by David DeLee
The door opened behind him and then quietly clicked closed.
In the reflection of the glass he saw that it was Grayson. He turned.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” she said.
Bannon grabbed the plastic water bottle he’d left on the arm of a chair. He took a slug of warm water. Then he fired the bottle across the room like a missile. It hit the TV. Water splashed across the screen diffusing the colorful weather map that was calling for a beautiful day tomorrow.
“I told you!” he shouted. “I warned you. Now two men are dead and Tara’s gone. She’s in danger and we have no idea where, with no way to help her.”
“I know,” Grayson said quietly.
-----
MCMURPHY AND PIERCE STOOD in the corridor outside the small lounge. They’d been told to wait there by Grayson until she had a chance to speak with Bannon alone. From the muted shouting going on in the other room, the conversation wasn’t going well.
Pierce stood with an arm looped over the corner of a filing cabinet. Like Bannon, he and McMurphy were back in civilian clothes. For McMurphy that meant his work boots, baggy white painter pants, and under an open flannel shirt, a T-shirt with a picture of a fist holding a wrench that read: I’m a Mechanic But Even I Can’t Fix Stupid. Pierce wore slacks from another suit, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but no tie. He wore his Springfield .45 on his hip.
He cleared his throat. “I, um, guess I should thank you. For saving my life back there.”
McMurphy sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup. It was heavily doctored with whiskey. He grunted.
“No. I mean it. Thank you.”
“What’d they teach you at Quantico? Nothing. What were you thinking?”
Pierce opened his mouth to respond then snapped it shut. He tried again, this time getting the words out. “You’re right. I rushed ahead. Ms. Sardana’s in danger because I didn’t listen to you. To Bannon. Acosta and Trejo are dead because of me.”
If he expected McMurphy to let him off the hook, he was mistaken. Men had died under McMurphy’s watch, too. He lived with that guilt every day, and would for the rest of his life. Pierce didn’t get a pass from that. None of them did.
“Damn right they are.”
Pierce didn’t argue the point. He lowered his head. Accepting it. Owning it.
“They your first?” McMurphy asked, breaking the morbid silence that followed.
Pierce looked up. “Dead because of me? Yeah. Yes.”
“It doesn’t get any easier. I wish it did.” McMurphy hoisted his cup. “It’s why I drink.”
“Coffee?”
McMurphy handed him the cup.
Pierce threw back a big gulp and gasped, his eyes blinking as he tried not to sputter. “Jesus, that’s like straight whiskey.”
McMurphy swirled what was left in the cup. “No,” he protested. “There’s some coffee in there. Keeps it warm.” He drank the rest down.
“Warm? It’s burning my esophagus,” Pierce gasped.
“Toughen up, Danny-boy. You’re playing with the big boys now.”
“Big boys? You’re a couple of part-time Coasties,” Pierce said.
“That work directly for the Secretary of Homeland Security. If that doesn’t tell you something, you’re a bigger dummy than I took you for.”
Bannon and Grayson continued to argue. Their voices indecipherable, but the emotion behind them was unmistakable. Figuring this could take a while, McMurphy thought about getting more coffee.
Before he could make his move, Pierce said, “What’s the story between Bannon and Sardana?”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s clear he cares about her. What? Are they lovers or something?”
“Careful, Pierce.”
“I don’t mean anything by it and I don’t care. I just need to know who I’m dealing with.” He shrugged. “The man’s just a tad more protective than he should be, is all I’m saying.”
“So what?” McMurphy said. “He should just not care? Let his people go and get killed and not do anything about it?”
Pierce turned red. “No. I just meant from what I saw, the woman’s more than capable of taking care of herself.” He put his hands up in defense. “All I’m saying.”
McMurphy thought about it for a minute. Before he spoke, he chose his words carefully. “She’s important to him. Yeah, Brice loves her, but not in the way you’re thinking. Not romantically. They’ve got a connection. It comes from a deep, deep respect for each other. Think brother and sister, father and daughter, but stronger than that. Much stronger.
“Blades’ parents were killed in the late nineties by Al-jamāʻah al-islāmīyah. They’re a—”
“Pro-Sunni terror group active in Egypt and Croatia at the time. The name basically means Islamic Group. I’m aware of who they are,” Pierce said. “I work anti-terrorism, remember?”
McMurphy ignored his verbal jab. “Her parents’ deaths had a profound impact on Tara’s life, as you can imagine. She joined the Algerian National Navy and trained in the Indian Navy’s MARCOS program in Nahan.”
“That’s crap,” Pierce said. “No way she trained as an Indian Marine Commando. I know for a fact woman aren’t allowed in their Special Forces program.”
“True, except when they host exchange programs with other countries. She was part of one such program.” Pierce remained visibly skeptical. McMurphy shrugged. “You’re the one who asked.”
“Okay, whatever. Where she trained doesn’t matter.”
“Not long after completing the MARCOS training, she went AWOL.”
“Why?”
McMurphy shrugged. “No idea. She won’t talk about it.” He looked at his empty cup, wishing he had more coffee—and whiskey. “All I know is she dropped off the grid for a while and then turned up a few years later in Afghanistan, teamed up with a badass group of mercenaries.”
“Tarakesh Sardana’s not her real name then.”
“As made up as a porn star’s stage name.”
“How’d she hook up with you and Bannon?” At McMurphy’s expression, he added, “You know what I mean.”
“Long story short. Bannon got himself captured by a group of Taliban knuckleheads. Blades and her group of mercs raided the compound where he was being held, purely by happenstance. They pulled his butt from the fire. Afterwards, Bannon talked her into joining our DOG posse.”
“But she’s not Coast Guard?”
“Nope,” McMurphy admitted. “More like a private security contractor.”
The lounge door opened. Grayson said, “If you gentlemen would please join us.”
She stepped back and McMurphy and Pierce filed in. Bannon stood looking out the window onto the street below. Grayson closed the door behind them. McMurphy and Pierce sort of shuffled around, not sure where to stand or if they should sit. The tension in the room could be cut with ka-bar knife.
Grayson cleared her throat. “Agent Pierce, first let me extend my condolences to you on the loss of your men. A terrible tragedy. I am so, so sorry.”
McMurphy noticed Bannon fist his hands.
Pierce said, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“The question now is where do we go from here?” Grayson folded her arms over her chest and began to pace. Her heels clicked across the tile floor. Neither McMurphy nor Pierce offered a suggestion, but Bannon turned from the window.
“We have the crew of the Naeem. We have Zayd. We interrogate them. Water-board them, tear their fingernails out with pliers if we have to.”
“You’re not serious?” Pierce asked.
“They know more than they’ve told us so far,” Bannon said. “Damn right, I’m serious. I’ll do whatever it takes to get Tara back unharmed.”
“We’ll talk to them. Of course,” Grayson said.
“The FBI already has two profilers assigned,” Pierce said. “They’re working with her. They specialize in interrogation and interview techniques. They’ve been handpicked because of the
ir familiarity with the Middle East situation.”
“Working with her?” Bannon said. “What is she, a hired consultant? What are you doing, offering her some sweetheart deal, like you did Amar? Get her her own get out of jail free card? Tara’s missing. She’s in the hands of people willing to kill, even their own people.”
Pierce took a step toward Bannon, his face red with anger. “You think I don’t know that? It was my men that were killed down in that hole. Remember?”
Bannon took a step closer. “Yeah, killed because of you. Because you hesitated when you should have acted, because you rushed in when you should have waited. This entire operation went sideways because of you. So, yeah, I remember.”
“You son of a—”
McMurphy caught Pierce by the arm, arresting his charge toward Bannon. “Easy, Danny-boy.”
Grayson stepped in front of Bannon. She put her hands to his chest, gently pushing him back. “Knock it off, Brice.”
Reluctantly each man backed up a step.
“I want five minutes with her,” Bannon said. “With Zayd.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Pierce said. “Leave it to the professionals.”
“Dial it down,” McMurphy warned the agent.
“Brice, I’m sorry, but Agent Pierce is right,” Grayson said. “It’s out of your hands.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Orders. From Washington. I tried to fight it, but this whole thing’s been taken over by Justice, but the FBI specifically. A team of Federal Marshals have been dispatched. The prisoners are to be transported to an undisclosed location first think in the morning.”
“Are you kidding? That happens,” Bannon pointed at Pierce. “They won’t let us anywhere near them. They’re the only leads we’ve got.”
“They’ll be properly interrogated,” Pierce insisted. “Not tortured. Any Intel, we’ll use it to get your friend back. Unharmed.”
“You’re delusional. That’ll take weeks. By then Tara will be dead. You’ll end up getting her killed just like you did Acosta and Trejo.” Bannon stomped toward the door. He slammed his shoulder into Pierce along the way.
Pierce pushed back.
“Brice,” Grayson called out.
He paused only long enough to turn on her. “And you.” He glared. “I expected better from you, but you just signed her death warrant.”
Bannon flung the door open so hard it banged against the wall. Then he stormed out.
McMurphy stared at Pierce and then Grayson. “Well, that went swell.”
With a sad shake of his head, he followed his friend out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SUBWAY TRAIN ROLLED into the North Quincy station, an outside station south of Boston, and screeched to a stop.
Bridget, Reza, and Tara exited the train from the last car. The passengers surged from the cars to the center platform then to the stairs that would take them to the commuter parking lot still mostly filled with cars at that hour of the night. Bridget and Reza held Tara back until the platform emptied. Then they urged her forward.
“Where are we going? I demand to know.”
Bridget and Reza kept walking. Over her shoulder, Bridget said, “Damn, you’re full of questions. Why don’t you just chill out, Safi?”
Tara gasped. “How dare you speak to me in such a tone?”
On the Naeem, Tara had spent only a few hours with Safiyyah Zayd. The woman hadn’t said much, but Tara knew as a prominent general’s daughter and from their minuscule interactions, she was not a woman who’d tolerate being talked to in that manner.
“We’re taking you where you need to go. End of discussion.”
Tara wanted to argue further, but she had to tread carefully. She didn’t know how much Zayd had been told about these people, what information she might have been given prior to her arrival. If she overplayed her hand, she risked raising their suspicions, which were already at paranoid levels.
As they stepped from the curb of the parking lot, a silver midsize SUV pulled up to them. Bridget and Reza approached it. Tara noticed the make and model, a Subaru Forester. It was not new, nor was it old. Its lights were all functioning, including the one over the rear license plate. She committed the number to memory. Nothing about the vehicle’s appearance would raise suspicions. Smart.
Bridget opened the rear door and told her to get in. Tara didn’t argue. Reza rode shotgun. And Bridget climbed into the back with Tara. A young man, Middle Eastern, sat in the driver’s seat. The engine idled. He glanced into the back, a stern expression on his face. When everyone was settled, he pulled out of the parking lot and onto Hancock Street. He used his turn signal to pull into traffic. They traveled south.
“Put this on.”
Tara looked down at the black cloth in Bridget’s hand. It was a black hood. “This is a joke?”
“Put it on or I’ll put it on you.” The woman sneered. “You won’t like that.”
Don’t be so sure, Tara thought. She snatched the hood from her and pulled it over her head. The material was thick and impossible to see through. Not even the bright street lights and passing headlights could penetrate the tightly woven material. And it was stifling hot to wear.
“This is completely unacceptable. I demand to know where it is we are going.”
“That would defeat the purpose of the hood, now wouldn’t it?” Bridget snapped her gum.
Tara settled back and did her best to pick up sounds, stops and starts, to keep track of turns, to get a sense of where they were going. Quincy was a neighboring city bordering Boston to the north. They drove through what felt like winding downtown streets for a while, then onto a highway. As time went on, they eventually slowed and continued to drive through what felt like stop and go city traffic again. Tara heard sounds she thought she’d heard before. Had they simply driven around in obscure ways to make her lose track of where they were? If so, they’d succeeded.
When they finally came to a stop, one that lasted longer than the length of a traffic light, she heard the engine shut off. Bridget said, “Sit tight.” Car doors opened and closed. A second passed before Tara felt her door open. A hand grabbed her arm. Bridget said, “Come on. Get out.”
Bridget held her arm like she was a blind person. She was led in a single straight direction and then directed to step up to avoid a curb.
“This is no way for me to be treated,” Tara complained.
“Tell somebody who cares.” Bridget led her up a steep incline. From the hollow, metallic sound of their footsteps Tara deduced the ramp was metal and ribbed.
They were near water. Tara smelled the thick, moist, salty air. She heard the caw of gulls, probably circling overhead. They were at or near docks or a marina. The air was tainted with the smell of oil. She heard the gentle lapping of waves. And she heard traffic, not real close, but close enough to be heard, so they weren’t at some rural dock, but one near an urban setting.
She was directed to step over a threshold.
“We’re almost there, Safi.” Bridget yanked Tara’s arm to turn her left. They walked a dozen more steps. She was turned right. Then three more steps. “Stop.”
Bridget’s grip fell away. Then Tara heard a door click shut. The sound reverberated. The hood was snatched off her head.
They stood in a windowless, dimly lit room. Tara blinked. She brushed her messy hair from her face, finger-combing it away. She quickly looked around.
Above her tiles had been removed from a suspended, false ceiling. The grids that would’ve held tiles in place remained, but many of them were bent or broken. The old, stained tiles were haphazardly tossed into a pile in the corner. Above the grid was the raw, encapsulated ceiling. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling on the end of an orange cord. The cord ran the length of the ceiling and plugged directly into the junction box above the closed door. The room had a second door, also closed. A square grill filled the lower half of that door. Tara could see a tile floor through the louvers. If
she had to guess, she’d say that was a bathroom.
Bridget leaned casually against the wall next to the exit door. The important one, Tara thought, as it led out. They were alone. Reza and their driver either hadn’t accompanied them or had left once they’d come into this room.
“Now what?” Tara asked.
“Now you meet the boss,” Bridget said.
“Finally. And he shall get an earful from me about the disrespectful way I have been treated.”
The door behind them opened and a man stepped inside. He was tall and thin, as close as one could come to being emaciated without being sickly. He had a scraggily dark beard and wore dark, baggy pants, a dark button-down shirt, similarly shapeless, and a maroon taqiyah. In the dim light she couldn’t make out his features clearly, other than to notice his dark middle-eastern skin.
“Ah,” he said, spreading his hands like a minister conveying his sermon. “Our guest has arrived. Excellent.”
“Treated more like an enemy then a guest,” Tara complained. “This has been inexcusable.”
“I apologize, my dear,” the man said, approaching her. He reached out to clasp her upper arms in greeting. “But these are dangerous times, our enemies are everywhere, and our work is too important to not be overly cautious. I’m sure you appreciate that.”
“What I’d appreciate would be—”
Tara froze as the man came into the light of the single dangling bulb. Face-to-face with him, her blood ran cold in her veins. No. It was impossible.
The man reacted in the same way. He turned to Bridget. “What have you done? You stupid, stupid girl!”
“What?” Bridget straightened up, reacting to the man’s vehement outburst.
“It can’t be?” Tara shook off his grasp. Stunned.
The man turned back. Anger and delight blazed in his dark eyes. “So, the she-devil recognizes me, as well.”
His was the face of a ghost.
Tara shook her head. Of course she recognized him, though he did not look exactly as she remembered him. The right side of his face was now horribly disfigured under the pathetic attempt he’d made at growing a beard. Burned and poorly skin-grafted, the skin was gnarly and uneven.