Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  Hasan’s first instinct was to shoot. Kill the FBI agent and his brother. But too many years of following orders prevented him. The shooting would attract attention and cause the house to be invaded by FBI agents. There was a plan for the situation, which was just as deadly and allowed them more time to escape. In fact, Hasan had secretly hoped for an opportunity to use the alternate escape plan. It would send a necessary message to the Americans. The end of their cozy little lives was near. No one was safe in his homeland, why should America be immune from the danger?

  Hasan stepped silently into the kitchen where a bearded man examined a syringe full of noxious liquid, flicking the syringe to remove excess air bubbles.

  Phil Bracco sat motionless in a wooden chair in the middle of the room. His arms were tied behind him, his legs bound to the chair’s legs, and his mouth taped shut. His sleeve was rolled up in preparation for his silent death. As the man bent over to inject Phil’s arm, Hasan grabbed the man’s wrist.

  “Leave him. We need him alive,” Hasan said.

  The man gave a perfunctory shrug.

  Hasan reached down and unfastened one of Phil Bracco’s legs from the chair. He leaned close to the prisoner’s ear and whispered, “Count to thirty, then make all the noise you wish.”

  * * *

  Nick Bracco trembled while he waited at the front door. There wasn’t a plan. There wasn’t time for one. He had to interrupt his brother’s execution. He banked on the fact that the terrorists inside might be concerned about gunshots causing attention. Matt was sent to get help while Nick shifted his weight from foot to foot, acting as innocent as possible. He caught himself wiping his sweaty palms on his pants and quickly placed his hands behind his back. Unarmed and harmless. Just checking with the neighbors, that’s all.

  Suddenly, a light came to life from behind closed curtains. Then another blinked on from an upstairs window. To his left another slit of light escaped from a closed drape. The entire house was being lit up. Did he have the wrong house? He considered that for a moment, yet the door remained closed. He rang the bell again. Still no answer.

  He heard the hushed tones of FBI agents and Hostage Rescue experts closing in from a distance. He didn’t dare turn and acknowledge their presence. He rang again, this time hearing a noise. A faint thumping, not rhythmic or in any cadence. Carefully, he held his ear to the door. Again the thumping from inside the house.

  He slowly walked away from the house and headed for a clump of bushes where he knew Matt would be waiting. Once behind the cover of the foliage he asked Matt for the cone.

  “I hear something inside,” Nick said. He slipped on the headphones and listened to the amplified sound through the cone. “Someone’s banging . . . I can’t make it out. It’s not hard like steel, more like someone banging their fist on a wall.”

  “We’ve got the place surrounded,” Evan’s said. “Let’s crash this party.” He looked at Matt, “How many do you think?”

  “Five, maybe six,” Matt estimated.

  Evans lowered his head and spoke into the miniature radio attached to his collar, “When I give the signal, you take the rear. We have the front.”

  The team began their inspection from a window on the side of the house where the noise seemed to originate. Others were doing the same thing to each wall of the house. Jake positioned a slender black tube to the side of the window, where only a crease of light showed. The tube was attached to a video device that relayed the image to a handheld screen. With one hand holding the screen, Jake used his free hand to twist the fiber-optic tube into position. It allowed Jake to scan the brightly lit kitchen. He maneuvered the tiny screen so Nick could see the image. The camera showed a man tied to a chair, swinging his leg wildly against the floor and the stove and anything else he could kick.

  “Recognize him?” Jake asked.

  Nick examined the image. It was definitely Phil. He was tied to a chair and swinging a free leg against the wall, thumping for attention. Nick realized that Phil was left alive for tactical reasons, and it almost worried him more than seeing him dead. His brother’s survival was no oversight. He nodded to Jake. “It’s him.”

  Quietly Evans spoke into his radio, “What do you see on the east side, Cliff?”

  “Nothing,” a voice came back. “I don’t see a thing in either room.”

  “What about the south side?” Evans said.

  “It’s empty over here,” a different voice responded.

  “North?” Evans asked.

  “Zippo,” a third voice said.

  Evans looked at Nick. “The bottom floor is clear. We’re going in.”

  Nick couldn’t put it together, but he knew they were in danger.

  Evans waved for his men to fall in behind him. They moved toward the back door. Nick followed. Everyone had guns drawn except for two of Evans’ men who stood facing each other, gripping a large door ram between them. They rocked the steel pole, preparing to smash in the door. Evans pressed the button on his radio and was about give the order when Nick held up his hand.

  “Wait,” Nick said.

  Evans seemed confused. “Wait for what?”

  Nick thought for a moment. “The lights,” he said. “There’s a reason all the lights are on.”

  “You think they’re upstairs with night-vision goggles?” Matt said. “We go charging in there and they shut off the electricity and ambush us with night gear.”

  Evans radioed everyone to have their infrared gear ready.

  Again Evans wanted to move and again Nick interrupted him.

  “This is what they want,” Nick said. “There’s a reason my brother is allowed to move around in there. They’re using him as bait.”

  This time Evans’ voice had an edge to it. “Listen, Bracco, we’ve got them surrounded and outnumbered. The longer we wait, the less chance we have of saving your brother.”

  “Believe me, I want him out of there more than you know,” Nick said. “There’s something very wrong here. Just give me a minute.”

  Evans’ eyes narrowed. For the first time since arriving in Las Vegas, Nick considered who had rank. He could see that Evans was pondering the same question. Evans pushed the button on his radio while looking into Nick’s eyes. “Stand down,” he radioed. “We move in three minutes.”

  Nick returned to the side of the house with Matt alongside. Jake was still playing with his fiber-optic toy when Nick asked him to step aside. Without ceremony, Nick took the butt of his gun and busted a hole in the kitchen window. The soprano pitch from the glass shattering sprung a couple garage lights to life. Evans looked thoroughly disgusted as he radioed his team a play-by-play description so they understood the noises being made.

  Nick slid the shade aside with the muzzle of his gun and caught a glimpse of his brother kicking his heel into the oven door.

  “Phil,” Nick called.

  Phil sat still, swinging his head from side to side, searching for the owner of the voice.

  Nick said, “Phil, don’t move.”

  Phil’s eyes frantically delivered the screams that he couldn’t get from of his taped mouth.

  “Do you want me to come get you?” Nick asked.

  Phil closed his eyes and shook his head violently.

  “No?”

  Again Phil shook his head. This time he arched his head toward the backdoor entrance to the kitchen.

  “What?” Nick asked. “You want me to go through that door?”

  Clearly frustrated, Phil glared at the door, desperately trying to draw Nick’s attention.

  From Nick’s angle he couldn’t see the entire door. He asked Jake for the video device and Jake allowed him to slip the black tube into the opening of the window. Nick scrutinized the back door, but couldn’t see anything unusual. He looked back at Phil. “I don’t see a thing,” he said.

  This time Phil motioned with his free leg. He seemed to sweep a straight line with his foot. An idea grew in Nick’s head.

  “Matt,” he said, pointing to
the fluorescent light hanging in the center of the kitchen. “Shoot out the light.”

  This caused some curious looks, but no one ever had to ask Matt McColm twice to fire his weapon. Before a word was spoken, Matt lined up his pistol and fired two shots, knocking out both bulbs without wasting a bullet. The blasts caused shards of glass to rain over Phil’s head. Up and down the quiet neighborhood houses began to light up like an excited pinball machine. Evans feverishly broadcasted every move with the same tone used to announce the Hindenburg disaster. Once again Nick slipped the fiber-optic tube into the darkened room and steered its gaze toward the kitchen door.

  “There you are, you bastard,” Nick said.

  Matt glanced down at the tiny screen and saw a thin stream of red light across the base of the door. “It’s booby-trapped,” he declared. “Call the Bomb Squad, this baby’s wired to blow.”

  Evans saw the laser beam and immediately gave orders not to touch any doors or windows.

  “Do you see anything around this window?” Nick asked Phil.

  Phil’s shoulders hung low, his head moved side to side slowly, full of relief.

  Nick curled his hand through the jagged opening in the glass and unlocked the latch. He slid open the window and with eight sets of hands training their weapons on the inside of the kitchen, Nick climbed into the house and quickly pulled the tape from his brother’s mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Nick,” Phil pleaded.

  Nick untied him. “Are they all upstairs?”

  “I couldn’t tell, but it sounded as if they left. I heard a door slam shut.”

  Nick hustled Phil back through the open window into Matt’s welcome arms, then followed him out of the house. “Nice to see you breathing,” Matt said with a wide grin.

  Phil collapsed onto the lawn, which was moist from the morning dew. He took shallow breaths and hugged himself tightly, shivering from more than just the night air.

  Nick crouched down over his brother. “You okay?”

  Phil nodded. “They’ve been keeping me pretty doped up, but I think I’m all right.” He grabbed Nick’s arm. “I’m worried, Nicky. I kept hearing them talk about what you did to someone named Rashid. Did you arrest him or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I think they’re holding a grudge against you.”

  Evans barked out a name and instantly a young man in a blue FBI windbreaker emerged from the darkness. “Take this man over to Desert Springs, get him checked out.”

  Nick tenderly slapped his brother’s face. “I’ll see you over there in a little while.”

  While waiting for the Bomb Squad to show, Nick found a tree to sit under and leaned up against the trunk for support. Wiping his clammy hand on his pants, he forced himself to subdue the throbbing in his head. Two episodes in one night, not good. Worse yet, his stomach wanted to join the party. First a slight seasick sensation, then a full-out race for his throat. A couple of hard swallows later, Matt began running interference for him. He shuffled away anyone coming too close, citing flu-like symptoms to anyone who asked about Nick’s condition.

  The bomb squad showed up wrapped in Kevlar and drew attention away from Nick. Matt, a veteran of bomb threats, knew that once the explosive experts arrived, they immediately gained custody of the crisis. Everyone else followed their lead except Matt, who had grown allergic to taking orders from strangers. Without ever taking his eyes off the bomb squad’s antics, he squatted next to Nick and said, “You want to tell me about it?”

  “What’s to tell? I’m sick.”

  “That’s obvious, but sick from what? You seemed perfectly fine a few minutes ago.”

  Nick hesitated. “Well . . . if you ask Dr. Morgan he’ll suggest Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder.”

  Matt rubbed the side of his face. “That’s just great.”

  “Don’t give up on me,” Nick said, wanting to give hope. Wanting to believe it himself. “I could beat this thing.”

  Nick’s phone rang. Walt Jackson was on the line. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” Jackson said.

  “Well, I’ve got some good news,” Nick said.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “We’ve got Phil.”

  There was a long pause. Nick could hear Jackson’s exhale turn into a faint whistle. Jackson’s voice suddenly contained a smile that could be heard over the thousands of miles and three satellites used to transmit the highly secure conversation. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that,” Jackson said. “I underestimated the significance of transferring Rashid Baser to a minimum security site. Thirty minutes ago he escaped from Poplar Hill Pre-Release Unit. No guard tower. No razor wire fences. A real country club atmosphere and Rashid took advantage of the situation.”

  “It wasn’t a fluke?”

  “Oh no. They’ve had this set up all along. They never once thought we would release Baser, all they wanted was the opportunity to spring him. Anyway, Phil’s safe and that’s all that really matters.”

  “That’s right.” Nick could see the first wave of bomb experts enter the house from the kitchen window. Matt stood next to Evans with his arms crossed, nodding at the occasional comment. “I’ve got to go, Walt. Bomb Squad just showed up. Matt’s over there right now telling anyone who’ll listen how arrogant those guys are.”

  “Any casualties?”

  “No,” Nick said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Nick felt queasy standing up, but by the time he reached the house, the tunnel had already been discovered. The primary team was moving cautiously and Evans let everyone hear his radio transmissions from the team. When the lead group made it to the garage, the house search was over and the area search began.

  An aggressive search of the Vegas area commenced. The airport and bus terminal were staked out and highway roadblocks ensued, but none of Kharrazi’s men were found.

  At the hospital, Phil pointed out three Kurdish Security Force members out of a stack of eight-by-ten glossies from Nick’s files, including Kemel Kharrazi. For Kharrazi, it was a remarkably bold appearance in the United States, which caused consternation among all law enforcement agencies, including America’s most interested citizen—the President of the United States.

  By the time Nick and Matt flew back to Baltimore, the reward for any information leading to the arrest of Kemel Kharrazi was upped to forty million dollars. To the discerning eye, it would appear like an act of desperation.

  It was.

  Chapter 9

  Lamar Kensington was suffering from insomnia at three thirty in the morning, when he decided to inspect the fridge for a snack. With just the dim light of the moon to guide him, he salted a piece of leftover pizza, stood over the sink, and stared out the window. As he chewed groggily, he fixed his gaze on the neighbors’ house across the street. A majestic Victorian stood on the crest of a hill, overlooking tightly mowed grass that meandered through the manicured landscape like a poet’s version of a putting green. He marveled at the tiny spotlights that accented trees at precise angles, causing a warm, dreamy effect that Lamar longed for in his own yard. He had neither the fervor nor the funds that Senator Williams possessed, yet he could never view the yard without the urge to grab his putter.

  He was imagining himself lobbing a wedge shot into the middle of the senator’s yard when the detonation occurred. A flash of bright fire erupted from the Williams’ house, instantly illuminating the quiet neighborhood and engulfing the home. A thunderous blast shook the ground and Lamar braced himself as he watched the house explode into a huge fireball. The deafening crash propelled misshapen debris with such velocity that a fragment of the front door screamed through Lamar’s kitchen window, hitting him square in the chest and knocking him to the floor. He gasped for air while flicking off shards of glass. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled up his tee-shirt to inspect the wound. A flap of skin hung open and exposed a raw sliver of his ribcage. Blood seeped from the opening like an undercooked steak. Just before he passed out, he h
eard sirens wailing in the distance.

  * * *

  Julie Bracco stared at the ringing phone with contempt. She had just spent two quiet weeks with her husband following his return from Las Vegas. Two weeks uninterrupted by stakeouts, overnight flights, or middle of the night phone calls. Two weeks of therapy with Dr. Morgan and a prescribed break from action. It was difficult, but Nick managed to get by on just a couple of phone calls a day to the office, always hanging up shaking his head.

  Nick was in the shower and couldn’t hear his tiny phone bleating for attention on the bedroom dresser. She was hugging a load of laundry and hesitated for a moment before tapping the shower door with her foot. “Phone,” she called.

  Nick shut off the water and sprang from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Julie stepped into the hall and lingered for a moment to eavesdrop.

  “Shit,” was the only thing she heard. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Nick turned on the television. The urgent tone of a tremulous female voice caused her to reenter the bedroom.

  In bold letters across the bottom of the screen were the words, “Breaking News.” A blonde reporter with a hint of mascara trickling down her cheek stood in front of the charred skeleton of a large house. The morning sun unveiled ripples of smoke drifting across the enormous ruin. Wooden frames leaned awkwardly in unnatural positions. A stubborn portion of a smoldering wall wavered in the slight morning breeze. Two men in yellow raincoats huddled over a pile of ashes.

  Nick turned up the volume. The reporter held a hand to her chest and spoke to the camera like a mother gasping out the horrors of her murdered child. “The Senator and his family were all at home,” she panted. “Senator Williams was forty-seven.” She shifted sideways to give the camera a fuller view of the wreckage. “As you can see, there is very little left of the –” she choked.