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Yasmine’s anger boiled.

The sight of her husband being humiliated by this American agent was more than she could bear. It was all she could do to restrain herself and not throw the phone in her hands across the room, shattering it in a thousand pieces. And why not? There was no point calling now, she knew. Her husband was not going to the VIP reception, and neither was she.

For the first time, Marcus genuinely doubted himself.

What if the Grand Mufti was lying? What if al-Qassab was setting him up? What if the plan had never been to kill President Clarke and the others but to embarrass and discredit them?

The chilly December winds were picking up. Yet as cold and alone as he was, his hands were perspiring. His heart was racing. For one of the few times in his life, Marcus was scared —scared of being wrong, scared of all that would mean for his country. Still holding the Sig Sauer in his right hand, he removed his left hand and wiped it on his trousers. As he did, he suddenly felt the phone in his pocket —the phone they’d taken off of al-Qassab.

“Take off your T-shirt, and put your hands in the air,” Marcus ordered.

“Why should I?” Mashrawi angrily shouted back.

“Look, Hussam, this can all end peacefully,” Marcus said. “Now, as a show of goodwill, I’m going to put my gun away, to show you I mean you no harm.”

Mashrawi glared back at him with hatred and defiance in his eyes. Marcus could see the man was plotting his next move. Slowly he put his gun back in his holster. Tomer, standing directly beside Marcus, glanced at him like he was crazy. Marcus didn’t care. He was convinced the man was going to charge them, and soon. Yet it also occurred to Marcus that al-Qassab could not have the only phone to trigger the detonation. Someone else had one too. Not on this site. It had to be someone watching on television. Why else was Mashrawi so confident? Marcus had just told him he had al-Qassab in custody. He’d just told Mashrawi that they knew he was the bomber. Why else, then, would he be preparing to charge?

If Marcus was wrong, of course, then he didn’t want to imagine the fate that awaited him. Not only would he be fired. He’d be humiliated in front of all his colleagues. He’d never work in law enforcement again. Worse, the president of the United States would be discredited in front of the entire world.

If Hussam Mashrawi was the bomber, he would want the bomb to go off as close to POTUS, the PM, and the king as possible. Which meant that at that moment Mashrawi would be praying that whoever was going to dial that phone was preparing to dial it now.

Marcus slowly slipped his left hand into his left pant pocket and took hold of al-Qassab’s phone. With his eyes still locked on Mashrawi, he just as slowly pulled it out, then let his hands drop to his sides in such a manner as to hide the phone from Mashrawi’s view. As he did, he once again ordered Mashrawi to remove his T-shirt and then raise his hands over his head.

Mashrawi didn’t move.

“Look, Hussam, I put my gun away. I don’t want to hurt you. I certainly don’t want to kill you. None of us do. Now, just take off your shirt —slowly —and prove to everyone that you don’t mean us any harm either.”

Mashrawi glared at Marcus. For a moment he remained motionless, but how long was that going to last?

Marcus gripped the mobile phone, knowing he held the man’s life in his hands. If Mashrawi did not surrender, Marcus could not hesitate. He had taken life before to protect the innocent. He was ready to do so again. But he desperately did not want to. Each time he did cost him something precious, something he could never replace, and silently he prayed he wouldn’t have to do it today.

One thing was certain. If he had to kill Mashrawi, Marcus knew he would be sending the man straight to hell. Forever. No way out. No second chances. Not now. Not ever. In most life-and-death situations, he had no time to think about such things. Events just happened so quickly, and all he could do was react according to his training. Kill or be killed.

But now he was staring into the man’s eyes, looking into his soul, wondering if it was damned or might somehow yet be redeemable. Now Marcus had the rare luxury of contemplating the terrible implications of what might be coming.

Yet he resolved not to hesitate. If he had to act, he would. What happened next was between Mashrawi and God. The man had to make his own choices.

If it came down to a decision between ending the life of a man willing to commit murder or allowing that man to murder those whom Marcus was sworn to protect, Marcus knew he would make the same decision every time, without pause.

There was nothing more to say. Marcus stood his ground, silently pleading for Mashrawi to obey his order and save his life and perhaps his soul. But suddenly Marcus saw something shift in the man’s eyes. They narrowed, ever so slightly. Two fingers on Mashrawi’s left hand twitched.

This was it, Marcus knew. He’d spent a lifetime studying killers. Mashrawi was about to make his move. So Marcus made his.

With his eyes still locked on the Grand Mufti’s son-in-law, Marcus pushed number five. If he was wrong, nothing would happen. Only the snipers would be able to save them. But he was not wrong.

As if in slow motion, Marcus saw Mashrawi’s head lean forward. He saw the man’s right foot come up. Marcus shouted into his wrist-mounted microphone, “Cover!” Then he turned and pulled Tomer to the ground just as Mashrawi started charging toward them. With a crazed look in his eye, he was shouting, “Allahu akbar!” at the top of his lungs.

The snipers never fired a shot. No one did. They never got the chance. For in a flash of blinding light and a deafening boom, Hussam Mashrawi detonated before their very eyes.