by Angel Vane
Something wasn’t right.
“What’s wrong?” Mena asked, worry in her eyes.
“Stay here,” Julian said slowly, eyes trained on the waiter inching closer to a crowd of guests near the dance floor. “Do not move.”
Turning from the ledge, Julian raced into the crowd.
Chapter Twelve
Adrenaline spiking through his veins, Julian pushed his legs harder, zipping through the crowd. Grabbing the kid waiter’s arm, he jerked him back, sending the tray of champagne flutes falling to the ground with a loud crash.
Crystal shards decimated against the ground as the liquid sprayed across guests standing nearby. Gasps and screams erupted through the night air as all eyes darted to Julian and the kid.
He held on tighter as the kid waiter jerked and writhed, but kept his movements still and cautious. He didn’t want to ignite the disaster he was trying to prevent. The kid waiter started to wiggle within his grip, easing out of the oversized white jacket with his free arm to try to get away.
Someone in the crowd shrieked. “Oh my God!!! He’s got a bomb!!!”
Panic swelled through the crowd.
“He’s a suicide bomber!”
“We’re all going to die!”
The Irungu family security guards in the crowd brought out their weapons, some training them on the kid waiter and Julian, while others tried to corral the crowd from panicking and trampling back toward the ballroom. They all knew the risks too well. Any sudden movement could detonate the bomb before any of them had a chance to diffuse the situation.
Julian turned the kid waiter toward him. The fear in his eyes was palpable. He’d seen that haunted look before.
Two security guards stepped closer to Julian, but he held up a hand, stopping their movement.
The cries and screams grew to a crescendo as the other guards slowly started to direct the crowd toward a concrete stairwell near the furthest end of the courtyard.
Julian stole a quick glance behind him. Mena stood where he’d left her near the crystal pedestal overflowing forget-me-nots. Defiant, refusing to leave him and join the others to seek safety. She had a clear path to the French doors that led into the ballroom, but she hadn’t tried to escape. As long as he was out here, he knew she would be too.
The kid waiter jerked against Julian’s grasp. Julian took a step toward him, tightening his hand on the kid’s skinny arm. He watched the boy’s hand moving toward his pants pocket, fumbling as he pulled out a small detonator.
One push of the button would end the life of every person on the rooftop.
“Did they force you to do this?” Julian asked, keeping his voice steady and calm.
The kid waiter’s eyes grew wide, tears welling, as he stared back at Julian. Releasing the boy’s arm, Julian raised his hands in the air.
“Did they kidnap you?” Julian asked.
The kid waiter nodded, adjusting the detonator in his hands, closing his fingers around the small object.
“Tell me what happened?” Julian asked.
The boy shook his head, eyes darting through the crowd as sweat rolled down the side of his face.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Julian said, taking another step back to give the kid waiter more space. If he could get the kid to talk, it would give all of them much needed time. If he was lucky, he might be able to convince the kid there was another way out for him. One that didn’t end with blowing up himself and the hundred guests on the rooftop. “Tell me what they did to you.”
The kid waiter took a deep breath, his eyes locked on Julian’s.
“It’s okay. You can talk about it.”
The kid waiter began slowly.
“They took me and my sisters. They wanted me to go into the city for a mission, but I refused. I didn’t want to leave my two little sisters alone with them. I’ve seen what they do to women and young girls. My sisters are ten and thirteen years old, but that wouldn’t stop them from violating them. I was afraid of what they would do to my sisters if I left to do a mission for them,” the kid waiter said, through choked sobs.
“What happened after that?” Julian lowered his arms, his mind whirling with the harrowing story he knew was coming. He’d witnessed similar acts on his missions in Africa, gathering intelligence against al-Harakat.
“They raped Bishara. She was barely a teenager and they raped her right in front of me. They told me I could have saved her from that pain if I had done the first mission. Then they asked me if I wanted to save my youngest sister. I could save her if I would agree to do a mission for them. A mission that would not only free my sisters but would send me to the happiest place I could imagine,” the kid waiter said, his tears slowing as he loosened, then tightened his fingers around the detonator.
“Heaven,” Julian said, familiar with the rhetoric used by terrorists like al-Harakat to convince young kids to sacrifice their lives.
The kid waiter nodded slowly.
In the periphery, Julian could see the guests toward the furthest end of the rooftop. The size of the crowd wasn’t getting smaller. His eyes darted toward the exit stairwell. Something prevented Enzo from opening the door. Three men worked feverishly with Enzo, trying different tactics, but none seem to be working. Julian figured the terrorists had sealed the exits to ensure maximum damage from the suicide bomb.
A hush fell over the crowd as the kid waiter continued to speak.
“I had to save my sisters from any more pain. I couldn’t let them continue to rape them. They promised me that if I do this, they would set them free. I don’t want to kill these people. I tried to take the bomb off, but it is tied onto me. I tried to blow myself up before I got here, but they had someone watching me. Following me. He pointed his big gun at me and told me to go inside, serve the people, and make their last night happy. Then after dinner, when everyone was on the rooftop dancing, I was supposed to press this red button.” The kid waiter held his hand high, thumb poised on the button that seemed to glow against the night sky.
A round of gasps floated through the air from the guests, as some wailed.
“You don’t have to do that. I promise, I can help you if you let me. What’s your name?” Julian asked.
“Uhuru,” the kid waiter said.
“Uhuru. I’m Julian.”
“I wish we were meeting under different circumstances Mr. Julian,” Uhuru said.
“So do I.”
Uhuru continued, “The bad men with guns told me that if I didn’t complete the mission, they would do horrible things to my sisters instead of setting them free. I don’t want to do this, but what other choice do I have?”
Julian had spent weeks working with explosive specialists in Nigeria, part of small bomb-disposal units, trained to disarm improvised explosive devices. It had been years since he’d watched the specialists do their work, studying their moves and methods from afar as his SEAL team guarded the perimeters from surprise terrorist attacks. Right now, those memories were all he had to save this kid and the rest of the guests on the rooftop.
“You can choose to let me help you save yourself and all these innocent people.” Julian said.
“I don’t want to kill people. Please, if you can help me not kill people. I want a chance to be free of this burden,” Uhuru said, fresh tears falling down his cheeks.
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Julian responded, then turned toward the crowd of guests collectively holding their breaths near a corner of the courtyard. Enzo and the other security guards were working to unhinge the exit door. “Anybody have scissors? I need scissors!”
A woman in a long emerald green gown emerged from the crowd, digging in her purse as she walked confidently toward him.
“Here, I have these,” the woman said, handing Julian a pair of embroidery scissors. Flipping the small object in his hands, Julian tested the sharpness against the tip of his thumb, happy to feel the sharp prick. The scissors were the perfect size to make the delicate snips needed to free Uhuru.
Turning
back to the boy, he said, “We’re going to sit down right here, next to each other, slowly. Then I’m going to get you out of this vest.”
The boy nodded and lowered his body in unison with Julian until he was sitting on the soft grass of the courtyard, his hand still clutching the detonator with the red button.
“Lay that down carefully by your side,” Julian said, motioning to the detonator, “then lie flat on your back.”
Enzo rushed over to Julian. “We need to get these people off the fucking rooftop now! Can’t get the stairwell door open. It’s jammed from the inside.”
Julian would rather try to get the vest removed without an audience of screaming, scared guests. The only other option was the delta exit they’d guarded before.
“Send some of the other security guards to check the ballroom. If it’s clear, take the guests inside and get them down to the loading dock through the delta exit,” Julian directed. “And avoid the windows. Stick to the inner walls, single file.”
“The motherfuckers are probably watching, aren’t they? Waiting to see fucking fireworks,” Enzo whispered.
“And if they don’t, they could remotely detonate,” Julian said, turning to look back at Enzo. Concern creased his friend’s face.
“You got this?” Enzo asked, nodding down at the suicide vest.
“Yeah, I got it. Get these people out of here and to safety,” Julian responded with more confidence than he felt.
Sirens filled the air as the police grew nearer. No doubt many of the guests had sent texts and made calls to alert the authorities. But the local police wouldn’t be able to do what he could. He had to make sure Uhuru didn’t become another victim of the terrible violence terrorists inflicted on the innocent.
“On it. Don’t you fucking die up here, you hear me,” Enzo said, then walked briskly back to a group of four other men, relaying the directions.
Julian looked up and saw Mena staring back at him, her dark eyes wide with fear, concern and … love. She stood like an ethereal vision, watching over him as he tried to save this teenager’s life. He needed her to go with the others, not wait for him on the rooftop. He needed to know she was safe.
“Mena,” Julian said.
She took a step toward him, but he held up a hand, warning her not to come any closer.
“I’m not leaving you,” Mena said, her voice unwavering in its determination.
“Yes, you are. When the bodyguards over there start to take the guests out, you need to be the first one out of here,” Julian said.
“I can’t go … not without you,” Mena shook her head.
“You have to. You’re too beautiful, too distracting to me right now.”
Mena laughed. “I can’t believe you’re trying to joke at a moment like this.”
“You trust me?” Julian asked.
The guests were moving now slowly past Uhuru and filing through the French doors, exiting the rooftop.
“Of course I do,” Mena said.
“Then I’ll meet you downstairs,” Julian responded.
Mena took a deep breath, hesitating as the guests continued to exit the courtyard. He needed her to be safe and not wait for him. But would she walk away from him knowing that his life was in danger? If the situation was reversed, he knew there was no way he’d leave her side.
“Please,” Julian whispered.
Mena looked toward the sky, then turned and walked away, blending in with the last of the crowd of other guests leaving the rooftop.
“God bless you, sir! God bless you for saving us,” a man said as he passed Julian and Uhuru.
He wasn’t blessed yet.
As soon as the last guest had cleared the rooftop, Julian brought his attention back to Uhuru. The boy was still, his breathing ragged despite the peaceful look in his eyes trained on the scissors in Julian’s hands.
Reaching for an edge of the fabric, Julian made the first cut.
Chapter Thirteen
Cheers roared into the night as Julian, escorted by a dozen military and police officers, emerged from the loading dock in the alley behind the Tribal Museum and Irungu Center. Many of the guests had remained, standing behind barricades set up by the Nairobi police department. Uhuru trembled uncontrollably in Julian’s embrace. After cutting the fabric strategically, Julian removed the vest without disturbing any of the wires. As he carried the kid down three flights of stairs to the first floor of the Tribal Museum, the military bomb experts rushed past him, heading to the rooftop.
Julian was shocked he’d pulled it off. Memories of the steps he’d watched the Nigerian explosive specialists perform hundreds of times had slammed into his head, guiding his actions. In reality, the truth was his special ops training had kicked in, instinctively, and took over. He’d practiced for years how to handle situations more difficult than this one. The thoughts, the actions, the decisions were as familiar and easy as breathing for him. This time, he’d been able to free a teenage boy from the heinous mission that al-Harakat or some other terrorist faction wanted him to do—killing prominent Nairobi business and social elite.
Two EMTs rushed toward him, extracting Uhuru from his arms. The kid looked back at Julian, relief, and gratitude in his eyes as he was led away. Julian’s shoulders slumped, the weight of the evening crashing over him. He needed to find Mena. She could have died tonight if he hadn’t been on that rooftop. If he hadn’t noticed the signs.
Turning toward the guests crowded behind the police barricade, Julian took a step then stopped. Nine soldiers dressed in olive fatigues converged upon him. Guns pointed in his face, they ushered him toward the loading dock, now empty of the guests and security guards who’d brought them down safely. What the fuck was this about?
“Julian Montgomery,” a male voice boomed from the shadows of the dock.
A knot tensed in the back of Julian’s neck as his mind registered the voice. One from his past. One he’d rather not have to cross paths with again.
“Just a few questions for you if you don’t mind.” The man emerged from the darkness, stepping onto the wet pavement in the alley. Despite the friendliness of his tone, Julian knew it wasn’t a suggestion but a command.
Julian crossed his arms and waited, but said nothing.
“We are trying to assess what happened tonight, and I’d greatly appreciate your cooperation.”
“Haven’t I always freely given my cooperation to you … Reggie?” Julian asked.
Iregi “Reggie” Kamau, the leader of the African Special Forces, known as ASF in military circles, glared back at him, unable to hide his disdain and anger over the informal greeting in front of his team.
“Give us a moment,” Reggie directed the soldiers.
Julian waited until they were standing alone, out of earshot of the rest of the ASF special agents. Iregi Kamau had been recruited at the inception of the creation of the group. Julian’s SEAL team had the displeasure of training the ungrateful and arrogant new agents.
Reggie said, “Are the SEALs encroaching on my territory without following the prescribed protocols? You are supposed to alert me if you are active in any area under ASF jurisdiction.”
“You mean the protocols I taught you when you were first recruited to lead the group? No protocols were broken. I’m not here on a SEAL mission,” Julian responded.
“You expect me to believe that?” Reggie spat the words through gritted teeth, keeping his voice low and out of earshot of his men. “How did you know that the boy had a bomb strapped to his body underneath his coat? My team interviewed all the guests. No one noticed anything out of order. You were the first to go after him even though no one else recognized the waiter as a threat. You must have had some intel.”
“I don’t need intel. I’m a SEAL trained, ex-special ops soldier. The signs were all there,” Julian said.
“Ex-soldier?” Reggie asked.
“Look, the kid was nervous, younger than the other wait staff. His clothes were too bulky on his skinny frame. He’d been s
weating the entire night, soaking through his clothes, but only the sleeves of his jacket were damp. Why wasn’t his entire jacket drenched with sweat? I decided to find out, so I moved in on him,” Julian explained.
Reggie asked, “If you’re not in the SEALs anymore, then why are you here?”
“I work private security for Timothy Irungu. Are we done?” Julian asked.
Glaring, Reggie pushed past him and walked toward the agents loitering near the intersection of the alley and the main thoroughfare.
“Julian! Julian!” Mena’s words floated from behind him.
“Miss, you cannot be back here!” a special agent yelled.
Julian turned in time to see Mena being forced backward by one of the ASF agents. Pulse jumping, Julian rushed toward the road, jerking the agent away from Mena. Julian glared at Reggie. The leader of the ASF gave a quick nod, and the agent backed away, leaving Julian standing alone in front of Mena.
“You’re shaking,” Julian whispered into her hair as he pulled her into a tight embrace.
“Don’t worry about me,” Mena said, then slapped her hands against his chest. “And don’t pull anything like that ever again!”
“Ouch, that hurt,” Julian said, smiling at Mena as she tried hard to look stern at him. He looked down at her beautiful face. Wisps of her black hair had come loose from the side ponytail and danced in the breeze.
“I’m serious, Julian. You need to let somebody else be the hero next time,” Mena said, her eyes pleading with him.
“How about … there won’t be a next time,” Julian said.
Mena gave him a brilliant smile. “I like that even better.”
“Come on, let’s go home,” Julian said. He placed his arm around Mena, holding her close as they walked along the sidewalk, past the police barricades. Most of the remaining guests had left the scene. Julian steered Mena around the corner toward the front of the museum.
Blinding flashes popped in his face as a throng of reporters converged on him. Julian gripped Mena’s hand tighter as she looked at him. Her stunned expression matched the emotions rifling through him. Microphones jutted toward him as dozens of reporters shouted questions. A male journalist forced his way forward, “How does it feel to be the hero of the night, Julian Montgomery?”
