“But we’re far more likely to get caught.”
Villareal shook his head. “No, you’ve got it backward, my friend. You’re far less likely to get caught in that environment. Too many ways out of the city from there. The checkpoint can easily be evaded.”
“How easily?” Samuels asked from the backseat.
“Do you know why there are so many terrorist attacks in France, Mr. Samuels?” Villareal said, not waiting for Samuels to answer. “It’s because it’s such an easy thing to do. Easy to get in and easy to disappear. It’s a nightmare if you’re in law enforcement and want to keep tabs on the goings on of your city.”
“Then this knife cuts both ways,” Hawk said.
“Yes, but it will cut in your favor if you are as good as advertised,” Villareal said. “At least, if you’re as good as Blunt makes you out to be. He sings your praises as if you were the best agents on the planet.”
Hawk nodded confidently. “We’re better than advertised then?”
Villareal shot a sideways glance at Hawk. “Even with your rookie back there?”
“That rookie has already saved my life,” Hawk said. “I wouldn’t call him a rookie any more.”
Villareal flashed a quick grin. “Maybe you’re the one who’s washed up then.”
“Maybe, but I’m not quitting until I either get killed or stop Petrov. Those are the only two choices for me.”
“You do what you need to do,” Villareal said as he drove into a parking deck and went down several stories before pulling into a parking spot. “Let’s hustle inside where we can talk more about what you need to do if you intend on stopping Petrov.”
CHAPTER 22
New York City
LEE HENDRIDGE HAD BARELY been back in the U.S. for a full day before he was itching to get back to work. His editor, Janet Carlisle, told him to take off all the time he needed. He rested in bed for a day before deciding he needed to head to the office.
As he walked down Eighth Street, Hendridge viewed his pedestrian commute through new eyes. The time he’d spent in the charge of harsh Al Hasib taskmasters induced a type of soul searching he didn’t expect. Before he embarked to cover the burgeoning conflict in the Middle East where terrorist groups like Al Hasib were ransacking nearby nations in coordinated attacks, Hendridge saw visions of Pulitzer Prizes dancing in his dreams. When he left, he could only see the death and destruction visited upon a people who were often mischaracterized, even by others who claimed to share the same faith. The children begging in the streets, the rotting stench of death, the oppressive feeling of hopelessness—it all weighed on him, a weight far too great for any one person to bear. And because of that overwhelming sense of despair, Hendridge needed to get to work.
Hendridge needed to do something different for a change, something positive, something that mattered. He no longer aspired to win awards for notoriety’s sake—or even to stroke his own ego. He simply wanted his journalism to make a difference in the lives of people. And the people he decided to apply his new outlook on journalism to were Hawk, Alex, and Samuels, the team that saved him when they could’ve easily left him.
“What are you—?” Carlisle said as she looked up from her morning coffee to see Hendridge standing in her doorway. “I thought I told you to stay home, take the week off, take the month off, take all the—”
“I can’t sit still,” Hendridge said. “Not any more, not after what happened to me.”
She gestured toward the chair across the desk in front of her. “What did happen to you out there?”
Hendridge pulled the chair out and sat down. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it yet. I mean, it was deeply personal. When I’ve heard of other people discuss stories of survival in the past, I’ve shrugged and wondered why people hailed them as heroes, especially when they were getting paid handsomely to share their stories. How much of it was even true at that price? How do we even know if it’s real?”
“And now?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.
“It was more real than I knew, more real than I would’ve ever wanted it to be. The pain was real, both physical and emotional. The abuse was—it was non-stop. The beatings, the mental torture, all of it. I thought I was going insane for a while. And I’d just about given up hope.”
“But you didn’t, did you?”
“No, I did,” Hendridge said. “Except those sneaky little bastards never let me near a sharp object. I’m sure it’s because they knew what I would’ve done had I been left alone with a knife for more than five minutes. I certainly wouldn’t be here speaking to you now, that much I know.”
“So, how’d you make it?”
“You know those guys wanted for the murder of all those German bankers, the ones in the news?” he asked.
“How’d you know about that?”
He forced a chuckle. “Even terrorists want to read their own press. I also found out they read The Times every day.”
“Maybe we can put that in our next advertising campaign,” she deadpanned.
“That could be a public relations nightmare, but it is good to know.”
“Getting back to what you said earlier, the team of operatives saved you?” Carlisle asked.
“They could’ve left me for dead, too,” Hendridge said. “They were captured by some Al Hasib agents while trying to make a getaway. They almost got me free too but failed.”
“And what were you doing during this time?”
“I was just bouncing around like a rag doll,” he said. “I had no real purpose, let alone a desire to live. I would’ve preferred to get left behind at that point, but they refused to leave me alone.”
“And here you are.”
“It wasn’t quite that simple,” he said with a smile. “There were many other obstacles to get past in order to make it to this point, but
