It was also now missing its ignition wires, which Tracie ripped out, as well as its spark plugs, for good measure. She tossed the plugs into the water as far from the boat as possible, and then stuffed the wires into her pocket. Then she climbed off the same way she had climbed on.
The Iraqis were now trapped on the island unless they had another boat stashed somewhere or stumbled upon the Tequila Sunrise.
She retraced her steps and found herself back in the woods behind the building, satisfied that at last she could devote her full attention to the strange-looking cabin, which approximated the size and shape of a one-bedroom vacation cottage. It had clearly been constructed decades ago, by whom and for what purpose Tracie did not know, but its weathered pine siding testified to its age.
It had been built high above the water using the massive granite ledges as a rudimentary foundation. Despite the cabin’s obvious age and its rickety appearance, closer inspection revealed that the Iraqis—or someone—had reinforced it. New two-by-four framing had been added in a number of locations, the newer wood lacking the distinctive weathered grey of the rest of the structure.
Tracie approached carefully, using the thick underbrush for cover, and tried to determine what the building might originally have been used for. Its primary purpose probably hadn’t been as living quarters—the cabin was too small and too remote. It had the look of a sentry’s post. Built on high ground right on the shoreline, the location offered an unobstructed view of two hundred-seventy degrees of ocean, barring poor visibility.
It was a lookout, or had been at some point in the distant past.
A clearing of perhaps fifteen feet separated the outpost from the thick woods behind it where she stood. There was a single window in the rear of the shack, which was currently covered with an ancient gingham curtain. It appeared to block the entire surface of the glass, but there was no way to tell for sure, and no way of knowing whether someone might be peeking through a small opening.
Tracie took a deep breath and started across the clearing. She was at the rear wall in seconds and flattened herself against it, moving silently, breathing easily. Through the thin construction she could hear the muffled sound of voices; two males speaking easily in the confident back-and-forth banter of athletes in a locker room. Or kidnappers convinced they were alone.
She didn’t hear J. Robert Humphries’s voice but doubted he would have much to add to the conversation at this point.
She sidled to the southwestern edge of the building and eased her head partially around the corner, her Beretta held securely in two hands, the barrel aimed—for now—at the ground.
The area was deserted. The granite ledge acting as the building’s foundation looked ancient. Tracie had no difficulty imagining this very ledge sitting in this very location—minus the cabin, of course—ten thousand years ago. A hundred thousand.
She continued moving, keeping her body pressed to the wall, creeping toward the front of the shack. At the corner she repeated the drill she had performed seconds before, easing her head around to peer along the front of the cabin, weapon at the ready. She saw no one.
Her objective was to reach the only decent-sized window in the building. It faced out on the endless grey-green ocean, and although it, too, had been covered, it represented her best chance to get any usable intel before launching her offensive.
Tracie rounded the corner and crept along the seaward-facing exterior. The footing was treacherous. The relentless pounding of waves on the island and the ever-present sea-spray had turned the granite’s smooth surface into an ice-skating rink, and a slip on this narrow shelf would likely mean a broken neck and a tumble into the pounding surf ten feet below.
As she inched closer to the big picture window, Tracie realized she might actually be able to manage a look inside the cabin. A blanket had been used as a makeshift curtain here, and had been hung carelessly. Instead of hanging straight down, it had been placed at an angle, resulting in an inches-wide gap at the corner of the window closest to her.
Tracie took a deep breath and eased her eye against the salt-encrusted, weather-scoured glass. She saw a small, sparsely furnished living area, consisting of a rickety wooden table, two chairs and a moth-eaten couch lining the far wall. The two Iraqis who had taken Humphries out of the abandoned school in D.C. sat at the table playing some sort of card game.
Behind the Iraqis was a wall into which two doors had been constructed. Both doors were closed. Tracie guessed that one of them accessed a rudimentary lavatory, probably nothing more than a toilet seat opening onto the boulder under the cabin. The other door must lead into another small room. Based on the cabin’s dimensions, Tracie guessed the room was no bigger than a walk-in closet.
That was where J. Robert Humphries was being held.
It had to be.
It was obvious the kidnappers’ stay inside this cabin was intended to be short. There was no kitchen and no food that she could see aside from the contents of a single brown paper bag that had been placed against the side wall. Whatever they were planning to do next might happen at any moment, so she needed to get moving.
She retraced her steps, moving slowly along the slick surface. Turned the corner. When she reached the rear of the cabin, Tracie continued walking straight ahead, across the clearing and into the forest beyond.
It was time to smoke out the kidnappers.
41
Thursday, September 10, 1987
1:15 p.m.
Atlantic Ocean, somewhere off the U.S. East Coast
All the effort it had taken to lug the five-gallon gasoline can across the island was worth it. Tracie would be able to execute her hastily conceived plan. As an added bonus, it might actually work.
She lumbered across the clearing behind the cabin, her usual quickness and grace sacrificed to the weight of the container filled with fuel. In her left hand was the gas can, in her right, her Beretta. When she reached the back wall she paused and listened keenly, tense and alert for any indication that she had been seen.
The surf pounded and the wind whistled around the building, unimpeded by the open ocean surrounding the lonely little island. From inside the cabin, Tracie could hear the voices of the Iraqis, still apparently engrossed in their card game, blissfully certain miles of water separated them from any other human beings.
She unscrewed the cap and began splashing fuel along the side of the cabin, reaching as high on the wall as she could and allowing the liquid to run down the siding. When she had finished, the lower two to three feet was doused.
Tracie was surprised to see the liquid absorb quickly into the siding. Her assumption had been that the constant unrelenting moisture would have soaked the boards, but the opposite was true. Decades of salty air, briny biting wind, and brutal Atlantic Ocean weather had completely dried the untreated wood, making it a dangerously combustible tinderbox.
She hoped she hadn’t miscalculated and used too much fuel, but it was too late to do anything about that possibility now. She was committed.
She set the can down. The saturated siding reeked of gasoline. She fished a lighter out of her pocket, grateful to the owner of the Tequila Sunset for stashing it away in his toolbox, and then knelt at the rear corner of the cabin and touched the flame to the lower portion of siding.
The wood caught immediately with a muffled whump, as flames leaped enthusiastically from the tiny lighter and raced along the structure in both directions. The fire danced and surged, and Tracie double-timed around the building, moving quickly to the side of the cabin facing the cove.
The side with the only exit.
42
Thursday, September 10, 1987
1:30 p.m.
Atlantic Ocean, somewhere off the U.S. East Coast
Jamaal Hakim was bored. He was also anxious to finish this unpleasant business and finally get home to Baghdad, where he would be reunited with his family after six long months spent suffering in the belly of the beast. But most of all, Jamaal was sick
to death of being saddled with his partner in this venture, Adil Ajam.
Ajam was a decent warrior, strong and committed, but Jamaal had long-since concluded the man possessed the intellectual capacity of a sand flea. He spoke in a rumbling monotone and had never indicated any evidence of possessing the ability for independent thought.
He was muscle, nothing more.
And that was fine, as far as it went. Some situations called for the kind of muscle Ajam represented and Jamaal knew this was one of them. He understood why they had been ordered to work together. Smuggling the sitting U.S. secretary of state out of his own country and transporting him successfully under guard to the homeland was not a job for the weak of heart or the undedicated. In that sense, Jamaal appreciated Ajam’s presence.
But spending so much time in the company of such an incurious dullard had driven Jamaal nearly to the point of distraction. He vowed that the minute they set foot on the holy soil of Iraq, he would rid himself of Adil Ajam and with luck, never interact with the man again.
And the end was in sight. Finally.
Jamaal tossed a card on the table, almost at random, not caring which one he played because it didn’t matter. He wasn’t paying attention to the game. He was only playing because doing so gave Ajam something on which to focus his limited intellect.
“How long now?” Ajam asked in Iraqi Arabic.
Jamaal checked his watch, not that he needed to. His partner had asked the same question not two minutes before. “Three hours,” he said in exasperation. “In three hours we will rendezvous with the freighter that will bring us home. It is the same amount of time as it was two minutes ago, when you last asked the question. Please, Adil, have patience.”
Ajam grunted and tossed a card. “I am anxious to leave this country behind.”
“As am I. My only regret is that Muhammed had to stay behind and clean the school building of evidence, and then must serve another four months at the embassy before returning home.”
Ajam was unmoved. “That is his problem. Besides, he was rewarded with the girl we captured.” He grinned. “I doubt Muhammad minded the sacrifice too much.”
Jamaal said nothing, partly because he had come to expect such responses from his partner, but mostly because he was beginning to feel that something was wrong. He sat quietly in his chair, card game forgotten, ill at ease but uncertain why.
And then it came to him.
He smelled smoke.
He looked around the room suspiciously. Nothing appeared out of place. There wasn’t much inside the little cabin that could get out of place. “Do you smell that?” he asked.
“What?”
“Smoke. It smells like something is burning.”
Ajam shrugged, his focus still on the cards scattered across the table. “I smell nothing.”
Jamaal turned his attention reluctantly back to his cards. He slid one out of his hand. Threw it onto the table. Sniffed the air again. “I’m telling you,” he said forcefully, “I smell something. What in the name of Allah is that smell?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care. Can we please just finish the game?”
Jamaal pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “Something is wrong. I hope the island isn’t burning down around us.” He pointed a finger at Ajam and said, “Go take a look around outside. See if anything appears odd or out of place. See if there is smoke above the trees, perhaps off in the distance.”
Ajam mumbled something Jamaal could not make out and then picked up his gun and shuffled slowly toward the door. Jamaal thanked Allah, as he had done every day since the beginning of this mission, that he had been placed in charge and not his unmotivated partner.
43
Thursday, September 10, 1987
1:30 p.m.
Atlantic Ocean, somewhere off the U.S. East Coast
Tracie climbed the steps to the door and took a position next to it, knowing it would only be a matter of minutes, and not very many of them, before the occupants smelled smoke. Seconds after that, one or both would come to investigate.
She was right. The sound of footfalls approaching from inside was followed quickly by a muffled screech as the ancient door swung open and the bulky, heavily muscled Iraqi from the abandoned school stepped through, muttering something unintelligible under his breath in Arabic.
The man’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked over and saw Tracie, the door blowing closed behind him. He opened his mouth to alert his partner to the intruder’s presence and began raising his gun, which he had foolishly been holding by his side, but he was much too late. Tracie pivoted her raised wrist and swung her arm in a sideways arc, smashing the butt of her Beretta against the Iraqi’s temple.
She ignored the pain in her shoulders and drove with her legs, following through like a baseball pitcher firing a fastball toward home plate and was rewarded with a loud crack. The man dropped like a felled tree. He tumbled down the three steps and crumpled face first onto the rocky ground. A low moan escaped his lips, and his arms and legs twitched spastically and then fell still.
Tracie leaped off the landing. She had mere seconds before the other kidnapper came to investigate. She didn’t know whether the sound of her attack had been loud enough to reach inside the tiny shack but she guessed it had.
She pulled the ignition wiring she had ripped out of the Iraqis’ boat out of her pocket. Used two strands to secure the unconscious man’s hands tightly behind his back.
Repeated the process with his ankles.
Then she flew back up the steps, intensely aware that although the entire incident had taken no more than thirty seconds, the unconscious kidnapper’s partner might already be approaching the door.
She reached the landing and went on the offensive, abandoning all pretense of stealth. She yanked the door open and then ducked behind it, using the punky wood to shield as much of her body as possible. Holding the Beretta in two hands, she crouched low and peered around the open side of the door.
Her concern about the second kidnapper had been right on target. He was already halfway across the cabin and was advancing rapidly, gun drawn, posture wary. The moment Tracie poked her head out, he unleashed a wild shot. She ducked behind the door as the shot whistled into the wood, ripping matchstick-sized slivers out of the frame.
Then she was up and moving
She cleared the door, squared up quickly, and returned fire before he could get off another round. The blast took the Iraqi in the upper body and he staggered backward two steps before falling to the worn linoleum floor. His weapon dropped from his hand and clattered away, sliding to a stop a few feet behind him.
Tracie heard a hoarse shout of panic. The gunshots had spooked Humphries and he was screaming for help. She ignored him.
The Iraqi scuttled backward, feet scrabbling on the filthy floor as he tried to reach his gun. One hand was clamped over his heavily bleeding shoulder and the other searched desperately for the weapon as he locked eyes with Tracie.
She squeezed off a second shot and the slug struck the floor inches from the man’s face, blasting a small crater in the linoleum and kicking up a flurry of dust, tiny linoleum chips, and plywood subflooring. The man froze.
Tracie leapt forward. She crouched and jammed the barrel of her Beretta under the man’s chin. “How soon will your extraction team be here?” she said.
The man stared at her with smoldering dark eyes and said nothing. The smell of burning wood was becoming overwhelming. The shack was filling rapidly with black smoke as the blaze ate through the exterior walls and began devouring the interior.
Time was running out. Tracie needed to get Humphries to safety. She punched the man’s injured shoulder with the butt of her gun and he responded with a quick, tight gasp of pain. “I asked you how much time we have!” she screamed into his face. “Answer now or die, it’s all the same to me.”
His face was ghostly white with pain and shock but he clamped his good hand more tightly onto his shoulder and again refus
ed to answer. Refused to acknowledge Tracie in any way.
She cursed in frustration and turned to Plan B. She was out of time. She rolled the man onto his stomach and as she had done with the unconscious kidnapper outside yanked his hands behind his back. This man screamed in pain and kicked at her violently, but she was ready for him. She jammed one knee into his back just under his shoulder blades. As he wailed in agony, she pulled more of the electrical wiring out of her pocket.
She looped a strand around his wrists, twisting it just once. “Get up,” she said, and pulled him roughly to his feet. He screamed again and staggered, nearly falling back to the floor. She was sweating now and the orange-yellow light from the still-building fire was intense, casting the scene in a surreal flickering glow.
Tracie steadied him and began pushing/pulling/dragging him to the door as the inferno raged. Humphries’s screams had become more insistent. He was obviously secured to something behind the closed door and had come to the realization that he was minutes—maybe seconds—away from being burned alive.
The door had blown closed during the gun battle and now she kicked it open. Shoved the kidnapper down the steps and followed behind closely. The Iraqi stumbled over the prone body of his accomplice and staggered. Nearly fell. Tracie rammed her Beretta into his ribs and forced the groaning man across the clearing to a small but stout-looking birch tree.
She shoved him against the tree and braced his body with her own.
Removed the wire from his wrists and stepped back.
Raised her gun until it was pointing into his face.
Said, “Place your hands around the tree trunk. Do it quickly.”
The man scowled and spit forcefully onto the ground but did as he was told. Tracie re-secured him, tying the wire tightly this time until all mobility in his hands had disappeared. The wire bit painfully into his skin. She didn’t care.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 48
