Lately, work had been such a battle. Her new editor at the Star Telegram was nearly ten years younger than her with no real-world experience beyond being a livestock reporter for the farm and ranch section, but still he felt it necessary to change every story she wrote to the point that she didn’t even recognize it by the time it came out in print. Not only was he an ass, he was an incompetent ass, and that was unforgivable. Still, there was little she could do about it but scream, since he happened to be the publisher’s nephew. She’d dealt with her share of idiots over the course of her career, but the fact that this one was her boss made it more of a challenge. If her life’s experience had taught her anything, it was to prioritize the things that stressed her, and the pimple-faced editor of the political section, mired up to his little pierced eyebrow in nepotism, was not going to be one of her stressors, not today anyway. She had plenty of things to give her ulcers without worrying over that little weasel.
It was late, almost time for the news. Christian’s bedtime had come and gone, and Carrie felt a twinge of guilt for being such a rotten mom. Of course he was more than happy to stay up and now sat cross-legged on the floor looking at his favorite Dr. Seuss book. She compensated for her lack of mothering skills by making them a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and banana milkshakes-a late-night snack that would have caused her own mother to throw a bona fide fit. Again, it wasn’t something she was going to let get to her. Dr. Soto had helped her with that.
Paper plate of sandwiches in hand, Carrie flopped down on the couch and patted her lap.
“Climb up here and keep Mama company, little man,” she said.
Nights were not as scary as they had been before she started seeing Dr. Soto, but they were still dark and still lonely. Unspeakable memories popped into her thoughts when she least expected them, particularly if she didn’t keep her mind occupied. Despite his cruel beginnings, Christian proved more than a pleasant distraction. He was her life.
No matter the violent way he came into being, this amazing child had saved her. He was smarter than any other three-year-old she’d ever heard of, already reading hundreds of words. He spoke Spanish as well as he spoke English-and he spoke English like a child three times his age. But more importantly to Carrie her son was a gentle soul. He doted on his mother as if he somehow sensed her inner fears, crying when she cried, often reaching up to touch her cheek with his tiny fingers for no apparent reason. It was as if he was as much in awe of her as she was of him.
Christian cuddled up in her lap, Dr. Seuss book in one dimpled hand, a quarter of grilled cheese sandwich clutched in the other. Who would have thought she could get so much joy out of watching the little guy chew?
“You read,” Carrie said, picking up the remote. “Mama will see what the talking heads have to say before we go to bed.”
“Talking heads.” Christian giggled. “You’re funny, Mom…”
Carrie took a bite of sandwich as she flipped through the channels. She preferred her local news to the cable networks. The reporters and anchors still wore too much makeup, but most of them had enough meat on their bones to look a little more human than the big-haired stick-figure beauties on CNN.
… USE EXTREME CAUTION. DO NOT APPROACH, scrolled along the bottom of the screen, followed by a toll- free number. Carrie sat up with renewed interest. She’d missed the lead-in and the blond, female member of the anchor team of Kip and Jane was running down the top story of the evening. Jane Baily wore big glasses and kept her hair straight, hanging past her shoulders, looking more like a sixties-era flower child than a news anchor. That’s why Carrie trusted her.
“… authorities tell us they’re looking for this man in connection with the theft of highly dangerous radioactive material. They’re warning people who may see him-and this includes law enforcement-not to attempt contact. Don’t even approach him, they’re telling us. Anyone who sees the man in the photograph we’re about to show should call the number at the bottom of the screen immediately. Let’s go ahead and bring up the photograph…”
“This is like something out of the movies, Jane,” Kip said, looking somber without his trademark sparkling grin.
“Here we are,” Jane said as the photograph came up on the screen. “Authorities aren’t saying where he’s supposed to be or where he’s going, but the man is identified as…”
A bite of cheese sandwich fell from Carrie’s gaping mouth. Her bare toes clenched at the carpet.
“Zafir!” she cried. “NO… I can’t…”
“… of Middle Eastern descent,” Kip continued. “Zafir Jawad is missing three fingers…” Kip and Jane kept up their banter. Carrie heard nothing but the whoosh of blood pulsing in her ears.
“You’re hurting my leg.” Christian wriggled to escape Carrie’s fingernails on his thigh. Squirming around to face her, he looked up with an olive complexion and deep-set eyes identical to the man staring at her from the television.
A thousand bees buzzed inside her. Her skin crawled as if writhing in a bed of poisonous snakes. Trembling so hard she worried she might crack a tooth, Carrie reached for the phone beside the couch. It rang as her finger brushed the receiver.
She screamed, memories of months of torment and pain flooding her system like an illness. If Zafir was in the United States, she knew exactly what he was after.
In her lap, Christian began to cry.
CHAPTER 41
16 September, 0130 hours
Jericho opened his eyes when Winfield Palmer’s Bombardier Challenger touched down in Texas with a puff of smoke and a muted squawk of tires on tarmac. Designed by Bill Lear, the CL 601 had roughly the same cruise speed and only slightly less range than a Gulfstream IV-the more famous sister jet on which every spy in the world of fictional espionage seemed to fly. This particular CL 601 was registered to the Federal Aviation Administration. Just as Quinn and Thibodaux served as Other Governmental Agents, the Challenger was an Other Governmental Aircraft-one thing on paper, but quite another in point of fact. The pilots were paid through the FAA payroll system, but took their orders from the Director of National Intelligence. Without a very close inspection, both pilots and aircraft would blend in with the thousands of other boring cogs of the civil service gears that made up the unwieldy bureaucracy of the United States government.
The sleek plane bounced once, then settled into a smooth ground roll. The seats were plush-comfortable leather that leaned all the way back for long overseas trips. Teetering on the razor’s edge of complete exhaustion and delirium, he’d collapsed into a dreamless sleep as soon as the jet had jumped off the ground at Langley. A two-hour nap had done little but add to the kinks in his spine and the unshakeable feeling that he was walking around with his head inside a barrel of crude oil. He tried to swallow but felt as if he had a mouth full of talcum powder. Accustomed to the freedom of the wind on his motorcycle, airplane air was among Jericho’s most hated substances.
Blue taxiway lights shot by the windows as the jet rolled into Fort Worth and past Alliance Airport’s iconic snow-cone-shaped control tower.
After the photo of Zafir went public, there had been no shortage of leads. Thousands of people phoned the number to say they’d seen the fugitive. Some even claimed to be him. Agents from virtually every organization in the government took part in trying to locate the fugitive (though none of them knew the real story beyond that he should be considered a highly “toxic” target). There was no way to check all the tips, but they couldn’t stand by and do nothing.
Then, call screeners sent forward a report from a Border Patrol agent in South Texas who said one of his prisoners had seen the photograph on the television while in the hospital after having his eye cut out by a “devil bandit” on the banks of the Rio Grande. According to the agent, the prisoner had nearly broken his handcuffs trying to get out of his bed when he saw the picture on the news. He swore this was the man who had cut out his eye and sawed the head off his friend.
Moments later, the call had come in from Carrie Navarro and they finally had something to go with.
“One-thirty in the morning.” Thibodaux yawned. “That’s two-thirty in my brain. I know we’re tryin’ to save the world and everything, but I feel like I’ve been stomped to death.”
