Marc Cameron - Act of Terror

The boy rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he said in a dismissive New Jersey accent. “Do me a favor and just tell me what you want. You’re holding up the line.”

Badeeb slammed the money for two packs of Gold Leafs on the counter. He spun on his heels, ripping into the foil of one pack as if it contained the antidote to some horrible poison.

“His father is a pious man,” the doctor seethed. “But the child is an infidel. After you strangle Li Huang you should come back and kill him.” He flicked open his metal lighter, putting a flame to the cigarette. “His death would be most welcome.”

“Very well,” Beg said, following the doctor east on Canal Street.

“Very well, indeed.” Badeeb puffed away on his glowing cigarette. “So much hinges on this night. Plans are falling into place better than I ever imagined they could. In any case,” the doctor said as if he were actually going to be part of the immediate action, “let us go see to strangling my wife. Maybe that will cheer me.”

Beg followed, his mind floating to the mysterious face of Veronica Garcia. Killing the old woman, the street vendor with the mole on her eye, or even the young infidel at the cigarette stand would be little solace for missing the chance to catch another glimpse of the beautiful Cuban and treat her to the taste of the wire of his garrote. Soon, she would be dead at the hand of a rank amateur and he would never have the opportunity. Such a waste.

Marc Cameron

Act of Terror

Georgetown University Hospital Washington, D.C.

Ronnie Garcia’s mind was awash with disjointed memories. An incessant beeping to her left set her nerves on edge. The smell of antiseptic and a lingering odor of chicken broth set her stomach doing sickening flips. Her back ached, and she was sure someone was sitting on her chest. Oxygen flowed into her nose through a tube looped over both ears.

Her eyes fluttered slowly. She blinked, allowing the sterile white walls, the television, the lumps under the sheet that were her feet, to come into focus. She found it difficult to swallow and nearly cried from relief when she found a Styrofoam cup of ice water on a rolling table by the bed.

Visions of icy stone mountains and roaring motorcycles flashed across her mind. Jericho Quinn… she’d thought he might be there when she woke up. She remembered the orphanage, the boys, the sickening impact to her back, and then searing pain as she realized she’d been stabbed. The sensations of not being able to draw a breath, of utter helplessness-of drowning in her own blood-all came roaring back. She could recall snippets of Quinn working frantically to save her life. She needed to tell him something, something she’d heard just before…

Her eyes flicked open, fully awake.

“Tara Doyle,” she said out loud. “ The queen of West Texas bitches. She’s one of them.” The F-22 fighter pilot was a mole.

The television was turned to CNN, but the volume was down. The ticker across the bottom read Breaking News… Governors Island Wedding. Ronnie used the remote to turn it up. A dapper reporter with gelled hair and a black tuxedo spoke into the camera.

“… Clark and the First Lady will be arriving within the hour via the Marine One helicopter. Now, Rene, we haven’t seen the vice president or Mrs. Hughes yet this evening, but since it’s their daughter getting married tonight, we’re pretty sure they’re already on-site. And FYI, Rene, this wedding is shaping up to match Prince William and Kate as far as royal nuptials go. It could be the largest gathering of world leaders and celebrities we’ve seen in the U.S. since… well, I can’t remember when…”

Ronnie’s heart monitor went crazy as she reached for the telephone beside her bed.

Tara Doyle flew the most advanced fighter aircraft in the world. The wedding had to be her intended target.

Ronnie knew she couldn’t simply call in and report the threat. Doyle could have too many accomplices in high places. If the call was somehow received or even intercepted by one of the moles, Garcia might inadvertently move up the time line and put more people in danger. She had to talk to someone she was absolutely certain could be trusted. She beat her head against the pillow, racking her brain.

Ronnie had a good head for numbers, but realized she’d never actually called Quinn or Thibodaux. They’d always called her. She punched in the first number that came to her head.

“Three-five-four-three,” a male voice said. He had a familiar Virginia twang.

“Director Ross, please.”

“She’s not available. Who shall I say is calling?”

A vision of CIA Deputy Director Marty Magnuson, walking through the food court and shooting his coworkers in the head, flashed before Ronnie’s eyes. She hung up. How could she know who to trust?

She dialed information and got two more numbers.

“White House switchboard, may I help you?” It was a woman, polite, but all business.

“I need to speak with Winfield Palmer.”

“Mr. Palmer is unavailable. I’d be happy to take a message.”

“When would he get the message?” Ronnie bit her lip.

“Monday morning.”

“It’s important I speak to him right away. Could you have him call me?”

“I can certainly give him the message-on Monday morning.”

“Maldita sea!” Ronnie cursed. “I have to talk to him.”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, I get fifty calls a day from people who have to talk to someone here. Is this a matter of national security?”

“Yes, yes,” Ronnie said. “It is.”

“It’s always a matter of national security,” the woman said. Ronnie could almost hear her eyes rolling. “I suggest you hang up and dial nine-one-one.”

Ronnie slammed down the phone. She fell back against the pillow, catching her breath before dialing the next number.

“FBI.”

Ronnie clenched her teeth. It hurt her pride, but had to be done. “I need to speak with Director Bodington on an urgent matter-and please don’t tell me he’s unavailable.”

“Well,” the voice came back. “It’s Friday afternoon. He is unavailable.”

Ronnie wanted to scream. Her words spilled out in a breathy stream. “I can guarantee you he’ll want to talk to me,” she said. “I’m

… one of his informants…”

“Yes, ma’am,” the operator said, his voice cracking a little. “I can get you an on-call agent.”

Ronnie hung up without another word and pressed the call button at the side of her bed for the nurse. She was very near to tears, and that alone was enough to piss her off.

A bright-eyed brunette with a round, freckled face opened the door a few seconds later.

“You okay, dear?” she said, checking the heart monitor and oxygen output.

Ronnie nodded, willing herself to calm down so the nurse didn’t decide to medicate her. She had to get word to someone about Tara Doyle, but after all that had happened, she didn’t know who to trust.

“I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “Woke up from a bad dream, that’s all.”

The nurse, whose name tag said Beverly, lifted Ronnie’s wrist and checked the IV taped to the back of her hand. “Think you could eat some soup?”

“Maybe,” Ronnie said, wanting to appear compliant. Her head was still loopy from the pain medications they were giving her. “Have you got my cell phone anywhere?”

Beverly shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “You didn’t have anything like that on you when they brought you in.”

“Who brought me in?”

“Not sure, sweetie,” Beverly said. “I just came on duty a couple of hours ago. I’m glad you’re feeling better though.” She leaned in, whispering even though no one else was in the room. “Listen, I don’t know what you did, but you seem like a nice girl. There’s a plainclothes cop standing outside your room. If you want, I can ask him to come in and answer all your questions.”