Taylor kept looking at the house as if it had just materialized.
Berleand said, "Please listen to me. This case is very important."
"This is still America," Taylor said again. "If they don't want to speak to you, you have to honor that. That said . . ." Taylor looked back at Erickson. "You see any reason not to knock on the door and show them this picture?"
Erickson thought about it a moment. Then he shook his head.
"Both of you stay here."
They sauntered past us, opened the gate, headed toward the front door. I heard an engine in the background. I turned. Nothing. Might have been a car passing from the main road. The sun was gone now, the sky darkening. I looked at the house. It was still. I hadn't seen any movement at all, not once since we arrived.
I heard another car engine, this time coming from the general direction of the house. Again I saw nothing. Berleand moved closer to me.
"Do you have a bad feeling here?" he asked.
"I don't have a good one."
"I think we should call Jones."
My cell phone buzzed just as Taylor and Erickson reached the porch steps. It was Esperanza.
"I have something you need to see."
"Oh?"
"Remember I told you Dr. Jimenez attended a Save the Angels retreat?"
"Yes."
"I found some other people who did too. I visited their Facebook pages. One of them has a whole gallery up on the retreat. I'm sending one of the photos to you now. It's a group shot, but Dr. Jimenez is standing on the far right."
"Okay, let me get off the line."
I hung up, and the BlackBerry began to hum. I opened the e-mail from Esperanza and clicked the attachment. The picture loaded slowly. Berleand looked over my shoulder.
Taylor and Erickson reached the front door. Taylor rang the bell. A blond teenage boy answered the door. I wasn't close enough to hear. Taylor said something. The boy said something back.
The picture loaded on my BlackBerry. The screen was so small, and so too were the faces. I clicked the zoom option, moved the cursor to the right, hit zoom again. The picture came in closer, but now it was blurry. I hit enhance. An hourglass appeared as the picture started to focus.
I glanced back at the front door of the Victorian home. Taylor stepped forward, as if he wanted to go in. The blond boy held up his hand. Taylor looked at Erickson. I could see surprise on his face. Now I heard Erickson. He sounded angry. The teenage boy looked scared. Still waiting for the photo enhancement to take effect, I stepped closer.
The picture came into focus. I looked down, saw the face of Dr. Jimenez, and nearly dropped my phone. It was a shock, and yet, remembering what Jones had told me, things were starting to click in a horrible, horrible way.
Dr. Jimenez--clever to use a Spanish name and probably identity for a dark-skinned man--was Mohammad Matar.
Before I could process what it all meant, the teenage boy shouted, "You can't come in!"
Erickson: "Son, step aside."
"No!"
Erickson didn't like that answer. He put his arms up as though preparing to push this blond teenager to the side. The teenager suddenly had a knife in his hand. Before anyone could move, he raised it overhead and jammed it deep into Erickson's chest.
Oh no . . .
I stuck my phone into my pocket as I started running toward the door. A sudden burst of noise made me stop cold.
Gunfire.
Erickson was hit. He spun around with the knife still in his chest and then dropped to the ground. Taylor started reaching for his gun, but he had no chance. More gunfire shattered the night. Taylor's body jerked once, then twice, then collapsed into a heap.
I heard the engines again now, a car roaring up the drive, another coming from behind the house. I looked for Berleand. He was sprinting toward me.
"Run to the woods!" I shouted.
Tires shrieking to a stop. Another burst of gunfire.
I ran toward the trees and dark, away from both the house and the private road. The woods, I thought. If we could make it to the woods, we could hide. A car sped across the grounds, its headlights searching for us. There were random barrages of bullets. I didn't look back to see where they were coming from. I found a rock and ducked behind it. I turned and saw Berleand still in view.
More gunfire. And Berleand went down.
I rose from behind the rock, but Berleand was too far away from me. Two men were on him. Three others jumped out of a Jeep, all armed. They ran toward Berleand, firing blindly into the woods. One bullet smacked the tree behind me. I ducked back down as another volley went past in a wave.
For a moment there was nothing. Then: "Come out now!"
The man's voice had a heavy Middle Eastern accent. Staying low I glanced out. It was dark, night making more of its claim with each passing moment, but I could make out that at least two of the men had dark hair and dark skin and full beards. Several wore green bandanas around their neck, the kind you could pull up to cover your face. They shouted at one another in a language I didn't understand but figured had to be Arabic.
What the hell was going on?
"Show yourself or we will hurt your friend."
The man saying that appeared to be the leader. He barked out orders and pointed right and left. Two men started circling toward me. One man got back into the car and used his headlights to sweep the woods. I stayed low, my cheek against the ground. My heart pounded in my chest.
I hadn't brought a weapon. Stupid. So goddamn stupid.
I dug into my pocket and tried to get my phone.
The leader called out: "Last chance! I will begin by shooting his knees."
Berleand shouted, "Don't listen to him!"
My fingers found the phone just as a single bullet blast exploded through the night air.
Berleand screamed.
The leader: "Come out now!"
I fumbled with the phone and hit Win's speed dial. Berleand was whimpering now. I closed my eyes, tried to wish it away, needed to think.
Then Berleand's voice fighting through tears: "Don't listen to him!"
"The other knee!"
Another gunshot.
Berleand screamed in obvious agony. The sound ripped at me, shredded my insides. I knew that I couldn't give up. If I showed myself, we would both be dead. Win would have heard what was going on by now. He'd call Jones and law enforcement. It wouldn't be long.
I could hear Berleand crying.
Then one more time, weaker this time, Berleand's voice: "Don't . . . listen . . . to . . . him!"
I heard men in the woods, not far from me. No choice. Had to make a move. I looked at the Victorian mansion on my right. My fingers wrapped themselves around a large rock as something close to a plan started running through my head.
The leader: "I have a knife. I'm going to cut out his eyes now."
There was movement in the house now. I could see it through the window. Not much time. I got up, my knees bent, ready to spring into action.
I heaved the rock as hard as I could in the direction opposite the house. The rock landed against a tree with a thud.
The leader's head turned toward the sound. The men moving through the woods started in that direction too, firing their weapons. The Jeep veered away from me and toward where the rock had landed.
At least, that was what I hoped was happening.
I didn't wait and watch. As soon as the rock left my hand, I dashed through the trees toward the side of the house. I was moving farther away from Berleand's cries and the men who were trying to kill me. It was darker now, almost impossible to see, but I didn't let that stop me. Branches whipped my face. I didn't care. I knew I had only seconds. Time was everything now, but it seemed to be taking me too long to get close to the house.
Without breaking stride, I picked up another rock.
The leader: "I'm taking out an eye now!"
I heard Berleand shout "No!"--and then he began to shriek.
Time was up.
/>
Still running, I used my momentum to hurl the rock toward the house. I gave the throw everything I had, nearly dislocating my shoulder. Through the darkness I saw the rock move in an upward arc. On the right side of the house--the side I was on--there was a beautiful picture window. I followed the rock's trajectory, thinking it was going to land short.
It didn't.
The rock crashed through the window, shattering it into small shards of glass. Panic erupted. It was what I had counted on. I doubled back into the woods as the armed men ran toward the house. I saw two blond teenagers--one male, one female--come toward the broken window from the inside. Part of me wondered if the girl was Carrie, but there was no time to take a second look. The men shouted something in Arabic. I didn't see what happened next. I was circling back, moving as fast as I could, using the diversion to get behind the leader.
I saw the man in the Jeep stop and get out. He ran toward the smashed window too. That was their main job here: protect the house. I had broken through their perimeter. They were scattering and trying to regroup. Confusion set in.
Staying out of sight and not wasting any time, I had managed to move back down, past my original hiding place. The leader had his back to me now, facing the house. I was maybe sixty, seventy yards away from him.
How long until help came?
Too long.
The leader was shouting out orders. Berleand was on the ground by his feet. Motionless. And worse, Berleand was silent. No more cries. No more whimpers.
Had to get to him.
I wasn't sure how. Once I stepped out from behind this tree I would be in the open and ridiculously vulnerable. But there was no choice now.
I started sprinting toward the leader.
I had moved maybe three steps when I heard someone shout out a warning. The leader turned toward me. I was still forty yards away. My legs pumped fast, but everything else slowed down. The leader too wore a green bandana around his neck, like an outlaw in an old Western. His beard was thick. He was taller than the others, maybe six two, and stocky. There was a knife in one hand, a gun in the other. He raised the gun toward me. I debated dropping to the ground or veering to the side, anything to avoid the shot, but my mind quickly sized up the situation and I realized that a sudden shift wouldn't work here. Yes, he might miss with the first bullet, but then I would be totally exposed. The second shot would certainly not miss. Plus my diversion was over. The other men were already coming back toward us. They would fire too.
I had to hope that he'd panic and miss me.
He aimed the gun. I met his eyes and saw the calm that simple moral certainty brings a man. I had no chance. I could see that now. He would not miss. And then, right before he pulled the trigger, I heard him howl in pain and saw him look down.
Berleand was biting his calf, holding on with his teeth like an angry Rottweiler.
The leader's gun hand dropped to his side, aiming at the top of Berleand's head. With a surge of adrenaline, I launched myself at the leader, arms in front of me. But before I could get there, I heard the blast and saw the gun recoil. Berleand's body jerked as I reached the leader. I wrapped my arms around the son of a bitch, kept my momentum going. As we toppled toward the ground, I positioned my forearm against the leader's nose. We landed hard, my full body weight behind the forearm. His nose exploded like a water balloon. Blood smacked me in the face. It felt warm against my skin. He cried out, but he still had a lot of fight in him. So did I. I dodged a head butt. He tried to get me in a bear hug. A fatal move. I let his arms encircle me. When he started to squeeze, I quickly snaked my arms free. Now the leader was totally vulnerable. I did not hesitate. I thought about Berleand, about how this man had made my friend suffer.
Time to end this.
The fingers of my right hand formed a claw. I didn't go for the eyes or the nose or any other soft target to disable or maim. At the base of the throat, right above the thoracic cage, sits a hollowed area where the trachea isn't protected. With two fingers and my thumb, I dug full force into the opening and grabbed his throat in a talonlike grip. I was crying as I jerked his windpipe toward me, screaming like an animal while a man died by my hand.
I plucked the gun from his still hand.
The men were running back toward us. They hadn't yet shot for fear of hitting their leader. I rolled toward the body on my right.
"Berleand?"
But he was dead. I could see that now. His dorky glasses with those oversize frames were askew on that soft, malleable face. I wanted to cry. I wanted to just give up and hold him and cry.
The men were getting closer. I looked up. They were having trouble seeing me, but the lights from the house behind them made them perfect silhouettes. I raised the gun and fired. One man went down. I turned the gun to the left. I fired again. Another man went down. Now they started firing back. I rolled back toward the leader and used his body as a shield. I fired again. Another man went down.
Sirens.
I kept low and sprinted toward the house. Cop cars came rushing up. I heard a helicopter, maybe more than one, above us. More gunfire. I would let them handle it. I wanted to get into that house now.
I ran past Taylor. Dead. The door was still open. Erickson's body was on the front porch next to it, the knife still deep in his chest. I stepped over him and dived into the foyer.
Silence.
I didn't like that.
I still had the leader's gun in my hand. I pushed my back against the wall. The place was in total disrepair. The wallpaper was peeling. The light was on. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw someone sprint by, heard footsteps going down the stairs. Had to be a lower level. A basement.
Outside I could hear gunfire. I could hear someone calling through a bullhorn for surrender. Might have been Jones. I should wait now. There was no chance I was going to get Carrie out of here anyway. I should sit tight, cover the door, not let anyone in or out. That was the smart play here. Wait it out.
I might have done that. I might have just stayed right there and never gone into that basement if the blond boy hadn't come racing down the stairs.
I called him a boy. That wasn't fair. He looked to be about seventeen, maybe eighteen, not much younger than the dark-haired men I had just shot without hesitation. But when this teenager with the blond hair and khaki pants and dress shirt came tearing down the stairs--a gun in his hand--I didn't shoot right away.
"Freeze!" I shouted. "Drop the gun."
The boy's face twisted into some kind of hideous death mask. His gun hand rose toward me, and he took aim. I jumped, rolled to the left, and came up firing. I didn't go for the death shot, as opposed to what I had been like outside. I went for his legs. I fired low. The teen screamed and fell. He still held the gun though, still had the twisted death-mask expression. He aimed for me again.
I jumped out of the foyer and into the hallway--where I came face-to-face with the basement door.
The blond teen had been hit in the leg. There was no way he could follow me down. I caught my breath, grabbed the knob with my free hand, and opened the door.
Total darkness.
I kept my gun against my chest. Pressed myself against the wall to make myself a smaller target. I slowly started down the stairs, feeling my way with my front foot. One hand held the gun, the other searched for a light switch. I couldn't find one. With my body still turned to the side, I took the steps slowly, left foot down a step, right foot meets up with it. I wondered about ammunition. How many bullets did I have left? No idea.
I heard whispers below.
No doubt about it. The lights might be off, but someone was down in the darkness. Probably more than one someone. Again I debated doing the wise thing--just stopping, staying still, moving back to the top of the stairs, waiting for reinforcements. The gunfire outside had stopped. Jones and his men, I was sure, had secured the premises.
But I didn't do that.
My left foot reached the bottom step. I heard a scuffling sound that made the hairs
on the back of my neck stand up. My free hand felt along the wall until I found the light switch. Or to be more precise, switches. Three in a row. I put my hand underneath them, got my gun ready, took one deep breath, and then I flipped up all three at the same time.
Later I would remember the other details: the Arabic graffiti spray-painted on the walls, the green flags with the blood-soaked crescent moon, the posters of martyrs in battle fatigues carrying assault weapons. Later I would remember the portraits of Mohammad Matar during many different stages of his life, including the time when he worked as a medical resident named Jimenez.
But right now, all of that was little more than backdrop.
Because there, in the far corner of the basement, I saw something that made my heart stop. I blinked my eyes, looked again, couldn't believe it, and yet maybe it made perfect sense after all.
A group of blond teenagers and children were huddled against a pregnant woman in a black burqa. Their eyes were ice blue, and they all stared at me with hatred. They began to make a noise, a snarl maybe, as one, and then I realized that it wasn't a snarl. These were words, repeated over and over . . .
"Al-sabr wal-sayf."
I backed away from them, shaking my head.
"Al-sabr wal-sayf."
The brain started doing the synapse thing again: the blond hair. The blue eyes. CryoHope. Dr. Jimenez being Mohammad Matar. Patience. The sword.
Patience.
I bit back a scream as the truth rained down on me: Save the Angels hadn't used the embryos to help infertile couples. They had used them to create the ultimate weapon of terror, to infiltrate, to get ready for global jihad.
Patience and the sword will defeat the sinners.
The blonds started coming toward me, even though I was the one with the gun. Some kept chanting. Some just shrieked. Some dived back behind the burqa-clad pregnant woman, looking terrified. I moved faster, heading up the stairs. From above, I heard a familiar voice call my name.
"Bolitar? Bolitar?"
I turned my back on the ice blue, hell-spawned monstrosity below me, scrambled to the top of the stairs, dived through the basement door, slammed it closed behind me. Like that might help. Like that might make it all go away.