Terminal Rage (30 page)

B
lackwell was now convinced beyond any reasonable doubt that Sam Morgan was Seth. The architect of one of the most enigmatic crimes Blackwell had come across. This was not a conclusion he had reached casually—he had flown across continents, stared at dead bodies in freezers, and faced his demons in Hermosa Beach to get there. He had spent three full days meticulously investigating every single surviving family member of the victims of the attack, using the manifesto Robert Slant had given him. Through a detailed process of elimination, Blackwell narrowed it down to the only person who had the motives and the means to do it. The only person who had disappeared like a man of smoke one year after the attack. Sam Morgan.

The bodies of Nabulsi, Madi, and Salimovic in Frankfurt were intended as a message. The first piece of the puzzle that had put him on the path of singling out Sam Morgan as the man behind the Exertify affair, the “hostage-taker” with whom he had negotiated, only to find out he had outwitted them.

The man who had gone to great lengths to free convicted terrorists didn
’
t do it because he believed them to be innocent, but because he was convinced of their guilt. Sam had masterminded the release of the two Jordanians convicted of the Sharm El Sheikh attacks for the most basic of instincts—revenge.

Blackwell replayed in his mind the exact words Seth—or Sam as he was now certain—had told him.
Do you have the moral strength to ignore the division bell that separates us and judge me truly on my actions, rather than on who you think I am
?

From behind the borrowed heinous mask of a terrorist, Sam was desperate for Blackwell to understand he wasn
’
t a brazen killer or a criminal, but a father and a husband doing what needed to be done.

If indeed Sam Morgan had executed Nabulsi and Madi in retribution, for some reasons he had felt the need to share that with Blackwell. But regardless of what Sam may have known about Blackwell, it is unlikely he could have anticipated that instead of providing closure, receiving that message would further strengthen his resolve and inflame his obsession with Sam. Blackwell
’
s mind operated in unconventional ways. Once he started hunting, he couldn
’
t stop until he solved the underlying mystery of a crime.

Understanding the motives behind the crime and guessing the identity of the man who devised it had been easy to deduce. But what Blackwell craved the most was the one thing that seemed to escape him now. To understand why Sam had singled him out as the only person he could negotiate with. And to do that, he had to find him.

Blackwell walked around the house one last time to make sure he hadn
’
t missed anything. Just like his previous break-in, he had found nothing to go on. He was about to exit through the window when the sound of a car pulling up outside the house jolted him. Hiding behind the window, Blackwell glimpsed a black van parking out front. He took cover behind the master bedroom door, his eyes fixed on the outside.

Two olive-skinned men with shaved heads, dark shades and bulky figures emerged from the van. They put on gloves and sneaked their way towards the main entrance.

Blackwell ran to the open window through which he had broken in earlier, and crawled out to the backyard, taking position at the edge of the house. Someone was climbing over the gate into the yard and coming towards him fast.

He pulled out his Beretta. These guys weren
’
t coming to mow the lawn or fix a broken pipe. There was an eerie silence for a brief while before he figured out they had decided to separate—one of them was advancing through the backyard and Blackwell could see the other one in the house, through the bedroom window. He ducked back.

This house must be trip-wired. They found out the minute I came in. But how? Concealed cameras somewhere in the house, that
’
s how. Someone else was watching. It
’
s an ambush. And I
’
m in the worst possible position, exposed on all sides. If both these knuckleheads attack at the same time, I
’
ll be royally fucked. Squashed like a bug.

He glanced around and saw a large tree in the middle of the yard. Tucking his gun in his pants, he dashed towards it and climbed, then waited.

Images of what these guys could do to him in this abandoned property continued to flood his mind. His breathing rate was high, but under control. He recalled his training, took a deep breath, and improvised a counter-offensive plan.

The tree provided an aerial view of the backyard below him, which he hoped would give him some sort of advantage on the two hulks. He figured if they kept their heads at eye level, they wouldn
’
t see him. And if they did look up, he
’
d be obscured by the foliage.

Ninety seconds after he
’
d climbed the tree, one of the goons finally crept around the corner with a silenced gun.

What now?

I can
’
t hide in the tree forever—I
’
m a sitting target. And I can
’
t jump on the roof of the carport to escape into the next house. Not with this guy here in the backyard.

His only option was to attack with lightning speed. When the man was a few feet from the tree, Blackwell positioned himself to jump down at him.

A deep breath.

Then freefall.

As Blackwell descended, the attacker dodged sideways and Blackwell landed on the soft grass with a thud. From the ground he fired a kick at the man, knocking the gun out of his hand.

Blackwell sprang to his feet and tried to pull out his own nine-millimeter, but the other guy started pummeling him with lightning-fast punches, his fist like a hammer, aimed at Blackwell
’
s sternum.

The relentless blows left him winded, but he had enough in him to extract his piece and point it at the man
’
s chest. With a blinding move, the guy yanked Blackwell
’
s arm around and locked it so the gun was pointing to the ground.
The guy
’
s a pro. Classic Krav Maga training.

Blackwell responded in kind. He released his grip on the gun, then flipped his body in the air to free himself, using the man
’
s body as his lever. Before the attacker could use the gun, Blackwell kicked it out of his grip, wrapped his thighs around his neck, and started to squeeze the life out of him.

Whatever advantage Blackwell thought he had was short-lived. A hard crack on the back of his head dulled his senses fast.
He released the tight grip he had on his attacker and spiralled out of consciousness.

He came around in the back of a stationary van, gagged and tied. The voices of the two men who had attacked him were coming from the front but he couldn’t see them. One of them was on a cell phone firing rapid words in what Blackwell recognized as Egyptian Arabic.

He was conscious, but the knock on his head had left him less than lucid. His pounding heart was out of sync, and his mind spinning out of control. Another blackout was just seconds away he felt.

Blackwell wasn
’
t sure if the muffled sounds of two gunshots and shattered glass he
’
d heard were real or in his head. The voice of the man on the phone stopped abruptly, and even though there wasn
’
t much oxygen left in him, Blackwell feared he would start hyperventilating any minute now. But he held it at bay and mustered whatever brain processing capacity left in him to assess the quick turn of events.

The light flowing through the windshield was now a ruby hue. He knew what that meant.

Footsteps thumped around the van, then sunrays flooded in from the back as the door was slid open. Any minute now his life, just like that of his two Egyptian attackers, would end with a muffled bullet.
All things came in threes.

The thought of death was more frustrating than terrifying. He couldn
’
t die now. Not after everything he
’
d put Milo and Calista through. He had abandoned them once and then worked hard to regain their trust. And now they
’
d forgiven him and he meant something to them, he couldn
’
t just desert them again like that. But whoever had left him there lying helpless, his hands tied behind him, and his mouth gagged, had deprived him of the option to beg for his life.

Blackwell prayed hard the bullet would come straight to the head. This was the fastest and least painful way to die. Instant. Just like being unplugged.

His thumping heart was the only time-keeper now.

But the muffled bullet never came.

He struggled to tilt his head to get a glimpse of who had opened the door, but the Egyptians had immobilized him with rope.

Then he saw it.

A shadow of a figure cast inside the van. A gun was drawn. A shot was fired. The plug was pulled. But there was no instant death. No muffled bullet either. Just silence.

The only thing Blackwell could feel was an unexpected stinging pain in his thigh. As he slipped away, he wondered if he
’
d been shot in the head but couldn
’
t feel it. Maybe instant death came with the added mercy of pain being blocked out. The body
’
s last show of kindness to his consciousness.

Then out of nowhere, and before everything turned to black, he saw a vision of Albert Voss, the Hostage Rescue Team unit leader and his team, knocked unconscious by Sam Morgan in the Exertify supply room. With tranquilizer guns.

There was something about the way she looked at him, held his hands, and smiled that reminded him of his mother.
What is this place?
The pervasive smell of disinfectant and the sanitized dry air provided a first clue.

He tried to speak but nothing came out. So he thought the question.
What happened to me?
Even in his mind, his voice was weak and drowned out by the rhythmic electronic beeps of blinking machines connected to his body through tubes and wires.

And as if she had read his mind, she answered in a sweet Caribbean accent. “You were mugged and beaten up at the intersection of Riverside and Rose in the alley behind the Falcon Theater, baby.”

Am I back in Anguilla
?

He tested her Jedi mind-trick again and asked a question in his thoughts.
Where am I?
This time though, Blackwell heard his faint, slurred voice. He must have been speaking all along, but his mind was so out of it he couldn
’
t tell the difference between saying something and thinking it.

“Providence Saint Joseph Medical Center in Burbank. You
’
re okay now, sunshine.
Nothin’s
broken,
nothin’s
punctured. Just a mild concussion. Your head
’
s like a tough coconut—it protected that brain o
’
yours.”

“
How’d
I get here?” His mind was closing in now on the delay between his thoughts and his voice.

“A Good Samaritan called 911. Your guardian angel, I suppose. The Lord had his eyes on you. You
’
ve been here for twenty-four hours under monitoring. Do you remember anything?”

Now lucid enough to lie, he shook his head.

The nurse was right, he wasn
’
t going to die. But it sure as hell felt like he had. His head ached like hell. And that stinging pain in his thigh. He slipped again into a deep sleep.

A thirty-something, curvy Latina doctor with dark-rimmed glasses and soft, warm hands woke him to check him again thoroughly. When she was done and about to leave, he stopped her.

“Did you check my blood?”

She cocked her head to the side and smiled knowingly,
but discreetly.

“Toxicology reports showed no signs of alcohol or narcotics. Even though some new synthetic drugs are designed to morph in your system or exit quickly. Did you take anything?”

He shook his head. Whoever had tranquilized him must have done just that. Used something that wouldn
’
t show up in his blood.

Not long after the cute doctor had left the room, the Burbank police officer he had glimpsed loitering outside came in to question him.

Even in this diminished state of mind, Blackwell thought hard about what to tell the cops, and eventually settled on his concussion. He could use that to feign short-term amnesia to avoid telling them what really happened. The last thing he wanted was an overzealous officer poking in his past and somehow attracting the attention of the FBI.

Burbank police wouldn
’
t find anything exciting in his public record. The FBI had wiped it clean as part of his resignation agreement.

Blackwell told the officer what he knew they
’
d find when they ran his driver
’
s license. Alexander Blackwell was a historian turned tour guide, with a permanent residence in Easton, Maryland.