Run & Gun
“Then you’ll agree to take this on?” Robinson eyed Holman intently.
“Sure.” Jake Holman was the right man for the job. And it was some job: whole organizations were looking for the girl, key witness in one of the most daring—though foiled—terror plots since nine-eleven, and more than a dozen men stood to spend their lives in U.S. penitentiaries if she spoke in open court. It was time to get Marwa Salameh out of Dodge.
But the main routes were watched. Better, everyone felt, to sneak her out the side door, in Jake Holman’s company car. Company as in Central Intelligence Agency. Holman was a field agent with plenty of experience, and had been a Special Forces warrant officer before that. Bag jobs were his specialty, though the cargo not often human.
Robinson pressed his intercom. “Send in Major Abdelal.”
In five seconds an Army major stepped through the door, in Class A uniform. Thanks to the Army’s penchant for display, her uniform, to Holman, was an open book: major, Military Intelligence, airborne and air assault, Ranger School graduate. Even without the CIB, impressive. But it was the Combat Infantry Badge that made Jake’s eyes linger—that, and her dark beauty. This one was the real deal.
Robinson introduced them.
“Call me Hoda on the job,” said the major.
“Jake.”
She didn’t smile. “Jake.”
“Well, you can’t call me Mister Holman. We’re married, remember?”
Abdelal eyed him sharply. “On the job.”
“On the job.”
“You two can get acquainted on the road,” Robinson said. “Every second counts. Major, how long before you’re ready?”
“Ten minutes. I have my gear here.”
“Excellent. We’ll meet you at the car. My girl will see you know the way.”
When they were in the elevator, Jake turned to Robinson. “Your girl? I don’t think the major cared for that.”
“I don’t care. I’m old. She works for me now. C’mon.” And the doors whooshed open.
They walked into the busy garage, where technicians swarmed vehicles of many kinds. Walking toward the front doors, they closed on Holman’s new Tahoe, black with tint.
“Are you heavy?”
“Yes. On me, and in the car.”
“Good. The old friend?”
“No, I packed the ACP. I’ve got a new Sig forty that I like.”
“Good gun, I hear.”
“Accurized, it is. I had mine done by my man. It’s hot.”
“Is there any armor?” Robinson nodding toward the Tahoe.
“Only under the passenger compartment. It’ll stop a good one. But it can’t stop everything. We’ll just have to watch it.”
“Glass?”
“Oh, sure. Of course.”
“Time’s up.” Robinson checked his watch. “Take her to the sally port.”
The men shook hands, and Holman slid into the driver’s seat. His jeans and blazer were comfortable, and the shoulder holster didn’t bite him anywhere. It was custom, over $500, and worth every dime. The engine lifted to life, and a keen ear knew it wasn’t stock.
A garage hand opened the door, and the beefy Tahoe rolled out, Jake guiding it to the left, down the lane, and into the sally port. A figure stood there. It was a Middle Eastern woman, in bright hijab. Holman pulled up next to her. She opened the door. It was Hoda. Holman said nothing, and the major remained mute as well. Holman had thoughts about her, but they weren’t job-related. He wondered if she was married. He was divorced.
Robinson entered the sally port from a side door, accompanied by another Arab woman in hijab. She was a teen, about sixteen. She wore subdued colors, but carried herself well. Not for the first time Holman noted Arabic teens tended to present as older than they were. For all he knew, the girl could be fourteen, though he doubted it. So this was the mysterious Marwa Salameh.
Robinson opened the back door, and the girl slid in, reaching for the harness. Bang went the door, Robinson rapped the roof, and the sally port yawned open before them. Jake reached up to take his sun glasses from the roof compartment, slid them on, and put the Tahoe in drive.
* * *
Washington gradually passed, Baltimore’s approach supplanting it. Jake felt better with the tunnel behind them, his eyes—and Hoda’s he noticed—on the alert for other cars like theirs. Big SUVs seemed to be the tool of choice for ambushers.
If Jake Holman had a fault as an operator, it was being gregarious. They were leaving Baltimore when he succumbed.
“You look sharp.”
Silence. “Thank you.”
“Are you Muslim?”
Silence. “Are you?”
“Look, we’re going to be at this for awhile. I’m just making conversation.”
“I don’t make conversation.”
“Life is short, Hoda. And ours should be over, considering some of the places we’ve been. So let’s get along, shall we?”
She checked the mirror—she was always checking the mirror, craning her neck to get the proper angle. “I guess.”
Jake eyed his own mirror, into the back seat. “Comfortable back there, Marwa?”
“Yes.” She spoke softly.
Jake pondered the two in silence, his social gambit failed. His instincts were keen, and this was very far from his first contact with Middle Eastern women. They couldn’t be any different. Marwa was more the norm: demure, presenting as the quiet Muslim lady. Hoda was anything but, more the soldier, the major, the Ranger. An edge. Jake chalked it up to an attitude from always being looked down on by men. Was that from her old culture, assuming she was Middle Eastern? Or her new? Well, unless they’d slid standards at the Ranger School—and Jake, as a graduate, very much doubted it—Hoda had the Right Stuff all right.
They were on the Jersey Turnpike now, and traffic was moving well. Jake glanced down, calculating. It wouldn’t be too long before liquid loading would be a factor: add some for the Tahoe, subtract some from himself.
“Anybody have to go?” he asked.
“I could,” Hoda said. “Marwa?”
It was the first time Jake heard a pleasant ring in Hoda’s vice. He risked a sidelong glance, as though checking his passenger mirror carefully instead of his passenger. Hoda was lovely: luminous black hair—not that he could see it now, under the hijab—big dark eyes, flawless skin. Her eyebrows and lashes looked natural. Jake found himself wondering what she looked like at the end of her graduation patrol from the Rangers. He’d lost 40 pounds in 11 weeks. Her Class A’s hadn’t let him see her body, but she didn’t strike him as wiry. She’d probably suffered, too. Got through on guts, he decided at last.
Holman guided the Tahoe onto the service area ramp, bleeding speed and looking for a spot. He never sought parking close in, because there wasn’t any. He parked in a drive-through, so they wouldn’t have to back up to get out.
“Mind if I go first?” Jake asked.
“No,” Hoda said. It was a flat statement.
Holman popped his harness, glanced carefully around, and slid out of the seat. Rubbernecking again, he closed the door and heard Hoda lock it; his keys were still inside.
The loping stride that had made Jake Holman a first-class Division 1AA tight end at Rhode Island had him at the silver doors in no time. He shoved a dollar in the cup of the panhandling vet at the door, walked trough, and was in and out in moments. The coast looked clear. He walked back.
Hoda let him in, and he said easing aboard, “Looks good.” The women slid out, retracing his steps. Holman looked around again, then watched the pair advance on the doors. They could have been any Muslim mother and daughter. It was a little out of kilter sending them without a man; most Muslim families wouldn’t do that, especially tra
ditional ones. But keeping the car covered was necessary.
What was it about Muslim women? They were so stately, so self-possessed, so ladylike. Americans thought they were chattel, treated like dirt by their husbands—one couldn’t say “by their men,” because for a Muslim—a practicing one—there was only husband and wife. No in-between. But Islamic culture, as opposed to the various national and ethnic cultures where Islam predominated, provided strict division of labor. It was the same as America once had: father provider, mother homemaker and minder of children. That made Hoda—the major—such a jarring contrast, but Jake had a hunch it was in there, under the surface. One thing for sure: she looked the part in her Muslim garb. And moved like it. Jake remembered an ayah from the Quran describing how women should dress and act, and it ended with not making noise when they walked, to avoid calling attention to themselves. Modesty. Always modesty, right down to eye contact. Jake found it irresistibly attractive.
They should be out now. Even accounting for gender. The hairs on Jake’s neck tingled.
In twenty seconds he was halfway to the door, and in another ten the doors burst open and the women came out, Hoda towing Marwa by the hand. Holman took it in: no blood, that was good. But they were moving like lightning, that was bad. Holman’s head swiveled. No threat. He didn’t draw his weapon, but instead turned toward the Tahoe, hitting the remote—he’d taken it when he left—to open all the doors.
No preamble. Hoda had the back door open, practically threw Marwa in, dived into the passenger door, and Holman had them moving as fast as he dared, negotiating the crowded parking lot and heading for the turnpike ramp. They’d get gas later. Hoda was buckling in.
“Okay?” Holman asked.
“In the bathroom,” Hoda said. “One. He followed us in.
“He?”
Hoda nodded. “Dressed like a woman. He went in a stall.”
“And?”
“I heard the handbag touch the floor.”
Jake didn’t register.
“Coach handbag, nice dress. But stocky woman, not stylish. No woman puts a Coach bag on the floor of a public toilet.”
The Tahoe was merging well with traffic, accelerating to highway speed.
“And?”
“He came out with a razor. I think he thought I was window dressing, for Marwa.”
“So how’d you leave it?”
“He’ll be alright. He might have to see a urologist.”
Jake laughed. He shouldn’t have, but he did. “Oldest trick in the book.”
“Yes,” Hoda said. She was fiddling with her hijab. Suddenly, it was off, that lustrous hair cascading into sight. “Guess I won’t be needing this. They’ve made us.”
It was true. The BOLO (“be on the lookout”) would undoubtedly include Hoda’s description as a Muslima, and surely Marwa’s, too. It was time to change appearance.
“They moved fast,” Jake said. “I’m surprised they got that kind of jump.”
“These aren’t your garden variety thugs,” Hoda said. “We’ve been chasing them for a couple of years. They have intelligence you wouldn’t believe.”
“I would now. By the way, nice going, major.”
She smiled at him. Actually smiled! “Call me Hoda, remember?”
“Is that your real name?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where from?”
“Family?”
Jake nodded, checking the mirrors.
“Egypt, originally. My grandparents, except for one. She’s Palestinian. Lives in the West Bank. But all the rest of us are here in the states.”
“How were you commissioned?”
“ROTC at Rhode Island.”
“Really? I’m a Rhody Ram, too.”
“Really? I’m surprised we never met.”
“Oh, I wasn’t rotsie. I was a warrant.”
“Strange career path.”
Jake shrugged. “Shoulder injury from football. Quit the game, had it fixed, graduated but didn’t want a commission. Enlisted, went through the ranks and got the warrant. Worked well.”
“Ess Eff?” Hoda asked, meaning S.F.—Special Forces. Practitioners never said “green beret,” that was civilian newspaper jargon.
“Yep.”
“A-Team?”
“Yes, Fifth Group at Bragg. Did some funky in a couple of spots. Helped the Agency out, and they liked me enough to wrangle me over there. Been there ever since.”
Was that new respect Jake felt wafting across from her?
“Thanks,” said Hoda.
“For what?”
“For not running to the rescue. We needed to get out of there, and you headed for the car, not us.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I will mention it. A lot of men wouldn’t have done that. They think a woman can’t handle it.”
“I think you handled that pretty well.”
Minutes passed. Hoda checked on Marwa, who seemed none the less for her experience. Jake thought about asking something, hesitated for a few miles, then decided to risk it. “Did you two use the facilities back there?”
“No, but it’s all right. I can wait. How about you, Marwa?”
“I’m okay,” said the soft voice in back.
“Well,” Holman said, “we need to risk another stop. I’d like to fill up on gas. I haven’t seen anything tailing us, have you?”
“No.”
“Let’s go for it.”
This time there was no incident: Holman dropped the women off, and went to get fuel. They came out the side door, through the service station, before he’d finished filling. Freshly fueled, they headed out onto the parkway.
“What way are you going?” Hoda asked.
Well! Could the ice queen be thawing? “George Washington Bridge.”
“You sure?”
“Fastest way.”
“Without traffic.”
“Insha’Allah,” Jake said. If Allah wills. He caught a smile from the corner of his eye. Thawing. Definitely.
“Have you been there?” Hoda asked.
“Where’s that?”
“The Middle East.”
“A few times.”
“How did you like it?”
Jake thought. Better be honest. “I’d rather deal with my Muslims here, than there.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. They—you—are in the minority here. That changes the equation. It’s a strange culture.”
“You seem to appreciate it.”
Jake smiled, risking a glance at her. “Well, there’s a lot to like. Which reminds me, what about prayer?”
“We can adjust. We’re traveling. But it has to be considered.”
“We’ll be there early evening.”
“Yes, I know. That should be time. We combine prayers when we travel. Allah provides.”
The traffic was all going the other way on the GW bridge. Jake was thankful. The road was rugged, tearing at the Tahoe like there was no tomorrow. Relentless traffic and northeastern weather had taken its toll on the roadbed. Eventually, New York gave way to Connecticut, and they clawed their way through Fairfield County. Soon they entered the Shoreline area. Jake hit the directional signal, and slowed for an exit.
“Where are you going?” Hoda asked. There was concern in her voice.
“A little detour.” Jake guided the black SUV through Saybrook, heading toward the water. Eventually, knowing exactly where he was going, he pulled into the driveway at an upper-middle-class Cape Cod house.
“What’s this?” Hoda asked.
“A little independence,” Jake said. He felt her eyeing him in the dying sunlight. Removing his sunglasses and putting them in the overhead, he turned to her.
“We don’t know whether there’s been a breach in Langley, or anywhere else. Right? That guy you met could have been vectored by an inside tip.”
“Could be,” Hoda admitted.
“So, we’re stopping to see a friend of mine. A guy I trust. I want to send a message
on down the line to Boston, and there’s no better way to do it than my friend Lou. This is Lou’s place. Besides, aren’t you due for prayer? You do salat, no?”
Hoda didn’t say anything. Holman didn’t push it. He got out of the car and walked toward the front door, ringing the bell. By the time the females caught up, he was standing in the foyer.
“Come in,” Jake said, and Hoda noticed a man in a wheelchair. Only there was a silver pistol on his lap, a chrome plated Colt Python revolver.
“Hoda,” Jake said, “meet Lou. Lou, Hoda.”
“Hello, Hoda. Pleased to meet you.” Lou was about 50 years old, Hoda guessed, dressed in a robe and slippers.
“And this,” said Jake, “is Marwa, our supercargo.”
Lou greeted Marwa, but the teen merely murmured a reply, eyes downward.
Holman said to Lou, “We needed a rest. Any chance we could stay the night?”
“You know it’s no trouble,” Lou said. “I was just getting on the Irregulars. Time to join me?”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Jake replied. “Is Hendy around lately?”
“He just might be,” said Lou. “But where are our manners? Come-come, ladies. You can freshen up upstairs. I have a housekeeper, so it’s not like the rest of the place up there.”
“Hoda,” said Holman turning to her, and trying to be as un-authoritative as he could, “Why don’t you get what you and Marwa will need from the back of the car, while Marwa stays inside and we men play with some toys?”
Hoda raised an eyebrow, and Jake raised his hand. “I was thinking particularly of prayer rugs, if there are two. And one, if there’s not.” Marwa had one, he knew, as Robinson had seen it back there. “Won’t take long, will it?”
Hoda disappeared out the door, and was back in a minute with Marwa’s rug. Jake checked his watch. “We’re going to do some communicating,” Jake said to Hoda. “You can watch if you like, we’ll be in Lou’s radio shack, through the house to the back on this floor. Can’t miss it. But I thought you two should spend some quality time. Mind?”
“No, I guess not,” Hoda said. She turned to Marwa and smiled. “Come on. Let’s see if the housekeeper really keeps house.” They went up the staircase, which rose directly from the foyer.
Jake turned to Lou. “Irregulars?”
“Just going to check in,” said Lou, deftly spinning the electric wheelchair on its axis and whirring toward the back of the house.
Hoda and Jake Page 1
