Blaze (29 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

THE OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER, JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

H
e had been up all night. And this time it wasn't Abigayil that kept him from rest. It was of course, this time, the implications of Hadi Samani's announcement to the world. Chaim Simmons was not one to give in to anxiety. Typically, anxiety gave in to his relentless ambition and resolve. This time, however, in a time of unusual stress and trepidation, he felt as if he was about to collapse from the weight of the nuclear-laced anxiety that plagued him.

His breakfast sat there half eaten as he contemplated his situation. He did what he only knew to do in times of anxiety. He identified one action that he could focus on and complete that would mitigate the weight of his anxious feelings and hopefully give him a sense of positive forward movement. The last thing his nation could afford was a prime minister suffering from a bout with indecisive mental paralysis. He picked up the phone and dialed the white house.

After several rings, he heard Jack Fitz's voice on the other end. “Chaim, how are you this morning?”

“Not good. And I think you already know that.” Chaim was in no mood to dance around with preliminary niceties.

“You're obviously referring to Samani's announcement. I suspected we'd be speaking today after that event.” Jack said with sensitivity in his voice.

No attempt at sensitivity was going to soften Chaim Simmons' temper. “I think we're at the redline Mr. President.” Chaim just came out and said it. If Fitz didn't understand the context by now, he never would.

“Now Chaim, I understand that Samani's announcement is great cause for alarm, but I don't think this is the redline. There are many positive developments that indicate this could be all a big bluff. They're wounded from Operation Persian Trinity and its successes. Their people are in great strife due to the economic sanctions. Their ability to get the bomb has been stifled. This is not the moment for Israel to act. I see this announcement as a sign of Iran's weakness. If anything, they're trying to send the West a false signal that they have the nuke so that they are not hit first.” Jack wasn't even sure if he believed the theory he was positing to Chaim, but it rolled off his tongue as if it was a natural explanation of his position.

“Jack, I respect your optimism and your commitment to unfettered diplomacy, but what if you're wrong? What if you're
dead
wrong? What if Operation Persian Trinity, in reality, barely put a dent in their plans? What if Russia's assistance was so strong that any setbacks were immediately addressed and remedied? And as for the economic sanctions, what if the mullahs and Samani see the sanctions as nothing but a helpful tool to galvanize their nation against the west as a strong pretext for nuclear war? Israel can't risk its life on hoping your position is true with all these questions looming and unanswered.” Chaim was more explanatory than he thought he would allow himself to be, but he had to do all he could to drive home his position to Fitz.

There was a dead silence that hung for a good forty seconds before Fitz managed to begin a response. “Chaim, there are still things we can do. Please, give me a little bit of time. I'll call Koslov and lean on him to mitigate the situation. I've been making great inroads with him lately and I believe I can have some influence. I think you're taking this Twelfth Imam stuff way too seriously. This is just window dressing to take the attention away from their real domestic issues. You can't allow them to provoke you on the basis of this Messianic claim. It's exactly what they want. Don't give it to them, Chaim.”

Chaim's blood was boiling with indignation. Not only was Jack too blind to see the seriousness of the situation, but his tone was insulting. It was as if Jack was implying that Chaim was naïve because he took Samani's messianic obsession seriously. “You've made yourself very clear Mr. President and I've also made myself very clear. Samani believes with all his heart that the Mahdi has arrived. And I tell you with all sincerity that my redline has arrived. If Israel does not act soon, then Iran with the help of Russia and the Muslim nations of the Middle East and North Africa will act first. This can't happen. Not on my watch. I'm sorry you don't see this for what it is.”

“I suppose it's clear I can't dissuade you. But know that I, and subsequently the United States of America, do not, and will not, support you in this. Not privately and not publicly. You're choosing to act and be alone. To my regret.” Jack Fitz drew his line and his words struck hard and clear.

“We know how to act and be alone. If I were to follow your lead, the regret would be Israel's and not yours. I'd prefer, all things being equal, that the regret be yours Mr. President.”

“Then I shall remain with regret.”

And with that the two men hung up intending to go their separate ways. To Chaim, it was official—Israel no longer had the blessing of the United States of America.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

THE MCINTYRE RESIDENCE, ROMEO, MICHIGAN

S
weat dripped from Blaze's forehead as he pushed through his third set of pull-ups. He had to channel his anger or he knew he'd end up going postal. After the last set of pull-ups, he jumped onto the plyo boxes and continued his basement workout routine.

The speakers blasted the song “Hand Grenade” by the punk band The Welch Boys. The song was written as a tribute to the Irish American MMA fighter, Marcus ‘The Irish Hand Grenade' Davis. Blaze was both a big fan of Davis' and, ironically, Davis' nemesis, the UK's Dan Hardy. The song set the mood for Blaze's heavy bag session.

It wasn't until he put on his training gloves and began pounding the heavy bag that his thoughts began to crystallize. The murders of the families of other CIA agents were heavy on his heart and mind. He pictured the rape tree in Utah and he felt like he was going to vomit. Female undergarments hanging from a tree—a grotesque symbol of sexual assault and torture. A calling card from hell. He hit the heavy bag harder. He wailed and grunted and screamed—in agony. He stared at the pipes above him, and the spider webs that had overtaken them, as his fists wailed. They taunted him as he thought of all the webs he needed to untangle within his cluttered mind.

In his mind, he catalogued those that he knew at Langley in quick succession. He had no idea who the mole was. But he was determined to find out. And when he did, things would get ugly.

He tried to steer his mind from it, because the rest was detective work slightly less close to home, but he couldn't control his mind. The name kept jumping to the forefront of his thoughts.
Juan Herrara.
Blaze wondered if maybe Chuck was wrong and this wasn't the guy at all. Their evidence wasn't yet fully conclusive, but it was damn close. He hit the heavy bag with a thunderous right. They had the prints on the bike.
The bike was clearly swiped, but he must've slipped up. Or did a weak job of wiping
. Blaze screamed with a thunderous howl, his fist impacting the bag with power. The rage was flowing back and he could not contain it. His mind kept racing.
Maybe this isn't the guy? They still don't have a smoking gun that links the bike to the crime scene. Yeah, they found it ditched on route 75—the most logical getaway path for someone heading back to his home state of Texas—but still no conclusive witness swearing it was the bike. The serial number was scratched, so no trace on the bike either. I gotta wait until they get through the questioning.
Blaze landed a sharp uppercut on the heavy bag.

Something deep within him was telling him that they had him. Juan Herrara was the guy. He kicked the heavy bag.
Its gotta be him. Its just gotta.
A wild, penetrating kick. Fully extended.
I will have my revenge.
He tried to fight the notion. He knew the danger of being led by revenge. He knew that vengeance was the Lord's, as the good book said.
Yeah, but there's no reason He can't use me as his instrument.
And so he resolved. He would find Herarra. And he would extract every bit of information he needed to track down those that commissioned the hit on his wife and son. He would hunt them to the ends of the Earth. Every last participant.

The heavy bag seemed to be begging for more punishment. Blaze visualized all his enemies each time he threw a hook to the bag. Herrara was clear. The others were fuzzy. He knew their stripes. The Cartel. Hezbollah. Ultimately, the mullahs. Samani. Big enemies. Strong enemies. Smart enemies. Organized enemies. He began to feel small, but strong. The Goliaths were his targets. He knew he would need the God of David to defeat them. He prayed for strength. And a battle plan.

As he prayed, the magnitude of world events fell upon him with a debilitating weight. He hit the bag rapidly as if he was trying to wear out his anger. The vision of Ezekiel 38 and 39 raced through his mind. War of Gog and Magog. Like McCardle had pointed out, Russia and Persia had not been allies in the twenty five hundred years since Ezekiel wrote that prophecy.

And yet here we were and now they were.
Could it be? Who knows.
He kept punching. Sweat poured furiously from all his pores. He blinked to keep it out of his eyes. The mat beneath him was soaked. His endorphins were on high alert. He thought about Samani's speech.
Something wicked this way comes.
He knew it was significant. He knew the world was about to change. He wasn't going to sit idly by. The war may be pre-ordained, but that didn't mean the timing necessarily was. He was going to get in the game. Shivers traveled through his bones. He kept punching. With a sound, determined rhythm. The same sound, determined rhythm with which he would insert himself into the coming battle against the threatening caliphate. The same sound, determined rhythm that would methodically, and tirelessly, enable him to hunt down every evil bread crumb left by those that conspired to murder his wife and son. The same sound, determined rhythm that has preserved good in battles with evil since the beginning of time.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

TEHRAN, IRAN

K
oslov had been extraordinarily helpful in rising to the task of expediting all deliveries, technical and scientific support, and now tactical and military guidance and cooperation. Hadi Samani was pleasantly surprised that there had been no tension between them lately, at least in terms of recent days. There was synergy forming between them as they worked together towards their goal of destroying Israel. Hadi attributed that synergy to the divine workings of Allah in preparation for the mission of the Mahdi. Koslov attributed the synergy to the natural mutual interests of two ambitious world leaders.

All the alliances had been secured and all partner nations had been completing preparations, plans and contingencies. Lebanon, Libya, Sudan, Ethiopia, and many others. All of them, faithful soldiers who had submitted to Iran's leadership and the helpful assistance of Russia. Samani could feel victory in his bones. He could smell the sweet air of Allah's coming worldwide caliphate.

Samani knelt on his prayer rug and summoned the spirit of the Twelfth Imam with all of his might. He thanked Allah for the interesting times in which he lived and the blessed position that he had been given. He begged Allah for imminent success in Iran's plans to annihilate Israel with their recently acquired, and operational, nuclear weapon and delivery system. The time had indeed come.

The headache came on strong and the pain was piercing. Hadi Samani's eyes strained to open as the light penetrated them with overwhelming brightness. Imam Al-Mahdi, full of glory, stood before him, once again, in his office, with no other witnesses.

“You have called for me and I am here to answer. You are preparing and your plans are acceptable to me. The dogs of Zion will meet their final day and the day of Allah will be ushered in as I transform the world for Islam. You have been a faithful and honorable servant and you will be rewarded. I am here to affirm you plans. I am here to transmit strength to your heart. Be of cheer and do not be swayed from your mission. For years, you have patiently cultivated the tools of destruction, against all earthly opposition. It is now born and must be used. Do not delay. The time for the final annihilation and extermination is here. Move forward my faithful servant. Strike them now.”

Mist remained. Darkness replaced the bright light. The power in the building went out with Imam Al-Mahdi's exit. And Samani lay prostrate with joy, purpose and solidified plans for historic catastrophe and death nestled deep in his dark, little heart.

EPILOGUE

AIN'T LIKE YOU TATTOO PARLOR, DETROIT, MICHIGAN

B
laze sat with his right arm stretched out and the inside of his wrist facing upward. His ears were filled with a variety of disparate sounds. The song “Ace of Spades” by Motorhead played closest to him. The song was a suggested play by his tattoo artist, and longtime friend, Ken McMullin. From the adjacent room emanated the pulsating guttural rhythm of Chief Keef —the hip-hop drill music of choice for the young black tattoo artist that Ken had recently hired. Undergirding all of the musical input bombarding Blaze's ears was both the incessant buzz of the tattoo needle being prepped for deployment and the internal song that Blaze had stuck in his head — “Rose Tattoo” by Dropkick Murphys.

Ken placed the stencil firmly on the open spot just inside of Blaze's wrist. Perfectly centered. “This where you want it bro?”

“Yeah. That works.” Lyrics from the DKM song intensified in Blaze's head.
You'll always be there with me / Even if you're gone / You'll always have my love / Our memory will live on.
The image Blaze was about to have indelibly placed on his wrist was a simple rose design. With Diem's name etched in a banner through it.
Puttin' ink to truth.

As the needle plunged into his skin with the steady discipline of the artist's tradecraft, the DKM chorus began as a constant loop in Blaze's mind.
I've got your name written here, In a rose tattoo / With pride I'll wear it to the grave for you / In a rose tattoo / I've got your name written here, In a rose tattoo / Signed and sealed in blood I would die for you.

And he would.

“Stay still pal. We've only just begun.”

“Roger that. I can hold fast. No worries.”

“I know how much she meant to you Blaze.
”

Blaze looked up at Ken with a slight nod of the head and an inconspicuous tear in his eye. He was doing his best to neutralize his emotions and channel them into the next steps of his new, strange post-Diem life. But he was not always unscathed by the whipping winds of grief. Permanence, head-on forceful closure, and the immortalization of pivotal life events through art always helped Blaze. It helped him solidify who he was, where he had been, and propel him towards whatever new metamorphosis needed to take place to effectuate positive, deliberate forward movement. His intention was that the rose tattoo in Diem's honor would accomplish all of that. He needed it to. The world was on fire. His now only son needed a strong and focused dad. And the thought of Diem's killer and his cartel commissioners going unpunished was an unfathomable one. He would make Herrera and his bosses pay. Or die trying.

“I'm glad you came to see me today Blaze. You've been on my mind a lot brother. You know I ain't no saint, and the Old Man upstairs would have every right to avert his ears from my prayers, but nonetheless, I've rolled up my dusty old prayer machine to lift some requests up to the Almighty on your behalf.”

“Thanks Ken. I'm sure He listened with intent, despite your irascible caveman ways.”

Both men chuckled as the tattoo needle buzzed and the blood and ink dripped.

Ken was no saint. An old marine like Blaze, Ken took a different path once he was done with active duty. He left the Marines with a chasmic hole in his life. He missed the camaraderie. The constant mission. He was a dog of war at heart. Unable to suture the void, he filled it by joining a biker gang.

Running drugs. Fighting rival gangs. Some kills on his soul. And a deep, black spiritual bankruptcy that was literally cannibalizing his heart and mind. He eventually walked away, joined NA, and began weaving a new life. These days, he spent his daylight hours tattooing and his evenings visiting his one granddaughter —the light of his life. He didn't have much family, but what he had was vital. He considered Blaze a part of that family.

Ken changed the subject, “How's that miscreant Zack doing?” Blaze had introduced Zack to Ken. Ken tattooed an image of an angel wearing a fedora and manning an AK-47 on Zack's hand.

“He's good but always on the edge. You know how he lives. Him and I got back from a rough mission about a minute ago. After that, he told me he was headed to England for some R&R to hang with his SHARP skinhead mates. English football, endless pints, and rowdy Oi! shows never proved to be healthy for Zack. I'm hoping he can behave at the West Ham games and stay out of jail on this trip, less Gallagher truly lose his mind over that hooligan.”

“Well, tell the old bastard I said ‘cheers' next time he rings ya.”

“Will do”

As Lemmy Kilmister crooned on with primal aggression from Motorhead track to Motorhead track and the buzz of the tattoo needle maintained, otherwise silence settled in. As often does during a tattoo session once the initial chit chat is exhausted. Marking your body forever can sometimes morph into a spiritual experience best imbibed with healthy silence and reflection.

Blaze was still deeply frustrated with the apparent overall impotence of Operation Persian Trinity. It was a minor mitigation at best. The problem of Iran finishing the bomb had not been solved. And now the president of Iran had proclaimed that the Twelfth Imam had officially come out of his occultation, was on earth, and would soon be visible. Blaze knew enough about Shia Islamic Twelver eschatological beliefs to know this was where the end times fun began for them. And it was not good for the non-Islamic world, or as the Islamists would call it, the
dar al-harb
(community of unbelievers). Blaze knew it was only a matter of days or weeks before he got another call from Gallagher with an urgent mission mandate.

This, as the whole world cringed with fear over every new ongoing threat made by Iran to Israel and every posture of intention to strike first by Israel. Blaze didn't know how it would unfold. The intense and exponential growth of the Sunni End Times fanatic militia hell-bent on expanding a Sunni caliphate also deeply troubled Blaze. Now known simply as IS (Islamic State), the group had been steeply thrown into the Middle Eastern death stew and was growing in dominance and complexity. They had defiantly come to occupy a swath of land equal to the size of Great Britain. And growing.

Meanwhile, McCardle had been second-guessing some of his prophetic analysis lately and was yapping about the dangers of Turkey. He told Blaze that in his recent studies he's become focused on the possibility that Turkey may indeed be the Magog referenced in Ezekiel 38-39, not Russia. Blaze didn't care either way, he had to let that stuff stay with the necessary armchair eschatological scholars. To Blaze, it was all a compass to be aware of, not a map to trace. He had to do his job in the trenches, fight wherever he was called, and serve in the ways only he could. That would never change.

Ken finished up the last bit of color-fill needed in the juicy red portions of the rose tattoo. “That about wraps it up Blaze. Go take a look.”

Blaze rolled his neck. It cracked as he did so. He got up and looked at his new wrist tattoo in the mirror. It was bright, bloody, and pissed off looking. It was perfect.

“Looks great Ken. Thanks my man.”

Blaze overpaid Ken and Ken modestly tried to return half the cash. Blaze insisted and refused the rebate. The two men said their goodbyes. Blaze walked out of the
Ain't Like You Tattoo Parlor
and instantly lit his box pressed My Father
Flor De Las Antillas
cigar.
Nothing like a fresh cigar after getting some fresh ink.

Blaze hopped into his pristine Cadillac CTS and headed home to his newly purchased domicile. Materialism never did much for Blaze. But if it came his way, he'd enjoy it as a bi-product of a life lived authentically and he'd hold it loosely while holding his deep eternal principles firmly. The strange material bi-product of the tragic murder of his wife, was that Blaze became a multi-millionaire on a account of the life insurance policy that his buddy Bernie had set up for him. He was happy that he didn't have to worry about finding money for Denis's college fund. He was also pleased with the new Caddy and the mansion he purchased from the city of Toledo, Ohio. Although, he could now easily afford a much more expensive car, he was a creature of habit and maintained a particular affinity for Cadillacs. For Blaze, it was not a symbol of personal status or prestige, but more a symbol of style, of hustle, and of intrinsic American ingenuity and excellence.

The mansion he had acquired was originally owned and built by Albert Champion, founder of Champion Spark Plugs. It was endowed to the city of Toledo and somehow Chuck Gallagher secretly conspired with POTUS to convince the city of Toledo to sell it to Blaze at a heavy discount as a gift for his service to the country. Chuck knew how much Blaze always loved the building and property. Especially the pub and shooting range in the basement.

After parking his Caddy in his new four car garage, Blaze quickly checked his mailbox. Mostly junk. Some school notices for Denis. And a wonderfully ornate envelope replete with artful Celtic knot work.

He opened the envelope and smiled widely. It was the official invitation to McCardle's wedding in Belfast.

Amidst forcing the expedition of his grief process, manning up as a single father to shepherd his only surviving son into adulthood, and strategically plotting revenge on his wife's killer and his cohorts – and all the grit, discipline, anger and darkness that shrouded these realities – Blaze finally caught sight of the emerald.

Some joy.

An unexpectedly welcome affirmation of life, reinvention, rejuvenation, and healing.

Love, loyalty, and friendship.

The Claddagh tying up his life in a beautifully wrapped ring.

He was going to Ireland.