Chapter 11
John was relieved when his prisoner transport finally stopped. He had taken bumpy rides before, but with a hood covering his face, his ribs aching from his fight with Miles, and still groggy from the Ketamine injection, every bump on the road, swerve, or sudden stop just made him feel worse. Nausea was normal for John after coming out of heavy sedation, but not being able to see psychologically magnified the motion sickness a thousand times. John was taken by the arm and pulled out of the SUV. He stumbled on what he guessed to be tarmac and fell to one knee.
“On your feet, traitor,” one of his captors said. “Let’s go.”
He painstakingly rose and braced for the brunt force shove from behind to which he had strangely become accustomed. The same couldn’t be said about the bristle wool cloth covering his face. John hated being hooded with a passion. No amount of training could account for the isolation and disorientation he felt when his captives placed the itchy garment on his head. It often reeked of dry sweat and the fabric made it hard to breathe. Add being bound at the hands made it difficult to put one foot in front of the other.
“Move!” one of the men huffed, thumping him in his back with his weapon.
John regained his bearings and marched steadily to what he guessed to be a safe house or secret prison. He heard the helicopter which escorted his caravan and men shouting above the roar of the blades. Not knowing if it were yet dawn or his location was killing him. But the activity going on around him and the security measures the agents were taking told him he might not be at a black site. Secret prisons were heavily guarded but drew as little attention as possible.
“Red Horse, this is Angel Guard,” the lead man who hit him in the back with his light sub-machine gun called out over the radio. From his dialect, John guessed him to be an upstart plucked from Guerrilla forces recruits in Colombia eager to make money. “We’ve reached HQ and are headed to the handoff rally point with the package in tow, copy?”
Did John hear that right? Did his escort just say HQ? As an operative, he was forbidden to ever acknowledge the existence of HOJ briefing locations. There were rumors that they existed, but others had said they were merely mythical factoids. And now he was being taken to one as a burned contractor?
“Solid copy, Angel Guard.” John recognized the female voice he heard when they were securing him at the cabin. “Confirming countersign with Command Central now. Escort the HVT to rally point and await further instructions.”
“Copy that, Red Horse,” the Colombian leader said as they made their way toward the meeting point. "Hey, Pig,” he said to John. “This is the Horsemen of Justice HQ building, ese. Ever been to one of these sites? I've never been inside, but I heard the operations are unreal. You know what they do to traitors? I hear they peel your skin with a hot knife and force you to eat it. This ground is soaked with the blood of maybe hundreds of GRA scum.”
"I'm not GRA," John replied.
"No, Amigo. You're worse. You are a cobarde. You went AWOL and good men died because of you. Now you're going to pay, pig."
The radio crackled alive. "Angel Guard, this is Red Horse. The handoff team is inbound. Command Central's challenge sign is Revelation 6. Your countersign will be the horses are coming. Over?"
“Wilco, Red Horse,” the Latino soldier replied. "The horses are coming.”
“Did she just say the horses are coming?” one of the other men commented. "What kind of countersign is that? What? Did Halloween come early or something?”
"Handoff team approaching,” another called out. “All this for a burned spy?”
“Just do your job,” the Colombian leader replied. “Any last words, Bicho?” he said to John. “I mean before we hand you over to be tortured to death?”
John wouldn’t show it, but those words sent chills down his spine. He was no stranger to being held prisoner and tortured. His training didn’t make him impervious to pain. But it helped him to endure and to direct the intensity of the pain into irritating his captor into making a mistake. Still, the thought of having his flesh pare off with a hot blade was not part of his preparation.
"You know they make these things called blindfolds now?” John retorted, feigning confidence. “They’re affordable and surprisingly comfortable. You might want to mention that to your boss.”
“I’ll remember to bring that up the next time my CO calls me away from my family in the middle of the night to go and swoop up a traitor."
"Revelation 6!” John heard the approaching team call out. “What’s your countersign?”
"The horses are coming,” the Colombian leader replied.
“This is him? This is the HVT?”
“Affirmative."
“Alright, hand him over.”
“I’m going to miss you, Bicho?” The Colombian leader whispered to John with one last shove. “Move!”
John stumbled forward into the arms of one of the awaiting men. A balding man gently removed the hood and studied his face. He nodded to who John guessed to be the leader of the handoff team, a muscular brown-skinned male appearing to be in his early fifties. Six men sporting green tees and camo pants, armed with futuristic looking Heckler & Koch G36Cv Assault Rifles surrounded him. The balding man replaced the hood over John’s eyes, and the leader got on the radio and confirmed to command central that they had a positive I.D. on John Hemingway.
Just as John thought, the sun had begun to pierce the darkness of night. He fought the urge to ask the men about the welfare of Claire. Not only would it show weakness, but Mathis would never divulge that kind of information to glorified escorts. He also worried about Bill’s condition. He was almost certain that Margaret wouldn’t take him to the hospital; not when their faces were plastered all over the national news. The poor old man was the bane of his existence at times, but John had come to respect his moxie.
“Alright, Angel Guard,” the handoff team leader said to the Colombian leader. “We’ll take it from here. Get home safely.”
The handoff team escorted John to what sounded like an elevator door opening and guided him inside. To his surprise, the ride down lasted nearly a minute which meant that the Horsemen’s HQ operations were underground.
“Trap Team, this is Command,” John heard on the walkie talking just as they were coming out of the elevator.
“Come in, Command,” the leader said.
“Yeah, there’s been a slight change of plans. Instead of escorting the prisoner to our secure room, take the fourth corridor to the right and head down to the Federal Bureau Investigation wing.”
“Come again, Sir?" the large man said.
“Apparently, the FBI brass is pitching one more Hail Mary and thinks he’ll be of use. When you get there make contact with the desk jocks and they'll wave you in.”
“Sir, you want to use a disgraced agent in one of our ops?”
“What I want is a burger with swiss cheese, mayo, and bacon. What I need you to do is remember your station and follow orders. Is that understood, Staff Sergeant?”
“Loud and clear, sir. Alright, men, you heard him. We’re taking the prisoner to annex building D. Spies apparently do have nine lives.”
“It’s a shame, really sir,” one of the men said. “I was kind of hoping to get a few licks in as payback for some of the boys we lost.”
“Me too, Private, the Trap team leader said. “Me too. Let’s move out."
***
Margaret got a bad vibe from Haseeb Hadad. The hotshot was a Saudi Arabian Attending from Valley Health Care Hospital who looked to be in his late thirties. Like Angel, he wasn't enthusiastic about helping to save Bill. He seemed more preoccupied with complaining about having to leave his guests at his home. Margaret found him to be a pretty boy with a godlike complex and a smart mouth. His burgundy silk shirt, classic fine wool dark slacks, and luxury designer shoes told her he had money.
“You just don’t get it,” he told Angel, his thick accent reminding her of a slick-talking Bollywood reminding Margaret of a cliché Hollywood publicist reject. "I am swamped with patients six days a week. Friday is the only day I get to be human.”
“Come on, Hass,” Angel said with a tantalizing grin. “You and I both know you enjoy this. You like having to rescue me.”
Haseeb grinned as he washed his hands in a pale of water. “You can flash those pearly whites and bat those baby blue eyes at me all you want. It only worked on me when that loser husband of yours was out the picture. I still can’t believe you took him back after all he’s put you and the kids through.”
“Don’t start with me about Dylan. He’s changed.”
“Yeah, right. Look, as much as I enjoy taking in your strays off the streets, I can’t stay long.”
“Whoa, Haseeb,” Angel said. “The lady is sitting right here.”
“I can see that,” he retorted. He glanced over at Margaret, who was dabbing Bill’s forehead with a cool wet cloth. “I’m just telling you that I can’t keep doing this,” he continued. "I have champagne and strawberries on ice. I rented a limo and have twins waiting back at my place. Twins, Angel. One of them is-
“Hass, please.” Angel interrupted. “Spare me the details of your sexcapades. Where are the catheters and collection bags, I asked you to bring?”
Haseeb grabbed his bag off the floor and laid it on top of Bill. “You know, this procedure is a waste of time. Do you know how difficult it is to perform end-to-end anastomosis?”
“Yes,” Angel said, handing him a needle. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Really? How long do you think it will take to locate the radial artery?”
"I’ll modify anastomosis by drawing the artery into the vein and make an incision in the wall. And then I’ll attach a suture, which pulls the artery into the vein-
“Yes, and risk permanent occlusion.”
Angel swore. “I don’t have time for this. If you have any better ideas, then now would be the time to tell me.”
Haseeb put up a hand. “First, you need to calm down. In my culture, that kind of language wouldn’t be tolerated. And yes, I have a much, much better idea.” He reached into his bag and grabbed some BD syringes with short rubber connexons. “We’ll have to improvise.”
Angel stared at her colleague in disbelief. “Syringes? Wide bore needles? You want to do perform a direct blood transfusion?”
“Why not? Besides, it’s quicker and safer this way.”
Angel rolled her eyes. “Yes. It would be perfect except one thing, genius. This method is only successful if we have more than one assistant sterilizing the syringes, and as you can see, we’re short a couple of people."
“What about that bozo of a husband of yours?”
“Dylan” He isn’t trained for this. If he isn’t fast enough, the blood will clot in the syringes-
"We’ll have to risk it. Hey Stewart Little,” he called out to Dylan in the other room. “Get in here."
“Wait,” Margaret chimed in. “Anastomosis? Radial Artery? Direct Transfusion? This all sounds so risky."
“Well, toots,” Haseeb said, grabbing a pouch of saline solution from his bag. “This is what you get when you bring an unconscious man to the home of a trigger-happy nurse instead of a hospital.”
"Are you sure this is going to work?” Margaret asked.
“Nope,” Haseeb said. “He’s been under for way too long.”
“Ma’am we will do what we can,” Angel said, attempting to do damage control.
“But in his state, if he’s not already slipped into a coma, there is a risk,” Haseeb interjected.
“Such as?” Margaret said, alarmed.
“High fever, acute immune hemolytic reaction-
“Hass,” Angel said.
"Acute immune what?” Margaret replied.
“It’s an allergic reaction to your blood," Haseeb said, removing a double tube from his bag. "Symptoms include nausea, fever, chills, chest and lower back pain, and dark urine-Hey, Stu! Put down that Harry Potter book and get your bumpy, white, no-havin’ keister in here.”
Angel shot Haseeb a look of contempt but said nothing. She poured some rubbing alcohol onto a wet wipe and dabbed Margaret’s arm with it. Her heart began to raise. She couldn’t decide if she was more nervous about the procedure or her dread for needles.
“Whose Stewart?” she asked Angel, attempting to distract herself. "I thought your husband's name was Dylan?”
“It is,” Angel said, shooting Haseeb another angry expression. “It’s his pet name for him. Remember that mouse with the glasses from that stupid book series? Hass' jealously over me makes him resort to name-calling. Dylan,” she called to her husband. “Baby, please. We need you.”
“Then tell that asthmatic dumb tv doctor to stop calling me Stewart Little,” Dylan thundered as he walked into the room.
“Asthma is a serious thing, buddy," Haseeb said. “I can’t do anything about my condition, but you don’t have to dress like a mouse.”
“Hass!” Angel yelled. “That’s enough. Dylan, I promise you can kill him later. Right now, I need you to do something for me and you have to be quick about it, okay?” She emptied the pouch of saline solution into another bowl and set it on a table beside the gurney.
“Hop over here, toots,” Haseeb said to Margaret. "I need you to sit right here in this chair, next to your friend.” He connected the double tube to one of the syringes and stuck it in Bill’s arm.
“Dylan," Angel said. "I need you to stand next to Dr. Hadad. He’s going to inject a needle into the woman’s arm. When he draws the blood, I need you to quickly grab the syringe and wash it thoroughly with the saline solution. I’ll come behind you and follow suit. We’ll have to repeat this process as many times as needed to keep the blood from clotting.” She turned to Margaret and nodded. “Are you ready?”
Margaret pursed her lips. “Let’s do it. So, Dr. Hadad,” she said to Haseeb, again attempting to distract herself as he stuck the needle in her arm. “Twins, huh? I bet you don’t even know their names.”
***
John was nearly driven to madness, by the time he and his escort of gun-wielding Green Beret wannabees-at least that’s how he referred to them-made it to the FBI wing. The five-minute-long march began to take its toll and his feet became heavy. The hood covering his face was drenched with sweat and clung to his eyes, nose, and mouth like glue.
“Yo!” he heard a woman’s voice call out to them. “This way through those double doors. Hang a right at the opening and turn left. It’ll be the third room on the right where two men we’ll be waiting for you."
The men did as they were instructed and handed John off to the men at the door. He was then led into the room where he was instructed to sit down and then chained at the wrists to a metal table.
“Take the hood off,” he heard the unmistakable voice of Mathis say.
John breathed a sigh of relief when the men removed his hood and let the cool air wash over his skin.
“Hello, John,” Mathis said. He lit a cigarette and came and sat at the table across from his old mentee. He exhaled and the smoke wafted to John’s nose. “So, what?” the aging man said. "No quip? No smart-aleck remark about the hideous decor of this room or my attire? Oh, wait. I apologize. I’m being insensitive. You just went through a frightening ordeal. I imagine you have a lot of questions.”
“You can start by telling me where my daughter is,” John answered.
Mathis gave him his trademark smirk but said nothing. John became so infuriated that without thinking he lunged at Mathis. But the chains held him fast. One of the bodyguards standing behind him backhanded him across the jaw.
Mathis stood, seething at the young man, who couldn’t be older than twenty-five. “Yo!” he said. What in the blue hell do you think you’re doing?”
“He-he jumped at you,” the young man stammered, evidently startled by his boss’ reaction. "I was just-
“What’s he gonna do? He’s chained to a stainless-steel table, you moron. You know what? Get out; all of you; out. The guards quickly exited the room and Mathis peered at them through a window slit. "I’d like to apologize for my boys’ overzealous nature,” he said. "I find their eagerness refreshing, but that boy is about as green as a garden snake.”
“Mathis, where's Claire?”
The CCRSB leader inhaled another puff of his cigarette and returned to his seat. He folded his arms and shook his head. “Come on, John. You know how this goes. I don’t kiss and tell until I get what I want.”
“Tell me where she is!" John roared. He glowered at Mathis and waited for him to respond.
“No, please,” Mathis replied putting out a hand. “By all means. Don’t let me stop you. Go on; let it all out. Maybe if calm down and behave, I'll buy you an ice cream cone and let you play in the sandbox.” The old warrior shook his head. “Good lord, John, what happened to you? You’re a Navy Seal; trained to assess and adapt; to focus on the objective; not the problem. You were once my ace operative. And now you’re just some guy poking a hornet’s nest; a very nasty hornet’s nest. Losing control of your emotions leads to costly mistakes; mistakes to which you now must pay.”
John gazed at Mathis, and a scowl spread across his face. “The only mistake I made was trusting you. You told me that I was off HOJ's radar. The next thing I know, I look up and there’s a razor flash grenade crashing through my window. You lied to me.”
“Really? You’re going to play the victim card on me? Of course, I lied to you. You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”
“You lured a homicidal sociopath to my location. He could’ve killed my family.”
“There’s always the potential for collateral damage in missions like this. You know this.”
“Collateral damage?” John thundered. “Listen to you. That savage tortured my friend, Bill, and did all but raped Claire right in front of me. And that was after I tried to take him down.”
“John, my back was against the wall here. Every time I stick my neck out on the line for you, the risks get bigger and bigger-Damn it, John! How many times do I have to fall on the sword before-?
“Oh, spare me that self-sacrificing bull-crap. I’ve heard it a thousand times.”
Mathis smiled in disbelief. “Bull-crap?” he said softly. “You think I would’ve taken it this far if it were all just bull-crap? You think I’m that unstable that I’d endanger the lives of innocent American men and women and risk failure just for kicks; so that some wisecrack in a double-breasted pinstripe can have me marked and unceremoniously silenced?”
“What the heck are getting at?”
"Your neck isn’t the only one on the line this time.”
John narrowed his eyes; a puzzled expression etched on his face.
Mathis sighed and clasped his hands together. “Suits are licking their chops to take my job; a bunch of smooth-talking yes men-you know how it is. The brass is listening. They want results or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else they’re going to take me to a karaoke bar. I'll sing ‘Hips Don’t Lie by Shakira; twerking optional. What do you think?”
“Are you telling me they want to...”
Mathis averted his eyes. “Not just me. My daughter.”
“Your daughter?” John said, flabbergasted. “Wait, Mathis, you have a daughter?”
“And a wife. Well, I had a wife. Why do you think I joined HOJ?”
“Mathis has a family,” John said, processing it out loud. Who knew?”
“Hey. What? Because I can be a bit crabby means I can’t have a family?”
“I just assumed you were sexually frustrated. I mean, it’s not like you have a lot going on there.”
“Can we focus, please?
“The Horsemen are bluffing, Mathis. You’re CCRSB. They know they can’t run this agency without you.”
“John, you don’t get it. People’s lives depended upon you operating in the shadows. When you left, the bad guys got nervous, ops were compromised, and nine of our best agents in deep cover lost their lives. All our hard work; years of laying the foundation for a revolt, blew up in smoke.
"When you came back, there were a lot of people that wanted your head on a silver platter. The FBI demanded a public execution, The CIA wanted to torture you to death, and Homeland wanted to stick you in the darkest hole they could find. But I held them at bay. I convinced them that you were worth more alive than dead. I reminded them of all the impossible sacrifices you made to get us back to the promise-land of America the beautiful.
“They didn’t trust you in the field anymore, so I put you back on the streets, running guns. And then you get mixed up with this Miles character. Risky for us, yes. But I reminded them that you did your best work under pressure. I’m the only one standing between you and a bullet. And you can add Claire and my daughter to that list.”
John leaned back in his chair and stared at the table. His heart became racked with guilt every time he was reminded that he was responsible for everything that happened. “I think about those agents every day, you know? At night, I rehearse their names in my head, over and over. Deacon Miller, Raymond Cross, Darcy Price, and Mal Chin-
“Don’t do that. Guilt won’t bring them back. It only ways you down. And you’re going to need full use of your faculties to survive this op.”
“Op? Is that why you took Claire? In case I say no?”
“It’s better than being dead. Come on, I have somebody I want you to meet?”
***
Margaret was awakened by the alarm clock on the nightstand next to her bed. Without looking up, she groaned and reached over to turn it off. She clumsily pressed the buttons at the top until the alarm stopped. When she moved her hand, she accidentally knocked the clock to the floor and the radio came on.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she mumbled. She rolled to her side and gingerly slipped her feet into the plush light blue house slippers Angel gave her. It was still dark outside, so Margaret assumed that the alarm was set previously. When she stood, the room began to spin and it took her a moment to gain her bearings. The effects of the blood transfusion had taken its toll and the needle puncture in her arm was irritated. After the dizzy spell passed, she bent over and retrieved the alarm clock which read 4:56 am.
"I need to check on Bill, anyway," she decided. She tip-toed to the bathroom and then made her way out into the living room. But Bill wasn’t there. Dylan snored on a cot near the couch. A purse on the floor, a house robe, and a wine bottle on the table next to the couch told Margaret that Angel had put Bill up in their bedroom. But where was she?
Margaret made her way to the master bedroom. Haseeb, the doctor from the hospital had warned her that Bill had been unconscious for well over thirty minutes and that the probability of a successful blood transfusion was low. The door to Angel’s room was cracked and Margaret nudged it open. Bill rested comfortably, propped up on three pillows. He was connected to a ventilator and had a respirator over his mouth.
A heart rate monitor sat on a table next to Angel who rested in a wood chair, dosing. Who is this woman? Margaret thought to herself. Not only had she performed the blood transfusion, but she waited at the bedside of a total stranger as if he were family. Margaret snuck to the foot of the bed and watched Bill. Other than the beeping of the monitor, she saw no signs of life. The man looked cold and stiff. Margaret went to his side to get a closer look, but the creaking of the floor alerted Angel. She jumped, and instinctively pulled out her Heckler & Koch VP9 and pointed it at Margaret.
“Oh, Jesus,” Margaret gasped. “Easy, sugar; it’s just me.”
Angel rolled her eyes and lowered the pistol. “Lady, I almost shot you; again. What are you doing out of bed? You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’m sorry. I was worried about my friend."
“Well, it’s a bad idea to sneak up on people in this day and age. I told you I’d look after him.”
“I know. It’s just that I can’t sleep not knowing if he’s…”
Angel sighed. “Yeah, I know.”
“I just can’t thank you enough for helping him; and for letting me stay here. Are you sure it’s not an imposition? I mean you don’t even know us.”
“Yeah, about that. I do know who you are, Margaret Brown.”
The older woman’s eyes stretched. “Uh, I… Where did you… How did you-
“I do have a tv,” Angel said. “News reports started circulating a couple of days ago about four people wanted by Justice Keepers Forces. They say you are the getaway driver.” She grinned. “They’re calling you Nascar Nanny.”
Margaret chuckled nervously. She started to ask if Angel was going to call JKF on her, but was too afraid of the answer.
“I’m not going to turn you in,” Angel finally said. “Haseeb wanted to, but I know where all his bodies are buried.”
Margaret narrowed her eyes at her new friend.
“I’m speaking figuratively,” Angel clarified. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry. Any enemy of JKF or the Alliance is a friend of mine."
“Thank you,” Margaret said, tears welling up in her eyes. “I wanted to tell you. I thought with you having kids, it’d be better if no one knows.”
Angel looked away and said nothing.
“I guess now that you do, it changes our arrangement.”
“I want you to stay,” Angel said. “But I have two young boys to think about. So yeah, this definitely changes things. Don’t worry. I have connections. I’ll get you and Bill somewhere safe.”
“No, that’s not necessary. You've done more than enough.”
“Come on, Margaret. Where are you going to go with an unconscious man lying in your back seat? These machines are the only thing keeping him alive. Besides, I like Bill. Something tells me he’s a lot like my grandfather was.”
Margaret sat on the foot of the bed. “And what was he like?”
“He was stubborn and set in his ways. But he made up for it with his sense of humor, though. He was always cracking the best jokes and was the biggest flirt I’d ever seen.”
Margaret threw her head back and let out a cackle.
“I knew it.” Angel sniggered. “Bill’s a lady’s man isn’t he?”
“Child, you don’t know the half of it. Man can charm the pants off a mannequin. Almost charmed me out of mine a time or two.”
Angel's eyes widened and she laid her gun on the nightstand. “Oh really?”
Margaret jerked her head and pursed her lips.
“Oh no,” Angel said. Her eyes glimmered and she leaned forward. "You can’t set me up with something this juicy and then just leave me hanging. I need details. Let’s go."
“Oh, alright. One day I was working late and had just closed up shop. Bill came in grinnin’ and struttin’ like he does when he wants something-
“Oh, he wanted something alright. He wanted him some brown sugar."
Caught off guard, Margaret gaped at Angel and pursed her lips. The marine vet froze and put a hand on her knee.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Too far?”
“No. I just didn’t know you had it in you.” She snapped her finger and flashed a smile. "You go, girl!”
Angel snapped her fingers and they high-fived. “Alright, so go on. What happened? What did he say?”
“The fool didn’t say nothin.' I asked him what he wanted, and he just came around the counter, and gave me this cheesy he-haw grin like this.” Margaret mimicked Bill’s trademark he-he chuckle. Angel rolled her head back and slapped her knee.
“I said what do you have behind your back. He had twelve long-stemmed red roses and a bottle of Merlot. Next thing I knew, he had taken me in his arms and laid a smooch on me that made me go weak in the knees. Child, it took all the strength that I had and some more to turn him away.”
“Well, why did you? It’s plainly obvious you’re in love with him.”
“Well, I might have. But his wife had already threatened to shoot me between the eyes if I had baked one more pie for him.”
Angel’s eyes lit up and she covered her mouth. “My papa was a rolling stone, too.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her feet on the bed next to Margaret.
“Actually, it wasn’t like that,” Margaret continued. "That woman was as evil as a wet cat. Back in 22' when Texas was hit, she and Bill decided to stay and defend their ranch. They held their ground for three years. But then their roof caved in and fell on her. To this day, I don’t know how he managed to get her out by himself. He won’t talk about it.”
Angel sobered. “Sounds like a tough woman. Did she ever recover?"
"Sadly, she passed on. And Bill's been with us ever since."
"Well, why is it-
“Oh no,” Margaret said. “That’s enough about me. Your turn.”
Angel smiled and nodded. “Fair enough. Ask me anything you want.”
Margaret put up her hands and shook her head. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. One minute you’re talking like a surgeon, the next, you got a weapon with a scope trained on me, and now you’re talking about connections and keeping me safe. Who are you?”
Angel cocked her head and stretched her eyes. “That’s a loaded question. In a nutshell, by day, I’m a nurse at Valley Health Care Hospital. That’s how I know Haseeb. By night? Well, let’s just say I have many skills.”
“And what are they?”
“I can be whatever you need; a travel agent, a document forger, a money launderer; in your case; someone who needs to disappear. I help anyone that I know still considers themselves American; soldiers, nurses, government agents; anyone who’s fighting to take back this country.”
“But you didn’t know I was an American,” Margaret said. “I never told you. Yet you risked helping me anyway.”
“I had a gun aimed at you. And you were willing to risk getting shot to save your friend. In this new world, everybody’s out to save themselves. What you did for him was the most American thing I’d ever seen. So, I took a risk.”
Just then. Angel’s phone rang. “It’s Haseeb,” she said.
“At this time of the morning?”
Angel stood. “Don’t say anything. Haseeb? What is it? It’s five o'clock in the morning… Wait, slow down… What?” Angel’s face became contorted with despair. “You did what? How could you?” She turned and glanced at Margaret. “Haseeb, she’s harmless. I can’t believe you. I warned you what would happen if you crossed me.” She began pacing. “I know what I’m doing! Well, you need to call them back and tell them you made a mistake… I don’t care! You screwed with the wrong woman. You’ll pay for this!” She hung up and yelled Dylan’s name.
“What is it?” Margaret said, standing.
“Get dressed, you have to go.”
“What? Why?”
“Haseeb called JKF. They know you're here and they're coming for you. Go! Now!"
ns 15.158.61.23da2
