Anticipation fizzed in his stomach, giving him a giddy feeling he hadn’t experienced since his boys had been blown into pieces so tiny there was nothing left for him to bury in accordance with his beliefs. Not since he had lost his beloved wife, Hettie.
It was grief that had killed her. A heart so broken that barely three months after the fateful day they lost their boys, she’d followed them into the afterlife.
“I said he looks like a corn-fed sack of shit just like the rest of you,” Kazem snarled in English for the American’s benefit. “That is the phrase you like to use, yes?”
“Which one?” The American remained impassive in the face of Kazem’s animosity. “‘Sack of shit’ or ‘corn-fed’?”
Kazem didn’t answer. Instead, he looked to Izad. “I overhead them say they are leaving soon, Father. McCarthy will sail the catamaran back to the island with two women and the one they call Wolf. It is better than we could have hoped for.”
When Izad hesitated, Kazem marched over to where he leaned against the edge of the hotel suite’s desk. Kazem’s eyes sparked with bloodlust as he placed his hands on Izad’s shoulders. “In the name of my brothers, Iwillrain vengeance on the head of Mason McCarthy. He will die at sea as they did, nothing but the fishes to comfort his remains.”
So eager, thought Izad.But that is my own fault.All his talk of how brave Kazem’s brothers had been made Kazem feel the need to prove himself their equals.
Kazem had been a late-in-life blessing for Izad and Hettie. They had considered themselves lucky to have two sons, never imagining a third would come years later. Achange-of-life babyHettie had called Kazem, who had been six days past his tenth birthday when his older brothers were killed.
No. Not killed.Murdered.
“Are you certain you do not want me to come with you?” Izad grasped Kazem’s forearm, feeling his boy’s youthful muscles bunch beneath his touch. He was old and feeble where Kazem was tall and strong. But he was long schooled in the ways of war. Kazem was not.
Kazem shook his head. “This journey has been long and difficult.” Izad knew his son spoke as much about the journey to find the man responsible for his brothers’ deaths as he did the weeks it had taken their group to make their way to America through multiple Caribbean ports, using false identities and forged papers. “You stay here. Rest. I will see it finished.”
Izad glanced at the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony. Outside, two of his most trusted men smoked and leaned against the railing. Both were well seasoned. Izad comforted himself knowing that what Kazem lacked in experience, those two made up for ten times over.
“Can I state for the record”—the American, sprawled so casually on the sofa, lifted a finger—“that I think it’s a bad idea to send only three guys after them?”
“Why?” Kazem frowned. “The odds are in our favor. Three to two.”
“Uh…” The America made a show of counting on his fingers. “By my count that’s three to four.”
Kazem snorted. “Surely you do not think the women factor into this?”
The American shrugged. “Maybe not. But I’ve had some experience with these guys. You might be better served to send in the entire kit and caboodle.” He twirled a finger at the four men standing at attention at their various posts inside the room. Izad’s personal security detail.
Kazem didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. “Do not listen to him, Father. Like all Americans, he believes in overkill. Especially when the thing he values most, his paycheck, is on the line.”
“You will be cautious?” Izad asked. “You will do as Turan and Mahmoud instruct?”
“I will not miss a word.”
“Very well.” Izad turned to the American. “Show them where you have stashed the weapons.”
After a breathy exhale, the American stood from the sofa. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The worm of unease Izad had suffered all morning grew into a writhing serpent. But he told himself Kazem was right. The American was…well…an American. If a firecracker would do the job, he would still choose to use an H-bomb.
Besides, Kazem needed this. It was the only way he would ever truly consider himself worthy of his family name.
As if to prove Izad’s point, Kazem squeezed Izad’s shoulders and kissed Izad’s cheeks. “I will make you proud, Father,” he whispered.
“Oh, my son.” Izad embraced his boy, hugging him against his heart. “I am already proud.”
Then he watched as his youngest set off after the American, chin high, shoulders back, impatient to end the man who had done so much unspeakable damage to their family.
* * *
10:41 a.m.
“You watching him that way is giving him a face like a smacked ass.”
