After Nasr was shot, Mohammed fled the hills of Boone, North Carolina, in a panic. He struggled to keep his speed in check. He’d been driving for much of his life but did not have an American driver’s license and it was against the law to be driving without one.
His mind raced. He tried repeatedly to call Khebat but the phone rang and rang with no answer. He tried texting him but got no response to that either. It had been easy to convince himself earlier that Khebat’s failure to answer the phone was because he was busy making preparations for the flash mob attack. Now he was less able to convince himself of that. Something was wrong. Khebat had been captured or killed. Something bad had happened. He was sure of it.
Part of him wanted to go check on his friend but he couldn’t. It could be a trap. Someone could be there waiting on him. He couldn’t risk it. His friend would have to understand, if he was even still alive.
At a highway rest area, Mohammed logged into the email account he used for communicating with Miran. As much as he hated to do so, he needed to make the man aware of what had happened. When he logged into the account, he found a message from Miran already waiting on him.
“This will be our last communication while you are in America. We won’t require you to run operational control. Everything has been arranged.”
Mohammed slammed his laptop screen closed and cursed. He punched the dashboard of the vehicle several times, yelling in frustration, then raked his fingers through his hair, tempted to pull it out. There was nothing for him to do and only one place he knew to go.