Terminal Rage (28 page)

Slant
’
s room seemed to be filled with some kind of evocative scent. But all Blackwell could really smell was the intoxicating mix of pheromone-infused sweat, Vlasic
’
s erotic perfume, and the stench of dirty, hungry, illicit sex.

The ocean waves were lapping outside and Slant was going on about Syrian dissidents, but all Blackwell could hear was Vlasic
’
s voice whispering unashamedly in his ears what she wanted him to do to her.

On that day, four and half years ago, when the sun finally cracked, Blackwell rushed back to his room to shower and change. He and Monica had very little time to head back to command post.

A smile had been branded on his face. To be having an affair with one of the most intriguing female agents at the Bureau pumped raw energy into him. He hadn
’
t felt this way about a woman in many long, sexually uneventful years. He spawned exhilarating fantasies about divorcing Melanie and starting a fresh life with Monica. She had reawakened his senses. Reminded him of his urges and desires. And she took him exactly to the places where he wanted to be. He thought briefly about his kids and the pain he and Melanie had inflicted on them with their constant fighting. They
’
d probably be better off with divorced parents who are content, rather than married ones who are perpetually miserable.

At some point during the night when he and Vlasic were banging the life out of one another, the FBI’s bomb squad and rescue team back at command post had come up with a plan to break into the house and extract the girls.

Three events needed be neutralized to avoid setting off the collar bombs: The timer reaching the designated deadline, the girls trying to escape and breaking the connection with the beacon signal, or a direct remote instruction from the attacker.

The first trigger wasn
’
t their main concern. The perpetrator had given them forty-eight hours to pay the ransom, and they still had time. So any viable extraction plan had to be based on figuring out how to neutralize the two remaining events.

Overnight, the tech team had hacked into the beacon signal and figured out a way to clone and broadcast it inside the house. That would take care of the second trigger. A Hostage Rescue Team unit would then storm the house and extract the girls, keeping them near the fake beacon signal while they figured out how to disable the collar bombs.

But that still left the third trigger. The attacker was monitoring the house and had warned he would detonate the explosives around the girls
’
necks if anyone attempted to rescue them.

The only way to circumvent this fail-safe was to block the collar bombs from receiving any external electromagnetic signal. The easiest way to do that would be to generate enough random noise within a radius of one mile around the house to momentarily jam all incoming waves. But that would only give them a limited window of opportunity before a signal could theoretically seep back in. Ninety seconds, they had calculated. Which as it happened, was just enough time for a Hostage Rescue Team unit to storm the house and extract the girls.

Once they were out, the girls had to be shielded within a Faraday cage—an enclosure formed by a mesh of conducting material that blocks incoming electromagnetic waves.

The FBI had one such contraption. A modified communication van that had been brought in overnight from the Los Angeles field office. Protected from the insidious incoming detonation signals, the girls would be transported to a nearby FBI holding facility, where the bomb squad would figure out how to remove the death collars safely.

Blackwell sat around the table near Vlasic at the command post as they listened intently to the plan being outlined. The engineers, the bomb squad, and the Hostage Rescue Team described it in intricate details, each unit expounding on its respective part.

It was a perilous proposal, no one in the room seemed to deny that. But it was presented as the only chance they had to rescue the girls without giving in to the attacker
’
s demands.

The experts had assessed the risks and quantified the odds of success as slim to moderate. The fate of three innocent girls had now come down to a statistical model. But Blackwell didn
’
t need the benefit of fancy analysis to conclude it was just a rotten plan. He scrutinized Vlasic
’
s expression and body language, certain the woman he was intimate with a few hours ago would reach the same reasonable conclusion—pay the damn ransom and save the girls. The parents could certainly spare the money.

But he couldn
’
t have been more wrong. Vlasic was sold on the extraction plan from the get-go. It was that part about not giving in to the criminal
’
s demands that appealed to her most.

He figured a one-on-one with her could make her see things differently. Blackwell took her aside and expressed his concerns. It was a cavalier proposal riddled with holes. The science was fuzzy and the timings were razor-thin, leaving zero margin for error. Surely she would see the girls stood a slightly higher chance of surviving if the ransom was paid. Granted it wasn
’
t much higher, but it was all they had.

Vlasic stared at him without once blinking, listening as he pleaded his case. When he was done, she smiled and held his hands tightly.

“He raped them, Alex. This is personal. Even if the ransom
’
s paid, he
’
s still going to kill them. Getting them out is the only
chance they have.”

She peered into his eyes and brushed the back of her hand against his crotch without the other agents noticing. A touch lasting mere microseconds. It transported him back to the hotel room and reminded him of the things they had done to each other. And what they could be doing for the rest of their lives if he played his cards right.

Vlasic was the commanding officer on the case and a few years his senior at the Bureau. But it wasn
’
t like Blackwell was entirely stripped of recourse. If he had really wanted to, he could have openly challenged her.

As she argued why her plan was better, instead of thinking clearly, he was busy reliving the feeling of her soft, warm hands against his skin and the electrical current they had set off in his body last night. Her tongue licking his nipples until they were hard like little pebbles. The taste of her saliva inside his mouth. The stench of a forbidden hunger being satiated. The uncensored screams that gushed out of her mouth as they both ascended to heaven and crash landed simultaneously.

And so against his better judgment and his gut instinct, Blackwell allowed himself to believe what he knew to be untrue. She had infected his soul and clouded his instincts. He was in lust with her, and that
’
s what men do when they think with the wrong head.

Vlasic gave the green light for the rescue mission to proceed. Initially, the first two parts of the plan worked without a glitch. The girls were evacuated from the house and placed into the vaulted vehicle without setting off the collar bombs. With the girls safely extracted, the van raced out of Hermosa Beach towards the secure warehouse.

For a brief while, it seemed as if Vlasic had been vindicated. Blackwell chastised himself for overreacting and doubting her intuition. During that short period, his respect for her grew exponentially. She had shown leadership and taken calculated risks. But that didn
’
t last long.

Two minutes and sixteen seconds into the escape, at the corner of Manhattan Beach Boulevard and Magnolia Avenue, the van exploded, obliterating the three girls and the five FBI agents escorting them.

In the final analysis, the FBI forensics team concluded the collar bombs were not detonated by a direct signal or caused by the broken contact with the beacon. But something else no one had even considered when the rescue mission was devised. Another fail-safe the abductor had kept as his cruel little secret. Each of the collar bombs had been fitted with an internal GPS unit and a cellular chip programmed to trigger the explosion if the devices changed their geographic location. Both the GPS and cell-phone hook-up relayed their location every ninety seconds. After three failed location confirmations, a massive three-way explosion was triggered inside the van.

TWENTY-FOUR

Friday, July 22, 2005—11:35 p.m.
Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt

S
am Morgan had fallen asleep reading. He woke up to find his glasses on the nightstand, on top of a copy of Malcolm Gladwell
’
s
Blink
. 2005 wasn
’
t over yet, but the book was already being hailed as one of the year
’
s best business titles.
He
’
d purchased it during their three-day stopover in London and had planned to finish it during this holiday.

The bedside lamp was switched off. Angela must have put his glasses and the book on the nightstand. His wife liked to stay up longer to watch TV or catch up on her own reading, and it never bothered Sam. He was a deep sleeper, hardly ever affected by noise or light. On rare occasions, a bad dream would jolt him awake, but drifting back to sleep was never a problem for him.

The digital clock on the nightstand revealed he had only slept for about an hour and a half.
That
’
s odd.
He usually got a solid eight at the very least.

What was it that woke me up?

He didn
’
t feel cold or thirsty and his bladder wasn
’
t busting for a pee, so something else must have interrupted him. Sam turned around in bed and stretched his hand to hug Angela to lull himself back to sleep, but her side was empty.

A series of tiny electronic beeps came from the direction of the kids
’
bedroom. It sounded like the electronic ear thermometer.
That can
’
t be good. Let me check it out.

Moonlight was flooding into the kids
’
room, revealing Angela leaning over their wheezing two-year-old son Ryan.

“Is he all right?” Sam whispered.

“I got up to check on him and found him burning up.”

On the other side of the bed, their five-year-old daughter Maya was fast asleep, clutching her
Hello Kitty
bag stuffed with her favorite toy figures.

“How high is it?”

“A hundred and three. And he
’
s quite congested. Listen.” Angela was trying hard to sound composed, but her maternal concern betrayed her.

“Tylenol?”

“Expired. I noticed it the other day and forgot to buy a new one before we traveled.”

Sam picked up the phone in the children
’
s room and started dialing. He put his hand on the mouthpiece and turned to Angela. “They have a doctor on call in the resort.”

The Spring Roy was a boutique chain. Their informal slogan was
Five Stars that Feel Like Ten
. But as the phone rang for at least a minute, Sam muttered under his breath, “Ten stars, my ass.”

Finally, a woman with a voice too perky for this time of the night picked up.

“Thank you for calling guest services, this is Seham speaking. How may I assist you, Mr. Morgan?”

He visualized a plastic smile as she sang those words, and imagined her practicing this fake greeting in front of a mirror, daily.

“Good evening, Seham. My son
’
s unwell. We were wondering if you could send a doctor to our suite as soon as possible.”

“I am so sorry to hear that, Mr. Morgan. I will page Dr. Barakat and have him meet you there immediately.”

Ryan was calm for a sick toddler. His huge brown eyes, glistening in the moonlight, were fixed on his mother. There was a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth. Both he and Maya were attached to Angela. But Ryan had a particularly deep bond with her since birth. Her presence always seemed to soothe him. Despite the terrible twos, Angela could always take the edge off Ryan
’
s worst tantrums. That connection between them seemed to diminish his pain and discomfort during illness.

Sam helped Angela place cold compresses on Ryan
’
s small body, but his temperature was still high, with no sign of dropping. Maya remained sound asleep, oblivious to her brother
’
s predicament.

Forty-five minutes later, there was still no sign of the doctor.

“We can
’
t just sit here doing nothing while we wait for the idiot doctor to show up.”

He called the reception again but this time, to add insult to injury, nobody picked up.

“How about a room-temperature bath? That always worked with Maya.”

Sam nodded, but the waiting was eating him up inside.

“Yeah, let
’
s do that. In the meantime, I
’
ll run to reception and see what happened to that damn doctor.”

He dashed back to his room and slipped on some cargo shorts and a tee, strapped on his sandals, and grabbed his wallet.

Ryan cried when he saw Sam about to leave the suite and called out, “Papa,” which was unlike him. This sort of attachment was
typically reserved for Angela. Sam turned back and sat at the side of the bed next to his wife to settle Ryan down.

He gave him a kiss on the forehead and held his tiny hand.

“Ryan, baby, Papa
’
s just going out to get a doctor who will make you feel much
better, okay? I won
’
t be late, I promise.”

The little boy wrapped his arms around Sam
’
s neck and stopped crying. After a minute
’
s pause, Ryan
’
s tiny, raspy voice broke the silence.

“Okay, Papa.” He loosened his grip from around Sam
’
s neck and kissed him on the cheek.

Sam couldn
’
t see it but he felt Angela smiling, probably with exactly the same thought he had.
We made this beautiful child
.

He kissed her lips, then walked to Maya and planted a small peck on her forehead. His daughter had uncovered herself and her body was diagonal so he pulled the duvet up to her chest. Even now she still smelled like a kitten
.

Reaching out to Angela on the other side of the bed, he caressed her bare arms, and whispered, “I love you.”

The lobby was still buzzing with activity, despite the late hour. He passed by the elevators as two portly men in their sixties with plum-red faces stepped out from one of the four cabins. They appeared confused, looking a little ridiculous wearing the hotel-issued cotton bathrobes. Their breaths betrayed the serious amount of booze they’d consumed.

“Are you looking for the spa?” Sam made sure his words were slow and clear, but these guys didn
’
t seem to have a clue what he
’
d said. He mimed the kneading motion of a massage and pointed with his finger up, then gestured with his hands the number seven.

“The spa—it
’
s on the seventh floor. Up. You need to go up.”

There was little doubt about their nationality, and Sam could have conversed with them in Russian right away. But he didn
’
t want to offend them by suggesting their behavior or appearance had betrayed their place of origin.

Fuck it. These guys need help and it
’
s too late in the night for political correctness.

He told them what he had tried to communicate in English.

“Vy dolzhny poyti na sed
’
moy etazh.
”

“
Spasiba!
” the two men sang in unison. Massive, smiles of relief erupted on their faces as they stepped back into the elevator and nodded and grunted in gratitude until the doors closed.

Across the lobby behind the reception, Sam noticed Jodie, the young Canadian brunette who had checked them in a few days ago. She
’
d played with Ryan and Maya, and her compliments about them to Angela hadn
’
t seemed corporate or forced.

A hostess walked by holding a tray with elegant glasses of chilled mango juice and offered one to Sam, which he declined politely.

He walked up to the reception and smiled.

“Jodie, right?”

“Good evening, Mr. Morgan. How can I help you?”

“I called earlier for a doctor to check on my son. It must have been an hour ago.”

“I
’
m sorry, Mr. Morgan. His name is Ryan, right? Cute kid!”

Sam was impressed she still remembered.

“Seham has been trying to reach Doctor Barakat.”

“Is he around?”

“Unfortunately, he
’
s not. He
’
s at our sister resort in Dahab.”

“That
’
s what, eighty kilometers north, right?”

She nodded with a polite smile, probably impressed by Sam
’
s knowledge of the local geography.

“Their resident doctor had to go back to Cairo for a family emergency, so Dr. Barakat is covering for him.”

“When
’
s he due back?”

“Any time now. I do apologize. The thing is, his cell phone is out of coverage and we haven
’
t been able to reach him.”

Sam pursed his lips and stared at the marble floor, searching for other ideas.

“Is there any other doctor in town we can call?”

“There
’
s a private clinic but it closes at nine and they don
’
t do outcalls. Then there
’
s the—” Jodie grimaced as if a disturbing thought had rattled through her mind uninvited.

“What?”

“The public hospital.”

“Should we take him there?”

Jodie shook her head with conviction.

“Oh, no. You
’
d have to take Ryan through the emergency ward. I wouldn
’
t recommend it unless it
’
s really serious. It
’
s not like the hospitals back home.”

Sam shrugged, now that they were back to square one.

“What
’
s wrong with him, if I may ask?”

“High fever. Congested chest. And he
’
s got thoughtless parents—we ran out of Tylenol.”

Jodie looked up to the ceiling as if this was where she kept her secret stash of ideas.

“There
’
s a twenty-four-hour pharmacy at the other end of Ne
’
ma bay. Your driver can go there and buy some Children
’
s Tylenol for you. Or you can go with him and speak to the pharmacist yourself. Ask them what else you can do to make Ryan feel better. Just until Dr. Barakat gets back.”

Sam pondered Jodie
’
s proposal. He loathed being at the mercy of someone else when his children
’
s well-being was at stake. This would give him something proactive to do. Ryan responded well to Tylenol, and just reducing the temperature could do the trick.

“Okay. Let
’
s do it. I
’
ll go with him.”

Less than ten minutes away from the hotel, the Red Sea Pharmacy was sandwiched in a commercial strip between souvenir shops, dive centers, and small grocery stores.

When they got there, the door of the pharmacy was locked, but the light of a small television was flickering inside. Sam
’
s driver rang the buzzer and they waited. Nothing. Sam tried again, keeping his finger pressed a little longer this time.

A young pharmacist in a white coat came out from a room behind the counter and let them in. A cell phone was attached to his ear, and he was chewing food. His droopy eyes suggested he had long crossed the acceptable threshold of sleep-deprivation.

Inside, whiffs of garlic and grilled chicken overpowered the persistent smells of perfume and makeup samples. The pharmacist
’
s head was tilted and he seemed agitated as he rambled on his phone in Arabic.

He paused as if he had only just noticed Sam and the driver, then placed his hand on the mouthpiece, and looked at them.

“What can I do for you?”

“Children
’
s Tylenol, or anything similar.”

After the swift exchange of money and medicine, the pharmacist resumed his call. Sam motioned with his head toward the car so they could leave, but the driver was nailed to the floor. His eyes were darting back and forth between the television and the pharmacist.

Shaky hand-held cameras transmitted what seemed like live images on the TV. Ambulances were rushing to the scene of a fire or explosion. The somber faces of the pharmacist and driver generated tension in the air which made Sam
’
s stomach clench. Something terrible was unfolding.