True Allegiance

Yusuf went crashing into the hallway, slamming his head on the stone wall. He bellowed in rage; his companion, the seventeen-year-old cameraman, came running down the hall, an aged Kalashnikov in his hands. Brett grabbed Yusuf with both hands, clenching his jaw, and spun him around like a tackling dummy. Yusuf spun, stumbled, regained his equilibrium, and then charged. Brett sidestepped him, deflected a clumsily thrown haymaker, and then stepped behind him and slit his throat.

Yusuf spluttered, his blood jetting from his neck in great bursts. Brett pulled his head back, opening the wound wider. As he did, the seventeen-year-old appeared in the doorway, shouting in Farsi. He opened fire just as Brett charged him, using Yusuf’s still-upright body as a battering ram. He threw the giant Persian at the teenager, hearing the bullets thunk deep into Yusuf’s flesh. Yusuf, clasping at his throat, tumbled forward, landing directly on his friend in the hallway. Before the boy could push Yusuf off, Brett jumped on top of Yusuf’s corpse, pinning the boy to the ground.

Then, without hesitating, he stabbed the boy through the eye.

When he looked up, he saw the explosives packed along the ceiling.

Then he noticed a camera, operated by remote, in the corner of the hallway. It hadn’t been there during his initial trip for the hostage videotaping. Now, however, it was, and it was moving.

Finally, he heard a voice from above, yelling in Farsi: “Police. Stay in your home.” The Farsi had a slight American accent.

He pushed himself to his feet and sprinted, lungs screaming for air, down the hallway.

“RUN, YOU MORONS!” he shouted. When the operatives finally recognized General Brett Hawthorne, dressed in an orange jumpsuit and covered with blood, they turned and ran. They smashed their way down the hallway—no time for discretion now—as the basement exploded, rocking the ground beneath them. Two of the men fell; Brett vaulted them, yelling at them to get up, grabbing one by his bulletproof vest and virtually throwing him down the hallway with his good hand. Civilians’ heads popped out into the hallway as the explosion registered; Brett looked over his shoulder to see them engulfed in the flame that poured down the hallway like water through a flooding pipeline. A blast of heat rocketed him through the door at the end of the hallway. The other operatives sprinted ahead of him; one man behind him screamed inhumanly as the fire caught him.

Brett turned back, pushed the man down into the dust, smelling his sizzling flesh as he tried to put out the flames. The man’s screams finally stopped as he fell unconscious. One of the other operatives grabbed the burning man by one arm; Brett grabbed the other. Together, they ran down the alleyway into the darkness.

In the Situation Room, Mark Prescott sat back in satisfaction, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, as the feed cut out. Sparse clapping broke out in the room. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs turned to him, eyes wide. “They knew we were coming, Mr. President,” he said. “They knew we were coming.”

“What do you mean?” Prescott asked.

“The explosion. And then how do you think our guys got out of there so easily afterward? The Iranians must have known Ashammi was there. They’ve been housing him. They just didn’t want to fight us directly, that’s all. They were expecting Ashammi’s thugs to take our guys out. When that didn’t happen, they backed off.”

“So the hell what?” Prescott replied.

“So that means that they’re ahead of us. Way ahead of us.”

“You worry too much, General. They failed.” Prescott smiled the million-watt smile. “General, why don’t you take the night off. We just rescued one of America’s top generals with no casualties. We’ll deal with all the rest tomorrow.” He winked. “Except, of course, for the press conference. We’ll do that just as soon as our boys are in Jordanian airspace.”

Ellen

Austin, Texas

BRETT WAS ALIVE.

Brett was alive, and coming home to her. Ellen found the tears welling up in her eyes as she watched President Mark Prescott stare unwaveringly into the camera, announcing the rescue. He’d called her personally just a few minutes beforehand to let her know that Brett was safe. The conversation had been brief; he’d expected praise and thanks, and she dutifully gave it to him. She couldn’t stand the man, of course, after what he’d done to Brett—elevating him, then betraying him, sending him thousands of miles into the teeth of danger to keep him away from the television anchors—but he’d made the right call.

Brett was coming home.

She repeated the thought in her head on a loop. Her stomach clutched tightly inside, a combination of joy and nervousness more profound than she’d felt on the day of her wedding. She realized that she hadn’t seen her husband for a year. That she’d given up on ever seeing him again.

She turned up the volume on the television.