by Angel Vane
Reggie raised an eyebrow.
“Mr. Irungu expects me and the field team to participate in the investigation with the ASF. It’s up to you if you’re going to comply or not. But I doubt he’d be pleased to hear that cooperation was being withheld from the representative you agreed to allow to be part of the case,” Julian said.
Reggie inhaled sharply. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Julian leaned back in his chair. Under different circumstances, ruffling Reggie’s feathers would be fun for him, but not now. Not when Mena’s life hung in the balance. Any delay, any restriction on his ability to help or review evidence could hinder the rescue efforts.
Julian didn’t trust Reggie or his team to locate and rescue the hostages without help from the TIDES team. Since their creation over a decade ago, the ASF had made improvements, but they still weren’t an elite operative group. Prone to mistakes, they had an embarrassing failure rate.
“When lives are at stake, there’s nothing to enjoy. I’m here to help you find Wangari and the other hostages. I mean that,” Julian said, and he did. Mena’s safe return was directly related to Wangari’s rescue. He would do whatever it took to make that happen, even playing nice with Reggie Kamau.
Reggie opened a drawer at the end of the table and extracted a single folder. Sliding it across the table toward Julian, he said, “We’ve determined a loose timeline of events and potential suspects. I think you’ll find there may be holes in the Irungu security team’s assessment.”
Flipping through the folder, Julian skimmed the contents. Looking for anything to help him determine where Mena was being held, he stared at a note on the report.
Julian looked up at Reggie. “You think a member of the Irungu Family could have orchestrated all of this?”
“If Wangari Irungu is killed, the family’s fortune will be divided among dozens of siblings and cousins, any of whom also have incentive to get rid of the child no one expected the Irungu’s to have, given their age when she was born,” Reggie said.
Julian considered the information but thought it was less likely since Wangari’s parents were still alive. If their only child died, they could easily change their will and allow their fortune to be managed by a trust or donate it all to a not-for-profit organization. There would be no guarantee that anyone in the family would become the beneficiaries.
“What about the flower delivery? Any idea who sent them or who they were sent to?” Julian asked, noticing the scrutiny placed on the crushed coral peonies found on the floor of the Conservators Room within the report.
“Not yet, but the team is working on it. We did identify something curious about the peonies, which our lab technicians are analyzing. A strange scent, unlike what you’d expect from flowers,” Reggie explained.
A chill slid down Julian’s spine as memories assaulted him. “A faint smell, almost citrus-like?”
“How did you know that?” Reggie asked.
“The results will show the flowers had been sprayed with the chemical nerve agent, lazirprene,” Julian said.
“Lazirprene. Are you sure?” Reggie asked.
Julian wished he wasn’t, but the method of attack and the technique used to facilitate the kidnapping was beginning to fit the distinct style of an enemy he’d faced before.
“Lazirprene attacks the musculoskeletal system, temporarily rendering its victims numb or paralyzed for a period of minutes to hours, depending on the amount of exposure. If that’s the chemical on the flowers, then there’s no way anyone who came in contact with the peonies would be able to fight back or scream for help. The kidnappers would face no resistance extracting them from the building. That chemical is extremely rare … so how did it end up being used today? Who could be behind this?” Reggie asked.
Julian pinched the bridge of his nose, tension clawing at his muscles. The search for Mena had become extremely complicated. Bringing her and the other hostages home safely would be harder than any of them expected.
Taking a deep breath, Julian said, “I know exactly who’s behind this, and you’re not going to like it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
A high-pitched wail pierced the air as Mena’s eyes flew open. She leaned back against the concrete floor covered in dirt and debris. Her body shook involuntarily as electric shocks pricked her muscles. Leaning forward, she gripped her stomach, realizing the horrifying sound was coming from her own mouth. The pain was paralyzing as her body reawakened. She wiggled her toes, sending another jolt of pain coursing through her body. Despite the sharp discomfort, Mena breathed heavily through each successive convulsion, thankful that she was regaining the feeling in her body.
What had they given her? How had they reduced her body to numb, paralyzed state? She’d panicked when she lost her motor function in the middle of the Conservators Room, falling and banging the side of her skull against the hard floor. Gunmen had appeared at the entrance, storming into the room. She’d watched Wangari struggle to walk before collapsing on the ground. Isaac and Grace had been less effected, stumbling but still able to move, trying to get away, though their attempts had proved futile.
Mena looked around the darkened room. A bright light shone from the hallway, casting a bright rectangle on the grimy floor. The rough grit scratched against her palms as she shifted backward and leaned her body against the wall, hoping to gather enough strength to stand. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Across the room, Wangari was tied to a chair, her mouth gagged with a rag. Isaac lay on the floor, several feet away from her. He was face down in a pool of vomit, his hands tied behind his back and his feet bound with thick ropes. Mena glanced at her own legs, bound tightly together. She wouldn’t be standing any time soon.
“Last one is finally coming around,” a male voice said from outside the room. “Rahim, get in there and secure her now that she’s regaining her muscle function.”
Mena looked toward the door as a large figure filled the space, blocking the light. Her eyes followed the man closely as he entered the room. He was dressed in the same dark green trousers and matching button-down shirt she remembered the gunmen wearing from the attack on the Irungu Center. His scarf hung loosely around his neck as he closed the distance between them.
Avoiding eye contact with the rebel, Mena searched for a weapon, something she could use to fight him off. She swiped her hands against the floor. Another painful series of electric shocks racked her arm muscles, and she paused, sucking in a sharp breath.
The man squatted low, forcing her to meet his gaze. He stared back at her without blinking, an unreadable emotion in his eyes. Softly, his hands caressed her arms as he brought her hands together in front of her body. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a strand of coarse, thin rope. Wrapping her wrists tightly, he secured the ends, then stood. Mena tried to move her hands but quickly abandoned that idea as the rope scratched and scraped her skin.
Standing, the man went to the corner of the room and lifted a small pitcher of water. Returning to her side, he looked over his shoulder toward the door for a long moment, then turned his attention back to her.
“Drink,” he whispered.
Aware of the harsh dryness of her throat, Mena gratefully accepted the warm liquid, sipping quickly to quench her thirst. He allowed her several seconds of gulping the water until he removed the pitcher and sat it back in the corner.
Mena kept her eyes on the man they called Rahim as he exited the room and disappeared from her view.
“Mena, are you okay?” Isaac managed to turn his head to face her, the dried excrement coating his cheek and chin.
“I think so. I can move, but it’s painful. Is Wangari okay? What did they do to her?”
“My guess is the same thing they did to you. She woke up a few hours ago and cried out in pain, but she wouldn’t stop screaming. It was horrible. They finally gagged her so they wouldn’t hear her, and she passed out about an hour ago,” Isaac explained.
“Did they say what
they wanted?” Mena asked, wondering if a ransom request had been made while she was still knocked out.
Kidnapping had become an unfortunate risk of life for wealthy Africans. Terrorists had an endless supply of human capital to mine from and demand money to fund their activities. And there weren’t too many Kenyans wealthier than Wangari and her family. What she couldn’t understand was why the gunmen had taken her and Isaac?
“Not yet. They seem to be waiting for their leader to arrive and give them instructions, but I’m guessing they want a big payout from Wangari’s family. I think we were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Isaac lamented.
In the past year, Mena had had more than her fair share of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d walked into the middle of Ella Sapphire’s escape from the Genesis Gallery and been forced at gunpoint to drive the pregnant woman to an unknown location, only to end up delivering her baby on the side of the road. Stumbling upon the truth of Priscilla Dumay’s immoral enterprise had landed her in the trunk of Zak Webber’s car, kidnapped to stop her from going to the police about what she’d overheard. Then being trapped in the basement of Dumay’s mansion, desperate to escape before a bomb detonated. Each time, though, she’d had one glimmer of hope. A chance to get out of the situation, unscathed and unharmed … because of Julian.
Mena’s eyes focused on the charm bracelet Julian had given her.
Would she ever see him again?
Or would these moments with Wangari and Isaac be her last?
Footsteps pounded into the room, jolting Mena from her thoughts. Three armed gunmen pointed rifles, one trained on each of them as three others surrounded them.
A rough hand reached under Mena’s arm, jerking her to a standing position. Her legs wobbled, still partially numb from whatever they’d done to her earlier. Head swimming from the abrupt movement, Mena leaned against the wall. A sharp blow rocked the back of her head as the man punched her.
“Stand the fuck up!” he shouted in her ear, the stench of cush on his breath, assaulting her nostrils.
Mena stifled a cry as she balanced herself on shaky legs.
“Let’s go,” another said, as the three of them were led out of the room and into a larger, open space drowned in harsh bright lights. Taking short, choppy steps due to the ropes binding her legs, Mena tried not to fall as one of the gunmen directed her to the furthest chair perched against the wall. The gunman gave her a rough shove. Mena slipped down, banging against the chair with a loud thud.
Wangari was forced into the chair next to her. The gag was removed from her mouth, and she looked ahead with frightened and erratic eyes. Isaac sat down on his own in the chair next to Wangari’s.
Mena tore her eyes away from Wangari to look ahead at the man standing in the center of the room, appraising them. He was dressed differently than the others, in black trousers and a tailored white shirt, with diamond cuff links that glittered under the bright lights. His hands, clasped tightly in front of him, were severely scarred.
“Do you know who I am?” the man asked, his question directed at none of them in particular.
Wangari shook her head. Tears slipped down her face as her shoulders hunched forward.
“I am your worst nightmare come true,” the man said. “My name is Tubeec Hirad. It is important that you know who has put you in this horrific situation. Please, confirm that you are aware and repeat my name. Go ahead, each of you, say my name,” Tubeec instructed.
He pointed at Isaac first. Mena listened as Isaac, then Wangari repeated the man’s name. Then it was her turn.
“Tubeec Hirad,” Mena said, swallowing past the lump in her throat.
“If you survive this ordeal, I want to ensure that when you tell your tale of woe, you have attributed the source of your pain correctly. Now, I will deal with you first,” Tubeec said, pointing to Wangari.
“What do you want? Money?” Wangari asked, her voice quivering.
“Tsk. Tsk.” Tubeec shook his head. “Your father has already offered a handsome sum for your return. Unfortunately, this is not about dollars or cents.”
“What is it about? Why did you take us?” Wangari asked.
“Your husband has something of value to me. I asked him for a simple exchange. Your life for that item, but he refused. Why would he do that?” Tubeec asked. “Does he value your life so little?”
“My husband is an honorable man. He is a principled man. He has received threats from men like you during his entire time in office and survived them all. He will not hastily put Kenyans in harm's way by succumbing to the whims of terrorists like you,” Wangari said.
“That is good news for Kenyans, but not so good news for you and Ms. Nix and Mr. Gatobu, is it?” Tubeec asked, walking over to stand in front of Isaac. “Mr. Gatobu, are you ready to die for your country?”
Isaac squeezed his eyes shut as his body trembled in the chair.
Tubeec Hirad stepped past Wangari and stopped directly in front of Mena.
“And you? The lovely Mena Nix. Are you prepared to die for a country that isn’t your own?” Tubeec asked.
Mena looked away. She had never considered that this freak would want something other than money. Money in exchange for the release of a captive was how she thought these kidnappings worked. Obviously, Tubeec Hirad had something different in mind. What Mena couldn’t understand was why Okeyo Lagat had refused to meet the terrorist’s demands? What could be so important that he’d risk his wife’s life to protect?
Mena choked back a sob as the stark reality of her predicament rocked through her body.
“Please! Just let them go! They are innocent in all of this. Keep me, but let them go!” Wangari said.
One of the gunmen approached Tubeec, handing him a cell phone.
Tubeec glanced at the screen, then looked at Mena and smiled, sending a chill coursing down her spine. Turning toward Wangari, Tubeec said, “Breathe easy, Wangari. I’m going to give your husband a second chance to make the right decision.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Tubeec Hirad is behind the kidnapping. He’s the man you need to be looking for.”
The weight of Julian’s words settled within the room.
The man on every African country’s most-wanted list had staged one of the most daring kidnappings in Kenyan history.
The leader of a dedicated network of for-profit killers, kidnappers, terrorists, and thieves, Tubeec Hirad personally cultivated, groomed and indoctrinated each member, growing his militia over the past decade. Unhindered by politics, religion, or special causes, the mercenaries specialized in mayhem and carnage, carrying out surgical strikes at the request of clients all over the world. The specially trained group accepted any request, no matter how heinous, as long as the price paid matched the risks. This distinction had garnered them more members on Interpol’s list of red notices than any other terrorist organization in Africa, even more than al-Harakat.
“What makes you think Tubeec Hirad is involved in this? He hasn’t been on the radar in East Africa for over a year,” Reggie demanded, challenging Julian’s conclusion.
“Lazirprene was developed by Tubeec and his wife, Axado. They refined and cultivated the dangerous compound until it was perfected, then started a bidding war with several governments and criminal organizations for the formula. That didn’t sit well with many of the groups. The Navy suspected that one of the groups tried to extract the formula by force, brutally attacking Axado and her twin boys, killing all of them. Tubeec refused to give up the formula and was burned alive, but somehow he escaped. Rumor has it that the formula only exists in his head. He produces it from memory, whenever he wants to sell small batches or when he needs it to carry out an attack.”
Reggie rubbed his hands down his face, then turned toward one of the agents. “Validate this information. If Tubeec Hirad is the kidnapper, then this whole hostage situation has become infinitely more dangerous.”
“Chief Kamau,” said a tan-skinned woman with
a soft babyface. She stood near a control panel stationed in the center of ComCentral, typing feverishly.
“What do you have?” Reggie asked.
“The footage from the museum was tampered with, replaced with an identical copy of the footage from the day before. It’s useless. So, I started scouring cell phone videos and photos taken by citizens and tourists, reconstructing scenes from the time of the attack until now,” the woman, whose name badge read BETTS, said in a monotone voice. “There is some footage from the Global Exchange building across the street. It’s distant, but helps to construct a dire picture.”
The ASF emblem on the monitors around the room dissipated and was replaced by a picture of a group of men dressed in all green, with ammunition vests draped across their chests, holding M4 Carbines.
“These men were seen at various points exiting the Global Exchange building,” Agent Betts said, directing their attention to a series of still shots on the monitors. “Here you can barely make out two of the men in the front cab of an East African Flower Company truck. The truck is exiting the alley from the loading dock behind the museum and the Irungu Center. Time of departure coincides with the timing of the second bomb blast.”
“Anything else?” Reggie asked.
“Across the alley from the museum, an electronics company is housed on the second floor with windows overlooking the loading dock. That was by design as the Irungu’s allowed the company to share the dock for their deliveries. From that view, we were able to capture these images.”
The still shot of Wangari Irungu showed the heiress looking disoriented, no doubt from the effects of the Lazirprene. Another picture showed a man with tears in his eyes, his mouth caught in a grimaced cry. Two of the rebels held his arms tightly, while another pointing a gun to the man’s head. In the lower left-hand corner, Julian’s eyes were drawn to the face he’d fallen in love with months ago. His fingers slid across Mena’s blank face. She was being carried into the van, her arms and legs limp, but her eyes alert.
