When he reached his full height, the man brushed himself off and said, “You’re a short little fuck, aren’t you?”
The comment baffled Kharrazi. This man was certainly not an FBI agent.
“Who are you?” Kharrazi asked.
The man smiled through the pain of his gunshot wound. “I’m Silk. I’m here to kill you.”
“Who sent you?”
The man gestured with his hands as he spoke. “A fella by the name of Nick Bracco. Apparently you two have some history.”
“Are you alone?”
“What, I look like I need help here?”
Kharrazi looked around to see if there was anyone else. “You are friends with Mr. Bracco?”
“Since we was thirteen. I run around with his cousin, Tommy.”
Kharrazi put the names together in his head. Suddenly, he recognized the man from the camera he’d used to spy on the sheriff’s office. This man was truly a friend of Nick Bracco. “Good,” Kharrazi smiled. He was finally going to exact revenge for Rashid’s death.
“But I got other reasons to be here.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Apparently, some of your thugs whacked a family that I was very close to.”
“That’s too bad,” Kharrazi said flatly.
“Yeah, well I could tell it really chokes you up.”
“They deserved to die.”
“How you figure that?”
“According to the polls, seventy-eight percent of Americans supported the use of troops in Turkey. I am going to have to assume they fit into this category.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, “The fuck’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”
“I only wish I had the time to explain,” Kharrazi said, lifting his Beretta.
The man shrugged, “So, how do you want to do this? You’re gonna put the gun down, aren’t you? You know, fight like a man.”
Kharrazi wondered what kind of idiot he was dealing with. “You came out here by yourself to try and kill me?”
“That was the plan. You think I should have thought things through a little better? I mean you being so difficult about the gun and all.”
Kharrazi’s patience wore thin. “You are a very stupid man.”
“Yeah, I know. So how do you want me to kill you?”
Kharrazi pointed the Beretta at Silk’s chest, “You are already beginning to bore me to death.”
The man laughed. “Hey, that’s a good one, Shorty.” Then, he seemed to turn serious. “Of course someone your height, I guess a gun is mandatory, isn’t it?”
Kharrazi hesitated at the insult and was startled to see the man use the moment to rush toward him with a look of determination on his face. Kharrazi actually backpedaled as he quickly fired shots with his automatic, including one in the neck and one to the head. Still the man kept coming into the onslaught until his bullet-ridden body limply wrapped itself around Kharrazi’s frame like a drowning man.
As his life rapidly slipped away, the man seemed to be frisking Kharrazi’s body; he groped Kharrazi’s torso until one hand weakly found the knife tucked inside his ankle holster. Fighting until the bitter end, Kharrazi thought.
Kharrazi held the Beretta inches above the man’s head, but didn’t feel the need to waste another bullet.
It sounded like the man said, “See you soon,” as he slipped down Kharrazi’s legs and crumpled to the ground by his feet.
Kharrazi stood there in the still night air amazed at the man’s tenacity. He checked the man’s hands to find them empty. He felt for a pulse and found none. Kharrazi grinned at the corpse. “You were a brave soldier, Mr. Silk. Almost as brave as Rashid Baser.”
The tension inside of the four cement walls was palpable. The timer ruthlessly beamed its diminishing red numbers, unfazed by the frenzy of Marines and FBI agents running up and down the cracked stairs with wires dangling from every appendage.
Kelly stripped the insulation from the tip of the wires and handed them individually to Rutherford at a rate of two a minute. Carl Rutherford was drenched with sweat even though the cool night air fed steady breezes through the open basement doors. He quivered slightly as he wrapped each wire around the positive pole protruding from the top of the small battery. A chorus of headlights poured into the basement from the parked cars just outside of Kharrazi’s private quarters. Each time Rutherford attached a wire, a new set of headlights came to life along with a hesitant flicker from the rest of the group.
Nick and Matt found themselves splitting their attention between Rutherford and the small TV set atop a shaky wooden table against the wall. The monitor showed an empty podium with the Presidential Seal attached. Newscasters interviewed supposed terrorist experts and retired generals as the nation impatiently awaited President Merrick’s press conference.
“Why is it,” one female newscaster asked, “that there isn’t a consensus on the subject of this speech?”
An unseen political pundit replied, “Well, this is still Washington, Susan, and at this late hour, so close to the White House missile deadline… I’m sure the President is making certain that every option is explored before making any decisions. There’s even some speculation that he is negotiating right now with Kemel Kharrazi himself trying to find a way out of this catastrophic event. Although that has not been confirmed.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “Good thing they have specialists available, otherwise we could be misinformed.”
A bead of sweat dripped from Carl Rutherford’s nose as the timer passed the five-minute mark. Nick wondered if the brightness of the LED display should be fading while the battery drained. Since the display didn’t seem to lose any intensity, he didn’t ask. He was afraid of the answer.
“Hey, Carl,” Matt said, reading Nick’s mind. “Maybe you should speed it up a little. Those headlights still seem pretty strong.”
Rutherford gave him a dirty look, then nodded to Kelly to quicken the pace.
McKenna came in with a stranglehold on a thin man, his arm twisted behind his back causing a painful expression. The man wore khaki fatigues and made no eye contact as McKenna shoved him into the room toward Nick.
“You know this asshole?” McKenna said, pulling up on the man’s contorted arm.
“Hasan Bozlak,” Matt said. “Yeah, we know him.”
McKenna grasped a handful of hair and snapped Hasan’s head back. “Why don’t you see if he knows anything? He doesn’t seem to understand English.”
In plain English, Nick said, “Where is it, Hasan?”
Hasan stared up at the ceiling. McKenna looked confused.
“The tunnel,” Matt said. “Where?”
This got Hasan to shoot a glance at the wall behind Kharrazi’s desk. It was ephemeral, and if Nick weren’t looking for it, it would have easily gone unnoticed. It was the only wall in the room with any covering. Nick slammed his hand up against the wood paneling and banged around until he found the dead spot. He motioned to a Marine who hammered the butt of his M-4 into the composite panel and quickly broke through. Matt peeled back the flimsy section exposing the dark opening of a tunnel. A couple of Marines looked at Nick expectantly.
“Don’t,” he said. “It’ll be full of traps and probably explosives.” Nick faced Hasan. “How long has he been gone?”
Hasan grimaced as McKenna continued the pressure on his arm. Nick could hear the ligaments pop in the soldier’s elbow.
“Maybe he knows about the traps in the tunnel,” McKenna said.
“No,” Matt said. “He wouldn’t know. The traps were set for him more than they were us.”
McKenna looked at the two FBI agents with disdain. Information was the FBI’s main currency and McKenna seemed uncomfortable converting his military energy into reconnaissance. He tightened his hold on Hasan and said, “So what do you want with this guy?”