Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

“Yeah, I know. So how do you want me to kill you?”

  Kharrazi pointed the Beretta at Silk’s chest, “You are already beginning to bore me to death.”

  The man laughed. “Hey, that’s a good one, Shorty.” Then, he seemed to turn serious. “Of course someone your height, I guess a gun is mandatory, isn’t it?”

  Kharrazi hesitated at the insult and was startled to see the man use the moment to rush toward him with a look of determination on his face. Kharrazi actually backpedaled as he quickly fired shots with his automatic, including one in the neck and one to the head. Still the man kept coming into the onslaught until his bullet-ridden body limply wrapped itself around Kharrazi’s frame like a drowning man.

  As his life rapidly slipped away, the man seemed to be frisking Kharrazi’s body; he groped Kharrazi’s torso until one hand weakly found the knife tucked inside his ankle holster. Fighting until the bitter end, Kharrazi thought.

  Kharrazi held the Beretta inches above the man’s head, but didn’t feel the need to waste another bullet.

  It sounded like the man said, “See you soon,” as he slipped down Kharrazi’s legs and crumpled to the ground by his feet.

  Kharrazi stood there in the still night air amazed at the man’s tenacity. He checked the man’s hands to find them empty. He felt for a pulse and found none. Kharrazi grinned at the corpse. “You were a brave soldier, Mr. Silk. Almost as brave as Rashid Baser.”

  * * *

  The tension inside of the four cement walls was palpable. The timer ruthlessly beamed its diminishing red numbers, unfazed by the frenzy of Marines and FBI agents running up and down the cracked stairs with wires dangling from every appendage.

  Kelly stripped the insulation from the tip of the wires and handed them individually to Rutherford at a rate of two a minute. Carl Rutherford was drenched with sweat even though the cool night air fed steady breezes through the open basement doors. He quivered slightly as he wrapped each wire around the positive pole protruding from the top of the small battery. A chorus of headlights poured into the basement from the parked cars just outside of Kharrazi’s private quarters. Each time Rutherford attached a wire, a new set of headlights came to life along with a hesitant flicker from the rest of the group.

  Nick and Matt found themselves splitting their attention between Rutherford and the small TV set atop a shaky wooden table against the wall. The monitor showed an empty podium with the Presidential Seal attached. Newscasters interviewed supposed terrorist experts and retired generals as the nation impatiently awaited President Merrick’s press conference.

  “Why is it,” one female newscaster asked, “that there isn’t a consensus on the subject of this speech?”

  An unseen political pundit replied, “Well, this is still Washington, Susan, and at this late hour, so close to the White House missile deadline . . . I’m sure the President is making certain that every option is explored before making any decisions. There’s even some speculation that he is negotiating right now with Kemel Kharrazi himself trying to find a way out of this catastrophic event. Although that has not been confirmed.”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “Good thing they have specialists available, otherwise we could be misinformed.”

  A bead of sweat dripped from Carl Rutherford’s nose as the timer passed the five-minute mark. Nick wondered if the brightness of the LED display should be fading while the battery drained. Since the display didn’t seem to lose any intensity, he didn’t ask. He was afraid of the answer.

  “Hey, Carl,” Matt said, reading Nick’s mind. “Maybe you should speed it up a little. Those headlights still seem pretty strong.”

  Rutherford gave him a dirty look, then nodded to Kelly to quicken the pace.

  McKenna came in with a stranglehold on a thin man, his arm twisted behind his back causing a painful expression. The man wore khaki fatigues and made no eye contact as McKenna shoved him into the room toward Nick.

  “You know this asshole?” McKenna said, pulling up on the man’s contorted arm.

  “Hasan Bozlak,” Matt said. “Yeah, we know him.”

  McKenna grasped a handful of hair and snapped Hasan’s head back. “Why don’t you see if he knows anything? He doesn’t seem to understand English.”

  In plain English, Nick said, “Where is it, Hasan?”

  Hasan stared up at the ceiling. McKenna looked confused.

  “The tunnel,” Matt said. “Where?”

  This got Hasan to shoot a glance at the wall behind Kharrazi’s desk. It was ephemeral, and if Nick weren’t looking for it, it would have easily gone unnoticed. It was the only wall in the room with any covering. Nick slammed his hand up against the wood paneling and banged around until he found the dead spot. He motioned to a Marine who hammered the butt of his M-4 into the composite panel and quickly broke through. Matt peeled back the flimsy section exposing the dark opening of a tunnel. A couple of Marines looked at Nick expectantly.

  “Don’t,” he said. “It’ll be full of traps and probably explosives.” Nick faced Hasan. “How long has he been gone?”

  Hasan grimaced as McKenna continued the pressure on his arm. Nick could hear the ligaments pop in the soldier’s elbow.

  “Maybe he knows about the traps in the tunnel,” McKenna said.

  “No,” Matt said. “He wouldn’t know. The traps were set for him more than they were us.”

  McKenna looked at the two FBI agents with disdain. Information was the FBI’s main currency and McKenna seemed uncomfortable converting his military energy into reconnaissance. He tightened his hold on Hasan and said, “So what do you want with this guy?”

  “Leave him with the others,” Nick said. “He’s already given us more information than we could ask for.”

  “Under a minute,” someone said. And the room became still.

  Rutherford and Kelly were the only ones moving. Everyone else just stared at the timer, their peripheral vision taking in the presidential podium. Still vacant.

  Suddenly the camera switched to an outside shot of the White House. In the bottom right of the screen a timer counted down to midnight. Nick could practically see network executives rubbing their hands together with glee over the impending disaster. He felt like a spectator at a NASCAR race just after a severe oil spill. He found it hard to believe anything less than a catastrophe could occur.

  Outside, the car lights flickered.

  “Hey, Carl,” Matt said. “How much voltage does it take to set off that detonator?”

  Rutherford furiously worked the wires with a renewed sense of urgency. “A volt, maybe two.”

  Kelly stood next to Rutherford with a handful of primed wires; his neck craned toward the open basement doors, exasperation etched on his face.

  “Thirty seconds,” the same voice said.

  “Don’t you have a voltage meter, Kelly?” Matt asked.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah,” Kelly said, stammering to gather his thoughts. He reached into his black bag, then turned up to Matt. “You really want to know?”

  Matt looked at Nick.

  Nick shook his head. “No point.”

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  Matt snapped, “Shut the fuck up. We can see the timer.”

  The last ten seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. The intensity of the car headlights seemed worn down, but the timer appeared unfazed by the effort.

  With five seconds remaining, Rutherford grabbed a handful of wires and desperately jammed the entire mess up against the battery pole.

  Jennifer Steele found her way next to Matt and clutched his hand.

  McKenna still had a stranglehold on Hasan Bozlak, yet Hasan’s face was now serene.

  In the stillness of the basement, Nick noticed the TV journalists had learned something from sports announcers when an astonishing event was about to occur. They were completely silent. This gave the room a muted feel. It seemed as if the entire world was now holding its breath.

  Kelly dropped his head in anguish.

  Nick fixated on
the red numbers tumbling toward the inevitable.

  When the number three flashed it appeared to stutter. Nick couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to take a moment before the number two hiccupped to life.

  Steele gasped as the number two hung there, suspended in time. Three seconds had passed, four seconds, five seconds, and yet the number two remained frozen. Its neon edges crackled with an ominous foreshadow. Rutherford seemed paralyzed. He held the handful of wires against the batteries pole, his mouth pursed shut, his nostrils sucking in air.

  Then, an eerie darkness fell over the room. The TV and the lamp on the desk became the only sources of light. The stream of headlights had extinguished in unison, leaving everyone in shadows. Nick stared at the dim number two for an exhaustive minute of pure agony until it too finally surrendered to the darkness, its neon tracing forever etched into Nick’s brain like a phantom pain.

  “Two seconds,” someone mocked.

  A nervous chuckle.

  A stifled snicker.

  Jennifer Steele giggled.

  Nick would always remember Matt’s face still staring down at the impotent timer, not ready to pronounce it dead. When their eyes finally met, Matt had Steele tucked into his shoulder for a relief cry. He winked at Nick.

  A smattering of applause began to bubble into a cheer. Starting as a whisper the Marines began to chant, “USA . . . USA.” In only seconds the entire basement swelled into a cry that would make an Olympic Stadium jealous. “USA! USA!”

  Carl Rutherford was a statue. His hand was still frozen to the battery like he had his finger in the hole of a dike.

  Nick waved at Rutherford. “It’s okay, Carl,” he yelled over the din. “It’s over.”

  Rutherford slid to the floor. His entire body sagged from the release of tension.

  Suddenly, Nick felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He stepped into the adjacent room to escape the noise. A smile broadened his face as he anticipated President Merrick calling to congratulate him.

  He pushed the button and put the phone to his ear, “Bracco.”

  The voice that came back at him seared a hole in his gut as if he’d swallowed a capful of pure acid.

  “Remember me?” Kemel Kharrazi said.

  Chapter 39

  The cheering and excitement of the night spilled into the communications room where Nick stood alone, his right hand pressed to his ear, straining to hear the phone. Kharrazi must have heard the commotion.

  “There is some reason for enthusiasm?” Kharrazi said.

  There was a pause while Nick considered where Kharrazi was calling from. He heard the sound of a car engine, something large, like a pickup truck. Kharrazi was on the move as he spoke. He hadn’t heard the news about the detonator though and this little piece of knowledge gave Nick the slightest advantage.

  “The guys are throwing a little party,” Nick said. “Why don’t you stop by and I’ll buy you a drink?”

  “What is there to celebrate?”

  “It’s Friday night.”

  Kharrazi didn’t seem to appreciate the coyness. There was silence while they played cat and mouse. Nick relished the quiet, but every minute that passed put more distance between him and Kharrazi. He shut his eyes tight and listened carefully, using all of his skills to garner any clue as to the terrorist's location. He could hear the suspension of the vehicle jostle continuously, suggesting that Kharrazi was not driving on a paved road.

  Kharrazi must have seen little benefit with the one-sided discussion. “I just called to say goodbye. I’m sorry I missed your little invasion.”

  “The White House is still standing,” Nick said, trying to prolong the conversation.

  There was a pause while Kharrazi dealt with the blow. “That is the reason for all the noise?”

  “Yes.”

  Kharrazi was quiet. He was probably calculating exactly how overdue the missiles were.

  “We disarmed the detonater,” Nick informed him. “There will be no fireworks tonight.”

  “Do not confuse this fact with success, Mr. Bracco. Americans will still die tonight. The attacks are not finished. And neither am I.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “We are still very much alive and well.”

  “Who are you kidding, Kemel? Our count has your little group of terrorists down to sixteen. Tansu is dead and we have Hasan. What’s left are bottom-of-the barrel flunkies. Without you to guide them, their biggest accomplishment will include letting air out of tires and pouring sugar in gas tanks.”

  “What makes you think I won’t be there to guide them?”

  “Because I’m going to find you first.”

  “Mr. Bracco, such bravado for a desperate man. You sound like another gentleman I met tonight. His name was Silk.”

  Nick’s eyes popped open. With everything that had happened, he’d lost track of Silk. If Kharrazi was still alive, that only meant one thing.

  “He cried for mercy like a little baby,” Kharrazi beamed. “Groveled right up until his last breath. Of course, I made certain he suffered greatly.”

  Nick felt bile surge from his stomach. He swallowed several times to maintain control.

  “I thought you would come yourself,” Kharrazi said, “but perhaps you don’t have the constitution for such a confrontation.”

  Nick had sent Silk on a suicide mission and Kharrazi was going to layer the guilt like a third coat of paint. He’d exposed a nerve that Nick knew would always remain raw. Nick strangled the phone so tight, his fingers were cramping. “I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch.” Nick said. “I’m going to find you and rip your heart out of your chest.”

  “There, there, Mr Bracco. I think you’re losing your temper.”

  Nick’s throat was tightening up so much it was hard for him to take a normal breath.

  Kharrazi’s voice came smiling over the airwaves, “This is just the beginning, Mr. Bracco. You and your family will never be safe again. I‘ll make it my eternal quest.”

  And right there Nick knew he was right. Nick would either have to find him, or have Julie wrapped up in a safe house the rest of her life. His clenched jaw began to ache.

  Suddenly, Matt was beside him holding the GPS monitor and pointing to the screen. Nick saw a green dot slowly blinking right to left across the LED display.

  Nick tried to remember where he’d left the locater. The last time he’d seen it, Silk had planted it on the Sheriff’s truck. He’d told Silk to remove the miniature locater, but he didn’t remember Silk giving it back to him.

  “Are you there?” Kharrazi asked.

  Nick barely heard him. His mind raced. He remembered Silk’s last comment. “I screw up, you gotta track this guy down and finish him off for me.” Silk must have kept the device so Nick could track him. Silk had known he wouldn’t come back, and in the deep recesses of his mind, so did Nick. He chewed on his lip and forced himself to keep it together. He needed to draw information from Kharrazi.

  “Where is Silk now?” Nick forced out.

  Nick sensed Matt go rigid with the question. Nick held up a hand to calm him.

  “Precisely where I encountered him. His body is spread out a bit, though, a finger here, an ear there. I would not look with both eyes open unless you had to.”

  Nick cringed. His stomach went through acute spasms. He learned something, however. Kharrazi didn’t have Silk with him, so it wasn’t Silk who was moving across the display. Nick examined the GPS screen again and suddenly realized who he was looking at. Somehow, Silk had managed to plant the device on Kharrazi. And Kharrazi wasn’t aware.

  “Where are you going?” Nick asked, trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement.

  “I believe I’ll go visit another relative of yours. See how many pieces I can make with that corpse.”

  Why was Kharrazi goading him? What was Kharrazi doing wasting time like this? It was just like the balloon filled with harmless powder. Kharrazi was utilizing every minute, stalling Nick for even the tiniest delay. H
e was close to his escape and if Nick didn’t leave soon, Kharrazi would disappear into the night like he’d done countless times before.

  “By the way, how is your wife?” Kharrazi jabbed.

  “Fuck you!” Nick exploded and threw the cell phone against the cement wall, shattering it into pieces as if it were glass. Matt watched. The celebration in the next room didn’t skip a beat.

  Nick found himself panting. He sucked in small doses of air and wiped moisture from his brow.

  Matt held up the GPS device. “Who is this?”

  Over Matt’s shoulder, Nick saw Jennifer Steele peeking out of the doorway. Matt turned and waved for her to go back.

  “No,” Nick said. He gestured to Steele. “Come here.”

  Steele approached warily. “What’s going on?”

  “How familiar are you with the surrounding area?” Nick asked.

  “Very,” Steele said. “There’s a path I take to run every morning that goes right through here.”

  “Good,” Nick said, spreading out the satellite photos on the same end table he’d used with Silk. He opened his hand and Matt gave him the GPS device. Nick pushed a button and activated the longitude-latitude grid which sprang to life around the border of the screen. He put his finger on the photo that matched the exact plotting on the GPS screen.

  “Do you know where this is, compared to where we are?” Nick asked Steele.

  “Yes. It’s approximately five miles from here.”

  “What’s over there?”

  Steele thought about it for a moment. “Not much. There’s a dirt road that meanders through that way, but other than that—”

  “Where does the road go?” Nick said, urgency in his voice.

  “Who is it, Nick?” Matt said. “Who is the GPS tracking?”

  Nick couldn’t do what he wanted without Matt and Steele. He either came clean or spent too much time fighting their inquisitions. He looked at his partner. “Silk is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Kharrazi killed him. Somehow Silk slipped the tracking chip on Kharrazi before he died.”

  Matt stared at the device. “That son of a bitch.” Then a surprised smile came across his face. “We’ve got him. We’ve got the bastard. Let’s get McKenna and—”