One Night in Tehran: A Titus Ray Thriller

by Luana Ehrlich

  Suddenly, my attention was drawn to the opposite end of the alley where I spotted Nikki making her way toward me. Her gun was drawn, but she was holding it at her side. When she saw me, she tilted her head in the direction of the garage, lifting her gun slightly to indicate she would cover me while I went to look in the window.

  As she stood facing the garage, she positioned herself against the neighbor’s fence. It wasn’t the ideal location because her back was to the alleyway, but there weren’t any other good spots where she could keep her eye on both the house and garage at the same time. This bothered me, but since I’d planned to do the whole thing without her anyway, I didn’t really think it mattered.

  As it turned out, it mattered a lot.

  I hurriedly covered the distance from the fence to the garage and slipped along the west wall until I came to the window. Using my free hand, I brushed aside the accumulated dirt and grime and looked inside. It was dark, and it took my eyes about a minute to adjust so I could see the vehicle parked inside.

  It wasn’t the Nissan.

  It was a Chevy Malibu.

  I couldn’t tell what model it was, but I didn’t stay long enough to find out. At that moment, all I wanted to do was to leave the area as quickly as possible.

  I hadn’t been out of sight for more than a couple of minutes. As I rounded the corner of the garage, I was expecting to see Nikki exactly where I’d left her.

  However, she wasn’t there.

  Instead, she was on the east side of the garage, where Shahid was holding a dagger to her throat.

  I aimed my gun directly at his head. He was no more than ten feet away, and it was going to be an easy shot.

  “Drop your gun,” he said in heavily accented English, “or I’ll cut her throat.”

  Now that we were face to face, I could see his nose had been broken at least twice. And, because of the way Farah had been murdered, I also knew he had a lot of skill with the dagger. While I was certain he would die if I shot him, Nikki might never recover from the damage he could do to her in the seconds before I sent him off to his hellish fate.

  I raised both my hands—my pistol in the right one—and, while never taking my eyes off him, I slowly bent my knees and placed my gun on the ground just a few feet from where Nikki had dropped her own handgun.

  As Shahid pressed the knife further into Nikki’s flesh, he demanded, “Open up the garage door.”

  The dilapidated wooden door was an old-fashioned manual type. I grasped the metal handle and pulled it up on its rollers. It made a loud, grinding noise as I did so.

  Shahid ordered, “Step back.”

  I did as I was told and stepped away from the door.

  I didn’t fully understand his actions until I saw him maneuvering Nikki toward the car.

  Then I clearly saw he intended to take her as his hostage.

  That was never going to happen.

  I spoke rapidly to him in Arabic, “You’re making a big mistake by taking her. I’m much more valuable to you.”

  He stopped in his tracks and studied me for a moment.

  “Who are you?” he finally asked me in Arabic.

  “I’m a federal government investigator,” I replied, “and I know you killed Farah Karimi.” I gestured toward Nikki. “She’s only a civil servant. I’m worth more to you than she is.”

  I wasn’t sure he was going to buy this lie. It would depend on how much he knew about the way our government worked. The scenario I had drawn for him was plausible only in the Middle East where wealthy government officials were regularly kidnapped and later used as bargaining chips.

  Nikki was handling herself well during my brief dialogue with Shahid—she wasn’t struggling—but her eyes were clouded over with fear. I had no doubt she must have been frustrated at not being able to understand my conversation with the terrorist.

  Shahid sneered at me. “Why would you offer to take her place?”

  “In this country, we value women.”

  He made an ugly guttural sound.

  “Open the trunk,” he demanded.

  For a moment I thought he hadn’t accepted my offer and was about to shove Nikki inside. Instead, he ordered me to take everything out of the trunk.

  I removed a couple of smelly rags, a red gasoline container, some white cord, and two heavy duffel bags. I placed them all on the garage floor.

  He motioned toward the duffel bags. “Throw those in the back seat.”

  I opened the door behind the passenger seat and threw the duffel bags inside. For a brief moment, I wondered if they contained the money Bashir had given him.

  “Turn around.”

  The second I had my back turned, he shoved Nikki against me. He did it so forcefully the impact momentarily stunned me.

  However, I quickly regained my balance and pivoted back toward him. By that time, though, he had already retrieved my gun from the ground and was pointing it at both of us.

  “Get the rope,” he told Nikki. “Tie it around his wrists.”

  Nikki’s breathing sounded labored, and she had difficulty getting the twisted cord undone. When she finally did so, Shahid forced me to place my hands behind my back, while she wound the cord around my wrists and tied the ends together.

  Holding my gun right up to her temple, Shahid stepped closer and inspected the knots. After testing them, he made her tie them tighter.

  When she finished, he motioned toward me. “Now get in the trunk.”

  I maneuvered myself inside, experiencing a brief flashback to being transported across Iran in a similar fashion. Now, however, I was more worried about Nikki’s safety than my own.

  When Shahid grabbed the truck lid, I quickly lowered my head. However, in the seconds before he slammed it shut, I saw Nikki throw herself on the ground and dive for her gun.

  At that moment, the trunk banged shut, and I was engulfed in total darkness.

  CHAPTER 29

  Inside the trunk, I could hear several shots being fired in rapid succession. A couple of seconds later, I heard the driver’s side door open and the engine roar to life. Then, the Chevy was put in reverse and backed out of the garage.

  I had to assume Shahid was at the wheel, and as he maneuvered the car through the residential neighborhood streets, I felt certain Nikki was dead.

  However, after a few agonizing moments thinking about her, I tamped down my emotions and looked at the situation objectively.

  Shahid had been very close to Nikki when he’d fired at her, but her action of grabbing the gun had startled him, so there was a possibility—albeit a small one—that he’d missed her.

  Even though I knew her chances of being alive were very slim, I prayed for her in a way I had never prayed for anyone before. At the same time, I worked at loosening the cords binding my wrists.

  Getting my hands free was my only chance of survival because Shahid had made a huge mistake—he’d failed to pat me down before ordering me inside the trunk. While I no longer had a weapon, my iPhone was still in my pants pocket, and if Nikki were still alive, she could use the GPS tracker on it to locate me.

  However, I knew I couldn’t count on that happening. To have any chance of survival, I needed to get to my phone and contact Danny Jarrar before Shahid decided my usefulness to him was over.

  Because Shahid’s role in Farah’s murder had been discovered, it didn’t surprise me a few minutes later when I realized we were on the expressway and headed out of Norman. I assumed he was making his way south to Texas and from there straight to Mexico. I had no doubt his friends in the drug cartels would manage to get him on a plane and home to Syria from there.

  However, after he’d driven for approximately thirty minutes, I felt the car decelerating, and we left the freeway. In another five minutes, after a couple of right turns, Shahid stopped the car, and, within a few seconds, I heard the car door slam.

  Was this it? Was he about to open the trunk and shoot me with my own gun?

  Although I’d rubbed my wrists
raw, I hadn’t been able to free my hands from the cords.

  As I strained to hear what he might be doing, I positioned my legs so I could at least knock him down as soon as he opened the trunk.

  Then, I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited some more.

  It was probably another twenty minutes before I heard him approach the car. Instead of opening the trunk, however, he began tinkering with the rear fender. After a few seconds, I realized he was changing the license plate on the Chevy. Evidently, he’d stopped somewhere and stolen some plates.

  Suddenly, I had hope.

  Shahid had to believe Nikki was alive, and she had alerted the authorities. Otherwise, why would he be concerned about the car’s license plate?

  As he struggled to attach the plates, I heard him cursing in Arabic.

  Finally, after several minutes, he pounded on the trunk a couple of times. “The woman is dead,” he said. Then, as if to emphasize his point, he hit the trunk again. “You hear me? She is dead.”

  Yeah, I heard him.

  His words made me more determined than ever to get my hands free, and as he returned to the freeway, I redoubled my efforts.

  I didn’t make much progress.

  Perhaps an hour after he’d switched the license plate, he called someone on his cell phone. He spoke to them in Farsi. His tone was deferential.

  “Reporting in.”

  Several minutes of silence ensued.

  Was he on hold? Was he listening to someone?

  “I had to leave,” he finally said.

  After a few more seconds of silence, I heard him say, “Remaining there would have put the others in jeopardy.”

  Silence again.

  “Yes, I have followed the correct procedure. I have a hostage, and I am in a different car.”

  “On the I-35 highway,” he said, as if answering a question. “The next town is Gainesville, Texas. I will be at the camp in forty minutes.”

  There was a long pause before his next response, and, for several moments, I thought he might have disconnected the call, but then I heard him say, “Yes, I understand. It must be done. I will make the sacrifice.”

  The conversation ended.

  About five minutes later, after concentrating my efforts on just my right wrist, I felt the knots loosen.

  At last, I was able to free my right hand and then the left. Both wrists were bloody and raw, but I hardly noticed. All I could think about was getting to my phone.

  Once I’d maneuvered myself into a position where I could remove it from my pocket, I hit the mute button and texted Danny a terse message.

  “Text me ASAP.”

  I heard from him immediately.

  “With FBI. Tracking u.”

  “Why?”

  “Nikki called.”

  Nikki was alive!

  Danny texted: “Status report.”

  “Locked in trunk. Stopping 40 minutes.”

  “Destination?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Hostiles at destination?”

  “Unknown.”

  “U hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Ten minutes out.”

  “Nikki?”

  “In surgery. Hang in there.”

  As if I had any other choice.

  While I was glad to hear Nikki was alive, my emotions were tempered by the fact she was in surgery. However, I reminded myself surgery probably meant she had a good chance of surviving her wounds.

  Nikki had already proved herself to be a fighter, and I took comfort in that. I also prayed.

  Determined to have my own fighting chance, I felt around the perimeter of the trunk, searching for anything I could use for a weapon. I tried to be as quiet as possible. The last thing I wanted was for Shahid to realize my hands were no longer restrained.

  As I felt into the crevasses at the edges of the trunk, I hesitated to use my iPhone as a light source because I didn’t want to run the battery down. But when I came across a short piece of plastic, I switched it on and took a quick peek to see what I’d discovered.

  It turned out to be a piece of green plastic in the shape of a cylinder. It was about twelve inches long and a quarter-inch thick. One end looked as if it had been broken off from something, and that was the part that interested me.

  It was sharp and pointy.

  The car slowed slightly and traffic noise picked up. I knew we must have arrived in Gainesville. Within seven or eight minutes, Shahid had passed through the town, and we quickly picked up speed again.

  Since I no longer had to concentrate on getting my hands free, and I had a weapon—or the semblance of one—I started thinking about Shahid’s phone conversation.

  From Shahid’s responses, it sounded as if the person on the other end of the line had some type of authority over him. Not only had Shahid sounded intimidated by the person, he had also used a unique Farsi word for reporting, a word used when a soldier was giving operational details to his commanding officer.

  I also considered the implications of Shahid referring to the place where we were going as a “camp.” As brazen as it sounded, it was entirely plausible Hezbollah had set up some type of training camp in the middle of this Texas ranch country and was using the facility to prepare recruits for operations inside the United States.

  Locating the camp outside of Gainesville made a lot of sense. The larger neighboring town, Denton, was home to two big universities. Large ethnic groups being seen together wouldn’t have seemed unusual, and, as in Norman, Arabic students living together wouldn’t have drawn any undue alarm.

  The most troubling aspect of Shahid’s conversation, though, was what he’d said about being a sacrifice.

  Islamic jihadists making sacrifices tended to create gruesome headlines.

  Once again, the car slowed. However, this time, traffic noise decreased so I realized we were exiting the freeway.

  After stopping for a moment, Shahid turned the car west. The ride wasn’t as smooth as the freeway; it was more like a secondary road than a highway. I estimated the car’s speed at around fifty.

  We drove for almost thirty minutes.

  I got another text from Danny.

  “More intel?”

  “Nothing.”

  “FBI needs to assess. Stall at destination.”

  “Will do.”

  “Clothes?”

  For a few seconds, I was puzzled by his question. Then I understood he was afraid I might be mistaken for a hostile if the environment went hot, especially if the Feds didn’t know how I looked or what I was wearing.

  Was “census taker” a good enough description for me?

  “Jeans. Blue shirt.”

  “Five minutes out.”

  I found myself hoping the FBI were quick assessors because I wasn’t waiting for them if an opportunity presented itself for me to take Shahid down.

  We had travelled on the secondary road for about ten minutes when Shahid suddenly made a sharp left turn. The car skidded a bit as we hit what sounded like a gravel road. About a mile later, he slowed, took a right turn, and stopped the car.

  I waited with my plastic weapon in hand and reminded myself to breathe.

  CHAPTER 30

  Shahid didn’t get out of the car immediately. His behavior worried me, and I listened intently for any voices nearby. I heard nothing.

  Several minutes went by.

  Then I heard Shahid mumbling something in Arabic. It sounded like a prayer to Allah.

  Finally, he opened the car door.

  I knew his key fob had an automatic trunk release, so I was prepared to move as soon as I heard the click of the latch. I just prayed my injured leg would cooperate.

  Suddenly, the trunk lid flew open.

  I sprang forward, jabbing the pointed piece of molded plastic straight through Shahid’s left eye.

  It hit him square, blood spurting everywhere, and he doubled over in agony, while I tumbled out of the trunk after him. I wrestled
him to the ground and tried to grab the gun from his hand.

  He was in a lot of pain and cursing at me in Arabic, but he still held on to the gun. When he tried to get to his feet, I delivered a blow to his head that sent him reeling. He finally dropped the gun. It landed next to a Ford pickup.

  As I lunged for it, shots rang out.

  I grabbed the gun and scooted around behind the pickup.

  Bullets were whizzing by my head. They were coming from an old barn located about one hundred yards away. I returned fire, but I knew immediately I was outgunned.

  A white two-story house was off to my left, and I saw Shahid head over there, while I continued to be pinned down by the gunfire.

  Seconds later, I heard a noise behind me.

  I quickly turned and leveled my weapon.

  It was Danny.

  “About time,” I said, lowering my Sig.

  “Is this what you call waiting?” he shouted, aiming his weapon toward the barn.

  “Best I could do.”

  I saw several FBI agents dodging bullets while fanning out across the property.

  “Shahid went inside the house,” I told Danny. “I’m going after him.”

  As he protested, I ran toward the porch, taking the steps in one leap and barreling through the front door of the farmhouse.

  I swept the front room with my weapon and took cover behind the wall separating the living room from the dining room.

  I could still hear shots being fired outside, but the house itself seemed quiet. I crept forward slowly, going from room to room until I knew the first floor was clear.

  Then, I heard someone coming down the stairs.

  I positioned myself just inside the foyer, close to the front door, which gave me a clear view of the bottom half of the staircase. I knew it had to be Shahid, and I was betting he’d found a gun inside the house and was intent on joining the fight outside.