Hunt the Scorpion

by Don Mann

  “I don’t care who it belongs to. We’ll fly this motherfucker back to the States if we have to. Under no condition am I turning it over to them.”

  The American ambassador, the NATO commander, and the head of the Libyan interim government got involved. Frantic calls were made to the White House, IAEA, and NATO headquarters in Brussels.

  At 2 a.m. the Libyans agreed to release the six containers to the temporary custody of the NATO commander until IAEA inspectors could arrive and identify their contents.

  Ambassador Saltzman asked, “You happy now, Crocker?”

  “I’m a little less annoyed. Any news about Holly?”

  “No news is good news.”

  “Is it, sir? Are you sure about that?”

  “I suggest you and your colleague go to the hospital to have your injuries looked after.”

  Crocker: “Thanks for your concern.”

  It was half past seven in the morning when he and Mancini dragged themselves through the front gate of the guesthouse. Akil and Davis greeted them at the door, both wearing gym shorts and worried expressions.

  “Boss, can I talk to you alone?” Akil asked, the rising sun gilding his face.

  Crocker felt too numb to think. He’d been shot up with painkillers, the back of his head had been bandaged, and his wrist had been placed in a hard cast.

  Akil: “Brian Shaw’s body was dumped in front of the embassy about an hour ago.”

  The name jolted him out of his stupor. “What’d you say?”

  “Brian Shaw’s body was found in front of the U.S. embassy.”

  “Shit…” A sick feeling gathered at the pit of his stomach, then morphed into white-hot rage.

  “Attached to his body was a note from the kidnappers.”

  “What did it say?”

  “They’re giving the U.S. government twenty-four hours to meet their demands before they execute Holly, too.”

  With the taste of bile in his mouth, Crocker swallowed hard. “Fuck! I need to find her. Now!”

  Akil: “All of us are ready to help, boss. We’ll do anything.”

  Davis: “We’re ready to kick ass, but we don’t know where to look.”

  Crocker: “We’ve got to find out more.”

  Akil: “How?”

  Davis: “When Volman called with the news, I asked him the same questions: Who are the kidnappers? Where are they hiding? He says he doesn’t know.”

  Mancini: “Who do you think does?”

  Crocker looked at his boots and the bottom of his pants, still splattered with blood. “Where’s Ritchie?” he asked.

  Davis: “He went with Volman to some of the militia camps, searching for intel.”

  Crocker glanced at his watch, then at a big red spider crawling up the front of the house. They had approximately seventeen hours to find Holly. He said, “The two of you throw on some clothes and grab some weapons. I need you to drive me somewhere. But first, call the embassy and find out if Remington’s in yet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He heard the morning call for prayer drift over the wall; heard the children laughing next door. Thought: Normal life goes on for some people.

  He stepped inside the guesthouse. Splashed water on his face and appraised his ghastly-looking face in the bathroom mirror—his right ear blood encrusted and swollen, lacerations running from his cheekbone to his mouth. He found a bottle of disinfectant in his emergency medical kit, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and sprayed it on his face.

  He looked older, gaunter, his skin gray and tired. But his blue eyes still burned with intensity.

  He grabbed two energy bars and a bottle of water off the kitchen counter, realizing he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a meal. Hurrying to the front door, he shouted, “Let’s go!”

  The neighbor’s twin boys were standing outside in their school uniforms and backpacks, waiting for their father. As they drove off, they waved to Crocker, big smiles creasing their faces.

  He waved back.

  One of the boys shouted, “Have a good day.”

  “You, too. Thanks.” A sob caught in his throat.

  Mancini climbed into the Suburban with Davis and Akil. He was ready to come along, too, but Crocker wanted him to stay near the phones in case Ritchie should call with news.

  “Okay, boss. Good luck. Signal if you need me to meet you somewhere.”

  “Thanks, Manny. I will.”

  Davis: “Where are we going?”

  Akil: “I spoke to the watch officer at the embassy. He said Remington’s at home and not expected in the office ’til noon.”

  “Let’s go see him.”

  Davis drove as if demons were chasing them. Fortunately, the streets were mostly empty, and they arrived at the station chief’s house in less than ten minutes, tires screeching.

  Two Libyan guards outside stood at attention and looked scared. They watched Crocker ring the front gate bell. No answer. He was about to climb over the gate when a thin Hispanic man wearing a shoulder holster came out.

  Crocker: “I’m the SEAL team leader, and I need to see Remington immediately.”

  “I know who you are. He’s asleep.”

  “Wake him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then get out of my way.”

  Crocker tried to squeeze by. The aide held out an arm to stop him as the Libyans watched.

  “He gave me strict orders not to bother him unless it’s an emergency.”

  “This is a fucking emergency,” Crocker growled, pushing his arm aside and entering.

  He knew the house well enough from his earlier stay to locate the back bedroom. There he found Remington sleeping with the curtains drawn and a CD of nature sounds playing.

  He yanked open the curtains and pulled the stereo plug from the wall. The CIA man blinked, rubbed his eyes, and raised himself up on his elbows. Seeing Crocker, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

  Crocker shouted in his face, “You forgot to tell me about Brian Shaw.”

  Remington lay back on the bed and turned away from the window. “I thought we agreed that you were going to let me handle this.”

  “And you said you were working nonstop and going to keep me informed!”

  As Remington turned to look at the clock, an enormous racket echoed from the hallway, sounds of men shouting curses and struggling.

  Seconds later the Hispanic aide burst through the door. Davis had an arm around his neck and Akil was in the process of wrestling the man’s pistol away from him.

  Remington shouted, “What the hell is going on?”

  His aide: “Sir, I tried to stop them from entering the house!”

  “This is unacceptable! Out of control!”

  An angry Remington turned and pointed a finger at Crocker. “I blame you. You’re way out of line, Crocker. I’m reporting this to your command!”

  “Call the fucking president if you want. You’re not doing your job.”

  Remington grabbed the sat-phone from the night table and started to dial a number. Reconsidering, he stopped and shouted, “Come with me!”

  “Where?”

  “We’re going to see the ambassador.”

  Saltzman was pacing the floor with his hands behind his back and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played softly on the stereo. He stopped when he saw the two large men. Said cheerfully, “Come in. Make yourselves at home.” Pointed to a silver coffee service on a tray. “Who would like a morning beverage? Coffee or tea?”

  The clock on his desk read 9:35. The whole setting seemed absurd to Crocker. Time was slipping away.

  Remington ordered his coffee black. The SEAL opted for a glass of water. The men took seats facing the ambassador, Crocker in a straight-backed chair. The red-haired secretary lowered the music volume.

  Saltzman said, “I learned as a young attorney filing civil rights cases against the Justice Department to never panic, never lose hope. Things can change in unexpected ways. They often do.”


  The emotion Crocker held back was almost overwhelming. He wanted to slap them both in the face. Wake them the fuck up.

  The ambassador calmly wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and pushed the tray aside like an actor in a play.

  While my wife is suffering and the minutes tick away.

  He raised an eyebrow and turned to Crocker. “I assume you heard about Brian Shaw.”

  Crocker: “What are you doing about that, sir?”

  “Shocking and horrible.”

  Remington: “Leo ID’d the body.”

  Saltzman: “Animals. Savages.”

  “I’m here to talk about my wife.”

  Silence. Saltzman and Remington shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Tension hung in the air like an electric charge.

  “I was getting to that, Crocker,” the ambassador said smoothly. “First of all, let’s not lose hope. The kidnappers have given us a deadline, but that doesn’t mean they’ll act on it.”

  “They did in Brian’s case,” Crocker countered bluntly. He watched the two officials’ faces turn sour, as if he’d let out an awful stink.

  “Regretfully, yes. But your wife is different.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Because without her the kidnappers have no leverage.”

  Crocker shook with frustration. “Who are they, and why do they want leverage?”

  “I’ll let Remington answer that.”

  Crocker waited. Another slow minute passed as Remington crossed his legs, cleared his throat, leaned forward in his chair.

  “Remember the three men you arrested at the refugee camp near Busetta?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, one of them happens to be the half brother of a Tuareg leader named Anaruz Mohammed.”

  Mention of Anaruz’s name put Crocker even more on edge. “I know who he is.”

  “We believe Anaruz, or people working for him, are behind the kidnapping.”

  “What led you to that conclusion?”

  “Because in exchange for Brian and Holly the kidnappers have been demanding the release of the three men you detained.”

  The irony hit Crocker hard. He said, “I heard it was gold.”

  “The gold was just a rumor.”

  “So Martyrs of the Revolution is just a cover?”

  “That’s what we’ve believed all along, yes.”

  It made sense. Awful sense. Americans had arrested Anaruz’s half brother, so he struck back by kidnapping two U.S. officials.

  But wait…

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence that he seized my wife, or does he know she’s married to the man who arrested his half brother?”

  “I suspect they saw an opportunity to kidnap a couple of Americans, without knowing who they are.”

  “Where are the three prisoners now?” Crocker asked.

  “They’re in NTC custody,” Saltzman answered. “I made a point of turning the three men over to the NTC. Officials there didn’t want to take them at first, but I convinced the NTC that they would improve their human rights profile if they made public examples of them. I pushed hard. They locked the men away and pressed charges. Then Holly and Brian were kidnapped.”

  “Shit.” It was worse than he thought, and it put the onus squarely on him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know where the men are being held?”

  “No, we don’t,” Remington answered.

  “And you probably wouldn’t tell me if you did.”

  “Crocker, there are big issues at stake,” the ambassador said. “Even if we could pressure the NTC to exchange the men for Holly—which we can’t, because it goes against U.S. policy—the release of these men would make the NTC look weak, and that’s something we don’t want to do.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the NTC, I care about my wife.”

  “I’m sure I’d feel the same if I were in your position.”

  “Where does that leave me, Mr. Ambassador? What’s going to happen to Holly?”

  “Nothing now. I think that eventually the kidnappers will get tired of holding her and set her free.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Ask yourself this: What do the kidnappers gain by hurting her? Nothing, except to make themselves look like barbarians. We should presume the kidnappers are rational people.”

  He hated the word “presume” and wished the ambassador hadn’t used it. He took a deep breath and asked, “What if they’re not reasonable? What if they think killing my wife helps them achieve their goals? What if they think sparing her will make them appear weak?”

  No answer.

  “Sir, why aren’t we out there turning this country upside down to find her?”

  “Because it’s not an option. The deadline will pass and your wife will still be alive.”

  Crocker wanted to pick up the coffee table in front of him and throw it out the window. Instead, he gritted his teeth and said, “You’re bargaining with my wife’s life!”

  Remington: “We continue to do everything we can to locate the kidnappers. The more time passes, the more our odds of finding them increase. We’re talking about a relatively small country. We’ve got multiple sources out talking to people from different groups. We’re quietly offering money in exchange for information. I’m confident someone will say something that will be useful.”

  “What have you learned so far?” Crocker asked aggressively. “Where is she being held?”

  Remington: “We believe she’s somewhere in the capital.”

  Crocker was on the verge of losing control. “Where, exactly?”

  Remington: “We don’t know that.”

  “East? West? South? Along the coast?”

  Remington: “We don’t know exactly. But once we have actionable intelligence, we’ll move quickly.”

  “Have you examined Brian’s body? Did you learn anything from that?”

  “Nothing of material value.”

  Crocker stood, took a deep breath, and said, “If anything happens to my wife, you’re both going to have hell to pay. I guarantee that.” As he started to walk, his arms and legs shook with emotion.

  They seemed to know little, and had given him practically nothing.

  “Crocker,” the ambassador said as he reached the door.

  “What?”

  “Don’t do anything you’ll regret later. The NTC is plenty annoyed with you and your team already.”

  “Fuck them.”

  His whole body burning with outrage, he walked past the secretary standing beside the Stars and Stripes, past the marine guard station, and into the dry heat outside. Sunlight glinted off multiple surfaces and stung his eyes. He saw the Suburban waiting and climbed inside, hoping for a few quiet minutes to figure out what to do next. But instead of two men inside, there were four, which confused him.

  Then he recognized Volman, leaning over the front seat, sweaty and reeking of garlic, wearing a blue crewneck shirt with snaps at the neck, looking odd, out of place, like he always did. “What’d they tell you?” he asked.

  Crocker took a moment to get his bearings. He turned to glimpse Ritchie behind him in the rear seat, with Akil beside him. Davis was at the wheel.

  “Nothing, except that they think Holly’s being held somewhere in the city.”

  “Where?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “What’s their strategy?”

  “Their strategy is to wait.”

  Davis: “Wait for what? Are they insane?”

  “They reason that the terrorists won’t carry out their threat, because if they do, they’ll lose the leverage they have by holding her.”

  Akil: “What if they’re wrong?”

  Ritchie: “Yeah, what if they’re fucking wrong?”

  Crocker felt a throb at the pit of his stomach.

  Akil: “That’s ridiculous, boss. Stupid.”

  Volman tapped Crocker on the shoulder and asked, “Who did they say is behind it?”
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br />   “Anaruz Mohammed.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember those three thugs we arrested at the refugee camp? It turns out that one of them is his half brother.”

  “Fuck.”

  Volman: “I have a source, someone with his ear to the ground, who is willing to help. He’s going to meet us at the guesthouse.”

  “When?”

  “Soon as he gets back into town. About an hour.”

  “Thanks.” A slim ray of hope.

  At the guesthouse gate Akil stopped to ask Volman why he was helping them.

  Volman said, “I admire you guys and understand your frustration. I also think our policy of refusing to negotiate with terrorists is wrong. I mean, it’s fine to say that publicly, because you don’t want to encourage them to take our people hostage. But behind the scenes I believe we should do anything, including paying ransom, to get our people back.”

  The more time Crocker spent with the young State Department officer, the more he liked him. He was an awkward man, but intelligent and with a good heart.

  Crocker wanted to go on a short run to clear his head, but he thought it was more important to be ready when Volman’s contact arrived. So he lay on the sofa with his MP5 by his side and leafed through a copy of Sports Illustrated. One minute he was looking at a picture of Danica Patrick, the next he was dreaming that he was with Holly, lying on a bed in a hotel room. She was reading a magazine with Michelle Obama on the cover and wearing a white cheerleader-type skirt that showed off her tanned, smooth legs. When he reached out to touch them, they felt warm. Almost hot.

  She moaned.

  “Holly?”

  He ran his hand farther up her leg to her thigh, where the skin turned lighter. She moaned again.

  “Baby, can you hear me?”

  Higher under her skirt he felt a big indentation and stopped. Lifted the dress up. Saw that a big piece of her leg was missing. Little black worms were eating at it.

  He gasped, felt a stab of pain in his stomach, and woke.

  Crocker lay alone in sweaty clothes. The last time he and Holly had spoken, they’d argued. He remembered it now. She was upset that he’d been spending so much time away from home, leaving her with the burden of dealing with Jenny, who was still adjusting to her new school and being a teenager.