“I think I just might do that. Where’s your card?”
“My card,” Nawabi asked.
“You know, the one that tells me who you are and what you’re doing here.”
“Oh, my business card.”
“You idiot. What kind of card did you think I was talking about?”
“Never mind,” Nawabi said. “I must have left mine in the company van.”
“In that case, I’m going to walk back with you to your van to make sure I get it so I can properly address this bizarre situation.”
Nawabi took a deep breath. He had to do something differently now that this mystery man was demanding to speak with his supervisor.
“You know what?” Nawabi began. “I set my keys down inside when I was unloading the boxes. I need to get them before we head back over to the parking lot.”
“I’m sticking with you, Mr.—”
“Reynolds,” Nawabi said, offering his hand. “Arnold Reynolds.”
“Mr. Reynolds, you better not be playing around with me because I don’t appreciate this kind of activity in my hangar.”
Nawabi waited until they had both reached the far corner of the building before he recoiled and delivered a brutal blow to the man. The man teetered back and forth until his eyes shut and he crumpled to the floor.
Snatching a nearby tarp, Nawabi placed the man on top of it. After securing the man’s arms, legs, and mouth with duct tape, Nawabi rolled up the unsuspecting hangar supervisor. Nawabi worked quickly to cut out the bottoms of the boxes and use them to disguise the shrouded body on the dolly.
He wasted no time in exiting the hangar and headed straight back to his vehicle. He’d only walked about twenty meters away from the building when another man passed him before stopping and furrowing his brow.
“Did you see Dave in there?” the stranger asked.
Nawabi shrugged and kept moving forward. “I just made my delivery and left.”
“That’s strange.”
Nawabi closed his eyes and said a little prayer that the man wouldn’t become too curious.
Just go inside. I don’t have room for two bodies in my trunk.
Nawabi didn’t breathe until he was certain the man’s footsteps were headed toward the hangar and not in pursuit.
Once Nawabi reached his car, he checked around to see if anyone was standing nearby. Satisfied the area was free from any prying eyes, he hustled to get the body into the trunk. Nawabi stored the dolly and headed for the exit.
The security guard gave a respectful nod to Nawabi as he drove past the guard gate and turned onto a surface street.
Though he had been caught up in the moment, Nawabi finally relaxed and remembered Fazil’s sage advice about being prepared for anything. Nawabi had simply gone to get a feel for the place and make somewhat of a dry run. Instead, he had to knock a man out and sneak the body to his car. And later that night, Nawabi knew he’d have to kill a man, not the man he’d come to the U.S. to kill.
Nawabi thought it was a shame, too. As he reflected on every move he made while at the base, he remembered the man’s face as one of the people who smiled and said hello.
Don’t go soft, Youssef. He is an infidel.
Nawabi pulled out a picture of his dead brother and glanced at it for a second while stopped at a traffic light.
“Tomorrow, I will avenge your death, Abdul,” Nawabi said. “I will kill the president—and then I will kill Brady Hawk.”
CHAPTER 20
Zagros Mountains, Iraq
KARIF FAZIL RETURNED from Dubai, where he’d spent the day before getting all his financials in order since the latest influx of cash from Colton Industries, and slipped into his compound. Several leaders met him the minute he stepped inside and began briefing him on what had transpired during his time away. While Fazil told them all that he was eager to hear everything, he needed some time alone to gather his thoughts before everyone began downloading all their information to him.
“Will you people please just leave me alone for one second?” Fazil screamed in exasperation. “I need to think.”
He slammed the door leading to his private office and collapsed into a chair. Setting up offshore accounts to manage all of Al Hasib’s money stressed him out. If he had his druthers, he would have an accountant who could handle everything for him. But he didn’t trust anyone. The last person he’d placed in charge of the cell’s coffers bilked Al Hasib for two million dollars before temporarily vanishing to Mexico. Fazil took a special trip to Cabo to handle the thief. The news treated the accountant’s beheading as another gruesome victim in the country’s drug culture, claiming it was a skirmish between warring cartels. But those reports were falsified by Mexican law enforcement, likely because it was easier to handle the public relations nightmare of bickering drug families than it was to admit that terrorists were roaming free in their country. Making an example out of the accountant served a purpose for Fazil, yet it also meant more work. It had been two years since he’d handled the situation, and he still hadn’t found the right person to take over the duties and doubted he ever would. The extra responsibility was starting to wear on him.
I only want to hear from Youssef.
“And you, too, Jafar,” he said aloud. “Come over here.”
The bird flitted across the room and landed on Fazil’s desk. He grabbed a handful of crackers from the top left desk drawer and held them out for Jafar. The bird pecked Fazil’s hand clean.
He looked at his phone, and there were no messages from his top missile launcher—and no reports of any terrorist arrest coming out of the U.S. The quieter, the better. If Youssef had been caught, Fazil knew it would be all over the news. President Young would use the report to show how he was making the country safe again, solidifying
