The Black Bullet

newspaper.

“My friend, it has been too long,” Hakim said, sitting down at an outdoor table.

“Yes,” said Aamed, looking up from his laptop. “How is your business here in Orlando, this home of the Mickey fucking Mouse?”

“Good, my gift shop is small, but it allows me more legitimacy.”

“Ata and Mansur were killed early this morning.”

Hakim glanced down, his eyes returning back to Aamed. “How did this happen?”

“When their boat got near the vessel operated by the Americans who found the HEU, the boat we hired exploded in the sea approximately fifty kilometers east of Daytona Beach. We think the Americans retrieved the HEU.”

Hakim sipped his coffee, glanced through the storefront glass into the shop. The man in the corner continued reading the newspaper. Hakim said, “So they have it … who killed Ata and Mansur? Was it the Americans?”

“Mohammed Sharif tells me it is most likely the Russian mafia. The operative’s name is Yuri Volkow. He’s known to sell weapons to the highest bidder. He and his men have no allegiance to anyone or anything. He is a Russian whore. He stands for nothing, nor does his country. At least with Lenin, they had an identity, a history.”

Hakim sipped his espresso and nodded. “That is one of the many things this American government refuses to realize. They do not understand our history. How can a people do what they are trying to do in the homeland without understanding a history that goes back fourteen centuries?”

“A Muslim’s sincerity is that he will pay no attention to those things that are not his business. But circumstances make it our business. It was first told in the Hadith. This Russian, like the Americans, this Volkow, is entering a place where he should not tread.”

“How do we get the HEU before he does? Or how do we stop him?”

Aamed felt a slight chill. He looked around, his dark eyes searching parked cars in the lot. He closed his laptop. “Let us drive. We can talk. We can plan. Mohammed is arriving tonight. He has conferred with others and will know how we shall triumph.”

Inside the coffee shop, Eric Hunter lowered the newspaper to the table, punched numbers on his cell and said, “They just left. Heading toward the parking lot.”

CHAPTER FORTY

O’Brien felt like he was free-falling backwards. He had completed dozens of successful night parachute jumps. Free-falling from a high altitude. Waiting until he was less than five hundred feet over enemy terrain before deploying his chute. This was different. The sensation was a gravitational pull without a sense of perspective. He simply fell through a world of darkness. Then the killer’s face appeared. Oily dark hair combed into a pompadour, like a wet bird’s nest above the forehead. Eyes electric with light. A muscle quivering beneath his left eye. Rapid blinking. The girl’s blood on his chin and hands. Head swaying like a hyena over dead prey. “You’re not going to shoot me!” he mocked.

O’Brien raised his pistol, the sights locked on the killer’s forehead.

“You can’t kill me, Detective! If you do, you are me.”

O’Brien felt the trigger against his finger, the bile rising in his chest.

There was movement. Jupiter rocked. Slightly, but it was enough to jog O’Brien out of sleep. He lay in his cabin, the sheets damp from sweat. He tried to sit up. But something held him to the bed. Something pressing both his shoulders. Something strong. Something mocking. O’Brien shook his head, not fully conscious. Had he been restrained? Was he dreaming?

Jupiter moved again. That was real. He reached under the pillow for his Glock. Max, sleeping at the foot of the bed, opened her eyes. O’Brien whispered, “Shhhh … we have company.” He looked at his watch: 3:30 p.m. He’d fallen asleep at noon. Three and a half hours. His mind felt drugged from sleep deprivation. O’Brien stepped into the salon. Jason Canfield stood outside in the cockpit, leaning against the glass door, his hands on the glass and cupped around his eyes so he could see inside.

“Come in,” O’Brien said.

“Can’t. It’s locked.”

O’Brien set the Glock on the bar and opened the door. “Been out there long?”

“Couple of minutes. Looks like you were taking a nap.”

“More like a coma. Didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“My sleep’s been kinda weird, too. Since we found that stuff, everything is different. Our pictures are all over the news, the web, people are tweeting and re-tweeting like crazy. It’s freakin’ crazy. I had like five hundred new friend requests on Facebook in a couple of hours. Nicole’s got hundreds of new friends on her page, and like a thousand new followers on Twitter. She took the pictures of the sub and stuff off there.”

“Good. Listen, Jason. You’re like a son I never had. I care about what happens to you. That’s why I want you to understand what I say, it’s for your own good. I want to keep you safe-”

“It’s okay. I understand, but you don’t-”

O’Brien held up one hand. “Listen to me. We’ve stepped into a hornet’s nest. Be careful. If you even suspect you’re being followed, you call me. Understand?”

“Okay. Mom told me you told her, too. This is about the stuff in the sub, huh?”

O’Brien leaned over the wet-bar sink and splashed cold water in his face. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t notice anybody following me from my house to the marina.”

“Just be very aware. Chances are nothing will happen. Thanks for waking me. If I sleep during the day, my clock gets out of whack.”

“You’d wanted me to pick up some stuff for the charter.”

“I’ll write up a short list. You should be able to get what we need at the grocery store. Go to Chapman’s to pick up the bait. Get it last thing. It’s frozen. Don’t need it thawing out in your truck.” O’Brien handed Jason the list and money. “Call me when you get to the store and call me when you’re headed back. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I just think this is kinda paranoid, maybe.”

O’Brien’s cell rang. He answered as Jason nodded and left. Dave Collins said, “Sean, the team will be here in a little while for a debriefing. They’ll need to talk with you, Nick and Jason. Where are they?”

“I just sent Jason to pick up some stuff for a charter. He’s going to the grocery store, then Chapman’s Fish House. Nick’s probably on his boat.”

“Tried his cell before I called you. No answer. Maybe he’s napping.”

“I’ll see if I can find him. What time are they arriving?”

“Couple of hours, tops.”

Nicole Bradley sat in her cubicle at Channel Nine and read her e-mails. Since she was interviewed on CNN, her e-mail and text messaging was so heavy she sent her Twitter followers an update telling people she couldn’t begin to answer them.

This is wild! I WILL answer everyone!!! One person she corresponded with immediately was a new friend, a USC grad student who was in Orlando with his family for a vacation. He was waaay cute, she thought, pulling up his picture again and reading his bio. He was a film student, and he’s written two original screenplays. Had a super great idea for a journalism-based new reality TV show for the Internet. He could have been Robert Patterson’s twin brother. God, what a smile. He texted that he’d like to meet her. Wanted to talk about an online TV show. Thought she would be perfect for the host’s job.

Nicole couldn’t stop smiling. They agreed to meet at 4:00 p.m. at a place with lots of people, the Starbucks on the corner of International and Riverside. “How will I recognize you?” she’d asked.

“Just check out the guy that looks like Patterson. I’ll be wearing a USC shirt.”

Nicole glanced at her watch, shutting off the computer. She picked up her purse and headed for the channel