Express Pursuit
Page 29
The nearest group of onlookers had reached us. A few muffled exclamations passed through as they gasped at the scene from a safe distance. But they were blocking the access for the rushing security officers struggling to push their way in. Everyone within a thirty feet radius would witness the outcome of the scene. On the floor, at Drake’s feet, Rachid had regained consciousness, and he was mumbling what I figured was some kind of Arabic mantra or prayer.
I had better come up with a damn good argument fast to stop Drake from killing him even if he deserved to pay for his crimes. Drake couldn’t wait to avenge the man instrumental to the deaths of his father and brothers, and those of so many others who perish in the events of 9/11.
“Drake, no!,” I yelled, trying to break through the thick layers of contempt and hatred he had for his enemy.
“Why not? He deserves to die,” he spat with savage fury, hardly controlling his voice. The muscles on his jaw were taut as a vein popped on his forehead.
“Because you have to let go and move on, Drake. Killing him won’t bring them back. Let the local authorities take care of this,” I pleaded.
What kind of life would he have if he succumbed to his base need of revenge? This terrorist had pulled his last attack, that was for sure. The authorities now surrounded us. I heard the metallic sound of guns being drawn. Five seconds may have passed until I noticed that the gun he held had stopped shaking. Drake must have decided. His nemesis wouldn't have to wait long to know his sentence as Drake seemed to have regained his normal composure. The gun still aimed at its target, Rachid’s heartless chest.
“Mara, there’s a set of handcuffs in— ” Drake started.
Six security guards were now on site, witnessing the scene. There was no way that the old man could get out of this free.
“Sir. Drop your weapon!” warned the closest security agent, addressing Drake.
“No way. Special Agent Steinfield. FBI. This is an arrest.”
“Sir. For the second time. Drop your gun, or we’ll be forced to shoot ,” warned a second officer.
“Back pocket. My badge. You can check it,” he said, not lifting his eyes off his target.
A third officer aimed his own gun at Drake while a fourth one went searching for Drake’s alleged credentials.
“Ok, he has a valid ID ,” said the fourth officer.
A primal grunt followed by a vociferous sound came from the ground. Rachid was now reaching out once more for the gun, which I had pushed under a table. Unable to grab it, he got up and yelled with a strangled voice: “For the glory of Allah!” and launched himself at Drake.
The half dozen officers, distracted with ensuring that Drake’s ID was legitimate, had let go of their vigilance, assuming that Rachid was unconscious. But the terrorist’s devotion to Allah had brought everyone’s attention back to him. Upon hearing his intent, the two remaining officers aimed and shot him to death.
I watched the bloody scene, unable to believe that the ordeal caused by Omar Ahmed Rachid was, at last, over. Police officers were arriving. The guests were being escorted out of the hotel.
At last, strong arms encircled me, crushing me into a hard chest. The woody fragrance I loved made me look up.
“You Ok, Princess?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
“Yes, but Drake you’ve been shot and—” I said, leaving his embrace to better see his injuries.
“I’m fine; they’re just small flesh wounds.” He gently pushed away my probing finger trailing on the scrape of his upper left arm.
“No. You should let the paramedics check you out,” I objected, not fooled by his dismissal.
We were interrupted by the arrival of new police forces and a medical team. One of the former presented himself as head of the local police department. The middle age man acted like someone in charge of this police intervention. We gave him a short verbal report of the event. During that time, the paramedics removed Rachid’s body. When one of the medical attendants approached Drake to bandage his wounds, he shrugged them away with a curt “later”.
“We’ll need you two to come to the station to make a formal statement, Agent Steinfield,” said the man in charge with an austere tone after examining Drake’s badge.
I’d had enough of police stations on this trip and was stunned when Drake dismissed him rudely.
“You will get your report tomorrow because if you don’t leave us alone now there will be a murder on this scene.” He gritted his teeth and pointed his index finger at the man’s lapel. Taken aback by the unexpected outburst, the man stared at him in disbelief and took a step back. After a moment of hesitation, he relented.
“Tomorrow morning then.” He left after handing Drake and I his card.
“What’s gotten into you?” I asked. This lack of professionalism was not like him.
“Well, I came here to tell you something, and I’m fed up with the constant interruptions,” he said with a petulance, hinting he was not above throwing a tantrum.
“Ok, I’m all yours,” I said in a calming tone.
In a blink, mischief replaced the sulking expression.
“Really?” he asked, lowering his head.
He descended on my lips with such urgency and raw need one would think there was no tomorrow. I didn’t care if everyone saw us necking like two teenagers. Time blurred as he engulfed my mouth, his tongue caressing every inch of mine until my heavy breathing could no longer keep me upright. When I tried to pull away, he held on fast as if he never wanted to let go, but after a minute he eased up on his hold. Still clenching me by the waist, he ran a shaky hand thru his hair and cleared his throat.
“What I wanted to ask is if you would mind having a new official companion on your return home in a few days? I mean, I know you want to spend some time with your sister Sylvia, but I was just thinking maybe—” he blurted out, for once sounding hesitant.
“And what happens once I’m back in New York?” I interrupted.
“Well, I would continue to ensure your security, of course,” he announced with flourish, bending at the waist before continuing. “You know it’s a very dangerous city.” He winked. “And moreover, I’m positive the New York Counter-Terrorist branch in the FBI Headquarter will love to have me back on US territory,” he added with a touch of pride.
“What exactly are you asking me?” I asked, crossing my arms in mock annoyance.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No.”
“How about the fact I want to stick around because I can’t face spending the rest of my life anywhere but where you are?”
“That’s not a real question,” I said, trying not to crack up at his poor excuse of a love declaration.
“Or if you prefer, you can pick wherever you’d like to live. I’m pretty sure there are airports everywhere that could use a good ATC.”
“Quit stalling, Steinfield, or I’ll think you don’t want to park your landing gear on my runway.”
Poor man; he was a sight to see now. He kept shifting his weight from side to side like a boy asking a girl to the prom. After a quick intake of air, he brought down his head to my eyes’s level and laid his hands on my shoulders.
“I love you, Mara Steinfield. Will you let me share your life?” he asked with eyes full of expectancy.
“Yes, Drake. I love you too. So much. But I don’t want you to give up anything because of me.” As much as I was glad he was willing to settle down for a while, I didn’t want him to compromise on his career.
“I won’t. I want to go back home to New York, and if you’ll allow me, I’d like to meet your parents and sister. My mother will be thrilled to see me get back to our home town. She’ll love you too,” he concluded before lifting his index finger, as if remembering something important. “And next time we go on vacation, I’ll be making the travel arrangements,” he said, guiding me toward the exit.
“Ever so bossy, Agent Steinfield.”
“At yo
ur service,” he said, taking a small box out of his pant’s pocket, which he threw high above his head before catching it with a precise hand.
“Wanna Tic Tac?” he asked, popping a cinnamon candy in his mouth.
Elated, I decided not to correct his adorable, if precocious, Freudian slip of the tongue about my future married name.
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