Ben Shapiro - True Allegiance

He had no choice.

He picked up his phone and dialed Hassan’s number. Hassan picked up on the first ring. “General Hawthorne,” he said. Brett picked up on the cue right away—Hassan knew they were listening.

“Hassan Abdul, I’ve heard so much about you. A mutual friend of ours referred me to you. He said you could answer some questions about Koranic philosophy for an article I’m writing about my experiences in Afghanistan and Iran.”

“I think I might be able to contribute.”

“Can you come over to speak in person?”

“Absolutely. What is your address?”

Brett gave him the address, then turned up the volume on the television. He knew they’d hear the conversation he was about to have with Hassan—their surveillance tools weren’t going to be thwarted by Joy Behar braying the background—but he figured the noise might mask their movements somewhat.

Fifteen minutes later, Hassan knocked at the door.

“Mr. Abdul, so good of you to come,” Brett said. He took out a pad of paper and wrote hastily as he spoke. “I was wondering if you could fill me in on the definition of jihad in non-Islamist jargon.”

He wrote, “Followed to Omari’s by Secret Service. They contact u?”

Hassan shook his head. Then, as he answered the question verbally with a long, meandering commentary on Koranic philosophy, he wrote, “Tapes hidden but not secure.”

After another twenty minutes of phony discussion about the Koran, Brett said, “Thank you so much. I may have some more questions later, but that’s enough to go on for now. Thanks for coming down. Perhaps you can stop by for dinner, so I can show my appreciation?”

“Why don’t you pick me up at my place?” Hassan answered.

“That sounds fine, Mr. Abdul,” said Brett. “See you tonight.”

When he arrived at Hassan’s apartment that night, Brett could feel the eyes of the federal agents on him. He’d spotted them right off the bat—hell, they hadn’t even bothered to try to be subtle. They picked him up from the moment he left the apartment, through the subway system, and all the way to Hassan’s apartment. When Hassan let him in, he immediately held up a piece of paper to his chest. “They stopped here today,” it said. “The tapes are gone.”

Brett’s face went white. So they’d known all along. And then they’d waited for Hassan to leave the apartment to ransack it. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered to himself.

Then he read the rest of what Hassan had written. “Found your Mohammed,” it read. “Flatbush.” Below it, an address.

Brett nodded slowly. Then, as they made small talk, he wrote, “Sorry. Will pull strings for u. U should b safe here. They r watching.”

He said loudly, “I’ll be ready to go in just a moment, Mr. Abdul. May I use your restroom?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” He gripped Hassan by the shoulder. “Thank you.”

Brett made for the small washroom at the end of Hassan’s hallway. Hassan lived on the second floor; Brett stuck his head out the window, took a look. The bathroom backed up to an apartment complex, a small alleyway. He knew he wouldn’t lose his tails for long—they’d catch up with him. But if he could stay one step ahead for just a few more hours, he might have a shot at this Mohammed. He leaned his shoulder against the window frame, rammed it upward. He felt the jolt through his still-healing arm, but he shook off the pain and gradually pushed his feet through the window. Then, hanging by his fingertips, he dropped.

He landed softly, his athletic background taking over. To the back of the alleyway was a dead end brick wall. The only other way out took him to the street, where they’d certainly be watching. He crept up to the corner of the building, glanced down the street—sure enough, there were the cars, and two men outside of them, looking at the door. One smoked a cigarette as he glanced up and down the street. Beyond them, down the street, was a subway entrance.

“Shit,” Brett muttered.

Then he sprinted toward the entrance.

As soon as he made a break for it, they spotted him. He only had a few feet on them, but the adrenaline kept him moving—ten feet, fifteen feet, extending his lead. By the time he hit the top of the entrance, they were a few steps behind. He took the stairs at full speed, five at a time, feeling his feet fly out from under him, stumbling forward, plowing into a man holding a briefcase. The collision knocked him off his feet, and Brett was flying downward into the darkness.

He tucked his chin to his chest, turned it into a barrel roll, popped up onto his feet. They were still running down the stairs, taking them one at a time. He hopped the turnstiles, sprinting full out, breath failing him.

Brett knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer.

He glanced behind him—they were gaining on him now. They’d jumped the turnstiles, and one was yelling into his earpiece. The backup would be there soon.

He took a sharp turn down another flight of stairs…

And found himself on a platform. To his right was a wall; to his left, the tracks. Beyond them, another platform.

Ahead of him was another flight of stairs.

He made up his mind, ran toward the stairs—and then saw a third agent descending them.

He was trapped.

The subway platform began to shake as the train arrived.

“General,” shouted one of the agents, “just come with us. You know we have our orders.”

Brett breathed heavily, bent down and put his hands on his knees. He held one finger to them— All right, just catching my breath, guys— and then looked up at them as the noise of the approaching subway train grew.

He counted down in his head. He could see the lights approaching down the tunnel now, the men closing in from both sides.

Just as the train began to pull into the station, Brett took a deep breath, crouched, took three running steps—and leapt into the space between the platforms. For a moment he hung suspended in the air, the train speeding toward him, the agents behind him stopping short at the edge of the platform…and then he landed, his toes gripping and projecting him forward. He fell to his hands and knees as the train whooshed behind him.

Relief began to wash over him.

Then the train stopped and the doors opened, and the agents began to charge through them.

He pushed himself to his feet and ran.

Ahead of him was an overhang over another tunnel. Exits stood to the right and left. The platform was filling with people now as the train unloaded, obstructing him in every direction. He shoved his way through the commuters, knocking them aside. He felt a hand grab his shoulder—he wheeled around and pushed the agent off, wrestled his own way forward again.

And found himself at the railing. Below him were tracks. There was no way he could get to the exits now—he was boxed in, and as he looked back, he could see the three agents shoving people aside, shouting.

Again he felt the rumble, this time beneath his feet.

No time to think.

Aw hell .

He put his hands on the railing and threw himself over it.

The drop was at least five feet to the top of the moving subway, and it knocked his feet out from under him. He fell directly onto his back, and watched the subway tunnel rush above him. It had to be moving at least thirty miles an hour, and there was little room to move atop the speeding train. He began pushing himself back with his feet and fingertips, moving toward the back of the car. He didn’t want to get caught on top of the damn thing and get decapitated by a train light or sewage pipe.

His fingers ached as he gripped them on the dirty steel of the car; he yelped in pain as he stretched his knee just a bit too high and it scraped against the cement of the tunnel. Soon, though, he felt his head reach the edge of the car, and he swiveled his body so that he could drop his legs over the end of the train.