Hunt the Scorpion

Chapter Fifteen

Twenty minutes later they touched down smoothly on runway 1B at Tripoli International Airport and were immediately surrounded by three pickups filled with NTC soldiers. Crocker refused to let them board the plane. He borrowed a cell phone from a Belgian soldier and called Jaime Remington, who showed up twenty minutes later with an NTC deputy foreign minister in tow.

A tense hour of back-and-forthing later, the deputy minister still wanted the plane’s cargo turned over to him.

Crocker was willing to let them have the bodies, but as for the six shipping containers, he said, “No way that’s ever going to happen.”

Remington: “Be reasonable. These people are extremely sensitive when it comes to issues of national sovereignty.”

“We’re talking about nuclear material that was being smuggled out of the country.”

“The trouble is that technically it belongs to the Libyans.”

“I don’t care who it belongs to. We’ll fly this motherfucker back to the States if we have to. Under no condition am I turning it over to them.”

The American ambassador, the NATO commander, and the head of the Libyan interim government got involved. Frantic calls were made to the White House, IAEA, and NATO headquarters in Brussels.

At 2 a.m. the Libyans agreed to release the six containers to the temporary custody of the NATO commander until IAEA inspectors could arrive and identify their contents.

Ambassador Saltzman asked, “You happy now, Crocker?”

“I’m a little less annoyed. Any news about Holly?”

“No news is good news.”

“Is it, sir? Are you sure about that?”

“I suggest you and your colleague go to the hospital to have your injuries looked after.”

Crocker: “Thanks for your concern.”

It was half past seven in the morning when he and Mancini dragged themselves through the front gate of the guesthouse. Akil and Davis greeted them at the door, both wearing gym shorts and worried expressions.

“Boss, can I talk to you alone?” Akil asked, the rising sun gilding his face.

Crocker felt too numb to think. He’d been shot up with painkillers, the back of his head had been bandaged, and his wrist had been placed in a hard cast.

Akil: “Brian Shaw’s body was dumped in front of the embassy about an hour ago.”

The name jolted him out of his stupor. “What’d you say?”

“Brian Shaw’s body was found in front of the U.S. embassy.”

“Shit…” A sick feeling gathered at the pit of his stomach, then morphed into white-hot rage.

“Attached to his body was a note from the kidnappers.”

“What did it say?”

“They’re giving the U.S. government twenty-four hours to meet their demands before they execute Holly, too.”

With the taste of bile in his mouth, Crocker swallowed hard. “Fuck! I need to find her. Now!”

Akil: “All of us are ready to help, boss. We’ll do anything.”

Davis: “We’re ready to kick ass, but we don’t know where to look.”

Crocker: “We’ve got to find out more.”

Akil: “How?”

Davis: “When Volman called with the news, I asked him the same questions: Who are the kidnappers? Where are they hiding? He says he doesn’t know.”

Mancini: “Who do you think does?”

Crocker looked at his boots and the bottom of his pants, still splattered with blood. “Where’s Ritchie?” he asked.

Davis: “He went with Volman to some of the militia camps, searching for intel.”

Crocker glanced at his watch, then at a big red spider crawling up the front of the house. They had approximately seventeen hours to find Holly. He said, “The two of you throw on some clothes and grab some weapons. I need you to drive me somewhere. But first, call the embassy and find out if Remington’s in yet.”

“Yes, sir.”

He heard the morning call for prayer drift over the wall; heard the children laughing next door. Thought: Normal life goes on for some people.

He stepped inside the guesthouse. Splashed water on his face and appraised his ghastly-looking face in the bathroom mirror-his right ear blood encrusted and swollen, lacerations running from his cheekbone to his mouth. He found a bottle of disinfectant in his emergency medical kit, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and sprayed it on his face.

He looked older, gaunter, his skin gray and tired. But his blue eyes still burned with intensity.

He grabbed two energy bars and a bottle of water off the kitchen counter, realizing he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a meal. Hurrying to the front door, he shouted, “Let’s go!”

The neighbor’s twin boys were standing outside in their school uniforms and backpacks, waiting for their father. As they drove off, they waved to Crocker, big smiles creasing their faces.

He waved back.

One of the boys shouted, “Have a good day.”

“You, too. Thanks.” A sob caught in his throat.

Mancini climbed into the Suburban with Davis and Akil. He was ready to come along, too, but Crocker wanted him to stay near the phones in case Ritchie should call with news.

“Okay, boss. Good luck. Signal if you need me to meet you somewhere.”

“Thanks, Manny. I will.”

Davis: “Where are we going?”

Akil: “I spoke to the watch officer at the embassy. He said Remington’s at home and not expected in the office ’til noon.”

“Let’s go see him.”

Davis drove as if demons were chasing them. Fortunately, the streets were mostly empty, and they arrived at the station chief’s house in less than ten minutes, tires screeching.

Two Libyan guards outside stood at attention and looked scared. They watched Crocker ring the front gate bell. No answer. He was about to climb over the gate when a thin Hispanic man wearing a shoulder holster came out.

Crocker: “I’m the SEAL team leader, and I need to see Remington immediately.”

“I know who you are. He’s asleep.”

“Wake him.”

“I can’t.”

“Then get out of my way.”

Crocker tried to squeeze by. The aide held out an arm to stop him as the Libyans watched.

“He gave me strict orders not to bother him unless it’s an emergency.”

“This is a fucking emergency,” Crocker growled, pushing his arm aside and entering.

He knew the house well enough from his earlier stay to locate the back bedroom. There he found Remington sleeping with the curtains drawn and a CD of nature sounds playing.

He yanked open the curtains and pulled the stereo plug from the wall. The CIA man blinked, rubbed his eyes, and raised himself up on his elbows. Seeing Crocker, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

Crocker shouted in his face, “You forgot to tell me about Brian Shaw.”

Remington lay back on the bed and turned away from the window. “I thought we agreed that you were going to let me handle this.”

“And you said you were working nonstop and going to keep me informed!”

As Remington turned to look at the clock, an enormous racket echoed from the hallway, sounds of men shouting curses and struggling.

Seconds later the Hispanic aide burst through the door. Davis had an arm around his neck and Akil was in the process of wrestling the man’s pistol away from him.

Remington shouted, “What the hell is going on?”

His aide: “Sir, I tried to stop them from entering the house!”

“This is unacceptable! Out of control!”

An angry Remington turned and pointed a finger at Crocker. “I blame you. You’re way out of line, Crocker. I’m reporting this to your command!”

“Call the fucking president if you want. You’re not doing your job.”

Remington grabbed the sat-phone from the night table and started to dial a number. Reconsidering, he stopped and shouted, “Come with me!”

“Where?”

“We’re going to see the ambassador.”

Saltzman was pacing the floor with his hands behind his back and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played softly on the stereo. He stopped when he saw the two large men. Said cheerfully, “Come in. Make yourselves at home.” Pointed to a silver coffee service on a tray. “Who would like a morning beverage? Coffee or tea?”

The clock on his desk read 9:35. The whole setting seemed absurd to Crocker. Time was slipping away.

Remington ordered his coffee black. The SEAL opted for a glass of water. The men took seats facing the ambassador, Crocker in a straight-backed chair. The red-haired secretary lowered the music volume.

Saltzman said, “I learned as a young attorney filing civil rights cases against the Justice Department to never panic, never lose hope. Things can change in unexpected ways. They often do.”

The emotion Crocker held back was almost overwhelming. He wanted to slap them both in the face. Wake them the fuck up.

The ambassador calmly wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and pushed the tray aside like an actor in a play.

While my wife is suffering and the minutes tick away.

He raised an eyebrow and turned to Crocker. “I assume you heard about Brian Shaw.”

Crocker: “What are you doing about that, sir?”

“Shocking and horrible.”

Remington: “Leo ID’d the body.”

Saltzman: “Animals. Savages.”

“I’m here to talk about my wife.”

Silence. Saltzman and Remington shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Tension hung in the air like an electric charge.

“I was getting to that, Crocker,” the ambassador said smoothly. “First of all, let’s not lose hope. The kidnappers have given us a deadline, but that doesn’t mean they’ll act on it.”

“They did in Brian’s case,” Crocker countered bluntly. He watched the two officials’ faces turn sour, as if he’d let out an awful stink.

“Regretfully, yes. But your wife is different.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because without her the kidnappers have no leverage.”

Crocker shook with frustration. “Who are they, and why do they want leverage?”

“I’ll let Remington answer that.”

Crocker waited. Another slow minute passed as Remington crossed his legs, cleared his throat, leaned forward in his chair.

“Remember the three men you arrested at the refugee camp near Busetta?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, one of them happens to be the half brother of a Tuareg leader named Anaruz Mohammed.”

Mention of Anaruz’s name put Crocker even more on edge. “I know who he is.”

“We believe Anaruz, or people working for him, are behind the kidnapping.”

“What led you to that conclusion?”

“Because in exchange for Brian and Holly the kidnappers have been demanding the release of the three men you detained.”

The irony hit Crocker hard. He said, “I heard it was gold.”

“The gold was just a rumor.”

“So Martyrs of the Revolution is just a cover?”

“That’s what we’ve believed all along, yes.”

It made sense. Awful sense. Americans had arrested Anaruz’s half brother, so he struck back by kidnapping two U.S. officials.

But wait…

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that he seized my wife, or does he know she’s married to the man who arrested his half brother?”

“I suspect they saw an opportunity to kidnap a couple of Americans, without knowing who they are.”

“Where are the three prisoners now?” Crocker asked.

“They’re in NTC custody,” Saltzman answered. “I made a point of turning the three men over to the NTC. Officials there didn’t want to take them at first, but I convinced the NTC that they would improve their human rights profile if they made public examples of them. I pushed hard. They locked the men away and pressed charges. Then Holly and Brian were kidnapped.”

“Shit.” It was worse than he thought, and it put the onus squarely on him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do you know where the men are being held?”

“No, we don’t,” Remington answered.

“And you probably wouldn’t tell me if you did.”

“Crocker, there are big issues at stake,” the ambassador said. “Even if we could pressure the NTC to exchange the men for Holly-which we can’t, because it goes against U.S. policy-the release of these men would make the NTC look weak, and that’s something we don’t want to do.”

“I don’t give a shit about the NTC, I care about my wife.”

“I’m sure I’d feel the same if I were in your position.”

“Where does that leave me, Mr. Ambassador? What’s going to happen to Holly?”

“Nothing now. I think that eventually the kidnappers will get tired of holding her and set her free.”

“You really believe that?”

“Ask yourself this: What do the kidnappers gain by hurting her? Nothing, except to make themselves look like barbarians. We should presume the kidnappers are rational people.”

He hated the word “presume” and wished the ambassador hadn’t used it. He took a deep breath and asked, “What if they’re not reasonable? What if they think killing my wife helps them achieve their goals? What if they think sparing her will make them appear weak?”

No answer.

“Sir, why aren’t we out there turning this country upside down to find her?”

“Because it’s not an option. The deadline will pass and your wife will still be alive.”

Crocker wanted to pick up the coffee table in front of him and throw it out the window. Instead, he gritted his teeth and said, “You’re bargaining with my wife’s life!”

Remington: “We continue to do everything we can to locate the kidnappers. The more time passes, the more our odds of finding them increase. We’re talking about a relatively small country. We’ve got multiple sources out talking to people from different groups. We’re quietly offering money in exchange for information. I’m confident someone will say something that will be useful.”

“What have you learned so far?” Crocker asked aggressively. “Where is she being held?”

Remington: “We believe she’s somewhere in the capital.”

Crocker was on the verge of losing control. “Where, exactly?”

Remington: “We don’t know that.”

“East? West? South? Along the coast?”

Remington: “We don’t know exactly. But once we have actionable intelligence, we’ll move quickly.”

“Have you examined Brian’s body? Did you learn anything from that?”

“Nothing of material value.”

Crocker stood, took a deep breath, and said, “If anything happens to my wife, you’re both going to have hell to pay. I guarantee that.” As he started to walk, his arms and legs shook with emotion.

They seemed to know little, and had given him practically nothing.

“Crocker,” the ambassador said as he reached the door.

“What?”

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret later. The NTC is plenty annoyed with you and your team already.”

“Fuck them.”

His whole body burning with outrage, he walked past the secretary standing beside the Stars and Stripes, past the marine guard station, and into the dry heat outside. Sunlight glinted off multiple surfaces and stung his eyes. He saw the Suburban waiting and climbed inside, hoping for a few quiet minutes to figure out what to do next. But instead of two men inside, there were four, which confused him.

Then he recognized Volman, leaning over the front seat, sweaty and reeking of garlic, wearing a blue crewneck shirt with snaps at the neck, looking odd, out of place, like he always did. “What’d they tell you?” he asked.

Crocker took a moment to get his bearings. He turned to glimpse Ritchie behind him in the rear seat, with Akil beside him. Davis was at the wheel.

“Nothing, except that they think Holly’s being held somewhere in the city.”

“Where?”

“They don’t know.”

“What’s their strategy?”

“Their strategy is to wait.”

Davis: “Wait for what? Are they insane?”

“They reason that the terrorists won’t carry out their threat, because if they do, they’ll lose the leverage they have by holding her.”

Akil: “What if they’re wrong?”

Ritchie: “Yeah, what if they’re fucking wrong?”

Crocker felt a throb at the pit of his stomach.

Akil: “That’s ridiculous, boss. Stupid.”

Volman tapped Crocker on the shoulder and asked, “Who did they say is behind it?”

“Anaruz Mohammed.”

“Why?”

“Remember those three thugs we arrested at the refugee camp? It turns out that one of them is his half brother.”

“Fuck.”

Volman: “I have a source, someone with his ear to the ground, who is willing to help. He’s going to meet us at the guesthouse.”

“When?”

“Soon as he gets back into town. About an hour.”

“Thanks.” A slim ray of hope.

At the guesthouse gate Akil stopped to ask Volman why he was helping them.

Volman said, “I admire you guys and understand your frustration. I also think our policy of refusing to negotiate with terrorists is wrong. I mean, it’s fine to say that publicly, because you don’t want to encourage them to take our people hostage. But behind the scenes I believe we should do anything, including paying ransom, to get our people back.”

The more time Crocker spent with the young State Department officer, the more he liked him. He was an awkward man, but intelligent and with a good heart.

Crocker wanted to go on a short run to clear his head, but he thought it was more important to be ready when Volman’s contact arrived. So he lay on the sofa with his MP5 by his side and leafed through a copy of Sports Illustrated. One minute he was looking at a picture of Danica Patrick, the next he was dreaming that he was with Holly, lying on a bed in a hotel room. She was reading a magazine with Michelle Obama on the cover and wearing a white cheerleader-type skirt that showed off her tanned, smooth legs. When he reached out to touch them, they felt warm. Almost hot.

She moaned.

“Holly?”

He ran his hand farther up her leg to her thigh, where the skin turned lighter. She moaned again.

“Baby, can you hear me?”

Higher under her skirt he felt a big indentation and stopped. Lifted the dress up. Saw that a big piece of her leg was missing. Little black worms were eating at it.

He gasped, felt a stab of pain in his stomach, and woke.

Crocker lay alone in sweaty clothes. The last time he and Holly had spoken, they’d argued. He remembered it now. She was upset that he’d been spending so much time away from home, leaving her with the burden of dealing with Jenny, who was still adjusting to her new school and being a teenager.

Crocker had asked her to be patient and understanding. She accused him of being selfish and self-involved.

Sitting up, he grabbed the MP5. The clock read 1:44, which meant he’d slept almost four hours.

Holy shit! Why didn’t someone wake me?

He hurried into the kitchen, where Mancini was adding sliced red onions to a big batch of tuna-fish salad.

“Where is everyone? What the fuck’s going on?”

“Akil and Davis went with Volman. He’s trying to pry some intel out of one of the officers at the CIA station.”

“When are they expected back?”

“Soon. I’m preparing lunch.”

“What happened to Volman’s friend?”

“He was delayed but is on his way.”

Pushing back a feeling of panic, he stood under the shower with the cast on his left wrist covered with a plastic bag, and let the warm water loosen the muscles in his shoulders and back. He regretted that he’d argued with Holly. Sometimes he forgot how much the team dominated his life. Other men had time to coach their kids’ sports team, go on family vacations, do home improvement projects.

He dressed and debated going out and searching the city by himself but instead went out onto the porch and did forty minutes of sit-ups and crunches, despite his aches and pains. He had to find some way to burn off the anxiety and relentless energy that were driving him nuts.

Another half hour dragged by. He picked at the tuna on his plate, feeling he was about to burst out of his skin.

He searched his mind for options but found none, which only added to his frustration. Frustration increased his sense of desperation, which fueled his rage. A vicious circle that made it impossible to think.

“See you later, Manny. I’m going out!” he said, grabbing his MP5 and starting for the door.

“Where?” Mancini shouted.

“To look for Holly!”

“Boss, you don’t know the country, don’t speak the language.”

“So what?”

“Don’t you always tell us that undirected aggression is self-destructive? Don’t you tell us to think first, be smart?”

He set down the MP5 and took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ll call Davis.”

He did, on the sat-phone. Davis said he and Akil were sitting in the Suburban outside a café near the embassy. Volman was inside talking to another American-a CIA officer, he thought.

“How fucking long is he gonna be?”

“Don’t know. We’ll be there soon as we can.”

He wished he could turn back the clock. Wished he’d talked Holly out of going to North Africa in the first place. Wished he’d never accepted the assignment to Libya, even though he really didn’t have a choice. Started questioning other decisions he had made in his life, then realized it was a pointless exercise. All he was doing was beating himself up.

He felt an urge to call Jenny. But what would he say? I’m sitting here with my thumb up my ass while your stepmother is about to be executed by a bunch of fucking terrorists?

He tried to imagine what Holly was going through, but that only made him more anxious, so he stopped that, too.

Davis, Akil, and Volman returned at four. All of them sat down at the kitchen table. Volman, out of breath, said, “I learned two things. One, the kidnappers are sticking to their demands-release of the three Tuareg prisoners.”

Crocker: “We knew that already.”

“The second thing is, there were two cell phone calls from the kidnappers. They’ve been traced already and turned up nothing, but it might be a place to start.”

“Where?”

“You have a map of the city?”

Akil retrieved one from his room and spread it out on the table. “The first,” Volman said, pointing to a spot on the map, “comes from a place east of here, between Mitiga Airport and the Belal Ibn Ribah Mosque. The second is a location about four miles southwest of there near the police academy on Al Hadhbah Road.”

Davis: “They’re relatively close to each other.”

Crocker: “Let’s go!”

Volman: “We should wait for my friend. He’s a Libyan militia leader-very knowledgeable and savvy. Knows his way around.”

“What’s his name?”

“Farouk Shakir al-Sayed. His friends call him Farag.”

Crocker: “Is he a little guy, young, with big amber-colored eyes?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I know him. Dark-skinned, curly black hair that sticks straight up. Weighs no more than a hundred pounds. We fought together at the Sheraton.”

“That’s him.”

“Good.”

Crocker felt a little better. Farag was a tough kid, but the optimism his name inspired quickly vanished as they waited longer. Another excruciating hour dragged by, each tick of the clock like a punch to the head.

By 5:40, when they heard a vehicle honking at the front gate, Crocker felt like a boxer entering the final round. And he hadn’t even thrown a jab.

“My friend. My brother,” Farag said, climbing out of the old Toyota truck and wrapping Crocker in a hug. “Good to see you. You remember Mohi?”

He pointed to a wider, slightly taller young man with short hair who walked with a limp. It was the kid Crocker had given medical attention to after he’d taken two bullets in his hip.

“Mohi. It’s good to see you again. You’re all healed up?”

The teenager shook Crocker’s hand vigorously and smiled. Some of his front teeth were missing.

Farag’s face turned serious when Volman showed them the map and explained the situation in Arabic. He looked at Crocker, nodded as if he understood the gravity of what they faced, then glanced at the watch on his wrist and muttered something in Arabic.

“What did he say?” Crocker said.

“Loosely translated: Do not hate misfortune because maybe there is fortune for you inside it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I know these areas,” Farag said in English. “We go fast.”

“As fast as possible.”

They climbed into the trucks. Farag led at a breakneck pace in the Toyota pickup with the Americans following in the Suburban. Within minutes Crocker spotted an airport tower ahead.

From the front seat, Volman explained, “This used to be Gaddafi’s airport. His compound wasn’t far from here. This part of the city experienced the heaviest fighting during the war.”

They passed the runway dotted with parked NATO warplanes and ran into a roadblock manned by armed men in black.

Crocker: “Who the fuck are they?”

Volman: “Beats me.”

They watched Farag lean out of the Toyota and shout at the men. They shouted back, with a lot of waving of guns and pointing.

Volman started to get out to join them.

Crocker said, “Maybe you should let him handle this.”

Volman went anyway.

“Doesn’t listen, does he?”

“Acts weird, but he’s smart,” Ritchie said.

The sun was starting to set, casting long shadows in the streets. Volman walked back toward them in his baggy pants, shirttail half out.

“We’re cool,” he said. “It’s a ragtag group of volunteers from the neighborhood. They say this area is relatively safe during the day but changes at night. They’ve experienced a lot of robberies, break-ins, kidnappings, rapes.”

“They know anything about a gang of Tuaregs operating in the area?”

“They’ve heard rumors about a group of thugs stealing cars and shipping them to Tunisia.”

“Are they Berber tribesmen? Did they say where we can find them?”

“That’s all they know.”

Stars were visible in the sky by the time the Toyota took off again in a cloud of dust. One of the men back at the roadblock lifted his AK-47 and fired it into the air.

“What the fuck was that for?” Davis asked.

Volman: “He got excited.”

They were in the Bu al Ashhar neighborhood. The Toyota screeched to a stop in front of the mosque, a blue domed structure with a minaret rising from one side. The streets around it were empty. The Arabic speakers in the group-Farag, Mohi, Volman, and Akil-went door to door, trying to elicit information.

The handful of men who were brave enough to answer said they’d seen some strangers in the area but no women, and no one they could identify as Tuareg. Nor could they describe the strangers they’d seen, except to say that some of them were armed.

They took off again and arrived at the second location after 9 p.m. Crocker’s stomach was killing him. The area in front of the police academy had also seen heavy fighting, since it was in the vicinity of Gaddafi’s heavily armed Bab al Azizia compound and Tripoli University. The academy was dark and its gate locked. Crocker saw no one on the streets, except the occasional vehicle passing on Al Hadhbah Road.

Again the four Arabic speakers knocked on the doors of nearby residential compounds and stores. Most of the latter were closed for the night. One man reported that he’d seen armed men getting out of vehicles beside the fence surrounding a field across the street from the academy.

Farag and Akil went to explore. They came back a few minutes later to retrieve their weapons.

“What’d you find?” Crocker asked.

“Something worth checking out.”

“What?”

Akil: “Follow me.”

Volman, Mancini, Davis, Ritchie, and Mohi waited beside the vehicles.

The sky glittered like a star-studded crown. A breeze picked up dust and threw it in Crocker’s face.

Farag pointed to a place in the aluminum fence where it had been cut and temporarily wired back in place. He undid the wires and rolled the fence aside. “You see?” Motioned for Crocker and Akil to enter.

After he stepped through, Farag let go of the fence so it rolled back into place.

The little Libyan led the way, following a faint trail beaten into the dirt. Past pathetic-looking shrubs and garbage-an old mattress, the twisted frame of a bike, an old sign advertising Canaba King Size cigarettes.

“Where the hell does he think this leads?” Crocker whispered to Akil’s back.

Farag stopped ahead of them, held a finger to his lips, and pointed to a spot in the ground. All Crocker saw was a round patch of earth. But when he focused harder in the low light, he was able to distinguish a round cover about four feet in diameter painted the same color as the dirt.

A dog howled in the distance as the three men quietly swung it open. Akil was the first to enter, holding a small flashlight that illuminated metal rungs along the side of a concrete tube.

They descended approximately thirty feet and reached the bottom, where they saw a concrete tunnel about twelve feet high and six wide that extended about sixty feet.

When they reached what they thought was the end, they saw that the tunnel curved left at a ninety-degree angle. The second leg was even longer. There was still no light, but they heard faint, muffled noises and proceeded carefully.

The closer to the end they got, the more distinct the sounds became. Voices at first. A man, then a woman whispering. Then what sounded like two people making love.

What the fuck?

They inched closer. A ribbon of light spilled out of a door ahead to their right.

The sounds of lovemaking grew louder. A woman approaching ecstasy screamed in English, “Harder! Faster! Yes!”

Fingers on the triggers of their weapons, they stopped. Farag pointed to the metal door and tried the lever. It wasn’t locked.

He nodded. Crocker nodded back, his heart leaping into his throat.

Farag lowered the lever and kicked the metal door open. Crocker pushed past him and entered with his MP5 ready. His brain picked up thousands of impressions at the speed of light-the size of the concrete room, the source of light, the number of occupants, the presence of weapons.

The second he saw one of them reach for his AK, he started shooting, raking the two men sitting with their feet up on an overturned table. Their bodies shook from the impact, bounced against their chairs, and slumped to the floor. They didn’t have time to scream.

But the sound of lovemaking continued. It was coming from a flat-screen propped against the wall, a DVD player on the floor beside it, wires snaking around.

A third man emerged from a room off a dark passageway behind the opposite wall, saw the three armed men and his dead colleagues, and started scrambling down the passage in the opposite direction.

Akil, his MP5 ready, started after him.

Farag reached out and stopped him. “No!”

Akil pushed the hand off his shoulder. “What do you mean, no?”

Crocker: “He’s right, Akil. Let him go.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Akil used the flashlight to illuminate the passageway, which led to a ladder, just as Crocker thought it would.

Crocker removed the radio from his back pocket and said: “Manny, very soon you’re going to see an individual emerge from the ground somewhere on the field we just entered.”

“Anywhere on the field?”

“Affirmative.”

A few seconds later Mancini said excitedly, “Yeah! I see him.”

“Good.”

“You want me to grab him?”

“No! You and Mohi get in the Toyota and follow him. Don’t lose him, and don’t let him see you. I think he’s going to lead you to the rest of the group.”

“Ten-four.”

“Don’t fucking lose him. It’s important.”

“Don’t worry, boss. That’s not gonna happen.”

They spent the next few minutes rifling through the contents of the room and bathroom-half-empty bottles of Russian vodka, a box of crackers, several porno DVDs, two Glock pistols, a bag of pistachio nuts, a leather gym bag containing over a dozen cell phones, several grenades, two ski masks. Also a laptop and several thumb drives, which Crocker kept.

He went through the dead men’s pockets. One of them had a wallet containing a wad of dinars and pictures of him and his girlfriend. In the other he found a silver amulet like the one he had seen around the neck of the wounded Tuareg tribesman he had tried to save in Toummo.

“I think these are the guys we’re looking for,” Crocker said. “Let’s go!”

They climbed the steps at the end of the tunnel behind the bathroom and emerged in a corner of the field opposite where they’d entered.

They ran to meet Volman, Ritchie, and Davis, who were waiting by the fence.

“The guy sped off in a little dark blue Nissan sedan,” Davis said excitedly.

Ritchie: “Manny’s on his heels with Mohi. He’s headed south.”

“Let’s hurry!”

They piled into the Suburban. Davis gunned the engine; he’d raced stock cars as a young man and knew how to get the most out of a vehicle-even the bulky, clumsy Suburban they were in now.

Ritchie was on the radio communicating with Manny, then instructing Davis, “Make a right here. Look for a four-lane highway ahead. Get on it going south!”

Crocker sat throbbing on the middle seat, hoping against hope that the man would lead them to Holly.

Manny screamed through the radio, “Turn off at Al Belah Road.”

“Ask him how far.”

Manny over the radio, “You’ll see a stadium on your left.”

“How far?”

“You can’t miss it.”

Two minutes later Ritchie screamed, “There it is!”

Tires burning, they took the turnoff at sixty. Up a ramp, onto a dark, deserted street.

“Where now?” Davis asked.

Ritchie: “Keep going straight. Cut the headlights. Manny says you’ll see him parked next to a burnt-out truck. There’s one lone streetlight at the end of the block.”

Davis: “I see it! Yeah, I see it. There!”

“Stop. Park this thing in the alley.”

“You got it, boss.”

They slung their weapons over their shoulders, got out, and ran in a crouch behind the few parked cars to where the Toyota had stopped.

Mancini sat in the driver’s seat, loading his MP5, stuffing frag grenades and extra magazines in his pants pockets.

“Where the fuck did he go?” Crocker asked, stealing a glimpse at his watch.

“He entered a beat-up building around the block. You can’t see it from here.”

It was 11:38. His heart sank. They were running out of time.

“Where’s Mohi?”

“He went ahead to recon the place.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you go with him?”

“Calm down, boss. I was on the radio to you.”

“Sorry.”

“We’re gonna find her. I can feel it. We’re close. Fidem tene.”

“What’s that?”

“Keep the faith.”

Hearing footsteps approaching, they ducked behind the Suburban and readied their weapons. It was Mohi, out of breath. He pointed as he spoke a mile a minute in Arabic.

“What’s he saying?”

Akil: “It’s a five-story structure. Two vehicles parked out front. Men are loading shit into them, like they’re getting ready to leave. They’re moving fast.”

“Did he see a prisoner? Were they moving a female prisoner?”

“He says no.”

“Fuck!”

“Four large men. No woman. He thinks they’re just about ready to split.”

Crocker was thinking fast. “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Wait. Ask him about the front gate.”

Akil: “What about it?”

“Ask him if there is one, and if it’s open.”

“It’s open.”

“Okay. Davis-you and Ritchie bring the Suburban around. Position it near the gate so you can block their escape if necessary. Manny, you take Mohi. Climb the wall and take the building from the rear.”

“Got it.”

“Make sure you’ve got your radio. Akil and Farag come with me. We’re going in the front gate. You guys know what to do. Shoot to kill any motherfucking terrorists. Look for the hostage-my wife!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Volman, you stay with the vehicle.”

Volman: “Good luck. I hope you find her safe.”

Crocker stole a look at his watch: 11:47. Thirteen minutes until the deadline.

He slapped Farag on the shoulder. “Ready?”

Farag flashed back a thumbs-up.

“Let’s go!”

They sprinted around the corner, spotted the five-story building, which looked badly damaged, and hid behind the six-foot-high compound wall.

Akil whispered, “Most windows missing. There are some flashlights or other kinds of lamps on the ground floor but no other internal lights.”

Crocker heard a car ignition start, then whispered, “Go!”

They turned the corner, weapons ready-a mixture of Glocks, MP5s, AK-47s. Saw two dark-haired men getting into a black pickup. Crocker dropped to his knees and opened fire.

“Not so fast, motherfuckers!”

The men returned fire. Bullets tore into the ground and flew overhead. Crocker scrambled for cover behind the open gate. Heard rounds slam into the metal. Reloaded. Akil crossed to the left side so he could get a better angle. Farag ran inside the compound and hid behind a low concrete wall that led to a stairway at the front of the building.

The dark-haired men directed most of their fire at Farag, to their left. Crocker saw that he was pinned and jumped out from behind the gate to try to pick off the shooters.

Headlights blinded him.

Akil shouted, “Boss! Get back!”

He saw the Nissan sedan speeding toward him on its way out of the compound, its rear tires kicking up dirt. He jumped behind the gate and didn’t see Farag rise and toss something in the direction of the pickup. The two men kneeling behind it dove for cover.

Meanwhile, the Nissan fishtailed out, men shouting and firing from the front and back seats. He heard it hurtle out the gate, then brake, followed by the sound of metal smashing into metal and shattering glass.

Automatic fire ringing from the street behind him and in front of him, Crocker had taken two steps into the compound when a big explosion rocked the area in front of the building and threw him back against the wall.

He came to gasping for breath, his head spinning, thinking Jesus Christ, they killed Holly!

Everything started to break up inside him, but when the smoke and dust started to clear, he saw that the building in front of him was intact. The pickup lay on its side, and flames were shooting out of the hood.

Akil screamed into Crocker’s radio, “Boss! Boss, you okay?”

“What the fuck just happened?”

“Farag threw a grenade.”

“He could have fucking warned me,” he muttered, glancing at his watch. It was now 11:56. Four minutes!

Akil reported, “Manny and Mohi are pinned down in back.”

“There’s another shooter in back?”

“Roger. Two at least.”

“Cover me,” Crocker said urgently into the radio. “I’m going in.”

He ran in a crouch past the burning pickup and saw Farag finishing off one of the downed men with his knife. He continued through the smoke and ran up six concrete steps into the building, which was a mess-bare concrete columns covered with graffiti, broken furniture, pieces of discarded cloth, plastic bags filled with garbage.

“Holly!” he called.

No answer. Just a hollow echo of his own voice, and gunfire.

Something was burning near the back of the building. Ferocious fighting continued from both the front and back. He ran up a set of stairs to the second floor. Saw mattresses, empty tin cans and bottles. A filthy bathroom with a toilet filled with shit.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he readied his MP5 and turned. Saw two feet through the drifting smoke. He was about to squeeze the trigger when he caught a glimpse of the wild tangle of dark hair.

“Farag! I almost shot you.”

“Your wife?” he whispered back.

“I haven’t found her, no.”

The Libyan pointed to the stairway and motioned upward. “I go.”

“Go ahead. I’ll join you.”

After he finished checking the second floor, Crocker hurried to the stairway, which was clogged with smoke.

Akil shouted over the radio, “Boss, we can’t get in. Too much fire on the first floor. Something big is burning, sending up a lot of black smoke. Where are you?”

“I’m on two, on my way up to three.”

“Get out before you’re trapped!”

“Fuck that.”

“The fire’s spreading. We’ve got no way to put it out!”

Crocker continued up the stairs two at a time. At the third-floor landing he heard Farag shout: “Crocker! Mista Crocker!”

“Where are you?”

“Here!”

“Where?”

All he could see was smoke and trash. He hurried to the back of the building and found Farag kneeling near a column. Tripped over a piece of thick rope and saw two backpacks lying on the floor. Another rope led to a digital timer that was counting down in hundredths of seconds-4:01.98, 4:01.97. Small green LED numbers descending fast.

This floor is rigged to blow!

Running out of breath, he reached for Farag’s shoulder. “Farag, we gotta get-”

On the other side of the column he saw someone with long hair. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. It was Holly! She was taped to a metal chair, with thick silver tape covering her mouth. As soon as she saw Crocker, tears started to fall from her eyes.

“Holly, sweetheart! Oh, my God…”

Farag opened a pocketknife and started trying to cut her free.

Crocker squeezed her arm. He wanted to hug and kiss her, but there was no time.

Emotion coursing through him, he saw Farag struggling with the tape and pushed him away. “Forget it! We’re running out of time!”

He handed him his MP5 and picked up the chair with Holly in it. “Let’s get the hell out of here! Follow me!”

He ran to the stairway with the chair and Holly in his arms. Thick black smoke curled around their heads. They’d made it down to the landing, eyes and throats burning, when Crocker saw flames shooting up and realized they couldn’t get through.

He slapped Farag on the arm and pointed upward. Returning to the third floor, he thought fast. He found the rope, determined that it was long enough, and tied it around the top of the metal chair.

Then he grabbed the radio from his back pocket. “Akil!” he shouted. “We’re trapped up here. Tell me, are you able to safely approach any part of the building?”

“The front is the clearest, boss. How come?”

“I’m going to climb out one of the front windows. Look for me. I’ve got Holly. I’m going to lower her down.”

“You found her? Is she okay?”

“Listen! You grab her and get as far away from the building as you can. The third floor is rigged to blow in less than two minutes!”

“But-”

“Do it! Now!”

He picked her up again and ran to one of the front windows, using the cast on his wrist to punch away what was left of the glass. Black smoke was pouring out of the first- and second-story windows.

He shouted and waved to Akil and Mancini below. They ran and positioned themselves under him.

Crocker wrapped one end of the rope around a water pipe in the corner that ran from the floor to the ceiling and handed it to Farag. He said, “Hold this. Don’t let it go. Wait for my signal, then let it out slowly.”

The young man looked confused.

Crocker quickly demonstrated what he wanted him to do. “Like this.”

“Okay.”

With the rope around the chair taut to the pipe, Crocker picked up the chair and lifted it out the window until Holly was clear.

“I love you, baby.”

Silver tape still covered her mouth, so she nodded vigorously.

Then, holding on to the rope, Crocker signaled to Farag to give him some slack. The rope burned his hands, ripping the skin off his palms, twisting the bones in his injured wrist.

Gritting his teeth through the searing pain, he watched Holly’s head disappear in the smoke. He hoped she could breathe.

After what seemed like an eternity, he heard Akil shout, “We got her, boss! We got her!”

Huge relief. Alright!

Quickly pulling up the freed rope, he grabbed Farag by the shoulder. “You’re next!”

“No!”

“Hold on to the rope. Use your legs and walk down the side of the building. Like this.”

“Maybe.”

“You can do it. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Yes.”

He helped Farag out the window, took a deep breath, then climbed out himself. Halfway down Farag stumbled and got caught in the rope. The thick smoke stuck like hot tar in Crocker’s throat. He couldn’t breathe, but he heard his colleagues shouting. He was too light-headed to make out what they were saying.

Instead he focused on Farag, and climbed down as fast as he could to where he was stuck and hanging by one leg. He was reaching around to try to untangle him when the explosion went off. He saw a tremendous light and felt the oxygen being sucked out of his lungs. As he was flying through the air, he lost consciousness.