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“It is. It is.”

Chapter21

Shakor and Din waited, finally seeing the same delivery driver puttering down the avenue. He passed them and slowed next to the gap of the drive, looking at his phone. Shakor saw an opening. He said, “Get the men up here,” and stood up without waiting on an answer, walking to the scooter.

In English, he said, “You looking for an address?”

Startled, the rider said, “Yes. The address given isn’t on this street. At least as far as I can find.”

“Who are you looking for? I know everyone on this street.”

The rider studied his phone and said, “The charge card is under the U.S. Department of State. The name is someone called Andrew Dumas, and the address is on this road, but I can’t find it.”

Shakor said, “You found it.”

“What?”

Shakor ripped him off the scooter, using his helmet to drag him behind the shrubs, the man’s legs kicking, but the chinstrap in his throat preventing him from screaming. He thrashed his arms wildly against the assault and Shakor applied more pressure, using the helmet to cinch the chinstrap deep into his throat. Eventually the rider ceased moving.

Din reached him, agitated, looking around wildly and saying, “What are you doing?”

Shakor began stripping the dead man of the uniform jacket hewas wearing, saying, “This is our way in. Get the men up here. I’m going to take this scooter to the door.”

Breathing through an open mouth, Din said, “Are you crazy?”

Shakor stood up, now wearing the jacket and holding the helmet, saying, “No. Get them up here.”

Din ran back to the park and Shakor went to the scooter, turning on the ignition and steering it boldly up the drive. He parked it like he belonged, hand-checked his weapon underneath the jacket, making sure he could get to it, then opened the case on the back, finding four pizza boxes. He had no idea what the house had ordered, but hoped it wasn’t all four, because that would mean there were more men inside than Din had indicated.

Using his radio, he said, “Are you ready?”

Ghulam answered, saying, “We’re on the edge of the landscaping.”

“I’m going to the door. There might be more in here than we know. If there is, I’m going to deliver the food and back out. If not, I’m taking out whoever answers. When I do, follow quickly.”

“Wait. How are you going to determine that?”

“With the pizza.”

“What’s that mean?”

Shakor simply said, “I’m moving.”

Without waiting for an answer, he took all four boxes and went to the stoop, entering the light. He rang the bell and waited. He heard footsteps, then the door opened, a tall man in a business suit behind it. The man said, “About time. We’ve been waiting for an hour.”

Shakor said, “Sorry. Here’s your order.”

The man said, “We only got a single pizza. Not four.”

In a single move Shakor dropped the pizza boxes with his right hand and withdrew his pistol with the left in a cross-draw, hammering the man in the face with a backhanded blow that raked the slide and front sight post against his temple. Shakor saw the blood flow as the man shouted and fell backward into the house. Shakor pushed inside right behind him, tripping up his legs. He hit the floor, desperately trying to draw his own pistol. Shakor slammed his boot into the man’s gun hand, pinning it to the ground, and the weapon fired, the sound earsplitting in the small house.

The man tried to roll free and Shakor knew that quiet no longer mattered. He put the barrel of his pistol to the man’s face and pulled the trigger, splitting the back of his head open against the hardwood floor, the brain and blood splattering out like a cherry pie thrown against a wall, some parts liquid, some parts lumpy, some parts red, some parts gray.

He heard footsteps pounding behind him and shouted, “Two upstairs, two down! Clear for threats!” and began sprinting to the landing in front of him. They reached the top and he pointed left, two men running that way, and he went right, kicking in a door and seeing Ahmad on the balcony that overlooked the park road, preparing to jump. In Pashto, he shouted, “Ahmad, stop right there, or you’re dead.”

Ahmad jumped. Shakor ran to the balcony, hearing a scream. He looked below and saw Ahmad on the ground, writhing in pain and holding his leg. Shakor turned back around and sprinted to the lower level, finding Karim coming out of a room. Shakor said, “On me,” and ran out the door, circling the house. They found Ahmad trying to crawl to the road through the bushes.

Shakor grabbed a leg and pulled, eliciting another scream. Shakor punched him in the temple, stunning him, then said, “Grab his arms.”