Mumm

By Barthélemy Banks

That trying-to-be-retired CIA shooter Leslie Carroll Mumm returns with his beautiful island-born wife in a second adventure that involves murder, blackmail, a female assassin named Charlie, an oversexed albino televangelist, and a crack sniper working for the Libyans. High-caliber shoot-’em-up action for less than the price of a couple of bullets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AbsolutelyAmazingEbooks.com
• Release date: Jul 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311060433

Book preview

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The Mumm Trilogy:

Book One

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ABSOLUTELY AMAZING eBOOKS

Published by Whiz Bang LLC, 926 Truman Avenue, Key West, Florida 33040, USA

Copyright © 2013 by Gee Whiz Entertainment LLC.

Electronic compilation copyright © 2013 by Whiz Bang LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized ebook editions.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. While the author has made every effort to provide accurate information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.

For information contact

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Soon to be published:

Mumm’s Curse: Book Two

Mumm’s the Word: Book Three

The Teddy Trilogy: Book One

The Teddy Trilogy: Book Two

The Teddy Trilogy: Book Three

Wasted Lives: The Great Bahamian Novel

To the real-life Teddy.

You know who you are.

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Part I   - Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

Part II  - Its Badder in the Bahamas.

Part III - Return of the Prodigal Son.

Part IV - ’Tis the Season.

Part V  - Dancing to Death’s Tune.

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

The following is a work of fiction, and any similarity to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental. That’s what the lawyers want me to say. But this story could be true. After all, there are real spies. And betrayals. And complex relationships between husbands and wives.

In this narrative a few liberties have been taken with names, locations, events, and time frames, but these deliberate lapses are purely for storytelling purposes.

- Barthélemy Banks

Nassau, Bahamas

Part I

Bang! Bang!

You’re dead.

Chapter One

Some people have speculated that the dead gunmen were big-time Mafia killers. Or renegade soldiers from Fort Bragg. Maybe even Middle Eastern terrorists, although nobody could figure out what there was to terrorize in these parts. The three men were carrying automatic weapons, a detail that caused quite a stir on the six o’clock news.

A few reporters poked around looking for answers, but didn’t come up with much. One of the local papers wrote it up like this:

DEADMAN’S GAP, NORTH CAROLINA – True to its colorful name, this small mountain hamlet witnessed a life-and-death drama on Tuesday night when three unidentified men were killed during an alleged robbery attempt. According to reports, this trio entered a local general store around 7 p.m. and demanded that the proprietor, Leslie Carroll Mumm, 47, hand over the money in his cash register drawer. During an exchange of gunfire, the three intruders were fatally shot. Mr. Mumm suffered minor injuries. Additional details are being withheld by the Hound’s Tooth sheriff’s department pending further investigation.

The facts, of course, were quite different.

True, Mumm and his dog were there in the general store that wintry night, half-dozing near the potbelly stove, not particularly troubled about the dark forces adrift in the world. No traffic outside on the narrow mountain road. Everything quiet. Few customers would turn up in ugly weather like this.

Slouched in a hardback chair, his cowboy boots hooked on the edge of a ten-penny nail barrel, Mumm was the very picture of a good ol’ boy – trim and pencil-thin, unruly hair, a crooked boyish smile. Handsome in a way that reminded you of a young version of that actor/playwright Sam Shepard. You know, the guy who starred in movies like Country and The Right Stuff. Most people considered Mumm easy-going, but if you happened to look closely into those icy blue eyes you knew better than push him too far. In another time, you might have been reminded of Gary Cooper standing up to the bad guys in High Noon. Resolute, hard as a rock, refusing to back down when a matter of principle’s involved.

On the counter a transistor radio echoed John Cougar Mellencamp singing about being born in a small town. Mumm could identify with that. People around here knew him, knew his crazy-as-a-fox grandfather, knew his foreign-born wife. So if L.C. Mumm said those three men tried to rob him, the truth didn’t really matter all that much. Small towns have a way of taking care of their own.

Deadman’s Gap (population 305) is little more than a flyspeck on a service station road map. Miles away from anywhere important, there’s not much to recommend it to the casual traveler, nothing to make it an important destination. This tiny community doesn’t even claim a post office or a barbershop. It has no main street, no traffic lights, not even a Winn-Dixie supermarket. But if you happen to need gas or cigarettes or maybe an ice-cold beer, Mumm’s General Store is easy to find at the crossroads.

Everything in these parts is measured in distance from the crossroads: Seven miles to Big Harvey’s Lumber Yard (Pulpwood Bought and Sold at a Fair Price); three more miles to the Everlasting Life Baptist Church (a congregation of 125 devout souls); another two miles to Jackson’s Fruit & Cider, a roadside stand that opens during summer months for the benefit of tourists. Nothing much in the other direction, except for scrub pine, rhododendron, and a few whiteface cattle grazing on thin patches of grass. Red dirt gives way to granite flecked with glittering flint – igneous rock left over from some ancient geologic upheaval. Tectonic plates, they call them. From here the road climbs up the mountainside, unfurling like a ribbon toward the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway.

This remote community takes its name from a famous murder, a sensational event that occurred back in 1872 – and later became the subject of a popular folk song. Recorded during the Kingston Trio craze by an obscure British group called Holmes and the Speckled Band, the words go like this:

"Sing with me that ode of death/

When Jenny Lynn last drew her breath/

She was the fairest in the land/

Struck down so young by a villain’s hand."

The song told how a hardened criminal named Raymond Wayne Cogburn killed a pretty farm girl because she’d spurned his love. After committing this heinous crime, Pecker Ray (as he was known) tried to escape across the mountains, but was tracked down by a crafty old lawman named Horatio Algernon Mumm. As it turned out, Sgt. Mumm never made it back to the county seat with his prisoner – for Pecker Ray kept a pistol hidden inside his left boot and during the return journey managed to shoot the sergeant straight in the heart. This second murder took place as they were passing through a gap in the mountains near Hound’s Tooth. Today, the crossroads at Deadman’s Gap forms an X on the map, as if indelibly marking the spot where Leslie Carroll Mumm’s great-great grandfather lost his life.

By way of compensation, the government granted the surviving widow a tract of timberland, the handwritten deed calling for 400 acres more or less. Her eldest son, Horatio Jr., founded a general store at the crossroads and over the years built up a modest trade in furs and dry goods. When Horatio Jr. passed away at age 85, he left the store to his son Zachary.

After a time Zack settled down, got married, and fathered a pretty little daughter. By day he tended the family business, by night he made illegal corn liquor. In this part of the country, moonshining was considered a respectable trade, contrary to the opinion of certain do-gooders and government revenue agents.

Then in the winter of ’48 Zack’s wife developed pneumonia and didn’t make it to the spring. He was heartbroken, never really got over the loss. Some people said it turned him mean – or crazy – and they started calling him Mad Zack.

His daughter grew into a lovely young woman, pretty as a peach most folks agreed. She was the favorite of all the boys at the Grange dances. Young men came a-courting from as far away as Catawba and Gatlinburg.

More tragedy occurred in 1955 when Mad Zack’s daughter died during childbirth. Despite a complicated breach condition, the midwife managed to save the baby. People said it was a miracle, given that the delivery took place at home without benefit of modern medical facilities. Since Mad Zack’s daughter had not seen fit to take a husband, the old man named the boy Leslie Carroll, supposedly after some distant relatives, and took on the task of raising young L.C. himself.

≈≈≈

Outside it was snowing, flakes as big as cotton balls. The store’s tungsten floodlights had been switched on, the bluish glow sweeping toward the two-lane blacktop like a beacon in the night.             

Mumm came awake at the sound of tires crunching on the thin covering of snow. Damn, who could that be? Probably a local farmer needing gas. He rubbed his eyes and closed the oversized book on his lap, James Morton Chappell’s Birds of the Southern Appalachians. Hard to find in bookstores, this was a volume highly prized by ornithologists and amateur birdwatchers alike – noted for its hand-pulled four-color illustrations of avians in all their resplendent glory

As usual, Mumm had been dreaming about birds, a hobby he’d pursued since boyhood. He often brooded about the many species nearing extinction – spotted owls, black-hooded hawks, peregrine falcons. He’d read everything he could find on whooping cranes (Grus americana). He knew that less than 200 of these gangly, awkward creatures remained in the entire world!

When Mumm was 12, he had actually seen a whooping crane, a large white bird pausing at the edge of a grassy field, its legs like stilts, as unmoving as those plastic flamingos you see in people’s front yards. Somehow the image of that sad, singular bird had remained etched in his memory all these years.

There is something both melancholy and frightening about being the last of a breed. Mumm wished he knew more about his father and that side of the family, a curiosity that had been dutifully ignored by Mad Zack. At times he felt as alone in the world as that whooping crane. Maybe that’s why family was so important to him – his grandfather and his wife.

Mumm’s dog, sleeping behind the stove, gave a heaving sigh of contentment. Yeah, he loved that mangy old hound too. Valued the companionship, the sense of not being alone that came with owning a reliable dog. They’d been together more years than –

Be-e-ep! The sound of a horn interrupted his thoughts.

Mumm carefully placed the book on the floor and stretched his arms in a yawn. He squinted toward the gas pumps, but it was snowing too hard to see much. The man on the radio had predicted four to six inches, but Mumm knew the flakes were too big to stick. He could make out the vague shape of the car: a dark-blue Ford Taurus, covered with mud as if it had been driven quite a distance. Three men wearing suits got out. Despite the snow, they didn’t bother with topcoats. City slickers. Two of them walked around the building toward the restrooms. They seemed in a hurry, eager to take a leak. He couldn’t see them clearly because of the snow but they appeared to be carrying bags. The third man remained by the car, checking his wristwatch, fidgety, as if keeping to a tight schedule.

Mumm wasn’t enthusiastic about facing the bitter cold. Let the driver come inside if he wanted service. Lots of folks around here preferred pumping their own gas, not that there was any difference in price for self-serve at the general store.

The dog gave a menacing growl. It came from deep within his throat, like the rumble of distant thunder.

Hush, Mumm drawled. Jus’ some tourists lookin’ for gas. But the animal continued to snarl, hairs along the ridge of his spine standing up like tiny porcupine quills. Strange behavior from a dog more likely to lick your hand than bite it.

Lynden, Mumm spoke gently but firmly, what’s got into you, ol’ boy?

Most folks assumed he had named the dog after Lyndon B. Johnson as some kind of commentary about his years protesting the Vietnam War. Truth was, the name came from Lynden O. Pindling, a long-time prime minister of the Commonwealth of the Bahamas, a reminder of Mumm’s years hiding out there in order to escape the clarion call of one Gen. Hershey and the US Selective Service Board.

At first glance, the black-and-brown dog appeared of an undetermined heritage. Not a hunting beagle, the kind of dog you’re likely to see in these parts. With sleek fur and a pointy nose, Lynden was a genuine potcake hound (as the breed is called in the Bahamas). Judging by the dog’s grizzled appearance – the silvery whiskers, the patches of gray fur – he was getting a bit long in the tooth. He’d been with Mumm nearly sixteen years. Longer than many good marriages or friendships.

C’mon, Mumm patted Lynden with a familiar hand, his voice low and soothing. Ain’t nothin’ for you to get agitated about.

Nonetheless, Mumm followed the potcake hound’s unwavering gaze toward the front door. The glass panel was plastered with green 7-Up decals and a Sunbeam Bread sign that proclaimed WELCOME in bright red letters. He could see the man standing by the Ford Taurus looking the place over: MUMM'S GENERAL STORE & DRY GOODS, according to the weathered sign. Just a rundown country store that sold Texaco gas and Nehi sodas and an occasional plug of Red Man chewing tobacco. Hundreds like it along the back roads of North Carolina.

The man by the car glanced at his watch, brushed snow from his expensive suit, and headed with a purposeful stride toward the door.

The dog growled again.

Funny how those two fellows around the side hadn’t come back asking for the men’s room key. Mumm locked the restrooms to keep out vandals and dope-smoking kids. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck starting to stand on end, alert to danger, just like the dog’s.

He remembered his high school science teacher telling the class about the Five Senses – Touch, Taste, Sight, Smell, and Hearing. But he’d always known there were others. Temperature. Balance. Hunger. Motion. All of which made the so-called Sixth Sense inaccurately numbered. No matter how you counted it, he had a feeling. An uneasy feeling.

Better take no chances, he told himself, tugging up his pants leg to clear the top of the left boot. Readiness is all, that was the first rule. Then he picked up a sooty iron poker from the wood box, checked its heft, and leaned over the potbelly stove to stoke the smoldering fire.

Ding! Ding!

A tiny brass bell atop the door tinkled to announce his visitor. On closer inspection, Mumm could see that the man’s face had been badly ravaged by acne or smallpox. The scars made him look tough, like a boxer, a go-the-distance Palooka not afraid to take hard punches. But clearly this man was not a cheap hood, for he carried himself with an Ivy Leaguer’s self-assurance. His dark hair was neatly cut, easily a $75 styling job. He wore a Georgio Armani suit, black wing-tip shoes, and a maroon silk tie of the proper width. As the man approached, Mumm noticed his right hand was hidden under the suit jacket. As if reaching for a gasoline credit card. Or a gun.

Mighty cold out there, Mumm greeted him casually. Continuing to stir the hot embers with the thick iron rod. Its crooked tip beginning to glow cherry-red like a horseshoe inside a blacksmith’s forge.

Heater doesn’t work worth a damn in that rental car, the visitor responded. I thought I’d freeze my nuts off coming up the mountain.

Need some gas?

The pockmarked man paused to study the slim figure by the woodstove, noting the faded jeans, denim work shirt, and hand-tooled cowboy boots. No, he decided, this guy couldn’t be Mumm. Just some local shitkicker who happened to be tending the store. Mumm was a trained professional – CIA, like himself. He forced a smile of false camaraderie. No, not really, he replied easily. But you might be able to help me with something. I’m looking for an ol’ army buddy, a fellow by the name of Les Mumm. I understand he owns this place.

Nobody calls him that.

Calls him what?

"Les – nobody calls him that.

Oh. Well, you know how it is in the army.

Sure, Mumm nodded agreement, although he had never been in the army and hadn’t laid eyes on this pockmarked stranger before.

Do you know where I can find him?

Sure do.

Say, that’s great. Can’t wait to see my ol’ buddy again. Lots of catching up to do. How can I reach him?

I’m Mumm.

The man’s eyes narrowed. Well, well. You certainly don’t look like I expected. Thought you’d be bigger or tougher or something. But never mind that, I’ve got a message to deliver from Danny the Foot –

Before the stranger could finish his sentence, Mumm swung the iron rod in a sweeping arc, catching him hard across the face. The blow slicing into his left cheek, cutting all the way to the bone. Bright droplets of blood splattered through the air. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, like frames from a Sam Peckinpah movie. The man screamed and staggered backward, dropping the gun he’d pulled from his Armani jacket. He clutched his bloody face and moaned, Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.

Never hesitate, that was the second rule.

Mumm drew the Iver Johnson TP-22 from its holster inside his left boot and shot the man twice in the face. The first slug hit thick bone over the right eye, nothing fatal. But the second entered an eye socket, going straight to the brain. He’d loaded the clip with .22 hollow-points, dumdums designed to spread on impact. Making certain that lead fragments would rattle around inside the skull like seeds in a gourd. Mumm knew the pockmarked man would be dead before he hit the floor.

He nudged the body with the toe of his left boot. Fuckin’ CIA, he said. Always talk too much.

At that moment, the back door crashed open.

Diving for cover, Mumm landed behind the cast-iron stove just as an Uzi began spraying the room with 9mm slugs. Ka-thud-ka-thud-ka-thud-ka-thud-ka-thud. Inside the confines of the store the sound was deafening. Bullets ricocheted off the stove like a hailstorm on a tin roof. When locked on FULL AUTO, an Israeli-made Uzi empties a 32-round clip in 8.4 seconds. Mumm buried his face in the dog’s fur and counted: Thousand and one, thousand and two, thousand and –

Stay calm, that was the third rule.

On eight, just as the submachine gun went silent, Mumm rolled from behind the stove and pumped two .22’s into the skinny gunman’s midsection. A rose bloomed on the surface of the man’s white shirt. He grunted and looked down at the blood, surprise showing on his narrow face, mouth forming an O, eyes wide with shock. He slumped against the store’s counter as if pausing to rest. His hand twitched, dropping the Uzi in a loud clatter. Then his eyes went glassy as he slid to the floor.

Mumm kept the pistol trained on the gunman until certain he was dead. Two down. But where was number three, the fat guy?

Suddenly, a wave of nausea swept over him – a delayed reaction. He felt a growing numbness in his left arm. That’s when he realized he’d been hit. There wasn’t much pain, more like the dull throb of a toothache. His shirtsleeve was wet, the dark blood glistening like an oil slick in the raw overhead light. The room was smoky, smelled of cordite. He was beginning to feel dizzy, but he couldn’t stop now. One more to go.

Despite the loud ringing in his ears, he could hear an animal yelping somewhere in the distance. He glanced over his shoulder at Lynden. The potcake hound lay in a pool of blood.

Fuckin’ CIA, he repeated.

≈≈≈

The third gunman, out of shape from too much easy living, slowly climbed the steep hillside. His Gucci loafers squishing in the snow, searching for footing on the slushy path. I’m getting too old for this crap, he told himself, pausing to catch his breath. He fought the urge for a cigarette, knowing there wasn’t time for that now. He was up to three packs a day. Not good.

He had been a football player in college, but hard muscle had turned flabby with the passage of years. Even tailored clothes couldn’t disguise the Humpty Dumpty silhouette. A bulging stomach threatened to pop his shirt buttons despite restraint from a thick leather belt. His last physical had been a total disaster: High cholesterol, too much body fat, irregular heartbeat. He’d been put on official notice to lose weight.

Giving in to the urge, he took out a red-and-white pack, lit up a Marlboro, and took a quick puff. He looked up at the house, nearly hidden from view by a protective row of evergreens. What the hell was this? He’d expected a tumbledown farmhouse, but instead saw a modern glass-fronted home with curving walls and an angular roofline. As alien to the mountain landscape as a flying saucer, the design seemed inspired more by George Lucas than American Gothic. He knew Mumm didn’t come by a fancy layout like this by selling cheap gas to tourists. No, it’d taken lots of paid kills to afford this baby.

Slivers of light escaped the windows, painting the unbroken snow with swatches of yellow. The heavyset man wondered if he’d find Mumm’s wife inside. How did they expect him to ID her without a fucking photograph? But this had been a rush job, no time for the usual briefing.

Theodora Lightbourn Mumm, 37 years old, dark hair and brown eyes. That’s all the assignment sheet had said. No photo, no nothing. He didn’t like the idea of killing a woman. He had a wife himself back in DC. But this job paid a bonus and he still had two kids in school. Fuck it, he told himself, he could use the extra money.

He checked his Uzi, pressed a catch at the base of the handle to release the clip. The 9mm ammunition grinned up at him like copper teeth. He rammed the clip back into the handle, then jacked back the bolt to feed a round into the chamber. Now he was ready to finish this unpleasant piece of business. Guess he’d rather take on the woman than a professional shooter like Mumm. He’d leave that to Jerry and Ed down at the gas station.

Bending over the doorknob, he worked at the lock with a small motorized pick. It gave off an insect-buzz. They’d taught him how to do this B-and-E shit at Camp Peary, the CIA’s training center near Williamsburg, Virginia. Easy if you have the right equipment. The tumblers clicked and he slipped inside as silently as a cat burglar. The Uzi’s stubby barrel followed his eyes around the living room. Stylish, he thought. White Haitian cotton couch, chrome-and-glass tabletops, modern halogen lamps. Looked like one of those layouts in Architectural Digest, a slick coffee-table magazine his wife sometimes bought at the supermarket.

His Gucci’s left wet tracks on the white carpet. Not good tradecraft, but no hit’s perfect. The room was topped off with a high cathedral ceiling that reminded him of a church. Classical music filtered down from hidden speakers. Tchaikovsky or Chopin, one of those longhair guys, he didn’t know which. The vertical white walls were covered with modern paintings – that abstract shit he hated – adding splashes of raw, vibrant color to an otherwise stark decor.

Nobody in sight.

He moved toward the kitchen.

Empty.

He followed a hallway until he came to what must have been the master bedroom. A large, comfortable room featuring a canopy bed – the kind his wife always sighed over in those home furnishings supplements that came with the Sunday paper. When can we afford to redecorate? she was always asking in that nasal whine. She drove him fucking crazy with her nagging. After fifteen lousy years of marriage, he had an urge to cut loose, move in with that fuckable little secretary over at EPA. Now there was a fine piece of ass, a hot-blooded Italian gal with great tits and a brand-new Mazda Miata. May as well dream on. No way it could ever happen. The Company frowned on high-security operatives with messy divorces, money problems, and vengeful ex-wives.

Hanging over the bed he noted a watercolor painting of a bird – a woodpecker or something. Very exacting in detail, the style looked vaguely familiar. He crossed the room to squint at the signature: John James Audubon. Didn’t look like a reproduction but it was so hard to tell these days. Nonetheless he liked it better than that abstract crap in the living room.

To his left he saw an art deco dressing table and a wall-length closet. Somebody owned lots of fancy clothes. He checked the labels, recognizing some of the designers: Klein, Blass, Karan, Versace.

He noticed that the dressing table’s surface was covered with a sunset-array of lipsticks and nail polishes. The lid was off one of the bottles, the brush wet-tipped with a crimson red. Yeah, the lady of the house couldn’t be too far away.

Off to the right was a bathroom. The door wasn’t fully closed, revealing white tile, a sink with shiny gold fixtures and the edge of a medicine cabinet. The mirror’s surface was coated with moisture, so steamy you could write your name on it. His sensitive nose picked up the scent of shampoo and foaming bath oils. Standing very still, he could hear the sound of a shower running. Bingo!

Hello, he called.

Pause, then a response: Elsie, is that you?

He didn’t answer. Make her come to him.

Elsie?

The shower stopped. After a few minutes, a black woman wrapped in a fluffy mauve towel appeared at the bathroom door, her slender body silhouetted against the fluorescent lighting. Steam swirled around her like a bank of fog. Water droplets glistened on crème caramel skin, trickled down her legs in tiny rivulets. She wasn’t bad looking for a nigger, he thought. Reminds me of that pop singer – what was her name? – Whitney Fucking Houston. Well, in a few minutes, this one would be dead too.

Hold it right there, ordered the heavyset man, pointing the gun at her towel-wrapped belly. Don’t come any closer.

Excuse me, but who are you?

Never mind me, he said. You’re the housekeeper, right?

Her brown eyes blinked in momentary confusion, then seemed to regain a measure of composure. Yassah, she responded in a thick West Indian accent. I come t’ clean house for the Mumms ever’ Tuesday.

He lowered the barrel slightly, sensing no threat here. He’d caught the maid using her employers’ facilities, naughty girl that she was. Don’t look so scared, honey bunny, he said with a wink, trying to put her at ease. I don’t bite.

The woman hugged the towel to her body like a protective shield. Ain’t never seen you before, she said, eyes narrowing. What you doin’ up here in de big house, eh? Her sentences ending with an upward lilt, that singsong patois of the islands, a unique blend of British, Scotch, and Irish. Maybe even a little Ibo and Ashanti thrown in.

Just dropped by for a visit, the heavyset man said, pleased at the truth of his statement. His eyes continued to search the bedroom, as if his quarry might be hiding in some remote corner. Where can I find the lady of the house?

Who?

Theodora Mumm.

Oh, Miz Mumm? She ain’t here. Won’t be back for t’ree, maybe fo’ hours.

Three or four hours – that long? Damn, this was some fine mess. The assignment sheet hadn’t mentioned any housekeeper. They never got the fucking details right.

Yassah. She done gone shoppin’ for mo’ diamonds an’ jewels.

Then I guess I’ll have to wait, he sighed unhappily.

She glanced nervously at the gun. Okay I get dressed?

The heavyset man let his eyes explore the woman’s exposed skin. She was practically naked. He felt a familiar stirring in his groin. What the hell, he could do with a change of luck. Why bother getting dressed? he said suggestively. You and me could party while we wait.

P-party?

You know, a little fun and games. He gave her his best smile, a toothy grimace like someone suffering from extreme dental pain.

Oh no suh, I couldn’t do that.

C’mon, I can make it worth your while. How about I give you fifty bucks?

Fifty – ?

No, make that a hundred. One hundred smackeroos for a little hot-pillow action. What do you say to that? Pretty good, huh? Might as well promise her anything, he told himself. Won’t cost me a fucking penny, because afterwards I’ll kill her too.

I’d get fired if somebody catches us, she protested loudly.

Aw, nobody has to know. He shrugged off his suit jacket, started to loosen his necktie. This can be our little secret – okay?

Wait up, she was practically shouting. There’s somet’ing you oughta know –

Hey, keep your voice down, he shushed her. Don’t get so fucking excitable. There’ll be plenty of time for that once we’re in the sack.

But –

Yeah, this colored gal sure was nice, a real piece of ass. Legs a little on the skinny side, but long, like a ballet dancer’s. Bet they could wrap around you like a vise. Come over here, honey bunny, he said, grabbing for her towel. Let me see them pretty titties.

Stop! she shouted, dodging his hands. I tol’ you we can’t be doin’ this!

Wzzzzz. A humming sound from the hallway.

What’s that noise? He glanced over his shoulder. I thought we were alone in the house.

Ain’t nobody here – ’cept for Grandpa Mumm. He got a bum leg. Took a bad spill on the ice. Got ’im leg all wrapped up in a big plaster cast. People been writin’ their names on it. That’s his ’lectric wheelchair you hear.

Shit –

Don’t worry none ’bout that ol’ fool. He’s harmless, that one. Brain’s addled with old age.

Nobody mentioned a grandfather. His hand fished in his coat pocket for the assignment sheet, but couldn’t find it. He’d left it in the car, damn it all.

At that moment an elderly man in a motorized wheelchair appeared in the bedroom doorway. He wore a traditional farmer’s uniform: Bib overalls, flannel shirt, a John Deere cap over silvery strands of hair. A plaid blanket covered his lap, the toe of a plaster cast sticking out at the bottom. What’s all the commotion goin’ on in here? the old man demanded in a gravelly voice.

Stop where you are, old-timer, warned the heavyset man, swinging the automatic weapon around to cover him. Don’t come any closer.

Mad Zack scowled from under briar-patch eyebrows. Can’t you two keep it down in here? You’re makin’ more noise than a Shriner’s convention. A man my age needs his rest –

Shut up, or I’ll give you eternal rest.

Mad Zack looked the heavyset man over carefully, the way you’d examine a prize steer. Ain’t never seen you before, bub. Who’n blazes you supposed to be?

I’m the fuckin’ Avon Lady, the intruder growled. Just keep your mouth shut and you won’t get hurt. Dammit, now he’d have to take care of the grandfather and the maid, as well as Mumm’s wife. Three for the same price. Not fair.

This a robbery?

Not exactly. Think of it as a house call by Dr. Kevorkian.

Crack, crack. They heard the sound of a pistol.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-t-t-t-t-t-t. A burst of machine gun fire.

Crack, crack. Two more shots echoing up the hillside.

Guns, said the old man.

You’re right, old-timer. That takes care of Mr. Hotshot Leslie Carroll Mumm. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip. Not that he was nervous, mind you. Just that he still had to finish his end of the assignment and things were getting out of hand. Too many unexpected people. Now let’s get down to business. Where’s Mumm’s goddamn wife?

Mumm’s wife – ? the old man started to speak.

I told him she done gone out, the woman interjected.

Oh.

Yes, I said –

Shut up, you goddamn pair of jabberwockies.

The woman smiled wickedly at the heavyset man: You still want to party, white boy?

Party? he repeated stupidly. Uh, sure.

Okay then. Take a good look, she said, dropping the towel.

He didn’t notice that her thick Bahamian accent had disappeared. His eyes were transfixed on her naked body: Full breasts. Hard, dark nipples. The curve of narrow hips. Neatly trimmed bush. It was the last thing he ever saw.

Ka-boom!

The explosion from the sawed-off shotgun hidden under Mad Zack’s blanket knocked the intruder across the room, slamming him against the wall with enough force to crack the plaster. Blood speckled the ceiling to match the Jackson Pollock paintings in the living room. A dark puddle began to form under the man’s thick body. In the harsh glare of the bathroom lighting, it looked exactly like crimson nail polish.

That surely takes care of him, said Mad Zack, patting the 12-gauge shotgun that he affectionately called Deadeye Dick. Now tell me, girl, what’n tarnation was that all about?

Teddy Mumm shook her head slowly. I’m not really sure, she said, wrapping herself back inside the thick bath towel. An involuntary shiver ran through her body, a delayed reaction. Is he dead? she asked as she stared at the man on the floor.

Deader’n a skunk on a four-lane highway.

Oh well, one less misogynistic bigot in the world. No great loss. But why did you have to use that messy ol’ shotgun? Now we’ll have to repaint the bedroom.

Ain’t the crack shot I used to be, he responded crankily. But it’s hard to miss with a 12-gauge.

Her eyes darted toward the bedroom window. The snow had let up enough that she could see the lights of the general store down the hill. Do you think Elsie’s all right?

Don’t know, Mad Zack said. Better get some clothes on that pretty brown butt an’ go check on your husband.

≈≈≈

They found Mumm bending over Lynden, cuddling the wounded dog in his arms like a baby. Despite being in pain, the potcake hound licked his face and pounded on the wooden floor with a ropy tail. Easy, Mumm whispered into the dog’s ear. Take it easy, ol’ boy. Take it easy now.

Mad Zack, who had managed to hobble down the hill on a pair of crutches, toed the two CIA men with his plaster cast to make sure they were dead. Them fellers won’t be shootin’ no more dogs, he declared with the finality of a judge passing sentence. You nailed ’em good.

Elsie, you’re bleeding, Teddy cried, kneeling beside her husband.

My arm, he mumbled distractedly.

My God, you’ve been shot.

Jus’ a nick.

Don’t you worry, Mad Zack reassured his grandson. We’ll get you patched up good as new. Let me find some first aid stuff. He hobbled off to search the store’s shelves, returning with an armload of Red Cross bandages, adhesive tape, tincture of iodine, and 2 x 2 gauze pads. Here we go, he presented his collection. This oughta do it.

I’m okay.

No, you’re not, insisted Teddy. You need a doctor. She grabbed a handful of gauze and began applying pressure against the wound to slow the bleeding.

Oeow, he complained. That hurts.

Be quiet.

My dog –

Keep calm, Mad Zack said. We’re gonna get your dog to a vet. There’s a new feller down past Big Harvey’s. They say he’s pretty good with animals.

No, Mumm shook his head. Won’t help. Lynden’s been gut-shot. He pulled away from Teddy and staggered over to the counter to retrieve a tattered army blanket.

W-what are you going to do?

Better not look, Teddy. He knew his wife couldn’t deal with the idea of animals dying. For years she’d been a strict vegetarian, refusing to eat meat or own a fur coat. Good-hearted to a fault. He was convinced that Teddy’s name appeared on every save-the-animals mailing list in the country. Her contributions alone probably supported the ASPCA.

Elsie –

He pointed the TP-22 at the dog’s head. But the double-action pistol was unsteady in his hand. The muscles of his forearm twitched, but he couldn’t will his finger to pull the trigger.

When Teddy looked, she could see he was crying.

Mad Zack gently took the pistol from his grandson’s hand. Here, boy, he grumbled, let me handle this. With a sharp crack! the old man put a bullet into the dog’s head. The sound seemed to linger in the air forever.

Oh no, cried Teddy. Did you have to do that?

Sorry, but the boy was right. That ol’ dog was too far gone.

But Elsie loved that flea-bitten mutt. My brother gave Lynden to him as a Christmas present.

I know, girl. The old man patted her shoulder with his callused hand. But there t’weren’t no choice. He couldn’t be saved.

Losing her struggle to hold back the tears, Teddy blurted, W-who are these horrible men who tried to kill us?

Mumm glanced up at her. Some of Bully’s boys, my guess.

Bully Hanover’s professional killers? Why would they come here?

Dunno, he said. I thought we had an arrangement.

Damn them, she responded angrily. Damn them to hell.

I ’spect they’re on their way there right now.

Elsie, you can’t let them get away with this.

Don’t worry, I’ll make ’em pay.

C’mon, leave it be, counseled Mad Zack. Them fellers are dead.

No, Mumm said quietly, that’s not good enough.

≈≈≈

Holdup men, Mad Zack told the sheriff. They marched into the store with them machine guns an’ demanded the boy hand over all the money.

That a fact? replied Sheriff Herbert B. Tatum without conviction. He and Mad Zack were watching the plastic body bags being loaded into a gray ambulance. The paramedics handled them like sacks of potatoes, little concern for patients beyond the realm of their help.

The boy was protecting our property from robbers.

I take it he didn’t see fit to give ’em the money, said the sheriff. Herb Tatum was a florid, round-bellied man with a bristly white mustache under a red-veined drinker’s nose. The extra thirty or forty pounds on his large frame helped smooth out the wrinkles and make him appear ten years younger than his actual age. Few people realized he would hit 70 next birthday. He’d served as county sheriff for nearly twenty years, something of a record in this part of the state.

No, ’course he didn’t give ’em the money.

Now why not? That’s what most sensible people would do if somebody pulled a gun on ’em.

Mad Zack eyed the sheriff queerly, as if he expected his old friend to start gibbering in unknown tongues. Herb, you know we Mumms don’t let nobody take what’s our’n.

I’ll grant you that, the sheriff nodded, removing his Stetson hat to scratch his nearly bald head. He had checked the contents of the store’s ancient NCR cash register. It contained a total of $26.13, not a big haul by any standards. Was he expected to believe three gunmen had driven down from Maryland with armed robbery on their minds? Seemed about as likely as the county electing a Democrat sheriff. Tell me jus’ one thing, Zack. How’d the boy manage to shoot one of ’em up in the bedroom if they was all down here holding up the store?

Mad Zack hitched his overalls. Herb, I believe all three of ’em got shot down here.

You sure you want me to see it that way? the sheriff asked carefully. Zachary Mumm was his oldest and dearest friend. The two men had played poker every Wednesday night at the Moose Lodge in Hound’s Tooth for more years than anyone could recall. No big-city hoodlums were going to disturb those ten-cents-a-pot poker games, not if Herb Tatum had anything to say about it.

Damn sure, Mad Zack nodded firmly.

Well – now that I examine the facts I guess that’s exactly the way it happened, the sheriff conceded with a sigh.

Thanks, Herb.

"No skin off my backside, Zack. But there’s a newspaper reporter from The Asheville Citizen-Times outside. Jus’ don’t make me look like a goddamn fool."

Chapter Two

"You’re not welcome here at Langley, said the CIA man, running a hand through his thinning gray hair, an angry gesture that mirrored the expression on his face. Go home, Mumm. Simply go the fuck home."

He was an older man, nattily dressed in a Brooks Brother suit. His name was J. Bertrum Hanover III, but everyone called him Bully. Although the nickname accurately described his pugnacious personality and jowly appearance, it was actually a shortened version of his CIA cryptonym, Bulldog Two.

You mean you’re not pleased to see me? Mumm said with mock alarm.

Save your homespun humor. I don’t have to put up with that crap anymore. You’re retired. Or did you forget?

Be careful, ol’ man. You’re liable to hurt my feelings. He’d made a show of dressing up for this visit, a tweed Jos. A. Banks sports coat over his denim shirt and faded blue jeans. Because he was no longer an employee, he was required to wear a plastic VISITOR badge clipped to his lapel. His left arm was suspended in the V of a sling; his free hand clutched a battered brown-leather briefcase, holding on tightly as if someone might try to snatch it away.

When Security phoned that you were at the main gate, I couldn’t believe my fucking ears. But here you are, banged up, a satchel in your hand like a goddamn traveling salesman.

Don’t act surprised to see me, Bully. You knew I’d come.

N-now you’re talking nonsense, Bully Hanover sputtered. I don’t have time for your stupid riddles. I’m a busy man. Glancing at his Rolex, he added, Matter of fact, I’ve got a meeting with SI in fifteen minutes. No time to chat. Good-bye, Mumm.

I can tell you’re tickled to see me.

Go back to your birdwatching and leave me alone.

C’mon, admit it, Bully. You miss me. The lanky visitor deposited himself in a wooden chair without waiting for an invitation. It creaked under his weight. The chair appeared to be some kind of antique, but Mumm didn’t know much about the 18th-Century furniture that Bully Hanover liked to collect. Most of it could be tossed in the junk pile for all he cared.

Go ahead, Bully said, his voice filled with sarcasm, make yourself at home. He seemed to be coming to terms with the fact that the younger man showed no intention of leaving. Resignedly, he seated himself behind an elegant Queen Anne desk. With its curving legs and shiny brass fixtures, the desk was clearly the centerpiece of the room. As usual, Bully had managed to bend the rules, furnishing the office with his own antiques rather than standard government-issue fixtures. The only exception was a 28" television stranded in a far corner of the room. Constantly tuned to CNN, these monitors were found in the offices of all senior staff.

Tell me, ol’ man. How’re you boys managin’ to kill people without my help?

Bully frowned. Must I remind you that your, uh, previous activities remain classified under the National Security Act.

Uh-oh. Am I gonna get that famous Loose-Lips-Sink-Ships speech?

Get serious, Mumm, groaned the older man. You know you can’t talk about that stuff. His face wore the pinched expression of a man who realizes life has managed to shortchange him. Assigned to the Western Hemisphere (WH) Division, Bully Hanover held the title of Deputy Chief, Caribbean, an administrative position with very little power and even less prestige. After a forty-year career in the CIA’s Directorate of Operations (DO), he’d expected to have more responsibility than running a few ragtag agents out of the Bahamas.

Mumm leaned back in the flimsy wooden chair to study the once-familiar office. Just as he remembered it, the room was wall-to-wall with expensive antiques. A pervading smell of pine oil and wood polish lingered in the air. For years, Bully had collected old cupboards, fine-made chairs, writing tables, and armoires – the way some men collect mistresses.

I see you’re still furnishin’ your place with hand-me-down’s.

The older man was clearly insulted by this remark. That piece you’re sitting on happens to be a genuine Chippendale, he said defensively.

Thought Chippendales were male go-go dancers. Mumm’s plan was to needle the old spy, throw him off balance. He realized this beloved avocation could be a Size 12 Achilles Heel for Bully. Anything you feel passion for can be leveraged as a weakness.

No, you ignorant savage. Thomas Chippendale was an 18th-Century furniture-maker noted for his intricate carved forms. Anyone with even a modicum of cultural literacy knows that. Bully fumbled with his favorite briar pipe, then patted his coat pockets to locate a pouch of tobacco. It was a special blend concocted for him by a smoke shop in Georgetown. One of his rare luxuries other than the antiques.

Mumm decided to give his nemesis another prod. He picked up an inkwell from Bully’s desk and examined its finely cut glass. A nice piece, he observed. Wouldn’t mind ownin’ one of these li’l beauties myself. Removing the quill, he pretended to check the dark watery ink inside, and then deliberately let the container slip from his fingers. Oops, he muttered with feigned innocence.

Splat!

The older man stared in horror as an ocean of blue spread across his Oriental rug. Goddammit, look what you’ve done. This rug’s over two hundred years old. Scrambling to his knees, he mopped at the ink with a pocket-handkerchief, but this effort only smeared the stain deeper into the fabric.

That old, huh? You surely could use some new stuff in here.

Jesus H. Christ, I paid ten grand for this Persian. Now it’s completely ruined. This stain will never come out.

Sorry, Mumm said without meaning it.

You heartless bastard.

Guess you’ve been reading my personnel file. I’m a bastard alright. Never did know who my daddy was.

Finally giving up on the ink stain, Bully slumped dejectedly back into his desk chair. His expression was dour. He groped for his briar pipe like a toddler seeking a pacifier. I hope you’re satisfied, he complained. Your visit has been a costly one.

Forget the rug, Bully. You’ve got much bigger problems than a spot on the carpet.

What the fuck are you talking about?

A few days ago your boys tried to hit me. An’ that kinda pisses me off.

You’re getting paranoid, my boy. I don’t know anything about any attempt on your life.

That’s mighty strange, ol’ man, ’cause I think you sanctioned it.

No, Mumm. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Not that anybody would give a flying fuck if I took you off the board. His pipe had gone out. Holding another match to the bowl, Bully sucked loudly at the gnarled stem to get it going again. Some important people don’t like you, my boy. The Director considers you a threat to national security. And I’m not too fond of you myself. The manner in which you resigned didn’t exactly help my career.

Aw, what’s a li’l blackmail among friends?

We were never friends, Mumm.

Now you’ve hurt my feelings.

Bullshit. The foul-smelling odor of Turkish tobacco wafted across the desk. The Deputy Chief knew Mumm didn’t smoke and took perverse pleasure in providing this small discomfort. Your feelings can’t be hurt. You have an ice cube instead of a heart.

Tsk, tsk. Long as you’re bitchin’, don’t forget ’bout my pension.

Yes, yes, Bully admitted, I think I resent that most of all. The Deputy Chief knew this so-called pension was actually hush money paid to Mumm out of a secret slush fund, but it pissed him off that this stipend approached his own annual salary. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t receive a goddamn sou. A bullet in the head is more than you deserve.

Somebody jus’ tried that. Maybe you wanted to cut my pension short?

I told you: That wasn’t my doing.

Don’t play innocent, Bully. This was a Company job. Looked like Company, smelled like Company, got fucked up like Company.

No, you’re wrong. We didn’t try to whack you. You have my word on that.

Bully, you have all the symptoms of Alzheimer’s. Guess it’s gonna take another shock treatment to jog your memory. Mumm hoisted the briefcase from the floor and pushed it across the desktop. Metal studs gouged the wood surface, leaving ugly // scratches. Better look inside, ol’ man. A few reminders why you boys don’t wanna fuck with me.

Bully stared dumbly at the leather briefcase.

Got some interesting photos in there, Mumm taunted. Not originals, of course, but pretty decent copies for discussion purposes.

Haven’t we been through this before?

"Pretend it’s déjà vu all over again."

With a sigh of resignation, Bully Hanover unsnapped the case. Silently thumbing through the stack of glossy photographs, he studied each picture before looking up at his visitor. Hm, I see you’ve added a few new ones. Where did you acquire them?

Tooth fairy left ’em under my pillow.

You enjoy living dangerously, don’t you?

Not really. That’s why I quit working for you.

Don’t try to bluff me, my boy. You can’t afford to make these photographs public. If you did we’d have no reason to let you stay alive.

Oh, I wouldn’t shoot my whole wad at once. I’d release ’em a few at a time. There’s more where these came from.

Quite comforting, I’m sure.

Mumm tapped the 8 x 10 on top of the stack. I like this’un of the Director shakin’ hands with that big Mafia don. They look pretty chummy. Do you think it’s suitable for framing?

Very funny. I didn’t know a country bumpkin knew how to make double entendres.

It don’t take a college degree to know I’ve got you by the short an’ curlies.

The Deputy Chief fumbled with his pipe, tapped its bowl into a copper ashtray, added fresh tobacco. All delaying tactics. Okay, he said at last. I admit these photographs provide you with a little, uh, leverage. Bully Hanover had graduated summa cum laude at Yale and didn’t use ugly words like blackmail or extortion in his everyday vocabulary.

"Then cut out the games.

Alright. What do you want from me, Hillbilly?

Ever read that inscription carved on the wall down in your lobby?

The Bible verse?

"John 8:32. ‘And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.’ That’s what I want from you, Bully. Jus’ a li’l truth."

Truth? The old spy laughed harshly. Don’t be stupid. You know that we deal in disinformation here.

"C’mon, Bully. Who tried to nail me? I’m prepared to mail these pictures to The New York Times if you don’t improve your memory."

Hold on, give me a minute to think, he said. Turning away from his visitor, the Deputy Chief walked to the window and gazed out at the Langley compound. A powdering of snow covered the sidewalks, slushy now and tracked with footprints. It bothered him that Western Hemisphere didn’t have a nice view like the other DO divisions. This was the only wing not facing the reflecting pool and he took it as a personal slight.

Remember the fourth rule, Mumm prompted the old spy.

"Never bluff," Bully acknowledged.

You know I’ll do it.

You win, Bully sighed. "I admit I’m not surprised to see you here, Mumm. However, that doesn’t mean we were involved in that shoot-em-up down at your farm. We only learned about it yesterday when one of our analysts stumbled across a news clipping in The Asheville Something-or-Other. You know we take an interest when one of our former employees gets into a scrape. So naturally we checked it out."

Tell me, ol’ man: Who were the shooters?

Bully shuffled over to an oak filing cabinet, fished a thin manila folder from the top drawer and handed it over. Here’s everything we know about them. The men were freelancers.

Mumm glanced at the sheet, didn’t recognize any of the names. This don’t tell me much, he said, disappointed.

Sorry, there’s no more to tell. We were able to trace them to North Carolina by their gasoline charges. Stupid fuckers used a credit card. We tried to head them off before they got there, but unfortunately they kept one step ahead of our trackers.

Who sent ’em?

We believe they were acting on their own. Rogue elephants.

No, Bully. Hit squads don’t go out on their own. You know that better’n me. Somebody had to send ’em.

Then your guess is good as mine. We know these men sometimes did jobs for DIA and Naval Intelligence. Perhaps you stepped on some toes over there?

Mumm wasn’t about to be put off so easily. He knew that the CIA regularly employs some 4,000 contract or part-time agents. Truth or dare, Bully. Did them freelancers ever work for you?

A few times, Bully admitted reluctantly. But that doesn’t mean anything. There are thirteen separate intelligence agencies reporting to the National Security Council. Many of them rely on the same freelancers, you know that.

Don’t bother feedin’ me any more lies, Mumm said, closing the briefcase. I already know Danny LeFoote was behind this. One of the shooters mentioned his name ’fore I killed him.

Danny the Foot?

That’s right. An’ we both know Danny reports directly to you.

Bully’s face drained its color. No, you’re wrong about that. Danny no longer works for us. He left the stable two years ago. That’s the truth, son.

Where’d he go?

Libya. Qaddafi took him in.

The Sandman?

Yes, yes, Bully gave a brisk nod. Our intelligence says he’s working for the fucking Libyans.

Poor Danny, Mumm sighed. He never did know which side he was on. Come to think of it, maybe none of us did.

Chapter Three

The desert near Benghazi baked under a relentless sun. Turkey buzzards glided on heat thermals across the cloudless blue sky. Not exactly a choice spot for a seaside vacation, although there was plenty of beach here. In fact, the whole friggin’ country was nothing but beach as far as the eye could see, Daniel LeFoote thought to himself. Sand, sand, and more sand.

Standing in the shade of a sagging canvas tent, he watched a group of Bedouins fire their Soviet-made AK-47s at cardboard targets, at mesquite bushes, and sometimes at each other. His contract with Muammar El-Qaddafi specified that he was to supervise a terrorist training program, but sometimes he felt more like a circus ringmaster. These clowns were all but impossible to train.

For eighteen months he’d been holed up in the Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriyah – or Libya, as it’s more commonly known. There had been little choice but run for cover when the CIA discovered he’d been diverting arms shipments to Qaddafi. While this didn’t make big headlines like Ollie North’s Most Excellent Nicaraguan Adventure, his former associates at Langley seemed to have a hard-on over him setting up his own retirement fund: Four million bucks stashed away in the Bahamas.

LeFoote didn’t project the expected image of a mercenary soldier. To look at him, he was a scarecrow with prominent cheekbones and thin bloodless lips. Kind of a Willem Dafoe type – skinny with sinewy muscles, intense, a man driven by invisible demons. His teeth were bad, yellowed from an iron tonic he’d taken as an anemic child. He walked with a pronounced limp, the result of a congenitally deformed foot. It required him to wear a special orthopedic shoe, a clumsy device with a built-up sole and strong ankle support. Considering his surname and the nature of the handicap, it wasn’t surprising he got tagged with that unfortunate nom de guerre: Danny the Foot.

Despite his unimposing physical appearance, you somehow knew Danny LeFoote wasn’t a man to fuck with. As one of his former associates said, Danny would cut out your heart, eat it for lunch, then pick his teeth with your bones.

Jeez, this heat’d fry a man’s brain, he muttered to himself, edging deeper into the shade of the tent. The temperature hovered at a fever pitch of 110° in the shade. No breeze wafted in from the nearby coast. The country’s annual rainfall averaged less than 15 inches. He felt thirsty, but rather than risk drinking suspect water he reached into his military buttpack and pulled out a fresh orange. With the awl blade on a Swiss Army knife, he punched a hole in the orange and sucked at the sweet citrus juice, slurping it hungrily, letting the juice dribble down his chin and fall onto his sleeveless khaki T-shirt.

Right now, he would have gladly traded his entire four million for a decent meal. He dreamed of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Longed for a Big Mac. Quaked at the very thought of a Taco Bell Burrito Supreme. Not grape leaves or humus or goat turds. How did these friggin’ Arabs live on the unsanitary crap they ate?

Directly under LeFoote’s command were two Americans – one a specialist in automatic weapons, the other a heavy-duty demolitions man. But he was still short-handed. He had given his recruiter instructions