Sins of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  Michael’s room was empty. A few toys scattered, his rocking horse decapitated. Sarah’s office ransacked. The bathroom door tilted open, the lock broken. Someone had taken refuge behind that door. He moved closer, looked inside. Oh, Katherine…He stepped inside, bent down beside her on the floor, shaking his head, aching. Her eyes bulged, the whites red with burst capillaries. Her neck was swollen and purple, her blackened tongue extended. A strangler had killed her slowly, painfully. Her crucifix had been torn off. He found it resting at the bottom of the toilet and retrieved it. He returned to Katherine, gently turned her head. Two slight indentations were on the back of her neck, two indentations where the strangler had knotted his killing cord, a signature. Rakkim had seen two indentations in exactly the same spot in the photo of Eagleton’s body. Al-Faisal’s calling card on his return from the dead.

  Rakkim stroked Katherine’s hair. Closed her eyes. Did you run in here as death closed in? Did you call out to the killers, buying time for the others to escape? Did you beg for mercy as they beat at the doors, a smile on your face? Please, we’re all alone in here. Take what you want, just leave us in peace. Is that what you said? May God wrap you in his loving embrace for telling such a beautiful lie, Katherine. He kissed her forehead and stood up. He eased into the living room.

  Two men in moderate street clothes ransacked the room, clearly ex-Fedayeen from the determined way they moved. The reinforced front door hung by one hinge, the door frame chopped away. The two Fedayeen cut into the walls with their knives, looking for hidden compartments, slashed open the sofas. A Black Robe examined the books on Sarah’s bookshelf, stroking his fine, dark beard, disgusted. A fourth man stood with arms crossed monitoring the security screens—circular drive, underground garage, the two elevators, the main entryway. Army Special Forces according to the notch in his right nostril. Fedayeen, Special Forces, and Black Robe, a classic strike team, a mixed crew of professional killers in his living room, waiting for Rakkim to show up.

  No sign of Sarah or Michael. Or Leo. No sign of al-Faisal. Just these four men. Al-Faisal must be with the rest of the strike team, in pursuit of his family…or in possession of them. Rakkim felt his heart turn to ice—no fear, no forgiveness. He moved slowly across the living room, very slowly, a half glide to avoid alerting the Fedayeen.

  The transition was instantaneous. One moment Rakkim barely moved, the next he had driven his blade into the ear of the first Fedayeen, killed the second with a single thrust under the jaw. Special Forces rushed over from the security screens, just missed him with a low strike, an assassin tactic to bleed out the femoral artery. A good move, but the man hadn’t learned his lessons well enough. He should have rolled as he slashed at Rakkim’s thigh, come up fighting from a tuck position. Rakkim dodged the strike, sliced the man’s carotid with a flick of his blade. Rakkim didn’t wait to see him die, instead chased down the Black Robe, who scampered toward the front door in a billow of black fabric. The cleric almost reached the doorknob before Rakkim threw him back into the living room.

  Rakkim stared at the tiny red crescent on each of the Black Robe’s earlobes, a sign of his elevated rank. A tall, scrawny man with a sharp nose…and a mouth full of crooked teeth. Just as Sarah had described the Black Robe who had beaten her at the Saint Sebastian street fair.

  The Black Robe scuttled to his feet, grappled with him, but Rakkim dashed the man against a decorative pillar, beat him down.

  Rakkim walked into the kitchen. Came back a few moments later with a couple of Sarah’s carving knives. The Black Robe saw the look on his face, got halfway up. Rakkim pushed him back with a foot, sat on the man’s hips. The Black Robe slapped at him, but Rakkim held him by the right wrist, drove the carving knife through the palm, pinning him to the hardwood floor.

  The Black Robe arched his back, screaming.

  Rakkim held the left hand down, drove in the other knife.

  The Black Robe groaned, bit his gristly lips shut. Blood welled in his palms.

  “Where’s my family?”

  The Black Robe spit in his face.

  Rakkim wiped his face. “Does al-Faisal have my family?”

  The Black Robe’s eyes widened, surprised at Rakkim’s mention of the name.

  Rakkim flicked the handle of the knife pinning the Black Robe’s right hand, the blade vibrating in the pooled blood. “I’m in a hurry.”

  The Black Robe ground his teeth. “Do you think I fear death, apostate? Whatever you do to me, this day I shall be in Paradise.”

  Rakkim sliced open the man’s robe, cut away his undershirt. His flesh was hard and sinewy, mottled with self-inflicted wounds—another masochist convinced that Allah took pleasure in the mortification of his divine creation. Brutalizing him for the truth would be fruitless; the Black Robe considered suffering a badge of honor.

  “You see the marks of my faith?” preened the Black Robe. He tugged at the knives holding down his hands, deepening the cuts. “Go ahead. I’ll show you how a good Muslim dies.”

  Rakkim blotted sweat from the Black Robe’s forehead with the edge of the man’s hood. “When did al-Faisal and the others leave?”

  “If you hurry, perhaps you can catch them. Al-Faisal will welcome you.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.” Rakkim traced the man’s smile with the tip of his knife. “You see how easily I killed these three.”

  “See how well you do against twice that number.” The Black Robe clamped his mouth shut at what he had revealed, but quickly recovered, his bravado returned. “You should see what al-Faisal’s capable of when he has time. You’ll feel the cord slowly tighten around your neck until you’ll piss yourself for a single breath—”

  “My family is everything to me.” Rakkim lightly ran the tip of his blade down the man’s nose, brought a drop of blood to the tip as the Black Robe squirmed. “Duty, honor, country…those are just words. I’d burn down heaven for my family.” The knife sliced one nostril, the Black Robe’s panting breath setting the membrane flapping. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect my family. Nothing I wouldn’t do to someone trying to hurt them. Do you understand me?”

  “You’re a weakling.” The Black Robe reveled in the pain the blade brought him. “Suckling at a woman’s teat for comfort—”

  “What about you?” Rakkim said idly, his face just inches above the Black Robe’s. “What do you care about?”

  “Allah,” sneered the Black Robe. “Allah is all I care about, all that I love. The rest is dust. Go ahead, flay me, you kafir filth, skin me alive and set me ablaze. I fear only God.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Rakkim, genuinely pleased.

  The Black Robe gasped as Rakkim lightly cut a five-inch line down his chest.

  Rakkim looked into his eyes. “Does al-Faisal have my family?”

  The Black Robe stayed silent, knowing any answer might reveal the truth.

  Rakkim cut another line into the Black Robe’s chest, this one forming a V with the other one. “Does he?”

  The Black Robe’s eyes fluttered in ecstasy. “Yes…no…yes…no.” The Black Robe giggled, turned his head from side to side with every answer. “Yes, no, yes, no.”

  Rakkim turned, hearing sounds from beyond the bedroom.

  “Troop? Where are you?”

  “Anthony! This way. Walk through the closet.” Rakkim could see the Black Robe’s heart pounding in his bare chest, blood filling the cuts.

  “Troop, we’ve got to leave. There’s all kinds of…Jesus, Rakkim! What are you doing?”

  Colarusso looked around at the dead men scattered around the living room, blood pooling on the hardwood. “Where’s Sarah and—?”

  “That’s what I’ve been asking my friend here,” said Rakkim.

  “Rakkim?” Colarusso was beside him now, his voice soft. “You want me to arrest this prick, fine. Heck, you want him to have an accident coming down the stairs, bust a few bones, I can live with that too, but the whole country’s coming apart. We need the law
more than ever now. I’ll take him in for questioning. I won’t go easy—”

  “I don’t have time for the law, Anthony.” Rakkim watched the Black Robe. “Not the time, or the inclination. You go on now, I’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t torture a man. I don’t care what he’s done.”

  “He doesn’t mind pain, Anthony.” Rakkim tapped the flat of his blade under the Black Robe’s silky beard. “Isn’t that right?”

  The Black Robe jerked at the knives pinning his hands, tearing his own flesh. “For every minute of pain I suffer, I shall be rewarded with a thousand years of pleasure.”

  “I have to get to the financial district,” said Colarusso. “Christians are breaking windows and burning cars, shit-scared of who’s going to replace the president—”

  “Al-Faisal’s alive,” said Rakkim. “He murdered Katherine. The Black Robes may be behind the assassination of the president.”

  “We don’t know there’s been any assassination…Al-Faisal’s alive?” Colarusso scratched his belly. “That is important. All the more reason to bring this one in for questioning.”

  “You can come back for him when I’m done.” Rakkim slit a straight line across the V carved on the Black Robe’s chest, connecting the two arms of the triangle.

  “Rakkim…this is wrong,” said Colarusso, as the Black Robe gasped. “This isn’t you.”

  “Don’t tell me who I am, Anthony.”

  “Look…I’ll help you find Sarah,” said Colarusso. “Fuck the financial district. I can call in some cops I know to join us, hard-ass Catholics—”

  “Hard-ass Catholics?” cackled the Black Robe. “Al-Faisal will nail their blackened tongues to the nearest church.”

  “You should go,” said Rakkim. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll take care of this myself.”

  “Rikki…?”

  “Go serve the law, Anthony. This man has something to tell me, and I can’t wait to hear it.” Rakkim waited until Colarusso had left, then walked over and picked up a piece of broken mirror. He sat back on the Black Robe, held the mirror over the cleric’s chest, and showed him the triangle cut into his flesh. “Do you see where I’m headed?”

  The Black Robe squinted at the mirror.

  Rakkim cut another line into him, this one bisecting the top angle of the triangle. Held up the mirror. “Do you see it yet?”

  The Black Robe craned his neck.

  Rakkim cut another slanted line that bisected one of the two lower angles of the triangle.

  The Black Robe stared at the mirror. Eyes wide now…wider.

  “You see it now, don’t you?”

  The Black Robe thrashed against Rakkim, straining to pull his hands free.

  “Allah is all you care about. All you fear.” Rakkim’s knife hovered over the Black Robe’s chest. “One more stroke of the blade, and you’ll have a Jewish star carved into your flesh. No chance for Paradise then. You might as well show up before God wearing a pig’s head.”

  “I beg you, no.”

  Rakkim’s knife popped the skin on the Black Robe’s pale chest. “Burning forever without being consumed. And when you beg for a drop of cool water for your scorched tongue…you shall be given boiling oil to quench your thirst. That’s what you teach, isn’t it?”

  “Please…?”

  “One lie from you and I’ll complete the star. One lie…and I’ll know.” The knife edged slowly across the Black Robe’s skin. “Does al-Faisal have my family?”

  “No! We…we heard the old woman’s voice…thought they were all hiding in the bathroom.” The Black Robe grimaced. “Al-Faisal…he was furious. He kept demanding that she tell him where your wife had gone, but the old bitch just laughed at him.”

  “Does al-Faisal have any idea where my family has gone?”

  The Black Robe shook his head, his eyes on the tip of the knife resting on his bleeding chest.

  “Al-Faisal and the others…they’re out there, aren’t they? They’re waiting for me to lead them to Sarah and Michael, aren’t they?”

  The Black Robe looked up at him. “How…?”

  “It’s what I would have done.” Rakkim stropped the knife against the Black Robe’s hairless chest. “Did the grand mullah have the president assassinated? Al-Faisal wouldn’t have done that on his own.”

  The Black Robe tried to flatten himself away from the knife. “Al-Faisal is obedient…as am I.”

  There was something in the man’s tone, some hidden knowledge. “Who sent you for Sarah and Michael?” The blade started toward the last arm of the star. “Why them, why today of all days?”

  “Michael…?” The Black Robe looked confused, dry balls of spit popping from his mouth. “I…I was told the Jew’s name was Leo.”

  “Leo?” Rakkim grabbed his hair. “Is that who you were after?”

  “You think you’re so clever…” The Black Robe thrashed, jerked against the kitchen knives that held him down. “But the truth…the truth won’t help you at all.”

  Rakkim leaned into him, their faces inches apart. “I asked you a question.”

  The Black Robe tried to look away, but couldn’t.

  “Who sent you?”

  “Your f-face…,” said the Black Robe, teeth chattering as though he were freezing. “Your face…it’s different, b-but I recognize those eyes. I know you.”

  Rakkim had never met the Black Robe before, he was sure of it.

  “What…what is this game?” said the Black Robe, still trembling. “Do you test my loyalty?”

  “Who sent you?” demanded Rakkim, the knife skating across the Black Robe’s chest.

  “I serve the Old One.” The Black Robe tore one hand free, grabbed Rakkim’s wrist, and plunged the blade into his own throat, blood spurting from his neck like a fountain as he wriggled in pain. “As…do…you, Darwin.”

  Chapter 49

  Rakkim watched Redbeard’s ruined villa from the nearby woods. Spotted Sarah’s car half-hidden under a collapsed section of roofing and allowed himself to breathe. No other cars, no helicopter hovering in the distance—just her unregistered getaway ride, a beat-up German import with a high-performance engine and rugged frame. He skirted the property just inside the trees, approaching the villa from the blind side, away from any roads.

  The villa was a sprawling, one-story retreat outside the city, the house uninhabited since the State Security chief’s death almost three years ago. Many of the white stone walls had been battered down, the rest blackened by fire, marred by obscene graffiti. Sarah and he had grown up in that house, knew every hallway and hiding spot, shared memories of late-night suppers with Redbeard and afternoons studying in the water garden. All gone now, the villa useful only as a rally point, a last resort if they were ever separated. It was enough.

  He had been followed after leaving the apartment, a gray sedan with smoked windows—Rakkim driving his own emergency vehicle garaged blocks from his home. He had lost the gray sedan after a series of risky maneuvers, but didn’t believe it. He gave al-Faisal too much credit for that. He avoided the rioting in the downtown core, raced to an underground mall parking garage, and changed cars—Rakkim stole the worst vehicle he could find, a three-wheeled halal-meat delivery van, finding the driver’s cap behind the seat for good measure. Still no phone or communication, but judging from the smoke rising from other parts of the city, and the swarms of police helicopters, the rioting had spread. He drove the delivery van a few miles, switched to a nondescript family wagon from a looted used-car lot, and headed out of town. Once he exited the freeway, he waited twenty minutes to see if he had been followed, then continued on, taking backroads, checking his rearview. He had made the final approach on a logging road not on any map, left the family wagon on the other side of the woods. It had taken him almost two hours, but he knew he hadn’t been followed.

  The only thing pursuing Rakkim were the Black Robe’s final words, the cleric driven mad by pain and fear, in his desperation seeing Darwin in Rakkim’s eyes. No…Rak
kim knew better. It wasn’t madness that gave the Black Robe such a vision. Today’s terrible events had stirred Darwin from his slumbers and brought him closer to the surface, rising on a tide of blood. Rakkim could feel the assassin under his skin, could hear him calling out, the dead man’s whisper like the rustle of dry leaves. Rakkim ignored him as best he could, and Darwin fell silent, just another ghost along for the ride.

  The passenger-side door of Sarah’s car hung open. He imagined her slipping from the driver’s seat, Michael in one arm, while Leo jumped out the other side, looking around, too scared to close the door. Sarah would have been calm…as calm as she could be with Michael there, as calm as she could be knowing what must have happened to her mother.

  Rakkim loped through the trees, staying clear of the blackberry bushes sprouting thorns and the morning-glory vines. He hadn’t played in these woods in fifteen years, the trails were overgrown and eroded, but he could have found his way in the dark.

  Al-Faisal was working for the Old One, not the grand mullah of the Black Robes. Rakkim cursed himself for his stupidity. It should have been obvious once the president was killed. With both the president and vice president dead, the next in line of succession was Peter Brandt, Speaker of the House. Brandt was a youthful, charismatic politician and a solid moderate with a modern wife. The last person who the Black Robes would want to replace President Kingsley. The Old One didn’t care about lines of succession. He thrived on chaos and uncertainty. The worse things got, the more likely it was for someone of his choosing to seize the reins of power. Rakkim prayed that Speaker Brandt…President Brandt was in a secure bunker somewhere. And General Kidd…no way he would be anywhere but in the thick of the conflict, but he would also have to be a target. If the Fedayeen were compromised…