The bedroom closet had provided Viktor with everything he needed for his change of appearance. One of Terrance's operatives had done the shopping from Viktor's list of clothing and makeup items, it was all there.

A man with a fair complexion would look ridiculous in heavy makeup, and that in turn would attract attention. Viktor showered and shaved before donning the wig that left light brown curls covering the back of his neck. He had chosen a white blouse with a ruffled collar to wear under the dark blue pants suit, and the much needed padded bra.

A dash of makeup to accentuate the eyes and give his cheeks a slight bit of color, and a bit of gloss on the lips, that was all he needed. The shoes were sensibly business like, flat leather with low heels and the color a shade lighter than the suit. It was springtime in Washington and occasional showers dictated a raincoat which could also hide a weapon.

But there was no sense in carrying around the SR-2, or any other firearm, especially if he had to pass through metal detectors. He would carry an umbrella with a two foot sword built into the handle. The designer shoulder bag carried odds and ends, most of them meaningless items to him but things a woman might have. He was ready to go the moment it got dark.

The neighbors might notice a well-dressed woman leaving the house by taxi, but that knowledge would mean nothing to them. The cab arrived in the driveway about seven-thirty as the day was fading to gray, and they pulled out headed for the parkway which would take them across the Potomac and into Washington.

Viktor enjoyed the ride, especially after they crossed the river on Route 66 and drove past the Kennedy Center. Less than a quarter mile away, across from the notorious Watergate complex, sat the Royal Embassy of Saudi Arabia.

The Saudi oil minister, Ali Al-Niami, would be staying there when he arrived, but the embassy was a poor place to target anyone. Too many trees around the entrance, Viktor thought. Security would be tight for the minister and his entourage, but plans had changed in the last month. Al-Niami was no longer the target...there was now someone far more important.

The death of Saudi King Abdullah had brought about a shuffling within the various important ministries. King Salman was the new leader of the Saudi royal family and like most kings he placed his own people in high profile positions. Whereas Al-Niami had been in uncontested charge of the Saudi oil for decades he now faced a new challenge.

Prince Abdulaziz bin Salman al-Saud, son of the new king, was now the deputy minister, having been promoted from an assistant position. Oil was vital to the nation and a new deputy with such close ties to the king would have a lot to say about the future. Terrance and the Kingpins decided he needed to go.

With the embassy such a hard nut to crack, Viktor had shifted his focus to the venue for the financial conference. The Washington Hilton was off Florida Avenue and was well remembered as the site of the failed assassination attempt on Ronald Regan back in 1981 by John Hinckley.

A successful assassination at the hotel would make a statement Terrance had decided. Targeting the Saudi royal family would leave the oil ministry vulnerable for just the right amount of time, and then the Kingpins could make their move. If all went well the seventy-nine year old Al-Niami would be immediately retired and their man would move into his place.

Viktor had studied diagrams and photos of the hotel's main entrance, a broad circular driveway with only a small portico leading to the entrance doors. Despite his many months at the Russian Embassy in years past Viktor had never been to this hotel. But the photos showed him that a high angle shot was possible from several buildings either on Connecticut Avenue or T Street.

The Marriot Courtyard was directly across Connecticut but there were no windows on the end of the nine story building, whereas the Churchill Hotel next door had lots of windows facing the Hilton's entrance. A suite of rooms on the seventh floor had been booked the moment Terrance learned about the conference.

The taxi rode up New Hampshire Avenue in the early evening darkness and Viktor glimpsed familiar sights from the not too distant past. His run several days ago had left little time for sightseeing, especially once he mounted that motorcycle. What a shame to lose it to the likes of the FBI who could not appreciate a well-made machine.

Viktor enjoyed the memories of his time racing motorcycles during his college days. By chance he had managed to purchase a used 1982 Bultaco, one of the last units made by the company in Spain. It had been lovingly restored and served him well until the Army decided they had other plans.

The taxi driver rounded Washington Circle and headed north on New Hampshire. They sat at a stoplight several blocks from DuPont Circle and Viktor casually glanced at the pedestrians on the sidewalks. Homosexuals, these were Michael's people, Viktor thought.

The dossier on his opponent was brief, but his sexual proclivities were not considered important compared to his more dangerous skills. The thrill of showing himself to the enemy at the amusement park had been a necessary part of Viktor's plan to keep them focused on him in the coming days. But Terrance would not have approved.

Viktor knew the moment he walked into the airport that the American security forces would recognize him. Their technical ability at such things was unsurpassed whereas the Russian system would have used trained human watchers. The GRU and FSB had thousands of such people in Moscow alone but Viktor would have tossed them all for one good computer program.

The taxi rounded the circle and headed north on Connecticut. It would be fun to encounter Michael on the street here while in this disguise, a real challenge ...

"Will you want the main lobby entrance?" the taxi driver asked.

"I believe so," Viktor answered. The voice he used was that of Frau Leibowitz, the woman who lived across the hall in his Berlin apartment. A widow, she had taken to inviting Viktor in for afternoon tea when he was there and her deep voice and mild German accent were easy to imitate, but her job fascinated him.

Leibowitz was a feature editor for the Berliner Morgenpost, the second most read newspaper in the city. She was a bright and intelligent woman, one of the few Viktor felt he was allowed to like ... and she had her uses.

The taxi pulled up into the circle in front of the Hilton and the driver hopped out to open the passenger door. This was unheard of in America, but then the driver was of Spanish origin and probably hoping for a big tip. Viktor smiled and handed the man a hundred dollar bill for the seventy dollar fare.

"Gracias ... thank you," the driver beamed a grateful smile.

"You're most welcome ... have a good evening," Viktor said and turned for the lobby doors.

The grand lobby of this signature hotel in the Hilton chain would soon be transformed as the convention descended upon the town, but for now it just seemed vast and quiet. Viktor stood at the edge of the plush carpet and looked around, that was all it took to have an employee approach.

"May I help you?" the young woman asked.

This would be a true test of the disguise from the viewpoint of another woman.

"I'm supposed to meet someone in the coffee shop," Viktor said.

"Yes, Ma'am ... The Coffee Bean is just down the hall to your left," she said, and then paused. "Berlin, am I right?"

Viktor raised his eyebrows. So forward these Americans ... intrusive ... but he smiled at her and nodded. "Halensee ... are you familiar with the city?"

"Not really, I spent a summer in Templehof ... a lovely city."

"Yes it is," Viktor said. "Coffee shop is this way?"

"Yes, Ma'am ... just down the hall. Enjoy your evening."

Viktor nodded and headed down the hall. He was pleased, feeling like he had passed some kind of test. But the young woman would remember the German lady she had met although it would mean nothing in the course of events during the following week.

He passed the smaller lobby for the rear entrance and looked at it curiously. He had rejected this as a means for the Saudi delegation to enter the hotel since it just wasn't big enough for the mob of press people who would be there. The Arabs were big media fans although Viktor didn't think they had much to crow about.

He had been in Riyadh twice while in transit to the location of a kill mission. The country was oppressively hot and the people did not seem friendly to outsiders. Money was all they cared about and every bit of it seemed to come from the oil beneath the sandy soil.

Saudi Arabia was the birthplace of Islam and like most religions Viktor had no time for such nonsense. He didn't believe in an afterlife which promised rewards beyond this mortal existence. Life was what you made of it and when your time came it ended. He had no moral feelings about the killing he performed ... it was a job, and he was obviously good at it.

The coffee shop was on his left as he passed the open doors and made his way to the bank of elevators. He pushed the button and waited with several others for the doors to open. When they did he punched the button for the lower level that led to the underground parking garage.

In any security assessment for a group of people who might be under threat the use of an underground entrance to the objective was desirable, but the Saudis would not sneak in this way. He exited the elevator and glanced at the cavernous space with its low ceiling and then turned towards the entrance ramp.

There was a guard station with only one man in it, but that would soon change. The Saudis could afford heightened security and so there would be armed watchers at every entrance when the Arab delegation arrived. There was little chance of a distance shot down here. No, he would stick with the original plan.

The delegation would arrive in several limousines and there would be some security vehicles traveling in the convoy up New Hampshire Avenue from the embassy. Viktor figured six or seven in the delegation and a dozen security men. They would be the easy ones to pick out.

The Saudi ministers would probably wear the traditional Arab garb. A throbe worn under a cloak called a bisht was standard dress, topped off with a head covering called a kaffiyeh. It would be difficult to pick out the personality wearing such garments if not for the fact that the ibal, which held the kaffiyeh in place like a crown, was so distinctive in top echelon men.

The prince would have the richest looking ibal denoting his royal affiliation and although Al-Niami was still the minister Viktor figured he would show in in a western style suit and tie. Surveillance photos showed the man in traditional Arab dress, but that was in his home country. Here the power option was a suit and tie, Al-Niami knew that.

The man had gone to university in America during his years of graduate studies and returned home to become the head of Aramco, the oil conglomerate that plumbed the depths of the Arabian Peninsula for oil. At the moment his position as oil minister was tenuous due to the price fluctuation of crude on the markets of the world. Like everyone else the Saudi government had to blame someone for their losses.

Viktor returned to the elevator and rode back up to the lobby level. Once there he exited the rear doors to avoid running into the woman employee in the main lobby. He stopped on the sidewalk and smiled. This is where Hinckley had shot the President ... not a very effective assassination attempt but then the man was just crazy.

He took the sidewalk up the hill towards Connecticut Avenue and stood at the corner looking across at the Churchill Hotel. He would move in the following week and enjoy three days in the hotel suite before the Arabs arrived, time enough to scout out a rooftop position.

The Washington field office was still humming with activity when Michael and Robert returned. Between the passive surveillance from the CCTV cameras around town to the dozens of agents on the street it seemed like they would find something, some clue as to Viktor's whereabouts.

Nancy's digital portrait was waiting for them and Rebecca called up several images on her monitor screen.

"She made six different portraits," Rebecca said. "Varied hair coloring and length, eye treatments and skin coloring. Viktor doesn't make a particularly attractive woman ... I guess that's the point."

"Nothing memorable is the best kind of disguise," Michael said. "Remember, he's from countries like Ukraine, Russia, and of late, Germany. He would go for plain and not attractive. The image would have to fit the voice and the ethnicity he's chosen to represent."

"Why go to all this trouble?" Rebecca asked.

"He needs freedom of movement and he knows we're watching," Robert said.

"It's more than that," Michael said. "He could plant a bomb days in advance in hopes a security sweep wouldn't find it and then remotely detonate. But that could always fail to kill the target and Viktor is not a person to fail at his task."

"You still think it will be a sniper attack?"

"It's his greatest skill. A disguise will allow him to move around, check out the kill zone and the traffic patterns around it. That's what I would do."

Rebecca raised her eyebrows and gave Michael a look, but Robert put a finger to his lips to silence any comments.

"The most vulnerable time for a target of assassination is that small window of opportunity when he stands alone. Entering or leaving a building, getting in and out of a car, or even standing in a hotel room too close to a window ... these are all things good security teams would prevent. Huddle masses of people around a target and you obstruct a sniper from doing his job."

"But we still don't know who the target is?" Rebecca said.

"That comes next ... how are the lists coming?" Michael asked.

"Data is still coming in ... "

"Let me see what you have so far," Michael said.

The lists were long and comprehensive. Michael knew he could ignore anything political or charitable as the Kingpins were not in the business of taking over such entities. Viktor would shoot someone's grandmother if ordered to do so but family related events were also discounted. No, it had to be business ... big business ... the higher the stakes the better.

Eliminating someone at the top of an organization left a void for some deputy or assistant to step in. These secondary leaders would be the kind of people the Kingpins would bribe or threaten. Families were vulnerable leverage to use on a man's sense of loyalty to his bosses. It was a long shot but Michael suggested they check Interpol for any reports of kidnapping.

Azerbaijan, the Russian Republic on the Caspian Sea just north of Iran. The State Oil Academy in the city of Baku had been overrun by a small force of terrorists ... Islamic separatists, most likely funded by radicals in Iran. A small group of students, their teachers and employees of the Oil Ministry were taken hostage.

Hostage situations were tenuous at best, especially when religious fanatics felt as if they had nothing to lose. The Russians sent in a Spetsnaz force that overcame the terrorists but ended up losing half of the hostages in the cross-fire. A poor result that was decried across the country by parents and religious leaders.

The intel for the Spetsnaz group was a complete failure since they allowed the main terrorist leader to escape. Azad Mamishov, a common name for an uncommon man of the Azeri people. His ties to the Iranian mullahs of the conservative wing were undeniable, but it took Viktor's Alpha Unit to discover who he was.

Azad spent much of his time on the Iranian side of the border in a city called Astara on the shores of the Caspian. He would travel back and forth across the border in a fishing boat owned by his brother's family. This was the easy way to avoid border security and keep his movements secret.

Lankarin, the only costal city in Azerbaijan with an international airport, was only thirty miles up the coast, a convenient place for Azad to catch a plane to Tehran where he could meet with his associates. It was also convenient for Viktor's team of four to arrive in the city without notice.

Their equipment bore the logo and name of Gazprom and their identification said they were scientists for the oil industry. Alpha had its own network of spies augmenting the somewhat dubious intelligence from the FSB. The spies learned of Azad's brother and began to watch the family closely ... and that surveillance paid off.

It was learned that Azad would take his family on holiday to Lankarin to see football games, shop in the bazar and attend the Kichik Bazar Mosque. This was confirmed when Azid's brother made reservations at the Khan Lankarin, a beautiful five-star hotel.

The family arrived on the brother's boat and took a taxi to the hotel. They had taken a suite of rooms and dined in the hotel restaurant on that first evening. Unknown to them, Viktor also dined alone on the other side of the room to observe his target.

Mother, father and three children. A young teenage boy and two pre-adolescent girls a few years younger. Azad was thought to be a strict Muslim and yet here, away from the Iranian influence, the family dressed in western styles of clothing. The wife was pretty, the children adorable, and yet Viktor felt no remorse about the necessity of killing Azad.

Alpha obtained a plumber's van and scouted the streets around the bazar for a shooting point. It was Viktor who decided the hotel entrance was the best spot since the van could be parked on the other side of the front lot with easy access to the highway.

The family was up early the following day, perhaps to say their prayers before sunrise as custom dictated. But they were off on a shopping trip to the bazar and once they left the plumber's van pulled into position to await their return.

They had unpacked the SVDK rifle hidden in the secret compartment below the soil analyzing device from Gazprom. A heavy sniper's tool, but it had a ten round magazine filled with armor piercing shells ... Viktor did not plan to miss. And so they waited, listening to the man they had following the family as he called in the positions by phone.

The driver would open the spring loaded rear cargo doors when the family was approaching the hotel and resume his seat behind the wheel. The interior of the van had been hung with layers of carpet to muffle the sound of the shots. An SVDK did not have the advantage of noise suppression but the large caliber assured Viktor that the bullet could pierce the walls of a taxi to reach the target. And so they waited.

Viktor could hear the rustle of a newspaper as the driver appeared to be reading while eating his lunch. There in the shade of the oak trees bordering the parking lot Viktor would have a clear shot down the open traffic lanes to the hotel entrance which was no more than one hundred and sixty meters away. And the phone rang.

On their way back, the driver said, and he got out to open the rear doors. Viktor was lying on a carpet with stacks of newspaper around him like a cocoon. He would be hard to see from the outside but the barrel of the rifle rested on a short pile of sandbags. It would only be minutes now ... and he began to relax.

His mind tumbled back to the early days of his sports training in Makiivka. At nine years of age he came under the tutelage of a top coach who taught him to run. Alexi Koperoff worked his little protégé nearly to death and yet promised him that one day he would be a star.

Little Viktor enjoyed the attention and the perks of being one of Alexi's star pupils. He received the best food and clothing and he doted on the attentions of this man. The running made his body stronger and often gave him pain which Alexi soothed with liniment and massage. It was these times that taught Viktor to relax.

Of course the hands and fingers also wandered to various private parts of his body and yet Viktor understood Alexi was favoring him with these touches. When puberty came a few years into his training Viktor's body yearned for that touch and the physical reactions it produced. It wasn't until he left the junior school that Viktor realized Alexi was just a dirty old man.

Even now as Viktor lay in waiting for his target he could feel the arousal that swelled beneath his body from all these thoughts. He wasn't a homosexual although the activities he shared with Alexi certainly would be in that category. Ejaculation was the ultimate form of relaxation and so even in the upper school Viktor enjoyed the attentions of older boys.

Joining the Army had introduced him to women and Viktor sought out the ones who would use their hands and fingers much as Alexi had done. These whores would do anything to satisfy a man for the money and just because they were women Viktor thought of his odd desires as normal.

The phone rang again and the driver said the target was approaching the hotel. Viktor steadied the rifle on the sandbags and peered through the scope at the doors to the hotel. He would go for a shot in the center of the target's chest, exploding the heart and causing instant death. But the best of plans never seem to work out well.

The taxi pulled up in the driveway and a man got out ... Azad. His family exited around him and then Azad took a step up onto the hotel steps. A clear shot and Viktor squeezed the trigger just as the son stepped in front of his father. A quick flash of a smiling boy's face and then the son's head exploded, splattering gore all over his father.

Viktor kept his focus on the target and tried another shot, but this time the wife got in the way and she went down. Viktor swore as he watched the man grab his daughters and turn his back to clutch them in his protective arms. A broad back and Viktor pulled the trigger four times punching holes in Azad's body.

The protective move for his daughters was a fatal mistake for them as the AP bullets pierced Azad and tore into the little girls. There was now a pile of bodies on the front steps of the hotel and Viktor yanked on the rope which released the catch on the rear doors of the van and they slammed shut. That was the signal for the driver and he drove the van out the parking lot exit and onto the highway heading for the harbor.

Viktor laid his head on the stock of the rifle and groaned. The target was certainly dead but the collateral damage was horrific. In his mind he could still see the son smiling the second before his head exploded. Viktor felt cursed, and he knew that image would remain in his mind forever.

There were nights when Viktor awoke in a cold sweat after dreaming about that image. He could tell himself that it had all been an accident but there was no comfort in that. He might be a sociopath as his commander had said, but he did not kill women and children with any sense of accomplishment.

It was a short time after Azad's assassination that Viktor left the Spetsnaz Alpha Group and was sent off to the embassy in Washington. He had never killed in this country and the Saudi prince would be his first. But this was America and his adversaries were formidable, especially with Michael on the opposing team.

To banish the bad dreams he would roll out of bed and begin his regimen of exercises. Physical exertion helped him focus, and here in Virginia he could not become lax and allow his body to soften. He wanted to run again, but only days before an assignment he could not risk being seen. What was it the Americans said? What a load of bullshit.

Terrance was in a real pickle. He knew the international police and intelligence agencies were on his trail and he could not afford to be taken before he met with his Principals contact. At the rate he was going he would run out of funds in a few short weeks and didn't feel comfortable walking into a bank to access his accounts.

No, he needed cash, and Ivan would have plenty of that on hand. From the window of the small visitor's apartment off Jumeira Road Terrance could look out on the sunbaked public beach and the vast stretch of the Persian Gulf beyond. This was Dubai where big money supplied anonymity even for westerners, but only if they stayed off the streets.

Terrance had his forged Canadian passport which had gained him access to the country where he was supposed to meet Ivan once he called. But the satellite phone remained silent as it sat in the charger beside the television which blabbered news for most of the day ... at least it was in English.

In the near distance Terrance could hear the music and squeals of delighted children emanating from the Wild Wadi Water Park two blocks away. He was sure Ivan and several of the Principals were living in comfort somewhere in the Palm Jumeirah, that vast neighborhood of wealthy homes built on man-made islands in the Gulf.

They would be there with the unnamed replacement for Prince Abdulaziz bin Salman of the Saudi Oil Ministry. That made Terrance smile since he had faith in Viktor's abilities to permanently remove the current prince. He would probably hear of it first on the television news just before the Saudis went nuts at the assassination on American soil.

Of course he was puzzled that Viktor had not been in direct contact since arriving in the United States. They had several special email accounts for information exchange but nothing had been posted. Terrance's operatives had confirmed that Viktor was in the Virginia house but they were forbidden to contact him.

The FBI and Homeland Security certainly knew Viktor was in the country and they would remain focused on him. It was a risk they had to take because the changes here in the Middle East were only newsworthy if they became violent and so far this might all slip under the radar of American intelligence.

The Prince was due to leave Riyadh tomorrow for the conference. Terrance certainly hoped Viktor was all lined up ... but where the hell was Ivan with his money? There was a tap on the door and Terrance turned from the window glancing at his suitcase on the bureau before remembering he had no weapon ... did it matter?

Another tap and the door burst open shattering the frame as it slammed against the wall.

"Down ... .down," came the screamed command as several commando types burst into the room pointing assault guns and ready to shoot.

Terrance raised his hands and sank to his knees. Two of the men pushed him to the floor and bound his hands behind his back. He didn't struggle, what was the use? And then he looked up to see a pair of polished combat boots beside his head.

"Good Afternoon, Mr. Bolton," a voice said from above.

Terrance turned his head and twisted to look up at the man addressing him. A black uniform, impeccably cleaned and pressed, and then a shaved head with a long scar across one side.

"Do you remember me? Perhaps not, we met under different circumstances."

The man spoke impeccable English and Terrance's mind tumbled through the list of Arabs he had known in the past until he came to one he had hoped to never see again.

"Captain Bishara," Terrance said.

"Very good ... only now it is Colonel Bishara, and this time you will be my guest."

This is not going to turn out well, Terrance thought ... and the Colonel kicked him in the face to prove it.

The Saudi Arabian Royal flight left the runway at Riyadh King Khalid airport right on time as befit the important passengers it held. They were bound for Paris to pick up a few people and then would fly to Washington, D.C.

Prince Abdulaziz bin Salman al-Saud leaned back in his comfortable chair and idly watched the vast expanse of desert as the plane gained altitude. Such a dry and inhospitable land, he thought, and yet his people had endured here for centuries on so little.

The economy of oil had changed the face of the Middle East and Saudi oil had led the way to greater changes ... for now. It produced enough money to transform desert villages into modern cities, and yet seventy percent of their needs still came from outside.

The Minister of Agriculture was a cousin who assured him that crop production was improving, but only in limited areas. The desert ruled their lives and always would, but that seemed to suit the Bedouin quite well, or at least it used to.

The Prince smiled to himself as he remembered his visit to a nomadic encampment in the south. Agriculture down there did well, especially near the Yemeni border. Here there were modern farms producing crops to feed his people which also allowed them some of the luxuries seen in the rest of the country.

His tour had taken him to a school where the children were exposed to computer technology and video games. The nearby Bedouin sent their children to this school and they sat in awe of the modern devices they saw. It wouldn't be long before they would be clamoring for their parents to obtain such luxuries. The idea of a goat skin tent with a satellite dish had made him laugh.

His people were still considered poor ... perhaps not financially but only a small percentage was highly educated. Oil money could teach the children to a point, but tribal customs would have to change to make anything happen beyond that.

Allah did not inspire his prophet enough to make these changes possible, the Prince thought, or perhaps the Imams were misleading the people. Religion had a place in modern society but in his estimation it was controlled by uneducated men who barred the way for progress.

Unfortunately his father was not a king who would make any quick changes in the way their society operated. He would listen to his advisors and perhaps more to his sons, but decisions would be slow in coming because of tradition. The past still had a stranglehold on today. The Prince sighed ... it was enough to drive any man crazy ... and then he felt the hand on his knee and turned to look.

The sight of his youngest son always made him smile ... family was everything.

"Yes, Ashaz?"

"My father ... are we really going to fly across an ocean?"

"In fact we will fly across an ocean and a sea, my son."

The boy was five and grinned. "What is the difference between a sea and an ocean, my father?"

Ever curious, this one. "A sea is surrounded by land while an ocean spans the whole world. Do you still have that picture book we gave you?"

"Yes ... Nanna brought it."

"Go fetch it and we shall read it together."

The boy hurried off, dodging the servant who was moving up the aisle.

"Would Your Highness like some refreshment?" The man asked.

"Maybe later. Go ask the pilot when we will reach the Mediterranean Sea. My son will enjoy the view."

"Yes, Your Highness, right away."

The days ahead will be difficult ... better to pay attention to family now while he had the time. Financial conferences were terminally boring but necessary and at least this one was in an interesting place. Like many of his people he saw his country's association with America as a necessity because of Iran.

The Americans had depended on Saudi oil for decades, although now they were producing more of their own. That was unsustainable his experts told him because they just kept using more. The lack of a practical energy policy made them look like fools and yet their politicians in Washington played that role quite well.

The military issues with Iran were his father's greatest challenge. The only thing that kept the Iranians at bay was the projection of American military power, but how long would that last? The radical Shiite Imams of Iran wanted nuclear weapons, and the Prince had no doubt they would target Israel first and the Sunni Arabs of Saudi Arabia second.

A nuclear attack would end the world as they knew it and all the progress they had made so far would be meaningless. Of course the Americans thought they were doing their best to stop the Iranian nuclear program, but that was a fool's errand. A nuclear war would kill millions and end the oil industry in the Middle East ... it was unthinkable.

Ashaz was returning down the aisle with his picture book written in English. If things kept going the way they were in the world economy the next edition of that book might be in Chinese.

"Sit with me, my son, we will find a map of the world and you will know the greatness Allah has bequeathed us."

The boy squirmed into the seat with his father and opened the book.

On to Chapter Ten

Back to Chapter Eight

Chapter Index

Chris James Home Page

"No Reason to Kill" Copyright © Chris James. All rights reserved.
    This work may not be duplicated in any form (physical, electronic, audio, or otherwise) without the author's written permission. All applicable copyright laws apply. All individuals depicted are fictional with any resemblance to real persons being purely coincidental.

Home Page | Authors | Stories by the Writer Suggested Reading | Suggested Viewing | Links Privacy Policy | Terms of Service Send a Comment All Site Content © 2003 - 2024 Tarheel Writer unless otherwise noted Layout © 2003 - 2024 Tarheel Writer