Elroy Lang sighed. He felt sorry for the Egyptian-American boy lying on the tiny bunk, drenched in his own sweat and tears. Elroy had returned from Quingdao once the French spy had been dispatched to Paris and he was assured that Li Jun Xiao and David Song would be able to meet the demand he now had for their product. He’d arrived in Seattle to find their plan in disarray. According to the extensive media coverage of the attack on the Salam Islamic Centre, Deni Salamov’s base of operations, casualties were limited to fewer than twenty. Police were working on the theory the community centre had been the target of a racially motived terror attack, which threw a different complexion on what had happened at the Meals Seattle warehouse. Their friends in the police department were spreading misinformation to ensure the authorities and media stayed well away from the truth. But Deni Salamov would know, and according to their information, he and his son had survived the attack. He was alive and would undoubtedly be planning his revenge.
Elroy looked down at Ziad. He’d never heard of anyone taking the patch in these circumstances. Not by accident. They’d used the boy, and their manipulation of him was supposed to be suffering enough, but now he was dependent and tied to them for his survival, just like Narong Angsakul. The formidable Thai warrior had explained what had happened. He’d been exposed to a contact dose of XTX, which had rapidly depleted the parathyroid level of his patch, and when he and the others had returned to the warehouse, he’d been delirious and unable to warn Ziad against touching the replacement patch with his bare skin. The patch that had saved Awut’s life had cursed Ziad. The Thai, who didn’t often show his emotions, clearly felt some guilt.
Narong had been recruited into the Mujahedeen Patani to fight for the global caliphate and it should have been him chosen for the operation Pearce foiled in Islamabad, but his baby brother had persuaded the sheikhs to select him instead. Chatri Angsakul had gone and been killed by Scott Pearce, a man who’d initially been dismissed as a lucky adventurer, but who was now proving to be a serious irritation. He’d foiled their plans in Britain, and he and his associates were now doing their best to interfere in Seattle.
The camera in the house on Kenyon Street had caught Pearce planting a bug on Ziad’s car, and Narong had identified him and recounted their fight in the community centre. Pearce would have to be eliminated before he did any more harm, and Elroy knew just the man to do it.
Enraged and maddened by grief at the death of his brother, Narong had persuaded the sheikhs to let him talk to the man who bankrolled Mujahedeen Patani, which is when he’d been introduced to Elroy. Mujahedeen Patani was one of many groups Elroy was responsible for. Seeing the opportunity a dedicated warrior like Narong offered, Elroy had promised to help him track down his brother’s killer, and set him to work smuggling weapons through Thailand into Malaysia. As a sign of his commitment and loyalty, Elroy had demanded Narong take the patch, and the man hadn’t hesitated. He was loyal, driven by a single purpose and had proven himself in combat repeatedly. Every so often Elroy felt a pang of guilt at the deception he was perpetrating. He’d known the identity of Chatri Angsakul’s killer within hours of the attack, but whenever he was assailed by conscience, Elroy reminded himself of their higher purpose. Mujahedeen Patani, Black Thirteen, Red Wolves; all part of the great objective. The struggle would only be won through great suffering. And here at Elroy’s feet was the latest victim of their ambition.
Elroy stroked Ziad’s hair and the young man stirred. He looked up and for a moment his eyes were wild and unfocused. Then, gradually, he came round.
‘What happened?’ Ziad asked. His voice was feeble and croaky.
‘It’s OK,’ Elroy lied.
Three police officers had been shot outside the warehouse, and four of their colleagues had taken them to a friendly, discreet medical centre for treatment. Awut was standing watch beyond the frosted-glass doors, eager to leave in case Pearce or any of his people returned to finish the job. But Ziad hadn’t been in a fit state to move until now.
Ziad took a couple of deep breaths and wiped the tears from his eyes. He looked down at his shoulder and saw the black patch clinging to it.
Elroy registered the boy’s dismay. ‘It’s OK,’ he reiterated. ‘You’ll forget about it soon. As long as you’re careful, you’ll live to an old age.’
Ziad looked up at Elroy with anger in his eyes. ‘Is this what you’re bringing here?’ he asked.
Elroy didn’t respond.
‘This is the fentanyl,’ Ziad continued. ‘This is what we’re supplying Cresci with, isn’t it? This is what it’s all been about. Spreading death.’
His eyes were wild and his pupils were as large as poppy bulbs.
Elroy smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t think about that now. We need you to get on your feet. We have to leave.’
Ziad carried on as though Elroy hadn’t spoken. ‘I want them to have it.’ Tears started flooding down his cheeks. ‘Every single one of them. I want every American to feel this.’ His voice trembled with the force of his fury. ‘I want them all to share my joy.’