He shuffled around in his chair for several moments, moaning and groaning about having to use the restroom. It was a tactic used by every child under the age of six, but he figured it couldn’t hurt for him to try it now. Less than a minute later, one of the guards was untying him and escorting him toward a door at the back of the cavernous room.
Colton walked slowly, prompted from behind every few meters when the guard shoved him with the barrel of his rifle.
“Move it,” the guard barked.
Colton shuffled forward, ignoring the forceful requests for expediency. He was still trying to formulate a plan for how he might lift the guard’s cell phone and get a message to someone who could help. They wound through several dimly-lit corridors until they approached a set of double doors where another armed guard stood watch.
“What’s this all about?” the guard asked once he saw the pair heading down the hallway.
“The prisoner needs to use the restroom,” the other guard answered.
“You should’ve made him piss his pants. This isn’t a child care facility.”
“You don’t have to stand in the same room with him all day. You think you want to watch a man who’s been sitting a few days in his own piss?”
“Fine,” he said before turning to Colton. “You better make it quick. I’ll drag you out if you don’t come out when I call you. And I promise you that you don’t want me going in there after you.”
The other guard turned his back and walked away—and Colton seized his chance.
Doubling over and faking a coughing fit, Colton fell to his knees. The guard wasn’t amused by the stunt and stepped on Colton’s hand with his boot.
“Ahhh!” Colton screamed before rolling over.
“Get up now,” the guard commanded.
Colton staggered to his feet and fell into the guard, snagging his cell phone off his belt. By shoving the phone up his sleeve, Colton managed to enter the bathroom without the guard knowing what had just happened.
Unzipping his pants, Colton started to relieve himself. His ploy was at least partially rooted in truth. Aiming into the toilet bowl with one hand, Colton used the other to tap away on the smart phone’s screen and send a text message to Hawk.
He’ll come for me, if he isn’t already.
But when Colton went to send the message, an alert popped up on the screen: No service. Check your network connections and try again later.
No, come on. Not now.
Then the pounding on the door commenced.
“Come out of there now, you little shit,” the guard yelled. “I know you’ve got my phone.”
Colton was almost resigned to walk out of the bathroom and openly admit what he’d done, but then he decided to take another route.
After flushing the toilet, Colton walked out and put his hands in the air.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I—”
Before Colton could finish, the guard yanked him into the hallway and flung him up against the wall.
“If I don’t have my phone in my hand in three seconds, I’m going to beat you to death,” the guard snarled.
“I swear I don’t have it.”
“Bullshit. Strip.”
“What? I don’t have your phone. I already—”
The guard smacked Colton in the mouth with the butt of his rifle. “Do as you’re told.”
Colton followed the guard’s instructions, resulting in one of the most humiliating minutes of his life. While Colton disrobed, the guard mocked him and laughed at him.
“So I guess what they say isn’t true—everything isn’t bigger in America,” the guard said before breaking into a guffaw.
“I don’t have your phone,” Colton insisted.
As Colton braced for another hit to the ribs with the guard’s gun, the doors behind them flung open, and Talib strode forward.
“What seems to be the matter here?” Talib said. “Is this any way to treat our guest, Yamir?”
The guard took a deep breath. “This infidel stole my phone. And I want it back before I show him what we do when someone steals something from us.”
Talib put his hand around the guard’s shoulders. “I’m sure we can let this one time go, can’t we?”
The guard shook his head, choosing his words carefully. “I would hate for him to mistake undeserved kindness as a weakness.”
Talib delivered a quick jab to the man’s stomach before following it up with a chop to his throat. The guard doubled over in pain and collapsed to the floor on top of Colton’s clothes.
“If you want to make a phone call,” Talib began as he turned toward Colton, “you’ll have to come with me to another room where we have cell reception.”
Colton started to put on his clothes. “And you’d just let me make a phone call?”
“Oh, not just any phone call—a very specific one.”
“And what makes you think I’d want to help you?”
Talib smiled and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He swiped several times until he found what he was looking for. He held the screen toward Colton and touched it.
“Perhaps this will persuade you.”
On the screen was a short video of Colton’s mother surrounded by Al Hasib guards.
“Don’t you worry about me, son. I’ll be just fine with these gentlemen who’ve stopped by for tea. I’ll be—”
One of the guards behind her grabbed her roughly and moved her aside. He stepped in front of the camera. “Do what Talib says or she dies.”
Colton narrowed his eyes. “You leave her out of this. She’s done nothing to you.”
Talib smiled wryly. “We’ll be happy to leave her out of it as long as you’re complicit in our demands, demands which include you make sure the schematics for the PUB-47 get delivered to our contact exactly as we say.”
Colton huffed as he buttoned his shirt.
“Fine. Where’s the phone?”
Talib shoved the phone into Colton’s hand. “Give your people the drop location and protocol—and your mother will be free to go.”
CHAPTER 25
WHEN ALEX AWOKE, she found herself seated on a dirty tiled floor in the middle of a stark room. In its prime, the room was likely a glorious office bustling with activity. She glanced out of the window and could see a portion of the bay. Based on her field of view, she guess she was at least five or six stories off the main floor.
Alex’s first instinct was to check the back of her neck, which was sore from the injection she’d received. But she couldn’t because her hands were tied behind her back, tethering her to a pole. She struggled to break free, but to no avail. Her next course of action was to stand up and better assess her surroundings. Sliding up the pole, she gained solid footing beneath her in time to see a masked man storming across the room toward her.
“Nice of you to join us, Miss Duncan,” the man said in a low guttural voice, an obvious attempt to keep every aspect of his identity hidden.
“As if I had a choice,” she said, still jerking at the ropes against the pole.
“I’d like to think you would’ve come willingly.”
She shrugged, mockingly. “Perhaps I would have. Manners go a long way with me.” She paused. “But I doubt I would’ve gone anywhere with someone as ugly as you.”
“How do you—?” the man stopped and broke into a chuckle. He wagged his finger at her. “I knew you were sharp-witted, but I’m not about to remove my mask and assume that you know who I am. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to get out of here alive. I always shoot the bait for good measure.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So, you think someone is coming for me? Is that it?”
“Brady Hawk wouldn’t leave you behind. He’s an American hero.”
“You might be waiting a while. There are far more important things right now going on in the world that he is contending with.”
The masked man circled her and spoke in a slow cadence.
“Are you referring
to the havoc Al Hasib is wreaking right now on U.S. soil? If he’s contending with that, he’s failing miserably.”
“And how, exactly, do you intend to deal with Hawk if he were to come?” She laughed. “You know you’re the one writing your own death sentence, right?”
“Look at you—undaunted as you stand bound to a pole in the middle of an abandoned office. If he doesn’t come after you, I’ll just walk away and let you starve to death up here. No one will hear your cries for help.”
The man’s threats only further emboldened Alex.
“If you think you’re scaring me, think again. I’ve been in far worse situations, and I’ve always found a way out.”
“I’m more concerned about Brady Hawk finding a way in. After all, he’s the one I really want, not you.”
Alex tugged again at her ropes. “You’re going to need more than a plan cobbled together at the last minute to stop Hawk.”
“Who says this was last minute? I’ve been planning this for weeks.”
The man’s phone began to ring. He held up his index finger.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he said.
Alex watched him walk away, as if he was going to some quieter part of the office. She could hear every word of his half of the conversation.
“So nice of you to call me back,” the man said.
He listened for a moment.
“I won’t make any guarantees about her safety, not until you show up. You’ve got four hours. I’m sure you can find me.”
Another pause.
“Sounds like you need to rearrange your schedule then, because if you aren’t here in four hours, you might not like what I’m going to do to her pretty face.”
The man hung up and sauntered back toward Alex.
“Looks like we’re going to have a few hours all to ourselves,” he said as he drew close to Alex.
He softly stroked her face with the back of his hand.
“Maybe we should get to know one another better.”
Alex didn’t hesitate, ramming her knee into the man’s groin. “I’d rather not.”
Doubled over in pain, the man looked at the floor and held one hand up in the air in a gesture of surrender. “I know you’d rather not,” the man said before straightening up. “So, perhaps I just get a few answers from you.”
“Good luck with that.”
He walked toward one corner of the room and picked up a toolbox that had been tucked away in the shadows. He set the toolbox down a few feet away from Alex and pulled out a knife, pressing it against his hand until it drew blood. He smeared the blood on his pants and held the knife up close to her face.
“Ready to talk now, Miss Duncan?”
CHAPTER 26
BILL LITTLETON ADJUSTED his Bluetooth earpiece and took a deep breath as he stared at the entrance of Oracle Arena. The massive structure was the home of Northern California’s beloved basketball team, the Golden State Warriors—and site of the drop. In front of the building, a few stragglers and late-arriving fans were milling about as nightfall descended.
The game had tipped off a half hour earlier, which didn’t make much sense to Bill. To him, it made more sense to conduct a drop off while there was still chaos in the concourses. With fans rushing to use the restroom or buy a beer before the game started, it seemed like the ideal situation to take possession of the files and vanish. But he wasn’t a terrorist, and he certainly wasn’t in charge of anything. Someone within Al Hasib was calling the shots, and it terrified him.
He glanced down at the bright-yellow folder in his hand. Since the folder matched the color of the home team’s uniforms, no one would even look twice at what he was carrying. Chocked full of schematic drawings and other design details, the file bulged, barely able to contain everything he’d been instructed to place inside. Sweat from his hand smeared the ink at the top of the folder labeled PUB-47.
“Nice and easy, Bill,” came the voice through his Bluetooth.
He’d been instructed by Al Hasib to avoid making contact with law enforcement. But when Bill’s online account was flagged for suspicious behavior earlier in the day, he had no choice but to tell about the plan or else FBI officials would’ve refused to let him leave. He told them that with Colton’s mother, Marge, being held for ransom, he had to comply.
“I can’t let her die,” Bill explained to the FBI agent in charge. “I’d never forgive myself.”
“Then you’ll do it with our help, and you’ll give them phony schematics.”
“But they’ll know if the plans are fake.”
“Perhaps, but not right away. If anything, it’ll buy us some more time—more time to figure out a way to get Marge safe. Just trust us, okay?”
Bill wanted to put his trust the FBI, but he didn’t. Al Hasib was in control from the moment they began executing this plan. They took Colton Industry’s lead scientists on the PUB-47 weapon design. They took Colton in a brazen kidnapping operation in broad daylight. They seized Marge Colton and were using her as leverage. To Bill, it felt like Al Hasib was just getting started.
Meandering through the concourse, Bill tried to act natural, though it didn’t matter much. Everyone he passed was consumed with their own world, either talking with a friend or staring intently at their smart phone. He approached the designated meeting location and saw the empty seat where he was supposed to leave the file.
Bill looked at his clock and noticed that he was a few minutes early.
“What are you doing, Bill?” asked the lead FBI agent in his Bluetooth. “That’s where you’re supposed to deliver the folder.”
“I’m early,” Bill said as he hustled past the seat, which was an aisle seat on the back row of a section situated on the floor level. “I’m going to go around one more time.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just don’t be late. They hate it when you’re late.”
Bill took another deep breath and kept walking. He continued on his mission, ignoring the collective roars and moans from the crowd. Despite his passion for Golden State basketball, he’d never cared less about a game than he did as he continued forward.
Once he rounded the bend, he saw his target again.
“Any word on Marge?” Bill asked.
“We’re still working on it,” the agent said. “Just follow through. You’re not giving them anything anyway, so it’ll all be over with soon.”
Bill’s lip quivered, and his hand shook. He wanted to carry on with the ruse that he was just handing over fake schematics, but he couldn’t continue the lie any longer.
“These aren’t fake,” he mumbled.
“What?” came the screeching reply in his ear. “Bill, we told you to create phony plans. Al Hasib cannot get their hands on those drawings.”
Bill took a deep breath and kept walking. He never realized how difficult it would be to keep the truth from the Feds. And he’d failed.
But it was too late to correct his blatant defiance.
He was only a few feet away from giving an active terrorist group the plans they needed to phase out suicide bombers and create a whole army of unstoppable soldiers.
CHAPTER 27
HAWK HAD SCRAMBLED to find a pilot who would take him up and let him sky dive over the city. And he still hit dead end after dead end. It wasn’t until a phone call to General Johnson did the obstacles begin to fall. Johnson pulled a few strings with friends at the FBI in order to get clearance for Hawk to approach Marge Colton’s house from above. More than anything, Hawk was relieved that it worked out, because he didn’t know what he would’ve done if he was denied again. Then he wondered if he had any limits when it came to protecting his Meemaw. Even though Hawk recognized she wasn’t related by blood since the true identity of his father was revealed, but it didn’t change the affection Hawk held for her.
The connection to the FBI had been a fortuitous one as Johnson learned that Al Hasib agents were using Colton’s mother as leverage to hand over the plans for the PUB-47.
“They’re going to build one for Al Hasib,” Hawk said. It’s information he would’ve learned sooner if he’d been able to connect with Alex. But since she was pre-occupied at the moment, getting the news later from the FBI via Johnson sufficed for the time being.
Johnson explained that the PUB-47 had been in development for years, but Colton Industries had never been able to figure out a way to make it portable, the feature that made the weapon so desirable. According to some of Johnson’s Pentagon contacts, the PUB-47 had finally been tweaked so that individual soldiers could use it, a fact Colton had leaked to top military brass. He’d even scheduled a demonstration of the weapon that was to occur later that week. It was going to result in a deal that would yield billions of dollars’ worth of contracts for Colton, if not give the U.S. infantry soldiers the tool they needed to be nearly unstoppable.
“And Colton never considered what might happen if this weapon fell into the wrong hands?” Hawk asked.
“In fact, he did. He had developers create a grip that could only be activated by one fingerprint, a fingerprint with a pulse,” Johnson said. “But if you have one custom made for a soldier, it won’t matter.”
“If they get their hands on this weapon . . .” Hawk's voice trailed off.
“We can’t let that happen,” Johnson said. “You can’t let that happen.”
“What fun is this job if the stakes aren’t high?”
“You really are insane. You know that?”
Hawk laughed. “The fun in living life comes when we run holding the fingers of death.”
“What are you—the philosophical assassin?”
“It’s from the Bollywood movie, Aatish, the one with Sanjay Dutt.” Hawk sighed. “Oh, never mind. Only Alex would get that reference.”
“The only thing you need to get right now are those terrorists holding Marge Colton hostage.”
***
AFTER HAWK HIT THE GROUND and dispatched three of the five guards patrolling Marge Colton’s house, the easy part was behind him. He checked his watch. He had five minutes to secure his Meemaw and notify the FBI before some leveraged employee handed over the schematics of the PUB-47 to Al Hasib. According to Johnson, the FBI claimed it never intended to hand over the plans, instead giving them fakes. But Hawk didn’t want to take any chances. He didn’t trust the FBI and their wily ways. The only way to control the situation was to succeed on his mission.
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