Transfer of Power

RAFIQUE AZIZ CAME marching into the White House mess and glared at the huddled mass of frightened hostages. No one dared look at him after seeing what he was capable of.

With his hands on his hips’aziz said, “Everybody, listen to me and you will not be hurt.” Aziz began to walk around the circle.

“If I tap you on the shoulder, I want you to go stand against the wall by the door. A third of you are being set free. If your government cooperates tomorrow, another third of you will be set free.”

Aziz knew the second part of the statement to be a lie, but honesty was hardly his strong suit. “Ifany of you talk or do not cooperate in any way, you will be forced to sit back down.”

Aziz began tapping the shoulders of those hostages closest to the door.

Those farthest from the door quickly realized they would not be released. Several of them started to cry, and Aziz shouted, “Silence, or I will come over there and shoot you!”

Anna Rielly couldn’t believe it; her prayers were about to be answered.

As the leader worked his way closer, her spirits soared. She was going to be set free. Rielly grabbed Stone Alexander and told him to sit up.

The pretty male reporters hair was pasted to one side of his head, with a large clump sticking straight up in the air, and he gave no sign that he knew what was going on. Aziz tapped Rielly on the shoulder and then Alexander. Anna stood and pulled Alexander to his feet.

As she walked toward the door, she felt as though it were all a dream.

Rielly looked at the other hostages that were standing by the door and smiled. It was really going to happen.

Her smile vanished Instantly when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

Trying to ignore it, Rielly took another step, but the fingers dug in deep and yanked her to a stop. Alexander kept walking in his trancelike state toward the others that were being set free.

The terrorist with the slicked-back hair, the one who had driven the delivery truck into the underground parking garage of the Treasury Building, yanked Anna Rielly to a stop and yelled to Rafique Aziz in Arabic. Aziz stopped his count for a second, looked at the woman his man was talking about, and nodded his consent. Then, pointing to another hostage that was still seated, he said, “You take her place.” Aziz could not have cared less what his men wanted to do with these women.

They were the spoils of war.

With a quick yank, Rielly pulled herself from the terrorist’s grip.

“Take your filthy hands off me.”

Abu Hasan, somewhat surprised at the strength of the slender woman, paused for a brief second and then raised his hand.

In a wide arcing motion he swung at her head with an open hand.

Rielly, at her fathers suggestion, had enrolled in selfdefense classes after the rape. She had taken them very seriously, and the instincts were still there. She saw the blow coming and raised her forearm. The blow knocked her slightly off balance, but she remained defiantly on her feet.

What Rielly didn’t know was that she would have been better off if she had kept her instincts in check. Like most Arab men, Abu Hasan was used to submissive women and was not about to tolerate this type of behavior, especially in front of the other men. This time he swung with a closed fist and hit a cowering Rielly in the temple. The blow sent Rielly to the floor, where she curled up in a ball. Kicking her in the back viciously, the terrorist then grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to the main group of hostages. He released her hair and dropped her to the floor like a sack. Rielly lay there, her hands covering her face as the tears flowed from her eyes, her back and head screaming in pain.

She wasn’t crying as much from the pain as from mental anguish. Anna Rielly knew what was going to happen to her, and the vision of what lay ahead only made her cry harder.