by T. K. Leigh
“I should be there,” Alexander muttered, scanning the screens.
Ever since learning about the explosion, his stomach churned with uncertainty. It took everything inside him to fight his gut response to hop on the first military transport flying over there to figure out what happened and where Landon was, but he knew it would be futile. There was protocol in place for how to proceed in the event something like this should happen. Perhaps Landon was waiting to call until he knew it was safe to do so. But as the hours turned into days, he couldn’t help but think the worst…that the threats Landon had received on an almost daily basis had been realized.
Regret ate away at him, unable to get past his last conversation with Landon. He hadn’t thought twice about what his friend had asked of him, but it was now at the forefront of his mind. He had an awful premonition all of this could have been avoided if he had just done what Landon requested, regardless of the consequences.
“And do what? Bang on every door, asking if they’ve seen him? Westerners aren’t exactly liked by everyone. Not to mention…” Martin stepped toward him. “No one’s supposed to know the medical clinic is just a front for what you’re really doing over there.”
“I know,” Alexander sighed, leaning back in his chair and propping his designer shoe-clad feet on the desk.
His surroundings were a far cry from the barren and meager environment in which he had first met Landon…wearing their navy-issued boxer briefs, standing at attention as they listened to their instructor call them pansies and remind them that, in just a matter of days, their numbers would dwindle. Their friendship had survived Hell Week, deployment, and years of little to no communication after Alexander left the navy and Landon remained. They had shared parts of themselves with each other, things they never told another person. In anticipation of embarking on yet another covert mission under the cover of night, they’d made promises to each other. Alexander hoped he wasn’t letting his friend down.
“Rayne keeps calling to see if I’ve heard anything,” Alexander continued. “I don’t want to lie to her, but what can I do? I keep assuring her he’s okay, that he’s just adhering to standard protocol and will call when it’s safe to do so. Part of me wants to admit it’s not looking good, that he should have called by now to let me know he’s okay. I can’t help but—”
A flash on one of the television monitors caught his attention and he snapped his head up. “Breaking News” ran across the screen in bright, bold letters before cutting back to the same anchor. Alexander hoped for news about Landon, but had a feeling if there were any developments of which he was not aware, it wouldn’t be anything good. Like dominoes falling, each of the other stations the television monitors were tuned to also flashed a “Breaking News” title. His stomach rolled.
He grabbed one of the remotes on his desk, not caring which monitor it controlled. It didn’t matter. They all seemed to be reporting the same story. A weighty voice, mixed with a touch of compassion filled the silence. People often remarked they remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when Kennedy was shot or the Twin Towers fell. This was his Kennedy assassination. This was his 9/11. The start of a series of events that would slowly unravel the pieces of his seemingly perfect life.
“Breaking news tonight out of Afghanistan where we’ve been closely following the explosion at an American-operated medical clinic, and the search for the missing staff and patients. Last Sunday, just before noon local time, what is believed to be a suicide bomber stepped up to this building, located approximately fifty miles outside Kabul, and detonated a crude cell phone bomb.” A photo of the remains of a nondescript one-story clay building appeared on the screen. All that was left was the foundation and a few wall fragments. The rest had been reduced to rubble. “No bodies have been recovered, except for that of the bomber, so it is believed all staff and patients were able to escape.”
Tapping relentlessly on the desk in front of him, Alexander sat up in his chair, his attention glued to the screen. He knew the news wouldn’t be good, but he couldn’t help but hold out hope for a happy ending.
“Over the past week, there’s been much speculation about the cause or reason for this attack. Experts have weighed in, some calling it just another unfortunate incident in an area riddled with violence. Although the bomb was crudely made, which gave rise to many opinions that this was simply an isolated event, we can now say with certainty that isn’t the case. This was a planned act of terrorism against an American company whose entire purpose overseas is to help those in need.”
Alexander stood from his desk, crossing the room toward the large television screens. He could faintly make out Martin’s voice in the background, probably trying to get to the bottom of why they were learning about all this by watching the national news, not through their contacts and connections in the intelligence field.
“Just moments ago, we received a videotape from an extremist group we’re just now getting word about, I.U., or Islamic Union, claiming credit for the bombing, as well as the abduction of one of the key staff members of the clinic, a man they claim to be Landon Tate, a former Navy SEAL now working for Burnham and Associates, a private security firm based out of the States, but whose presence is known across the globe.”
“Shit,” Alexander muttered.
As with most of the humanitarian work his company did, he preferred to keep it secret. On paper, the clinic was run by one of the many “shell” corporations his company had set up to keep the security side of the business separate. He didn’t want someone to target any of the clinics, camps, or aid stations set up to help those in need simply because of its connection to the company’s military contracts. It would have taken some serious digging or some very loose lips within his management team to connect his company to this clinic.
“It’s normally not our policy to broadcast such videos, but little is known about this group just yet. We felt it necessary to warn the public about the potential new threat we face as a nation. What we’re about to show you is very graphic, so if you’re particularly sensitive or have little ones in the room, you may want to change the channel. It has been edited, but it still may be a bit too violent for some viewers.”
The camera cut from the reporter to a fuzzy homemade video. The room was all white with low ceilings. A lone green flag with a large white circle in the middle and Arabic symbols scrawled beneath it hung on the wall. Alexander’s chest rose and fell with increased frequency as he searched his brain for any memory of seeing that particular flag before. He didn’t recognize it as the official flag of any nation he had ever heard of.
He swallowed hard, a sour taste in his mouth. The sound of a door opening echoed, like footsteps on a creaky floorboard, and five figures dressed all in black with their faces obscured, save for their eyes, entered, pushing a tall, muscular man before them, his arms bound in front of him and a blindfold over his eyes.
Alexander fought with everything he had to remain impassive as he looked at his employee, his team member, his friend clad in a bright orange jumpsuit, the little skin visible bruised and bloody. All he could do was pray Landon’s fiancée wasn’t watching the same newscast at this moment. He felt nauseated and lightheaded thinking about Landon and what he was going through for all to see. If Rayne was watching, he couldn’t imagine how she was coping with it.
One of the nondescript figures removed Landon’s blindfold and forced him to kneel in the center of the room, the five men standing in a straight line behind him. Alexander had seen such a display before. He always felt bad for the man in the orange jumpsuit, and for their wives and kids, if they had any. But his sympathy was always short-lived. Within a day or two, he would forget the name, the person becoming one more among many who had fallen victim to this war on terror. Some were military. Many were not. Seeing Landon in the same shoes many strangers before him had walked made Alexander sick. Staring into the eyes that got him through so many rough patches during his time as a SEAL, it felt as if a he
avy weight was crushing his chest, his lungs unable to draw in enough air.
He fought back the dizziness running through him, focusing solely on the mission, as he had been trained to do. This was different, though. He wasn’t on assignment, fighting not only for his life, but the lives of the rest of his team. Instead, he was in his cushy office wearing a designer suit that cost more than most enlisted men made in a month, watching a real-life horror story unfold before his eyes. There was no mission. If there were, he had abandoned it, leaving his team in peril. For what? To follow protocol? Fuck protocol. The old Alexander would have followed his gut, not the rules.
He wanted to look away from the television, but was glued to Landon’s blue eyes staring directly at the camera…at him. Taking a deep breath, Landon lowered his head and studied a piece of paper he held in his bound hands, hesitating. Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, he subtly shook his head.
One of the men stepped forward, hitting him in the back of his head with the butt of an automatic rifle. Landon grunted through the pain, taking a moment to recover and compose himself. He mumbled something in a language Alexander recognized as Pashto, then looked back at the camera.
“This is a message for every American.” His voice cut through the heavy silence. He blinked slowly. His body appeared frail, a shell of his former self. Like Alexander, Landon had been trained to withstand days of physical and mental torture, but he was only human and had his limits. Alexander didn’t even want to consider what Landon had been forced to endure that had brought him to this point. Even so, he stared directly at the camera, his voice as strong as ever.
“You think you’re so powerful, so smart, that your way of life is the only way. You are wrong. You come into our country and impose your western ideals. You thought you were untouchable, that you would be victorious. The mighty Allah has shown us your weakness. We have existed for thousands of years without your intervention, and we will exist for thousands of years after you’ve all been exterminated. We are the chosen ones. You can keep interfering with our traditions, but it will be met with the same end. The Islamic Union will do everything within its means to continue striking down every rat who stands in its path. My blood…” Landon paused, closing his eyes briefly as one of the men stepped up behind him, a long blade in his hand.
Alexander brought his hand to his mouth, his heartbeat echoing in his ears. The tick-tock of the clock on the wall seemed to be amplified a thousand times as his surroundings swirled into a twisted rabbit hole. He knew what was about to happen. Still, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t look away. He owed Landon that much. He needed to remain as courageous and brave as his friend was in the face of a grim and sadistic end.
Landon licked his lips, his eyes narrowed. If he were afraid, he did a good job of covering it up. “My blood is the price I must pay to atone for my sins and the sins of my brethren.”
The executioner raised the blade, gripping it with both hands, a macabre baseball bat to end Landon’s life. Then the screen went black.
Chapter Eight
Present Day
December 18
10:15 PM
BLINKING HIS EYES OPEN, Alexander was frozen in place as he stared at the white ceiling fifteen feet above him. He hadn’t thought about that day in months. He tried to not blame himself for what happened to Landon. At first, it was difficult, especially when he had to look into Mischa’s eyes at the funeral and offer his apologies for not doing more.
“You can’t blame yourself, Alex,” Mischa had responded consolingly, the epitome of strength and grace, even when saying goodbye to the only family she had left. “This isn’t your fault.” Standing on her toes, she had wrapped her arms around him, offering him the comfort he should have been providing her. He had closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to mourn with Landon’s sister. As he pulled back, he caught Landon’s fiancée’s blank stare, her purple-blue eyes vacant.
Alexander shot up on the couch. Grabbing the file Simpson had given him off the table, he fumbled through it, the memory of those eyes intermingling with his unusual encounter earlier this morning. Frantic, he threw photo after photo onto the couch, the floor, the coffee table, desperately searching for the one he had been looking at before he dozed off. Hearing paper crinkling, he looked beside him to see the corner of a photo sticking out from beneath him. Hurriedly, he jumped up, papers scattering like leaves. Grabbing it, Alexander zeroed in on the other woman beside Landon…Rayne, his fiancée of over five years and girlfriend for even longer.
Her deep red hair contrasted with her creamy white skin. She was tall, slender, happy. Her eyes were remarkable, unforgettable…shades of blue mixed with lilac. They shimmered and gleamed, so alive.
As Alexander stared at the photo in front of him, Rayne’s features began to fade. Her clean skin was replaced with a weathered appearance and large bags under her eyes. Her face showed signs of significant weight loss and perhaps even drug addiction. Her hair was no longer lustrous and full, but wiry, frayed, and tired. Those eyes that once were so full of life and whimsy were empty, cold, unforgiving.
“Why didn’t I see it sooner?”
Dashing to his desk, he grabbed his cell and searched through his contacts, praying he hadn’t deleted her information for some unknown reason. When he finally found her name, he breathed a momentary sigh of relief, waiting as the call connected. He paced in front of the windows, the Boston sky a murky mix of rain, ice, and snow. The meteorologist on the local news had said this was just the warmup. By Sunday evening, the forecast was for up to two feet of snow to cover the city.
As Alexander made a mental note to make sure his driveway would be plowed, the line picked up without ringing, a recording announcing that the phone number was no longer in service.
“Shit,” he mumbled before turning to his laptop. It could have just been a coincidence that a woman he believed to be Rayne stood outside his building this morning, but something about today being the anniversary of Landon’s death, coupled with Mischa’s suspicious murder, made him think that wasn’t the case. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d crossed paths with two of the most important people in Landon’s life — his sister and his fiancée. Alexander refused to believe it was simply a coincidence.
He navigated toward his search engine of choice to see what hits came up on Landon’s fiancée, then paused, fumbling for her last name. He stared at the white screen, the bright letters of the search engine’s logo mocking him. He should have remembered. He had been trained to recall random combinations of letters and numbers, security codes, bank account numbers, license plates. Why, when it came to someone who was once a close personal friend, was he drawing a blank?
His fingers hovering over the keyboard, he stared at the twenty-six letters of the alphabet, hoping something would come to him. “Rayne, Rayne, Rayne.” He repeated her name over and over, wishing he had used her real last name in his phone contacts instead of Landon’s. “Kilpatrick!” he shouted, as if Landon were in the room, introducing him to his girlfriend for the first time.
He hastily typed her name and the search engine came back with a few hits, mostly articles about the bakery that had made her a rising star in the Boston culinary scene. There were a few photos of her from Landon’s funeral, wearing all black, the bump beneath her dress visible. A renewed sorrow formed in his heart when he recalled the weeks following Landon’s death.
He had tried to check on Rayne repeatedly to see how she was doing, but she never answered the door. Soon, his visits grew more and more infrequent, stopping altogether when she hadn’t answered her phone or door in over a month. He assumed she was simply busy with the bakery again.
It wasn’t until several weeks later that he learned the bakery was in trouble and about to go under. He had tried to get in touch with her once more, but she never returned his phone calls. When he went to her house, a complete stranger answered the door, saying she no longer lived there. Wanting to help, not knowing how, he had one
of his subsidiary companies purchase the bakery from her at a price far over market value to give her some sort of financial security. As far as he knew, his subsidiary still owned it.
Staring at the search results, he realized he had hit a dead end and would need someone with skills far more advanced than those he possessed to track her down. He grabbed the receiver of his office phone and punched in a few numbers.
“Simpson,” Alexander said when he picked up, surprised he was still at the office at this late hour. “Stop what you’re doing. I need you to hunt down an address for a Rayne Kilpatrick. Text me the minute you have it. I’m heading out.”
He hurriedly grabbed his coat and left his office in a complete state of disarray. He had come in today, neglecting his family, to try to look for proof that Mischa wasn’t just another victim of the Castle Island Killer. Instead, he now found himself trying to track down yet another ghost from his past. He didn’t know why he needed to get in touch with Rayne so badly. Maybe he felt as if he could have prevented Mischa’s death and hoped to atone for his guilt by making sure Rayne was okay. Maybe their paths had crossed again for a reason. Maybe he simply needed reassurance that none of this was his fault, hoping he could get that from Rayne. The reason no longer mattered. He just knew he needed to find her.
“Where to, Mr. Burnham?” a voice bellowed behind him as he strode down the hallway. Alexander turned around to see Martin running to catch up.