Fatal Convictions

20

Compared to the complexity of Hassan’s missions in the Middle East, capturing Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi was almost too easy. On Saturday night, he followed her from her home to the out-of-the-way parking lot of an abandoned Home Depot store. Ja’dah parked in the far corner of the lot, well away from any other vehicles, and left the car idling. After watching her routine the week before, Hassan knew she would be changing clothes.

He stayed on a side street out of her line of sight for about two minutes, just enough time for her to be in the middle of changing, and then crossed the parking lot and drove straight toward her. As he approached, he watched her scramble to put on a blouse and button a few buttons. He pulled in next to her, his SUV heading in the opposite direction from her vehicle.

Hassan smiled and rolled down his window. “Can you tell me how to get to the Marriott Hotel at the oceanfront?” he asked, using a heavy Lebanese accent. He raised his hands to show his confusion, a bewildered expression on his face. This was the risky part. If she drove away now, Hassan would let her go and resort to plan B-kidnapping her on the way home from church. But he was counting on her desire to be nice to confused strangers.

She initially seemed surprised and a little confused by the request. Hassan asked again, a little louder. He turned off his SUV’s engine.

Ja’dah’s window was halfway down, a polite smile on her lips. Her eyes showed apprehension, but she did not bolt. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not all that familiar with this area. But if you get back on the interstate…” She motioned behind her.

“How do I do that?” Hassan asked. He checked his mirrors just to be safe. There was nobody in the vicinity, nobody watching them.

“Get back on this road and make a left-”

Before she could finish, Hassan threw open his door and jumped out, pointing a gun through Ja’dah’s window. “Don’t move.”

His actions were so sudden, the gun so unexpected, that it froze Ja’dah for a second, enough time for Hassan to reach inside her door and open it. He slammed his own car door shut with his foot. “Don’t say a word,” he growled.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, shaking her head, the tears starting.

“Move over,” he ordered, already cramming himself into the driver’s seat.

Clumsily, Ja’dah climbed over the console and into the passenger seat, on top of the folded Muslim clothes she had placed there. Hassan grabbed her left bicep and pointed the gun at the back of her head. “Bend over,” he said.

“Don’t hurt me,” she begged.

“Do as I say.”

He pushed her head down, and she let out a whimper of pain. He placed the gun on the console and wrenched her arms behind her, binding her wrists with a thick plastic tie, which he pulled tight. She winced as it bit into the skin. He pushed her back in the seat and strapped the seat belt around her. Then he took a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on her.

“Don’t take these off,” he said. He pulled a baseball cap out of his waistband and put it on Ja’dah’s head so that the bill came down low over her eyes. “This either.”

He picked up the gun and kept the barrel lodged in Ja’dah’s ribs as he drove out of the parking lot and took back roads toward Sandbridge, a small beach community about ten miles south of the main Virginia Beach strip. He drove in silence, ignoring Ja’dah’s trembling questions about where they were headed and why he was doing this.

Halfway to Sandbridge, Ja’dah began to sob, then tried to fight back the tears. To Hassan, it sounded as if she was praying under her breath, whether to Jesus or Allah, he did not know.

Once they arrived in Sandbridge, he would find out.