Authors: Stephen England
He and Alexei had separated, with the Russian taking up a position closer to the lounge. They didn’t have a line of sight, though. And there was no way to get one without becoming conspicuous.
“I can fill your drink, sir,” a soft voice announced from above him. He looked up into the eyes of the prostitute from the bar.
Ice mingled with the remnants of the soda at the bottom of his glass. “I’m fine,” he replied.
She smiled, slipping smoothly into Alexei’s seat—scooting closer to him. Too close, her hand touching his knee. “You look lonely. Are you sure there’s nothing else you might need?”
There was urgency there in her voice, a raw fear behind the thin veneer of the seductress. Desperation.
Up close, he found himself revising his estimate of her age. Seventeen? Young enough to have been his daughter, had he been blessed with a normal life.
She was Romanian by the accent, a mane of dark hair falling over her shoulders. Once upon a time, Harry thought, his hand sliding down to capture her roving fingers—once upon a time she had been a beauty. Now she walked the ragged edge between slender and anorexic, her exposed stomach gaunt beneath the black lace of the crop top.
“No,” he whispered firmly, regarding her with sadness. “I’m fine.”
Her bare arm bore the marks of a needle—drug addiction, always the favored ploy of a pimp. That—and beatings, as evidenced by the purplish bruise near her shoulder. He doubted that any of her clients were sober enough to notice. Or that they would care if they did. The tragic reality lurking just behind the façade of their fantasy world.
And yet…she was still living. When others had died. And he could find in himself no condemnation for how she had done it. The choices offered by life were often just that simple. Life…death—no choice at all, really.
He could see the reluctance in her eyes as she rose to leave. The fear. He’d seen it before. So many times.
His hand reached out, gently brushing against her fingers. He hesitated for a long moment, then unbuttoned his shirt pocket, pressing a hundred-dollar bill into her thin palm.
Surprise lit up those dark, tired eyes. It was a futile gesture, and they both knew it. She wouldn’t be able to keep the money. But it might keep her from a beating.
Maybe
.
“
Mulţumesc mult
,” she whispered, tucking the bill into her top.
Thank you
.
And then she was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the c
lub. A ghost in the night.
Harry let out a long, heavy sigh, swishing the last of the drink together in his glass.
You couldn’t save everyone—that was a lesson he had learned years ago. You had to make choices, decide who to save…as much as that felt like playing God.
Knowing the reality had never helped him sleep at night. He tossed the glass back—an angry gesture—the icy, carbonated water hitting the back of his throat.
There was no purpose to dwelling on it. He reached up, switching on his Bluetooth. “Any signs of life, Alexei?”
1:48 A.M. Eastern Time, December 21st
The White House
Washington, D.C.
“I have to ask, Ian,” the President demanded, still buttoning his shirt as a pair of Secret Service agents ushered him into the Treaty Room. “What in the name of heaven could be important enough that it couldn’t wait six hours?”
“This,” a grim-faced Cahill replied, handing over a folder. Hancock took it and retreated to the other side of the large Renaissance revival-style table, his detail still flanking him.
If not for the gravity of the situation, the chief of staff might have been amused. He had
made
Hancock, and yet the Secret Service didn’t trust him enough to be left in the same room with the POTUS.
Paranoia.
He leaned back in his chair, waiting until he heard an oath escape the President’s lips.
“How could they do this?” Hancock asked, looking up in disbelief. “Raid a mosque—doesn’t Haskel understand that I’m fighting for my life with this election in the hands of the Court? The last thing I need is for the American people to see CAIR protesting in the streets.”
“Keep reading,” Cahill advised coolly. “It gets worse. Haskel really had no choice.”
The color drained from the President’s face as he leafed through the folder. “What do we do now?” he asked finally, closing it and pushing back his armchair.
“I would make sure all our resources are focused on finding and
stopping
Abu Kareem.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Hancock closed his eyes, his
hands clenching and unclenching as if he was trying to regain his composure. He shot a glare toward his detail. “Give us the room.”
“Mr. President—”
“Hawkins, what part of ‘give us the room’ do you fail to grasp?”
It was a credit to the agent’s professionalism that he didn’t react. He simply inclined his head to one side, nodding, “As you wish, Mr. President. We’ll be outside.”
The President waited until the door had closed behind them, then turned back to his chief of staff. “Haskel can focus on finding Abu Kareem—the DHS can give him whatever help he requires. Right now,
our
biggest problem is how to spin this, if Abu Kareem can truly be tied to an impending terrorist attack. This man sat beside me in this very room not four months ago—how do I survive something like that, Ian?”
Cahill stared at him for a long moment in disbelief, before beginning to chuckle. “You’re a cold sonuvagun, aren’t you, Roger?”
11:03 P.M. Pacific Time
The nightclub
Las Vegas, Nevada
It was one of those feelings. Call it instinct. Call it intuition—spend enough time out on the edge, you learned not to disregard it. It would save your life.
The four men were together. It didn’t matter that they had come through the doors of the nightclub separately—or that they weren’t standing together. Their behavior marked them as clearly as if they had been standing in a line-up. It was hard to see their faces distinctly in the dim light, but their features were Middle Eastern—three of them. And an African with them.
“We’ve got company,” Harry announced, keying his mike. “Look alive.”
“
Da
.”
A fifth man came through the doors of the club at that moment, tall and well-dressed, his bearing that of a leader. He wasn’t from the Mediterranean like the other men—his face bore none of the features of the Levant. It was something more like what Harry remembered from those long months in the Hindu Kush. Pakistani—Pashtun, perhaps?
A barely imperceptible nod as he took off his Raybans and his men began to converge, falling into formation behind him.
Harry rose from the table, his phone in his hand. He needed a photo. Something for Carol to run.
A faint smile crossed his face—the tactical environment couldn’t have been more perfect. All around him, there were men doing the same thing, their phones aimed at the girl on-stage, body arched back as she spun around the pole, her hair flying.
There was no one to notice one more photographer as the men crossed the club, making their way toward the VIP lounge.
Click. Click. Click.
11:08 P.M.
The abandoned mansion
Beverly Hills, California
Do what you can to ID remotely
, the text message read.
The leader looks familiar
.
Carol pulled a new USB cord from the shopping bag on the kitchen counter, stripping away the packaging as she plugged one end into her laptop and the other into the phone. If there was one thing Harry did not do well, it was texting—it was the first typed-out messag
e she had seen in five years.
H
e’s going to end up just like me.
Han’s words, replaying themselves back through her mind.
“No,” she whispered, her fingers gripping the edge of the granite counter. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. The way he had held her after the murder of her father. She had seen another side of him in those moments—a man wounded by all that he had sacrificed for his country. Yet still gentle. Still capable of love.
Not the way Han had described him. Not
that
man.
A
whirring
sound brought her attention back to the laptop as the connection was completed, the picture coming up on-screen automatically.
Her eyes locked in on the image, a gasp escaping her lips. “This isn’t good…”
“What is it?” Han demanded, hurrying in from the abandoned living room.
“He’s back,” she announced. “Tarik Abdul Muhammad…”
11:10 P.M.
The club
Las Vegas, Nevada
The music in the VIP lounge was softer, less insistent than that out in the main area of the club—but still loud enough to disrupt any listening devices. Nasir raised his arms and allowed himself to be patted down by the Russians at the door, his eyes adjusting to the dim light as he went inside.
The man who rose from the leather couches to greet them still possessed the bearing of a soldier, despite his age. He took a step away from his bodyguards and toward Tarik, extending a fleshy hand. “I was delighted to hear of your safe arrival,
tovarisch
. Welcome to Las Vegas.”
“No more delighted than I was to arrive, Mr. Andropov,” the Pakistani replied. Nasir could see his lips turn up in the barest hint of a smile. “Is everything in readiness?”
“
Da
.” Andropov nodded. “Everything you asked for—including the reaction times of the LVMPD SWAT and their travel routes. You can take delivery of the weapons in the morning.”
“The weapons,” he heard Tarik begin. “You were able to get what I requested?”
“As I explained to you in our prior communiques, your requests were not easy to fulfill.” The Russian beckoned to a blonde girl curled up on the couch behind him and she rose, wordlessly handing him his wine glass. Her eyes were glazed—lifeless, Nasir noted, feeling a chill pass over him. It was like watching an automaton.
Andropov took a sip of the rosé, favoring the girl with a smile before she retreated. “Not easy at all, but that
is
why you contacted me, is it not?”
Tarik waved a hand toward Abu Karim. “My sources assured me that you possessed the network to not only acquire the weaponry, but smuggle it across the American border.”
“You were not misinformed,” the arms dealer replied. “In the world of heavy arms, I acknowledge no equal. SA-24s are not common—a few years ago, your request would have been impossible—but the fall of Muammar al-Quaddafi resulted in their dissemination across the Arab world. Ironic, is it not? The late colonel had no use for your jihad, and yet, without his weapons…”
Another smile. “I was able to secure a single SA-24 man-portable surface-to-air missile—the most advanced
Igla
deployed to the Russian Army.”
“I requested two.” Nasir could see Tarik exchange glances with the imam. What manner of attack were they contemplating?
The Russian’s smile never wavered. “I was, how should I say…outbid. By the Revolutionary Guards. There are times when you cannot obtain
everything
you wish.”
“
Insh’allah
,” Tarik murmured, nodding—a grudging acquiescence. “It is as you say.”
“Always.”
11:21 P.M.
His breath smelled of whiskey, his shirtfront damp from where the amber fluid had splashed over him. At least Harry thought it was whiskey—he’d scarfed the abandoned drink off a nearby table and it was hard to be particular when you were in a hurry.
He staggered, putting out a hand as if to steady himself. Carrying out the act.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The man’s English was heavily accented—Russian, by the sound of it. Andropov apparently relied upon homegrown talent, rather than bringing in a Western security firm, as had many of his peers
“Well, well,” he slurred, glancing down the long hallway toward the closed entrance of the VIP. He shook a finger toward the nearest guard. “Aren’t you the one with the questions?”
The man reached out with surprising speed for a man of his bulk, seizing Harry’s wrist with an iron grip.
Don’t react.
He could have broken the man’s arm in a trice, but violence would have gained nothing. Instead, he allowed astonishment to spread across his face, fear breaking through the supposed inebriation. “This is the way to the crapper, ain’t it? I gotta take a leak.”
“No, it isn’t,” the bodyguard snarled, giving him a shove. “Get lost.”
A laugh escaped Harry’s lips as he reeled against the wall. “No need to hate.” He reached down, fumbling with his zipper. “You’d rather I do it right here?”