Read Online Heart of the Assassin by Robert Ferrigno - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Ferrigno
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to speak, his last words inaudible to anyone but God. That should have been the end of Darwin, but it seemed that both heaven and hell had rejected the master assassin.
Rakkim bumped down the road toward the second gated checkpoint, keeping his speed steady as the machine guns swiveled toward him. A huge security agent stood in the center of the road, one hand upraised. Rakkim kept driving. The man stepped aside at the last minute, shouted "Allahu Akbar!" The gate rose slowly, scraping the roof of Rakkim's car as he drove past.
For months after killing Darwin, Rakkim had felt...different. His reflexes were faster and his combat skills improved dramatically--he killed instinctively now, killed in ways he had no training in, and he took a pleasure in it that he never had before. Even his dreams had changed, like rummaging around in someone else's memories, and most unsettling of all, Sarah seemed even more attracted to him, their lovemaking raw and uninhibited.
Rakkim veered around a huge crater in the unlit road. A gigantic electrical tower canted in the distance, one of its supporting legs demolished, wires drooping. The hillsides around the city had been stripped bare of trees, houses bulldozed, businesses burned to the ground. The Grand Mullah had wanted everything around New Fallujah destroyed, all modern conveyances ruined, forcing the residents into the city, and under his control.
El Presidente Argusto, supreme ruler of the Aztlan Empire, strode across the command center of his hacienda, his silver-heeled boots clacking on the marble floor, one hand on the ornate hilt of his sword. He listened to the rhythmic echo of his footsteps, and it was all he could do to stop himself from drawing the sword and slashing at the air in frustration.
Hector Morales, his secretary of state, stood nearby, dressed all in black, head crested with a skullcap of blue-green hummingbird feathers, waiting to be recognized.
Argusto walked right past him. Let him wait.
Lean and graceful, Argusto was as vain as he was handsome, his beard a thin line running along his jaw, his dark hair carefully curled and oiled. He had trained to be a matador before becoming a pilot, and he still had an appreciation for pageantry, his clothes tailored to emphasize his lean waist and powerful physique. On days honoring Huitzilopochtli, the god of war, el presidente entered the Tenochtitlan arena and killed the fiercest black bull available. The applause from the crowd had sounded like thunder.
Morning light edged through the windows of the hacienda, dew glistening on the green lawns. His beloved jet interceptors flew guard overhead, left contrails in the dawn. As always, he wished he were flying, rather than forced to attend to matters of state.
Morales cleared his throat.
Argusto had been many things in his life: the youngest air ace in the war against the Yucatan, the youngest chief of staff of the Aztlan air force and now the youngest president of the nation, the conqueror who had annexed all of former Central America and the traditional lands of the north. More to come, yanquis, more to come. At Guadalupe Hidalgo, in 1848, Mexico had been forced to cede over one hundred million square miles of its land to the United States. The whole American Southwest offered to the yanqui invader on bended knee, turned over for the princely sum of $15 million. Insult added to injury. He tapped the hilt of his sword with his thumb. The payback had just begun.
Argusto listened to the roar of the jets overhead, inhaled the power of their passing. In seven years, he had sliced the army in half, while fully modernizing the air force, tripling the number of planes until his air command was second to none in the world. The army generals had complained bitterly, howling at the loss of their budgets and their men, but his vision had prevailed. Air power was Aztlan's destiny, particularly after nuclear weapons had been outlawed. Land armies were sloppy and killed too many
Rakkim bumped down the road toward the second gated checkpoint, keeping his speed steady as the machine guns swiveled toward him. A huge security agent stood in the center of the road, one hand upraised. Rakkim kept driving. The man stepped aside at the last minute, shouted "Allahu Akbar!" The gate rose slowly, scraping the roof of Rakkim's car as he drove past.
For months after killing Darwin, Rakkim had felt...different. His reflexes were faster and his combat skills improved dramatically--he killed instinctively now, killed in ways he had no training in, and he took a pleasure in it that he never had before. Even his dreams had changed, like rummaging around in someone else's memories, and most unsettling of all, Sarah seemed even more attracted to him, their lovemaking raw and uninhibited.
Rakkim veered around a huge crater in the unlit road. A gigantic electrical tower canted in the distance, one of its supporting legs demolished, wires drooping. The hillsides around the city had been stripped bare of trees, houses bulldozed, businesses burned to the ground. The Grand Mullah had wanted everything around New Fallujah destroyed, all modern conveyances ruined, forcing the residents into the city, and under his control.
El Presidente Argusto, supreme ruler of the Aztlan Empire, strode across the command center of his hacienda, his silver-heeled boots clacking on the marble floor, one hand on the ornate hilt of his sword. He listened to the rhythmic echo of his footsteps, and it was all he could do to stop himself from drawing the sword and slashing at the air in frustration.
Hector Morales, his secretary of state, stood nearby, dressed all in black, head crested with a skullcap of blue-green hummingbird feathers, waiting to be recognized.
Argusto walked right past him. Let him wait.
Lean and graceful, Argusto was as vain as he was handsome, his beard a thin line running along his jaw, his dark hair carefully curled and oiled. He had trained to be a matador before becoming a pilot, and he still had an appreciation for pageantry, his clothes tailored to emphasize his lean waist and powerful physique. On days honoring Huitzilopochtli, the god of war, el presidente entered the Tenochtitlan arena and killed the fiercest black bull available. The applause from the crowd had sounded like thunder.
Morning light edged through the windows of the hacienda, dew glistening on the green lawns. His beloved jet interceptors flew guard overhead, left contrails in the dawn. As always, he wished he were flying, rather than forced to attend to matters of state.
Morales cleared his throat.
Argusto had been many things in his life: the youngest air ace in the war against the Yucatan, the youngest chief of staff of the Aztlan air force and now the youngest president of the nation, the conqueror who had annexed all of former Central America and the traditional lands of the north. More to come, yanquis, more to come. At Guadalupe Hidalgo, in 1848, Mexico had been forced to cede over one hundred million square miles of its land to the United States. The whole American Southwest offered to the yanqui invader on bended knee, turned over for the princely sum of $15 million. Insult added to injury. He tapped the hilt of his sword with his thumb. The payback had just begun.
Argusto listened to the roar of the jets overhead, inhaled the power of their passing. In seven years, he had sliced the army in half, while fully modernizing the air force, tripling the number of planes until his air command was second to none in the world. The army generals had complained bitterly, howling at the loss of their budgets and their men, but his vision had prevailed. Air power was Aztlan's destiny, particularly after nuclear weapons had been outlawed. Land armies were sloppy and killed too many
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