“Tech-Cor is always looking for new talent. Get your degree and come see us.”
“Hmph, college ain't my thing,” Thomas shrugged and stood upright, “so I guess I'm stuck.”
“Speaking of stuck. I need to get home and catch some sleep. I work late nights, but that doesn’t mean I get to skip the office in the morning.” He put the Audi into gear and placed his hands on the steering wheel. “See you next time, Thomas.”
The guard gave a quick wave and Farrah pulled away slowly. He drove out of the port onto the road, following the right fork which turned into C Street half a mile later. Once in the open, he accelerated across the bridge until he was at the Third Avenue light. He stopped, waited for green, then moved slowly through the crowded six-block width of the downtown Anchorage area. Two-thirds of the year, Anchorage is very quiet after ten o'clock on weeknights, quiet to the point that the streetlights are switched from the standard “red, green, yellow” configuration to only flashing yellow beacons from ten p.m. until six a.m. But once the summer sun rises and the snow vanishes from lawns and sidewalks, the city springs to life like Brigadoon. With unbounded energy, the people of Alaska pour into the streets to enjoy the three-month reprieve from both darkness and cold. Downtown and suburbs alike are filled with masses who spend their time alternately playing and working during the non-stop daylight hours. This is especially true on the weekends.
Even on this Monday night, a multitude of bodies milled about the downtown restaurants and bars. Much to Steven's dismay, Alaska, a mostly conservative state, was not immune to the same hedonism he so despised back in Britain. The past week had carried with it a particular example of the twisted lives of liberal culture. The annual Diversity Pride Day, a local, highly controversial event, was being celebrated throughout the downtown area. Gay and lesbian couples walked openly arm in arm through the city streets. As he drove past the intersection of 4th and C, he was disgusted to witness two young men kiss each other on the lips on the street corner. A black rage filled his being, and the few sparks of mercy left in his heart evaporated.
Five blocks later, he was relieved to be able to scrub the vile image from his mind as he passed the Delaney Park Strip and witnessed a group of men fighting for possession of a ball in a late-night football match taking place on the unlit field, the low sun stretching the shadows of the goal posts and the players. Steven yearned to get out of the car and join them. He absolutely loved football, or as the Americans called it, soccer, and had played earnestly back home in Britain. It was, in his mind, one of the few almost redeeming inventions of Western culture. He had played some while in the States, but did not find a great challenge in it, especially among men his own age. A few Americans knew how to play soccer fairly well, mostly younger men, but the vast majority, in his opinion, put on a rudimentary game at best.
In addition to studying petroleum engineering at Manchester University, Steven Farrah had been the star defender for three consecutive years, where he led numerous shutout games with his aggressive tactics and powerful play. A master of the slide tackle, upon graduation he was offered a position in the lineup of internationally renowned Manchester United. They expected him to take them to the top that season, and many spoke of the young Farrah earning a spot on the national team for the next World Cup. The club was shocked when just two weeks before the training season was scheduled to start, he informed the team manager that he could not play, and promptly vanished from the world of football before ever setting foot on the pitch in a professional match.
Steven’s parents, both naturalized British citizens, had been on holiday in their native Kosovo just before the outbreak of the Kosovo War and were stuck when the fighting spilled over. They were driving along a back road, trying to find a way out of the country, when they were stopped at a well-defended roadblock manned by Serb soldiers. Their British passports convinced the soldiers to let them pass, but the few minutes’ pause proved fatal. An American air strike appeared faster than anyone could react. Two massive bombs slammed into the Serb position, killing the soldiers and the Farrahs, their bodies shredded by masses of shrapnel that tore into the vehicle. In the mangled heap of glass, steel, and flesh, Steven’s happy life and his football aspirations were shattered. The US formally apologized, but nothing that could be said or done would bring his beloved mother and father back. A moment of error gave birth to an enemy, and a young man's athletic dream was replaced by a nightmare reality of blood. From his comfortable British middle-class existence Steven evolved into a cold-blooded killer. The transition had been surprisingly short, and even more surprisingly easy. He went from training camps in Libya and Afghanistan, to field operations in Chechnya and Kazakhstan, and finally covert operations in Holland, Germany, his native Britain, and eventually the Great Satan itself, the United States.
The years stretched on and the targets blended into one another until Steven Farrah, an articulate, well-educated, handsome socialite found himself in the most unlikely of places for a boy from Manchester. Here he was in Alaska, with the opportunity to fully avenge his family materializing before him.
Chapter 10
“Damn,” said the tow truck driver, “you must'a pissed someone off mighty bad to do all four tires like this.”
Marcus shot the man a sideways look letting him know in no uncertain terms that he didn't want to talk about it. At his request, the tow truck crew had brought a full set of the correct tires with them. Lonnie and the others watched as the crew quickly jacked up the front of the F250 and started the process of pulling the wheels and mounting the tires with a machine on the back of the tow truck. As they pulled the first tire off its rim a powder-blue Ford Freestar Minivan pulled up to the group. Bold black letters emblazoned across the sides spelling the taxi company's name, AlasKab.
“I’ll stay with the truck,” Marcus said.
“You sure you're okay out here?” Mike asked.
'Yeah, don't worry,” Marcus replied. “Those guys won't be back.”
“We'll get hold of Tonia and wait for you at the hotel,” Lonnie stepped up to him and he gave her quick kiss on the cheek, gently putting his hand on her belly.
“You be careful. If you feel the slightest thing in your belly go to the doctor.”
“Marcus, it’s okay,” she said covering his hand with hers. “Baby handled the whole thing very well. I think he’s inherited our genetic stress meter.”
“I’ll be there soon,” he replied. “My cell phone is on. If you've got to go anywhere, just call and I’ll find you.”
“Got it,” Mike said. He turned and followed his wife toward the mini-van. Hilde hadn’t spoken a word since the attack, her hands had only stopped trembling just before the taxi arrived.
The ladies climbed into the taxi’s back seat and Lonnie told the driver to take them to the Captain Cook Hotel. Mike sat in the front passenger seat. The minivan started to move immediately after he shut the door. As he buckled the seatbelt, he cast a glance at the driver and froze as if he were looking at a ghost.
“What are you doing here?”
“Driving you to your hotel.” The thickly bearded Middle-Eastern man flashed a broad smile, his too-straight, too-white teeth flashing in the horizontal sunlight that pierced the space of the cab, hitting his face like a laser beam. “Hi, Pastor Mike.”
Hilde looked up in alarm at hearing her husband’s old title. She, too, froze in silence as she noticed the face of the man in the front seat for the first time.