Lisa Rodgers had heard the ring before and knew who it was. She hated that shrill ring—an imitation of a wild cat screeching in a fit of agitated distress. Her husband had a twisted sense of humor.
What kind of trouble is he in now?
Peter could sleep through a hurricane, tornado, and nuclear blast if they hit all at once. He did not flinch when the damned thing began to vibrate, flash, and scream from the nightstand on his side of their massive king-sized bed.
She rolled toward her husband when the third screech of the feral cat pierced the darkness of their Smithfield home. She bent her arm and dug her elbow deep into his rib cage.
The former marine arched his back. “What the hell?” he spat.
“Peter, answer the damned phone.”
She heard him fumbling with the device and the noise stopped.
“Jase, what’s up?”
She lay on her back, staring into the blackness as she listened to Peter’s half of the conversation.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
More listening.
“Okay, give me forty-five minutes,” Peter said as he ended the call.
He swung his legs off the bed as he spoke to Lisa. “I have to go, Jason needs my help.”
“What else is new?”
“Your son,” Hammon gasped, “is being held in a place that cannot be penetrated. He cannot escape …”
“I did not ask for your opinion, Hammon. I just want the location.”
“If I tell you, you will allow me to leave.”
“No. You are going to die. It’s just a matter of how long it will take and in what manner. The longer you refuse, the longer Oliver is going to inflict unspeakable pain on you. If you do tell me now, we will kill you quickly and as painlessly as possible.”
Hammon closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer. Panic invaded his pained expression.
Hussein nodded again. Oliver moved in once more. He tied Hammon’s wide arms to the wooden rails of the chair. Then he tied the neck with a length of rope to back of the chair.
“Last chance,” Hussein declared as if speaking to a disobedient child.
Oliver slammed the butt of his handgun into Hammon’s face. Blood and teeth sprayed. Hammon cried out.
“Où est-il?” Where is he?
Hammon shook his head, blood dripping from his chin.
“Okay,” Hussein said with a tone of resignation.
Oliver removed a long, thick, bladed knife from a scabbard under his pant leg. He forced Hammon’s head to one side, holding it firmly with one hand. Climbing atop him, Oliver forced his knee onto Hammon’s chest for additional stability. The blade descended between Hammon’s right ear and his scalp, resting there. He drew the blade back.
With each stroke, the blade carved back and forth, separating the ear from the spy’s head. Hammon cried out with the intensity and volume of ten men. Blood-tinged spittle plumed forth, hitting Oliver in the face and chest.
Oliver dropped the severed ear, now a ribbon of flesh, to the patio. It hit with a dull, wet splat.
Blood flowed from the wound, down Hammon’s neck, in a wide triangular path. Hammon hyperventilated, trying to block out the agony. Tears seeped from his closed eyes. Low, moaning sounds emanated from his throat.
“I … can’t … tell … you,” he whispered. “I don’t … know … where he is.”
Hussein shook her head and frowned.
“You just told me that he’s being held in a facility from which escape is impossible. That tells me you must know where it is. You’re being inconsistent. Your skills as a spy have eroded, Hammon. Either that or the pain is unbearable. I’m guessing it’s the pain.”
“No … more … please …”
“Give me the information I want.”
“How will you know I’m not lying?”
“We have narrowed down the possibilities to a few places. If you give us an off-the-wall answer, we’ll know you’re being untruthful.”
Hussein sat stone still. She’d just lied to Hammon. They had no idea where her son was being held. This was her only hope. She’s was bluffing. Though he didn’t know it, Hammon held all the cards.
“So, shall we continue,” she asked. “Or do you have an answer for us?”
The sinking feeling in Jason’s stomach plunged deeper when he saw the house.
Chrissie’s place, their place, was dark. Not a single light glowed. Something was wrong.
“You need to have those wounds looked at,” Peter said for the third time, nodding toward the blood-soaked bandage plastered to his head.
“Later,” Jason retorted. “This doesn’t look right, Pete. There are no lights on.”
“It is early morning, Jason. She’s probably asleep.”
“She always leaves at least one light on upstairs and downstairs ever since the attacks on the presidents.”
“Maybe she’s out. Didn’t you say you guys had a fight?”
“At this hour? Look, her car’s in the driveway. There’s something wrong. I’ve called her five times. She hasn’t answered. I’m worried about her.” Jason moved to exit Peter’s Hummer.
“I’m going in with you.”
Hammon’s chin rested on his heaving chest. His head bobbed with each respiration. The warm blood from the wound where his right ear once resided flowed over his back and down his chest, seeping into the folds of his neck.
I need to find a way to die!
He had been working his tongue against the back tooth of his lower right jaw for the last few minutes. It served two purposes. One practical, one necessary. The undulations of his tongue against the tooth helped him focus on something other than the agony circling his head and body. The second reason was more vital to his and his team’s mission. He needed to get at the small capsule beneath the false molar.
The right side of his head and face felt as if a blowtorch were searing the skin and muscle. The gunshot wound in his shoulder had a strong, acidic pulse. The incision in his gut stung with pain, occasionally out-screaming the intense agony of the other wounds just to remind him it, too, was still there.
The angry signals ping-ponged back and forth. Vomit welled in his throat. If he wasn’t seated, he would have fallen over. His whimpering and tears were impotent, involuntary reactions to the interminable horror.
He knew the location. But Hammon couldn’t reveal it. Revealing the site had to be avoided at all costs. His colleagues at the CIA were getting close. They were hot on his trail, the trail to discovering what Hammon had done in aiding The Simoon and Hussein’s people in the failed assassination attempts. Hammon held no illusions. These people, like him, were good at what they did. They would eventually have proof that he was the mastermind of the leaked information about the christening in Newport News.
Hammon’s only chance was to locate Delilah Hussein’s base of operations, her compound, so they could apprehend her. Once she was in custody, he could cut a deal to save his life … or at the very least … keep from spending the rest of his life in a federal prison. But that option had evaporated. Hussein had brought him back to her compound. Hammon knew that meant he would not leave the island alive.
Hussein, no doubt, wanted her son back. If she knew his whereabouts, she would try to free him. The Simoon had assets living secretly inside the United States. Hammon’s cause was lost. He was going to die. He needed to die on his own terms … before he revealed the location. There would be no reversal of fortune. Consumed by the sense of duty and a need to have the agony end, he redoubled his efforts to loosen the molar. Hammon needed to keep Hussein from getting her son back.
He sighed heavily and felt his eyes beginning to roll into his skull. He shook his head, willing the vomit and shakiness back.
Unconsciousness would be a welcome albeit temporary relief. It would not be the end. Hussein would not kill him; she would not allow him to find the sanctuary of death until he had given up the location
I need to die now!
The false molar had been hollowed out, stuffed with a cyanide capsule and cemented back into place. With free hands and a small pair of grips, Hammon could have freed the tooth in a matter of seconds. But with only his tongue, it was a gargantuan task. The tip of his tongue was worn with irritation and shook with fatigue.
“Shall we continue, Hammon?”
Hussein’s words sounded as if they were coming through a poorly tuned radio. He felt the manservant move in, then the sharp grip of his thinning hair.
Hammon tensed with the anticipation of another bout of horrible agony.