89

They found him slumped against a wall in the far corner of a back room.

The man was hiding behind a large wooden desk. His left leg was badly wounded, and he was bleeding out. Writhing in pain, he was feverishly trying to wrap a black- and white-checkered kaffiyeh around his left leg as a tourniquet. He was surrounded by shattered glass, chunks of drywall, overturned chairs, and bullet casings everywhere. On a wooden table in the center of the room, covered in dust, were a half-dozen open laptops, multiple satellite phones, pistols, and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts. On one wall was a reinforced metal shelf upon which sat four television monitors, screens cracked and black, none working anymore.

Callaghan trained his AK-47 at the man’s chest. Marcus slung his own Kalashnikov over his back and drew his Glock 9mm. Approaching the jihadist warily, Marcus kicked away the Colt .45 by the man’s left hand and studied him closely. The face was bearded but no longer shrouded by the kaffiyeh. The man’s hair was jet-black, with a few flecks of gray around the temples. It was uncut and matted with sweat. Marcus pegged him in his late forties or early fifties, a hard man who had lived a hard life.

It was the man’s eyes, however, dark and cold, filled with an unnerving mixture of pain and hatred, that gave him away. Marcus would know those eyes anywhere. The clothing helped too. The man was wearing a traditional white robe, now covered in blood, and a brown vest. A thick leather belt circled his waist. Tucked into the belt was a sheath that held a large, curved dagger with a turquoise horn handle.

There was no question now. This was him. This was the man who had spoken into the camera, the one who had shot the two aid workers in the back of the head, the one who had set the blonde woman on fire and laughed as she burned to death.

But where was Abu Nakba?

Saying nothing, Marcus snapped a photo of the man’s face with his satphone, uploaded it to Langley, and waited. The facial recognition software did its magic, and a moment later, Marcus and the rest of the team heard the voice of Dr. Martha Dell in their earpieces.

“Mabruk, habibi,” she said. “You just bagged Badr Hassan al-Ruzami.”

“Roger that,” Marcus replied, returning the phone to the clip on his belt.

Ruzami just sat there bleeding, his eyes darting back and forth from Marcus to Callaghan, clearly wondering who was going to speak first and what was going to happen next.

Marcus was wondering that too. He knew this man needed medical attention. He just wasn’t certain he wanted to give it to him quite yet.

Stepping away from Ruzami, Marcus stood up from the crouch he’d been in and walked over to the blown-out windows overlooking the courtyard and the flagpole.

“Wait here,” he said to Callaghan, “and put two bullets through his eyes if he gives you any trouble.”

“Will do, boss.”

Then Marcus went back downstairs where he could be out of earshot of their prize prisoner, the leader of the Troika. He ordered Geoff to help him drag the bodies of three dead jihadists over to the flagpole. He also ordered Noah and Jenny to come to the house quickly and bag up all the loot. Pete and the colonel he told to remain on overwatch. Company was coming. They did not have much time. But he had a feeling this just might work.

When everything was set, Marcus went back upstairs, crossed the room, and stood over his prey.

“Commander Ruzami, you are now a prisoner of the United States government,” he began.

The man’s eyes flashed with surprise.

“That’s right,” Marcus said. “I know who you are. And I know what you’ve done. So here’s how this is going to work.”

Without warning, Marcus smashed his boot down on Ruzami’s injured leg. The man shrieked in pain even louder than before and tried to push Marcus away. But Marcus shoved his automatic pistol into the man’s forehead, driving his head back hard against the concrete wall.

“You’re going to tell me what I want to know, and you’re going to do it right now,” Marcus said. “Where’s the man you call Abu Nakba?”

Gritting his teeth, Ruzami tried to speak but could not. Marcus noticed Callaghan raise his eyebrows and took the hint. He eased his boot off the wound ever so slightly, providing a small measure of relief.

“It’s too late,” Ruzami spat in guttural but understandable English. “You cannot stop what Father has set into motion.”

“And what is that?” Marcus demanded.

Ruzami didn’t answer.

“Where is Abu Nakba right now, right this minute?” Marcus demanded.

“Arrogance,” Ruzami shouted. “You will pay for your arrogance—all of you. I told you. You cannot stop this. We are coming for you. Infidels. Enemies of Allah. You shall burn. All of you. And soon. Very, very soon.”

Marcus smashed his Glock across Ruzami’s face, creating a gash above the man’s right eye. Blood poured from his forehead, nose, and mouth. Yet the man’s eyes grew more defiant.

Just then Jenny and Noah entered the room. Marcus paid no attention to them other than to order them to do their work fast. Then he drove his boot into Ruzami’s stomach and forced him to double over. Holstering his pistol, Marcus put a pair of plastic cuffs on the jihadist’s wrists and removed the man’s dagger from its sheath, stuck it into his own belt, and dragged Ruzami upright. Then he drew the Glock again and shoved it into the man’s right kneecap.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Marcus told Ruzami. “I’m going to count to three, and you’re either going to tell me what Abu Nakba is planning and where he is, or you are going to experience more pain than you ever thought possible.”

Ruzami said nothing.

“Right now,” Marcus said again. “Do you hear me? Here we go.”

The voice of the colonel suddenly crackled over the radio. He reported that a fleet of Range Rovers was racing down the wadi from the northwest, at least a dozen of them, filled with fighters and kicking up a cloud of dust.

“How far?” Jenny asked when Marcus didn’t answer.

“A kilometer,” the Saudi said. “Maybe two but no more. We need to move.”

Marcus ignored them all. “One,” he shouted in the man’s face.

Ruzami refused to speak.

“Two.”

The man was struggling to get free.

“Three.”

Marcus waited a beat, but Ruzami said nothing. Instead, he looked up and spat in Marcus’s face.

Marcus pulled the trigger, and the gun went off. The explosion echoed through the canyon, as did the screams.