Fazil held his hand up and coaxed Jafar to step onto it. The bird hopped onto Fazil’s hand before taking flight and careening around the room.
“We have been suppressed for far too long, held back by our limitations, whether they were operational, personnel, or financial,” Fazil said. “But all of those barriers have been removed. We have one of the most well-trained group of fighters in the world today. We have an ample supply of men to accomplish what we set out to do, thanks in large part to our recruiting efforts. And last but not least, our war chest is brimming with money. We want for nothing—and it is time to gather our forces and strike like we’ve never struck before.
“However, this won’t be an operation that utilizes the power we possess. Instead, it will be an operation that takes full advantage of the power we’ve been able to harness. With one simple weapon, we can bring the world to its knees. Leaders from every nation will bow to us by the time we are finished, that much I can promise you.”
The door across the room creaked open, and a man slipped inside. With his back to the wall, he eased his way around the room amidst the awkward silence. Fazil motioned for the man to come.
The man swallowed hard and took a deep breath before stalking across the floor as every gaze in the place was fixated on him.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Fazil demanded in a soft whisper. “I thought I told you to never interrupt me.”
“I wouldn’t have come in here if it wasn’t important.”
Fazil sighed. “Very well then. Tell me what bit of information you think warrants such an interlude.”
“We just received a message from Nasir’s lawyer,” the man began. “He just visited Nasir at Guantanamo Bay.”
“And?”
“The lawyer said Nasir heard Tabari Sharaf divulge our location to the Americans.”
“Is he sure of this?”
“Nasir’s lawyer wanted me to convey to you that this is serious. He heard Sharaf tell the Americans with his own ears, according to the message I received. And that’s not all.”
Fazil gestured for his assistant to continue. “Go on.”
“There’s an armed drone that has been circling overhead for the past five minutes. Based on his flight pattern, I think it’s safe to assume he knows we’re here.”
“Thank you,” Fazil said. “You’re dismissed.”
“My friends, we seem to have the enemy crouching at our doorstep,” Fazil said. “It was just reported that there’s an armed U.S. drone soaring over us right now.”
“We need to leave,” one of the men said.
“Yes. Right now,” said another as he stood.
“Sit back down,” Fazil said as he threw his hand in the air. “We’re not going anywhere.”
CHAPTER 6
Washington, D.C.
BLUNT CHEWED ON HIS CIGAR and stared out the window of his new office suite. When Noah Young took over as acting president, he made sure to take care of Blunt so he could continue his work with Firestorm. And Blunt certainly couldn’t argue with the view. The leaves were changing, and the city looked even more picturesque than it did when the cherry blossoms sprang.
But that wasn’t even the best thing about the office to Blunt. Regaining the ability to use secured government phone lines made everything worth it. Nobody would be snooping on his conversations, at least not anyone affiliated with Congress or the military—or any other clandestine organization under the authority of the president. Such luxuries might come to an abrupt end, but Blunt determined to enjoy it while it lasted as well as take full advantage of it.
Digging up dirt on James Peterson proved more difficult than Blunt initially thought. Given enough time, Blunt could use his considerable resources to generate a full-blown controversy, complete with witnesses and signed affidavits. But time was in short supply for Young’s sudden campaign. Blunt needed more than just dirt—he needed mud, the kind the media could roll around in and play with for more than just one twenty-four-hour cycle on the cable news networks.
Blunt had put out a few feelers to some of his trusted private investigators, if anything to see if there had been any buzz about what skeletons were hanging in Peterson’s closet. With a well-documented success story, Peterson’s rise to become a giant tech magnate was nothing new for the American public. But what he did on his rise to the top—or what he did once he got there—was of keen interest to Blunt. Of all the P.I.’s Blunt liked to hire, he knew he could always count on Charles Miller to deliver the goods.
“I got nothing for ya,” Charles Miller told Blunt.
“Nothing? As in nothing, nothing?” Blunt asked, almost pleading.
“Zilch. The guy is as clean as a whistle.”
“Now, you know if a guy is clean, he’s been scrubbing his past.”
“Don’t I know that all too well,” Miller said. “But I can just about guarantee you that you’re going to have to fabricate something if you’re going to catch James Peterson in some kind of scam.”
“Fabricate something? Come on, Charles. You know I’d never do anything like that.”
Miller chuckled. “Okay, J.D. Whatever you say. I’m just telling you this guy has covered all his bases. He must’ve had a cleaning crew working around the clock. I can’t even find a chat room where anyone says something bad about him. No disgruntled employees. No jilted business partners. No messy divorces. Hell, even his adult children seem to like him.”
“That has to be an act.”
“Maybe they want to make sure Daddy doesn’t leave them out of the will.”
“Regardless, there has to be somebody
