The Scorching

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  CHAPTER 47

  I pursued my enemies and overtook them;

  I did not turn back until they were destroyed.

  —PSALMS 18.37 (motto of Israel’s Yamam counterterrorist squad)

  Yamam, Israel’s special police force, is the most feared and fearsome anti-terrorism unit in the world. Its expertise is in high demand around the world by intelligence agencies and police chiefs, and Jacob Sensor was one of its most ardent admirers. But even he, an acknowledged mover and shaker who stalked the corridors of power within the government of the mightiest nation on earth, had a difficult time penetrating the barrier of secrecy that surrounds Yamam.

  But when Sensor finally did, his information was well received and, as is the way of Yamam, famed for its rapid deployment time, acted on immediately.

  Sheikh Jamari Qadir and his Brothers of the Islamic Jihad were high on Israel’s most-wanted list. The Brotherhood’s “heroic soldiers of the Caliphate” and its ally ISIS had been responsible for terror bombings and other attacks in Israel and across the Middle East. In Pakistan the Brotherhood’s suicide bombers had killed hundreds.

  American intelligence believed that over the past five years, Sheikh Jamari Qadir had authorized nine out of every ten terrorist attacks around the globe.

  Now, thanks to Jacob Sensor, Yamam knew Qadir, a hunted man, had gone to ground in a Lebanese slum and that the terrorist could be killed.

  Five operatives, dressed like young Lebanese men in jeans, T-shirts and sneakers, but affecting the flashy watches and designer sunglasses the youngsters loved, surrounded the house near the Palestinian refugee camp, blasted in the door with a grenade, and then, armed with Glock 17 pistols and a single Uzi, rushed inside and killed seven men, one of them positively identified as Qadir. The action was over in seconds, and the five Israelis expertly lost themselves in the crowd that had gathered to gawk at the bullet-torn bodies.

  * * *

  The news of Sheikh Jamari Qadir’s death delighted Jacob Sensor so much that he had to share the news with his friend, Sir Anthony Bickford-Scott at the British Embassy.

  “We haven’t been able to touch him, but I tipped off the Israelis, and they did the job,” Sensor said.

  “And saved yourself... how much was it?” Bickford-Scott said.

  “A hundred million, but I’d no intention of paying it of course. Once he gave me the information I needed, I had other plans for Sheikh Qadir.”

  “Jolly good show,” Bickford-Scott said. “Do you know what I admire about you, Jacob? You’re a man completely without a conscience.”

  “Sir Anthony, let me tell you something, a guilty conscience is so tedious. All it does is slow a man down. When I first entered politics, I left my conscience outside the front door of the Capitol, and I’ve never felt an urgent need to pick it up again.”

  Bickford-Scott’s voice was veneered by a smile. “The United States is in safe hands when you are around, Jacob. And talking about national security, I hear through the grapevine that some big anti-terrorist operation is planned, either in this country or the Middle East. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Not a thing,” Sensor lied smoothly. “How these wild rumors get started I do not know. I really do think that they originate in the Kremlin.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. Russia gets up to all kinds of mischief. How was the Beluga caviar, by the way?”

  “Excellent. Send me more if you get some.”

  “I’ll speak to my contact at the Russian embassy,” Bickford-Scott said. “Beluga is very hard to find, even for an apparatchik. But I’ll see what I can do. Anything else I can help you with, Jacob? How are our SAS men doing?”

  “Learning the ropes. They’re coming along just fine.”

  “Glad to hear it. Jacob, if you find out any whispers about the big operation, let me know,” Bickford-Scott said. “Whitehall expects me to keep abreast of these things.”

  “If I’m told anything, I’ll call you immediately, Anthony,” Sensor said. “But don’t expect too much. I think it’s just another Russian rumor.”

  * * *

  Later that day Jacob Sensor learned from the CIA that a jihad had been declared against him and that there was a price on his head.

  The threat didn’t trouble him in the least.

  CHAPTER 48

  “Mrs. Palmer, are you a terrorist?” Sarah Milano said.

  The black woman smiled. “Bless your heart, no. I’m a Baptist. Look, I’ve brought you some nice fried chicken and potato salad for dinner. And a piece of my own homemade chocolate cake.”

  The guard at the door didn’t seem to be listening, but Sarah knew her time was short. Her words tumbling out rapidly, she whispered, “Mrs. Palmer, I’m being held prisoner here against my will. You have to help me.”

  “And a nice cold bottle of Pepsi to drink,” the woman said, as though she hadn’t heard.

  “Mrs. Palmer, the men here are terrorists,” Sarah said,

  “Enjoy your dinner, dear,” Mrs. Palmer said. She stepped to the door that the guard opened wide for her and left.

  Defeated, Sarah sat on the bed. If Mrs. Palmer was a Baptist, she’d obviously been brainwashed by Azar. Even if she could, which was unlikely, she wouldn’t help.

  Sarah Milano chided herself.

  What did you expect, Sarah? That she’d smuggle in a file like they do in the movies?

  She began to eat. She must keep her strength up because there was always a chance she could overpower the guard. With a plastic knife? What were her odds of success?

  Sarah felt a pang of utter hopelessness. She didn’t have a hope in hell.

  * * *

  Scrambled eggs and toast and a bottle of water.

  Mike Norris stared at his tray in disgust. Was that all the black woman could cook?

  Still, the whiskey was welcome.

  Norris poured himself a glass and stared at the TV. A pileup on I-84 had killed three people, meantime in overseas news an Arab sheikh had been blown away in Lebanon, and the Lebanese authorities blamed the Israelis and threatened to fire off scores of vengeance rockets. The Israelis denied the accusation and blamed the Saudis, who quickly denied the charge and blamed the Palestinians, who...

  Norris thumbed the TV into darkness. Same old, same old.

  The key turned in the lock, the door opened, and Nasim Azar stepped inside. His right arm hung at his side, the Beretta .25 in his hand.

  “Azar, you snake, have you come to finish it?” Norris said.

  The man shook his head. “I promised you a few more days of life, and I keep my word.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Only to tell you that I won’t visit you tomorrow,” Azar said.

  “Oh, no, that’s a real disappointment,” Norris said. “I so look forward to your visits.”

  “I have to attend a meeting that may interest you. It’s with an Islamic brotherhood who call themselves the Jacks of All Trades. They’ve been arriving from Los Angeles for the past twenty-four hours.”

  “So they’re plumbers or something, huh?”

  “No, fifty holy warriors, Norris, the brave mujahidin I told you about. They will attack the Willamette tourist areas with guns and grenades and slay the nonbelievers as the Scorching set by my own ghazi begins.”

  “Azar, you idiot, where are young going to stash fifty damn terrorists in Portland?” Norris said.

  “I have safe houses all over the city,” Azar said. “These are the homes of true believers in the coming Caliphate. And I have already heard something from the mujahidin that fills my heart with joy and pride. Not one of them expects to live past the day of the attack. They will all seek martyrdom in this, the most sacred of all causes. You fool, Norris, you could have been a part of it. But instead, you’ll die chained to the wall like a frightened cur.”

  “I’d rather die that miserable death than die with you and your gang of murderous thugs,” Norris said.

  “We have come a long way, you
and I, Norris,” Azar said. “What a pity it all has to end this way.”

  “There was no other way it could’ve ended, Azar. I just regret that I didn’t put my hands around your scrawny neck when I had the chance.”

  “Yes, my friend, it all ends in regret, but for you, not me. I will seek martyrdom with the rest and die a hero for Islam and the Caliphate.”

  Norris grimaced in imitation of a grin. “Azar, when your time comes, you’ll squeal like a pig for mercy. I’ve met your kind before, all talk, no action.”

  Azar shook his head. “You foolish man, how little you know me.”

  Norris tried a different tack. “Then let the woman go before you meet your martyrdom.”

  “No, Norris, a thousand times no. The woman, like you, is already dead. Because I hate her so much, the whore of the devil Cantwell, her death will be infinitely more terrible than your own. Think yourself lucky.”

  Azar backed toward the door. “I will not see you tomorrow, but perhaps the day after that I will put you out of your misery. Pray that I do, Norris. Pray that I do.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Cory Cantwell called Pete Kennedy at the motel and told him what Jacob Sensor had said about the terrorists’ planned attack on the Willamette and the countermeasures he’d put in place.

  “The Air National Guard base at 0700 hours on the eighth,” Kennedy said. “We’ll be there.”

  “We mention Sensor’s name and they’ll let us through,” Cantwell said. “Pete, you’ll make a detour and pick me up at the hotel.”

  “You’re going with us?”

  “Sensor ordered me to stay put,” Cantwell said. “But he can go fly a kite. I want to be in the Willamette with the rest of you.”

  “Cory, do you think that’s wise? You still haven’t recovered from your wound.”

  “I’ve recovered enough. The pain isn’t any worse than a bad toothache.”

  “Then it’s bad,” Kennedy said. “From what Sensor says, this is a major operation, and it could get rough. We could end up in a firefight.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Cantwell said. “My mind is made up. It’s what I want to do.”

  “Then I won’t even try to talk you out of it. Any news of Sarah?” Kennedy said.

  “Nothing new. Sensor says he’s instituted a search, but I don’t believe him.”

  “Hell, she works for him,” Kennedy said.

  “Pete, she’s expendable. As far as Sensor is concerned, we’re all expendable. He wants to be President, and his campaign will piggyback on his glorious defense of the Willamette against the terrorist hordes.”

  “Cory, if you need us to find Sarah, then to hell with Sensor’s grab for glory. We’ll skip the Willamette and come to your help.”

  “No, Pete, we’ll do as Sensor ordered. If I can’t find Sarah, four more people searching the city for her won’t help. And she’s a brave, smart woman. She might save herself.”

  “I hope so,” Kennedy said. “Cory, maybe it’s best you not stay in the Hilton. I doubt that the terrorists will return now they have Sarah, but it might be better if you hole up somewhere else for the next couple of days.”

  “Her kidnappers know they can contact me here,” Cantwell said. “I’d better remain where I am.”

  “The cops?” Kennedy said.

  “Sensor wants no police involvement. He says Sarah’s abduction is entirely our baby. Anyway, I don’t think the Portland police would have any better luck than I’ve had.”

  Kennedy said, “Cory, if there’s anything I can do . . . anything at all . . .”

  “Just be at the airport as scheduled, Pete.” He managed a slight smile. “With me in the back seat.”

  “You can depend on me,” Kennedy said. Then, “Cory, I hope you find Sarah.”

  “Me too,” Cantwell said. “Me too.”

  * * *

  Cory Cantwell stared at the hotel phone, willing it to ring. He’d settle for any news of Sarah, even if it was only another terrorist demand. He had to know if she was still alive and well.

  “Where are you, Sarah?” he whispered aloud. “Where the hell are you?”

  The phone didn’t ring, and there was no answer to his question. Outside the wind tossed a scattering of raindrops against the window, and in the hallway, a cart rattled softly, a room service dinner on its way to someone . . . maybe a couple.

  The walls closed in on Cantwell, compressing his worry and loneliness to a tight ball in his stomach. His shoulder ached, and he tried to work it in a circular motion. He found no relief, only an intensifying of the pain, and quickly stopped.

  Cantwell stepped to the window and pulled back the curtain. Out there in the brightly lit city, Sarah might be held in a dark room. Maybe hurt. Maybe abused. Maybe scared. Maybe calling out for him to come to her. Maybe dead.

  That last thought was too much to bear. Cantwell’s head bowed and his shoulders slumped. A man at the end of his tether. Defeated, lost in a gloomy tunnel of despair with nowhere to turn and no end in sight.

  CHAPTER 50

  Mrs. Palmer brought Sarah Milano breakfast, but hardly said a word and left in a hurry.

  Sarah wondered at the woman’s curtness, not even a smile. Does she know something I don’t? Bacon, eggs, sausage links, and toast. Am I eating my last meal?

  Sarah didn’t dwell on those questions. The possible answers could be very bad for her morale.

  She took a shower, dried off with a couple of clean towels, and dressed again in her jeans and T-shirt. Then, once she’d figured how the remote worked, she watched a PBS show on the secret life of emus and then the local news. There had been a gang shooting, a child was missing from home, and there was no more rain in the forecast.

  At midday, very early Sarah thought, Mrs. Palmer returned with her lunch tray. The woman laid the tray on top of the dresser and then whispered, “They’ve all gone with Mr. Azar.”

  Sarah caught on quickly. “Where is the guard?” she said.

  “He stopped off at the bathroom and told me to wait. But I had the key and brought the tray anyway.” Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper again. “If you want to escape from here, now is the time to do it.”

  Was this a diabolical trap? A new form of torture thought up by Azar?

  “Why are you doing this?” Sarah said.

  “I heard the guard laugh and tell another man that you were a prisoner, not a guest,” Mrs. Palmer said. “He said terrible things about what would happen to you that for shame I dare not repeat.” She darted a fearful glance at the door, then added, “I’m a good Christian woman, and I will not see a young lady like you held against her will . . . and . . . and raped.”

  “Bless you, Mrs. Palmer,” Sarah said.

  “Look under the napkin,” the woman said. “I found that ugly thing here a long time ago and hid it so it would never be used. But God forgive me, maybe you can use it.”

  Sarah lifted the napkin and revealed a heavy brass knuckle duster, four rings and a rounded palm grip, designed to damage tissue and fracture bones on impact. Used correctly, it was a fearsome weapon, and Sarah overcame her initial revulsion and realized that it was her only hope. She picked up the brass knuckles and slipped her fingers through the rings, aware of the fact that she’d never punched another human being in her entire life. Could she do it now, when her own life was at stake? Butterflies fluttering in her belly, she hoped she could.

  “He’s coming,” Mrs. Palmer said. “Oh, be careful, Miss Milano. I’m so scared.”

  “That makes two of us,” Sarah said.

  The guard stopped at the door, looked inside, and then stepped into the room. “Mrs. Palmer, what’s going on here?” he said. “Do you have the key?”

  Mrs. Palmer handed over the door key. “This one is a picky eater,” she said.

  Sarah pretended to be angry. “I don’t eat bacon and sausage,” she said.

  “Then leave it,” the guard said. “Mrs. Palmer, take the tray away.”

  The guard wa
s a young man of medium height and build with a vague accent, Middle Eastern Sarah supposed. There was black stubble on the man’s chin, her target area. What she was about to do should never happen to a fellow human being. Then, a quick, angry thought . . . the man had talked about her being raped and raped again, and he’d laughed about it. He didn’t deserve any consideration or pity. The guard turned his head slightly to watch Mrs. Palmer pick up the tray and, putting her shoulder into it, Sarah swung at him. She was not a small woman, and she was strong, and the blow from the brass knuckles was devastating. She was sure she heard bones break as the metal rings smashed into the left side of the guard’s chin. The man groaned and dropped to his knees. Sarah swung again, this time crashing into his head behind his ear. It was enough. The guard fell on his belly and lay still.

  “Is he . . . is he . . .” the black woman said.

  “Probably,” Sarah said. “I hit him pretty hard.” She threw the brass knuckles into a corner.

  “Oh, God help us,” Mrs. Palmer wailed.

  Sarah rolled the man onto his back. Strands of drool trickled from his lips, and she could find no signs of life. Quickly, Sarah searched the guard’s pockets and found a set of keys. He had a Ruger LCP .380 in a shoulder holster, and she removed the pistol and stuck it into the waistband of her jeans.

  “Mrs. Palmer, we have to rescue Mike Norris,” she said. “Do you have the key to his room?”

  “It’s with the guard’s keys,” the woman said. “But the man is chained to the wall and only Mr. Azar has the key to his wrist shackles.”

  “We have to free him somehow,” Sarah said. She jangled the keys. “Lead the way, Mrs. Palmer. God help us, we have it to do.”

  The woman looked at the man on the floor. “What about him?”

  “He’s dead,” Sarah said. “There’s nothing we can do for him.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Mrs. Palmer said, horrified, her hand to her mouth.

  CHAPTER 51

  Mike Norris sat up in his cot when the door opened and Sarah Milano and Mrs. Palmer stepped inside. “To what do I owe this honor?” he said.