Hide and Seek (32 page)

They stopped at the corner. “We’re in position. Hold your fire.”

J. J., Crispin, and Jose stepped into the open, their weapons at the ready.

Another glance showed J. J. the position of two men, each with AK-47s, each hunkered in front of the truck’s radiator. It didn’t take an expert in body language to see the fear they were fighting.

“Hold your fire.” J. J. repeated the command and moved quietly into the street. He didn’t need to turn his head to know Crispin and Jose were with him, one three feet to each side. Five steps later, J. J. placed the muzzle of his M4 behind the left ear of one of the gunmen. Jose did the same. Only their eyes moved.

Crispin grabbed the man closest to him by the hair and pulled him to the ground, kicking away the automatic rifle. Jose matched the maneuver, then stepped back, his weapon trained on the man’s back.

“Clear.” J. J. whispered into the boom mike. Pete, Aliki, and Nagano arrived moments later. Pete searched the captives for weapons, removing a hunting knife from one, and a switchblade from another. J. J. motioned for Pete and Nagano to escort the men into the nearest alley. He had two motives for this: first, he wanted to limit the men’s ability to hear him speak English; second, to keep them from seeing the condition of the women when they exited. They had been traumatized more than enough.

Moving to the driver’s side of the truck, J. J. paused long enough to gaze at the dead men on the sidewalk. “Weps do this?”

Aliki nodded. “My boy can shoot.”

“Head shot and body shot. I was looking forward to giving him some pointers. Maybe I should let him school me.”

“Two rounds; two down. That’s how he likes to do it. You were a sniper, you know how conservative you guys are with the ammo.”

“Were?” J. J. knew what Aliki meant and tried not to take offense at it. His former nick was Colt—like the revolver—a name he took pride in.

“You know what I mean, Boss. You da man, now. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Again Aliki seemed extra attentive, staring at J. J.’s masked face as if reading lips. “What about the third man? You get him?”

“Nope, but he did leave the cab of the truck in a way I doubt he expected. So I’d make your next step carefully.”

“I plan to.” J. J. looked at the shattered window and the open door. He removed his balaclava, stepped over the corpse with the large hole in its head, and knocked on the side of the sleep cab. “Somebody here order a pizza?”

It took a moment, but a weary female voice came from inside. “Maybe. What’s on it?”

A moment later, a dark-haired, pretty woman with a streak of dried blood down one side of her face exited the truck. J. J. had to move to the opposite side of the truck so the women wouldn’t have to step over the body or see the carnage done by Nagano’s M110. Such sights hardened J. J. and he didn’t want them to see it.

Amelia Lennon looked tired, battered, and shaken. She also looked like she still had enough fury left to whip them all in some hand-to-hand. The president’s daughter looked five short steps from death’s door. Her breathing was labored and she had trouble standing erect.

“Master Sergeant J. J. . . .” He stopped and gazed at Amelia’s companion. “They call me Boss. The mountain standing next to me is Joker.”

Amelia introduced herself, an unnecessary act. She then introduced Jildiz.

Jildiz took two inhalations then forced out a weak sentence. “As a representative of my country . . . (breath) I must remind you that you have no right to . . . (breath) conduct a military operation on our . . . soil.” She then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around J. J.’s neck, sobbed for a moment, then pulled back far enough to kiss him on each cheek.

“That’s it, Boss, I’m telling your wife.”

“Okay, but she’s been known to kill the messenger.”

“Never mind.”

“Doc, give them a quick checkup. Joker, establish a secure perimeter.”

“We don’t have much time, Boss. I think one of the bad guys got a call off on the radio.”

“I’m assuming he did. We need transportation.” He triggered his radio. “Junior, I need you.”

A moment later he appeared at J. J.’s side.

“Do you remember your misspent youth?” J. J. nodded in the direction of the truck.

“How did you know about that?”

“I know everything about you. Think you can crank that beast up?”

He shrugged. “Electrons are electrons; ignitions are ignitions. I’ve never hot-wired a truck but something that old can’t be too complicated.”

“Do it and do it fast.”

Pete smiled then looked at Amelia. “Nice to meet you.” He scrambled into the truck.

NASIRDIN AND SASUL WERE
two blocks north.

“They found them.” Rasul’s words were venom soaked. He fidgeted with his handgun.

Nasirdin understood the emotion. The American team did what he could not. He had no idea how to explain that to the man who hired him.

“If we can’t have her, we just kill her.”

“She’s no good to our employer dead. No. We must do something else.”

“Let me kill one of them. The other woman. She is unimportant.”

“Patience. This isn’t over yet. The Americans have us outgunned. We wouldn’t last very long. Besides, we have other people to take our risk.”

He lifted the radio to his lips and gave a command.

CHIEF OF POLICE ABIROV
stared through a two-way mirror at the man handcuffed to a metal eyebolt, mounted to a metal table, bolted to the floor. The police and army explosive experts declared the cylinder he was arrested with was not filled with explosives. What they could not declare was what was in it and no one thought it wise to open it and find out.

The prisoner refused to cooperate. He hadn’t spoken since his arrest. In the interview room he refused to look at his inquisitors, refused offers of food and drink, resisted threats. He was afraid of someone more powerful than the police.

Kasimir, clean and dry from his struggles in the white goo, stood beside Abirov. “He will break. In time.”

“I don’t think we have time, Kasimir. You may have saved many lives, but saved them from what? What’s in the can? Is he working alone? Are there others in the crowd?” When no explosion occurred, the crowd returned to the entrance gate, braving the fire-retardant foam, chanting slogans and occasionally throwing fruit and rocks over the gate. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“We should have fingerprints soon.” Kasimir’s frustration permeated his voice.

“We need answers.”

Kasimir agreed. “He isn’t offering any. Perhaps after the experts figure out how to open the canister safely, we will learn what we need to know.”

“Let him go.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Let him go.”

“I don’t understand. We need him to understand what is happening.”

Abirov looked into Kazimir’s eyes. “You are a good officer. Believe me when I say I know what I’m doing. Believe me when I say, you don’t want to understand.”

A CONFUSED AND ANGRY
Kazimir walked the prisoner to the front of the police station. Abirov walked with them. At the front door, Kazimir removed the handcuffs.

The man smiled, gave a polite nod, and said, “
Spokojnoj nochi.
”

He bounced down the steps to the sidewalk and to an awaiting cab. The cab pulled away.

“And good night to you,” Abirov said softly.

“Now what?”

“Now we wait. It won’t be long.”

One hour later, Abirov received a phone call. The message chilled him.

Two hours later, the body of a man in a trench coat was found on the outskirts of the city. He was missing all his fingers.

Abirov was ashamed of his family’s history with the Russian KGB in his country. It was one reason he chose police service. Now he felt more ashamed for the calls he made to old friends of his father’s.

Now he had other calls to make.

TESS RAND BARTLEY SPENT
the last hours trying to get a handle on her emotions and what the days ahead held. It was the way her brain worked. Logic, detail, and action steps were more important to her than the friends she had as a child. Oh, she enjoyed playing dress up and could still remember the thrill she felt when she first tried on lipstick. Not the childish dress up experiments with Mother’s makeup, but the earnest application of color to her lips before her first
real
date with a
real
boy. She was fifteen then. By the time she was seventeen she had shed all interest in such things. She wore makeup for dates such as her junior prom, but she no longer found it exhilarating. Her thirst for knowledge replaced her thirst for acceptance.

According to her husband, her simple approach to beauty was what captured his attention. Why did that seem so long ago?

She tried sitting and staring at the walls. Her depression deepened. She gazed out the window for a full half hour but couldn’t recall a single thing she saw. Once she picked up a magazine as if she were going to read. She didn’t read. She drank another cup of coffee, now bitter from sitting so long. Mostly she answered phone calls from family and from the other wives of J. J.’s team.

Did she have a responsibility to them? What was wife-of-Boss supposed to do? Should she drive to their homes? Buy sympathy cards? “Dear Lucy, so sorry we lost our husbands. May God richly bless you in these difficult hours.”

Great sentiment; lousy way to deliver it.

Prayer was a mainstay of her life. She rose with prayer and often conversed with God while driving or in unexpected quiet moments. She tried praying now, but nothing came. She heard others say God seemed distant in times of sudden loss. Others said He was never closer at any time than during their loss. Tess couldn’t sense either condition. God seemed neither distant nor near. Had she lost her belief? She asked that question a dozen times and each time she had to admit she hadn’t. Grief simply short-circuited the lines of communication. The only thing she could be sure of was her grief.

She paced a lot, wearing a path from the living room to the kitchen to the bedroom to the bathroom and back to the living room. She thought of going outside to walk, but worried she would do what she had already done a dozen times: break down into a blithering, heaving mass.

Her mind begged for something to do, something useful, productive, engaging; something husband honoring; God honoring.

She moved into the bedroom, to a small desk J. J. got when he was in middle school. It was here he paid the bills, kept catalogs of high-end racing bicycles and gun catalogs. As many times as her pacing brought her into the room, this was the first time she noticed her eyes avoided the bed. That realization burned in her mind and boiled her heart.

Breathing turned ragged again, but she was determined not to cry. Not because she was ashamed, but because she couldn’t endure more. Focus. Find something.

She did. A folder tucked in the corner of the desk, beneath utility bills. Tess pushed the envelopes to the side and picked up the manila folder. Inside were a collection of items: the photo of the sonogram revealing the twins, a photo of a small party celebrating Tess’s pregnancy, an article on how to save money for a child’s college education, and a piece of lined paper with notes made in J. J.’s hand. There were two columns made by a line of blue ink drawn down the middle of the page. At the top of the left column were two words: “Little J. J.”; the top of the right column bore the words “Little Tess.” A short list of names were penned for each category. Under “Little J. J.” were Aaron, Josiah, Elijah, Levi, Dylan, Adam, Paul, Jack, Eric, Rich, and a few others. Under “Little Tess” were: Crystal, Chaundel, Cloe, Gwyn, and Bailey.