think the authorities were anywhere close to their hiding spot—that would’ve brought a different kind of tension. No, this felt more like they were holding out for an answer or a piece of information that would make or break the next step in their game.
But what information? Where was it coming from? And how the hell were they getting it?
Fax wanted to shake the answers out of somebody, but he didn’t dare. He could only focus on his task, too aware of the lemming sitting across from him, winding wire for a detonator coil while he divided his attention between the chatter of a daytime talk show on the small TV in the corner, and the drone of voices coming from the back of the four-room cabin.
Fax knew where each of the men were and how they were armed. He had a plan in mind if things went suddenly south—he knew what weapons he’d try for and where his escape routes were. But those were academic exercises for the most part, because experience had taught him that when things went bad, they usually spun right past contingencies and into the realm of action-reaction real fast.
So he stayed ready for action, knowing it might be the difference between life and death—not just his own life, but those of hundreds, probably thousands of innocents who’d be planning to be part of whatever parade the terrorists targeted.
He couldn’t warn the authorities yet, he knew. Not until and unless there was no possible option for apprehending al-Jihad and the others mid-crime. He did, however, fully intend to make sure Chelsea was nowhere near the planned attack.
He couldn’t save everyone. But he’d damn well save her.
“Fairfax.”
It wasn’t until he heard Muhammad call his name from the doorway of the back room that Fax realized the air in the little cabin had changed, going from one of waiting to one of decision.
Fine tension shivered across his skin, but he played it cool, setting aside the length of pipe he’d been working on. “Yeah?”
“In here.” Muhammad disappeared back into the room.
Fax found himself trading a look with Lee. If it’d been anyone other than the lemming, he might’ve asked whether the other man knew what was going on. But it wasn’t, so he didn’t. He just headed into the back room.
He was two steps in when a heavy blow came out of nowhere and struck him across the back of the head.
Fax shouted and spun, grabbing for the weapon. Al-Jihad himself wielded the short club, his dead eyes alight with killing rage as he hissed, “Traitor!” and came at Fax again.
The second blow caught him in the temple and sent him to his hands and knees, where he braced himself, retching and reeling, not able to run or fight or do anything but howl with the knowledge that his cover was somehow blown, that…
A third blow caught him below the ear and he collapsed into darkness.
He surfaced what seemed like a long time later, pulled to semiconsciousness by the sound of someone saying Chelsea’s name.
He stirred and groaned when he heard her name again, and crazily wondered if she was there. But he quickly realized that it wasn’t Chelsea herself. It was someone asking him about her. And that was a big problem.
Cracking open his eyes, he squinted into the too-bright light at his interrogator, and recognized Muhammad.
Rage flared when he realized the terrorists knew that he and Chelsea were connected. He was suffused with an overwhelming urge to rip into Muhammad for daring to even say her name. Moments later, though, he blearily realized that he wasn’t ripping into anything any time soon. He was securely bound to a chair set in the middle of the cabin’s back room. His head lolled, his consciousness was furred with drugs, and he could barely hear the questions Muhammad was firing at him.
His slurred answer was anatomically impossible.
Infuriated, Muhammad backhanded him, then spat in his face. He turned to someone out of Fax’s line of sight, and said, “We learned our lesson from the
But what information? Where was it coming from? And how the hell were they getting it?
Fax wanted to shake the answers out of somebody, but he didn’t dare. He could only focus on his task, too aware of the lemming sitting across from him, winding wire for a detonator coil while he divided his attention between the chatter of a daytime talk show on the small TV in the corner, and the drone of voices coming from the back of the four-room cabin.
Fax knew where each of the men were and how they were armed. He had a plan in mind if things went suddenly south—he knew what weapons he’d try for and where his escape routes were. But those were academic exercises for the most part, because experience had taught him that when things went bad, they usually spun right past contingencies and into the realm of action-reaction real fast.
So he stayed ready for action, knowing it might be the difference between life and death—not just his own life, but those of hundreds, probably thousands of innocents who’d be planning to be part of whatever parade the terrorists targeted.
He couldn’t warn the authorities yet, he knew. Not until and unless there was no possible option for apprehending al-Jihad and the others mid-crime. He did, however, fully intend to make sure Chelsea was nowhere near the planned attack.
He couldn’t save everyone. But he’d damn well save her.
“Fairfax.”
It wasn’t until he heard Muhammad call his name from the doorway of the back room that Fax realized the air in the little cabin had changed, going from one of waiting to one of decision.
Fine tension shivered across his skin, but he played it cool, setting aside the length of pipe he’d been working on. “Yeah?”
“In here.” Muhammad disappeared back into the room.
Fax found himself trading a look with Lee. If it’d been anyone other than the lemming, he might’ve asked whether the other man knew what was going on. But it wasn’t, so he didn’t. He just headed into the back room.
He was two steps in when a heavy blow came out of nowhere and struck him across the back of the head.
Fax shouted and spun, grabbing for the weapon. Al-Jihad himself wielded the short club, his dead eyes alight with killing rage as he hissed, “Traitor!” and came at Fax again.
The second blow caught him in the temple and sent him to his hands and knees, where he braced himself, retching and reeling, not able to run or fight or do anything but howl with the knowledge that his cover was somehow blown, that…
A third blow caught him below the ear and he collapsed into darkness.
He surfaced what seemed like a long time later, pulled to semiconsciousness by the sound of someone saying Chelsea’s name.
He stirred and groaned when he heard her name again, and crazily wondered if she was there. But he quickly realized that it wasn’t Chelsea herself. It was someone asking him about her. And that was a big problem.
Cracking open his eyes, he squinted into the too-bright light at his interrogator, and recognized Muhammad.
Rage flared when he realized the terrorists knew that he and Chelsea were connected. He was suffused with an overwhelming urge to rip into Muhammad for daring to even say her name. Moments later, though, he blearily realized that he wasn’t ripping into anything any time soon. He was securely bound to a chair set in the middle of the cabin’s back room. His head lolled, his consciousness was furred with drugs, and he could barely hear the questions Muhammad was firing at him.
His slurred answer was anatomically impossible.
Infuriated, Muhammad backhanded him, then spat in his face. He turned to someone out of Fax’s line of sight, and said, “We learned our lesson from the
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