The Scorching

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Boss, you’re still feeling poorly,” Brown said. “Maybe one of us should stay behind with you. Lie low, so nobody knows we’re here.”

  “Whoever the terrorists are, I’m sure they’ll know how many Regulators are in this hotel,” Cantwell said. “I can’t take a chance with Sarah’s life.” He smiled. “And I feel fine.”

  “You don’t look fine, Cory,” Kennedy said. “You need more bed rest.”

  “I won’t get any kind of rest until I find Sarah,” Cantwell said.

  “You’re sweet on that girl, boss, aren’t you?” Frank West’s scarred, fist-pummeled face breaking into a smile.

  “Yeah, I guess I am,” Cantwell said. “I hadn’t realized it until now.”

  “What will you do, Cory, after we leave?” Kennedy said.

  “All I can do is wait here and hope something breaks my way.”

  Kennedy shook his head, looking doubtful. “That’s a lot of hope.”

  “I know it is, but right now hope is all I’ve got,” Cantwell said. “All right, get packed, all of you, and make a show of leaving.”

  “Cory, I don’t feel right about doing this, stranding you in this hotel on your own,” Kennedy said.

  “And I don’t feel right about it either,” Cantwell said. “But we have no other choice. The terrorists want you gone, so let’s do it. And remember, put a lot of git between you and Portland.”

  Kennedy nodded. “We’ll head out of town and then go to ground.”

  “Like gophers,” Cantwell said.

  “Yeah, just like gophers,” Kennedy said. “Except that we’ll surface again right quick the minute you need us.”

  * * *

  Pete Kennedy and the Brits did some noisy horsing around in the parking lot, drawing attention to themselves, before they piled into the Toyota and left for parts unknown.

  Cory Cantwell was now alone in the hotel. He didn’t feel good, his shoulder wound punishing him, and he was seized by a feeling of utter helplessness. Somewhere, probably just across town, Sarah Milano was a prisoner and her life was in terrible danger and there was nothing he could do about it. And he had three days to raise ten million dollars . . . an impossible task. The thought tormented him that even if the ransom was paid, Sarah would still die. It was in those dark moments that he realized he loved her, and it came to him as a shock. He liked women and had enjoyed many affairs, but he’d never felt like this before . . . head over heels in love with a woman he might now lose forever.

  The hotel phone didn’t ring that day, but in the evening, Cantwell got a call from Pete Kennedy on his cell. They’d booked into a motel off Interstate 84, fifty miles east of Portland in the middle of nowhere.

  “But there’s a general store nearby that sells beer, so my British friends are quite happy,” Kennedy said. Then, “How are things on your end?”

  “Nothing happening,” Cantwell said. “I’m still waiting for . . . whatever.”

  “Keep us in the loop,” Kennedy said.

  “There is no loop, Pete. Just me,” Cantwell said. “But if there are any developments, I’ll let you know right away.”

  “Good luck, Cory,” Kennedy said.

  “Yeah, you too, Pete, good luck,” Cantwell said.

  Cantwell put down the phone. Restless now, he had to do something.

  Despite Sarah’s objections, he’d insisted on wearing clothes and not the pajamas she’d wanted to buy him. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and boots and planned to walk around the neighborhood and make himself a target. He’d see if he could force the terrorists’ hand and maybe even capture one for questioning. Cantwell knew it was a forlorn hope, but he had to try something . . . anything. He pulled the shirt over his holstered Glock, aware of the swell of the fat bandage over his left shoulder. At least his arthritis was gone, either that or the greater pain of the bullet wound masked it.

  The day was slowly shading into evening when Cantwell left the hotel. He strolled around the parking lot and then walked out into the street. Around him lay a quiet, residential and business area with fallen leaves in the gutters and windows lit behind drawn blinds. A single star burned in the darkening sky, but there was as yet no sign of the moon. Cantwell walked for thirty minutes around and then around the block again. Once a police cruiser passed him, its headlights dimmed, and then a middle-aged woman in high heels clacked along the opposite sidewalk before turning into a lane. He gave it up and returned to the hotel. The front desk told him he had no messages, and he made his way back to his room, exhausted.

  It seemed that there were no terrorists about that night.

  Not hungry but feeling that he should eat something to boost his flagging energy, Cantwell ordered a burger and fries from the room service children’s menu, ate without appetite, and then got ready for bed.

  The hotel phone rang at two in the morning and woke him from a troubled sleep.

  “How are you, Mr. Cantwell?” Nasim Azar said.

  “Who is this?” Cantwell said.

  Azar ignored that and said, “I just wanted to congratulate you on sending your crusaders away. Oh, and to let you know that Miss Milano is still alive and well. For now, that is.”

  “I swear, harm Sarah and I’ll . . .”

  “You’ll do what exactly? There is nothing you can do but pay her ransom. How much have you raised so far?” Cantwell said nothing, and Azar said, “As I thought, not a penny. Ah well, you still have another two days.”

  “Where is she?” Cantwell said. “Where are you keeping her?”

  Azar laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know. Tell me, Mr. Cantwell, do you love Miss Milano?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Cantwell said.

  “It is my business, and I think you’re in love with her. Oh, good. That means we can play a little game, you and I.”

  “I don’t play games with terrorists.”

  “You’ll play this one . . . that is if you really love the woman. She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Cantwell said nothing. He was aware of his breath coming in short gasps, and his stomach felt like it was tied in knots.

  “Suppose I tell you that you can forget the ransom and free Miss Milano? Huh? Do you like that? All that is required is one little action on your part.”

  “What kind of action?” Cantwell said.

  “Do you have a gun, Mr. Cantwell? I’m sure that a great hero like you has one.”

  “Yes, I have a gun,” Cantwell said.

  “Then here’s all it will take to set Miss Milano free as a bird. You place the muzzle of your gun against your temple and blow your brains out. Just as soon as the media reports the story, I will let the woman go.”

  “Go to hell,” Cantwell said.

  “If you really love Miss Milano, won’t you do this one little thing to save her life? After all, real sacrifice should only be done for love. You make no answer, Mr. Cantwell. That means you’re thinking about it, the ultimate sacrifice. Now bear in mind, that shooting yourself causes only a moment’s pain, but Miss Milano’s death will be long drawn out, perhaps for days, and be very painful. Spare her, Mr. Cantwell, spare the woman you love so much agony. Ah . . . I can’t even bear to think about it.”

  Cantwell knew that making empty threats was useless, and he remained silent.

  “I’ll call you again very soon, Mr. Cantwell,” Azar said. His voice had dropped to silken purr. “If you’re still alive I’ll be very disappointed.”

  The phone went dead.

  Cantwell understood that the terrorist, whoever he was, was playing cat and mouse with him, tormenting him, making him pay for the crimes he’d committed against the Muslim brotherhood, the killing of so many holy warriors. He knew that nothing he did or said would ever set Sarah free. She was caught in a spiral of death, and there was no escape.

  Utter despair clawing at him, Cantwell dropped his head onto the pillow. Would his suicide really free Sarah? No, that was unthinkable. Such a suggestion was the raving of a madman. God al
mighty, how could hatred run that deep? He’d read somewhere that hatred is a weak emotion, a sign of failure. But he, Cory Cantwell, was the failure.

  It was the haters who had the upper hand.

  CHAPTER 45

  Sarah Milano sat on the corner of the bed and looked around at the sparse furnishings of the room that until recently had housed Salman Assad. The dresser drawers and closet had been stripped bare, and the door was locked from the outside. An earlier check of the windows facing the Willamette River had revealed a sheer, two-story drop to the ground. There was no escape in that direction.

  Sarah rose and crossed to the window again. There was a small parking lot in front of the warehouse, the spaces for a dozen cars marked with faded white lines, and beyond that a street. During the ten minutes she stood there, she didn’t see a single pedestrian and only a handful of cars. The warehouse was obviously located in a business district, well off the beaten track.

  Sarah realized then that the chances of Cory Cantwell finding her were slim to none, and slim was already saddling up to leave town. She found that thought vaguely amusing, and despite her fears, she managed a smile.

  Would the man called Azar really kill her? Sarah’s answer was a resounding yes. The man was a fanatic, and Muslim terrorists didn’t hold women in high regard in the first place. He’d kill her all right . . . and probably enjoy doing it.

  The warehouse was deathly quiet, so the sudden and distant clanking of a chain and the man’s muffled voice yelling, “Azar, you Arab asshole!” surprised Sarah. It seemed that the other prisoner was angry. Azar had called him Mr. Norris, so he could only be Mike Norris, the famous firefighter that Cory had been looking for. But why was he there? Why was he a chained prisoner? She had no time to contemplate that question, because a key turned in the lock, and the door opened.

  A black woman bearing a tray stepped inside while a man stood outside the door, watching her every move.

  “I’m Adelia Palmer,” the woman said, smiling. “I’ve brought you some lunch, dear.”

  “Just a few seconds ago I heard a man call out,” Sarah said. “His name is Mike Norris. Why is he here?”

  Suddenly, the woman looked frightened. “I didn’t hear a man call out. There is no man by that name here.”

  “But I . . .”

  “No man here,” Mrs. Palmer said. She laid the tray on top of the dresser and beat a hasty retreat through the open door that the guard slammed shut and then locked behind her.

  Sarah felt a twinge of disappointment. There would be no help coming from that quarter. For all her motherly looks, Mrs. Palmer was probably a terrorist herself.

  All at once realizing how hungry she was, Sarah checked the tray. Egg salad sandwiches on whole-grain bread, a couple of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk. Sarah smiled to herself. And the condemned ate a hearty last meal . . .

  * * *

  “Are you here to shoot me?” Mike Norris said, sitting up in his cot.

  “Not quite yet,” Nasim Azar said. “But I brought you good news.”

  “You’re letting me out of here,” Norris said.

  “No, sorry to disappoint, but you will never leave here alive,” Azar said. “No, my tidings are of far greater importance. Many mujahideen, all brave warriors of Islam, will arrive from Los Angeles tomorrow, and the attack on the Willamette forest will take place in three days hence. The infidels will die in their hundreds from the scorching and the bullet.” Azar raised his hands above his head and did a strange little dance. “Allahu Akbar!”

  “You damned heathen, what do you hope to gain by that?” Norris said. “All that will happen is that the United States will take its revenge and bomb the crap out of every damned dung-heap country in the Middle East.”

  “No, my friend, the Americans don’t have the belly for that,” Azar said. “Fearing repeat attacks on their forests all across the nation, they will seek peace with us and leave the Gulf states to the new Caliphate.”

  “In your dreams, Azar,” Norris said. “That’s not going to happen. We’ll bomb you sand monkeys back to the Stone Age.”

  Azar said, “Norris, your infidel mind cannot comprehend this, but the great Sheikh Jamari Qadir, may Allah bless him, saw it all in a vision. He has told the faithful that he saw the Americans in the Willamette fall like stalks of wheat before a reaper, the bodies of men, women and children stacked up like cordwood beside three pools of water that had turned red with their blood. The great sheikh says that the Caliphate is now only weeks away from fulfillment, and before that time the American eagle will fly for home with its tail feathers smoking. This, Sheikh Qadir also saw in his vision.”

  It was a forlorn hope, but Norris tried it. “Azar, unchain me. Let me be a part of it.”

  Azar smiled. “You will never fool me again, Norris. But, since I am in such a joyful state of mind, I will grant you a boon. I give you three more days of life. You will not die until the day of the attack on the Willamette.”

  “Then let the woman go,” Norris said.

  “Miss Milano? No, she must also die, but sooner than you, I think. I will loose her to the Los Angeles mujahideen for their amusement before they dispose of her, and I will let the crusader Cory Cantwell know exactly what happened to his ladylove.” Azar smiled. “What an exquisite revenge that will be.”

  “The woman really is connected with Cantwell?” Norris said.

  “Connected? Not a word I’d use. I believe he’s in love with her and she with him. So touching, isn’t it, Norris?”

  “You’re a damned black-hearted devil, Azar,” Norris said.

  “Perhaps. But I am a soldier of Islam, and I pray to Allah that he allow me to die a martyr’s death in the Willamette. Now I must leave. Mrs. Palmer will bring you food and yet another bottle of whiskey. Drink yourself into oblivion, Norris. It might be a better death than the one I plan for you.”

  “I hope I see you again in hell,” Norris said.

  “No, that will not happen. But I will look down on your terrible suffering from paradise,” Azar said.

  CHAPTER 46

  “Brigadier Stuart, it’s a go for August 8 at 0800 hours,” Jacob Sensor said, his cell phone to his ear. “Can your troops be ready by then? The main terrorist attack will be in the Willamette Three Pools area. I’ll make sure you get a map.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Brigadier General Hank Stuart said. “I’ve got five Venom helicopters armed with machine guns and a reinforced company of infantry in Chinooks. That’s enough assets to get the job done, and we’ll go in right on time.”

  “Try to minimize civilian casualties,” Sensor said. “A few dead I can accept, but I don’t want a huge butcher’s bill.”

  “If it’s carrying a weapon of any kind, we’ll kill it,” Stuart said. “If it’s carrying a Pepsi and a hotdog, we’ll be extra careful.”

  “I’ll ride in one of the choppers with my Regulators and couple of hand-picked reporters,” Sensor said. “Do you still plan to use the Portland airport Air National Guard Base as a staging area?”

  “Yes. Be at the airport by 0700 hours, and I’ll get you and your men on one of the Chinooks.”

  “That’s perfect. You’ve done well, General,” Sensor said. “You have my thanks.”

  “Helping to get rid of terrorist scum is all the thanks I need, Mr. Sensor.”

  “Then there’s nothing more to be said, General,” Sensor said. “I’ll see you at the airport.”

  Sensor hung up and then made a call to Cory Cantwell.

  “Anything to report on Miss Milano?” he said.

  The man’s voice was flat, emotionless, and that angered Cantwell. “You mean Sarah?”

  “Anything to report?” Sensor said again.

  “Yes, I have. The terrorists want ten million dollars to set her free. Apart from that, I’ve heard nothing else. Have you?”

  “I’ve put the wheels in motion,” Sensor said. “At the moment that’s all I can do. And paying a ransom to terrorists is ou
t of the question. The FBI has been informed.”

  “Well, hell, that makes me feel much better,” Cantwell said.

  “I drank a gallon of coffee last night just sitting up and worrying,” Sensor said. “I’m doing all I can.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “Now, on to other matters,” Sensor said. “The pyroterrorist attack on the Willamette National Forest is set for the eighth of this month. I want the Regulators in on it.”

  “All five of us?” Cantwell said.

  “Four of you, Superintendent Cantwell. You’re wounded. You won’t be a part of this operation. I tried to get the woman Merinda Barker to join you, but she’s still undergoing jump training. A pity, because I would’ve liked a Native American woman on the team.”

  Cantwell knew it would be useless to argue that he wasn’t disabled and said nothing.

  “Order your men to be at the Portland airport at 0700 hours,” Sensor said. “They’ll report to Brigadier General Stuart at the Air National Guard Base. This is a big anti-terrorist operation, and the Regulators will be a part of it. They’ll fly with the infantry in a Chinook and answer only to me.”

  “You’ll be there?” Cantwell said.

  “Yes. I’ll be with the Regulators. I told you this was big. At the end of the day, we’ll have killed a lot of terrorists.”

  “And you’ll be famous,” Cantwell said.

  “And I will have served my country,” Sensor said. “Superintendent Cantwell, your worry about Miss Milano has clouded your judgment. Please keep a civil tongue in your head. After all, I am your superior.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Cantwell said.

  Then, on a conciliatory note, Sensor said, “Superintendent Cantwell, you’re a wounded warrior. I’ll make sure you get part of the credit for the success of the coming operation.”

  “What about Sarah, Mr. Sensor? What does she get?” Cantwell said.

  “We’ll find her, and I’ll leave no stone unturned until we do.”

  The phone went silent. Jacob Sensor was all through talking.