by David DeLee
Bannon glanced nervously down the corridor. The posse was getting close.
He pulled his cell phone out and speed-dialed Kayla. When she answered, he said, “We’re at a loading bay. It’s probably at the back of the building.”
“On my way.”
“Hurry, we’ve got a gaggle of really pissed off agents closing in on our tail.”
“I’ll be there.”
McMurphy let out a loud groan. The shackle snapped in two. The lock fell to the floor, in pieces. He pulled out what was left of the shackle and freed the chain. Zayd reached around him, grabbed the door chain and yanked, pulling the chain hand over hand like there was no tomorrow, raising the door as fast as she could.
A bullet pinked off the metal.
Someone yelled, “Freeze!”
Three men appeared at the far end of the corridor, men in suits, looking very unhappy. They rushed toward them, guns out.
Bannon shot wildly down the hall. Bullets pinged off metal pipes and chewed chunks of concrete from the walls.
The agents ducked and scattered.
Bannon shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”
McMurphy and Zayd dove under the door they’d only managed to lift about two feet off the ground. They rolled across the pavement outside. Bannon dove after them.
Outside, they got to their feet as a black van barreled down the narrow alley toward them, driving in reverse. It slammed to a stop. Red brake lights flared. It had no markings and no license plate. Zayd tried to dart away, making a run in the opposite direction, but Bannon grabbed her arm and pulled her back. McMurphy slid open the van’s side panel door. Bannon shoved Zayd into the empty cargo space. He wasn’t gentle about it.
From the light streaming under the partially open door, he saw a jumble of shadows. The posse was at the door.
McMurphy shot his gun in the air, as rapidly as he could while shouting, “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”
He pushed Bannon toward the open van. They hopped inside and Bannon slammed the door shut as several agents braved the gunfire, rolled out under the door, and open fired on the van. Bullets pinged off the bumper and metal skin of the van.
Kayla jammed the gas pedal down and drove on smoking tires out of the alley. Bannon, McMurphy, and Zayd tumbled around in the back like lottery balls spinning around inside a bingo cage. At the intersecting street, the pretty brunette wrenched the steering wheel to the right and bounded down the apron and around the corner on what felt like only two tires.
Her three passengers were thrown first in one direction and then the next, slamming into the sides of the van, muffling curses. Only then did she call out with a grin, “Hang on.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AZIZA FAAID DID NOT tell Tara how he survived. Not at first. He backhanded her across the face with a closed fist instead.
For such a skinny man, he packed a powerful punch. The blow sent her reeling across the room. She staggered back and placed her hand on her hot cheek. She tasted blood. It came from a cut to her lip. She touched her fingertips to it, looked at the dollop of blood. She swept her hair back and glared at him.
“You’ll pay for that.”
“What? Going to blow me up again?”
She took a step forward but stopped when Bridget raised her pistol. “Someone needs to tell me what’s going on. You’re saying this is not Safiyyah Zayd?”
“It is not,” Faaid said. “You were duped. Tricked. Easily fooled.”
“Impossible,” Bridget shouted.
“This woman’s name is Tarakesh Sardana. Her friends charmingly call her Blades.” He stared hard at Tara. The hatred in his eyes was easy to read. “She tried to kill me. And she failed.”
“I’ll just have to make sure second time’s the charm,” Tara said.
To Bridget, Faaid said, “I never told you the story of how I came to America, did I?”
From her expression, the woman didn’t seem all that interested in hearing about it now either. She kept her eyes, and her gun, squarely on Tara.
“A small group of us had successfully stowed a stolen shipment of man-portable SA-18 Russian surface-to-air missile launchers on an unsuspecting cargo vessel, the MV Caleb, leaving Morocco to make the trip to America. To make a short story shorter, Ms. Sardana and her teammates intercepted the Caleb before we could get onboard and retrieve our weapons.
“The plan had been to board the ship posing as pirates. We were going to steal several crates, it didn’t matter which ones, rough up the crew a little, and escape with the launchers without the captain or crew ever learning they’d aided in the smuggling of surface-to-air weapons into the United States.
“Imagine my surprise upon finding Ms. Sardana and her friends onboard. Still I thought, incorrectly as it turned out, I had the situation well in hand. We left the Caleb with our missile launchers loaded on our boat. What we did not know as we prepared to make our escape was that Ms. Sardana had placed an IED of her own making inside one of the crates.”
Tara had outdone herself that day, she thought. Now she shrugged, feigning innocence. “A going away present.”
Faaid wasn’t amused. “The device was remotely activated. She blew up my ship. Killed my crew. She sent our missiles to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“And you, too, or so we thought,” Tara said. “How did you survive?”
“The call of nature,” Faaid said, amused.
“Excuse me?”
“I had to go the bathroom,” he explained. “My men were securing the weapons to the stern deck. I went below to use the—what do your American sailors call it—the head when the ship exploded. What a sound it made. Bulkheads blew apart, trapping me below deck. The stairs were blocked by debris. The entire space was engulfed in flames and smoke.” He stroked the savage burns on the right side of his face with the back of his fingers again. “Water rushed in at me with the force of a tsunami. The ship split in half. I clawed my way through the deluge of water and managed to swim out, escaping from the boat as it broke into pieces and sank. Debris was all around me. Something struck me in the head. Dazed, half-conscious, I had no idea how far underwater I was. I held my breath and I swam, using the glowing light of the burning wreckage on the surface to guide me. Like light from above.”
He paused, for dramatic effect, Tara supposed. “It was Allah’s decree that I survive. That I live on to fight his fight. I broke the surface before my lungs gave out. Debris floated and burned around me. The air hot with smoke, searing my lungs and throat with every gasp I took. But I survived, floating, hiding among the wreckage. I watched as the Caleb sped away.”
“You left your own little surprise package for us on our ship, too, as I recall.”
“I did. But when your ship did not explode as it should have, I knew my own attempt to scuttle the Caleb had failed. I clung to a piece of drift-wood until your ship was out of sight. Then I managed to steer myself to one of the lifeboats we’d set adrift when we boarded the Caleb. Ironic that the means by which I meant to seal your fates turned out to be my salvation.”
“I call it dumb luck.”
He ignored her. “It took me most of the day and into that night, but I reached it. I climbed inside. Exhausted, I slept, and felt the agony of my hot, burned skin. For days I drifted, thirsty and tired, covered with only a tarp to protect me from the relentless sun during the day and the cold at night. Then, blessedly it rained. Long enough and hard enough I did not die from thirst and dehydration.”
“How did you make land? The Caleb was three days out from Boston traveling at twenty-four knots. You couldn’t have survived until you drifted into port.”
“I did not. I had the great fortune of crossing paths with a fishing trawler. They saw the lifeboat and came to investigate. They found me near death from starvation and my burns. They brought me onboard their boat. The kindness of strangers, yes. It almost made me wish I didn’t have to kill them all. But I did. It was Allah’s will.”
“That’s your justification
for slaughtering a ship full of fishermen? God made me do it.”
“As I have admitted, it gave me pause.”
“You’re a psychopath.”
“Allah sent those fishermen to rescue me, to pull me from the brink of death and provide me the means, the sustenance and shelter, so that I might rally from my bleakest hour victorious. That was all the proof I needed that my path is a righteous one. One guided by Allah.”
“You killed a bunch of people who did nothing but try and save you.”
“I could not allow those men to radio your Coast Guard. I am but the tool. I had no choice in the matter.”
“It was all Allah’s doing. Wow,” Tara said. “That’s the worse excuse I’ve heard since ‘I was just following orders.’”
“I am a man with a purpose. I have been tested and survived. I have been shown the way. Now I’m stronger and more committed than ever to the cause, to his cause, because of it.”
“This cause of yours, of his, what is it, exactly?”
“To bring our enemies to their knees. Finally and completely. To end this ever-lasting conflict by ushering in a new and lasting caliphate.” He clenched his fist and grit his teeth.
“Let me guess. With you as the chosen caliph.” Tara raised an eyebrow. “I stand corrected. You’re not just a psychopath, you’re a delusional psychopath.”
He ignored her insults. “You—and your friends—are to bear witness to my most glorious revenge upon the American infidel. And then, upon you and your two friends.”
“Yeah. Certifiable nut job,” Tara said.
He raised his hand to strike her again, but this time she was ready for it. She caught his wrist, arresting his swing. “I gave you that first one.” He tried to pull away but she tightened her grip on his wrist. “I will end you, Faaid. You have my word.”
“Says the woman who is my prisoner,” he said with confidence that did not reach his eyes. There she saw uncertainty.
She released his arm with a shove. “Like you say, I’ve got friends. Friends who’ll come for me. Who will stop at nothing until they’ve found me and rescued me, or avenged me.” She flashed a grim smile. He took an unsteady step back. She enjoyed the unnerved expression on his face. “Whatever happens to me,” she said. “I’ll have the satisfaction knowing this ends only one way for you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BANNON CREATED A QUICK sign on his laptop computer, printed it out, and tacked it on the front door of the Keel Haul. It read: BAR CLOSED. WATER MAIN BREAK. COME BACK TOMORROW. It wasn’t yet dawn and the bar wasn’t due to open until eleven, but he knew they wouldn’t be done with what they had to do by then.
He made sure the door was locked and all the heavy curtains and shutters were in place over the windows. McMurphy had locked up the back. He was now behind the bar drinking a beer while coffee gurgled hot and black in the coffee maker.
Bannon pushed the square wooden tables and chairs out of the way, clearing a space around their guest. In the center of the cleared space, Kayla finished zip-tying Safiyyah Zayd to a chair.
The Keel Haul was designed to look like the interior of the sailing ships of old. The walls were polished knotty pine. The ceiling had thick timber ribs running along the width of the room. Lighted lanterns hung from the beams. Candle-like sconces glowed over the booths. Scattered throughout the place were wooden barrels and sea chests. Ropes, anchors, pulleys, fishing nets, and period-appropriate coastal maps were hung on the walls. The smell of teak oil filled the air.
Bannon loved that smell.
McMurphy poured a cup of coffee and slid it across the bar to him. They were still dressed in their black raiding clothes but without the hot, itchy ski masks.
“We’ve got her. Now what do we do with her?” McMurphy asked.
Bannon sipped his coffee and glanced over his shoulder at their prisoner. She glared back at him. He shrugged. “Talk to her.”
“I can’t get over how much she looks like Tara,” Kayla said accepting a coffee from McMurphy. “It’s uncanny.”
“Down right spooky,” McMurphy agreed.
Bannon couldn’t argue. But he also knew he couldn’t let her physical resemblance to his friend distract him from what he had to do next. Not with Tara’s life hanging in the balance. He grabbed a chair from a nearby table and spun it around backwards. He sat down facing her, his arms folded over the back.
“My name is Brice Bannon.”
“I do not care who you are. You will pay for how you have treated me. My country—”
“Your country what?” Bannon asked. “Before you try to run some line on me, let’s get something straight. I know exactly who you are, Miss Zayd. You work for NSEDC, your country’s answer to NASA. Or you did until you disappeared several years ago with, I’m guessing, whatever secret or proprietary information you stole regarding their space program. Whatever it was, it’s made them very nervous. Trust me, since you joined your little terror cult, they’re as happy to have you off the board as we are.”
Zayd pressed her lips together in a firm line.
“So we’re on the same page. I don’t care two whiffs about that. I care about just one thing. My friend. She’s been taken by the people you came here to meet and you’re going to tell me everything you know about them.” In response to her defiant stare, he said, “Because if you don’t, things are going to get very unpleasant for you.”
“There is nothing you can do to me. You will not hurt me. Your government is too timid to do what it really takes to win. That is why you do not scare me.”
“You’re a smart woman, a scientist, so try and follow along.” Bannon pointed at McMurphy and Kayla. “My friends and I, we broke you out of a federal building. We took you from the FBI with our faces concealed behind ski masks and exchanging gunfire with them.” To McMurphy, he said, “How many federal and state crimes did we commit tonight?”
“Too many to count.”
Bannon returned his attention to Zayd. “So do you really think we’d do all that if we simply wanted to talk to you?”
Before she could answer, Bannon kept going. “If we wanted to talk, to just interrogate you, we would have done that while you were in custody,” Bannon lied. He had her nervous. Good. If they were willing to go to such lengths to grab her, to break the rules the way they did, that would mean the rules didn’t apply. Not for them. Once the rules were tossed out, she wouldn’t know what they were capable of. Rogue agents were unpredictable. For someone in her position, that was a very scary proposition.
“What do you want?” she asked, licking her dry lips.
“I told you. Everything about the people you came here to meet. Who are they? Where they would take…you? How do we find them?”
“I do not know,” Zayd said. “That is the truth. Speak with Captain Amar. It was he who coordinated everything, through his contact in Alexandria.”
“I sure would like to,” Bannon said. “Except your people killed him, eliminated him as soon as he delivered who they thought was you. Why would they do that?”
She reacted to that, seemed shaken by the news. “I…I’m sure I do not know.”
“Guess.”
“Perhaps they realized he tricked them. If they learned your imposter was not me, she too is dead.”
That was what Bannon feared most. Hearing it said out loud, it was like a kick in the gut. He stood quickly and shoved his chair away. The legs scrapped noisily across the floor. Zayd blinked and jerked back at the sudden movement.
“I cannot help you,” she said. “I cannot help your friend. Please, just let me go.”
“Don’t be naive,” Bannon said over his shoulder. He grabbed his cup of coffee and drank. It was just coffee, but he half-wished McMurphy had spiked it with some whiskey when he wasn’t looking.
“Do you believe her?” Kayla asked, her voice a whisper.
“She’s lying,” McMurphy declared. “They all lie.”
“We’ll never know,” Bannon said. “Not witho
ut some kind of leverage.”
There was a knock at the front door.
He drank down his coffee and smiled. “And there it is now.”
He looked through the authentic brass porthole, complete with dog ears and nuts. The door had been salvaged from an 18th century British frigate he’d discovered during a dive off the coast of Rye Beach. He’d restored the door to near pristine condition before fitting it to the entrance of the bar, giving his ship-themed watering hole the perfect entryway.
He unlocked and opened the door, stepping back.
Secretary of Homeland Security Elizabeth Grayson strolled into the bar, all business.
Bannon looked outside, checked both ways, then relocked the door. He joined her at the bar with the others. She’d barely given Zayd a glance as she walked by.
“Coffee smells good. Got any more?”
Bannon lifted the hinged service counter and went behind the bar where he poured a cup from the pot for her and another one for himself.
Grayson stared disapprovingly at McMurphy. “Certainly you’re not drinking at this hour, Chief. It’s barely dawn.”
He tilted his head back and drained the last of his beer, then dropped the empty bottle into a recycle bin under the bar. He wiped his mouth by dragging the back of his catcher’s mitt size hand across his lips. “Not anymore, ma’am.”
She shook her head, more amused than annoyed. “No problems last night, I take it?”
“No. We didn’t hurt anyone, did we?”
“One agent twisted an ankle. Other than that, only their pride,” Grayson said. She and Bannon had hatched the scheme while they were “arguing” in the lounge of the McIntyre building the night before.
“And the FBI believes it was Zayd’s friends who broke her out?” Bannon asked.
“Bought it hook, line, and sinker,” Grayson said over the lip of her coffee cup, shooting McMurphy a look. “Though that Allahu Akbar bit was a little over the top.”
He shrugged with a wide grin on his face. “I needed to sell it.”
“Still,” she said, unable to contain a smile, “the Boston field office will be busy looking for a mole that doesn’t exist and searching for a terrorist they let slip through their fingers, and doing whatever they can to redeem their damaged reputation.”
