Rogue Empire Read online

  Yes, evil. Despite all those hours of Sunday school, had she ever truly believed in the existence of evil before meeting Mohy? She thought not. Now she shivered as her mind drifted to the image of his face behind the wheel of his truck. Her bowels lurched. She feared she might need to find a restroom.

  She tightened her abs, trying to bring her body under control. She needed to hide here a little longer. At 7:15 a.m. local time, the drone would strike the compound. She had to make it to the marina by then.

  Kyra moved in unison with the other women. The chanting within the great mosque grew louder and more feverish by the minute. The collective passion was contagious. She felt energized. She was going to do this. She was going to make it. Sometimes, it seemed to her that God had abandoned this country, its people and even Kyra. Maybe loudness was what was required to be heard above the mostly senseless noise of greater humanity.

  On a subconscious level, she sensed Mohy’s presence a millisecond before she knew for sure. Maybe it was a whiff of the musky cologne that always masked his abhorrent body odor. But when he pulled the hijab from her scalp, sending her frizzy blond hair askew, she was not surprised. She closed her eyes, knowing that she was in God’s hands now.

  Mohy Osman Residence

  Tripoli

  Kyra woke in a cramped one-room apartment that smelled like dirty laundry. She was on her left side, her wrists and ankles bound behind her. She heard running water. The morning sunlight coming from the room’s lone window warmed her face.

  The back of her skull throbbed. Her mind flashed back to the mosque, to the euphoric sensation of intense group prayer. Then shock. Then an instant of fear. Then darkness.

  The weight of the moment came rushing back to her all at once. This was the 213th day of her life as Kyra Al-Mohammed. And one way or another, it would be the last day of that life.

  Suddenly Mohy stood over her, filling her vision. He grinned lewdly, the way he had when he showed her the picture of the truck with the ridiculously oversized gun mounted in the back bed.

  “I always knew,” he said now, jabbing her shoulder with the index finger of his right hand. He poked her again, his finger punctuating every syllable. “Al-ways-knew.”

  “Knew what, Mohy?”

  He slapped her. “You were going to betray him. Anyone could see that. Except Saif. He was a fool for you.”

  I am definitely not at the compound. Mohy would have never called the Butcher a fool if he thought he might be overheard.

  Behind him, she saw a broken-down single bed with rusted posts. Beside it, a brass table and an ancient LED clock that read 6:54 a.m. Searing fear gripped her.

  I’m in Mohy’s apartment. And there are just 21 minutes until the strike on the compound.

  She had to stall for time. If Mohy called the Butcher, he might be tempted leave the compound before the drone attack. If that happened, the entire operation – everything she had sacrificed – would be wasted.

  “You’ve got this all wrong,” she lied. “I simply wanted to ride my bike. Like a normal – ”

  He slapped her again, catching the edge of her mouth along with her cheek. It stung. Her top lip began to swell instantly.

  “Like a normal woman? Is that what you were about to say? You are not normal. And you are not in Canada, or wherever it is you really come from. Saif Al-Mohammed chose you for his wife!”

  She had to keep him talking. “Mohy, where in the Koran does it say that a woman cannot ride a bicycle by herself?”

  And suddenly he had a blade at her throat. A serrated kitchen knife, pressing dangerously close to her larynx.

  “Shut up about the stupid bike. Just admit what we both know to be true.”

  “Admit what?”

  “You are not a Canadian from Iranian parents. That was all a fake. You are in fact an American spy. CIA.”

  “How could that possibly be true? Saif’s best people performed an extensive background check on me. Are you really questioning my husband’s judgment?”

  “Even a lion sometimes has sheep in his army.”

  He removed the blade from Kyra’s neckline and plunged it into her thigh. She yowled in pain as he withdrew it, the serrated edges tearing muscle tissue. Blood flowed from her leg at a frightening pace.

  He regarded his handiwork, grunted approvingly, and left her. As Kyra bled, she heard a squeaky sound. The turning of a valve. The gush of running water slowed to a drip.

  Mohy returned with a long piece of plywood, which he placed behind her back. Using a belt, he secured her legs to it. Then he used a second belt and began securing her torso until it was impossibly tight. Blood now poured from the open wound in her thigh.

  “Mohy,” she said, begging now. “Listen to me. I’ll tell you anything you want. But you’ve got to stop the bleeding. If you don’t, I won’t be awake long enough to tell you anything.”

  “Blood is the least of your worries.”

  Kyra had always heard that Mohy possessed superhuman strength, but she had not witnessed it until now, as he picked her and the board up so easily, tucking her under one arm, as if she was no heavier than a surfboard. She screamed hysterically as he carried her to the bathroom, set the edge of the board over the tub, and tilted it backward so that her blond mane fanned out over the water’s surface.

  Suddenly, Mohy’s face was calm and collected. Easily wielding the board with one hand, he raised his left index finger to his lips. “Shhh. Shhh.” He waited several seconds until she had calmed herself. “Now then. What is your real name?”

  She considered telling him. But what if the madman was just testing her? Even the CIA staged mock abductions of some of its new operatives and subjected them to intense interrogations to test their loyalty. She herself had been subjected to a similar test in training. Would the Butcher not do the same?

  “Still refuse to talk?” Mohy said. “Then you better be good at holding your breath.”

  He tilted the board further, until her mouth and nose were plunged into the water. She tried to kick free, but it was impossible. She managed to hold her breath for nearly 40 seconds before water rushed into her airways.

  Mohy tilted the board back up so that her face was up out of the water. She coughed uncontrollably. At some point, she became aware of Mohy’s laughter. He was enjoying this.

  But just as she caught her breath, he tilted her back into the water again. Her stomach twitched and spasmed. She soiled herself. The indignity of filling her pants in front of this monster seemed almost worse than the prospect of drowning.

  Again, she kicked her legs against the board. Her arms struggled uselessly against the belt. The board bowed slightly, touching the small of her back. She no longer felt the sting of the knife wound in her thigh.

  Seconds later she was back out of the water. “Your real name,” he said again.

  “Kyra Al-Mohammed.”

  Her head plunged back into the bathtub. Kyra knew that she would die now, either by drowning or bleeding to death, or some combination of the two. She prayed silently. God, at least let me live long enough to hear the explosion! Depending on where we are in the city, I might even be able to feel it. At least then I will die knowing I completed my mission.

  And then she was visited by the recurring dream. Washington D.C. Cherry blossoms on the National Mall. Her hair hot from direct sunlight. Only this time, the call of the adhan was nowhere to be heard. It seemed so real. As if the past 213 days had never happened.

  Suddenly, the dream was ripped away. Plunged deeper into the tub, her neck and shoulders engulfed by water. A sickening gurgle escaped her as water entered her lungs. A shadow came over her. The shadow of death, she assumed. The grim reaper.

  Kyra seemed to float free from her body, watching from above. And what she heard seemed distant now. As if it wasn’t through her own ears, but rather, through underwater microphones.

  Then a second man entered her vision. He was familiar, but she could not place him. He wasn’t local. She knew that
much by the quality of his teeth. He was bearded, and thin around the waist, with large shoulders and thick forearms stretching out from his rolled-up shirtsleeves. And his eyes, green and intense.

  Blake Carver. He found me.

  He swung a lamp at Mohy’s head, missing badly and sending him off balance. Mohy slammed a wooden chair against Carver’s side, shattering the cheap piece of particleboard furniture into pieces. A chair leg splintered and flew free. Carver caught it in his right hand before it hit the ground, and in one deft motion, plunged it squarely into Mohy’s chest. The Libyan fell backwards. Carver was suddenly on top of him like some crazed vampire killer. He pressed the stake deeper with both hands until it stopped against Mohy’s backbone. A lake of blood bloomed around him.

  Kyra watched as Carver turned his attention to the tub. He lifted her from the water and set the board on its side. Fingers invaded her mouth, stabbing at her throat. Her gag reflex triggered. A tidal wave purged through her mouth, and then she was coughing, gasping for breath.

  And suddenly she saw the room through her own eyes. Heard Carver speak with her own ears. Carver crouched behind her, his calloused fingertips untying the braided ropes that had been wrapped around her wrists. The belts loosened. He eased her to the floor.

  “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to stop the bleeding on your leg. I want you to stay awake, okay? We have to get out of here. I have a boat waiting. Just like we planned.”

  The Sicilian Prince

  Mediterranean Sea

  As the Sicilian Prince left its mooring, Carver knelt on deck, rummaging through the boat’s ancient medical kit. Kyra lay unconscious beside him. A burlap canopy on either side hid them from view from passing boats in the marina.

  At Mohy’s apartment, Carver had ripped the sleeve from his shirt, wrapped it around Kyra’s thigh and tightened his belt around it. It had been better than nothing, but it was no substitute for a proper tourniquet. With more time he could have done far better, but they had a narrow window with which to leave the city before all hell broke loose.

  Kyra’s pulse was getting weaker. She needed blood. Carver was O negative, making him a universal donor at least in theory. Realistically, Carver knew there was far more science to blood compatibility than simply aligning O with A, B and so on. But based on how much blood Kyra had already lost, he couldn’t wait until they got to Sicily to find out for sure. That left just one option.

  The medical kit contained several syringes. Now he just needed to find some sort of tubing.

  Suddenly, he heard the distant boom and saw the black smoke rising from the city. Carver looked skyward, where the attack drone was no doubt circling at high altitude, photographing the aftermath of its mission. Carver allowed himself the luxury of a celebratory fist pump. It was then that he noticed the searing pain on his left side for the first time. He replayed the blow in his mind – the chair legs thwacking against his ribs – suffering the full sensory experience all over again.

  Aldo returned to the deck, dazed, like some bear whose hibernation had been rudely interrupted. “What is this?” he said, pointing at the smoky horizon. “You said this mission was to rescue the girl. You said nothing about bombs!!”

  “We’re off script,” Carver said, borrowing Ellis’s language.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means they’re going to be coming for us. All of us. So just get us to Sicily, and fast. Okay?”

  Aldo grunted, went back inside and doubled the trawler’s speed.

  Carver refocused on the task at hand. There were syringes in the medical kit, but he still needed tubing. He would simply have to hack something together.

  Then it came to him. He suddenly rose, darted below deck and returned with the backpack he had brought onboard yesterday. The pack, designed for hikers who loathed carrying bulky bottles or canteens, contained an internal bladder and a clear plastic tube that allowed for hands-free sipping. It was a far cry from the medical grade equipment he wanted, but he figured it might be good enough to keep her alive for a little while longer.

  Fifteen minutes later, Carver’s blood was flowing into Kyra’s body. Behind them, the Tripoli skyline grew gradually smaller. Aldo brought some ice up from the freezer and held it against the back of Kyra’s head. Her eyes fluttered open. She gasped and struggled to sit upright.

  “Relax,” Carver said, but she ignored him, propping herself up so that she could see the city skyline in the distance. Then Kyra spoke, but her words were hard to understand. Her top lip was busted and swollen, like some grotesque purple grub.

  Carver bent closer, so that his ear was close to her mouth.

  “This is all wrong.”

  All wrong? Regret was the last thing he had expected to hear. When they had met in the market after the start of her mission, she didn’t seem to have had any misgivings about the mission at all. And based on the reports passed through her contact in the months afterward, her conviction seemed to have grown over time.

  “You lost a lot of blood,” Carver told her. “Things will look different tomorrow.”

  “No,” she insisted, pointing to the Tripoli skyline. “You see? The smoke. It’s in the wrong part of the city.”

  Carver looked again, finding his landmarks along the city’s coastline – the Port, the big hotels downtown. Then he saw that she was right. The smoke was in the wrong part of the city. The Butcher’s compound was much further east.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Ellis. This time, her voice was full of despair. “We have a big problem.”

  PART II

  BREAKING: Chaos in China

  —Violent anti-American demonstrations in Beijing

  —American Embassy sacked

  —U.S. State Department diplomat among dead

  BEIJING (AP), September 24 — Hours after the destruction of the Chinese Embassy in Tripoli, angry crowds stormed the U.S. Embassy in Beijing, killing a U.S. diplomat and wounding several others. Elsewhere, mobs chanted anti-American slogans and damaged American-owned businesses. The U.S. State Department has directed Americans working in China to stay home and keep a low profile until further notice.

  Washington’s claim that the attack was accidental has done little to soothe civil unrest in China, where demonstrators were estimated to number at least 16 million across Shanghai, Chengdu and other cities. The residence of the American Consul General in Beijing was set ablaze in the hours following the initial reports, and two McDonald’s locations were also heavily damaged. Buses packed with students headed out of campuses across the city, attempting to enter the city’s embassy district. Eyewitnesses said local police stood by while the violence continued unabated.

  Meanwhile in Tripoli, authorities continue to search for survivors in the embassy ruins. None have been found thus far. The dead are said to now include 27 Chinese and at least four Libyans, with others still unaccounted for.

  Fueling skepticism over the American apology is the sense that history is repeating itself. American missiles destroyed the Chinese embassy in Belgrade in 1999. Despite American claims that the strike was a mistake, conspiracy theorists claim that the bombing was intended to silence broadcasts originating from within the embassy, which communicated directives to Yugoslavian troops fighting United Nations peacekeepers.

  The disaster is only the latest in a series of incidents that have fueled tensions between the two superpowers this year. Over the summer, U.S. intelligence officials openly accused China’s military of hacking into the U.S. State Department. Subsequently, China went on the diplomatic offensive over the U.S.’s sale of missile defense weaponry to Taiwan. Recent tensions over the disputed Japanese Senkaku islands have further soured U.S.-China relations.

  In an official letter of protest sent to the United Nations, the Libyan government condemned the attack and detailed a long list of American military operations against the country. Cited among them were the 2013 incursion by U.S. Special Forces to snatch an Al Qaeda operative, cruise mis
siles fired into the country during the 2011 civil war, and the 1986 bombing of Libya that targeted the residence of then-President Muammar Gaddafi.

  This story is developing.

  The White House

  Washington D.C.

  At four a.m. Eastern, Director of National Intelligence Julian Speers entered the Situation Room. He carried The Morning Book, a collection of classified briefings including National Intelligence Daily, the State Department’s Morning Summary and other reports. Today’s edition was slim and incomplete, as the final wasn’t typically completed until 6:00 a.m.

  Today, Speers hadn’t even bothered to skim it on the way from McLean. Only one thing mattered at the moment: China.

  It had been less than four long hours since Speers had watched the embassy disaster unfold in real time on the gargantuan monitors at the National Counterterrorism Center. Even now he felt short of breath. His legs still felt rubbery. Crow’s feet had seemingly appeared around his eyes overnight.

  In the 18 months since he had left his post as White House Chief of Staff to become the nation’s Director of National Intelligence, he had never felt such a profound sense of failure and embarrassment. It wasn’t just what the entire world now knew, which was that the drone had blown up the Chinese embassy. It was that they had missed a rare opportunity to kill the Butcher of Bahrain and his top commanders all at once. But in light of what was now unfolding in Beijing, their failure to kill one of the world’s top terrorists would be quickly forgotten.

  That was how bad this was. It wasn’t just an intelligence or military failure. It was a diplomatic catastrophe.

  Speers felt as if he had woken half of Washington with the sobering news. His first call had been to the president, who had quickly asked for an emergency meeting of her security council. En route to the White House, he woke the press secretary and worked with him to create a statement that was later delivered by Defense Secretary Jackson. Speers then sought advice from former Secretary of State Madeline Albright, who had served during a U.S. attack on the Chinese embassy in Belgrade way back in the 1990s. “There is no blueprint,” she said though he had clearly woken her from a deep sleep. “You’re not dealing with the same China.”