Free Ark of Fire by C. M. Palov Page B

have extra ammo. Just in case.
    His movements quick and steady, he screwed a silencer onto the end of the barrel.
    Locked and loaded, he shoved the Mark 23 into the small of his back, the janitor’s jacket hiding the telltale bulge. He jammed a leather scabbard next to the pistol; the Ka-Bar knife was his backup weapon of choice. Silent but deadly, a Ka-Bar could slice and dice a man in less time that it took to say howdy-do. Or a woman—Boyd having killed more than one bitch in his time.
    Suited up, he grabbed the mop handle and steered the yellow bucket toward the closed door of the janitor’s supply closet. Gray water sloshed up the sides, forcing Boyd to slow his stride. Opening the door, he rolled the mop and bucket across the threshold. Then, covering his tracks, he reached for the keys dangling from his belt. It took a few tries, but he found the right one, locking Walter Jefferson safely inside. That done, he hid his rolled ball of clothes, including his leather jacket, under a nearby bench.
    Approaching the crowded concourse, he surveyed the jabbering horde of touristos. Again, he thought that they’d make good cover; his plan was to kill the Miller bitch, chuck the untraceable gun into the bucket of water, and get his hairy ass out of the building before anyone realized what had happened.
    Pushing the yellow bucket, Boyd could see that no one paid him any mind. Like he’d figured, he was just a big blue custodial ghost.
    Perfect. He loved when everything came together.
    ’Cause God help him, he knew what it was like when the fucking floor gave way. When you were sinking in quick shit without a buoy in sight.
    That’s how it was back in ’04 when he’d returned from his first deployment in Iraq.
    Fallujah.
    What a fucking shithole.
    Every night he woke up in a cold sweat. One night he actually pissed the bed. If his wife, Tammy, so much as brushed her bare leg against his, he’d bolt upright out of the bed, reaching for his M16. Except he didn’t have his combat rifle at the ready. Didn’t even have a damned sidearm; Tammy refused to let him bring a loaded anything into the house on account of Baby Ashley. Six months old, Baby Ashley cried all night long. Just like those fucking raghead babies in Fallujah. One night he couldn’t take it any longer: Ashley bawling for a milk titty. Couldn’t the brat just shut the fuck up?! With each ear-piercing scream, the pounding inside his skull got louder. And louder still.
    And then everything went eerily quiet, Ashley’s screams muffled with a pillow.
    Just like that baby in Fallujah.
    That’s about the time his wife ran into the room, jumped on his back, and actually sank her teeth into the side of his neck, the bitch going for his jugular. He’d had no choice but to fling the rabid cunt off his back. She hit her head on a nearby rocking chair; the blow pretty much killed her on the spot. Not knowing what to do, he’d telephoned Colonel MacFarlane. Like he was his own flesh and blood, the colonel took care of everything, giving him an airtight alibi, making it look like a robbery gone bad. The local police bought the story. Even the dickheads at the Daily News bought it; the local paper speculated that it was one of a series of local robberies committed by strung-out junkies looking to make some quick cash. Unfortunate Tragedy Befalls War Hero.
    The colonel said the same thing. Except he went one step further. He said God understood what it was like to be a warrior, to come home from a hard-fought battle only to have to fend off the devil.
    Colonel Stan MacFarlane was a great and good man, and Boyd owed him. Big-time. Not just for saving his ass, but for showing him the Way. For leading him into God’s fold. And when the little dick bastards at the Pentagon drummed that great and good man out of the Corps, Boyd went with him.
    Pushing the yellow bucket, Boyd scanned the crowd, his nose twitching at the faint smell of stir-fried chink food.
    The Miller bitch