by Brian Drake
Omar Talman wasn’t a big man. He was tall, but thin and wiry, and the cell provided enough room for regular exercise. Push-ups, sit-ups, knee bends—he performed them all several times a day. He needed to stay in shape when “the moment” arrived.
The door opened. A uniformed guard holding a tray of food stepped through the doorway. He remained curled in a corner. He regarded the guard with blank eyes. It was an act. They thought he was broken and subdued. They’d stopped ordering him to stay in place at the point of a gun months ago.
The guard bent to put the tray on the floor. A second guard remained in the hallway. He wore a Taser on his hip.
Omar Talman struck like a coiled rattlesnake.
He tipped the food tray into the guard’s chest. The second guard grabbed the Taser. Talman shoved the first guard into the second. Both continued backward to smash into the hallway wall behind them. Talman continued his attack. Two solid blows into the first man’s stomach sent him to the floor. Talman blocked the rise of the Taser in the other man’s hand and struck with two fingers at the man’s throat. The guard gagged. Talman punched him in the balls, then the stomach, and he joined his partner on the floor.
Talman scooped up the fallen Taser and ran.
The hallway seemed longer than he remembered, but his legs pumped like pistons. He turned left at the corner. Elevator ahead. As soon as somebody activated the alarm, they’d lock the elevators. He didn’t want to get stuck. He bypassed the elevator for the stairwell.
By his estimation at the time of his capture, he was three levels underground. Long way up. But he’d reach the surface or die on the way. Survival was the priority, though. Tanya was counting on him.
He crashed through the stairwell door and took the steps two at a time, rounding each landing without pause. His bare feet didn’t slip on the cold concrete. By the time he reached the second landing, the alarm blared. It echoed in the stairwell, hurting his eardrums, but he ignored the pain and kept going.
The response force would meet him with automatic weapons. They wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. But they might hesitate if he used one of them as a shield.
He reached the first level and crashed into the door. It didn’t budge. He pushed the locking bar. Nothing. He peeked through the square of glass in the door. Three men with M16A4 rifles converged on him. They wore body armor. He waited.
Stepping back, he raised the Taser as the first man opened the door and ordered him to get on his knees. The muzzle of the M16 didn’t bother him. He’d had guns pointed at him many times. Talman let the Taser to the talking, and the electrodes hit the man in the neck. He screamed, recoiling. Talman let go of the Taser, shoving the barrel of the M16 away from his face as he pushed the guard through the doorway. His partners aimed their weapons, but Talman’s human shield blocked him from view.
Snatching the man’s pistol, turning it in his hand, he fired rapidly over the guard’s shoulder. One of the two guards dropped from a head shot. The other dodged back to avoid the falling body. Talman turned his captive around and shoved with his right foot. The first guard’s body flew away from him. As the third trooper tried to fire, the autoloader in Talman’s fist barked again. Another head shot. Talman ran to the guard he’d grabbed, shot him as he tried to rise, and helped himself to two M16s. He held one rifle in each hand. He left the pistol behind.
He ran down the hall. Shouting behind him. Talman pivoted, shuffling backwards, and fired a burst from both rifles. The salvos drove his pursuers around the corner. Talman turned forward and took the next right turn. Another door ahead. He blasted the lock and pushed through.
The main entry hall. The duty officer, behind his bulletproof glass, yelled into a phone. Three more security officers converged from a side door. The M16s in Talman’s fists crackled. He aimed for the legs, cutting the security team down. Their bodies dropped like chopped trees. He stepped over them, firing into their heads. He grabbed another rifle when the first two locked open over empty magazines. With his free hand, he grabbed a key card from a security guard’s belt.
He ignored the duty officer as he shoved the card into the slot near the door. The lock clicked. He charged into the office and shot the duty officer in the chest. The man’s body crashed into his console, smearing the controls with blood, but Talman didn’t hesitate. He flipped the switches to unlock the elevator to the surface, then stepped back. With the M16 at his hip, he fired into the panel until the action locked open. Sparks flashed as the bullets ripped through the electronics.
Exiting, pulling the door shut so the electronic lock engaged once again, he swung his rifle back the way he’d come. The three guards in pursuit were in the open, racing his way. He squeezed the trigger. The M16 bucked in his hand. The guards dropped as their legs and kneecaps popped, spreading blood across the white floor as they fell. More head shots ended their struggle to return fire. They were sitting ducks. Too much faith in their body armor, and not enough practice against somebody shooting back.
Talman moved to the dead men on the floor. He ripped spare magazines from a guard’s utility belt, and he entered the elevator. The ascent to the surface began.
He breathed hard as the cabin climbed. He assumed they had a secondary control in the facility to stop the elevators. Until they saw the duty officer was dead and his equipment destroyed, they wouldn’t realize the need for the secondary. The minutes ticked by at an agonizing pace.
When the elevator stopped, he began to panic. He stopped panicking when the doors slid open. The parking area at the mouth of the mountain greeted him. More security troops waited.
Talman charged ahead, M16 to his shoulder, firing as he moved. One guard dropped. The others scattered to take cover behind vehicles. Talman found an SUV to hide behind and fired over the hood. He squatted behind the front passenger fender and fired around the bumper. He reversed and moved to the rear bumper, emerging from behind the car, his muzzle tracking targets. One burst, another. Two men down. He dropped and rolled as return fire came his way. Rising, he fired again, found another SUV for cover, and changed magazines.
The mouth of the mountain lay ahead. Several security troops remained between him and freedom.
Return fire smacked into the SUV. Talman flinched with each hit. He fired over the hood, then dashed around the rear once again. Another security officer, running from one car to another, winged a shot at him and missed. Talman’s single shot took him down mid-stride.
Talman broke into a sprint for the opening. He fired as he ran, driving the final security guard to cover. Bullets buzzed past him as he reached the mouth and turned left. His feet finally crunched on dirt. He wore no shoes, and terrain bit through the bottoms of his feet and made him wince. He kept running, gaining the hot tarmac of the paved road. He raced across the shoulder of the road into the forest.
He grunted in pain as his feet landed on the rough forest floor. He pushed away the discomfort. Talman tore through the foliage, leaping over logs and debris, curving left as the ground began a downward slope. His lungs burned and sweat coated his body. He didn’t dare stop to wipe his face.
Dried leaves, rocks, and pieces of twigs ripped into his feet as he ran. He had far to go and no time to waste.
The CIA had thought their Blue Ridge facility was top secret, but the Islamic Union had known about the location for a long time. The information had been easy to acquire. Too many people who worked there talked in public, at bars, and restaurants. Steady surveillance had enabled the Union to gather intelligence over a period of two years prior to Talman’s capture.
The commanders, including the White Widow, reviewed the information on a regular basis. They’d determined the best landing spot for a helicopter was a natural clearing 500 yards west of the facility. Standing orders for anybody captured, should they escape, were to head for the clearing and await pickup. If Tanya hadn’t infiltrated, he’d never have known they’d be waiting for him.
He kept running. Any troops still standing at the facility woul
d be organizing a search, but he was well ahead of them. And if he died before reaching the clearing, it was fine with him. They’d struck at the heart of the CIA and their illegal prisons. The escape and slaughter inside would give the Agency a black eye for years.
They’d made a huge mistake when they thought Omar Talman had been broken.
He waited at the edge of the clearing. His breathing had finally slowed to normal. The effects of his escape were beginning to creep through his body. Everything hurt.
When he heard the rotor blades of the rescue chopper, his spirit brightened. He tossed the M16 and ran into the grassy field. He spun around as he looked. The chopper cleared the trees and dropped into the field. He ran for the craft. The side door opened. Tanya waited inside. She urged him on. Talman jumped into the cabin, landing hard, and Tanya pushed the door shut. The chopper lifted off.
“Omar!” she yelled. He rose and embraced her, holding her body tight against his. He touched her soft black hair, let it tangle around his fingers. There were some nights where he wondered if he’d ever feel her close to him again.
He wanted to say something, but his dry mouth prevented the words from forming. No matter. They would have plenty of time to talk later. For now, he held her close, and she didn’t pull away.
Victory felt sweet.
Victory meant crushing the man she loved against her once again. Tanya Jafari finally broke the embrace and waved at Sila Kaymak, who sat at the controls. The Turkish Islamic Union assassin sent to “kill” her in Stockholm steered the chopper away.
Tanya stared into her lover’s face. Omar looked thin, worn out. The blue jumpsuit didn’t fit him at all. But fire sparkled behind his eyes. The same fire she’d fallen in love with. His arms felt strong, his body still lean. He’d held out against the worst his captors had delivered and pulled through.
She kissed him. He responded slowly. When he pulled away, he smiled.
“Come on, sit.”
As the chopper banked, she helped him into a chair, taking the seat next to him. She grabbed his hand. He asked for water, and she grabbed a bottle of water from a side pocket of the chair. He drank the bottle down and finally spoke.
“You made it,” he said.
“And now they will pay dearly for what they’ve done to us,” Tanya Jafari, the real White Widow, told him.
Part II
1
Five Years Earlier
Berlin, Germany
It started with a phone call.
Tanya Schrader took a frozen dinner from the freezer and read the instructions. The long day at the office left her in no mood to cook tonight. When her phone rang, she set the package down and grabbed her phone from the purse on the counter. The caller ID said Francesca. She answered. “Hey.”
“Where are you?” Francesca Sloan, a British employee of her father’s company, also worked in the accounting department.
“Home.”
“Come to the bar.”
“Why?”
“Speaker’s rally tonight. Some local Muslims are going to talk about the truck crash last week.”
“Fran, I’m beat.”
“You should see the main speaker. I’m calling him ‘Sheik Ahmad the Hunk’.” Francesca laughed.
“That’s not funny.”
The British girl stopped laughing. “Get down here. I got a table on the aisle.”
Francesca ended the call and Tanya scoffed and looked around her kitchen. Every surface was spotless. She had decorations and pictures, but the place always felt lifeless. The idea of a relaxing night out instead of a frozen dinner appealed after all. All right. She would join Fran at the bar.
She knew about the rally at the beer hall. Everybody in the immediate neighborhood knew. People elsewhere in the city knew if they were paying attention.
The week prior, a local man, a refugee from the Middle East, crashed a truck into an outdoor café. He killed fifteen people. Police shot him as he attempted to escape. Jihadists claimed responsibility for the incident.
There had already been one public protest against Muslims in Germany. The protest leaders used megaphones to address the gathered crowd. They claimed terrorists had come to take advantage of and kill the German people. There was only one way to deal with such scum. Nobody wanted to think about the consequences of such actions. Many didn’t want to acknowledge the uttered words. But Tanya knew the instigators had struck a nerve.
After the protest, signs posted around Berlin proclaimed:
Islam Is Not The Enemy.
We are a Target Too.
This Is Wrong. Come See Why.
Each sign showed the date and time of the beer hall meeting.
Tensions were still high after the crash and initial protest. Muslims in the city reported incidents of harassment. Francesca feared the harassment would lead to something worse and told Tanya of her worries. She’d seen similar events and backlashes in Britain.
As Tanya grabbed her purse and car keys, she wondered what the night might have in store. Hopefully something more interesting than sitting on the couch until bedtime.
Bodies occupied every available bench space except for the seat Francesca had saved. Fran had also ordered a stein of Tanya’s preferred light beer. She took an appreciative sip as she looked around.
Usual mix of young and old faces. The older men dressed like college professors and leaned heavily toward tweed jackets. Their female companions also kept their attire conservative.
The younger people were an equal mix of free spirits and young professionals fresh from the office.
Tanya and Francesca fit somewhere in the middle.
Francesca still wore her work clothes. Tanya had changed to jeans and a Tee-shirt as soon as she returned home.
The hall represented the long history of public gatherings in Germany. Attached to a smaller bar, anybody who could afford the nightly rate was welcome to rent the room.
It wasn’t correct to call it a “hall”. The room was minuscule compared to the 5,000 seat Mathäser (now a cinema) when it was a beer hall. Nor was it anything like the Bürgerbräukeller where Hitler spoke in the early days of the Nazis. But the goal was the same. Provide a place for the public to listen to ideas and discuss the ideas afterwards.
The public often needed a personal outlet of expression. Call-in talk shows served the purpose but were impersonal. The beer halls provided the personal touch required. Tanya had attended many such meetings, mostly at the behest of her father.
Two men of Middle Eastern descent stepped on stage. One carried a notebook. He looked nervous. Tanya saw his hands shaking. The second man stood quietly, hands behind his back, a confident thrust to his chin.
Francesca leaned close. “He’s the one I told you about.”
“You met?”
“Before everybody got here, yeah.”
“Sheik Ahmad the Hunk” she had said. He certainly fit the part. Every inch of his body appeared lean and well-muscled.
The man at the podium looked at his friend for encouragement and faced the audience again.
He introduced himself as Tamal and his friend as Ahmad. He spoke timidly at first, but as he continued his voice grew in confidence and volume. He talked about growing up in Iraq and fleeing to Germany during the United States invasion. He talked about giving up his home and his friends and everything he knew to make a new life in a new land. He feared his new home would reject him because of the actions of a few. He wanted Berliners to know his people wanted peace as much as they did.
When Ahmad finally took the microphone, he needed no notes. He spoke perfect English with a light accent. He told a similar story of escaping the Middle East. He added a touching account of his ailing grandfather. He hadn’t wanted to leave Syria, but the war forced them out. And now Ahmad feared for the vulnerable in his family.
The audience listened with quiet respect and applauded when the speeches concluded. Some stood. Tanya stared at Ahmad as if in a trance. Francesca nudged her. “Y
ou didn’t touch your beer.”
Tanya put the stein to her mouth and rectified the error.
The two men stayed for questions after the meeting broke up.
Francesca and Tanya waited against a wall as the pair spoke to well-wishers. Some had more questions. By the time Francesca finally pushed Tanya to them, it was getting late.
But any thoughts of getting to bed early left Tanya’s mind the second she met Ahmad’s eyes. They were rich, dark eyes. She had to look up a little to meet his gaze, but she didn’t mind at all.
“This is Tanya,” Francesca said, “the co-worker I told you about.”
Ahmad and Tanya shook hands and he asked what she thought of his speech. She appreciated his vulnerability and candor and offered to help spread the word.
They talked more about where they worked and their current lives. Tanya glanced behind Ahmad and noticed Francesca had cornered Tamal for herself.
As far as Tanya was concerned, it was a good night.
She departed after taking a selfie with both men, and an extra picture of only her and Ahmad. They exchanged cell numbers too. She wanted to see him again. He didn’t object to the idea.
Francesca laughed with excitement.
“I can’t believe it!” she said. “Did you see how he was looking at me?”
“I saw how you were looking at him,” Tanya said.
“He’s better looking than Ahmad!”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Tanya laughed.
The two women stopped at Francesca’s car and Fran unlocked the door. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”