When he was sure Delilah’s attention was diverted, Dagan reached over and socked Mac on the shoulder, scowling, his expression yelling, what the hell, dude?
The look Mac offered him in response couldn’t be mistaken. Quite simply, it was the facial equivalent of mind your own fucking business.
Shovelful number three? Four?
Dagan just shook his head. Who was he to try to save a guy who didn’t seem to want saving?
“The good news is,” Chelsea said, “we’ve found your uncle’s motorcycle.”
“You did?” Delilah breathed, reaching up to place a hand over her mouth.
“Yes.” Chelsea nodded. “It was parked inside one of the buildings on Main Street back in Cairo.” She turned to Dagan then, and he could still read her well enough to know what was coming next. Christ. They’d been so close. “The same building we saw the four green dots in on the thermal imagery earlier this morning. The same building that is, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, now empty.”
“H-he was there,” Delilah whispered, her eyes wide. “My uncle was there in that building, only a few blocks away, while we were in Sander’s house.”
“Yes.” Chelsea nodded. “We’re certain he was.”
Dagan picked up on her inflection. “Certain? What do you mean by certain?”
Chelsea lifted her hand to push her glasses up the length of her nose. He knew it for the stalling tactic it was. Whatever was coming next, it wasn’t good news.
“There was blood at the scene,” she admitted, her eyes trained on Delilah. “And though our labs are going to need a DNA cheek swab from you to verify it’s source, initial indications are that it is your uncle’s. We have his blood type on file from his time in the military. The sample at the scene is a match.”
And speaking of blood…every ounce drained from Delilah’s face. Her cheeks had been red as cherry bombs when she entered the room a minute ago. Now they were whiter than the snow that blanketed the Windy City in January.
“But we view this discovery in a positive light,” Chelsea continued, attempting to provide Delilah with hope. “Because even though there’s blood, the fact that he was taken means he’s still alive. And that’s what you need to focus on.”
Delilah blew out a blustery breath, and Dagan watched Mac curl his hands into fists in an obvious attempt to keep from reaching out to comfort the woman. Jesus, dude. Just do it. Just show her how much you care.
“Which is more than I can say for Charles Sander,” Chelsea admitted, and Dagan’s chin snapped around, his eyes landing on her face. “We found his body in another abandoned building. Our MEs are saying he’s been dead about twenty-four hours. Initial indications are that he had a heart attack or a stroke while undergoing…uh…”—she hesitated, seeming to search for words—“rigorous questioning.”
“You can say torture,” Delilah whispered. “I can handle it.”
Chelsea’s expression was sympathetic. “Your uncle is now the only person who can give the terrorists the information they seek. Which means they’re going to do everything they can to keep him alive until they get it.”
And then Delilah proved just what a bright bulb she really was. “But that also means they’re going to do everything they can to make him talk, right?”
Chelsea swallowed uncomfortably, nodding.
“Jesus.” Delilah turned her back on the group, and Ozzie threw an arm around her shoulders, bending to whisper something in her ear. Mac’s jaw ground with such force, Dagan was surprised little bits of tooth enamel didn’t come flying out of his ears.
“There’s more,” Chelsea said. “An investigation into the car that al-Hallaj left behind revealed he rented it, along with a similar vehicle, over the border in Canada.”
“Canada?” Dagan shook his head. “So, that’s how he made it into the country?”
“Yes. From what we’ve been able to determine, he snuck into Canada on a cargo barge that docked in the Port of Quebec. Then, using false documents, he made his way inland. Highway photos taken from Canadian Border Services reveal that after he rented the two vehicles, he crossed into the U.S. with three compatriots. One of whom is Qasim ibn Hasan.”
The minute the name was spoken, a cold chill snaked up Dagan’s spine.
“Oh, crap,” Ozzie muttered at the same time Mac said something under his breath that wasn’t worth repeating.
Delilah glanced around at the faces of the men, her brows pulled down in confusion. “And who is Qasim ibn Hasan?” she asked.
Dagan wasn’t too surprised by her question. Most Americans didn’t pay all that much attention to terrorist attacks on foreign soil, even when the news of the attacks was splashed all over their television screens and headlining their newspapers.
“You remember hearing or reading about the bombing of the Grand Hyatt hotel in Istanbul?” Chelsea asked. Delilah rolled in her lips, nodding. “How about the series of bus bombings in Dublin and the murder of schoolgirls in Iraq?” Again Delilah jerked her chin up and down. “Well, Qasim ibn Hasan is responsible for all three, and likely a whole lot more that we’re not certain of.”
“And he has my uncle?” Delilah rasped.
“Indeed he does. But we’re doing everything we can to find him.”
Qasim ibn Hasan…Jesus, Dagan thought. And if he wasn’t mistaken, that sound he was hearing was the sweet, dulcet tones of the shit hitting the fan.
“Why?” Delilah asked, and he cocked his head, staring at her in confusion.
“What do you mean?” Chelsea asked.
“Why would he bomb hotels or blow up city busses or kill schoolgirls? Why does he hate everyone so much?”
Ah, the search for reason in the unreasonable. Dagan knew the exercise well.
“Not everyone,” Chelsea corrected. “Just us. Because even though his previous targets were all on foreign soil, each of those countries is one of our allies. And all of his victims were either Westerners, like those in the hotel and on the buses, or they were proponents of Western ideals, like the Iraqi girls who had the unqualified gall to try to get an education.”
“Then why does he hate us so much,” Delilah asked, shaking her head. “I mean, what did we ever do to him?”
“Killed his family,” Tweedle Dee spoke up for the first time.
“What?” Dagan snapped.
“It’s true.” Chelsea nodded. “His wife and two boys were victims of a drone strike about a dozen years ago. Before that, Qasim was a simple merchant. Now, he’s one of America’s Most Wanted.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Mac grumbled, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Sometimes I don’t know if we make more enemies with predator drone strikes than we kill.”
Dagan snorted. “Fire from above does tend to radicalize men who would have otherwise remained neutral.” After much consideration on the subject, years in fact, the only sense he could make of it all was that drones were an imperfect solution to an incredibly complicated issue.
“So it’s revenge he’s after?” Delilah asked.
“Yes,” Chelsea admitted. “But it’s warped revenge. What you have to remember is that his family was killed by accident. As terrible as it is to say, they were unfortunate collateral damage in a war. The war on terror. It happens. But he is deliberately taking his remorse and vengeance out on innocent targets. I mean, schoolgirls? Grannies and single moms riding the bus? There’s no reciprocity there, no equality of grievance. If he targeted military bases or embassies? Sure, I could see that. Give credence to his actions, even. A war is a war, after all.