PART 37
Black hadn’t lied to Val. His house—mansion, really—was more secure than it looked. Security was one of the first issues Black addressed when he started renovating his home three years earlier. Renovations that included installing several unique amenities, such as the basement gym and its adjoining Hogan’s Alley.
Urban cacophonies blistered Black’s ears as he proceeded down a murky paved street façade. Dozens of computerized targets nipped and dashed around Black, giving him less time than a major leaguer had to discern the seams on a fastball to judge if a target represented friend or foe. Not as demanding as SO exercises or shoothouse training, but a morning stroll through Hogan’s Alley five days a week kept Black’s target skills tight.
Today’s practice might have gone better if Black could have kept his mind off Alhazred. When he, Kent, and Jingo returned to GTMO from Havana, they had been yanked from the 527 and 528’s after-action review so they could give a CIA technician their descriptions of “Lionel Grantham” via sat.phone. The techno-weenie, using ERIT (Electronic Facial Identification Technique), built a 3-D recreation of Grantham’s face and then downloaded it into the national Terrorist Identification Classification System. Several seconds later…a hit!
“Holy cow!” the geek squeaked. “You guys let a big one get away!”
Badir Alhazred was one of the Movement for Islamic Change’s superstars, in several ways a genius and in every way dangerous. If he wanted Black and Val dead, they were in for the fight of their lives.
PART 38
The more Badir learned about Black, the more he worried he wasn’t playing with fire. Black was terribly brilliant and just as deadly. If Black had realized who he was in Havana, Badir had no doubts he would be dead now. Instead of nursing his wounded ego, perhaps he should be thanking Allah for his good fortune.
“There’s Hotchkiss.”
Badir lifted his eyes from his copy of the Kingston Constitution and looked across Chester Street at Berne Hotchkiss ambling into Old Court Mall.
“Why do American parents allow their children to dress that way?” Badir asked his companion on the bus bench.
“Very few care. Those that do cannot control their children. An inevitable consequence of western decadence.”
“You sound like a Cold Warrior, comrade.” Both men chuckled. “At least Westerners are predictable. We draw this one out with a woman, and…”
“Not with a woman.”
“Oh? All right. Still, we use this Hotchkiss to bait de Osta.”
“And de Osta to bait Black?”
Badir peered over his shoulder at the old county courthouse’s dome. “Like I said, Westerners are predictable.”
* * * *
Black listened to FoxNews in the gym as he completed his morning workout. That done, he tugged off his t-shirt and headed for the shower.
“You…drugged…me!”
Val, wearing only a blanket, staggered towards him.
“Miss de Osta, you…”
“Dammit…stop calling me…that!” She dropped the blanket, “Call me Val,” and kissed him. (232 words)
PART 39
Awaking, Val stretched and smiled like Scarlett O’Hara the morning after Rhett Butler carried her up the red stairs. Then she remembered telling Black, “Call me Val.”
“Oh…my…God.”
She didn’t. Did she?
Black wouldn’t have. Would he?
“He had to know I was still zonked. I could have him arrested if he…”
If he “what”? “Deflowered” her? No, Black wasn’t the kind of man to take advantage. Not like that. Was he? If he wasn’t, why was she so chipper when she awoke?
“Oh…my…God.”
Her father was going to kill her. Well, first Black, then her. She could hear Papa now: “This is no way for a fidei defensor of the Order of Entienne to behave!”
“Ohhh.” She wanted to barf.
It was imperative she discover if a white wedding gown was in her future. She needed to see an OB/GYN or one of those pregnancy clinics. “Not Planned Parenthood.” No, not those losers. One that counseled absenence. “A little late for that now!” Or, maybe, she should just ask: “BLACK!”
“What is wrong?” It wasn’t Black, but Lynn Harry, carrying a combat customized Colt automatic like she knew how to use it.
“Where’s Black?”
“Where are your clothes?”
Val peeked down. She was nude, sitting on a blanket. Val wrapped it around her torso. “I asked first.”
“He’s at work.”
“Work? What about…?”
“You’re perfectly safe. Nothing can happen to you here.”
Val said, “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?” (240 words)
PART 40
As the noon whistle blew, Black stood on the Pentacrest’s lawn in front of Old Court, surrounded by a legion of students. He had been invited by a host of liberal and conservative student organizations to answer questions about America and Iraq from his perspective as a solider with experience combating terrorism.
“What has Iraq ever done to us?”
“Depending upon your point of view, as early or late as 1995 Saddam Hussein, probably in alliance with the Islamic Change Movement and Osama bin Laden, was involved with the bombings in Riyadh, where seven people died, and Dhahran, where 19 U.S. military personnel were killed. That’s public knowledge. A strong case can also be made that these bad boys had a hand in the USS Cole, TWA Flight 800, and 9-11.”
“Are we going to war with Iraq?”
“Yes.”
“Will we win?”
Black grinned. “Yes.” The grin waned. “We must.”
“Haven’t these attacks resulted from our foreign policy?”
Black fixed his eyes on this young man. “What’s the matter, dog? Being an American got you embarrassed?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“Ask Dianne Feinstein.”
“We take so much and do so much harm.”
“America isn’t perfect, but we are a force for good. We feed the world and die defending freedom. If you’re embarrassed by America, get over it or make like Johnny Depp and get out.”
“Why are Democrats obstructing…?”
One scream was followed by hundreds. Black turned around to look.
“Lord, no.”
The Old Court dome was on fire.
More next month.
