by James Hunt
“Enough of your bullshit,” Burke said, coming to a stop sign. “Now tell me where I’m going.”
Omar told him to take a left. Burke turned and proceeded past a few well-lit homes as they reached a cul-de-sac with four impressive houses at the end. “Dead end, eh?” Burke said. “Which one does he live in?”
Omar pointed to the first house on the left, with two large SUVs, one white and one black, parked in the driveway. Burke parked on the curb, facing out, avoiding the driveway, and let the car idle for a moment.
It was quarter past midnight, and Angela worried more as each hour crept by. If things didn’t go as planned, she didn’t know what their next step could possibly be.
As they prepared to approach the house, Burke left Omar with simple instructions: stay quiet. He turned to Angela and explained the plan. They would politely knock on the door and pose as authority figures, which had a sprinkling of truth to it. The moment the British man emerged, they would take him with whatever force necessary.
“Be prepared for a fight,” Burke said to her, opening his door.
“The family is off limits,” Angela said just as his door closed. She got out too and felt the cool night air breeze across her face. The other homes on the cul-de-sac were similar in size and design—nice one-story homes with glowing lampposts set into their freshly cut lawns. Like everywhere else they had been that evening, the area was quiet. The calm before the storm, she thought.
Burke waited for her at the front of the car, inspecting his pistol. He charged the barrel back, loading a round, and then began a casual stroll up the driveway while Angela followed.
Burke turned and whispered to her. “Important thing is to find this guy and take off with him without interference. That means we have to move fast.”
Angela looked up above the garage, where four numbers were displayed: 2051. The digits stuck with her like some kind of mysterious code. “But we don’t even know his name—or the family’s name, for that matter.”
“That’s fine,” Burke said. “Like last time, just follow my lead.”
Angela didn’t like the sound of that.
They moved along the cement walkway to the French doors, flanked by two shining porch lights. Curtains had been drawn at the front windows, and the wooden privacy fence to the backyard was at least six feet tall. The best way in, it seemed, was through the front door.
“Bear with me here,” Burke said, stopping on the AstroTurf welcome mat. He listened against the door, prepared to work his lock-picking magic and get them inside.
“We should have had Omar come to the door,” Angela said. “He can lead Graves out, and no one has to get hurt.”
Burke froze, in deep thought. “You know what?” he said. “You’re absolutely right. He backed away from the door with hurried steps. “Good plan.” They then went back to the car with a new strategy.
Omar stood at the doorway, wobbling but trying to appear unscathed, as Burke watched from behind the SUV, with his elbows on the hood of his car, holding his M4 rifle aimed at the door. The plan, Omar had been told, was to get Peter Graves outside. Once he did that, Burke and Angela would move in. It was a risky plan to be sure, but from the outset, everything had had its share of risk.
Angela was closer, kneeling in the bushes that ran the front window and alongside the corner. She was to watch Omar for any sudden movements. Everything was ready to go, and as Omar rang the doorbell, Angela prepared herself for, hoping at the very least for no more deaths.
“Pound on the door!” Burke said just above a whisper from his concealed position. “It’s an emergency, and you have to speak with him at once!”
Omar reluctantly raised a balled fist to the center of the thick French door and started hitting it.
“Louder!” Burke said. “You’re here on an urgent mission. Remember!”
Omar’s pounding grew harder with each hit. By his third or fourth blow, he was really going at it. Growing tired, he rang the doorbell repeatedly when the door swung open with a fierce swing, revealing a skinny, disheveled white-haired man with his bathrobe swaying in the wind, exposing boxers and a bare chest.
“What the hell are you doing?” the man shouted in a clear British accent.
Burke remained completely still with his rifle aimed, massaging the trigger with his gloved index finger. Angela stayed in position, trusting that Omar—terrorist that he was—would follow through with the plan.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Graves. Here on an emergency supply run. Asgar’s orders,” he said sheepishly, trying to keep his balance with one hand propped against the wall.
“The fuck are you talking about, mate? It’s late, and I’ve had a very long day.”
“I was hoping we could talk outside to not wake your family,” Omar said, inching back down the walkway. The English man seemed out of it and too irate to notice the blood-soaked towels wrapped around Omar’s leg and arm, nor did he seem to care.
“My family?” the British man said, scratching his head. “They’re visiting relatives back home. Now why don’t you tell me what this is really all about?”
As Omar paused, his nervous face stricken with fear, it didn’t seem as though Graves was coming out. And at that moment, Burke squeezed his trigger. The rifle blasted and shook against the pocket of his arm and chest. The shot rang out and split Omar’s head open, blasting the top apart like a watermelon. Angela fell from her squatted position and rolled onto the ground, shaken and frantic.
Blood splattered against the British man’s face as he stood frozen on his welcome mat, looking down at Omar, who had collapsed at his feet. He hadn’t a clue what had happened. All he could do was stand there with his mouth agape, squinting as another man’s blood ran down his forehead.
“Burke!” Angela shouted out. “What are you doing?”
Without an answer, Burke rushed forward and charged the British man, pummeling him into the foyer.
Angela jumped up and ran from the side of the house to the swaying front door, where she saw two bare, hairy legs sticking out from under the bathrobe into the air. Omar’s corpse lay on the mat, face down, what was left of his head and more blood than she had ever seen drenching the ground in thick, bubbling red.
She peered inside the house to find Burke standing over the helpless and horrified man, aiming his rifle at his face.
“On your feet, you son of a bitch.”
From the floor, Graves held his trembling arms up, barely able to form a syllable.
“Move!” Burke shouted.
All Graves could do was shake and stutter.
“He’s in shock,” Angela said, walking into the foyer. She turned around just in time to catch a light turn on from a window across the street. “Every house on this block probably heard that shot. We have to get out of here!”
Burke slung his rifle around his shoulder as the fire went out of his eyes. The British man on the floor, covered in blood, still hadn’t been able to make a coherent sound. Burke then reached down and pulled him up. “You’re coming with us.”
The man gave little resistance as Burke pulled him out the door, over Omar’s corpse, and down the walkway. He appeared to be checked out, lost in a daze of delirium. Angela walked behind them, watching the house in case anyone else was there. It would have been a great opportunity to search the place for information: contacts, addresses, and whatever else they could find. Except, of course, every minute counted.
Instead, Burke had decided to do things his way—again. He was a loose cannon, and she found herself upset with him all over again. Burke wasted no time swinging open the car’s back door, tying the man by his wrists, and pushing him in like a drunk off the street. He slammed the door shut and looked to Angela urgently.
“Let’s go!”
Angela flashed him a look of contempt. “Oh, now you’re concerned about getting caught. That was a very stupid thing to do.”
Burke ignored her and got into the car, starting the engine. He appeared ready to leave
with or without her.
She took one last look at the front door where Omar lay. She supposed it was a tragic turn of events but could feel little sadness for anyone affiliated with ISIS in any capacity. As she turned and walked toward the idling Ford Fusion, she noticed a glimmering shell casing on the ground.
She knelt to pick it up and stuck the shell in her pocket. Getting sloppy, Burke, she thought.
She hurried to the passenger side as lights began to appear in the windows of other surrounding houses. The area was too hot, and it was only a matter of time before the place would be swarming with police. For Angela, it was strange to think that she was now an accessory to murders at two different locations. Surely they were justified. Weren’t they?
Wasteland
The British man who went by the alias of “Graves” lay on his side in the backseat, limbs tied and mouth taped (Burke had run out of socks). He tried to speak, but nothing came out beyond strained moaning.
Once he passed the speed bump area, Burke roared down the neighborhood street like a drag racer, with little regard for whatever might come into their path.
Angela clung to her seat, sick with worry. She presumed they were going to another dark, empty location where he would extract information from their new prisoner through any means necessary. But there was still the matter of Omar and just what Burke had done without warning.
“Next time you plan to shoot a man in the back of the head, you might want to tell me first!”
Burke’s eyes remained ahead as he fled the residential area and found a back road that zoomed by under the headlights in a fantastic blur. “What are you talking about?” he said, dismissively. “Omar worked for ISIS. I just did you a favor.”
“It’s not right,” she said. “You can’t just make yourself judge, jury, and executioner. You—you’re better than them!”
Burke pursed his lips and nodded as though the burn was just too great. “Let me tell you something, Agent Gannon. We’ve had our differences, and I’m willing to work with you on this, but if you compare me to those subhuman terrorists one more time, I’ll pull over and leave you on the side of the road.”
“You’d do that?” she snapped back.
“If you push me to, yes,” he answered.
“Why are you doing this?” she said in a calm voice after a brief pause.
“Doing what?”
“Going after this sleeper cell like this. Is it really about my daughters, or are you just trying to even the score with someone?”
“If I can get them back, does it really matter?” he said, accelerating farther down the pitch-black road.
“It matters if you decide to randomly kill the next guy and I’m standing in the way or something.” She paused, turned toward him, and pulled the casing from her pocket. “You know, you left this on the ground. Evidence, Special Agent Burke. You want to spend the rest of your life in jail?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll kill every last one of these sons of bitches if it comes to it. In the end, I’ll face whatever consequences necessary, whether it’s trial by God or government. I’ll stand by what I’ve done.”
“Nice to know,” she said, looking out the window. She’d made her point and didn’t feel much like arguing any more.
They drove for a few more miles in silence as Burke, through either knowledge or premonition, turned right onto a barren dirt road that shook and rattled the car the minute they hit it. He drove off the road and stopped near a chasm. He shut the engine off as dust clouds enveloped the vehicle.
Angela was done asking questions. She knew why they were there. It was time to show their guest some Texas hospitality.
Their bound prisoner continued to utter stifled and unintelligible pleas from his taped mouth.
Burke opened his door and turned to Angela, telling her, “This won’t take long.”
She exited the car, wary but determined to proceed with the plan, feeling closer than ever to their goal. However, a few concerns plagued her.
Was the man in the backseat who Omar said he was? Did he really have knowledge of the sleeper cell’s location? And if so, would he reveal it? Nothing was for certain.
Angela considered this as she watched Burke yank the petrified man out of the car—still in his bathrobe and boxers—and throw him on the ground, where he rolled a good distance before lying on his side and crying out in muffled anguish.
Burke walked right up to him and yanked the tape off his mouth in one hard pull. The man howled out in pain as Burke stood above him, knife in hand, and pointed the blade at him.
“What’s your name?”
The man gasped in a panic, clutching his chest with his tied hands while trying to sound like the perfect English gentleman. “I-I can assure you that I’m nobody,” he said frantically. “I don’t know what this is about, but I’m more than happy to work it out.”
“Nice of you to offer,” Burke said, dangling the long, sharp edge of his knife. “But first I just want to know your name.”
“Certainly,” the man began. “But first. Can I please address you like a human being, man to man? I feel you have a slight advantage standing over me like this.”
Burke thought to himself and then looked to Angela, who was standing at the hood of the car. “Sure thing, chap. You try to run or make a wrong move, I’ll cut you from here to eternity.”
The man nodded eagerly as Burke backed away. He pushed himself up on his bare feet, trying to maintain his balance despite still being bound.
“Your name,” Burke repeated.
The man paused a moment and looked around the wide, darkened desert. They were truly alone, and there was nothing he could do about it. “My name is David Ramsey. You might have heard of me. I’m a major shareholder with Ramsey and Wright. Is this about money? If so, I can make it happen.”
“I’m not interested in money, Peter or David, or whatever you call yourself,” Burke said with contempt. “I’m more interested in the whereabouts of your friend Salah Asgar and the terrorist cell you’ve been supporting financially. That’s what this is all about.”
Ramsey froze, trying to suppress his sheer and sudden surprise. He dropped all pretenses but didn’t appear ready to reveal anything further. “I assume you work for the government. Some kind of vigilante hit squad, yes? Well, let me set the record straight. My interest in assisting Mr. Asgar has nothing to do with terrorism. He has oil contacts overseas who I’ve been dealing with on several financial endeavors. I know how this may look or sound, but it’s not what it seems. I don’t support terrorism. If anything, I’ve kept Mr. Asgar at bay.”
Suddenly, Angela approached with a determined look on her face. “Let me talk to him.”
Burke turned around, surprised. Angela walked past him and stopped inches from Ramsey, staring holes through him. “Tell me something, Mr. Ramsey,” she began. “What part of your business deal with ISIS involved wearing a mask and holding a knife to my husband’s throat?”
Ramsey paused, stunned. He didn’t know what to make of Angela, or Burke for that matter, but he seemed to understand that he was in grave trouble. Angela extended a hand to Burke, holding him back. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Agent Gan—”
“I’ve got this!” she said.
Burke stepped away in understanding, watching Angela and Ramsey as she moved closer to him, eyes steady and movements unpredictable.
“Ma’am, if you will. I don’t know what you’re talking about. If I’m guilty of one thing, it’s expanding my investments.” His voice was unmistakable, and at that moment she knew that Omar had led them to the right place.
“Peter Graves,” she said. “Isn’t that what you said your name on that phone call? Well, I’m Angela Gannon, and I believe you knew my husband, Doug.”
Ramsey swallowed and studied her, rendered speechless. She walked toward him as he nervously walked backwards, inching toward the cliff that led to a pit of black.
Burke stood ba
ck and watched with apparent amusement with his hand on his pistol, just in case things went bad.
Angela stopped as Ramsey glanced behind him, noticing they were inching toward the edge of the cliff.
“What do you plan to do with me?” he asked.
“I want to know where they’re holding my daughters.”
He stared beyond her with a close eye on Burke while saying nothing.
“I know you know,” she said. “You say that you’re helping ISIS out of personal interest, but I believe it’s more than that. You stood next to my husband in that first video. You chose to deliver that message.”
Ramsey held up a hand. “Ma’am, please. If I can explain. It was all for show. Salah Asgar insisted that I deliver the first message. He wanted to show that the ideology of ISIS can expand beyond Arabs in the Middle East. I didn’t know that they were going to kill him!”
Angela took a few more steps, forcing him to back closer to the edge. He turned around again, more nervous than before. “It’s time to work for the other team now,” she said. “Take us to where my daughters are being held.”
“Are you going to kill me like your friend did the delivery boy?”
Angela took even more steps, getting dangerously close to the edge. “Does death frighten you?” she asked.
Ramsey stopped and turned around again, staring into the blackness of the chasm. He turned back to Angela with a grave expression. “Whatever you threaten me with, I assure you that ISIS will treat me ten times worse.”
“I hardly doubt that. I’ve seen enough maiming and death to learn a few things.” She then pulled her own knife, small but sharp, from her pocket and exposed its blade. “I’m going to make ISIS look like the Girl Scouts.”
Ramsey’s eyes widened. “Please, I have a family. A wife and three boys.”
She held the knife to his throat with the tip touching his Adam’s apple. “I have a family too. And you’re going to take us to them if you want to live through the night.”
