Lorrie leaned across the bar and sniffed, letting him look down her blouse. “Not today, you didn’t. Who knows, I might be a little interested if you didn’t always smell like a grease pit.” She flipped the flap of his unbuttoned shirt pocket.
“Okay, I’ll be sure to take a shower and smell like a baby next time before I come here.”
She flounced away, cleaning up the bar and getting ready to close.
Byers turned and leaned against the bar, stretching his lanky frame out. He was working on his second mug of beer. He liked watching Lorrie move.
Lorrie started turning off lights. “Finish your beer, I need a ride home.”
“No shower?”
“Shut up. I’m talking about a ride.”
He waited by the door while she finished locking up. They walked out to his waiting Jeep, and the girl admired the immaculate 1974 customized CJ5.
“This have a top? It’s cold tonight.”
Byers handed her the fatigue jacket he wore on the flight line. She zipped it up and settled into the custom seat. He helped her with the shoulder harness as she strapped in. The big V-8 engine came to life on the first blip of the starter and he wheeled out of the parking lot. After his F-15, the Jeep was the most important thing in his life.
A dark Thunderbird shot by them, its headlights off.
“Assholes,” Byers said, “barely saw the son of a bitch …”
The Thunderbird cut hard to the left and skidded to a halt, blocking the road. Byers jammed at the brakes and dragged the Jeep to a stop. The doors of the Thunderbird swung open and two men got out.
“You dumb—” One of the men had reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun. Byers hit reverse and accelerated backward, throwing Lome against her shoulder harness. He jerked the wheel back and forth as two shots hit the Jeep, one ricocheting off the winch on the front bumper, the other slamming through the windshield. He spun the wheel, skidding the Jeep around.
The two men jumped into the Thunderbird and backed around, coming after the Jeep. Byers, seeing the Thunderbird turn after them, floored the accelerator and the Jeep leaped forward, the speedometer touching a hundred miles an hour. He headed south, looking for open country. They were on the outskirts of town when Byers slammed on the brakes and turned off the road, heading cross-country, fighting the wheel as they bounced into an arroyo. He drove two hundred yards down the dry stream bed and stopped.
“Stay here,” he told Lorrie. “I want to get a look at those bastards.” He reached under his seat and fumbled for a moment, pulling out a .357 handgun and running back down the arroyo and scrambling up the bank.
Lorrie, scared, twisted around when she heard a footfall on the bank above her head and almost screamed before Byers jumped down and hopped inside the Jeep.
“Ragheads,” he muttered, starting the motor. “They’re gone.” “You really know how to show a girl a good time.”
CHAPTER 6
“A car is coming,” the woman said, gathering her chador around her for warmth. Bill Carroll and the two Iranians had been waiting beside the road for hours; now it was early morning. The man stood and walked into the road to wave down the car. Carroll stood with him and unzipped his pants. As the car slowed, he urinated in full view of the headlights. The driver ignored the frantic waving of the Iranian and sped away, disgusted with the sight.
The man came back and waved his pistol at Carroll. “You insulted him, I should kill you for that—”
“If you had let me relieve myself when I asked earlier it would not’ve happened.” Carroll ignored the man and sat back down. “I think we should start walking, it will help keep us warm. Besides, I’m tired of this.”
The Iranian could not make up his mind. He wished he had ignored the incident like the other passengers on the bus, but the young man had spoken a foreign language in his sleep and there was the promise of a reward … still, the man did seem to be what he claimed, which meant trouble for him and the woman. He cursed his impetuous behavior, and the woman. “Yes, you are right. She will carry the bags.” He waved the pistol at the woman, making her carry Carroll’s bag and the two battered suitcases. “As a soldier of the Jihad you know what we do is necessary.”
Covering his ass, Carroll thought, hedging his bets. “Yes. I understand your position, I will explain that your conduct was proper and that I would have done the same if I were you.” Carroll could see some of the tension drain from the man.
It became colder as they trudged up a long grade. It was time to act. He couldn’t afford to carry on this charade any longer. “May we stop? I need to relieve myself again, this time I need to squat.”
The man agreed and told the woman to put the cases down. She crumpled to the ground, worn out. Carroll walked toward two large boulders a hundred feet away. When he was out of sight he pulled the coiled wire out of his pocket and scrambled in the dirt until he found two small stones of the right size and shape. He wrapped an end of the wire around each stone for handles and tugged the wire tight. Next he crawled to the far end of the rocks, crouched, checking to find the man standing at the place where Carroll had entered behind the boulders, looking the other way. The distance was too great to sneak up on him, so Carroll retreated into the rocks and walked noisily back toward the man, still out of sight. When he estimated he was about twenty feet away he stopped and found a shadowy niche to hide in, took off his shirt, not wanting to get blood on it, scuffled his feet and made a loud grunting sound.
“What’s the problem?” The Iranian was closer than he thought.
“My ankle, it’s very dark back here. Can you help me.” Carroll pulled back into the shadows as he heard the man’s approaching footsteps. The Iranian stopped in front of the niche. Carroll was looking at the right side of the man’s head, barely three feet away.
“Where are you?”
Carroll swung the garrote over the man’s head and jerked. “Here.” It was too dark to see the surprise in his eyes. Carroll kicked out the back of the man’s right knee and dropped him. The dying sounds were quickly muted … he doubted that the woman could hear them. Four spasms and he was dead.
Slowly Carroll picked his way back to the road. About thirty feet from where he left the woman he stopped and ripped apart the bandages that held the knife to his calf. Unless a searcher was very careful it could pass for a dressing. When he reached the road, the woman was gone.
Shivering from the cold, he stood looking up and down the road. The two suitcases were piled with his bag. She must have heard more than he’d thought and panicked. Which way did she run? The gun, who had it? Probably still with the man, but he didn’t have time to search for it now. You were careless, he warned himself.
He walked along the side of the road, calculating the woman was tired and had run downhill. Every few hundred feet he would stop, listen, look around. A quarter of a mile later he caught the faint sour odor of the woman’s chador, and then it was gone. He sat down and waited, wishing he had put his shirt back on.
A rustling behind a clump of bushes.
“Come out, old mother, we must continue with this.”
A dark shadow stood and headed back up the road. The woman’s steps were hesitant and unsure as she walked.
She knows, Carroll thought. Damn it. He closed the distance between them, catching up with her, holding the knife in his right hand. She did not stop or turn. He circled his left arm around her neck and pulled her back, driving the knife into her chest, into her heart.
He trudged back to the boulders, carrying her. The Jihad had another victim.
He laid the woman’s body beside the man’s and collapsed, shaking, but not from the cold.