Nick placed his hand over Sal’s protruding fingers. “Please, don’t point that thing at me.”
Sal laughed. “What are you worried about-it ain’t loaded.” Then his expression changed. His eyes narrowed to slits. “We’re talking about what they did to your cousin. Are you forgetting about that? And what about this?” He pointed to Julie, her head tilted to the side, in the midst of an exhaustive sleep.
“I’m not forgetting anything, Sal. That’s why it’s important that you tell me where the shooting took place.”
“Not until I get your word.”
“You know I need to get this approved.”
“Listen, Nick, your word is gold. You tell me what I want to hear, and I tell you what you want to hear.”
Nick stared at his wife. “All right. I promise I’ll take one of your men. Just one. But it has to be Silk.”
“You gotta let him stay with you. What you know, he knows. And he gets the whole immunity thing like we’ve been getting.”
Suddenly, the door opened. Matt walked up to Nick. “Walt called. He needs me. Take care of your sweetie over there.”
“Where are you going?” Nick asked.
Matt furrowed his brow, sneaking a sideways nod toward Sal.
“It’s all right,” Nick said. “You’re not going there anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re going with me to. .” he looked at Sal and held out an open palm.
“Payson, Arizona,” Sal relented.
“Arizona? Why there?”
“Because,” Sal said, proudly, “that’s where we got rid of Rashid Baser.”
“What do you mean? Rashid Baser is dead?” Matt asked.
“Apparently,” Nick said. “And if it’s true. That’s where we’ll find the bomb-making facility.”
Matt glanced over at Julie. “What about her?”
Nick looked at the woman he loved, mangled in bandages and tubing. He still felt the chill that ran down his neck when she used the word kill in a sentence with only one other word in it. It was the subject of the sentence that bothered Nick, not the verb. If she wanted to kill time, or kill a volleyball, he didn’t have a problem. But ‘kill him?’” She was sleeping now, but he hoped that he was able to pull her out of her trauma, just like she did for him every day of their lives together. “The quicker I find Kharrazi,” he said, “the quicker she’ll begin the healing process.”
Matt nodded.
Sal said, “While you’re gone, you want maybe we give your wife a little. . you know. .” the finger gun returned, “protection?”
“What, you going to poke someone in the eye?” Matt deadpanned.
“Very funny Mr. G-man. You notice over in Sicily this kind of stuff doesn’t happen.”
“Don’t get me started, Sal.”
Nick stepped between the two men. “That’s enough. C’mon Matt, we’ve got to get going.”
“Don’t forget about Silk,” Sal said, reminding Nick of their agreement.
Matt followed Nick to the door. “Silk?”
As he passed Julie’s bed, Nick stopped for a moment to give her a peck on the bridge of her nose; the only bare spot between the tube in her nose and the bandage on her forehead.
She surprised him by whispering with her eyes shut, “Get him.”
Bending over her he said, “Just try and stop me.”
Chapter 24
As Kemel Kharrazi pulled up in his rental car, he could see the gravel parking area that stretched all the way to the bottom of the brick building housing the airfield’s office. There were only two cars in the lot and they were parked an abnormal distance from the front door. Kharrazi assumed that these were employees’ vehicles. He parked his car along a chain link fence in between the only two rental cars remaining.
It was a small complex with little security, yet he still scrutinized the facility for any sign of irregularity. There was none. Past the brick building, sitting on the solitary runway, was his chartered jet. It sat in the middle of the runway with the engine running and the door open. The airfield was so small that the diminutive jet was only thirty yards from the front door to the office.
While making his way on the cracked cement path toward the building, he reminded himself to hobble. He was a plump, old businessman and he had to walk the part. His right shoulder developed an exaggerated sag from the weight of his suitcase. As he approached the glass door to the office, he could see that it appeared vacant. He stopped. Why did he even have to bother going in? He prepaid for the return trip already. All he had to do was board the plane.
He walked the short distance to the idling plane and lumbered up the steps. He felt a presence as he got halfway and looked up to see a uniformed pilot reaching out to get his suitcase. The man said something to Kharrazi, but the loud drone of the jet engines drowned out his voice. Once inside he plopped himself down onto a wide, leather chair and huffed from exertion. The pilot secured his suitcase in an upright closet and returned to his seat in the cockpit. He took the copilots seat on the right, while the pilot on the left was busy with a pencil and a clipboard. He seemed to be marking off a preflight checklist and paid no attention to Kharrazi, which soothed any concern he had about his identity being discovered.
Kharrazi settled back in his seat and found a copy of the Baltimore Sun laying open on the secure tray next to him. It was nearly 9AM and he hadn’t had the time to scour the newspapers as he normally would. The front page displayed pictures of burning buildings from several states still suffering from the nightly bombings. A story about President Merrick’s approval ratings spiraling downward was below the fold. He flipped the pages impatiently until he saw the story about a Turkish National who was shot to death in the bathroom of a downtown bar. Kharrazi scrutinized every word searching for anything that could suggest the man was Kurdish, but there was nothing. The fake identification seemed to have satisfied the authorities and once the victim was dead they probably had no motivation to investigate further.
Kharrazi knew that Mustafa was a hot head, so it didn’t surprise him when his Baltimore crew was arrested last night and that Mustafa was the only one who ended up dead. He realized that an officer of the law must have gotten to Mustafa, and shot him after he became an unproductive suspect.
Satisfied, Kharrazi browsed further and tingled with excitement when he came to the story of Tansu’s deadly visit to the Bracco residence. The story confirmed the death of an FBI agent, but fell short of declaring Julie Bracco dead. It simply stated that she was at Johns Hopkins in critical condition. His grip on the paper tightened as he considered the possibility of Nick Bracco’s wife surviving an encounter with one of his best soldiers. He read the story again and began to fume.
He stood, hunched over, and shuffled to the back of the plane, where he pushed a button on one of the four cell phones that he would use just once, then dispose of after the flight.
“Yes,” a voice said.
“You told me that you were successful,” Kharrazi seethed in a low boil of a voice.
“I was.”
“Then why am I not reading about it this morning? I am leaving now, I have to ignite our operation, or I would deal with you personally.”
“Sarock. .uh. . we are being tricked. There is no other explanation. I am certain of the shot. .I hit her directly in the back of her-”
“Enough already. I want you to check and make sure there is no doubt. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Sarock.”
Kharrazi clicked off the phone and returned to his seat. The pilot was holding a hand to his headset as if he was receiving an incoming transmission. He turned to Kharrazi and said, “Mr. Henning?”
Kharrazi leaned forward. “Yes.”
“Airport security needs to speak with you.”