The Oval Office sat on the southeast corner of the White House, overlooking the Rose Garden. During their tenure each President got to choose the decor inside of the office. President John Merrick decided to use the Oval Office to memorialize his brother. Paul Merrick was killed on September 11th, 2001, when a suicide terrorist crashed a commercial jet into the office where he worked in the Pentagon.
Directly across from the rosewood desk hung a large framed photo of Paul Merrick in his lieutenant’s uniform, taken just a week before the attack. Other photos of his brother, his wife, and their two daughters intermingled with portraits of Harry Truman and JFK. His brother’s favorite putter leaned against the wall next to a couple of golf balls. Whenever Merrick got the nerve, he gripped the club and felt the indentations where his younger brother’s hands had worn down the leather. His fingers wound around the grip and rekindled the warmth that his brother’s hands left behind. Merrick would lean over, aim a golf ball at the leg of his desk and stroke the putter. Like a magic wand it conjured up teenage memories of Saturday afternoons sneaking over to the local public course and playing golf with his brother deep into the darkness. In more recent years, with the finances to back him, Paul would constantly tinker with new equipment. Somehow the latest technology always ended up in his golf bag, but the putter was the only club that Paul would never replace no matter how old and worn.
Now Merrick stood over a golf ball, his hands duplicating his brother’s position on the putter. With memories of his brother resurfacing, he stared intently at the ball as if he might see his brother’s face when his head came up. He didn’t. Instead he saw the stern expression of his Chief of Staff, William Hatfield sitting on a leather chair scrolling down the screen on his laptop.
Situated in various chairs and sofas fronting Merrick’s desk were five of Merrick’s aides who’d pulled an all-nighter with him collecting data and discussing options. A tray of cut fruit and vegetables sat on a coffee table in the middle of the room. Secretary of State Samuel Fisk interrupted his pacing to take a celery stick and nervously chew it to down his fingertips. Fisk had the longest running relationship with Merrick, going back to eighth grade, and he always had the last word on serious issues. Everyone in the room knew this, so Merrick would sometimes catch his staff addressing Fisk instead of him. This was of no concern to him. Merrick was as no nonsense as they came, and everyone who worked for him understood his loyalties. The Presidency was one of the few occupations where cronyism was not only allowed, but practically a necessity. Merrick surrounded himself with people he trusted and in return, his people trusted him.
Standing behind Hatfield and looking over his shoulder, Press Secretary Fredrick Himes craned his neck to get a better glimpse of the overnight polls.
Hatfield scrolled down the computer screen with his index finger. “Do you want the bad news, John, or the worse news?”
“Just give it to me, Bill.” Merrick hunched over the putter, eyeing the golf ball.
“Your approval rating has dropped again. It’s down from forty-three to thirty-nine per cent.”
Merrick felt the room tighten up. A lame duck president not only lost the support of his political constituents, but could indelibly tarnish a staff member’s career. The captain might go down with the ship, but the crew didn’t escape unscathed.
Hatfield scrolled further until he found what he was looking for. “When asked whether the President was handling the KSF attacks properly, sixty-five per cent said no. Only twenty-five per cent said yes. Ten per cent were undecided.”
Merrick looked up at the faces before him. They were long, tired and confused. They’d spent the past week performing masterful acts of damage control and it seemed to be paying little dividends.
Hatfield said, “Then there’s the people who were asked whether-”
“That’s enough,” Merrick announced. He didn’t need to hear any more, especially from his Chief of Staff, who was the White House’s version of Chicken Little. Hatfield was a good, loyal man, but the pressure associated with the everyday dealings of a sitting president was becoming too much for the man. Nobody wanted to hear bad news from the panic-stricken voice of Bill Hatfield.
Merrick leaned the putter against the wall and walked to the front of his desk. “I want to remind all of you, this is not a permanent condition. We will ultimately succeed in finding Kharrazi and we will put a stop to the bombings, and our approval rating will go up.”
This inspired a few nods of sympathetic agreement. Merrick could sense the disingenuous consent to his appraisal and wondered how long he had before he’d lost even his own staff.
“Sir,” Press Secretary Himes said, “if you don’t mind me asking-how close are we to accomplishing our goals?”
This, of course, was the real question. Merrick could tell a story and buy an extra day or two, but eventually it would come back to bite him. He knew better than to fabricate scenarios that didn’t exist. He received confidential information from the FBI three or four times a day, and each briefing was more frustrating than the last. Apparently, Kharrazi had cultivated a team of Kurds whose only purpose was to act suspicious enough to be brought in for questioning. Hundreds of decoys were sent out into the streets of America asking hardware storeowners for large amounts of fuses and other curious materials. They would linger long enough for the clerk to contact the FBI and get themselves dragged into custody without any possibility of furnishing information about Kharrazi. It cost the Bureau precious man-hours of investigative time, which they desperately needed.
“Fredrick, I’ll have a full report available to you for the three o’clock press conference. I’ll know more when I get my briefing from the Bureau this morning.” He gave Himes a trust me look, but his clout was wearing thin and he knew it.
Merrick pointed to his Defense Secretary, Martin Riggs, “Marty, what about that other option?”
This drew some few flinches in the room. It was the option that no one wanted to consider. The eight hundred pound gorilla that sat on Merrick’s desk in the form of an order to withdraw troops from Turkey.
Martin Riggs was an ex-marine, ex-CIA, and exceptional at finding a middle ground in almost every situation. He knew the terrors of war intimately and Merrick took him on as Defense Secretary for that very reason. Merrick wanted someone who understood the consequences of combat, and therefore would be more agreeable to alternatives. Riggs wasn’t afraid of confrontation, just aware of the costs.
“Sir,” Riggs said, dropping a clipboard onto the coffee table and leaning over, elbows on his knees. “We’re prepared to release military footage from Turkey showing Turkish Security Forces in Kalar raising the Turkish Flag and shouting cheers as they pump their guns into the air. Kalar was the Kurds last stronghold and this should be enough evidence to show that the United States is no longer needed. It could allow us the dignity to leave on our own terms, without pressure from the KSF.”
“Bullshit,” came a voice from the back of the room.
Merrick saw Samuel Fisk shaking his head, looking down at the wood floor. “Sam,” Merrick said, “you think the public will buy it?”
“Fuck no-would you?” Sam snorted.
Merrick laughed for the first time in so long that his cheeks hurt from the unused muscles. “You shouldn’t pull any punches, Sam.”
Fisk muttered a few words under his breath and returned to a contemplative posture.
Merrick tugged down on his tie and pulled a melon ball out of a crystal bowl with a frilled toothpick. Before he finished chewing, he said, “Marty, thanks for the report.”
The intercom buzzed to life and Merrick’s secretary said, “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President. Nick Bracco is on the line. He says it’s urgent that he speak with Mr. Fisk right away.”
“Put him through on the speaker phone, Hanna,” Merrick said.
There was a pause. “Uh. . Mr. President, Mr. Bracco insists that it is for Mr. Fisk’s ears only.”
Merrick raised an eyebrow at Fisk. They both understood the move. Bracco obviously had information that flirted with unethical, immoral or illegal operations and he wanted to allow the president deniability. Merrick waved a hand at Fisk and watched him hurry out of the room.
Defense Secretary Martin Riggs stood, retrieved his charcoal gray jacket from the brass coat rack and slipped it on. “Mr. President, I have a meeting with the Joint Chiefs in twenty minutes. Which of these options do you prefer we discuss?”
Any large-scale military action attempting to wipe out the KSF within the United States would end badly and Merrick knew it. He felt as if his body was crawling with poisonous ants and he needed to suppress the urge to stab them with a knife.
Merrick frowned. “Marty, I want you to tell the Chiefs we’re not leaving Turkey. Not today, not tomorrow, not as long as we’re being blackmailed by Kharrazi. Tell them I want more options. I don’t like the corner we’re in, and I want out.”
Riggs nodded, “Yes, Sir.”
Attorney General Mitchell Reeves also reached for his jacket. “I’d better be going, too,” he said. “I’ve got a dozen defense attorneys screaming that I can’t keep their clients locked up for over a week without formerly charging them.”
Merrick pointed an accusing finger at Reeves. The Attorney General held up his hand, “Don’t worry, we’re not releasing anyone. I’ve just got to juggle with the Bill of Rights a little.”
Merrick watched the two men leave. He circled around behind his desk and sank into his high-back leather chair. He tugged even further on his tie, loosening it to the point of separation. One piece of silk now looped around his collar and hung down in two separate strands. He unbuttoned the top button of his starched white shirt, placed his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes. Even with two people left in the room and another seventy-five currently roaming the corridors of his residence, he’d never felt more alone.
Outside of the Oval Office, perched on a drooping tree branch, an oriole scrutinized the White House lawn for an easy meal. Three blocks west of the Oval Office, a construction worker peeled back the cellophane wrapper from his tuna fish sandwich and sighed at the long day still ahead of him. Less than a mile northwest of the Oval Office, a short, chubby, bald man waddled through the pedestrian traffic on the perimeter of Georgetown University. A Welsh Terrier pulled on the leash in front of him as he gleefully made his way down L Street NW, drinking in the worried faces of students and businesspeople as they passed him by. He wasn’t enjoying the anxious expressions because of some prurient thrill, but because he knew that his plan was working. The president was just blocks away receiving pressure from every imaginable sector of the public. He had virtually no other political choice but to withdraw U.S. troops from Turkey and Kemel Kharrazi beamed with satisfaction.
Kharrazi made his way down a residential neighborhood with the innocent stroll of an old man walking his dog. He knew precisely which streets to turn down, so his moves lacked any unfamiliarity. The street where his uncle lived was tree-lined. The houses were mostly 19th century Victorian with sprawling mounds of grass and sidewalks that buckled from maturity. The terrier was a sturdy animal with a thick, wiry coat and when he pulled Kharrazi in a serpentine path, Kharrazi’s Beretta pinched the skin along his waist.
Kharrazi casually inspected every parked car, every conspicuous individual who looked like he didn’t belong. He hadn’t gone more than thirty yards, when he noticed a heavily-gabled house across from Professor Bandor’s with an upstairs window open. He continued his journey unabated when he discovered a windowless black Van parked a few doors down. Behind his benevolent smile, Kharrazi fumed. He kept walking, occasionally giving gentle tugs on the leash of the terrier he’d just purchased thirty minutes earlier. With his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of something metallic peeking out from the window across from his uncle’s.
Kharrazi couldn’t fathom his uncle’s betrayal. As a boy, the professor would drape his arm around young Kharrazi and tell him of the social immorality of the United States. Then he persuaded Kharrazi to attend Georgetown where he headed the Middle-Eastern studies program. What kind of person does that? If not for Professor Bandor, Kharrazi would have never come to see the corruptness firsthand. He would have dismissed it as the professor’s own personal issue. Now, the immorality surrounded him at every turn and it was disgusting.
Kharrazi left the neighborhood at a leisurely pace, taking side streets for about a quarter mile before he unleashed the dog and set him free. He found his rental car and with a stranglehold on the steering wheel, he merged into the mid-day traffic. So much adrenalin pumped through his veins, Kharrazi almost ran a red light. He steered toward the safe house where he would find seven KSF soldiers who were prepared to die for whichever order he gave them. And Kharrazi had a whopper for them.
Chapter 17
President Merrick woke up startled. He found himself leaning back in his chair in the Oval Office and was halfway through rubbing his eyes when he realized he wasn’t alone. Sitting on a sofa reading the Washington Post was Samuel Fisk.
“Sam,” Merrick said, “how long have I been out?”
“About an hour and a half,” Fisk said, turning a page.
“You should have gotten me up.”
“I canceled your noon appointment with Stanton. He’d just waste more time pinching you for a withdrawal. Besides, you needed the sleep.”
Merrick opened a side door to a small bathroom, where he splashed water on his face, wiped dry, and began running an electric razor over the stubble. “I should be getting my briefing from the Bureau any time,” Merrick said, over the noise of the razor. “Has Walt called yet?”
“Not exactly,” Fisk answered.
Merrick clicked the razor off and faced Fisk from the bathroom doorway. Fisk continued as if he was reading the Sunday paper at his kitchen table. Merrick suddenly remembered Nick Bracco’s phone call. “Sam?”
“Yeah.”
“You have something you want to tell me?”
Fisk folded the paper neatly and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. He motioned to the sofa across the table from him. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
Merrick replaced the razor and began looping his tie into a knot as he approached the couch. Sitting down, he said, “Talk to me.”
“John, how long have we been friends?”
Merrick froze. “Oh shit, Sam. I don’t like the sound of this one bit.”
“There is an option that just became available to us and I can’t tell you very much about it.”
Merrick finished knotting his tie and secured it snugly around his neck. “Does it entail anything unethical?”
Sam looked at Merrick stone-faced. As the seconds passed and the silence grew conspicuous, Merrick nodded his head. “I see.”
“John,” Fisk said, “I’m going to do you the biggest favor anyone has ever done. I’m going to get rid of these fucking bastards and it’s not going to be pretty, and it’s not going to be fair, but we’ve been hogtied by the law for too long.”
Merrick gave his friend a sideward look. “Have we been hogtied by the Constitution as well?”
Fisk stood and turned to study the large photo of Paul Merrick on the south wall. He nodded his head toward the picture. “Do you think the terrorists that killed him cared about the Constitution?”
“Don’t, Sam.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too personal. I can’t carry that kind of baggage into a decision that involves our nations policy on. . on. .”
“On what?” Fisk said, turning to face Merrick. “Exactly which policy are you referring to? Is it our policy allowing foreigners to kill our civilians for political purposes? Or is it our policy involving innocent lives destroyed because we have to wait until there’s enough evidence to guarantee a conviction? I am sick and tired of surveilling terrorists who we know are plotting violent acts inside of our borders. Borders that are open to a myriad of criminals to play in our backyard, with our tools, and with our personal rights guaranteed by the Constitution. By the time we have the legal right to make an arrest, blood’s been spilled and alibis have been perfected for a jury of their peers.” Fisk pointed at the large picture. “I’m not only doing this for you, I’m doing this for him. He doesn’t have a voice anymore and I’m speaking for him.”
Merrick sighed. He approached the Secretary of State and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sam, don’t risk your career over this.”
“I’d gladly give up my career for this cause. It’s time you took this personally, too. Otherwise just have those pollsters run the damn country. What the heck do we need you for?”
Merrick and Fisk faced Paul Merrick’s image together. Lieutenant Merrick seemed to be looking down smiling eerily at them. The president began to reach for his brother, then pulled back. He took a deep breath. “Sometimes, Sam, I look up at this thing and think, ‘There he is.’ It’s so lifelike, so real. I can’t believe he’s not here anymore.”
Fisk looked squarely into Merrick’s eyes. “All you need to do is say ‘go.’ One word and I’ll set this thing in motion.”
Merrick considered what his friend was protecting him from. The CIA? Covert operations?
“John?”
Merrick stared up at the soldier framed on the wall above him and became lost in his brother’s gaze. “Let me think about it, Sam.”
Fisk nodded. “Okay, but don’t take too long.”
“Sam, I don’t even know what-”
“Stop,” Fisk interrupted. “You’re going to have to trust me. It’s all on me, not you. I just need a command. I won’t do it without one.”
When Merrick finally wrestled his gaze away from his brother, Fisk was already leaving, closing the door behind him.
Merrick found his brother’s putter and returned his hands to the proper position on the grip, his fingers melding into the grooves his brother left behind. He stood over a golf ball with his brother’s face in his mind. “I don’t know, Paul,” he said out loud. “What would you do?”
He stroked the golf ball and watched it hit the leg of his desk square-on with a tiny thud. “Bull’s eye.”
Nick Bracco was parked over a quarter of a mile away from a suspected KSF hideout. The building was in an area of the city that featured crowded residential streets and row houses that lined the narrow passages like giant dominos. Nick had been holding binoculars to his eyes for so long his arms ached. The afternoon was beginning to wane and so were his hopes of discovering anything of value from the stakeout.
Matt sat next to him fingering a stack of documents on his lap. “So, do you think the president knows about Sal’s little proposition?”
“What do you think?” Nick said, his left eye beginning to tear up.
“He’ll make the call, but the trail back to him ends at Fisk’s desk.”
“That’s about right.”
“What did Fisk think about it?”
“I’m sure he thought I was more than a little goofy.”
“Oh, so then he’s spoken with Dr. Morgan.”
“Very funny.” Nick put the binoculars on his lap and rubbed his eyes. “Give me those files again.”
Matt handed him four manila folders with the word classified stamped across the top. Nick examined the files for the third time in the past three hours. “It’s incredible. How could all four of these guys get student visas? For crying out loud, Nihad Tansu is pushing forty.”
“Can’t blame Homeland Security, most of these guys had never been outside of Turkey before. They’re not your traditional international terrorists.”
Nick flipped the files back to Matt and began another stint with the binoculars. “One more hour. That’s all I’m giving this lead.”
“It could be worse. We could be digging through KSF garbage cans like Tolliver.”
Nick saw a red sedan slowly making its way down the street toward him. Nick didn’t recognize the male driver. The man seemed to be searching for an address.
Matt said, “All of this overtime is putting a real crimp in my social life.”
“Crimp?”
“Yeah, you know, it’s crimping my style.”
“You mean cramp. It’s cramping your style.”
“That too.”
Nick watched as the sedan stopped in front of the KSF safe house. He was clutching the binoculars with a death grip and Matt must have noticed the tension.
“What do you see?” Matt asked.
“A car stopped in the street in front of the house and the driver seems to be looking for spectators.”
Matt squinted with futility. “What’s he look like?”
“Male, dark hair, mustache, blue collared shirt.”
“Anyone we know?”
“No.”
Nick noticed the driver staring intently toward the house. He switched his view to the front door and saw four dark-haired men exit the house and head toward the car; the last one hesitated and looked around before he got in.
“They’re leaving, get down,” Nick said as the car began to move.
The two men slumped below the dashboard. As soon as Nick heard the car pass, he peeked into his side view mirror and nabbed the license plate. He recited the number out loud and Matt called it in.
When Matt finished the call to the office, he stared at Nick, who had a sudden urge to examine the magazine of his pistol.
“What are you doing?” Matt asked.
“Just checking out the equipment.”
“I mean why aren’t you following those guys?”
Nick snapped his holster shut and opened his car door. “Let’s go see what we can find out.”
Matt beamed, as he jumped out of the car and fell into step next to Nick. “Finally my partner has moved to the dark side.”
“Relax, all we’re going to do is talk with some neighbors.”
“Maybe we could knock on the door and see if anyone’s home?”
“And lose the element of surprise?”
“The element of surprise is overrated. It pales in comparison to old fashioned bullying and intimidation. Maybe they’ll think twice before they get bomb-happy.”
Nick found himself following Matt up the steps to the KSF safe house. Before he could object, Matt rang the doorbell. Nick winced, placing a hand on his holster for comfort.
They waited for a few minutes and several more rings before Matt played with the doorknob.
“What are you doing?” Nick asked.
“I’m seeing if they need a carpet cleaning.”
To Nick’s surprise the doorknob turned enough to hear a click and they looked at each other. “Don’t,” Nick said.
“Why not.”
“First of all, it’s against the law.”
“C’mon, Nick, do you think there’s any way we’re going to get these guys without bending the rules a bit.
Nick shook his head. “Don’t do it, Matt. Besides, anything you find in there will be inadmissible in court and permanently protected from any further searches.”
“Not if we leave unnoticed.”
Nick folded his arms. “I am not breaking and entering.”
“You don’t have to. Wait right here and I’ll be right back.”
Matt opened the door and Nick grabbed his arm. “I can’t let you.”
Matt shook off his partner’s grip. “This is my choice. You had nothing to do with it.”
Nick unholstered his pistol and chambered a round.
Matt froze.
Nick said, “You’re an asshole for doing this, but I can’t let you go in there by yourself.”
“Good.” Matt smiled, took a step inside the house, then pulled back and faced Nick. “Listen, should something go wrong, we need a play.”
“A play?”
“Yeah, remember the Hartford raid?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll use that one.”
“If I’m not mistaken, we almost got killed in that bust.”
Matt nodded, “Yeah, that’s why I like it-it worked.”
Guns drawn, Nick followed Matt into the tiny foyer and surveyed the unremarkable interior. The fake wood-paneled walls gave the place a dark, dreary atmosphere. The living room had an old tan couch, a mid-sized TV with rabbit ears, and wooden coffee table with a TV guide in the middle of it.
“Looks like Ozzie and Harriet’s place,” Matt whispered. He pointed toward an archway leading down a hallway. “Go check out the bedrooms and I’ll visit the kitchen.”
Nick felt uncomfortable on so many levels. He placed one foot in front of the other and balanced his step like a cat burglar. The first door on the right was closed and he opened it slowly, gun first. The room was just as banal as the rest of the house. A small bed was neatly made and the dresser showed off a display of swimming trophies. Nick suspected the place was inhabited by KSF soldiers and the decor disturbed him.
He opened a dresser drawer and saw children’s clothes, Batman underwear, and Snoopy tee shirts. He thought he heard a noise, but when he peeked out of the room, there was nothing.
He silently crept down the corridor to the next bedroom. This time the door was open and he saw a much larger room with a big bed. The room had the clinical feel of a hotel room right after the maid’s visit.
Nick was beginning to think they had bad information, when he opened the closet door and froze. Stacked up past eye level was a row of surveillance monitors. Each one captured a different section of the exterior of the house. When he examined the monitor that was aimed in the direction of his car, he realized that he was parked too far away to be able to tell if it was occupied. His mind raced with all kinds of wishful thoughts. Maybe they got lucky and went unnoticed.
Nick moved closer to the monitor and saw a green button with the symbol of a magnifying glass stamped in the middle of it. He pushed the button and was startled to see his car zoom into view. It became so large, so quickly, that Nick withdrew his finger before it had even reached its maximum capability. Nick blinked. He stared at the close-up and was able to distinguish a crevice in the headrest of the passenger seat. What bothered him the most was that his car seemed to be centered in the camera lens.
Suddenly, he felt it get warmer in the house. He’d seen enough and he wanted out. Before he could turn to leave, a male voice said, “Drop the weapon.”
Nick didn’t move. He wondered how many there were, when a second voice said, “So nice of you to join us, Mr. Bracco.”
Nick turned to see a young man pointing an automatic machine gun at him. The second man was older and a bit plump. He didn’t fit the description of a KSF soldier, yet the way he stood, weaponless, casual, Nick could tell he was in charge. Nick dropped his pistol on the bed. A rush of adrenalin shot up the back of Nick’s neck. He knew then that not only was he dead, but there was a good chance his death might be preceded by a considerable amount of pain. Nick wanted to tell him that the place was surrounded, that the FBI had an entire battalion of agents training their weapons on the hideout. He couldn’t say a word.
“It’s just the two of you isn’t it, Mr. Bracco?” the man asked.
Nick stood motionless. His heart pounded fiercely, every labored breath a miserable prelude to death. The blood left his brain and he wobbled on numb legs.
Two more soldiers appeared in the doorway. One of them said, “The other one must’ve ran out the back door. The coward.”
The old man seemed skeptical. “Did you see him leave?”
“No,” the man said. “But the door was left open.”
The old man looked at Nick. “Is your partner still in the house?”
Nick heard the question, just barely. He nodded. There was something about the man’s eyes that caught Nick’s attention. Could it be?
The man with the machine gun scoffed at the response. “I wouldn’t believe him. He is just trying to save his life.”
The old man looked at his watch. “We don’t have time to play games, Mr. Bracco. Tell us where your partner is and I’ll promise you a quick death.”
Nick gasped for air, wondering how many seconds he had left. A surge of blood hit his brain and he remembered something important. “He’s in the kitchen.”
“Good,” the old man said.
“We’ve searched the kitchen,” one of the soldiers said. “He is not there.”
Again the old man peeked at his wrist. He pointed to one of the soldiers in the doorway and said, “You go with Nhikad here and take Mr. Bracco to the kitchen. You will find his partner there. Use Mr. Bracco to lure him out and kill both of them. Then get out of here quickly and meet us at the other location.”
The old man gestured to the other soldier and said, “Let’s go, we must leave now.”
As Nick began his death march to the kitchen, he heard a door close behind him, then a car start up and leave. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw both of the soldiers with their weapons pointed at him. The lead one still held the machine gun tight to his chest and he shoved Nick with it.
Nick realized that the second soldier was merely a kid. In just a flash of eye contact, the kid seemed to stiffen. He appeared more afraid of Nick, and Nick was weaponless and outnumbered.
Somehow this awareness gave Nick a glimmer of hope and it made him even more nervous. He actually had a slim chance of surviving and began to tremble.
When they entered the kitchen, Machine Gun grabbed Nick around the neck and jabbed the weapon into the base of his skull, using Nick as a shield. “Now where is he?”
Nick searched the small room and found what he was looking for. Two metal racks were standing between the refrigerator and the adjoining cabinet. He knew he couldn’t afford to hesitate. He pointed to the refrigerator, “He’s in there.”
Machine Gun sneered. “You’re a bad liar.”
Nick stretched his eyes to the right and noticed something peculiar about the second soldier. He was backpedaling, frantically searching the room, as if he expected Matt to come flying out of a cabinet.
Speaking to the skittish soldier, Nick said, “If you two don’t believe me, open it and find out.”
The man simply shook his head.
Machine Gun gave Nick a shove and crouched into a combat position. “You open it.”
Nick deliberately stepped in front of the refrigerator, keeping his eyes trained on Machine Gun. But his peripheral view was on the more important component. The retreating accomplice.
“I’m losing my patience,” Machine Gun said. “Open the refrigerator.”
Nick knew he had stretched his luck to the limit. He placed his hand on the refrigerator door and gave it a concise tug, allowing it to open no more than an inch. The interior light did not come on and Nick anxiously searched for a sign. Machine Gun was directly behind him now and he heard him say, “All the way.”
Finally, Nick could barely make out the tip of a blue piece of metal about naval high. Without opening the door any further, Nick stepped to the side as if he needed the room to pull open the door the rest of the way. Machine Gun was a second too late. Nick watched in amazement as the bullet penetrated directly into the center of the soldier’s forehead. For a disgustingly awkward moment, Machine Gun appeared to develop a third eye, then he dropped hard onto the linoleum floor. Nick was diving and rolling across the floor as a defensive maneuver, but it was unnecessary. The second soldier had already fled the kitchen and was on his way out the door.
Nick chased after the man for a couple of steps, then remembered that he was weaponless. He turned to see Matt McColm sitting in the open refrigerator in a curled position, knees to his chest, and a small light bulb clenched between his teeth. Matt delicately stretched one arm out of the confined space, then the other. He rolled forward and made a controlled fall onto the floor, his legs still wound into a tight knot. He spit out the light bulb and began the process of stretching his legs. “Just like Hartford,” Matt said.
Nick’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. “How did you know?” he asked.
“I heard the voices. I figured I’d use the element of surprise.”
“I thought the element of surprise was overrated.”
Matt smiled. “It’s making a comeback.”