7
“Someone’s gonna die today,” the Sheikh heard a man say as he walked into the large, brightly lit gas station that was like an oasis in what seemed like an endless maze of winding roads with no signs of life except the occasional group of silent horses.
Bilaal’s jet hadn’t been given permission to land in Cody, and he’d landed in Minneapolis and taken a commercial puddle-jumper over to Wyoming. He’d come alone, telling his attendants and bodyguard to check into the Ritz in Minneapolis until he was back. Bilaal wanted to be alone for this trip. It felt like he needed to slip back into the shadows for this . . . for whatever this was.
What is your plan, he’d asked himself as he flipped through his secure phone and glanced once again at the information he had on Dan’s widow. He’d pulled it up one night shortly after getting back to Khiyani almost a year ago. He was still healing from that shoulder wound, and since he never took any drugs, including painkillers, his sleep had been fitful and plagued with dreams so dark he’d preferred to stay awake most of the nights. But the dreams came even through his pain-riddled days . . . dreams of death, of promises broken, of loss, of vengeance.
Yet the dreams had stilled that night he pulled up a photograph of Irene Inman, Dan’s American widow from Wyoming. He’d stared with bloodshot eyes at her pretty round face, her long dark hair, big brown eyes that exuded both innocence and strength, playfulness and the deepest sincerity. There were other photos in the file he’d accessed from the CIA’s records of Daniel Inman, photos of Dan and Irene at their wedding, the bride glowing and beautiful in white, veiled like a princess, a gown like a queen’s. He’d paused on a solo wedding photo that showed Irene in profile, and although the Sheikh could tell that she was a naturally curvy woman, it looked almost like she’d been expecting at the time.
“But Dan does not have children,” the Sheikh had muttered, scanning through the rest of the photographs and noting that the baby bump was gone in later pictures. He’d looked at what the CIA had in Dan’s records, and exhaled hard when he read about the miscarriages. “Bloody hell, the CIA knows everything, do they not?”
He’d closed out of the file but kept it on his phone, a vaguely guilty feeling washing over him when he realized he’d lingered a bit too long over one of the photographs: another solo shot, this one of Irene sitting on a porch step in a denim skirt that highlighted her womanly hips, showed off her smooth white thighs, giving a glimpse of her undeniable curves. He’d glanced at the swell of her bosom just barely contained by the dark green halter top, felt his breath catch at the fullness of her red lips. It was wrong, sick, immoral to be looking at another man’s wife like this, he’d told himself—especially in private, staring at photographs like a goddamn pervert. But along with that self-chastising came the thought that she was a widow and not a wife, that her husband was dead and at peace in the heavens, and that life was for the living. Life was for the living.
“Yup, someone’s gonna die today,” came another man’s voice, and the Sheikh glanced over toward the diner section of the gas station where three men were sitting at the counter and staring at a television screen.
Each of them had a beer in hand, and although Bilaal did not know the local drinking laws, he did think it odd that a gas station would serve alcohol in the diner, especially at this time of night. It was past eleven, and the Sheikh had pulled his black rented Suburban into the station to fill up for what looked like at least another hour of driving.
The smell of eggs and bacon came over to him, and although the Sheikh did not eat pork, the aroma of hot food got his juices flowing. It had been almost a day since he’d eaten, and he needed some fuel. As it was he was turned around in the head as he tried to figure out what the hell he would even say to Irene Inman once he got to her ranch. And it would be almost one in the morning when he arrived! Was he mad? Was he going to pound on the door and call her name in his Arabian accent? Could there be anything more ludicrous? He’d be lucky if she simply called the police instead of unloading a shotgun through the front door!
Bilaal smiled cordially at the three men as he walked past them and took a seat at the counter, nodding as a grumpy waitress slipped him a menu. He glanced up at the television, and when he saw Chuck Norris on the screen he understood that these men had seen this movie before and it was clearly a favorite.
“Hell yeah, someone’s gonna die tonight,” said the third man, but he was looking at Bilaal when he spoke, even though his buddies were still focused on the screen. “Am I right, pardner?”
Bilaal smiled graciously and glanced up at the screen and then back into the man’s semi-focused eyes. “It certainly appears so. I have not seen this particular film, but I do know that when Mr. Norris is on screen, someone usually gets killed.”
At the sound of Bilaal’s deep, accented voice, the other two men turned on their stools, and Bilaal noted without diverting his eyes that two of them had open-carry handguns on belt-holsters. Alcohol and guns . . . not a good combination, the Sheikh thought as he searched his memory and realized that he was the only customer here besides these three, the waitress, and the station attendant out front. Still, this was modern America, not the lawless wild west. And besides, these men were barstool cowboys more than anything else. Just stay calm and do not engage.
The Sheikh almost kicked himself for sitting down at the counter instead of over in a booth at the far side. These men were far drunker than he’d realized, and he himself was not in the best state of mind. The strange sense of guilt for even being here and the exertion of the long trip from Switzerland to the middle of Wyoming were creating a potent mix in Bilaal, a mix the Sheikh knew was dangerous. There was a reason he relished the work he did with the CIA and the KIB. It gave him a physical outlet for the emotions he could not reconcile—a physical, violent outlet. Because the emotions he was repressing were violent, explosive, irreconcilable. That was part of the reason he’d stayed away from sex for what seemed like forever by now. He was afraid of what those pent-up emotions might fuel if he allowed himself free rein with a woman.
Violence, promises, women, guilt, guns, alcohol, sleeplessness, hunger . . . the mix was intoxicating, and the Sheikh felt a sudden rush of terrible realization. Had he come in here looking for a fight? Was he trying to sabotage himself, punish himself for being out here with both the best of intentions and the worst of intentions? Yes, he had told himself that he had promised a dying man something. But was he here because of the promise, or because that photo of Irene Inman had made his cock hard? Was he good or evil? A man of his word or an animal driven by his basest urges?!
The Sheikh slammed the menu shut and stood up to leave, breathing hard when he realized he needed to get out of there, drive back to Cody, fly out of here and never return. What did he expect would happen with Irene anyway? Would he tell her the truth? Would he seduce her in secret? Which was worse? There was no right way to do it. The promise could not be kept. You must go home, Bilaal. Life is for the living.
“Nothing looks good to ya?” the waitress asked as Bilaal straightened his crisp shirt collar and pulled out his phone to check the map.
“I have changed my mind,” the Sheikh said abruptly, swiping through some open apps on his phone while noting that the three men were still looking at him. “Thank you.”
“Still gotta leave a tip,” said one of the men with a sneer, glancing down at the Sheikh’s bespoke leather shoes and then looking over at his buddy with the Smith and Wesson in his belt. “Ain’t that right, Carl? Betsy gets tipped for her inconvenience, don’t she?”
Carl stood up as straight as he could, pulling in his stomach and sticking out his chest. He stuck his thumbs into his belt and nodded. “More than an inconvenience,” he said. “Almost an insult to not order nothin’ after taking the menu. Tip the lady, and then apologize for putting her out by asking for a menu and then acting like you’re too good for our food.”
“Hey guys, it’s all right,” said Betsy hurriedly, and the panic in her eyes told the Sheikh everything he needed to know.
“He is right,” the Sheikh said in a calm voice even though there was a part of him that would like nothing better than to get his knuckles bruised and bloody by breaking a few jawbones and perhaps a nose or two. Instead he pulled out his thick leather wallet and placed a crisp hundred dollar bill on the counter, nodding at Betsy as he did it. “Thank you for your service, Ma’am. No insult was intended. I simply do not have an appetite right now.”
The first man’s eyes went wide as he stared at the hundred, and the third man’s jaw hung open when he glanced at the Sheikh’s wallet, which Bilaal had forgotten was stuffed with hundreds after he had changed some of his Euros at the Geneva airport.
Carl tapped the counter. “Service charges are extra for Mexicans,” he said with that sneer, and the two men laughed loudly, their cackles tinged with something that seemed like a dare, a challenge, a call to action.
The Sheikh took a breath. The money meant nothing. He could put down ten thousand dollars and it would mean nothing. But this was not about the money. It was about respect. Still, it would be stupid to get into a fight, the Sheikh told himself. Toss down another hundred and walk out of here. Let them laugh. Let them jeer. Let them high-five each other. Let them—
“My apologies. I did not know about the surcharge for Mexicans,” he told Betsy with a pleasant smile that was deadly serious. Then he looked at the three men. “What about Arabs? Same charge for Arabs?”
The Sheikh felt the men stiffen to his left, and he saw Betsy close her eyes tight and shake her head. All three men were on their feet now, and the Sheikh turned to them as he felt Betsy hurry off to the back.
“You know, a friend of mine was killed by an Arab over in Iraq,” said the third man, the only one without a gun.
“A friend of mine was killed by an Arab too,” said the Sheikh, holding that pleasant smile even though his steely green eyes made it clear he was answering the challenge and that time was running out for these cowboys to stand down. “That makes us all brothers in grief, yes?”
The man blinked and swallowed hard, like he was trying to figure out if the Sheikh had just insulted him or what. Carl, however, seemed to have already decided that the Sheikh’s Arab presence alone was an insult.
“It don’t make us shit,” Carl said. “Now put the wallet on the counter.”
The Sheikh frowned. “You are going to rob me?”
The first man looked at Carl. “What’re we doing, man? We can’t—”
Carl snorted. “We don’t want his filthy money. I just wanna see this guy’s ID. Something doesn’t add up here. What’s a spiffy Arab doing all the way out here? Nope. Don’t smell right. Just wanna do my duty as an American. If you see something, say something, right?”
The Sheikh took a long breath and stepped close to Carl. He could smell the beer on his breath, the faint stench of cheap cigarettes, the remnants of dinner on his beard. “And what do you see, my friend?”
Carl blinked and took a half step back. “I see someone about to make a big fucking mistake,” he snarled as his hand moved slowly to his weapon and rested there, thumb tapping on the wooden handle of the gun. “Now step back, and show me your ID.”
Bilaal knew he could still end this and walk out of here without taking it to a point of no return. He was better than this, he knew. But something inside wouldn’t let him stand down, wouldn’t let him get a hold of himself, wouldn’t let him stop. It was almost like he was being compelled to keep going, like he needed to walk down this path that was stupid and dangerous at best, suicidal at worst.
“I will say this once, and once only,” Bilaal said, locking eye contact with Carl. “Do not put me in a position where I am forced to defend myself.”
The Sheikh was still holding his phone, and he slowly moved to place it in his trouser pocket and leave. But one of the men looked down at the lit-up screen and grabbed the Sheikh’s hand by the wrist.
“Shit, Carl, is that a photo of Irene on this guy’s phone? From some dating site or something?”
The Sheikh yanked his hand away when he realized the screen hadn’t locked because the map was running in the background, and suddenly things slowed down when he saw the confusion in Carl’s eyes—confusion quickly escalating to rage.
“That whore,” Carl muttered, blinking as he glanced at the picture, his shaking hand tightening around his gun.
Perhaps it was the way he'd said that word, but instinct kicked in, and although the Sheikh knew it was a mistake, that Carl hadn’t drawn his gun yet, that he could still defuse the situation, it was too late. With a resigned calmness and that same sense of inevitability, the Sheikh jammed his metal-backed phone into Carl’s greasy face, smashing his nose flat and quickly spinning around. He disarmed the second man before the guy knew what was happening, and a moment later the Sheikh had cocked the gun and was pointing it at Carl’s bleeding face.
“It is over,” he said, even as he realized that he’d not only struck first but was now holding a gun to a man’s head. This would be a tough self-defense story to sell to anyone, let alone local law enforcement. He paused for a moment, trying to determine if he should wait for police or simply take the clips out of both guns and just leave. He could be out of the country by morning, and he could call John Benson and tell him what happened. Surely Benson could call in a favor or two to smooth this over. After all, no shots were fired, and—
And even before he finished the thought he saw the movement out the corner of his eye. It was the station attendant who’d snuck up on them . . . snuck up on an Arab who was holding a gun to the head of a local man. Bilaal saw the attendant had a gun, and he knew he could shoot the man before he had time to fire. But that same sense of inevitability that had dragged him down this path also made him hesitate, and it was long enough for the attendant to squeeze the trigger.
The Sheikh felt the burn as the small caliber bullet blazed a path through flesh. He’d been hit in the arm, he knew, and with a roar he ducked his head and dragged one of the men across the diner with him as a shield so the attendant wouldn’t fire again. He tossed the gun and hurled the hollering man into the attendant, which gave the Sheikh just enough time to race through the empty gas station and out the front door. He paused for a moment, looking at his black Suburban sitting there, a full tank of gas, navigation and communication systems, everything he needed to get out of there. Of course, they’d just call in his license plate and he’d be pulled over in no time. So what to do?
Then he knew what to do, even though it was insane. And with that same calm resignation, like destiny was calling from the dark trees at the edge of the wood, the bleeding Sheikh stumbled into the wilderness just as the first splinter of lightning lit up the night sky, the first crack of thunder burst through the clouds, the first drops of rain pelted the land, washing away the blood trail, perhaps washing away the past along with it.