“Matt,” he said, pointing to the fluorescent light hanging in the center of the kitchen. “Shoot out the light.”
This caused some curious looks, but no one ever had to ask Matt McColm twice to fire his weapon. Before a word was spoken, Matt lined up his pistol and fired two shots, knocking out both bulbs without wasting a bullet. The blasts caused shards of glass to rain over Phil’s head. Up and down the quiet neighborhood houses began to light up like an excited pinball machine. Evans feverishly broadcasted every move with the same tone used to announce the Hindenburg disaster. Once again Nick slipped the fiber-optic tube into the darkened room and steered its gaze toward the kitchen door.
“There you are, you bastard,” Nick said.
Matt glanced down at the tiny screen and saw a thin stream of red light across the base of the door. “It’s booby-trapped,” he declared. “Call the Bomb Squad, this baby’s wired to blow.”
Evans saw the laser beam and immediately gave orders not to touch any doors or windows.
“Do you see anything around this window?” Nick asked Phil.
Phil’s shoulders hung low, his head moved side to side slowly, full of relief.
Nick curled his hand through the jagged opening in the glass and unlocked the latch. He slid open the window and with eight sets of hands training their weapons on the inside of the kitchen, Nick climbed into the house and quickly pulled the tape from his brother’s mouth.
“I’m sorry, Nick,” Phil pleaded.
Nick untied him. “Are they all upstairs?”
“I couldn’t tell, but it sounded as if they left. I heard a door slam shut.”
Nick hustled Phil back through the open window into Matt’s welcome arms, then followed him out of the house. “Nice to see you breathing,” Matt said with a wide grin.
Phil collapsed onto the lawn, which was moist from the morning dew. He took shallow breaths and hugged himself tightly, shivering from more than just the night air.
Nick crouched down over his brother. “You okay?”
Phil nodded. “They’ve been keeping me pretty doped up, but I think I’m all right.” He grabbed Nick’s arm. “I’m worried, Nicky. I kept hearing them talk about what you did to someone named Rashid. Did you arrest him or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I think they’re holding a grudge against you.”
Evans barked out a name and instantly a young man in a blue FBI windbreaker emerged from the darkness. “Take this man over to Desert Springs, get him checked out.”
Nick tenderly slapped his brother’s face. “I’ll see you over there in a little while.”
While waiting for the Bomb Squad to show, Nick found a tree to sit under and leaned up against the trunk for support. Wiping his clammy hand on his pants, he forced himself to subdue the throbbing in his head. Two episodes in one night, not good. Worse yet, his stomach wanted to join the party. First a slight seasick sensation, then a full-out race for his throat. A couple of hard swallows later, Matt began running interference for him. He shuffled away anyone coming too close, citing flu-like symptoms to anyone who asked about Nick’s condition.
The bomb squad showed up wrapped in Kevlar and drew attention away from Nick. Matt, a veteran of bomb threats, knew that once the explosive experts arrived, they immediately gained custody of the crisis. Everyone else followed their lead except Matt, who had grown allergic to taking orders from strangers. Without ever taking his eyes off the bomb squad’s antics, he squatted next to Nick and said, “You want to tell me about it?”
“What’s to tell? I’m sick.”
“That’s obvious, but sick from what? You seemed perfectly fine a few minutes ago.”
Nick hesitated. “Well… if you ask Dr. Morgan he’ll suggest Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder.”
Matt rubbed the side of his face. “That’s just great.”
“Don’t give up on me,” Nick said, wanting to give hope. Wanting to believe it himself. “I could beat this thing.”
Nick’s phone rang. Walt Jackson was on the line. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” Jackson said.
“Well, I’ve got some good news,” Nick said.
“I’m all ears.”
“We’ve got Phil.”
There was a long pause. Nick could hear Jackson’s exhale turn into a faint whistle. Jackson’s voice suddenly contained a smile that could be heard over the thousands of miles and three satellites used to transmit the highly secure conversation. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that,” Jackson said. “I underestimated the significance of transferring Rashid Baser to a minimum security site. Thirty minutes ago he escaped from Poplar Hill Pre-Release Unit. No guard tower. No razor wire fences. A real country club atmosphere and Rashid took advantage of the situation.”
“It wasn’t a fluke?”
“Oh no. They’ve had this set up all along. They never once thought we would release Baser, all they wanted was the opportunity to spring him. Anyway, Phil’s safe and that’s all that really matters.”
“That’s right.” Nick could see the first wave of bomb experts enter the house from the kitchen window. Matt stood next to Evans with his arms crossed, nodding at the occasional comment. “I’ve got to go, Walt. Bomb Squad just showed up. Matt’s over there right now telling anyone who’ll listen how arrogant those guys are.”
“Any casualties?”
“No,” Nick said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Nick felt queasy standing up, but by the time he reached the house, the tunnel had already been discovered. The primary team was moving cautiously and Evans let everyone hear his radio transmissions from the team. When the lead group made it to the garage, the house search was over and the area search began.
An aggressive search of the Vegas area commenced. The airport and bus terminal were staked out and highway roadblocks ensued, but none of Kharrazi’s men were found.
At the hospital, Phil pointed out three Kurdish Security Force members out of a stack of eight-by-ten glossies from Nick’s files, including Kemel Kharrazi. For Kharrazi, it was a remarkably bold appearance in the United States, which caused consternation among all law enforcement agencies, including America’s most interested citizen — the President of the United States.
By the time Nick and Matt flew back to Baltimore, the reward for any information leading to the arrest of Kemel Kharrazi was upped to forty million dollars. To the discerning eye, it would appear like an act of desperation.
It was.
Chapter 9
Lamar Kensington was suffering from insomnia at three thirty in the morning, when he decided to inspect the fridge for a snack. With just the dim light of the moon to guide him, he salted a piece of leftover pizza, stood over the sink, and stared out the window. As he chewed groggily, he fixed his gaze on the neighbors’ house across the street. A majestic Victorian stood on the crest of a hill, overlooking tightly mowed grass that meandered through the manicured landscape like a poet’s version of a putting green. He marveled at the tiny spotlights that accented trees at precise angles, causing a warm, dreamy effect that Lamar longed for in his own yard. He had neither the fervor nor the funds that Senator Williams possessed, yet he could never view the yard without the urge to grab his putter.
He was imagining himself lobbing a wedge shot into the middle of the senator’s yard when the detonation occurred. A flash of bright fire erupted from the Williams’ house, instantly illuminating the quiet neighborhood and engulfing the home. A thunderous blast shook the ground and Lamar braced himself as he watched the house explode into a huge fireball. The deafening crash propelled misshapen debris with such velocity that a fragment of the front door screamed through Lamar’s kitchen window, hitting him square in the chest and knocking him to the floor. He gasped for air while flicking off shards of glass. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled up his tee-shirt to inspect the wound. A flap of skin hung open and exposed a raw sliver of his ribcage. Blood seeped from the opening like an undercooked steak. Just before he passed out, he heard sirens wailing in the distance.