with, and Rapp knew that as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, she would be swinging from the gallows in the morning.
Rapp shook his head and said, “I’ve given you fair warning.” As he started for the exit, he yelled over his shoulder, “Call me after you’re done playing games, and I’ll come in and clean up your mess.” With that Rapp opened the door and disappeared into the hallway.
General Flood watched Rapp leave the room and then swiveled his chair away from the table, beckoning one of his aides over with a discreet wave of his forefinger. When the general had asked Director Stansfield to bring the young operative, he had not envisioned the scene that had just unfolded, but he was happy somebody had stepped up to the plate. An Air Force captain bent to the general’s ear and Flood whispered, “Please detain Mr. Kruse for me, and have him wait in my office until we’re finished.”
ALL OF THE hostages, with the exception of the Secret Service agents, had been moved to the White House mess. The tables and chairs that normally occupied the room had been thrown into the main hallway that led out onto West Executive Drive and now formed a tangled blockade. The hostages were seated on the floor, bunched in a tight circle like corralled cattle. Anywhere from one to four terrorists were watching over them at a time, and they came and went with no apparent pattern, often stopping to kick and scream at the hostages.
Anna Rielly was relieved as she sat back down on the blue carpet of the White House mess. She had made it to the bathroom and back without being hit or kicked. The woman in front of her had been slapped for daring to look up at one of the terrorists. Rielly had kept her eyes down with only one exception. One of the terrorists had followed her into the stall and to her complete humiliation had watched her go to the bathroom. Rielly was frightened by the expression on his face.
He had stared at her intently while she relieved herself, and when she stood to pull her pants up, his eyes had followed her every move. The thought caused Rielly to clutch the neck of her blouse and shudder.
After the World Trade Center bombing Rielly had done a piece on Islamic terrorism for the NBC affiliate in Chicago.
That two-week project had given her enough insight into the minds of radical Islamic fundamentalists to know that they were crazed in a way that was difficult even for the daughter of a Chicago cop to understand.
In her captors’ minds women were objects to be owned or discarded, no different than a piece of livestock. Women who were not “of the faith” were deemed impure and evil, another way of saying, “fair game.”
What a first day on the job, she thought to herself. Rielly had wanted to be in the thick of real news, and now she was an actual part of one of the biggest stories in decades. She brushed a strand of her brown hair behind her ear, and with her head tilted toward the ground, she looked up toward one of the guards. The guard turned in her direction, and she quickly averted her eyes. Don’t make eye contact, she told herself. Look submissive and try to blend in.
Anna Rielly was blessed with a healthy sense of street smarts. Having grown up in the heart of Chicago, she had been exposed to the seedier side of life at an early age. Her mother, a social worker, and her father, a Chicago cop, made sure their five sons and only daughter understood that life was much different from what was shown on TV. All of this exposure had given the young woman a very strong survival instinct. Several years earlier in Chicago it had saved her life, and here in Washington she was hoping to repeat the performance.
Rielly had already removed all of her jewelry and as much other makeup as possible. She knew that the less attention she attracted to herself the better. There had already been two men who had had their noses split wide open, and there was another woman who had been slapped so hard on the side of her head that her ear had started to bleed. Rielly kept repeating to herself, “Just keep a low profile, and you might make it out of here alive.”
Less could be said for Rielly’s new office partner. Stone Alexander, who was sitting at her side. He hadn’t wandered more than several feet from her since the onset of the attack.
Not that he was protecting her-if anything, it was Rielly who was protecting him. Alexander leaned closer to her and asked, “How long are they going to make us sit here?”
Without moving her lips, Rielly whispered, “The only thing I know is, if one of these guys sees you talking, he’s going to come over here and crack his rifle over your surgically altered nose… So for the last time, shut up.”
Alexander shrank away and dropped his head onto his folded hands. He had already cried twice. Pathetic, Rielly thought to herself. Her father had always said people show their true colors in a crisis, and Alexander had shown his. It was yellow.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone new enter the room, and she glanced up at the man, careful to keep her head down. Rielly had not seen this one before. He looked different from the others. He was wearing the same green fatigues, but his hair was well styled and he lacked any facial hair. Rielly noted that the man was actually quite handsome.
That was when it hit her. It was the same man that Russ Piper had introduced her to. A Prince somebody or other. Oh, my God, Rielly thought. Where is Russ? With her head down Rielly scanned the mass of people, looking for her parents’ friend. Piper was nowhere in sight, and she could not remember seeing him since this morning.
Rielly scrutinized the man again. This man was the leader.
It was obvious by how the others spoke to him and looked at him. When this supposed prince had entered the room, the other three terrorists had done everything short of snapping off salutes. The bald terrorist, who Rielly had originally thought was the leader, entered the room and approached the prince. He began whispering in the leader’s ear, and Rielly instantly noticed a change in the prince’s eyes.
RAFIQUE AZIZ STOOD with a demeanor that looked to be teetering between confidence and rage. As Muammar Bengazi whispered in his ear, the scales began to tilt in favor of rage. Aziz had known this moment would come.
The fact that he had already played it out in his mind a hundred times would not take away from his performance.
Bengazi finished relaying to his friend the information that had been requested. Without hesitation, Aziz yelled, “Where?”
Bengazi pointed to a hostage sitting near the edge of the group, and then followed Aziz as he walked briskly toward the man. Aziz stopped five feet from a man in a white shirt and loosened tie. Pointing to the man, Aziz asked Bengazi, “Him?”
Bengazi nodded.
Aziz looked down at the man and commanded, “Stand!”
The man did as he was told and rose to a height several inches taller than Azizthe man looked to be in his early to mid fifties with short brown-and-gray hair. In a voice loud enough to make sure everyone heard him, Aziz asked, “You have a request?”
“Ah,” the man started out somewhat nervously, “we have a pregnant woman in the group, and several other people who are older. I had asked… ah… your man”-the White House employee pointed to Bengazi-“if we could get some blankets and food for…”
Aziz cut him off with a loud, “No!” The man took a quarter of a step back. “But”-he gestured with an open hand to a woman on the floor-“she’s pregnant.”
Aziz looked at the bulging stomach of the woman on the floor. She was lying on her back with her head resting on an older woman’s lap. Without taking his eyes off the expectant mother, Aziz slid his right hand to his thigh and found the grip of his gun. He pulled the pistol from his holster and turned to the man standing before him. Without saying a word, without the slightest expression on his face, Aziz raised the gun to the man’s forehead and, from a distance of one foot, pulled the trigger.
The loud crack of the gunshot caused everyone in the room to jerk involuntarily. Before the report of the gun had died, the man was propelled backward and into the huddled mass of hostages-his blood, brain matter, and skull fragments showering a half dozen shocked individuals.
As the room erupted, Rafique Aziz turned and marched for the exit. His cold expression masked a perverse
