Heart of the Assassin by Robert Ferrigno Page B

lightly perfumed with the scent of vanilla, verses from the Quran inscribed on the walls in gold script. Only fundamentalist cars were legally forbidden to nonbelievers, with a Black Robe posted on the platform to make sure no infidels tried to enter. Even so, Catholics chose to be among their own kind. Sarah stared straight ahead, head high, but Michael gawked from side to side, even peered at Rakkim for a moment before being distracted by the fat man sitting opposite him tapping away on his handheld.
    Rakkim still didn't understand why she was dressed as a modern, her forearms bare, her gauzy dress barely covering her knees. Moderns drew attention. Better to go out as a moderate Muslim--there were more moderates than any other group, and a head scarf and modest dress engendered anonymity. Fundamentalist attire offered near-total invisibility, faces and bodies completely obscured, but a fundamentalist woman on her own could be stopped by any passing Black Robe, asked to show written permission from a male family member. Better to go out as a moderate, or a Catholic, with their rugged, working-class clothes and practical shoes. Catholics dressed for flight. Sarah knew all this...so why was she dressed like a modern?
    Sarah leaned over, said something to Michael, and the boy smiled. Rakkim ached to be with them. He had only been gone a couple weeks, but it seemed longer, and never more so than when he saw the two of them together, realized how self-contained they were. How little they seemed to need him.
    It had been three days since he slipped out of New Fallujah, winding his way beyond the control of the Black Robes. He had changed clothes at a rest stop in Northern California, emerged as a Catholic day laborer and gotten onto a crowded bus to Seattle, standing for most of the trip as the bus stopped at every town along the way.
    He should have contacted General Kidd as soon as he got off the bus at Seattle's downtown produce market, should have briefed Kidd on what he had learned in the fundamentalist stronghold; that was the protocol, but Rakkim had headed home instead, desperate to see Sarah and Michael, more shaken than he wanted to admit by what he had seen back in New Fallujah. He closed his eyes and saw the burning madrassa, heard the screams, fresh innocents flickering like candles. If a shadow warrior like Jenkins could lose his way and find a home on the Bridge of Skulls...what hope was there for Rakkim?
    A shout from the other side of the car, an old woman pointing out the window. One of the large freeway overpasses below had collapsed, crushed cars scattered across the roadway. He turned, saw Michael with his face pressed against the glass as the monorail moved past the destruction.
    "Might help if they actually put some cement in the concrete," muttered a man across the aisle, a skinny twenty-something in worn jeans and a Starbucks giveaway nylon jacket. "'Course, that would cost money." He held out a bright red can of Jihad Cola to Rakkim.
    Rakkim didn't react.
    The young man got up from his seat and sat down next to Rakkim. He offered the can of cola again, his cuticles rimmed with grease, his knuckles raw. "It's mostly vodka. Made it myself from potato peelings." He toasted Rakkim. "I'm Eddie Flynn."
    Two schoolgirls nearby giggled, turned away, whispering.
    Rakkim looked out the windows, watched the city pass by. "What's the occasion?"
    "My big brother's just enlisted. Airborne Rangers." Flynn sucked at the cola can. "Now I've got the bedroom to myself. No more arguing over the holo or having to hurry through my shower before we run out of hot water." He clutched the can. "Aren't you going to tell me how proud I should be?"
    "No."
    "That's good, because I ain't proud. Stupid bastard'll probably get shipped out to the Arizona front to bake his balls. Mexicans don't get him, the scorpions will. I told him not to do it...." Flynn wiped his nose, smeared snot across the back of his hand. "I said it ain't our