They'd arranged to meet at the Law Center in Roxbury. He'd wracked his brains to work out a suitable location. One thing was for sure, Ned Ryan would prove tricky, and he had plenty of resources to draw on. Taylor was sitting next to Kate. She'd agreed to act in a formal capacity as his lawyer, and as Masood's lawyer. The Afghan, heavily bandaged and moving only with great difficulty, sat out of sight inside Jeff Martin's tiny office. It was mid-evening, and already the light had faded. He glanced to the window and could see the polished reflection of the streetlamps in the pools of water that filled the potholes in the poorly maintained street. Earlier, she'd tried to persuade him to go to Ryan's superiors, even the local Congressman, but he'd refused.
"Either we do it this way, Kate, or everything gets brushed under the table. I reckon it's time Ryan started facing up to what he's done."
She'd shaken her head. "I still don't get it. I thought all he did was carry out some kind of a con game with Hermann van Rhoos to persuade you to go to Afghanistan and clear up his mess."
"That's bad enough. We were lucky to get out of there alive, but there's a lot you don't know, and then there's Masood."
"He is an enemy of our country," she pointed out.
"Was, not is. And yeah, he's done a lot of bad things too, but he was a soldier fighting a war. Don't forget, he helped us a lot, even took a bullet to help us get Tessa Harris away from Babayev and his thugs."
She'd nodded thoughtfully. They sat and waited. He checked his wristwatch. Ryan was due at 2000 hours and was already fifteen minutes late. That was no surprise; he’d be certain to come late, just so they knew how busy and important he was.
"Where's Wes? I thought he'd be here."
"He's busy."
They waited in silence. Suddenly the door banged open, and Ryan hurried into the Center, carrying a battered leather briefcase that failed to disguise its expensive origins, smartly dressed as ever in his expensive, designer preppy clothes. His hair was still neat, slightly long and styled just so, to go with the look. He smiled, displaying his gleaming white, expensively maintained teeth.
"Taylor," he exclaimed, rushing forward eagerly with his hand outstretched. "Damn, it's good to see you back. You didn't run into too many problems?"
"Not in Afghanistan, no. Nothing we couldn't handle. This is my lawyer, Kate Donovan. By the way, why don't you take a seat?"
He sat in the chair they’d positioned in front of the desk and gave her a look. "Lawyer? Why do you think you need a lawyer?"
"She's also my girlfriend."
He smiled. "That explains it. She's here to add some glamour to the occasion, right?"
"Wrong." Kate gave him a severe stare. "I'm here as Jack's lawyer, and to keep a record of anything that's said."
"You think that's necessary?" he asked her. "After all, we’re all friends here. Still, if that's what you want, it's no problem. We need to conclude our business. I believe the sum of two hundred thousand dollars was agreed. And for your part, I think you have something for me." They said nothing, and he was forced to go on. "Masood, is he here?"
"Why do you want him, Ryan?" Taylor asked him. "Do you plan to kill him?"
"You know I can't answer that. It's not your business. It's Agency business. When we…"
"Mr. Ryan," Kate interrupted. "I need to correct any misunderstandings. Mr. Masood has appointed me his lawyer as well, so I am handling his affairs. I believe you were asked a straight question. Do you plan to kill him? Well?"
The five-thousand dollar smile abruptly disappeared, and the CIA man's demeanor changed, almost as if a switch had been thrown. He glared at both of them.
"I told you it's not your business. Now hand him over. I'll give you your money, and we can all go home."
"And if we don't?" she persisted.
Taylor sat back, enjoying the exchange. Despite what he'd done, it was obvious Ryan didn't understand the situation. The CIA man looked from one to the other, his eyes finally settling on Taylor.
"I don't know what your game is, but if you think you can screw me, you're wrong. I didn't come here alone, Taylor. I know Masood is in here somewhere. I had the place staked out, and one of my people saw him enter the building. Either you hand him over, or I'll call my guys in, and we'll take him ourselves, which means all bets are off. Bring him here, before you bite off more trouble than you can handle."
"Not until you answer my question," Kate insisted. "Do you plan to kill him?"
Ryan suddenly stood up, kicking the chair back until it toppled over on the floor. "Fuck you, both of you! I've tried to be reasonable. Now I'll show you what happens when you fuck with the CIA. I've got a four-man team outside, and in a few seconds, they'll come busting through that door and take him by force."
He snatched his cellphone out of his coat and hit the speed dial number. They sat calmly watching him as he waited for a reply. When it didn't happen, he tried again. Nothing.
"That's strange, I…"
"They're not coming, Ned. You're not the only one who made preparations for this meeting." He took out his own cell and called a number. "Wes, any problems? No? Good, you can bring them all in now."
He ended the call. "Kate, Mr. Masood can come out here now. He's in no danger."
She got to her feet and went to the small office. A few seconds later, she came back with Ismail Masood. Taylor watched carefully, noting the surprise in Ryan's face, and yes, a trace of fear. But what was more interesting was Masood's reaction. It was there in his eyes. Recognition. The door opened, and Levi came in from the street, leading four tough-looking civilians, their hands fastened behind their backs with plastic ties. Wes came in after them.
Agency operatives, obviously Ryan's backup team.
And then even more surprising was Quint, with a half-dozen of his people. One of the backup team saw Ryan and started to apologize.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ryan. They ambushed us, took us from behind. If we'd had more men like I said we needed, we'd be…"
"I'll deal with you later, Jackson," Ryan snarled.
The man looked annoyed. Unlike Ryan, he looked like a straight guy; with a face that most people would think of as honest. Wide shoulders, crew cut hair, clear blue eyes, and a broad chin with a dimple. He was Mr. Middle America, the All-American who'd chosen to serve his country. Ryan ignored him and looked back at them.
"Do you know what you just did? You could spend the next twenty years in Federal Prison for assaulting government personnel."
Taylor ignored him and turned to Masood.
"Well? Is he the man?"
The Afghan stared at Ryan, but before he could reply, the CIA man lunged at him. Only to be brought down by Wes Harper, who chopped him on the neck and eased his body to the floor.
"Yes, it is him."
"Don't listen to him," Ryan squealed, stopping as Wes tapped him hard on the head.
"How did he arrange the meeting?"
Masood looked up, exploring his memory. "Yes, I remember now. It was at a time when the whole country was ablaze, and both sides were doing everything possible to gain victory over the other. Your people began using drones to attack our fighters, as well as a range of new tactics to bring us out into the open and finish us off. But we knew the kind of war we were fighting, and taking on NATO in open warfare would be crazy. The American government also offered large sums of money to any Taliban or Al Qaeda fighters who would provide information on the whereabouts of our leaders, especially Osama bin Laden. To counteract it, we used money from our drug shipments to create our own fund, to pay large sums for information that would help us fight our enemies, especially the elite units like Navy Seals and Delta Force. Ryan had heard about this and offered to arrange for a platoon of Navy Seals to be led into one of our ambushes that would wipe it out. In return, we were to pay him two million dollars. It was too much money, but we got word to The Sheikh, bin Laden, and he agreed to pay one million dollars out of his own funds to destroy one such unit. I had a final meeting with Ryan, and he handed me the mission briefing for an operation against one of our centers at Kajika. The rest is history, we planted our IEDs, and the Seal platoon walked into it."
"Did he say why he was doing it?"
Masood was silent for a few moments, thinking. "Yes, I do remember his words because I questioned him about his motives. At the time, we were all suspicious it could be all part of some kind of CIA plot. But he said he'd lost large sums of money on the American property crash and needed the funds to protect his investments. In fact, he even offered to sell us more information, and I agreed, providing it all worked out at Kajika."
"Did he sell you more information?"
The Afghan nodded. "Yes, on two occasions."
"It's a lie!" Ryan screamed. "This guy's an enemy. You shouldn't believe him."
Wes took his throat in his huge hands, and Ryan started to choke. "I'd keep quiet if I were you, buddy. The next time, I won't be so gentle."
Ryan kept his mouth shut. The Agency man, Jackson, looked troubled. "Is any of this true?"
"All of it," Taylor told him. He bent down and wrapped his knuckles against each of his legs in turn, "and these are the proof."
He went on to explain how he'd been called back to lead the platoon on a mission, for which Ryan had prepared the briefing and then reported sick with a 'stomach bug'.
"It was all a crock of shit, and now you know why."
The man shook his head. "How the hell we sort this one out I don't know. Look, I think it's time you took these cuffs off us. Believe me, we've got the message."
Taylor looked at Wes. "Did you frisk them?"
He nodded. "Quint's boys shook them down, like real professionals."
"They're clean," Quint growled. "We've done this before, although we don't normally turn them loose."
"Understood, but I think they're on our side. Let them go. But Wes, you'd better cuff Ryan and pat him down."
"Good idea."
Quint pulled out a wicked-looking stiletto and personally cut the plastic ties off the team. Wes gripped Ryan's arm with one huge paw, using the other to frisk him. He resisted, but he may as well have tried to stop a speeding truck. He extracted an automatic pistol from under the man's coat, a beautiful Desert Eagle automatic with custom walnut grips and etched, gold plated metalwork. "Fucking sissy's gun," he growled. Ryan just glared at him, and the rest of them stared down at him.
Taylor knew the situation was finely balanced between possibilities. On the one hand, he could be making a bad mistake, and the Agency men could rearm themselves and round on him as soon as they walked out the door. But he thought not, there was much more at stake here. If it became public knowledge that one of their own men was responsible for the betrayal and destruction of almost an entire Seal team in Afghanistan, the fallout would be worse than a fifty-megaton bomb. Denying it was not a possibility. Everyone in that room had listened, and besides, the evidence was still out there. The mission brief would be filed away somewhere in the Pentagon archives, and Ryan's financial affairs would have left a paper trail which anyone could find with a little effort. Taylor eyed Jackson, and the other man stared back.
"Okay, it's your show. How do we sort this one out?"
"First, Masood stays with us. Without going over the details, I can tell you he's changed sides. He's done work of considerable value to our people in Afghanistan, and also saved the life of an American citizen here in the US. You want to take him, it will be over my dead body."
"I need to talk to my people."
"Go ahead. You can use that office at the end of the room."
The four men went away, and he could hear them talking on their cellphones. Ryan had collapsed completely into a sobbing heap on the floor. He almost pitied him, almost. But he was the man who'd sold out his comrades for money. It was the ultimate betrayal, no different to the biblical betrayal of Judas that contributed to the death of Jesus Christ, and no less heinous. Taylor looked down at his legs.
If it weren't for this worthless piece of shit on the floor, I wouldn't have suffered the agony of the loss of my limbs, and the continuing struggle to regain my life. Neither would so many of my men have died, leaving widows and children bereft of their men.
Even as he thought about it, he remembered how easy it was for life to fork in so many directions. It was no good looking back, in that way only lay the misery of loss. The only way to go was forward. He looked around as the four agents emerged from the office. Jackson nodded to him.
"I got through to the Assistant to the Deputy Director. He doesn't want any of this to come out. How the hell they’ll sought it all out, I don't know. But as far as you guys are concerned, none of this ever happened."
"What about Masood? He witnessed Ryan selling us out to the enemy."
"Who's Masood? I never heard of him."
Taylor nodded. "That just leaves Ned Ryan. He has to pay for what he did."
Agent Jackson seemed to consider for a few moments. Finally, he inclined his head. "You won't get any argument over that one. The problem is how to deal with him. Our man left no room for argument. He's an embarrassment to us. You want to deal with him?"
"I'd like nothing better, but how? I guess you guys would like him to disappear, but murder's not my style. Never has been."
Jackson shrugged. "We'll have to take him back with us. I guess they'll dump him in a deep dark hole where he'll never see the light of day again." He nodded to the other three agents. "Take him out. He's coming back with us."
The men moved toward him, just as the door to the center opened, and Alvin put his head inside. "Hey, Taylor, there's some guy trying to boost your Camaro. I was going to stop him, but he's carrying an Ingram, and I don't want to tangle with one of those mothers."
He looked up. "I'll deal with it,"
It was as far as he got. Ryan wrenched away from Wes' grip, twisting to shake him off, and he knelt down. Taylor cursed as the rogue agent stood up with a small pistol, a Beretta Model 21 Bobcat, The ultra-compact .22 would have been easy to conceal, especially from Quint's men who were not thoroughly trained. He went for his own gun, holstered beneath his coat. He brought up the Sig Sauer 9mm, ducking as Ryan got off an early shot that whistled past his ear; then turned, dived headfirst through the glass window, and rolled out into the street. He shouted to Wes to stay inside and look after Kate and Masood. He ran out after him, followed by Quint and his people. Already, Ryan had a head start. He was fifty meters away and sprinting along the wet sidewalk. He ran like a college athlete, and Taylor could see it would be a difficult position to run him into the ground. Until he slipped when his foot went into a pool of water that looked innocent enough, yet hid yet another of the streets many deep potholes. He went sprawling to the concrete, and they were able to catch up a few meters before he climbed back to his feet, looked around wildly and ducked into an abandoned building. He heard Quinn shouting, "I know this place. Me and my boys will go around back." He didn't stop to acknowledge, just hurtled through the gap that had once held a front door before it had been removed, probably for firewood. Inside, the building was dark and dank, and stank of urine and feces. Jackson came in alongside him, his Glock 17 held ready to fire.
"What is this place? It smells like a sewer."
Taylor knew. In this area, it could only be one thing.
"It's a crack house. They use it for shooting up. Where are the rest of your people?"
The man's eyes widened. "They must be desperate to use a place like this."
"They are."
He nodded. "Yeah. My guys are out front. We don't want too many people having a shootout in a place like this. There's only one way that can go, and that's a heap of casualties, with no guarantee we'll nail the fugitive. That big guy is out back with his people. How come he knows this place so well?"
"He sells crack."
It was a night for surprises for the clean-living CIA man. He shook his head in disbelief. "I can tell you're not joking. So it's just you and me in here."
"And Ryan."
Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but it never came out. Instead of diving into the depths of the building to find a hiding place, the man they hunted had been much cleverer and stayed close to the entrance, hugging the dark, invisible depths of the squalid crack house. He fired off a single shot from his .22, and Jackson shouted as the tiny bullet sliced through his anklebone.
"My God, I'm hit. Taylor, you'll have to take him alone."
"I've got it."
He'd seen from the muzzle flash where Ryan was hiding, realizing they'd been standing just inside the entrance where the spill of light from the street had illuminated them. It was stupid, an amateur mistake, based on a false set of assumptions, but now he had Ryan's location roughly pinpointed. He dived into the shadows away from the doorway, just as a second shot lit up the darkness. He headed in the direction of the muzzle flash, keeping to the edges of the building interior and careful to step over the layers of debris littering the floor. As he worked his way toward his destination, he kept listening for any sound of movement. At first there was nothing. Then he heard footsteps. They were moving away from him, so he ran after them until he reached a concrete staircase. He could still hear the footsteps, maybe two floors up, and he started up after them. He must have been making too much noise, for Ryan fired twice more, but they were snapshots, wild and ill aimed, and he was able to avoid them. As he kept going up, hugging the walls away from the stairwell that would have been visible from above, he thought about the little gun his opponent carried.
The Beretta model 21 uses a seven-shot clip. He got off four shots, so three left in the clip. Did he carry a further round ready loaded? No, unlikely. A concealed carry weapon in an ankle holster could easily blast a hole in his foot if he wasn't careful. Likewise, a spare clip for a concealed weapon would defeat the object and make its discovery more likely. I have to go on the assumption he has three shots left. My Sig carries the smaller ten-round magazine, and so far I haven't got off a shot. I have ten 9mm bullets against Ryan's three .22s. It’s good odds. I can afford to draw him out with a couple of snapshots.
He listened for the footsteps, made a quick estimate of his location, and fired, once, twice. Then he pressed himself back into the wall, as two more shots spat past him, aimed at his own muzzle flash, although he was no longer there. The man had one shot left.
Does he know that? He was a Navy Seal, but he’s a fugitive on the run, desperate, and maybe even a little psychotic. There has to be something not right about him, enough to make him take blood money from the enemies of his country. It’s a good chance he has no idea he’s almost out of ammunition.
Ryan pressed on up the concrete staircase. He stopped twice and fired a single shot up into the darkness, but no return fire came. In front of him loomed the door that led out onto the roof at the very top of the building. If it had been him, he would have waited in ambush and taken his enemy out as he came through that final door. He prepared himself and ran up the last few steps, diving through the door and rolling out onto the rooftop. He felt his right leg. Sure enough, a single shot echoed around the roof space as Ryan popped off his final round. The bullet sliced into the concrete structure surrounding the door, ricocheted off, and sliced into his hand, forcing him to drop his weapon. He made a grab for it, but the other man walked slowly toward him, his tiny pistol pointed directly at his heart.
"Don't even think about it, Taylor. It'll be the last thing you do in this life. Oh, yeah, I bet you thought I was out of ammo. Wrong, buddy, I always kept the little gun in the ankle holster, and the spare clip in a hidden compartment in the back of my belt."
He tried to move. He had to get out of the line of fire. As he braced his right leg against the concrete, there was nothing there, no sensation of the artificial, prosthetic mechanism starting to propel him. His gun was more than a meter from his hand. Even with two good legs, he knew he wouldn't have been able to reach it. He was on his own, and all he had left to fight with was a wealth of battle experience.
If only I could get the man close to me.
"You're crazy, Ryan. You know that, you must know."
The man cackled, his gun wavered, and it was obvious that however his brain functioned, it was bent and twisted out of shape. "Look at yourself, Taylor. You're just a cripple, a useless, worthless cripple, and I'm the one who's holding the gun. I'll tell you what, why don't you try begging for your life? Maybe I'll even think about it."
He laughed again, a chilling sound, almost like a clip from a horror film, and he steadied his weapon.
"We can work out the deal, Ryan. Killing me won’t get you off the hook."
He laughed again. "Won't it? I don't see it that way at all. Without you around, who's to say what happened with that patrol?"
"Don't be a fool. They were all there when Masood talked about the other deals he'd made with you. Those records are still in existence. It won't take more than a few seconds to run a computer search and find them."
"You're assuming Masood will give them the details. It seems to me, if I kill him, there's no one to tell any tales."
"Jackson and the other men heard it all."
He snorted. "They're Company. If they know what's good for them, they'll keep their mouths shut. And as for that other has-been, Wes Harper, you can forget him. As I recall, wasn't he given a medical discharge suffering from PTSD? No, killing you and then Masood, puts me in the clear. Say your prayers, Taylor."
He'd edged slightly nearer. Just a little more, half a meter and he could grab his ankle and jerk him off balance. Once he had him on the ground, he'd be able to deal with him. But his hopes faded as Ryan took a step back, and the distance may as well have been a thousand meters, for all the good it did him. The rogue agent abruptly giggled, and he could see a tiny line of spittle seeping out of the man's mouth, crazy as a coot. He saw the finger tighten on the trigger and prepared himself for a final, desperate leap.
"I reckon you’ve had long enough. Goodbye, Taylor."
He was about to make the leap when the shot cracked out, then another. He froze, and watched Ryan slump face forward on the ground. He looked around and twenty meters away, on the other side of the roof stood the huge, forbidding figure of Quint. His men surrounded him.
Where the hell did he spring from?
"How did you get up here? You didn't use the stairs."
Quint chuckled, a low rumble. "I told you I knew the building. There's a fire escape at back. We thought it might be a good idea to come in unannounced."
"Yeah, you sure saved my ass. Thanks, Quint."
"No worries, man. You look like you're in trouble. You need something for the pain."
Like Oxy, the miracle drug that takes away the agony, and then brings on even more agonies to be dealt with sooner or later.
"I'm okay, thanks, but I could do with a hand to get down the staircase."
"You got it."
Outside in the street, Agent Jackson was being tended by one of his men, who'd put a dressing around his wound. He looked at Taylor.
"You hurt?"
"Nothing serious."
"Me neither. Listen, Taylor. A piece of advice."
"Go ahead."
"As far as me and the boys are concerned, this never happened, but the guy I talked to in Langley, he's one vindictive son of a bitch. I don't know if this is over or not. All I'm saying is watch your back. The Agency has a long reach."
He nodded. "I hear you, and thanks for the warning."
"By the way, if you need anything, call me. I'm Rhett Jackson, and you never know, I may be able to head off trouble if it happens your way."
He painfully twisted over, took a card out of his coat pocket and handed it over. They shook hands as a black Suburban pulled up at the curb, and the agent lifted him into it. They drove away, and Taylor allowed Quint's men to take him back to the Law Center. The drug dealer helped him to a chair.
"You'd better get something done about that later." He grinned, "Next time, I may not be around to save your ass."
He grimaced, "That was a close run thing. It's lucky you knew the layout of that place."
"No luck," Quint growled. "I own the building. I bought it a couple of years back when I went looking for one of my customers who owed me. It looked like it could be an opportunity. Turn it into apartments, maybe."
He laughed, "It sounds to me like you're planning on becoming an honest citizen."
"Honest! Like that mother we took down on the roof? Nah, I'm doing okay as I am. It's just that sooner or later I'll have to get around to paying some taxes." He saw Taylor's raised eyebrows. "Not too much, mind," he added hurriedly. Then he laughed. "Hey, don't think this changes anything. Business is business. When you need Oxy, don't expect a discount. I have to go. My people are outside, and I have customers waiting."
Quint was in a bad business, but Taylor thought about other, outwardly legitimate citizens he'd come across. People like Ned Ryan, businessmen like Babayev. There was no doubt about it; Quint's business was part of the ugly side of American life. But by no means the only one, and when it was time for a cleanup, there were plenty of supposedly 'good' citizens whose affairs were every bit as dirty. Like the banks, some of which were undoubtedly honest, but many of the larger organizations had proved to be as crooked as the Mafia. It was no excuse for the way Quint made his living, but when he needed help, Quint had been there. That made up for a lot.
He looked around as Kate put a cup of coffee next to him.
"I thought you may be in need," she smiled. "How do you feel?"
"I've been better. But now Doc is back, I'll go see him in the morning and get him to take a look at the leg."
"Did you get what you needed from Quint? He owes me, you know. I got him off that crazy murder rap. I took everything to the D.A. and he finally saw sense. Especially when he found out how Babayev is no longer a problem."
He saw her worried gaze. "That's good. I didn't need anything from him either. It's pretty bad, but I'm managing, at least until I see Hermann. After that, we'll see."
The door opened and Tessa Harris walked in. He looked around, and Wes shrugged. "She asked me to give her a call when we'd finished our business with Ryan. She feels responsible for Masood's well being for obvious reasons. If it wasn't for him, she'd be dead."
Taylor nodded a welcome to her. She smiled back and joined Wes with a big smile on her face. She waved to Masood.
"Is it finished?" Kate asked him. "I mean, really finished."
He cast his mind back. The crooked Uzbek businessman was dead; score one for the good guys. Ned Ryan, the treacherous former Seal, was dead. But there was also a negative side. He thought about Rhett Jackson's warning. It was possible the Agency would see things in an altogether different light. They may not take too kindly to the death of one of their own, despite the circumstances, the fact he was trying to commit murder to cover up his previous crimes. There was also Masood. He would still be on their target list, and they may not be prepared to change their minds, in spite of his change of allegiance. He looked back at Kate, wanting more than anything to use the soothing words that would remove the look of anxiety in her beautiful, vivid green eyes. But he couldn't.
"I honestly don't know. If other people don't like the way things went down, chances are they'll come looking for more trouble. It may never happen, but I have to be prepared for anything."
"We need to be prepared for anything," she prompted him. "Don't go away from me again, Jack."
He nodded. "I won't. I've been a fool. I reckon it's time to put the past behind me, all the bad things."
He couldn't help but look across to Masood. The years when he'd dreamed of nothing more than killing the Afghan, the nights when he'd woken up shivering in agony and thinking of the many ways he could repay the man for the butchery he'd caused. For the agony, the loss, the widows, the parents who'd lost a son, and sons who'd lost a father. And when he finally had the wily warlord in his sights, everything changed. No longer a remote target to be centered in the sights of his rifle. He was a human being. A soldier, a man who'd suffered his own losses and agonies. Who'd been deceived by his own leaders, and had put his life on the line to make amends. Revenge had become a catharsis. Taylor understood that in that catharsis, something had altered inside him. It was closure, the end of a long, bitter road to nowhere.
Kate gave him a faint smile. "It could be the start of a whole new life, for both of us."
He met her gaze. "I reckon it might."
She was quiet until they got back to her apartment. As soon as the front door closed, she turned on him.
"You reckon it might, isn't that what you said?" she exclaimed. "How would you like a taste of what that whole new life would have to offer?"
He shrugged. "What did you have in mind?"
"Come to bed, and I'll show you."
He felt as if he was in heaven. Kate Donovan applied herself to making love with him in the same way she did everything else in her life. One hundred percent, without any holds barred. She used her fingers in ways that he'd never known before. She touched and probed. At one stage, she lay over him so that her vagina was close to his head while she kissed and tongued and touched all around his groin. Her vaginal juices were oozing out of her, and the smell of female sex almost overcame his urgent need. He managed to control himself as she urged him to be patient. Then she turned and lay next to him on the bed, and to his shocked surprise began to stroke herself, moaning and breathing deeply with pleasure. She put her hand on his face, and he smelt the incense of her sex. Then she put his hand over her and showed him what she needed. He put his fingers on her and felt her stiffen. Then he pushed inside. She writhed in ecstasy as he used his other hand to return in part what she'd done to him. Their bodies entwined and became as one, moving, pulsating, hot with unrequited passion. And then she could stand no more.
"Now!" she almost screamed.
He pushed into her, and their lovemaking became a bucking, jolting tumult as they lost themselves in each other. When they finally parted, she murmured, "Jesus Christ! Bring it on, Buster, anytime."
In the moment of their climax, it became a kind of new catharsis, as if they'd sloughed off the old skin of what their relationship had been and begun a new and better understanding between each other, a new beginning, and a new life.
* * *
Hermann fixed up his leg, and he went back to work with Wes. He also moved back in with Kate, and for the first time in a long time, he thought it might be possible to have a normal life. Apart from the pain, which was a constant companion. When it was at its worst, he sneaked out and found Quint, but it didn't happen too often. He made sure Kate never found out. It was two months since that night when the death of Ned Ryan had finally put to rest the treachery and betrayal that had destroyed his life. Wes had been away for the past couple of weeks on some mysterious errand. An errand he was sure involved Tessa Harris. Wes and Tessa had become good friends, and the widow leaned on him more and more to help rebuild her life after the murder of her husband. Wes had called, inviting him to bring Kate to a new restaurant which had opened in the North End, close to his apartment.
"You won't even need to bring a car, Boss, so we can all enjoy a few drinks to celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"You'll see."
They'd been seated at the best table in the room, him and Kate, and Wes and Tessa. Taylor smiled. It was obvious the two were becoming very close, not that close, not yet. It was too soon after the death of her husband, but give it time. The restaurant was brand new, and tonight was their opening night. A guy came out of the kitchen, wearing a white chef's hat and long apron, to take their order. When he reached their table, Taylor looked up. All of a sudden Wes' occasional absences for the past few weeks were explained.
"What would you like to order?" Masood asked them. His normally impassive face had rearranged into a huge smile.
"All yours?" he asked the Afghan, gesturing around the room.
"All mine. Tessa was more than generous, and she fixed the loans so I could get started. All I need to do now is make a success of this place."
Tessa beamed at him. "You will, Ismail. I don't have the slightest doubt."
When the pizza arrived, he had to agree with her. He'd no idea how he'd done it, but somehow the Afghan had transformed his genius for insurgent warfare into an undoubted talent for Italian food. They sat chatting, sipping a fine Italian wine that Masood brought them and working their way through the food. He noticed Kate's eyes were sparkling, and he felt profoundly happy for her. She could have had her pick of blue-chip law firms to work for, but instead she'd chosen the Law Center to help the less fortunate. Along the way, she'd found him, which had been a road that was anything but smooth. She caught his glance and laughed lightly.
"I reckon we finally made it, Jack. We can put the past behind us and start to relax and enjoy ourselves. All of us," she added, glancing at Wes and Tessa.
"I hope you're right."
Something inside his brain, some sixth sense honed over countless years of warfare, some animal instinct that he couldn't explain, began sounding the alarm. He looked around the restaurant, and everything looked fine.
"Excuse me, I thought I saw something out in the street," he said to her, standing up.
He went to the window and looked out. Across the street, a panel van was driving slowly past. The same vehicle he'd noticed only minutes before, the second time it had gone past. And this made it three. What was it they said?
'Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence. The third time it's enemy action.'
He dived at Kate and threw her to the floor, shouting, "Wes, get Tessa down. Masood, take cover."
They were already moving when the gunfire smashed through the front window, showering them with glass fragments. Chips of plaster ripped out of the walls. Automatically, he noted the direction of the shots, and if he hadn't had that premonition, at least some of them would have been dead. The driver of the van gunned the engine and roared away. He went to the window and looked out through where the glass had been. Nothing. He turned back to his friends.
"They've gone. You can get up now."
They got to their feet, and the rest of the diners followed suit. He felt sorry for Masood. His first night should have been a triumph. Instead, all he had was a lot of clearing up to do and a bill for the shattered glass. He thought back to the moments just before they'd open fire and measured the angles. He'd been on his feet, and so had Masood. It was a certainty they'd been after one or other of them. Maybe both? That was a possibility. Wes asked the same question.
"Who do you think they were after?"
He shrugged. "No idea. Could be me, could have been Masood."
"Who would have come after you?"
"The Agency? In which case they were probably trying to hit both of us. Or it could have been some of Babayev's people. Maybe his family looking for revenge, in which case it was me."
Wes sighed heavily. "Shit, Boss. I thought it was all over."
"Yeah, me too."
"What are we going to do? It can't go on like this."
He told him about Rhett Jackson giving him his card. "I'll call him in the morning. If it is the Agency, I may have a plan to persuade them to stop. I very much doubt they'd be too pleased about a heap of evidence being put into the public domain. Over the past few weeks, I've documented everything I can remember. I'll tell Jackson to let his superiors know if they don't stop coming after us, they'll be looking at a bigger scandal than Watergate."
Wes shook his head. "It's a plan, but you could be playing with fire."
"And when has that stopped us from doing anything?"
"Yeah, good point."
Masood joined them, his face impassive. Once again, Taylor sympathized that after the violence that had been part of his life for so long had reached out to tear down the new life he was trying to create.
"There's the other thing," Wes continued. "It could be part of a revenge hit from Babayev's people."
This time, Masood spoke. "I have heard of this man, and the trouble he has caused in my new homeland." His eyes swept around his damaged restaurant. "I will need to take steps to guard my business. Perhaps I will employ a guard, someone to keep a watch on my place."
Taylor thought of Alvin. He'd never known his second name. "I think I know just the guy. I reckon if you could find him somewhere he could bed down, he'd help out. He's a good kid.”
If you can bear to look at him. Poor bastard, he could do with a break, he smiled.
"Is he a fighting man? Will people be afraid of him?"
"Oh, yeah, I reckon so."
"In that case, he sounds like the person I need." He paused, lost in thought. "You know, where I come from, for a man to do what has been done here is a declaration of war."
Taylor nodded. "I'd guess it's not always much different here."
"No, but I would like to spend the rest of my life in peace. I had even hoped to bring my surviving daughter Kamila to America, to join me in my business. She is desperate to escape the squalor and poverty of Afghanistan. But if it must be war, I will stand with you. Together, we will fight and win," Masood stated.
And if we don't win? The only alternative is death, but is there another option?
He looked across at Kate, her expression still pale and terrified. At Tessa Harris, who was doing her best to keep the fear at bay, despite her harrowing experiences. He thought of Masood's daughter, stuck in a war zone with her only hope her warrior father turned businessman. The three men had all experienced the horrors of war, and were all expert in the arts and practices of that ancient skill. Three men who only wanted to live in peace, yet through the perversity of fate, had no choice but to prepare to go back into the fight.
"I reckon you're right. We'll fight, and we'll win."
Kate and Tessa were listening, and they both smiled at the message of hope and optimism in his voice, but when he looked at Wes and Masood, they both looked away. They knew the truth. They were warriors.