State of Siege

FORTY-TWO

Harleigh Hood was on her knees, facing the closed doors of the Security Council chamber.

The Australian man was standing behind her, holding her hair tightly, painfully. The other man, the Spanish-sounding man, was behind him, looking at his watch. Harleigh’s face was badly swollen above the right cheek where she’d been pistol-whipped when she’d tried to bite him. There was blood on her mouth where she’d been backfisted, hard. Her gown was torn at both shoulders, her neck rug-burned from being dragged up here, all the while kicking at the floor, walls, and chairs. And her left side hurt with every breath because she’d been jackbooted there just a few seconds before.

Harleigh had not gone willingly to her execution.

Now that the young woman was here, she was staring ahead blankly. She hurt everywhere, but nothing was as painful as the utter loss of her humanity, something she couldn’t even touch. She realized, in a surprisingly lucid instant, that this was probably what it was like to be raped. Choice taken away. Dignity taken away. Future fear of any stimulus reminiscent of the experience, whether it was something pulling at your hair or the feeling of a rug under your knees. Perhaps worst of all, this wasn’t about anything she had done or said or been. She was just a convenient target for some animal’s hostility. Is that what death was supposed to be like? No angels and trumpets. She was just meat.

No.

Harleigh screamed a cry of rage that came from deep inside. She screamed again, and then her bruised muscles exploded and she tried to get to her feet. Death was that if you let it be that. The Australian tugged hard on her hair, twisting her around. Harleigh fell to the ground, onto her back. She fought to get up, wriggling from side to side. Her captor dropped his knee on her chest, hard, and remained there. He put the barrel of his gun in her mouth.

“Scream into this,” he said.

Harleigh did, defiantly, and he pushed the barrel down her throat until she gagged.

“Go on, one more time, angel,” he said. “Scream again and it will scream back.”

Metallic-tasting saliva quickly pooled in the bottom of Harleigh’s throat. Blood mixed with the saliva, and she stopped screaming; she had to as she tried to swallow around the gun. But she couldn’t swallow, cough, or breathe. She was going to drown in her own saliva before he could shoot her. She reached up and tried to push his hand back, but he used his free hand to grab her wrists. He easily forced Harleigh’s slender arms to the side.

“It’s time,” Barone said.

Downer glared down as Harleigh made a guttural sound around the gun barrel.

Just then the radio beeped.

“Hold it,” Barone said quickly. He answered the radio. “Yes?”

“This is Secretary-General Chatterjee,” said the caller. “We have your money, and a helicopter is on the way.”

Downer and Barone exchanged looks. Barone hit the mute button. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“She’s lying,” Downer said. “She couldn’t have gotten it this fast.”

Barone disengaged the mute. “How did you get it?” he asked.

“The United States government has guaranteed a loan from the Federal Reserve Bank in New York,” she said. “They’re putting together the currency and bringing it over.”

“Wait until you hear from me,” the Uruguayan said. He turned and started running down the stairs.

“You won’t execute the hostage?” Chatterjee said.

“I’ll execute two hostages if you’re lying,” he replied. He punched the radio off and hurried to the TAC-SAT phone at the front of the Security Council chamber.