by David Perry
The night was punctuated by a kaleidoscopic array of blue and red lights reflecting off the foliage and tree trunks. Two fire trucks, three police cars, and a HAZMAT vehicle also blocked Jefferson Avenue in both directions. Two fire hoses were aimed at the smoldering truck, dousing it as a string of black smoke wafted skyward.
The first responder wore a tight-fitting, dark blue t-shirt with the Newport News Fire Department’s logo over his left breast. In his peripheral vision, he could see the man’s lips moving. He was speaking to Jason. But the words were muted by the humming in his ears.
“What?” Jason shouted, barely able to hear his own voice.
The paramedic began to roll Jason over. The metal lump under him made Jason push him away. The Colt was still in his waistband. He did not own it and had no license for it.
Jason shoved the first responder. The firefighter looked at him with confusion.
“I’m fine,” Jason shouted.
The EMT held up his hands as if asking, “What the hell?”
“I’m fine.”
“You need stitches on the gash on your forehead and those glass wounds in your shoulder.”
Jason shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not a good idea. We can’t let you drive, sir. That gash on your forehead is deep and the wound in your arm needs medical attention. You may have a concussion.”
Jason glanced at his arm and shoulder. It had been expertly bandaged and wrapped. His hand went to his forehead. Another thick wad of gauze had been placed over his head.
A Newport News uniformed cop climbed onto the back bumper of the rig. The paramedic and the cop exchanged words. Jason could not hear what they were saying.
The cop moved beside the stretcher, switching places with the firefighter. He asked him several questions including his name and address.
“ … what happened?”
Jason shouted several partial truths. “The truck was swerving all over the road. I came up behind him … looked like he was drunk. He finally flipped it. I lost control too.”
“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
Jason shook his head.
“Do you have identification?”
Jason fished out his wallet and handed it to the cop, who read the driver’s license.
“Do you know the gentleman in the pick-up truck, Mr. Rodgers?”
“No.”
“The EMT tells me you do not want to go to the hospital. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
At that moment, a man appeared outside the rear of the ambulance. He wore a black suit and a fedora and flashed a leather wallet and a badge. Jason, again, had trouble hearing. He caught snatches of the conversation between the uniform and the suit.
“I’ll take care of this,” the suit said to the cop.
The man climbed in as the uniform exited.
“Is there someone you want to call?” the man asked, placing a pretend phone to his ear.
Jason nodded. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “My girlfriend.”
He placed his free hand over his ear and listened to Chrissie’s land line ring. It sounded as if it were in the far end of a long tunnel. As it rang, he couldn’t help but notice that the hat on the man’s head looked like a black version of the one worn by Dick Tracy.
It rang ten times. He tried her cell with the same result.
He left messages on both phones for her to call him. He bent his arm to look at his Tissot. The dome was shattered but the second hand was still moving.
Four-twenty-three in the morning.
Where the hell could she be at this hour!
Delilah Hussein forced a reluctant smile. The man was stubborn. This was taking much longer than anticipated.
Back in her seat, she put the green, tapered bottle of Perrier to her mouth, took a sip, then patted her lips with a starched white cloth napkin.
Hammon lay half on his side, bleeding from the two wounds, groaning.
“One piece of information. That’s all I require. I know you’re in a lot of pain. One word will put an end to all of it. Comprenez-vous?” Do you understand?
Hammon’s floral print shirt, soaked in blood, clung to his skin as his chest heaved. He did not respond.
Hussein nodded toward Oliver, her manservant, standing behind Hammon’s Adirondack chair.
Oliver, having returned back to second island, grabbed a fistful of the thinning hair. “Answer the lady! Do you understand?”
The spy managed a feeble nod.
“Good,” Hussein said.
“What … do … you … want?”
“Remember, if you lie to me, you know what will happen …”
“What do … you want?”
“Où se trouve mon fils?” Where’s my son?
Chapter 17
Lisa Rodgers had heard the ring before and knew who it was. She hated that shrill ring—an imitation of a wild cat screeching in a fit of agitated distress. Her husband had a twisted sense of humor.
What kind of trouble is he in now?
Peter could sleep through a hurricane, tornado, and nuclear blast if they hit all at once. He did not flinch when the damned thing began to vibrate, flash, and scream from the nightstand on his side of their massive king-sized bed.
She rolled toward her husband when the third screech of the feral cat pierced the darkness of their Smithfield home. She bent her arm and dug her elbow deep into his rib cage.
The former marine arched his back. “What the hell?” he spat.
“Peter, answer the damned phone.”
She heard him fumbling with the device and the noise stopped.
“Jase, what’s up?”
She lay on her back, staring into the blackness as she listened to Peter’s half of the conversation.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
More listening.
“Okay, give me forty-five minutes,” Peter said as he ended the call.
He swung his legs off the bed as he spoke to Lisa. “I have to go, Jason needs my help.”
“What else is new?”
“Your son,” Hammon gasped, “is being held in a place that cannot be penetrated. He cannot escape …”
“I did not ask for your opinion, Hammon. I just want the location.”
“If I tell you, you will allow me to leave.”
“No. You are going to die. It’s just a matter of how long it will take and in what manner. The longer you refuse, the longer Oliver is going to inflict unspeakable pain on you. If you do tell me now, we will kill you quickly and as painlessly as possible.”
Hammon closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer. Panic invaded his pained expression.
Hussein nodded again. Oliver moved in once more. He tied Hammon’s wide arms to the wooden rails of the chair. Then he tied the neck with a length of rope to back of the chair.
“Last chance,” Hussein declared as if speaking to a disobedient child.
Oliver slammed the butt of his handgun into Hammon’s face. Blood and teeth sprayed. Hammon cried out.
“Où est-il?” Where is he?
Hammon shook his head, blood dripping from his chin.
“Okay,” Hussein said with a tone of resignation.
Oliver removed a long, thick, bladed knife from a scabbard under his pant leg. He forced Hammon’s head to one side, holding it firmly with one hand. Climbing atop him, Oliver forced his knee onto Hammon’s chest for additional stability. The blade descended between Hammon’s right ear and his scalp, resting there. He drew the blade back.
With each stroke, the blade carved back and forth, separating the ear from the spy’s head. Hammon cried out with the intensity and volume of ten men. Blood-tinged spittle plumed forth, hitting Oliver in the face and chest.
Oliver dropped the severed ear, now a ribbon of flesh, to the patio. It hit with a dull, wet splat.
Blood flowed from the wound, down Hammon’s neck, in a wide triangular path. Hammon hyperventilated, trying t
o block out the agony. Tears seeped from his closed eyes. Low, moaning sounds emanated from his throat.
“I … can’t … tell … you,” he whispered. “I don’t … know … where he is.”
Hussein shook her head and frowned.
“You just told me that he’s being held in a facility from which escape is impossible. That tells me you must know where it is. You’re being inconsistent. Your skills as a spy have eroded, Hammon. Either that or the pain is unbearable. I’m guessing it’s the pain.”
“No … more … please …”
“Give me the information I want.”
“How will you know I’m not lying?”
“We have narrowed down the possibilities to a few places. If you give us an off-the-wall answer, we’ll know you’re being untruthful.”
Hussein sat stone still. She’d just lied to Hammon. They had no idea where her son was being held. This was her only hope. She’s was bluffing. Though he didn’t know it, Hammon held all the cards.
“So, shall we continue,” she asked. “Or do you have an answer for us?”
The sinking feeling in Jason’s stomach plunged deeper when he saw the house.
Chrissie’s place, their place, was dark. Not a single light glowed. Something was wrong.
“You need to have those wounds looked at,” Peter said for the third time, nodding toward the blood-soaked bandage plastered to his head.
“Later,” Jason retorted. “This doesn’t look right, Pete. There are no lights on.”
“It is early morning, Jason. She’s probably asleep.”
“She always leaves at least one light on upstairs and downstairs ever since the attacks on the presidents.”
“Maybe she’s out. Didn’t you say you guys had a fight?”
“At this hour? Look, her car’s in the driveway. There’s something wrong. I’ve called her five times. She hasn’t answered. I’m worried about her.” Jason moved to exit Peter’s Hummer.
“I’m going in with you.”
Hammon’s chin rested on his heaving chest. His head bobbed with each respiration. The warm blood from the wound where his right ear once resided flowed over his back and down his chest, seeping into the folds of his neck.
I need to find a way to die!
He had been working his tongue against the back tooth of his lower right jaw for the last few minutes. It served two purposes. One practical, one necessary. The undulations of his tongue against the tooth helped him focus on something other than the agony circling his head and body. The second reason was more vital to his and his team’s mission. He needed to get at the small capsule beneath the false molar.
The right side of his head and face felt as if a blowtorch were searing the skin and muscle. The gunshot wound in his shoulder had a strong, acidic pulse. The incision in his gut stung with pain, occasionally out-screaming the intense agony of the other wounds just to remind him it, too, was still there.
The angry signals ping-ponged back and forth. Vomit welled in his throat. If he wasn’t seated, he would have fallen over. His whimpering and tears were impotent, involuntary reactions to the interminable horror.
He knew the location. But Hammon couldn’t reveal it. Revealing the site had to be avoided at all costs. His colleagues at the CIA were getting close. They were hot on his trail, the trail to discovering what Hammon had done in aiding The Simoon and Hussein’s people in the failed assassination attempts. Hammon held no illusions. These people, like him, were good at what they did. They would eventually have proof that he was the mastermind of the leaked information about the christening in Newport News.
Hammon’s only chance was to locate Delilah Hussein’s base of operations, her compound, so they could apprehend her. Once she was in custody, he could cut a deal to save his life … or at the very least … keep from spending the rest of his life in a federal prison. But that option had evaporated. Hussein had brought him back to her compound. Hammon knew that meant he would not leave the island alive.
Hussein, no doubt, wanted her son back. If she knew his whereabouts, she would try to free him. The Simoon had assets living secretly inside the United States. Hammon’s cause was lost. He was going to die. He needed to die on his own terms … before he revealed the location. There would be no reversal of fortune. Consumed by the sense of duty and a need to have the agony end, he redoubled his efforts to loosen the molar. Hammon needed to keep Hussein from getting her son back.
He sighed heavily and felt his eyes beginning to roll into his skull. He shook his head, willing the vomit and shakiness back.
Unconsciousness would be a welcome albeit temporary relief. It would not be the end. Hussein would not kill him; she would not allow him to find the sanctuary of death until he had given up the location
I need to die now!
The false molar had been hollowed out, stuffed with a cyanide capsule and cemented back into place. With free hands and a small pair of grips, Hammon could have freed the tooth in a matter of seconds. But with only his tongue, it was a gargantuan task. The tip of his tongue was worn with irritation and shook with fatigue.
“Shall we continue, Hammon?”
Hussein’s words sounded as if they were coming through a poorly tuned radio. He felt the manservant move in, then the sharp grip of his thinning hair.
Hammon tensed with the anticipation of another bout of horrible agony.
Chapter 18
Jason tried to insert his key into the deadbolt lock of the front door. The key simply pushed the door open. It slid inward with no resistance. The hair on his neck stood up.
“Shit,” he whispered.
Jason heard Peter’s holster unsnap, followed by his brother racking the slide of his nine millimeter Remington 1911 R1. Jason removed the Colt from inside the waistband of his back.
He pushed the door wide with one finger and stepped in, leveling the gun. Flipping on the light switch, Jason swung the weapon in a horizontal arc.
The brothers secured the first floor in two minutes. Peter then exited through the back door, moving to Chrissie’s Chrysler 300 in the driveway. Jason remained inside, continuing to scan the first floor. Peter returned, shaking his head, indicating that everything outside appeared normal. The pair climbed the stairs single file. Each room along the hallway was searched and cleared. Three minutes later, they arrived at Chrissie’s closed bedroom door.
Jason turned the knob, pushing the door open. It crashed into the closet door. Jason jumped back as Peter pointed his weapon into the darkened room, scanning. Peter nodded and entered followed by Jason. Both had their weapons leveled, fingers on triggers.
Jason noticed the bed, sending a cold shiver through him.
“She never leaves it unmade.”
Peter stepped past Jason and checked the bathroom. “Empty.” Then Peter flipped on the light.
Jason sank onto the bed, put the gun on the disheveled covers and lowered his head into his hands. “What the hell is going on?”
“You said you two had a fight. Maybe she is staying with a friend.”
Jason’s gaze noticed a spot on the scuffed hardwood floor, just off the throw rug. Lowering himself, Jason reached out and touched the small circle. A droplet of crimson clung to his forefinger.
“I don’t think so.”
The spy gasped, intensifying his already unbearable torment. Oliver had approached Hammon and nearly ripped the hair from the rotund man’s head. Hussein grunted one word, “Attendez!” Wait!
She had studied Hammon for several minutes as Oliver held the man’s head upright by his hair follicles. Hussein shrugged and said, “I guess he’s not ready to talk. Go!”
Oliver tilted the bottle over the gaping, blood-soaked head wound. As the liquid dripped from the plastic container, an acrid, acidic stench filled the air. Muriatic acid sizzled, bubbling and smoking over the crimson flesh.
Three seconds later, Hammon’s body tensed as if current flowed through it. His eyes, already closed, squeezed tighter. His l
ips parted in a silent scream. The enormous man’s muscles quivered as the seizure gained momentum.
“Arrêtez!” Hussein shouted at Oliver. Stop!
Several more seconds elapsed. Hammon’s body went limp.
“Merde,” she spat. “I hope you haven’t killed him.”
The ship had been docked for an hour at Pier Five under the massive derrick offloading the metal containers. The whine of motors told Gundersen that the transfers had begun.
Both five-man military teams had been delivered to their drop-off points, one in Chesapeake Bay the other at the mouth of the James River. A ten-ton weight had been removed from the captain’s shoulders. However, a small, uncomfortable pressure still niggled within his chest.
At least the commandos are gone, he thought.
One more delivery lay before him. One he would handle personally. This would be easy compared with the previous two—no guns, no night-vision goggles.
Deep in the stacks of containers still on board the Thor, Gundersen angled his body as he maneuvered among the containers looking for the correct number. He found it.
Above him, the monster derrick’s gears whizzed as the large harness was brought into place over the remaining hundreds of metal boxes. It would be an hour before this container was moved to the yard of the terminal.
Gundersen had checked on this piece of cargo three times every day since they’d left the Ghanian port of Tema on the West African coast, fretting over it like a mother hen hatching a chick. The journey to Norfolk had taken twelve interminable days.
The captain removed his key, the only key for this box, and inserted it into the large padlock. He swung open the doors, stepped inside, and reclosed them, sealing him inside. Producing a small flashlight from his pocket, Gundersen looked at the medium-sized truck squeezed into the interior of the metal container. This shipping container had been specially modified to hold this vehicle and support its needs.
The gentle whirring sound coming from the front of the container and the very cold temperature of the ambient air put his mind at ease. Gundersen shivered. It would be a shame to have the cargo spoil after getting halfway around the world. He had been warned that if the cargo did not remain frozen inside the truck, he would be held accountable. The Norwegian held no illusions about what that meant.