Regret ate away at him, unable to get past his last conversation with Landon. He hadn’t thought twice about what his friend had asked of him, but it was now at the forefront of his mind. He had an awful premonition all of this could have been avoided if he had just done what Landon requested, regardless of the consequences.
“And do what? Bang on every door, asking if they’ve seen him? Westerners aren’t exactly liked by everyone. Not to mention…” Martin stepped toward him. “No one’s supposed to know the medical clinic is just a front for what you’re really doing over there.”
“I know,” Alexander sighed, leaning back in his chair and propping his designer shoe-clad feet on the desk.
His surroundings were a far cry from the barren and meager environment in which he had first met Landon…wearing their navy-issued boxer briefs, standing at attention as they listened to their instructor call them pansies and remind them that, in just a matter of days, their numbers would dwindle. Their friendship had survived Hell Week, deployment, and years of little to no communication after Alexander left the navy and Landon remained. They had shared parts of themselves with each other, things they never told another person. In anticipation of embarking on yet another covert mission under the cover of night, they’d made promises to each other. Alexander hoped he wasn’t letting his friend down.
“Rayne keeps calling to see if I’ve heard anything,” Alexander continued. “I don’t want to lie to her, but what can I do? I keep assuring her he’s okay, that he’s just adhering to standard protocol and will call when it’s safe to do so. Part of me wants to admit it’s not looking good, that he should have called by now to let me know he’s okay. I can’t help but—”
A flash on one of the television monitors caught his attention and he snapped his head up. “Breaking News” ran across the screen in bright, bold letters before cutting back to the same anchor. Alexander hoped for news about Landon, but had a feeling if there were any developments of which he was not aware, it wouldn’t be anything good. Like dominoes falling, each of the other stations the television monitors were tuned to also flashed a “Breaking News” title. His stomach rolled.
He grabbed one of the remotes on his desk, not caring which monitor it controlled. It didn’t matter. They all seemed to be reporting the same story. A weighty voice, mixed with a touch of compassion filled the silence. People often remarked they remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when Kennedy was shot or the Twin Towers fell. This was his Kennedy assassination. This was his 9/11. The start of a series of events that would slowly unravel the pieces of his seemingly perfect life.
“Breaking news tonight out of Afghanistan where we’ve been closely following the explosion at an American-operated medical clinic, and the search for the missing staff and patients. Last Sunday, just before noon local time, what is believed to be a suicide bomber stepped up to this building, located approximately fifty miles outside Kabul, and detonated a crude cell phone bomb.” A photo of the remains of a nondescript one-story clay building appeared on the screen. All that was left was the foundation and a few wall fragments. The rest had been reduced to rubble. “No bodies have been recovered, except for that of the bomber, so it is believed all staff and patients were able to escape.”
Tapping relentlessly on the desk in front of him, Alexander sat up in his chair, his attention glued to the screen. He knew the news wouldn’t be good, but he couldn’t help but hold out hope for a happy ending.
“Over the past week, there’s been much speculation about the cause or reason for this attack. Experts have weighed in, some calling it just another unfortunate incident in an area riddled with violence. Although the bomb was crudely made, which gave rise to many opinions that this was simply an isolated event, we can now say with certainty that isn’t the case. This was a planned act of terrorism against an American company whose entire purpose overseas is to help those in need.”
Alexander stood from his desk, crossing the room toward the large television screens. He could faintly make out Martin’s voice in the background, probably trying to get to the bottom of why they were learning about all this by watching the national news, not through their contacts and connections in the intelligence field.
“Just moments ago, we received a videotape from an extremist group we’re just now getting word about, I.U., or Islamic Union, claiming credit for the bombing, as well as the abduction of one of the key staff members of the clinic, a man they claim to be Landon Tate, a former Navy SEAL now working for Burnham and Associates, a private security firm based out of the States, but whose presence is known across the globe.”
“Shit,” Alexander muttered.
As with most of the humanitarian work his company did, he preferred to keep it secret. On paper, the clinic was run by one of the many “shell” corporations his company had set up to keep the security side of the business separate. He didn’t want someone to target any of the clinics, camps, or aid stations set up to help those in need simply because of its connection to the company’s military contracts. It would have taken some serious digging or some very loose lips within his management team to connect his company to this clinic.
“It’s normally not our policy to broadcast such videos, but little is known about this group just yet. We felt it necessary to warn the public about the potential new threat we face as a nation. What we’re about to show you is very graphic, so if you’re particularly sensitive or have little ones in the room, you may want to change the channel. It has been edited, but it still may be a bit too violent for some viewers.”
The camera cut from the reporter to a fuzzy homemade video. The room was all white with low ceilings. A lone green flag with a large white circle in the middle and Arabic symbols scrawled beneath it hung on the wall. Alexander’s chest rose and fell with increased frequency as he searched his brain for any memory of seeing that particular flag before. He didn’t recognize it as the official flag of any nation he had ever heard of.
He swallowed hard, a sour taste in his mouth. The sound of a door opening echoed, like footsteps on a creaky floorboard, and five figures dressed all in black with their faces obscured, save for their eyes, entered, pushing a tall, muscular man before them, his arms bound in front of him and a blindfold over his eyes.