Marc Cameron - Act of Terror

“I am,” Beg said.

“Very well.” Dr. Nazeer Badeeb continued clicking away. He never seemed to care if Beg was busy doing his work or not. “I am concerned about this woman. She is beginning to share her theories. I fear she will… up some eyelashes.”

The doctor firmly believed American intelligence services were less likely to eavesdrop on conversations in English-though, Beg thought, what this one spoke could hardly be considered English.

“Eyebrows, not eyelashes,” Mujaheed sighed, correcting his employer’s idiom. “You mean to say raised some eyebrows.”

“Of course,” Badeeb rambled on. “As you say. But I am nervous nonetheless.”

“I will take care of that very soon.” The Mervi’s eyes shifted to the fat Arab, who snored fitfully in the pale green glow of the dashboard lights.

There was the distinct metallic clink of a lighter on the other end of the line as Badeeb lit a cigarette before he continued his staccato whining. “We wish them confused and frightened. Disorganized, not fortified. They must not connect too much too soon.”

“I understand,” Beg said. “I should begin my work then.”

“Of course.” Dr. Badeeb released a long sigh, sounding like a windstorm over the phone. Mujaheed envisioned the cloud of cigarette smoke enveloping his employer’s sweating face. “You will find out how much she knows?”

“With great pleasure,” the Mervi said. He looked through the foliage at the pool of yellow light spilling out Arbakova’s bedroom window and put the car in gear.

Parking in a deserted alley behind the house, Beg roused the snoring Arab next to him with a stiff elbow to the floating ribs. A heavy dose of Rohypnol-roofies-had made the man pliable, but dazed. It had also caused him to spill the contents of his bladder all over the passenger seat. The man, whose name was Haddad, yowled in pain. His cry trailed off in a pitiful whimper.

“What do you want from me?” he sobbed.

“Whoa!” Beg said, tossing his head in a passable impression of Elvis. “You’re all shook up… What do you think I want?” Beg sneered. “Half the world knows what you do for a living. It is not the secret you believe it to be.” He turned, holding up a black box the size of a garage door opener. Haddad’s eyes flew wide. He began to fling his head from side to side.

“Nooo!” he screamed. “Nooo-”

Relaxed in the driver’s seat, Beg depressed a white button on the box. There was a faint beep and the dazed Arab suddenly arched backward, driving thick legs into the floorboards as if stomping on the brakes. He slammed his head against the roof of the Saturn. Teeth crunched, giving way under the convulsive tension brought on by forty thousand volts from the stun-belt over flabby kidneys.

It was such a fine show Beg wanted to clap.

Eight grueling seconds passed before the man’s body fell slack. An acid stench filled the car’s interior as he vomited in his lap.

Beg reached across with a pair of pruning shears and snipped the plastic zip ties around the Arab’s wrists. He shoved him a roll of paper towels.

“You disgusting pig,” he spat. “We are going to meet a woman. Make yourself presentable. You will walk beside me to the front door. Try to keep from defecating on yourself. Say nothing… and remember, I will have my finger on the button at all times.” He tapped the black box. “If you do as I tell you, this will all be over soon.”

“You… haven’t…” the man panted. He tore off a wad of paper towels and working feverishly to sop his lap dry. His breath was ragged. His eyes darted from Beg’s face to the box in his hand. White spittle pooled at the corners of his mouth. “You… haven’t… even asked me any questions…”

“Ah.” Beg smiled, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “I am not interested in what you know,” he hissed. “Only who you are.” He opened the door, certain now the pitiful man would follow his every command. He was a slave. “Come. This will take much of the night. I am sure you will find it quite… interesting…”

Maryland 0930 hours

Jacques Thibodaux’s gumbo-thick Louisiana drawl broke squelch on the speaker inside Jericho Quinn’s helmet. The Cajun was in the lead, broad shoulders eclipsing the low morning sun across the thumping I-495 Beltway.

“Say, Chair Force,” the big Marine said. He rode a red and black sister bike to Quinn’s gunmetal-gray 1200 GS Adventure. “I got me a Tango Tango Charlie situation here.”

“Okay…” Quinn had only known the monstrous Cajun for a matter of months. Violent circumstances had thrown them together-made them closer than brothers-but there were still many idiosyncrasies he had to learn.

“Tango Tango Charlie?

“Turd Touchin’ Cloth, l’ami. My protein and oatmeal shake is scootin’ through me quicker than I’d reckoned on. I need to take a tactical dump before you get me involved in some hellacious gun battle.”

Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux was Corps to the core. A square-jawed, thick-necked fighting machine, he’d been recruited to Win Palmer’s Hammer Team along with Quinn. Like Quinn, he now operated as an OGA, an other governmental agent, working under the guise of Air Force OSI. The Marine still couldn’t get used to the idea he was detailed to the Air Force, a branch of the service he generally referred to as Wing Waxers-or worse.

Rather than answer, Jericho looked to his left, giving Thibodaux a thumbs-up. He pointed with his gloved hand to a little “stop and rob” convenience store just off the 495/270 interchange going toward Rockville. Their helmets were outfitted with sophisticated communications gear that connected via securely scrambled Chatterbox Bluetooth, but he hated to clutter up his head with talk while he was riding unless it was an absolute necessity.

Quinn activated the turn signal with his thumb, then glanced over his right shoulder to take the lane. An elderly couple in a red Hyundai sedan slowed, and then veered to fall in behind him rather than pass. A dark blue minivan laid on the horn when the old folks cut them off, but the move allowed Quinn room to move over as surely as if they were running a blocker car. Quinn watched the terrified face of the gray-haired woman in the Hyundai’s rearview mirror. She kept both hands on the wheel, eyes glued to the road ahead.

Quinn waved a thank-you and chuckled to himself. He and Thibodaux wore black leathers and rode big, aggressive motorcycles. It was obvious they were wanton killers, on the hunt for an elderly couple in a Hyundai to murder. He had basically the same effect whether he was on a motorcycle or not. It was a feral look he’d been born with and it drove Kim crazy.

Quinn needed fuel anyway so he pulled in to wait behind a guy with a trailer full of lawn equipment and three five-gallon gas cans. He stayed on the motorcycle but took off his helmet and kangaroo-leather gloves. Jacques all but vaulted from his bike and trotted inside the little convenience store to take care of his Tango Tango Charlie.

The day was warm for late September and Quinn unzipped his jacket to let in some air. The recirculating coolant was great, but Quinn found he liked fresh air when he could get it.

Once the lawn guy was finished, Quinn rolled his bike forward and put it up on the center stand. The BMW’s 1200cc motor didn’t exactly sip gasoline, but the beast sported a nine-and-a-half-gallon tank that gave it long legs for a motorcycle-and let it live up to the Adventure designation. Unlike filling up a car, Quinn found he had to keep a careful eye on the nozzle to keep a geyser of gasoline from shooting into the air once the tank was full. He took his time, feeding a little gas slowly while he looked around the parking lot.