by K D McNiven
Many questions, no answers.
Chapter 16
⁂
Lake Pontchartrain
Callie remained cloaked in her mud cocoon for what seemed an eternity. She tasted the earthy clay in her mouth and her eyes burned. Strange creatures had slithered across her flesh making her skin crawl. Yet, better that than facing Ismael. She knew she couldn’t remain in this cavity permanently and would have to venture out before much longer but fear had held her there. She had long since stopped hearing the sloshing of Ismael’s footsteps, nor did she hear his chilling voice calling out for her.
The loud booms of thunder which had shaken the ground earlier had ceased, as well as the pelting rain. Inhaling deeply, she pushed her arms out of the mud and rolled out onto the slippery bank. Her muscles were knotted and cramping, her body begging for water. She scanned her surroundings, wiping the mud from her eyes and face. Taking one step, she froze. Before her, she stared at a twelve-foot alligator, green slanted eyes fixed squarely on her. Her heart jack-hammered in her chest as she involuntarily took a step back, unable to tear her gaze away from the two rows of jagged teeth glinting with deadly implications.
Her body went numb, and she was unable to wrap her mind around this scenario. For one brief moment, she thought she might be free, but now, standing frozen on the steaming banks of Lake Pontchartrain, she was immersed in yet another life and death confrontation. On bated breath, she slowly backtracked, knowing if she took off running the alligator would overtake her. And yet, she had no recourse.
The alligator lashed its tail to one side, opened its mouth all the wider and made a frightening hissing sound that chilled her to the bone. It lunged forward aggressively and Callie, shaking fiercely, looked around for a large branch—anything she might be able to use as a weapon of defense. She saw nothing.
Two more steps back.
The alligator padded forward, three sharp claws on each foot digging into the mud, its evil eyes devouring her.
She had no doubt in her mind she would have to run. Only if her adrenalin kicked in would she be able to get away from this deadly creature as her strength had waned. She began to count slowly in her head, deciding that on the count of three she would bolt and try to jump to the top of the bank. She prayed she wouldn’t stumble or she would not see tomorrow.
One…two…three…pivoting, Callie broke into a sprint. The nearly three-foot-high bank would be incredibly slick, but inhaling deeply, she lunged forward and leaped to the edge. Her foot slipped and she dropped like a lead weight onto her stomach, the wind knocked out of her. In a flurry of frenzied feet, the alligator charged toward her and Callie screamed visualizing vicious teeth ripping into her flesh.
Frantically she made one last attempt to push herself onto her feet yet she wasn’t able to get traction on the oil-slick ground. A sudden blast echoed, and pieces of the alligator rained around her. Her head whipped to the side, and she shuddered to see the barrel of Ismael’s gun stuck in her face. Her body sagged. Filled with despair she realized getting a break was not in the cards.
“Get up,” Ismael ordered.
Callie staggered to her feet. Her legs were barely able to hold her. She saw the smug look of triumph in his evil eyes. Every inch of her wanted to rip him apart. She had to wonder if it would have been better for her life to be taken by the alligator as to be tormented by this monster yet again.
He motioned for her to start walking. Her legs felt like jello, and when she faltered, Ismael would thrust the steel barrel of his firearm into the center of her back to prod her. Her eyes panned the perimeter, locking onto the warehouse ahead. It was isolated. She didn’t see any houses close by. All she knew, they were by Lake Pontchartrain, a vast body of water, so finding her would be difficult, if not impossible.
Back inside, Ismael forced her back into the room where she had been held prisoner. When she turned, his fist struck her below the eye. Her head snapped back, and she felt her body swirling in darkness.
“There,” he laughed. “Now we’re even.”
After locking the door behind him, Ismael went to the small table where he had left his phone. He had not heard anything from Rafiq in quite some time. He had thought he would have returned by now. That in mind, he picked up his cell and saw a couple of texts from Rafiq. He opened his text messages to read what he had to say.
“Ismael,” it began, “Feds are on to me and I see no way out. Call my sister Amena on the burn phone. She’ll come to get you and help you get the finances from Decker.”
Sweat popped out on Ismael’s forehead and his heartbeat accelerated. Rafiq had been the brains behind their terrorist plot. The one who had made the decisions and had taken most of the risks. Now everything, with crushing intensity, fell onto his shoulders and waves of tension began to mount. He paced the floor like a caged animal, his throat constricting.
Using the store-bought burn phone, he knew couldn’t be traced, he tapped in Amena’s number and waited anxiously for her to answer.
“Rafiq?” she answered.
“No. It’s Ismael, Amena. I believe Rafiq has been captured or killed. He told me to contact you for help.”
“I’m being watched, Ismael, but I believe I can get away from them. Give me an hour, and I’ll pick you up.”
“I need you to do me a favor, Amena,” Ismael said. “I need you to bring along a change of clothes for Mrs. Hayden. It seems she decided to roll in the mud and I don’t have any clothes here. She’s about five-foot-four. Slim. Bring a baseball cap as well.”
“I’ll do what I can, Ismael.”
***
Raymond stood towering over Brock’s desk, a wide smile parting his lips. Brock’s head had settled on the stack of folders. Decker and Dax were slumped in chairs in front of his desk, all three of them fast asleep. He had to hand it to them. They’d been relentless the past couple of days, refusing to sleep—only eating on the run. He hesitated to have to wake them, but he didn’t have much choice.
He began to shake Brock’s shoulder gently. More firmly when he saw Brock would not wake up easily. The hard shake worked. Brock’s eyes fluttered open. Briefly, he looked disoriented, blinking several times to focus in. When he saw Raymond standing over him, he knew he had something important to share.
“What?” Brock said, straightening himself in the old wooden chair.
It was possibly the resonating of his voice or the buzz of office activity, but Decker and Dax both woke simultaneously. They looked at Raymond, leaning over them, palms on the desk, an intense look on his face.
“Rafiq’s sister is on the move,” Raymond said. “She tried to sneak out but she’s been under heavy surveillance since her release.”
Brock snatched his felt hat from the desk and patted it down onto his head. Getting to his feet he said, “Where’s she headed?”
“Toward the lake.”
“On our way,” Brock told him, motioning for Decker and Dax to follow him.
They all three piled into the squad car. Brock revved the motor and punched the gas pedal to the floor. The tires screeched as the rubber burned against the asphalt. Grabbing the hand radio, Brock said, “What do you have set in place?”
“Helicopters are trailing Rafiq’s sister,” came the voice on the other end. “And the Counter-Terrorism Implementation Task Force team are on their way as we speak.”
“Keep me informed. We’re heading your way,” Brock said.
“Copy that, Detective.”
Decker felt his nerves snapping. He wondered if this would be the break they had been looking for. He only hoped Ismael had not gotten panicked and done something insane once he’d found out what had happened to Rafiq. Decker tried to shake the plaguing thought, that Ismael might dispose of Callie in a desperate act. His hope was that Ismael would continue with the plans of asking for a ransom.
***
Amena tossed Callie a bundle of clothes. “Put these on,” she ordered, a semi-automatic weapon trained threateningly on he
r. “And clean your face.”
Callie stared blankly at the new player dressed in green and brown fatigues and desert-tan army boots. Her black hair was drawn severely back from a high forehead into a tight bun in the back, her face. Harsh black eyes drove through Callie like daggers. Clearly, this woman had a heart of ice, same as Rafiq and Ismael.
Callie had not seen or heard Rafiq for hours and wondered if he had been detained by the authorities? No matter. Callie remained in the same predicament, and there did not appear to be a way of escape. Without options, she moved listlessly to the sink to wash her face, still caked with mud. When she looked up at her reflection, she nearly gasped at the stranger who stared back. She scarcely recognized the face in the mirror, swollen as if she’d encountered a nest of angry hornets. Purplish-black bruises underscored her eyes and cheeks and her lips were cracked open in several places, still engorged with blood. Trembling fingers reached upward and tangled in her matted hair. She winced. What were usually vibrant green eyes, were now dull and lifeless. Shock rocked her to her core.
“Hurry up!” Amena demanded.
Amena had wanted to stay below the radar. At the present time, the authorities had stopped their grueling interrogation, though she knew they had been monitoring her movements. It had been her usual day to go to work so she tried to stay on schedule so as to not alarm the authorities. She had parked to the rear of her workplace, stayed only a brief time, and slipped out and making her way through the alley. She felt reasonably sure she hadn’t been spotted.
It had been the plan from the beginning—assist them in their get-away. Now that circumstances had gone spiraling out of control, she had to be pulled into the matter ahead of schedule. No big deal, she reasoned. It had merely pushed the plan ahead a few days. The only difference, Rafiq was no longer part of it.
Callie finished up and moved to the bed and stripped off her blouse. She slipped her arms into sleeves of a plaid, button-up blouse and put on a pair of blue jeans, and slid her feet into a pair of tennis shoes too long. Lastly, she patted down the blue baseball cap on her head the woman handed her. When done, Amena motioned for Callie to step out of the room.
They walked into a small area where there was a table, television, and sink. Empty boxes of crackers, soda cans, and half-eaten potato chip bags cluttered the counter. The dingy, dust-ridden room had only one light hanging from a frayed electrical cord. Dark, like the two people holding her, she thought.
Callie wasn’t sure, but she swore she heard the sound of helicopters approaching.
“Sit down,” Ismael said gruffly and shoved Callie roughly onto the chair. He put a dark cloth bag over her head, drew her arms behind her back and secured her hands with duct tape. Finishing up, they moved her out into the garage and stuffed her inside a vehicle.
“We need to hurry, Ismael. I can hear them coming,” Amena said.
Callie nearly burst into hysterical laughter. It had not been her imagination. The sound of rotors beating against the air reverberated around them. It wasn’t a ‘get out of jail free’ scenario for her, but it did offer a thread of hope.
The car engine roared as the garage door opened up. The woman sat in the back seat, gun to Callie’s head as they left the warehouse and headed down the road. Unable to tell for sure, Callie believed they were heading back toward New Orleans. No matter the outcome, she hoped Decker would be ready to take out these two savage humans.
Chapter 17
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“Detective Brock,” the voice came over the radio. “It appears Amena Naifeh’s car is heading back toward the city. They’ll be passing you in two miles. She is driving a four-door, silver Audi.”
“Got it,” Brock replied. “Let’s take them down!”
Decker and Dax stared out the car window anxiously waiting to see the Audi. Decker heard the beating of his heart in his ears as blood surged through his veins. Fear enveloped him knowing there remained a high risk they would kill Callie as to let her go. Somehow, someway, he would get her out of their clutches and safely back into his arms.
A chill ran down his spine as the Audi sped by. With the tinted windows, he couldn’t be sure how many people were in the car. In fact, it was possible Callie wasn’t with them at all. The S.W.A.T. team had already arrived at the warehouse where they’d been holed up, searching the area out while other CIA special forces were waiting for Amena and Ismael to come to a stop somewhere and overtake them.
Brock had since turned his car around and followed close behind, tensions so thick it was palpable. Sirens were heard coming in all directions. From all appearances, the car looked to be heading toward the docks. What their intentions were still waited to be seen, but Brock felt they would not go down without a fight.
The Audi turned down a road running parallel to the Mississippi. It headed toward a large building. At a glance, it looked as though they would be boxed in. However, the Audi accelerated and smashed through the side of the building. People scattered in every direction upon hearing the loud crash.
Police cars pulled into the parking lot, blue and red lights flashing. Officers poured out of their vehicles; guns drawn at the ready. Helicopters circled above like buzzards lying in wait for their prey, the barrel of sniper automatic weapons trained on the metal building below.
Brock, Decker, and Dax nearly leaped from the car and took to a dead-run toward the entry. Brock grabbed Decker’s sleeve.
“I need you to stand down, Decker,” he said sternly.
“Detective, my wife may be in there!”
“I understand, Decker. But if you go barging in, it could cost Callie her life.” Brock stared squarely into Decker’s defiant eyes. Their nerves crackled. “Let those who are trained deal with this.”
Abruptly, the front door burst open, and Ismael stepped outside the door-jam. He held Callie captive in front of him, bag over her head and held his gun to her temple. “We want money and safe passage out of this city, or we will kill her,” his voice rang out.
Decker started forward but Dax grabbed his shirt sleeve holding him back. “Don’t do anything foolish, Decker. He’s desperate.”
Brock took several steps toward them with the thought of appeasing him until such time they were able to find a way to overtake him and Amena. “How much money?”
“Couple million,” Ismael shouted above the roar of the helicopters circling overhead. “And I want you to clear out the uniformed officers, the helicopters, all of them…gone! I want a boat brought around to the dock. When Amena and I are safe, we’ll let the woman go, but not until then.”
“It will take us time to come up with that kind of cash,” Brock told him.
“I’ve got all day. Unfortunately, the lady doesn’t.” Ismael ripped the black hood off Callie. Donned in a dark jacket Ismael had forced her to wear, Callie wondered if she’d swoon from the heat. Sweat trickled down her flushed face and her back.
Ismael parted the jacket to reveal Callie had an explosive vest strapped on. Her hands were tied behind her back, and her golden hair hung in limp strands around her pale face.
Decker’s legs went weak. Briefly, he thought he might collapse. “We’ve got to do something, Detective,” he said with restrained aggression, powerless to take his eyes off Callie. His heart splintered as he viewed her battered appearance. A flood of panic washed over him, never having felt so helpless in his life. They had overcome so many obstacles, but right now, staring into the face of evil, he wondered if they would find a way out of this nightmare.
“We’ll get the money,” Brock told him. “You need to let the woman go.”
“When we’re safely on a boat with the money you can have her back,” Ismael said.
Sharpshooters were lining up on the roofs surrounding the area, and one of the police officers started to circle around to the back—a succession of rapid-fire and the policeman dropped. Amena stepped out from the shadows.
“I told you. No police. I want them out of here. Now!” Ismael yelled, agitatio
n flanking his voice.
Brock held up his hand, motioning for the police to stand down and move back to their cars. His mind reeled trying to figure out how they could take Ismael down without killing Callie in the process.
Callie’s eyes locked onto Decker. Her heart leaped in her chest. At least she had a chance to see him. Maybe for the last time. She didn’t have an ounce of strength left, nor could she muster enough wherewithal to be afraid anymore.
“What’s your plan, Detective?” Dax asked.
“No idea. We need to play along with him and let the CIA’s Special Activities Division take this on and the SWAT team,” Brock replied.
“Let’s talk this out,” Brock called out. “You don’t want to harm the woman. We will get you the money, but as I said, it will take a bit more time.”
“You’re stalling,” Ismael yelled, waving his gun in the air.
“No. It takes time to transfer funds like that. Be patient, I’m already on it.”
“Get it here now or I will blow her to pieces!”
Brock had no doubt he would do exactly what he said by the wild insanity flashing in his black eyes.
“Settle down, Ismael,” Brock said, leaning on his training and trying to calm Ismael down. “We will work as fast as we can.”
“Get everyone back from here. Now!” Ismael hollered, looking up at the SWAT team lined up on the roofs and surrounding the area. Police were sprawled along the street by the dozens, car lights flashing, and the bomb squad arrived and poured out of a van down the street.
“I want all of you to move back!” yelled Brock. “Now!”
He watched as they began to disband, the line pushing as far back as reasonable under the circumstances. Brock directed them with his hand in the air. When he felt like they were distanced enough, he dropped his hand and turned his attention back on Ismael and Amena.
Despite the fact Brock had warned Decker to do nothing, Decker didn’t possess the ability to stand idly by while his wife got blown to bits. He glanced at Dax and slowly backed away. Evidence that Decker didn’t have the ability to stand down. At least not under these circumstances.