"And when your dickless bodies are found I'm gonna call the papers and tell them it was the work of the Wrath of Guido."
He laughed and turned to Jack. "Pretty good, huh? Just made that one up on the spot."
"No Fidel—remember?"
"Just let me finish." He turned back to the sobbing Arabs. "But there's a way one of you—and only one of you—can avoid this fate worse than death. And that's to identify the two shooters and tell us who's behind Wrath of Allah. Because I know there's got to be more to this than you losers."
Jack had been thinking the same thing. He so wanted those answers.
The guy on the far left rose to his knees and jabbered in Arabic as he pointed to Al-Kabeer. Al-Kabeer made no reply.
Joey put a bullet into the floor next to the speaker.
"English! None of this dune-nigger speak!"
The guy kept pointing at Al-Kabeer. "It was Hamad! It was his idea! It's all his fault!"
Al-Kabeer lifted his head and shouted a single Arabic word.
"No! I will not be silent!" The Arab turned back to Joey. "I warned him, I warned them all that this would bring the enemy to our door, but they wouldn't listen." Back to Al-Kabeer. "Now see what you've done. You are to blame for whatever happens to us!"
"Our old friend El-Kabong, eh?" Joey said. "Now we're getting somewhere. What've you got to say for yourself?"
Slowly, painfully, Al-Kabeer began to rise.
Joey raised his pistol. "Easy…"
"I would speak."
Jack kept a closer eye on the rest as Al-Kabeer rose and stood awkwardly, favoring his bloody left leg.
"All right," Joey said. "What was your part in this? Who were the shooters?"
Al-Kabeer sneered. "I do not answer to you, only to Allah. I only wish there had been more than two heroes. I wish there had been dozens of them running through the whole of the airport killing everyone in sight. I wish they had killed hundreds, thousands. I wish such a fate on every infidel in this stinking manure pile of a country."
Joey took a bead on Al-Kabeer's face. "And I wish the same about you dune niggers. Consider this a start."
"One more thing," Al-Kabeer said, looking Joey straight in the eye. "May cancerous swine devour your whore of a mother and shit her out on the grave of your illegitimate brother."
Phut! Phut!
Joey's first shot went wide but the second caught Al-Kabeer in the neck. He fell backward and lay writhing and kicking as he clutched his throat.
And then a screaming bearded man stormed into the room through the rear door, firing a pistol as he ran. Joey was between Jack and the attacker. He must have caught one because he crashed back into Jack. As Joey went down Jack whipped the shotgun around and fired. A deafening boom shocked his eardrums as the double-ought blew open the newcomer's chest. Pumping a new cartridge, Jack swiveled to find the three unwounded Arabs charging him, their eyes on the Tavors that had slipped from Joey's grasp.
A shot rang out and one of the three screamed and doubled over, clutching his abdomen. Joey was down but not out. Jack's second blast tore into the remaining pair as they charged, shoulder to shoulder. He'd aimed off center so that the one on the right would take the brunt of the buck—he had plans for his buddy—but the sawed-off's short, unchoked barrel allowed too wide a pattern. Both went down.
Jack looked around. Last man standing.
Shit! This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
He knelt beside Joey. He looked like hell—white face, shallow, stuttering breaths. His bluish lips moved. Jack could barely hear him through the whine in his ears.
"Looks like I fucked up."
Yeah, he sure as hell had. But Jack didn't belabor it. The poor guy was paying the price of his rushed search.
He slipped his arms under Joey and lifted him.
"Let's get you out of here."
Jack did a quick scan as he stepped through the door and onto the sidewalk. Nobody near enough to matter. He carried Joey to the car, eased him into the passenger seat, then hurried back inside. A quick check of the Arabs yielded one survivor: Al-Kabeer, moaning and writhing as he clutched his bloody throat.
Perfect.
Jack hauled him out to the car and dumped him on the backseat.
Now he did a careful scan. Spotted a couple of people to his left approaching cautiously along the sidewalk, another to his right running down the middle of the street.
Jack pulled his Glock, turned, and fired three shots back through the open door at the Center's rear wall. That seemed to discourage the curious—two threw themselves flat and the third made a quick U-turn and booked.
Jack ran around the car, jumped behind the wheel, fished the keys from under the seat, and did some booking himself.
8
-14:44
Joey didn't make it.
After racing toward Interstate 80, Jack turned just before the on ramp and cruised local streets at the speed limit. He wound through neighborhoods of clapboard two-family homes and rundown apartment houses, heading generally east, talking nonstop to Joey as he looked for a hospital, or at least one of those blue signs with the white H.
Finally he found one, pointing left. As he stopped at a red light, he leaned over and grabbed Joey's shoulder.
"Almost there, buddy."
Joey made no reply, but then he'd done little more than grunt now and then during the ride.
He was too badly hurt for Doc Hargus, so Jack's plan was to carry him into the first ER he found and give a story about finding him on the street. As soon as Joey was under medical care, Jack would disappear.
But Joey looked awfully still right now.
He shook him. "Joey?"
"We fucked up, Jack," he said in a voice like a mouse scratching a wall.
Yeah, we did.
"It's okay, Joey."
Jack saw his lips moving and leaned closer to hear.
"Ain't okay, Jack. We didn't get them."
"We did. The only survivor is in the backseat."
"No. I been stunad. It wasn't them."
Jack felt his gut go cold.
"What're you saying?"
"It's bigger than them. Something else going on."
"How can you know that? What makes you think—?"
"You know stuff when you're dead."
And then he fell silent.
Jack shook him again.
"Joey?"
Joey slumped further in his seat, then slid off. His head banged the dashboard.
"Oh, shit!"
Jack rotated Joey's face toward him. His skin felt cold. And even in this faint light the slack features and staring eyes left no doubt. Now old Frank Castellano had no sons.
"Aw, Joey," Jack said. "Dammit, I knew this was a bad idea."
An aching, stifling melancholy enveloped him. Such a waste… the airport, the Arabs, Joey… senseless. The futility of it all hammered at him, and he felt himself bend beneath the blows.
If only circumstances had been different… with just a little more time he could have reined Joey in and come up with a good plan. But there'd been no time. Because of the Lilitongue. And the Lilitongue was here because Tom had tricked him into looking for it, had pulled it from its resting place, had brought it into Jack's home.
Joey's death… one more thing to park on his brother. That and—
Al-Kabeer! Christ, had he kicked too?
Jack leaned over the back rest and poked Allah's courageous warrior. He stirred and moaned.
A horn blared behind him. He looked up and saw the light had changed. He ditched the left turn and kept heading east.
Eventually he came to a river. He didn't know its name. The Hacken-sack? The Passaic? Wasn't sure what town or even what county he was in. To the south he could see a highway arching high over the water. Probably Route 80.