Rapp would never understand how foreign parents-largely grateful for everything America had given them-could raise children like the man sitting in front of him. How someone brought up in a good neighborhood by moderate Muslims turned to radicalism. What was it about living in a free, prosperous, safe society that chapped their asses so bad?
“Look, you sound like you want to go home, but I don’t know where that is. American accents are easy to fake. I’m not sure you’re really my problem.”
He stared at Rapp through blackened eyes for a good thirty seconds, but finally spoke. “I’m from Durango. In Colorado.”
“You got a name?”
“Eric Jesem. You can look it up. Now take me home.”
“Home? You joined ISIS. This is your home.”
“I’m an American citizen!” he shouted, but the effort caused him to cough uncontrollably. His evident agony suggested he had a few broken ribs to go with the bruises on his face. “I… I have rights!”
“What about the rights of the women and children you and your friends have raped and killed?”
“They live in the new caliphate. Under God’s law.”
“But you don’t,” Rapp said. “Is that what you’re telling me? They live under God’s law but you get yours from Thomas Jefferson?”
“Take me back to the States! I know my rights. I get my day in court.”
“Why don’t we try it this way. You tell me everything you know and if it’s useful, we’ll get you to an American hospital.”
“Bullshit. I don’t have to talk to you. I don’t have to incriminate myself. It’s in our fucking Christian constitution.”
“Look around you, Eric. Where do you think you are? Does this look like a Colorado police station?”
“I serve the one true God.”
Rapp switched to Arabic. “You butcher your way through civilian populations.”
Jesem just stared blankly at him.
“Are you kidding me?” Rapp said, switching back to English. “You’re sitting there lecturing me about Islam and your parents didn’t even teach you to speak its language?”
“You have to take me home! I’m an American citizen.”
“Sure. I’ll just run you back to Denver so you can get some great medical care and do a little skiing before you get back to your genocide.”
“No,” he said, starting to sound a little less certain of his position.
“No what? You don’t ski?”
“I just…” Tears started to flow, mixing with the dried blood on his cheeks. “I just want to go home.”
“Don’t you dare start crying about missing America. I will fucking yank your dick off and feed it to you.”
Jesem managed to stifle his sobs just as the satphone in Rapp’s pocket started to vibrate. The number on the screen was immediately recognizable. Irene Kennedy.
“Go ahead,” he said, picking up.
“I just got a call from Umar Shirani. It seems your plan worked.”
“He’s even more of a coward than I gave him credit for.”
“He says there are five more canisters missing and that his people are going to send a full report within the hour.”
“Give it to Craig. He’s in the process of analyzing samples from the warhead I brought him.”
“Mitch, I don’t have to tell you that this situation has just gone from dire to potentially catastrophic. Even if the people who took the fissile material don’t have a way to detonate it, they have enough to build a dirty bomb that could make Washington or New York uninhabitable.”
“Who are you talking to?” Jesem said. “I want a lawyer. Tell them I want a lawyer!”
“What was that?” Kennedy asked.
“The television,” Rapp said, leaning against the wall and examining Jesem. His beard and hair were almost identical to Rapp’s, but the similarities didn’t end there. They had the same coloring and build. And, though it was hard to judge exactly with him seated, they even seemed to be about the same height. He was undoubtedly younger than Rapp, but with all the damage done by Shirani’s men, someone would have to be looking pretty closely to notice.
“We’re out of time,” Kennedy continued. “Anyone with the ability to coordinate an operation this sophisticated has a plan that’s equally sophisticated. That fissile material could already be coupled with bombs small enough to smuggle across the U.S. border.”
“Agreed. Any movement on finding the man who took out Scott?”
“Yes, but it’s not an easy task. There are a lot of white spec ops men with athletic backgrounds in the world.”
“Hello!” Jesem said, getting as much volume as he could out of his raw throat. “Who’s there? Who’s on the phone? Is that the embassy?”
Rapp looked down at him. He stared back defiantly. Like Kennedy said, the clock was ticking. It was time to act. Rapp nodded toward Maslick and ran a finger silently across his throat.
Jesem clearly understood the gesture and immediately started jerking back and forth, trying to free himself. “Stop!” he yelled as the two-hundred-twenty-pound Delta man walked up behind him. “I’m an American citizen, you can’t do this! You can’t-”
Maslick grabbed his long hair with one hand and his chin with the other, twisting the young Coloradan’s head a full one hundred eighty degrees before kicking over the chair and spitting on his corpse. Normally, Rapp would have considered the last part a little unprofessional, but under the circumstances, it was hard to criticize.
“Mitch? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“That wasn’t a television.”
“I’ll explain later. Look, Irene. I’ve got an idea. Let me and Mas work on it. In the meantime, I need everything you can get on a man named Eric Jesem from Durango, Colorado.”
“Eric Jesem,” she repeated. “I’ll get our people on it right away.”
Rapp disconnected the call and looked down at what was left of the young American-his pulverized face, the severe contusions on arms still secured behind the toppled chair. Finally, he approached and yanked up the dead man’s shirt.
“What are you looking for, Mitch?”
“No tattoos,” Rapp commented.
“So?”
“So, does he remind you of anyone?”
Maslick snorted. “You, kind of.”
When Rapp started pulling off the man’s clothes, Maslick took a hesitant step back. “Now, hold on, Mitch…”
“Shut up and get his pants.”
Unwilling to defy Rapp’s orders, he knelt and started unbuckling Jesem’s belt. “I got a really bad feeling about this, man.”
“It worked for Joe Rickman.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You blew the back of his head off. How is that working out?”
There was no key for the cuffs, so Rapp broke the bones in Jesem’s hands to get them off. When the battered body was completely stripped, Rapp changed into the dead man’s clothes. A little loose in the waistband but nothing the belt couldn’t handle.
“Did you see the garbage chute in the corridor on the way in?” Rapp asked.
“I saw a metal hatch in the wall. But I’m not sure it’s a garbage chute. It might lead to their fucking break room.”
“Pick him up,” Rapp ordered and then went to the door, opening it far enough to allow him to peer outside. As expected, the passage was empty. Shirani was probably waiting in one of the air-conditioned vehicles. His men would be busy keeping an eye on the presidential guard that Maslick had stationed throughout the facility.
Rapp motioned for Maslick to follow and then padded out into the hallway. He moved quickly to the hatch and pulled it open. The rotting stench suggested he’d guessed right about its purpose and he tossed his clothes into the hole. Jesem took a little more effort, but after thirty seconds or so of pushing he fell through the darkness to the burial he deserved.
When they returned to the cell, Rapp kicked the overturned chair into a corner and faced Maslick. He’d never really paid much attention to how massive the man was, but now it was impossible to ignore the thick shoulders, powerful chest, and dinner-plate hands.