Alexander fought with everything he had to remain impassive as he looked at his employee, his team member, his friend clad in a bright orange jumpsuit, the little skin visible bruised and bloody. All he could do was pray Landon’s fiancée wasn’t watching the same newscast at this moment. He felt nauseated and lightheaded thinking about Landon and what he was going through for all to see. If Rayne was watching, he couldn’t imagine how she was coping with it.
One of the nondescript figures removed Landon’s blindfold and forced him to kneel in the center of the room, the five men standing in a straight line behind him. Alexander had seen such a display before. He always felt bad for the man in the orange jumpsuit, and for their wives and kids, if they had any. But his sympathy was always short-lived. Within a day or two, he would forget the name, the person becoming one more among many who had fallen victim to this war on terror. Some were military. Many were not. Seeing Landon in the same shoes many strangers before him had walked made Alexander sick. Staring into the eyes that got him through so many rough patches during his time as a SEAL, it felt as if a heavy weight was crushing his chest, his lungs unable to draw in enough air.
He fought back the dizziness running through him, focusing solely on the mission, as he had been trained to do. This was different, though. He wasn’t on assignment, fighting not only for his life, but the lives of the rest of his team. Instead, he was in his cushy office wearing a designer suit that cost more than most enlisted men made in a month, watching a real-life horror story unfold before his eyes. There was no mission. If there were, he had abandoned it, leaving his team in peril. For what? To follow protocol? Fuck protocol. The old Alexander would have followed his gut, not the rules.
He wanted to look away from the television, but was glued to Landon’s blue eyes staring directly at the camera…at him. Taking a deep breath, Landon lowered his head and studied a piece of paper he held in his bound hands, hesitating. Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, he subtly shook his head.
One of the men stepped forward, hitting him in the back of his head with the butt of an automatic rifle. Landon grunted through the pain, taking a moment to recover and compose himself. He mumbled something in a language Alexander recognized as Pashto, then looked back at the camera.
“This is a message for every American.” His voice cut through the heavy silence. He blinked slowly. His body appeared frail, a shell of his former self. Like Alexander, Landon had been trained to withstand days of physical and mental torture, but he was only human and had his limits. Alexander didn’t even want to consider what Landon had been forced to endure that had brought him to this point. Even so, he stared directly at the camera, his voice as strong as ever.
“You think you’re so powerful, so smart, that your way of life is the only way. You are wrong. You come into our country and impose your western ideals. You thought you were untouchable, that you would be victorious. The mighty Allah has shown us your weakness. We have existed for thousands of years without your intervention, and we will exist for thousands of years after you’ve all been exterminated. We are the chosen ones. You can keep interfering with our traditions, but it will be met with the same end. The Islamic Union will do everything within its means to continue striking down every rat who stands in its path. My blood…” Landon paused, closing his eyes briefly as one of the men stepped up behind him, a long blade in his hand.
Alexander brought his hand to his mouth, his heartbeat echoing in his ears. The tick-tock of the clock on the wall seemed to be amplified a thousand times as his surroundings swirled into a twisted rabbit hole. He knew what was about to happen. Still, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t look away. He owed Landon that much. He needed to remain as courageous and brave as his friend was in the face of a grim and sadistic end.
Landon licked his lips, his eyes narrowed. If he were afraid, he did a good job of covering it up. “My blood is the price I must pay to atone for my sins and the sins of my brethren.”
The executioner raised the blade, gripping it with both hands, a macabre baseball bat to end Landon’s life. Then the screen went black.
Chapter Eight
Present Day
December 18
10:15 PM
BLINKING HIS EYES OPEN, Alexander was frozen in place as he stared at the white ceiling fifteen feet above him. He hadn’t thought about that day in months. He tried to not blame himself for what happened to Landon. At first, it was difficult, especially when he had to look into Mischa’s eyes at the funeral and offer his apologies for not doing more.
“You can’t blame yourself, Alex,” Mischa had responded consolingly, the epitome of strength and grace, even when saying goodbye to the only family she had left. “This isn’t your fault.” Standing on her toes, she had wrapped her arms around him, offering him the comfort he should have been providing her. He had closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to mourn with Landon’s sister. As he pulled back, he caught Landon’s fiancée’s blank stare, her purple-blue eyes vacant.
Alexander shot up on the couch. Grabbing the file Simpson had given him off the table, he fumbled through it, the memory of those eyes intermingling with his unusual encounter earlier this morning. Frantic, he threw photo after photo onto the couch, the floor, the coffee table, desperately searching for the one he had been looking at before he dozed off. Hearing paper crinkling, he looked beside him to see the corner of a photo sticking out from beneath him. Hurriedly, he jumped up, papers scattering like leaves. Grabbing it, Alexander zeroed in on the other woman beside Landon…Rayne, his fiancée of over five years and girlfriend for even longer.
Her deep red hair contrasted with her creamy white skin. She was tall, slender, happy. Her eyes were remarkable, unforgettable…shades of blue mixed with lilac. They shimmered and gleamed, so alive.
As Alexander stared at the photo in front of him, Rayne’s features began to fade. Her clean skin was replaced with a weathered appearance and large bags under her eyes. Her face showed signs of significant weight loss and perhaps even drug addiction. Her hair was no longer lustrous and full, but wiry, frayed, and tired. Those eyes that once were so full of life and whimsy were empty, cold, unforgiving.
“Why didn’t I see it sooner?”
Dashing to his desk, he grabbed his cell and searched through his contacts, praying he hadn’t deleted her information for some unknown reason. When he finally found her name, he breathed a momentary sigh of relief, waiting as the call connected. He paced in front of the windows, the Boston sky a murky mix of rain, ice, and snow. The meteorologist on the local news had said this was just the warmup. By Sunday evening, the forecast was for up to two feet of snow to cover the city.