Two Minutes to Midnight

by R. J. Patterson

  “Just delivering some office supplies.”

  The man put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side. “Really? You were making a delivery? And who ordered these supplies?”

  “I just dropped off some reams of paper like I was told.”

  The man eyed Nawabi carefully. “And who placed these orders?”

  Nawabi shrugged. “I don’t know, man. I just go where I’m told to go and drop off the supplies at the designated location. If you don’t like it, you can take it up with my boss.”

  “I think I just might do that. Where’s your card?”

  “My card,” Nawabi asked.

  “You know, the one that tells me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  “Oh, my business card.”

  “You idiot. What kind of card did you think I was talking about?”

  “Never mind,” Nawabi said. “I must have left mine in the company van.”

  “In that case, I’m going to walk back with you to your van to make sure I get it so I can properly address this bizarre situation.”

  Nawabi took a deep breath. He had to do something differently now that this mystery man was demanding to speak with his supervisor.

  “You know what?” Nawabi began. “I set my keys down inside when I was unloading the boxes. I need to get them before we head back over to the parking lot.”

  “I’m sticking with you, Mr.—”

  “Reynolds,” Nawabi said, offering his hand. “Arnold Reynolds.”

  “Mr. Reynolds, you better not be playing around with me because I don’t appreciate this kind of activity in my hangar.”

  Nawabi waited until they had both reached the far corner of the building before he recoiled and delivered a brutal blow to the man. The man teetered back and forth until his eyes shut and he crumpled to the floor.

  Snatching a nearby tarp, Nawabi placed the man on top of it. After securing the man’s arms, legs, and mouth with duct tape, Nawabi rolled up the unsuspecting hangar supervisor. Nawabi worked quickly to cut out the bottoms of the boxes and use them to disguise the shrouded body on the dolly.

  He wasted no time in exiting the hangar and headed straight back to his vehicle. He’d only walked about twenty meters away from the building when another man passed him before stopping and furrowing his brow.

  “Did you see Dave in there?” the stranger asked.

  Nawabi shrugged and kept moving forward. “I just made my delivery and left.”

  “That’s strange.”

  Nawabi closed his eyes and said a little prayer that the man wouldn’t become too curious.

  Just go inside. I don’t have room for two bodies in my trunk.

  Nawabi didn’t breathe until he was certain the man’s footsteps were headed toward the hangar and not in pursuit.

  Once Nawabi reached his car, he checked around to see if anyone was standing nearby. Satisfied the area was free from any prying eyes, he hustled to get the body into the trunk. Nawabi stored the dolly and headed for the exit.

  The security guard gave a respectful nod to Nawabi as he drove past the guard gate and turned onto a surface street.

  Though he had been caught up in the moment, Nawabi finally relaxed and remembered Fazil’s sage advice about being prepared for anything. Nawabi had simply gone to get a feel for the place and make somewhat of a dry run. Instead, he had to knock a man out and sneak the body to his car. And later that night, Nawabi knew he’d have to kill a man, not the man he’d come to the U.S. to kill.

  Nawabi thought it was a shame, too. As he reflected on every move he made while at the base, he remembered the man’s face as one of the people who smiled and said hello.

  Don’t go soft, Youssef. He is an infidel.

  Nawabi pulled out a picture of his dead brother and glanced at it for a second while stopped at a traffic light.

  “Tomorrow, I will avenge your death, Abdul,” Nawabi said. “I will kill the president—and then I will kill Brady Hawk.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Zagros Mountains, Iraq

  KARIF FAZIL RETURNED from Dubai, where he’d spent the day before getting all his financials in order since the latest influx of cash from Colton Industries, and slipped into his compound. Several leaders met him the minute he stepped inside and began briefing him on what had transpired during his time away. While Fazil told them all that he was eager to hear everything, he needed some time alone to gather his thoughts before everyone began downloading all their information to him.

  “Will you people please just leave me alone for one second?” Fazil screamed in exasperation. “I need to think.”

  He slammed the door leading to his private office and collapsed into a chair. Setting up offshore accounts to manage all of Al Hasib’s money stressed him out. If he had his druthers, he would have an accountant who could handle everything for him. But he didn’t trust anyone. The last person he’d placed in charge of the cell’s coffers bilked Al Hasib for two million dollars before temporarily vanishing to Mexico. Fazil took a special trip to Cabo to handle the thief. The news treated the accountant’s beheading as another gruesome victim in the country’s drug culture, claiming it was a skirmish between warring cartels. But those reports were falsified by Mexican law enforcement, likely because it was easier to handle the public relations nightmare of bickering drug families than it was to admit that terrorists were roaming free in their country. Making an example out of the accountant served a purpose for Fazil, yet it also meant more work. It had been two years since he’d handled the situation, and he still hadn’t found the right person to take over the duties and doubted he ever would. The extra responsibility was starting to wear on him.

  I only want to hear from Youssef.

  “And you, too, Jafar,” he said aloud. “Come over here.”

  The bird flitted across the room and landed on Fazil’s desk. He grabbed a handful of crackers from the top left desk drawer and held them out for Jafar. The bird pecked Fazil’s hand clean.

  He looked at his phone, and there were no messages from his top missile launcher—and no reports of any terrorist arrest coming out of the U.S. The quieter, the better. If Youssef had been caught, Fazil knew it would be all over the news. President Young would use the report to show how he was making the country safe again, solidifying his position as the leading candidate when it came to stamping out terrorism. But there was no report, which meant everything had to be proceeding as scheduled. Nevertheless, Fazil still wanted to hear from Youssef.

  After ten minutes, one of Fazil’s lieutenants rapped on the door.

  “I thought I said I needed some time alone to think,” Fazil growled. “What part of that didn’t you understand?”

  “This is urgent, sir,” the man said. “Extremely urgent.”

  “Come in,” Fazil said, his tone betraying his mood.

  The man entered the room and marched over to Fazil’s desk, setting down a small black device. “I would not have bothered you with this unless it was absolutely necessary.”

  Fazil picked up the object and inspected it. “What is this?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us,” the man said. “One of the guards found this in a shoe from the cell floor where we’re holding the two Americans.”

  Fazil opened his top drawer and removed a microscope. He studied the object for nearly half a minute before he set it back down and began to rummage through his desk again.

  “What are you looking for, sir?” the man said. “Perhaps I could help.”

  “I am looking for a hammer,” Fazil answered. “That is a homing beacon, and we need to smash it right now—and pray that the signal has not been activated.”

  “How can you tell if it’s been activated?”

  “You can’t. The best thing for us to do is smash it and drop it in water.”

  Fazil continued to look for the hammer until he finally placed his hands on it.

  “Time to take care of this,” he said before smashing the black device t
o pieces. Fazil separated the pieces into several piles and kept them apart by throwing them into difference garbage cans.

  “I hope this thing hasn’t given away our position,” Fazil said. “Time will tell, but it doesn’t look like it’s been activated.”

  “In the meantime, is there something you want me to do to the prisoners as punishment?” the man asked.

  Fazil flashed a mischievous grin. “Beef up security while I go handle the prisoners myself.”

  With a wave of his hand, he dismissed his lieutenant and dug into his desk drawer again. Fazil felt around until he put his hands on the bottle, his favorite Tennessee whiskey.

  “If I’m going to beat some Americans, I should at least do it after drinking their whiskey, right Jafar?”

  Fazil snatched a glass off his desk and threw back three straight shots before grabbing the whip from the back of his door and heading toward the holding cell. With Jafar perched on his shoulder, Fazil narrowed his eyes and refused to speak to anyone as he ambled toward his destination. One lieutenant tried to stop Fazil to ask a question, but he shoved the man against the wall and put a knife to his throat before releasing him.

  “I am busy,” Fazil roared as he continued on.

  When he reached the prison cell, he jerked the door open and stumbled inside. He nearly slipped on the water that had pooled on the floor but regained his balance before tumbling.

  Fazil approached Blunt first, placing the rope underneath his chin and forcing it upward.

  “Are you comfortable in here?” Fazil asked.

  Blunt remained silent.

  “I know you are old, but your hearing is fine—that much I am sure of,” Fazil said before giving a final shove to Blunt’s face.

  Fazil then stormed across the room to Alex. He stopped just short of her and eyed her closely.

  “I hear you tried to bring contraband into the prison,” Fazil said. “Gutsy move, but in the end it will only result in you getting punished far more severely.”

  Fazil stepped back and cracked his whip a couple times. He then called for the guard outside and asked him to release the prisoners from the bindings, first Alex then Blunt.

  Fazil forced Alex to face the wall before raring back and snapping the rope at just the right point. The frayed ends of the rope grabbed her shirt and ripped it open. Two, three, four, five more cracks and Alex’s back was bleeding, what was left of her blouse soaking up the blood. Once she was reattached to her chains, Fazil turned his attention to Blunt.

  Fazil didn’t hold back with Blunt, whipping him fifteen times. The last ten strikes managed to grab small chunks of his flesh. On the twelfth lick, Blunt collapsed to the floor, but Fazil demanded that he rise to or Alex would receive more lashes. Blunt stood and was promptly reattached to the chains for the remainder of his beating.

  After Fazil was finished, he pulled out a flask and took several more swigs. He sauntered around the room and spoke in baby gibberish with Jafar until the Al Hasib leader decided to address his prisoners. “I wanted to share some wonderful news with you two tonight,” he said. “Since you have been my hostages, you haven’t received any news from the outside world and likely don’t even know what day it is, so I thought I’d—”

  “It’s Friday,” Alex blurted out.

  “Someone thinks they know what day it is,” Fazil said. “But congratulations, you’re wrong. Two more licks.”

  Fazil didn’t wait for her back to be turned. He simply recoiled and delivered three vicious shocks to Alex’s legs. Her right pants leg was torn open, and blood spewed out.

  “You are wrong,” Fazil said, even though he knew she was right.

  Psychological torture. This is the only way to do it.

  “Now, as I was saying, I know you have not received any news from the outside world, so I thought I would deliver some to you directly. We could make this fun if I dressed as the singing telegram man, but I am not a pleasant person to listen to sing, and you have already had enough torture for today.”

  “The suspense is killing me,” Alex said with a moan. “Out with it already.”

  “All systems are go for the destruction of your country tomorrow or, more specifically, for your president. Your loyal friend Brady Hawk has agreed to help me accomplish this plan. And fortunately for you, the little stunt you tried to pull with the homing beacon failed, so he will not be coming to rescue you. Instead, he will be helping one of my men shoot down Air Force One.” He paused and sighed wistfully. “This is the moment we have all been waiting for, as we will strike back and get our revenge against the evil U.S. government.”

  “Ultimately, you’ll find your revenge is completely unfulfilling,” Alex said. “Once you get what you want, what will you do then? Make up more reasons and excuses to fight the Americans? Your battle will never end, and you know it. Not to mention that you haven’t succeeded yet. I’d be careful about counting your chickens before they’ve hatched.”

  Fazil threw his head back and laughed. “You are trying to make me doubt myself and one of my best men? But like any attempts to prevent this from happening, you too have failed. The will of Allah will be done, and the leader of the infidels will be vanquished in a matter of hours.”

  Fazil tacked on a pair of lashes for both of his prisoners before exiting the cell and staggering down the hallway.

  “You will wish you were never born by the time my men are finished with you.”

  * * *

  BLUNT BLINKED TWICE and tried to clear the mixture of blood and sweat seeping into his eyes.

  “Are you all right over there?” Blunt asked.

  “Never better,” Alex said.

  “I know that’s a lie.”

  “At this point, I don’t really care. I’d almost rather him just end it.”

  Blunt struggled to take a deep breath. “Don’t give up hope just yet. You never know what can happen.”

  “That’s exactly why I want to give up hope, because what can happen is far worse than death. If Fazil lets his men do to me what they want, I promise you I will wish for a quick death. Just the thought—”

  She quit midsentence, signaling to Blunt that she was losing hope.

  “You’ve got to keep believing that we’re going to get out of this, Alex. If you surrender any hope, Fazil has already won. Don’t give him the satisfaction, no matter what happens.”

  “Weren’t you the one who said you had given up and that you’d rather just die? You’re confusing me.”

  “I thought about it some more. I just can’t go out like this, not at the hands of this insane man. We’ve just got to stay alive and keep our wits about us. Do whatever it takes to keep breathing.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re a man. They’re not going to do to you what they’re going to do to me.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. But quite frankly, it doesn’t matter. I have faith that no matter what Fazil says, Hawk is going to somehow figure out a way to thwart the plans of Al Hasib.”

  “It certainly doesn’t sound that way.”

  “Fazil is just playing mind games, Alex. I know this isn’t the first time you’ve been held hostage, but it might be the first time you’ve been manipulated by a certifiable head case. He knows how to play the game, so you just need to learn how to play it along with him.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  Blunt sighed. “Look, just don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that you’ve given up. Think of something—virtually anything—that could help you ignore all of Fazil’s braggadocios claims. He’s full of shit anyway. And I can’t wait until his ace agent fails to do what Fazil is so certain will happen.”

  “In the end, it may not matter for us.”

  “Perhaps, but we can’t let the picture that Fazil is trying to paint dictate our lives. If things go our way, we’ll be out of here before you know it—and hopefully with designs on eliminating Karif Fazil and his terrorist organization for good.”

  “I’
ll try to stay positive, but I’m not making any promises.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Blunt said.

  He winced from the pain, which still coursed throughout his entire body. He felt just like Alex felt, but he wouldn’t dare admit it, at least not to her. Someone needed to be strong. He figured it might as well be him.

  Dear God, if you exist, please help Brady Hawk tomorrow—and protect us.

  Blunt knew his prayer was self-serving, but he didn’t care. He knew they needed every bit of help they could get.

  CHAPTER 21

  Washington, D.C.

  THE EVENING BEFORE YOUNG’S FLIGHT to Texas, Hawk met with Young and his Secret Service detail to go over the specifics of the next afternoon’s trip. While Hawk preferred another path, he didn’t see one. If Young was going to survive, everything needed to go exactly as planned. Any variation would result in a tragic outcome, not only for Young and the aides surrounding him, but also for Alex and Blunt.

  “If the Al Hasib agent doesn’t get a shot off, two people are going to die for sure,” Hawk said.

  “And who’s to say they’re not going to die anyway?” one of the Secret Service agents asked. “This is all just a bunch of bullshit. We’re all going to put our lives in harm’s way so some old former senator on his last leg and some replaceable computer genius can survive—and even then, there are no guarantees. It’s just ridiculous.”

  “They’re my friends,” Young snapped, “and there are no lengths we shouldn’t go to in order to bring them back alive, even if the risk is high.”

  “These people are irrelevant,” the agent snapped.

  “These people have kept you safe in ways you can’t even imagine,” Young roared. “And we will do everything to ensure their safe return home, and that includes you.”

  The agent shrugged before slumping back into his chair.

  “I hope no one else thinks they are a better tactical planner than the team of advisors here at the White House,” Young said. “I’ve actually been out on the front lines, and I know the incredible value in having someone on your team who understands how to get things done. And while you may not see or hear about Alex and Senator Blunt in the news these days, I can promise you that they are the ones who are getting things done behind the scenes. Neither one of them cares about who gets the credit or the glory. They’re all about making sure that this nation succeeds.”