“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Well, I won’t be here for long, so it won’t matter much. But you, on the other hand, consider this your final resting place,” Fazil said as he held up some seeds for Jafar to eat. The bird pecked at them until he was satisfied and resumed his stoic position.
“I don’t intend to be here very long either,” Hawk said. “You’re going to have to kill me now or I’m going to kill you.”
Fazil broke into a hearty laugh. “I love it when a man has no regard for reality. I like to call such people Americans. But don’t let me stop you. This comedy act is quite entertaining.”
“I don’t make empty threats.”
“Your words certainly ring hollow given the fact that you’re all tied up, weaponless, defenseless, and lacking any sort of backup,” Fazil said. “One can only assume that you are here on your own in an unauthorized capacity.”
“In America, we have a popular saying for people who assume. Maybe you’ve heard it before.”
“I know that one all too well. And look at you here. You’re living proof that the saying is correct. You operated under the assumption that you’d be able to get to me out here, that my guard would be down even after you dispatched two of my men. So, here you are, Brady Hawk.”
“Just shoot me and get this over with. The real torture is listening to you drone on and on as if you’ve actually accomplished something.”
“I’ve caught you, haven’t I? That’s something,” Fazil said before waving dismissively at Hawk. “But I have actual plans to torture you in more meaningful ways before I take your pathetic excuse for a life.”
“Watching you fail isn’t exactly torture.”
“I won’t fail this time, mark my word. And you’re going to watch me triumph until your dying breath. And that’ll be the last thing you’ll see. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go save the world . . . from people like you.”
Fazil pulled on the string behind him, quenching the light in the room. His footsteps echoed as he walked across the floor and exited, slamming the door behind him.
Hawk let out an exasperated breath, left to contemplate his fate in the dark. He couldn’t allow Fazil’s words to bother him, though the terrorist cell leader was right—Hawk had acted brashly and made some costly assumptions. The plan was never to assault Fazil personally, just get information from one of his men about the location of the weapons system before retreating back to safety.
But Hawk let his thirst for blood get in the way. Fazil and his men had become an ever-present danger to American interests both at home and abroad. Seeing an opportunity—albeit a dangerous one—Hawk seized it and was left to lament his decision in an Al Hasib holding cell.
Hawk realized his com was missing, certainly confiscated immediately after he went down at the hands of Fazil’s crafty taser. Without a way to reach Alex, Hawk could only imagine what she was thinking. Any rescue attempts would have to be conducted on her own and strongly ill-advised. He knew she was smarter than that—as long as she didn’t let her emotions cloud her judgment.
And as difficult as Hawk’s situation seemed, he needed to focus on the two positive aspects of his capture. First, he was still alive. Second, Fazil suggested he was going to let Hawk live long enough to see presumably some vile act of terrorism against America. And as long as there was breath in him, he figured he had a chance to escape and turn the tables on Fazil. But such goals were far more easily imagined than accomplished.
His thoughts were interrupted when light flooded the room as the door swung open. Two men lumbered toward Hawk. One reached up and pulled on the string, illuminating the single bulb. It swung back and forth, casting dancing shadows on the walls around them.
Neither one of the men said a word as they circled Hawk. They simply smiled and nodded at each other before commencing. Taking turns, the two men ruthlessly beat Hawk. His head snapped back several times from the force of their blows, which bloodied his face. After a few punches around Hawk’s eyes, his left one began to swell shut. He could taste blood streaming into his mouth from the growing number of wounds.
With Hawk barely recognizable, the men switched their tactics, concentrating on Hawk’s midsection. They pounded him in the stomach and chest before bashing him on the upper portion of his back that was exposed. Still bound to the chair, Hawk couldn’t do anything but brace for blow after blow and hope he managed to survive.
The door opened at the far end of the room, and Fazil strode through.
“What are you doing?” Fazil demanded in Arabic. “I said to beat him up, not kill him.”
The two men shrugged and exited with Fazil, who scolded them as they walked away.
The door slammed shut behind them, and Hawk was left alone again with his thoughts in the dark. His face felt like it was on fire. Sweat trickled into the wounds, creating a burning sensation. And there was nothing he could do about it.
In a matter of minutes, Hawk’s mood had changed from hope to despair. He wondered if it was even possible to escape—if he even managed to survive the night after the beating he’d just endured.
All Hawk could do was fight to stay alive and pray for a miracle.
CHAPTER 13
Washington, D.C.
NOAH YOUNG NAVIGATED to the address of the website Blunt had mentioned might have live streaming coverage of James Peterson’s alleged meeting with a Russian ambassador. At the prescribed time, the image came on his screen
