Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

Kharrazi pointed the Beretta at Silk’s chest, “You’re already beginning to bore me to death.”

The man laughed. “Hey, that’s a good one, Shorty.” Then, he seemed to turn serious. “Of course someone your height, I guess a gun is mandatory, isn’t it?”

Kharrazi hesitated at the insult and was startled to see the man use the moment to rush toward him with a look of determination on his face. Kharrazi actually backpedaled as he quickly fired shots with his automatic, including one in the neck and one to the head. Still the man kept coming into the onslaught until his bullet-ridden body limply wrapped itself around Kharrazi’s frame like a drowning man.

As his life rapidly slipped away, the man seemed to be frisking Kharrazi’s body; he groped Kharrazi’s torso until one hand weakly found the knife tucked inside his ankle holster. Fighting until the bitter end, Kharrazi thought.

Kharrazi held the Beretta inches above the man’s head, but didn’t feel the need to waste another bullet.

It sounded like the man said, “See you soon,” as he slipped down Kharrazi’s legs and crumpled to the ground by his feet.

Kharrazi stood there in the still night air amazed at the man’s tenacity. He checked the man’s hands to find them empty. He felt for a pulse and found none. Kharrazi grinned at the corpse. “You were a brave soldier, Mr. Silk. Almost as brave as Rashid Baser.”

The tension inside of the four cement walls was palpable. The timer ruthlessly beamed its diminishing red numbers, unfazed by the frenzy of Marines and FBI agents running up and down the cracked stairs with wires dangling from every appendage.

Kelly stripped the insulation from the tip of the wires and handed them individually to Rutherford at a rate of two a minute. Carl Rutherford was drenched with sweat even though the cool autumn night fed steady breezes through the open basement doors. He quivered slightly as he wrapped each wire around the positive pole protruding from the top of the small battery. A chorus of headlights poured into the basement from the parked cars just outside of Kharrazi’s private quarters. Each time Rutherford attached a wire, a new set of headlights came to life along with a hesitant flicker from the rest of the group.

Nick and Matt found themselves splitting their attention between Rutherford and the small TV set atop a shaky wooden table against the wall. The monitor showed an empty podium with the presidential seal attached. Newscasters interviewed supposed terrorist experts and retired generals as the nation impatiently awaited President Merrick’s press conference.

“Why is it,” one female newscaster asked, “that there isn’t a consensus on the subject of this speech?”

An unseen political pundit replied, “Well, this is still Washington, Susan, and at this late hour, so close to the White House missile deadline. . I’m sure the President is making certain that every option is explored before making any decisions. There’s even some speculation that he is negotiating right now with Kemel Kharrazi himself trying to find a way out of this catastrophic event. Although that has not been confirmed.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Good thing they have specialists available, otherwise we could be misinformed.”

A bead of sweat dripped from Carl Rutherford’s nose as the timer passed the five-minute mark. Nick wondered if the brightness of the LED display should be fading while the battery drained. Since the display didn’t seem to lose any intensity, he didn’t ask. He was afraid of the answer.

“Hey, Carl,” Matt said, reading Nick’s mind. “Maybe you should speed it up a little. Those headlights still seem pretty strong.”

Carl gave him a dirty look, then nodded to Kelly to quicken the pace.

McKenna came in with a stranglehold on a thin man, his arm twisted behind his back causing a painful expression. The man wore khaki fatigues and made no eye contact as McKenna shoved him into the room toward Nick.

“You know this asshole?” McKenna said, pulling up on the man’s contorted arm.

“Hasan Bozlak,” Matt said. “Yeah, we know him.”

McKenna grasped a handful of hair and snapped Hasan’s head back. “Why don’t you see if he knows anything? He doesn’t seem to understand English.”

In plain English Nick said, “Where is it, Hasan?”

Hasan stared up at the ceiling. McKenna looked confused.

“The tunnel,” Matt said. “Where?”

This got Hasan to shoot a glance at the wall behind Kharrazi’s desk. It was ephemeral, and if Nick weren’t looking for it, it would have easily gone unnoticed. It was the only wall in the room with any covering. Nick slammed his hand up against the wood paneling and banged around until he found the dead spot. He motioned to a Marine who hammered the butt of his M-4 into the composite panel and quickly broke through. Matt peeled back the flimsy section exposing the dark opening of a tunnel. A couple of Marines looked at Nick expectantly.

“Don’t,” he said. “It’ll be full of traps and probably explosives.” Nick faced Hasan. “How long has he been gone?”

Hasan grimaced as McKenna continued the pressure on his arm. Nick could hear the ligaments pop in the soldier’s elbow.

“Maybe he knows about the traps in the tunnel,” McKenna said.

“No,” Matt said. “He wouldn’t know. The traps were set for him more than they were us.”

McKenna looked at the two FBI agents with disdain. Information was the FBI’s main currency and McKenna seemed uncomfortable converting his military energy into reconnaissance. He tightened his hold on Hasan and said, “So what do you want with this guy?”

“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.