Within seconds, Wafid’s oldest friend, Ibrahim, had removed the pin of his grenade and was poised to launch it into the tunnel.
―
Zima opened her eyes and gasped. I’ve been shot! Oh, my God, I’ve been shot! Her hands moved toward her abdomen. No blood. The thin Kevlar vest she’d ultimately decided to wear under the flight attendant attire had stopped the bullet. Because she was still breathing, she knew the bullet must have been either a ricochet or its velocity must have been slowed down before it hit her somehow.
Where’s my pistol? Where the fuck is my pistol?
Pushing against the acute pain of being shot by an AMD-65, she got to her knees and saw that it was abandoned next to the garbage can she’d used for concealment. A hole was clearly visible through the can, and she deduced that her life had been saved by its metal barrel. A quick look toward the threat and she realized two of the gunmen had been put down.
Mike?
Before she had the time to search for him, she saw one of the two surviving terrorists readying himself to throw a grenade. On instinct she pulled the trigger.
―
Just as his friend’s arm was at the apex of its throw, Wafid saw a spurt of blood shoot from Ibrahim’s wrist amid a spray of bullets. That came from another angle, he realized. There are at least two of them. Where did they come from?
The cooking grenade tumbled out of the terrorist’s mangled hand and dropped to the carpet in front of them. As Wafid watched in horror, Ibrahim picked it up with his uninjured hand and threw it hastily in the direction of the Jetway. He missed, and the grenade exploded between two rows of nearby seats, causing more noise than real damage.
―
Zima! Mike realized.
Zima had joined the fight, and she’d given him an opportunity to change his position. Mike didn’t know if the two remaining terrorists had seen him or not, but he’d learned long ago that whenever shooting was involved, continuing to move was the best option.
Mike scuttled rapidly toward his next hiding place, keeping his pistol pointed toward the threats until he safely reached the adjoining pylon.
Once concealed, Mike inserted a fresh magazine into his firearm. He got his breathing under control, then stretched his neck out from behind the pylon to scan the area.
“Holy shit,” he said under his breath. He saw that one of the police officers had survived the massacre and was sitting with his back against a duty-free shop’s window. He was badly injured and was presently struggling to point his pistol toward the remaining tangos.
Hang in there, buddy.
―
While yelling at the top of his lungs, Ibrahim used his left arm to fire wildly in the direction of one of the infidel shooters. He had seen who had fired at him—a woman! A filthy woman! She would pay dearly for her sins. But when he heard the empty click, he knew he’d depleted his magazine, and he saw his foe step out from behind the pylon she’d been using as cover. He had time to look into her cold eyes before she fired two rounds into his neck, right under his chin.
―
Mike had acquired a new target and was about to pull the trigger when the man collapsed. A spray of blood coming out of the terrorist’s neck confirmed he’d been mortally wounded. They had one more bad guy to stop.
“Where are you?” muttered Mike.
―
Wafid felt the warm spatter of his friend’s blood mist his face.
Crouching behind a row of seats, Wafid saw that a businessman carrying a pistol had stepped away from a concrete pylon. Not by much, but enough for a marksman like him to hit his target. He fired a three-round burst in the white shooter’s direction, sending the businessman crashing hard to the ground on his shoulder. Wafid delivered a spray of bullets in the fallen man’s vicinity, but he had miraculously rolled out of the line of fire and recovered into a crouching position. Who the hell is this guy? Wafid wondered. The last thing Wafid saw was the barrel of the businessman’s gun.
―
Mike fired two quick rounds in the bald-headed terrorist’s direction, hitting him both times in the face and killing him instantly. Where the fuck had he come from? With all the bodies lying on the floor, he had seen the last terrorist too late. The hole in his shattered clavicle was the proof of his misstep.
Breathing was difficult, but he had to keep going. Paul might need him. His bloody shirt was sticking to his back, and the pain in his shoulder was growing by the second. He was rapidly losing focus, and he feared he would soon black out. From the corner of his eye, he saw Zima standing tall and advancing toward the downed terrorists, yelling at everyone not to move.
Mike painfully got up and did the same.
―
Lipton knew he was dying, but worse yet, he knew he had failed. He had failed in avenging his fiancée’s death. He had failed to protect the dozens of innocent victims who were now dead all around him. If he could take out one of those terrorist bastards before he lost consciousness for good, he had to try.
Forcing himself to open his eyes, Lipton saw a man with a gun advancing toward him, yelling something he could not understand. He wasn’t wearing a uniform; he had to be one of the killers. This was his chance. Lipton brought his gun up and pulled the trigger of his Glock 22, firing a single .40-caliber bullet at Sergeant Mike Powell.
Seeing his blurry target collapse, Lipton’s last thought before dying was that he had finally managed to do something right.
CHAPTER 5
Ottawa Via Rail Train Station
A violent headache woke her up. Lisa willed her eyes to open, but they wouldn’t. Her belly was aflame, and she could feel fluids escaping between her legs.
She moaned. Loudly. Painfully.
Melissa! Where’s Melissa?
Lisa felt two powerful hands grab her from under the armpits as two others held her by the ankles.
No! Wait!
“She’s the one?” she heard someone say.
“Yes, that’s her. Careful now, she’s lost a lot of blood,” someone replied as her back was gently put down against something soft.
A stretcher? Her thought was confirmed an instant later when she sensed herself moving backward before being lifted again.
“Close the doors,” the voice ordered.
“Shouldn’t we wait for another patient? We have room for two.”
Yes! We have to wait for Melissa!
“There’s no time, not if we want to save the baby.”
The baby. Chloe!
Still incapable of opening her eyes, Lisa tried to touch her belly. Her arms wouldn’t budge.
She groaned.
“She’s trying to say something!” the voice said.
“Miss, you’ve been in a terrible accident. Do you know where you are?”
Lisa struggled to speak, but her mouth was too dry. She was too weak. She wanted to tell them to stop, to wait for her daughter, for her parents.
They’re inside the terminal!
“Everything will be fine, miss,” the voice continued. “We’re on our way to the hospital. They’ll take good care of you.”
Lisa heard the ambulance’s siren as they left the train station.
“You were lucky to have been outside, miss, ’cause inside the terminal, it’s real carnage.”
Carnage?
A single tear rolled down Lisa’s cheek as she thought about the daughter she was leaving behind.
CHAPTER 6
Canadian Forces Health Services
Montfort Hospital, Ottawa
Lying in her hospital bed, Lisa woke with start. Heart pounding in her ears, she tried to scream. But she was unable to utter a sound. She was paralyzed by fear.
The explosion. The screams. The fire. The taxi. It was all coming back. She had been in and out of consciousness when the paramedics tried to save Chloe. They did every
thing they could, but in the end, it wasn’t enough.
Melissa!
“Lisa, you’re okay?”
She slowly turned her head toward the voice. When her eyes were able to focus, she recognized Major Daniel Caldwell, an emergency military doctor with whom she’d previously worked, standing in the far corner of the room talking to a uniformed police officer.
“Melissa?” Lisa managed to mumble. “Is…Is she okay?”
Major Caldwell quickly dismissed the officer. He then approached her. She could see his eyes were puffy, like he hadn’t sleep for days.
“Lisa,” he started, “I don’t know what to say.”
His watery eyes told her everything she needed to know.
Oh, my God, no! Please, no! Not my Melissa.
Burying her head in her hands, she started to cry.
This can’t be happening. It just can’t. Not to me! Not to us!
Major Caldwell sat next to her. He gave her a comforting hug.
“I’m sorry,” he simply said. “If there’s anything I can do—”
“Michael,” she interrupted him. Does he know? “I want to speak to Michael,” she added in between sobs.
Dr. Caldwell’s face froze. He looked away.
“Daniel, look at me,” she said, her voice pleading, cracking. She grabbed the physician’s arm before continuing. “I want to speak with my husband, please.”
“I…I’m not sure…” Dr. Caldwell started.
“What are you…What are you not sure about, Daniel?”
“It’s your husband, Lisa. He was shot and killed earlier today,” he said with a tremor.
“What? Where? How?” Lisa’s mind was racing. No! “That’s impossible, I spoke to him on the phone.”
“I don’t know, Lisa. The officer just told me a minute ago. There was another terror attack at the airport.” Major Caldwell was shaking his head. “God, I’m so sorry.”
Lisa couldn’t swallow. Her head was spinning.
I’ve lost everything. Everything.
“Leave, Daniel,” she murmured. “Leave me.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he replied.
“Leave me!” she yelled. “Leave me alone!”
Major Caldwell sheepishly walked to the door, looked at Lisa one more time, then closed it behind him as he left the room.
Why was I saved? Why me? Why not Melissa? Why not Chloe? I don’t deserve to live. I don’t want to live.
That was it. She knew what she had to do. Lisa unplugged the IV from her left hand and removed the electrode patches she was wearing on her chest. Immediately an alarm rang, but Lisa shut it off. Gathering her strength, she pushed her legs to the side of the bed and forced herself up. The movement required less of an effort that she would have thought.
I can walk. I’ve lost Melissa and Chloe. My husband’s dead, but I can walk…Except for the bump on my forehead, I’m not even hurt. This is so fucked up!
With a few steps she reached the bathroom. Without hesitation, she punched the mirror. A dozen pieces fell in the sink. She selected the biggest one and placed it on her left wrist, applying just enough pressure to draw blood. Her eyes caught her reflection in the few remaining pieces of mirror left intact on the wall. She saw a broken woman. A broken mother. A shattered human being who had lost what she had cherished the most.
My family.
Suddenly rage took over Lisa’s body, and she screamed at the top of her lungs. “My God, why did you do this to me? Why? Answer me!”
She crumbled to the floor of the bathroom, out of breath. She closed her eyes. She was going to finish it.
There’s nothing left for me here.
She pressed the glass deeper into her flesh, feeling it cutting through her skin as warm tears glided down her cheeks.
But something made her stop. Someone. Melissa.
She could see her daughter crying, begging her to stay alive. To live the life she’d never be able to live.
And that was all it took. Lisa dropped the broken mirror on the floor and started to cry louder and louder, her sobs trailing off into a prolonged high-pitched wail of pain and anger.
She stayed there until a voice startled her.
“I’m no grief expert, Major Powell. But maybe I can help.”
She hadn’t seen or heard the man standing next to the bathroom door enter. She turned her head so she could see him.
“Who are you?”
CHAPTER 7
Canadian Forces Health Services
Montfort Hospital, Ottawa
My name’s Jonathan Sanchez, Lisa.”
Sanchez looked at her. She was seated on the floor of the bathroom with her back against the sink’s cabinet, wearing only a white hospital gown. Pieces of mirror were in the sink and on the floor, some of them covered in blood. It didn’t take a genius to know what she had tried to do.
“Leave me,” she said, her voice trembling. “I don’t need you.”
Poor girl. She thinks she has lost her whole family. Well, she nearly did.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Lisa,” Sanchez said carefully sitting down on the floor against the bed. Damn knee. He placed his cane on top of the bed. “Michael’s alive.”
Her eyes were affixed on him. “What did you say?”
“I’m not lying,” he offered.
She cocked her head. With a grating voice she said, “I was told by somebody I trust that my husband was dead. Why would he lie? What kind of sick game are you playing?”
“He told you the truth as he knew it, Lisa,” Sanchez replied. “I know otherwise.”
“Okay, then. Bring me to him,” she said trying to get up.
Sanchez watched her struggle to stand up. He did the same, his left knee protesting the sudden movement by sending a burst of pain through the rest of his body.
Fetching his cane with his left hand, he offered Lisa his right one, but she pushed it away.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“We’ll need to take care of that cut first,” Sanchez said, pointing to the slash on her wrist. “They’ll never release you from the hospital like that.”
“Just tell me where he is.”
“For now, you’ll have to trust me. I’ll bring you to your husband. He’s not here. He was injured; that much is true. But he survived, I assure you.”
“Where is he?” she insisted, her voice getting louder.
Sanchez raised his palms.
“I don’t know his exact whereabouts. As of now,” he quickly added. “But I’ll get a call in the next hour or so. Then I’ll know.”
“Who are you?”
Sanchez gave her a disarming smile but said with a hint of steel in his voice, “I told you already. I’m Jonathan Sanchez. I work for an organization headed by a man named Charles Mapother. And we’re offering you a way to get back to the ones who wronged your family.”
Lisa didn’t reply right away.
She’s curious now. She wants to know more.
“That doesn’t tell me anything, Mr. Sanchez. I don’t know who Mapother is or the reason why you know my husband.”
“We served together,” Sanchez replied.
“Special Forces?” she asked sitting in her bed while holding her left arm up.
“Something like that,” he said. “Charles Mapother runs a small outfit where people like me try to prevent things like this tragedy from happening.”
Lisa pointed to the drawer next to the bed with her chin. “You failed miserably this time. Pass me the emergency kit, will you?”
“Sure.” But instead of handing it to her, he opened it himself and inventoried what was inside.
“I can do this,” Lisa said.
“I know you can, Dr. Powell. But I know a thing or two about stab wounds and the like.
Stay still,” he added while gently grabbing her arm.
“Special Forces, you said? You look the part,” Lisa said. “You know him well?”
Sanchez knew what was coming next. A few questions a friend of Mike would know the answers to. “I won’t lie to you, Lisa. I don’t know him that well,” he stated while disinfecting the wound. “But we fought together, and for what it’s worth, he talked a lot about you while we were in Kosovo.”
“Kosovo? Mike has never been to Kosovo,” Lisa said.
She doesn’t know. He kept the horrors of the Kosovo mission from her. He didn’t want her to worry. Good man, Michael.
“Well, that’s something you’ll need to talk about with him, I guess,” he replied. “But Mike saved my ass back there. So I owe him.”
“Is that why you’re here? Because you owe him?” she asked.
“There’s a bit of that, it’s true. But there’s more. Much more.”
“Like what? Why don’t you elaborate? Ouch!” she said as Sanchez sutured her cut.
“Rumors are that the Sheik might be behind all this.”
“The Sheik? He’s the one who kidnapped Mike’s father. Did you know that?”
Everybody knows that. The poor guy’s pictures have been circulating for a while now.
“We know all about it, Lisa,” Sanchez answered. “Come with us, and I promise you a chance to take your revenge against that son of a bitch.”
“What’s in it for you, Mr. Sanchez?”
“Call me Jonathan, please.”
“Doesn’t change my question, Jonathan. What do you get out of it?”
“Somebody who’ll do anything in her power to track the bastard down.”
Sanchez hoped that Lisa was picturing herself over the Sheik’s dead body.
“Here, it’s done now,” he said, applying the last of the antibiotic cream. “There’s something I want to show you.”
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