by David DeLee
Bannon simply smiled. He’d come to rely on Kayla Clarke’s amazing cyber-tech skills. Nothing she came up with surprised him anymore.
“I found a student visa for a Humaira Amar. I followed that breadcrumb to the school she attended, which led me to a graduation announcement, a citizenship application, a wedding announcement, and then social media. It was purely by chance, luck really. I saw Karim Amar in a group picture posted on Instagram. Or at least someone that looked like him. I went back to Custom and TSA records detailing his various arrivals and departures over the last ten years. The date of the wedding lined up with a period when he was here. I dug deeper into family records and found that Captain Amar does, did, have a sister named Humaira. She came to school here as an exchange student at first, then received a student visa…”
She made a circling gesture with her finger. “Completing the loop.”
Kayla looked at a piece of paper in her hand. It was Keel Haul stationary, from a pad with the bar’s logo and contact information on it. He kept it by the register to jot notes on. Apparently she’d done the same.
“She met and married Behram Tumandar. He goes by Ben. And according to a real property search I did, they own a small house in Dorchester.” She handed him the paper. “This is the address.”
Bannon planted a big kiss on her forehead. “Lieutenant, you’re amazing.”
She beamed, agreeing. “Yeah. I am.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AZIZA FAAID CALLED FOR Reza. The large mute came into the room immediately, carrying a length of thick, five-sixteenth inch anchor chain, a cuff attached to one end. With him, he also brought in a metal folding chair. He stood on the chair and looped the chain around one of several large pipes running along the length of the ceiling. He cinched the chain tight and then snapped the cuff around Tara’s right wrist.
It reminded her of how the puritans secured their prisoners in the 17th Century. Old school.
“A leash,” Faaid said. “For the dog.”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
Bridget brought in a bucket and set it down in the corner.
Reza carried the chair with him as he left the room. Bridget and Faaid turned to follow him.
“Don’t I even get the chair to sit in?” Tara called out.
“Sit on the floor. We gave you enough chain for that.” Faaid paused to consider. “I think.”
He slammed the door shut. Then he locked it.
Without being told, Reza put the chair down next to the door and sat down.
Faaid patted his shoulder. “You are a good man, Reza. A good man.”
He and Bridget walked away. They were in a large room that looked like a large lobby in an old-fashioned movie theater or opera house, but with everything stripped from the walls. Blue indoor-outdoor carpet covered the floor in three sections broken up by two tiled aisles that led from one end of the large space to the other.
“Why did you not kill her?” Bridget asked. “If she’s as dangerous as you claim—”
He stopped and turned. “If! If! Do you doubt what I have told you?” He pointed at his scarred face. “Do you doubt the injuries I have sustained for the cause?”
“No. Of course not. What I’m saying is that’s all the more reason we should kill her. Why run the risk of keeping her alive?”
“Because she has information we need.” They reached a doorway. He paused. “The Coast Guard must have intercepted the Naeem. Boarded her.”
“The Coast Guard?”
“I told you that kuratana operates with a team. Two men. One claimed to be a commander in the United States Coast Guard when I encountered him. His name was Bannon. Brice Bannon. With them was another man, a most disagreeable individual called McMurphy. Large. With red hair. I have to assume they are working with her again.”
“They cannot know where we are. We were careful. We followed your instructions to the letter. They can’t be of concern to us.”
“Oh, but they can, Ms. Barnes. They most assuredly can.” He thought about them, about his brief encounter with the two men on the Caleb. “Don’t you see? It had to be them. They boarded the Naeem, took Zayd—the real Zayd—prisoner. Then in the insipid way that they do, they turned Captain Amar against us, turned him into a traitor to his people, a traitor to Allah. How prophetic of me to have had the man eliminated.” He smiled. “To think, my reasoning was simply financial, and to ensure his silence. But Allah, he has a greater plan. He knows all.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “I say all the more reason to kill her.”
He turned on her, tired of her constantly second guessing his decisions. “Then what of Zayd? How do we complete our mission without her? Do you possess the expertise to make our weapon operational?” He sneered. “A woman like you?”
“Careful how you speak to me, Faaid. With one phone call I’ll—”
He held up a hand. “Of course, Ms. Barnes. My apologies. Let me explain.” He didn’t add, in simple terms even you can understand. “Ms. Sardana will tell us where the Americans have taken Safiyyah Zayd. Once she has done so, then, perhaps, I’ll allow you to kill her.”
“You’ll allow me?” Bridget asked with a raised eyebrow.
Faaid held up a warning finger. Arrogant woman. “Get the information first. We cannot move forward without Safiyyah Zayd’s assistance.”
-----
TARA HAD BEEN LEFT alone for hours before someone returned.
She used that time to examine every inch of her captive space. A simple, barren room. The walls were wood veneer. The floor was covered in old, natty, green indoor-outdoor carpet. It was torn in places and smelled of mildew. She’d picked at a section and peeled it back. The floor was tile underneath, which told her nothing. She suspected windows were concealed behind the large sheets of plywood screwed to the one wall.
The overhead pipes to which she was chained ran the length of the room, close to the back wall. She tested the length of her chain. She could reach one side wall but not the other, the one with the door she believed lead to a bathroom. She was stopped by the metal straps that attached the pipe to the ceiling. Nor could she reach the door out of the room. Even stretching as far as she could, her fingertips fell short of the doorknob by a full two feet.
Tara turned the bucket over she’d been given to do her business in. Still she wasn’t tall enough to reach the pipes near the ceiling. “Damn it.”
She wrapped her hands around the chain and yanked, pulled as hard as she could, but the pipe was thick cast iron, too thick to break. Still she kept trying, testing various spots, searching for a weakness. But she found none. Out of ideas, she sat down on the floor to rest and think. The length of chain required she hold her arm in the air like a marionette puppet.
She fiddled with the iron cuff. It was wide, nine-inches, and clasped with a welded iron loop. A thick padlock secured it tightly to her wrist. Even if she were to dislocate her thumb—as she had once before to slip from a pair of handcuffs—this cuff was too tightly squeezed around her wrist to slip out of it.
There was a way out of this. She knew it. She just had to find it.
When the door finally opened again, it was Bridget Barnes who walked in. Her red hair was tied in a frizzy, sloppy ponytail. She carried a chair in and after shutting the door, sat down. She kept her distance from Tara. Smart, because Tara already wanted to tear the woman’s throat out.
“We need to talk.”
“Do we?” Tara said. Her shoulder was beginning to ache from having her arm held elevated by the chain.
“When did you intercept the Naeem?”
Tara remained silent.
“How did you know Safiyyah Zayd would be on that ship?”
Tara countered with her own question. “What’s a pale, white inbred like you doing mixed up with Faaid and his pack of religious zealots?”
“Oh, you want to trade life stories. Maybe over croissants and lattes at Starbucks.”
“I’m more the happy hour and w
hiskey type, thanks. Moonshine for you, I suppose.” If she could get the woman rattled, get her to make a mistake…
“Faaid’s told me your fondness for bladed weaponry, why they call you Blades.”
Tara gauged the woman carefully. She was fishing. Aziza Faaid would know about her explosives expertise of course, but her preference for edged weapons? No way. It never came up during her brief encounter with him on the Caleb.
“Faaid wouldn’t know that about me.”
Bridget smiled. “You caught me. I lied.”
“There’s a surprise.”
“That’s funny, coming from someone who pretended to be someone else.” Bridget sized her up, tilting her head one way and then another. “When I learned who you really were, I realized we have a mutual acquaintance. We know some of the same people.”
“I doubt that. Can’t see us having the same circle of friends.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Tara wanted to keep the woman talking. “Tell me who you are, Red. Why are you here, taking orders from Faaid?” Strange bed fellows for sure.
“Let’s just say my interest and friends of mine align with Faaid’s. For now,” Bridget said.
“Really? Let me guess. Anti-government militia group. Timothy McVeigh types. Still, getting in bed with this bunch is pretty radical.”
“It’s not that straight forward.”
“Never is.”
“That’s true.” Bridget leaned forward, but too far away for Tara to get her hands on the woman. “What do you say we avoid a lot of unpleasantness and you tell me how much you know about Zayd’s mission?”
“I know it will fail.”
Bridget smiled. “And how do you know that?”
Tara returned the smile. “Because we have her and you do not.”
“Tell us where she is.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because we will kill you if you don’t.”
“You’re going to kill me either way. I prefer to die knowing I took my secrets to the grave, thanks.”
“We’ll torture you. Tell us now and I promise your death will be quick and painless.”
Tara shook her head, pitying the woman. “Bravo. Straight out of the villains for dummies guidebook. But I guess that’s the best I can expect from a redneck in over her head.”
Bridget jumped to her feet and pushed the chair away. Angry, just the way Tara wanted her. She stormed over to Tara and backhanded her across the mouth. The blow reopened the cut in her lip. It began to bleed again.
“Tell me where Zayd is!” Bridget shouted, jumping out of Tara’s reach.
Tara spit blood at her. “Suck it, Red.”
Bridget moved in to strike her again.
No one gets two shots, Tara thought. With one hand around her chain, she kicked her legs out, scissoring them between Bridget’s ankles. With a twist, she dropped the woman to the floor. Bridget tried to crawl away, but Tara twisted around and grabbed her foot with her free hand. She pulled Bridget back, grabbing first her ankle then a fistful of her jeans, then her belt, pulling the struggling woman toward her.
Desperate to break free, Bridget kicked out. Her heel landed squarely in Tara’s stomach, knocking the wind from her lungs. She grunted but managed to hold on to her. She kept pulling her closer.
But with only one hand and her other arm stretched out toward the ceiling, the cuff biting into her flesh, there was little more she could do. The chain rattled and pulled, the cuff broke the skin and blood slicked her wrist. Tara let go of Bridget’s belt and grabbed for the woman’s face. Her fingernails tore through Bridget’s milky-white cheek. The woman screamed.
The commotion caught Reza’s attention. Still posted guard outside the door, he rushed in and with a powerful grasp took hold of Tara under her unshackled armpit and hauled her to her feet.
Bridget scrambled away, breathless. Fear in her green eyes.
Tara struggled against Reza’s grasp. She couldn’t break free against his strength.
Reza drove a fist into her gut, expelling what little air was left in her lungs with an explosive grunt. Tara doubled over. The chain rattled and the cuff cut deeper into her flesh, drawing more blood. Reza pushed her roughly against the back wall. Tara hit the back wall hard.
She stood up, leaning over, her backside against the wall behind her for support. She fought the urge to vomit. Her black hair hung over her face in sweaty ringlets. She stared through them, stared hard at Reza who had now stepped back. Bridget had hauled herself to her feet. She stood leaning against the far wall, steps away from the door, panting. Blood dripped from the scratch marks dug into her cheek.
“I’m going to kill you for that,” Tara said between great gasps of air. “I’m going to kill you both.”
Bridget shouted, “Tell us where Zayd is!”
“Screw you,” Tara said, sinking back down to the floor. “Screw you all to hell.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE TUMANDAR FAMILY LIVED in a rundown, working-class neighborhood in Dorchester, Massachusetts. The house was a narrow, two-story structure with an attic window facing the street that was covered over with old newspaper. The house had beige vinyl siding and black plastic shutters. The small front porch had a roof that appeared on the verge of collapse. A low, sagging, chain link fence rimmed the postage-stamp size yard which was a riot of overgrown, neglected, waist-high weeds. There was no garage.
The early morning sun was already bright and hot, the air sticky and thick.
Bannon pulled his black F-350 pickup to the curb out front. The truck had a red and white dive sticker in the back window and a steel tool chest in the bed. Getting out, he and McMurphy surveyed the house and the neighborhood from behind dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. “You think everything’s okay back at the Keel Haul?”
“Sure,” Bannon said.
Grayson and Kayla had needed to go to work, not that he’d have left them alone with Zayd. Bannon put in a call to Chief Johnson, taking him up on his offer to help out. He asked him to come down to the Keel Haul with a few men to babysit Safiyyah Zayd for them. He sweetened the deal by offering the MSST team free rein of the kitchen, and once the mission was complete, drinks on the house.
Johnson said that last part wasn’t necessary. They’d love to help out. He added with a laugh, “But since you so generously offered, we’ll be happy to take you up on the free food and booze.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Bannon said.
McMurphy opened the low half-gate. It swung outward on squeaky hinges. He jumped back.
Two large black pit bulls with spiked collars rushed the fence in the neighboring yard. They leaped at the fence, rattling the chains and barking relentlessly.
“Jesus.”
Bannon laughed, patting him on the shoulder. “Relax, tough guy. They’re in the other yard.”
“Dogs can jump you know. You ever see a dog jump? They can rip your face off, too.”
They walked up the short, cracked walkway and climbed the sagging front porch steps. Bannon rang the doorbell while McMurphy keep a wary eye on the berserk animals as they showed no sign of letting up.
Bannon reached for the doorbell a second time but stopped short when the door suddenly opened.
“Yes?” A woman in her early thirties appeared in the doorway wearing a nursing uniform. She looked tired as she attached a clip-on earring to her earlobe. Her dark hair was pulled back into a short ponytail. Her bangs and wisps of hair too short to pull back framed her narrow, dark face.
“Mrs. Tumandar?”
“Yes,” she said again.
“I’m Commander Brice Bannon. This is Chief Warrant Officer McMurphy. We’re with the United States Coast Guard.” He held out his identification. In the leather case, along with his Coast Guard ID, was his private investigator’s license.
She noticed it. “That says you’re a private investigator.”
“I am that, too. A side line of mine. Has nothing to do with this.”<
br />
“What is this exactly?”
“We’d like to ask you some questions. Might we step inside?”
“No.” She stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her. “I’m on my way to work. Please tell me what this is about.”
Bannon and McMurphy took a step back, not wanting to crowd the woman. “It’s about your brother. Captain Amar.”
At the mention of her brother’s name, her face clouded. “Karim. Is he okay? Has something happened?”
Bannon dodged the question. “When was the last time you spoke to your brother?”
“It has been a while. We are not close. He lives very far away.”
“Morocco.”
“Yes,” she said. “Though he spends most of his time at sea.”
“What can you tell me about him?” Bannon asked.
“Not a thing until you tell me what is going on. Is he in trouble? Is he hurt?”
Bannon exchanged a glance with McMurphy. The dogs had settled down. They paced, sniffing around the dead flower-beds in their yard. McMurphy kept a wary eye on them. Bannon said, “We believe your brother’s involved with some bad people, with a terrorist organization.”
Dropping a bomb such as that, Bannon expected a lot of different reactions. As far as he knew Humaira Tumandar could be as deeply embedded in the terror cell as her brother had been.
She sighed. “I am not surprised by this news.” She looked Bannon in the eye. “In fact, I knew this day would come. Is he dead?”
“Yes. I’m afraid he is. We’re sorry for your loss.”
“Did he hurt anyone?”
Interesting she’d ask that. “Not that we are aware of,” McMurphy said. “Not yet.”
Her tired eyes now looked sad. “My brother and I were not close. The last time I saw Karim was on my wedding day. He and I, we see…saw the world each in a different way.”
“How so?”
“Karim was swayed by extreme radical ideology early on. Always an angry man, even when we were children. Since he was a very young man, he believed in their cause. I did not. To me the world, the people in it, our differences are what make it beautiful. Not something to fear. That is way I came to America. Why I wanted to stay. I heard such wonderful stories growing up, and so I wanted to see it, to experience it for myself. Karim called me a traitor to my people.”
