Authors: Irene Hannon
Tags: #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary
Against All Odds (25 page)
While Tariq wasn’t pleased with the man’s insolence, it validated his growing impression that Mahmud was not a man who could be easily controlled. Or trusted.
When the silence lengthened, Mahmud spoke again, his tone conciliatory. As if he’d realized his mistake, Tariq deduced. “I am not as experienced as you, of course. If you believe letting David Callahan go to the air base is the best course, I am certain that it is.”
“Call me if you learn more.”
Pressing the end button, Tariq severed the connection.
He hoped his abrupt dismissal communicated his displeasure. And kept the man in line for the next couple of days. He might need to call on him if things didn’t go as planned.
But once this was over, there would be consequences for Mahmud.
In the meantime, he had other sources he could call who might be able to find out more about David Callahan’s little excursion.
Head bent against the wind, Sayed stepped into the small, obscure hut in the tiny desert village and looked from one guard to the other. “All is well?”
“Yes. They are docile, like lambs.”
The two men laughed, and Sayed strolled over to the three hostages who were seated on a rug on the dirt floor against the far wall. A wracking cough convulsed the older man as he approached. The government employee, Sayed recalled. His gaze moved on to the reporter. The younger man’s eyes held an interesting combination of defiance and fear. The woman next to him, one of those idealistic do-gooders, was trembling. They were probably wondering if they were going to die soon, Sayed reflected, his expression dispassionate. And perhaps they were.
But it wouldn’t be at his hands. In twenty-four hours, when the first hostage was scheduled to be executed, Sayed would be very far away.
As he exited, he nodded to the two additional armed guards who stood outside the entrance to the hut. Heading toward his quarters in the adjacent structure where lunch awaited him, he was struck by the irony of the situation.
If anyone was going to die tomorrow, the men bearing arms—not the hostages—would be the more likely casualties.
Officer Ed Martin reached for the cup of coffee in the holder beside the front seat of his patrol car and stifled a yawn. He never had gotten used to the night shift, even after twenty years of rotating through it. Sleeping during the day still felt unnatural to him. Especially for the first day or two after the shift rotation. Sometimes he just had to catch a couple of fifteen-minute catnaps in the driveway of one of the big unoccupied estates on the outskirts of Charlottesville.
But that wasn’t an option tonight. He’d been told to cruise down a little-traveled secondary road every thirty minutes and to report in each time. The department had started the routine yesterday, but none of the officers had a clue why. Considering all the government bigwigs who had weekend places out this way, he figured some high-profile person must be staying at one of the compounds.
Now he was on his sixth pass of the night. Like the prior runs, it was uneventful. He saw no cars on the narrow, two-lane road. The houses on his right were shielded from view by privacy plantings and fences, and the undeveloped woods on his left were pitch dark. Maybe after this drive-by he could take a few minutes and . . .
“What the . . .” His headlights illuminated a figure in ragged attire weaving down the side of the road. He’d run into his share of street people in some parts of his beat, but never in this area.
Martin settled his coffee cup in the holder and depressed the transmit button on his radio. “Three-seven-oh-one. I have an unidentified person walking down Hanover Road. Looks like a homeless guy. I’m checking it out.”
Angling the spotlight on the side of his car toward the figure, he spoke over the loudspeaker. “Sir, please turn toward me and keep your hands where I can see them.”
The man stumbled to a stop and complied, shading his eyes from the bright light. He wore a knit cap pulled low on his forehead, and he tucked his chin into the turned-up collar of his worn coat.
Keeping his gaze fixed on the man, Martin opened his door and stepped out of the car, his hand on his Smith and Wesson. He took a couple of steps toward the figure.
“Sir, what are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
No response.
“Do you have a place to stay?”
No response.
“What’s your name?”
At the sudden press of cold steel against the base of his neck, Martin’s fingers clenched around his gun.
“One move and you’re dead.”
The low, intense voice, close to his ear, convinced the officer the man meant business. He remained motionless.
“Good. I like people who follow directions.”
The “indigent” man pulled a neck warmer up over the lower half of his face and strode toward the car, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He leaned inside to kill the spotlight and the headlights.
“What do you want?” Martin strove for a calm tone as he tried to stem the fear coursing through his veins.
“I want you to call your dispatcher and tell them everything is okay. Tell them the man you saw on the road was a teenager coming home late from a party and hoping to sneak in the back way. Say you’ve alerted his parents, and they’re on their way to pick him up. Keep one hand on the wheel and don’t touch the emergency button. Do it now.”
Martin slid into the driver’s seat, debating his options. Two against one wasn’t good odds. Especially when one of them had a gun pressed against his neck. But the timing of this incident wasn’t coincidental. It had to be related to the increased patrols in the area. For all he knew, it might have national security implications. It was his duty to attempt to thwart these two from whatever mission had brought them here on this cold February night.
Yet he had a duty to his family too. At twelve and fifteen, his kids needed a father. And his wife didn’t need a dead hero for a husband.
“Do it.” The gun pressed harder against his neck.
Depressing the transmit button, Martin relayed the message his assailant had dictated.
“Very good. Now get out of the car and open the trunk.”
His pulse pounding, Martin stood. His legs felt stiff. The man he’d spotted on the road stood by the trunk. He held a gun too. He still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the other man, but he could sense his presence behind him.
When he reached the trunk, the man from the road moved behind him too. The imminent sense of danger intensified, and he fumbled with the keys. These two did not intend to let him walk away from this encounter, he realized, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach.
“Open it.”
It was dark and difficult to see the lock. He felt for it, and when his fingers closed over the raised circle he fitted the key in and twisted it until the trunk released with a distinctive click.
“Lift it up.”
He needed to get his hand on his gun. And this was his chance, Martin recognized. Perhaps his only one.
His heart thudding, he bent down. As he started to raise the lid, he waited until his hand was level with his gun. Then, in one swift movement, he transferred his hand to his gun and pivoted sideways, calling on every ounce of karate training he could recall to deliver a solid kick with his heel.
His boot connected. With what, he didn’t know, but he heard a grunt as he started to draw his gun.
Martin had never expected to emerge unscathed from the encounter. At best, he had hoped to survive.
But he hadn’t expected the silent, deadly thrust of a knife beneath his ribcage.
His hand convulsed on his holster as he gasped in pain and staggered back.
A second searing thrust followed.
His legs buckled, and he felt himself falling . . . falling . . . falling into a black abyss.
As his world went dark, he had one last thought.
He wasn’t the only one who was going to die this night.
15
Zahir eased the police car down a dirt byway that led into the woods less than a quarter of a mile from the safe house.
“How did you find this spot?” Nouri adjusted the earpiece for his voice-activated microphone.
“I stumbled across it as I was working my way to the safe house the first night. Allah smiles on our mission.”
That was a moot point, as far as Nouri was concerned. His work against the United States was motivated by hate, not religious fervor. In his opinion, suicide bombers were misguided fanatics who threw their lives away. He had no respect—or patience—for such foolish gestures. It was more noble to live for many missions than to die for one.
Zahir parked the police cruiser in front of their car. While he retrieved the mini boom mike from the trunk of the dark sedan, Nouri strapped on his equipment belt, flipping off the safety on the 40-caliber Sig Sauer he hoped he didn’t have to use. Even with a silencer, a shot would be loud enough to sound the death knell on their operation. Pulling the trigger would be a last resort.
“How long do you need to get into position?” Nouri joined Zahir at the trunk and lifted out his backpack. He slung a small stepladder over his shoulder and checked his watch.
“Ten minutes. I plan to perch in the same tree on the neighbor’s property that provided me good cover last night.”
“Let me know the second the agent on the back perimeter checks in. My twenty-minute window begins then.”
“I understand.” Zahir tucked his night-vision binoculars inside his jacket and set off along the edge of the road, disappearing into the dark shadows of the pine trees.
Nouri followed more slowly. As he slipped on night-vision goggles, pulled a ski mask over his head, and tugged on latex surgical gloves, he forced himself to take deep, even breaths. Unlike his visit to Monica Callahan’s house, tonight’s venture involved great risk. The diplomat’s daughter was well protected, and he needed both luck and skill to pull this off undetected. But he’d done his homework and his plan was solid. Lack of preparation wouldn’t jeopardize his mission. He was as ready as he could be.
Eight minutes later, Zahir’s voice sounded in his ear. “I am in position.”
“I am ready whenever you give the word.”
“The agent on the east perimeter is approaching the front of the property. The agent in the back is heading for the west corner. Stand by.”
Nouri’s heart began to pound as the minutes ticked by. One. Two. Three.
“The agent in back is at the corner. This is your best opportunity to get into position.”
Crouching low, Nouri covered the short distance to the center of the back fence, an ornate wrought-iron affair. He unfolded the stepladder, climbed it, and pulled himself up and over the fence, dropping soundlessly to the other side on a carpet of needles behind the row of pine trees that lined the inside perimeter. Reaching through the iron uprights, he folded up the ladder and eased it through. As he crouched behind the trees, he slid the backpack off his shoulders and removed a knife from the sheath on his belt.
“I am ready.”
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