Nasim Ghazi wasn’t his given name; he was born Carl Edward Butler. As he grew up in a neighborhood full of Muslim immigrants in New York, he began to develop enmity toward his classmates at school who viewed their U.S. nationality as superior to any of his international friends. For years, he never acted on the rage welling within him, choosing instead to do something to stop it.
When Butler graduated from high school, he attended college and obtained a mechanical engineering degree to appease his parents. But as soon as he tossed his cap and ditched his gown, Butler applied to the police academy. He was promptly accepted and emerged as a detective-specialist for the New York City Police Department’s Bomb Squad.
During his two years on the force, Butler disarmed and disposed of more than two dozen bombs, the majority of which were set by Muslim terrorists. Sometimes he dismantled them before anyone in the general public found out about it—other times they were high profile cases that were covered by national media. However, given his position, he often crafted the narrative that it wasn’t a bomb created by Muslim extremists but by some other domestic terrorist group. He falsified reports to reflect that it was someone else other than who investigators initially suspected. He wanted Americans to understand that terrorists were everywhere, even living among them. More than that, he wanted the average American to understand that just because they didn’t look the same or even speak the same language, didn’t mean they were a threat to the American way of life. Over time, he began to see what a fruitless endeavor he’d embarked upon.
Meanwhile, he began to secretly meet with some of those terrorists through his Muslim friends, urging them to stop. They politely declined, insisting that it was the only way to make their voices heard as they struck back at the American crusaders who sought to destroy their way of life. Though Butler didn’t agree with them at first, as he developed relationships with them, his mind slowly changed. He joined a local mosque and grew a beard. At work, he endured endless teasing, especially when he announced he was legally changing his name to Nasim Ghazi.
One night, not long after he went out with his fellow officers to a local bar, Butler refused to drink, citing his new religious beliefs. However, he saw it as an opportunity to explain to his co-workers about what it meant to be Muslim and how they should be more sensitive to those living among them who weren’t as homogenous. In closing, he made an impassioned plea for them to stop their snide comments and hateful attitudes. In hindsight, Butler admitted that he should’ve chosen a time when they might be more receptive—a time that didn’t include alcohol. Though the only reason he was willing to admit as much was due to the severe beating he received that night. For ten minutes, his officers punched and kicked him.
“You think you’re better than us?” one of them yelled before delivering a swift kick to his thigh.
“You think Islam is the religion of peace?” another asked as he punched Butler in the head.
After they stopped, Butler rolled over in the alleyway, unable to get up. Fifteen minutes later, an elderly man wearing a yarmulke stopped and helped him up.
“I never thought I’d get help from a Jewish man,” Butler said as he regained his balance.
The man smiled at him and patted him on the back. “Sometimes you have to leave where you are to have the life that you want. Perhaps by choice or not.”
Butler watched the man shuffle away down the sidewalk. He packed up his belongings that night and bought a ticket to Afghanistan.
And Nasim Ghazi was born anew.
Ghazi took the old man’s advice and started over in the Middle East. But he wasn’t about to let go of his desire to strike back at the arrogant Americans.
When he arrived in Afghanistan, he asked around about a young man named Karif Fazil. Ghazi had heard a report from the BBC that during an attack by allied forces, they’d killed several innocent civilians, including a man with a son named Karif Fazil. Fazil was interviewed for the report—and his words haunted Ghazi.
“My father was doing his job and making a delivery from his butcher shop when American soldiers stormed in and shot him,” Fazil said as he started to sob. “How can it be that these men can come into our country and shoot an innocent man? How can it be that these men can come into our country and take away my father?”
And from the moment the two men met, they embarked on a venture that bonded them together—to strike back at the Americans who’d dared to set foot in their part of the world.
While they’d struck hard and fast at American tourist destinations in the Middle East and American interests, the failure at the school in Abu Dhabi always stuck with Fazil. They’d managed to sneak into the school and plant nearly four hundred kilograms of C-4 explosives throughout the building. Once they retreated outside, they hid in a wooded area nearby and prepared to detonate the bombs and watch the grand explosion. Fazil and Ghazi smiled at one another, but when they pressed the button, nothing happened.
They panicked, checking and rechecking the detonator. Only later after it was revealed publicly that a terrorist plot had been thwarted did they learn that the school was equipped with a radio-jamming device to prevent such attacks. The pain of such a failure always reminded Fazil to temper his excitement.
He rode back to the compound and instructed everyone to grab as many weapons as possible and evacuate the premises. The last truck was leaving when his phone rang with a call from Ghazi.
“Is everything all right?” Fazil asked.
“It’s fine. Are you ready?”
“Do it.”
“Good. I also thought you might want to listen to this as it happened, perhaps my atonement for the school in Abu Ghazi.”
“You’ve atoned for that a hundred times over. Now, let’s hear it.”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” Ghazi said before he pressed the detonator.
The grin Fazil had worked so hard to suppress erupted on his face as he listened to the explosions followed by shrieks and screams. Jafar cooed as Fazil nuzzled his face against the bird.
“Well done, Nasim. Well done.”
CHAPTER 22
ALEX’S HEAD WHIPPED BACK in the direction of the mystery man with such force that she lost her footing and fell flat on her back. But she wasn’t about to surrender so easily. She rolled over only to be greeted by the point of the man’s boot against the side of her face. As she clambered to her feet, Alex was almost upright when the man attempted a roundhouse kick, but this time she was ready.
Alex grabbed the man’s leg and twisted it, flipping him over. She kicked him in the face and rolled him over before placing her arms around his neck.
“Who are you?” she said.
The man didn’t answer, instead choosing to struggle out of Alex’s grip. He failed to break free, his face paying a heavy price as she pounded him several more times in the head.
Finally, the man collapsed.
Alex grabbed her phone and took the man’s fingerprint with it. She forwarded it to Mallory and then dialed her.
“Do you ever sleep?” Mallory asked as she answered the phone.
“Look, I don’t have time to get into everything right now, but I just sent you a fingerprint. Can you look it up for me?”
“Did you kick some guy’s ass again?”
“I didn’t have a date tonight.”
Mallory snickered. “You really need to get a personal life. It might help with all that pent up frustration you apparently have.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Do you remember the part where I told you I needed to cool it for a while so I didn’t attract unnecessary attention?”
Alex ignored her question. “You found it yet?”
“Geez, give me a second. I need to start the search first. So, while we’re waiting, do you want to tell me what happened?”
“I went back to Cochran’s apartment, and it was completely empty.”
“Already?”
“Yeah. This guy posing as the landlord said it had be
en vacant for a couple of years.”
“So you beat him into submission?”
“Pretty much.”
“I’m so glad you’re my friend,” Mallory said. Her computer beeped. “Okay, let’s see what we got here.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, great. It’s classified. I’m gonna have to answer a bunch of questions in the office tomorrow about this.”
“So, nothing?”
“Yeah, nothing it is. Whoever he is, he’s got a protected status, and I can’t get access to his file. But I might be able to do some digging.”
“Fine. Let me know what you come up with.”
“I suggest you get out of there, Alex. There are some pretty dark ops groups he could belong to, and they wouldn’t appreciate you handling one of their agents like that.”
“Roger that. I’m out. I’ll look for your call.”
Alex hung up and proceeded to rifle through the man’s pockets. Nothing. No cell phone. No gun. Not so much as a pack of chewing gum. She took a picture of him and exited the apartment.
Once Alex reached the street, she walked for a block toward her car. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed. Nonchalantly, she peeked over her shoulder to see if she was being followed but didn’t see anyone. She turned the corner and glanced behind her once more before letting out a sigh of relief.
That’s when she felt a firm grip take hold of the back of her arm.
She gasped and was spun around to see Joel Cochran.
“Joel,” she said. “You scared me.”
“I hope so,” he said. “You shouldn’t be hanging around here. I’ve already warned you once.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who do you work for?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“Honestly, it’s not that important. But what is important is that you get out of here before you get yourself hurt—or worse.”
“Joel—or whatever your name is—your apartment was cleaned out when I just went back there to get some answers.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know what’s really going on.”
“I’ve already told you. If you don’t believe me, that’s your prerogative. But you’ve been warned.”
“Who are you working for?”
“Alex, asking me more questions isn’t going to get you any more answers. You just need to trust me and bail out.” He handed her a card. “This is how you can reach me if you change your mind. Just don’t get caught working for Blunt. It’s not going to be pleasant for him in the coming weeks.”
She shoved the card into her pocket and glared at him. “I know I’m helping keep our country safe, but I’ve got no idea what you’re doing. So, don’t expect to hear from me.”
“Suit yourself, but I tried to help.” With that, Cochran spun and walked away.
Alex watched him and wondered what was happening, unsure who to trust. She walked for another block and got into her car. She looked at her phone and realized she had a missed call from an unknown number.
That had to be Hawk!
She called her office phone and heard his message, alerting her to the developing situation in Doha.
She shoved her key into the ignition and turned it. The car roared to life. She put the car into drive but froze when the radio came on with a special report.
“More than a hundred are dead and fifty more injured in a well-planned terrorist attack on the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Doha, Qatar, today,” said the man on the radio. “However, officials expect the death toll to rise over in the coming hours. Al Hasib is claiming responsibility for the attack.”
She was already too late.
Reluctantly, she picked up the phone and called Blunt. Based on his grumpy disposition, she figured he’d either been asleep or was drinking.
“About time you called,” he said once he picked up his phone.
“I finally heard from Hawk.”
“Is he okay?”
“I’m not sure. I just got a voicemail from him, warning me about Doha.”
“Doha? What’s happening there?”
“What happened there,” she said. “I’m surprised you hadn’t been called already.”
“What happened?”
“Al Hasib. The Ritz-Carlton in Doha—gone. Around a hundred dead and more expected.”
Blunt grunted. “So, where’s Hawk?”
“He didn’t leave me a forwarding address or any clues for that matter. I’ll just have to wait for him to reach out again.”
Blunt didn’t speak for a moment.
“Is everything all right, sir?” she asked.
“No. No, it’s not! My best agent is missing, and I don’t know where the hell you’ve been over the past couple of days. No one knows where you’ve been or what you’ve been up to. If you’d been at your desk, perhaps you could’ve prevented this massacre in Doha.”
Alex sighed. She didn’t want to tell Blunt what he wanted to know. “I’ll find him, sir. Don’t worry.”
“You better,” he snapped and then hung up.
Alex stared at the screen on her phone. Perhaps Joel Cochran was right—life was about to get very difficult for Senator Blunt. And that’s not something she wanted to be around for. Or perhaps there was something else more sinister at play.
She couldn’t decide what to do and wished someone would tell her which direction to go.
Then her phone buzzed again. It was Mallory.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” Mallory said.
“I doubt anything will surprise me at this point.”
“I hacked into the database and found out whose fingerprint this belongs to.”
“And?”
“Harry Bozeman.”
Alex sighed. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“No, but you’ll know who he works for.”
“And that is?”
“A secret task force run by none other than Senator Blunt’s favorite person, according to you—Guy Hirschbeck.”
CHAPTER 23
AS HAWK FOLLOWED the man down a back alleyway, he contemplated running. After all, it wasn’t too late to leave the guy. He was starting to second guess his instincts and question whether sheer desperation had clouded his judgment that much. The thought was fleeting, and he continued behind the man.
After several turns, the man jammed a key into a lock and opened the door, gesturing for Hawk to enter first. Hawk complied but turned his body sideways so he could keep an eye on what was inside as well as on the man.
The man chuckled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Hawk. I’m not going to hurt you.” He slapped Hawk on the shoulder and pushed past him toward a common living area.
Hawk stopped and scanned the room along with the surrounding area.
“Can I get you some tea?” the man asked as he set his jacket down over the arm of a chair.
“That’d be nice. Thanks. You Brits can’t go six hours without the stuff, can you?”
A few moments later, the man emerged from the kitchen adjacent to the living area. He pointed toward a chair on the opposite side of the room. “What can I say? We do love our tea. Now, please, have a seat.”
“How do you know my name? And what’s this all about?” Hawk asked, still bewildered by the fact that the man knew his name.
The man sat down and crossed one leg over the other. “The how and why are interesting questions, for sure. However, the real question that needs to be answered is why.”
“As in, why me?” Hawk asked, pointing at himself.
The man shrugged and then nodded. “Something like that.”
“So?” Hawk said, his eyes widening. “Go on.”
“Many years ago, your father asked me to look out for you so that’s what I’m doing.”
“My father made you my personal guardian angel of the Middle East? Isn’t that special?” Hawk said as he laughed nervously. “I never knew he actually cared
about me that much. I only thought he cared about himself.”
The man cocked his head to one side. “Your father is a far better man than you think. Besides, I’m neither a therapist nor an apologist for your father. I’m simply here to do what he asked me to do.”
“And what exactly is that?”
“To make sure that you succeed at your mission.”
“How would you or my father know about my mission—or even care, for that matter? I don’t even know your name.”
“My apologies,” the man said as he stood and offered Hawk his hand. “Eric Angel.”
Hawk shook the man’s hand, and a faint smile crept across his lips. “When I said you were a guardian angel, I—”
Angel waved Hawk off and chuckled. “I get that all the time—so much so that I’m considering using a code name in the future.”
“Why? Eric Angel doesn’t even sound believable.”
“Well, I can assure you that it is real, though you won’t find me in any of your CIA databases.”
“I don’t work for the CIA, Mr. Angel.”
“I know. You work for Senator Blunt, but that’s close enough. You get my drift.”
“You’re a ghost.”
“Some people might say that, but you can see me sitting in front of you, right?”
“Plain as day.”
“Very well then. Let’s get to the business at hand.”
Hawk shifted in his chair. “Which is what exactly?”
“Helping you catch Nasim Ghazi.”
“What makes you think I need your help?” Hawk said.
“Perhaps the fact that I was embedded with Al Hasib for two years.”
Hawk sat up in his seat. “You? You were embedded with Al Hasib?”
“A most unpleasant experience, I can assure you. But it’s true.”
Angel cocked his head to one side. “And you know what they’re going to do next?”
“Not exactly, but I do know some of their potential targets, none of which bode well for U.S. interests.”
“Care to enlighten me on which ones that would be?”
First Strike (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 1) Page 9
