Free Act of Terror by Marc Cameron Page B

the fat Arab, who snored fitfully in the pale green glow of the dashboard lights.
    There was the distinct metallic clink of a lighter on the other end of the line as Badeeb lit a cigarette before he continued his staccato whining. “We wish them confused and frightened. Disorganized, not fortified. They must not connect too much too soon.”
    â€œI understand,” Beg said. “I should begin my work then.”
    â€œOf course.” Dr. Badeeb released a long sigh, sounding like a windstorm over the phone. Mujaheed envisioned the cloud of cigarette smoke enveloping his employer’s sweating face. “You will find out how much she knows?”
    â€œWith great pleasure,” the Mervi said. He looked through the foliage at the pool of yellow light spilling out Arbakova’s bedroom window and put the car in gear.
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    Parking in a deserted alley behind the house, Beg roused the snoring Arab next to him with a stiff elbow to the floating ribs. A heavy dose of Rohypnol—roofies—had made the man pliable, but dazed. It had also caused him to spill the contents of his bladder all over the passenger seat. The man, whose name was Haddad, yowled in pain. His cry trailed off in a pitiful whimper.
    â€œWhat do you want from me?” he sobbed.
    â€œWhoa!” Beg said, tossing his head in a passable impression of Elvis. “You’re all shook up... . What do you think I want?” Beg sneered. “Half the world knows what you do for a living. It is not the secret you believe it to be.” He turned, holding up a black box the size of a garage door opener. Haddad’s eyes flew wide. He began to fling his head from side to side.
    â€œNooo!” he screamed. “Nooo—”
    Relaxed in the driver’s seat, Beg depressed a white button on the box. There was a faint beep and the dazed Arab suddenly arched backward, driving thick legs into the floorboards as if stomping on the brakes. He slammed his head against the roof of the Saturn. Teeth crunched, giving way under the convulsive tension brought on by forty thousand volts from the stun-belt over flabby kidneys.
    It was such a fine show Beg wanted to clap.
    Eight grueling seconds passed before the man’s body fell slack. An acid stench filled the car’s interior as he vomited in his lap.
    Beg reached across with a pair of pruning shears and snipped the plastic zip ties around the Arab’s wrists. He shoved him a roll of paper towels.
    â€œYou disgusting pig,” he spat. “We are going to meet a woman. Make yourself presentable. You will walk beside me to the front door. Try to keep from defecating on yourself. Say nothing ... and remember, I will have my finger on the button at all times.” He tapped the black box. “If you do as I tell you, this will all be over soon.”
    â€œYou ... haven’t ...” the man panted. He tore off a wad of paper towels and working feverishly to sop his lap dry. His breath was ragged. His eyes darted from Beg’s face to the box in his hand. White spittle pooled at the corners of his mouth. “You ... haven’t ... even asked me any questions... .”
    â€œAh.” Beg smiled, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “I am not interested in what you know,” he hissed. “Only who you are.” He opened the door, certain now the pitiful man would follow his every command. He was a slave. “Come. This will take much of the night. I am sure you will find it quite ... interesting.. . .”

C HAPTER T EN
    Maryland
0930 hours
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    J acques Thibodaux’s gumbo-thick Louisiana drawl broke squelch on the speaker inside Jericho Quinn’s helmet. The Cajun was in the lead, broad shoulders eclipsing the low morning sun across the thumping I-495 Beltway.
    â€œSay, Chair Force,” the big Marine said. He rode a red and black sister bike to Quinn’s gunmetal-gray 1200 GS Adventure. “I got me a Tango Tango