The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  But all exits were blocked. They had no vehicle to ram their way out of the building. The only thing the terrorists could do was negotiate their way out of the huge, miscalculated mess.

  How could the skipper have been so dumb?

  Then his eyes fell on a cord lying under the president’s desk. He had access to a telephone.

  Reaching one hand up out of the fabric of the flag, he felt around the top of the desk, knocking over a pen set and sending a round paperweight crashing down on his head.

  Annoyed, he yanked on the telephone cord and the entire phone fell to the presidential carpet. He pulled it under the flag and dialed “0.”

  “This is the operator,” a woman said with a British accent. “How may I help you?”

  Sean closed his eyes in thanks. “I’m an American citizen,” he whispered. “I’m being held by terrorists at the government building.”

  “Let me connect you with the police,” she said, maintaining her businesslike tone.

  Moments later, the phone picked up on the other end.

  “Hello,” a man’s cheery voice answered, again with a British accent. Live music rose from the street in the background.

  “Is this the police?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “They’ve got me captive in the government building. I’m in the president’s office.”

  “Excuse me, but who has got you?”

  “The terrorists. The terrorists!”

  “I wasn’t aware of any terrorists…”

  “Then who’s shooting back at us?”

  “Someone is firing a gun?”

  “Not someone. Hundreds of people. We’re under siege at the government building. I’m being held hostage in the president’s office.”

  “Sir, have you been drinking?”

  “No I haven’t. Get an earful of this!” He held the phone away from his mouth to pick up the sounds of machine gun fire. “Does it sound like I’m making this up?”

  “Those are firecrackers.”

  “No they aren’t. They’re weapons. Bullets are flying everywhere.” He was beginning to speak so loudly that the skipper might hear him above his own gunfire. He lowered his voice and said coldly, “Aren’t you aware that your island is under attack?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Sir, I’m going to have to write a report.”

  “No you won’t. You will pick up your gun, get your police force together and free me from this building.”

  “Well, I’ll send someone to check it out. Thanks for ringing.”

  Sean slammed down the phone.

  He was doomed. There was no way out. He sank lower until his cheek touched the floor. Let the terrorists battle it out. Maybe they’d use all their ammunition and have to surrender. Then another horrifying thought struck him. He might end up spending the rest of his life in a Purang prison, with only the police chief for company.

  Then, imperceptibly at first, a distant throbbing entered his perception. It was only an insignificant noise in the battle raging below.

  But when he heard terrorists begin to cry out in fear from within the building, he realized that something big was up.

  The din of gunfire ceased, and the throbbing drowned out all sounds. It was pounding through his open window.

  “Americans!” one of the terrorists yelled from deep within the building.

  He peeled back the flag and hazarded a glance.

  Casting a shadow over the buildings across the road, a Marine helicopter came into view, its fuselage door open, a soldier seated behind a machine gun firing away. They were here to save him! For the first time in days, he saw light at the end of the tunnel. And bathed in the light was a vision of his family.

  The skipper ran across the room and crouched down behind the desk, just feet away from Sean, who remained half-covered for protection.

  The terrorist leader was sweating profusely, with the smell of gunpowder on his hairy arms. He still held his smoldering weapon in one hand. His eyes scanned the room searching for something. At last they fell on Sean.

  “You!” he exclaimed.

  “What me? Not me. I didn’t do anything.”

  The skipper pointed to the phone.

  “I didn’t call in the Americans. Honest I didn’t.”

  “I’m not saying you did,” the skipper said, spacing out his words evenly. “I want you to pick up that phone and call the police and tell them that we have you captive.”

  “No, not the police. The guy’s brain-dead.”

  Surprise appeared in the skipper’s eyes. That was quickly replaced by anger, anger at Sean’s betrayal. “You talked to the police?”

  “Only briefly. Believe me, the guy’s not altogether there.”

  “I don’t have time for this!” the skipper screamed. The chopper edged closer. With a good pair of binoculars, the Marines could make out who remained in the government building. “Dial the phone!”

  Sean drew the phone closer and dialed the operator. Within moments, he was connected with the police station.

  “It’s me again,” Sean said.

  “How can I help you today.”

  “It’s me. Me!” As if his previous call had never happened.

  He decided to resort to the polite approach. “Here’s someone who’d like to talk with you.”

  He handed the phone over.

  “Hello,” the skipper began. “In the name of Allah, I have taken control of your government. You will now lay down your arms and rejoice in His liberation.”

  Sean watched as the skipper’s face turned beet red. Trembling with fury, he smashed the phone down. He jumped to his feet and raised the stock of his rifle to his shoulder, taking careful aim out the window. He was going to pick off Sean’s rescuers.

  No, you don’t, you bastard. Sean scrambled out from under the flag, clutching the bloody butcher’s knife in one hand. As he rose, he could see out the window clearly. Marines were shimmying down a rope onto a rooftop opposite them.

  The skipper had aimed his AK-47 at the chopper and was blazing away. The room seemed oddly silent to Sean. The louder the noise, the quieter his world became and the more focused he grew.

  He didn’t have to think about it. He just did it.

  He reached the knife back as if he were preparing to throw a baseball, then rammed the blade forward into the skipper’s back. He continued to push forward even after making contact. The firing submachine gun pressed the skipper’s body back against him, and he countered with the force of the knife. The tip glanced off of bone and hit the skipper’s spinal cord. Sean winced, but still kept the knife moving. With a last yank of his arm, he twisted the handle and severed the man’s spine.

  The skipper dropped the gun, took several uncontrolled steps backward and fell into the presidential chair. His weight pushed the tip of the knife through his chest wall until it protruded through his uniform. Then he went slack, his dilated eyes staring up toward heaven.

  Swimming through his silent world, Sean felt dizzy and nauseous. He never wanted to see another terrorist, and he wasn’t going to die in that hellhole.

  He turned and hurled himself through the doorway into the corridor. The terrorists were busy firing weapons elsewhere in the building.

  Numbly, he jumped down the stairs three at a time and reached the ground level. He stood wavering, his knees weak. Then he stepped from the building, his hands high above his head.

  He took several steps into the street.

  He didn’t care if the terrorists shot him. He didn’t care if the guy tossing knives into the building hit him.

  A few more steps.

  He didn’t even care if the Justice Department got him and locked him away for embezzlement. Yeah, he could pull out his China card, and spill the beans on the president’s Chinagate transactions, and perhaps even win immunity.

  Halfway across the street.

  But he didn’t care about all that.

  He just wanted the bloodshed to end.

  He rea
ched the shadows of the far side of the street.

  A beefy guy in Bermuda shorts stepped out of a butcher shop. He held a submachine gun in one hand and stopped him with a cautionary hand.

  “I don’t have a bomb strapped to me,” Sean said.

  “Youah American!” the man said.

  “Sean Cooper. You may take me away now.”

  The heavy-set guy looked confused as he hustled Sean off the street and out the back door of the shop. There, a group of Marines in full combat gear stood in the blustery downdraft of their chopper.

  “This herah’s an American,” the overweight man said. “Goes by Sean.”

  “Sean Cooper,” Sean introduced himself again.

  The Marine studied his face. He seemed to recognize him. Then he nodded and said something into his lip mike. Time passed, and bursts of machine gun fire broke through the slicing blades of the chopper.

  At last the Marine held a hand to one ear, listened, then nodded and motioned for Sean to go up into the chopper.

  “How can I get up there?” he asked. It wasn’t like there was a staircase. The only way up was by a thick rope that dangled from the hovering beast.

  A Marine showed him how to slip his foot into a loop in the rope and hold on with both hands.

  “And I want to do this?” he shouted.

  The beefy guy slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s either that or this.” He rattled his gun and returned into the butcher shop to polish off the terrorists.

  Sean fit one foot into the noose, but his bloody fingers slipped on the rope. He hugged it with both arms.

  Moments later, the chopper began whisking him away from the dusty town and the dwindling gunfire below. As they flew away, the rope winched upward until he was pulled into the fuselage. There, a pair of strong hands pulled him to safety.

  The soldier wrestled him onto one of the benches that lined the metal walls of the cabin and strapped him to his seat. He gripped the bench with both hands and closed his eyes.

  Thank God the American military had come to his rescue. And not a moment too soon. A few minutes later and he would have perished among the terrorists being slaughtered.

  The Army sure was fearless, facing such firepower to get him out alive.

  He envisioned a newspaper headline bearing his name, a photo of him smiling before Capital Hill. But he didn’t want to be a hero.

  He just wanted his family back.

  He just wanted a suburban house, a shopping mall, a camera store, a nice food court. It didn’t matter if the Chinese fast food wasn’t real, or the air was ionized. He just wanted a normal job, perhaps selling shoes at a strip mall. That would satisfy him.

  He’d settle for anything that America could offer, and he wouldn’t utter a word of what had happened between the president and the Chinese. He didn’t need to testify. He’d strike a deal with the government. He didn’t know anything. Honest.

  All he wanted was a small bungalow, far away from terrorism. Perhaps along the Chesapeake. No, it could be in Green Acres. He didn’t care. As long as the kids had running around room and he had bacon for breakfast.

  He opened his eyes. The cargo door was closed, but pure blue sky poured in through the large window opposite him.

  The machine gunner sat beside him, a dreamy look on his face.

  “Where are you going?” Sean asked, his voice sounding distant.

  The Marine pointed to himself. “Me? I’m going home.”

  Sean could only make out what he was saying by reading his lips. “That’s nice,” he said. “Been a long time?”

  “Over a year in Iraq.”

  “Huh?” He cupped a hand to his ear.

  “It’s been over a year.”

  Sean nodded. He could understand that.

  “Do you know where they’re taking me?” he asked.

  The nearest port of entry would be fine. All he needed was to obtain a new passport and visa and book a return flight to China.

  “Yeah,” the Marine said, not offering much information.

  “Where are they taking me?”

  The Marine raised an eyebrow, then a shadow of sympathy crossed his face as they locked eyes.

  “You’re going to Gitmo, by way of Hawaii.”

  “What?”

  “Gitmo.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Guantánamo Bay, Cuba.”

  Sean wasn’t sure he heard correctly.

  Chapter 21

  Hiram Klug was exhausted. The Marines had managed to round up ten terrorists from what was left of the governmental palace. Another five gunmen were found dead, including the one he was staring at. The tall bearded man sat with a knife plunged gruesomely through his back as he sat at the president’s desk. It looked like one of the butcher’s knives he had tossed through the window.

  Just then the Marines’ unit commander stepped through the doorway into the office, broken glass crunching beneath his boots. “More terrorists just landed at the airport.”

  “We gotto stop dem,” Hiram said.

  “We don’t have the firepower. We don’t even have the resources to take care of these prisoners of war.”

  Out the window, a second Marine helicopter approached the same place that the previous chopper had hovered.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Hiram said, feeling the need to be decisive. “Lock the prisoners in a closet and I’ll take care of them. I’ve still got some time left on my vacation, but I’m sure you guys have plenty of other things to do. So why don’t you clear yourselves outta here, and I’ll wake up the police station and we’ll go down to the airport and mop up those last remaining terrorists.”

  The Marine looked incredulously at him. But Hiram was insistent.

  “You guys have done a great job, saved my vacation and all. Now I’m sure I can take it from heah. Honest.”

  “Well…” the strong young man equivocated. “I suppose they’re no longer a threat.”

  “Yeah, you got that Cooper guy to take care of. I’m sure you gotta hustle him off to somewhere.” He walked with the Marine out of the presidential office, but paused for one last look around the place. It was a cozy little office for a Head of State. It was sunny and could be cheerful, if you tidied it up a bit. “So tell me about those terrorists that just landed.”

  “We got a mayday from the control tower on our military frequency. Apparently the plane landed without clearance and the customs inspector found them unloading a cache of AK-47s, grenade launchers and plenty of ammo.”

  “Are they still at the airport?”

  “No, they got past security and are heading into town.”

  Hiram had to laugh. His memory of airport security at Purang’s international airport was that it didn’t exist.

  “I know the road there. I’ll take my boys toward the airport and intercept them. Not a problem.”

  He was already halfway down the stairs to the street. There, he rounded up his gang of youngsters who still held their rifles upright as if guarding the building.

  “We got lots to do, boys,” he announced. “Follow me.”

  When Kate Cooper woke up, it felt like she hadn’t dreamt for a long while. In fact, her mind was completely devoid of memories.

  Questions slowly drifted into her consciousness. Where was she? Who was she? At first, she didn’t try to answer them.

  She opened her eyes in search of clues.

  There was a clear, straight line where wall met ceiling. A medical examination lamp swung away and turned off.

  An old man was straightening his back, turned away from her, several long needles dangling from his fingers.

  Who was that man? And what was with the needles?

  Slowly she became aware of a thick bundle resting against her chest. The white rolled-up form rose and fell with her every breath.

  And then it moved. The fringes of the sheet pushed back, and a tiny hand poked out, quivering as if struggling to reach out to her.

  “It’s Sean,” the old m
an said, his Chinese accent soft and kind.

  Kate pulled one of her hands out from under the sheets and reached for the newborn child. Her fingers were bloated and lacked feeling, but she was able to pull the wrap away from the small form and reveal a face. It was beet red, all puckered up and pinched in the tight bundle that enclosed him. He looked like a pudgy old man, full of personality and wisdom.

  Then his eyes opened, coated by antibiotic gel. He couldn’t possibly see much, but the large eyes, shaded deep blue like a clear sky, were looking her way.

  The doctor was smiling kindly, and she nodded at him in thanks. His joy was also evident. Beyond him, there was nobody else in the small, barren room.

  Then her eyes returned to the child. She understood.

  “So they call you Sean,” she said. The doctor had interpreted her screams for her husband as calling out to the child about to be born.

  So, the little boy was named Sean. That was okay with her.

  Her memory of who she was and where she was being interned began to come back to her, subtly making their presence known. But she gently held the memories, laden with all their anger and concern, at bay. She was beholding the magic of a new life, and the little baby was curling his fingers, with dangerously long fingernails, around her extended index finger.

  My, what a grip!

  The February sun had yet to rise over a chilly Virginia as Secretary of Defense Kenneth Spaulding set down the phone in his darkened office suite at the Pentagon. The caller had been the Commandant of the Marine Corps with some positive news from Purang.

  “We have not only foiled a terrorist plot,” the Commandant had said, “we have captured Sean Cooper to boot.”

  “He’s still alive? You were supposed to sink his ship.”

  “He wasn’t on the ship. We caught him red-handed trying to take over the government of Purang.”

  Kenneth had had to think quickly. Everyone from the president on down hoped that vaporizing the ship would make the problem go away. Apparently things weren’t going to be that simple.

  “So where do we take him?” the Commandant had asked.