When Assad got within several paces of the bound SEAL, Jackson knew what the man was holding. It was Susan Winters' date book and file folder, along with a small plastic bottle. Jackson's eyes widened.
"You know what this is, Mr. Pike?" Assad knew the answer before he asked. His men had confiscated the two documents from Jackson when they had taken him in the woods.
Jackson remained silent.
Assad opened the folder. "This is the only evidence linking Carmike Industries and the Special Security Group to Monday's plan."
The tan interrogator walked to a small metal wastebasket which stood near the video camera tripod. He tossed the folder and datebook inside of the steel can and emptied the contents of the small plastic canister into the wastebasket. The smell of gasoline flooded the tiny concrete room.
Assad smiled as he turned towards Jackson, shrugging his shoulders. "This was your only proof."
He drew a pack of cigarettes and a small metal lighter from his pocket. He lit two cigarettes and tucked the pack back into the pocket of his pants. He tossed one of the cigarettes into the wastebasket, and a ball of flame spat from the metal canister.
"Now, there is no evidence, Mr. Pike. But either way, I'm going to enjoy getting you to tell me your side of the story."
Jackson sat silently and hung his head. He would tell this man absolutely nothing. Any pain the man could cause him would be worth the aggravation it would cause this murderer.
Jackson lifted his head and looked Assad square in the eyes.
"Fuck you," he said simply as he squared his jaw and gritted his teeth.
Assad walked to the wall of the dank room and past the two flags which hung on the gray cement of the former shipping warehouse wall. He pulled one of the wicked scimitar blades down and walked towards Jackson.
"I figured you might say that, Mr. Pike." He smiled as he stepped towards Jackson’s chair.
"In fact, I hoped you would."
Chapter 37:
11:02 PM- Saturday, September 9th
Naval Observatory- Washington, D.C.
Before bed, Vice President Colgan always set his cellular phone to vibrate. For important matters, he could always be reached by the land line or any of the numerous Secret Service agents that made up his security contingent.
Usually, the thin gray haired politician slept like a baby in the luxurious quarters that the taxpayers provided he and his wife on the grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory. But tonight, he rolled side to side restlessly, slamming a relentless fist into the soft down of his pillow, trying to find some rest.
There was just too much on the line for the politician. He rolled to his left, propped up for a second on a cold elbow that emerged from the softness of his down comforter and looked for a moment at the sleeping face of his wife.
He sighed, rolling onto his back and glancing at the glowing red face of his alarm clock. It was 11:05 PM and there had still been no word.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to put the stress of business and politics from his mind. As he finally began to relax, the small black phone began to vibrate, the almost silent quiver of the small electronic device like thunder in the politician's ear due to the weight of the news it surely carried.
His feet were on the floor within a second, his pallid white hands grasping the plastic of the phone as he stepped from the bedroom, the old wooden floors of the Vice Presidential mansion creaking beneath his 180 pound frame.
He closed the solid wooden door behind him and stepped into the hallway of his quarters, his privacy as complete here as anywhere in the world.
"What is the status," he demanded into the mouthpiece of the telephone without issuing a greeting. The Vice President had never been known for his social graces.
Colgan's soft linen robe was cinched around his waist as he paced up the hallway, his gaze panning across the photos that lined the walls of the quarters. As he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, he scanned the room, his eyes following a progression of photos detailing his life and career. They spanned a lifetime of achievement from college graduation, graduate school, his wedding, meetings with businessmen, politicians and finally to the photos of him with political and world leaders.
The photos were a reminder of how much was at stake for Colgan. His entire life had led up to this point.
Everything he had and desired rested upon the success of his Presidential campaign, and his Presidential campaign, and more importantly its funding rested upon the outcome of this phone call.
His mind wandered as he gazed at the carefully framed snapshots of a lifetime of success. Colgan shook his head, refocusing a second later on the words of his caller, who continued to speak.
The Vice President had not spoken a word since answering the phone.
Silence echoed deafeningly in the Vice President's ear as his caller finally completed his briefing and the Vice President stepped down the hallway, his thoughts fixated on accomplishing the task at hand while achieving maximum protection for his political career and family.
"Very well," he said finally.
"Your instructions remain as previously briefed. I will call back in fifteen minutes for an update. I hope that you will have better news for me." He clicked the phone shut and walked down the hall to the small den where he often escaped on evenings such as these.
The Vice President walked into the den and sat heavily down on the plush cushions of the soft leather sofa, leaning his thin aging frame into the embrace of the couch and peering at the grandfather clock that sat above the brick fireplace.
He sighed. This would likely be the longest fifteen minutes of Colgan's career.
He reached a soft politician's hand to the coffee table and picked up the remote control of the flat screen television. He switched on the electronic device and leaned back in his chair. He tuned to FOX News and glanced again at the clock.
It had only been a minute and a half.
This was definitely going to be a long fifteen minutes.
As Colgan leaned his head back in the soft embrace of the couch, pressing his white hair into the soft leather, he half focused on the flashing images of his television screen.
He stared blankly ahead, watching the reruns of the day's news that dominate the twenty four hour news cycle.
Tonight they were poignant. FOX was replaying images of the September 11th, 2001 attacks and running a special focusing on the global war on terrorism.
Very appropriate, thought Colgan as he stood and walked to the wet bar on the other side of the room and poured himself a glass of Glenfiddich.
Very appropriate indeed.
Chapter 38:
11:17 PM- Saturday, September 9th
Sumner, VA
At least the sword was sharp.
That was all Jackson could think when he first felt the cold steel of the scimitar bladed sword touch the bare skin of his neck and chest.
Whatever Assad intended, whatever type of interrogation tactics he would use, Jackson could be certain that at least he would use a sharp blade. It was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless.
Jackson's eyes had been closed since Assad had pulled the sword from the wall. He forced himself to focus on happier times. Images of his family danced through his memory as he recalled the joy of being together with Leigh and Clementine.
His defiance this evening was for them. For Leigh and Clementine, he would suffer any amount of pain, any number of questions. For them, he would die well.
Assad had cut away Jackson's black, blood soaked shirt before stepping from the room. Jackson could hear him on the phone as his voice echoed through the cold concrete hallway. Unfortunately he couldn't make out any words, but he was sure whatever instructions Assad was receiving from his leadership, Jackson would know very soon.
When Assad had stepped back into the room, he was agitated. Jackson's lack of cooperation had clearly frustrated the man, and perhaps worse, embarrassed him in front of his s
uperiors.
"Mr. Pike." Assad's tone was low, menacing. "I've been instructed to find out what you know, and who you have told by any means necessary. Do you know what that means?"
Jackson opened his eyes for the first time since Assad had pulled the blade from the wall. He stared straight ahead, motionless as his thoughts continued to remain fixed on Leigh and Clementine. Jackson suppressed any fear that he felt. He refused to let his captor sense his emotions. He was a rock.
Assad stepped closer, running his hands along the edge of the razor sharp blade of the wicked sword that he wielded menacingly. He sighed.
"You've left me no choice," he said as he walked towards Jackson.
Jackson breathed slowly and evenly as Assad approached.
The prisoner continued to stare straight ahead, unblinking. His training, not to mention his stubbornness would never allow him to show a moment's weakness or fear. Assad was going to have to flay him alive with that sword, he swore to himself as he now squeezed his eyes closed once more.
Jackson was prepared to die. He was prepared to suffer.
No pain that this man could levy would be greater than that his colleagues in the Special Security Group had already exacted when they murdered Jackson’s only family. He was ready.
Jackson's eyes were shut as he prepared himself for the sharp blade to make its first incision. So, it was as much a surprise to Jackson as to Assad then when a deafening explosion rocked the building. The walls shook as years old dust drifted from the steel beams of the rafters as the building's old bones quivered.
Assad wasted no time. He keyed the radio fixed to his belt.
"Security Team Alpha, report." He was clearly ill at ease.
An explosion of that type could have been one of the trucks. If it had been, everyone in this building and every living thing within a half of a mile likely only had minutes to live.
There was no response.
"Security Team Alpha," he called again. "What is going on out there?"
Jackson's eyes were open now, a smile touching his face for the first time as he watched Assad fall apart before his very eyes.
"What's wrong, Assad?" He asked with a mocking tone in his voice as he watched the dark skinned assassin begin to panic.
Assad yelled loudly, "Shut the fuck up!"
Assad walked to the corner of the room and picked up a gas mask from the steel table upon which Susan Winter's date book had rested earlier in the evening. He stretched the rubber straps over his head fastening the small metal clasps as he walked toward the door.
Jackson sat silently, watching as Assad prepared to step from the room.
He knew that hadn't been one of the trucks. There had been only one explosion, without secondary indications of detonation.
Assad checked the security of his gas mask and lightly touched the heavy steel door that led to the hallway outside. He took a deep breath and pulled a handgun from a holster at his belt before stepping into the hallway.
He didn't make it more than two steps. Dull thuds of a silenced handgun turned Assad's head into a pink mist before Jackson's eyes. The assassin had no chance to react. His killer had not hesitated for a second.
Jackson smiled.
It would seem that Mike wasn't dead after all.
Jackson had only a limited view of the hall, provided through the heavy metal door which still sat partially open, blocked by Assad's lifeless body in a heap on the floor.
"In here." Jackson spoke clearly, his voice projecting through the room and into the hallway.
Mike Jones' dark form appeared seconds later. He scooped the handgun from Assad's body and tucked it into his belt before pulling a Ka-Bar knife from a holster on his hip.
He ran over to Jackson's chair and sliced through the thick plastic zip ties that held Jackson's hands and feet in place before handing him the handgun.
"I'm glad you're OK." There was audible relief in Mike's voice.
"I thought you were dead." Jackson replied as he gripped the 9mm Beretta, pulling the magazine out and taking stock of his ammunition. As he hoped, it contained a full magazine and one in the chamber.
The two men looked at each other. They only had minutes before the heavily armed men upstairs would figure out what was going on and come to investigate.
Jackson looked Mike in the eyes. "I know you are going to hate this, Mike. But we need to call the cops."
Mike laughed. "I do hate it, Jackson." He looked down momentarily, before raising his hard eyes to meet Jackson's own, "But I already did," he said with a tight lipped smile.
Jackson stood to his feet, supported by Mike's strong thick arm as the two men stepped towards the hall.
As they neared the door Jackson smiled along with Mike. He could hear the approaching wail of emergency sirens.
Chapter 39:
11:23 PM- Saturday, September 9th
Sumner, VA
Jimmy Howe had just closed his eyes when the call came in.
A man had been kidnapped on the east side of Sumner. Numerous armed men were suspected to be holed up at a facility near the Sumner River. All available officers were directed to report to the location.
Jimmy had kissed his wife's forehead before stepping from bed. He had thrown on his uniform and vest and walked to his patrol car. That had been 15 minutes ago.
Now, as he turned off of the exit from Interstate 664 and towards the almost deserted road that led to the former Carmike Industries shipping and receiving dock he stepped lightly on the brakes.
He wasn't the first one here. In fact, the dispatcher had called out the entire force.
The road was blocked. A tall, square SWAT van stood to the side of the myriad of patrol vehicles, the SWAT team members dressing out in their black riot gear and loading their weapons, preparing for a raid on the facility.
According to reports, there was at least one hostage.
Jimmy parked his car on the grass beside the road and unlocked his shotgun from the pedestal between the driver and passenger seat of the patrol car. He checked the weapon and racked the wooden stock, ensuring there was a round in the chamber before stepping from the vehicle.
His shiny shoes were now becoming stained with mud as he walked towards the mobile command trailer which was being backed into place near the SWAT van in the center of the dark two lane road.
"Howe." He heard his name called from somewhere behind him, and turned.
It was the Sumner Police Chief. He was sweating profusely despite the cool temperatures of the mid-September evening.
"Jimmy, I need your help," said Chief Lyons as his muscular form rapidly covered the last few steps between he and the heavyset Howe.
"Yes, sir." Howe replied without hesitation. "What do you need?"
"You used to be a negotiator with the Metropolitan P.D. in Washington, D.C." It was a statement, not a question.
"I need you to contact the kidnappers," he continued, "get them talking while the SWAT team enters via the rear of the facility."
Jimmy nodded.
It had been years since he had served as a hostage negotiator at the Metropolitan P.D. But he still maintained the qualification, although since he'd moved to Sumner, he thankfully hadn't needed to use it; until tonight.
"What sort of communications have we established?" Jimmy asked as he peered around at the other officers, all of whom stood awaiting further instructions.
"None yet," said the Chief.
"I'll send you with two members of SWAT. We will need to do a phone drop and establish two way communications that way. It doesn't look like that building is going to have a working telephone."
Jimmy nodded and stepped towards the Chief's unmarked black cruiser. Two men, even thicker than Jimmy himself followed closely behind.
The men climbed into the Chief’s car. The SWAT members took the back seats. They were packed into the seats, their hulking forms with weapons and body armor filling the entire back of the patrol vehicle as the Chief drove up the stree
t to the first cordon of police cars which stood near the entrance of the facility.
The unmarked cruiser bumped down the pot hole pitted road that led to the former shipping and receiving facility. About a half mile down the road, Jimmy could see the popping and flashing of patrol cars' lights that created a cordon around the facility.
It was all standard procedure.
Jimmy sighed loudly in the silence of the car. The two SWAT members in the back seat were noisily checking their weapons as the vehicle slowed and neared the marked cruisers and armed uniformed officers that formed the first line of defense near the facility.
As the vehicle shuddered to a stop on the rough road, the men opened their doors and stepped from the vehicle, seeking cover behind the wall of solid steel police cars that separated the officers from the tall chain link fence marking the facility's perimeter.
The Chief waved to the two members of SWAT, whose hulking figures cast a heavy shadow even in the dark of the night. He handed the first a small box containing the portable telephone that the officers hoped to use for communication with the men inside the facility.
The Chief's face was serious as he looked at the taller of the two members, who held the phone in his steady and capable hands.
"Get this phone into that complex, but stay down."
Both men nodded and crouched low against the closest cruiser. They spoke in low tones to one another, before nodding and breaking into a crouching run towards the gate. They reached the gate quickly, shrouded in the oppressive darkness.
The taller man heaved the phone over the fence while the other covered him, holding a M4 assault rifle and sweeping the horizon for hostiles until both could run back to the relative safety of the shield of police vehicles.
They made it and seconds later the Chief turned to Jimmy Howe.
"Now," he said with gravity in his voice; "it's on you."
Chapter 40:
Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) Page 14
