The Blasphemer (4 page)

Maya had to admit, Adam’s paranoia had rubbed off on her. She went through the security logs one more time. Everything looked clean. No predators lying in wait. Not today, anyway.

Maya fingered the remote on her key ring. The garage door rolled up with a steady hum, and she drove in. She touched the remote again, and the door rolled down shut behind her.

She switched off her car’s engine and got out. Unlocking the door to her living room, she stepped through, tapping a code into the keypad on the wall to disable the motion sensors. She breathed in a sweet, calming aroma. The air freshener in the corner had sensed her entry and dispensed a new scent. This time, it was jasmine.

All around Maya, boxes were stacked, sealed, untouched. Though she had moved in weeks ago, she still couldn’t bring herself to unpack everything. It wasn’t easy. Her belongings were mixed in with Papa’s. She felt uncertain about going through old mementos, old reminders, old memories. Maybe even a little afraid.

Damn.

Maya winced.

Promised herself that she would get down to it.

Eventually.

Maybe.

She made her way to the bathroom. Stripped off. Showered. Got dressed. Then she approached the safe concealed at the back of her built-in wardrobe. She swiped her thumb over the fingerprint scanner and entered her PIN into the keypad.

The safe unlocked with a heavy clunk.

Maya reached for the top shelf. Took hold of an Emerson tactical-folding knife. Thumbed the blade open. She tested its edge by running it across her forearm, shaving the fine hairs off her skin. It was as sharp as could be. Ready to go.

She closed the knife and clipped it on the inside of her hip pocket. It was an old spec-ops trick she had picked up from Papa. In an emergency, you could unclip the knife and do a quick-draw, and the back of the blade would catch the pocket’s edge, unfolding itself. Instant. Automatic. Streetwise.

Moving on to the middle shelf, Maya reached for a SIG Sauer nine millimetre. She had disassembled, cleaned and oiled the pistol just last night. It was all good to go. Pulling the gun from its holster, she loaded a magazine into it and racked the slide, chambering a round. She performed a press-check to confirm, then holstered her gun and secured it under her waistband, between her navel and her appendix. She allowed her shirt to fall over it. It was the best form of concealed carry. No bulge. No imprint.

Maya peered at the two boxes she stored on the bottom shelf.

One was blue.

One was red.

The blue box held hollow-point ammunition—soft-nosed rounds designed to fragment upon impact, shredding flesh and tissue.

The red box held full-metal jacket ammunition—solid-nosed rounds meant for punching through body armour, capable of penetrating hard and deep.

Beside both boxes, there was a stack of spare pistol magazines. Maya had kept them empty on purpose. Since magazines were spring-loaded, they could lose their tension if kept packed with rounds for too long without being used. In a worst-case scenario, a round could fail to chamber, stopping a gun from firing. She didn’t like the idea of that. So she only loaded the magazines when she actually needed them. Like right now.

Maya peeled open the blue box and the red box. Her fingers working quickly, nimbly, she transferred round after round. To avoid confusing herself, the hollow-points went into magazines marked with blue stripes, while the full-metal jackets went into those marked with red. When she was done, she slipped the magazines into her side pockets. That’s why she liked cargo pants—plenty of room for weapons and ammunition.

Maya closed the safe and locked it.

She turned to face her dressing mirror. Studying her reflection, she allowed her arms to hang loosely by her sides. Then, sucking in a breath, she swept her shirt up and palmed her pistol, quick-drawing it. She snapped it up to eye level, her left hand meeting her right hand. Classic Weaver stance. Dominant arm pushing. Support arm pulling. Her finger touched her trigger, but she didn’t follow through with the squeeze.

Maya exhaled. Reholstered her gun. Inhaled and quick-drew once more. This time, she twisted, her left shoulder facing the mirror as she snapped her gun up. The low-profile Centre Axis Relock stance. Ideal for close encounters.

Maya exhaled. Reholstered her gun. Inhaled and quick-drew again. Reacquired her sight picture. Over and over, she drilled herself. Body held square. Body held sideways. Body held square. Body held sideways.

Satisfied that her motions were sharp and smooth, Maya holstered her weapon for the final time. It was a good warm-up. Her mind was in the right space. Exactly where it needed to be.

She never allowed herself to forget what Papa had taught her.

Today is the day it will happen.

CHAPTER 9

Maya had just stepped out of her front door when Noah Sanderson’s SUV pulled into her driveway. He grinned and waved. Maya did her best to smile back, but it felt plastic. They hadn’t seen each other since... well, since that night.

Maya opened the passenger side door and slid into the SUV. The haunting, ethereal strains of Celtic music filled her ears. Apparently, Noah’s therapist had prescribed it to him as part of a wellness plan. To soothe his angst. He was, after all, still getting over a tough divorce. 

Noah turned down the music and boxed Maya on the arm. ‘You don’t return my calls. I was beginning to think you didn’t like me no more.’

Maya chuckled as she put on her seat belt. ‘I’ve been busy.’

‘So I’ve heard. Self-defence classes.’

‘It’s combatives. Combatives for young women.’

‘Ah, combatives. Nice branding. Going well?’

‘Very well. I’m actually taking on a second batch of students.’

‘Nice. I should sit in some time.’

‘No way. You’ll just distract the ladies.’

Noah laughed. He set the SUV in reverse and glided out of the driveway. They left behind the hilly Waitakere suburbs and hit the North-Western Motorway, moving eastwards towards central Auckland. Alongside them, the waters of the bay rolled, the tide high.

Maya could see a few kite-surfers out and about. Their colourful kites fluttered and somersaulted in the breeze, pulling their surfboards along at dizzying speed.

‘So,’ Noah cleared his throat, ‘I take it things are still sour between you and the boss.’

Maya couldn’t hide the edge in her voice. ‘Worse than sour.’

‘Give it time. She’ll come around.’

Like hell she will
, Maya thought.

She was tempted to say more, to explain herself. But why bother? Noah was Mama’s golden boy; a surrogate son. And in return, Noah was fiercely loyal to Mama. No one could ever come between them. Not even Maya.

So she got straight down to business. ‘What do we know about the shooter who tried to take out Abraham Khan?’

‘Shooter? Try amateur. His name’s Samir Ziad Jarrah. Thirty-seven years old. Born and bred here. Married with two kids. Runs his own legal consultancy. Financially okay. No previous criminal record. No obvious stressors. Certainly nothing that would have driven him to try and murder a total stranger. The interesting bit? He failed because he used a cut-price, black-market pistol. It jammed after the first shot—the firing pin broke.’

‘So he’s a lone wolf acting on his own. He can’t be affiliated with a group. They wouldn’t have supplied him with a dud gun.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘Yet lone wolves are the scary ones. Hard to track. Hard to anticipate. They don’t show up on the radar until they actually strike.’

‘It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to be afraid of. Now, do you want to hear Samir’s confession to the police?’

‘You’re itching to tell, aren’t you?

‘Only because it’s so rich. See, one fine morning, he’s on his way to work when a three-car collision locks up the motorway. He’s desperate to get around the crawl, so he takes the first exit he sees. He cuts through a suburb, slowing down like a good citizen, watching out for the kiddies on their way to school. That’s when he cruises past a house. Catches a glimpse of a man out on the driveway, checking his mailbox.’

‘Abraham Khan?’

‘Bingo. And from that point on, he drives past the Khan residence every single day. On his way to work. On his way back from work. His curiosity turns into obsession, and his obsession turns into loathing...’

‘And last night was the night he finally escalated. Went volcanic.’

‘Samir’s the first, but I’m betting he won’t be the last.’ Noah kept his eyes on the road and pulled a USB stick from his shirt pocket. He gave it to Maya. ‘Khan’s dossier. Maybe it’ll provide some perspective.’

‘Cheers.’

Maya got out her cellphone and plugged the USB stick in. She skimmed through the virtual pages. Most of the information confirmed what she already knew.

Abraham Khan was a writer who had sought refuge in New Zealand nine years ago. The government had granted him asylum on the basis of a double whammy—he was a persecuted Sufi Muslim in a predominantly Sunni society, and his dissident work had ruffled too many feathers. His controversial reputation had only grown since then.

Abraham’s Myers-Briggs psychological profile revealed that he fell under the ENFP range—Extraversion, iNtuition, Feeling, Perception. A champion of thoughts and ideas.

‘He reminds me of Charles Dickens,’ Maya said.

Noah frowned. ‘Charles Dickens?’

‘An idealist. A campaigner for what he believes to be just. Someone who provokes admiration just as much as he provokes hate. There’s no in between. No separation at all between the man and the ideas he promotes.’

‘Mm-hm. Interesting you should put it that way.  That idiot Jonah Vosen was on the radio this morning. Spouting the usual rubbish. But he did make a similar point—whether the country likes it or not, Abraham is a high-value political target.’

‘Yeah, he is. He will attract fanatics with views directly opposed to his own. They’ll be volatile. Emotionally charged. Irrational.’

‘I get you. They won’t just want to destroy him. They’ll want to destroy what he stands for.’

Noah took a turn-off and peeled away from the motorway. They entered the central business district. The iconic SkyTower loomed ahead, the highest in the entire southern hemisphere. The Pacifica Hotel, much smaller, lay a couple of streets down.

CHAPTER 10

Adam Larsen had been following the woman ever since he chose her at the train station. She was young and shapely, leaving behind a sweet scent in her wake. A real head-turner.

Most men would have found it hard not to stare. But Adam wasn’t swayed. Not even a little. Sure, he made it a point to keep the subject within his field of vision at all times. But, no, he never stared at her. Never ever. Experience had taught him that everyone had a sixth sense, no matter how faint, and the worst thing you could do was push too hard and set it off. The more intense your gaze, the greater the risk.

The subject veered off the footpath, entering a square, plunging into a flea market. Adam kept up. Close but not too close. The crowd thickened. Children squealed. Musicians performed. Vendors hawked their wares.

Adam breathed in the smell of barbecued food, his stomach rising and grumbling. He was way overdue for breakfast. He was tempted to grab a burger. Or maybe some chips. Something to munch on the go.

But he struck off the thought. Any diversion, no matter how slight, could be costly. He had to keep his hands free, his mind sharp. If he wasn’t careful, he would end up losing the subject in the crowd.

So he found himself looking directly at her more and more. Checking her position. Orienting himself in relation to her movements. Acting as if there was an invisible string binding him to her. Still, he never stared. Sure, the logic of it wasn’t science. More like superstitious voodoo. But he stuck to it anyway. Whenever he looked, he always did so quickly, smoothly and without lingering.

It wasn’t a terribly efficient routine. Not in the least. But, heck, he didn’t have many options to play with. Here he was running solo without a team, even though a team was exactly what you needed in a situation like this. Individual operators could take turns shadowing a subject, swapping places ever so often, minimising the chances of exposure.

Adam clucked his tongue. For a moment, he found himself missing the good old days at Section One. Back when Nathan Raines was boss.

Just ahead, the subject scooted to a stop, checking out a stall displaying homemade jewellery. They glinted blue, green and purple in the sunlight. Made from the polished shells of
paua
harvested from the sea.

Was this a counter-surveillance move? Surely not. But Adam decided to play it safe anyway. He walked right past the subject, looking straight ahead, taking up position beside a tree where a boy was strumming his guitar. He smiled and nodded, pretending to watch and appreciate.

When the subject started moving again, Adam waited until she had brushed past him. Then he tossed a coin into the boy’s guitar case and tailed her once more.

The subject exited the flea market, crossed the street and approached a line of shops. She stepped into one—the kind that sold knick-knacks for two dollars or less. Adam took a breath and exhaled slowly. Tight, enclosed environments with a single point of entry/exit were always dicey. To make things worse, shops like these had very narrow aisles. Tough to manoeuvre and almost impossible to keep a safe enough distance.

Not good.

Don’t box her in
.
Give her some space.

So he backtracked and sat down on a bench opposite the shop. Getting out his cellphone, he pretended to fiddle with it. Two ducks waddled over from a nearby pond and quacked at his feet, expecting food, but he barely noticed them. He was observing the shop’s windows, catching glimpses of the subject as she browsed within.

For sure, he wasn’t close enough to make out what exactly she was looking at or what she had decided to buy. But that wasn’t the point. The point was to stay clear until the subject came back out into the open. Once that happened, he would be all set to re-engage.