Foreign Éclairs

by Julie Hyzy

  No, I thought, and instinctively tried to shake my head. Wait, was that movement? A little? I tried moving my jaw. No luck.

  My upturned right hand lay like a mannequin’s appendage against the shiny burled wood surface that comprised the hearse’s floor. I stared at it, willing my fingers to clench. Concentrating, I gave it every bit of energy I possessed. Nothing. My hand remained as fixed and useless as a doll’s.

  Maybe, I thought, the faster I metabolized the drug, the quicker it would wear off. I had no idea if that theory was medically sound or simply wishful thinking, but I began pushing the tiny control I did have to its maximum. I blinked and blinked and blinked again, all the while breathing as deeply and as rapidly as I could.

  When pinpricks of light clouded my vision, I slowed the breathing so I wouldn’t pass out. I rolled my eyes up and down and side to side, still blinking all the while. If anyone would have peered in at me at the moment, I’m sure I looked as though I was having a seizure, but it was the only course of action available, and—even given the monumental odds against me—I refused to go down without a fight.

  The men’s voices grew louder as I continued my fruitless undertaking. I noted that beyond their conversation, the world was quiet. Such stillness, coupled with the rustling leaves and croaking frogs, meant that we were probably far from any other human beings.

  I strove to make out what was being discussed and hoped that straining to listen involved another set of muscles I still had access to. Wherever we were, and whatever they had planned, they were clearly in no big rush.

  I’d clung to a single hope: that Altergott, the funeral director, had been found and able to alert someone about my abduction. Searchers might be able to use my phone to determine my location. It was still on, thank goodness. Maybe the hearse had GPS installed and that would lead the authorities to my location? Of course, that depended on two things: the GPS being activated, and a strong enough signal to transmit. And all these things could come to pass only if the funeral director had been able to communicate. That was a lot of ifs.

  My heart squeezed with almost unbearable pain. Was this a side effect of the drug? Or the realization that I really had no hope at all?

  Blinking and breathing hard, I again willed my fingers to clench.

  Come on, hand. I’m in control here, don’t you remember? Move.

  The two men’s voices grew loud enough for me to make out what they were saying.

  Kern’s voice: “You did well.”

  Don’t you understand? Move now or you may never get another chance.

  “It is my honor to serve,” Slager answered. “I am fortunate you chose to adopt the strategy I suggested in the event the abduction failed.”

  Laser-focused on my right hand’s pinkie, I almost missed my thumb’s tiny twitch.

  Breathing faster again, this time with excitement, I willed my thumb to repeat the movement. But my concentration faltered when Kern spoke again.

  “No need for false modesty, my friend. You saw what others did not—that we needed a backup plan in case our brethren were not successful.” It sounded as though he clapped Slager on the back. “We have our proof tonight that they did not succeed. If the Americans hadn’t been fooled—if they didn’t believe they had captured me, they would never have allowed this troublesome woman to travel unescorted.”

  So this was Kern. They’d fooled us all.

  He kept talking. “They would never have dropped the threat level on the president and his family. You have outsmarted the Americans in a way we have never been able to achieve before. When we return to our country, I will name you my first general.”

  My heart dropped with the realization that we’d been so thoroughly outsmarted. But at the very same moment: a twitch. Another one. Tiny, but real. I’d done it.

  With a metallic clunk, the back door of the hearse flew open, shooting a gust of snappy air into the death compartment.

  “It is time,” Kern said. I didn’t know whether he was addressing me or Slager.

  One of them grabbed my feet and dragged me out, taking no care whatsoever to prevent my nose and cheekbones from banging against the transport slab’s remaining metal rollers. Rather than be angry, I was thrilled. I felt every bounce.

  The skin on one side of my face burned as it slid along the smooth burled wood surface. Although my triumph was tiny—a half-centimeter thumb movement wouldn’t do much good against two muscular terrorists—it gave me what I needed most. Hope.

  I vowed not to let them take that from me again.

  Once my body was halfway out of the hearse, Slager—with a grunt of effort—grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me over his shoulder. As he swung me into place, I noticed that we were surrounded by tall trees—hundreds of them. Kern’s flashlight produced a searingly high-wattage beam as he lit the path Slager followed.

  Slager stepped with care, but I got the sense that it was the uneven terrain rather than the added weight that slowed him down. My arms hung like limp things below my head as he made his way down a small embankment.

  All the while, Kern kept talking about how pleased he was to have Slager in his camp, and how rich his reward would be once my death was accomplished and the president’s fate was sealed.

  The president’s fate. What could that be? I wanted to know what Kern was talking about. I wanted details, times, dates, whatever. Not that I could do anything even if he’d spelled out all the nitty-gritties. In my present condition, all I could do was stare at the dark grass below me and trust that my pendulous hands were gradually coming back to life.

  “Why not leave her in the vehicle?” Slager asked. “Why must I carry her so far into the forest?”

  Kern chuckled. “You are a smart man. Can you not figure it out?”

  We traveled another ten seconds or so.

  “You do not wish the burial vehicle to be destroyed in the blast?” Slager asked.

  Blast? Oh dear God.

  “Exactly right, my friend. In a very short time, they will begin looking for this hearse. I want them to find it. I want there to be no doubt when they examine the debris. I want the smug Americans to understand that when we identify a target for elimination, we do not give up until we succeed.”

  My left arm continued to tingle, but I longed for real pain to kick in.

  Please, please, please.

  Slager dropped me like a construction worker might dump a bag of cement. I landed faceup, happy to have felt the impact’s sting. Kern handed a second flashlight to Slager, then crouched next to me. He grabbed my chin with one hand and tilted my head until I made eye contact. He held the torch beneath his chin. The upward-facing beam threw half his face into shadow, blackening the hollows of his eyes.

  Cruel highlights accentuated his downturned mouth. I felt the same terror I had as a child when Snow White’s evil stepmother consulted her magic mirror.

  “I know it galls you to know that we have won,” he said with a glint in his eye that sparkled from the darkness. “You are seething, are you not? Feeling helpless. Like my brother did. Will it help you to know that we anticipate that your beloved husband will now attempt to infiltrate our organization? He will fail.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

  “And when he learns of your death, he will ask himself how he could have been so mistaken, so easily duped. He will then grieve, as I did for my brother.” Wagging a finger side to side, he said, “But don’t worry. He won’t grieve long. He won’t see the end coming. Not like you.”

  Pressing his hands against his knees, Kern boosted himself to stand and started away. Slager shuffled off, too, or so I deduced from the sound of leafy footsteps and the decreasing level of light.

  I stared at Kern’s pant legs until they were swallowed by the dark. I strained every muscle, hoping to expel the drug from my body by sheer force of will.

  “Slager?” Kern called. “Do you need assistance?”

  The other man answered from enough of a distance that I
couldn’t make out his reply. A hundred feet away, at least.

  I heard a trunk slam. The hearse didn’t have a trunk, and its back door made an entirely different sound. Slager must have accessed that other car they’d discussed earlier.

  Kern returned to my side. “You are one of the lucky ones,” he said very quietly. “Few humans are fortunate enough to know the precise moment of their death. You have a rare opportunity to find peace, and to offer your soul to whatever god you believe in.” He leaned down and chuckled. “Or spend your last few minutes cursing me. Your choice.”

  Slager’s flashlight cut wide swaths of light back and forth as he trudged down the embankment again. As he came into view, I could see that he carried the torch in his right hand and held a backpack close to his chest with his left.

  Using gingerly movements, he lowered the backpack to the ground next to me. “It is highly unlikely that she will regain the use of her limbs soon,” he said. “How far do we need to be before the bomb detonates?”

  “I want to set the timer so that we are back in the city before it goes off.”

  “It would be foolhardy to leave her here for that long, Kern. As unlikely as it is that she will be found, we cannot risk it.”

  “We are far from the city, yes, but not so far that an explosion of this magnitude will go unnoticed.” Kern’s voice was strained. “We must not be anywhere nearby. If roads are closed, or blockades are established, we will be stopped. We must not be stopped.”

  Slager began to pace. “It would be madness to set it for longer than an hour.”

  Kern crouched next to me again. He lifted my right arm and let go, letting it drop, lifeless, to the ground next to me. He did the same with my leg. “I don’t believe she will recover sufficiently in an hour’s time.”

  Slager didn’t answer. He took off back up the embankment and returned a moment later. “We can use these,” he said.

  I couldn’t see what he was holding. A moment later, however, it became clear when he wrapped a white nylon tie-wrap around my left wrist and a second one around my right. The two men crouch-shuffled back and forth, rolling me to my side, my bulky purse wedged beneath my right hip.

  They ran a third tie-wrap through the backpack’s woven carry handle and then through both loops, encircling my wrists. At first I thought they’d left a large amount of slack by mistake, but once they’d made the final connections and locked the third cable, Slager cinched the plastic around my wrists. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but there would be no wiggling free of these restraints.

  “An hour before she might have movement again?” Kern asked as they stood again, and slapped dirt off their hands. “Is that what you believe?”

  “Yes, but I would set the timer for thirty minutes.”

  No, please. I need more time. Please. An hour. At least.

  I was on my right side, working hard to keep my extra-deep breathing as quiet as possible. I couldn’t try to stretch, couldn’t attempt to move, lest I spasm slightly and they notice.

  “We are too far from our safe house. As I said, an explosion will be detected and add to our risk of being stopped,” Kern said.

  Slager gave an exasperated grunt. “You have depended on me to bring us this far. Trust me. You have seen how these Americans react and how careful they attempt to be. It slows them down.” He paced. “They are incapable of assembling forces within thirty minutes. We will not be stopped.”

  Kern seemed to consider this. “Even if she regains control, she cannot escape her bonds,” he said, sliding an index finger along the nylon cables cuffing me. “She will die here.” Quietly, almost reverently, he added, “Tonight, I will finally have my revenge.”

  “Then the timer’s detonation must be your decision.”

  Kern placed his flashlight on the ground next to him. He crouched next to me. “Shine your light here,” he said.

  Slager complied.

  Kern held a digital timer in both hands. About the size of a deck of cards, it was an ordinary device—the kind that kitchen stores sold by the thousands every year. Two kinked wires sprang from the back of the timer’s case like skinny blue arms.

  Kern shifted his weight to one knee as he thumbed a control level on the right to “set” and then tapped small gray boxes below until the display read 0:30:00. “You see?” he said, holding the timer up for Slager’s benefit. “I prove my faith in you. Thirty minutes.”

  When Slager grunted acknowledgment, Kern reached into the backpack and pulled out a fat PVC cylinder. The shiny white plastic was about six inches in diameter and about twelve inches long. There was a nine-volt battery duct-taped to the side and wires ran from the battery to a long, slim piece of metal. It looked like an expensive pen, but I recognized it as the detonator.

  I’d seen similar components, first several years ago when Gav had come to the White House to teach us about bombs, and then again Thursday night during my impromptu class on IEDs.

  The thought of Gav made my heart swell with sadness and fire race to my eyes, but I forced myself to concentrate on Kern’s movements. He attached the timer’s blue wires to the detonator and gently placed the PVC cylinder atop the backpack.

  “No need to hide it at this point, is there?” he asked.

  I swallowed, fighting to ignore the terror building in my chest. My heart slammed so hard that I was surprised its reverberations didn’t catch their attention.

  Kern continued working, propping the timer against the white PVC and arranging it so that I could read the display.

  Kern looked up at Slager. “You are ready?” he asked.

  Slager nodded.

  “Give me your flashlight,” Kern said.

  Slager slapped the heavy-duty instrument into his leader’s upturned hand. Kern positioned it on the cold ground next to my head, its beam pointing to the timer, and beyond it, the homemade bomb. “You see? I am a man of my word. You will be given the gift that so few enjoy. You will know the moment of your death.”

  I stared at the digital readout, still set at 0:30:00.

  “I am certain you would wish to thank me,” he said with a cruel laugh, “but I cannot wait.” He boosted himself to his feet and turned to Slager. “Let’s go.”

  The other man executed a brisk pivot and headed back up the embankment.

  Kern leaned down. “Our family will finally know peace tonight.”

  He pressed one of the small gray buttons on the timer, and with a tinny beep, sent the display into motion. He took off running up the embankment. Moments later the car’s doors slammed. Its engine revved. Before half a minute had elapsed, they were gone.

  CHAPTER 29

  Thirty minutes to live. No, less than that.

  Though I desperately wished they would have given me that hour, I couldn’t waste time lamenting my fate. This situation was the gravest I’d ever encountered, but I fought to keep my bubbling emotions in check. Spending the next twenty-nine minutes crying served no one, least of all me.

  I might die trying, but I couldn’t not try.

  I’d never given up before, had I? No. This would be a bad time to start a new habit.

  The moment Kern took off, I’d resumed stretching, trying, fighting for control of my body. Although the two men had argued about the timer’s duration for only a few minutes, those were a few more minutes in my favor.

  My thumb twitched with more consistency. Both hands began responding, the left a little slower than the right. Tingles ran brilliantly up and down my entire left side and though I knew that was the result of lying atop my arm for so long, I willed myself to believe that feeling was truly seeping back into my body. I hadn’t the strength or power to clench either hand completely but I could make my fingers move a little bit. They were abbreviated, jerky responses, but they gave me a heart full of hope.

  I’d given up on the breathing exercises because my breaths were coming faster on their own as adrenaline flooded my system.

  The two men left me lying on my righ
t side with my hands in front of me, attached to the backpack, which lay stretched out just beyond my reach. The timer, resting comfortably atop the backpack, blinked its deadly alert.

  Slowly—only because I couldn’t move at any other speed—I worked the index and middle fingers of my right hand under the woven backpack handle. Once I’d gotten them far enough in so that the handle rested in the crooks of my fingers, I pulled.

  The backpack’s weight resisted my paltry efforts. It didn’t move.

  A sharp breeze swirled over my recumbent form, chilling the perspiration that had broken out at my hairline and down my neck. I’d dressed for the weather, but temperatures had dropped at least twenty degrees. I shivered, but took that as a good sign.

  As cold as I was, however, sweat poured off me, pooling around the right side of my waist and leaking down my back.

  I pulled at the strap again, maintaining my focus on the backpack, knowing my only hope lay in disabling the bomb. Gav, John, and Jane had done their best to instruct me on the workings of IEDs like this one, but their strongest admonition had involved running away and calling the bomb squad. No chance of that tonight.

  Still no movement. If I could only exert enough pressure with my thumb to get a grip on the woven handle, I’d have better leverage. Alas, my thumb still lacked the necessary strength.

  John and Jane had taken care to impress upon me that some bombs are set to fail “open” and some set to fail “closed.” That’s the main reason why movies relied on “cut or no-cut” scenarios to build suspense. A cut wire could trigger—or cancel—a bomb’s detonation. It was all in the design. Only the bomb-maker knew for sure which move was the right choice.

  The timer kept up its steady pace. Twenty-three minutes and change.

  I remembered them telling me that most bombs are set to go off without interference. That is, they’re designed to explode before anyone becomes aware of their existence. And, in the case of remote detonation, if the bomb-maker is able to maintain a line of sight at a safe distance, he can send the signal to explode if anyone so much as gives his creation a second look.