Sins of the Assassin
Page 44
Sarah took deep gasping breaths, her throat so swollen she couldn’t speak.
“The Old One wants you alive,” said al-Faisal. “Still…” The cord snaked out and back, Rakkim half-stumbling to avoid it. “I could turn you over to him paralyzed from the neck down…You’d still be alive, right? Just snap the third cervical vertebrae—”
“Why do guys like you always have to talk about what they’re going to do?” said Rakkim.
Al-Faisal laughed. “Guilty.” The cord whipped out, flicked Rakkim in the side.
Rakkim gasped. Felt as if one of his ribs had cracked.
“Strangler really doesn’t do justice to what I can do, does it?”
Sarah heard Michael crying inside the waterfall grotto, but she left him. He knew to stay put. The Fedayeen called Haskins continued to work on Leo, turning him slightly. He tossed away a bloody bandage, applied another one. Leo stared at Sarah, but she wasn’t sure he could see her. She concentrated on breathing, and crawling toward the dead Fedayeen lying in the stream.
The knotted cord flicked out again and again, and each time it struck Rakkim, something cracked. Something went numb. His ribs. His shoulder. His leg. His face. One eye was swollen shut and he could barely stand. He kept lunging at al-Faisal, but the man was fast, and Rakkim’s sprained left knee slowed him down.
“I’m bored,” said al-Faisal. “I was expecting more from you. My master…he spoke so highly of you.”
“S-sorry.”
Al-Faisal feinted another low strike, flicked the cord out around Rakkim’s neck, and jerked.
Had Rakkim pulled back, which was the natural response, his neck would have broken at precisely the third cervical vertebra…but he didn’t resist. Instead, Rakkim launched himself forward and drove his blade into al-Faisal’s chest. Al-Faisal exhaled in shock, and Rakkim smelled rotting peaches, the end of every summer there ever was.
Al-Faisal kept pulling the cord tighter, his grip still strong, but Rakkim just pressed himself against the strangler, ignoring the spots in front of his eyes.
“Did you enjoy hurting my wife?” Rakkim whispered in al-Faisal’s ear as he worked the knife deeper and deeper into the man’s chest. “Did you smile hearing my son call for his mother?” His head throbbed as the knotted cord dug into his neck. “Were you going to feed off the memory for years…savoring their cries…”
Al-Faisal struggled harder now, let go the cord, pushing against Rakkim with both hands. Blood ran down the sides of his mouth as he tried to scream.
“Don’t go,” said Rakkim as al-Faisal’s eyes started to roll back. “Stay just a little longer.” He slowly moved the blade in small circles, the knife cutting through the rib cage.
Blood bubbled from al-Faisal’s mouth as his bones gave way one after the other.
They stood together for a moment, then Rakkim threw al-Faisal’s body aside. Rakkim swayed, trying to breathe, collapsed. He lay against the cool earth, lay there in the blackness, listening…No sign of Darwin. No trace. Just…Rakkim.
Haskins pushed Leo aside, stood up.
Rakkim pulled weakly at the cord still twisted around his neck.
The pressure bandage soaked with red, Leo grabbed at Haskins’s pant leg.
Haskins ignored him, raised his machine pistol toward Rakkim.
Rakkim clawed at the cord with his one good hand.
Leo buried his face in the grass at the sound of gunfire. He looked up as Haskins crashed down beside him.
Sarah lay in the stream, the other Fedayeen’s machine pistol in her hand. She sat up slowly, soaking wet, hair in her face.
Rakkim waved.
Sarah threw down the gun. Went back into the grotto to get Michael.
Epilogue
“You look good,” said Rakkim.
Leo tried to laugh, started coughing, the IV tubes in his arms twitching.
“Thank you, Leo,” said Sarah.
Leo sat up in the hospital bed. “You…you’re repeating yourself.”
“Seeing you like this”—Sarah touched her throat, still bruised purple from al-Faisal’s cord—“brings it back…what you did in the garden. You saved my life.”
Leo nodded. “Weird, huh?” He looked over at Rakkim. “Surprised you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, I thought you could bend steel with the power of your mind,” said Rakkim.
“I know your secret now, Rikki,” said Leo.
“Oh, yeah?” Rakkim winced as he moved closer, one eye still swollen from the fight with the strangler, his body covered in welts. “Which one?”
“Risking your life for someone…being a hero, it changes a person,” said Leo.
Rakkim rested his hand on Leo’s shoulder, the only part of the kid’s torso that wasn’t bandaged.
“I wasn’t really awake much these last few days,” said Leo, “but I was still thinking. Can’t turn it off even if I wanted to, you know? Like when I overloaded my brain in the Belt. You thought I was unconscious, but I wasn’t. I was just…someplace else.” He grabbed Rakkim’s wrist, held on. “I know all kinds of things now. Things you wouldn’t believe. I’m a lot smarter than I was before. A lot.”
Sarah stood beside the hospital bed. Smoothed the sheet. “You should rest.”
“I’m not bragging,” said Leo. “It’s the truth.”
“Just get better,” said Sarah.
“I didn’t do it on purpose. Jumping in front of the knife…I didn’t mean to do it. I just…did.” Leo glanced at Rakkim. “That still counts, doesn’t it?”
“It still counts,” said Rakkim.
“I remember being so surprised.” Leo shook his head. “I remember lying there and thinking that I was going to die. Me…dead, and all the things I knew, all the things I was going to do, the discoveries I was going to make, the breakthroughs…they were never going to happen.” Tears shimmered in his eyes. “And I thought that was so sad, so…tragic, but I heard your voice, Sarah, and you were talking to Michael, and I thought…maybe it’s okay, dying, you know, maybe it’s not the worst thing that could happen.”
“I’m glad you’re here to tell us about it,” said Sarah.
“Me too,” said Leo. “The world caught a lucky break.”
“Yeah, there’s celebrations going on all across the planet,” said Rakkim. “Haven’t you heard the fireworks?”
Leo smiled, lips cracking. “Michael’s okay?”
“Fine,” said Rakkim. “He’s with your mother and father.”
“We have to go,” said Sarah. “The presidential inauguration is this afternoon.”
“Is that safe?” said Leo.
“Don’t worry. Go back to sleep…or whatever it is you do,” Rakkim said. “The hospital is secure, but as soon as you’re well enough, Spider has a new facility he wants to move you to. The Old One isn’t going to stop looking for you.”
“Let him,” said Leo. “He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”
Three hours later, Rakkim and Sarah were in the gallery above the great hall of the Congress, watching Peter Brandt take the oath of office. The president-designate tall and assured, one hand resting on the Quran. Only the second president in the history of the republic. The hall was silent except for Brandt’s solemnly repeating the words spoken by the grand ayatollah, the senators and representatives assembled below leaning forward in their seats.
General Kidd and Amir sat in the front row in their plain blue uniforms. The overhead lights gleamed off Kidd’s stark black cheekbones, his eyes locked deep into their sockets. With the nation still in turmoil and the army in disarray, more than ever the Fedayeen were the key to the nation’s security.
“It’s my fault,” Sarah said softly. “If I had gotten through to President Kingsley ten minutes sooner—”
“You did better than any of us.”
“That day at the apartment,” said Sarah, “Leo asked if I needed help…and I told him I could handle it. He asked me…and I turned him down. Bright as he is, bright as I knew he was�
��I turned him down.”
“…in the name of Allah, the merciful, I do solemnly swear,” intoned Peter Brandt.
“I didn’t want help,” Sarah said angrily. “I’m Redbeard’s niece, I didn’t need any help. Now…now the president’s dead.”
The grand ayatollah closed the Quran, bowed before President Brandt as the senators and representatives jumped to their feet, shouting, “Assalaamu Alaikum!”
“And now there’s a new president. You make mistakes, people die, you move forward. Perfect people accomplish nothing.” Rakkim noted the fundamentalist legislators glowering at the podium, Black Robes not even bothering to hide their hate. “We’re lucky Brandt was next in line. A solid moderate, just like Kingsley.”
The gigantic screen behind the podium filled with a close-up of Brandt’s handsome face framed by his tousled, sandy hair. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he acknowledged Kingsley’s widow.
General Kidd and Amir stood with their hands folded in front of them as the politicians applauded wildly, and everyone else seemed smaller and dirtier by comparison.
“Brandt’s flexible too, and well traveled,” said Sarah. “We’re going to need that.”
“You trying to convince yourself?” said Rakkim.
Sarah fingered her mother’s small, gold cross as the new president basked in the applause. She had been wearing the crucifix under her blouse since the funeral three days ago, had wept when Rakkim presented it to her. He kept waiting for her to take it off.
“I’ve read the dossier on him,” said Sarah. “He’s the best we could have hoped for. The Old One wanted chaos and insurrection, but he didn’t get it. We won. He lost.”
Rakkim stayed silent.
Brandt walked down from the podium, kissed his wife, drawing a gasp from the Black Robes, who fled up the aisles and out of the hall. Brandt continued his progress through the hall, gracefully accepting the prayers of the most powerful legislators. He looked as if he was enjoying every moment of it, his easy manner reassuring the country, the people desperately wanting a smooth succession.
“Camelot,” murmured Sarah.
“You think this is Camelot?” said Rakkim. “What, am I supposed to wear a suit of armor and joust?”
“It’s a historical allusion…” Sarah squeezed his hand. “Never mind.”
Amir must have felt Rakkim’s eyes on him, turned and found Rakkim in the gallery. He pressed his palms together in greeting. Rakkim returned the salutation. Amir had performed nobly during the rioting after the president’s death—directing Fedayeen units to secure vital facilities, initiating contacts between his father and various foreign governments, and personally protecting Brandt and his family. Kidd had promoted him to his senior staff; Amir now the heir apparent. Rakkim had called to congratulate him, their bad blood of weeks ago forgotten.
Rakkim watched as the president approached General Kidd. The president embraced Kidd warmly, kissed him on both cheeks, but Rakkim knew the general well enough to see that Kidd was keeping his distance.
The president stepped over to Amir, kissed him also, kissed him even more eagerly, then whispered in his ear. They broke the embrace, the president and Amir smiling into the cameras, side by side, the new guard, the hope and future of the republic.
Applause thundered across the hall, louder than ever, the sound rolling and echoing off the marble, building on itself like a storm growing in power and intensity. Hardened politicians wept with joy, sensing this opportunity, this last great chance for the nation to regain its former grandeur.
“Allahu Akbar!” shouted Rakkim, his voice lost in the roar. “Allahu Akbar!”
Sarah stood beside him, beating her hands together as loudly as he did, eager to believe, swept up by the moment and the glorious possibilities ahead. God was indeed great.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my daughter, Dani, for coming up with the title for this book, after myself and a team of highly trained professionals tapped out.
Others to whom I am indebted include: Carolyn Reidy for being in my corner and having the good sense to tell me the fight wasn’t over yet; Colin Harrison, my editor, for his encouragement and keen instincts for what I was trying to accomplish; Karen Thompson, editorial assistant to Colin, for a very smart first read of the manuscript; Karen Richardson and Steve Boldt, for their alert and insightful copyediting; Susan Moldow, my publisher, for her courage and creativity; and Mary Evans, my agent, for her steadfastness, brains, and good cheer.
I would also like to credit Rhino Records’ set of Southern gospel CDs, and a stack of rare bluegrass and country 45s from my pal Carl Waluconis, which together formed the soundtrack by which Sins of the Assassin was written.
Thanks to Calvary Presbyterian Church, a Holy Ghost tabernacle full of sweat and miracles—forty years later and I can still feel the floor shake.
About the Author
ROBERT FERRIGNO is the author of nine previous novels, including Prayers for the Assassin, The Wake-Up, Scavenger Hunt, Flinch, and the bestselling The Horse Latitudes. He lives with his family in the Pacific Northwest.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author