"No wonder. Only one freaking bar of signal."Carl clasped his shoulder. "If it's important, they'll call back." Yeah, likely just a wrong number anyway." He went to the counter and paid for his lunch as he slipped the phone back in his pocket. "Okay, let's go. I could use a drink by now."Richie's white-knuckled hands trembled as they tried three times to place the receiver back onto the pay phone's hook. He finally hurtled the receiver into the kiosk, chipping a piece of plastic off the mouthpiece. He punched the side of the kiosk, ignoring the pain which flared across his skinned knuckles. He fled, running as fast as his legs would take him.He did not slow down until he had ducked down several side streets, emerging near the northern edge of town. He wandered across the street and collapsed at the base of a tree. He draped his arms on his drawn knees and rested his head upon them.A drop of blood oozed from his still-clenched fist and rolled down his finger. He swiped it against his. ’ the man said. ‘Oh I’m sorry, well uh have a good flight Mr. Barraick’ the ticket man said as he handed him the boarding passes. ‘Thank you.’ If only the ticket man had known how literal his words were. Although it brought him pain, Malik Barraick had to kill his youngest son. It brought him relief that he had died like a true Muslim. He had completed his task though, and in the war machine Karim was but a small cog. His son had been brave to his death and that’s all he could have asked for. The similarities between the two didn’t stop at their ideologies though. Karim had inherited his fathers features, and when Malik looked in the mirror he swore he could see his son. Yes he had a few extra pounds on his son and had started balding, and sure his skin was worn from his 52 years of jihad, but he could see his son in his own reflection. Karim looked forward to returning to Saudi Arabia. His job here was done, but his war with America was not close to being done. The cell in Chicago.
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