Full Blast (A Brady Hawk novel Book 4) Page 5

  Blunt pulled up to the Holly platform in the South Ellwood oil field. The rig hummed with activity, and his arrival was barely acknowledged except by one man, who appeared to be inspecting one of the cargo ships at the dock. Blunt waved and introduced himself using an alias, while the man threw Blunt a line and tethered him to the dock. The man then introduced himself as Norm Looper, the third mate on Holly.

  When Blunt climbed onto the dock, he removed his hand to show Looper the reason for his unexpected visit.

  “We better get you some help right away,” Looper said. “Follow me.”

  Looper led Blunt to a small elevator shaft that took them to the main deck where the sick bay was located.

  The sick bay door was open, and Looper knocked gently on the doorjamb. A bespectacled man looked up from a chart he was staring at and addressed Looper.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Looper?” the man asked.

  “Yes, Gordon, this man here requires some medical attention, and I was hoping you might be able to help him,” Looper said.

  “Is he part of the crew?” Gordon asked.

  Looper shook his head. “Does that really matter? This guy has a pretty nasty flesh wound and needs your help. I won’t tell anybody, and you certainly don’t look like you’re too busy with other patients at the moment. What do you say?”

  Gordon sighed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, all right. I guess we can bend the rules in this case for Mr.—”

  “Jackson. Clint Jackson.”

  “I’ll take it from here,” Gordon said, dismissing Looper.

  Gordon inspected Blunt’s arm. “That’s quite a mess you’ve got there. What happened?”

  “There’s no way to really sugar coat this,” Blunt said. “I got shot.”

  “What happened to the shooter?”

  “He got away?”

  A grin started to spread across Gordon’s face. “What is a sail-by shooting?”

  Blunt glared at Gordon. “You’re quite the comedian.”

  “I’ll be here all week,” Gordon said with a wink. “I’ll need to dig the bullet out, and then we’ll get you fixed up. It looks like a fairly clean entry. No worries.”

  Once he finished, Gordon recommended that Blunt rest for a few hours to make sure he didn’t have any other complications. Blunt didn’t like the idea, but he agreed.

  After Gordon left the room, Blunt fell asleep in the cot. When he awoke, he was startled to find Looper standing over him with a needle. He was about to inject it into Blunt’s arm when Blunt protested.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Blunt asked.

  Looper drew back. “I-I was just giving you a shot. Gordon was busy with another patient and asked me to give it to you.”

  “Did he, now?” Blunt said as he stood up.

  Looper took a step back. “Yeah. Is there a problem with me giving you a shot?”

  “There is if I didn’t ask for it.”

  Looper glanced around the room before he lunged at Blunt with the needle. Blunt grabbed Looper’s right forearm and slammed it against the corner of the table, forcing Looper to drop the needle. Blunt then delivered a pair of successive uppercuts, which sent Looper staggering back against the wall.

  Blunt pinned Looper against the wall with his right arm while placing his left hand loosely around Looper’s neck.

  “Start talking right now,” Blunt said.

  “Another boat came up to our platform a half hour ago, and some guy showed me a picture of you and asked me if I’d seen you. I told him you came here a few hours ago, and he told me that I needed to bring you down to them as it was a matter of national security. And I had to do it discreetly as the crew was changing shifts, and I didn’t want anyone to find out what I’d done.”

  “You were going to inject me with a tranquilizer?”

  Looper nodded.

  Blunt released Looper’s neck and reached down to pick up the needle. He quickly rammed it into Looper’s arm, much to the shock of Looper.

  “Let’s hope you were telling the truth,” Blunt said.

  Blunt counted to ten, and Looper collapsed to the floor.

  Without any time to lose, Blunt went to the top of the platform and asked the helicopter pilot if he could give him a ride to Channel Islands National Park. Blunt realized it was risky, but far less risky than trying to drive off in his boat with some FBI or Coast Guard agent down below waiting to take him into custody. Once at the park, Blunt could hitch a ride back to the mainland with a tour guide boat and then flee the country under another alias. It wasn’t the greatest plan, but it was a serviceable one considering the circumstances.

  At first the pilot was reluctant, but Blunt offered the man $50K for the short trip, and that garnered a different type of reaction.

  “You ready to go right now?” the pilot asked.

  Blunt nodded.

  “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER 11

  A Countryside Farmhouse

  Třebotov, Czech Republic

  YASEEN ABBADI STARED AT THE WORDS he’d written on the paper in front of him. As he re-read the speech for the third time, he knew it would surely stir emotions among audience members, both those present and those watching a broadcast version of it. For reasonable people, the speech would elicit inspiring emotions, the kind that make people want to work together to change the world. For everyone else, the speech would enrage them to the point of taking unreasonable action. The prospects of the latter terrified him more than hope of the former. And as much as he wanted to ignore his detractors, he couldn’t. Fatima was still captive.

  If Abbadi was truly honest with himself, he wasn’t even all that concerned with what might happen at the hotel. With the world watching the broadcast and some of the best security personnel on hand, he remained confident no one would be able to get to him. But whoever they were had already found his daughter. What he planned to say in his speech depended upon whether or not Fatima was safe by the time he stepped behind the lectern.

  He remained hard on himself for selecting Prague as the location for the summit. It was a strategic move as he wanted to have the backdrop for this monumental meeting to be in a place that held better optics when it came to the rest of the world. It was also a selfish move because he wanted to see his daughter. He’d already begun to regret the recklessness of his decision, one that seemed dangerous in hindsight.

  The roaring fireplace behind him crackled and popped as one of his assistants tossed another log inside.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to say yet?” the assistant asked.

  Abbadi shook his head, struggling to hold back his tears. He shuffled his papers and glanced at the alternate speech he’d written, one where he would be announcing his resignation effectively immediately. He would cite undisclosed health issues and the desire to spend more time with his family as the cause, but everything he would say would be a lie.

  He walked over to the kitchen table and opened his laptop. A picture of Fatima and her piercing hazel eyes greeted him. He sat and stared at the image for a moment. His heart sank. He had big dreams for Jordan and the surrounding region. He had even bigger dreams for Fatima. Never once did he consider the possibility that those two dreams might be put on a collision course with one another with only one destined to survive. Abbadi shook his head as he stared at Fatima’s picture, struggling to believe that he even gave his actions a second thought.

  Abbadi’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. An unknown number.

  “Hello?” Abbadi said.

  “I texted you a photo of your daughter. Did you get it?” asked a man. It was the same person who’d notified Abbadi that Fatima had been taken.

  Abbadi scrolled around on his phone until he found the image. It was Fatima, and she was gagged while a masked man held a knife to her throat.

  “You better not harm her,” Abbadi shouted.

  “I won’t as long as you do as you’ve been instructed.”

  The man
hung up.

  Abbadi shuddered at the thought of anything happening to his dear Fatima. He stood back up and strode over to the fireplace. He tossed the inspirational version of his speech into the fire, almost ashamed that he’d even written it.

  Abbadi concluded he had no choice, a situation that made him hate Al Hasib all the more.

  CHAPTER 12

  Prague, Czech Republic

  HAWK HAD JUST COMPLETED his final sweep of the Pachtuv Palace Hotel when his phone buzzed. The people who possessed his cell number consisted of a tight circle, so he was befuddled when the caller ID on his phone flashed a message of Unknown Caller.

  Alex fiddled with a loose button her blouse.

  “You take that call,” she said. “I’ve got to stop by the front desk and see if they have an emergency sewing kit for me.”

  “You sew?” Hawk asked.

  “I’m full of surprises, aren’t I?” she said, patting him on the arm. “Call me when you’re finished.”

  Hawk proceeded to walk toward the water fountain in the garden before answering the call.

  “Hello,” Hawk said.

  “Brady Hawk? Is that you?” asked the man on the other end.

  “I’m sorry. Who is this?”

  “Frank Lyons, CIA. Well, former CIA now.”

  Hawk closed his eyes and thought, desperately trying to conjure up an image of Lyons. After a few seconds, Hawk realized it was a futile exercise. “Remind me again how we met.”

  “We met once at a gathering at J.D. Blunt’s house. I believe he introduced you as some legend, but I knew a man with hands as quick as yours wasn’t who Blunt said you were.”

  Hawk laughed nervously. “Did you now? What gave it away?”

  “You caught another woman’s champagne flute a few inches off the ground, keeping the glass from shattering on the stone patio.”

  “It was that obvious?”

  “Yeah, I knew you were working for him or with him or whatever the hell he wanted to call it. After speaking with you for a few moments, it was evident you didn’t just meet one weekend while you were working as a caddie at Templeton Heights Golf Course like he claimed.”

  “Golf never really was my thing.”

  “But killing people is, especially when it comes to removing people who are threats to our national security,” Lyons said.

  Hawk took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “I also hear you’re good at finding people.”

  “Who keeps whispering all these lies to you?” Hawk asked, starting to get annoyed at Lyons’s effusive praise.

  “I have a long-time friend who sure could use your help about now if you aren’t in the middle of a mission.”

  Hawk turned around slowly, scanning the area for any lurkers who might be trying to catch some of his conversation. He then deemed the area safe and continued with the conversation. “Did you speak with Blunt about this? I’m somewhat pre-occupied at the moment, but if you tell me what the mission is, I might consider it.”

  “It’s about Jordanian Prime Minister Yaseen Abbadi.”

  Hawk’s interest was piqued, though he wanted to remain careful not to give away where he was or what he was doing in case this was some twisted fishing expedition. “Go on.”

  “If you can’t help immediately, I’m not sure it will matter much, but Abbadi’s sixteen-year-old daughter Fatima has been kidnapped. And I’m afraid he’s about to do something drastic if he doesn’t get her back.”

  “How drastic?”

  “I think he might resign as prime minister.”

  Hawk made another visual sweep of the area before continuing. “And Jordan’s Joint Special Operations Command isn’t getting involved? This sounds more like a job for them than me. They are one of the more elite special forces units in the world.”

  “Abbadi’s situation is too political,” Lyons said. “There are rumors that perhaps some members of the team provided information as to Fatima’s whereabouts to Al Hasib. Not everyone wants him to succeed.”

  “I’m aware of the politics surrounding his bold leadership, but is there really this level of dissent among the king’s special forces?”

  “Some of my intelligence suggests that King Talal himself is behind it, wanting to publicly act as if he’s tough on terror but privately act to stoke the conflict.”

  Hawk shook his head. “These Middle Eastern governments operate with more twists and turns than a telenovela.”

  “It’s not that much different than our own, if we’re honest about it,” Lyons said.

  “Okay, so if I were to theoretically take this on, can you send me any information about where Al Hasib might be holding Fatima?”

  “Texting it to you now. Anything you can do to help will be appreciated by Abbadi.”

  Hawk hung up and scrolled through the information and mapped it out. The location was twenty kilometers east of the hotel.

  He hustled back to his room before he proceeded to rap on Alex’s door.

  “What’s going on?” she answered.

  “We’ve got another mission.”

  “The night before Abbadi’s big speech? Are you out of your mind?”

  “Al Hasib has Abbadi’s daughter, and they’re blackmailing him into withdrawing from the treaty.”

  Alex furrowed her brow. “Who told you this?”

  “One of Blunt’s accomplices.”

  “How do you know it isn’t a trap?”

  “I don’t until I go, but if this intel is good, tomorrow’s mission won’t matter much, will it? So, will you help me?”

  Alex nodded. “If you need my help, I’m going with you. I wouldn’t want you to walk into a trap alone.”

  Hawk stepped inside Alex’s room and dialed Blunt’s number. Hawk wanted to at least get a quick report from his boss on whether Frank Lyons could be trusted. Still no answer.

  Damn it, Blunt. Where are you?

  CHAPTER 13

  Annapolis, Maryland

  KARIF FAZIL PULLED HIS CAP low over his face and smiled. He swirled his wine glass around and drew it near his nose, breathing in the aroma. After gulping down half the glass, he glanced around at the Crowne Plaza’s clientele, a mix of business professionals and military personnel, both active and retired. Fazil wondered how they would feel if they knew they were sharing oxygen with the United States’ top enemy combatant. He wondered if they’d detest sharing air with him as much as he did them.

  After finishing off the glass, he watched the U.S. Navy personnel decked out in their white suits enter and exit the building at their leisure. To Fazil, they appeared to be mocking him with their every move. He wanted to pull out a gun and lay waste to them all.

  Infidels.

  Fazil smoothed out the front of the Pink Floyd t-shirt he’d donned and scanned the hotel for any high-ranking military officers. He noticed one man wearing admiral bars walk past and enter the elevator. Fazil considered leaving behind a present when he left the hotel, the kind of gift that would vanish in a cloud of smoke and leave rubble in its wake. But he decided against it. That would distract him from the real purpose of his visit: to direct the bombing of a popular Washington location.

  Malik Mudin pulled out the chair across the table from Fazil and took a seat. A waiter hurried over to their table and slid a drink menu in front of Mudin.

  “Would you care for something to drink?” the waiter asked.

  Mudin looked at Fazil, as if to ask for permission.

  Fazil nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks,” Mudin said as he handed the menu back to the waiter.

  Mudin waited until the waiter left before he leaned forward and hunched over, his face only a few inches off the table. “Do you think this is a good idea?”

  “Relax,” Fazil said. “Everything will be fine. Drink up. Enjoy yourself.”

  “I’m not talking about the alcohol. I’m talking about being out in the open like this.�
��

  “Keep your tattoos covered and your hat and sunglasses on. Facial recognition software will never flag us. You have no need to worry.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Fazil nodded. “The fact that we are sitting out in the open will make it less likely that people will remember us as shady terrorists. We’ll just be two guys having a good time. Journalists will interview people, and they’ll say we seemed like nice men because, well, we are.”

  “We’re nice men who want to eliminate the terrorist oligarchs who run this country.”

  The waiter returned with a glass of scotch on the rocks for Mudin and then proceeded to refill Fazil’s wine glass. As quickly as he appeared, the waiter vanished.

  Fazil shook his head. “No, this entire nation needs to be cleansed and assimilated. As long as the people believe they have a choice to follow whatever religion they want, they’ll never whole-heartedly embrace Islam. But once they realize there truly is no choice, they’ll become believers.”

  “But are those the kind of believers we actually want?”

  “We want the kind of believers who realize that their freedom is no longer important in the sense that Americans understand freedom,” Fazil said. “What’s most important is that they submit to the ways of Allah. And you’re going to help with that.”

  Fazil raised his wine glass and clinked it with Mudin’s shot glass.

  A Naval office sauntered into the hotel bar and glanced around at the group of early evening customers. He shot a glance in the direction of Fazil and Mudin.

  “We can’t even go out for a simple drink without being scrutinized and maligned by someone,” Fazil said. He banged his fist on the table. “Let’s burn them all and level this city.”

  Mudin smiled and nodded. “Whatever it takes.”

  Fazil scanned the room once more as he stood up. “Let’s lay waste to this hotel . . . but not until we’ve put this entire city and nation on high alert. Go get your thoughts. We have work to do.”