Hybrid - Forced Vengeance (17 page)

“I don’t know,” Samir croaked.

The intense aqua blue light from Erik’s eyes bathed Samir’s olive complexion. Erik transformed further, as he did with Jeremy Storm, ignoring the screams of panic from onlookers. In the hybrid state, he probed deep into the man’s mind. Samir could keep no secret and tell no lie.

“Don’t even try lying to me, Samir!” Erik increased the pressure on the thin man’s throat.

Samir struggled to breathe. Erik relented, allowing the man to speak. “No, no I swear Agent Knight. I’m telling you the truth.” He croaked his words in terror, his eyes wide with fear.

Erik’s senses confirmed Samir knew nothing. The Arab had terrorist connections in Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Afghanistan and in the United States. If Samir knew nothing, then the culprits he sought belonged to a rogue terrorist cell or a splinter cell operating outside the established terrorist underground organizations.

Erik willed his eyes back to their more human appearance. “Then find out!” he ordered, pointing a finger at the man’s face. “If any more attacks are made upon Monique LaSalle, I will burn this place to the ground – along with others like it – whether there are people inside or not.”

He released Samir who coughed up a storm, and then Erik nonchalantly walked out of the club, sidestepping the four men he had put to sleep, but before he got outside the shapely dancer stepped into his path, blocking his departure.

She moved in close and looked into his eyes as if trying to read something. She stepped in even closer, pressing her full breasts against his body. Erik felt something disturbing about her, a threat, but dismissed it as feminine guile. He glared at her in warning and she immediately stepped back.

* * * *

She watched him leave and sighed heavily. Her charms had no effect on the American intruder; he would have been a great conquest. She reached inside her skimpy costume and produced a cell phone. She dialed a number and waited.

“We had a visitor; the American,” she began in perfect English with no hint of an accent. “He gave us a warning not to harm the French President’s daughter. I’m not aware of any action against the LaSalle family. What the fuck is going on, Emir? Who authorized the hit?”

She listened as the voice on the other end of the phone responded.

“Well, find out, damn it. I don’t want what happened in Saudi Arabia to happen here.” She terminated the call and quickly dialed another number.

“Listen to me,” she said harshly over the phone. “Beware of an American, over six feet tall, short black hair and strange glowing eyes. He’s incredibly strong and extremely dangerous. He just trashed the Oasis Club, and I suspect this was only the first stop of the evening. He knew this was one of our headquarters and…” She glanced at the visibly shaken Samir Rahman, and continued, “He knew one of our principles by name.”

“No!” She forced a stray curl away from her face. “Do not attempt to stop him with force. You’ll only get our people killed. If he shows up, offer him nothing and give him no reason for violence. I’ve heard stories about this particular American. What I assumed were drunken fairy tales are actually true.”

Sarina Fahaad closed her cell phone and returned to her dressing room. She had hoped for a more pleasant evening with a handsome young stallion, and for a fleeting moment, had even hoped to entertain the American. Now she had to salvage what was left of her father’s organization before the infamous CIA cleaner could wreak more havoc. She quickly changed into more appropriate attire and left the trashed nightclub.

She came across Samir, outside.

“Where are you going?” Samir asked her.

“To seek a truce,” she spat out. “As for you … if we didn’t authorize the hit on LaSalle’s daughter, and no one in our group was hired through channels, I want to know who did! I’ll be at the president’s residence for the next few hours.”

* * * *

Erik Knight watched his second target from a nearby rooftop. Fifteen minutes passed without any suspicious movement. He had expected to see a small army of men mobilizing on nearby rooftops, inside doorways and spreading across the club entrance, all armed with automatic weapons,. He was wrong. The nightclub was peaceful and quiet with no increase in security anywhere, and this fact made him hesitate.

The detective fingered the top of his sentient staff and the weapon purred in response. He looked down at the silver object.

“Well, I didn’t expect this calm; I figured there’d be a small army out to greet me. I can’t see, nor do I sense, any hostility or danger.”

“I can’t stay here all night,” he muttered.

Erik leapt off the rooftop and landed in the deserted alley across the street from the club. Two guards were performing the usual crowd control. Erik slipped into the waiting line, drawing stares from potential patrons but none from the guards. He opened the thumb break snaps on his holsters for a quick draw of his .45s. Sensing his master’s alertness to danger, his staff growled and vibrated its disapproval at not being used.

Easy,
Erik projected to the weapon.
I
don’t want a fight if I can avoid it.
The weapon fell silent as he neared the doorway. Both guards gestured him through the open double doorway without incident.

“Enjoy your evening,” one of them added in perfect English as he walked by.

“Thank you.” Erik was confused by the unexpected civility.

Erik studied the layout of the club as he cautiously walked further inside. He received several looks of recognition from patrons, and he recognized several known al-Qaeda operatives. He headed over to the bar and sat at the nearest stool. The bartender came over asking if he wanted a drink.

“What I want is information,” Erik countered. “Some terrorist group put a contract out on Monique LaSalle, the French president’s daughter, and I want to know who did it.”

The bartender flinched then looked around. He gestured to a man sitting in the far corner. The man waved his arm and nodded.

“My employer will speak with you, Mr. Knight.”

Erik raised an eyebrow; it appeared word of his earlier escapade had already spread. The detective nodded and slipped a ten-dollar bill on the counter.

Erik left his stool and walked toward the corner booth.

“Mr. Knight,” the heavyset man began in a joyful tone. “This is indeed a special occasion, a CIA cleaner socializing with the very people he’s supposed to be putting behind bars – or into the dirt.” The obese man laughed.

Erik nodded as he cautiously sat in the seat opposite his host. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

“Errol Martin, or as I am more commonly known Bilal-Abdul-Raheem-Falahawi. Just call me Errol; it’s much easier on the tongue.” The fat man laughed then drank from a large beer mug.

Once he swallowed he asked Erik, “May I offer you a non alcoholic beverage, since I know you don’t drink?”

“Club soda with a lime twist,” Erik answered.

“So, Mr. Knight, have you come to trash my humble establishment?” Errol asked, gesturing for a waitress. He then related the drink request.

Erik leaned across the table. “Will that be necessary for me to get the answers I’m looking for?”

The fat man also leaned forward and whispered, “I have no love for you, American. You’ve crippled our business; have caused the death of several good men, and the imprisonment of several freedom fighters. If it had been up to me, I would have had you shot the moment you walked in here.” The man leaned back and said, “But that was not my choice to make.”

“I’m hurt.” Erik whispered back, actually managing to sound injured. “But those whom you call freedom fighters, the rest of the world call terrorists. Your freedom fighters have a knack for killing innocent people in the pursuit of their cause.”

The chubby Arab’s face was a cacophony of different expressions. He burst out laughing, reaching over to slap Erik on the shoulder. “You are very droll, Mr. Knight, however, let us not debate issues which we will never agree on. As you Americans are fond of saying, we see the world through different lenses.” He raised his hands in a gesture of placation. “I suggest we simply leave it at that and get to the matter at hand.”

With a nod, Erik agreed then looked around briefly, studying several of the men and women he knew were probable terrorists or – at the very least – had connections to them. He sighed and looked back at his host.

“You already know why I’m here.” Erik smiled.

A waitress interrupted their dialogue by placing a coaster on the table. She offered the detective an ample view of her cleavage as she set down the drink and some napkins.

Errol grunted, then said, “Enough, Miranda. Mr. Knight is in mourning; save it for the regulars.”

The waitress nodded and walked away, clearly disappointed. “I apologize. Miranda has many mouths to feed at home.”

Erik took a few quick seconds to appraise his host. Errol knew a great deal about him. It appeared that the terrorist network was far more sophisticated than anybody in the CIA or OSA believed.

“To lost spouses,” Errol raised his beer mug.

He felt the pain of Shanda’s passing course through his body once more. But there was something else he felt – an alarming feeling of distress that he simply couldn’t place. He knew he wasn’t in danger personally, but something wasn’t right. He forced the dark thoughts to recede and refocused on his current situation.

“To lost spouses,” Erik repeated as he clinked his glass against the mug.

Both men drank and then sat quietly reflecting on their private losses.

Errol finally broke their silence. “Mr. Knight, if I were to tell you that no one in any organization that I know of has instigated a contract against young Miss LaSalle what would your reply be?”

Erik had already read his host and several people in the room. They all knew why he was here, but he couldn’t fathom anything else that would be of use to him. Heavy hitters were here. Ahmad Soleil sat in one corner fingering a jeweled throwing dagger; and scant feet away, Abdul Aziz – commonly known as the Sand Adder – was studying him from his own private booth. Abdul turned his attention away only when the women with him diverted him to more pleasurable affairs. Both men wanted a shot at him, but he could also sense their apprehension. Something or someone was keeping them at bay.

Erik looked directly into Errol’s eyes. “Mr. Bilal-Abdul-Raheem-Falahawi, I would believe you. You’re not behind this at all, but someone or some group has done one hell of a job setting it up to appear that you are.”

Falahawi sighed. “Then I can relay to our other establishments that you’ll not be paying us any more social calls?”

Erik nodded. “No more social calls … on this particular matter,” he amended. “I know there’s still a standing contract out on my life, but that’s an issue for another time. Isn’t it?”

Errol looked uncomfortable and quickly nodded. “Another time, Agent Knight.”

The detective took a last sip of his drink and stood up. “Good evening.”

“Erik ...” Errol began in a voice laden with sympathy, “though we are on opposite sides of this war, please believe my sincerity. I am truly sorry for the loss of your wife. My Miranda was killed two months ago in a raid, not far from here. We have that grief in common, if nothing else.”

Erik read the man’s sincerity. He was taken aback to find civility and sincerity in what was supposed to be enemy territory. “Errol, you have my sympathies as well. May our wives find peace in the better place.” Erik turned and quietly walked out the door as dozens of eyes followed his exit.

He was stumped.

He didn’t expect to end the evening with a quiet walk back to the presidential compound – empty handed. He had difficulty trying to equate Falahawi’s seemingly humane nature with his bloody line of work. He had learned one thing from this evening though: The fringe fanatics and contract assassins who seemed to be behind these attacks … were not. They all had been set up. The CIA, the OSA and the French government had all been played.

Played masterfully.

The detective was now eager to question the sources that determined Muslim fanatics were behind the threat. He wanted to know how they arrived at that erroneous conclusion.

* * * *

When Erik arrived at the presidential compound, he was not looking forward to relaying the events of the last four hours to President LaSalle. As soon as he entered the spacious front foyer an excited Jean-Paul met him.

“Mr. Knight, thank God you’re here. We’ve been worried about you since we got word of the havoc unleashed at the Oasis Club.”

Erik raised an eyebrow. “Word travels fast in Paris.” Jean-Paul apprised him of the new development.

“For the past two hours we’ve been entertaining a certain eyewitness to the events while awaiting your return.”

“Really? He stopped mid stride and turned toward the aide. “Who?”

“Miss Sarina Fahaad,” Jean-Paul provided excitedly.

“Fahaad? Sarina Fahaad is the daughter of Rashim Fahaad, the number three man on the CIA’s most wanted list!”

Jean-Paul gave a look of surprise then continued, “He is also high on the French terrorist list as well.” Both men continued their brisk walk to the main meeting area, anxious to see the woman.

* * * *

Erik entered the room and was stunned to see Monique LaSalle, under the supervision of her father, entertaining a stunningly beautiful Arabic female. Erik recognized her immediately as the belly dancer from the Oasis Club. She’d disappeared as soon as he’d entered the main club, avoiding his mental scan. Erik quickly reassessed the beautiful woman. She was far more than just a seductive body; he was the daughter of a very influential and powerful man within the Arab and Muslim communities. It was somehow ironic to see the daughters of two political powerhouses within France talking and laughing like they were best friends.

President LaSalle smiled at Erik and rose when the two men entered the room.

“Erik Knight, may I present Miss Sarina Fahaad.”

The Arabic woman rose and extended her hand in the traditional French custom. Erik took her hand and kissed it gently. “We’ve already met, Mr. President.” Erik released her hand then studied her eyes intently.