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I can’t speak, can’t think of anything, but then words come to me.
“You promised,” I say, hating how my voice is wavering. “You promised. You said when I was overseas, you’d have a squad watching Tom and Denise, secretly protecting them 24/7…you promised.”
He looks at me without flinching.
“I did,” he says. “And I failed.”
I touch Tom’s hair, then Denise’s.
“No,” I say. “I failed, most of all.”
The tanned man says, “At some point, we’ll need to talk.”
I touch my dead husband and daughter once again.
“Not now,” I say.
“Agreed,” he says.
“And if you ask me again, I will hurt you.”
Chapter126
IN HISprivate hospital room, Rashad Hussain makes himself as comfortable as possible, dressed in ridiculous hospital clothing of loose slacks and a pajama top. His lower left leg feels numb, like it’s been replaced with a length of mahogany. With some difficulty he is sipping from a plastic glass of apple juice, because his arms are fastened by chains and handcuffs to the bed, just like his lower legs.
There are sensors taped to his chest and abdomen, and an IV running into his left hand. The television suspended from the ceiling has been switched off at his request.
His company is two New York police officers, sitting in chairs on both sides of the bed. They ignore him, which is fine, since he ignores them in return. The one on the left is an African American woman with funny braided hair; Rashad still can’t believe a woman dressed like that could be a police officer.
The other officer is a slumping young male who sits staring at a handheld device, thumbs flying. Earlier the woman police officer had said, “Put that thing away—you want trouble?” and the other cop had just shrugged: “Trouble? From you or from him?”
Rashad tries to bring the cup closer to his mouth, but the straw moves back and forth, back and forth. Disappointed, he puts the cup back down on the bed’s movable tray.
He won’t be disappointed much longer.
From outside there are shouts, screams, the crashing sound of something falling, and a deep, coughing sound. The two police officers start to stand up just as a bulky, bearded man dressed in black fatigues and body armor, carrying a small automatic weapon with a sound suppressor at the end of the barrel, puts a round in each officer’s forehead.
Their bodies slump to the floor.
The man comes over, shouts something, and another man comes in, bearing bolt cutters.
Four hard snaps later, Rashad’s restraints are gone.
“Thank you,” Rashad says, pulling off the sensors, wincing some as he tugs the IV from his left hand.
“Sorry we are late,” the shooter says in heavily accented English.
He turns once more and yells out,“Požuri!Donesite mi stolicu za tocak, odmah!”
Two armed men enter the room, one pushing a wheelchair, and in seconds Rashad is seated in the chair. “Where now?” he asks.
“To the roof,” the leader says. “A chopper waits.”
“You’ve earned yourself a bonus,” Rashad says.
“No need,” comes the reply. “You pay for job, we do job.”
Chapter127
