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FBI. This is a national security issue and if you don’t step aside, I’m going to have to have you arrested.”
Sanchez raised her fist again as if she might strike him. “I can’t seem to get it through your thick head—you are not in charge here. I am.”
“I am a federal—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are. You are not authorized to be on my floor.”
“But—”
“But nothing. You’ve got two strikes and that means you only have one more chance. Here comes the third pitch, and my guess is you’re gonna whiff on this one just like the first two.” Sanchez held up the stubby index finger on her right hand, started with the first man on her left and then continued around to her right, saying, “Do any of you have a warrant issued from a federal judge that specifically states that you can bully your way into an intensive care unit on this particular United States air base?” She continued her sweep, looking each man in the eye for a second time. When she made it back to Wilson, she said, “I didn’t think so.” She stepped forward, shooing the herd of men toward the staircase. “So get the hell off my floor right now, and don’t you dare come back until you have that warrant.”
CHAPTER 30
JALALABAD, AFGHANISTAN
KASSAR attempted to remain calm as he studied the twenty-three-inch color monitor. The hostage was limp, his arms stretched above his head, his knees buckled, the two dimwitted interrogators trying to figure out what to do. Kassar looked calm, but inside his stomach was turning flips. If he botched this in any way he might as well put a bullet in his own head and save himself from the misguided hope that they might let him live. After calming himself with a few deep breaths, he pushed himself away from the table and grabbed his mask. Before entering the room he pulled it down to make sure none of his face was showing.
The door opened to reveal the two fools checking Rickman for a pulse. They had pulled their masks up so they fit like winter caps. They looked like a couple of common criminals in a Hollywood movie. Kassar filed past the camera and went straight to the extremely valuable Rickman. He shooed the other two men away and checked Rickman’s neck. He spent almost a minute searching for a pulse. Two separate times he thought he felt a weak pulse but then he lost it. Next he tried the wrist and there was nothing.
His anxiety growing with each passing second, Kassar finally placed his ear over Rickman’s heart. Again there was nothing. Kassar stepped away from the lifeless Rickman and looked at his men.
The two simpletons couldn’t have looked more ashamed. “He was doing fine. The doctor said he could take more.”
“We didn’t hit him that hard,” the shorter one said.
Kassar was more nervous than angry. “I forbade you two to kill him, yet that’s exactly what you did.”
“We are sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am.” Kassar turned to leave and while facing the camera he drew his pistol from under his tunic. A long silencer was attached to the end. Kassar stepped to the side and spun around, facing the men. “I told you I would kill you if anything happened to him.”
“I’m sorry,” the bigger one said in a pleading tone.
Kassar squeezed the trigger five times in quick succession and then turned the weapon on the other man, who was cowering with his hands over his face. Kassar was amused that this idiot thought covering his face could somehow stop a bullet. Kassar placed the tip of the silencer against the man’s palms and started pulling the trigger. He didn’t bother to count this time. He let his rage flow.
When the pistol was empty, Kassar turned to face the camera. They could still make it look as if Rickman was alive, at least for a while. All they had to do was release some propaganda on the Internet showing Rickman when he started to break. The Americans would fear the worst. Kassar kept telling himself that it would work. He’d been telling himself the same thing for days, even though he had his doubts.
He would have to move quickly, though, or all would be lost. Kassar swung his empty pistol at the camera, knocking it to the floor. The camera broke into several pieces, the red light blinking several times and then going out. Kassar stuffed his pistol back in his waistband and yanked off the stifling black hood. He walked from one wall to the other and back, going over what had to be done. With his nerves calmed just enough to allow him to carry on, he approached Rickman and with a knife cut the rope that was holding him up.
Kassar caught the body over his left shoulder, and after moving him around a bit he had him balanced just right. The stench of urine and feces was awful. Kassar almost retched twice before he even got him out of the room. He stopped in the next room and closed and unhooked the laptop that had recorded all the sessions. He then started up the stairs and again almost vomited.
Kassar was about to lay Rickman on the floor and then he thought of the long drive ahead. There was no way he could stand the smell, and if he was stopped by the police or border agents the smell alone might cause them to search the vehicle. So, instead of tossing him on the floor, Kassar carried him down the hall to the back of the house and laid the body in the bathtub.
He checked his watch and wondered how much time he could spare. He decided ten minutes wouldn’t make a difference. Kassar turned on the water and used his knife to cut Rickman’s foul-smelling boxers from his body. Once the underwear was disposed of it was relatively easy. A little bit of soap and a washcloth and the body was clean enough for the journey. Kassar dried Rickman as best he could and then carried him to the bedroom, where he dressed him in some loose-fitting clothes. The only problem they had now was the bloody and battered face. Kassar would lay him in the backseat and cover him with a blanket. If he were stopped he would tell them that he was bringing his brother home to be buried. In the West it might have seemed strange, but here in Afghanistan, morticians were not so common.
Kassar had to take care of one more thing. He sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the laptop. His fingers glided over the track pad until he had what he wanted. He had edited the video earlier in the day. Rickman had spoken a few lies, but he had also given up some valuable secrets. The Americans would lose their minds when they saw this. Kassar was smiling as he posted the video on a popular jihadist website. Like a pebble in a lake, the video would ripple across the World Wide Web. There was no way the Americans could hope to contain it.
CHAPTER 31
BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN
WILSON was back down in front of the main desk, and the pimple-faced airman was trying to figure out how some uneducated Latino woman could deter nine special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation from doing their job. The only reason he wasn’t yelling at his overpaid, overqualified entourage was that he’d been unable to get past her as well, and he was in charge.
Wilson hadn’t gotten to where he was in this world by simply quitting every time an obstacle was placed in front of him. No, Joel Wilson was better than that. If this Air Force bitch thought she could defy his authority, she was in for a rude lesson. Tapping the reception counter with his knuckles, he demanded, “Who’s in charge of this place?”
“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to be more specific.”
“This place,” Wilson repeated, and waved his arms around. This further cemented Wilson’s belief that the military had become the great dumping ground for America’s dim-witted masses.
