by Jenifer Ruff
Only Wrong Once
Jenifer Ruff
Table of Contents
Epigraph
Chapter One
From the Author
Note to Readers
Join my Reader’s Group
Other Books by Jenifer Ruff
Copyright
Epigraph
“And let’s remember that those charged with protecting us from attack have to be right 100 percent of the time. To inflict devastation on a massive scale, the terrorists only have to succeed once. And we know that they are trying every day.”
—National Security Adviser Condoleezza Rice - Statement to the 9/11 Commission, April 8th, 2004.
Chapter One
Aleppo, Syria
Present Day – September 19th
The dead lay unattended amidst bombed-out buildings on streets coated with ash and blood. Beside a pile of rubble, Yesenia spotted a body wearing a blue and white hijab, one leg bent at an impossible angle. Her neighbor, before their homes burned, had the same hijab. Yesenia squeezed her eyes shut and clutched her mother’s hand. Normally, she was much too old for hand-holding, but anyone could become lost in the shoving crowd and nothing was normal anymore. As far as Yesenia could see, thousands of other Shiite Muslims from her village were packed together, waiting evacuation. Refugees. That’s what they were called now. Buses would soon arrive to carry them to safer territories. They huddled under blankets, clinging to valuables. Yesenia pressed her shivering body against her mother’s leg for warmth. Eyes lifted to the sky, her mother prayed to leave the war-torn city alive, before the next explosion. She’d been praying almost every hour for months. So far, it hadn’t done any good.
Cheers erupted when the buses, dozens of them, finally arrived. An elbow hit Yesenia hard, sending a sudden pain across her cheek, as someone edged in front of her mother. Yesenia was just as desperate to reach the door of the bus, climb the steps, and end up somewhere safe. Anywhere else but here. But so many people were waiting. Yesenia didn’t think the buses could possibly hold enough seats for all of them.
The escalating rumble of trucks filled the air, louder than the mob swarming forward to load the buses. In the distance, a rising cloud of dust indicated a convoy approaching. Yesenia held her breath, waiting to see the colors. Green for good, gray or black for bad. They were all evil, as far as she was concerned. They had destroyed her city and her life one nightmarish day after another until both became completely unrecognizable. Her mother pulled her toward the bus, even though there wasn’t room to move forward. Her scarf caught on something and yanked away from her neck, but she snatched it back in time. The engines grew louder, joined by angry shouts. A quick glimpse on her tiptoes revealed the front of a truck.
Gray.
Her heart sank.
"Hurry, Yesenia,” said her mother. “Don’t let go of me.” Together, they pressed into the mass of unwashed, pungent smelling bodies and tattered, flowing garments moving toward the buses.
The men from the trucks, ISIS or government? She did not know or care. They fired their rifles into the night sky, scattering the refugees. Looking like crazed demons, they jumped from the truck beds with flaming torches and ran along the line of buses, flinging streams of gasoline, and setting them on fire. Refugees rushed off the buses, pushing and shoving, shrieking and screaming, some on fire. Desperate souls searched for space to roll on the ground and extinguish their flaming clothes. Able to escape the fiery inferno, Yesenia’s mother pulled her daughter backward causing Yesenia’s ankle to twist and give out. Yesenia dropped her bag and saw it disappear under a stampede of boots. She wanted to scream too, but she could only open her mouth and stare wide-eyed as the flames leapt from the bus windows, consuming their only life-line.
The men from the trucks kept guard, their hardened expressions glowing in the blazing light, their guns and rifles ready, watching the buses reduce to burned-out metal shells.
Yesenia’s mother rocked in place on her heels, sobbing.
Yesenia wanted to run, but they had nowhere to go, and at least with the fire they were finally warm. Next to her, a frail, old man, eyes cloudy with cataracts, wailed up at the sky. “Does anyone in the world care if we all perish?”
Yesenia released her mother’s hand and whispered through clenched teeth. “No one cares. No one is paying attention to Aleppo.” That was one thing she knew for sure.
But she was wrong. Someone was paying attention.
Just outside Aleppo, in a hidden compound, one particularly dangerous and powerful man, Muhammad Al-Bahil, had taken note of the city’s tragic situation. Aleppo had become the perfect location for his sinister experiment.
Miles away from the war-zones, in a secluded area, a mysterious containment pen was hastily being erected per Al-Bahil’s orders. Tall steel posts established the perimeter. Thirty of the healthiest and strongest male villagers from Aleppo had been carefully selected to work on the structure, rumored to be a new refugee camp.
“You’ll be paid if you do what you’re told,” said Kareem, the young man who had chosen them. He tended to speak while looking down or away, then walk off, clearly reluctant to spend any more time with the villagers than required.
“Kareem isn’t from Aleppo,” said one of the laborers, his eyebrows almost blending with the dirt coating his face. “But with that accent, I don’t know where he comes from.”
“American?” said a large man with a chemical burn across one side of his face
“Doubtful. He seems nervous, don’t you think?”
“He sounds like he’s had a fancy education somewhere. And he’s not half as strong as the weakest of us,” said a man wearing an orange sweatshirt stained with dirt, sweat, and blood. “Did anyone find out what we’re building? Is it a camp? Who is it for?”
The man with the chemical burn shrugged. “And who is paying us, the Syrian government?” He grabbed a bottled water from the cases Kareem had provided, staring at it appreciatively before gulping it down.
Later that day, Kareem addressed some of their questions, barely, without meeting anyone’s eyes. “I don’t know any more than you do. But we should all be grateful for the work when there is none other to be found. Doesn’t matter what it is or who is paying us. At least we will have money.”
The man in the orange sweatshirt removed a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. Heads bobbed up and down in silence. A round of gunfire echoed in the distance.
On the fourth day of construction, a pen encircled three acres of camp. The structure was a random conglomeration of heavy mesh wire and steel girts, but it was tall and impenetrable. More trucks arrived carrying hundreds of crates. As instructed, the workers carried them inside the pen and opened them, finding food, water, tents, blankets, and cots. Rumors spread quickly when the laborers told other villagers about the recently arrived supplies. Everyone who couldn’t get out of the city wanted to be safe and fed inside the giant walled space.
By late afternoon on the fourth day, Kareem called the laborers together.
“I hope they still need us,” said one, standing at attention near the front of the group.
His friend kicked dirt around with his boot and fidgeted with his hands. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Your next jobs are to screen potential entrants, select those for admission, and guard the entrance gate,” said Kareem, his eyes focused on a spot above the workers. “Only a hundred people will be allowed inside the camp. They must all be healthy, single, and young. Provided you complete the next tasks successfully, all of you who have built this structure will be guaranteed admittance.” He looked down and covered his mouth with his hand. “Um, excuse me.” He r
ushed away from the group, stifling a choking sound.
The word spread quickly. Yesenia and her mother lined up outside the one gate, the only entrance and exit. Around them, refugees paced, wrung their hands, and cursed as more were sent away than allowed inside. The newly appointed guards asked them questions.
“Do you have any other family members in the city?”
“Do you have any health issues?”
“Are you over forty years of age?”
“Would anything prevent you from doing physical labor for extended periods?”
The only acceptable answer for all the questions was—no. Most were turned away.
In less than an hour, the quota of one hundred was met. The gate closed.
“There’s room for more of us!” shouted a villager.
“In the name of Allah, please let us in,” pleaded another.
The guards told the remaining refugees, the unchosen, to leave while there was still a bit of daylight left. Yesenia, her mother, and hundreds of other villagers were forced to clear the area and trek back to the city against the bitter wind. Yesenia’s mother left in tears. Yesenia struggled to put one foot in front of the other and keep going.
Kareem sent the guards back inside and spoke to them one last time.
“You won’t have weapons, but you must maintain order inside the camp, no matter what happens. I’ll be back in a week to check in. All of you will be rewarded.”
Meal packets were handed out and quickly devoured.
Kareem glanced over his shoulder as he walked to a corner of the camp. One young man followed him. Behind a tall stack of crates, Kareem paced back and forth, kneading his hands and sweating, waiting for the other man to join him.
“It’s time,” Kareem said, when the man stood next to him. Kareem peered out from between the crates one more time, then put on surgical gloves and a mask he’d carried in his bag. He removed a padded box from his coat pocket, opened it, and picked up the syringe nestled inside. “Are you ready, Aamaq?”
Aamaq nodded, his chin quivering. He took off his coat and pushed his sleeve up over his shoulder. “I’ll document everything. For as long as I’m able.”
“Good. You’ve been an excellent assistant.” Kareem spoke without making eye contact. “Remember, it’s going to be fast. Very fast. When they begin to get sick, start handing out the medicine, let them have as much as they want. The pills are placebos, but they have a powerful opioid. They’ll help with the pain.”
A bead of sweat glistened on Aamaq’s lip. He swept a hand over his forehead. “I expect to be dead by the time you return. This is my last chance to say that I trust my family will be provided for.”
Kareem put his hand on Aamaq’s shoulder and leaned in, although his eyes remained on the syringe. “Of course. Your mother and father will be taken care of for as long as they live. They’ll learn of your sacrifice at the right time. You won’t be forgotten. You’ll be martyred and live in paradise for eternity.” With trembling hands, he injected the contents of the syringe into Aamaq’s arm. They prayed together briefly before parting.
Kareem exited the camp alone and closed the massive gate behind him. Under the cover of darkness, he peeled off his surgical gloves and dropped them to the ground with his mask and the empty syringe. He had no worries about anyone finding them or caring enough to track him down. Not in Aleppo. He secured the gate with four heavy padlocks and deposited the keys inside his coat pocket. He paused for a moment, staring at the enclosed pen, gulping down breaths, his knees weak.
Nearby, across a charred field, a black Mercedes waited under a copse of trees. The driver spotted Kareem, stepped out of the car, and opened the backdoor for him. Kareem sat down inside. A violent shiver rocked his body. “They’re locked in,” he said, his American accent still strong from living in the States for over half of his twenty-seven years.
Al-Bahil, the large man beside him in the backseat, nodded. “We’ve built a giant cage for human lab rats where no one will miss them.” His satisfied smile failed to reach his piercing eyes but deepened the scar that ran from his temple to the edge of his thick black mustache.
Kareem bowed his head and twisted his hands together.
Al-Bahil put his hand on Kareem’s shoulder, causing Kareem’s every muscle to tense. “You scientists are always perfectionists. But now, we rely on Allah. We wait to see how many die and how long it takes.”
“They were all going to die here anyway, right?” Kareem’s voice shook.
Al-Bahil laughed. “If your virus does its job, we’ll be ready. Have you identified more jihadists with American passports?”
“I’m working on it.” The sick feeling in his stomach grew stronger. His vision turned yellow, then gray. He leaned his head against the window and took deep breaths.
“Work harder, Kareem. You have a critical deadline to meet. My brother’s death must be avenged.”
Chapter Two
Los Angeles
September 20th
Holly smoothed her dress into place and picked up her spiked heels from the polished concrete floor of her office. She inspected the luxurious couch for any telltale stains and said, “Please hurry up. People are going to be arriving any minute.”
Christian stood from the sofa and finished re-buttoning his shirt. “Come here. Just for a second.”
Holly didn’t move.
Unfazed by her refusal, he walked toward her. With only inches separating them, he ran his fingers through her lush red hair. His deep kiss took her breath away and caused a stir between her legs. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
“Not now.” Holly wet her lips and pulled away. “I have to get ready.”
Behind her office door, a gorgeous designer dress hung, waiting to cling to her body in all the right places. The caterers were already buzzing around outside her office, busy setting up tables in the gallery. Fortunately for Holly, they had an established routine and hadn’t needed to bother her. She had to admit, the last thirty minutes had been delicious. She turned and began walking to the door, a slight smile crossing her lips.
“C’mere, you,” said Christian.
“Can’t. I have to get cleaned up. My hair is a mess. Play time is over. I’m expecting a big crowd soon.”
“I know, you told me. They’re coming to admire the latest creations of Mira Renault. Some young artist you’re currently promoting.”
Raising one brow, Holly spun back around to face Christian.
“Don’t look so shocked. You think I don’t listen?” He laughed. “So, you’re going to come out and see me in a few days, right? I’m going to make dinner for you.”
“I told you I’ll visit.” She scooped her black panties off the floor and frowned. She’d almost left them behind.
“But you didn’t say when.”
She slipped the panties back on. “Just as soon as I run out of the excellent product you’re selling.” Holly gave Christian her most seductive look. She didn’t like to make promises, but she didn’t want to upset him either. He had something she needed beyond his sexual talents—an unlimited supply of prescription pain pills. Pills she happened to need. Pills she didn’t want to be without. Not quite yet.
“I don’t want you taking more than one of the oxy a day. And I don’t know if I can wait that long.”
“Listen, Christian, if you come out here, promise you won’t show up unannounced.”
Christian nodded.
She opened the back door. “Come on.”
Christian stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. He kissed her again until she backed away, holding the door ajar as if waiting for a dog to go out and do its business. After he left, she entered her office bathroom. She set out make-up and brushed her hair, pausing to admire her reflection. She planned to make a grand entrance once the gallery filled with her chic crowd of friends and potential buyers. She tapped a thin line of coke onto a small jade slab. Just one. She picked up her ivory straw and inhaled.
&nbs
p; Ready for business.
Quinn spotted his wife in the middle of her gallery and made his way across the room. “You look beautiful, Holly.” He placed his hand on her elbow and leaned forward for a quick kiss, but only caught the side of her mouth.
“Thank you.” Holly glanced at the digital clock above the door. “Nice of you to stop by,” she said, her sarcasm poorly masked. She wanted Quinn at her show, but only if he wanted to be there. She hated feeling like she’d forced him.
“Simpson,” she said to the man next to her, “have you met my husband?” She tilted her head down and lifted her eyes.
“Quinn Traynor.” Quinn extended his hand.
“Simpson is my father’s newest film director at Amore,” said Holly. “He directed two successful mainstream films before he switched over. The allure of bigger money won out over critic’s accolades, didn’t it, Simpson?”
Simpson smiled. “True. Are you in the industry, Quinn?” Simpson’s gaze traveled over Quinn’s lean, well-muscled physique, evident even under his sports coat. His eyes lingered on Quinn’s face and square jaw.
Holly laughed. “Oh, Simpson. You’re way off. My husband may look the part, but he’s never been involved in the porn industry. He works for the FBI. He’s an expert on counterterrorism. He keeps us safe.” Holly loved announcing what Quinn did for a living. Along with his handsome looks and his “protector” image, it was one of the things she found most attractive about him. She had a “thing” for secret service men ever since she snuck away and watched one of her father’s movies, “The President’s Naughty Daughter,” at the impressionable age of eleven. Her father was out with his latest twenty-something girlfriend, and the nanny sound asleep. She locked the door, and seated herself inches away from the television, keeping the volume so low she could barely hear the sound. She didn’t know what she expected to see, but it sure wasn’t that. At first, she was shocked and horrified at the president’s daughter, whose naughtiness wasn’t like anything she could have anticipated. And she was fascinated by the dreamy secret service agent assigned to protect the floozy. The images cemented themselves in her brain. Over the years, she had revisited them more times than she could ever count.
