Empire of Lies

31

“What is your name, “effendi?”

Rasheed didn’t answer.

The acne-scarred agent stepped closer and dipped down to take a closer look at the man. “I said, what is your name?”

Again, no answer.

The agent swiveled his head to address Fonseca. “Is there any medical reason for him not to speak?”

Fonseca looked cornered and hesitated before replying. “Well, he—he’s been under heavy sedation, as I told you,” he stammered.

The agent scrutinized Rasheed again. “Is that so?” He stared at Rasheed’s eyes, as if trying to divine what was going on behind them. “I think he hears me just fine. I think he’s just ignoring me. Playing me for a fool. What do you think, Kerim?” he asked his colleague without turning away. “Do you think he’s playing me for a fool?”

“If he is,” the agent with the scratched face replied, “it’s a grave misjudgment on his part.”

The agent stayed in Rasheed’s face. Rasheed stayed quiet. Then the agent’s eyes moved away, and he noticed the tube coming out from under Rasheed’s bedding.

“What is this tube?”

“It’s a drain. From his lungs.”

The agent followed it down. It led to a plastic sack that was hung from the side of the bed. “There’s nothing coming out.”

“No.”

“So it’s not necessary.”

“Not anymore,” Fonseca specified. “We’re going to take it out later today.”

“Any reason you can’t do it now?”

Fonseca stumbled for an answer. “Well, it’s—it has to be done under local anesthetic, and—”

The agent cut him off brusquely. “So you can do it now, here.”

Fonseca was tripping over his tongue. “I suppose—I mean, yes, if it’s really necessary, but why?”

“Because it’ll make him easier to transport.”

“Transport?” Fonseca was alarmed. “You can’t move him. He’s just had major surgery.”

“Two days ago,” the agent corrected him. “He’ll be fine. We have medical staff on site at the Citadel if he needs anything.”

“Look, I’m his surgeon. I can’t let you—”

The agent glared as he raised a firm, silencing finger at Fonseca. “Moshe Hekim. Do as you’re told.”

Rasheed watched nervously as Fonseca did as he was told.

They injected him with a local anesthetic, and what followed was quick and painless. A deep inhale, and the tube was pulled out. It was surprisingly long, almost a couple of feet, and the shock of seeing it only added to the heightened paranoia that was gripping him.

They know. They all know. The doctors called them and that’s why they want to take me away.

He knew full well what the Citadel was. After all, it was under his rule of the city that it had been taken over and turned into the headquarters of law enforcement. He had overseen the first stages of its expansion.

The fatigue and the drugs were toying with his mind, and worries were pulling him in all kinds of directions. They’re after the incantation. They want it. He knew what they were capable of, and he knew they’d end up getting it. He also knew he could escape at any time by simply uttering that sequence of words, but he suddenly realized that if they knew what he was capable of, they might gag him so he wouldn’t be able to use the spell to escape. Then they might drug him. They might force him to write it down.

Whichever way he looked at it, it was a disaster. His mind was caught in a tempest of panic, and a fierce, stubborn survival instinct was battling to find him a way out. They were going to take him away. They were going to get it out of him, and he couldn’t let that happen. At any price. He had to do something, and he had to do it now. He had no choice. He had to make his move, immediately, before it was too late. He had to get the hell out of there while he still could, disappear, and go home and wait until he was fully recovered before coming back to clean up this mess. Starting with the surgeon and the other conniving ferret he was working with. He’d get his revenge on them. But that would wait.

His eyes narrowed and flickered back and forth across the room to take stock of everyone’s position while Fonseca sutured the cut from the drain.

When he was finished, the surgeon turned to the agents.

“All done?” the agent with the pockmarked face asked.

Fonseca nodded grudgingly. “I still think this is a mistake. You’re putting his recovery at risk.”

“If anything bad happens, we’ll call you.” He turned to the nurse. “Let’s get a wheelchair in here and we’ll be on our way.”

Rasheed shut his eyes and concentrated, preparing to make his jump. But his mind was still a jumble of thoughts, and a different plan elbowed its way front and center.

I can get them, here, now. Take them out. Before this gets out of hand, before they spread whatever it is they know about me. And this way I won’t have to risk coming back.

He tilted his head sideways to get a better look at the acne-scarred agent. Then he kicked into gear.

He saw the agent turn to face him, and nodded at him, a small, pathetic nod. And in a weak, barely audible voice, he said, “Wait. Please. I’ll… tell you.”

The agent cocked his face with curiosity as he edged closer. “You want to say something?”

Rasheed nodded again, slowly, and whispered, “My name. It’s… Anwar.”

The agent could barely hear him. He flicked a self-satisfied grin at his taller colleague and edged over to the bed, bending down so he could hear him better.

“Speak up, effendi. We don’t have all day.”

“I… my name,” Rasheed repeated, his muscles tensing, his pulse rocketing stealthily inside him.

The agent bent down closer. He was now hovering mere inches over Rasheed.

Rasheed lashed out.

His arm flew out from under the covers and coiled itself around the pockmarked agent’s neck, yanking him in and squeezing hard, the man’s throat caught in the crook of Rasheed’s elbow. Everyone in the room reacted at the same time, but Rasheed’s attention was riveted on the taller agent, who was instantly bolting toward the bed while reaching for his handgun. Rasheed was moving just as fast as his other hand reached over to the belt of the agent he had in a choke hold and pulled out the man’s weapon. The charging agent had his gun out and leveled at the bed in time, but he hesitated at the sight of his partner blocking a clean shot at the bedridden man, which was all the split-second advantage Rasheed needed. He emptied two rounds into the advancing agent—head and chest. The man slammed against the edge of the bed before dropping to the floor.

Rasheed didn’t waste a second. His focus was unaffected by the sudden scream of the nurse as he released the first agent from his grip, shoved him away violently before loosing two rounds into him. The man stumbled backward into the wheeled bedside tray table of monitors and crashed down to the floor with it.

Rasheed yanked the IV catheter out of his arm, swung his feet out from under the covers, and sat up, but a sharp burn ignited in his chest, causing him to flinch from the unexpected pain. He steadied himself against the bed as he swept his gun around the room again, looking for his next target. Fonseca was frozen in place, his arms raised, his feet inching backward hesitantly, his face twisted with fear. He was mouthing, “No, please, don’t,” but to no avail. Rasheed ended his life with two more well-placed rounds, the headshot sending most of the contents of his skull splattering against the pristine white wall behind him.

From the corner of his eye, Rasheed spotted the door of the room, wide open, the other doctor and the nurse rushing out. He fired at them as he pushed himself to his feet, but he wobbled under a surge of dizziness, and the bullets missed their marks, punching into the wall and doorjamb instead.

He steadied himself against the bed for a second, closed his eyes, and inhaled a long breath, wincing at the searing sensation deep in his chest, taking it in the hope that the intake of oxygen was worth the pain.

Then he pushed forward and charged after them.