“Get our asset in New Jersey on the line,” Hussein commanded.
Two minutes later, Oliver handed her the secure satellite phone.
“What is the password?” the male voice on the other end demanded.
“Hygeia,” Hussein replied.
“This is Quinton Boyd. Proceed.”
“Allo. Comment allez-vous?” Hussein asked. “Is everything ready?”
“Everything is as well as can be expected.”
“That statement does not fill me with confidence. Can we depend on you and your man?”
“We will not fail. When can we expect the shipment?”
“It is en route as we speak.”
“How long?
“Three hours. Is the room ready?”
“Yes, temperature is at the prescribed 28 degrees Fahrenheit. What about payment?”
“The money will be wired when you secure the package and provide us with video evidence that is in place. I want to see the drums with their identification numbers visible being placed into the hold.”
“It will be done.”
Christine struggled to get air into her lungs. The guard’s large bloodied hands had clamped off her throat. With her arms chained above her, she was defenseless. She flailed her legs, trying to bend her right leg up to put it between her and Charlie’s chest.
She couldn’t execute the maneuver. Each attempt became weaker.
She stared up into the distorted, torn face. The muscles in her neck burned under his grip. Christine opened her mouth in one last effort to allow air in.
Nothing!
The black curtain began to close.
Before it completely descended, a shadow crossed before her dwindling field of vision. A quick, thin, darting outline. Something warm splashed her face, a jet of warm stickiness. The taste in her mouth was a familiar one. Blood.
The shadow retreated to the right and in once more. The pressure on her throat and neck eased. Cool, dank, delicious air flooded into her lungs. She gasped a long, deep breath. As blood rushed back into her head, a large volume of Charlie’s blood hit her face and mouth.
Opening her eyes fully, she spied snippets of the violent scene through a blood-coated curtain. Charlie’s dead weight slumped on her naked chest. The skin of her wrists, supporting the man now, began to tear. The pain, though excruciating, felt good. She was alive!
“Help me,” she squeaked.
Michael shuffled into view, his trousers and arms covered in crimson splatter. His eyes wide with terror, the shaft of the pitchfork whose tines were buried into Charlie’s neck, were clutched in his hands. Michael’s gaze, far away and unfocused, remained riveted on the dead man.
“Michael, please help me. Get him off of me.”
Several seconds later, he reacted.
He grimaced, pulling the pitchfork from the man’s neck. Christine used her legs to push and partially squirm from under the body.
“Pull him off.”
Michael circled the body and grabbed a fistful of shirt, pulling with all his might. He elevated the corpse a few inches, allowing Christine to scooch free. Michael grabbed the ankle and slid him another foot.
Michael looked into her eyes, tears welling. Fear consumed him, his mind now absorbing the extent of blood and gore. He furrowed a brow and turned away.
Chrissie could not see him. But she heard him, retching, emptying the contents of his stomach near the body.
The helicopter landed on the tarmac in the middle of the H on the helipad. The hangers and buildings and their layout were familiar to Jason. He’d been here before.
“This is Andrews Air Force Base!”
“It’s called Joint Base Andrews now,” the agent beside him said, “but it’s the same place.” He pointed to a two vehicle convoy of Chevy SUVs approaching. “Here’s your next ride.”
Before he could fire any more questions, Jason was whisked by another team of FBI agents to the second vehicle. Pinned to the back seat by the g-force created by the accelerating SUV, Jason closed his eyes and prayed that Hussein had not discovered that Peter was alone in the truck and that Michael and Chrissie were still alive.
Standing on wobbly legs, Chrissie looked down at the carnage. She was covered in crimson. The body of the dead guard was bathed in blood. The face a mutilated piece of meat.
Using a small hand tool he found along the wall of the cellar, Michael worked hard for ten minutes, gouging out the soft mortar fastening the iron rings to the wall, freeing her. Her wrists, still wrapped by the handcuffs, were sore and lacerated. Chains, handcuffs, and iron rings dangled from each wrist.
The boy retrieved a dirty cloth from atop one of the wine racks. Michael carefully wiped Miss Christine’s face with the cloth, removing the blood, grime and sweat. Miss Christine winced as he gently caressed the cloth around her swollen eye and lips.
Michael removed his shirt. Kneeling beside her now, he worked his sweaty shirt over her head and into the arms. His feet, still chained together by a single strand of chain did not allow him freedom to move freely. His eyes were swollen and red. Tear tracks snaked lines through the dirt and sweat on his face. He saw the folded clothes their captor had placed on one of the wine racks. He fetched them and changed quickly behind one of the wine racks.
He returned to her, kneeling beside her as she sat on the floor. Now that her nakedness was covered, Michael looked at her without awkwardness. She smiled at him. Michael collapsed into her arms. With no words to describe what they’d just experienced, they sat in each other’s arms, making no sound.
Finally, with his head still buried in her neck, she whispered.
“Thank you, Michael. Thank you. You saved my life.”
Michael squeezed her tighter. Christine could feel his shoulders bobbing. As each second passed, she felt the tension release from his body. His sobs increased in number and strength.
When he’d finished crying, she spoke, “Let’s get out of here. Where is the other guard?”
“He’s unconscious outside. I hit him with a rock.”
Christine placed a hand on his cheek and smiled again.
“We need to get the keys to these chains,” she said.
Michael eyes widened. He glanced at the body warily and shook his head.
“Don’t worry,” she calmed. “You’ve done enough.”
Christine moved to the body and patted Charlie’s pockets, avoiding a look at the corpse’s face or naked butt. She found the lump in his trousers and pulled the keychain from the blood-soaked pants. She found the key and freed herself from the chains and handcuffs. Then she unshackled Michael’s leg irons.
“Let’s go. I don’t want to be here anymore.”