Two Minutes to Midnight

by R. J. Patterson

  Young leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath before nodding at Hawk.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Hawk said. “We all appreciate your vote of confidence. And I understand why some of you might feel this is a dangerous game. But this mission is more than just about rescuing two of our people—it’s also about uncovering one of Al Hasib’s hiding spots. If I can convince Karif Fazil that his agent was simply a bad shot, it extends our communication window with Fazil. And if we can find him, we can eliminate him once and for all. And as you all know, he’s slippery.”

  “Except when he’s walking free around the streets of New York,” one of the Secret Service agents chided.

  “He did have a nuclear bomb in his briefcase with a dead man’s switch,” Hawk fired back. “I wouldn’t exactly call that walking free around the streets of New York.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” another agent asked.

  Hawk flipped over a large corkboard, revealing a detailed sketch of Andrews Air Force Base. He pushed a pin into the last hangar on the runway.

  “The Al Hasib rocket man is going to be here,” Hawk said, tapping the drawing for emphasis. “It’s going to be a perfect spot to take a shot at Air Force One as it begins to climb, but it’s a terrible location to shoot from if you want to disrupt anything else.”

  “Disrupt?” one of the agents said.

  “Disrupt, kill, eliminate. I don’t care what you call it, but that’s what that Al Hasib agent is here to do. Their preference would be to kill Young—at least, that’s their end goal. But I want to at least give off the illusion that I tried to help them.”

  “Fazil is no fool,” Young said. “If his agent isn’t successful, he’s going to know you did something.”

  “Perhaps, but this should prolong the conversation with him. And if we’re still talking, we can only hope that he still has the hostages alive and with him. Meanwhile, I’m still working on a way to find out the location of their camp.”

  “Back to the plan,” one of the agents chimed in.

  “I encouraged the Al Hasib agent to stash his weapon ahead of time,” Hawk said. “And based off security logs I had pulled, he went there earlier today. I’m going to sabotage his missile launcher so that it will fire but miss badly. But we need to have a contingency plan in case things go awry and he decides to fire while the president and his aides are boarding Air Force One.”

  Hawk turned back to the sketch and inserted another pin.

  “This is where the plane will be boarded. However, we’re going to park a fuel tanker at an angle here so that the agent’s view will be obstructed. Once everyone ascends the steps, they will proceed to the back of the plane and exit through the service entrance. From there, everyone will be loaded into a catering company truck, out of the agent’s line of sight.”

  “Do the pilots know what they’re in for on this flight?” an agent asked. “If this goes sideways, he’s probably going to die.”

  “Air Force One can take off and land without anyone in the cockpit,” Hawk continued. “It’s one of the contingency plans in case something were to ever happen to both pilots. The plane can be flown remotely if necessary.”

  “Like a drone?”

  “More or less,” Hawk said.

  “And how will you handle the Al Hasib agent?”

  “I know his position. The moment he fires, I’m going to put a bullet in his head.”

  “How confident are you that this will work?” Young asked.

  “If I thought that I was putting anyone in harm’s way—real harm’s way—I wouldn’t do it. But I do think we’ll be able to execute this plan and achieve all our objectives.”

  “You better be right,” Young said. “My fate—and the fate of this republic—hangs in your ability to deliver.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Hawk said. “If I get a sense that something else is going wrong, we will abort everything. The cost of failure will be high, but I won’t let it include your life or the lives of those around you.”

  “I find that somewhat reassuring,” Young said. “I’m still a little uncomfortable with everything.”

  “That’s how I feel every mission, sir. And things rarely go exactly as planned, but that’s why we have contingencies.”

  Young dismissed the Secret Service agents but asked Hawk to stay behind. Once the last agent filed out of the room, Young sat in the chair directly across from Hawk.

  “Are you really sure this is going to work?” Young asked again.

  Hawk nodded confidently. “We’re going to stop this agent and get Blunt and Alex back home.”

  “And Fazil?”

  “I’m hoping I get a chance to take care of him. But if not now, soon. He’s needed to be stopped for a long time. His threats are growing old and tiresome.”

  “I agree—I just hope that I can give you everything you need to be successful with Firestorm once I take over the office on a more permanent basis.”

  “I do, too, but there’s still the issue of Jared Fowler’s threat hanging over your head,” Hawk said. “Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do? The deadline is tomorrow evening.”

  Young stood and walked over to his desk. He grabbed a folder and handed it to Hawk before sitting back down.

  “You know what’s been bugging me about this whole ordeal?” Young asked.

  “That some no-name guy who has no connections to Washington got his hands on that tape and seems to have no apparent agenda other than to throw the election into chaos?” Hawk said.

  “Great minds think alike,” Young said. “Those are almost my exact thoughts about Fowler. How did he come to get possession of this footage? And why demand that this be released right now? It’s almost as if there has to be another explanation.”

  Hawk glanced down at the folder. “And I’m assuming that explanation is in here.”

  Young nodded. “The initial workup I had developed on Fowler was quick, a down and dirty look at the man. But I sent another agent back to do a more thorough job. I had plenty of unanswered questions, as did you. I needed to know who we were really dealing with and what was motivating him to do this right now.”

  “I’m assuming you uncovered something,” Hawk said.

  “Look for yourself,” Young said.

  Hawk gasped when he read the first line of the report. The name jumped off the page at him.

  “I don’t know if I even believe this,” Hawk said. “His father is—

  “Yes, believe it,” Young said. “We now know the missing link as it pertains to Fowler’s motivation. The next question is what do we do with this information?”

  Hawk smiled. “Leave it to me. I know exactly what needs to be done. I need to pay Fowler another visit.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Washington, D.C.

  YOUSSEF NAWABI SURVEYED the weapons cache sprawled across his hotel room desk. With his primary weapon already stowed on the base, he reviewed the rest with a careful eye. He wanted to make sure that when he fired a shot, it would stay true to the target. No jams. No excuses.

  He cleaned all three guns four times and was about to move ahead with a fifth before he stopped. His mind was consumed with every motion he would take the next day. He visualized each step, each trigger pull. Escaping alive would be the real trick, though he didn’t care if this was the end. He’d be with his brother Abdul in eternity. Advancing the cause of Al Hasib was an honorable final act, Nawabi concluded, and he would be rewarded accordingly.

  Nawabi packed all his weapons and decided that he needed to relax and enjoy himself on his last night on Earth. He took a shower and put on a pair of dress slacks and a button-down shirt before heading down the street in search of a nightclub.

  The choices weren’t plentiful, but he decided on a place named The Kabin Lounge. He eased inside and took a seat at the bar. After ordering a drink, he spun around in his chair to take in the club scene. Throngs of nubile women flooded the dance floor, pulsating in rhythm with the m
usic. Guys jockeyed for position, snaking their way through the crowd in search of a willing partner. Nawabi treated the experience just like he would an assignment for Al Hasib—stake out the setting, make a choice that will give the best chance at success, and execute the mission.

  While Nawabi pounded back several shots, he sought for the perfect target. He wanted to dance and let out some of his nervous angst. After several minutes—and two more drinks—he identified a woman of Middle Eastern descent. He wondered what she was doing here, especially without a head covering in public. But he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt before passing any judgment and chose to speak with her.

  Nawabi wriggled and jostled his way through the dense pack of people attempting to dance. He had at least one drink spilled on the sleeve of his shirt, though he just dismissed the accident as a result of the packed confines. When another splash of alcohol collided with his chest, Nawabi grew mildly annoyed. However, he didn’t go over the edge until the third incident, which had nothing to do with spilled drinks.

  After a long journey, Nawabi connected with the woman he’d been eyeing for several minutes. She smiled coyly at him, more than accepting of his advances. She readily accepted his invitation to dance and began engaging with him as Zedd and Alessia Cara’s “Stay” pumped over the sound system. Halfway through the song, however, another guy tapped Nawabi on the shoulder.

  Nawabi ignored him. The second time the man tapped, Nawabi glanced over his shoulder.

  “Can I help you?” Nawabi shouted.

  “Yeah, you’re dancing with my girl.”

  “What?” Nawabi said, arching his eyebrows and leaning closer as if he didn’t hear.

  “I said that you’re dancing with my girl.”

  Nawabi turned back to look at the woman, who shrugged and winked at him. She then reached up and put her hands around Nawabi’s neck.

  “Are you sure?” Nawabi asked. “She’s into me, not you.”

  “Listen, pal, you’ve got to the count of three to step away before I deck you right here and now.”

  Nawabi ignored the man, confident that he was bluffing. There was also the fact that the woman Nawabi had selected seemed fond of him. He tested his hunch by backing away from her, but she grabbed him tightly and pulled him toward her.

  Nawabi didn’t hear the first two counts, only the number three—a split second before a fist crashed into his face. Staggering backward, Nawabi tried to maintain his balance, but the combination of a surprise blow, alcoholic drinks, and flashing lights was too much to overcome. He crashed to the ground, toppling over a couple other dancers.

  Before Nawabi could stand, a searing pain coursed through his midsection, compliments of the jealous man’s right foot. Nawabi stumbled back down onto the floor and absorbed another blow followed by another.

  Above him, the crowd roared. Everything was a blur to Nawabi, but he could hear some people pleading with the man to stop, while others egged him on and hoped for a fight. Nawabi noticed some of the dancers had pulled out their cell phones and were recording the encounter.

  Deep breath, Youssef. It’s not worth it.

  Nawabi kept his head down and had decided to walk away—until the self-proclaimed boyfriend delivered a vicious hit to Nawabi’s ribs. That was the act that changed his mind.

  Staggering to his feet, Nawabi charged at the man and bowled him over. The crowd scattered as Nawabi refused to resist the rage that had welled within him.

  All I wanted was a fun final night, but you had to ruin everything.

  Nawabi pinned the man down by sitting on top of him before delivering upper cut after upper cut to his face.

  The club security tore apart the man and Nawabi and forcefully led him to the alleyway exit. Nawabi grimaced in pain as he felt his ribs. He checked the corner of his mouth with his thumb, collecting a large spot of blood.

  “Just settle down,” one of the guards said. He turned to his companion. “Just go inside. I can handle this one.”

  Nawabi spit blood onto the pavement and muttered something in Arabic.

  “What did you say to me?” the guard asked.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Nawabi replied.

  “Don’t get smart with me. Were you praying to Allah or some stupid shit like that? Because it won’t work. Allah isn’t real.”

  Nawabi bent over, placing his hands on his knees while he tried to regain his level headedness.

  “Where is the other guy?” Nawabi asked.

  “Why? You were the one beating the shit out of him.”

  “He started it.”

  The guard shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. I just do what I’m told, and I was told to escort you out here until the police came.”

  Nawabi’s eyes widened. “The police?”

  “Yeah. Ever heard of them? They help maintain law and order in our country.”

  “I know about your police,” Nawabi said. “I have watched videos where they shoot innocent people. No disrespect but I’m not going to wait around for them. I need to leave right now.”

  “Nobody is going to shoot you,” the guard said. “But you better not run. They hate it when thugs run.”

  Nawabi spun on his heels and took two steps before he felt his shirt tugged into the opposite direction. He fought against the guard’s grip but lost, tumbling to the ground. The guard put his knee into Nawabi’s back and pressed down hard.

  “What did I just tell you about running?” the guard said. “Did you take that as a personal challenge?”

  With Nawabi’s face pressed flat against the concrete, he tried to survey the situation. He had already observed the bouncer’s beefy frame, comprised of bulky muscle. And if Nawabi had learned anything from his attempted break, he now knew that his captor was fleet-footed. Any designs Nawabi had on escaping would have to adapt to the situation. And the outlook seemed gloomy.

  Nawabi tried to make small talk, which wasn’t exactly easy with his face plastered against the ground.

  “How often do you get to do this?” Nawabi asked.

  “What? Toss drunk patrons out and hand them over to police? Almost every night.”

  “I am not drunk,” Nawabi stated emphatically.

  “Save it for the judge. Besides, I’m quite certain Mohammed would be disappointed in you right now.”

  Nawabi seethed and tried to ignore the comment, but he couldn’t. “So you are an expert on Islam?”

  “I know enough to know that you shouldn’t be drinking,” the guard said.

  “Things aren’t as black and white as your country would like for you to believe.”

  “My country? Hell, my country wants to open the floodgates and let everyone in. Half the people here would throw their arms around you people and try to hug you.”

  “You people? What does that mean?”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re sensitive too. You know who I’m talking about—Muslims.”

  “And why do you think I’m Muslim?”

  “It’s not like you get to choose over there. It’s either Muslim or they put a bullet in your head.”

  Nawabi craned his neck. “Is that what you think it’s like in my part of the world?”

  “Well, isn’t it?”

  Nawabi shook his head subtly and sighed. Before he could respond, sirens from a police car echoed in the alley, accompanied by flashing lights. The police car skidded to a stop a few feet away from Nawabi and the guard, both blinded by the headlights.

  “Did someone call us?” asked an officer as he climbed out of the driver’s side.

  The guard jammed his knee more forcefully into Nawabi’s back. “I’ve got a live one for you. Got quite a smart mouth on him, too.”

  The officer chuckled. “Well, we should be able to break him of that.”

  Before they could do anything else, the side door to the club flew open and a half dozen brawling patrons spilled out into the street. The men involved were swinging wildly, so much so that the guard stood, free
ing Nawabi.

  With the altercation demanding everyone’s attention, Nawabi didn’t waste any time making his getaway. He broke into a full sprint and darted down the alley. Checking back over his shoulder, he noticed one officer in pursuit. Nawabi ran a hundred meters before taking a sharp right and taking cover behind a dumpster.

  The footfalls behind him grew louder as the trailing officer arrived in the area. He shined his flashlight toward the dumpster but concluded that the perp wasn’t inside. Then he hesitated and went back to double check.

  Nawabi’s heart almost stopped as he watched the officer saunter in his direction. The guard picked up the lid and shined his light inside. He poked at the trash for a moment and then slammed the lid back down, apparently convinced that Nawabi wasn’t inside.

  The officer swept the area with his flashlight, but the beam never fell on Nawabi.

  After a few long seconds, the officer meandered away.

  Nawabi knew he had almost derailed his entire mission by being foolish. He hustled toward the street, appearing on the other side of the block from the Kabin Lounge. He hailed a cab and took the short ride home, if anything to avoid being seeing by the metro police.

  He retreated to his room and closed the door, taking a deep breath. Fortunately, no irreparable damage had been done. But that didn’t make Nawabi feel much better. He had tempted fate—and won.

  Nawabi turned on the television, where the cable news channel was covering the latest election story on the polls.

  “Don’t worry,” Nawabi said aloud. “Everything will change tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Zagros Mountains, Iraq

  KARIF FAZIL CHECKED THE TEXT message on his phone and smiled as he read it. Youssef Nawabi sent a note to let his boss know that everything was still ready to go the next day. In less than twenty-four hours, Nawabi would avenge his brother’s death and fulfill his destiny by assassinating the President of the United States.