The Scorching

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “There’s one more thing I have to say. A favor to ask.”

  “Ask it, Sheikh,” Sensor said. “And I will do my best to grant it.”

  “Because of our agreement, many Islamic warriors will die, and their martyrdom will be celebrated here in Lebanon,” Qadir said. “Those men must be buried in the clothes they wore when they died. Do you understand?”

  Sensor, thinking mass grave, said, “Of course I understand. And your wish will be carried out.”

  “I will be eternally grateful,” Qadir said.

  “Then I look forward to hearing from you, Sheikh Qadir,” Sensor said.

  “You will. Very soon.”

  Qadir abruptly ended the call.

  Sensor laid his phone on his desk and smiled. A hundred million bucks to a flea-bitten camel jockey like you? It will be a cold day in hell . . .

  CHAPTER 41

  “It will be a cold day in hell before I let you out of that bed, Cory Cantwell,” Sarah Milano said, frowning. “The doctors say you have to rest.”

  “Have you heard from Sensor this afternoon?” Cantwell said.

  “Yes, he said to tell you that you and the other Regulators are on standby.”

  “Standby for what?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Where are Pete Kennedy and the Brits?”

  “In the bar, running up a liquor bill.”

  The room telephone rang and Sarah said, “And that’s probably the desk clerk to tell me that the Brits are cut off until their bar tab is paid.” She picked up the phone and Cantwell heard her say, “Really? Yes, I’ll come down and move it right away.”

  “What was all that about?” Cantwell said.

  “Apparently the hotel wants to check on a water line, and several cars are in the way. One of them is ours.” She picked up the keys from the top of the dresser and said, “I’ll be right back. And while I’m gone, don’t even think about getting out of that bed.”

  “I am thinking about it,” Cantwell said, but Sarah was already out the door.

  Sarah crossed the parking lot and saw two men standing beside one of the cars that flanked her rental. She smiled as she approached them and said, “I’ll move mine after you back out.”

  It happened very fast.

  One of the men turned on her and delivered a straight right to her chin. As Sarah fell, the other man caught her, and then they both bundled her into the back of their car. A moment later they sped out of the lot, Sarah Milano still unconscious in the back seat.

  * * *

  “Ah, Miss Milano, you’re coming around,” Nasim Azar said. As her eyes fluttered open, he held Sarah’s chin and studied it closely. “Yes . . . a rather nasty bruise, but no broken bones. That’s good news, is it not?”

  “Who are you?” Sarah said. She tried to move and found herself tied to an upright chair.

  “As to who I am, my name is Nasim Azar. As to what I am, I’m your bitterest enemy.”

  Sarah looked around at a sparsely furnished apartment with a large window where she saw only an expanse of blue sky. “Where am I?” she said.

  “You’re in my home as my guest,” Azar said. “Or, if you like, you are now the prisoner of the Islamic jihad.”

  Sarah fought against her bonds but to no avail. “They’re tight,” Azar said. “Only I can loosen them for you.”

  “Then do it,” Sarah said.

  “Not yet, Miss Milano. You and I have much to talk about.”

  “We have nothing to talk about. Those men in the parking lot . . .”

  “Were mine, obviously,” Azar said.

  “What do you want from me?” Sarah said.

  “I haven’t yet quite decided,” Azar said. “I have several options and at least one of them will not be pleasant . . . for you, I mean.”

  For the first time since she regained consciousness, Sarah felt fear. The man Azar had a smile like a cobra, and his black eyes held no light, like the blank eyes of a dead man.

  “You want me to talk. Is that it?” Sarah said.

  Azar grinned. “‘The time has come, the Walrus said. To talk of many things . . . of shoes and ships . . . and sealing wax . . . of cabbages and kings.’ Is that the kind of talk you had in mind, Miss Milano?”

  “You’re insane,” Sarah said. “The Mad Hatter.”

  “Perhaps I am. But please, don’t put my sanity to the test. Have you any idea, any concept at all, of what aqua regia, a combination of nitric and hydrochloric acid, can do to a beautiful face like yours? It will dissolve your skin, dear lady, and make the flesh fall off the bone.”

  Now Sarah was thoroughly scared, but she was determined not to let it show . . . at least for as long as she could. “You had me kidnapped and brought here,” she said. “Tell me why.”

  “For the moment, you’re my ace in the hole, Miss Milano,” Azar said. “Soon I will let Cory Cantwell know that you’re my hostage and that any move against my brotherhood will be answered with your, shall we say, painful death. You will also tell me all you know about the man Jacob Sensor, the mortal enemy of Islam.”

  Azar read the surprise on Sarah’s face and said, “Oh yes, I know you work for Sensor. There is little that happens in Washington that is not picked up by my intelligence network. Loyal Islamic warriors are spread throughout the United States, right under your stupid infidel noses.”

  “I’ll tell you nothing,” Sarah said.

  “Oh, but you will, my dear. That is one thing you can depend on.”

  Azar clapped his hands, and the two men who’d kidnapped Sarah came from the other room. “Untie her and then take her to the carpet storage,” he said. “She will remain there until I send for her.”

  Azar watched Sarah as she was freed from her ropes and dragged to her feet. “Something to think about, Miss Milano,” he said. “I now have a dozen loyal Islamic soldiers in Portland, and each and every one of them would delight in killing you as slowly as possible. I only have to nod my head and the terrifying acid will burn. Ponder on that while you await my summons.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes after Sarah Milano was locked up in the carpet storeroom, one of Azar’s men used a burner phone to call Cory Cantwell’s hotel room. The man’s words were brief and to the point. “The warriors of Islam have Sarah Milano in custody. You will be contacted later.”

  CHAPTER 42

  “You let her be taken by Islamic terrorists? How in the name of God did you manage that, Cantwell?” Jacob Sensor said.

  “A momentary lapse in judgment on my part,” Cantwell said. “I should never have allowed Sarah to go to the parking lot alone.”

  “Damn right you shouldn’t,” Sensor said, yelling into the phone. “Cantwell, this could be a disaster.” Then, “Did the terrorists make any demands?”

  “No. They said they’d be in touch later. Mr. Sensor, I don’t know what to say. . . . I’m devastated.”

  “You’re wounded, Cantwell,” Sensor said. “I told you to take time off. Damn it, man, you’re not thinking straight.”

  “I think I should call the police,” Cantwell said.

  “No, no police,” Sensor said. “I don’t want any publicity, no media interest in this affair whatsoever. Do you understand?”

  Reluctantly, Cantwell said, “Yes. I understand.”

  “Damn it, no matter how well I organize a plan, something I didn’t anticipate comes along to screw it up. Cantwell, I have another plan, and this time I don’t want anything to screw it up. Not now. I’m too close.”

  Cantwell’s anger flared. “I don’t care about your plans. I want Sarah back.”

  “Then use your Regulators. Go find her. And for God’s sake put Pete Kennedy in charge. You’re not capable of rational thought at the moment.”

  “Doesn’t it trouble you that Sarah’s life could be in terrible danger?” Cantwell said.

  “Of course, it troubles me. She works for me, after all.”

  “That’s it? Just, ‘she works for me’?”

&
nbsp; “Sarah Milano is in a tough business,” Sensor said. “She knew when she signed up that a day like this might come.” He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, and said, “Find her, Cantwell. She’s probably still in Portland.”

  “I’ll try. But if we can’t track her down, I’ll call the police,” Cantwell said.

  “Cantwell, you’re a part of the plan I’ve set in motion,” Sensor said. “It’s big, so big that it could help me land in the White House. Don’t turn your back on me now.”

  “What are you saying, Sensor?” Cantwell said.

  “Only this . . . if I have to, I’ll sacrifice Sarah Milano.”

  Cantwell was stunned into speechlessness, and Sensor took the opportunity to say, “Keep me posted,” before he thumbed his phone into silence.

  * * *

  “No cops, so where do we begin, Cory?” Pete Kennedy said.

  Cantwell was out of bed and sitting in a chair. The bullet wound had weakened him, and he heard feebleness in his own voice. “I don’t know, Pete. I wish to hell I did.”

  “Have you any lead on the whereabouts of Mike Norris?” Kennedy said.

  “He’s gone, vanished,” Cantwell said. “Anyway, I don’t think he would be of much help.”

  Frank West said, “Boss, why don’t we wait and hear what Sarah’s kidnappers say? Maybe we can go from there.”

  Cantwell looked at the other Brits. “Any other suggestions?”

  The only answer was an uncomfortable silence, and the SAS men tried their best not to look at him.

  “Then we’ll wait for a phone call,” Cantwell said.

  “What about Jacob Sensor?” Kennedy said. “Any help from that direction?”

  Cantwell shook his head. “We’re on our own. Sensor has bigger fish to fry.”

  The phone call came fifteen minutes later. It was from Nasim Azar, and Cantwell answered it.

  “Listen to me,” Azar said.

  Cantwell said, “Where is . . .”

  “I said listen,” Azar said. “Don’t talk, listen.”

  “I’m listening,” Cantwell said.

  “You will not go to the police or Sarah Milano dies. Is that clear?”

  “Yeah, it’s clear,” Cantwell said.

  “You will send your crusaders away from Portland or the woman dies. Is that clear?”

  “Damn you, it’s clear.”

  “You will make no aggressive moves against the Muslim brotherhood in Portland or Sarah Milano dies. Is that clear?”

  “Clear,” Cantwell said, hating the man on the other phone.

  “Last, but not least, you have three days to pay a ten-million-dollar ransom or the woman dies. You will be instructed on where to drop off the money. Is that clear?”

  “I can’t raise that kind of money,” Cantwell said.

  “You have three days.”

  The phone went silent.

  * * *

  Sarah Milano had been shoved into a windowless room where a couple hundred rolled-up, paper-wrapped rugs were stored. The space was air-conditioned, but there was no furniture of any kind, and there was a strong smell of mothballs.

  After the door slammed shut behind her and a key turned in the lock, Sarah tested the walls. They were composed of panels of Sheetrock designed to repel moisture and were hard and unyielding. The ceiling was made from the same material. There was no give in the heavy wooden door, and the floor was laid with engineered hardwood.

  Her prison was escape proof.

  CHAPTER 43

  His shackles clanking, Mike Norris threw himself on his cot and stared at the ceiling. He had no doubt that Nasim Azar would kill him or keep him locked up forever, if that’s what it took. There was a time to fight and a time to surrender . . . and the time to surrender was now.

  When Mrs. Palmer brought him his lunch, Norris said, “Tell Azar I want to speak with him.” The black woman looked at him with frightened eyes, and Norris said, “Tell him that, damn you.”

  The woman scurried out of the room and an hour later Nasim Azar unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Well?” he said.

  “I’ve thought it over and I want to join you,” Norris said. “You’re a stronger man than I first took you for.”

  “And to what do I owe this sudden conversion to the ways of the Prophet?” Azar said.

  “I owe America and Americans nothing,” Norris said. “Why should I allow myself to suffer on their behalf ?”

  Azar took the .25 Beretta from his pocket and said, “Maybe I’ll just shoot you. That will end your misery.”

  “Then you’ll lose a loyal ally,” Norris said. “And a friend.”

  “Mr. Norris, we both know you’re no friend of mine. Methinks thou doth protest too much.”

  “I’m sincere, Azar. I’ve never been more sincere in my life.”

  “You foolish man, sincerity does not substitute for truth.”

  “And I’m telling you the truth . . . I want to join you.”

  “Join in the jihad?”

  “Yes, exactly that.”

  “Then I’ll put you to the test, Mr. Norris.”

  “Any test, any time,” Norris said. “I’m ready.”

  “I’ll return in one hour,” Azar said. “Think over what you’ve just told me, and if you still feel the same way, I’ll seek the proof of your resolve.”

  “Come back in an hour and I’ll still feel the same way.”

  “We’ll see,” Azar said.

  Norris lay on his cot again, lecturing himself. Say anything. Lie. Deceive. Kiss Islamic ass . . . but save your life. Once you’re free you can escape this place. And kill Nasim Azar on your way out the door. Norris smiled. He had a plan.

  * * *

  Nasim Azar returned within the hour and said, “Your decision?”

  “I still feel the same way,” Mike Norris said. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  Azar palmed the Beretta again. “Try any funny business, and I’ll shoot you,” he said.

  “I won’t try anything,” Norris said. “You can trust me.”

  “I trust you as I’d trust a wounded wild beast,” Azar said. “Your test awaits you.”

  He unlocked the shackles from Norris’s wrists and then used the Beretta to wave the man in the direction of the door. “I’ll tell you where to go,” he said. “It isn’t far.”

  It seemed to Norris that the warehouse was a warren of rooms, some large, others the size of a closet. Azar directed him to a room on the ground floor where two young men waited outside the door. Azar nodded to one of them, and the man took a key from a hook on the wall, unlocked the door, and opened it wide. Norris caught a glimpse of a woman as he was prodded inside. Azar joined him and then the door closed behind him.

  The woman was beautiful and seemed frightened. Her chin was bruised, and Norris reckoned she’d suffered some rough handling.

  “This is the woman of the crusader Cory Cantwell,” Azar said. “Her name is Sarah Milano.”

  Norris was stunned. Cantwell’s woman? What deviltry was this?

  “Kneel,” Azar said to Sarah.

  “You go to hell,” she said.

  “Then die standing.”

  Azar passed the Beretta to Norris. “Shoot her,” he said. “It’s a small caliber, so go for the back of the neck.”

  “This isn’t a test,” Norris said. “Killing the woman proves nothing.”

  “Oh, but it does, Mr. Norris. It does to me,” Azar said. “Now kill her.”

  “And if I don’t?” Norris said.

  “Then you’ll never leave this place alive, and neither will she.”

  “Norris, get it over with,” Sarah said. “I’m not going to beg a damned terrorist for my life.”

  “There you are, Mr. Norris,” Azar said. “Words of advice.”

  “The woman has sand,” Norris said.

  “Yes, she’s very brave. Now, for the last time, shoot her.”

  For long moments, Norris looked down at the little pistol in his hand. The roo
m was very quiet, soundless as a tomb. Sarah stared at the man with frightened eyes, but her stance was still and defiant.

  Norris shook his head. “You Arab asshole, Azar,” he said. He raised the Beretta, shoved the muzzle against his temple, and pulled the trigger.

  Click!

  Norris smiled. “I figured out pretty quick that you wouldn’t hand me a loaded gun that I could use to shoot you. My ma didn’t raise a pretty boy, but she didn’t raise a dumb one either.” He threw the pistol at Azar’s head. The man ducked out of the way and then pulled his dead bodyguard’s .38 from a shoulder holster. The two young men burst through the door and stood there confused, waiting.

  “You failed your test, Mr. Norris,” Azar said. “You fool, if you knew the gun wasn’t loaded, you should have pretended to shoot the woman.”

  “I was sure, but not a hundred percent sure,” Norris said.

  “Then you might have blown your own brains out,” Azar said.

  Norris shrugged. “No big deal. Who the hell would grieve for me?”

  “No one, Mr. Norris,” Azar said. “No one at all.” He turned to the two young men. “Take him back to his room and chain him.” He stared at Norris. “My promise. I’ll kill you very soon.”

  After the Norris was taken away, Azar said to Sarah, “I have laid out my demands to the devil Cantwell for your safe return. Your fate depends on what he does next. He has three days to respond, so in the meantime I’ll move you to more comfortable quarters.”

  “What kind of demands?” Sarah said. “The government of the United States doesn’t pay ransoms to terrorists.”

  “The government? My dear, not the government. Cory Cantwell must pay your ransom and meet my other demands. If he doesn’t”—Azar sighed—“your death will be most unpleasant.”

  CHAPTER 44

  “I can guarantee that we’re being watched day and night,” Pete Kennedy said.

  “I know, and that’s why you and the others will have to leave,” Cory Cantwell said. “Or at least be seen to be leaving.”

  “What’s your plan, boss?” Nigel Brown said. “Let us in on it.”

  “Take the rental and head out of town,” Cantwell said. “Sarah didn’t pick up her purse, so her credit card will pay your expenses. Find a motel in the sticks and stay there until I call you. Just put some distance between you and Portland.”