Fifteen hundred miles to the southeast, Delilah Hussein knelt in her massive master suite. She would miss her appointed time for the first salaat of the day. Normally, she prayed the Fajr at six in the morning. It was just after four now. There would be no time later. This would be a very busy day, so she performed it now, two hours early.
She had only managed a few hours of sleep in the last twenty four, mostly through short twenty or thirty minute naps. With her energy level high, Delilah Hussein cleansed herself and covered her hair. She stood on her prayer rug with her hands at her ears, palms forward. Her thumbs tucked behind her earlobes.
“Allahu Akbar!”
She then placed her right hand over her left on her chest and looked at the rug before her. She offered the traditional opening supplication followed by the Fatiha, the first surah of the Qur’an.
She lowered hands and bent at the waist. “Allahu Akbar!” she whispered, as she lowered her torso. When her back was parallel to the floor and her eyes saw her feet, she continued.
Hussein repeated this three times.
The door to her bedroom opened. Hussein sensed the man waiting until she was done.
“What do you want?” she demanded without looking in his direction.
“Hammon, he is bleeding … a lot. There may not be much time.”
Hussein sighed. She could not afford to let this man die. She had shot him on the island in the shoulder, missing any vital internal structures. With his implanted tracking device destroyed and his body scanned for any other devices, her minions had dragged Hammon back to the boat for the two-hour trip to the main island. They deposited him by the pool under the covered pergola while she prepared to pray. It was time to extract what she needed.
“Je serai la!” I’ll be right there!
“He abducted someone from inside the club, sir.”
“What?”
“Our agent on the ground said he came out of the strip club with a gun. He forced someone into his Mustang. Minutes later, Rodgers left the car and is now chasing him. Very high speeds.”
“Where are they going?”
“We don’t know, sir. The agent lost them at an intersection. We are blind again.”
Brad Lane, the deputy director of the Bureau who had been personally asked by Director McNamara to supervise this operation, spat a string of expletives.
“And the pharmacist and the pick-up truck are being followed by a third vehicle. A black Caddy. Is it The Watcher?”
“We believe so, sir.”
Hussein watched Hammon clutch at his left shoulder from the comfort of the padded Adirondack chair. The round had penetrated below the clavicle. His plump fingers tried in vain to stem the flow of blood.
“You are bleeding profusely, Hammon. I guess a man of your size has a few extra liters.”
Hammon’s arms were crossed over his torso. One clutched the bullet wound while the other pressed the bloody napkin into the self-created knife wound in his belly.
“You stupid bitch,” Hammon moaned.
Hussein leapt from her seat and was on him with a dexterity that surprised even her. She maneuvered the barrel of the gun between the fingers of Hammon’s hand over the belly wound and pressed. The fat spy shrieked.
“You are bleeding all over my patio and furniture, you fat slob. So much blood, it scared my man. He thought you were dying.”
Hammon breathed heavily, trying to quiet the pain.
“I have brought you back to my island, Hammon, as you wished. But the tracking device is on the other island, destroyed.”
“I’m not giving you a penny. I can’t!”
“I know that, you idiot! You are delirious. We already talked about this. I never intended to take any more money from you. I need information from you.”
“What kind of information?”
“One piece. That’s all I need. I know you have it. If you give it to me, I will kill you quickly, painlessly. If not, Oliver will carve you, while still alive, into bite-size morsels to be used as chum,” Hussein seethed.
Jason awoke in a large, square ambulance rig parked at an angle across Jefferson. He lay on a stretcher as a paramedic palpated him for more wounds. A second rig was visible through the open doors. Jason stared into its open bay. In it lay a stretcher with a blanket-draped body.
The night was punctuated by a kaleidoscopic array of blue and red lights reflecting off the foliage and tree trunks. Two fire trucks, three police cars, and a HAZMAT vehicle also blocked Jefferson Avenue in both directions. Two fire hoses were aimed at the smoldering truck, dousing it as a string of black smoke wafted skyward.
The first responder wore a tight-fitting, dark blue t-shirt with the Newport News Fire Department’s logo over his left breast. In his peripheral vision, he could see the man’s lips moving. He was speaking to Jason. But the words were muted by the humming in his ears.
“What?” Jason shouted, barely able to hear his own voice.
The paramedic began to roll Jason over. The metal lump under him made Jason push him away. The Colt was still in his waistband. He did not own it and had no license for it.
Jason shoved the first responder. The firefighter looked at him with confusion.
“I’m fine,” Jason shouted.
The EMT held up his hands as if asking, “What the hell?”
“I’m fine.”
“You need stitches on the gash on your forehead and those glass wounds in your shoulder.”
Jason shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not a good idea. We can’t let you drive, sir. That gash on your forehead is deep and the wound in your arm needs medical attention. You may have a concussion.”
Jason glanced at his arm and shoulder. It had been expertly bandaged and wrapped. His hand went to his forehead. Another thick wad of gauze had been placed over his head.
A Newport News uniformed cop climbed onto the back bumper of the rig. The paramedic and the cop exchanged words. Jason could not hear what they were saying.
The cop moved beside the stretcher, switching places with the firefighter. He asked him several questions including his name and address.
“ … what happened?”
Jason shouted several partial truths. “The truck was swerving all over the road. I came up behind him … looked like he was drunk. He finally flipped it. I lost control too.”
“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
Jason shook his head.
“Do you have identification?”
Jason fished out his wallet and handed it to the cop, who read the driver’s license.
“Do you know the gentleman in the pick-up truck, Mr. Rodgers?”
“No.”
“The EMT tells me you do not want to go to the hospital. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
At that moment, a man appeared outside the rear of the ambulance. He wore a black suit and a fedora and flashed a leather wallet and a badge. Jason, again, had trouble hearing. He caught snatches of the conversation between the uniform and the suit.
“I’ll take care of this,” the suit said to the cop.
The man climbed in as the uniform exited.
“Is there someone you want to call?” the man asked, placing a pretend phone to his ear.
Jason nodded. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “My girlfriend.”
He placed his free hand over his ear and listened to Chrissie’s land line ring. It sounded as if it were in the far end of a long tunnel. As it rang, he couldn’t help but notice that the hat on the man’s head looked like a black version of the one worn by Dick Tracy.
It rang ten times. He tried her cell with the same result.
He left messages on both phones for her to call him. He bent his arm to look at his Tissot. The dome was shattered but the second hand was still moving.
Four-twenty-three in the morning.
Where the hell could she be at this hour!
Delilah Hussein forced a reluctant smile. The man was stubborn. This was taking much longer than anticipated.
Back in her seat, she put the green, tapered bottle of Perrier to her mouth, took a sip, then patted her lips with a starched white cloth napkin.
Hammon lay half on his side, bleeding from the two wounds, groaning.
“One piece of information. That’s all I require. I know you’re in a lot of pain. One word will put an end to all of it. Comprenez-vous?” Do you understand?
Hammon’s floral print shirt, soaked in blood, clung to his skin as his chest heaved. He did not respond.
Hussein nodded toward Oliver, her manservant, standing behind Hammon’s Adirondack chair.
Oliver, having returned back to second island, grabbed a fistful of the thinning hair. “Answer the lady! Do you understand?”
The spy managed a feeble nod.
“Good,” Hussein said.
“What … do … you … want?”
“Remember, if you lie to me, you know what will happen …”
“What do … you want?”
“Où se trouve mon fils?” Where’s my son?