Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) (37 page)
I started sprinting toward the leader.
I had moved maybe three steps when I heard someone shout out a warning. The leader turned toward me. I was still forty yards away. My legs pumped fast, but everything else slowed down. The leader too wore a green bandana around his neck, like an outlaw in an old Western. His beard was thick. He was taller than the others, maybe six two, and stocky. There was a knife in one hand, a gun in the other. He raised the gun toward me. I debated dropping to the ground or veering to the side, anything to avoid the shot, but my mind quickly sized up the situation and I realized that a sudden shift wouldn’t work here. Yes, he might miss with the first bullet, but then I would be totally exposed. The second shot would certainly not miss. Plus my diversion was over. The other men were already coming back toward us. They would fire too.
I had to hope that he’d panic and miss me.
He aimed the gun. I met his eyes and saw the calm that simple moral certainty brings a man. I had no chance. I could see that now. He would not miss. And then, right before he pulled the trigger, I heard him howl in pain and saw him look down.
Berleand was biting his calf, holding on with his teeth like an angry Rottweiler.
The leader’s gun hand dropped to his side, aiming at the top of Berleand’s head. With a surge of adrenaline, I launched myself at the leader, arms in front of me. But before I could get there, I heard the blast and saw the gun recoil. Berleand’s body jerked as I reached the leader. I wrapped my arms around the son of a bitch, kept my momentum going. As we toppled toward the ground, I positioned my forearm against the leader’s nose. We landed hard, my full body weight behind the forearm. His nose exploded like a water balloon. Blood smacked me in the face. It felt warm against my skin. He cried out, but he still had a lot of fight in him. So did I. I dodged a head butt. He tried to get me in a bear hug. A fatal move. I let his arms encircle me. When he started to squeeze, I quickly snaked my arms free. Now the leader was totally vulnerable. I did not hesitate. I thought about Berleand, about how this man had made my friend suffer.
Time to end this.
The fingers of my right hand formed a claw. I didn’t go for the eyes or the nose or any other soft target to disable or maim. At the base of the throat, right above the thoracic cage, sits a hollowed area where the trachea isn’t protected. With two fingers and my thumb, I dug full force into the opening and grabbed his throat in a talonlike grip. I was crying as I jerked his windpipe toward me, screaming like an animal while a man died by my hand.
I plucked the gun from his still hand.
The men were running back toward us. They hadn’t yet shot for fear of hitting their leader. I rolled toward the body on my right.
“Berleand?”
But he was dead. I could see that now. His dorky glasses with those oversize frames were askew on that soft, malleable face. I wanted to cry. I wanted to just give up and hold him and cry.
The men were getting closer. I looked up. They were having trouble seeing me, but the lights from the house behind them made them perfect silhouettes. I raised the gun and fired. One man went down. I turned the gun to the left. I fired again. Another man went down. Now they started firing back. I rolled back toward the leader and used his body as a shield. I fired again. Another man went down.
Sirens.
I kept low and sprinted toward the house. Cop cars came rushing up. I heard a helicopter, maybe more than one, above us. More gunfire. I would let them handle it. I wanted to get into that house now.
I ran past Taylor. Dead. The door was still open. Erickson’s body was on the front porch next to it, the knife still deep in his chest. I stepped over him and dived into the foyer.
Silence.
I didn’t like that.
I still had the leader’s gun in my hand. I pushed my back against the wall. The place was in total disrepair. The wallpaper was peeling. The light was on. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw someone sprint by, heard footsteps going down the stairs. Had to be a lower level. A basement.
Outside I could hear gunfire. I could hear someone calling through a bullhorn for surrender. Might have been Jones. I should wait now. There was no chance I was going to get Carrie out of here anyway. I should sit tight, cover the door, not let anyone in or out. That was the smart play here. Wait it out.
I might have done that. I might have just stayed right there and never gone into that basement if the blond boy hadn’t come racing down the stairs.
I called him a boy. That wasn’t fair. He looked to be about seventeen, maybe eighteen, not much younger than the dark-haired men I had just shot without hesitation. But when this teenager with the blond hair and khaki pants and dress shirt came tearing down the stairs—a gun in his hand—I didn’t shoot right away.
“Freeze!” I shouted. “Drop the gun.”
The boy’s face twisted into some kind of hideous death mask. His gun hand rose toward me, and he took aim. I jumped, rolled to the left, and came up firing. I didn’t go for the death shot, as opposed to what I had been like outside. I went for his legs. I fired low. The teen screamed and fell. He still held the gun though, still had the twisted death-mask expression. He aimed for me again.
I jumped out of the foyer and into the hallway—where I came face-to-face with the basement door.
The blond teen had been hit in the leg. There was no way he could follow me down. I caught my breath, grabbed the knob with my free hand, and opened the door.
Total darkness.
I kept my gun against my chest. Pressed myself against the wall to make myself a smaller target. I slowly started down the stairs, feeling my way with my front foot. One hand held the gun, the other searched for a light switch. I couldn’t find one. With my body still turned to the side, I took the steps slowly, left foot down a step, right foot meets up with it. I wondered about ammunition. How many bullets did I have left? No idea.
I heard whispers below.
No doubt about it. The lights might be off, but someone was down in the darkness. Probably more than one someone. Again I debated doing the wise thing—just stopping, staying still, moving back to the top of the stairs, waiting for reinforcements. The gunfire outside had stopped. Jones and his men, I was sure, had secured the premises.
But I didn’t do that.
My left foot reached the bottom step. I heard a scuffling sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My free hand felt along the wall until I found the light switch. Or to be more precise, switches. Three in a row. I put my hand underneath them, got my gun ready, took one deep breath, and then I flipped up all three at the same time.
Later I would remember the other details: the Arabic graffiti spray-painted on the walls, the green flags with the blood-soaked crescent moon, the posters of martyrs in battle fatigues carrying assault weapons. Later I would remember the portraits of Mohammad Matar during many different stages of his life, including the time when he worked as a medical resident named Jiménez.
But right now, all of that was little more than backdrop.
Because there, in the far corner of the basement, I saw something that made my heart stop. I blinked my eyes, looked again, couldn’t believe it, and yet maybe it made perfect sense after all.
A group of blond teenagers and children were huddled against a pregnant woman in a black burqa. Their eyes were ice blue, and they all stared at me with hatred. They began to make a noise, a snarl maybe, as one, and then I realized that it wasn’t a snarl. These were words, repeated over and over . . .
“Al-sabr wal-sayf.”
I backed away from them, shaking my head.
“Al-sabr wal-sayf.”
The brain started doing the synapse thing again: the blond hair. The blue eyes. CryoHope. Dr. Jiménez being Mohammad Matar. Patience. The sword.
Patience.
I bit back a scream as the truth rained down on me: Save the Angels hadn’t used the embryos to help infertile couples. They had used them to create the ultimate weapon of terror, to infiltrate, to get ready for global jihad.
Patience and the sword will defeat the sinners.
The blonds started coming toward me, even though I was the one with the gun. Some kept chanting. Some just shrieked. Some dived back behind the burqa-clad pregnant woman, looking terrified. I moved faster, heading up the stairs. From above, I heard a familiar voice call my name.
“Bolitar? Bolitar?”
I turned my back on the ice blue, hell-spawned monstrosity below me, scrambled to the top of the stairs, dived through the basement door, slammed it closed behind me. Like that might help. Like that might make it all go away.
Jones was there. So were his men in bulletproof vests. Jones saw the look on my face.
“What is it?” he asked me. “What’s down there?”
But I couldn’t even speak, couldn’t make out words. I ran outside, toward Berleand. I collapsed next to his still body. I was hoping for a reprieve, hoping that maybe in the confusion, I had made a mistake. I hadn’t. Berleand, the poor beautiful bastard, was dead. I held him for just for a second, maybe two. No more than that.
The job wasn’t over. Berleand would have been the first to tell me that.
I still needed to find Carrie.
As I ran back to the house, I called Terese. No answer.
I quickly joined the house search. Jones and his men were in the basement already. The blonds were brought upstairs. I looked at them, at their hate-filled eyes. None was Carrie. We found two more women dressed in face-covering, traditional black burqas. Both were pregnant. As his men started bringing the captives outside, Jones looked at me in horror and disbelief. I looked back and nodded. These women weren’t mothers. They were incubators—embryo carriers.
We searched some more, opened up all the closets, found training manuals and film clips, laptops, horror upon horror. But no Carrie.
I took out my phone and tried Terese again. Still no answer. Not on her cell. Not at the apartment at the Dakota.
I staggered outside. Win had arrived. He stood on the porch, waiting for me. Our eyes met.
“Terese?” I ask.
Win shook his head. “She’s gone.”
Again.
39
CABINDA PROVINCE
ANGOLA, AFRICA
THREE WEEKS LATER
ANGOLA, AFRICA
THREE WEEKS LATER
WE have been driving in this pickup truck for more than eight hours now through the craziest terrain. I hadn’t seen a person or even a building in more than six. I have been to remote areas before, but this took remote to the tenth power.
When we reach the hut, the driver pulls over and turns off the engine. He opens the door for me and hands me a backpack. He shows me the walking path. There is a phone in the hut, he tells me. When I want to return, I should call him on it. He will come and get me. I thank him and start down the path.
Four miles later, I see the clearing.
Terese is there. Her back is to me. When I returned to the Dakota that night, she was, as Win had said, gone. She had left a simple note behind:
“I love you so very much.”
That was it.
Terese’s hair is dyed black now. The better to keep her hidden, I assume. Blondes would stand out, even here. I like her hair this way. I watch her walking away from me, and I can’t help but smile. Her head held high, her shoulders back, the perfect posture. I flash back to that surveillance tape, the way I could see that Carrie had that same perfect posture, that same confident walk.
Terese is surrounded by three black women in colorful garb. I start toward them. One of the women spots me and whispers something. Terese turns, curious. When her eyes land on me, her entire face lights up. So, I guess, does mine. She drops the basket in her hand and sprints in my direction. There is no hesitation at all. I run to meet her. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me close.
“God, I missed you,” she says.
I hug her back. That’s all. I don’t want to say anything. Not yet. I want to melt into this hug. I want to disappear into it and stay in her arms forever. I know deep in my soul that this is where I belong, holding her, and for just a few moments, I want and need that peace.
Finally I ask, “Where is Carrie?”
She takes my hand and walks me to the corner of the opening. She points up the field, to another small clearing. A hundred yards away, Carrie sits with two black girls about her age. They are all working on something. I can’t tell what it is. Peeling or picking. The black girls are laughing. Carrie is not.
Carrie’s hair too is black.
I turn back to Terese. I look at her eyes of blue with the gold ring around the pupils. Her daughter had the same gold ring. I saw it in that picture. The confident walk, the gold ring. The unmistakable genetic echo.
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