I said, “But the UMP stock can fold over, making it a hell of a lot shorter.”

He pushed a button right at the buffer spring, and I’ll be damned if the buttstock didn’t swing over, much like the UMP.

He said, “Only difference is you can’t operate the weapon this way. It’ll fire exactly once, but we never assault with a folded UMP anyway.”

I grinned and said, “So, you don’t have a vested interest in this experiment, do you?”

“Only because I’ve hated the bastard who brought the UMP into the Taskforce before I got there. Some asshole who always thought he knew best.”

Which, of course, would be me. And he knew it.

I said, “Touché. Get them outfitted. I’m assuming the pistols are the same, unless you decided that we need to start using dart guns.”

He grinned and said, “Nope. Same ol’ Glocks.”

Shoshana was gazing at the armament in lust, like a pothead entering a Colorado marijuana store for the first time. She stroked one of the systems and said, “May I?”

Happy at the interest, Knuckles said, “Sure.”

Jennifer tugged my sleeve, saying, “Can I pull you away from the commando wet dream for a moment?”

I grinned and followed her. Out of earshot from the others, she said, “Did you hear what I said earlier? About the Lost Boys?”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard. What do you want me to do about it?”

“I want the reports. I want to see them for myself.”

In the old days, when I really was a Cro-Magnon, I would have just told her to stow it, but Jennifer had shown a unique ability to solve problems others had missed. In this case, the problem set wasn’t ours. We were after a different terrorist. I settled for logic to dissuade her.

I said, “Look, they did a complete scrub on Hussein. It all came up empty. He had no connections to anyone who went to Syria. Shit, even the school they found him in was closed down after he left.”

“What for?”

“I didn’t read the report, but apparently it was a pretty heinous place. Some kids killed a guard, and in the ensuing investigation to find them, they found out the school was hell on earth. Now the people running it are on trial. Apparently, they got what they deserved. Hussein is exactly what the name said. A fucking lost boy, looking for something to make his life worth a damn.”

She looked out the window, thinking. I said, “What?”

“Can I get the reports? Please?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I just can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing a piece. I just want to make sure there’s nobody else looking for something to make his life worth a damn.”

45

Walking across the famous Bridge of Sighs leading to the draconian prison at the Doge’s Palace museum, Jacob finally saw a glimmer of hope. Watching the pious church leader pause at the far end, looking right and left through the crowds of tourists, Jacob saw a buxom woman appear and plant a sloppy kiss on his lips.

Jacob knew his target was married. Knew he was in Venice with his Catholic student group, ostensibly as a chaperone. His purpose was solely to ensure the safety of his charges. But clearly he had other things in mind, including a secret rendezvous with a mistress he’d probably flown in from the swamps of Florida while his wife stayed at home baking cookies.

Jacob gazed at the woman’s breasts wiggling back and forth, covered in a low-cut top, with a modest scarf failing to hide their size.

Par for the course. Christian hypocrisy at its best.

The woman was the first indication that Jacob might have a lever to accomplish his mission. Something he had been having extreme doubts about since they’d landed at the Venice airport yesterday morning.

After the Lost Boys’ experience in Syria, flying to Italy out of Istanbul had been surreal. Living on the ragged edge, their instincts trained to look for peril at every turn, trying to act like they were nothing more than tourists had been very, very hard. Every question directed their way was met with suspicion, and every action of the passengers viewed with a predisposition that they were attempting to obtain information.

At one point, Jacob had had to stop Carlos from getting into a fight over an overhead bin, the obese person bewildered at the rage Carlos held. When the flight attendant noticed the scuffle and began moving their way, Jacob had stood, squeezing his fist around Carlos’s upper arm and saying, “Sit down. You are done.”

The passengers around him had noticed the exchange, and he realized the risk of discovery was beyond some omnipotent intelligence agency finding out their mission.

It was held in themselves.

They had lost whatever civility had once coursed through their veins, and that had been slight to begin with. Before Syria, all they had known was the white house. Now, after having their humanity further eroded in actions supporting the nascent Islamic State, Jacob was leading a pack of wild dogs in a land of groomed Chihuahuas. If they wanted to succeed, they needed to be another Chihuahua. And Jacob wanted very much to succeed.

Maybe.

After the meeting in the hotel bar with Omar, Jacob had gone to sleep thinking about his future. Unlike his fellow Lost Boys, he hadn’t fallen headfirst into the spell of the Islamic State. It was strange, even to him, given what he’d done in its name, but he didn’t feel the fervor. Didn’t yearn to slaughter people simply because they smoked a cigarette or were Christian. He only wanted to prove something to himself. To succeed just once, eradicating the failure that was his life.

He wanted to show the world that he wasn’t just a bit of trash blowing on the side of the road. But, until the meeting in Istanbul, he’d never really believed it. He knew he was different from Carlos and Devon, in both capability and views, but hadn’t realized how much different until fate had brought him to Omar.

That man was a creator. He was a force of nature that carved out what he wanted through willpower, intellect, and brutal skill. And he’d seen something in Jacob. Had recognized that Jacob wasn’t like the other cattle flocking to the fight. It caused a conflict in Jacob’s mind.

It brought questions. Things he couldn’t answer now. The fact remained that Omar had entrusted him with success. Had bestowed on him the responsibility to win, because he believed in Jacob, and Jacob wouldn’t forget it. Couldn’t let him down.

That confidence had wilted once they’d arrived in Venice. Exiting the terminal, Jacob had had his first shock of the mission. Expecting to take a cab to Venice from the airport, he’d found that the only thing available was a water taxi. After thirty minutes of wasted effort, stumbling from one dock to another, they’d managed to make it to the small historic city-state, riding a boat that had no sympathy for their lack of knowledge.

He’d intended to check into the hotel room booked by Omar—a Best Western, which, by name alone, had given him an American image—and then spend the rest of the day hunting his prey. What had happened instead was he and his crew had dragged their luggage through a myriad of small alleys, walking on foot to find a hotel that apparently wanted to remain hidden.

The town itself was a labyrinth. An ancient city constructed out of the sea by brute force, whose locals had little sympathy for the influx of tourists.

They’d stomped around for forty-five minutes, crossing one canal after another without getting any closer to their hotel. They’d walked down an alley and ended up at a small dock next to the water, and nothing else. A dead end. Jacob had about lost it until a man had pulled up in a johnboat.

Jacob had asked a couple of questions, and the man was more than helpful, taking them in his boat and driving them to the closest point to their hotel, talking about his job and life as they passed multiple small docks, all with skiffs and johnboats. Jacob had realized two things: One, the quickest way around this place was on the water. And two, he could steal a boat.