Chapter Four
Hunter smelled the salt and wrinkled his nose. He didn't much care for the ocean. Perhaps it was his nickname, but he preferred to be in hidden areas, boxed in by foliage and trees. Not out in the relative open of the sea.
The boat rocked under his feet—not a lot, as the boat was a sizeable cargo freighter. But the slight motion was there. He was ready to leave. Payment had been confirmed in his bank account now that he had delivered the American president here.
He could just hop onto the zodiac motor boat waiting for him, but he felt compelled to see Asher. He descended into the bowels of the ship.
A guard stood outside a container in the lower hold of the ship. Hunter did not acknowledge him; there was no need. He opened the small container by its creaky door. The president lay on a dirty mattress, his right hand manacled by a chain that was welded to the side of the container. He sat up like a startled rabbit, causing a flash of pain to cross his face, no doubt from his slight injuries.
"Who are you?" the man asked immediately.
Hunter held up a hand to silence any further questions. "It does not matter." He sat on the ground, out of his captive's reach but completely comfortable. "You won't see me again after today."
"What a shame," Asher said, the bitter sarcasm heavy.
"You are upset. Is it because you fell into my trap?"
Asher glared at him.
"I could have sent my men to keep chasing you through the forest, but a scared animal eventually seeks shelter," Hunter said. He was gloating, but he indulged it. This was the highest profile job of his career—not that he would advertise it. "All I had to do was send my people to any home you might come across."
Ben looked away, and Hunter knew he was twisting the knife nicely.
"Yula is convincing, isn't she?" Hunter said. "If it brings you comfort, you'll see her again. She is… how to say it? A believer."
"Of what?" Asher asked. Hunter smiled.
"You'll find out." Hunter smoothly rolled up to his feet and stood.
"Why didn't you kill me?" the president asked urgently. Hunter considered how much to tell him, if anything. He settled for simply saying:
"You are worth more alive."
With that, Hunter smiled as if they were old friends, and left. He wondered how long before the president broke or died. It did not matter, he supposed. Their paths would not cross again.
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He could dwell on how stupid he'd been to fall for Yula's act, but he was starting to spiral down into panic and despair, and he couldn't have that either. Ben knew he needed defiance, clear and simple. But the question that kept going through his mind was whether or not he would be executed. Was he destined for yet another attempt via live stream or something similar?
He didn't know how he felt about that if it became a reality.
The container that served as his cell held no way to escape that he'd found in the short time since he'd been in it. It was, to describe it perfectly, a metal box.
It did nothing for his pride. He was caged and chained, like an animal. "A scared animal," the man had taunted him.
He heard voices outside the container. He braced himself as the door squeaked open again.
Yula and two men stood in front of him. Ben hated their smug looks. Somehow, they were more predatory too. Ben recalled what the other man had said. Yula was a "believer." Ben feared he was about to find out what level of fanaticism she held.
"You come with us," she said. The two men unshackled him from the chain but quickly secured his hands with handcuffs in front of him. They each gripped an arm tightly and walked him out of the container.
Ben's heart raced. He tried to take in his surroundings. It was very dim where he was, underground. Or underwater, as he'd heard ships' horns and felt the push of water. There was a flight of stairs that the men half-carried him up. Ben's legs were working better now, thanks to the forced sleep and rest he had gotten courtesy of the drug he was injected with in Russia. A side effect was also a throbbing headache.
Where am I? Ben had no idea if he was in Russian waters, or international, or what. The ship didn't seem to be moving yet, but once it did…. If anyone were trying to find him, he would be very hard to track down in open waters.
Sunlight reached him, and with it Ben felt his spirits lift. Yula led him and his escorts down a crew cabin hallway, and he was shoved into a cabin. His eyes instantly went to a camera setup. His stomach dropped.
Yula nodded to the two men on either side of Ben. They forced him to his knees, though Ben tried to kick out and stop it. The man on his right drew a gun and pressed it against his temple. Ben stilled, but his heart still raced.
Yula flicked on the camera. She nodded to one of the men, who pulled out a piece of paper and started reading.
"To the United States of America, we have your president." Ben couldn't look at the camera, ashamed to be in this position again. The man with the gun seized Ben by his hair and yanked back, forcing him to look at the camera.
"We demand the immediate removal of all American troops from every foreign nation, territory and land, and stay out of international airspace and waters."
Ben's eyes widened. I'm dead. There's no way Trumbull or Congress or anyone could or should even consider that demand. That left him with no future.
"Failure to do so will mean your president will suffer, repeatedly."
That didn't sound promising. But it gave Ben a glimpse of his purpose to these terrorists. He was going to be used to demoralize, humiliate and shame the country.
He knew what to do. Ben's heart swelled with both anguish and resolve. He had to write himself off now.
One of his captors punched him across the jaw. Ben's head whipped to the side, and the suddenness jarred him. But he quickly straightened up and faced the camera.
"Based on your response, you will see the condition of your president again tomorrow."
Ben clenched his jaw. He raised his hands as if to swipe at his jaw. He quickly held up two fingers with his right hand, and five with his left. He stared hard into the camera.
Yula saw the motion and nodded at the men. His captors hit him again. The force of it drove Ben to the ground, and he was yanked by the collar of his shirt—the same gray one Yula helped him change into—until he was kneeling again and facing the camera.
Yula was moving to the camera, ready to switch it off. Ben looked pointed at the lens. He swallowed, his mind recalling that late-night conversation with his son after the London attacks. He wouldn't disappoint his son this time. He quickly said:
"I love you, Connor."
He was hit again as Yula turned off the camera. Ben braced his fall slightly with his handcuffed wrists. Yula knelt by him and grabbed him by the hair.
"You think you are clever?"
Ben's breathing was out of sync from the blows he'd suffered, but he managed to smile defiantly at Yula.
She slugged him in the stomach, favoring his injured side. Ben groaned loudly. She yanked his head back again. Ben yelped at the conflicting forces. Yula peered closely at his face.
"Your life is over. We will keep you alive. We'll use you however we want. Treat you however we want…." She slid a finger down the side of his face. "And you will dream of a rescue each night. Only to wake up to this." She hit him again, this time across his cheek. She smiled at him as her two cohorts lifted Ben to his feet.
Ben could feel her eyes on his back as he was led back to his cell.
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Mike's fists were clenched so tightly that he feared he might lash out and hit something as the livestream played out. At the end of the message, as a last sucker punch knocked down President Asher, the feeling of total failure encompassed Mike.
Vice President Trumbull and generals and analysts began buzzing with talk back and forth as soon as the feed ended. Analysis about where the feed came from, clues from the video's background, speech patterns of the man talking and so forth were thrown about the room.
None of these mattered.
"Mike," Trumbull called. Mike forced himself to look at the Vice President. Trumbull drew close to him and led Mike to a corner of the room.
"Sir?" Mike inquired, more out of habit and duty than anything else in that moment.
"They have him, but we're not giving up," Trumbull said. It was supposed to be comforting. Mike shook his head.
"But he is," Mike said. When Trumbull looked confused, Mike sighed. "His hands. Did you count the fingers?"
"Seven."
"No," Mike corrected. "Two, and five. He's telling us to invoke the 25th amendment."
"That's temporary, and we all know it," Trumbull said. Mike appreciated his optimism, but the reality was different, and something apparently everyone in the room needed to face.
"What he said to Connor was a goodbye," Mike explained. His heart ached at the thought. "And telling us to invoke 25? He wants us to write him off."
Trumbull stared at Mike.
"He knows we can't do that."
"He knows we can't give into their demands," Mike countered. "It's not about him. He's always known that." Mike felt tears prick at his eyes and he blinked them quickly away. "Do you know what he ordered me to do in London? He told me to kill him if it meant stopping Barkawi from using him for propaganda. He was ready to die." Mike looked to the screen, where the video was played again, being analyzed frame by frame. "He just told us his life is forfeit."
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a/n: Thanks for reading! Send me your feedback-it keeps me going. Thanks!
