Chapter 09
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Twenty-Five Minutes
** Washington **
Silently waiting for his luggage, Richard DeMarco stood in front of the concourse carousel. As the belt moved one dark leather bag after another past him, he looked up and studied the faces of the people populating the airport. Their expressions were either focused or haggard. "These people," he muttered disgustedly. "These blind and ignorant people." They were all hurrying about their business - meeting family, rushing toward ground transportation, chatting on cell phones, scurrying toward their next flight - and they shared one thing in common: they were all oblivious to the others walking around them.
'Typical Americans,' he thought, realizing only momentarily that perhaps - by some freakish chance - they were not all of American descent. However, he convinced himself, they were all as guilty. If they were here, then they served America - the evil, the giant, the behemoth, the inconsiderate, the hated, the indifferent. The country and anyone in it deserved what was about to happen - the first domino in a series of falling dominoes he was going to set in motion - the inevitable beginning of the inevitable ending. America wouldn't go out with a whimper, he trusted. He would make sure it went out with a bang.
'In good time,' he mused. 'All in good time.'
From behind him, Emile stepped up to the carousel.
"Can I help you with your baggage, sir?"
Sighing, DeMarco closed his eyes. "What did I tell you about calling me that?"
"I am only playing my part."
"Please. Go and play elsewhere."
Emile laughed. "Relax, cousin."
"I will relax once you have taken me very far away from this place."
"This place?" the young man asked. "What is wrong with this place?"
"There is nothing wrong with it," DeMarco replied. "I simply wish to be away from it."
"You always were far too nervous, cousin."
"And you always were far too young to know better, Emile."
"I'm telling you, Richard. Relax. You are in America. Americans like other Americans because they can relax."
"I am not American."
"Have you not heard the advice about how to behave in Rome?"
Ignoring the question, DeMarco watched the carousel. The bags were still filtering past, but he didn't see his yet.
"Emile?" he finally asked.
"Yes?"
"How long have you been in the States?"
The tuxedoed man shuffled his feet momentarily. "For a very long time."
"Has it affected you?"
"What do you mean?"
DeMarco watched as a beautiful young blonde woman leaned over and reached for her bag from the carousel. Struggling with the weight of the piece, she winced, and - to her surprise - a gentleman in a grey suit immediately came to her assistance. He tugged the suitcase off the belt, and he helped her right the parcel on its wheels. Smiling, she thanked him, and they went on their ways.
"Has it changed you?" DeMarco tried. "Has the great superpower made you - soft?"
Emile stiffened. "Have you ever known me to be taken with matters so trivial, cousin? Like you, I have never been soft."
"Have you become one of them?" DeMarco pressed.
"To know your enemy, you must become him, Richard."
"The man I just watched - he dropped everything he was doing in order to aid of a stranger - a beautiful blonde woman - someone he obviously did not know, someone who obviously meant nothing to him, someone he most likely would never see again in however long he lives his pitiful life." DeMarco cleared his throat before he asked, "Have you become a man like him?"
The younger man shrugged. "Your true meaning escapes me, Richard. If I did not know you, I would think that you were insulting me."
Smirking, DeMarco flashed his grin at his blood relation. "Cousin, I would not be so foolish as to insult you. But the blond woman who struggled with her suitcase. He stopped and helped her. Would you do the same? Would you help her, or would you let her learn for herself?"
"You place far too much meaning in a simple act of kindness," Emile countered. "After all, what lesson is there to be learned from lifting a suitcase? Eh?" Glancing around, the young man stuck his hands in his pockets. "I think - like you have always been - you take far too many things far too serious."
Slowly, the man nodded. "You may be right, but you have still not answered my question."
With an edge of annoyance in his voice, Emile flatly replied, "Nor am I here for your amusement. Cousin."
Finally, DeMarco saw his bag. It traveled the belt, and, when it reached his feet, he bent over and yanked it to his side.
"Thank you, Emile. Now, I am ready."
***
In the limousine, DeMarco watched the passing buildings - the corporate plazas, the closed shops, the dark homes - and he knew America was asleep. He wondered how many people were tucked into their beds, feeling safe, nuzzling a false security that the world - despite what they might've been raised to believe - was truly a safe haven for all of mankind. For all races. For all colors. He studied the homes, and he knew - by the lights twinkling through their windows, by the colorful décor along the eaves - that Americans lived their lives ignoring the suffering that much of the world - much of his world - endured on a regular basis. He saw their homes, and he grew angry.
"You have been preparing, as I've asked, no?" he said.
"Of course, Richard."
"You have been busy?"
Emile smiled. "I have been very busy. Certainly, I have kept myself far busier than you might think, cousin."
"Weapons?" DeMarco asked.
"As you've requested."
"Explosives?"
"More than you had hoped for, cousin."
"Is that so?"
"It is," the driver answered. "Do not be misled by what you hear on the American evening news. America is full of capitalists. Capitalists are only concerned with money. They make it far easier than you would guess to arm oneself with - shall we say - the necessary tools for a revolution?"
DeMarco nodded.
"Take me there."
"Richard?"
"Take me to see what you've collected," he ordered. The houses - the lovely, simply, decorative houses - had made him angry. Weapons always had a soothing effect on him. "I'd like to see - for myself - what these capitalists have provided you with, Emile."
"It's very late," the driver cautioned. "Are you certain that you wouldn't like to get some sleep? We could see the weapons in the morning. They will be waiting for you, as they are now."
Shaking his head, DeMarco faced his cousin. "Seeing them - it would give me great joy."
***
From a recess in the car's dash, Emile pulled the palm-sized activator. He held the black unit up and pressed the single button on its face. Activating the garage door, he sat back in the driver's seat.
"I have rented this space using the name of a dead American," he explained, chuckling.
"Is that so?"
"Yes," he answered. "I watched the newspapers for several months. Obituaries. They are printed every day. For such a great country, they certainly pride themselves of celebrating their dead. Even those who are insignificant." He sighed, taking his cap off and tossing in on the dash. "In America, no death is more important than any other. Over here, the butcher who dies in his sleep is given a printed history in the newspaper - as much as the soldier who dies in combat in some foreign land."
DeMarco smiled. "So you are saying - this garage has been rented by some dead butcher?"
Emile nodded. "A man named Carter. He died from natural causes at the age of seventy-three." Leaning forward, he watched as the garage door finally lifted clear of the opening. He shifted the car into drive and accelerated easily. "He is survived by his wife and three children. More than like, his children will sell the business in order to raise money for their mother to continue living peacefully."
"It is a shame - the things that children do to their parents."
Emile parked his limousine and turned the engine off.
"Like your father did to you, Richard?"
"No, no," the dark-eyed man answered. "What my father did to me was to prepare me for the role I would serve in life." Smiling, he added, "What I did to him - well, that was a necessary evil."
They both stepped from the car.
Along the wall, DeMarco studied several boxes stacked one atop the other. He walked over and read the markings printed on them. 'Ammunition.' 'Explosives.' 'Secured Transport.'
"Where will I find my pistol, cousin?"
Nodding, Emile moved in front of his relative, reaching down and hoisting one of the crates up, setting it on top of another larger one. He flipped a clasp and slid the top back, revealing a cache of several small handguns. The pistols were neatly packed within a foam housing, and each weapon had several associated magazines - filled with hollow-point bullets - tucked adjacent.
DeMarco languidly traced one of the Nine Millimeters with his index finger.
"Have you tested each of them?"
"More times than necessary, cousin."
The elder man smiled. "That is good to hear."
"Like you, Richard," Emile tried, "I do not wish failure upon us."
"Thank you, Emile."
DeMarco slipped one of the pistols into his hand. It fit wonderfully, perfectly balanced. It felt good, and the man couldn't remember the last time he had felt so at peace - certainly not since arriving on alien soil. Admiring the weapon's sleek lines, he casually flipped the safety into the 'off' position, pulled back the muzzle, loaded the firing chamber, and he turned to his cousin.
"Emile, I am very sorry that you will not see the fruits of your labor."
Gasping, Emile turned pale.
"I am very sorry, young cousin."
The gun barked loud in the quiet garage.
The well-dressed driver seized his chest with on open palm. Quickly, his hand was enveloped in blood. He coughed, briefly, and DeMarco smiled at the sound of the wet release of air, knowing he had taken his first step toward a grand destination.
Slowly, his eyes fluttering and his hand trembling, Emile slumped to the floor with his last breath - dead.
END of Chapter 09
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Twenty-Five Minutes
** Washington **
Silently waiting for his luggage, Richard DeMarco stood in front of the concourse carousel. As the belt moved one dark leather bag after another past him, he looked up and studied the faces of the people populating the airport. Their expressions were either focused or haggard. "These people," he muttered disgustedly. "These blind and ignorant people." They were all hurrying about their business - meeting family, rushing toward ground transportation, chatting on cell phones, scurrying toward their next flight - and they shared one thing in common: they were all oblivious to the others walking around them.
'Typical Americans,' he thought, realizing only momentarily that perhaps - by some freakish chance - they were not all of American descent. However, he convinced himself, they were all as guilty. If they were here, then they served America - the evil, the giant, the behemoth, the inconsiderate, the hated, the indifferent. The country and anyone in it deserved what was about to happen - the first domino in a series of falling dominoes he was going to set in motion - the inevitable beginning of the inevitable ending. America wouldn't go out with a whimper, he trusted. He would make sure it went out with a bang.
'In good time,' he mused. 'All in good time.'
From behind him, Emile stepped up to the carousel.
"Can I help you with your baggage, sir?"
Sighing, DeMarco closed his eyes. "What did I tell you about calling me that?"
"I am only playing my part."
"Please. Go and play elsewhere."
Emile laughed. "Relax, cousin."
"I will relax once you have taken me very far away from this place."
"This place?" the young man asked. "What is wrong with this place?"
"There is nothing wrong with it," DeMarco replied. "I simply wish to be away from it."
"You always were far too nervous, cousin."
"And you always were far too young to know better, Emile."
"I'm telling you, Richard. Relax. You are in America. Americans like other Americans because they can relax."
"I am not American."
"Have you not heard the advice about how to behave in Rome?"
Ignoring the question, DeMarco watched the carousel. The bags were still filtering past, but he didn't see his yet.
"Emile?" he finally asked.
"Yes?"
"How long have you been in the States?"
The tuxedoed man shuffled his feet momentarily. "For a very long time."
"Has it affected you?"
"What do you mean?"
DeMarco watched as a beautiful young blonde woman leaned over and reached for her bag from the carousel. Struggling with the weight of the piece, she winced, and - to her surprise - a gentleman in a grey suit immediately came to her assistance. He tugged the suitcase off the belt, and he helped her right the parcel on its wheels. Smiling, she thanked him, and they went on their ways.
"Has it changed you?" DeMarco tried. "Has the great superpower made you - soft?"
Emile stiffened. "Have you ever known me to be taken with matters so trivial, cousin? Like you, I have never been soft."
"Have you become one of them?" DeMarco pressed.
"To know your enemy, you must become him, Richard."
"The man I just watched - he dropped everything he was doing in order to aid of a stranger - a beautiful blonde woman - someone he obviously did not know, someone who obviously meant nothing to him, someone he most likely would never see again in however long he lives his pitiful life." DeMarco cleared his throat before he asked, "Have you become a man like him?"
The younger man shrugged. "Your true meaning escapes me, Richard. If I did not know you, I would think that you were insulting me."
Smirking, DeMarco flashed his grin at his blood relation. "Cousin, I would not be so foolish as to insult you. But the blond woman who struggled with her suitcase. He stopped and helped her. Would you do the same? Would you help her, or would you let her learn for herself?"
"You place far too much meaning in a simple act of kindness," Emile countered. "After all, what lesson is there to be learned from lifting a suitcase? Eh?" Glancing around, the young man stuck his hands in his pockets. "I think - like you have always been - you take far too many things far too serious."
Slowly, the man nodded. "You may be right, but you have still not answered my question."
With an edge of annoyance in his voice, Emile flatly replied, "Nor am I here for your amusement. Cousin."
Finally, DeMarco saw his bag. It traveled the belt, and, when it reached his feet, he bent over and yanked it to his side.
"Thank you, Emile. Now, I am ready."
***
In the limousine, DeMarco watched the passing buildings - the corporate plazas, the closed shops, the dark homes - and he knew America was asleep. He wondered how many people were tucked into their beds, feeling safe, nuzzling a false security that the world - despite what they might've been raised to believe - was truly a safe haven for all of mankind. For all races. For all colors. He studied the homes, and he knew - by the lights twinkling through their windows, by the colorful décor along the eaves - that Americans lived their lives ignoring the suffering that much of the world - much of his world - endured on a regular basis. He saw their homes, and he grew angry.
"You have been preparing, as I've asked, no?" he said.
"Of course, Richard."
"You have been busy?"
Emile smiled. "I have been very busy. Certainly, I have kept myself far busier than you might think, cousin."
"Weapons?" DeMarco asked.
"As you've requested."
"Explosives?"
"More than you had hoped for, cousin."
"Is that so?"
"It is," the driver answered. "Do not be misled by what you hear on the American evening news. America is full of capitalists. Capitalists are only concerned with money. They make it far easier than you would guess to arm oneself with - shall we say - the necessary tools for a revolution?"
DeMarco nodded.
"Take me there."
"Richard?"
"Take me to see what you've collected," he ordered. The houses - the lovely, simply, decorative houses - had made him angry. Weapons always had a soothing effect on him. "I'd like to see - for myself - what these capitalists have provided you with, Emile."
"It's very late," the driver cautioned. "Are you certain that you wouldn't like to get some sleep? We could see the weapons in the morning. They will be waiting for you, as they are now."
Shaking his head, DeMarco faced his cousin. "Seeing them - it would give me great joy."
***
From a recess in the car's dash, Emile pulled the palm-sized activator. He held the black unit up and pressed the single button on its face. Activating the garage door, he sat back in the driver's seat.
"I have rented this space using the name of a dead American," he explained, chuckling.
"Is that so?"
"Yes," he answered. "I watched the newspapers for several months. Obituaries. They are printed every day. For such a great country, they certainly pride themselves of celebrating their dead. Even those who are insignificant." He sighed, taking his cap off and tossing in on the dash. "In America, no death is more important than any other. Over here, the butcher who dies in his sleep is given a printed history in the newspaper - as much as the soldier who dies in combat in some foreign land."
DeMarco smiled. "So you are saying - this garage has been rented by some dead butcher?"
Emile nodded. "A man named Carter. He died from natural causes at the age of seventy-three." Leaning forward, he watched as the garage door finally lifted clear of the opening. He shifted the car into drive and accelerated easily. "He is survived by his wife and three children. More than like, his children will sell the business in order to raise money for their mother to continue living peacefully."
"It is a shame - the things that children do to their parents."
Emile parked his limousine and turned the engine off.
"Like your father did to you, Richard?"
"No, no," the dark-eyed man answered. "What my father did to me was to prepare me for the role I would serve in life." Smiling, he added, "What I did to him - well, that was a necessary evil."
They both stepped from the car.
Along the wall, DeMarco studied several boxes stacked one atop the other. He walked over and read the markings printed on them. 'Ammunition.' 'Explosives.' 'Secured Transport.'
"Where will I find my pistol, cousin?"
Nodding, Emile moved in front of his relative, reaching down and hoisting one of the crates up, setting it on top of another larger one. He flipped a clasp and slid the top back, revealing a cache of several small handguns. The pistols were neatly packed within a foam housing, and each weapon had several associated magazines - filled with hollow-point bullets - tucked adjacent.
DeMarco languidly traced one of the Nine Millimeters with his index finger.
"Have you tested each of them?"
"More times than necessary, cousin."
The elder man smiled. "That is good to hear."
"Like you, Richard," Emile tried, "I do not wish failure upon us."
"Thank you, Emile."
DeMarco slipped one of the pistols into his hand. It fit wonderfully, perfectly balanced. It felt good, and the man couldn't remember the last time he had felt so at peace - certainly not since arriving on alien soil. Admiring the weapon's sleek lines, he casually flipped the safety into the 'off' position, pulled back the muzzle, loaded the firing chamber, and he turned to his cousin.
"Emile, I am very sorry that you will not see the fruits of your labor."
Gasping, Emile turned pale.
"I am very sorry, young cousin."
The gun barked loud in the quiet garage.
The well-dressed driver seized his chest with on open palm. Quickly, his hand was enveloped in blood. He coughed, briefly, and DeMarco smiled at the sound of the wet release of air, knowing he had taken his first step toward a grand destination.
Slowly, his eyes fluttering and his hand trembling, Emile slumped to the floor with his last breath - dead.
END of Chapter 09