May 3
9822 Watchung Road
Essex County
Short Hills, New Jersey
3:18 P.M. EDT
They bundled Dennis Littrell into a matching chair, but not before the newsman’s thrashing feet had demolished the low walnut table between the paired set, in the process sending a filigreed table lamp crashing into pieces on the floor.
Immediately, Denny tried to bounce up, to move toward Tavah’s bloodied form slumped in his chair’s twin; a blow to his face—more than a slap, not quite a punch—knocked him back against the linen upholstery.
“You want her to bleed to death, you motherfuckers?” This, not quite a shout but decidedly more than a murmur, and in the event far more of an observation than a question.
“See to her,” the gray-bearded man said, though directed to one of the other half-dozen men in the room. “I wish her not to die. Not yet. Close her wound; use tape also to bind her. Take care. You have already seen her skills and her cunning.”
To Denny: “Relatively little of the blood is hers. Take comfort in that none of it is yours.”
Denny glared at the bearded man.
“I know who you are; I’ve seen your photo.”
“I too have seen it. A good likeness, if perhaps somewhat dated. It brought to me fond memories of my homeland; to me, the coffee at Souq Al-Hal’lal remains the finest in the world.”
Ahmad Abu Khaled gestured carelessly toward a far corner of the room.
A man was slumped where the two walls joined, arms bound at the wrists, legs splayed flat on the floor, his head hanging so that only the mop of disheveled hair was visible.
Another gesture from Abu Khaled, and one of the guards seized the man’s forelock and lifted.
“I am sorry, Denny,” Wasif muttered through mashed lips and broken teeth; his eyes were bruised and swollen to narrowed slits. “Know that I did not say your name to these people.”
“Know also that he fought with courage,” Abu Khaled said. “He was able even to smash his cellular telephone before he was taken. No matter; your face is well known to me, Mr. Littrell. When you appeared so conveniently at Masjid As’halah Ha’lan, we had need of no other answers from your brave friend.”
Abu Khaled paused, then added: “As we have no need of him now, in any capacity.”
He gave a short nod to the guard, who reached under his jacket.
Light glinted off a razor’s edge.
With a single swift movement, still holding the fistful of hair, the guard slashed Wasif’s throat. A horrific fountain of bright crimson pulsed forth, thick and hot and arching to the carpet.
For a few seconds, Wasif’s legs thrashed wildly against the floor—then, in synchrony with the pace of his gushing blood, gradually weakened to but a twitch of his feet.
Then to nothing at all, as Wasif’s still-beating heart could summon no remaining volume to move.
Denny gaped, speechless with horror and fury. It took several seconds for him to find his voice.
“You goddamn son-of-a-bitch—”
“Continue,” Abu Khaled said, not to Denny.
The man with the knife did so, sawing with effort. He muttered a curse as the blade stuttered against bone, adjusted the angle of the knife, with a final gritting rasp sliced between the vertebrae and through the spinal cord. He lifted the head free.
At Abu Khaled’s casual nod, he tossed it forward in an underhand movement.
It landed short, bumping to the floor twice before rolling to a stop against Denny’s feet. Wasif’s mouth was agape, his tongue hanging loosely from a corner of his lower lip.
“You sought to find me; you have done so,” Abu Khaled said. “I did not seek you. But it is fitting; it is the will of God that you have come to me. You are a famous television news presenter, known to millions of your fellow Americans. You will be valuable in making known our victory.”
“You want your goddamn story told,” Denny snarled, “I’ll tell it. I’ll tell the world what a fucking monster you are.”
“Indeed, you shall,” Abu Khaled said. “But not in the manner you believe.”
He pointed a finger at the still-motionless form of Tavah Duhahi. “You will tell it, as will she. You will tell it vividly, before the camera with which you are so familiar. You will tell it as your friend, whose head rests at your feet, has just told it to you. You and she, both of you.”
Abu Khaled smiled.
“And one other,” he said.
He turned to another of his followers.
“Bring her.”
Another few seconds, and from behind him, Denny heard the sound of struggling, shuffling feet.
He turned his head and stared into the equally wide eyes of Katie Casey.