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The frank pulled a letter out of his pocket and handed it to Nohar. "This is the proof I find when I search our files. It is a filing mistake. I am supposed to handle the letters, but they cannot let me see this. The files are not their job and they make an error filing this paper too early. I do not know what other mistakes they make by keeping this from me—"
It was a letter from Wilson Scott, dated August tenth. The same letter Angel had found at Young's. Only, this copy was intact. It went on mentioning mor-eys offing pinks, moreys taking hostages, morey air terrorism. It was dated August tenth—
This year.
"Oh, shit."
"English is a difficult language for us. We compose letters months in advance. But I am the one who is to deal with the outside world. I conduct the business. I handle the money. Without me it becomes easy for them to make mistakes of sending letters too early."
"They are telling the Zips what to do?"
"Yes. They do not pay in money, to avoid me."
Flush. Nohar shook his head. "But why?"
"They are impatient. They feel control progresses too slowly. They want our men in the Senate, and they can't wait—"
Nohar could see now. "They want to panic the pinks so anti-morey candidates like Binder get elect—"
He shifted the briefcase and the letter to his left hand. He had heard something moving out in the darkness. He started drawing the Vind. "Smith, there's a van right behind me. Get to it."
"But I have to tell you where—"
"Move!" Nohar could smell canine musk in the air now. Something was approaching, fast. Smith started running. The poor frank bastard seemed to have trouble moving. He was wobbling on rubbery legs. Why the hell would someone engineer something like that?
The bulk of the frank was moving toward the van FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
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when Nohar heard the rustle of some leaves above them.
It was no louder than the crickets or the gravel crunching under his feet, Nohar could smell a rank canine odor now—a wave of musk that overwhelmed the frank's sewer smell. The canine was riding a wave of excitement sexual in its intensity.
The smell hit Nohar too late, because the canine, Hassan, was already in the air, falling out of a tree and on to the frank.
Hassan landed on the frank. Nohar whipped around, aiming the Vind at the canine, but his knee and bad hip fought him. Smith hit the ground, his flesh rippling. The canine sank his right knee into the frank's chest and he was jabbing a rodlike weapon deep into the folds of flesh where the frank's neck should be.
Nohar fired. A hole appeared in the chest of Has-san's jacket. The slug carried the canine over a monument—Eliza's monument—to collapse behind it. Nohar ran up to the marker. The air near it was now ripe with the odor of burnt flesh as well as the frank's sewer smell. Nohar glanced at Smith, who lay on Eliza's grave, unmoving, eyes staring upward. There was a circular purple discoloration on the frank's neck.
Nohar rounded the monument, and Hassan wasn't there. He whipped around, dropping the briefcase to brace the Vind with both hands, and a foot came out of nowhere and hit his right hand. The Vind tumbled out into the darkness. Nohar kept turning to face Hassan. Hassan's jacket hung open now. He was wearing a kevlar vest. The dumdum had only knocked the dog over.
Nohar dived at the canine. Hassan spun sideways, letting Nohar pass over and slam into the ground. No-har's right knee hit a low-lying monument and spasmed with an excruciating wave of pain, blurring his vision. He could hear and smell the canine approach. He dodged blind.
He went through a line of hedges and started to roll
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down a steep hill. He caught himself before he rolled all the way down.
Hassan was hunched low, tongue lolling. He leapt over the hedge and started bounding over the monuments that dotted the hillside. Nohar knew he couldn't move that fast, even with a good leg. He braced himself defensively to receive the canine's charge. Hassan didn't seem to have a gun. Hand to hand, he had a chance to take the assassin.
Nohar felt his heartbeat accelerating. The adrenaline was kicking in.
Hassan passed him and Nohar tried to pivot to follow him. Nohar wasn't quick enough. He felt a kick slam into his lower back, above the base of his tail.
He tried to roll with it, but the blow still sent him to his knees.
The Beast was roaring—
"Time for death, cat." A shaggy canine arm hooked around his neck, and there was a fiery tingle under his left armpit. He smelled his own fur burning.
He could feel the rush as The Beast was triggered. But he couldn't move.
Hassan was using a stun rod— Nohar was paralyzed. When Hassan pivoted Nohar's body around on his bad knee, pain fogged his sight again. When he could see again, he was propped in front of an open grave. The canine arm began to choke him.
"Your final reward. Make your peace, cat."
Why didn't the sick bastard just shoot him and get it over with?
Manny said they were exhuming Johnson's grave. Apparently, they had. The open grave he was looking into was Daryl Johnson's less-than-final resting place. Lack of oxygen was making him begin to black out. The effects of the stunner were beginning to wear off, but Ms muscles felt like mush. He didn't want to have to smell Hassan*s musk when he died.
Suddenly, there was a bright light. Nohar saw something—a bullet?—ricochet off Johnson's marker. They FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
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were both bathed in white light, their shadows extending forward into infinity. Hassan was quick, and the arm around Nohar's neck disappeared. Hassan's shadow jumped out of the light to the sound of another bullet.
Nohar's muscles weren't under his control. He tumbled forward, into the grave. He splashed facedown in an inch-deep layer of black mud. His whole body cramped up on him. The stunner had been military-style, not a street or a cop version. His muscles had been through a blender and felt pre-digested.
It took an interminable time for him to recover. As he fought to get his body under control, he could hear sirens in the distance. It certainly took them long enough. By the time he could get up on his hands and knees and look up, the grave was surrounded by Manny and three nervous pink medics. All backlit by red and blue flashers. They were about to climb down into the rectangular hole. Nohar waved them away and stood up. His right knee nearly buckled, and from the loose way it felt, the support bandage had torn off.
Standing, he could reach the lip. It wasn't a good idea in his condition, but be damned if he was going to a hospital. He grabbed the edge, buried his left boot in the side of the grave, and hoisted himself up. His bad shoulder protested and he nearly slid back into the hole—but he clawed his way out. There was some fear from the medics, but the strongest smell of emotion was coming from Manny. He was worried. Nohar tried to allay Manny's worries by walking—without any help—back up the hill, to where all the cops were. Manny followed. "Are you all right? What did he hit you with?"
Nohar answered through gritted teeth. The walk up the hill was sending daggers of pain through his knee and his hip. "Ifri fine. Hassan was using a stun rod—" Nohar noticed a bandage around Manny's right hand. "What happened to you?"
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Manny handed Nohar the Vind. "This thing has one hell of a kick."
Nohar stopped. "Oh, hell, Manny, your hand. You broke your flicking hand to shoot—"
"Calm down, it isn't like anyone's going to die from it."
Manny, Nohar thought, your hands are your life. "How's Smith?"