by Alex Howell
His cell phone rang and he sighed as he answered it. It was Jack.
“Hey, Boss.” Mason spoke quietly.
“You sound like you’ve lost your best friend.” Jack said stoically.
Mason rolled his eyes. “I’ve lost a few of them.” He answered regretfully. “Is there any news on the data you’re looking for?”
Jack let out a short breath. “Not really, no. I was checking to see if you’d made any headway on your end. Have you found anyone else to help you?”
Mason narrowed his eyes and felt his temples begin to throb. “No. In fact, I’m officially on my own now.”
“That might be best. You know, you always did your best work on your own when you were on the team. You’d go rogue and do it all your way, and it always came out better that way. Perhaps this will work out the same way.” Jack reminded him of the days when he used to take matters into his own hands; rules and mission plans be damned.
“That was a lifetime ago. Now I’m older and the only thing that matters to me is my daughter. I don’t think I can break the rules on this one. If I break too many rules on this mission, I lose the only person I live for, and I can’t let that happen. I don’t think I can go rogue on this one.” Mason felt certain of it. He had been running out of options since it had happened.
“That’s probalby for the best, Mace. Just do it on your own and see it through. You’ll get to the end of this. Just don’t give up. Keep going. Win your daughter back.” Jack encouraged him. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t be more help to you.”
“So am I.” Mason answered dejectedly. “I appreciate you trying to, though.”
“I’m always here for a fellow soldier.” Jack told him firmly. “Now, if you come up with anything, you let me know. I’m a phone call away.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you, Jack.” Mason was tremendously grateful to him for the help that he had given. Even if Jack couldn’t find any answers for him, it was still a comfort to have a friend on the case to talk with about it. Tessa was gone, and Mason didn’t know if he’d be talking to Luke again. With Jack trying to help, it felt as if he wasn’t alone, and that in itself was a big help to him.
“I’m not sure if we should talk again.” Mason told him with a furrowed brow. “I don’t want to risk the abductors finding out and taking it out on my girl.”
“I understand.” Jack agreed. “I think that’s a wise decision, but remember that I’m here if you need me. Let me know if you come up with anything else on your end.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you, Jack.”
“That’s what teammates are for.” Jack replied. They ended the call, and Mason suddenly felt completely alone.
As he waited for the ride, however, an idea came to mind. Any video that was made live would remain up unless the captors deleted it. And while they were certain to do so soon enough, Mason knew he could rewind the video and search it for clues.
He quickly pulled his phone back up and found the link. The sight and sound of his daughter screamed sickened him, but he remained rigidly determined to pay as close attention as possible, hopefully so he could find out information.
For the first several seconds, he didn’t see much of anything. He saw gloved hands reaching from the darkness to grab her, push her to a hole—all while wearing ski masks and nothing more—and then shoving her in.
Except…
The man who had shoved her did not have gloves on.
In fact…
“I know that symbol,” Mason said, whispering in stunned disbelief.
25
Mason bit his lip as he contemplated what he had just seen meant. It was by far the biggest clue he had yet to the identity of the person who had kidnapped his daughter, and if it stood for or led to who he thought was in charge… it would change everything he thought he knew about who would be behind this.
But he was too far away from D.C. to act on it. He had to play errand boy for now, going along with everything until either Mr. Abdi revealed he no longer needed Mason alive or the “mystery” man asked Mason to come back to D.C.
He again watched the video in its fullest length, and this time, he noticed something he had not seen the other two times. The person who had recorded it had likely done so on a phone, and when they pulled it back, as if preparing to put it in their pocket before hitting end, they revealed the surroundings.
Mason also recognized the place.
But just before he was set to call for help, knowing where his daughter was, the automatic car pulled up. From now until Mason got back to D.C., he realized, he would be under constant surveillance.
At least now, though, he had information to rescue his daughter. He knew who had captured her, and he knew where they were holding her.
He had to play it close to the vest, though. He needed to be back in D.C. to execute on the plan. Just hold tight, baby. I’m going to get you out. I’m going to free you.
You just need to stay strong.
At 7:56 a.m., just minutes before the deadline, Mason got out of the automatic car with four boxes of breakfast food, all containing scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, potatoes, and toast. It didn’t surprise him to see who was waiting for him, but it still felt surreal to know that even as he knew more about the enemy than they knew, he had to help them to the extent that he was running errands for them.
Standing in front of the government office, wearing a suit and tie, was Harnad Abdi, looking mighty comfortable for a man that, the day before, had spent hours in customs and had also gone into “international holding cells.” Behind him, three men with hoods that made them far too dark to identify, even in broad daylight, stood behind him. Though they gave the appearance of being unarmed, Mason was no fool. Anyone who tried to look unarmed in a spot like this was just more dangerous than someone who had to make a show of having weapons.
He didn’t forget, either, that those three men had all had guns trained on him or ready to be trained on him at a moment’s notice. He was far from out of the woods.
Mason came up to Harnad, gave him the boxes, and took two steps back. Mr. Abdi looked in all four boxes, sniffing each one, as if they might reveal some dark secret inside. Or, Mason figured, this man was no ordinary diplomat—maybe he wasn’t even a diplomat.
After he had shuffled through the four boxes, he distributed three to his friends. Mason prepared himself for the inevitable gunshots of betrayal. He might get Mr. Abdi down, but he wasn’t going to get all four of them before he went down.
But, instead of being fired upon, Mason was waved inside by Mr. Abdi.
Still, this didn’t mean Mason was out of the woods yet—far from it, in fact.
The whole time, Mason’s mind ran through the various scenarios that this might wind up including. He could be about to get shot, having completed the most important mission for this mystery man behind the phone. He could be taken prisoner somewhere, becoming a hostage or a show for someone else. He could…
He didn’t know.
But he did make it a point to shift the gun he had from his rear to his side as he moved inside once Mr. Abdi and the men had taken their eyes off of him for just a moment.
The first man said something in Arabic to Mr. Abdi, said much too quickly for Mason to pick up on. Mr. Abdi nodded, and then, in clear English, said “Follow us upstairs. You will have the answers you want.”
Mason definitely had not anticipated the scenario in which the men would have given him information that he wanted. Unless it’s irreversible. In which case, this isn’t about double-crossing or helping me. It’s about gloating.
Let’s just hope there’s no such thing as truly irreversible then. Or, if there is, let’s hope they keep Clara alive. I’d rather live through the apocalypse with her than die here in a state about to erupt in chaos.
The elevator rose to the eighth floor, but Mason noticed that it took a beat longer than it had last time. He had strong reason to believe now that he was not getting off at the actual eighth floor
, but rather the ninth. Mason opened his mouth, as if to ask what this all was about and how they had gotten into the building with no authorities around, but he no longer needed any more information from them.
The doors opened to a control room of some kind, but it was empty save for Mason, Harnad, and his two assistants. Mason walked up to a wall of about sixteen screens, all of them showing different news stations. Around him, other screens showed security feeds, screens of information, and a few even had seemingly irrelevant matters like soccer games and sitcoms. It looked more like a bachelor pad for a government agent who liked to work from home.
“Is this your man cave?” Mason said with a snort. “Did you bring me here to have a man to man talk?”
Mr. Abdi stared at Mason, not so much with intimidation but more just out of sheer boredom, as if he had grown tired of Mason trying to figure out the whole point of their operation. As if to hammer home that point, he let out a prolonged sigh, shrugged, and motioned for Mason to sit in a chair. With some precaution, Mason did just that, aware that sitting down would put him in a weaker position to defend himself.
He looked up at the CNN bottom bar and saw a few news alerts about the investigation into the stolen Saudi money, but to CNN and the other channels, it didn’t seem like anything more than a mere footnote—as worthy of news as the next item, that a tiger had somehow escaped a remote zoo that was not upgraded with modern technology. It was, in other words, more of something to fill the air than to be concerned about.
“So… are we trying to be news anchors, then?” Mason said.
“You talk too much,” Mr. Abdi said. “Have some patience. Just watch.”
Mason sighed, fighting the urge to take out his frustration on Mr. Abdi.
“All right.”
He leaned back in his chair, bored, waiting for an update. He checked his phone to see if he had any messages showing pictures or videos of his daughter. There weren’t any, but, at this point, he just wanted confirmation she was alive. I just need to get to D.C. I know where she is. I know who is in charge of this—or at least, the group that the leader belongs to.
Seeing nothing new, he instead retreated to the photos he already had of her. He looked at some of the ones from her younger days, trying to give him a glimmer of hope at a time when he mostly just wanted to mope and swear.
She was still the same sweet, innocent girl as she was 48 hours ago, as she was four years ago, as she was at her birth. Only now, she had fallen into a much darker world through no fault of her own.
And for what? Because her father had made a mistake in joining the SEALs? She didn’t smoke, she didn’t drink, she had a boyfriend that she kept in line more than Mason did her. She wasn’t a perfect student, but she never had teachers complaining about her.
What did she deserve? Why was this done to her?
The more photos that Mason looked at, the more he grew frustrated. He glanced over and noticed Mr. Abdi seeming to become just a bit more frustrated by the moment, as if something was supposed to happen that had not. But this only infuriated Mason more.
So he had an idea. Perhaps…
As far-fetched as it was, perhaps Mr. Abdi could help, or at least turn a blind eye, if Mason found the right triggers to press.
“Do you have any children, Mr. Abdi?”
The question caught the Saudi off guard, and he looked up with confusion. Mason didn’t have any hope in this plan, but it was more hope than he had in remaining utterly silent.
“I know you can understand me. Do you have any children?”
Mr. Abdi bit his lip, smacked his lips, and sighed with a shrug, figuring he might as well engage with nothing else to do.
“Yes,” he said. “One boy.”
“How old?”
“Five years old.”
So he knows then. He knows if it was his own child, he’d be rampaging down the street with a shotgun, looking to murder whoever had done something to him.
Perhaps then he could help.
“What would you do if your boy was in Clara’s situation?”
“Who?”
“Oh, don’t pull that,” Mr. Abdi said, rising. “You know who. My daughter. The girl you have kidnapped in the basement of the White House.”
Mr. Abdi looked at him with confusion painted all over his face.
“I am sorry to hear about that, Mr. Walker, but I did not even know you had a daughter,” Mr. Abdi said.
Mason waited for him to follow with some sort of follow-up words, as if he might say something that would reveal a secret or a breakthrough in the case.
But, instead, Mr. Abdi pulled out his phone and sent a message to someone. Mason just cursed, sat back down, and put his hand by his hip pocket.
He didn’t feel great about his chances of getting out alive. He’d have to kill Harnad, the two men in here, and get past the third one downstairs. He was quite sure, as well, that whoever was running this whole operation still had eyes on him, and that even if he got past these four, he was bound to get killed by someone in the street.
But at this point?
Just see if Clara’s alive. If she is, they still need you. If she isn’t, then some other people here can join her.
And if she is, you can get out of here. You have to find a way out of here.
“Tell your boss to call me.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Walker?” Mr. Abdi said with a chuckle.
“I said, tell your boss to call me,” Mason gruffed. “Don’t pull the ‘no speak English’ card now.”
“Do you really think I’m so stupid as to pull that card? No. I will pull the ‘you are our puppet and we are the puppeteers’ card. See? I can speak English quite well. Now—”
And then Mr. Abdi’s phone rang. He picked it up and started speaking Arabic very fast. Mason’s eyes slowly drifted to the computer screen when he saw something startling.
“Thousands of Americans made instant millionaires; anonymous Robin Hood to thank.”
To thank? Or to…
Oh, crap.
It didn’t take a genius from an Ivy League school to see what had just happened.
Somehow, some way, Mason had helped facilitate the theft of trillions of dollars from the crown, making its way to many Americans. Those middle-class folk might have felt happy.
But they sure wouldn’t when retaliation struck.
26
That’s what the device was for.
It wasn’t to steal money from Americans. It was to give it to them. To make it look like the criminals aren’t the actual criminals, but the Americans were for stealing money from the crown.
Clever. Very clever.
And pretty damn unfortunate.
Whatever hope Mason had that the Saudis and the Americans could work things out diplomatically came to a roaring halt when, just moments later, an official statement came through on CNN from the Saudi government. Mason read every word, sadly unsurprised at anything that it said. The plan of the terrorists, both in Saudi Arabia and here in the States, seemed to be working almost perfectly.
“It has become apparent that the current administration believes they can overtly swindle the great Saudi Arabia without consequence, an error of a magnitude that the United States has failed to underestimate. Such a move drastically undercuts the amicable relationship that the Saudi government has worked with great sincerity, earnestness, and eagerness to develop. The United States has made its intentions clear that they are no longer an ally of the Saudi crown, having become too greedy in their capitalistic ways.”
And then Mason saw the line that affirmed his worst fears.
“Should the money not be returned within 24 hours, the consequences will be fierce, dramatic, and bloody.”
And bloody.
Mason hadn’t been one for politics, finding the whole scene to be something of a bore and a game of backstabbing and hiding behind fancy slogans, but the use of the word “bloody” from a government was not something that he had ever thought he
would see, most especially from a supposed ally of America. It was just too straightforward and uncivilized for a government to say, unless they were truly outraged—and boy, was this pretty much the perfect case of a government being enraged.
It was not difficult to see World War III breaking out within the week. All Mason had to do was envision Russia and China wanting to have a say in the matter, whether over the spoils of Saudi Arabia or by taking their side, and then the whole world burning under bombs, nukes, and riots. All of the 20th century fears about nuclear war decimating the world would come to fruition.
And Mason would have been the invisible hand that guided it all. All because I couldn’t put my country above my daughter and stop this before it happened.
Guess you’ve got a real clock now. 24 hours. 8 a.m. tomorrow, the world keeps going or it descends into true hell.
“Jesus,” Mason mumbled, looking over at a smiling Mr. Abdi. You. “Was this your goal all along?”
Mr. Abdi turned, not bothering to hide his smile, and turned back to the televisions.
“To make a few lucky Americans hit the de facto lottery and piss off the entire Middle East? Aren’t you from Saudi Arabia? Do you really want to play a part in seeing your country burn to the ground?”
Mr. Abdi again laughed as he had earlier. This condescending attitude was getting old quite fast, and Mason knew a way or two that he could make this all end. He wasn’t going to pull his gun out unless he had to, but need and want were blurring pretty rapidly the more Mr. Abdi spoke to him.
Most especially since the old question of country or family was now tilting back toward county with the heightened urgency of the situation.
“Tell me something, Mr. Walker, do you know what the most profitable business in the history of man is?”
“That’s not really my concern—”
“Sex and war,” Mr. Abdi interrupted, as if beginning what he thought was a beautiful soliloquy. “The two most base instincts of man. To create and to destroy. I cannot inflict massive amounts of copulation, but I can certainly incite war. And you know what’s great about war? People will do anything to win. You tell me you need a car? I might build one. I might build one with haste, if you pay me enough. But you tell me you need a gun to kill the infidel across the ocean? I won’t ever care about price. I will do it to honor my country. And so it will go with the Americans, the Saudis, and all other participants in this war who realize the lucrative nature of what’s at play.”