Don Pendleton - Promise To Defend

“We’ll see. Have we secured the grounds? Nightfall is only a few hours away. We will be at our most vulnerable.”

“We’re taking the necessary precautions.”

“Fine. Tell Fisher I will meet in him the library.”

“I’ll have him taken there.”

Jasim grabbed the suitcase that stood next to his ankle. He strode past the hostages, making a point to meet their gazes as he passed. As expected, most of them looked away. However, he caught one man, a Marine dressed in camouflage fatigue pants and matching T-shirt, glowering at him as he walked by. His hands were bound behind his back, his legs tied at the ankles, his boots removed and discarded.

The Arab halted and stared into the American’s pale blue eyes, held his gaze for several seconds. Another Marine, secured in a similar fashion, was situated several feet away.

“What are you looking at?” Jasim asked.

“You killed my sergeant, you piece of shit,” the Marine replied.

“Tom, let it go,” the second Marine warned.

Jasim smiled. “You should listen to your comrade. He has the right idea.”

Color spread through the first Marine’s neck and inflamed his cheeks.

“Kiss my ass,” Tom said.

With lightning-quick movements, Jasim fisted the VP70 and aimed the weapon at the second Marine, the one who’d uttered the warning. Jasim stroked the handgun’s trigger, unleashing a 3-shot burst that reduced the man’s skull to a crimson spray. The remaining Marine’s eyes bulged with anger and shock, while other hostages gasped or screamed.

“You son of a bitch.” Despite his bonds, Tom struggled to come to his feet. Jasim watched the man’s struggle with amusement.

Jasim swept the gun around the room. Hostages screamed and flinched, some were paralyzed with fear while others balled themselves up to form smaller targets.

“I made it clear from the beginning that heroics would cost lives. Resistance would cost lives. That includes your incessant yammering. For every ill word you speak, someone dies. So choose each word carefully.”

The Marine’s face beamed pure hatred. The Marine’s lips had tightened into a bloodless line and his skin had turned an angry scarlet. After a long pause, Jasim said, “Nothing else to say? Good.”

Holstering his weapon, he spun on his heel and started for the library, whistling as he went.

A few minutes later he stood in the library, smoking a cigarette. The door handle rattled, grabbing Jasim’s attention. Turning, he saw a slender, pale man with unkempt hair enter, escorted by a pair of Jasim’s men.

Jasim gestured toward a nearby chair. “Mr. Fisher, sit.”

Fisher did so. Lacing his fingers together, he set his hands on his knees and studied his thumbnails while Jasim looked down at him. Fisher, a low-level embassy worker, had been feeding Jasim and the others intelligence on the embassy for months. From what Jasim understood, the American had been frequenting underage prostitutes in Monrovia’s slums. When confronted with photographs and promises of cash, Fisher had been all too happy to betray his own country.

“You killed somebody else,” Fisher said.

“You have an issue with that?”

Fisher shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I have no issue with anything.”

“Good,” Jasim said. “You had something you wanted to tell me.”

“One of the women, Barb Kendall, she’s CIA.”

Jasim felt his gut twist into a knot. Heat radiated from his face. “Why am I just now learning this?” he asked.

Fisher tensed visibly, anticipating a blow. “I just found out. I overheard her discussing it with the ambassador. I always thought she was a public-information officer. I guess that was a cover.”

“I will deal with her. Anything else?”

“She says that there’s a tunnel, a way out of here. Which means, a way in.”

Jasim scowled. “This tunnel, where is it?”

Another shrug. “I asked, but she wouldn’t say. I didn’t want to force the issue. I figured she’d get suspicious. I did all right, right?”

Jasim looked at the guards. “Return him to his cell. And bring me Kendall. I want to speak with her. We need to find this entrance before it creates a problem for us.”

MCCARTER HELD his sound-suppressed Heckler & Koch MP-5 at hip level as he moved through the concrete corridor leading to the embassy. Like his fellow commandos—Manning and Hawkins—he scanned his surroundings through night-vision goggles, which bathed the area in pale green. The DSS agents had extinguished all tunnel lights, an effort to give McCarter and the others an advantage should their approach be discovered.

“Crawling through tunnels like a bunch of bleedin’ rats,” he groused. “I can’t believe we flew halfway around the world for this.”

“Three minutes without a complaint,” Manning whispered. “I think that’s an all-time record for you.”

“Feel free to kiss my arse,” McCarter said. “How much farther?”

“Another 150 yards or so,” the big Canadian said. “Then we hit the third door. Two more after that and—bang—we’re in the basement.”

BARBARA KENDALL FELT fear gnaw at her insides as the guards led her up the embassy steps to the second floor. They had untied her feet, but had left her hands secured behind her back. The captor to her right dug his fingers hard into her bicep, causing white lancets of pain to emanate from the area. She ground her teeth, suppressing a pained yelp.

“Watch it, asshole,” she said in flawless Arabic.

The terrorist raised an open hand, ready to strike her. The guard on her left, a short, barrel-chested man, yanked her toward him. “Stop it,” he said to the other man. “We do not strike this one without Jasim’s approval.”

Hesitating, anger still flaring in his eyes, the first man finally let his hand drop. “You’ll die before this all ends,” he said.

We do not strike this one without Jasim’s approval.

Her captor’s words troubled her. Considering the abuse being heaped on the other hostages, why not strike her? And why was she being summoned in the first place? In the best-case scenario, they wanted her, as the public-information officer to communicate with the outside world, perhaps to put an American voice to their demands. But, a dyed-in-the-wool cynic, Kendall put little stock in best-case scenarios. Did they know that she also was an intelligence agent? The possibility chilled her to the core, but she knew she couldn’t dismiss it. If so, she could face torture, or even death, she thought, suppressing a shuddering.

Arriving at the library door, they stopped. Her heart hammered against her chest as she waited. The guard who’d nearly hit her took out his aggressions on the door, striking it hard with his knuckles. A heartbeat later she heard someone call for them to enter. She heard the metallic click of a handle, the almost-imperceptible squeak of the door swinging on its hinges, then a hard shove to the middle of her back stole her breath and sent her stumbling into a room.

She scanned the library and saw three hardmen positioned throughout the vast area. A fourth man, seated to her right, cleared his throat and she turned toward him. The Arab wore a pistol on his hip and he had an AK-47 propped against a table within easy reach.

“The tunnel,” he said, “where is it?”

A cold rivulet of fear coursed down her spine. He knew, she thought. How the hell? She tried to keep her face impassive, then gave him a confused smile. “What? What are you talking about?”

His features hardened. “The tunnel leading out of the embassy. I know of it. I have people searching the grounds even as we speak. It’s only a matter of time before we find it. It will only help you to help us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, letting her voice sound uncertain, confused.