by K D McNiven
“There are towels under the sink and hand soap to wash up,” Rafiq told her. “I will bring you something to eat.”
Callie sat down on the edge of the bed fighting back tears. She had to face the fact she may never see Decker again. It wasn’t until Rafiq left that she broke down into heaving sobs of despair. She did not want to give them the satisfaction of seeing her go to pieces.
She ventured into the bathroom, rummaging beneath the sink, and pulled out a wash rag. When she glanced in the mirror, she cringed. Her right eye was nearly swollen shut. Her cheek bruised and her lip engorged with blood. She ran the water until it was steaming. Wringing out the excess water, she laid it over her face. The heat penetrated her pores, and she felt her body relax a bit.
She guessed she was being monitored. And if she did find some way out of the room, they would catch her soon as she made an attempt. A sense of hopelessness invaded her mind like a dark cloak. Exhausted, and with no fight left in her, she walked slowly over to the bed, every muscle in her body throbbing in pain. She curled up into a fetal position, drawing the coverlet over her, and closed her eyes, fearful of what tomorrow would bring with it.
Chapter 11
⁂
Decker followed the GPS tracker on his phone. They were closing in on the Pontchartrain Causeway, one of the longest bridges built over water. When he found the location, he slammed on the brakes. The car skidded forward leaving a trail of black rubber on the pavement.
Decker and Dax leaped from the vehicle and began running in a wild search for Callie’s phone. An old abandoned shack to the left of them had them dashing up the rickety steps in record time. They pushed the dilapidated door open. Old cabinets hung from their hinges, cobwebs were strung the corners and dirt had corroded the floors, but no sign of anyone. A gray snake slithered across the floor and down through a wide crack in the rotting wood.
Decker’s heart was heavy. His hopes dashed.
Moving back to the street, Decker hit redial. He heard her phone chime not too far from where they were standing. They took to their heels, racing across the carpet of grass that gently sloped toward Lake Pontchartrain. Decker scanned the muddy banks, and spotting her phone at the water’s edge, he sprinted over to snag it.
He cursed, raking his fingers through his sweat-matted hair, his thoughts running rampant. Had the men murdered Callie and thrown her into the lake? Why would her phone be here? Would he ever see her again? Questions swirled through his head until he thought he would go mad. Instead, he squatted, grabbing the sides of his head in both hands, remaining quiet for a span of time. When he stood, he kicked the ground and bellowed like a lion, releasing the frustration and anger boiling up inside of him.
Dax could read Decker’s mind. Decker seemed to be in control of life’s circumstances most of the time. Right now, on the muddy banks of Lake Pontchartrain, Decker stood helpless, hands hanging limply at his sides, his face stone-cold.
Dax dropped his hand on Decker’s shoulder trying to reassure him, if at all possible. “We’re going to find her,” he said. “We won’t stop until we do.”
Decker’s jaw jerked with raw tension. His teeth grit despairingly. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would find the two men, and he would make them rue the day they had put a hand to her. They would pay. And they would pay with their lives. He would personally see to it.
Dax’s cell jingled. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered. “Yup.”
“Dax,” came Brock’s excited voice. “Fortunately, I’ve smoothed out the wrinkles with Mr. Klegg.”
“Mr. Klegg?”
“Yes. The man you two stole the car from…remember him?”
“Oh,” Dax replied. “Sorry about that. We got a ping from Callie’s phone, and well…one thing led to another…and…”
“We’ll discuss it when you get back here. I’ve got some mug shots for you to take a look at and a list of suspected terrorists. How quickly can you get to the station?”
Dax’s eyes flickered over to Decker. He’d had his phone on speaker so Decker had heard the conversation. He stood in stiff silence. After a short time, he nodded.
“Nothing more we can do right now,” Decker said, a haunting chord in his voice.
“Be there in a flash!” Dax said. “Lock us onto your GPS, Detective. The police need to get on over here pronto to search Lake Pontchartrain. We found Callie’s phone on the bank.” After hanging up, Dax looked over at Decker. Neither of them wanted to believe Callie might have been murdered and thrown into the lake, but they had to follow up on it. “We’re going to find her, Decker. No matter what.”
***
The station buzzed like a hornet’s nest, same as when they’d left. Calls were pouring in nonstop. The death toll had climbed to over one hundred and the number of people critically wounded or in need of medical attention, close to two hundred.
Brock waved his hand in the air when he saw Decker and Dax enter. They rushed across the room and dropped down in front of a long mahogany desk, a mountain of files scattered across the surface. There was nothing tidy about Brock’s space.
“Any leads?” asked Brock.
Decker shook his head. “Except for fining Callie’s phone by the lake. No sign of anyone.”
Brock shoved a stack of paper toward Dax. “This will take a while. See if you recognize anyone from these photos. Want some coffee in the meantime? Brodsky makes it so strong a spoon can stand upright in it, but it will keep your eyes open for sure.”
“How about I go grab us a cup,” offered Decker, getting to his feet. Anything to preoccupy his dark thoughts. He walked behind the station desk and poured three coffees into Styrofoam cups, and re-joined Dax and Brock.
Dax began viewing the photos one after another. Twenty minutes passed and the faces were all beginning to look alike. He inhaled deeply and blew the air out in a long sigh. He glanced up at Brock and saw a knowing look cross his face.
“It’s tedious,” Brock said, “but if there’s a chance…”
Dax nodded. He knew a great deal depended on his facial recognition of the shooter he had seen on the docks. He swiped his sweat-beaded brow with the back of his shirt sleeve and began to pour back over the sketches and photos. He felt the tension radiating from Decker sitting nearby. Couldn’t blame him. Dax remembered when his sister had been kidnapped months earlier. He would never forget the horror he had experienced.
“We have an all-points bulletin out for these two men,” Brock said. “And we put a picture of your wife on the television.”
“No one will have seen her,” Decker said dryly.
Brock looked startled. “Why?”
“These are professionals. They won’t risk anyone seeing Callie and jeopardizing their objective. They will most likely hold her for ransom, which would be preferable because it buys us time. Or they will kill her—or have already done so.”
Brock and Dax both looked at Decker whose face looked hard as stone. In good conscience, they could not refute that it could well be the case. Right now, they could only do what they could do and pray for the best.
“Wait!” Dax said. He held up one hand, a glimmer of recognition on his face. “This man.” He thrust the photo into Brock’s face. “I believe it’s him. The eyes…”
Brock studied the photo and nodded. “His name is Rafiq Naifeh. He’s on the terrorist watch list, though he must have gone underground because no one has been able to locate him for quite some time. You’re sure?”
Dax bobbed his head. “I will never forget his face.”
Brock withdrew Dax’s sketch of the terrorist and laid them out side by side. The resemblance was unmistakable. How Dax had burned the man’s image in his mind in one fleeting moment puzzled Brock. However, he wasn’t one to argue with divine intervention. At least that’s what it appeared to be.
Brock stood up abruptly, knocking some files to the floor. He didn’t take time to pick them up, rather hurried across the room with the photo of Rafiq in
his hands. He called a group of officers together and filled them in. When done, they all scattered like a shotgun blast in different directions.
Brock headed back to the desk, his mouth drawn in a tight line. “We’re going to catch these two men. Don’t care how long it takes. They’re not going to get away with terrorizing my city!”
“Now what?” Dax asked.
Brock reclaimed his seat behind the desk. “Decker already said it. I have a gut feeling they will want cash and fast. Callie is their ticket. Why else would they have taken her? It’s the only plausible reason.”
“So, we wait,” Dax said.
“We wait.”
***
Rafiq turned up the sound on the television and stood transfixed. Callie’s face was plastered on the screen along with news clips on every station concerning the bombing. He smiled. A little bit longer and they would pocket thousands of dollars to complete their final mission. It had been years in the planning. His moment had come. Nothing short of his death would prevent him from exacting his religious and political ideology on what he believed was his enemy—the United States. Infidels.
When he prepared to click the remote to off, he stopped dead in his tracks. His face flashed across the screen. He’d been identified as one of the perpetrators in the bombing. His black brows were furrowed, his lip curled into a sneer. This was not going to be so easily executed. Regardless, nothing would stop him from accomplishing his mission.
“Hey, did you see…” Ismael rushed into the room. He came to a standstill when he saw Rafiq watching the news. “Do you think the man we stole the vehicle from identified us?”
“No,” said Rafiq. “I’m sure it was the man on the docks. We caught sight of each other. I could describe every line on his face. When I find out who he is, I will gut him and rip his eyes out!”
Rafiq’s phone rang. He dug it out of his jacket. “Yeah?”
“Have you been watching the news?”
“Yup.”
“I’m going to have some provisions delivered to you within the hour,” the person on the other line said. “The package will be left on the doorstep. Wait until the driver leaves, then open the box.” There was a click, and the phone went silent.
It was Ali Bukai. He had funded Rafiq whatever he needed to construct bombs. He was sly, able to stay veiled without being traced. The warehouse they were holed up in belonged to Ali, purchased under an assumed business name. So far as anyone knew, it belonged to a Mr. Peter Cummings, an executive at one of the local banks who had been paid a generous sum of money to acquire the building and property. It took only a short time to persuade Peter to sign papers once Ali’s loyal followers had threatened to assassinate his entire family if he didn’t cooperate, or go to the police.
Ali worked out of a rebel base located in north-central Syria, in a small village tucked away in the surrounding limestone hills. The large cell transported firearms—mostly machine guns and machinery acquired from soldiers who had been outfitted by the United States Army. Many of the soldiers who had joined with the cell were trainees from Fairlane Air Force Base in Afghanistan who had gone AWOL, usually because of threats made against their families by the Taliban.
The underground network put billions of dollars in equipment into the hands of terrorists to sustain their evil plots. Ali had managed to keep himself under the radar, undetected for years. Where he got his power and wealth to supply them was still unknown, but those benefitting from the transfer of ammunitions and bomb-making materials didn’t care. All that mattered was that they were equipped to continue their cause. Rafiq and Ismael were heroes in Ali’s eyes. And so long as they continued to wage war on the enemy, he’d assuredly find as many ways as possible to align himself with them. However, placing finances in their hands at the present was ill-timed. Financial exchanges would be closely monitored. Once again, Ali would have to lay low until the heat turned down.
As it had been communicated over the phone, the package arrived by UPS later the same day. Rafiq waited until the driver was well out of the line of sight before he cracked the door and fished out the box inside, careful no one saw him. Upon opening it, he found a couple of disguises. If nothing else, it would enable him to move more freely without being spotted. He smiled. Plans were starting to come together.
They were already refurbishing the vehicle they had stolen. New plates. New paint job. All they needed to do was stay one step ahead of the police and CIA operatives. Finances were their only stumbling block. That’s where Callie would be useful. Once they had the cash, they would use cement blocks and throw her into the Mississippi River.
***
When lunch time came, Callie heard the jingle of keys. Her head snapped to attention. Rafiq entered the room and she looked closely at his new appearance. He was wearing a shoulder-length black wig, along with a pencil thin mustache. And though his eyes were black as obsidian, at the moment they were bright blue. He had added padding to his thin pole frame, and a bit to his middle, giving him the appearance of being overweight.
“I can see you didn’t recognize me. This is good.”
“You won’t get away with this,” she said sharply.
He pinched her chin with his forefinger and thumb and bent within an inch of her face. “I already have.” He released her abruptly with a quick shove, propelling her backward.
Callie pushed herself back into a sitting position. Anger stirred inside of her. She had to wonder how anyone could be so cold and unfeeling. Not even a hint of remorse flickered in his arctic-cold eyes, and Callie did not miss the glimmer of self-satisfaction carved on his face. She had no doubt in her mind he had taken sheer pleasure killing the people inside of the casino.
“You’re a disgusting pig!”
He laughed. “I’m a man with deep conviction. You, on the other hand, are another elite maggot living off others’ sufferings. Feeding your face on what you call liberty while murdering those who cannot defend themselves. Your country uses its power to oppress and enslave my people.”
“You’re insane,” she disputed. “You’re the one who hurts your country by your radical acts of vengeance.”
The back of his hand struck hard across her face, and blood spilled over her cracked lip. Brutally, he grabbed a hand full of her hair and wrenched it. “You’re a brain-washed, mindless fool!” he sneered. Grabbing the front of her blouse, he literally picked her up off her feet until she met his steely-gaze squarely.
Briefly, Callie wondered if he would snap her neck and have it done with, but he stared at her with sheer, raw hatred. He released her abruptly as if the sight of her repulsed him. Unable to stop her fall, her back struck the bed frame, and a knife-sharp pain sliced through her. She cried out, her face contorted in agony.
She had already resigned herself to the fact death would be her ultimate fate in the end. Truth was, she had fantasized about Rafiq’s hands braced around her throat, shutting off her very breath, and she almost welcomed it. Despair had set its vicious claws into her soul and she had no strength left to fight against it.
Chapter 12
⁂
The smell of smoke drifted through the air as Decker and Dax made their way down the department’s steps. The wail of sirens was heard coming from every direction. People hurried down the streets. Many were assembled in circles awaiting news involving their loved ones. Chaos was the tone on the streets.
“I don’t know how to wait,” Decker said, his demeanor rigid. The chords in his neck jerked convulsively with agitation. “Not like this.”
Decker’s phone rang. “Hayden here,” he answered.
“Mr. Hayden.” A deep voice passed through the line. “Glad to make your acquaintance. Seems I have a package which belongs to you.”
“Who is this? Where’s my wife?”
“She’s right here by my side.”
“I want to speak with her!”
“You’re not the one calling the shots, Mr. Hayden.”
“You de
spicable, no good…”
“No doubt,” Rafiq replied calmly, void of any emotion. “But calling me names will not get your wife back.”
“What do you want?”
“Money. Lots of it.”
“I won’t give you anything until I speak with Callie. I need to know if she’s all right,” Decker said pointedly.
Rafiq leaned over and once more grabbed Callie’s hair, yanking her close.
Callie fought back tears as she felt knife-sharp pain drive through her scalp. She fought the impulse to scream for Decker’s sake. She could only imagine how frantic he must be.
“If you say anything to tip him off, I will kill you. And I will hunt him down like a bloodhound and rip his throat out. Do you understand?” When she nodded, Rafiq pushed the phone up to her mouth.
“Decker,” she said hoarsely.
“Callie! Are you all right?”
`“Y-yes,” she lied through swollen lips. “Decker, don’t give them anything!”
Rafiq ripped the phone from her and got back on the line. “Mr. Hayden. You must do everything I tell you to do if you want to see your wife alive.”
“Let her go,” he said. “Take me instead. I’ll give you every penny I have—and it’s a lot.”
“How noble of you. But no. Callie will do me fine for the present,” Rafiq told him. “She’s beautiful…spirited. I find her quite charming.”
“If you lay a hand on her I swear I will see you decorated with an Italian necktie!”
Rafiq only laughed. “Get me the money. Ten million dollars to be precise. I will send you a bank account number—untraceable, of course. And I want you to deposit the money no later than tomorrow.”
“I can’t get my hands on that much cash in so little time. Most of it is tied up in investments...stocks and bonds,” Decker did his best to stall Rafiq. “I need more time!”
