Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2)

by Derek Ciccone

  When we reached the bottom, a piece of paper was waiting for us. Jovana picked it up and read: Therefore strike off their heads and strike off every fingertip of them … 8:12.

  Jovana turned visibly angry, as she crumpled the paper and tossed it unceremoniously to the floor. “These psychos are so bad with interpretation and context, that the only other job they’d be qualified for is cable news.”

  In another time and place I would have laughed.

  “On the wall,” Gwen said, holding her flashlight at an arrow drawn in blood. She then pointed her flashlight down the empty hallway. I looked to Jovana, and hoped she was starting to “feel” her plan.

  At the end of the hallway was what I was expecting, but never would be prepared for. “Oh God,” Gwen said, and held her hand over her mouth. She looked like she was about to puke.

  Jovana went right to the severed head, and picked it up like it was a basketball lying in the driveway. “It’s Junior … Hakim’s son,” she informed.

  She held it up, and I felt he was looking at me—not much different than when we were in that stare-down last night in New York. I don’t normally put much stock in the expressions of the dead, but it didn’t look like this ending came as a total surprise to him.

  Gwen began to recover—as gruesome as it was, it wasn’t Allison. She shone the light ahead, and we saw that the hallway split.

  “Take the one to the right,” Jovana said.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “Because that’s where the head was looking. It was put there to point us where he wants us to go.”

  I’d seen some horrible things on my journeys, but decapitating your own kid to use as a directional marker was seriously cold. Even for someone as deranged as Hakim. And for some reason, this didn’t discourage us.

  Jovana gave the head a final once-over, searching for further clues it might possess. But it must have been just a run-of-the-mill severed head, because she set it back down on the ground, and led us down the hallway.

  This is where Carter would’ve gone with “we’re over our heads here,” but I chose, “We’re getting in pretty deep. Shouldn’t we go back and share this with your CIA buddies?”

  Without missing a stride, Jovana said, “Those guys aren’t CIA.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve never seen them before—that doesn’t mean they aren’t, but there was something off with them. I’m certain they work for Hakim, and their job was to deliver us here.”

  “Why didn’t you say something? Or here’s a thought … maybe not go along with the plot to bury us under this building.”

  “If I’d exposed their cover, we’d be dead.”

  I wasn’t so sure. It seemed that Hakim was pretty determined to meet with us.

  We arrived at the end of the hallway, and were staring at an elevator. In front of it was another gift from our host. It was a hand, which I assume also belonged to Junior. And I knew why it was left here.

  So did Jovana, who picked it up and fitted it in the electronic molding, where the up and down buttons are usually located. It was a hand recognition identification system. The hand triggered a loud beep, followed by the elevator doors sliding open.

  For better, or more likely worse, we stepped inside. Jovana attempted to wipe the blood off her hand, but it was the kind of stain that will stick with you forever.

  There was only one button to push. It wasn’t labeled non-stop trip to the depths of hell, but it might as well have been.

  When we stopped our descent, and the doors opened, we were greeted by another trail of blood. But no sign of human life … or death. No bodyguards, terrorist assassins, or body appendages. This corridor was well lit, and was stainless steel. It struck me as clinical, like a science lab or a medical center. Ironically, there was no carpet.

  We walked cautiously down the hallway, which led us into a cavernous room filled with modern-looking machines. It reminded me of Walter White’s meth-lab on Breaking Bad. The back wall was lined with metal canisters wrapped in plastic. I got the idea they weren’t filled with carpet-cleaning soaps.

  “It’s a chemical weapons factory,” Jovana confirmed my worst fears as we hurried through the hazardous area.

  The room was attached to a warehouse-type room that was full of more canisters, and who knows what else. Rocket launchers? Missiles? There was no sense in slowing down to take inventory—we knew our only chance was to get to Hakim. Since he’d just cut his youngest son into pieces, and spent most of his adult life plotting whatever sick event he had planned, the odds of swaying his mind weren’t exactly in our favor. But at least we had Jovana, and her “when it comes to me” plan.

  The blood trail stopped at an open door. Jovana had us stand back, and took guns into both her hands. She entered, weapons pointed. But no shots were fired.

  Gwen and I followed her in.

  Before us was the man we were looking for, but he was a lot different than I’d expected.

  Chapter 66

  I’d spent enough time in hospitals this past year to recognize that sound. The incessant beeping. There was some music playing in the background, but it couldn’t block it out. Removal of heads didn’t seem to phase Hakim, but this sound unnerved him.

  Hakim was famously reclusive, unlike some of his contemporaries, who made Lauren Bowden seem camera shy. So the last photo of him I could recall—the one used by all the news agencies—was taken about ten years ago. In it, he appeared both vibrant and intimidating.

  But the man before me was gaunt and sickly—likely dying. He’d recently turned sixty, but he resembled a man in his eighties or nineties. He was a hundred pounds, tops, and his once black beard had turned Santa Claus white.

  I just stared at him, as the beeps droned on.

  He smiled back at us from the bed. “It’s ESRD,” he said, matter-of-fact—end stage renal disease. “Don’t look so sad—we all die at some point, it’s what we accomplish while we’re here that counts.”

  His voice was low, but the passion was still evident. His accent was mostly British, mixed with a little eastern Pennsylvania, and a lot of crazy.

  I pulled my eyes away momentarily, and scanned what looked like your typical hospital room. There were no bodyguards present, at least out in the open. Hakim appeared defenseless, and at our mercy, but I got the idea that he still had the upper hand.

  His red eyes—likely due to his disease, and not because he was the devil, although I wasn’t ruling it out—latched on to Jovana. “I see my angel has arrived. You have a knack for appearing when you’re most needed.”

  Gwen and I both shot an angry glance at her.

  “I’ve never seen this man in my life … other than in photos,” she defended.

  “She’s right, we have not had the pleasure of meeting before today. But without her work in Syria, and then in New York, I’m not sure we’d be on the doorstep of immortality.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but unless you want your oxygen cut off, you better watch your mouth,” she shot back.

  Hakim ignored her threat, shifting his attention to me. “And you, Mr. Warner, I must both thank and apologize to you.”

  “Is that why you went through all this trouble to bring us here? Because a card or an email would have sufficed.”

  He released a small laugh, which appeared to take much effort. “I respect a man who can find humor so close to his death. Just as I respect your accomplishments as a journalist—being the first to expose Al Muttahedah, as you did. It was an impressive feat, and it really forced us to raise our level, for which I am indebted—but you must have known that it would eventually cost you your life.”

  “Is that the thank you or the apology?”

  “I do apologize for the treatment you received from some in my organization. It all goes back to when the Americans captured Az Zahir. As you know, he cut a deal to deliver me to my enemies, in return for his freedom. Most think he tipped me off, double-crossing t
he CIA, but the truth was, Qwaui wanted to hand me over, so he could take control. I had no choice but to flee.

  “I told them that I’d gotten word of an impending attack on my life and went into hiding, but never revealed my knowledge of their role in it. So business continued as usual, except that I was forced to keep my location a secret, apart from a trusted few, which didn’t include Qwaui or Az Zahir. And America was the last place anyone would believe I was. It bought me time, but being isolated, with health failing, my power was being challenged more regularly, and my ability to communicate strained. Which brings me to the debacle in Serbia last summer, which is where my apology comes in.

  “I refused to give my blessing to Qwaui’s plan to capture and kill you. He was acting out of revenge, related to your exposing of our organization, but I knew all it would do was bring more unwelcome attention, especially at a time when Huddled Masses was about to launch in the US.

  “But he defied me, claiming it was necessary to force Nora Reign back in line. This was rubbish, of course—Nora could have been dealt with without causing an international incident. So I apologize to you for any harm that was done to you and Mr. Jasper.” He looked to Jovana. “And for your brother. I just hope you can find some solace in that Qwaui and Az Zahir were brought to justice.”

  “What do you mean brought to justice?” I said.

  His focus intensified upon Jovana. “I leaked information to you through contacts and intermediaries. Their job was to make sure that you had access to Qwaui, and provide you safety within Syria. And I knew if you could deliver JP Warner to them, you would be able to gain the type of access you needed to deliver the justice we all sought.”

  “You should have had me killed in the process,” Jovana said, aiming her gun at his beard. “But lucky for you, you will not live long enough to regret it.”

  “I gave you what you wanted,” Hakim shot back. “Plus, it was mutually beneficial. Huddled Masses had just begun in December, and was about to enter its most important stage. The last thing that could be afforded was an internal power struggle, and by removing the enemy within, the path to revolution had been cleared.”

  He left out the part about how, if Qwaui gained control of Al Muttahedah, he would have received the credit for Hakim’s masterpiece. This was as much about ego as it was about war strategy, and had nothing to do with Allah.

  I was getting jumpy. We needed to find Allison and get the hell out of here, before the building was demolished with us inside. But we were at Hakim’s mercy. This was his show.

  “The idea that Mathew would ever lead this organization was ludicrous,” he continued, using Qwaui’s birth name of Mathew Bannon. “He should have been grateful. I took that shy kid from Oxford and turned him into an international legend. But he knew I planned to pass the torch to my blood. That’s why I recently brought my son David into the fold.”

  “And by blood, are you referring to that trail you used to lead us here?” I asked.

  It also got me thinking—there was no way Hakim was capable of killing Junior in his current condition, which meant somebody else did the honors. I took a peek out the open door. Still no sign of anyone. Maybe they heard the place was going to be imploding soon and made a run for it. Which is what we should have been doing.

  Gwen interjected, “It doesn’t surprise me that you’d do something as sick as kill your own son, but I am surprised that he chose to join a man he spoke out so adamantly against. My guess is that he didn’t have a choice.”

  “The man you weep for, Ms. Delaney, was a rapist. He was facing twenty years in prison for what he did to a prostitute—as he would have done to you if I hadn’t intervened. I offered him a chance to join our organization in exchange for the charges disappearing. I saw much of myself in David, and had hoped he would be the one to carry on my work.

  “But he squandered numerous opportunities. His first task was to clean up the damage from the Nora Reign incident, but he worked directly against my instructions, resulting in that spectacle in New York. And when I forbade him to return there, he instead followed his perverted urges tonight, bringing us more unwanted attention. It was as if he was purposely disobeying me, but when I confronted him following his return, I still offered him a final chance—if they repent, and keep prayer, leave their way free to them. But he chose a different path.”

  “Now that he’s gone, who are you going to blame your failures on?” Gwen remained defiant.

  “I am ultimately accountable for the actions of my organization. That is why, after my son’s initial failures, I reasserted my authority. If not for that, I don’t believe your friend Allison would have arrived unharmed, as she did.”

  Gwen’s antennae shot up. “Where is she?”

  “Today is about the big picture, Ms. Delaney. No need to concern yourself with such small details.”

  The look on Gwen’s face … it was like a combination of every time I’d annoyed, irritated, or pissed her off, all wrapped into one, times a thousand. I know Hakim had his terrorist cred to protect, and was trapped in that bed, but if I was him, I’d still try to make a run for it.

  She stepped toward him. “You want to talk about big picture things—how about your breathing, is that big enough for you?”

  Chapter 67

  Jovana grabbed Gwen by the shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. “Not a good idea.”

  “Very astute,” Hakim said. “You are as adept at saving lives as taking them—a rare trait.”

  The question was, what lives were saved? He wasn’t referring to his own—he knew we could end it at any moment, and I got the feeling that’s what he wanted us to do.

  “When this machine is cut off, it will signal the final battle. And the men outside—the ones who made sure you arrived safely—will level this place,” he said.

  “What is it rigged with?” I asked.

  “A diligent reporter like yourself, Mr. Warner, surely noticed the arsenal down the hall. The explosion will launch the gasses into the air like an aerosol. Philadelphia will be hit with devastation, and death will reach far into New Jersey and Delaware. Some will call it the worst chemical attack on American soil, but I would call it a cleansing.”

  “So you plan to go out in style,” I said.

  “I might be leaving this planet, but our work is just beginning. A pre-dated letter has been sent to GNZ, giving Huddled Masses credit for the attack. It will be the moment in which the line has been crossed, and America will be at war with itself—chemical attacks can be particularly unappealing, especially when the photos of the dying children come to light. Sides will be taken, Whiskey Tax will retaliate, and after today’s events, the US government and military will be forced to intercede.”

  The revolution can’t be stopped, I thought. And while I didn’t doubt this place was a big poison-gas booby trap, or that other atrocities were in the pipeline, I knew his “revolution” would fail. History told me so. And I thought I should relay the message.

  “It was a nice touch re-launching the Civil War on April 12. You’re very clever with the history—Fort Sumter, George Washington, Whiskey Rebellion. But doesn’t this really go back to September 11th?”

  His face grew irritated. “9/11 was nothing but a glamour shot by an egomaniac—a lot of collateral damage, but no real objective met! Hard to believe that such small thinking toppled such a large building.”

  I couldn’t believe that at the most defining moment in my life, the Sandra Warner history lessons were actually taking effect.

  “I’m not referring to September 11, 2001. I meant September 11, 1777—the Battle of Brandywine Creek, which took place not far from this very spot. It was a crushing defeat for George Washington’s army, but in retrospect, it turned out to be the key turning point in the war.

  “The loss at Brandywine cleared a path for the British to take Philadelphia, the then-capital. It also forced General Washington to begin the groundwork for a winter retreat, here to Valley Forge. The conditions were hor
rendous, and the stay was most remembered for starvation and the bloody footprints in the snow, since most soldiers didn’t have shoes. But it was these tough times at Valley Forge that galvanized them, and transformed the unit into a fighting force to be reckoned with when spring arrived. And they didn’t stop fighting until their homeland had earned its independence. Do you know what made them stick together in such horrid conditions? It’s that they believed in the cause … so much so that they were willing to die for it.

  “Huddled Masses was a good plan in theory. You understood that the US is dysfunctional internally, but the one thing that will bond us together is being attacked by an outside force. So it was tactically smart to fight from the inside, and recruit Western-type soldiers who would fit in, look like us, act like us.

  “But what they’re lacking is belief in the cause. They might have joined forces because of hatreds they hold toward the United States government, or what we stand for, but you can’t win a revolution fighting against, you have to be fighting for something.

  “Huddled Masses and Whiskey Tax are nothing but mercenaries. And when it came time to sacrifice, there was hesitation. That’s why you had to send the pirates to West Palm to babysit the captain, and make sure he went through with it. And then Nora tossed a wrench into your plan. She’d been specifically recruited by Tino Fernandez to get you that all-important time slot on worldwide television. It would be the catalyst that transformed you from a series of domestic terror events, to a threat for the future of the nation.

  “And speaking of mercenaries, it took me a while to figure out what Tino’s role was in all this. The only cause Tino ever believed in was the career of Tino Fernandez, which made him much like you. And you understood the importance, for better or worse, that media plays in the thinking of Americans. So who better to be your media sock puppet than the hottest name in the industry? This Huddled Masses/Whiskey Tax showdown you created would be the top story every night for the foreseeable future, as the violence and division continued to escalate toward your desired civil war. And Tino would have been scooping everyone on these stories … because he was working for the group that was plotting the events. Just another mercenary pushing his or her own agenda, who didn’t have the will or fight that a revolution requires.