Oliver returned from the villa and handed Hammon a kitchen knife with a four-inch blade. The tall manservant stepped back and trained a handgun on the overweight spy. Hammon removed a box of wooden matches from his shirt pocket, striking it against the arm of the chair. A long, thin flame flared. Hammon held the knife to the flame, moving the blade back and forth along its length.
“Can’t be too careful,” he explained. “I understand MRSA is a bitch.”
He blew out the match and lifted the tent-like floral print shirt exposing his fat-filled girth. Pressing a fold between his fingers, he dug the blade into his belly. Blood seeped along the incision. Hussein watched Hammon’s face. His expression never changed. No sign of pain moved over his countenance.
With two bloody fingers, he removed a small capsule from beneath the skin. He picked up one of the cloth napkins from the small table between them and pressed it into the wound. Using the other hand, he showed the small implant to Hussein.
“This device has tracked my travels since I left Washington. The data has been transmitted to a secure computer in my home office. If I do not enter a pass code into the program within twenty-four hours, that data along with your file will also be sent to the authorities.”
Hussein nodded with a tight smile. “Impressive. You’re a regular James Bond!”
“I know how much you despise technology. But I thought you’d like it.”
“I do,” Hussein answered, taking the small implant. “You are quite ingenious.” She paused and continued. “Why would you reveal the device to us?”
“I want you to know that my movements are being tracked. If you kill me, the information I possess, including my last known whereabouts, will be delivered to the highest levels of government. They will be able to find you.”
“You haven’t been listening, Hammon,” Hussein spat. “We are nowhere near my compound. They will not find me.”
He tried to remain stone-faced under the mask. His eyes leveled an unflinching stare at Delilah Hussein. He had been a fool to think she would allow him to lead the Feds to her.
“You can’t be sure,” he replied.
Hussein grinned, dropping the tiny, bloodied tracker to the patio. She crunched it under the heel of her sandal. Hussein raised the gun again, aiming for the fat man’s torso. She winked and fired.
The leader of Team Muhammed pressed his back into the wall beside the back door and nodded to his young team member. The recruit removed an electronic lock pick from his satchel. He dispatched the storm door with ease. The storm door creaked but its sound was swallowed up by the waves crashing on the beach. The back door followed a moment later. The team leader turned the knob and pushed the door in.
With one man watching the beach and another in the shrubbery out front, the two mercenaries crossed through the living area to the stairs. Intel had told them there was no security system. After a moment’s hesitation, they climbed the stairs, stopping on the second floor outside the master bedroom.
As they had practiced countless times in the last three weeks, they burst in. The husband shot up.
“What the hell …”
They covered the distance with two long strides. The architect husband was in the process of whipping off the bed sheets when the butt of the machine pistol rammed into the bridge of his nose. The crunch of the breaking cartilage snapped in the darkness. The man crumpled back onto the bed and did not move.
The young soldier grabbed the woman by the hair, cutting off her shriek with a gloved hand. He jerked her off the bed and onto the carpet, dragging her a few feet. The woman opened her mouth to scream. The gunman rammed a balled up cloth into it, covering it with his hand. He wrestled her to the floor before sitting on her chest, pinning her arms. With his hands free, he pulled a length of duct tape from a roll on his belt and pressed it across her mouth.
He produced a syringe from a sheath on his thigh. The woman saw this and squirmed, bucking him. He uncapped the needle awkwardly and rammed it into her neck. In less than three seconds, she was unconscious.
Though not moving, the husband was sedated in the same manner. The two intruders waited thirty seconds to make sure the couple was down. They exited the master bedroom and headed down the hall.
The door shot open before they could kick it in. The boy’s eyes widened at the sight of the black-clad men.
“Michael, it’s me,” the leader said.
The boy’s face twisted with confusion at the sound of his name.
“Who are—”
The young Muslim soldier grabbed him by the neck and turned him as he drove him down, pressing Michael’s face into the carpet, pinning him with a knee to the back. Michael Rodgers tried to rise up.
“Hel—” he began to scream. The leader covered his mouth with a gloved hand and pushed a cloth into it. Another needle was inserted into his neck.
“Get some clothes,” the leader commanded. He removed a business card from his shirt pocket and placed it on the nightstand.
Chrissie kicked her legs twice under the sheets, trying to free herself. They felt as if they were stitched with lead, crushing her beneath an iron curtain of anxiety.
Her potent, latent angst would not allow her to rest tonight. Her mind went back to the second time she’d followed Jason. Her trepidation and curiosity had kept her awake that night also.
A sharp, single creak penetrated her bedroom door from the hallway.
Her heart skipped.
Screw the ghosts, she thought. I’m getting the gun!
Chrissie rolled over and pulled open the bottom drawer of the night stand.
The bullet had missed Hutton’s skull by millimeters, rupturing the interior of the driver’s side door. Jason averted his aim at the last instant, trying to scare the drunkard into an answer. The report beside his ear caused his muscles to seize and had probably ruptured an ear drum. Hutton tried to reach up to cover his ears. Jason’s legs pinned them down.
“The name?”
Hutton turned away thinking he was going to take a bullet in the face. Jason grabbed the stringy, unwashed hair and forced Hutton’s face back toward him. Hutton went into panic mode.
Somehow, he managed to free his right arm. It arced in wildly. Before Jason could react, a fist slammed into his temple, blurring his vision. His head slammed into the rearview mirror. Jason’s eyes began to water and burn, the remnants of the tequila. A barrage of wild punches hammered about Jason’s head. Unable to see clearly, Jason brought his arms up to block. Hutton’s hand clutched the gun, wrenching it away from his face. It toppled, thumping onto the floorboard.
The former guard managed to raise a knee, placing it against Jason’s sternum. Hutton’s right hand continued to pelt Jason. Jason scrambled to block the blows. His own fist was forced back into his face multiple times. Clyde Hutton was a desperate—and therefore—a dangerous man.
Jason attempted two wild punches that missed. Hutton raised up, forcing Jason farther backward. Hutton’s arms pistoned back and forth, connecting up and down Jason’s face and neck. Jason was completely defensive.
The pressure on Jason’s chest released a moment after the driver’s side door opened, illuminating the cab. Hutton scampered through the opening.
Jason grabbed his boot. Hutton kicked. The heel connected with his chin, snapping Jason’s head. Hutton’s foot slipped from Jason’s hand as Jason slumped into the passenger-side foot well.
Dazed, Jason collected himself as he leaned against the passenger-side door. Shaking away the dizziness, he raised himself up and looked through the windshield. He shook his head, trying to clear the disorientation and pain, but with no success. With the acid sting still burning his eyes and his nose on fire, he tasted blood flowing over his lips.
He managed to reach into his pocket and remove his keys. His eyes followed Hutton through a curtain of water as he climbed into his pick-up truck. Two seconds after the headlights came to life, the truck lurched forward onto Warwick Boulevard, spitting pebbles and dirt.
Jason wiped his eyes and fired the engine. By the time he was on the road, Hutton’s pick-up was two hundred yards away.
Jason slammed the steering wheel. Idiot!
He floored the accelerator, willing power from the Mustangs eight cylinders. They engaged and the engine pitched higher. Forced deeper into the seat, he wiped his eyes once more.
All the months of planning and watching, Jason had managed to keep his surveillance of the former jail guard secret. Then tonight, he’d fucked it up.
If Hutton got away, he would disappear!! And Jason would never know the real name of the man who’d attacked him in the jail. Tattoo Man.
The Mustang hurtled north on Warwick Boulevard gaining on the twin taillights of Hutton’s pick-up truck.
Four members of Team Isaiah had moved in from the tree line beside the decaying shed in the back. The fifth man sat in the black SUV down the street, waiting for them to reappear.
They entered the house and moved to their designated positions. One man at the front door, one at the back. The team leader and his second moved up the stairs single file, taking each step as if it might explode.
Now, they were frozen at the top of the stairs. The floorboards beneath the carpet in the decades-old house had creaked seconds ago. The two men had waited for any sign that the woman had been alerted. Nothing!
After a series of quick hand signals, the pair inched down the hall.