Hybrid (48 page)

“What happened?” said a muffled voice.

Phil jumped in alarm at the unexpected appearance of the nun. Her face was covered in blood, and her nose was misshapen. She stood unsteadily and staggered towards Phil.

“Stop, Sister,” Phil ordered as he quickly climbed to his feet. The echoes of his greatest fear still resonated through his mind, and he staggered a little as he caught Sister Mary Francis a moment before she lost her balance. “He’s unconscious, “he said, supporting the nun with his arm.

“He shot Sister Ellen,” she started to cry and had to breathe in spasms because of her blood-clogged nose.

“I know,” he said, and both of them turned towards the roof’s metal door as the SWAT team behind it had started to use a battering ram. “Can you go and wait by the door, Sister? I just need a moment more with Mr. Ahmed.” Her head swiveled back to the fallen terrorist who was just beginning to stir, and then back to Phil. “Are you with the police?”

“No ma’am, but they’re with me,” he said cryptically. She stared a moment longer and hobbled across the roof. A helicopter buzzed overhead and Phil gently pushed it away; he still hadn’t finished with Ahmed.

“Did you get what you needed?” He was awake and still defiant. Phil had released him, and he quickly reached for the pieces of infected paper.

“Please don’t provoke me,” Phil said, and then not so gently pushed him into the metal frame that housed the air conditioning coolers. “Sister Mary Francis believes that you are evil incarnate, but I know that you’re not.” He stared into the dark, hate-filled eyes of Ahmed. “You’re just a man, and we don’t have the luxury of dismissing you as the devil.” Phil sat in the shadow that a nearby building cast across the roof so that he could see Ahmed better. “I have to admit that I am somewhat disappointed; I was hoping that you had had some type of religious or personal epiphany that would drive you to this extreme. But you’re more complex than that, and once again, I can’t discount you.”

“Are you going to be my shrink now, and tell . . .”

Phil cut him off. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have a lot of time, and I have no patience to listen to your vitriol.” He stared back at Ahmed and a desire to make the terrorist writhe in agony welled up in Phil’s chest.

“Go ahead,” he read the desire that was building inside of Phil. “You can break my body, but never my soul.”

“I have more control than that,” Phil answered, suppressing the sadistic craving. “At the moment, I want to understand you more than hurt you; I suggest you take advantage of that.” They stared at each other until Ahmed’s expression softened an iota.

“You can never understand me,” he scoffed, with less sincerity than earlier.

“I understand that you are not a religious zealot, and that most of your compatriots are not zealots either. You are devout, I will grant you that, but you are also a group of educated men. To some degree, I can understand the refugees, who have known only squalor, suffering, and hopelessness, strapping explosives to their bodies, but that hardly describes you or any of the others. You were chosen because of your education, because of your ability to adapt and function independent of a group. So why would you subordinate those abilities; why would you blindly follow those who espouse hate?” Phil paused for effect; Ahmed wanted to answer, but Phil didn’t want to hear more of his derision. “Part of the answer lies in human nature, and in that respect, you are not much different from the man downstairs who wants to kill you. But that only gets you part of the way; your sin is not questioning the culture of hate that surrounded you. Instead of examining it, you ignored the responsibility of an educated man and accepted it. You allowed yourself to believe the lies because to challenge them would be to challenge those who spread them, and you were too weak to do that. You are going to die because of that weakness.”

“My death is inconsequential compared to the devastation we have brought to your country.” He smiled smugly.

Phil slowly nodded his head, and Izhan saw the utter failure of all their work and sacrifices in Phil’s mind. “The truth is that you are dying for nothing. No one will visit your father and tell him of the momentous things you achieved in the name of God.” Phil listened as the will and heart of Izhan Ahmed broke. A small part of him rejoiced at the young man’s agony, and for the first time in his life, Phil forced the Monsters from his mind. There was only silence in their absence, and he smiled. Maybe he did have the strength to survive.

The pounding from the other side of the door became more insistent, and now there were two helicopters circling the rooftop. Tears began to flow down Izhan’s face, and Phil listened to him pray. He prayed for a righteous death, one that would bring honor to His Holy Name.

Phil reached down and retrieved the small pistol that Izhan had used to shoot Sister Ellen. He turned towards Sister Mary Frances as she let out a scream. “It’s all right,” he yelled to her over the sound of the helicopters, and then turned back to Ahmed whose prayers had become more desperate. “I haven’t learned to hate yet,” Phil said and tossed the gun to the terrorist.

Sister Mary Frances stared dumbfounded at Phil. He walked towards the nun and guided her away from the door. “It’s going to be all right. He’s not going to hurt anyone.”

Phil let the door go and three men dressed in black body armor tumbled onto the rooftop. It took them only a moment to assess the situation, and in that moment, Izhan raised his gun. Both of the marksmen in the circling helicopters insured that Phil was correct.

“Father Oliver died,” Greg told Lisa over the phone.

Lisa suddenly felt empty. Amanda had come home with the news that Reisch had disappeared, and now this. “How?” She asked.

“One of the SOBs was posing as a cop,” Greg paused, and Lisa could hear him try to stifle a sob. “The guy shot Oliver. He was out by himself; if I had been there, I could have done something.” His voice was breaking. “We found him in a hospital all shot up, and do you know what he did? He goes out and finds the other bastard and kills him right before the guy shoots me. He saved me with his . . .” Lisa let her husband suffer quietly. “Honey, I have to go. I’ll call you later. There are arrangements that have to be made.”

Lisa hung up the phone and turned to Amanda. “You heard?”

Amanda nodded and went to hug her mother-in-law. “I’m so sorry, Lisa. Sorry that any of this ever happened.”

Lisa cried for several moments and then slowly pulled away. “Your eyes are moist, Amanda,” she said, wiping a tear from her daughter-in-law’s face.

“I guess I’m not totally made of stone.”

“It’s terrible, but I wasn’t just crying for Oliver. I didn’t know him as well as Greg did.” She looked into Amanda’s eyes. “He’s a good man, and he’s in a lot of pain. I feel so helpless.” She tried to stifle a sob, but it escaped as a gasp. “He won’t share it with me; he’ll take that pain and hide it in a place that I’ve never been able to reach, and it will eat away at him. Sometimes . . .” Now her tears were falling again. “Sometimes, I wonder why God has brought so much pain into our lives.” Lisa’s voice began to rise and her voice broke. “What purpose did it serve to allow John Oliver to die? What purpose did it serve to take the lives of Michael and Jacob? Why does he allow such evil to exist? My soul needs an answer beyond the knee-jerk ‘trust in God’s mercy,’ because I really haven’t experienced a lot of His mercy in the last few years.” Her voice had turned hard and angry, but her tears continued to fall.

“I had a part in that,” Amanda said, and a second tear fell down her cheek.

Lisa wanted to deny it, but there was no point in lying. “Amanda, I thank God every night for bringing you into our lives, and I know that Greg does as well.” Lisa smoothed Amanda’s hair, and then kissed her forehead. “No matter how much you change, no matter what happens to you, we both love you with every fiber of our being.”

Amanda wiped more tears from her eyes. “I know that.” She pulled completely away. “Are you stocked for the week?” She said suddenly, changing the uncomfortable subject.

“Yes,” Lisa said simply. “Are you going to stay?”

“For a little while, at least until Greg comes home.” Amanda picked up the small satchel that she had brought back from Fort Collins. “He has more of the virus, and he won’t stop, no matter how many of his terrorist buddies get killed by priests.”

“How will you find him?”

“I have no idea. I’ve lost all traces of him. I don’t know if he’s too far away, or dead, or just completely shut himself down.” She nervously opened and closed the small bag. ”I should turn this in and see if someone else can divine something from it.”

“You’re sure it’s . . . Of course, you’re sure it’s not infected, otherwise you wouldn’t have brought it here.” Lisa corrected herself. “He wouldn’t stay in Colorado; I’m guessing that he’s made a beeline for the nearest border or ocean.”

“Costa Rica. He plans to wait out our demise while sitting in a tropical jungle,” Amanda said, and Lisa stared back at her curiously. “I saw it in his mind when we were at the hospital,” Amanda explained. ”I saw everything,” she added quietly.

The check-engine light was on continuously and the temperature gauge was well past the red line. Reisch let loose a string of profanities in three languages, but his predicament didn’t change. He was going to have to find another mode of transportation, but in rural New Mexico, three hours after a nationwide curfew had been established, that was going to be a difficult task.

He had been warned that something like this might happen; Jeser’s network of support was virtually nonexistent outside major American cities, but Reisch was comfortable in his abilities. For more than three decades, he had survived so well that his very existence was questioned by some.

“You were a professional then,” Pushkin said, appearing suddenly and darkening Reisch’s already dark mood. “You followed the rules and did things correctly; you prepared yourself to complete your task and to disappear. Years ago you never would have done anything as amateurish as this.”

Reisch wanted to ask what he meant, but the answer would quickly turn into a lecture over his behavior the last two months.

“It’s not just the last two months,” his mentor said after reading his thoughts. “It’s been the last seven years; really your troubles began when you went to that sewer in the desert. You had no business passing yourself off as a security guard for a bunch of Arabs.”

“If you remember correctly, it was you who introduced me to Avanti. Besides, I’ve heard all of this before; do you have anything constructive to contribute, or did you pop in just to harangue me?”

“You rely more on this mind-reading crap than training and experience, and look where it’s gotten you.” Pushkin said under his breath. “Turn the radio on,” he commanded suddenly.

Reisch glanced at the shimmering form of his old teacher and flipped the knob with obvious irritation. He changed the channel several times looking for a classical music station, but all he heard were news reports.

“Stop,” Pushkin ordered, and for a moment, Klaus didn’t know what he meant. “Did you hear that? Go back to the last station.” Reisch found the station and listened with horror.

“. . . still coming in, but what we do know is that there has been another incident in Los Angeles similar to what happened in New York yesterday. The military is being very cautious about this, but it appears as if another terrorist has been caught or killed in a suburban Los Angeles mall as he was trying to release the virus.. . . .”

A longer string of profanities drowned out the announcer’s next words. Los Angeles and New York were critical to success.

“ . . . optimism, and that the threat remains. There are no plans to modify or lift the quarantine and all noncritical people are to remain indoors. All those caught in violation of the quarantine order are being held in contamination centers throughout the country.”

Pushkin listened intently, and when the car engine finally seized he turned to Reisch. ”It seems that your difficulties leaving this country may have a purpose.” White smoke began to pour out from beneath the hood. “You should have kept the Mercedes,” he said as the stolen sedan coasted to an unscheduled stop.