Expendable for the Cause (Josh Stuart Thriller Book 2) by Bob Hamer

Author:Bob Hamer [Hamer, Bob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Post Hill Press
Published: 2016-10-03T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Omar!”

Kneeling next to the young Muslim, I shook him hard—there was no response. His exposed skin was a deathly blue and cool to the touch. His face was twisted in agony. Then I noticed the eyes. They were open. It was as if he were staring through me, not asking for forgiveness, but seeking solace. A quick assessment showed no breathing and no pulse.

As a former combat Marine and now an undercover FBI agent, I saw death on the battlefield and on the streets. In Iraq, death was the result of a recent gunshot or an IED blast. Immediate aid could save a life, but when death was instantaneous the body was warm, blood spilling out from the wounds. On the street, I occasionally stumbled across someone who had been dead several hours. I knew the signs. Omar’s arm was beginning to stiffen as rigor mortis set in. Blood was pooling in the body as gravity took its toll. Omar had been dead several hours and no amount of emergency medical services would bring him back.

I sat next to my friend who looked older in death and punched in 9-1-1 on my cell phone. An ambulance wouldn’t help but a police unit needed to respond. I remained on the floor stunned. This made no sense. Omar wasn’t a user. He had something to live for. He had hope in Malik’s program. He was getting ready to emerge from this cesspool.

Remembering I was armed and fearing the police might pat me down when they arrived, I went next door and stashed the Glock.

Scanning Omar’s room upon returning, I handled nothing. I left the needle dangling from inside the elbow. I assumed it was heroin, but there was no way of telling without doing a chemical test on the residue or an autopsy on the body. There was nothing in the room to demonstrate narcotics use. There was no spoon or bottle cap in which to heat the substance. There was no lighter, no baggie, no wrappers, no powder, nothing evidencing use or abuse.

I spotted a wallet on the dresser. Even though we had been friends for a month, I didn’t know Omar’s full name. I grabbed a handkerchief from my back pocket and reached for the wallet. Carefully removing the driver’s license, I saw the photo of my friend and his full name; Omar al-Khalid, an address in Hollywood, and a date of birth of May 23, 1990. I slid the license back into the wallet and placed it on the dresser.

Leaning over the body without touching it, I did a cursory examination of Omar’s arms. There were no needle marks and certainly no tracks. Maybe if this were a first time use of whatever was in the syringe, the amount was too much for a body unaccustomed to illicit drugs. But why? Does a man who prays five times a day toward Mecca seek relief with a hypodermic plunger?

I heard the yelp of a siren out the window and knew a patrol unit was arriving, trying to move people off the curb in order to park.

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