Yesterday evening. That’s when they’d grabbed Janice Baker. Around six-thirty p.m., they’d put a hood over her head before dragging her away. She had a clue where she was because the men hadn’t taken her far, and they’d traveled by foot.
It sounded like her abductors had carried her into their compound, then down a flight of stairs. There they’d tied her up, ignoring her muffled demands to release her, to turn her over to the sheriff for trespassing.
Gasping for breath under the thick material, Janice had struggled against the ropes that bound her to the hard chair.
Finally, she’d heard a door slam and was left alone. The place was damp and quiet. Like a grave. When the forty-year-old stay-at-home mother had first smelled the scent of freshly turned earth, she’d gasped, her panic rising.
With effort, she’d tamped down her fear.
Janice had been cross-country jogging for years along the same rural trails, long before Kurmastan existed. The men of the town had complained several times to her about trespassing. The first time they caught her, she hadn’t even realized she’d strayed onto private property. They cursed her out, but let her go.
The second, third, and fourth times were just like today — she’d chosen to disregard the no trespassing signs and jog where she pleased. Men of the town saw her, yelled from a distance, cursed at her, but she ignored them. If they caught her, what could they do? Call the sheriff? Fine her fifty dollars tops?
When she’d been spotted the evening before, however, she was stunned by what had happened next. Soon after a few men yelled at her, two of them had set a trap.
They’d jumped out of the brush and dragged her to the ground.
They didn’t find her easy prey. Janice had managed to kick one man in the groin. He was a big African American who looked like a football player, but her blow slowed him down. She’d also managed to rake her fingernails across the other man’s face, right before he’d put the hood over her head.
They’d left her tied up for hours and hours. She’d lost track of time, hadn’t slept much, and now she was hungry and thirsty. When she heard a door open, she felt a mixture of terror and relief.
“Who’s there,” she demanded. She tried, and failed, to sound fearless. “I demand you let me go!”
Janice heard footsteps, felt strong hands fumbling with the knot around her neck. Someone was untying the hood.
The hood was ripped off her head. Still tied to the chair, Janice was dazzled by harsh light from a naked light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. The room had earthen walls shored up with untreated logs — a root cellar? There was a small vent near the ceiling — bright sunlight slipped through. She squinted, realizing it was morning. They’d held her here all night!
The stranger who’d torn off her veil remained behind her, out of sight. A minute went by, then another. But the man didn’t say a word. He didn’t untie her, either.
“What are you doing?” Janice asked.
There was silence for another minute. Then came a quiet murmuring in another language. It was crazy, but Janice thought the man was praying.
“I demand you release me!” she cried. “This is kidnap-ping! Don’t you realize that? Let me go this instant!”
Without a word, the man stepped around the chair to stand in front of her. Janice Baker’s eyes went wide when she saw the machete in his hand.
Once again Janice Baker screamed.
But he saw nothing out of the ordinary. A few male residents were talking casually outside the mosque. Two females strolled out of the cinder-block dining hall, chatting with each other as if nothing was wrong.
He listened for more screams, but now heard nothing more than the birds chirping in the trees.
Holman knew he hadn’t imagined that scream, and he knew how dangerous some of the men in Kurmastan could be — many of them were lifelong criminals with rap sheets as long as a bureaucrat’s career.
Part of him wanted to charge through the front gate, find out what had happened. But that would compromise the investigation. They’d probably call the local sheriff and accuse him of trespassing. Holman couldn’t even begin to consider explaining his rogue operation to a local official.
Seething, he carefully moved away from the compound again, backtracking to his van. He retrieved water and an energy bar, and then returned to the hill to continue his surveillance of the compound. At noon, he was scheduled to leave the area and hook up with Emmerick at a nearby motel, where they’d compare notes and plan their next move.
Holman needed to brief Emmerick about that tractor trailer he’d seen with armed men in bunks inside. And Emmerick needed to brief him about that “package” from Canada.
Until then, Holman would continue to keep his eyes open for any sign of that woman, whose terrified cry kept playing through his head.
2. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8:00 A.M. AND 9:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
“This is wrong, Agent Bauer,” Layla Abernathy declared.
“You have no authority to do this. I’m sure Director Holman will be here any minute. Why can’t you just wait to hear his explanation?”
Jack Bauer’s features darkened. “You’ve called the Director. Repeatedly. And so have I. Brice Holman either can’t respond, or refuses to—”
“Yes, but—”
“And you’ve tried to locate the Director using the GPS
chip in his phone, correct?” Jack interrupted.
Layla frowned. “Apparently Holman deactivated it.”
Jack clenched his fists, trying like hell to maintain his composure. “The Director and his deputy are
They were standing at the computer console on Brice Holman’s desk, inside the Director’s corner office. Jack had powered up the man’s computer, only to find it double password protected. He now intended to break into his system.
Jack punched the intercom. “O’Brian, report to Director Holman’s office.”
Jack faintly heard his own voice amplified inside the massive threat room. He stood up straight and faced Agent Abernathy. “You mentioned a place,” he said.
Layla nodded. “Kurmastan. It’s a seventy-five-acre compound in New Jersey populated by an Islamic religious group — most of them prison converts. Ali Rahman al Sallifi runs it. He’s a radical cleric who sought political asylum
