TABLE OF CONTENTS
§
FRONT MATTER
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TERMINAL RAGE
Terminal Rage
A.M. Khalifa
SYDNEY•LOS ANGELES•ROME
Terminal Rage is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Mavenhill
This paperback edition 2014
Copyright © 2013 by A.M. Khalifa
First published in the United States by Citation Books, 2013
Mavenhill and the accordion book are registered trademarks
Cover design by Tomasz Opasinski
PUBLISHER’S CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Khalifa, A.M.
Terminal Rage : a novel/A.M. Khalifa.
p. cm
ISBN: 978-1-940387-00-0 (pbk.)
ISBN: 978-1-940387-02-4 (hardcover)
ISBN: 978-1-940387-01-7 (e-book)
1. Terrorism—Prevention—Fiction. 2. Political corruption—Fiction.
3. Egypt—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.H34 T47 2013
813—dc23
2013943724
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or
distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not
participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the
author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
www.terminalrage.com
For Mel
“Beware the wrath of the meek.” — Arabic proverb
ONE
Saturday, November 5, 2011—11:41 a.m.
Anguilla, British West Indies
Only civilians and fools believe in coincidences. Since Alexander Blackwell was neither, his pulse raced and his head burned up at the sight of a helicopter buzzing low over his catamaran. Iron-clad airspace laws strictly prohibited rotorcrafts from flying over this stretch of the Caribbean.
He rushed to the other side of his boat’s deck to track the birds’s path in the sky. As it trailed away in the horizon, Blackwell held his breath, even prepared to concede the occasional innocent coincidence was possible.
But what happened next left no margin of doubt that something was terribly off. The helicopter landed a mile north on Prickly Pear East, a tiny, uninhabited cay where Blackwell and his young skipper Leron just so happened to be ferrying their passengers for the day.
Coincidence my ass.
For four years he’d been in self-imposed exile on the main island of Anguilla, and had been running this charter business for the last two. In a previous life, Blackwell was the FBI’s top hostage negotiator until his career tanked catastrophically, scorching him to a mere facsimile of the man he once was. He came to this island reeling after losing his job, his marriage and his kids, even standing a hairline away from losing his mind and pulling the trigger to end it all.
Not entirely back to normal but on the mend, his old life catching up with him was about the worst thing that could happen.
His passengers were a group of newlywed couples who had signed up for his island-hopping cruise. Lying on the boat’s trampolines, all six of them were oblivious to the ominous flying anomaly. The women semi-naked and lathered in oil, and the men downing his endless supply of cold beers as they bragged about bonus packages, fast cars, Vegas and all sorts of shit Blackwell couldn’t care less about.
The bird had shot through the sky fast and not long enough for him to identify its make, but the path it took stunk of an old-school ambush with a big appetite for collateral damage. Considering the work he used to do, any shade of psychopathic criminals with some ancient score to settle with him could be on that chopper now waiting for him on the island. Long before he had donned the hostage negotiator’s headset, Blackwell had first spent many years installing bullets in some despicable skulls on behalf of the FBI.
Oh yeah, the FBI...
He couldn’t discount this as a second possibility of who was riding that chopper. But what could they possibly want with an empty shell like me? After the tragic events that had wiped out his career, Blackwell escaped to the main island of Anguilla, with promises that he would be left alone for the rest of his days trickling down from as high up as the Bureau’s director. No way, this can’t be them.
Blackwell’s stomach churned harder onto itself.
The original plan had been to circle around and dock by the north face of the island. They’d ferry the newlyweds by dinghy to the shore for a lazy lunch of barbecued mahi-mahi before sailing to an even smaller cay called Sea Island, due east. With rum cocktails in hand, the newly married would witness a spellbinding orange sun plunging into the water, then thank Blackwell as if he had shown them a vision of God.
Assuming the helicopter’s occupants had less than amicable intentions for him, they’d stop at nothing to take him by force. Leron and the six honeymooners in his custody would just be trampled on like dispensable road kill.
And it wouldn’t stop there.
The island’s service staff and the other tourists trickling in since sunrise would also be caught in the line of fire. More honeymooners and vow renewers, young families with children no higher than his knees, and retirees curled up on rickety sun beds smooching their paperbacks. To be responsible for turning their tropical dream into a mid-morning massacre pounded hard on his out-of-practice brain to think fast and act quick.
As the catamaran approached closer to the southern edge of Prickly Pear, Blackwell began to formulate a plan.
Fifteen minutes give or take is what it would take him to swim to the south face of the island. Then he could trek across to get to the north side. Blackwell had hiked the distance on several occasions and estimated it couldn’t be longer than a thousand feet.
Once there, he would improvise a counter-ambush on the occupants of the chopper through the thick foliage covering most of the island. Depending on their numbers and firepower, he probably had enough rounds to snipe them out. Lord help him if they were professionals with enough personnel deployed to cover every inch of the island.
Blackwell descended unnoticed to his tiny cabin, where he slipped on a pair of water shoes and a diving shirt. He retrieved his nine-millimeter Beretta from a hidden compartment in the floor and checked it. It still worked fine. He grabbed as many rounds as he could fit into an airtight pouch along with a pair of Steiner binoculars and his phone.
Before he reemerged on the deck, Blackwell scribbled a phone n
umber on the back of a paper coaster, and a cryptic phrase with another set of eight digits. Decades ago, when he had finally graduated as an FBI special agent, he was told these two sets of numbers could one day save his life. They were branded onto his mind so he would never forget them.
Back on the deck, he took Leron aside and whispered to him, “Listen carefully. I don’t have much time to explain.”
A cloud of confusion came over his skipper’s eyes. For the last two years, Blackwell had drilled into his Anguillan assistant the fundamentals of customer service and running a serious business. It didn’t include what he was about to ask of him.
“I need you to turn this boat around and take these kids back to Anguilla. Give them a refund and cancel all our bookings indefinitely.”
Leron shrugged, eyes wide and tugging nervously on his sun-kissed dreadlocks. “I don’t understand—”
“You don’t need to, just follow my instructions.”
He handed Leron the coaster and pointed to the phone number. “If you don’t hear from me in forty-eight hours, call this number from a public phone. You’ll probably get an answering machine. Leave a message.”
“Saying what?”
“‘Flight 47212073 crash-landed in a lavender cornfield.’ I’ve written everything down so you won’t forget it. That’s all you need to do. Are we clear?”
“How about your dog?”
Leron’s question stabbed Blackwell in the heart. Jacky was probably already shot or knifed in his backyard.
“Whoever gets your message will take care of her,” he lied. “Whatever you do though, don’t go by my house.”
“What’s going on, boss?” Leron’s voice trembled as he glanced at the bulging pouch strapped to Blackwell’s body. Hard to hide the shape of a gun.
“Old parking tickets I forgot to pay,” he said with a wry smile as he patted his young friend’s face.
Even though Leron was more man than boy, Blackwell recognized in him the fear of an insecure child and it reminded him of his own kids, Milo and Calista.
A wave of dark visions came over him, feeding off his monumental failure as a man, a father, a husband and a protector of the innocent.
Maybe he was meant to die all along.
What if every desperate measure to stay sane for the last four years was just delaying the inevitable?
Empty-handed I entered the world, barefoot I leave it. My coming, my going, two simple happenings that got entangled.
Blackwell plunged over the silent engines of the catamaran and disappeared under the water.
TWO
Two days earlier, 5:30 a.m.
Sherman Oaks, CA
Seth is having a nightmare but cannot will himself to wake up. He’s sitting in the lobby of an exquisite resort by the Red Sea, with a bomb hidden in a pink Hello Kitty bag parked under his feet. He built it himself—the explosive elements, the charge, the wires and the timing device.
In sixty-eight seconds, the bomb will go off. If he starts moving now, it’ll take him fifty-four seconds to reach the swimming pool for safety. All he needs to do to survive the explosion is dive in and hold his breath underwater for twelve seconds. If he remains here at the core of this impending inferno, he’ll be vaporized, his body serving as initial fuel.
Fifty-four seconds left.
Except for the familiar ticking sound of a bomb, the world around him has been muted. People’s lips are moving but Seth can’t hear what they’re saying. He scans the lobby. Near the reception, a scantily clothed hostess serves the guests chilled mango juice in small shot glasses.
Forty-five seconds.
Against his will, he gets up and makes his way to the exit. His legs are carrying him to safety, but every fiber of his being is rejecting this salvation. His body is operating in defiance of his mind and soul, and it’s sickening.
Thirty seconds.
Unstoppable tears glide down his cheek.
This is not how it was supposed to happen.
With his bare feet on the moist lawn, he races against the wind toward the pool.
Tick tock, tick tock.
Fifteen seconds.
He’s nowhere near the bomb but the pounding has transformed to his body now, a primal beat pulsating from his chest and resonating in his head. A rhythm of the death and mayhem fast approaching.
When he finally reaches the pool, he stands at the edge resisting with every micron of willpower he’s able to summon, but whatever’s possessed him to stay alive is far stronger.
He dives in.
One second.
Eyes wide open underwater, the only thing audible is his heart pumping blood tainted with fear hormones. During this insignificant slice of time, his pitiful life flashes before his eyes. The injustice dealt to him blazes through his consciousness, ballooning his soul with uncontrollable rage. His body, once innocent and pure, is now a weaponized bomb, far more devastating than the one about to go off.
Time’s up.
The pool shakes like a wrathful volcano. Water splices through his ribs with the force of steel blocks but he manages to remain submerged. Above him, hell opens its gates and consumes everything beautiful and worth living for. From under the water, he can’t smell the stench of treachery but it permeates his cells and tastes like a bitter potion. The night sky lights up in a spectacular orange flash. He holds his breath and counts the seconds.
Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two. One.
He’s awake now. Alive? That’s another question.
“Let’s get you up to speed for this Thursday, November third. Investors on Wall Street are watching what’s happening in Europe, and we’re keeping a close watch on the markets and your money. Stocks closed higher yesterday after a decision by the European Central Bank to cut interest rates. Right now, the Dow is up just ninety-four points, but every little cent counts...”
A ferocious soul pain kept his eyes shut. The fluttering lights of the television in the background seeped through his closed eyelids and quietly nauseated him. Freshly squeezed tears were still damp on his cheek.
This dream has haunted him for the last six years. Nothing changed. His desire to be there when the bomb went off never tapered. To feel the explosion as it thundered through the air, then be enveloped in its merciless heat as it ate through his skin before it consumed his flesh and bones. Witnessing its humbling power to transform living, molecular mass to black, charred nothingness.
Where the hell am I?
It wasn’t a real question, at least not the sort a rational answer could satisfy. Just a visceral reaction to what his body was feeling.
His heart wanted to rip through his rib cage and make a run for it.
Cold sweat gushed out of his pores and viscous morning blood flooded his head cavity. He was about to have a major panic attack.
Seth started counting down from five in an infinite loop, with his eyes closed, waiting for his pulse to dip and the hammering in his head to subside.
Five, four, three, two, one. Repeat.
The subroutine eventually took effect, like an antivirus program purifying him of the maladies of self-doubt, insecurity and raw fear. Seth and the version of him that had woken up disoriented were now poles apart.
Slowly, he cracked his eyes open and gazed around. He ran his fingers down the side of his left arm to feel a long scar, webbing from his shoulder to his elbow. Every time he touched this six-year-old wound, it tingled, reminding him of the slashing pain he had experienced when his skin was cut open, and the trauma of his jagged flesh and his blood pouring out everywhere. The scar was an anchor point, rebooting his sense of reality whenever he touched it.
Still dark outside, but time for him to get up.
This wasn’t the first time he’d stayed at the Sherman Oaks Hampton Inn, a small, anonymous hotel but close
enough to everywhere he wanted to be in Los Angeles.
His finger touched the cold aluminum track pad resurrecting his laptop docked on the mahogany desk near the bed. The inbox was barren. Why haven’t they sent the damn instructions?
He reached under his pillow for his backpack and double-checked his Beretta Sub-Compact. It had never been fired once, but that was about to change.
In the shower, he leaned his head on the white tiles and closed his eyes. Hot water cascaded on his head and shoulders before disappearing down the drain forever. He drifted to a previous life when he didn’t need to fake an accent or use an alias to stay afloat. Another life that should have had a happier ending.
After he showered, he rebooted his laptop but this time a message was waiting for him with a phone number in the subject line. The sender was Jon Abrams, a fictitious name no doubt. Someone he’d never met, who worked for a guy called Jacob with whom Seth was engaged in a very expensive transaction. He’d already paid Jacob in Las Vegas a week ago and the email would provide the delivery instructions. He dialed the number.
“Who’s this?” A harsh, unfriendly voice.
“I’m calling about the wedding dress.”
“Ten o’clock at Aroma Tea and Coffee. 4360 Tujunga Avenue in Studio City. When you get there, text 818-850-3727. He’s a big guy.”
As he pulled out of the hotel parking lot in his black X5, Seth glimpsed a silver Mercedes CLS behind him. The freeways would be hell at this time of the morning, so he mapped a better route using surface streets to avoid the worst of the congestion. All he had were two hours to get to Studio City, but before that he had to pick up something else.
Traffic was relatively smooth on Sepulveda, but when he turned east on Ventura it curbed like a blocked artery. Cars were moving slower than drip irrigation until he finally escaped via Beverly Glen to go through the hills to the West Side.
His destination was a Mail Boxes Etc. in Westwood. When he got there, he strode with choreographed confidence into the facility, careful not to show his face to the security camera he’d staked out on a previous reconnaissance. Seth made his way to the service counter. A pink-haired attendant with oversized headphones dwarfing her already tiny head was typing demonically on her smartphone. Quite a feat given her long, bedazzling nails.
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