A half dozen police cars and an ambulance came charging around the corner. Someone had called 911. Hilde pulled out her pistol and ran to the side of the van, flung open the side door, and saw Lonnie lying on her back. A large man's body splayed beside her, trapping her beneath his weight. Three police officers moved quickly toward her, weapons drawn.
“Freeze!” the police officers shouted. “Set your weapon on the ground and put your hands in the air!”
She obeyed instantly.
“I’m FBI,” she shouted back. “My badge is in my pants pocket.”
She pointed with the fingers of her upraised hand down toward her body.
“Slowly pull it out, one handed.”
Three officers kept their weapons trained on her. She reached with one hand, and using only the tips of her fingers, pulled the ID wallet from her pocket. An officer moved forward and inspected the badge and ID in the wallet.
“She’s legit,” he called to the others. They all lowered their weapons, but did not holster them as they moved forward.
“What happened here?” asked a sergeant.
“Two dead men inside,” she said. “The woman is pregnant — she’s a state trooper. I think they were kidnapping her.”
A paramedic rushed forward. Another paramedic joined him moments later. They pulled the dead man off Lonnie, and after a quick inspection, helped her to her feet.
“What's your name, ma'am?” one asked. “Do you know where you are?”
“Yes. I'm Lieutenant Lonnie Johnson, State Trooper. I think I'm okay.”
“Can you walk, Lieutenant?” One of the paramedics checked the cut on her neck. A sheet of sticky blood covered her skin and soaked into her collar.
“Yes,” she said, “I can walk.”
They got her out of the van and led her toward the ambulance. Another medic rushed toward them with the gurney. After they took several steps, she turned to look back at the white van and froze as she processed the image of what she saw against the memories of what had happened. The knife sticking out of the driver’s mouth. The blue van. The speed. The brutality.
Lonnie looked toward Hilde. The FBI agent moved near and put her arm around her. Lonnie glanced back. Tears filled her eyes.
"Call Marcus."
Chapter 20
Kharzai got out of the van and was met by Deano as he approached the back door to the garage. He reached down and scratched the dog behind his ears, a treat for which the animal was clearly thankful. He waved the dog away and casually entered the house through the breezeway. He turned in to the small bathroom off the hallway and washed the dried blood from his left hand. He muttered angrily to himself as he washed.
"Ugh. That guy’s mouth was entirely too big, nearly swallowed my hand.” He shook his head. "I hate to think what kind of germs a pig like that carried around."
The front door of the house opened with a slight creak. Footsteps sounded on the foyer tiles. Kharzai dried his hands and walked out of the bathroom. Spots of dried blood fanned up from the end of his shirt sleeve. The cousins were taking off their shoes and socks in the foyer. Kharzai was always amused at how they both preferred bare feet when inside, shunning any kind of foot covering like a couple of hillbillies. Leka turned to him and scrunched his face at the sight of the blood stains on Kharzai’s sleeves.
With a curious look, he asked, "What happened to you?"
"Cut myself shaving."
"Your van,” Kreshnik said in heavily accented English. “It cracked."
“Cracked? No, I think you mean crashed.” Kharzai waved off their curiosity and changed the subject. “What’s the name of that gang idiot from the train depot?"
"Snake," Leka replied.
"More like worm,” Kharzai said, curling his lip in disgust at the sound of the name. “He is a pathetic excuse for a human being."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because he let his dick jeopardize the mission, that's why."
"Who Dick?" Kreshnik asked.
"Not who, what," Kharzai corrected. He grabbed his crotch and said, "This is a dick."
"Oh," Kreshnik replied. “I thought that balls.”
"It's a combination package." Kharzai waved his finger in a circular motion around his groin. "But now is not the time for an anatomy lesson. Call Snake and his second — what’s his name?"
“Blue,” Leka said.
“Blue?” Kharzai scrunched his eyebrows in disbelief, “What kind of a name is that? Who names their child after a color?”
Leka shrugged. “Gang names don’t need to make sense. Just sound cool.”
“Whatever.” Kharzai started up the stairs to his room. “Tell them I want to see them both here within the hour.”
“What do I say is reason?”
“Do I need a reason to see them?”
“It helps them hurry, perhaps.”
“I am going to pay them in advance to ensure their loyalty.”
Kharzai took a hot, steamy shower, washing away the residues of murder. He changed his clothes and stuffed the bloody shirt into a paper bag, which he would take out and toss into a public Dumpster somewhere. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the chest of drawers in the room. He stopped and stared at the specter of a man that reflected back. He was only thirty-eight, but he felt as ancient as the mountains that surrounded the city of Anchorage.
To the casual observer, he might actually pass for someone much younger. The thick ball of hair that exploded from his scalp was still black as night. The springy curls bounced and quivered with every movement of his head. His olive-tan skin, what could be seen between the black forest of his beard and hair, was still surprisingly smooth and wrinkle free, especially considering of bad weather and abuse he had endured in more than a decade and a half of shadowy service. His body was strong, his joints limber, and his reaction time still almost superhuman. People always found it difficult to guess his age based on his physical appearance or demeanor, most assuming he was in his early twenties rather than nearly forty.
His own impression of himself was something different. His eyes no longer sparkled the way they did in days long past, pasted over instead by a dull imitation of life, devoid of the joy that had once marked his personality. His trademark toothy grin had faded. When he tried to smile these days, he felt that he looked more like an animal bearing its fangs. Inside he was cold and empty. Since the loss of his precious Leila, nothing had been able to bring him back. At the thought of her, a lump formed in his throat. She had been beautiful. She had trusted him. He would have rescued her out of the prison of her life and they would have settled to a wonderful new world of peace and happiness.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. The reality, of course, was that she may have reacted opposite what he hoped when he revealed his true identity. But now there was no way of knowing, because his true identity had caught up with her at the same time that it caught up with her father and the terrorists Kharzai had infiltrated. The CIA had tracked him and exterminated the target with extreme prejudice. In fulfilling his mission, they killed the only woman he had ever truly loved. He had unselfishly given them every ounce of his own life, faced death nearly every day for sixteen years, then when he thought of calling it quits, they stole from him the one life that offered him a chance at redemption. He could never forgive them of that crime. Never. A knock at his door snapped his thoughts back to the present.