Andrew Britton - The American

“I don’t have time to fuck around anymore, Tommy. You told me a half truth once. It won’t happen again. There was another name on that bill of lading, wasn’t there? You’re going to-”

“I don’t know! I don’t know anything, I swear!”

Pulling back a few feet, Kealey pushed his weight forward and slammed the injured man hard into the wall. This was immediately followed by another violent blow to the stomach. The second was less powerful than the first, as Ryan struggled to keep the man upright and maintain his own leverage at the same time.

All the same, it was enough. Elgin retched and continued to slump to the ground. Ryan let him go, then reached around and pulled an object from underneath his jacket at the small of his back.

Elgin’s eyes grew wide when the knife was produced. He leaned away from the weapon, which only made Ryan’s job easier as he reached to pull Elgin’s head back by grabbing a handful of greasy hair, leaving the man’s throat unprotected.

“Do you remember this?” Kealey waved the ceramic knife in front of Elgin’s bulging eyes. “I’m sure you do. That was a bad move, by the way. You really pissed me off with that little stunt. She still got the drop on you, though, didn’t she? I guess you’re not as tough as you thought… There was another name on that bill of lading, wasn’t there? Otherwise, it wouldn’t have gone missing from the harbormaster’s office at NIT. Last chance — What was the name?”

Another violent shake of the head. Ryan’s fist was like a stone around the tape-covered handle. He was taking it too far, and he knew it. The knife was on Elgin’s throat, and he pushed it down until the blade began to sink and a thin red line appeared, little rivulets of blood running down and pooling on the cold tile. Elgin was screaming, muffled screams until Ryan realized that he was holding his hand over the man’s mouth. He pulled it away and tried to collect himself. He realized that his hands were shaking.

“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you anything! Please stop! Just… Jesus, just stop!” Elgin continued to ramble on, although the words were twisted and made incomprehensible by fear and pain.

“The name, Tommy. Right now.”

It was a long hallway, but Alex Harris was in no particular hurry, still fuming at the DEA agent’s arrogance and her own wounded pride. His jab about money was especially painful because it was true. She had spent the better part of the last decade in a prominent Chicago-based firm, but her own firm was in its fledgling years, and she didn’t have the time or resources to represent a client who couldn’t pay, even a client whose case enjoyed broad publicity. Despite what she had said in the lounge, she had no choice: she would have to file a motion for withdrawal. As she walked, she found her anger at this new development focused on the agent who had brought her the news. What a waste of time, she thought. That guy pulls me away to offer something that he can’t possibly have the authority to deliver, and then -

The realization hit her with the force of a sledgehammer: It was a sham. That guy couldn’t have been more than thirty, and he clearly had no legal training whatsoever. Why would they send someone to deliver a phony offer, though? There was nothing to gain from it, unless…

She realized with a start that the guard was no longer stationed outside the interrogation room. In fact, she couldn’t see anyone in the hall, though she could hear a distant conversation to her rear. She began to run, the heavy briefcase banging against her leg, 100 feet away and closing. The deputies trailing her called out in surprise at the sudden movement.

Ignoring them, she reached the door and burst into the room, looking down into her client’s panicked eyes.

Down until she saw that the blood followed the cracks in the tile beneath her feet.

She stumbled back and screamed in fear and shock, and then in rage as the deputies rushed toward the room.

Ryan turned the corner toward the exit, cursing inwardly when he saw what awaited him. Naomi Kharmai was arguing in loud tones with Adam North, who was sliding his pistol back into its holster after receiving it in exchange for his pass.

Naomi saw him and turned her fury away from the DEA agent. “What the hell are you doing here, Ryan? I was supposed to be part of this, remember? This is bullshit! Just you wait until the deputy director finds out…”

She went on and on as Ryan flashed his identification and slapped his pass down on the counter. The deputy who scooped it up was wearing a wide smile, clearly amused by the scene Naomi was making.

Ryan was less enthralled. Seconds from now he knew there would be a sharp crackle of static, followed by an urgent radio transmission. This would result in a second call to the watch commander, who would quickly determine what had transpired.

The door to the parking lot was less than 15 feet away.

“You have to stop, Naomi. Okay?” Ryan grabbed her outstretched wrist and pulled her close, whispering harsh words into her ear. “We need to get out of here right now.”

She pulled away, but her face was still only inches from his. She fell silent as he guided her toward the exit. North was already stepping out into the freezing air. He held the door open as they followed him over the threshold.

Ryan was paying attention to everything while he held the door open, Naomi’s hand warm in his own, sounds assaulting him from every direction: a distant conversation in the street, a car horn sounded by an angry motorist. The scrape of their shoes as the tile gave way to damp asphalt, and the crackle of the deputy’s radio as the door eased shut behind them.

WASHINGTON, D.C.,HANOVER COUNTY, VIRGINIA

The apartment was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a desirable place to live. The space was cramped and sparsely furnished. Tattered white curtains hung over the grimy windows. The counter, when cleared of half-eaten takeout, which was not often, was irreparably stained. The place stank of stale cigarettes and sweat, a smell that had been with her for the past six months. She guessed that most of it drifted up from the rooms below, and the rest emanated from her minder. Now, seated in a worn leather recliner, she could hear him as he moved around in the adjoining room.

Fatima Darabi leaned back in the seat, her dark brown eyes intensely focused on the flickering television in front of her. A cell phone rested on the end table next to her, as did a 9mm Makarov pistol. Both the phone and the gun were never more than a few feet away from her body. Her left hand was propped up beneath her chin. She watched…

It was amazing to Darabi that they would repeatedly show the atrocity on national television. She was even more surprised by the fact that the government allowed it. The collapse of the Kennedy-Warren was by no means a pleasant thing to see, even for someone who hated America as much as she did. Nevertheless, she knew that the footage had come at considerable expense to the networks, and had long ago learned that everything in this country was defined by its monetary value.

It was at times like this that she relished her role. Here she was, in the heart of the nation, with intricate knowledge of the man who had squeezed the trigger at the Kennedy-Warren, and yet the Americans knew nothing of her existence. To have such a privilege…!

The rage that drove her did not begin as her own, but it had been bred in her from the start. When the U.S. Navy cruiser Vincennes shot down Iran Air Flight 655 over the Atlantic in July 1988, the admirals in the Pentagon had called it an accident, pleaded their innocence even as U.S. munitions continued to pour into Baghdad. Her brother had been on that flight, returning to American University in Dubai after two weeks at home.