“No, sir. We haven’t. I don’t know if anybody’s heard from Captain Stevens. What would you like me to do, Admiral?”
Without hearing otherwise from Grant, Torrinson had no alternative but to leave security as it was for the time being. Grant had to have his reasons, unless…. Torrinson reprimanded himself for even having negative thoughts.
“Colonel, Captain Stevens was to contact Brit CID in Newquay. My suggestion is to put a call in to them and see if they have any updates.”
“But wouldn’t Captain Stevens contact you before calling the Brits, sir?”
Torrinson shook his head and smiled. “You don’t know the captain like I do, Colonel. I suggest you call CID.”
“All right, sir.”
“One other thing, Colonel. Even though I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, there’s to be no mention of what’s stored at St. Mawgan.”
“Of course, Admiral. I’ll call you as soon as I talk with CID.”
“Be sure to call me whether or not you have new info.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
Torrinson hung up then leaned against his chair, swiveling it back and forth. Should he call the EOD compound? Was there a possibility Grant already contacted the team since his last call? Too many questions. Too many damn unanswered questions.
“Where the hell are you, Captain?” he said under his breath. How many times had he asked himself that question over the past years?
Exasperated, Torrinson rubbed his hand over the top of his head, and got up abruptly. He grabbed a Tootsie Pop from the jar, then tossed the wrapper on the plate. Pacing back and forth across his office, he hardly realized he was crunching the hard candy into pieces.
A sudden sense of sadness crept into his being. It was almost hard to believe, but soon he’d no longer have his view from the window… or this job.
Aside from his last duty station at SPECWARCOM (Special Warfare Command) in Coronado, NIS had been a dream assignment, frustrations put aside. Every job had frustrations and anxieties.
He stopped his pacing, finding himself standing in front of a mirror with a bronze eagle, a present from his wife when he made admiral. Looking at his reflection, he brushed his fingers along his temple. He admitted he had a few more gray hairs since he’d been at NIS. “All your fault, Captain Grant Stevens,” he laughed quietly. His assignment to NIS was, in part, because of Grant Stevens’ recommendation after Eugene Morelli died.
But the time had come. He was being assigned his own carrier strike group with the Pacific fleet — the USS John Preston.
What kind of irony was that? The carrier was the same one where Grant and Joe successfully uncovered a Russian mole.
He turned away from the mirror. As soon as Grant and Joe returned from England he would have to break the news. After their last op he was the one who worried they were about to retire, leave the Navy.
Although he wasn’t leaving the Navy, he was leaving. Not too many times during his career was he affected by leaving men under his command. Why was this time so different?
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Admiral?”
“Come on in, Zach.” He threw the Tootsie Pop stick on the plate.
The yeoman walked in carrying a manila folder. “I’ve got some papers for you to sign, sir.”
“Guess it’s time to return to reality.”
“Sir?”
“Nothing, Zach.”
“Just made some fresh coffee, sir. Can I get you a cup? We’ve still got some donuts to go along with that.”
He eyed the cold burger and fries, preferring something sweet. “Both sound good. I’ll have chocolate, if there’s one left.”
“Yes, sir.” Zach picked up the plate, and turned to leave.
Oh, Zach, just leave the door open.
“Yes, sir.”
Standing on a concrete balcony overlooking the old airfield, Razzag Aknin pressed binoculars against his eyes. His patience was wearing thin. The man Labeaux sent to Newquay was late in returning.
Setting the binoculars on the edge of the balcony, he readjusted the belt, sliding the scabbard closer to his belly. Withdrawing his janbia, he held it close to his face, swiveling the knife back and forth. Even in the blackness of night he could see his reflection in the shiny blade. He ran a finger along the smooth surface, noticing a dark speck near the hilt. The Englishman’s blood. He wiped it with a corner of his shirt. Then, he reinspected his most cherished possession, given to him by Abu Massi.
How many times had he wiped the blood of his enemies from this blade? Perhaps he would get another chance to use it before he left this island called England.
Turning his attention back to the runway, and still not seeing headlights, he decided to go through a checklist on the plane. Nothing could go wrong tomorrow.
Stepping heavily down the one flight of stairs, he glanced briefly at the room where the prisoners were being held.
Once outside, he stopped momentarily before proceeding to the plane. He looked back at the building, not understanding why Labeaux continued holding the two prisoners. Nothing had been gained from all the questioning. After he had eliminated the the man in the driveway, he volunteered his services to dispose of the man and woman. But Massi refused, explaining they were Labeaux’s concern… for the time being.
He refocused his attention on the plane, as he walked toward it, seeing Massi standing near the open doorway. Labeaux was still inside the cabin, sitting near a window.
Aknin began to question Labeaux being called one of the world’s most feared terrorists. So far, nothing Labeaux had said or done supported that claim. Aknin smiled as he went into the plane.
The only entry to the room was by a single wooden door, covered with sheet metal. Inside, a long wooden counter, splintered and worn, was bolted to the back wall. Old plugs, outlets, pieces of wires lay scattered on the floor. A section of map was still tacked next to the door. At eye level above the counter was a small rectangular window. Hanging from the ceiling by a frayed electrical cord was a flickering, weak bulb, the only light in the room.
Jack Henley sat on the cold concrete floor. His arms were behind his back, tied to a metal support post. His face was badly bruised. He was exhausted. During the entire time he’d been locked in this room, he refused to take his eyes from Victoria. She was on the opposite side of the room, with a rope around her wrists, and another rope around her waist tied to a leg of the counter.
He was thankful she hadn’t been physically harmed, but her quiet sobs tore through to his soul.
“Vicky,” he called softly. She kept her head down, ashamed to look at him. “Vicky,” he called again. “Look at me.” She raised her head. Her normally shiny, perfectly brushed blond hair was now tangled and messy, hanging in her eyes. Tears from reddened eyes streaked her face.
He had to reassure her and try to prevent her from totally falling apart. He spoke quietly. “Vicky, believe me when I tell you Grant’s looking for us. He’s looking for us, Vicky, and he will find us. I promise you he will. This’ll all be over soon.”
She didn’t have the strength or will to even attempt a smile. Why would anyone try to rescue her after what she’d done? She and her husband wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for her. And yet, through it all, it was her husband who had tried with all his being to protect her.
Looking at him now, she wished she had never married him, and not because she didn’t love him. If they had never met, he’d be living his life as an American naval officer, performing a job he loved, instead of facing death at the hands of terrorists — and Colin.