Oath of Office

“You see, there are very few monetary transactions in the world that do not in some way touch an American bank. The OFAC has frozen sizable accounts. But with all the aliases used by your generals, mistakes will take some time to sort out. So far these seized accounts amount to the tune of… let me find the exact figure… One-hundred-nine-million-three-hundred-eighty-one-thousand-nine-hundred-fifty-three dollars and seventeen cents.”

Ryan leaned back in his chair, giving the other man time to do the math. Like most tyrants, he would have a very good idea of how much money he had skimmed from the coffers of his country.

“Mr. President,” Njaya huffed. “Your negotiation tactics are brutish—”

“We do not negotiate with terrorists,” Ryan said matter-of-factly. “You said yourself, François, these men have acted on their own, outside the bounds of your authority — outside the law. If you have a method of contact, you must tell them to stand down immediately. Tell them you have called the United States to assist you.”

“But I did not—”

“Really?” Ryan said, dismissing the notion. “I am sure you did. In any case, that die is cast. Tell your men.” Ryan’s tone grew darker. “Or as God is my witness, Mr. President, they will face the unfettered wrath of the United States of America. This will not be an invasion of occupation. It will be punitive. Do I make myself clear?”

“Jack—” Njaya was pleading now, as if he might break into tears.

A uniformed Air Force aide whispered something to the chairman of the joint chiefs, who, in turn, spoke to Bob Burgess. The secretary of defense gave Ryan a confirming nod. He held up both hands, opening and closing his outstretched fingers twice.

“François,” Ryan said. “If you have a way, I’d suggest you contact your men in the next twenty seconds—”

* * *

None of the twelve men had told Adin Carr who they were with — though he suspected they were not normally the type to carry handcuffs. They had Special Forces written all over them, but the Diplomatic Security agent didn’t really care who they were. They were Americans, and his boss had sent them to help in a matter of hours from the time the proverbial balloon had gone up.

The D-boys, as Carr began to think of them, wore civilian clothing — a mixture of 5.11 tactical khakis and blue jeans, muscle-mapping polos, and loose cotton sports shirts. It took them less than an hour to set up four cameras, three through tiny cracks and holes in the warehouse’s metal siding and one through a broken window at the rear of the building. Two showed a clear view of Mrs. Porter, sitting defiantly but still hooded and handcuffed.

Carr had gone from white-hot anger at the moment of the kidnapping to a simmering indignation over the past hours. The sight of Mrs. Porter and the five-gallon bucket they’d had her use as a toilet brought back the rage. They’d made no move to rape her, or even touch her. It appeared that they were just lazy and didn’t want to take her to an actual bathroom. They did, however, take every opportunity to make fun of her predicament — like junior high school bullies, kicking someone when they were down.

The bearded D-boys performed their duties with detached perfection, but Carr could tell from the periodic flashes in their eyes that they felt as he did — these guys needed their heads pulled off their necks.

Most of the newcomers carried HK MP5 sub-guns, though two produced Remington 700 rifles with powerful Leica optics. They were short-actions and Carr guessed them to be chambered in .308. He caught a glimpse of a few of the men’s pistols, and found they carried an assortment, from 1911 .45s to Glocks similar to his.

The apparent leader of the team, a bearded, grizzly bear of a man who identified himself only as “Gizzard,” had two flash-bang stun grenades on a load-bearing vest he’d thrown on over his polo. He’d winked when he’d handed Carr an MP5. “I believe in all the force multipliers I can get. Your boss said you’re good for this.”

The ambassador was more than a little grouchy when he’d not been given a gun as well, but he got over it quickly. Gizzard told both men to grab some much-needed rest. Their orders, the team leader said, were to sit tight and wait.

It seemed like seconds later when Carr’s eyes flicked open to Gizzard’s gloved hand on his shoulder.

“We’re about to go kinetic,” he said. “Wait for the signal.”

“What’s the signal?” Burlingame asked.

Both Carr and Burlingame couldn’t suppress their smiles when Gizzard explained.

Carr took up a position behind the rusted semitrailer while two teams of four men — including Gizzard — flanked the door to the warehouse. The remaining four set up at cardinal points, facing outbound to pull security. The kidnappers, apparently feeling safely ensconced inside their own country, had neglected to check outside even once.