by Laura Scott
He walked for several blocks before looking around for a taxi. It took several more blocks before a driver pulled over to offer him a ride. Elam slipped the backpack from his arms and gently set it on the floor behind the passenger seat before sliding in. When the taxi pulled into traffic, he breathed a little sigh of relief.
So far, so good.
I’m coming, Meira. I’ll be there soon . . .
* * *
September 10 – 9:50 a.m. – Baltimore, MD
The stupid icky smelly men seemed to have abandoned them.
Bryn watched Meira from the filthy mattress on the floor. They still had the bucket of waste near the doorway, but as the minutes had passed into hours, they had given up standing there waiting for someone to show.
She blinked, trying not to cry. Now that she’d convinced Meira to escape, they didn’t have the means.
Why, God, why?
Her mom had taught her to pray, to lean on God’s strength, but it was growing difficult. Hour after hour of doing nothing, hearing nothing, having only Meira around, was wearing on her.
Meira came over as if sensing her distress. Bryn sniffled and swiped a hand over her eyes. Meira was the only good thing about being here, at least she wasn’t alone.
“You must get up and move often, to build up strength,” Meira whispered.
Bryn nodded and pushed up to her feet. Since realizing how weak she’d become, Meira had insisted on brief bouts of exercises. She’d started doing Tae Kwon Do forms to keep her blood moving and her muscles warm.
She dropped into the typical fighting stance and went through the moves, punching and kicking, following the pattern her instructor had taught her. Exhaustion pulled at her, but there was no point in complaining.
When the opportunity to escape arrived, she wanted to be ready.
Give me strength, Lord, she chanted beneath her breath. Give me strength!
* * *
September 10 – 10:12 a.m. – Washington, DC
Jordan pulled into the George Washington University Hospital parking lot. He shut off the car and pulled out his phone.
Diana stared at him, clearly annoyed with his decision to come here to check on Ahmed Mustaf. He understood her concern, but he had Sun working on the warehouse location via the satellite computer, so they were pretty much multitasking the best they could.
He waited for someone within the FBI top office to answer his call. He really needed to speak directly with Clarence Yates and was tired of jumping through hoops every time he wanted to connect with the guy.
Since Ray Pallone was dead, he wasn’t about to discuss anything with anyone other than Yates himself.
Too bad trying to reach the guy directly was about as difficult as calling POTUS. Maybe more so.
“Who may I ask is calling?” the woman asked on the other end of the line. No greeting, no acknowledgment of who she worked for, just the question.
He hesitated, then gave his name. “Jordan Rashid and I need to speak with Clarence Yates directly. No one else.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Yates is unavailable. I can give him a message.”
“You don’t understand, this is an extremely urgent matter. I need to speak to him as soon as possible. Please ask him to call me at this number, it’s a matter of national security.”
The woman answered in an almost jovial tone. “I will be happy to do that, thank you for calling.”
He disconnected the call and blew out a breath before turning toward Diana. “I’m going in, but I need you and Sun to stay here.” When she opened her mouth, he held up his hand. “Please don’t argue. It will be a miracle if I can get anything out of these people with all the privacy laws. Alone I might stand a chance, but three of us going in together is asking for trouble.”
“Fine.” Diana crossed her arms over her chest. “But hurry. We need to find Bryn.”
“I will.” Jordan pushed open the driver’s side door and stood. He formulated a plan in his mind on how to best approach this. He didn’t have his FBI credentials anymore, but he did have Clarence Yates’s business card. It wasn’t much, and he knew his chances of getting through were less than ten percent, especially since he was dressed very casually in a black T-shirt and black jeans.
Feds always wore dark suits, white shirts, and muted ties. Men in Black.
He approached the front desk with an air of purpose. A woman he estimated to be in her midfifties, wearing what looked like a black security guard uniform, was seated behind the desk. He held up Clarence Yates’s business card so she could see it. “I’m reporting in as directed by Clarence Yates, Deputy Director of the FBI to help protect Ahmed Mustaf.”
“You’re early, he hasn’t arrived yet.” She frowned, then leaned forward to peer at the card. “Are you an FBI agent? Shouldn’t you have a badge?”
“I’m a private security, hired by the FBI because I speak Farsi and Syrian. We need someone fluent in Arabic languages to speak directly to Ahmed Mustaf.”
Her eyes rounded with reluctant admiration. “I see. Well, like I said, you’re early. We’re not expecting him for another fifteen to twenty minutes, according to the computer.”
He gave her a brief nod. “Thank you. Can you give me his room number?”
“I don’t have one.” Now she turned suspicious. “Aren’t the FBI agents meeting you here? They know all of that.”
“Yes, of course, but we came from opposite sides of the city.” Jordan replaced Yates’s business card in his pocket. “Thanks for your help, I’m sure I’ll hear directly from Mr. Yates soon.”
He turned and strode away, glancing at his watch as he left, hoping and praying she wouldn’t hit the panic button he was certain was hidden under the edge of the desk. Heading back outside to the car, he was glad he’d gotten part of what he needed.
Mustaf was definitely being transported here, likely via medical helicopter.
If Yates would ever call him back, he’d emphasize to the deputy director how important it was for Jordan to get in to see him.
Hopefully before Bryn’s kidnappers contacted him again.
* * *
September 10 – 10:24 a.m. – Washington, DC
As he walked past his boss’s office, he heard Rashid’s name. He slowed his steps, straining to listen.
“Thanks, April, I’ll call him back as soon as possible.” Yates sounded harried, and he wanted to smile at the way these events were unraveling the normally stoic guy.
When the admin came out of the office, he gave her a nod and kept walking to avoid calling attention to himself.
Interesting that Rashid had contacted Yates, just as he’d assumed. Rashid must have somehow heard about Mustaf, although he wasn’t sure how. The security expert was really starting to piss him off.
Was there a way he could trace all incoming calls to Yates’s phone? No, that was impossible. As much as he didn’t care for Yates, there was no denying the guy was smart. He hadn’t gotten to such a prestigious position at the Bureau by being stupid. Despite the people in key positions he paid to get him information, getting his boss’s direct phone number hadn’t happened.
At least not yet.
But soon it wouldn’t matter one way or the other. His job would be done, and he’d be gone before anyone was the wiser.
* * *
September 10 – 10:35 a.m. – Washington, DC
“Where are we going?” Diana asked Jordan.
“There’s a motel near the hospital where we can wait for a bit until Yates calls me back.”
Another hotel. She blew out a frustrated breath.
“I think I found something,” Sun said.
Hope flared in Diana’s heart, and she turned to face the woman. “The place they’re holding Bryn?”
“Maybe. I discovered Liberty Bell is another shell corporation, but I’ve been able to dig down far enough to find that it, too, has a physical location in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore.” Diana shot Jordan a narrow look. “I told
you we shouldn’t have left.”
Jordan glanced at her but didn’t say anything. He pulled into the parking lot of a local hotel, then shut down the vehicle.
“She’s right, Jordan,” Sun said, lifting her gaze from the computer screen. “So many of these crazy warehouses hidden beneath shell corporations named United Secrets, Freedom Shoppes, and so on have been in Baltimore. And this one is located about five miles from the others.”
Jordan scrubbed a hand over his chin. “We can head over there as soon as I’ve spoken to Mustaf. Let’s not forget the kidnappers want him freed by eight o’clock tonight.”
“We’re going to have Bryn safe long before eight o’clock,” Diana protested. “Or we would if we continued looking for her.”
“Again, she has a point,” Sun said. “I say we get to Baltimore ASAP.”
“We could split up,” Diana said. Then frowned. “But we’d need another car.”
Jordan didn’t look convinced. He stared down at his phone as if will alone would make it ring. Finally, he glanced at her. “Give me thirty minutes. If I haven’t heard from Yates in thirty minutes, we’ll go to Baltimore.”
“Okay, but it will take us at least that long to get there, which means you’re getting over an hour.” Diana didn’t bother to hide her frustration. “I want to go now, Jordan.”
His phone rang, and he quickly answered it, placing it on speaker so she and Sun could hear. “Rashid.”
“Now what?” The deep voice sounded annoyed. Jordan mouthed Yates so she knew that it was the deputy director of the FBI on the phone.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but this is really important. We were at Andrews Air Force Base when Mustaf was shot.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But I hired you to infiltrate the terrorist cell, not watch over Mustaf.”
“I know, sir, but the terrorist cell is likely involved in the shooting.” Jordan’s tone reflected infinite patience, even though she could see the tension in his jaw. “I’m at Washington University Hospital now. I’d like your permission to speak with Mustaf.”
Silence on the other end of the line, then, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Sir, you must know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“I understand you’re just trying to help, but you won’t be able to speak with him anytime soon, he’s going straight into surgery. The bullet damaged one of his kidneys.”
It was Jordan’s turn to be silent for a moment. “Okay, but I need a number to contact you directly. With Ray Pallone dead, I don’t want to speak to anyone else. Things are unraveling fast, and I believe a terrorist attack is imminent.”
“Fine.” Yates rattled off a number. “You’re one of five people, including the president, who have that number, Rashid. Don’t abuse the privilege.”
“No, sir, I won’t. Thank you.” Jordan disconnected from the call and looked at her. “Okay, time to get to Baltimore.”
Diana didn’t say anything. Jordan started the car and pulled back out into traffic.
Still, while they drove, she silently vowed to stay in Baltimore until they’d found Bryn.
Even if that meant she’d remain in the city alone.
* * *
September 10 – 10:44 a.m. – Baltimore, MD
Elam paid the driver in cash and climbed out of the taxi. He carefully pulled the backpack out and stood for a moment until the vehicle pulled away.
After easing the pack onto his shoulders, he began walking toward the northeast corner of Federal Hill Park. He did his best to blend with the crowd, hoping he looked like a college student searching for a place to study.
He knew he had to choose his location carefully. The park was close enough to the water that the sound should carry all the way over to Liberty Bell.
The area was busier than he would have liked. He didn’t want to harm anyone, which was ridiculous since all those men wanted from him was to kill Americans.
After walking around to scope things out, he decided the parking structure was probably his best bet. There would be a lot of damage to the vehicles parked there, but less chance of hurting people.
He raised his eyes heavenward, praying for forgiveness for what he was about to do.
Entering the structure, he went to the northwest corner farthest from the elevator and slid the backpack off. Then he took his latest masterpiece and carefully affixed it to the top of a concrete separator, looking at it critically to be sure it wouldn’t garner undue attention.
He’d created the device to look like a small seagull. There were always many gulls flying around the Baltimore area, and while his little bird wouldn’t hold up to close scrutiny, from a distance, no one would glance at it twice.
When he finished, he pulled the backpack on again and retraced his steps, verifying the time. Once again, he hailed a cab to take him to the other side of the harbor.
He needed to be hidden somewhere close by the location known as Liberty Bell before creating his diversion.
Chapter Fourteen
September 10 – 11:03 a.m. – Washington, DC
He’d been shot!
Mustaf opened his eyes just enough to see his surroundings, trying to understand where he was. It took a few minutes of ignoring the overwhelming pain to figure out he was once again airborne in a helicopter. There were headphones of some sort placed over his head, and he caught glimpses of two people, a man and a woman working over him, but he couldn’t understand the gibberish they spewed.
He shifted on the gurney, but the movement only caused another shaft of pain to spear through him. He couldn’t believe he’d been shot at the air force base. In front of how many soldiers? It was ridiculous.
Yet if the US wanted him dead, they could have killed him at any time during the initial plane ride over from Lebanon.
If not the US Military, then who? Who had tried to kill him?
The movement of the helicopter made him feel sick to his stomach, so he closed his eyes and tried to breathe normally. As he calmed down, some of the words the medical staff said began to make sense.
“His abdominal bleeding is under control, and his vitals are stable. I don’t think he needs a blood transfusion,” a male voice said.
“I have two units of O Neg if needed, but I agree he seems to be holding his own,” the female voice said.
He was appalled at how this woman was seeing him and touching him like this. Didn’t she know her proper place? He felt himself go tense with distaste.
Never would he understand these heathens.
“Ahmed? Can you hear me? Lift up two fingers if you can hear me,” the female voice urged.
He shied away from her touch and ignored her request. Better for him if they didn’t realize how much he understood what they were saying.
Besides, speaking to the woman was beneath him.
“Karl, what’s our ETA?” the male voice asked.
“Six minutes.”
There was more poking and prodding, which he didn’t like but forced himself to tolerate. The more he listened, the more he understood he was being flown to a hospital. The idea of receiving medical care helped him relax. They weren’t just going to let him die. Instead, they’d provided basic care and were now transporting him to what he assumed was a better place to be treated.
He wasn’t sure who’d shot him, or why, but at this point, he didn’t think he was going to die.
But when this horrific nightmare was over, he would find those responsible and make them pay.
Every. Last. One.
* * *
September 10 – 11:112 a.m. – Washington, DC
A trickle of sweat rolled down his spine.
There was a long line to get through customs at Dulles International Airport, and he stood with an impassive expression on his face, portraying confidence that his fake passport would hold up to scrutiny, allowing him through without a problem.
He’d chosen American dress: slacks, polo shirt, and a light wi
ndbreaker jacket. Nothing that would raise concerns. According to his carefully crafted background, he possessed dual citizenship in both Syria and the USA. There was absolutely no reason for anyone to believe differently.
Another bead of sweat slipped down his back. The line moved, and there were now only two people in front of him.
Then one.
When he stepped up to the window, he offered a wry smile. “Rough flight,” he said as he slid his passport through the opening. He went on, “A baby cried the entire time, but eventually I helped the mother offer a distraction, and the infant quieted down.”
The customs agent didn’t respond to his attempt at casual conversation. Instead, the customs agent stared down at his passport for a long moment, then turned to type something into the computer. He felt his shoulders tense, knowing full well the name on his passport was being run through the database, searching for aliases related to anyone with known ties to terrorism.
It had been twelve years since he was here last.
He yawned and glanced at his watch. “I need coffee.”
It seemed like forever before the customs agent turned back toward him. The agent stared up at his face, comparing it to the photo, then reached for the stamp and pressed it on an empty page of his passport.
“Coffee shop is in the luggage area,” the agent said, sliding the passport back to him and turning his attention to the next person in line.
“Thanks.” He strove for a casual tone, shouldering his duffel bag and slipping his passport back into his pocket. As he entered the luggage area, a surge of adrenaline hit hard.
He’d accomplished the first step in meeting his goal. There wasn’t much time, he needed to hurry if he was going to be back on a plane out of here by late tonight.
Once he contacted his second-in-command, he’d understand what had happened with Ahmed Mustaf.
And hopefully learn who was messing with the timeline.
