As if he was trying not to wake a sleeping baby, Fred carefully lifted the corner of the tarp revealing a load of large silver tubes. “Here they are,” he said.
Rashid lifted one of the tubes. He was unprepared for its weight and accidentally clanked it slightly on the side of another canister.
Fred jumped back, “Careful,” he said. “Those are mighty powerful blasting caps, the primer alone could blow the roof off a hou…” he dropped his eyes. In the tension of the moment, Fred Wilson had made a mistake.
Rashid seemed to let the comment go, as if he didn’t hear it. He busied himself with the detonators, counting the stacks.
Fred removed his baseball cap, leaving its imprint in his hair. He fondled the hat, reluctant to look at Rashid directly. After an uncomfortable silence, Fred got the words to his mouth. “Well, Sir… how about the money?”
Suddenly, Rashid thought, he’d become Sir. Two weeks ago he was foreign trash. Now he was Sir. He was certain the fifty thousand dollars was only part of the reason.
“Aren’t you curious why I needed such a large cylinder?” he asked.
“I… uh never get involved with the details.”
“But surely you must wonder.”
Fred refused to engage him. He picked lint from the bill of his cap. “Sir, I haven’t the slightest idea what you might be using it for. I’m just the middleman. I don’t make judgments.”
“Do you watch the news?” Rashid asked.
Fred hesitated a moment too long. “Sometimes. I’m pretty busy with work and all.”
“You’re a liar,” Rashid said.
Fred stepped back, rigid with fear, his eyes searching for something over Rashid’s shoulder. Rashid heard a familiar click from behind him.
“Don’t turn around,” a man’s voice said. “Just take the money out of the envelope and give it to Fred.”
Rashid’s blood raced through his body. “You expect me to trust you.”
“I don’t see that you have much of a choice,” the voice said.
Rashid listened carefully to the voice. Years of training aligned his thoughts. He ran an index of moves through his mind, then waited to hear the voice and determine whether it was moving or stationary.
“This ain’t no pistol I’m holding here.”
That sentence offered Rashid everything he needed to know. He slid his hand into the manila envelope and gripped the knife inside. Judging the position of the voice, he dove straight back onto the floor, rolled, and heard the shotgun blast whistle over his head. Rashid heard Fred Wilson scream in agony as he jumped up, caught the barrel of the shotgun with his shoulder, and thrust the blade under the man’s ribcage. Standing inches from the man’s shocked face, Rashid twisted the knife, skewering the life-sustaining organs and draining his mortality until the only thing that held up his lifeless form was Rashid’s hand holding the knife.
Rashid turned to see a streak of red on the floor where Fred Wilson had dragged his wounded leg. Fred frantically crawled toward a rifle that leaned against the wall. Rashid grabbed a fistful of Fred’s hair, pulled his head back and lashed his steel blade across his neck so deep it nearly decapitated him. The head hit the floor with a thump.
Nick Bracco sat at the kitchen table surrounded by heaps of files and photographs. With his secure phone planted to his left ear, he scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. Working from home was his meager attempt at spending more time with Julie.
Julie stood at the counter flipping through pages of a magazine while she waited for the coffee to finish brewing.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
Nick glanced at her, half listening to a diplomat from the Turkish embassy reciting a verse from a propaganda textbook. He cupped his hand over the phone. “What did you say?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Nick dropped his pen on the table and hung up the phone. His jaw was slack and his eyes drooped, as if she’d announced that she’d been diagnosed with cancer. No elation. No “I’m-going-to-be-a-father” glow on his face. Just surprise and confusion.
“But how?” was all he could manage.
She shook her head, “I was just seeing if you were listening. I guess I’ll know what to expect from you, should I ever really be pregnant.”
Nick stepped behind her and rubbed her back, “I’m sorry, honey. It’s just—”
“You don’t have to explain. Your job will always take precedence over our marriage. I knew that going in and I guess I just like to test the theory every now and again.”
“Aw, come on, Jule, do you really believe that?”
“Nick, there’s always a reason why we can’t go on a long vacation, or plan a party, or raise children. That reason is your job. I know it seems like more than a job to you, but in the grand scheme of the universe, that’s all it really is. A job.”
Nick walked to the bay window overlooking the backyard. The grass needed mowing and the hammock he’d bought over the summer swayed unoccupied between two large oaks. It occurred to him that he’d never even sat in the hammock. She was right, of course. Even after the therapy sessions, Nick was still compelled to police the country. Single-handedly, if necessary.
He wondered what Julie had seen in him that kept her so close. Even when they were dating she must’ve been aware of his preoccupation with his work. He wished he could give her more. More time. More emotion. More… life. Julie was thirty-five, and if they didn’t do something soon, time would sweep past them and deny her what she deserved. She loved kids so much she chose a profession that surrounded her with children all day long.
“Okay,” he said, staring out the window. “I’ll quit.”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“I’m not. I’ll get out of terrorism and find a resident agency in some small town and work nine to five. I’ll come home at night and eat dinner and read books to our children and push them on the swing set I’ll build in our backyard.”
She wrapped her arms around him from behind and pressed her head into the nape of his neck. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You don’t know how it kills me to talk about this stuff, but every time you go on a mission, Nick, part of you doesn’t return. I shouldn’t be adding any more stress to your life, but I just want us to be happy, that’s all.”
Once again it was time to say it. Let those three words out and watch her eyes sparkle with delight. He leaned back into her hug, letting the moment pass as it had a thousand times before.
“Just let me handle the KSF attacks,” he said. “Once they’re resolved, I’ll get out.”
She sighed, rocking back and forth with Nick to an imaginary song. “However long it takes, Mr. Bracco, I’ll be there.”
Tommy Bracco knocked and when the door opened he was hit with the aroma of homemade marinara sauce. Don Silkari swatted him on the back and led him into the kitchen. Three men in white, starched shirts shoveled spaghetti into their mouths, a paper napkin tucked into their collars. The burly one in the middle pointed his fork at an open seat.
“Sit down, Thomas,” the man said.
Tommy sat down while Silk stood over his shoulder.
The two bookends eating next to the husky man timed their bites to coincide with their boss. They wouldn’t be caught with a mouthful if a quick, respectful response was needed.