Blunt rode the rest of the way in silence. When they arrived at FBI headquarters, a small crowd of reporters had gathered on the front steps. Once the agents opened the door for Blunt, the media members swarmed on them, shoving cameras and microphones in Blunt’s face. He turned aside and shielded himself with his coat.
“Senator Blunt, what do you have to say for yourself?” one reporter asked.
“Senator, do you plan to fight these charges?” another inquired.
Blunt lumbered ahead, plowing through the frothing press corps on his way up the steps. He glanced to his left and noticed a small lectern set up with the FBI director making his way to it.
“The director is ready to make his remarks,” a woman announced, drawing the attention of all the reporters. They scurried over to the director and worked quickly to set up their cameras to capture the announcement.
“What’s that all about?” Blunt asked one of the agents.
“Oh, that?” asked the agent. “The director is making a statement about your arrest.”
Blunt let out a string of expletives before entering the building and being subjected to a search by security personnel. Once Blunt was permitted to pass through the metal detectors, he was whisked away to a holding room.
Still fuming, Blunt sat with his arms crossed. An agent entered the room and placed a cup of coffee in front of him.
“Here you go, Senator,” he said as he nudged the drink toward Blunt. “I wasn’t sure, but I guessed you aren’t a cream and sugar kind of guy.”
“I’m not a coffee kind of guy,” Blunt said and then grunted to punctuate his displeasure.
“Well, I’ll get this out of your way then,” the man said before snatching the cup and exiting the room.
Blunt stared at the clock on the far wall. The faint ticking sound irked him, serving more as a torture device than an informational tool. He didn’t care what time it was. All he cared about was talking with his lawyer and clearing up this mess that was sullying a respectable reputation.
Another half hour passed before a knock on the door was followed by a familiar face.
Blunt glared at the man as he entered the room and sat down at the table across from him. It was Justin Frazier, head of the NSA.
“If you had anything to do with this, I swear I’m gonna choke you to death with my bare hands,” Blunt said.
Frazier gave a coy smile. “It’s nice to see you too, J.D.”
CHAPTER 11
Washington, D.C.
HAWK, CAN YOU HEAR ME?” Alex said into her coms as she stared at her monitor after he disappeared into the shadows beneath a craggy rock face. She waited for a few seconds, hoping to hear something in her earpiece. Instead, she broke the silence when she slammed her fist down on her desk and let a few choice words fly. She paced around the room and tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for why he would charge into Fazil’s compound and go dark at the same time.
Why doesn’t he ever listen to me?
Watching Hawk break protocol and venture into enemy territory wasn’t a new experience. But that didn’t make it any less painful to endure. The wondering and speculating for even just a few minutes always drove her crazy. She concluded that she might not be the same way if he were just another operative she was handling. But she and Hawk had history—and something else, though giving it a label seemed juvenile. In moments like these, she realized just how much she cared for him. Alex always handled her job like a professional, but everything seemed heightened when he was in danger and she was unable to help.
But there is something I can do this time.
She took a deep breath and settled back into her chair. Calling up the drone’s virtual cockpit, she resumed control of the machine.
Come on, Hawk. Show me something.
She turned the plane back around and then glanced at the monitor connected to the satellite. The screen was blank.
“Not right now,” she said with a growl.
Switching to a different keyboard, she typed furiously to get the image back. She attempted to re-task the satellite so she could maintain visual contact of Hawk’s location with something other than the drone’s grainy camera. But her attempts were rebuffed when a box appeared with the dreaded words no hacker ever wanted to see: Access Denied.
Alex cursed as she went back to the controls of the drone. A few seconds later, she was frozen out of the drone as well.
“Damn it,” she said. “Somebody’s onto me.”
On the street below, she heard a honk and a man yelling. Alex leaned over her desk and saw a dark van with several FBI agents in tactical gear rushing toward her apartment building.
She sprang into action, shutting down her laptop and initiating memory wipe protocol for her desktop computer. She checked the deadbolts on the front door and rushed back to check on the status of the hard drive erasure. Once it hit eighty percent, she heard footsteps in the hallway. At ninety percent, she heard a knock on the door and a man announcing himself with the FBI and requesting entry. She grabbed a blanket and threw it over the machine, hoping the extra time it took to locate her computer might be enough to help the system finish removing any incriminating evidence.
With her laptop tucked securely in a bag slung across her shoulder, Alex raced toward her hiding spot before clambering up into a large vent shaft. She’d practiced her escape several times in the event of a raid—and she was thankful for the foresight she had to develop such a procedure.
She heard the first loud thump of the FBI’s battering ram crashing against her door.
In a matter of seconds, she was safely inside. She contorted her body, turning around so she could face the room below.
Another thump on the front door.
After she secured the screws on the vent, she slid back into the shadows. She was close enough to see anyone in the room but deep enough in the shaft that no one would be able to see her with a cursory glance.
The next thump was accompanied by the sound of wood splintering.
They’re in.
Alex scooted farther back down the vent and held her breath. She decided she didn’t care to know how many agents there were. The imminent danger was sufficient enough to scare her away from seeing the room. The only thing that mattered was avoiding capture so she could get back to helping Hawk.
As she eased her way down the duct, she heard an electric screwdriver whirring loudly. She squinted as she tried to see what was happening—an agent was removing the vent cover. It clanked as it hit the floor.
The agent shoved a flashlight into the vent and peered into it.
“I think I found something,” he said.
Alex swallowed hard but didn’t dare move—or breathe.
CHAPTER 12
Iraq, undisclosed location
HAWK RESISTED OPENING HIS EYES as long as he could. The burlap bindings wrapped around his wrists and ankles gave him a picture of his situation before he even saw a thing. Seated in a wooden chair, Hawk’s arms were pinned behind him. A damp musty smell overwhelmed his senses.
“You can’t keep your eyes closed forever,” Karif Fazil said before he kicked at Hawk’s leg.
Hawk relented and his gaze met Fazil’s. The room was lit with a single lightbulb that dangled from the ceiling directly behind Fazil. With Jafar perched on his shoulder, the Al Hasib leader stooped over and looked eye-level at his prisoner.
“I knew you were brash and daring, but I never figured to add stupid to the adjectives I’d use to describe the great Brady Hawk,” Fazil said as he stood and paced in front of Hawk. “On second thought, perhaps we should rethink inclusion of the word great when describing you. Such a blunder—a serious underestimation of your enemy—is not exactly what a great operative does.”
“I guess you haven’t met any great ones, have you?”
Fazil smiled. “Why? Because they all end up dead at your hands?”
Hawk narrowed his eyes but remained silent.
“Well, your brava
do is also noted, particularly given your situation. Arrogant to the bitter end, though the end won’t come quite as quickly as you’d like.”
“There’s a drone outside that will obliterate this facility any minute now,” Hawk said. “If there’s a fool in this room, it’s you.”
“My, the bold statements don’t stop, do they? You’re willing to spout off anything to rile me up, aren’t you? However, there’s one problem with your statement—it’s not true. That drone is long gone. And I suspect it was commandeered by your little girlfriend. The military likely has no idea what it was doing out here.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Well, I won’t be here for long, so it won’t matter much. But you, on the other hand, consider this your final resting place,” Fazil said as he held up some seeds for Jafar to eat. The bird pecked at them until he was satisfied and resumed his stoic position.
“I don’t intend to be here very long either,” Hawk said. “You’re going to have to kill me now or I’m going to kill you.”
Fazil broke into a hearty laugh. “I love it when a man has no regard for reality. I like to call such people Americans. But don’t let me stop you. This comedy act is quite entertaining.”
“I don’t make empty threats.”
“Your words certainly ring hollow given the fact that you’re all tied up, weaponless, defenseless, and lacking any sort of backup,” Fazil said. “One can only assume that you are here on your own in an unauthorized capacity.”
“In America, we have a popular saying for people who assume. Maybe you’ve heard it before.”
“I know that one all too well. And look at you here. You’re living proof that the saying is correct. You operated under the assumption that you’d be able to get to me out here, that my guard would be down even after you dispatched two of my men. So, here you are, Brady Hawk.”
“Just shoot me and get this over with. The real torture is listening to you drone on and on as if you’ve actually accomplished something.”
“I’ve caught you, haven’t I? That’s something,” Fazil said before waving dismissively at Hawk. “But I have actual plans to torture you in more meaningful ways before I take your pathetic excuse for a life.”
“Watching you fail isn’t exactly torture.”
“I won’t fail this time, mark my word. And you’re going to watch me triumph until your dying breath. And that’ll be the last thing you’ll see. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go save the world . . . from people like you.”
Fazil pulled on the string behind him, quenching the light in the room. His footsteps echoed as he walked across the floor and exited, slamming the door behind him.
Hawk let out an exasperated breath, left to contemplate his fate in the dark. He couldn’t allow Fazil’s words to bother him, though the terrorist cell leader was right—Hawk had acted brashly and made some costly assumptions. The plan was never to assault Fazil personally, just get information from one of his men about the location of the weapons system before retreating back to safety.
But Hawk let his thirst for blood get in the way. Fazil and his men had become an ever-present danger to American interests both at home and abroad. Seeing an opportunity—albeit a dangerous one—Hawk seized it and was left to lament his decision in an Al Hasib holding cell.
Hawk realized his com was missing, certainly confiscated immediately after he went down at the hands of Fazil’s crafty taser. Without a way to reach Alex, Hawk could only imagine what she was thinking. Any rescue attempts would have to be conducted on her own and strongly ill-advised. He knew she was smarter than that—as long as she didn’t let her emotions cloud her judgment.
And as difficult as Hawk’s situation seemed, he needed to focus on the two positive aspects of his capture. First, he was still alive. Second, Fazil suggested he was going to let Hawk live long enough to see presumably some vile act of terrorism against America. And as long as there was breath in him, he figured he had a chance to escape and turn the tables on Fazil. But such goals were far more easily imagined than accomplished.
His thoughts were interrupted when light flooded the room as the door swung open. Two men lumbered toward Hawk. One reached up and pulled on the string, illuminating the single bulb. It swung back and forth, casting dancing shadows on the walls around them.
Neither one of the men said a word as they circled Hawk. They simply smiled and nodded at each other before commencing. Taking turns, the two men ruthlessly beat Hawk. His head snapped back several times from the force of their blows, which bloodied his face. After a few punches around Hawk’s eyes, his left one began to swell shut. He could taste blood streaming into his mouth from the growing number of wounds.
With Hawk barely recognizable, the men switched their tactics, concentrating on Hawk’s midsection. They pounded him in the stomach and chest before bashing him on the upper portion of his back that was exposed. Still bound to the chair, Hawk couldn’t do anything but brace for blow after blow and hope he managed to survive.
The door opened at the far end of the room, and Fazil strode through.
“What are you doing?” Fazil demanded in Arabic. “I said to beat him up, not kill him.”
The two men shrugged and exited with Fazil, who scolded them as they walked away.
The door slammed shut behind them, and Hawk was left alone again with his thoughts in the dark. His face felt like it was on fire. Sweat trickled into the wounds, creating a burning sensation. And there was nothing he could do about it.
In a matter of minutes, Hawk’s mood had changed from hope to despair. He wondered if it was even possible to escape—if he even managed to survive the night after the beating he’d just endured.
All Hawk could do was fight to stay alive and pray for a miracle.
CHAPTER 13
Washington, D.C.
NOAH YOUNG NAVIGATED to the address of the website Blunt had mentioned might have live streaming coverage of James Peterson’s alleged meeting with a Russian ambassador. At the prescribed time, the image came on his screen and he watched as Peterson entered the room along with his guest. They both took a seat on chairs opposite from one another right near the camera. A faint smile spread across Young’s lips as the number of viewers escalated to more than a million within the first thirty seconds.
But that was all Young had to smile about for the next few minutes.
Peterson began his conversation with the ambassador in a congenial manner. The two men discussed their families, and Peterson mentioned how difficult it was on his wife to be traversing the country at so many political rallies.
“But it’s worth it,” Peterson said. “And she knows that. She wants to make America an even better country and knows I’m the man to help set that in motion.”
“I’ve only spoken with your wife on a couple occasions, but I believe she’s right,” the ambassador said. “However, I would also add that I think you’re also going to be a good leader for the entire world. We need some men like you to restore faith in government.”
Young sneered as he witnessed the exchange.
Why don’t they just kiss already?
“I appreciate your willingness to speak with me today,” the ambassador continued. “As you know, we are behind in some areas of technology, though you will never hear anyone in our government admit that. We are also ahead in other area. Ultimately, I believe we need each other. I know that you have become a successful businessman in your own right, but deep down you are still a technologist at heart. I want to know if you think there are ways our countries can partner together to increase technological platforms all over the world and bring more learning tools to people in less developed nations.”
Peterson smiled and nodded knowingly. “This is one area I’m excited about. We need good partners who are committed to making investments in foreign nations so that we level the playing field, so to speak. I think it’s important for someone toiling away in rural Zambia without access to schools to be able to
gain an education in some other shape or form. Or even the child in Haiti who can’t afford the burdensome cost of school—how will they learn? There are great tools being developed right now that can address some of those issues. We would love to have some nations partner with us on a venture like this. Instead of exporting our brand of democracy to the world through warfare, I’m excited about sharing knowledge in a peaceful manner. This could really bring about the kind of peace the whole world desires right now.”
Young felt his stomach sink as Peterson struck the right note in his conversation with the ambassador, one that voters, who had tuned in to watch Peterson fail spectacularly, witnessed in what appeared to be a voyeuristic venture. If this was how Peterson acted in private with foreign dignitaries, he just closed the deal with the American public. According to Blunt, the nature of Peterson’s conversation with the Russian ambassador was supposed to be about forging allies to control their respective governments, not a groundbreaking summit. The fact that such a meeting was illegal could be seized upon by Young, but it’d just make him look like a political buffoon in light of how the conversation unfolded. Young sighed and shook his head, unable to deny that his slim chance to direct the narrative of the last few weeks of the campaign had all but vanished.
Then Peterson nearly obliterated every shred of goodwill he’d just engendered in a jarring display of bravado. He shook hands with the ambassador and watched him exit the room before Peterson walked right up to the camera. Looking directly at it, he delivered a fiery message for Young.
“I don’t know how many people are watching this live stream, but I suspect it numbers in the hundreds of thousands,” Peterson began. “And you all tuned in today because my opponent, Noah Young, worked behind the scenes to set me up. He abused his power and position to navigate the dirty back channel waters of politics to attempt to expose me as some kind of political neophyte orchestrating a sinister plot with our supposed enemies. However, the truth is Noah Young is the one being exposed today as the same old tired bureaucrat that our country has grown tired of, the kind of man who bullies his way to power.”
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