with Thibodaux, he’d found it was a time-saver to let the giant Cajun’s physique press the issue if an issue needed to be pushed.
The chopper pilot, a sensible-looking man with mussed gray hair wore a green David Clark headset with a tiny mike situated over his mouth. He busied himself on the radio while a lone reporter, who appeared to be the only other occupant of the helicopter, sat in the back seat rummaging through a giant blue duffel of camera gear and microphones.
“Hey there,” Thibodaux said, grinning. “ Comment ca va, beb?”
The reporter, a thirty-something Ken doll look-alike didn’t even look up. “Tell this hick we’ve got a deadline to meet, Steve,” he mumbled to the pilot, as if he couldn’t be bothered to converse with mere mortals. “I don’t have time to talk. Tell them to run along and get away from the chopper.” His sockless penny loafers and pink oxford button-down suggested his name might be something like Biff.
Thibodaux threw a tired glance over his shoulder at the others.
“OSI.” He held up his shiny new black credential case and gold badge. “Pains me to say so, but we’re with the Air Force. I’m gonna need to borrow your helicopter.”
“Beat feet, dude.” Biff smirked, still fiddling with a foot-long camera lens. “I’m gonna have to call bullshit on that one. Our Air Force doesn’t have any jurisdiction over civilians on American soil. Posse comitatus and all.”
“You’re right…” Thibodaux turned and looked at Quinn again. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes. “I tried to be nice,” he sighed. “Really I did.” His back suddenly seemed to flare wider as he loomed over the simpering reporter. The friendly twang fled and his voice grew deadly quiet. “Tell you what then. How ’bout this for logic? I’m bigger’n you and we’re taking your chopper.”
Biff looked up from the camera, his eyes flung wide at Thibodaux’s menacing tone.
Quinn nudged Mahoney out of the way as Thibodaux grabbed the reporter by the scruff of his starched oxford collar and heaved him out the door and into the field stubble.
The Cajun cocked his head toward the smirking pilot. “You got any problems with Air Force OSI workin’ on American soil, my friend?”
“Steve Akers,” the man said, grinning. “USMC retired. Hell, welcome aboard. That kid’s been a pain in my ass since he started. Can’t say I’m sad to see him go.”
Quinn and Mahoney scrambled in the back as Thibodaux climbed in front where he’d have more leg room. “Good to meet you, Marine,” he said, nodding in greeting as he adjusted a second headset.
“Welcome, Air Force,” the pilot said.
Thibodaux shook his big head emphatically, nearly dislodging the headset. “I’m zero-three-six-nine, pal.” He gave the numerical code for a Marine Corps MOS of Infantry Unit Leader.
Akers raised a seasoned eyebrow, then pulled up on the collective to lift the helicopter off the grass. The bird shuddered slightly, flying out of the chopper’s own rudder wash and into clean air, picking up speed.
“Thought your fancy creds said you worked for the Air Force?”
“Long story,” Thibodaux said. “I’ll tell you on the way to save the world.”
CHAPTER 52
A single policeman slouched in the unmarked Ford Crown Victoria out front of Juanita Calderon’s white frame house. This was all Zafir had to see to confirm what he needed to know. Carrie Navarro was in the house.
It was a fluke that he was even aware Juanita Calderon existed. Early after Carrie had become his guest, he’d seen to it she was given paper and a pen to write her family a letter. She’d been smart enough not to trust him, even then, so he’d sent in an underling, a young fighter from Samarra, to give her the materials. Navarro had written the letter, but the stupid boy had fallen in love with her. Zafir had caught them alone together and been forced to kill him.
Carrie’s letter had been addressed to a post office box, but it had provided him with a name and a city. With Gail Taylor’s iPhone and the instructions she had provided before he killed her, it had been easy enough to perform a search on that name. The P.O. box was in a place called Weatherford so when he found a Juanita Calderon in that city, he knew he had the correct place. Night after night he’d sat outside Carrie Navarro’s cell door and listened to her whimper for her mother. It made sense that the stupid cow would go there when she felt threatened.
Zafir’s heart raced. At long last he was on the brink of his long-sought objective. He licked his lips, tasting the memory of her.
He sat behind the wheel of his rental car on the adjacent block, looking through a grove of cedar trees between two houses. Juanita Calderon’s home sat in the middle of a lavish subdivision at the outskirts of town. Each house was at least two stories with a well-manicured lawn and corral. A few even had roping arenas. There was at least one boat or motorcycle parked in almost every driveway. Some had horses in small paddocks; behind their houses. Calderon’s was among the oldest, presumably it had been the ranch house before the land was parceled off for development, but it was still impressive with a sprawling, wraparound cedar deck and two huge oaks in the spacious front yard.
Zafir looked around, planning his approach. Beside him was a wrought-iron gate with a cutout of a man on horseback chasing a longhorn cow. Beyond the gate, three horses grazed with their heads down in the pasture hemmed in by the trees. He’d bought a pair of binoculars at a Wal-Mart on the edge of Fort Worth and used them to scan the neighborhood. At the fence paralleling the street, two llamas looked on stupidly as only llamas can look. Calderon had neighbors, but each house was situated on a large wooded lot, giving them plenty of space in between. Such space would give Zafir cover as he approached.
He put the rental car in gear and drove down the pitted asphalt road adjacent to Calderon’s street. He struggled to keep his heart from racing as he made the turn, now less than half a block from Carrie Navarro. Breathing deeply, he kept up his speed so as not to draw the attention of the policeman in the Crown Victoria and turned into the long limestone driveway of a gray brick two-story, three lots away from his target. There were no vehicles out front, and Zafir took the gamble that the occupants were not at home. If they happened to be home, he was prepared to kill them quickly. Americans weren’t accustomed to sudden violence in their own backyards. They would surely try to negotiate when they should be fighting.
Zafir glanced up the street, making certain his arrival hadn’t raised the attention of any inquisitive onlookers. The policeman out front was a heavy man with a glowing red face. Rounded shoulders pressed against the window and looked as if they might pop open the car door at the slightest movement. He was obviously lost in a daydream, complacent in his peaceful town, certain that nothing violent would ever happen to him. Zafir marveled that a country capable of producing some of the finest warriors in the world could be so lax at home. It looked all too easy. But no matter how overweight, policemen had radios and Zafir needed time to mingle with the population after he indulged himself with the American whore.
Gravel crunched beneath tires as he brought the rental car to a stop on the far side of the gray house. He eased the door shut without slamming it and walked across the sun-parched side yard toward the rear patio, breathing a sigh of relief when no one came out to challenge him. Tiny brown grasshoppers clicked and buzzed away from his feet. A sturdy palomino horse trotted up to the back fence and snorted, staring at him with huge brown eyes. A line of thick oak trees beyond the barn made a perfect green backdrop for the animal. Zafir suddenly found himself caught up in the moment, captivated by the beauty of the scene. To the ancient Bedouin, the horse was everything, a prized possession. The feeling was bred into Zafir to the deepest marrow of his bones. For the first time, he grew tearful at the thought of dying. He raised the flat of his good hand to his heart. Surely there would be horses in heaven.
His eyes still moist, his heart jumped in his chest when he turned. Little more than a hundred yards away, a young woman with dark hair slid open a glass door and stepped into the bright sunshine of Juanita Calderon’s redwood deck. She wore tight blue jeans and a simple white T-shirt. Even from a distance Zafir was warmed by the familiar curves and swells of Carrie Navarro’s body. She was healthier now, more full figured after having their child, but still beautiful to look on, and, he could tell from the way she threw her head, still just as brazen.
Zafir’s jaw dropped when a small child stepped through the same glass doorway and clutched Navarro’s outstretched hand. His head spun at the sight of his son. Even from a distance it was easy to see the boy carried himself with a confident air, just like his father. For a split second he thought again about trying to spare the child.
