Shadow Tag

5

“You’re probably wondering why we brought you here.”

“The question did pop up,” Khoury said.

Their captor ignored the remark. “It has to do with your work. You see, we need you to come up with a new idea. A new plot. Something… epic.”

Khoury and Berry looked at each other with evident confusion.

Khoury asked, “You’re, what — a rival publisher?”

“It’s not for a book.”

“A TV show then, or,” Khoury’s eyes lit up, “a movie?”

“Either way, you really need to go through our agents,” Berry offered. “That’s the way it’s usually done.”

“Yeah, I mean, look, we’re flattered, we appreciate your putting up this whole song and dance to impress us, but, seriously—”

The man twirled his gun playfully before letting it settle with its barrel lined up on the author’s face.

Khoury lost his grin. “Maybe I should let you tell us some more.”

“It’s not for a movie or a television show. It’s for us to do. In real life.” He paused, clearly wanting to watch the confusion on his prisoners’ faces morph into fear.

“‘To do?’” Berry asked. “You mean—”

“I mean I want you to come up with a great plot, something really bad that we can do to cause a lot of death and suffering.” His tone took on a dark, messianic fervor. “Something spectacular, something that hasn’t been done before. Something that will bring America to its knees and shake the whole world. Something that will never be forgotten.”

Berry and Khoury were speechless.

The man seemed to be enjoying the effect of his words on them.

Berry asked, “You want us to plan something for you?”

“Exactly.”

Berry considered his reply for a moment, then calmly added, “Why us?”

“Because we keep getting caught. Every time we try something, every plan my brothers out there come up has failed. Since 9/11, every time one of our groups has tried to attack America, it’s ended in disaster.” His eyes narrowed. “We need you to come up with something foolproof. Something unexpected, but that will work. Because you’ll have thought of everything that can go wrong and planned around it. In this story, you’ll make the bad guys win.”

“That’s a twist, for sure, but… why us?” Khoury asked.

“You’re writers,” the man said. “You do this every day.”

“Yeah, but I mean, why us, why me and Steve? The kind of thing you’re talking about, terrorist-counter-terrorist stuff — it’s not really what we do. You need someone like, I don’t know, Brad Thor. Or Kyle Mills. They’d be your best bet.”

Berry added, “Or Terry Hayes. Have you read I Am Pilgrim? He’d be perfect.”

“Or maybe someone like Howard Gordon. He did 24. And Homeland. What you’re talking about is right up his alley.”

“No,” the man barked angrily. “No dirty bombs, no suitcase nukes, no viruses. I want something original. Something… unique.” His eyes tightened, along with his jaw muscles. “Something that will make me even bigger than Bin Laden.”

Khoury thought for a second, then said, “Have you considered Dan Brown?”

“Or Lee Child,” Berry suggested. “He’s really twisted, and he’s in town. The stories I could tell you.”

The man’s face broke into a narrow, sadistic smile as he shook his head slowly. “Sorry, my friends. You’re it.”

“Look, this is nuts,” Berry protested. “You can’t seriously expect us to come up with a way for you to kill people.”

“Oh, I do expect you to, believe me,” the man countered. “Right now, it’s only the two of you. But it wouldn’t be hard for us to grab your families. If you need more… inspiration.”

Berry looked over to Khoury, whose expression now mirrored his own growing sense of doom.

Khoury asked, “This is insane. Whose brilliant idea was this anyway? Yours?”

The man smiled. “Actually, your government thought of it first.”

Both authors’ jaws dropped. “What?”

“I was reading up about Bin Laden, trying to inspire myself into greatness like his, and I found out that just after 9/11, your government brought together a bunch of top producers and writers from Hollywood and asked them to brainstorm how someone might try to attack America. And it got me thinking that I should do the same thing.”

“Brainstorming ways to save people’s lives over a weekend in some nice Malibu beach house is a bit different from… this,” Khoury protested.

The man gave them a sheepish shrug. “Sorry. Best I can do.” Then he clapped his hand, hard. “Okay. Enough wasting time. You have your assignment.”

He snapped his fingers.

The goon in the leather jacket reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a couple of small black notebooks and two pens. He tossed them onto the mattress closest to Berry.

“Let me know when you have something,” the lead goon said.

He turned to go when Berry blurted, “Wait, hang on a second.”

The man turned.

Berry asked, “You seriously expect us to come up with a brilliant plan for you, just like that?”

“Your lives and those of the ones you love most depend on it.”

“How do we even know you’ll let us go if we do this,” Khoury asked.

“I have no use for you once it’s done,” the man said. “And letting you go will only help fuel my legend. Besides, it’s not all bad. Think about it. After this, you’ll become global celebrities. Anything you write will sell a zillion copies.”

“We’ll be the most despised people on the planet,” Khoury objected.

Their captor wasn’t moved. “I’ve always read that any publicity is good publicity, no?”

Khoury exhaled and looked over to Berry. They seemed equally exasperated, outraged, despondent. But then Berry gave Khoury the tiniest of nods, firing up a kernel of resolve inside him.

“Get to work,” the man said.

He turned to go, and again, one of the authors interrupted his exit.

“Wait,” Khoury said. “We need more. To work with.”

“What do you mean?”

“Any decent plot starts with the antagonist.”

The man seemed confused.

“The bad guy,” Khoury explained. “These stories are only as good as their bad guy.”

The man said, “Fine. That’s me.”

“So we need to know about you.”

The man laughed, then wagged a finger at him. “Clever. Trying to get some information out of me?”

“No, I’m serious,” Khoury said. “It’s all about character motivation. It has to be solid. So we need to know, why are you doing this?”

“Where does this lust for blood come from?” Berry added. “Why are you angry at America? Was it something in your past? Maybe you blame us for something that happened to you or your family? Someone you cared for?”

The man thought for a moment, then shrugged. “No.”

The writers seemed thrown by his answer.

“Okay,” Khoury said, “you said you wanted to be bigger than Bin Laden. Where does that come from? Were you bullied at school? Or maybe at home? Did anything happen that changed you, that turned you into, if you don’t mind my saying it, a raging psychopath?”

The man considered the question, then shook his head. “No.”

The writers exchanged a perplexed look.

Berry asked, “So why are you doing this?”

“It’s more fun than driving an Uber.” He grinned, then fired them a look that said they were done and headed for the door.

“Wait,” Berry said.

The man exhaled loudly, dropped his shoulders, then turned around grudgingly. “Now what?”

“We need a name,” Berry said. “Something to call you.”

Khoury added, “Ideally, something with a strong ring to it.”

The man nodded, then proudly proclaimed, “My friends call me El Assad. The Lion.”

Khoury glanced at Berry, then shook his head.

“What?” the man asked.

“Can’t use it,” Berry said. “Nelson DeMille already used it. Twice.”

“Then there’s the Syrian president. He’s really taken the shine off that name.”

“True.”

The man frowned.

“What about Dr. Evil?” Khoury asked sheepishly.

“I’m not a doctor,” the man said.

Khoury gave Berry a discreet grin. “Worth a shot.”

“Call me Abul Mowt,” the man proposed, his face darkening with the words.

Khoury’s face sank. Which Berry noticed.

“What?” Berry asked.

“It means ‘father of death,’” Khoury said.

Berry looked over to their captor. “Not bad,” he said. “That, we can work with.”

“So get to work,” the man said somberly.

“And about the food…?” Khoury asked.

The man’s tone rose with irritation. “I’ll get you some damn food. Anything else?”

“It’d be good to have an internet connection,” Berry said. “You know, for research.”

The man glared at him, half-amused. “Nice try. Get me something, soon. You’re not leaving here until you do.”

Then he walked out, his fingers snapping his minions to follow suit, leaving the two authors locked in their cell.