Mixell cursed as he looked up, then pulled the curtains back slightly, trying to regain Harrison when he stepped out from behind the vehicle. But the bus moved forward, staying between Mixell and Harrison as traffic snaked along, clearing the entrance to Futtaim’s building as Harrison disappeared into the lobby.
There had been no guarantee Mixell would be able to take Harrison out on the crowded sidewalk, so he had selected a hotel room across from the building, one offering a clear view of a good portion of Futtaim’s office.
After entering the lobby, Harrison and Khalila passed through a metal detector where they were screened by one of four uniformed guards. As Khalila recommended, Harrison had left his firearm in the car, and Khalila’s knives went undetected as they cleared security.
They rode the elevator to the eighth floor and entered a reception area adjacent to Futtaim’s office, where they were greeted by a man wearing a gray suit and open-collared white shirt, leaning against a desk. Harrison scanned the surroundings, realizing the office’s normal protocols had been altered. On the receptionist’s desk were a few photos of a woman and her family, none of which contained the man beside the desk. The receptionist had been sent home early.
The man eyed Khalila before introducing himself to Harrison in English.
“I am Akram Aboud, Mr. Futtaim’s executive assistant.”
Harrison assessed Aboud as they shook hands, noticing a slight bulge under the left side of his suit jacket — a pistol in a shoulder holster — as Aboud inquired about the purpose of the meeting.
Harrison hadn’t understood what Khalila said to Aboud in the car yesterday when she arranged the meeting, so he deferred to Khalila, who answered, “We’ll discuss the details once we meet with Futtaim.”
Aboud whipped his head toward Khalila and his voice dropped a notch. “I’m talking to Mr. Connolly, not you.” Khalila shot him a cold look as he returned his attention to Harrison. “Assuming that’s your real name, of course.” Aboud offered a tight smile.
Harrison smiled back. “As Khalila mentioned, we’ll discuss the details when we meet with Futtaim.”
Aboud stared at Harrison, who found the Arab’s neutral expression unreadable. Then Aboud broke into a wide grin and spread his hands apart.
“Of course. We will meet with Issad. He is awaiting your arrival.”
Mixell dropped his eye to the scope again as Aboud entered Futtaim’s office, followed by Harrison and the Arab woman. They had entered quickly, with Harrison stopping behind the brick facade between two windows, leaving Mixell with a clear view only of the woman and Aboud, plus Futtaim, who rose from his desk. Considering the circumstances — all three targets in the same location — Mixell reassessed his priorities.
Although nothing would make him happier than putting a bullet in Harrison’s head, Mixell’s primary objectives were Futtaim and his executive assistant, who knew what he had procured. Tying up loose ends meant eliminating the risk that either man would divulge his secret or that the information could be harvested from Futtaim’s computer files. Once Mixell pulled the trigger and the first man went down, the others would have time to react.
As Futtaim approached his two guests, Mixell analyzed the possible permutations in the order of attack.
“Khalila!” Futtaim said as he strode across his office, smiling. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Akram has told me much about you.”
“All lies, I’m sure,” Khalila said as she glanced at Aboud, who offered a cold stare.
A few pleasantries were exchanged as Futtaim shook Harrison’s hand, then Futtaim asked, “How can I help you?” He looked first at Harrison, then at Khalila.
Khalila answered, “We understand a customer recently made an expensive weapon purchase. We’re also interested in a purchase. We’d like to know who made the procurement and what he bought.”
Futtaim hesitated before replying. “That is a delicate subject,” he said. “It is house policy to not reveal our customers.”
“We’re prepared to pay handsomely for this one-time transgression. Two million U.S. dollars.”
“It is as I expected,” Aboud interrupted. “There is no reason to continue this meeting.”
He then shifted to Arabic, addressing Futtaim. Khalila interjected frequently, her voice rising and her gestures becoming animated as she argued with Aboud. For Futtaim’s part, he seemed to be on the receiving end of Aboud’s and Khalila’s arguments as each attempted to sway him to their side.
“You are a disgrace!” Aboud said to Khalila in English. He turned to Harrison. “Has she told you who she is? That she’s—”
There was a blur of movement from Khalila as a knife flew from her hand, piercing Aboud’s neck.
He fell to his knees, then extracted the knife, but it only made matters worse. Blood pulsed from the wound with every heartbeat. He clamped his hands around his throat, attempting to stem the flow, but blood oozed between his fingers. Futtaim watched in shock as the color drained from Aboud’s face, before he tilted forward and landed on the floor.
“He talks too much,” Khalila said as she approached Aboud and retrieved her knife, wiping the blood from the blade on Aboud’s suit.
She turned to Futtaim, the knife still in one hand. “The information,” she said. “In return, we’ll pay you two million. You get the weapon sale, we get the information, you’re two million richer, and no one will know.”
Futtaim pondered Khalila’s proposal, then retreated toward a laptop on his desk. As he settled into his chair, Harrison noticed the man’s thumb pressing a red button on the intercom panel on his desk. It took Harrison a split second to conclude Futtaim had signaled the security guards in the lobby.
Before either Harrison or Khalila could react, a red cloud jetted from the side of Futtaim’s head, and he slumped onto his desk as blood poured from a hole in his temple.
Seconds earlier, Mixell had decided he could wait no longer, even though he still didn’t have a shot on Harrison. Futtaim looked like he was about to reveal his purchase. He had lined up the crosshairs and squeezed the trigger gently, putting a round through Futtaim’s head.
Harrison was still out of view, but the woman remained in sight. He shifted the crosshairs toward her, squeezing off another round as Harrison bolted into view, slamming into the woman and knocking her to the floor.
Harrison and the woman were still on the floor or staying low, leaving no targets in view. Mixell moved away from the window to avoid counterfire, then dialed the stored number on his cell phone.
“Proceed,” he ordered.
He hung up, then turned his attention to the laptop on the table and pressed Enter on the keyboard. He waited a few seconds to ensure the program began executing, then slipped the computer into his backpack and left the room.
Harrison had known instantly the shot had come through the window, his assessment confirmed by shattered glass falling to the floor. Khalila, on the other hand, had turned toward the sound of the breaking glass. Harrison dove for her, knocking her to the ground as a second shot pierced Futtaim’s office, narrowly missing her before embedding in the far wall.
Harrison scrambled across the floor toward Aboud and searched the dead Arab, finding a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster. He checked the magazine — fully loaded with seventeen rounds.