The Deadliest Game

by Hal Ross

  “Watch your mouth!” Bobby gets in his face.

  “I want my cane back, asshole!”

  Bobby seems amused. “Same offer as the other day,” he says. “We’ll give you directions on how to find it.”

  The boy tries to step around him.

  “Not that way,” Bobby says.

  The boy is taller than Bobby. He reaches out and grabs the sleeve of his jacket. Bobby brushes the hand aside and punches the boy in the stomach.

  Blair is stricken. He runs across the street, digs the cane out of the snow bank, and brings it back. “Here,” he says, placing the cane in the boy’s hand. “Take this and go.”

  “Wait a minute,” Bobby says. “Who gave you permission to interfere?”

  Blair ignores him. “Go on,” he says to the blind boy. “Get out of here.”

  The others form a circle and won’t let him pass. Each time he tries, he is pushed back. He taps his cane, invariably touching someone’s boot.

  Blair takes hold of the boy’s arm. He forces an opening in the circle so the boy can pass through.

  Silence envelopes the group. Bobby stares at Blair. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says. He throws a punch that catches him in the upper chest.

  Blair goes down. He splays his legs out, then brings them in to the fetal position.

  “Stand up!” Bobby demands.

  He doesn’t move.

  “Chicken-shit!” Jean Bernier pipes in.

  “Cunt!” Ivan curses.

  Someone kicks him.

  It doesn’t hurt, but Blair groans, pretending that it does.

  Bobby gazes down at him. He tells him to stand up and fight like a man.

  He still doesn’t say or do anything.

  Bobby spits at him.

  A wide gob hits his forehead and begins to trickle into his eyes.

  Blair remains in that prone position until he is certain they have gone.

  CHAPTER 65

  His head swam. Reliving that event of long ago, Blair wondered who he truly was. The twelve-year-old with enough courage to help someone who was blind? Or the one who refused to stand up and defend himself against a boy with a crippled arm?

  His conscience twitched. It forced him to reflect once more on the bed sheet and the light fixture. The easy way out.

  He thought back to the classic novels he had read. One particular character came to mind: Robert Jordan, in Hemingway’s For Whom The Bell Tolls. Lying injured and facing certain death, the man refused to give up without a fight.

  Who am I, Blair wanted to know now. Robert Jordan? Or someone else? Someone not even worth thinking about?

  In the room they called his office, he turned on the computer and began sending e-mails. One to his sister, one to Jeremy Samson, one to his lawyer, a dozen more to his business associates. Each was a call for help of which only he was aware. The secret words weren’t as much disguised as nonexistent.

  Blair recognized there was less than a week to go. Less than seven days to decide. If he stopped the shipment of Cyber-tech from going out, they would kill his daughter. If he gave the okay for the product to be distributed, as many as twenty-five thousand people would perish. Maybe more. Among the victims would be a large percentage of boys and girls the same age as Sandra.

  How could he allow that many children to die?

  For the balance of that day, into the next, and the one after that, Blair couldn’t think of anything else.

  Was there even a choice to be made? he asked himself.

  A nervous tic developed in his right eye. Rubbing it only made it worse.

  He put a call through to his mother that had been cleared with Yassin beforehand.

  They had a problem connecting him at first. Then the caregiver at the hospice in Montreal asked him to hold for a moment longer. When she came back on the line she was apologetic. “I am sorry, Mr. Mulligan; your mother is not able to speak to you at the moment. Is it possible for you to call back later?”

  His need to hear his mother’s voice was such that Blair felt bitterly disappointed. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll call back.”

  CHAPTER 66

  By the time daylight broke on Friday morning, the nervous tic in his right eye had progressed and gotten worse. His stomach and chest were still sore, and the pain in his lower extremities seemed amplified.

  All night long Blair had relived the various stages in his daughter’s life: Proudly displaying what she’d crayoned. Dancing to whatever song was on the radio. Singing to him.

  How could he live without her?

  Getting out of bed, his body felt like it belonged to someone else. The lump on his shoulders that could have been his head was floating a thousand miles away.

  He responded to the knock on his door and accepted the breakfast tray. Then he waited for the woman to leave before closing the door behind her.

  He left the food untouched.

  Getting ready, Blair was unable to reason logically. Sacrificing his daughter was out of the question, as was sealing the fate of thousands of other children.

  A sound escaped his lips, part sigh, part protest. He opened the door and moved into the hallway, where he found a smartly dressed Khalid Yassin standing there to greet him. Gone was his djellaba, replaced by a dark-brown suit and matching tie. “I hope you had a peaceful night,” he said as if addressing an honored guest.

  Blair tried to move past him.

  “Where are you going?” Yassin asked.

  “To my office.”

  “No you’re not. We have plans for you, my friend. Have you forgotten what day this is?”

  He ignored him.

  “Mr. Mulligan?” Yassin took hold of his arm.

  Blair thought of taking his shot. Right then. Pouncing on him, despite his depleted strength.

  Yassin’s look became hard, unfriendly, as if he could read what was on Blair’s mind.

  They insisted he sit in the very metal chair he dreaded. A man began to trim his hair with a comb and scissors. Then he shaved off his mustache and beard.

  “We want you to be presentable,” Yassin said, once it was done. He handed him a mirror.

  Blair disbelieved the face was his own. Sunken cheeks, ultra-pale skin, swollen pockets under his eyes.

  “You look wonderful,” a smiling Yassin said.

  Not only a bastard but a liar, Blair thought. “Where is Sandra?” he asked.

  “Your daughter is busy.”

  “We had a deal: I head off to approve the shipment of Cyber-tech and you release her.”

  “Not until you return. But I may have a compromise for you…”

  Yassin stepped up to the computer. He turned it on and pressed something on the keyboard. “I taped this earlier today,” he said.

  Sandra was sitting in a chair that was far too big for her, her feet dangling over the front. She was wearing a simple pink dress. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “Hello, Daddy,” she said, obviously following a script. “Today is Friday, August seventeenth. I have been treated good…”

  Blair felt a chill go up his spine. He had never seen her look so lost.

  “I can hardly wait to see you,” she continued, her tone reticent and dull. “I’ve missed you. But the man said that today… Um—he said that today is the day you’ll be taking me home.”

  Blair didn’t want the video to end. Sandra muttered something about being anxious. And then she said, “I love you, Daddy.”

  He wouldn’t have known there were tears if not for Yassin handing him a tissue. Blair dabbed at his eyes and watched as the monitor screen went blank.

  CHAPTER 67

  “Take off your shirt,” Yassin said.

  He unbuttoned his sport shirt and let it drop to the floor. As if in an alternate state, he watched as the wire was taped to his still-bruised chest. He winced with each touch of the man’s fingers.

  “Say something,” he was instructed.

  “I have nothing to say.”

  Yassin motioned w
ith his head toward the other man standing close by.

  The “thumbs up” signal was given.

  “We are set,” Yassin said.

  Blair put his shirt back on. The other man guided him out of the room, along the corridor, and up the stairs to the garage.

  “Abdul will be your driver,” Yassin explained. “He will take you to the distribution center. He will listen in as you give your instructions, then drive you back here to be reunited with your daughter. At that point, your task will be completed, and you will never hear from us again.”

  Like hell, Blair wanted to say, knowing he couldn’t believe him.

  They rode the Westside Highway to the Holland Tunnel, then crossed into New Jersey.

  Blair was seated in the back of the Lincoln. The nearer they got to their destination, the more he mentally pleaded for release. He didn’t want to make a decision, would give anything to avoid it.

  They entered the town of Secaucus and were soon at the sprawling building that Blair knew well. It was one of many in this same neighborhood, of average size, two stories tall.

  Blair’s heart labored as they drove around to the side and pulled to a stop.

  There were six loading bays, four of which were occupied. A few were accepting deliveries. Most had goods that were being shipped out. The drivers and their helpers were concentrating on their tasks.

  Abdul turned toward him. “You go now,” he said in passable English. “I wait here and you come back. Yes?”

  It was cloudy and humid, but Blair still appreciated the fresh air as he stepped from the car.

  Choose!

  That one command filtered through his brain.

  The closer he got to the front of the building, the slower he progressed. Finally, he opened the door, moved inside, and approached the reception desk.

  “Mr. Mulligan?” the woman questioned, her mouth flying open.

  “Hello, Debbie,” Blair said.

  “My God, are you okay?” She jumped up, and pointed to the nearest chair. “Here, why don’t you have a seat? Were you in an accident or something?”

  “No, no. I’m okay. Could you find Mr. Killgallon for me?” The thought of retracing his steps, making a run for it, truly appealed to him.

  “Hey you,” Larry Killgallon said.

  The voice jarred him back to reality. Blair turned.

  “Holy Christ!” Larry said, his smile dissolving.

  “C’mon.” Blair took the initiative and led the way. “Let’s go up to your office.”

  Nothing more was said until Larry was seated behind his desk.

  “I’m here to authorize the release of Cyber-tech,” Blair pronounced formally for the sake of the wire. He removed his shirt and quickly placed a finger to his lips. “Is the paperwork ready for me to sign?”

  Larry reeled back in shock.

  Blair shook his head, then pantomimed the need for pen and paper.

  While Larry fumbled in his desk drawer, Blair asked for confirmation to be sent to him once the shipments of Cyber-tech were completed. “I’ll need Bill of Lading numbers,” he said.

  The pen and paper materialized. Blair began inquiring after Larry’s children as he quickly scribbled his note:

  NO MATTER WHAT I SAY, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO RELEASE CYBER-TECH. THE PRODUCT IS TO BE IMMEDIATELY PLACED IN QUARANTINE. AS SOON AS I LEAVE, YOU ARE TO CALL THE POLICE AND TELL THEM THAT THERE IS AN AL-QAEDA CELL HOLDING MY DAUGHTER HOSTAGE. (ADDRESS AS FOLLOWS.)

  Blair wrote out the address and thrust the note in Larry’s hand.

  The man’s eyes bulged at what he was reading.

  Blair waited.

  Larry took the pen in hand. He wrote out his own message and handed it to him.

  WHAT CAN I DO TO HELP?

  Blair put his palms together, showing a need for prayer.

  The other man indicated he understood.

  It took the walk outside to bring Blair to his senses. And he chided himself for being so discombobulated he hadn’t thought of it sooner. There was hope. Awfully slim, but hope nonetheless. There was no possible way Yassin could know what he had just done. The script was followed as directed and words spoken on cue. If he hurried, he could pick up Sandra and be out of the house before the police arrived.

  He tried to run but his legs wouldn’t allow it.

  Hope, an inner voice was telling him.

  He finally turned the corner and made his way toward the waiting car.

  Blair got into the back seat and shut the door. He could feel his heart pounding. An hour more, he figured. Perhaps less, depending on traffic. Approximately sixty minutes and it would all be over.

  Abdul slowly pulled away. He drove past the loading dock, then came to a stop. “Must have cigarette,” he said by way of explanation.

  Blair wanted to tell him to make it quick. His nerves were pumped and he couldn’t sit still.

  Abdul seemed to be having a problem. Whatever he was trying to get loose—his cigarette package, Blair assumed—was apparently stuck.

  Curious, Blair’s gaze went to the rearview mirror and he caught sight of the gun.

  He panicked for a moment, then swallowed it down. He quickly leaned over the seat, making a grab for the weapon.

  The other man fought him off.

  He held on to Abdul’s arm, not knowing where the strength was coming from.

  Abdul lashed out, cursing in Arabic.

  Something kept Blair going. He raised one of his legs to get better leverage.

  The other man pulled.

  A tug-of-war ensued that lasted for several minutes. Blair told himself it was now or never, so he yanked on Abdul’s gun hand for all he was worth.

  The weapon dropped.

  Then both men became caught between the bucket seats. Their arms were pinned between them and neither was able to move. Their chests touched. Blair could feel the other man’s beating heart.

  Abdul swore again.

  Blair made the mistake of moving a fraction of an inch.

  It was just enough to give Abdul the advantage. He kneed Blair in the groin.

  The shock caused Blair’s body to jerk backwards. He caught sight of the gun; it had been concealed beneath him. He tried reaching for it, but Abdul noticed the gun as well.

  They went for it at the same time.

  Their heads collided.

  For a moment, they were equally stunned.

  Abdul recovered first. The weapon came into his hand and, as if in slow motion, he took aim.

  In a last ditch effort, Blair reached up, made contact.

  The gun fired.

  Blair waited, holding his breath.

  There was blood. Too much of it. Soaking his clothes and the interior of the car.

  He turned and caught the sightless look in Abdul’s eyes. Numb, he wanted to pause, but he was reminded of his daughter’s plight. He had to get to her before it was too late. Abdul obviously had orders to kill him. Logic dictated that his death had been sanctioned, to be effectuated the moment he approved Cyber-tech’s release. Which meant that everything he’d been told was a lie. Which meant that Sandra…

  The thought was too grave to consider.

  Adrenaline resurged, he scurried across the back seat, reached a hand out, found the handle, and opened the door.

  Removing Abdul from the car was not as easy. The corpse was heavy. He had to maneuver it back and forth.

  When the task was done, Blair slipped into the driver’s seat, snapped his seatbelt in place, and drove off. Half to himself, half aloud, he asked God to please, please, PLEASE spare his daughter.

  Typical for a Friday, Manhattan traffic was at a near standstill. Hand on the horn, Blair started to weave in and out, taking advantage of the smallest opening. All that mattered now was staying focused, to get to the house in time.

  He finally rounded the corner of the street. He pulled into the driveway and a foreboding set in. The front door was standing ajar. He palmed Abdul’s gun that was lying on the
seat beside him, and came out of the car on the run.

  Caution was thrown to the wind as he hurried into the house. “Sandra?” he called.

  He began his descent to the subbasement.

  The search only took a few minutes. Finding nothing, he mounted the stairs to the basement level, an area he knew well.

  He tried the kitchen first, followed by the room used as his office. There was no sign of life. No sign that anyone had ever lived there. Crouching low, gun in hand, he continued to open doors.

  Retracing his steps, he climbed back up to the main floor.

  With gun pointed in front, he went from room to room, visualizing Abdul’s blood after he’d been shot, petrified of finding more blood, his daughter’s blood.

  “Sandra?” he called again.

  He checked the living and dining rooms, each of the three bathrooms, then circled back to the front door.

  Now what? he asked himself.

  Blair slowly walked out of the house, moved to the edge of the sidewalk, and wearily let himself down at the curb.

  The twitch in his right eye felt like a constant pain. In the distance he heard the sound of sirens. No doubt, Larry Killgallon had come through for him.

  But it was far too late, he knew.

  PART THREE

  SEPTEMBER • NOVEMBER

  CHAPTER 68

  Transported by the police, he was immediately put under sedation, so for the first few days, he did nothing but sleep. It took until mid-week for Blair to get his bearings and understand that he was in a private room in New York’s Presbyterian Hospital on 68th Street.

  The FBI questioned him, but he remembered very little of what was said. Mostly, his mind visualized the gun going off. The Arab lying dead. And the copious amount of blood. Then fleeing to the empty house and finding Sandra gone.

  Now, he noticed the newspapers for the first time. There were about a dozen of them, stacked in a neat pile on the chair next to his bed. He pushed the covers to one side and positioned the pillow until he was in a more upright position. He took the first newspaper in hand and lay back down. The headline screamed at him: