by Alex Howell
“You sick—”
“And, so, Mr. Walker, you wanted to know why I do this? Do you really think I care if my country burns down? Where I was born was something I had no control over. The fate of the cosmos decided I would come into consciousness in the desert known as Saudi Arabia. But I can control everything that has happened since, including the amount of money in my pocket. Let the Saudis buy what they need. Let the Americans buy what they need. I will pick a winner, and the loser will never be able to come after me for payments.”
“You sick, sick man.”
“Sick? Or ingenious?”
Mason reached for his gun, having had enough.
But…
Kill him, and, surely, Clara dies. You know where she is. You need to get to D.C. Maybe even use Mr. Abdi as an excuse to get down there.
“Tell me about your boss,” Mason said, his gun pointed at Mr. Abdi. “Is he on the White House staff? Hmm? Does he make high-level decisions? Or is he disguised as an intern or a janitor?”
Mr. Abdi looked to his men, and all three of them started laughing. He seemed remarkably at ease for having a gun from a Navy SEAL pointed at him, a fact that was making Mason only angrier by the second. It was like the leverage Mason thought he had was getting spat on and dismissed with ease, as if his gun had been bought at Walmart for a five year old—made of plastic, without ammo, and something that would break if tried to use as a weapon.
“You know I could kill all three of you if I wanted to, right?” Mason growled.
“We all know you won’t do that.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Mason growled. “I know what I need to do. You think you being alive is part of that plan?”
“It is, for your purposes, yes,” Mr. Abdi said. “You should let us live.
God… goddamnit!
“So what? I let you live, but then your country blows up. OK, you make money, but what good is money if you have no place to spend it? Did you ever think of that? Did you—”
“You think Saudi Arabia would be the only place I would spend money?” Mr. Abdi said. “I will not hedge my bets on Saudi Arabia. Such an act would be foolish. But they are arrogant enough and foolish enough to fire the first bullet. No, once they fall, the real fun begins—America, Russia, or China? Or maybe some other country that I have not yet considered, perhaps one who will pay me the most?”
“So to you, it’s a foregone conclusion that your home country will fall, that you’ll pick a side between some Cold War veterans, and then you’ll just live your life high and mighty?”
“Yep!”
God, how Mason despised the arrogance of everyone around him. How he yearned to just… to just…
But he couldn’t.
“Don’t you worry, Mr. Walker,” Mr. Abdi said as he looked at his phone. “You will be out of here soon enough. Your part is almost done. You will get to see your daughter very soon if you act in complete accordance with these final steps. In fact…”
27
Mason suddenly felt something vibrating in his pocket.
What timing. How kind.
“So you plan on starting the third world war, huh?” Mason said, having a strange sense of knowledge that he had not had before—a fact that he tried not to think about, worried that the other side would pick up on it. “Are you going to at least let me see my girl before you decide to incite the Apocalypse?”
“Ahh, I see Mr. Abdi has revealed some of our plans to you,” the voice said. “But it is just as well. The time for secrecy has more or less come to an end. You know our end game.”
Ironic. You don’t even know how true your words are. And when I get to you, you’ll see just how much you’ll regret those words.
“That I do, and I’m not going to let it happen. I’m—”
But the voice burst out laughing, and it embarrassed Mason to know that the laugh sounded all too real; it was not as forced or faked as some of the other interactions Mason had had with Mr. Abdi and his associates.
“What are you going to do, go into every bank account and take out the money and hand deliver it back to the Saudi crown?” the voice said with a laugh. “You, the man who has openly defied modern technology by driving an old car from the early 21st century, the man who tries to avoid cameras and fails? Do you really think that’s going to happen?”
Mason bit his tongue before he harangued the voice on the line with more obscenities and swears. He needed to play nice for maybe another four, maybe another five hours before he could unleash the full force of his anger on the man.
“Now then, I have another task for you. You are going to escort Mr. Abdi and his three colleagues back to a new location—to LBJ Elementary School in Washington D.C.”
I don’t believe it.
Mason could not have asked for better luck. He’d be going back to where his daughter was—and not just back to where she was, but back to the very block or two where she was. He would also be well within range of the White House, although that would present its own sets of challenges. Getting inside was going to require either an immense amount of luck or connections that likely went beyond even what Luke could provide.
But the first challenge, to just be near his daughter, was going to be overcome. Perhaps, he thought, he could even find a way to reach back out to Tessa—maybe he could rescue Clara while she could… well, not launch an attack on the White House, but rescue the White House from whatever cancer lay within.
For now, though, Mason had to play the part of frustrated, aggravated actor in this whole drama.
“You have to be kidding me,” Mason said, pretending to be exhausted tot he point of quitting. “You know my ride left at your request, right?”
“We have a van waiting for you outside, Mr. Walker,” the voice said. “You are to ensure that Mr. Abdi and his crew get there safely.”
Oh, don’t worry. It’ll be the safest ride of their lives.
But first…
“And my daughter?”
“You made sure that the woman who helped you left,” the voice said, the smile evident in its voice. “And, as per our agreement, we have not hurt her any further. She is safe. Before you ask for proof, check your phone.”
Mason did so, seeing pictures and videos from a new number. Best as he could tell, his daughter was still alive. The hole had been filled perhaps an inch, but nothing to endanger her, who sat with eyes open, looking ahead, seemingly numb and dazed by everything that could have happened.
There were not enough details and information in the photos to confirm what Mason suspected about the identity of the men who had her and her location, but he didn’t see anything to suggest that it had changed, either. If anything, the creation of the hole had likely tied them to their current location in D.C.—the effort to create a new hole and make the opening and color the same would have taken too much time between when Mason had seen her this morning and now.
“I don’t understand,” Mason said, continuing the charade of confusion. “I ran your little errand. You’re about to get the war that you wanted. How many more tasks can you possibly have for me to run?”
“Don’t you worry, Mr. Walker. This will be the last one.”
Which means as soon as you finish in D.C., you kill the four of them and hurry the hell to your daughter or to the White House, whichever is closest.
Or you get help in the madness of it all.
Whatever it takes.
“Complete this one without breaking any of our rules, and we will make sure that your daughter and you are reunited, both of you alive.”
Mason didn’t truly believe that, but he knew how to keep the game alive long enough to keep Clara alive until he got there.
“You better,” Mason said. “Because if you don’t, I will hunt you down. I know where you are. And I—”
“Will what, kill me?” the voice said. “You want to take a chance in knowing who I am? The odds are good you’re going to wind up killing a state official, you know. And then
what? You go to jail for the rest of your life? They’ll say you were suffering from PTSD and throw you into a jail cell forever. Even if you somehow get freed on a technicality, that will only make your life worse, because at least they feed you in prison. You will get no such treatment and benefits in the outside world, Mr. Walker. Do I make myself abundantly clear?”
The brutality and honesty with which the voice spoke left Mason almost feeling like a deer in headlights. He probably was not going to get out of this one on his terms, and if his daughter was killed… well, someone was going to die, but it probably wasn’t going to be someone else.
He had a depressingly hard time acknowledging any way that he would continue his life beyond that.
But, for now, he couldn’t worry about that. His daughter was alive, and, so long as the mission continued, that would seem to be the case.
That, and he knew who was behind this. And the fact that the computer voice had said that he might be a state official felt like a remark that, even if only partially true, would lead him to where he needed to go. If the mastermind wasn’t a state official, it was almost certainly someone who had access to the ears of state officials.
“Yes, I do,” Mason growled.
“Good. See to it that you get there by 1 p.m. That should give you plenty of leeway. Do not disappoint us, Mr. Walker.”
The voice went dead. So, this is what it comes down to, huh? Get them to a school, kill them, and then head to the White House or to Clara.
Let’s do it, then.
Mason turned to Mr. Abdi, still smiling at the TV screens, smug and completely unaware that Mason had his own plans to upend everything he thought he had planned.
“Your boss just called,” he said. “It’s time to go to D.C.”
Mr. Abdi turned to one of the two men, who got on a phone and called for the other man up. At first, Mr. Abdi not only seemed to ignore Mason, he seemed to delight in it. The grin on his face was like that of a man who was enjoying dancing on the grave of his enemy.
As soon as the third man from downstairs showed up, however, the four of them went into the back of the control room, disappearing from sight. Mason pondered the best way to kill them without being on display for a bunch of school kids to see, but there he was noticeably light on options. Mason would have to wait until the very last possible moment to open fire, which meant someone would witness it—but better parents and professionals than school kids. And if they were connected to this whole scheme, one Mason could unearth, he’d take his chances in court.
Then the four stepped out, their chests and stomachs notably padded and rigid, like something…
Something had been placed underneath.
Mason knew right away it wasn’t bulletproof vests. He suddenly realized the odds were good he couldn’t just shoot them and walk away. The devices they had underneath were almost certainly related to their biomarkers.
Clever, terrorists. Very clever.
Too clever, if you ask me.
“So,” he said. “You’re going to blow up a school.”
28
“I would not say it like that,” Mr. Abdi said. “More like insurance. Insurance to guarantee us your cooperation.”
This is bad. This is approaching my breaking point. Even…
Don’t make decisions you don’t have to. Until they actually come close to blowing up a school, you can’t let them do that. If it means you kill them and suffer some burn wounds while running away, so be it.
But you cannot, cannot, under any circumstances, let them blow up a school.
“Let’s get moving,” Mason growled, knowing he had a good four hours to figure out a strategy—but fearing that not even four hours would be enough to get him out of this spot.
As promised, a van awaited the five passengers to Washington D.C. Mason was forced to sit in the front, perhaps the better so he could not shoot one of the men from behind, while Mr. Abdi got in the passenger’s front seat and the three men squeezed into different rows in the back. Mason let out a long sigh as the vehicle began a long destination back home. It was a trip he had yearned for so badly, and now it seemed like a trip that was going to cross every single ethical boundary that he had.
The road to war, it seemed, wasn’t going to be paved with stolen money, but with the blood of children. The thought sickened Mason and reminded him of the terrorist groups that he had sought to take down. He could never forget how ISIS sympathizers had taken not just Senator Charles’ wife, but his daughter as well, a girl who had not even yet hit puberty. He had saved her then, as he always had, but this was…
You have to figure a way out of this. You have to kill them before they get to the school, even if the bombs kill you.
And if there’s no other choice, you have to sacrifice Clara.
Thinking the words sickened Mason, but just because he thought them didn’t mean that he felt confident in following through on them. In fact, the more that he pondered them, the more he was left with a feeling that it was just wrong.
On a purely rational level, the life of one girl to prevent World War III was perhaps the worst kind of necessary evil, but anyone who wasn’t Mason Walker would say that that was a trade that not only was ideal, it was mandatory.
But Clara Walker wasn’t just “one girl” to Mason. He loved her. He was her father.
So what’s that mean for anything? That you love her? Is that selfish to love her and not let her die? Or is that just good parenting?
I knew I should never have gotten involved in that life. That this is even a question…
How did I ever get in this spot?
Mason thought of all of the people who simply went about their lives, unaware of the scheme unfolding between New York, D.C., and Saudi Arabia. Most of them worked in technology, legal fields, sales, or medicine. Most of them maybe had a child or two, a spouse at home that they loved. Growing up, Mason had found those lives boring and unfulfilled. What good was it to just clock in for eight hours a day, go home, do more work, and watch your kids repeat the process?
At least he went out and served his country, putting his life on the line. At least he was doing what he could to save the world one terrorist at a time. At least he literally put his life on the line for his job.
People had called him a hero and thanked him for his service. People had asked him to be in parades, a request he had always declined. People had envied him.
Now, sitting in a car with four terrorists, the strings of the puppeteer still tightly around his body, Mason knew there was no one who would envy him now. He, instead, envied the others. The lawyer who went to work didn’t have to worry about their case triggering a world war. The doctor operating in the emergency room didn’t have to worry about sacrificing her son so that three patients could live. The bankers who laughed over champagne and drugs might have needed to feel guilty about making too much money, but they didn’t destroy the health and social fabric of society like this might wind up doing.
Boring might have been boring, but it prevented the worst of all things from happening.
And now, the worst of all things had happened.
“What the hell are you planning to do at the school?” Mason growled, seeing no point in not asking such pointed questions. “You think killing a bunch of innocent kids will give you what you want?”
Mr. Abdi looked up at him with bored amusement. No one had said a word for about three hours, choosing instead to sleep or listen to some Arabic radio. The fact that Mason had said something was probably as much grounds for surprise as anything else.
“Simple,” Harnad said. “We are expediting the process.”
Mason scowled and slammed his fist on the dashboard.
“By, what, murdering a bunch of innocent children?!?” he roared.
Then, in one swift movement, he pulled out his gun. He had three other guns behind him pointed at him in a heartbeat.
“Are you going to kill me, Mr. Walker?”
It was not a ques
tion. It was a taunt.
“Damn right,” Mason said.
“And then what? Your daughter dies?”
“I’m prepared to let her die,” Mason said. “I’ll go down with her, but at least I’ll die knowing the third world war didn’t happen.”
“How romantic,” Mr. Abdi said. “There’s just one problem with your plan.”
“I’m all ears.”
Mr. Abdi snorted.
“Kill us now and you really think you’ll prevent war? Didn’t I just tell you we were expediting the process? That’s very different from starting it, Mr. Walker. And I don’t even speak English as my first language.”
I won’t stop it. I’ll just delay it. And there’s no good in that.
“Now, put the gun down, Mr. Walker. We agreed not to kill you and your daughter if you cooperate. Our bosses will know of this incident and will punish your daughter accordingly, but I don’t think you’ll mind. You know, since you said you’re willing to let her die.”
“Just what are you planning to do?” Mason insisted, partially so he wouldn’t have to deal with the insults and slander Mr. Abdi had just hurled his way.
Mr. Abdi shrugged, figuring he might as well speak.
“The Saudis think that the Americans have launched an attack on them and are willing to retaliate within 24 hours,” he said. “But what happens when a Saudi goes in and kills American children? Do you think bluffs will still happen then? Or do you think we can start to count the profits?”
“You won’t be alive when that happens. Not sure if you know the definition of suicide bomber, but it means you don’t live.”
