“Leave him with the others,” Nick said. “He’s already given us more information than we could ask for.”
“Under a minute,” someone said. And the room became still.
Rutherford and Kelly were the only ones moving. Everyone else just stared at the timer, their peripheral vision taking in the presidential podium. Still vacant.
Suddenly the camera switched to an outside shot of the White House. In the bottom right of the screen a timer counted down to midnight. Nick could practically see network executives rubbing their hands together with glee over the impending disaster. He felt like a spectator at a NASCAR race just after a severe oil spill. He found it hard to believe anything less than a catastrophe could occur.
Outside, the car lights flickered.
“Hey, Carl,” Matt said. “How much voltage does it take to set off that detonator?”
Rutherford furiously worked the wires with a renewed sense of urgency. “A volt, maybe two.”
Kelly stood next to Rutherford with a handful of primed wires; his neck craned toward the open basement doors, exasperation etched on his face.
“Thirty seconds,” the same voice said.
“Don’t you have a voltage meter, Kelly?” Matt asked.
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Kelly said, stammering to gather his thoughts. He reached into his black bag, then turned up to Matt. “You really want to know?”
Matt looked at Nick.
Nick shook his head. “No point.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
Matt snapped, “Shut the fuck up. We can see the timer.”
The last ten seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. The intensity of the car headlights seemed worn down, but the timer appeared unfazed by the effort.
With five seconds remaining, Rutherford grabbed a handful of wires and desperately jammed the entire mess up against the battery pole.
Jennifer Steele found her way next to Matt and clutched his hand.
McKenna still had a stranglehold on Hasan Bozlak, yet Hasan’s face was now serene.
In the stillness of the basement, Nick noticed the TV journalists had learned something from sports announcers when an astonishing event was about to occur. They were completely silent. This gave the room a muted feel. It seemed as if the entire world was now holding its breath.
Kelly dropped his head in anguish.
Nick fixated on the red numbers tumbling toward the inevitable.
When the number three flashed it appeared to stutter. Nick couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to take a moment before the number two hiccupped to life.
Steele gasped as the number two hung there, suspended in time. Three seconds had passed, four seconds, five seconds, and yet the number two remained frozen. Its neon edges crackled with an ominous foreshadow. Rutherford seemed paralyzed. He held the handful of wires against the batteries pole, his mouth pursed shut, his nostrils sucking in air.
Then, an eerie darkness fell over the room. The TV and the lamp on the desk became the only sources of light. The stream of headlights had extinguished in unison, leaving everyone in shadows. Nick stared at the dim number two for an exhaustive minute of pure agony until it too finally surrendered to the darkness, its neon tracing forever etched into Nick’s brain like a phantom pain.
“Two seconds,” someone mocked.
A nervous chuckle.
A stifled snicker.
Jennifer Steele giggled.
Nick would always remember Matt’s face still staring down at the impotent timer, not ready to pronounce it dead. When their eyes finally met, Matt had Steele tucked into his shoulder for a relief cry. He winked at Nick.
A smattering of applause began to bubble into a cheer. Starting as a whisper the Marines began to chant, “USA… USA.” In only seconds the entire basement swelled into a cry that would make an Olympic Stadium jealous. “USA! USA!”
Carl Rutherford was a statue. His hand was still frozen to the battery like he had his finger in the hole of a dike.
Nick waved at Rutherford. “It’s okay, Carl,” he yelled over the din. “It’s over.”
Rutherford slid to the floor. His entire body sagged from the release of tension.
Suddenly, Nick felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He stepped into the adjacent room to escape the noise. A smile broadened his face as he anticipated President Merrick calling to congratulate him.
He pushed the button and put the phone to his ear, “Bracco.”
The voice that came back at him seared a hole in his gut as if he’d swallowed a capful of pure acid.
“Remember me?” Kemel Kharrazi said.
Chapter 39
The cheering and excitement of the night spilled into the communications room where Nick stood alone, his right hand pressed to his ear, straining to hear the phone. Kharrazi must have heard the commotion.
“There is some reason for enthusiasm?” Kharrazi said.
There was a pause while Nick considered where Kharrazi was calling from. He heard the sound of a car engine, something large, like a pickup truck. Kharrazi was on the move as he spoke. He hadn’t heard the news about the detonator though and this little piece of knowledge gave Nick the slightest advantage.
“The guys are throwing a little party,” Nick said. “Why don’t you stop by and I’ll buy you a drink?”
“What is there to celebrate?”
“It’s Friday night.”
Kharrazi didn’t seem to appreciate the coyness. There was silence while they played cat and mouse. Nick relished the quiet, but every minute that passed put more distance between him and Kharrazi. He shut his eyes tight and listened carefully, using all of his skills to garner any clue as to the terrorist's location. He could hear the suspension of the vehicle jostle continuously, suggesting that Kharrazi was not driving on a paved road.
Kharrazi must have seen little benefit with the one-sided discussion. “I just called to say goodbye. I’m sorry I missed your little invasion.”
“The White House is still standing,” Nick said, trying to prolong the conversation.
There was a pause while Kharrazi dealt with the blow. “That is the reason for all the noise?”
“Yes.”
Kharrazi was quiet. He was probably calculating exactly how overdue the missiles were.
“We disarmed the detonater,” Nick informed him. “There will be no fireworks tonight.”
“Do not confuse this fact with success, Mr. Bracco. Americans will still die tonight. The attacks are not finished. And neither am I.”
“Uh huh.”
“We are still very much alive and well.”
“Who are you kidding, Kemel? Our count has your little group of terrorists down to sixteen. Tansu is dead and we have Hasan. What’s left are bottom-of-the barrel flunkies. Without you to guide them, their biggest accomplishment will include letting air out of tires and pouring sugar in gas tanks.”
“What makes you think I won’t be there to guide them?”
“Because I’m going to find you first.”
“Mr. Bracco, such bravado for a desperate man. You sound like another gentleman I met tonight. His name was Silk.”
Nick’s eyes popped open. With everything that had happened, he’d lost track of Silk. If Kharrazi was still alive, that only meant one thing.
“He cried for mercy like a little baby,” Kharrazi beamed. “Groveled right up until his last breath. Of course, I made certain he suffered greatly.”
Nick felt bile surge from his stomach. He swallowed several times to maintain control.
“I thought you would come yourself,” Kharrazi said, “but perhaps you don’t have the constitution for such a confrontation.”
Nick had sent Silk on a suicide mission and Kharrazi was going to layer the guilt like a third coat of paint. He’d exposed a nerve that Nick knew would always remain raw. Nick strangled the phone so tight, his fingers were cramping. “I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch.” Nick said. “I’m going to find you and rip your heart out of your chest.”