wasn’t wired that way. Lives depended on her stopping Sayed—and not just Jackson Kinkaid’s life. This mission had become personal.
Kinkaid made it personal.
But when she fulfilled her obligation, she vowed to pay a call on Father Ignatius. And this time his slick talk and white collar wouldn’t protect him.
From the corner of his eye, Sayed watched Ghazi. The man gazed out the far window of the helicopter, looking below. Only a short time into the flight and Sayed had almost nodded off until the arms dealer punched his arm.
“Something is wrong,” Ghazi yelled at him before he turned toward the pilot. “Na’il, why are we flying over water? I told you we were heading to Havana.”
Ghazi reached for his seat belt to unbuckle it, but it wouldn’t release. He punched the button and tugged at the belt. It wouldn’t budge.
The silhouette of a gray-haired man emerged from the cockpit. And he held a gun. “Na’il didn’t make it, I’m afraid. Rest his soul.” The man made the sign of a cross, a Christian ritual. “But fear not, I have supplied my own pilot. She is delightful…and a good cook, too.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Ghazi demanded. “How dare you! Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Yes, of course. That’s why we’re here.” The man had a distinctly British accent.
“We?” the arms dealer asked.
The bodyguard stood and aimed his weapon, but not at the foreigner. Ghazi had been betrayed by one of his own. And without a word, the man frisked them and took their weapons. Sayed glared at the arms dealer before he turned his attention to the gray-haired foreigner.
“Who are you?” Sayed asked. “Why are you doing this?”
“Think of me as a savior of souls. And we shall be well acquainted by the time this is all over.”
After holstering his weapon, the bodyguard bound their arms behind them with duct tape. He did the same with their legs and placed black hoods over their heads. When Sayed was unable to move, the man jammed a needle into his neck. The injection burned like acid under his skin.
“What the hell are you doing? What was that?” he demanded.
“You will know soon enough, dear fellow.”
In Cuba, Father Ignatius went by one name, but in his inner circle of spooks, he was known as the Deacon. Waiting for the drug to take effect with Sayed and Ghazi, he knelt beside the unconscious American and checked for a pulse. When the Deacon stood, he had greater motivation to do what must be done.
He had injected his two captives with an experimental drug that affected the hypothalamus, a portion of the brain that was about the size of an almond. It linked the nervous system to the endocrine system through the pituitary gland and regulated four basic biological needs in all animals, including human beings. The basic needs were often called the “
The drug had been designed to take quick effect and would heighten the fear response. His captives would be compliant and more apt to talk in an interrogation.
“They say confession is good for the soul,” the Deacon said. “For your sake, I hope they’re right.” He racked the slide of his weapon and pressed the gun to Sayed’s head. “Let us pray, shall we?”
East of Cuba
Over the Atlantic Ocean
When Sayed felt the gun pressed to his head, an overwhelming sense of panic took hold as if his body were possessed. Fire churned under his skin like a thousand pinpricks, and fear knotted deep in his belly. With his chest heaving, he heard the loud thumping of his heart inside his head—an amplified incessant pulse that fueled an intensifying frenzy. He felt like a drowning man in the middle of a vast ocean, flailing and unable to swim. As he gasped for air, the black hood sucked over his mouth and threatened to suffocate him.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t see.
And his own body assaulted him.
Sayed heard a whimper, a pathetic mewling sound. It took time to realize the cry came from him. And that terrified him far worse. From under his hood, he heard sounds around him.
Something was happening.
“In the interest of fair play, you both shall be given the chance to live,” the Englishman said, “but only one of you will earn that right. It’s my version of musical chairs…only this time, the loser shall be thrown out over the Atlantic.”
To make his point, the helicopter door opened. The engine sound magnified. It blocked out everything. And a rush of air pummeled his body. Sayed screamed and pushed back. His body grew rigid with terror. When a man spun his chair toward the opening, Sayed felt a warmth in his pants. He had wet himself.
And next to him, Ghazi cried out, a muffled scream. They had done the same to him.
“We will start with you, Sayed,” the Englishman said. “Tell us the name of your handler and where he is located. It’s a simple thing, really. One name. One location.”
Sayed shook his head, too scared to refuse aloud.
“And we want to know what you have planned. We have proof you are staging a terrorist attack on foreign soil. We want details, my friend.”
“No, I cannot.” Sayed yelled this time. And spittle ran down his chin. “I’m not a traitor.”
“Then you admire loyalty, is that right?” Before Sayed could answer him, the Englishman added, “If you wish to save the life of your loyal friend, Jamal Ghazi, you will tell me what I want to know. If you don’t, I will shove him from this craft into the ocean. The decision is yours.”
Sayed heard Ghazi scream again. He had no idea what was happening. The hood cast him in darkness, as dark as the Atlantic below. The thought of drowning terrified him. He couldn’t swim. And bound in duct tape, he wouldn’t have a chance.
“What’s your answer, Sayed?” the man demanded.
He shook his head, but this time, it wasn’t good enough. “Speak up, Sayed. Let Jamal know your answer, you gutless wonder.”
“No, I won’t do it. And if Jamal were in my shoes—given such a choice—he would do the same. I am not a coward.”
He held his breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Surely these men would not do such a thing.
He got his answer soon enough. Sayed heard a scuffle and someone was shoved against him. Before he could ask what was happening, he heard the paralyzing scream of Ghazi. The man’s muffled cry echoed within the aircraft, then died away as he was thrust from the moving craft. They’d thrown Ghazi from the helicopter.
“No! What did you do?” Sayed heard the fear in his own voice. His throat was parched with it. “Please. Don’t do this.”
“It’s already done. Your friend is gone. And you are next,” the Englishman said. Sayed was moved closer to the open door as the man continued, “If you do not tell us what we want to know, you are worthless to us. Talking will save your miserable life.”
Sayed had run out of options. His body trembled, and tears drained down his cheeks. No one else would speak for him or save him from what was about to happen unless he did it himself. But before he could speak, from nowhere he felt a sharp pain in his leg, a gut wrenching agony. He cried out, unable to hold back. Someone had stabbed him. The burn of the gash traveled up his body. When he doubled over, he smelled a coppery sweet odor and felt warm blood drain down his leg.
“Why? Why do you do this?” He struggled for his English. In pain, he wanted to cry out in his own language, but he knew the man who tortured him wouldn’t understand.
“Your blood will draw the sharks,” the man yelled into his ear. “You won’t know they are there until you feel
