Transfer of Power

RAFIQUE AZIZ STOOD with a demeanor that looked to be teetering between confidence and rage. As Muammar Bengazi whispered in his ear, the scales began to tilt in favor of rage. Aziz had known this moment would come.

The fact that he had already played it out in his mind a hundred times would not take away from his performance.

Bengazi finished relaying to his friend the information that had been requested. Without hesitation, Aziz yelled, “Where?”

Bengazi pointed to a hostage sitting near the edge of the group, and then followed Aziz as he walked briskly toward the man. Aziz stopped five feet from a man in a white shirt and loosened tie. Pointing to the man, Aziz asked Bengazi, “Him?”

Bengazi nodded.

Aziz looked down at the man and commanded, “Stand!”

The man did as he was told and rose to a height several inches taller than Azizthe man looked to be in his early to mid fifties with short brown-and-gray hair. In a voice loud enough to make sure everyone heard him, Aziz asked, “You have a request?”

“Ah,” the man started out somewhat nervously, “we have a pregnant woman in the group, and several other people who are older. I had asked… ah… your man”-the White House employee pointed to Bengazi-“if we could get some blankets and food for…”

Aziz cut him off with a loud, “No!” The man took a quarter of a step back. “But”-he gestured with an open hand to a woman on the floor-“she’s pregnant.”

Aziz looked at the bulging stomach of the woman on the floor. She was lying on her back with her head resting on an older woman’s lap. Without taking his eyes off the expectant mother, Aziz slid his right hand to his thigh and found the grip of his gun. He pulled the pistol from his holster and turned to the man standing before him. Without saying a word, without the slightest expression on his face, Aziz raised the gun to the man’s forehead and, from a distance of one foot, pulled the trigger.

The loud crack of the gunshot caused everyone in the room to jerk involuntarily. Before the report of the gun had died, the man was propelled backward and into the huddled mass of hostages-his blood, brain matter, and skull fragments showering a half dozen shocked individuals.

As the room erupted, Rafique Aziz turned and marched for the exit. His cold expression masked a perverse satisfaction in completing another chapter in his plan. Aziz left the room to the noise of his men screaming at the hostages. As he walked down the hall to the Situation Room, a smile creased his lips.

When the time came, the hostages would give him no trouble.

From this point forward, they would be as docile as a flock of lambs.