“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.
Darwin swirled the strawberry malt, took another long drink, eyes half-closed. Delicious. Shadow warriors and assassins were the two most extreme Fedayeen specialties, lone wolves set loose on their covert assignments. Shadow warriors were sent into the Bible Belt or the Mormon territories to assess the capability of the enemy, and to help plan future attacks. Assassins were used strictly for overseas missions, taking out business and political leaders, creating turmoil while maintaining an inner peace. Assassins were limited by statute to foreign operations, it was clearly specified in the federal guidelines. Darwin smiled. At least that’s the way it was supposed to work.
He reached into his jacket, took out the Cyclops. It was a receiver-playback unit designed to mimic a cigarette case, its outer shell sterling silver. Russian-made, of course. The screen was the thickness of a human hair, the surveillance cameras that came with the unit sized like a pinhead. He flipped open the Cyclops, speed-forwarding. He had marked his favorite parts. There was Rakkim walking into the Warriq living room, then leaving, then coming back, like the brave little toaster. He slowed the playback, zoomed in on Rakkim’s face, impressed by the way the man managed to put aside his disgust quickly, bending close to the meat, getting right to business. Fedayeen forever.
Darwin had put four cameras in the house: inside front door, inside back, one in the living room, and one in the master bathroom. The cameras gathered and stored the information continuously, then transmitted it in one brief burst on command. Almost undetectable. It was a good system, but it had its limitations. He watched Rakkim and the fat cop each carrying a cardboard box out of the house. The front-door camera had caught them leaving, but he had no idea what was inside the boxes. Other systems could scan through clothing or cardboard, could read if a woman was pregnant, but they were bulkier and had a louder electronic signature. Darwin preferred a quiet approach. He backed up the footage, watched it again. From the way the fat cop was grunting, whatever was in the boxes was heavy. Whatever it was, it was something Marian must have known about, something she had withheld from him. Well, good for her. He meant it too.