Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

Then Waleed’s agents spread the news that the explosions came immediately after two famous Taliban fighters had been assassinated while at prayers. That further insulated the Bright Path Party from suspicion of any involvement. Beyond that announcement, Selim Waleed remained silent while the country fell into what he hoped would be a final fracture.

Antigovernment demonstrators surged into the streets of other cities, unsure of whom to blame. They blamed everyone, even each other. Fighting broke out between rival mobs, and police responded with more violence as the foreign news media covered it all.

The only thing that was out of balance was the escape of the American Marine. Somehow, Swanson had evaded the trap.

“You were supposed to capture him, Selim, but you wanted the cops to grab him. Amateurs don’t beat professionals in this game.” Jim Hall was sprawled on a sofa, a large ball of ice wrapped in a soft blue towel resting on his swollen left eye.

Waleed pulled a bottle of Scotch from a cabinet and poured each of them a drink. It was a taste he had acquired while serving at the embassy in London. Drinking spirits was against his religion, but he was a pragmatic man and needed a drink. “He won’t get far.” There was a significant pause. “You knew nothing about what he was going to do?”

Hall sat up, took the offered glass, and removed the ice pack so he could drink. The entire left side of his face was purple and black, with a few stitches from a doctor holding together a ragged cut below the eye. He had already taken a shower and put on clean clothes. Even with the doc’s painkillers, Hall had a raging headache. “When I left him, the plan was still on track. He must have changed it at the last minute and didn’t tell me.”

“So he did not trust you after all?”

“Swanson was my friend. He saw something he didn’t like, maybe some of your boys made some noise, and he changed the plan. He did not have to wait around for me because the plan was always for us to make separate escapes.”

Selim finished his drink, put the bottle down, and sat across from Hall. “Things have changed, then.”

“Not really. You get your revolution started, and will be able to blame Washington for the assassinations and explosions. I get out of your fair country, to become a gentleman of leisure.”

The eyes of Selim Waleed hardened. “True, you have done as you promised. Perhaps a new deal is required at this point, Jim Hall. You have many secrets of your government, and you are willing to sell them. What is to stop me from just taking you captive and wringing that information out of you, one bit at a time? Don’t forget where you are.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hall said as he lifted the ice roll onto his face again and leaned back. “Don’t you think I covered that possibility before I ever left home to come over here?” He laughed aloud and poured himself another drink. “Don’t be stupid, boy. You and your father are some of those secrets! I have arranged a specific time at which I must do a certain thing, in a certain way, at a certain time and in a certain place. If I fail to show up and perform exactly as planned, then information about every meeting you and your father have ever had with me, your meddling in the affairs of other countries, and your plotting here at home will be given to your enemies. Pictures, recordings, documents. You cannot afford to risk that.”

Selim’s face remained placid, but some muscles in his jaw were pulling his mouth into a frown. “Extortion.”

“Insurance,” countered Hall. “Anyway, you did not tell me that you were going to blow up half of Islamabad while I was still in the area. You almost killed me with that damned play. So let’s just call it even. I’ll take off first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I think not,” Waleed said.

Hall paused for a moment. His head hurt. Time to change gears. “I can change your mind. Is that big guy that pulled me out of the car still around? Let me ask him a couple of questions about the team that was supposed to pick up Swanson.”

“He is already being questioned in another room.”

“Mine are a different kind of questions. Would you please bring him in here? At any rate, I want to thank him for saving my life.”

Waleed was curious. He called for the agent, who came in, still shaken from the earlier action. His face also was bruised, but he managed a small smile when he saw Jim Hall rise and approach, holding out his left hand in a friendly greeting. The right hand held the ice.

Hall had rolled the ice tightly in the towel and twisted it into a solid ball. In a quick move, he uncoiled like a spring out of his relaxed position and smashed the unsuspecting Taliban agent in the face. It was nothing sophisticated, just an old-school straight-on unexpected beating. The force of the hurtling mass of cold cubes had the effect of a large hammer, and the first blow broke both the nose and the jawbone. As the muscular agent staggered, Hall hit him twice more, grabbed his collar, and flung him facedown on the floor. He flipped the towel out once, and the ice flew away in a spray of chunks. Hall wrapped the cold, thick, wet cloth around the stunned man’s face, shoved a knee in his back, and yanked hard on the towel. The spine snapped with a loud, grating noise, and the body sprawled limp on the carpet.

Hall stripped out the.38 caliber snub-nosed revolver from a soft holster on the agent’s belt, leaped from the corpse, and smashed the heel of his open hand into the chest of Selim Waleed. He rammed the short barrel into Waleed’s ear, grabbed him by the throat, and pushed the young man hard, choking him even more.

“This is the other reason that you cannot and should not keep me here, Selim. Never forget how I cut my teeth in this game. I kill people, and I fucking own you and your daddy in more ways than you could possibly know. Show me that you understand that right now or I blow your Talib brains all over this pretty carpet.”

Selim was terrified as he looked into the amazingly lifeless eyes of his co-conspirator. He would do it! Waleed shook his head rapidly to agree because he could barely breathe, much less speak.

Hall eased his grip, and an instant smile replaced the rocklike immobility of the bruised face. He tossed the pistol aside. “You okay?”

Waleed was aflame with anger but buried it inside. “I am fine,” he said. He poured himself a final drink to gain some time gathering his wits. “Are you prepared to proceed?”

“Let’s do it. Bring in the doctor.”

G O ! G ET OUT ! W HERE ’ S Jim? Escape and evade. No way Hall could have survived that explosion. Up, Swanson. Quit dogging it! Move your ass out of here. Where did I get this AK-47?

Kyle’s mind buzzed as the shock slowly wore off. He was grinding his teeth. The destruction spread before him like an enormous smoldering blanket. He shut his eyes, then reopened them, and things had not changed. The hood and mask had become a shield, and he was looking through his private window out onto a circle of hell.

A shadow ran by him. A man, running for his life… or toward something. Other movement. From the images taking form around him, Swanson began to piece together a logical pattern. He had made the kill shot, then he got out of the apartment and was chased cross the roof, then the car, then boom, and he didn’t remember anything after that until now. Waking after a dream, a period during which his body had accomplished things his mind could not recall.