Counterplay

spirit her out of the country through the Mexican border and take her to his future home. He’d spent many evenings fantasizing about raping and torturing her while it was all being filmed to send back to her parents-if they somehow survived the coming days. However, there would be other opportunities to capture Lucy Karp.

Some of the plan was purely revenge motivated. However, he wasn’t so blinded by vengeance that it overrode his other motives. Fey died because he’d proven to be a traitor, but also there was a small possibility that under questioning he might unknowingly give the authorities a clue as to the major focus of the plan. The same with Flanagan. Of course, his intent had been to distract Karp and his wife, as well as the federal agencies, from the real purpose of his plan. It was the larger plan that interested Samira Azzam and al Qaeda.

Kane turned around and headed back up the road. The assault on the mansion was scheduled for dusk, and he wanted to catch it all as Agent Vic Hodges.

It had taken some balls to suddenly “come in from the cold,” so to speak, and try out his disguise on the others. So far it had worked perfectly, even Marlene Ciampi, whom he’d met before, didn’t show any sign that she recognized him.

The only one he worried about was Lucy, and they’d never even met face-to-face before this little soiree. But he’d caught her looking at him with a frown on her face several times in the past couple of days, as if she suspected something. He’d even wondered if he’d made a mistake not to have the assassination teams try to kill her along with the Indian and the cowboy.

Speak of the devil, he thought as he looked ahead and saw Lucy standing near the mailbox at the bottom of the mansion driveway. “Going to check the mail?” he smiled as he trotted up to her, laying the Southern accent on thick.

“What? No,” Lucy answered as if he’d caught her daydreaming. “Mind if I ask you something?”

Kane gave her his best smile. “Not at all.”

“What’s with the phony Southern accent?” she asked.

Kane’s heart froze. Kill her, a little voice in his head yelled. Quiet you, we’d be caught, he replied. “Phony?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s sort of hodgepodge of Mississippi Delta, Arkansas hillbilly, and Virginia plantation owner. Not bad. You have a gift for mimicry, and most people wouldn’t notice. But I have an ear for these things.”

Better kill her, the voice said.

“Caught me,” he conceded. “I was actually raised on the East Coast, but my family was Army and we moved around the South a lot, too. Then I had to sort of become a ‘redneck’ to fit in with the Aryan Brotherhood, so to tell you the truth, I’m not surprised I’m a potpourri of dialects.”

Time to get out of here, he thought. It’s dangerous to talk to her.

She’s a witch, the voice said.

“Don’t be stupid,” Kane said, realizing too late he’d spoken aloud.

“I beg your pardon?” Lucy asked.

“I’m sorry, I mean don’t take a chance when the shooting starts,” he said. “Just came out wrong.”

“Freudian slip, eh?” Lucy said with a smile.

“Something like that, I guess,” he said.

“Well, guess I better get back to the action,” Kane said. He nodded at the mailbox. “Just remember, stealing mail is a federal offense, ha ha.” A funny look passed over his face, but he turned and started trotting back up the road.

Lucy stood for a moment watching Agent Hodges. When she turned to look up the drive toward the mansion, her gaze was drawn to the mailbox.

I think you should look inside, Saint Teresa said.

“Why?” Lucy asked aloud, feeling a little foolish about talking to a voice inside of her head.

You never know, the saint answered, a bit flippantly for a holy person, Lucy thought. There’s something not quite right here, and you know it.

“What do you mean?”

Agent Hodges gives me the willies.

“I didn’t know saints got the willies. Which just goes to prove you’re not real.”

Well, he does. You don’t buy that bit about the crappy accent, do you?

“As a matter of fact, I think it makes perfect sense. And it might also be why you and I find him a little creepy, like the guys in that racist organization he infiltrated. Sort of like the Stockholm syndrome where the hostages became empathetic with their captors.”

I suppose it’s possible. But you know and I know that he’s been watching you when he thinks you don’t notice.

“Can I help it if I’m an extremely attractive woman?”

Go ahead, laugh it off. Just keep an eye on him. In the meantime, why don’t you see if there’s anything interesting in the mailbox?

Lucy walked two steps closer to the mailbox and stood looking at it for a moment. Without realizing that she’d formed a conscious thought to do it, she reached for the mailbox door and opened it. There was a small box inside, wrapped in brown paper. She was about to close the mailbox door when she saw that the box inside was addressed to her mother. She grabbed the box and took off running to where her mother was kneeling next to Espey Jaxon.

Marlene took the wrapped box and shook it lightly. She started to open it, but Jaxon grabbed her hand.

“What if it’s a bomb?”

Marlene got up and ran back to the command tent where a federal agent with a German shepherd stood. “Bomb dog?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mind if he gives this a sniff?” Marlene asked, holding up the package.

“Not at all. Put it on the ground and step back, please.”

Marlene did as told. The dog and his handler approached the box. The dog sniffed it curiously but otherwise didn’t react. “You’re good to go,” the man said.

Marlene ran back to the wall with the box and tore the end open. She tilted the box and poured out its contents. Eight white pawns. She looked at them for a moment, then her eyes grew wide. She turned to Jaxon. “Call it off!”

When the federal agents surrounded the mansion, they’d tried to approach the house to demand that those inside leave the house with their hands up. The federal negotiator had retreated from the resulting gunfire and the siege was on.

Soon after, the Saudi ambassador in Denver had arrived at the scene and placed a call to the home. He’d then demanded that the federal agencies pull back. A prince of the royal family, as well as his wife and children are hostage. The captors are demanding safe passage to Iran.

Assistant director Jon Ellis had nixed the request. The terrorists have the option of laying down their arms. No one will be allowed to leave the mansion with hostages.

Further attempts to negotiate the surrender of the terrorists had broken down. The federal agencies had been given until nine o’clock that night or Prince Bandar, his family, and their servants, some of whom were American citizens, would be executed, one every hour, until the demands were met or all the hostages were dead.

Ellis had decided then to rush the mansion at dusk. We cannot allow Kane to escape, he had said. We need to try to capture him and find out how deep this plot goes. Or, failing that, kill him.

“Call it off,” Marlene insisted again. “I think this was a warning.”

“It’s Ellis’s call,” Jaxon said. “Let’s go talk to him.”

At that moment, a middle-aged man emerged from the mansion. He was wearing a long trench coat and shouting in English.

Jaxon fixed his binoculars on the man. “It’s Prince Bandar,” he said.

“Help me!” the man screamed, as he walked toward one of the SWAT officers, who had his rifle trained on him. Bandar opened his coat to reveal that he had a bomb strapped to his chest. “Help me!”