VECTOR

Chapter 18 Murder

Chapter 18

Murder

When the officer turned his head from the trunk, Ravi recognized the fear in the man's eyes. Ravi didn't hesitate. He fired directly into the man's chest, and the dropped like a stone.

Despite the pain in his head, Ravi slipped out of the car quickly and stepped to the downed officer. As Ravi suspected, the officer was breathing, and there was no blood on his chest. The vest had protected him. But he wore no vest on his face. A huge pain blasted through Ravi's brain as he aimed the pistol. For a moment, he saw two officers, not one. Ravi's familiarity with double sight prompted him to close one eye. At that point, Ravi fired. The officer's right eye disappeared, and blood spurted out.

Ravi stepped back, a bit rocky on his feet but certain he had solved one problem. The officer was dead, and that was unfortunate but necessary. If the stupid woman hadn't screamed, then the officer would be alive. His death was not Ravi's fault. That was clear. The woman, the filthy, American woman was to blame. When he got her alone, he would make her pay for her disobedience, for the policeman's death. He would make her scream over and over, and those screams would like music. Yes, she would pay.

He limped back to the car. Ravi felt a pang of remorse. Killing a law officer was bad business. It was bad business anywhere, especially in a foreign country. Now, he would have even less time because American policing was well known and feared in the rest of the world. They would bring their machines and their cameras and their detectives, and they would know the truth quickly. Then, they would mount a swift and terrible pursuit. They might even use satellites to find him. All because of her!

He had no time.

He sat behind the wheel and started the engine. The GPS b***h asked him if he wanted to continue his last route. He tapped “YES” on the screen , and the route appeared. He shoved the car into gear and shot away.

Stupid b***h.

**************************************

Oliver stood outside in the sun and checked his email.

Nothing.

He checked his text.

Nothing.

He checked his voice mail.

Nothing.

It was lunch time, and he had not heard from Claire. That was not a good thing at all, not with Ravi in country and unaccounted for.

“Where are you?” Oliver said out loud. “Where are you?”

**************************************

Arif rubbed his shoulder which ached from the rough handling. After the blood taking, the nurse and the men in space suits had left. Arif had been tempted to take off his surgical mask, but he decided that maybe, just maybe the asshole cops weren't lying to him. Still, he was pretty much convinced the police were playing him. And Arif had to admit the play was brilliant. What cops wouldn't do to mess with a guy. He was still debating with himself when the door opened, and a man without a hazard suit entered. He didn't smile, and he didn't come near Arif.

“I've been told you're not infected,” the man said. “As I told you before, I'm Matt, and I work for the FBI. You have not yet reached the point where we can no longer help you, but that time is quickly approaching. You see, if the man you helped infects a single person, and that person dies, you’re on the hook for murder and terrorism. You'll be executed in short order. If many people die, the president will probably bomb your f*****g family to oblivion. We don't like being f****d with, you know what I mean.”

“You can stop with the epidemic bullshit,” Arif said. “I never picked up anyone, and that no one wasn't infected with anything.”

“I'll tell you the truth, Arif. I'm not fond of you. I'm really not. You think you're smarter than everyone, and you're arrogant besides. So, I don't really care what happens to you. In fact, you dying would suit me. But I'm worried about all those other people. Tell me, Arif, did the man stay with you last night? I'm thinking he probably did. And you staked him to a car of some sort and maybe a firearm or two, or a knife, or maybe a machete. I'm thinking that. So, tell me, was he sick last night? Did he have a headache? Was he coughing? Did you give him some Tylenol? He may not have been contagious yesterday, but he probably is today and certainly tomorrow. So, we're out of time, Arif.”

' Arif thought a moment. The man had been sick, sicker than he admitted, and Arif didn't believe it was a bug from the airplane. If the man was infected and said nothing, then Arif owed him no allegiance. Holding back that kind of information canceled the agreement. At least, Arif could claim that.

“Suppose I know this person. And I can tell you where he might be. What's in it for me?” Arif tried his best smile.

Matt smiled in return.

**************************************

Jasmine wasn't asleep. She knew she was not about to sleep. The worst thing in life was not knowing the evil that could be done. The worst was not knowing what was being done. She felt as if she was in a dark room, a confined space totally without light. She was a small creature, far from where the action was taking place, and while she could learn nothing, she could not be released. She was the enemy of the state. Her life hung on a threat. She was certain that she would never survive what she had set in action. If Ravi infected multiple people, the death toll would be extensive, and the United States would kill her. If Ravi died in America, then his brother or her bosses would make sure she could not tell the Americans about her country’s effort to develop biological weapons. She was dead, totally dead. She should find a pistol and end her anxiety. She was dead, totally dead.

For the first time since she had married Ravi, she pulled his whiskey bottle from the cabinet and filled a glass. She wasn't a fan of whiskey, but she needed something to slow down her galloping mind. She needed rest. She needed sleep, and whiskey seemed the only way to get it.

Where was Claire?

That was another question she couldn't answer. Jasmine had sent her emails, but Jasmine had received no answers. She was a victim of Claire's lack of response. Without input from America, Jasmine wandered a path she could not see. She hated that she was a puppet manipulated by people half a world away.

The whiskey was fiery and burned her throat. She wondered how Ravi could stomach the vile liquor. Yet, its warmth spread through her body, from toes to forehead. It was a slow burn, like charcoal. And it was pleasant. It explained why her elders loved the fires that burned inside their hovels. It explained why people worshiped the sun. Heat, heat was the goal of humans—heat and information.

Jasmine pulled up her email. No message from Claire.

Where was she?

Did Ravi have her?

Jasmine did not discount the prowess of her husband. He was not a man without talents. Even sick, he would be more than a match for Claire, for a woman who had never been pitted against ruthless adversaries. While she would expect American values and constraints, she would not get them from Ravi. He was not Western. He was not a man who respected women as equals. He would treat her as an adversary and an inferior. That was a deadly combination.

Did Ravi have her?

For the first time, Jasmine thought about Jacques. If Ravi had Claire, then Ravi had Jacques. Claire would never be able to withstand his torture. Jasmine was acquainted with Ravi's ability to inflict pain, Ravi's ability to elicit information whether the subject wanted to give it up or not. Ravi did not respect those who were not of his faith, or women who were of his faith. Her husband would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Pain? That was just another tool for Ravi. When it was useful, he would not hesitate. He would enjoy the screams, just as he enjoyed Jasmine's screams. In many respects, he was a vicious animal.

Where was Claire?

Jasmine finished the whiskey and refilled her glass. Would she regret this in the morning? Probably, but she no longer cared. She wondered if she should write out a will, something that would distribute her wealth if she died. She knew that if she died before Ravi, nothing she wrote would make any difference. It was only if she outlived Ravi that the document would matter. Even then, there was a good chance that her brothers or his brother would ignore her wishes. Women had no claim to wealth. Men controlled everything, even in death. Still, she wanted her wishes known. She wanted someone to know she wasn't without wishes. Her desires might not matter, but they would be known.

Where was Claire?

The whiskey burned less, and she felt the first effects of the alcohol. Her brain seemed to slow, her thoughts no longer racing around like untamed animals. The world slowed, and her anxiety slowed with her thoughts. She thought for the first time that slowing down wasn't such a bad thing. Slowing down felt just right. Perhaps after the second glass, she would be able to sleep, to slow down long enough to let her body and brain recover. Perhaps.

She finished the glass and poured half a glass more. After this, if it was enough, she would be ready for bed, ready for sleep. She no longer worried quite so much for Claire. If Ravi had her, then God have mercy on Claire. Ravi was not one to let a woman's scream stay him from his goal. No, Ravi would revel in the screams. Ravi would work for the screams. The screams would proof that he was doing everything right.

Jasmine's eyes closed, and she slumped. The chair felt almost as good as the bed, maybe better. She would go to bed in a minute or two. She forgot all about Claire. For Jasmine, Claire no longer mattered.

**************************************

Arif was tired. He had been subjected to questioning for some time, and although he had asked for a lawyer, none was forthcoming. He was told that in terrorism cases, the right to an attorney was waived. Terrorists couldn’t be tortured, but they could be interrogated for hours on end. He didn't expect to be water-boarded, but he couldn't be sure. What he was fairly certain was that no matter how he cooperated, he would be charged with crimes and, if lucky, returned to his home country, something he desperately wished to avoid. America was his chosen home. It was far better than any place back home. And he had come to expect its luxuries. He would make sure to bargain for permanent residency. That would allow him to stay.

The door opened and his tormentor entered. He carried a file folder in one hand, and he sat with a smile.

“We took the liberty of searching your place,” the agent said. “Guess what we found?”

“You have no right. Did you get a warrant?”

“You still don't understand. In terrorism cases, we search and then get a warrant. After all, we can't let a bomb explode simply because we were waiting for a judge to sign off.”

He tossed the file on the table. “Recognize it?”

“Looks like one of mine.”

“Oh, it's yours. Open it.”

Arif smiled. “Are you trying to get my fingerprints on it?”

The agent laughed. “No, we’ve already established that you handled the file. But since you're wary, I'll do it.”

He reached over and opened the folder. The familiar photo stared back at Arif.

“Why did you want her?” the agent asked.