Page 11 of Power
His lips quirked into a sliver of a smile.
It did me a lot of good… and gives me a legit reason to see her again. We have unfinished business.
With his duffle in hand, he retreated into the restroom. Unlike a commercial jet, he had a large lavatory equipped with two sinks, a small shower, and a water closet. He changed from his white dress shirt and black suit to a black turtleneck, black pants, and black boots, then shoved a black ski mask into the pocket of his black leather jacket.
He pulled on his shoulder harness, pulled one Glock from the bag and fitted it into the holster, then slid the second Glock into the other jacket pocket. He strapped a holster around his ankle, secured a small sidearm in that. After exiting the restroom, he locked his duffle in the closet.
At the expected hour, the jet touched down at Heathrow. Before deplaning, he locked his laptop in the closet, thanked the pilots, and told them he’d text them when he was ready to fly home.
Though he didn’t change the time on his Omega watch, his iPhone automatically adjusted to the new time zone thrusting him five hours into the future. He walked through the terminal and exited out the front, sliding on his shades despite the light rain and cloudy day.
He pulled up the photo of the driver Gabriel had hired, then scanned the line of waiting limos at the curb. A woman exited one of the Bentleys, opened the back door. Luciano walked over, shook her hand. She offered a tight smile before he slid into the back seat.
Though the privacy screen was down, she made no small talk. He fixed his gaze out the window, the kilometers ticking by, the buildings becoming more rundown as they got closer to their destination. She pulled in front of an abandoned one-story building at the end of a quiet street.
“I’ll wait down the street,” she said, her British accent catching his ear.
Luciano exited the vehicle, tried the front door. It was locked. He sent Gabriel a text.
I’m here
Seconds later, his brother opened the door, and Luciano slipped inside. They greeted each other with only a nod. No words needed.
The rundown space was cavernous, gray light from outside bathing the room in somber shadows. Rain started coming down harder, the pitter-patter on dirty windows sounding like the tapping of anxious fingers against the glass panes. Empty booze bottles were strewn about and several long-deserted conference-room tables and chairs stood nearby in various stages of disrepair.
Luciano eyed the three men seated at a table, their wrists bound behind their backs, their ankles secured with zip ties, and black cloth sacks covering their heads.
As he stood across the table from them, Gabriel removed their head coverings. One spit at Luciano. The second was sweating profusely. The third glared at him.
Gabriel stood next to Luciano and held up three passports. “How’d you get these?”
Silence.
Then, the first man said something in Arabic.
“English!” Gabriel demanded.
“I speak little,” said the second man.
“Fuck you,” said the third.
“We can do the question-and-answer thing all day,” Gabriel said, “or you can tell us how you got these.”
“What we get if we talk?” asked the second man.
Gabriel pulled a folded map from his pocket, handed it to Luciano. “Found this on the third guy.”
Luciano opened the tourist map of DC. Six buildings were circled. The White House, the U.S. Capitol, the J. Edgar Hoover building, Justice, State Department, and the Supreme Court. An arrow pointed toward Arlington with the word Pentagon scribbled in ink and a second arrow pointed toward Northern Virginia. On that arrow, someone had written CIA.
“What do you get if you talk?” Luciano repeated. “You don’tgetanything. This isn’t a negotiation. We aren’t the good guys.” He glared at them. “We’re here for answers. Talk.”
The first man shoved back in the chair, then pushed to his feet. He screamed, “Death to Americans!” in a thick accent, but his bound ankles restricted his ability to move. He lost his balance and fell on the hard, concrete floor.
“Fuck!” he hollered, then screamed more obscenities in his native language.
“Shut-up,” yelled the second man.
Gabriel opened one of the passports. “These are authentic, and your aliases checked out.” He eyed the first terrorist lying on the filthy floor. “You’re a professor at American University.” He shot the second man a cool stare. “You’re a translator with the State Department.” Gabriel shook his head. “Not buying that either.” And you, my friend—” He glared at the third man— “You’re a newspaper reporter.”
