by Gary Ponzo
“Enough already.”
Nick nodded. “Just do me a favor. Don’t play with him. Put him down hard and fast. Capisce?”
Silk smiled at Nick’s perfect Sicilian dialect.
Nick showed Silk where he would find Kharrazi on the photo. He pointed out the glint from the mirror that he suspected was from a car or truck covered by branches. Nick gave him a compass and one last warning. “Be careful. He’s probably waiting until he’s certain he’s alone before he approaches the area.”
Silk patted Nick’s cheek. “Don’t worry, Boobala. Old Silk has a few tricks of his own. Besides, he started this whole thing by having the Capellis killed. Not to mention what he done to your family.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Listen, Nicky, you gotta promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“I screw up, you gotta track this guy down and finish him off for me.”
Nick didn’t say anything. He’d never heard Silk be anything but cocky.
Silk gently punched Nick’s shoulder, then left with a strut in his step.
But something gnawed at Nick deep inside. For the first time since he’d known Silk, he was actually concerned for his safety.
Chapter 38
Kemel Kharrazi was seething. His greatest moment as the KSF leader and he would be forced to hear about President Merrick’s withdrawal speech after the fact. He had hoped to be in his private quarters enjoying cheese and grapes while Merrick bowed to his political prowess in front of a worldwide audience.
Nick Bracco had been clever and was probably the best the FBI had to offer, but he was always one step behind. It didn’t prevent Kharrazi from grasping a handful of dirt and slowly grinding it around in his fist.
Kharrazi threw the dirt to the ground and pushed a button on his watch, which illuminated the dial in the dark. In twenty minutes the White House would explode. Merrick wouldn’t dare change his mind about the troops, because the next threat Kharrazi made would be so severe the American public wouldn’t even allow the words to leave their lips. Nuclear bomb. Those two words were all he need use and America would hand over the deed to their nation.
Kharrazi sat up, his back against the base of a hill, surrounded by a thicket of bushes. He scrutinized the landscape under the nearly full moon. Patience. Time was on his side now. The vehicle he’d hidden was in perfect position to escape, yet he would take no chances. He could afford to wait until he was certain of his solitude.
Kharrazi had spent many hours familiarizing himself with the countryside. He’d walked every inch of the landscape and even spent time maneuvering with a blindfold. He was ready for anything and had no less than three escape plans prepared for the occasion.
Kharrazi thought he saw movement in the shadows. He used his field glasses to sweep the area, then kept his focus trained on a specific point in the woods and hoped he had guessed the spot correctly. His patience paid off.
Through his field glasses he saw a figure glide from behind a tree and disappear behind a larger tree trunk. He came from the west so Kharrazi could hear him much easier than if he’d traveled from downwind. He also crept through the low spots of the terrain assuring himself of trekking through water, mud and debris. A city dweller, Kharrazi thought, not considering the advantage of higher ground. Still, the man carried himself with a self-assured swagger as he meandered through the trees.
Kharrazi silently trained his Beretta on the man as he crept left to right across Kharrazi’s position. It took a few minutes, but Kharrazi could see the man’s face now; he was disappointed that it wasn’t Bracco. This man was tall and athletic and his head moved smoothly from side to side. Kharrazi slowly screwed the silencer onto his Beretta. He’d lose accuracy with the silencer, but the man was heading close enough where it wouldn’t matter.
The man snapped a twig with his foot and he instinctually froze. Kharrazi used the opportunity to fire a shot into his leg. The bullet spit from the Beretta and immediately the man dropped to the ground. Kharrazi leapt from the bush like a leopard and quickly seized the man’s fallen gun before he could retrieve it from a bed of pine needles. He stood over his prey and watched with great pleasure as the man writhed in pain from the gunshot wound to his thigh.
The moon was over Kharrazi’s shoulder and he could see the man’s face clearly, fighting to maintain his composure.
“How did you find me?” Kharrazi said.
The man either didn’t want to give Kharrazi the satisfaction of seeing him squirm or he was a tough foe. He ignored his leg and struggled to get to his feet. Kharrazi shoved him back down with his foot and heard the thud as the man was obviously caught off guard. This didn’t deter the man and he made another attempt to get to this feet. This time Kharrazi allowed him.
When he reached his full height, the man brushed himself off and said, “You’re a short little fuck, aren’t you?”
The comment baffled Kharrazi. This man was certainly not an FBI agent.
“Who are you?” Kharrazi asked.
The man smiled through the pain of his gunshot wound. “I’m Silk. I’m here to kill you.”
“Who sent you?”
The man gestured with his hands as he spoke. “A fella by the name of Nick Bracco. Apparently you two have some history.”
“Are you alone?”
“What, I look like I need help here?”
Kharrazi looked around to see if there was anyone else. “You are friends with Mr. Bracco?”
“Since we was thirteen. I run around with his cousin, Tommy.”
Kharrazi put the names together in his head. Suddenly, he recognized the man from the camera he’d used to spy on the sheriff’s office. This man was truly a friend of Nick Bracco. “Good,” Kharrazi smiled. He was finally going to exact revenge for Rashid’s death.
“But I got other reasons to be here.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Apparently, some of your thugs whacked a family that I was very close to.”
“That’s too bad,” Kharrazi said, flatly.
“Yeah, well I could tell it really chokes you up.”
“They deserved to die.”
“How you figure that?”
“According to the polls, seventy-eight per cent of Americans supported the use of troops in Turkey. I’m going to have to assume they fit into this category.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, “The fuck’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”
“I only wish I had the time to explain,” Kharrazi said, lifting his Beretta.
The man shrugged, “So, how do you want to do this? You’re gonna put the gun down aren’t you? You know, fight like a man.”
Kharrazi wondered what kind of idiot he was dealing with. “You came out here by yourself to try and kill me?”
“That was the plan. You think I should have thought things through a little better? I mean you being so difficult about the gun and all.”
Kharrazi’s patience wore thin. “You are a very stupid man.”
“Yeah, I know. So how do you want me to kill you?”
Kharrazi pointed the Beretta at Silk’s chest, “You’re already beginning to bore me to death.”
The man laughed. “Hey, that’s a good one, Shorty.” Then, he seemed to turn serious. “Of course someone your height, I guess a gun is mandatory, isn’t it?”
Kharrazi hesitated at the insult and was startled to see the man use the moment to rush toward him with a look of determination on his face. Kharrazi actually backpedaled as he quickly fired shots with his automatic, including one in the neck and one to the head. Still the man kept coming into the onslaught until his bullet-ridden body limply wrapped itself around Kharrazi’s frame like a drowning man.
As his life rapidly slipped away, the man seemed to be frisking Kharrazi’s body; he groped Kharrazi’s torso until one hand weakly found the knife tucked inside his ankle holster. Fighting until the bitter end, Kharrazi thought.
Kharrazi held the Beretta inches above the man
’s head, but didn’t feel the need to waste another bullet.
It sounded like the man said, “See you soon,” as he slipped down Kharrazi’s legs and crumpled to the ground by his feet.
Kharrazi stood there in the still night air amazed at the man’s tenacity. He checked the man’s hands to find them empty. He felt for a pulse and found none. Kharrazi grinned at the corpse. “You were a brave soldier, Mr. Silk. Almost as brave as Rashid Baser.”
The tension inside of the four cement walls was palpable. The timer ruthlessly beamed its diminishing red numbers, unfazed by the frenzy of Marines and FBI agents running up and down the cracked stairs with wires dangling from every appendage.
Kelly stripped the insulation from the tip of the wires and handed them individually to Rutherford at a rate of two a minute. Carl Rutherford was drenched with sweat even though the cool autumn night fed steady breezes through the open basement doors. He quivered slightly as he wrapped each wire around the positive pole protruding from the top of the small battery. A chorus of headlights poured into the basement from the parked cars just outside of Kharrazi’s private quarters. Each time Rutherford attached a wire, a new set of headlights came to life along with a hesitant flicker from the rest of the group.
Nick and Matt found themselves splitting their attention between Rutherford and the small TV set atop a shaky wooden table against the wall. The monitor showed an empty podium with the presidential seal attached. Newscasters interviewed supposed terrorist experts and retired generals as the nation impatiently awaited President Merrick’s press conference.
“Why is it,” one female newscaster asked, “that there isn’t a consensus on the subject of this speech?”
An unseen political pundit replied, “Well, this is still Washington, Susan, and at this late hour, so close to the White House missile deadline. . I’m sure the President is making certain that every option is explored before making any decisions. There’s even some speculation that he is negotiating right now with Kemel Kharrazi himself trying to find a way out of this catastrophic event. Although that has not been confirmed.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “Good thing they have specialists available, otherwise we could be misinformed.”
A bead of sweat dripped from Carl Rutherford’s nose as the timer passed the five-minute mark. Nick wondered if the brightness of the LED display should be fading while the battery drained. Since the display didn’t seem to lose any intensity, he didn’t ask. He was afraid of the answer.
“Hey, Carl,” Matt said, reading Nick’s mind. “Maybe you should speed it up a little. Those headlights still seem pretty strong.”
Carl gave him a dirty look, then nodded to Kelly to quicken the pace.
McKenna came in with a stranglehold on a thin man, his arm twisted behind his back causing a painful expression. The man wore khaki fatigues and made no eye contact as McKenna shoved him into the room toward Nick.
“You know this asshole?” McKenna said, pulling up on the man’s contorted arm.
“Hasan Bozlak,” Matt said. “Yeah, we know him.”
McKenna grasped a handful of hair and snapped Hasan’s head back. “Why don’t you see if he knows anything? He doesn’t seem to understand English.”
In plain English Nick said, “Where is it, Hasan?”
Hasan stared up at the ceiling. McKenna looked confused.
“The tunnel,” Matt said. “Where?”
This got Hasan to shoot a glance at the wall behind Kharrazi’s desk. It was ephemeral, and if Nick weren’t looking for it, it would have easily gone unnoticed. It was the only wall in the room with any covering. Nick slammed his hand up against the wood paneling and banged around until he found the dead spot. He motioned to a Marine who hammered the butt of his M-4 into the composite panel and quickly broke through. Matt peeled back the flimsy section exposing the dark opening of a tunnel. A couple of Marines looked at Nick expectantly.
“Don’t,” he said. “It’ll be full of traps and probably explosives.” Nick faced Hasan. “How long has he been gone?”
Hasan grimaced as McKenna continued the pressure on his arm. Nick could hear the ligaments pop in the soldier’s elbow.
“Maybe he knows about the traps in the tunnel,” McKenna said.
“No,” Matt said. “He wouldn’t know. The traps were set for him more than they were us.”
McKenna looked at the two FBI agents with disdain. Information was the FBI’s main currency and McKenna seemed uncomfortable converting his military energy into reconnaissance. He tightened his hold on Hasan and said, “So what do you want with this guy?”
“Leave him with the others,” Nick said. “He’s already given us more information than we could ask for.”
“Under a minute,” someone said. And the room became still.
Rutherford and Kelly were the only ones moving. Everyone else just stared at the timer, their peripheral vision taking in the presidential podium. Still vacant.
Suddenly the camera switched to an outside shot of the White House. In the bottom right of the screen a timer counted down to midnight. Nick could practically see network executives rubbing their hands together with glee over the impending disaster. He felt like a spectator at a NASCAR race just after a severe oil spill. He found it hard to believe anything less than a catastrophe could occur.
Outside, the car lights flickered.
“Hey, Carl,” Matt said. “How much voltage does it take to set off that detonator?”
Rutherford furiously worked the wires with a renewed sense of urgency. “A volt, maybe two.”
Kelly stood next to Rutherford with a handful of primed wires; his neck craned toward the open basement doors, exasperation etched on his face.
“Thirty seconds,” the same voice said.
“Don’t you have a voltage meter, Kelly?” Matt asked.
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Kelly said, stammering to gather his thoughts. He reached into his black bag, then turned up to Matt. “You really want to know?”
Matt looked at Nick.
Nick shook his head. “No point.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
Matt snapped, “Shut the fuck up. We can see the timer.”
The last ten seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. The intensity of the car headlights seemed worn down, but the timer appeared unfazed by the effort.
With five seconds remaining, Rutherford grabbed a handful of wires and desperately jammed the entire mess up against the battery pole.
Jennifer Steele found her way next to Matt and clutched his hand.
McKenna still had a stranglehold on Hasan Bozlak, yet Hasan’s face was now serene.
In the stillness of the basement, Nick noticed the TV journalists had learned something from sports announcers when an astonishing event was about to occur. They were completely silent. This gave the room a muted feel. It seemed as if the entire world was now holding its breath.
Kelly dropped his head in anguish.
Nick fixated on the red numbers tumbling toward the inevitable.
When the number three flashed it appeared to stutter. Nick couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to take a moment before the number two hiccupped to life.
Steele gasped as the number two hung there, suspended in time. Three seconds had passed, four seconds, five seconds, and yet the number two remained frozen. Its neon edges crackled with an ominous foreshadow. Rutherford seemed paralyzed. He held the handful of wires against the batteries pole, his mouth pursed shut, his nostrils sucking in air.
Then, an eerie darkness fell over the room. The TV and the lamp on the desk became the only sources of light. The stream of headlights had extinguished in unison, leaving everyone in shadows. Nick stared at the dim number two for an exhaustive minute of pure agony until it too finally surrendered to the darkness, its neon tracing forever etched into Nick’s brain like a phantom pain.
“Two seconds,” someone mocked.
A nervous chuckle.
A stifled snicker.
Jennifer Steele giggled.
Nick would always remember Matt’s face still staring down at the impotent timer, not ready to pronounce it dead. When their eyes finally met, Matt had Steele tucked into his shoulder for a relief cry. He winked at Nick.
A smattering of applause began to bubble into a cheer. Starting as a whisper the Marines began to chant, “USA. . USA.” In only seconds the entire basement swelled into a cry that would make an Olympic Stadium jealous. “USA! USA!”
Carl Rutherford was a statue. His hand was still frozen to the battery like he had his finger in the hole of a dike.
Nick waved at Rutherford. “It’s okay, Carl,” he yelled over the din. “It’s over.”
Rutherford slid to the floor. His entire body sagged from the release of tension.
Suddenly, Nick felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He stepped into the adjacent room to escape the noise. A smile broadened his face as he anticipated President Merrick calling to congratulate him.
He pushed the button and put the phone to his ear, “Bracco.”
The voice that came back at him seared a hole in his gut as if he’d swallowed a capful of pure acid.
“Remember me?” Kemel Kharrazi said.
Chapter 39
The cheering and excitement of the night spilled into the communications room where Nick stood alone, his right hand pressed to his ear, straining to hear the phone. Kharrazi must have heard the commotion.
“There is some reason for enthusiasm?” Kharrazi said.
There was a pause while Nick considered where Kharrazi was calling from. He heard the sound of a car engine, something large, like a pickup truck. Kharrazi was on the move as he spoke. He hadn’t heard the news about the detonator though and this little piece of knowledge gave Nick the slightest advantage.
