Jeff Abbott - Collision

She turned back toward the door and a pistol was in her face. A big-built man stood behind the gun.

“That’s nice that you love your mama.”

Vochek didn’t speak. She clutched her phone tighter.

“I don’t want Mama picking out a casket for you,” the man said. “Where is Teach?”

The gun in her face made it hard to talk, but she managed. “I’m a federal officer. Lower your weapon.”

“Nice bluff, but I saw the soldiers downstairs are hired. Where is she?” the man repeated.

“I’m the only she here. I’m a Homeland Security agent. Lower your weapon. Please.” She knew she shouldn’t say please; she needed the edge of authority in her tone, but the word slipped out before she thought. The gun was an inch from her face and she thought: If he shoots me this close, Mom won’t even recognize my face.

A telescoping baton lay next to her purse; she’d kept it in case Ben Forsberg had to be subdued without deadly force. Her purse blocked the weapon from the man’s view. No way she could go for her gun, in the rig under her jacket.

“My badge is in my purse,” she said. “May I get it? It should convince you.”

“No. Lock your hands on your head.” The man reached under her jacket, liberated Vochek’s service piece, stepped back. Both hands holding guns.

She threw her phone at his face.

The phone nailed him in the forehead but he ignored it. He clubbed her with the pistol, hitting her shoulder. She lurched hard against the table. And grabbed the baton.

It snapped into its two-foot length with a click, and she spun, whipping it at his face. He dodged. She swung the baton back, nearly catching the top of his head as he ducked. He hit her wrist hard and the pain bolted along her bone like flame. The baton fell nervelessly from her fingers.

Oh, God, she thought. He took her down without even having to fire either gun. An unexpected bolt of humiliation cut through the fear and the hurt.

The man tucked her gun into the back of his pants. He stepped back several paces from Vochek, still keeping his gun leveled at her head. “Don’t blame you for trying.”

“I’m Homeland Security,” she repeated. “Kill me and the penalty doubles.”

“Turn around.”

“Shoot me in the back. Nice.” Vochek’s chin lifted in defiance. “I won’t turn around.”

“Don’t make this worse.” The man gestured with the gun.

Vochek turned. She didn’t want to show fear, but as she turned to face the wall her lips twisted, her throat tightened. She thought of her mother and never having another dinner with her.

“Sorry,” he said, and she thought: My God, he’s really going to shoot me. This is how it ends.

The blow, direct into the nerve juncture at her neck, crumpled her to her knees.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Then blackness folded over her eyes as the tile of the floor rushed toward her.

Pilgrim fished the ID out of the unconscious woman’s purse.

Department of Homeland Security. Office of Strategic Initiatives. Joanna Vochek.

It was either a very good fake or she was telling the truth. Pilgrim dropped the ID onto her stomach. He picked up her phone, turned it off, and tucked it into his pocket; phones could be useful sources of information. If Homeland was attacking the Cellar, then the situation was far worse; because he would then be fighting the resources of the American government.

Which meant his battle was against a far more dangerous and powerful enemy than a bunch of gun-toting kidnappers with a grudge against the Cellar. The thought dried his mouth.

He dragged the unconscious Vochek into a storage closet and locked her inside. One less person to worry about.

He returned to the hallway and closed the door behind him. He hurried down the hall, gun straight out, listening.

Pilgrim heard voices, arguing, from behind a door.

Kidwell shoved Ben back into the chair. Pain sparkled like a spinning firecracker in Ben’s skull.

Kidwell leveled the gun at Ben. “Amazing how a bullet in the knee loosens a tongue.”

“I’ve quit believing that you’re with Homeland Security,” Ben said, “and-”

Boom. For a second Ben thought Kidwell’s gun had fired. The door flew open from a kick.

A man stood there with a gun. He aimed at Kidwell, who lifted his pistol to fire.

The man shot first. He nailed Kidwell in the leg. Kidwell collapsed with a scream. The man rushed Kidwell, freed the gun from Kidwell’s grip with a vicious kick.

Kidwell wore a look of utter surprise.

The man regarded Ben, who stayed in the chair as though locked to it. Kidwell kept screaming. Ben thought: He’s right, a bullet in the leg does make you talk. He felt like slapping himself to set his mind back to order.

“Where is Teach?” the man asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Ben frowned at him as if he were speaking gibberish.

“Identify yourself,” the man said. He looked first at Kidwell, who writhed in pain on the floor, blood seeping between his fingers as he gripped his leg.

Ben managed to speak. “He’s Agent Kidwell, Homeland Security. Supposedly.”

“Where is the woman you took from the lake house? Tell me or I shoot.” The man stood over Kidwell. “Did Barker work for you? The Arabs?”

“Don’t know… what you mean…” Kidwell gritted his teeth, closed his hand over the flesh wound in his leg.

“You. Up. Against the wall.” The man’s gun tracked him as Ben obeyed.

“I haven’t seen any woman,” Ben said. “I’m not with Homeland Security; he brought me here.”

The man glanced between Ben and Kidwell again. “Who are you?”

“Ben Forsberg.”

The gun wavered and naked shock crossed the big man’s gaunt face. “Say again.” As if Ben had spoken in Latin.

“My name is Ben Forsberg,” Ben repeated. Then in panic the words seemed to spill from his mouth: “They think I knew some hit man and I don’t, I shouldn’t be here…”

The man shushed Ben, bringing his gun to his own lips like a hushing finger. He blinked as though thinking. Then Ben could see a decision made, in the man’s sudden resolve. “My name is Pilgrim. Come with me. Help me find her.”

“No… other prisoner here.” Kidwell had pulled himself up to a sitting position and leaned against the wall, clutching at his torn leg. “Just this man, and you’ve shot a federal officer, and you’re in deep shit.”

“I clean up fast,” Pilgrim said. “You. Come with me.”

Ben wasn’t inclined to trade in Kidwell for this new jerk, but he had no choice. He followed the man into the hallway. Pilgrim ran to the other doors, yelling “Teach!” and listening for a response.

“Who are you?” Ben asked.

Pilgrim didn’t spare him a glance. “I’m the guy who’s getting you the hell out of here.”

At the middle of the hallway, between them and the room they’d left Kidwell in, the elevator door pinged and opened.

“Get behind me,” Pilgrim said.

Khaled’s Report-Beirut

My recruitment was a seduction. Not in the physical sense; there was of course none of that. But in the long crush of weeks after my brothers and my father died, I began to realize I was being followed. By a man I now know as J.

At first I was very afraid. No one had been brought to justice for the bombing, and I wondered if my brothers’ enemies-whether they be domestic or foreign-might target me. Paranoia is not a healthy life but often I noticed J-in the market, as I made my way home from the university, returning home from my aunt’s house with my mother. J watched us, followed us. I said nothing to Mama; her worries were already crushing her.

He approaches me at the school library. Sits down across from me at a table. We are alone.