Read Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) for Free Online Page B

beer.”
    “Love one, but–”
    A burst of machine-gun fire from the rifle range brought them both to a halt.  Jack saw a group of Arab types with some sort of automatic weapon.
    “Wow!” Jack said.  “What’s that?”
    “Assault rifle,” Bertel said, staring at the group.  “Kalashnikov.”
    “An AK-47?”  Jack had heard the term but didn’t know one assault rifle from another.
    One of the Arabs was staring back.  They made for a motley crew with their scraggly beards and varying ages and heights.  They all wore similar T-shirts, but Jack couldn’t read the writing.  Maybe they were an Arab gun club of some sort.  One lanky guy – with red hair and an NRA cap, of all things – towered over the rest.  He held the AK and began firing a series of bursts.
    “Three-round bursts,” Bertel said.
    “What’s that mean?”
    “Reduces overheating.”
    “You know them?”  Jack said.
    Still staring.  “Yeah.”  Bertel started walking again.  “I know they’re trouble in the making.  People better wake up to that, and soon.”  He glanced at Jack.  “You were saying you’d love a beer but .  What’s the but?”
    “No proof.”
    “No driver’s license?”
    Jack shook his head.
    “But you drove that motorcycle here.”  He used the Arlo Guthrie pronunciation.
    Jack shrugged.
    “Who’s it registered to?”
    “Nobody.”
    “But it’s got a license plate.”
    “Came with the bike.  Never took it off.”
    “You must have some sort of ID.”
    “Never got around to it.”
    “No shit?”
    “No shit.”
    Bertel stared at him for what seemed like a long, long time, then said, “You looking for work?”
    “Better believe it.”
    “Follow me.  I may have something for you.”
     
    3
    Kadir Allawi watched the two Americans walk away.  The older one’s face was familiar.
    He, Tachus, Sayyid, and Mahmoud were taking turns with the AK-47 Mahmoud had brought along.  When the magazine ran dry and he could hear himself think, Kadir tapped Sayyid on the shoulder and pointed to the pair.
    “I’ve seen one of them before,” he said in Arabic.  They spoke English only when necessary.
    Sayyid’s round face darkened and his eyes narrowed as he stared.  He looked almost Asian when he got like this.  “You think they’re FBI?  You think they’re watching us?”
    Sayyid’s passion for jihad was the glue that held them together.  Kadir admired him for that passion, but he was always suspicious, always angry.  Sayyid saw enemies everywhere. 
    Then it came to him.  Kadir grabbed Tachus’s arm.  “That man, the older one – I’ve seen him with your uncle Riaz.”
    Tachus squinted as his gaze followed the pair toward the parking lot.
    “What is he doing out here?”
    “Taking pictures of us, I’ll bet,” Sayyid said.
    “No,” Kadir said.  “They were shooting.  But now I’m sure about him – he makes deliveries to your uncle.”
    “Spying on him to get to us,” Sayyid said.  “They followed us here.”
    Kadir watched the younger one get on a motorcycle.  “No, they were here first.  I remember that motorcycle when we arrived.”  He’d wished he had one like it.
    Tachus spat.  “Whoever he is, he must bring in a lot of profit, because that’s all Uncle Riaz cares about.”
    Sayyid snorted and turned away.  “My turn!” he said, pointing the assault rifle.  “But first…”
    He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket, unfolding it as he strode onto the range. 
    “What’s he doing?” Tachus said.
    Mahmoud grinned.  “I think I know.”
    Mahmoud had served among the mujahideen in Afghanistan after training for combat in Peshawar.  He drove a taxi now and had had special T-shirts made up, reading Help Each Other in Goodness and Piety...A Muslim to a Muslim is a Brick Wall .  A map of Afghanistan was superimposed in the middle.                            Sayyid attached the paper to one of the bull’s-eyes and hurried