[NSW-Fic] Nemesis

[machievelli]

Sarah Doyle is a Homicide detective with a secret... She spent three years during the Afghan was against the Russians as an assassin. Now her past is catching up with her...

 

The car slammed to a stop, and Riker gave me that look again. So sue me, I was a better driver than he was. We both knew it. No erase and correct. I had fewer rules when I drove than he did. That's all.

 

A uniform was outside, and waved us in. The crime had happened in a house, a large ranch style on what had once been the fancy end of town, now sliding into genteel neglect. The outside looked like something out of a ‘60s, sitcom, every plant just so, the grass perfectly trimmed. But from the look of the furniture, they had either just moved in or it was a rental. Nothing brand spanking new, nothing that had that well loved and lived in look.

 

The first victim was tied to a chair in the kitchen with duct tape, head back as if screaming. The entire back of the head had been blown off and was splattered on the cabinets. But that wasn't what stopped me. I had seen him before, back in a past I thought dead and buried.

 

I am a great believer in statistics when used correctly. When they passed the Lottery I got sick and tired of people asking me why I wouldn't plunk down a dollar and play. Finally I rounded on one detective who gave me the 'If you don't play, you can't win' line California likes and snapped back;

 

'Statistically, there is one chance in 50,000 that a modern firearm cartridge will misfire. The odds of two misfiring in sequence are better than your chances of winning the big money. Which do you think I hope happens on the street?’

 

There is a reason I remembered this. Take a girl from another country, plunk her down in this city. What are the odds that someone she recognized from that country, who himself was from a third country, would meet in this city, both part of the same homicide investigation? I remembered the face, but not the name.

 

"The guy's named Pierre Lambert. Canadian passport. Recently moved here from Ottawa-" Cochrane the robbery Detective at the scene began.

 

"Bull." I snapped cutting him off. I took a pen, and while Cochrane protested, slid the dead man's lips back from his teeth. "Canadians use the same dental techniques as we do here. This guy's fillings are stainless steel. There are very few countries that use steel for fillings. All of them are old Warsaw pact countries and the Russians. This guy is no more Canadian than I am."

 

He was still sputtering as we went to the next body. This was my usual once around before I really began examining and looking for clues. Already we had more than we could handle.

 

The woman was smaller than I was, about five foot even. Fair hair had been burned by powder residue from the right side of her head, a Colt .38 still clenched in her hand. I squatted. "Let me guess, She is Canadian too."

 

"Nope. Local. Ludmilla Marakova. Recently emigrated from Pinsk in Russia. That might explain how the Vic is a Russian."

 

For a long time I didn't answer. I took my pen again, and gently touched her wrist. Faint ligature marks. I checked the other shoulder, the opposite wrist, and nodded. Finally I took a long collapsible pointer I used for a probe, flipping up her skirt far enough to know she wasn't wearing panties.

 

"It's a double murder, not murder-suicide." I announced. I pointed at the right wrist. "A cuff, probably a belt was attached here. Attached to that cuff was an open fingered glove that wedged her hand in position to hold the pistol. A rope ran from that cuff to another section strapped across her shoulders. See the wear mark here? You pull the rope, and it hauls your hand up so the gun is against your head. The other arm was strapped down. See the marks here?

 

"Whoever did this caught her unaware, probably knocked her out. Then strapped her into this. There is no way you could put her in this rig without at least three people helping. If you were by yourself, and our man was definitely by himself you have to make sure the victim won‘t resist. So that says she was drugged.

 

“Then he waited until she woke up, walked her into the bathroom, made sure she went, then brought her back out, made her kneel here, and fired the gun."

 

"Oh give me a break, Doyle!" Cochrane was furious. Maybe it's because his name had been up for homicide when I had been chosen instead. Maybe it's because he thought that having Mike out of the way meant he could console the widow. Maybe he was just an bastard.

 

We know which choice I would have picked.

 

I began, speaking as if to a child. "You have to make her urinate first because there were drugs in her system you don't want us to know about. There will be minor traces of drugs still, Phenobarbital, maybe sodium pentathol or sodium amytal still in her system. Not enough to test for unless you are looking for them specifically. She's not wearing panties because the killer wasn't wasting time worrying about the decency of a corpse. Once that's out of the way-"

 

I drew my side arm from the pancake holster on my side, popped the magazine, handed it and the bullet up the spout to Riker, and then held the gun in my hand. “Picture it for me, Cochrane. You wake up from the drugs you’re groggy. Someone drags you into the bathroom, forces you to sit, then waits. I’ve heard all the locker room humor on getting someone to go if they don’t want to. Does he use a pan of warm water maybe? But you’re conscious enough to understand at least part of your predicament. Your left arm is strapped down tight enough that you’re losing circulation. A gun is stuck in your right hand, and you can’t drop it, can‘t pull the trigger, and can’t do anything because it‘s designed that way.

 

“Once he’s made sure you’ve drained your bladder, he pulls the rope. Remember what I described?” I touched his right shoulder. “A tube here so the rope runs freely. Then a pulley on the left shoulder. All he has to do is pull hard-” I brought the gun up suddenly to Cochrane’s head, between his eyes, as if I were going to shoot him. “-And now you’re seconds from death. Nothing you can do will stop it, nothing you say will delay it.”

 

My voice was matter of fact, distant. “Picture that I am the killer. I’m looking in her eyes. She knows that all I have to do is pull this piece of string,” I closed my hand as if holding a string leading to the trigger. “And she’s dead.

 

"There are two wedges, one below the trigger on the Colt, stopping it from moving. The other is jamming into the trigger guard to force their finger down to pull it. When I’m set, I pull out the bottom wedge with the string-" the hammer on the Sig Saur snapped, making him flinch. “And through it all, right up until the bullet blows through your head, he’s watching you. He has the power of life and death for you this very instant. Not only that, he has the power to destroy what anyone thinks about you from this point on. You may be a Medal of Honor winner from the Great War, but all the press will say is that you ate the bullet, and no one will accept that you‘ve been murdered unless they know exactly what to look for.”

 

I lowered the gun, handed it to Riker. "Then you take off the belts and glove, and walk out. If the police aren't thinking about the possibility of this, you assume suicide. Blood spatter is right, angle of the shot is right, powder residue is absolutely no doubt in their minds perfect.”

 

I took back my piece, and reloaded. I slipped it back in the holster, the restraining snap sounded like a gunshot in the silence. "Now, any more questions from the cheap seats?"

 

Cochrane just stared at me, horrified. He really thought I was going

to pop a cap on him even after seeing me unload it. He backed up, then spun and walked away.

 

What I hadn't said in all of that was I knew how it was done because I had done the exact same thing to someone all those years ago. The same place and time where I remembered both victims.

 

That's right, I recognized Ludmilla Marakova too.

 

The ME arrived. Not Vern this time. They had sent MacInerney. Him I could deal with. Ever since I had spotted a medic alert tag in the clothes of an OD, with a warning that she was highly allergic to opiates. Someone had tried to murder her and make it look like an OD. He was always willing to listen to me now.

 

I walked him through both deaths, and he promised to schedule a full tox scan assuming only traces.

 

I stepped out on the porch and lit up. If I had the money, this is the type of neighborhood I would have enjoyed. The lots were big enough that you had space, but small enough that you weren’t spending six figures for them. Of course a lot of these people would be buying security systems after this. Half a dozen cars, three vans and the ME’s hearse were all there, blocking the street. Beyond them was a string of barricades, and behind it a pair of news vans with satellite uplinks had pulled in, talking heads already telling the city about it. Then the crowd. No matter when or where it happens, murder draws a crowd. Rain or shine. But I wasn’t really seeing this. I was remembering another time.

 

 

On December 25th 1979, The Soviet Union invaded the nation of Afghanistan. The very evening that they invaded, Hafizullah Aziz, the president of Afghanistan died under mysterious circumstances that were never explained.

 

They claimed to be only offering ‘fraternal assistance’ to the Marxist government of that nation, but soon had men in every part of the infrastructure.

 

They assumed that numbers and firepower would cow the Afghans. But while the Soviet Union claimed to be a superpower, to the Afghans, there was but one superpower named Allah.

 

One month after the invasion, the mullahs and Resistance leaders wanted to prove to them that they were wrong.

 

As dusk fell, the Mullahs took their places high in the minarets of the mosques. But instead of the call to prayer, they gave the call to Jihad, holy war. From the rooftops, in a great roar, then from the streets, came the cry of the faithful ‘Allahu Akbar!” God is Great.

 

The Soviets, including a newsman named Gennady Bocharov later reported that the crowd also began to add to that chant. “Marg, Marg, Marg bar Shurawi!” Death to the Soviets, Death, Death, Death.

 

The next morning, a somber and thoughtful Red Army was firmly in control again, but the nightmare that was the Soviet involvement in the Afghan War had only begun...

 

 

I had just turned 12, and so desperate to join the resistance that I would have stolen a rifle from the Russians and started shooting immediately if I had the chance. Hamad knew the instant he saw me that I was what he was looking for.

 

It had been two and a half years since the Russians had come, and my comfortable life from before was a distant memory.

 

He found me in a refugee swarm in Qaheye, moving slowly toward the safety of Pakistan, his band moving toward Kabul, and their mission. I stared at the curling smoke of my cigarette, and could see it yet again. Feel the chill wind, the bite of hunger only a short remove from starvation, seeing to the little ones I had taken under my wing after my mom went to sleep one evening and never woke up.

 

The small girl that had picked up one of the Matryoshka doll bombs the Russians had scattered. That was one of the more brutal parts of the war. Not the bombing of villages, the slaughter of anyone who moved outside of the areas they controlled, but the air dropping of thousands of things meant to attract the eye, to entice you into picking them up.

 

Toys or pens, were what they looked like, until 100 grams of explosives blew your hand off. The worst part was that the primary victims after the first few months weren’t adults. Anyone who saw anything interesting on the ground these days gave it a wide berth.

 

But not the kids.

 

She had seen the cute little doll, and picked it up less than three days earlier. I had spent the intervening time comforting her, trying to find a reason why Allah would let this girl who had harmed no one be hurt.

 

Then the mountain pony had stopped before us. This wasn’t a good thing most of the time. Along with the Mujahadeen that were fighting the Russians, you also had bandits. Even some of the Mujahadeen thought more of themselves than we poor refugees. But these men silently sat on their ponies, and watched us. I looked up, and saw him for the first time in so long. Hamad al Qandahari, a Mujahadeen leader.

 

He dismounted, passing packets of Russian rations to the children, and before I knew it, had even found others to take care of them. He pulled a first aid kit from his saddle, re-bandaged the small girl’s arm himself as if she were his own daughter, all the time speaking gently to me.

 

Hamad knew me, knew my family. Knew my father and mother well enough to be called uncle by my sisters before they died. He knew that like my mother, I had a gift for languages. If I listened to a language for a week, I could start to pick it out well enough to be understood. In a month, I would know and speak it as a native. He knew that the fires of hate burned at my soul that I would not rest until I had killed and killed again.

He knew the type. Over the next four years that I worked under him, he recruited enough of us war orphans. He specialized in the young girls. The enemy, in truth, our own people discounted the person if they were female. The ones recruited by Hamad were in the forefront, finding and targeting the weak and unwary ones among the enemy.

 

In the end he didn’t even bother asking me if I wanted to go. Another man brought a pony, and I mounted, going to war.

 

They had discovered that one of the Russian technicians was living off base in Kabul. He ran the communication systems for one of the main headquarters, and knew everything we might wish to know about their secure communications.

 

His name was Yuri Padorin. He liked young girls, and they chose me. An orphan, probably desperate for enough to eat. Young enough to be biddable, old enough that I was starting to blossom into a woman in body. They dressed me so that I attracted his eye, and like a fisherman with his bait, they trolled me outside the building. A week later, he had met me, and bedded me for the first time. I cried my eyes out after he had gone, then wiped my tears, and never cried again. After a month, he had gotten me a small flat, extra rations, the things any girl desperate for help in a war torn country would want.

 

There were things he had wanted me to do, things no self respecting Arab woman would do, and I had refused, but was slowly pretending to be more and more willing. When we were ready, I gave him the appearance of someone that might let him do what he wanted. Then we waited patiently until he decided that a quick roll would not be enough.

 

It took two more months. Two more months of having him use my body, of pretending to care for him. Serving and even joining him when he brought liters of vodka to the flat. Doing things that in my mind damned me, for I wasn’t being forced. I did them willingly. Then he had called and let me know that tonight he wouldn’t leave until the next evening.

 

The American CIA had supplied us with truth serums, sodium amytal, and sodium pentathol. But they left traces that would be discovered. Of course the Americans were still in the shadows, all of the weapons and equipment came from the Pakistani Intelligence Service, the ISI. One of their contract men who had worked in South America introduced the team I was with to the Suicide Machine as he called it. Just straps and a glove, but as he explained it, I felt an interest. That such a country as the US would make such an unholy device was a shock.

 

He disabused me of that. It had been developed in Columbia, to remove policemen and politicians that had become problems in such a way that their very memories were tarnished.

 

When Padorin arrived, Hamad knocked him unconscious. They put him in the suicide machine, and waited. Marouk gave him the drug as he began to awaken, and for the next five hours I questioned him patiently. They knew that a friendly voice would break through his resistance more easily, and the fact that I spoke Russian fluently helped. He gave us more than we might have hoped. Codes, movements of helicopters and troops, all because a soft voice he thought cared for him asked.

 

Then there was no more he could tell us. They waited, the man gagged so he wouldn’t scream. We had assured that the investigators would believe what they would see. Copies of magazines with men loving men. Several grams of hashish and opium paste. A well used pipe with his saliva on the mouthpiece. A letter written in Russian that told them that he and his male lover had broken up. When he awoke, his eyes locked on me, terrified.

 

I couldn’t help them make him in the bathroo. We were fellow warriors, but I was still a woman. But when they dragged him back out, Hamad put the string in my hand. After all, I had been the one he had dishonored. I lifted my eyes, and saw his, pleading, begging me not to do this. I watched them, seeing his hopes die one by one. Then, I pulled the string, heard the Nagant revolver that they had brought with them bark, saw his head snap back, blood spraying. I killed him, watched his eyes as he died, and felt, nothing.

 

Big deal. A great victory for our cause. We broke their secure communications for almost a whole week until they replaced Padorin. We knew where troops were going for maybe a few days later. Not much to kill a man for.

 

“Sarah, you’re starting to scare the crap out of me.”

 

I looked up at Dave guiltily. I had been in a fugue, lost in memories. Of Padorin, of my homeland. Of my soul which I had lost there in that war. The crowd had changed, not grown, but recycled as more curious came, and others left. There was a butt on the ground, another lit cigarette in my hand. I bent down to pick it up, putting it in the travel ashtray.

 

When in doubt, sarcasm is always the way to go. “Starting?”

 

“So okay, you drive like my mom, and tend to bend the rules until they need to be hammered back into shape. But that,” he jerked a thumb toward the house. “What you did to Cochrane. That is over the line, even for you.”

 

I knew it bothered him, but I wasn‘t in the mood to care. “I am sick of idiots that think they know more because they can grow a beard and have testicles, all right?” I lit another smoke from the butt. Crap, I was smoking way too much. Big deal. I never expected to die in bed. “Especially those that think those appendages make them better at my job than I am.”

 

“Including me?” His voice was soft.

 

“Dave.” I reached out, putting my hand behind his head, and pulled him down until our foreheads touched. If anyone saw this they‘d think we were lovers. If they said anything, they’d wish they were eunuchs. My voice dropped lower, softer. “When you came to homicide last year, you offered to partner with me when no one else in the division wanted to put up with the smart mouth in a skirt. Do you know how many partners I have gone through because I never take crap from anyone?

 

“You never complained because I gave the orders, though you constantly do complain about my driving. You’re always willing to offer a suggestion or a scenario, even when other wiser heads such as myself tell you you’re blowing smoke. I listen to you and respect your opinions because you’re right often enough that it pays. I have never had a better partner, even when I was a rookie detective in robbery. So don’t go fishing for compliments, all right?”

 

He leaned back, nonplused by my serious tones. “Does that mean a raise is out of the question?”

 

I slapped him once on the cheek, a love tap. “Talk to Deems. If I were the Captain I wouldn’t put you in for a cost of living increase.”

 

“Story of my life.”

 

I put out the cigarette. “All right, break time is over, back on your head.”

 

Riker and I walked through the place. The rest of the house was like the front room and kitchen. It was sterile, as if no one had ever lived there. Except for the fireplace. A pile of ashes lay in it, and I knelt to look more closely.

 

“What do you think, Dave?” He bent down beside me.

 

“Papers?”

 

“And photographs.” I used my probe to point at the corner of a piece of burned paper. “The photo paper is impregnated, it burns, hotter than regular paper, but differently. Make a note for CSI. Tell them we might be able to read this if the ashes haven’t been disturbed.”

 

He made the note, then we trouped back to the bedrooms. One was obviously a woman’s room from the things in the bath. It was the first room that had a lived in look. The other a guest room. Riker stopped, sniffing. “I smell gun oil.”

 

I tried to catch it. Being a smoker, I was having some trouble, but there was a trace. It came from the closet.

 

I started to open the door, then stopped. Motioning him down, I pointed at the hair stuck to the it by a dab of grease. “Check it out. Ever seen espionage tradecraft before?”

 

“Only in movies.”

 

I chuckled. “What you see in Hollywood is movie magic. It would cost 2 and a half million to equip even one James Bond just for the equipment. That last movie they made the car cost as much as Halle Berry did. The real agents work on the cheap.” I nudged my finger toward the hair.

 

“That is the way to tell if your quarters have been searched. If they’re not very careful, they break it, or pull it loose. You check the door, see it’s gone, and just walk back out.

 

“But it’s odd for what appears to me to be a safe house.”

 

“Safe house?”

 

I waved toward the building. “This looks like something someone saw in a movie. A movie set, not a home, it‘s also well placed for it‘s function. Quiet neighborhood, close to two freeways, two people with either Russian identities or dental work that screams Eastern Bloc. But it isn’t lived in. The woman had to spend a lot of time making sure it is clean, which suggests that they might not have been here long, or, they expected to bug out fast. That says safe house to me.” I knelt, looking for any wires running into the door. “Go get the sniffer and SWAT camera from the trunk.”

 

I had obtained the equipment for an operation we had been on a year earlier, when a hostage situation had gotten ugly. When the case was over, I had ‘forgotten’ to return it. Riker returned, and I took the sniffer from his hands.

 

Since dogs were sometimes not usable in the field, the US had spent a few million dollars having mechanical sniffers designed and built. Made during the Vietnam War to detect traces of humans in underbrush by their sweat and body odors. They cost about ten to twenty thousand each, meaning that dogs are less expensive. But there are times when a dog would make too much noise. It had many uses. One of them, was sniffing explosives. “All right, nothing except traces of propellant. Nothing big enough to be dangerous.” I traded him the sniffer for the SWAT cam. I took the fiber optic line, and ran it along the door, my eye against the eyepiece. I moved it slowly, looking for a wire that might lead to a bomb or incendiary. Nothing.

 

I slid on a pair of latex gloves, then pulled the door open.

 

There was no room for clothes in the closet. Instead racks had been installed, and guns mounted on them. There were fifteen rifles, and I shuddered. They were all Russian made, from the SVD Dragunov in 7.62x54mm Moisin-Nagant to a pair of AKS 74s. The next rack was loaded with submachine guns. Here they had to go Western European, though there was a Czech Skorpion among them. The last one was filled with pistols. All American. “Jesus Christ! Weapons are us!” Riker whispered.

 

“This is a hell of a lot of firepower.” I mused lifting the Dragunov. I’d used one back home, and it was as reliable as the American M1A1s they used to issue to US Army snipers, though not as good as a bolt action piece. The scope was the standard Russian made PSO-1 model with a 4 power optical telescope, rubber eyepiece integral rangefinder, battery powered reticule illuminator and an infrared sight. Definitely a sniper‘s rifle. “More than just two people would need. When you go into the field, you take just what you’re used to, not the entire inventory. That means there were others. Two, maybe three more would be my guess.”

 

“Were?”

 

“We’ve had cars parked outside for what, the last two hours? Anyone who wasn’t in the house has already called the others and gone to ground somewhere else. Probably yet another safe house.”

 

“Another safe house?” He asked. “Now why do you go to all this trouble for somewhere that is supposed to be safe?”

 

“When the person you’re after is one of your own or someone you consider a serious threat. More than that; one of your own that knows they are after him. Someone good enough to do them both before they can react.”

 

“Sarah, it took time to set the woman up if you’re not mistaken.”

 

“But he had to take her first. Then our killer waited. The other guy came in afterward, is held at gunpoint, tied up, and-“ I made a finger gun, and pretended to fire.

 

“Who would the Russians be after here?”

 

“Someone that would cause the new Russian government a lot of trouble if we knew he was here.”

 

The cell phone rang, and I flipped it open. “Doyle.”

 

“Yeah, Morgan here. I think I may have found something in your e-mail this morning-”

 

“Whoa, go back, start over. Who is this?”

 

“Morgan from IT.” He paused as if that should be sufficient. “The Computer Geek?”

 

I flushed. Damn it, this was not love. I had been in love, and this just wasn’t it. Love is comforting, compelling, gentle. This was lust, the appreciation of a beautiful body, and the wish and hope that he would take advantage of my reaction. Two miles I mentally promised. At this rate I’d be running daily marathons.

 

“All right, I remember you.” I said blandly. Riker was watching my face, grinning like an idiot. I turned my face away, blushing even more deeply.

 

“Talk to me.”

 

“It would be easier if I showed you. When are you going to be back over here at the station?”

 

“We’re pretty much done here. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

 

“I’ll be at your desk.”

 

Ass. I shut down the phone, glaring at Riker. “Don’t say it.”

 

“Say what? That you’re as flustered as a schoolgirl when the Geek calls? That you start breathing heavy when he‘s in the room or on the phone? That-”

 

“Zip it.” He chuckled as he followed me out of the room.

 

“Sarah?”

 

“What?”

 

He motioned toward the Dragunov I was still carrying. “Taking home a souvenir?”

 

I growled at him, walked back in, put the gun back where I had gotten it, and stormed back to the living room. Pritzcowitz was kneeling by the fireplace. “Can we read some of that?” I demanded.

 

“Unlikely.” He held up a scrap of paper. “This is thermal paper. Even if it didn’t burn, the heat would darken the entire thing to almost the same shade as the writing. But we’ll try.”

 

“Good, slug it to me when you’re done.”

 

“Like always.”

 

“Doyle!” MacInerney walked over, pulling off his gloves. “I’ll still do the tox scan, but you were right.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Pressure cut on the head.” He used his hand, flat like an axe, and set it against his head. “Someone hit her with a pistol right about here. The cut runs through the bullet wound.”

 

I looked at Riker, and licked my finger, making a mark in midair. “Score one for the ladies.”

 

We walked outside. As I walked toward the car, I decided that for this I needed help. I flipped the phone open, and hit the speed dial number for the station.

 

“Homicide, O’Malley.”

 

“This is Doyle. Can you get me the number of the Russian Embassy?”

 

“The what?”

 

“Where the Ambassador sits his carcass down. Embassy Consul Legation, whatever. I need to talk to the Charge de affairs.”

 

“You know, Doyle, most people ask for information, they don’t demand it like a Nazi Strumbanfurher.”

 

“That is why we have competitive exams for rank.“ I replied. “So I don’t have to be Miss Congeniality. All right, can you please get me the information you twit? Oh pretty please?“ The sarcasm was so thick you could have cut it. “Or do I have to operate your Rolodex from here?”

 

“One of these days you’re going to bark at the wrong person.” He sighed. He was almost used to me. Give him another month or so. “I’ll make the call and give them your number. It’ll take a few minutes.”

 

“Do it. Ring me back. I’m going to have a smoke.” I stopped, waving for Riker to wait. “I’m waiting on a call.“ I told him. I lit up, and stared at the ash growing on it.

 

The phone rang, and I snapped it open. “Doyle.”

 

“Yes, Detective, this is Ivan Komiayev. I am the Charge de Affairs for the embassy. I have been informed that you needed to speak to me?” The accent took me back almost painfully. “What can the Russian people do for an American homicide detective?”

 

“Ludmilla Marakova is dead.”

 

There was a pause, too long a pause. He knew who she was. “And this is our business in what manner?”

 

I spoke, this time in Russian. Surprising how it all comes back. “Komiayev, I don’t care why you set up a safe house in my city, but when two of your people get killed in my city it bothers me a great deal.”

 

Another even longer pause. “Miss Doyle-“

 

“That’s detective Doyle. The other man was Pierre Lambert. Traveling illegally on a Canadian passport.”

 

Another of those interminable pauses. “I must ask again why this is our affair.”

 

“Lambert was an illegal. The Feebs are going to be very interested why they were here. FBI, CIA, Homeland security, State Department, Immigration, you name it. I can make such a stink that you’d think the cold war was on again. Now can we talk or will the boys in the suits have to ask instead?”

 

“I must speak to my superiors.”

 

Understood. Have the Rezidant clear me for what I need to know. Otherwise the Fed Patrol starts at 9 AM. Get back to me in ten minutes, or it starts anyway.” I hung up.

 

“Are you going to tell me what that was?” Dave asked.

 

“If I had said it all in English, you would have had to react to it. Basically, I threatened the Russians with a Federal investigation.”

 

“Sarah.” He looked to the sky, probably expecting heavenly assistance. Obviously it wasn’t forthcoming. “What makes you think we can keep the Feds out of this?”

 

“We can’t. But it’s better for the local consul to have the Feds investigating a murder, not looking for spy rings. Not that they won’t look for that too.”

[machievelli]

The killer looked around, assuring that everything was as it should be, and nothing remained to tell the Americans anything they didn’t already know.

 

He considered for a moment that he was putting his target in danger, but shrugged. As her people would say, ‘As God wills‘. If she died, he would pay out the money he had already promised, and be done with it. Revenge would be satisfied. But he had a sneaking suspicion that she would live.

 

No, he hoped for it.

 

He went to the door, closing it behind him. No one would really remember David Compton, his alias when he rented this apartment. But they would definitely remember when the SWAT team kicked this door.

 

*****

 

I finished, laying out what the Russians had given to me. To make sure of the chain of evidence, I had left the envelope sealed, and had a lab technician there when we opened it. I hadn’t worked with Fanducci before, but Williams asked important questions, and nodded at my answers.

 

“So let me get this straight. These people, all Russians, were killed because it would implicate you.” Deems said.

 

“That is what the Russians think is happening, though they don‘t know why.” I replied. I went down the list, speaking about each victim in turn. “What they can’t tell me is who is doing this. The operation looks like an old Soviet Bloc Mokri Dela operation. Wet work in Russian.” I explained. “But the Russians say they aren’t missing anyone.”

 

“Could they be lying to you?”

 

“Possibly, but the Russians tend to let bygones be bygones when it comes to operations like what happened in Afghanistan. If they didn’t the murder rate world wide would jump three points. I’m pretty sure they’re being straight.”

 

“So who could be doing this?”

 

“Other Afghans, someone the Russians don’t know about, maybe a rogue, or, for that matter, maybe someone that had been riffed from the KGB way back when. Anything I say is supposition from this point on.”

 

“In your time with the Mujahadeen, did you ever use electrical torture?” Fanducci asked. His eyes were cool. Almost like he expected me to say yes.

 

I shook my head. “Hamad always tried to keep us out of that. It wasn’t that Afghan women aren’t renowned for it, but he didn’t want us to enjoy killing people too much. Being satisfied with your skills was one thing, wanting to enjoy their deaths was something else. We were taught to think of our targets as just that, targets. Can you see getting excited because you punched a better score this week than last week at the range?

 

“If we hadn’t had that training, we might make mistakes, get too into the pain instead of the death. You have to really get into it when you torture someone. I‘ve seen too many people who died that way on both sides for me to think of torture as just business.” I looked up at him. “Why?”

 

“That was how they did Vladimir Sokolov. They used a home defibrillator, the kind they advertise for emergency use. All you have to do is plug the damn thing in and read the directions. An idiot can operate it.”

 

“But we might have tagged him with it.” Williams said. “We check with the manufacturer. There were eight sold in the city, and a couple of uniforms are calling-”

 

The phone rang. “Deems.” The lieutenant nodded then wrote swiftly. “I’ll tell him.” He hung up. “Only two were sold to someone not in their sixties. After checking the old people just to make sure it hadn‘t been stolen, they started on the two younger ones. David Compton was one of the names. The other one is a woman that bought it as a gift for her uncle, and the uncle verifies that. The Uniform ran both of them through credit cards and IDs. Compton has a Visa card, but no ID or driver’s license.” He handed the paper to me. “That’s the address. I’ll have a SWAT team meet you there. Munoz is already downtown. I’ll have him meet you there with a warrant. Move!”

 

I walked rapidly with them, down the elevator, and into the parking lot. I lit a cigarette. “Sarah, you’re going to kill me with those damn things!” Riker whined.

 

“Nah.” I took a long drag, and started to throw it away.

 

“Hey, just finish the damn thing. That way you won’t get antsy while we’re waiting for the warrant.”

 

“We can’t stand here!”

 

“Who said we would? Just roll down your window all the way.” He suited his actions to the words by rolling his all the way down.

 

“You’re mellowing, that scares me.”

 

“Ah, shut up and drive.”

 

We roared out of the station, Riker sliding the light onto the roof as we hit the street. It was only half an hour away, and I felt myself tense.

 

It was like being back in the mountains of home. I didn’t like the feeling, but I put it on like an old coat. Dave was fidgeting every time I cut close to a car, but hadn’t said anything.

 

Half a mile out I pulled the siren, though I left the lights flashing. We pulled in a block away where we could see the seventeen story apartment building, but unless the guy was really paranoid, he wouldn’t see us.

 

Dave popped the trunk, and we began to suit up. SWAT coveralls, flak jackets, and the baseball caps with SWAT embroidered on them. I picked up one of the MP5s, loaded it, and handed it to Dave. I did the same for the other one.

 

Thirty seconds later, Williams and Fanducci rolled up, and suited up. I lit a smoke, and watched the building with binoculars.

 

“Which side of the building?”

 

“We talked to the city engineer on the way. Tenth floor, third from the south corner.”

 

The apartment was on our side of the 10th floor, and I scanned that floor as if I expected a sniper. Only one window was completely dark, and I watched it specifically.

 

I looked at the sun. “I have it in sight. Curtains are closed.”

 

There was a squealing of tires, and the SWAT van pulled up. A

A dozen guys piled out.

 

“Who’s in charge here?” The SWAT lieutenant demanded. He looked like a defensive lineman. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he merely walked through the wall of the buildings when he assaulted them.

 

Williams looked at me, shrugged, and motioned as if letting me go first. “Doyle, homicide.”

 

He looked at me. Just about my age, his face was seamed with a lot of time spent in places that weren‘t friendly. Green eyes like a cat watched me with the same interest. “So you’re the Afghan stone killer.” The lieutenant said. It wasn’t insulting, in fact, he sounded almost pleased. He grinned. “We‘re working with the Varsity today, people. What’s the situation?”

 

I turned, pointing at the building. “Tenth floor. We have a guy that we think has been killing Russians all over the country. A warrant is on the way. We’re going to kick the door, and hoped for some back-up.”

 

“If half of what I’ve heard is true, why did you bother?” The lieutenant aimed his binoculars at the building.

 

I smiled. “Because they won’t let me have all the fun.”

 

“Spoilsports.” Another car screamed up, and Detective Sergeant Munoz of Headquarters division leaped out, handing me the warrant.

 

The SWAT lieutenant looked at a guy who looked like they could use him as a battering ram. “Donovan, you stay here. Stay in contact with division.”

 

“Sir!”

 

We started down the street, moving quickly. People saw us and dived out of the way.

 

We had barely reached the street across from the hotel when an unmarked car slammed to a stop in front of us. Some guy I didn’t know leaped out, flashing a badge. “Conner! Homeland Security!”

 

“What is this crap?” I asked. He didn‘t answer so I shoved him aside. “Listen, mister, we have a man we’re trying to take down up there and you have probably let him know we’re coming! Stay out of the way and tell me what you want afterward!”

 

He waved his badge, and at the same time pulled out a paper. “Sarah Aziz AKA Sarah Shomron AKA Sarah Doyle, you will come with me to answer questions concerning your involvement with Al Qaida. You can come peacefully, or I’ll have you arrested!”

 

I started to snap back, but Dave touched my arm. “We’ve got enough guns, Sarah.” He looked at Conner, his eyes cold. “Let the REMF have his fun. Then we can shove this arrest warrant of his up his ass.”

 

If this stupid scene continued, the suspect would either come out and ask us what was keeping us, or he’d run. If he was a real crazy, he’d just step out and see how many of us he could kill as we stood here imitating the Keystone Kops! I snarled, turning on my heel to walk back to the car.

 

“Aziz-”

 

I spun, my finger jamming into his sternum. “The name is Doyle, not Shomron, not Aziz! If you can’t handle a woman changing her name when she gets married, that is your problem. As for Shomron, you can discuss that with the CIA and Mossad. It’s not like anyone asked if I wanted my name changed!”

 

“Fine, Doyle, I have questions-”

 

I poked the finger hard enough to make him grunt. “Listen you REMF piss-ant, I should be with them but you had to be the big inefficient I’m-so much-more-important Fed! So if you want me, you can damn well wait until my people are back down here! Now if you want to shoot me, go for it. But if you touch me again I’ll break both your arms!” I spun back around and stormed back to the car.

 

“Roger. Lieutenant.” Donovan replied as we came up. He looked surprised that I was back, but took it in stride. “Channel 2.” he reported. “The lieutenant and your men went up the elevator, half the team is waiting to follow, and the rest are going up the stairs.”

 

I nodded, switching to the channel.

 

“Ramirez, watch the left.”

 

“Roger.”

 

Riker‘s voice came as clear as if he was standing there beside me. “Sarah, we’re on the tenth.” Dave said. “Give us five before the balloon goes up.”

 

“Roger, Dave. Be careful.”

 

“That’s my middle name.”

 

“I thought it was-”

 

“Sarah!” There was some snorting as these hard men tried to keep from roaring with laughter against the tension.

 

“Second group is here.” Someone reported.

 

“Third is on the tenth landing.” another voice said.

 

I squirmed. I could picture it. Walking down the hall, checking the room numbers-

 

Suddenly I felt a chill. What if he knew what we’d do?

 

“Here is it. Run the camera.”

 

“Right.” There was the gentle hissing noise of moving cloth as the man knelt, sliding the fiber-optic camera lens under the door. “Don’t see much. I’m going to bend it to the right.”

 

I remembered the bedroom in the safe house. “Did you guys bring a sniffer?”

 

“What for?” The Lieutenant asked.

 

My nerves were screaming.

 

“Fall back until you get one up there!’

 

“Why-”

 

As the lieutenant asked, the camera man said, “Sensor-”

 

The side of the building blossomed as if a flower was trying to be born. The tenth floor exploded outward in a hail of fire tinged debris. The side of the building shuddered, then began to collapse, the upper floors being dragged down as the support beneath them was suddenly not there any more.

Even as the shockwave hit us, I was figuring. Probably ten pounds of C4. Laid against the interior walls so that it would kill everyone in the hallway.

 

I screamed wordlessly, and started running toward the wreckage. Someone caught my arm, and I spun. It was Conner.

 

Strike, my free arm caught him in the chest. I felt ribs going, but I didn’t care. Strike, my knee came up, and he screamed as I crushed his balls.

 

“Doyle!”

 

Strike, I slammed my foot into his knee, breaking it. He was going down, and I reared back, my target was his throat. Another person grabbed me, wrapping big bear-like arms around me, lifting me off the ground. I shrieked like a mad woman, kicking but he was ready, grunting with pain, but not letting me go.

 

“Doyle! Calm down, Doyle. Please, Doyle.” It was Donovan, and only the heartbreak in his voice cut through my killer fury. He’d just seen a lot of men he’d worked with for a long time get killed. Just as those I had worked with had been blown to hell with them.

 

I went limp, staring in horror at the ground. He let me go, then turned me around and hugged me. I looked over his shoulder at the wreckage.

 

The killer watched the explosion with satisfaction. He had wondered if he would have to trigger it himself, but someone had obviously tripped the light sensitive trigger. Below him on the street, he could see Sarah collapsing. The man she had hit was on the ground, his hands clenched into his chest and crotch at the same time. She still had the moves.

 

He pulled out his cell phone, hitting speed dial. When Chaim answered, he said, “Listen on the police scanners. You know who to take.”

 

*****

 

I stared at my hands, listening to the sounds in the hall. Down stairs there was still screaming, I knew. Fifty people dead including thirteen cops today. Almost one hundred wounded. All in that one hellish explosion. Another seven people were missing, and crews were trying to dig their bodies from the wreckage.

 

Two of the major hospitals in the city had been buried in the wounded. Half a dozen of them including a seven year old girl weren’t expected to live.

 

Including Dave. He and a SWAT officer named Tobias had been to the left of the door when the bombs blew.

 

It constantly amazed me that explosives don’t always act the same. The smallest variant of weather or construction can turn their force in ways not expected. The bomb had killed the SWAT lieutenant, the man with the fiber optic camera wand, Williams and Fanducci with the shards of what was once the door. But the frame had warped the explosive force minutely. Tobias had been blown eighty feet down the hall, through a closed door, and onto a sofa that had broken his fall. That saved his spine, and stopped his internal organs from being jellied, though both arms had been broken and his legs shattered. They had already amputated both legs just above the knee, and were worried that they might have to take the arms too.

 

Dave had been blown back through the door of the apartment opposite the target, which saved him from the subsequent blasts. But the helmet had been shattered into his skull when he hit the exterior brick wall. It had been five hours, but they were still picking pieces of plastic out of his brain.

 

The ten men at the ends of the hall had been standing within feet of other bombs. These had been claymore-sized bombs attached on the opposite sides of support beams or pipes. When they had fired, they had ripped walls and pipes into a hell rain of shrapnel. The man that had killed them all had known exactly where they would be. God help me, procedure had placed the men right where they would die the quickest.

 

The scene on the news looked like the Murrow building in Oklahoma City. If I wanted to watch the news, I would have been inundated with more reports.

 

To hell with that. I looked down the hall. Deems stood down at the end of the hall near the door to the surgical ward along with Donovan, three guys from Homicide and SWAT, and two uniforms. The door of the elevator opened, and a petite blonde stepped into the hall, looking around confused. I was on my feet moving toward her before anyone else noticed her.

 

Sally Riker was the kind of girl you either hated on sight, or fell in love with just as quickly. She went through life with an almost Pollyannaish belief that nothing could ever go wrong.

 

This had hit her harder than it would most. Up until now, she had been right.

 

She had the kind of face that showed emotion easily. Right now she looked like she had been gut shot. She looked up, saw me, and with a wail fell into my arms.

 

Half a dozen cops in the hallway look who got to play consoling shoulder. I hugged her, murmuring softly.

 

“Sarah.” He voice was soft, she was pleading with her tone. Tell me it’s a lie, Sarah, please, tell me it was someone else, that it was a joke, and Dave is standing in there with a beer in hand laughing. Tell me anything, Sarah, but don’t tell me he’s dying.

 

I wished I could just make it all better with a word. I almost began praying, but a part of me that had not spoken in years told me, This is what you get for being what you were, Sarah. For being a whore of the Jihad, for using your body to kill all those men. God wants nothing to do with you.

 

The elevator opened again, and three men in Armani suits stepped out. They looked around, then started toward me. Behind them Deems was also in motion, striding angrily down the hall.

 

The lead man flashed a badge. “I am Agent Lopez, these are Agents Michaels and MacGruder. Sarah Aziz AKA Sarah Shomron AKA Sarah Doyle, under the Patriot act, you have been labeled as a possible illegal combatant. You will come with me to answer questions concerning your involvement with Al Qaida.”

 

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Deems roared. Lopez turned, probably to repeated the entire damned speech, but Deems waved it off. “I heard your dog and pony show crap. Give me a reason why my investigator is being threatened with arrest!”

 

“Sarah?” Sally was confused, but right now she was more worried about me than Dave. I pulled her around, then turned to confront them with Sally behind me.

 

“I have the authority-”

 

“To arrest someone just because of her nationality?”

 

“A woman that entered this country under false pretenses-”

 

“Which the file sent over by your agency states has been verified and cleared right back to 1986!’

 

“She was also in the cities in question when three Russians were murdered. That alone is sufficient cause to pick her up.” Lopez had yet to raise his voice but he was getting mad. “But assaulting a Homeland Security Agent and mass murder are also on that list.”

 

“What?” Deems and I shouted it as a chorus.

 

“Conner told us downstairs that you set off the bomb, then bolted. When he tried to apprehend you, you tried to kill him.”

 

Deems was too furious for words, but I already had some to say.

 

“Your agent interfered with our operation to nail the man that killed Vladimir Sokolov here. We were about to go in when that ignorant fool had to squeal his brakes right outside the building, waving his warrant in my face!

 

“I warned him then that if he touched me, I would break both of his arms, but when the building blew up, and I ran toward it, he grabbed me! As for attempted murder, ask Donovan! If Donovan hadn’t grabbed me before I could finish, I might have killed him!” I glared, panting. “Now how the hell did I get accused of mass murder?” He looked to my belt, where the radio sat. I took the radio from my belt, throwing it into Lopez’s face. He caught it. “As for setting off any bombs, all I did was switch on my radio! You know what they are of course. We poor dumb cops actually use the damn things when we can’t get tin cans and strings!”

 

“That might be true, Detective, but your ‘David Compton’ ordered a Visa card online, with an e-mail address that is linked directly to yours!” He waved the radio triumphantly in my face. “The evidence we found on your computers both at home and Headquarters was proof enough that you must have been there when the Russians here were murdered.

 

“As for the building, there aren’t enough survivors of the people who lived there to prove who rented that apartment!” He turned to Deems. “Conner already has a warrant, and I will go down and bring the damn thing up here if I have to. But she leaves here with me right now. Voluntarily, in cuffs or in a body bag. I don’t care which!”

 

A doctor stood at the other end of the hall, and I felt a chill hand on my heart. “Shut up.” I snapped, pushing past Lopez. One of the others, I don’t know which tried to grab my arm, but one fulminating look got him to let go. I extended my hand. “Sally?”

 

She moved through the testosterone cloud like a cat walking through a dog show hoping to escape. I took her hand, and led her down to see the doctor.

 

He was in greens, hair tousled, eyes tired. “Mrs. Riker?”

 

“I motioned toward Sally. “I’m Sarah Doyle, his partner.”

 

“I’m Doctor Martinez. He sighed, looking toward the men standing at the other end of the hall. “It isn’t good, Mrs. Riker.” He motioned toward the seats to one side. “We were able to clean every scrap of the shattered helmet out of his brain, but...”

 

I found Sally’s hand in mine, crushing my hand with her grip. “But?” I prompted.

 

He sighed again, and I could feel his heart breaking with the words. “From the damage caused by the blast, your husband has suffered massive injury, more than I have ever seen in someone that lived through it. The only reason he’s still alive is because he’s on a ventilator and life support. There’s no guarantee I can give that he’ll ever recover.”

 

“Oh.” Sally just sat there. I could see her dying in her eyes. She looked at me again, pleading. “Sarah, he was so afraid of ending his life on life support.”

 

We’d spent nights on stakeout, arguing about it. My faith taught that only God could decide, that man must accept what was given to him. Dave argued for life support usually. But when he was tired at Oh-dark 30 on a stakeout, he’d admit that if it all you had was a vegetable, death was a blessing. There is nothing like being awake during the dying time of the night to show you how close you are to mortality.

 

It was like arguing the subject with two different people.

 

“Doctor. He wouldn’t have wanted to be left alive as a vegetable.” I explained.

 

He sighed yet again. “I’m a Catholic, Detective.” He clutched his hands. I knew without thinking that he’d spend hours doing penance only he set. “I can’t just shut off the machines if there is even a chance that he might recover anything. I can‘t do that myself.” He looked at me with those sheep-like eyes.

 

I was suddenly back in Afghanistan in 1986. Salliah had been captured that night. We had waited hoping that she would escape, but as the sun rose, we knew it was too late for her.

 

We were on the hill above the parade ground when they had their morning assembly. They couldn’t be sure if any Mujahadeen were still nearby, but they always seemed to carry out these torture executions as if for an audience.

 

The Russians had dragged Salliah kicking and screaming out into the June heat, ripping her clothes from her, tying her to a table they had dragged from their mess hall. Someone came to stand in front of her, carrying something large and metallic, and from the look of it, sharp. Then he moved, blocking our view as he shoved it into her. She spasmed in agony. A couple of second later we could hear her screams. Avrik who had led the strike stared as if shocked. The ‘man’ in charge of the five women sent on the mission, who had ordered us around as if we were the children was all of 13 years old. Three years younger than I was.

 

I took the rifle from him. The Dragunov was an old friend. I aimed, my mind closing out everything but my target. The torturer was turning to face the senior officer, asking a question. I caught his profile in the scope, cold and uncaring

 

The gun bucked, a second and a half later the torturer flying to the side, a bullet cutting his spine right below the shoulder line. I had aimed with malicious aforethought. He’d live, if they put him in an iron lung machine. Whether they did or not, I didn’t care.

 

“Sarah-” Avrik shouted.

 

“Run. All of you. I am busy.” I replied. The second shot caught Salliah at an angle because of the distance. It hit right above her crotch, but as the bullet tunneled, it turned her entire lower body into jellied meat before punching out through her heart, then a tenth of a second later, through her neck severing both carotids and jugulars.

 

There were eight more rounds in the magazine. They were hard to get. We were supposed to save them. I used them anyway. A Colonel went down in a welter of blood, followed by the Lieutenant beside him. I drifted across the scene. A sergeant was waving, pointing toward the hill I was on. I reached out and delivered death between his screams. Another man dived for cover. He was young, barely older than I was. He was whispering, and my trained mind, which had learned to lip read was reading ‘Blessed Father protect-’ as I reached out and gave him death instead of absolution.

 

I felt the trigger squeeze, but no more bullets thundered down range. The bolt had locked back, empty. I lowered the rifle, then stood. They could see me. I knew it. I didn’t care. I stood for a long time, then moved back, away. A Hind followed me, but Allah was with me that day.

 

I was suddenly in the hall, holding Sally’s hand. I released it. “Take me to his room.”

 

The doctor looked at me. “I cannot permit-”

 

“Take me and leave me alone. You might not be able to do it, but I can.”

 

****

 

Chaim had hired his brother Levi, who owned an aircraft rental company, and the entire budget for the operation on this end was 12.5 million. Two and a half was a lot for the planes, but you also bought silence with that. A quarter of a million each to the pilots needed. All the two men needed was the code word to tell them to swing into action.

 

At the code word, Chaim made four calls. The men and one woman he called reported ready. Levi began readying the aircraft. Three civilian pilots, all highly qualified ex-agents on the payroll, prepped the two aircraft.

 

One of the men Chaim had activated called him back on a cell phone. That man, who went by the name of Sam, reported that Sarah was at the hospital.

Shannon, a red headed woman who specialized in disguises caught a cab there to meet Sam as the others assembled with Chaim.

 

Leary, the driver, pulled into the warehouse they had rented, and shifted everything remaining, leaving no clues as to their very existence. Why they might be grabbing a police officer didn't matter. What did was the one million US they were getting each for this operation. A million each to the operatives, five for Chaim.

 

The team drove the van across the City. They pulled up in the alley across from the emergency room, and Chaim climbed out. Sam and Shannon were in a nondescript green Chevy, and he walked past, nodding to them as he did. A moment later, Shannon climbed out, and went into the hospital, adjusting the nurse‘s cap she wore. Beneath the short cape, her uniform was white and perfect.

 

Sam, Leary Guido and Chaim dressed in the orderly uniforms they had stolen, followed her a few minutes later. Chaim borrowed an empty gurney, shoving it onto the elevator. Guido followed him. Leary and Sam rode up to the roof. As Sam was delivering the order for a helicopter to land, everything else went into action.

 

I entered the room, shooing the doctor away. I had always thought of Dave as large, a bull of a man. But reduced to a bed in intensive care, he was suddenly pathetically small. I walked over, looking at his face.

 

Please, Dave. If you have a God that watches over you, wake up, smile at me, asking me what I’m doing. Please don’t make me do this. All I heard in reply was the beep of the heart monitor, the steady hiss of the machine pushing air into his lungs. All I saw was his slack face, eyes open, but staring at nothing.

 

I pulled up the chair beside the bed, holding his limp hand. It was still him, but part of me knew Dave Riker wasn’t in this room anymore.

 

“I’m sorry Dave.” I whispered. “I couldn’t be there with you. If I had maybe you might still be alive.” There was silence. Only the damn machines keeping him alive. I looked at the panel. “Go with god, my friend.” I whispered.

 

I reached over, and the ventilator hissed to a stop. I could feel the difference as it stopped. His hand tightened for a second, but it was only reflex. The heart monitor slowed, the beat slowing, becoming erratic. There was a sigh, then suddenly the machine flat lined. I snapped it off. Holding his hand, wishing I could cry.

 

The door opened, and I looked long enough to see that it was a red headed nurse. She walked across, reaching past me, then her hand slammed down. I could smell the chloroform, and I tried to leap up, but her hands clawed at me, stopping me from moving the rag, stopping me from reaching for my gun. I tried to hold my breath, but the woman punched me in the upper back, shocking my lungs back into action. I reached out toward the nurse’s call button, but someone else grabbed my hand. For a second, I wondered why the hell they even bother to put a standard call button in an intensive care unit, but before I could complete the thought, I fell into the abyss.

 

Chaim hissed at the pain as the woman’s hand tried to rip him apart. He motioned, and Guido came in through the connecting door and tossed the limp body on the gurney. Shannon nodded, then walked out through the front door. The men rolled the limp woman into the next room.

 

Swiftly they flipped a sheet open, draping the body. An IV bottle was attached to the tree at the head of it, but not plugged into her arm. Guido shoved, and they took her out of the next room. The sheet covered her completely. Here in ICU a corpse being driven through the halls surprised no one.

 

They reached the elevator, pressing the button for the roof. Guido pulled the sheet down, showing the silent woman’s face the door opened, and they wheeled the gurney into it, ignoring the squat little man in it.

 

Hart saw the hair, and immediately thought Doyle. as he did. Why would Doyle be wheeled out on a stretcher? Even as he thought that, he knew. The bitch was trying to slip out of the building before the Press could ask her why she’d blown up a middle class apartment building. He had never imagined that his revenge would be this complete. There were three stories in the can, and his new editor had even sprung for a new car.

 

The orderlies were nervous. In his time Hart had gotten good at noticing when people were worried. He leaned against the wall as the door closed, and the elevator lifted.

 

There’s a city helicopter landing. He decided. She’d jump up, leap aboard, and be gone, forcing the reporter to scramble back to the station.

 

The door opened, and two men approached. One had a file in hand, and handed it to one of the orderlies. “The chopper is five out.”

 

“Get out of here.” The orderly ordered.

 

They shoved the gurney out, and the two men that had been on the roof entered the elevator. Hart moved off it, and flashed his credentials. “Not so fast officers. I think Detective Doyle should answer some questions!”

 

“Who is this?” The other orderly asked.

 

“I don’t care, and the schedule is tight. Deal with the problem, Guido.”

 

The orderly turned, and Hart had a sudden glimpse of light before something slammed into his chest. He felt an icy cold, and gasped as the man stepped back, blood dripping from the knife he held. Hart clawed at the wound, staggering back into the wall. He looked up his killer, then sagged down.

 

Shannon climbed into a cab, and was gone. Moments later, Leary and Sam followed, jumping in the van, and leaving a million dollars each richer.

 

Leary drove the van back to the warehouse, and both men took their own cars, and left the van on the street. Less than five hours later, the police discovered the hulk, which had been professionally stripped.

 

Chaim and Guido waited as a white helicopter flew in, landing delicately. The security guard came out, and they showed him the paperwork. Once they were past that hurdle, they loaded the limp body already dosed with enough drugs to keep her under for ten hours into the aircraft, and strapped the gurney down before buckling in. Levi signaled from the pilot seat and lifted off, which already had a clearance to the Airport.

 

Twenty-one minutes later, the helicopter landed. Medical Charter 107, flight plan already filed to Reno Nevada, lit off its engines, and the ‘orderlies’ moved the gurney across the tarmac, and into the plane. They strapped her down before the quiet man that watched. Chaim tapped his forehead as if saluting.

 

“At least ten hours.”

 

“Good.” The killer replied.

 

The aircraft taxied, then moved to the runway. Chaim shrugged, moving back to the van. He and Guido drove into the night, and were gone.

[Bee Hoon]

This has got to be the longest twoi posts I've ever read! An interesting fic... The killer is willing to go to any lengths huh? Sally is so strangely indifferent when Sarah went to disconnect the ventilator:S A bit more punctuation in places would be good.

 

I couldn’t help them make him in the bathroo.

Oops, typo there. My guess is you missed a couple of words too.

 

Yet another fic to keep up with;)

[machievelli]

This has got to be the longest twoi posts I've ever read! An interesting fic... The killer is willing to go to any lengths huh? Sally is so strangely indifferent when Sarah went to disconnect the ventilator:S A bit more punctuation in places would be good.

 

Oops, typo there. My guess is you missed a couple of words too.

 

Yet another fic to keep up with;)

 

 

This is another of the ones i had to edit for content before posting, kid. It is also posted on Lulu.com for sale as is Mirror of my love and the three Faerie books.

[Empress Padme]

You actually have a place where I can buy it( of course you do , your a FanFic God) . Another great work. I expect nothing less from you. It's almost depressing how great you are. Depressing for me not you.

[machievelli]

if you go to lulu.com, you can get it.

 

However recently I found that there was a problem. The publisher there simply takes your work and converts it to a paperback sized format. However with 8 1/2 by 11 what you get is half a page with type smaller than the average 'disclaimer' on a print ad. Give me until sunday, and I'll have it fixed.

 

For those interested Mirror of my love is already reformatted.