Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  "I could refresh your memory on that interrogation tactic, because it's fresh in my mind." Mark lifted his gaze, his face a mask of anger and pain. "But I'd rather not."

  Confused, Jim asked, "Why would he do something like that to you?"

  His voice had a hard edge when he answered, "Because you guys told him about my dreams and the camera."

  Heat climbed Jim's face, but he pushed down the guilt. "Yes, we told him, but only to try and get him to confess to making up the story about you."

  Mark stared at him for a moment, his eyes searching, finally he looked away with a slight nod. "Well, whatever. Bottom line, he knew, and he didn't believe any of it until the shit hit the fan with the cult and all that hero crap, so I guess it's just my luck staying par for the course."

  "So, now we have an extremist in possession of the camera. All the more reason to call the police and get the ball rolling on this." He reached into his pocket for his phone again.

  "You don't understand. They know all about me. About my life. About my friends."

  Jim's hand tightened on the phone. "Did he make threats?"

  Mark swallowed and nodded. "Against Lily. And no doubt they won't be too happy with me either."

  Blind rage shot through Jim. "That bastard!" He exhaled slowly, checking his anger. Now wasn't the time to let emotions rule his thinking. "Don't worry. We'll find him."

  "I'm so sorry. I should have held out. Now I've put Lily at risk."

  "He beat it out of you. It’s not like you volunteered the information."

  "The other guy was the muscle. Mo just gave the orders."

  "Other guy?"

  "Yeah. Mo called him Hazim. He's the one who had a gun. I think that's what he hit me with." Mark tossed the bloody pad onto the desk and scrubbed his hands through his hair, leaving pieces sticking up.

  "Well, that's even more understandable. Two against one, a gun, and they were using you for a punching bag."

  "They didn't hit me until after I told them. Well, except when they first came in. The other guy hit me, I think. I never saw it coming. When I woke up, my hands were behind my back and I could hear them upstairs. I tried to get out, but I couldn't open any doors, and the phones were broken. I tried to call you, but I couldn't get past that code with my damn hands behind my back." Mark glared at Jim as though he'd programmed the phone himself.

  "Hey, that's the tech guys who do that, but at least you got partially through. That's why I'm here. I got a call that someone tried to access the phone."

  "Yeah, well better late than never, I guess." Mark sighed and closed his eyes, his head cradled in his hands. He remained that way, his voice slurring as he said, "You could take lessons from him on waterboarding. He put your guys to shame."

  "Yes, well, I'll be sure to ask him for lessons when we find the bastard," Jim replied as he studied Mark, not liking what he saw. The guy looked like hell, and when several minutes passed without a return comment from him, Jim started to wonder if Mark had fallen asleep. A streak of red marred his forehead, and suddenly the dangling tape made sense.

  With a groan, Mark folded his arms and put his head down. "I've got a killer headache."

  "Another reason to call the paramedics, but whether they come here or I have to drag you to the ER, you will get checked out."

  Mark mumbled something that sounded like a profanity, but Jim wasn't positive.

  While Mark rested, Jim examined the office, finding clues to what had happened. Clues he'd overlooked before, but now fit into the framework that Mark had constructed. As he rounded Mark's desk, he spotted a large plastic cup beneath the desk and he bent to retrieve it, finding a wad of duct tape beside it. Suddenly, he stopped. What the hell was he thinking? This was evidence and before he ruined it, he had to get some technicians over here. It was a risk they had to take. They needed every scrap they could get to find out where the men had gone. It was a matter of national security now.

  He pulled out his cell for the third time. "I'm sorry, Mark, but I have to make this call."

  Mark lifted his head, his eyes dull with pain and fatigue, but still narrowed in anger as he said, "You're as big a bastard as Mo is, do you know that?"

  Jim clamped his mouth shut. He was inclined to agree with Mark, but despite the risk, he had to make the call.

  Chapter 4

  Mohommad chose a seat in the far corner of the train car and set the book bag containing the precious camera on the seat beside him. The camera could be the key to the success of the plan, and so he was diligent in keeping the straps of the bag looped over his arm. He hadn't yet told anyone besides Hazim about the power he suspected lay within the device, and he hoped that he could impress his uncles with his coup.

  His face still burned with shame every time he remembered their disappointment at his capture, and while they had welcomed him back, Mohommad felt the cloud of suspicion that hung over his head. His uncles suspected he had been brainwashed into being a spy for the CIA. No matter how many times he'd professed his loyalty to them and the cause, doubt lingered in their eyes. The warm feeling of belonging he'd felt when he'd first gone to Afghanistan had turned to a cool indifference.

  He unzipped the bag and peered inside. Soon they would once again sing his praises. This mission would stamp him as a hero. Even if he didn't make it back alive, his uncles and cousins would keep his memory burning. If becoming a martyr was the price he would have to pay, then so be it.

  The train lurched into motion, and he sighed with relief as he relaxed against the seatback. No one had chased him after leaving Mark's studio, but he was still on guard. Mark had certainly been in no shape to give pursuit, but to be on the safe side, Mohommad and Hazim had gone separate ways—Hazim via a train to Naperville where he had family and would be able to blend in without attracting undue attention, and Mohommad on a different train to the northern suburbs. Mohommad wished he had a welcoming family in the US, but he hadn't spoken to those relatives in years.

  The train conductor entered the car, punching tickets at each seat. Mohommad fished in his pocket for his ticket and slipped it into the clip on top of the seat in front of him. He'd been watching passengers as they boarded, checking for threats. Nobody paid any attention to him. It helped that he now had short hair and was clean-shaven. He rubbed his chin, unused to the smooth feel. His idea to shave had been a good one even if Hazim had fought him on it. Mohommad grimaced as he recalled their heated discussion. Hazim felt it disrespectful of Mohommad to go beardless, but Mohommad had finally convinced him that the mission's success depended upon him being able to move freely around Chicago. Hazim already enjoyed that freedom because as a sleeper cell, he'd never been called upon until now. He'd been just living the American dream, working and raising a family. Mohommad envied him. Not for his lifestyle, but because the other man didn't have to watch over his shoulder every moment, wondering if the FBI was spying on him and ready to whisk him away to prison.

  At least Mohommad had a few things going for him; his coloring, features, and his fluent Spanish allowed him to be mistaken for Hispanic, which had come in handy on his journey from Mexico north to Chicago.

  Downtown Chicago passed in a blur, giving way to brick two-flats with tiny backyards. Some passengers exited while new ones boarded. Mohommad gave each new occupant a cursory glance to be on the safe side, but he wasn't expecting any problems.

  His thoughts returned to his family. It wasn't like he could have stayed with them anyway. Not now. They had made it known via a few letters he'd received while being held as an enemy combatant that he was no longer welcome in their homes. Not that he cared. He didn't belong here anymore, and he had his father's family in Afghanistan. They never spoke of the shame of the family still in the States, and his uncle had even gone so far as to forbid mention of Mohommad's mother. It had been difficult to set aside his feelings, but it was for the best and while in Afghanistan, it had been easier for him to forget about the cousins, and even his two nieces. However, his mothe
r's face still haunted his dreams. The last time she'd spoken to him, she'd begged him to come back and be the son she'd raised. It saddened him that she couldn't embrace his new beliefs.

  Mohommad leaned an elbow on the window ledge, and propped his head on his palm. If he had taken a westbound train, like Hazim had, he could have dropped by his sister's house. But if the children were home, he knew he would never be allowed to see them. It had been so long now, he doubted they would even remember him. Aisha had been about seven the last time he'd seen her, so he supposed there was a chance she would know him, but the other one, Cala, had been only three when he'd left. It would be a miracle if she remembered her 'Unca Mo'. A brief smile creased his face as he recalled the last time he'd held her. Her little arms had squeezed him so tightly he'd thought he'd never get away. If only he could have convinced them all to move back to Afghanistan with him.

  They had refused, citing the opportunities they had in the U.S. and how their children would grow up with freedom, especially their daughters. Mohommad conceded that the girls would have fewer restrictions in the U.S., but was that really a good thing? He sighed and eyed a young man who boarded the car. Heavy gold chains and baggy pants that hung off lean hips marked him as gangbanger or at least someone who admired the look. Mohommad wanted to hold the young man's challenging stare, but instead, he backed off, lowering his eyes and turning towards the window. It wouldn't do to draw attention to himself—it could ruin everything.

  Two teenage girls took the seats in front of him, and just re-affirmed his thoughts. Did they have no shame? Their tight clothes and bold looks at a couple of young men across the aisle would never have been tolerated in Afghanistan. The girls should have been home, or at the very least, should have had a brother escorting them to keep them safe. But here in America, they were allowed to roam about freely and be targets for the lustful thoughts of men.

  He just hoped his sister took care to protect his nieces' reputations. Mohommad scowled. There was nothing he could do about it. Not immediately, anyway, but soon. Very soon. Things would be different if their plan worked.

  Mohommad conceded it was likely that the plan wouldn't bring the U.S. to its knees, but it would deal a crippling blow. Not all of the aftermath of September 11th had been foreseen. The staggering blow to the U.S. economy had only been suspected. It was like finding huge hidden weak spots in Goliath. They just needed to keep hacking away at that spot until the giant staggered to his knees.

  The train took him through swanky towns: Kenilworth, Highland Park, Lake Forest. The people exiting the train in those places wore suits and carried briefcases. They were the ones who would be hurt most when Mo carried out his instructions. Some of the riders remaining on the train were Navy recruits whose excited chatter told Mohommad that they were returning to base from their first leave after basic training. He hoped they realized how fortunate they had it now. When he was through, he was sure any leave would be canceled for a long time.

  The sailors left the train and after that it was just Mohommad, the young man, and a Hispanic family in the car. The family chattered and he listened, fighting back a smile when the mother scolded her little boy for bossing his sister around.

  His stop approached and he made his way to the stairs, holding onto a rail to keep his balance as the train swayed. He swung the bag's strap over his shoulder, his excitement about acquiring the camera muted slightly by the methods he'd been forced to undertake to achieve his goal. At least it hadn't been necessary to kill Mark. He would have truly regretted that outcome. Not only would it have pained him personally, after all, he and Mark had once been very good friends, but if he couldn't get the camera to work properly, he might need Mark's assistance.

  Mohommad couldn't suppress a chuckle. How would Mark react if he called him and asked for some pointers in using it? He rubbed his jaw, working it back and forth. It was going to be sore tomorrow, that was for sure, and Hazim hadn't escaped without a few bruises either. He couldn't help a little rush of pride that his former friend had fought so hard. Hazim had scoffed when Mohommad had suggested that obtaining the camera wouldn't be an easy task. The other man was sure all it would take was for them to show up and brandish the gun, so Mark's resistance would have made Mohommad smile in triumph at winning that argument if Mark hadn't hit him so hard.

  The doors opened and Mohommad stepped onto the platform and headed for the cabs idling in the parking lot south of the train station. He'd committed the address to memory, and rattled it off for the cabbie.

  Chapter 5

  Mark sat on the gurney and held a cold pack to his head while the ER doctor jotted some notes.

  "And you said this happened over three hours ago? Why did you wait so long to come to the emergency room?"

  "I climbed back on the pier and I was freezing, so I drove home and changed out of my wet clothes. It wasn't until I looked in the mirror that I saw the cut, but I thought it would stop bleeding on its own."

  He and Jim had concocted a story about falling off a pier and bumping his head. It explained both the cut and the difficulty breathing.

  The doctor shrugged. "You should have come in right away, but we'll get some x-rays of your head and chest. I'll also order a breathing treatment. After that, I'll stitch up the cut."

  As soon as the physician left, Mark tossed the ice pack on the tiny metal side table. He drew the blanket tighter across his shoulders. Jim had returned to his office to dig up any recent intelligence he could find on Mohommad.

  While in prison, he had alternated between hating Mo, and wondering if he had only been coerced into implicating Mark because he had nothing else to give and he wanted the questioning to stop. On more than one occasion, Mark had wished he had something to give the interrogators, and if he'd have had a scrap of information, he'd have gladly given it.

  A cough rattled up, bending Mark in half with its intensity. In his charitable moments in his cell, he'd try to come up with excuses for Mo, forgetting that no matter what, he wouldn't have sent anyone to face what he was facing just so he could get out of it.

  Had their friendship meant nothing? It had gone beyond their shared interest in photography. They had both liked biking and often rode together on the paths in the various lakefront parks. Never had the man ever hinted at extremist views. The Mo he'd known was as American as Mark was. They watched baseball, talked about women, and even went to bars on occasion. There had been the one time Mo's girlfriend had broken it off and he'd come to Mark's studio looking like a beaten hound dog. That night, Mark had paid for the drinks and Mo's cab fare home.

  As Mark pulled the blanket tighter, he wondered where that guy had gone? The man who had shown up tonight bore only a passing resemblance. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the X-ray tech, followed shortly by the breathing treatment.

  The treatment helped a little, and he took a deep breath, grateful for the ability to do so. At least every breath wasn't a stark reminder of what had happened to him tonight. The mental image of the cup tipping its contents on his face jumped to the front of his mind. The heart monitor sped up, sounding an alarm. Mark cast a baleful eye at it and closed his eyes, willing his fear to subside. It was over, he was fine and there was no need to think of it again. It wasn't like he hadn't ever been through this before.

  The nurse returned and checked the leads on his chest, wondering aloud if the treatment had caused his increase in heart rate. Mark didn't try to dissuade her from that conclusion.

  In an attempt to get his mind on other things, he thought of the activity in the studio after Jim had called the attack into his office. Mark was grateful that Jim had called only a few of his FBI team and hadn't involved the Chicago PD. Only agents had gone through the studio, no police. They had arrived in plain cars without lights and were quiet and efficient.

  Of course, it wasn't like the CPD would make a big deal about the theft of a fifty-year old camera. They would have made a report about the assault, but it would have been one
of many and probably just end up in a dusty file somewhere. Mark's biggest fear was that Lily or his parents would be at risk. Mo knew where they lived.

  He could only hope that Mo was long gone and hadn't stuck around long enough to see any of the action, because even as low key as the investigation was, it would be easy to spot if someone was paying attention.

  Jim had tried to send him to the ER immediately, but Mark insisted on waiting until everyone left the studio, then he locked the door and allowed Jim to take him. His head throbbed with every beat of his heart, and he was finding it harder to suppress the coughing as his chest tightened.

  An hour later, the doctor reluctantly released him. He'd suggested an overnight stay for some I.V. antibiotics and observation, but Mark was adamant about leaving. In the end, Mark agreed to a couple of shots of antibiotics.

  Mark was signing the discharge papers just as Jim returned.

  "What's the verdict?"

  "I'll live."

  "Well, I deduced that already, but are they sending you home?"

  "Yep."

  Jim glanced at his watch. "It's almost ten p.m. Did they feed you? Because I'm starving. What do you say we pick up a pizza and you can sleep in my spare room tonight?"

  Mark thanked the nurse, then exited the cubicle, Jim only a step behind. "I'd planned on going back home."

  Jim shook his head. "Not tonight. I don't have the manpower to watch you and do the investigation."

  "Watch me? What for? Mo got what he wanted. I doubt he'll be back." Mark shivered as the cool nighttime breeze hit him.

  "You're probably right, but I can't take a chance just yet. Plus, I have more questions for you."

  Mark sighed as he eased into the passenger seat of Jim's car. His head throbbed. The painkiller he'd been given was wearing off and every muscle ached. His bed called to him, but he was too tired to argue and a pizza sounded good. "Fine."

  An hour later, they polished off the last slice. Mark washed his down with some orange juice, wishing he could have a beer, but they'd stopped by a pharmacy while waiting for the pizza to be ready and picked up Mark's prescription pain meds and he knew he shouldn’t drink. He pulled the bottle out of the bag, ready to take one and head to bed, but Jim held up a hand.