“It was one man and they didn’t see it coming.”
“I told you, the chauffeur was hard-core,” said Colarusso, exasperated. “I checked his sheet-he was trained. Hard to imagine him being so surprised he didn’t even move. Even if he was killed first, don’t you think his wife would have time to react? She just kept sitting there. I mean…who kills that fast?”
“Fedayeen,” said Rakkim. “A Fedayeen assassin could kill you so fast that you’d be dead before you tasted the blood in your mouth.”
“Fedayeen? Like you?”
“No, not like me.”
Colarusso stared at him, suddenly sober. “You’re scaring me, troop.”
Rakkim could see Terry and his wife posed on the couch, sheeted with blood, their heads in their laps. “The assassins specialty is a small unit within the Fedayeen. A thousand recruits, the best of the best…you might find one selected for assassins, and he might not even make it through. I had the speed, but I wasn’t right psychologically. It takes a certain…disconnect.”
“You had a heart.”
“Don’t bother dusting the place for prints, this guy isn’t going to be in any of the data banks, but when the uniforms finish their canvass, I’d like to see the report. On the off chance that one of the neighbors noticed someone suspicious, it would be nice to get a description.”
“This assassin…you think you could take him?”
“No.”
“You said you had the speed.”
Rakkim didn’t answer.
“Okay, I’ll drop the subject.” Colarusso dug into the bowl of peanuts, shook them in his fist. “Let’s talk about Anthony Jr. At the Super Bowl you told me you wouldn’t recommend him for Fedayeen, now you’re signing off on it. What changed your mind?”
“He’s got an aptitude…and what he’s doing now is more likely to get him killed than being Fedayeen. Even if he washes out, he’ll still be better off.”
“I know he’s hanging out with some roughnecks-”
“He’s leading the roughnecks. He’s directing them.”
Colarusso kept shaking the peanuts.
“I did what I thought was best for him. You know that.”
Colarusso avoided eye contact. “You should have seen his face when he told us that you were going to recommend him. I haven’t seen him so happy in years.”
“He’s a little wild, but he’s a good kid.”
“You were a good kid once too.” Colarusso tossed the peanuts onto the bar, sent them tumbling. “Look what happened to you.”
CHAPTER 22
“Jesus, mister, this is some kind of record.” The Catholic teenager behind the counter had bright red pimples with white centers. “You must really like strawberry malts.”
Darwin stuck a straw in the malt. “Food of the gods.”
“What’s that mean?” The teenager’s face was shiny with grease, the neon lights turning his confusion incandescent. He rested his elbows on the counter, a pumped-up hunk with tiny blue eyes and an idle curiosity. “You got a pregnant wife at home, is that it? We get that sometimes, little mama goes on a milk-shake binge and hubby sprints out the door.”
Darwin took the strawberry malt. “There’s no mama at home, just me and my appetite, but thanks for asking.” He slid a $5 bill to the kid and told him to keep the change. Darwin was a generous tipper, unfailingly polite, and he never littered. A perfect citizen. He walked away from the counter of Dick’s Drive-In whistling a happy tune.
It was almost midnight and not a star in the sky as he strolled down the street to where his car was parked. He had been waiting across from the church parking lot for almost three hours, leaving only to walk to Dick’s. Three hours and four large strawberry malts. He sucked at the straw, siphoning up the sweetness. Dick’s made a great malt, with real ice cream and real fruit. Their burgers and fries were supposed to be good, but Darwin avoided meat and fried foods. He sucked at the straw, imagining himself as a giant wasp with gauzy wings and flat eyes, a giant wasp with a curved black stinger, living on sweetness.
One block over, Aurora Boulevard was still busy, but this residential street was quieter, the houses dark. An old working-class Catholic neighborhood with small, spotty lawns and beat-up cars in the driveways. He slid into the front seat of his own gray sedan, still sucking on his strawberry malt, his palate deliciously numb from the cold.
From the shadows under a magnolia tree, he had a clear view of the church parking lot, Rakkim’s car next to a dozen other vehicles, unmarked cars and patrol units. A cop watering hole with stained-glass windows-a man had to take comfort where he found it. Darwin smacked his lips. Amen. The lot was surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire, a video camera keeping watch. Darwin didn’t care. Rakkim would have to come out eventually, and Dick’s was open twenty-four hours a day. The blond kid behind the counter had no idea what a record really was. He picked a strawberry seed from between his teeth with the nail of his pinkie.
It had been easy to follow Rakkim and the fat cop from the crime scene, the fat cop leading the way in his government-issue ride, Rakkim right behind him on the freeway. Darwin stayed well back, using a tractor-trailer to shield his own nondescript, dark blue sedan from view. He had caught Rakkim checking his rearview a few times, but he was certain he hadn’t been spotted. Just as he’d told the Old One, Rakkim had been knocked off stride by the cheerful little scene back at the house. The old man should mind his own business. Darwin had left the Fedayeen almost fifteen years ago and had taken assignments from the old man almost ever since. You’d think he would have learned to trust Darwin’s judgment. Good thing for him that Darwin didn’t take such slights personally. Another pull of the strawberry malt. Darwin hadn’t been there beside Rakkim when he’d walked into the master bathroom, but he had been close enough. He had seen his face. Guys like Rakkim could shrug off what Darwin had left on the sofa, but it was the subtle touches, the love taps like Marian in the tub with her eyes bulging out of their sockets…That got the tough guys every time.
And Rakkim was a tough guy. About an hour ago Darwin had gotten a call from one of his contacts in government records, a senior-level tech able to cut through various security clearances. Rakkim Epps had been an outstanding Fedayeen recruit, top of his class, quickly given charge of small-unit ops in the Mormon territories. Dangerous duty with hit-and-run raids here, there, and everywhere. Training time, part of the blooding essential to the elite force. Two years later he had been rated exceptional in all categories-with his contacts he should have been shifted into command and control, but instead he had volunteered for long-range reconnaissance, become a shadow warrior. Darwin had raised an eyebrow at the news, asked his contact if he was sure of the information.
Shadow warriors infiltrated enemy territory for months at a time, becoming part of the population, solitary, deep-cover operators who avoided killing. It was the most dangerous designation in Fedayeen, even more dangerous than assassins. Shadow warriors faced not only the risk of being caught behind enemy lines, but a more insidious danger of going native, of internalizing the habits and traits of the enemy, an internalization required to function in-country, but one that eventually made them unable to fit back into the Fedayeen. Too dangerous to cut loose, too dangerous to keep close, they were sent back again and again until they were killed in action. Shadow warriors averaged just over two and a half years from the time of their first mission to their death, but Rakkim had survived for almost six years, done it all, then walked away when his tour was over. Amazing. Darwin was glad he didn’t have to kill the man, not yet anyway, glad that he would get a chance to know him better first.