Heart of the Assassin

CHAPTER 7

Just before dawn, barely an hour after he left the Bridge of Skulls, Rakkim approached the sentries on one of the main checkpoints out of New Fallujah. Jenkins might have given him up and issued an alert, but Rakkim didn't break stride as the sentries hefted their weapons, muttering to each other.

"I need a vehicle," Rakkim demanded, his green kaffiyeh flapping in the wind.

The lead sentry, a haggard man with a curling beard, bowed to him, pointed at a sedan nearby. "Take my car, shahid, and may Allah bless you on your path to martyrdom." The other sentries bowed, muttered their own blessings, afraid to meet his gaze.

Rakkim ignored them as he got into the car and drove off.

Shahid. Martyr for God. One who found eternal life through blowing himself to pieces, sending the infidel to hell as he himself ascended. Shahid, high praise in New Fallujah, praise wrapped in fear.

Rakkim was no shahid, but what was he? Jenkins had been right, Rakkim was no shadow warrior, not anymore. An assassin can only be killed by God or another assassin…that's what Jenkins had told him. So, how had Rakkim killed Darwin five years ago? How was such a thing possible? Rakkim had asked himself that question more times than he could count.

Darwin was the superior warrior, faster, more agile, unburdened by conscience, the greatest assassin the Fedayeen had ever turned out. It should have been Rakkim who died that day, bleeding from a hundred cuts as Darwin taunted him…until Rakkim threw his knife into Darwin's laughing mouth. An impossible throw but he had made it. He still saw Darwin's lips working around the hilt of the knife, trying to speak, his last words inaudible to anyone but God. That should have been the end of Darwin, but it seemed that both heaven and hell had rejected the master assassin.

Rakkim bumped down the road toward the second gated checkpoint, keeping his speed steady as the machine guns swiveled toward him. A huge security agent stood in the center of the road, one hand upraised. Rakkim kept driving. The man stepped aside at the last minute, shouted "Allahu Akbar!" The gate rose slowly, scraping the roof of Rakkim's car as he drove past.

For months after killing Darwin, Rakkim had felt…different. His reflexes were faster and his combat skills improved dramatically-he killed instinctively now, killed in ways he had no training in, and he took a pleasure in it that he never had before. Even his dreams had changed, like rummaging around in someone else's memories, and most unsettling of all, Sarah seemed even more attracted to him, their lovemaking raw and uninhibited.

Rakkim veered around a huge crater in the unlit road. A gigantic electrical tower canted in the distance, one of its supporting legs demolished, wires drooping. The hillsides around the city had been stripped bare of trees, houses bulldozed, businesses burned to the ground. The Grand Mullah had wanted everything around New Fallujah destroyed, all modern conveyances ruined, forcing the residents into the city, and under his control.

El Presidente Argusto, supreme ruler of the Aztlan Empire, strode across the command center of his hacienda, his silver-heeled boots clacking on the marble floor, one hand on the ornate hilt of his sword. He listened to the rhythmic echo of his footsteps, and it was all he could do to stop himself from drawing the sword and slashing at the air in frustration.

Hector Morales, his secretary of state, stood nearby, dressed all in black, head crested with a skullcap of blue-green hummingbird feathers, waiting to be recognized.

Argusto walked right past him. Let him wait.

Lean and graceful, Argusto was as vain as he was handsome, his beard a thin line running along his jaw, his dark hair carefully curled and oiled. He had trained to be a matador before becoming a pilot, and he still had an appreciation for pageantry, his clothes tailored to emphasize his lean waist and powerful physique. On days honoring Huitzilopochtli, the god of war, el presidente entered the Tenochtitlan arena and killed the fiercest black bull available. The applause from the crowd had sounded like thunder.

Morning light edged through the windows of the hacienda, dew glistening on the green lawns. His beloved jet interceptors flew guard overhead, left contrails in the dawn. As always, he wished he were flying, rather than forced to attend to matters of state.

Morales cleared his throat.

Argusto had been many things in his life: the youngest air ace in the war against the Yucatan, the youngest chief of staff of the Aztlan air force and now the youngest president of the nation, the conqueror who had annexed all of former Central America and the traditional lands of the north. More to come, yanquis, more to come. At Guadalupe Hidalgo, in 1848, Mexico had been forced to cede over one hundred million square miles of its land to the United States. The whole American Southwest offered to the yanqui invader on bended knee, turned over for the princely sum of $15 million. Insult added to injury. He tapped the hilt of his sword with his thumb. The payback had just begun.

Argusto listened to the roar of the jets overhead, inhaled the power of their passing. In seven years, he had sliced the army in half, while fully modernizing the air force, tripling the number of planes until his air command was second to none in the world. The army generals had complained bitterly, howling at the loss of their budgets and their men, but his vision had prevailed. Air power was Aztlan's destiny, particularly after nuclear weapons had been outlawed. Land armies were sloppy and killed too many people, but with their laser-targeted munitions his planes could cripple the infrastructure of any nation and leave the population intact. The Aztec empire had been built on slave labor. Aztlan, the reborn empire, would do the same.

First, though, this…atrocity in Miami had to be dealt with. His brother-in-law, the oil minister, slaughtered like a cow. The indignity to Argusto and the nation must be avenged. Venezuela was the most likely culprit, furious with Aztlan for doubling the tolls for their ships to traverse the Canal. Or perhaps Brazil was responsible, a veiled warning against Argusto's territorial ambitions.

Argusto's boot heels clicked along the floor as he turned the problem over in his mind. Sooner or later he would find out the guilty party, and then his great silvery birds would wreck vengeance from the sky. A grand day was coming.

Rakkim turned off his headlights, driving by starlight now, invisible to anyone who might be watching. He bounced along the winding road with nothing but the sound of the wind to keep him company. Being alone didn't stop him from listening for Darwin's voice, or looking to see him capering by the side of the road, but there was no one there…not this time.

Killing Darwin had changed him, but a mission to the Belt a year ago had made Rakkim realize to what degree he was no longer himself. Captured by some murderous hillbillies, Rakkim had been hauled off to a clapboard shanty, forced to drink moonshine laced with turpentine and handle snakes as a test of his faith. Bitten by a timber rattler, Rakkim writhed on the floor of the church, dying. In his hour of need, Darwin had appeared to him, mocking his weakness, contemptuous as ever.

Hey, dumbass. You just going to lie there and die?

"Leave me alone," Rakkim had said. "You're dead. I killed you."

I was playing with you and you got lucky. That'll teach me a lesson.

"What do you want?"

I want to be alive.

"I'd just kill you again."

Darwin smiled.

"What's so funny?"

You.

Rakkim watched the timber rattler that had bit him slide toward him across the wood floor. The snake stopped, triangular head flicking side to side, then retreated.

Rakkim felt himself drifting, barely able to keep his eyes open. "Go away. I got no time for ghosts."

Ghost? Oh, I'm a lot more than that. Darwin moved closer. You don't look so good, Rikki.

Rakkim tried to get to his feet. Sat back down.

Don't try and stand. Just relax and slow your heart down. You need time to metabolize the venom. Slower. You can do that, can't you?

"I don't need your help."

You need something. Darwin shook his head. I still can't believe you killed me. It's embarrassing.

"I killed two men in Seattle last month. Bodyguards for a Black Robe. Good fighters, ex-Fedayeen, and I killed them so fast…so very fast. I'm not even sure how I did it."

All that blood. Darwin's laugh sounded like wasps buzzing. Kind of intoxicating, isn't it?

"I'm not like you."

Don't worry. You're getting there.

It had been a year now and Rakkim hadn't seen Darwin again. Hadn't sensed his presence, not even in his nightmares. He still had Darwin's killing skills, but he was alone again inside his skin, and grateful for it. A brown rabbit darted across the road, practically ran under the wheels of the car before it scooted into the brush on the other side. Rakkim accelerated, happy to have avoided crushing it. That was something.