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“My men are still sweeping A Deck, sir.” Chun said. “She can’t have gotten far.”
“Forget about that, Chun. Just meet me in B-14.”
“Sir, we need to find her.”
“No. She’s going to come to us. Now get down to B-14.”
Timken smiled to himself, pleased with his plan, as he set off for the cabin where he’d secured his high-value hostages.
Big Al Prejean was sitting on the floor of cabin B-14 when the four jihadis walked in. Two were Mohanese and two were American. One was a big guy of Asian descent, the other the bearded white guy who called himself Abu Nasir. Prejean was halfway relieved to see them. Stearns had been talking nonstop since they’d been thrown in the cabin together, and it was driving him up the wall. Not once had the ambassador expressed any remorse or sorrow over the violent murder of his press attaché. Instead, he ignored Prejean and talked nonstop to Parker, speculating that the president must surely be mounting some kind of rescue mission. After all, he and Parker were very important people. Beneath his bravado, the man was petrified.
Stearns stopped talking the moment Abu Nasir entered the cabin.
A soft clacking sound came from inside his pocket as he surveyed the room warily. His right hand was plugged into his pocket, the number 82 tattooed on his wrist. Abu Nasir looked at Parker for a moment, then at Big Al, before finally settling on Stearns, who squirmed under the icy scrutiny of the American jihadi.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Stearns said, his nervous voice breaking the silence. “I understand your grievances. You’ve got some legitimate issues with the Sultan, and I want to offer myself as an intermediary. If you let me speak to the president, I’m sure he’ll be willing to listen to your demands—”
“Give me your sock,” Abu Nasir said.
“Excuse me?”
“Your sock. Give it to me.”
Gideon's War and Hard Target
Big Al considered himself to be a pretty tough guy. But...
Abu Nasir plucked the watch from Stearns’s hand, dropped it on the floor, and brought down the heavy heel of his steel-toed boot. It made a sharp cracking noise.
“Give me your fucking sock. And don’t make me ask you again.”
Stearns didn’t need any more convincing, although it took him a moment to decide which shoe to remove. His hands were shaking as he untied the laces of his right shoe and pulled it off. The stench of sweat-soaked silk filled the cabin as the ambassador peeled off his sock and handed it to Abu Nasir.
CHAPTER THIRTY
KATE’S EARS WERE STILL ringing. Before being shot by Gideon, the jihadi had discharged his gun inches from Kate’s ear and had then fallen on top of her, knocking her to the floor. Gideon had pulled her to her feet and ushered her through the doorway and set out for D-4. Kate was about to thank him for saving her life, but she saw something in his face that stopped her from saying anything. His eyes were opaque, lost in some private thought that demanded only her respectful silence.
They moved at a fast clip toward D-4 without speaking a word. Gideon’s mind kept playing back to the moment he had discovered his mother’s body, the gaping wound in her chest, the empty expression on her face. He remembered piling his father’s guns on the bedsheet and dragging them across the lawn toward the pond behind their house. He remembered throwing them, the splash of each handcrafted weapon as it disappeared into the water. And he remembered his oath, never to fire a gun again.
He remembered standing on the podium at the UN only two days ago, listening to the president of the United States introduce him as a man who “has dedicated himself to that ancient and most sacred cornerstone of our moral code: Thou Shalt Not Kill.”
But Gideon had killed. He had killed without hesitating because he had no other choice. He had killed with ease and efficiency, shattering in a moment the core conviction that had defined him for his adult life. But rather than remorse or even confusion, he felt the bracing clarity of having finally released something he’d held on to far too tightly for far too long. What surprised Gideon most was the whispered voice he heard in his head. Good kill, son.
The warmth of his father’s imagined approval surprised him, although it was short-lived, dispersed by a sudden burst of static that filled the corridor. Gideon and Kate stopped in their tracks as a voice boomed over the rig’s public address system.
“Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please?”
Kate recognized the sadistic drawl of Abu Nasir, and looked at Gideon.
“Your brother . . .”
“My brother?” Gideon frowned and shook his head. “That’s not him. That’s not his voice.”
Kate studied him for a moment, trying to find a way to explain his evident denial in as sympathetic a way as she could muster. “You haven’t spoken to him in seven years. He’s not the same person you knew.” She went on to describe Abu Nasir, reminding him of the numbers she’d seen tattooed on his wrist. Gideon couldn’t dispute her facts or her conviction. He had barely recognized Tillman in the photograph Uncle Earl had given him, and maybe Tillman’s voice had changed just as dramatically. Could his brother really have transformed into someone who no longer resembled the man fixed in Gideon’s memory?
But the man who called himself Abu Nasir was in fact Orville Tim-ken, and he was now pacing a tight line before the public address system microphone. “I’m directing this a
Big Al realized with relief that Kate had escaped from the jihadis. After they’d taken her the last time, he was afraid they had killed her. Somehow she had not only gotten away but had also managed to take out three of them. That’s my girl, he thought to himself. He met Earl Parker’s eyes with a tight nod of pride. Parker’s face, however, betrayed no emotion.
“I’m here with Mr. Parker, Mr. Prejean, and the Honorable Randall J. Stearns, ambassador to the court of Sultan Ali IV, who has been kind enough to lend me one of his socks.”
Ambassador Stearns looked up fearfully as Timken shoveled a fistful of ball bearings into his empty sock. “Please,” Stearns said, “I’m not giving you any trouble, you don’t have to do this—” Abu Nasir slapped him hard, a crisp, ringing, open-handed strike that reddened his fleshy face and shut him up.
“Ms. Murphy . . .” Timken filled the sock with more ball bearings as he continued to speak, his voice slow and clear so that the microphone could pick up every word. “I am filling the ambassador’s sock with an even pound’s worth of ball bearings.” He fu
As Timkin tied the sock with a simple knot, Stearns felt a wet warmth spreading through his crotch and down his thighs and realized numbly that he was pissing himself. He stared at the sock, mesmerized, as Timken swung it back and forth like a pendulum until the momentum carried it into a full circle.
“These ball bearings are manufactured by the Timken Corporation, the world leader in ball and roller bearing technology. If I may, Ms. Murphy, I’d like to demonstrate just why the Timken ball bearing is universally recognized as the finest and most durable antifriction device on the market today.”
Big Al started to stand. “Leave him alone, you sonuvabitch—” Chun gave Prejean a sharp push with the sole of his boot. Hobbled by his flex-cuffed ankles, Big Al toppled onto the ground like a felled tree.