door. The coward.”
The old man seemed skeptical. “Did you see him leave?”
“No,” the man said. “But the door was left open.”
The old man looked at Nick. “Is your partner still in the house?”
Nick heard the question, just barely. He nodded. There was something about the man’s eyes that caught Nick’s attention. Could it be?
The man with the machine gun scoffed at the response. “I wouldn’t believe him. He is just trying to save his life.”
The old man looked at his watch. “We don’t have time to play games, Mr. Bracco. Tell us where your partner is and I’ll promise you a quick death.”
Nick gasped for air, wondering how many seconds he had left. A surge of blood hit his brain and he remembered something important. “He’s in the kitchen.”
“Good,” the old man said.
“We’ve searched the kitchen,” one of the soldiers said. “He is not there.”
Again the old man peeked at his wrist. He pointed to one of the soldiers in the doorway and said, “You go with Nhikad here and take Mr. Bracco to the kitchen. You will find his partner there. Use Mr. Bracco to lure him out and kill both of them. Then get out of here quickly and meet us at the other location.”
The old man gestured to the other soldier and said, “Let’s go, we must leave now.”
As Nick began his death march to the kitchen, he heard a door close behind him, then a car start up and leave. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw both of the soldiers with their weapons pointed at him. The lead one still held the machine gun tight to his chest and he shoved Nick with it.
Nick realized that the second soldier was merely a kid. In just a flash of eye contact, the kid seemed to stiffen. He appeared more afraid of Nick, and Nick was weaponless and outnumbered.
Somehow this awareness gave Nick a glimmer of hope and it made him even more nervous. He actually had a slim chance of surviving and began to tremble.
When they entered the kitchen, Machine Gun grabbed Nick around the neck and jabbed the weapon into the base of his skull, using Nick as a shield. “Now where is he?”
Nick searched the small room and found what he was looking for. Two metal racks were standing between the refrigerator and the adjoining cabinet. He knew he couldn’t afford to hesitate. He pointed to the refrigerator, “He’s in there.”
Machine Gun sneered. “You’re a bad liar.”
Nick stretched his eyes to the right and noticed something peculiar about the second soldier. He was backpedaling, frantically searching the room, as if he expected Matt to come flying out of a cabinet.
Speaking to the skittish soldier, Nick said, “If you two don’t believe me, open it and find out.”
The man simply shook his head.
Machine Gun gave Nick a shove and crouched into a combat position. “You open it.”
Nick deliberately stepped in front of the refrigerator, keeping his eyes trained on Machine Gun. But his peripheral view was on the more important component. The retreating accomplice.
“I’m losing my patience,” Machine Gun said. “Open the refrigerator.”
Nick knew he had stretched his luck to the limit. He placed his hand on the refrigerator door and gave it a concise tug, allowing it to open no more than an inch. The interior light did not come on and Nick anxiously searched for a sign. Machine Gun was directly behind him now and he heard him say, “All the way.”
Finally, Nick could barely make out the tip of a blue piece of metal about naval high. Without opening the door any further, Nick stepped to the side as if he needed the room to pull open the door the rest of the way. Machine Gun was a second too late. Nick watched in amazement as the bullet penetrated directly into the center of the soldier’s forehead. For a disgustingly awkward moment, Machine Gun appeared to develop a third eye, then he dropped hard onto the linoleum floor. Nick was diving and rolling across the floor as a defensive maneuver, but it was unnecessary. The second soldier had already fled the kitchen and was on his way out the door.
Nick chased after the man for a couple of steps, then remembered that he was weaponless. He turned to see Matt McColm sitting in the open refrigerator in a curled position, knees to his chest, and a small light bulb clenched between his teeth. Matt delicately stretched one arm out of the confined space, then the other. He rolled forward and made a controlled fall onto the floor, his legs still wound into a tight knot. He spit out the light bulb and began the process of stretching his legs. “Just like Hartford,” Matt said.
Nick’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. “How did you know?” he asked.
“I heard the voices. I figured I’d use the element of surprise.”
“I thought the element of surprise was overrated.”
Matt smiled. “It’s making a comeback.”
Chapter 18
Necmetin Ciller had been the Turkish Ambassador for only six weeks when he was summoned to the White House for the first time. Ciller was a thin man with short black hair and displayed a nervous tic that was common among first time visitors to the Oval Office-he tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.
President Merrick listened to Ciller, a consummate diplomat, and was growing weary of the political courtship. It was late afternoon, though, and that meant nightfall was just around the corner. The U.S. was about to face another round of random bombings and the intelligence agencies weren’t capable of stopping every one of them. Innocent citizens were going to lose their lives tonight and Merrick was finding it hard to get past that fact.
Merrick looked across his desk at the ambassador. “Mr. Ciller, I’ve been listening to you for the better part of an hour now, and I have yet to hear one reason why the Kurds can’t live peacefully in Turkey.”
Ambassador Ciller gave a frustrated shake of his head. “Mr. President, these people are ruthless killers. Our country has endured devastating losses due to these creatures. I think your country is now seeing the true nature of their malevolence.”
Merrick nodded, his eyes glazing over with disinterest. He wasn’t going to create a diplomatic solution to the Hatfields and the McCoys in the short time he had.
“Sir,” Ambassador Ciller explained, “we are in complete sympathy with your situation and we’ll do anything in our power to help rid the Kurds from your peaceful nation.”
Merrick rubbed his eyes. “I’m sure you would, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Mr. President, if I may say, you look very tired.”
“No, you may not say,” Merrick snapped.
The door to the Oval Office opened and Press Secretary Fredrick Himes hustled to Merrick’s side without a glance at the ambassador.
“What is it, Fredrick?” Merrick asked.
Himes grabbed the remote control sitting on Merrick’s desk and clicked on the widescreen television. It was tuned to CNN, as usual.
“You need to see this, Sir,” Himes said.
The camera showed a dark, wild-eyed man using a young woman as a shield. He had his arm around her neck and a knife pressed firmly under the tender skin of her jaw. The man stood in the middle of a crowd that was frantically dispersing around him. “Breaking News,” was displayed at the bottom of the screen.
“Oh, no,” Merrick muttered. The camera was zoomed onto the man’s face. Merrick couldn’t tell where the scene was, but they appeared to be at some sort of outdoor festival.
“Where is this?” Merrick asked.
“Right here,” Himes answered. “Washington Square.”
Policemen could be heard yelling orders to the man, but the angry face spat out foreign words. He kept moving the young woman to position her between him and the nearest threat. It took a moment for Merrick to recognize the woman’s terrified face. It was Professor Bandor’s daughter, Isabel.
Merrick’s stomach cramped into a tight ball. “Dear Lord,” Merrick uttered. He remembered something that
