Final Winter

Now the truck, smelling of fresh paint, was loaded. Vladimir went up into the cab. Imad turned the key, the diesel engine grumbled into life and, once more singing some Arab tune, Imad maneuvered the tractor-trailer truck back out onto the dirt road. In a matter of minutes they were on the interstate highway, heading east. The air-conditioning had kicked in and Vladimir felt himself relaxing, just a bit. He said, ‘Where did you put it?’

‘Put what?’

‘The jeep. The bodies.’

Imad said, ‘The Jeep went down a ravine. The bodies stayed inside. The Jeep may be found tomorrow, or next week, or next month. And by then, who cares?’

Vladimir looked in the rearview mirror. The sun was beginning to set. If all went well, they would be in Memphis in just under two days.

‘You… you did well, back there,’ he said.

Imad grinned. ‘Thank you. And hold on, I have a souvenir for you.’

The boy steered with one hand as he put his free hand into his pants pocket. Out the hand came, stretched across the cab interior.

‘Here,’ Imad said. ‘Evidence. Just for you.’

Something metallic tumbled into Vladimir’s hand. He looked down. Empty shell casings. Imad said, ‘Evidence. A good shooter picks up after himself. So this is my gift to you. Evidence of what I just did.’

Vladimir looked at the little bits of worked metal, wondered how things so small could be so deadly. And he thought of the canisters that rested comfortably behind his head, back there in the trailer, ready to kill millions. Also small and deadly.

He rolled the passenger’s-side window down, stretched his arm out, and tossed the empty brass casings to the side of the road.

Imad laughed again. Vladimir rolled the window back up, and kept quiet for another hundred miles.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It was dusk as Brian Doyle finally emerged from Mamma Garrity’s home in Cincinnati, trying to factor in what he had learned and what it might mean. He was thinking these things through as he got to his rental car, which was when they jumped him.

Brian’s first thought as he heard the approaching fast foot-steps and felt the hands grabbing him was, oh man, did we fuck up, and won’t our partner laugh his ass off at what just happened. And then the punching and voices started.

‘Get the motherfucker…’

‘Grab ’em…’

‘Shit ass, where’s your fuckin’ wallet…’

Brian was spun around and he threw a punch, caught someone a glancing blow on the side of the face. He took quick stock — four of them, four young ’uns, pukes, scrotes, yutes, whatever you wanted to call them — and he lashed out with a fist, catching one of them on the nose. A yelp and then something sharp sliced through his shirt and there were more punches, and his belt felt so light, so fucking light, because back home he’d be carrying his Motorola hand-held, a quick toggle of the panic switch or call for a 10-13, requesting back-up, but now there was nothing.

Save for one thing.

He reached around to his rear waistband, breathing hard and struggling, the young men clearer now in the glow from a nearby streetlight, more hands punching and slapping at him, something warm on his chest, and he got it, he got his 9mm Smith & Wesson out, out enough to slap one guy in the head with it, and the sight of the metal got everybody’s attention. Like a sudden breeze they were gone, their sneakers slap-slapping on the sidewalk as they faded out.

Now Brian was tired, very tired, and he leaned back against the hood of his rental car, the pistol wavering in his grip. It was heavy, as heavy as he could ever remember it.

‘Shit,’ he said, his mouth dry. ‘Damn.’

He touched the front of his shirt. It was wet. He touched it again. The cloth had been tom away. Now he felt lightheaded. He put the pistol back in his waistband holster, touched his skin again.

It burned.

And it was very wet.

Brian held up his hands to the illumination from the street lights.

His hands were covered with blood.

~ * ~

From the Homeland Security building in Washington State that had first detected the border crossing of Vladimir Zhukov and Imad Yussef Hakim, the information was reviewed, enhanced and sent upstream to the Homeland Security office near Spokane that was responsible for the entire Northwest United States. A helicopter was dispatched to the Customs border crossing and by day’s end two very tired and confused Customs officers were being debriefed by an ex-Air Force Special Operations Master Sergeant named Jason Janwick. This man loved his country, loved his service, hated terrorists, and would be out capping them with his crew had it not been for a bad heart that threatened every day to drop him like a gut-shot deer, and while he didn’t particularly like his present job it was the best he could do.