John Wilkes Booth will be forever trumped by Youssef Nawabi and Al Hasib.
The thought delighted Fazil, who grew more giddy as time passed. After years of trying to claim a victory on U.S. soil, Nawabi was going to deliver. Fazil clucked his tongue, summoning Jafar. The bird flitted over to his master and sat on his shoulder.
With a pair of hostages in his possession, Fazil’s confidence in Hawk soared. The glorious moment that Fazil longed for was about to happen.
“Time to break out the good whiskey. What do you say, Jafar?”
Fazil poured himself a glass and danced around his office. He turned on his television and settled into his chair so he could laugh at the Americans.
One station led with the latest social media darling who was pregnant with her boyfriend of the month.
“These vapid people,” Fazil said. “Someone must rescue them from this existence.” He turned the channel.
The next station aired a story about a town torn apart by a racial epithet spray painted on the car of a high school teacher.
“They can’t even get along with each other,” Fazil said as he stroked Jafar. “How will they ever bond together to defeat their greatest enemy?”
Fazil threw his head back and laughed.
The next few channels weren’t any better, depicting an athlete whining about how the league’s owners were colluding to pay him less—He makes twenty-five million dollars a year! What is his problem?”—and a school teacher complaining about an administrator making too much.
It’s all about the almighty American dollar. Tomorrow should wake them up a bit.
Bored of the subsequent shouting matches between new commentators, Fazil turned off his television, snatched his whiskey bottle from his desk, and staggered down the hall toward Alex and Blunt. Fazil wanted to gloat.
“I believe the two prisoners you inquired about are asleep,” one of the guards said as he studied the security cameras.
“Good,” Fazil roared. “All the more reason to wake them up.”
Fazil trudged down the hallway leading to Alex and Blunt’s cell. Fumbling for the right key, Fazil finally identified it and inserted it into the lock. The click granting him access echoed down the hallway.
As Fazil entered the room, he stomped in the puddle and announced his presence.
“It is time, my little infidels,” Fazil began. “Time to watch your empire crumble. If only there was a television in here for you to see your president assassinated on national television, blown out of the sky. By the end of the day, the Air Force One explosion might surpass the space shuttle Challenger as the most infamous U.S. air tragedy. But unlike the NASA tragedy, I can promise you there will be people celebrating in the streets. A blow to the oppressive American regime will be dealt decisively.”
Still facing the wall, Blunt grunted. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Excuse me,” Fazil said as he strode over to Blunt. “What did you say?”
“It won’t happen. Forget about it.”
Fazil laughed. “Oh, but it will, old man. You see, your top agent is working hard to make sure that President Young and his plane goes up in a blaze of glory.”
“I always believed you were an intelligent man, Mr. Fazil,” Blunt began. “But now I know differently. You’re arrogant and cocksure, but you aren’t intelligent.”
“I’m not intelligent?” Fazil asked as he placed his hand on his chest.
“Naïve or stupid,” Blunt said. “You pick, mostly because nobody knows you better than you do. Now, which is it?”
Fazil balled his fist and recoiled before delivering a vicious body blow to Blunt. The old man coughed and struggled to get a deep breath.
“That is for being an antagonistic asshole,” Fazil said. “Yes, I know enough of the English language to know what to call you.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Blunt said. “In fact, that doesn’t even make my all-time top ten worst names I’ve been labeled by my enemies.”
“If you’re not careful, that will be the last name any of your enemies—or friends—calls you.”
Blunt forced a laugh. “Look at you. Karif Fazil—a man born again and emboldened by coercing his foe to do his bidding, tasks you couldn’t do yourself. Sounds like you have a promising future as long as Brady Hawk is working for you.”
“That must sound familiar to you, too,” Fazil said. “Without Hawk, you would have had nothing.”
“If you think Brady Hawk is the only elite assassin available out there, you’re sorely mistaken. There are others.”
“But not that are Hawk’s equal, are there?”
Blunt chuckled before responding. “Hawk might be the best, but there are others out there. Who knows? There might be one of those men sitting outside your cave here.”
“If they are, they are sitting there with a bullet in their head. This place is one of the most secure locations in the world, with apologies to your NORAD base in Colorado, of course.”
“I’ve been there—and this place doesn’t begin to compare to NORAD.”
“Perhaps not, but it definitely could be your grave.”
Fazil turned toward Alex and meandered to her side of the room.
“I’ve never been to NORAD, but I know this place could use some chairs,” she quipped.
“Ah, a woman with a sense of humor,” Fazil said. “I like that in my women, among other things.”
“Don’t test me,” she said. “I will break your neck, even as I’m shackled.”
Fazil ran the back of his hand along the contours of Alex’s body. “I’m sure you could.”
“If it wouldn’t get me killed and I had a way out, you’d already be dead.”
With a wide grin on his face, Fazil nuzzled up next to Alex. “You sure are confident, especially for a woman.”
In a lightning-fast move, Alex slid her left leg around Fazil’s midsection and wrapped her right leg around him as well. As he struggled to escape her clutches, he slid down until his head
