They didn’t know shit about him, but he wouldn’t hold that against them, either.
The man flipped through a file full of misleading information. Sayyid Naveed, born in Syria, educated in the U.S. as a devout Muslim. Detained at Gitmo for suspected ties to terrorism. Escaped from Gitmo—which was true. Though the actual account was classified and well above this guy’s pay grade, he probably had some version of that truth in front of him. As well as Nash’s mug shot on an FBIs Most Wanted bulletin. He was somewhere in the top one hundred, not high enough to attract any real attention, but high enough that anyone coming into contact with him would know they had someone important on their hands.
His file also read that he’d spent six years working his way up to a position of trust within the al-Ayman terrorist network—that was true, too. Helping Bari Kahn, the youngest son of Mullah Kahn, escape from Gitmo had all been part of his plan—the part he hadn’t disclosed to the authorities that had sanctioned his assignment. Nash had known going in that if he got the chance to escape—with or without Kahn’s son—he was going to take it.
He’d left it to Mac to smooth things over with the top brass.
The years of intel Nash had been feeding U.S. intelligence agencies since hadn’t hurt his case, either, but he’d always known he was in this alone. Which was why he’d hedged his bets with the Israelis. He might be working more than one angle, but he wasn’t a traitor to his country or his beliefs. The Allies wanted to put an end to the al-Ayman faction of a global terrorist network, and so did he.
Only his reasons were more personal.
“Just tell us what we need to know and we’ll go easy on you.”
His new BFF had made all sorts of promises over the past eight hours.
Nash stared past the man’s shoulder to his own reflection in the two-way mirror and remained silent. Most days even he didn’t recognize the man he’d become. His shoulder-length hair was long enough now that the natural curl had taken over and the scruff on his face was more beard than not.
He hadn’t asked for a phone call. A drink of water. Or to use the bathroom.
All of which were within his legal rights.
“Well, why don’t I tell you what we know?” Good Cop said. “We’ve shut down the entire al-Ayman operation today.”
Big Dog was barking up the wrong tree. Nash had supplied intel for the fifty-city sweep across the Americas and Europe from the inside.
Hitting al-Ayman hard at the sex trafficking level was one way to mess with their cash flow. Unfortunately they had other means.
Drugs. Prostitution. Money laundering.
You name it. If it was illegal, al-Ayman was into it.
It would take years for Nash to wash away the stench of his own participation in such activities.
No, today was about one thing—catching the man at the top in the wrong place at the right time. Seven long years he’d waited for justice, and now he was going to get it through the federal court system in the state of New York.
In the good old U.S. of A.
Kahn wasn’t the kind of terrorist that could be taken out with a drone.
He was a well-connected international businessman. With enough money and clout to make certain countries look the other way.
He’d have to be taken down by the legal system on a bigger, more public stage.
“Guys like you don’t last long in prison. Tough on the outside. All jelly doughnut on the inside.” Good Cop took a big bite out of a jelly doughnut for emphasis. Goop oozed from between his thick, smacking lips and a glob landed on his tie. He picked up a napkin and made an even bigger mess.
Hunger gnawed at Nash’s insides, a hunger for justice. Besides the scene in front of him was enough to curb his appetite for food. The box of doughnuts had been sitting there all day— They were probably stale by now anyway.
“A pretty boy like you—” Bad Cop shrugged from the corner “—you’ll be someone’s bitch inside a week.”
“How long do you think before one of your cohorts rolls over on you, Sayyid?” Good Cop asked. “We’re questioning them right now. Why not do yourself a favor? I can get you a nice cozy cell in isolation, away from the general population.”
The man pushed a pen and pad of paper toward Nash for his confession.
Seriously? The pen was a mistake. He could kill both of the agents and be free of his handcuffs before whoever was watching the box could enter the room.
Not that Nash would.
He’d done enough bad shit in the past seven years.
Honed his skills. Acquired new ones.
But it was all sanctioned shit.
Killing a Fed for no justifiable reason? Well, even Mac wouldn’t be able to get him out of that one.
Nash wished his ride would hurry up and get here.
As amusing as these guys were, he was getting kind of bored hearing the same fairy tale over and over again. Just to prove wishes really do come true, the door opened. Nash caught a glimpse of Mac and two U.S. Marshals reflected in the mirror. Another man, important and harried looking, wearing dress pants and a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, entered the room behind them. “This one belongs to the Marshal Service now.”
The captain, or whoever he was—whatever police precinct had assisted the FBI with the raid—walked over and unlocked the chains that tethered Nash to the table. The look on the faces of Good cop/Bad Cop was worth the wait.
Without a word, Nash stood and followed the lead U.S. Marshal out the door while the other marshal and Mac walked behind. He was still shackled and for good reason—his very life depended on him never blowing his cover.
As they exited the room, Mullah Kahn was being hauled out of another room in shackles. Flanked by two federal agents and trailed by a couple of designer suits with leather briefcases, Kahn was on his way to Booking. The al-Ayman leader might have a couple of high-priced attorneys on the payroll, but he wasn’t making bail this time.
The snake turned to stare at Nash in passing. Saw Mac’s uniform and the Windbreakers identifying the marshals. “Where are they taking you?” the al-Ayman leader demanded.
“Gitmo,” Nash said with the expected contrition of an underling.
“Shut up and keep moving.” McCaffrey shoved him from behind.
Kahn shouted in Arabic as the FBI led him away.
“What the hell was all that about?” Mac asked once they were outside and beyond earshot of anyone else that might be listening.
“He still thinks he’s in charge.” Kahn had called him son and promised to keep him out of prison. “Nice touch with the shove, by the way.”
“Just doing my part. How are you holding up?”
“About as good as I look.”
“Well, you look like crap,” McCaffrey said. “So I guess that answers my question.”
“What’s the word on Bari?” Bari Kahn, the little weasel, had slipped out before the raid on the warehouse down by the docks.
Mac shook his head.
“Lieutenant Commander