President Mendez sighed in despair. ‘Jennifer, what do you advise?’
‘You’ve an impossible choice,’ stated Jennifer. ‘Give in to their demands and we set a dangerous precedent – one the nation may never recover from. Hold your ground and we maintain the status quo – the Brotherhood may even lose crucial support by using such terror tactics. But you risk losing your daughter. This is a no-win situation. You know my views already, but I’m not the one who has to make the ultimate decision on this.’
President Mendez studied the secretary of state’s ice-maiden face. Despite her seeming lack of compassion, she was an excellent stateswoman and he knew she only had the good of the nation at heart. His own heart and mind, however, were torn in two. On the one hand, he was the President who’d made an oath to preserve, protect and defend the United States. On the other, he was a father whose whole world was his daughter and his instinct was to put her first, over everything.
Deep down he knew what had to be done. But the choice left a cold spot in his heart, one that would grow like a cancer if either Connor or his daughter died at the terrorists’ hands.
The countdown on the TV ticked down to forty-nine minutes.
‘Antonio, you may want to see this,’ interrupted his wife, poking her head round the door.
With the weariness of a burdened man, President Mendez followed her into the Oval Office and over to the bay windows. The First Lady drew back the drapes to reveal a view across the south lawn. In the darkness beyond the iron railings, ten thousand flickering flames hovered like fireflies all the way back to the Washington Monument. And even through the thickened bulletproof glass the sound of hymns being sung could be heard like a distant choir of angels. Tears welled up in the President’s eyes at the sight of the candlelit vigil in honour of their captive daughter.
‘At a time like this, we need all the help we can get,’ said President Mendez.
‘And maybe a little more,’ suggested the First Lady, clasping his hands.
Together they sank to their knees and began praying for a miracle.
‘At last!’ exclaimed Bahir, his eyes widening in delight as he broke through the final safeguard on the firewalled smartphone. The screen burst to life and a winged shield rotated in 3D on the retina-display. Intrigued by the strange logo, he pressed the home button and the screen filled with icons – Advanced Mapping, Tracker, Mission Status, Threat Level, SOS …
‘What are all those for?’ asked Kedar, who sat beside him in the basement room.
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Bahir, studying the smartphone with growing consternation. ‘This phone belongs to that English boy. It survived the EMP blast due to an in-built failsafe device. The operating system was guarded by an advanced firewall, plus a secondary spyware program that threatened to wipe the contents of the drive every time I attempted to disable it. It even had fingerprint recognition access. But I beat the system in the end.’ Bahir allowed himself a superior grin.
‘Congratulations,’ said Kedar. ‘But what does any of that mean?’
Bahir looked at his associate as if he was stupid. ‘That this mobile phone is no normal phone – which means our hostage is by no means normal either.’
He pushed Kedar aside to access the computer terminal on his desk.
‘What are you doing?’ Kedar protested. ‘We’re still waiting for a message from the Americans.’
‘This could be as important,’ said Bahir, putting aside the smartphone and launching the computer’s internet browser. He typed‘Connor Reeves’ into the search engine.
There were too many hits to sift through so he tightened his parameters by inputting BOY as well. Most were still irrelevant links. But convinced he was on to something, Bahir searched through ‘images only’. It wasn’t until the third page that he recognized Connor’s face in a photo. He clicked on the link, opening a website to the East London Herald newspaper. The feature was headlined: LOCAL BOY BATTLE OF BRITAIN CHAMPION!
Below the caption was a large picture of Connor Reeves holding aloft a silver trophy.
‘Kickboxing champion?’ remarked Bahir. ‘There’s more to this English boy than meets the eye.’ He rose from his chair and headed for the door. ‘Kedar, stay here in case the Americans contact us. I have to go up and speak with Malik.’
‘Is there a problem?’ Kedar asked.
‘Possibly. Just keep watch over the hostages.’
Kedar nodded and took his place in Bahir’s chair. After checking the online mail server for any messages, he heard cries for help over the cell’s speaker and glanced up at the video monitor. The English boy was jumping up and down and waving his arms in front of the camera. Kedar was going to ignore his desperate plea for attention when he noticed, in the corner of the cell, the President’s daughter having convulsions.
At ten minutes to midnight, Malik began honing his jambiya for the final time. With feverish intent, he ran the whetstone along the edge of the blade, the scrape of steel and stone sounding like fingernails down a chalkboard.
‘So you really intend killing them?’ said Hazim, unable to take his eyes off the glinting steel.
Chewing madly on a mouthful of khat, Malik replied, ‘Just one for starters. Both, if the Americans don’t comply.’
‘We will be condemned by the whole world!’ argued Hazim.
‘But we will be exalted by our brothers-in-arms!’ Malik countered, shooting him an irritable glare. ‘Now get the coffee I asked for.’
Hazim could see by Malik’s dilated pupils that he’d chewed too much khat. His uncle was becoming manic and out of touch with reality. ‘But they’re just kids,’ he reminded him. ‘Alicia’s the same age as my sister.’
‘She’s the offspring of our greatest enemy,’ snarled Malik. He eyed Hazim dubiously. ‘Don’t tell me your belief in our cause is wavering, nephew!’
Hazim shook his head. ‘No, I don’t doubt the cause. But I never thought it would come to this.’
As Bahir ran into the room, Malik gave a thin smile. ‘It was always going to come to this.’
‘HELP!’ shouted Connor, waving in desperation at the camera lens. ‘PLEASE! She’s having an epileptic fit!’
Behind him, Alicia was thrashing wildly on the mattress. Her eyes were rolled back into her head, only the whites showing. Her breathing was becoming laboured and Connor could hear wet choking gasps like the sound of a dying fish.
He screamed again at the camera, praying that someone was watching or listening. ‘PLEASE! HELP! She could die!’
Just as he was about to give up hope, the cell door opened.
‘Thank goodness,’ Connor cried as the black-robed giant entered. ‘She needs a doctor. Right now. The stress of that mock execution must have caused it.’
Whether the giant understood him or not, he pushed Connor irritably aside and bent over to examine the writhing girl. As soon as his attention was on Alicia, Connor grabbed the man’s head, twisted it and drove it downwards. Taken totally off-guard, the terrorist was unable to stop Connor’s surprise head-twist attack. His huge mass toppled over. But, rather than guiding the man’s head to the ground as he’d been taught in buddyguard class, Connor used all his strength to smash the terrorist’s skull into the concrete floor. The giant grunted and went limp.
Alicia immediately stopped fitting and sat up. ‘I really should be an actress,’ she said, managing a smile despite the circumstances.
‘You can collect your Oscar when we get out of here,’ Connor replied, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. His plan had worked perfectly.
As they ran for the open door, Alicia stumbled and let out a cry. Connor turned to see the terrorist had seized her ankle. Dazed and disorientated as he was, the man, snarling like a pit-bull, refused to let go.
If you’re forced to fight, end it quick, his combat instructor had said.
Spinning round, Connor kicked the man squarely in the jaw. Teeth flew and the terrorist lost his grip.