Free Terminal Rage by A.M. Khalifa

rest of his otherwise illustrious career as a hostage negotiator. And by doing so, he found the tiniest speck of strength and determination in his soul, and latched on to it with all his might. He took a deep breath and tried to visualize the oxygen molecules as they penetrated his red blood cells to provide the energy required to feed his confidence. The tension in his body melted and a warm wave of inner strength penetrated through him like a ray of light.
    A ring tone in his ears was followed by a clicking sound.
    It ’ s show time.
    “This is Alexander Blackwell. You asked to speak to me.”
    There was a short silence.
    “You made it.” A cold voice vibrated in his ears and in the loudspeaker in the room. The accent was Arabic, and the voice unsettling. Blackwell glanced quickly at Nishimura who had first spoken to the abductor earlier in the day. The young agent bit his lips as if to confirm the voice had also sent a shiver down his spine when he had first heard it.
    “You didn ’ t give me much choice. I had resigned.”
    “Resigned or hiding?”
    “It doesn ’ t matter. Do you know me?”
    Another silence and then a deep breath. Come on. Keep talking.
    “The Lord said to Cain, Where is your brother Abel? I do not know, he replied. Am I my brother ’ s keeper? ”
    Blackwell jotted down his impressions of the accent on a piece of paper. Egyptian? Iraqi? Syrian? Jordanian? He had heard them all before. But there was something spent and decidedly ruthless about this particular voice. Blackwell said nothing.
    “How I know you is not important. But we have one thing in common. We both seek justice, Mr. Blackwell.”
    “You ’ ve abducted innocent people, sir. Now how do you go about calling that justice?”
    “It ’ s a step towards it.”
    “And do you have a name?”
    “You can call me Seth.”
    “May I ask why you entered that building a few hours ago calling yourself Prince Omar Al Seraj?”
    “He served a purpose. But I ’ m glad to be out of his repulsive skin.”
    Blackwell wanted to unearth anything useful. The first minutes of a negotiation could provide the most telling clues about the suspect ’ s motives and identity. Lose those, and you ’ ve scant little to go on.
    “How many people do you have there, Seth? Is everyone doing okay? And do you need food, water, or medical attention?”
    “Twenty-five people. There is enough greed and contempt concentrated in this room to destroy a small nation over the weekend. If I end up blowing their heads off, it should earn me a medal.”
    “Seth—heads getting blown off is not on my agenda for today . Including your head, if I can help it. You do want to be alive at the end of this, I assume?”
    “Mr. Blackwell?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Do me a favor and stop asking stupid questions or lying to me.” A slow fire was spreading through his voice.
    What? “How have I lied to you?”
    “There ’ s a tactical response team positioned on top of my building—which wouldn ’ t be there if you really cared about my head staying whole.”
    Blackwell turned and looked at the others, questions in his eyes.
    Nishimura shrugged, then zoomed in on the camera feed from the top of the building on center screen. “He ’ s got eyes on the rooftop?”
    Monica was all over the place, and her background voice was distracting.
    “If he did, it was before we evacuated midtown. Right now there ’ s no way in hell there ’ s anyone out there close enough to have a line of sight on the rooftop.”
    Seth ’ s voice came back. “I am estimating it would take them no more than two minutes to fast-rope down and take me out on your command. I want the SWAT team off my building.”
    “A tactical response team on standby is an FBI operational standard. Surely you knew that. The unit will only engage if you give us reason to—and you and I are still talking, aren ’ t we?”
    Seth did not respond.
    “Have you ever been to a weekend childcare center,