up, his jacket sliced open, stuffing falling out. Rakkim saw blood, so it wasn’t that the redhead was wearing body armor, but it wasn’t the mortal wound Tigard’s slashing attack should have caused. The redhead seemed more angry than hurt.

  “Goddamnit, that stings, you farmer fuck.” The redhead tore the scythe away from Tigard, snapped the wooden handle like it was a pencil. “Now where’s Jeeter?”

  Tigard stood there, hair burned away, eyebrows singed.

  “Where is he?”

  Tigard stared at the bodies of his sons. His wife. Turned back to the redhead. “Jeeter…he’s inside. Guts blown out. Why don’t you go check?”

  The redhead drove the broken handle of the scythe into Tigard’s chest. “Don’t tell me what to do, you damned hick.” He slammed the handle flat with the heel of his hand, the jagged end protruding from Tigard’s back.

  Tigard’s lips moved silently.

  “What?” The redhead cupped his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

  Tigard sank to his knees. Curled up, shuddering, and finally lay still.

  “Royce, bring the bird down,” Gravenholtz said into a throat mike. He examined his jacket. “That son of a bitch done ruined my flight suit.” He turned toward the pigpen.

  Rakkim huddled under an enormous pig as the redhead approached. He stroked the sow’s belly, calming her. Felt the mud around him warm as the pig urinated into the soft muck.

  “Here, piggy-piggy.” The redhead put one boot on the fence around the pigpen
, made soft sucking sounds. “Here pig-pig-pig.”

  Rakkim pressed his face into the mud, watching the redhead with upturned eyes, Gravenholtz so close that Rakkim could see the scuff marks on his jump boots. Rakkim tensed, watching the boots. If Gravenholtz pivoted suddenly or shifted back on his heels, it meant he had spotted Rakkim. Time enough for Rakkim to act then. Time enough for him to spring out of the pigpen and gut Gravenholtz before the rest of the squad opened up on him. Perhaps even time enough for Rakkim to enjoy the sight of Gravenholtz trying to push his insides back where they belonged before the bullets chopped him down. Allah was merciful, after all.

  The helicopter landed in a nearby pasture. Landed gently and quietly as a dandelion seed. Two raiders dragged the body of their dead comrade into the rear compartment. One lagged behind, a beefy raider tugging the ring off Florence Tigard’s finger.

  “Here, pig-pig-pig,” Gravenholtz grunted, expertly calling to the pigs, and they shuffled and snorted happily toward him. “That’s a good piggy.” He quickly reached down, grabbed a small feeder pig by the fat around its neck, hauled it out of the pen.

  The pig screamed.

  Gravenholtz laughed, tucked the twisting pig under one arm as he started toward the helicopter. “Great God Almighty, I dearly love fresh pork.” He pointed and the others double-timed after him. “Come on, Nelson…rest of you boys, get your ass in the bird. Breakfast’s on me.”

  Rakkim watched them pile into the helicopter. Watched them clap each other on the back, their faces distorted by the flames from the farmhouse. Watched the helicopter lift off. “Keep your head down,” he called to Leo.

  The helicopter floated high above for an instant, then a missile flashed and the house exploded. The pigs boiled around the pen, grunting and churning up mud, as flaming debris fell from the sky, Rakkim hanging on to the sow to avoid being trampled. The chopper veered overhead, machine guns strafing the pen, sent chunks of meat flying.