by David DeLee
He noticed a line of cars parked along the front of the hotel, wondering where the valet lot was. He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Check the hotel,” he said, turning behind them. “I’ll grab some cops and start on the parking garage. If he’s here, he’s gotta be at one or the other.”
“Roger that,” McMurphy said and started off in the direction of the hotel.
Neither of them had moved far when a loud screeching of tires came from the parking garage. The sound echoed in the enclosed structure. Bannon looked toward the seven-level garage. A young man and woman were pushing a stroller with a little girl in it. They looked with panicked expressions at the exit only side of the garage entrance, where the screeching was coming from.
With a crash, the white and orange mechanical arm exploded outward into the street in pieces. The man grabbed the woman by the arm and picked up the stroller. They ran, narrowly avoiding getting run down by a white vehicle racing out of the garage.
On squealing tires, it turned toward the harbor. In Bannon’s general direction.
Like the picture McMurphy had shown him on his phone, only white. With a blue driver’s side door. The window was rolled down. The driver was a dark-skinned man with a beard. He wore a dark taqiyah.
People screamed and ran.
Bannon drew his .45 and shouted to McMurphy, “Get the people out of here.”
As the car raced toward them, Bannon fired several shots. His bullets pinged off the grill and one fender. A third bullet struck and cracked the windshield, but none of it slowed Tumandar down. The car continued to race forward, aimed at the panicked crowd.
Bannon had only seconds to act. He ran toward the car.
“Brice!” McMurphy yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”
He didn’t answer. He had to time this just right.
The car swerved toward him.
Bannon dropped his gun, leaped, and dived at the open window as the Scout rocketed past. He grabbed Tumandar through the window, seized the black and red plaid work shirt and the gray T-shirt the man wore. Tumandar tried to shake him off, swerving the vehicle sharply left then right. Bannon hung on. His leg dangled. He picked his feet up off the ground. The car raced forward, picking up speed, taking his breath away.
“No!” Tumandar shouted. He yanked the wheel to the right, another attempt to shake Bannon off. “You cannot stop me! Death to America! Allahu Akbar!”
Bannon threw a punch at his head and grabbed the wheel. He tugged the vehicle away from the sidewalk, away from a blue and yellow refreshment stand where several people were hunkered down behind, trying to hide and escape the bedlam.
The Scout jumped the curb and swerved between a lamppost and a metal bollard.
Bannon’s legs slammed into the bollard. He cried out.
They headed directly at the crowd outside the Aquarium and IMAX Theater. They raced across the brick pavilion, sending people scurrying left and right amid shouts of anger and outrage. Tumandar slapped at Bannon’s arms. Bannon shoved the steering wheel to the right. The SUV turned, squealing on bad tires down a wide pathway between the theater and the parking garage. The vehicle’s tail end swerved and crashed into a cluster of metal and rubber garbage cans. The cans went flying, spewing refuse into the air.
People continued to scream and run for cover.
Bannon looked into the cargo area of the vehicle and caught sight of metal gas cans, plastic milk jugs full of nails and other shrapnel, and a couple of propane tanks, all taped together with duct tape. Tumandar’s intentions couldn’t have been any clearer. Mow down as many people as he could before crashing the explosive-filled vehicle for maximum damage and mass casualties.
Bannon half hung out the window. Tumandar floored the gas. The old Scout accelerated. Bannon pounded on the horn and wrestled for control of the wheel.
The vehicle raced along the pathway, zigzagging. It bumped down a step and came to an open area, a picnicking platform of concrete at the base of a dock alongside one of the two Harbor Towers. Several wide concrete steps led to the picnic area where tables and attached benches filled the platform. In a panic, people had fled the area. The platform was edged with concrete bollards with black looped chains between them. Beyond the platform lay Boston Harbor. The green water below gently lapped against the thick support pylons.
Bannon yanked hard on the wheel, twisting the vehicle to the left, aiming it for the bollards and ultimately the Harbor beyond.
Tumandar howled, “No!”
The vehicle bounded down the steps. The back end bottomed out. The bumper struck concrete and sent a firework’s display of sparks into the air. Bannon bashed his head against the roof. He bit his tongue as his teeth snapped shut. Still clutching the steering wheel as if his life depended upon it—because it did—he kept Tumandar from twisting the wheel back toward anywhere people were.
The Scout crashed through a bollard. The concrete post exploded in a cloud of dust.
The side of the vehicle caught the edge of a metal gangplank that crossed to the wharf along the Harbor Tower apartments. Its tires caught, the Scout rode up at an angle, half on, half off the ramp. Green foamy water lay below.
Bannon released the wheel and kicked against the door, propelling himself as far from the vehicle as he could. The Scout continued its angled trajectory upward.
Bannon hit the water and dove deep.
Above him, the vehicle ran out of gangway and slammed into the aft deck of a docked yacht. The gasoline, propane tanks, and shrapnel-filled jugs exploded on impact. The twin inboard yacht engines and full fuel tanks exploded.
Bannon felt the concussion and the loud thump of the explosions under water.
He kicked hard and swam until the water over him grew dark. He surfaced and drew a deep breath. He was under the picnic platform. He’d surfaced in time to see the yacht erupt into a rolling, black, oily fireball. The blast shattered windows over a block away. Secondary explosions followed. Projectiles slammed in the surrounding buildings, boats, and docks, pelting down in the water like metallic rain. Blackened and burning metal and fiberglass fell from the sky like fiery hail. The fire alarm in Harbor Tower tripped and began to blare.
What was left of the Scout—which wasn’t much—stuck out, a blackened husk, from the aft deck of the boat, the gunwale destroyed, all of it being consumed by a roaring inferno. The vessel took on water, listed to port, and began to sink.
Bannon swam out from under the platform once the largest chunks of debris had finished falling. He grabbed the concrete edge where the platform had married up with the gangplank, which had fallen into the harbor and was sinking, too.
A hand seized his wrist and hauled him out of the water.
Breathing heavily, like he’d just run the Boston Marathon, McMurphy threw his arm around Bannon and pounded his water-soaked back.
“I thought you were a goner that time,” McMurphy said, “You crazy, stupid, son of a—”
“Tell me no one was onboard that yacht?”
McMurphy hooked a thumb at Harbor Towers. “Owner ducked inside to have a cocktail. Good thing for him.”
Bannon smiled, relieved. “He’s gonna need a few more when comes out and sees that.”
The burning yacht listed farther to port. Flames flared and roared, consuming the rich teak trim, the once handsome bridge. They crackled and licked high into the sky, chasing the thick roiling plume of black smoke, even as the fire department pulled up with pumpers and quickly started the hopeless task of hosing down the ship as it slipped further into the water.
Bannon and McMurphy stared down into the harbor water.
It was McMurphy who asked, “Now what?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
AZIZA FAAID WAITED IN the large open room for Bridget Barnes to emerge from her talk with Tarakesh Sardana. He smiled, having listened to Tara get the better of the American woman, even though the she-devil remained chained up, before allowing Reza to go in and rescue her. Should bring the little alkaliba
down a peg or two, he thought. Seeing the deep bloody scratches raked down her cheek, he barely contained his smile of satisfaction.
“Please, tell me what you learned for our prisoner, Ms. Barnes.”
“Screw you, Faaid.”
“I warned you. Ms. Sardana is quite formidable.”
Bridget glared at him, wiping blood from her cheek. “All the more reason to kill her now and be done with it.”
“As things stand, you might be correct.”
She eyed him with suspicion. “I thought she was our only lead to Zayd?”
“She was. But circumstances have…shifted.”
“Shifted, how?”
Faaid explained. “We know Ms. Zayd was taken by federal authorities. The Coast Guard being part of America’s exalted Department of Homeland Security, it makes sense they would be involved with her abduction prior to arriving on these shores. But from there, what?”
“She’d either be designated an enemy combatant and turned over to the military,” Bridget said, “or law enforcement would take custody of her. Local cops, maybe, but more likely the FBI.”
“Exactly. Which left me to ponder, what would they do with her?”
“Question her.”
“Ah, but where?”
“There’s a large FBI field office in Boston. I’m not sure if they’d have the proper facilities to hold and interrogate prisoners there, though.” Bridget rubbed her bloody fingers down the thigh of her jeans. She turned back toward the room where Tara was held. Hatred filled her green eyes. Reza had dutifully returned to his chair beside the door. “You can be sure she knows. I’ll take another crack at her.”
“As amusing as that might prove to be, it will not be necessary. I have need of you in one piece, Ms. Barnes. A condition I fear you might not be in after a second encounter with Ms. Sardana.”
“Up yours, Faaid. Why won’t it be necessary?” she asked mimicking his condescending tone.
“Because I know exactly where Safiyyah Zayd is.”
“What? You knew and you sent me in there—with her—anyway?”
He smiled. “While that is something I might consider doing, but alas, no. As I said, things have changed. This is new information that has come to my attention.”
“From where?”
“The televised evening news. There was an incident last night,” Faaid said. “In Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”
“What’s Portsmouth got to do with anything?”
“Follow along, if you can, Ms. Barnes.”
“Careful, Faaid.” She waved her cell phone in his face. “We both work for the same person. And he likes me better. A single call from me and I end you. Remember that.”
He bowed slightly. “Threats are unnecessary, Ms. Barnes. We are, as they say, on the same team. The Naeem was boarded by the Coast Guard while on route to Boston,” he explained. “If it were you, where would you divert the vessel to buy yourself the time you needed to substitute Ms. Sardana for Ms. Zayd?”
“Fine. Portsmouth. What happened there last night?”
“At around three in the morning there were reports of an exchange of gunfire in the downtown area, and of a van with no plates speeding through the deserted nighttime streets.”
“Speeding away from where?”
“The Thomas J. McIntyre Federal Building on Daniel Street. Soon after, a number of our people reported increased attention being paid to them by the FBI. People we know to be on their various watch lists were called in, some were apprehended. Inquiries as to their whereabouts were made, rather aggressively, I might add. Discretely, we’ve learned a VIP prisoner being held at the facility, awaiting transportation with several others to an undisclosed—”
“You think that was Zayd…” Bridget hesitated, speaking slowly as she worked through the problem, putting the pieces together as she went. “You think she was broken out. But by whom?”
“Well, certainly not by us.” Faaid sighed. Simpletons. “It had to be Ms. Sardana’s old teammates, Bannon and McMurphy.”
“Why would they kidnap her from their own people?”
“Because, my dear Ms. Barnes. The two of them, the three of them actually, operate outside normal parameters. Since being maimed and nearly killed by them, I’ve made it a point to learn all I could about Brice Bannon and his merry band of infidels. While I have not figured everything out just yet, I’ve learned enough to know they operate as some sort of small, clandestine ops group.”
“Terrific. Good to know. What’s all that do for us?”
“It tells us exactly where Safiyyah Zayd is.”
“Okay. How? Where?”
“Brice Bannon owns a small, rundown seaside bar called the Keel Haul in Hampton Beach.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Again with New Hampshire.”
“I don’t understand why he owns it, or runs it, or how it fits in. He’s a spy for his government.” Faaid waved his hand in the air, dismissing it as unimportant. “What I am sure of, it is there you will find Safiyyah Zayd.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Take some men and retrieve her,” he said, asserting as much authority as their peculiar partnership would allow. “And Ms. Barnes, select as many men as you think you will need, then double it. Do not underestimate these men.” Faaid touched his scarred face. “That would be a grave mistake.”
-----
TARA SAT ON THE mildewed, stained green carpet. It had been many hours since Bridget Barnes had paid her a visit. Without windows or some other means to mark the passage of time, she hadn’t even received regular meals, she had no idea how long it had been. The stuffy, dry heat made her sleepy. She passed the time dozing and thinking about—looking forward to—their next encounter. In the meantime, she tried to figure out a way to get out of this room without much success.
Her arm, draped in the air from the short length of chain, ached at the shoulder.
To give it relief, Tara decided it was time to stand up. She was reluctant to admit it, but the beating she took from Reza had taken a toll. She was stiff, sore, and every muscle ached. And her head throbbed.
The oversized coveralls were heavy. They made the oppressive heat all the more unbearable. Her dark skin was coated in a sweaty, wet sheen. She put her unshackled hand on the floor to push herself to her feet, but stopped.
She looked at the palm of her hand, rubbed it with her fingers. A fine, chalky white dust adhered to her sweaty skin. She looked down at the floor. More fine, white chalky powder. She looked up at the ceiling.
Tara pushed herself to her feet. She gripped the chain with both hands and gave it a good, hard yank. The pipe clanged hollowly overhead and a small cloud of powdery dust fell from the ceiling.
One of the support straps around the pipe was working loose from the ceiling.
Excited, she tugged at the pipe again and more dust fell.
Looking like a bell ringer in a cathedral she tugged and tugged, happily watching the white dust fall. Her shoulders burned from the effort, but she kept at it until she heard a key scraping in the door lock. She stopped yanking and turned around. The door opened.
Tara sidestepped and covered the small pile of white dust on the floor with her worn brown sandals.
Reza came in alone, carrying a tray. On it was a plate with mashed potatoes, some kind of meat, carrots in a disgustingly thick orange gel, and a red plastic cup. He approached, giving her a look that said no games.
“I’ll be cool.” She raised her hands, palms out.
The large man moved in closer. Cautious.
He leaned over to put the tray down on the floor. He must have thought he remained a safe distance from her but Tara had carefully tested the limits of her chain. A little closer, she urged silently. A little closer. The tray touched the floor. Reza took his eyes off her for only a second.
It was all she needed. She sprang!
She rushed at him.
He straightened up but as quick as the big man was, Tara was quicker.
She leaped and vaulted onto his back. She wrapped the length of chain around his neck and pulled. Reza dropped the tray, grasping for the chain. He tried to dig his fingers between the thick iron links and his throat. Tara pulled back harder, riding him like a bucking bull.
Reza staggered around, his eyes bulging.
He tried to move toward the door. That proved to be a mistake. Reaching its limit, the slack pulled the chain tighter around his throat. With a strangled gurgle, he lunged toward the opposite wall. And Tara couldn’t have been happier.
When he reached the spot where she’s been standing, where she’d been diligently working the support strap loose from the ceiling, Tara climbed further up his wide back until her knees dug into his shoulders. She yanked the chain, pulling it tighter around his neck.
His dark face began to turn purple.
Tara reached out with her unshackled arm and grabbed the cast iron pipe overhead. Hanging like a trapeze artist by one hand, she pulled her cuffed arm up, like she was doing a dumbbell curl in the gym, only with Reza as the dead weight.
She didn’t need to lift him very far, just enough to get his weight off his feet. She grit her teeth with the strain. He gurgled and struggled under her. His efforts grew more frantic, more desperate as oxygen deprivation starved his brain, as his life ebbed from his body.
Tara groaned and pulled harder.
Concrete dust puffed downward from the effort.
Reza’s tip-toe feet came off the floor. He kicked them.
“Come on,” she said through gritted teeth. “Come on!”
Pull. Pull.
Then it happened. The strap gave way. The cast iron pipe bowed, unable to hold their combined weight without the strap. It creaked and sagged and finally at the closest coupling—near the side wall—the pipe broke open. Tara, Reza, the chain, sections of pipe, and the sudden, unexpected flow of spilled sewage fell to the floor.
She collapsed onto Reza’s crumpled form. Thick, brown, smelly water spewed from the split pipe. She was breathing hard. Reza coughed. The looped end of the chain had slipped from the broken pipe. The chain around Reza’s neck loosened. He dug his fingers between his throat and the thick length of chain, pulling it free.
