Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (15 page)

10:52 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

Jackson had been in the dark for a while now.

A thick sandbag hood had been pulled over his head when
Assad roughly led him into the facility. It was starting to itch now around the
neck. He wished he could scratch, but his hands were securely bound behind him
with zip ties and his feet were bound to the sturdy metal legs of the chair
upon which he sat, awaiting his coming interrogation.

Jackson heard the door open and heavy booted footsteps walk
purposefully towards him as he sat in silence, his eyes staring straight ahead
into the blackness beneath the hood as he waited, his heart pounding.

Jackson had been well trained in the SEALs. His experience
at SERE training- short for Survive, Evade, Resist and Escape, had been at once
challenging and empowering.

But Jackson had never before been taken prisoner.

Jackson's world was washed out with fluorescent light as the
hood was pulled from his head. His eyes fought the light initially, his eyelids
squeezed tight as he waited for his pupils to adapt to the flood of white
light.

It only took a moment.

Jackson had expected to see his captor's face. But all he
saw was the cool cement walls of an abandoned shipping facility, dripping wet
with condensation.

But Jackson's eyes also fell upon something far more
sinister and familiar.

He'd seen it on intelligence tapes, and even occasionally
the news.

He was sitting in a makeshift video recording studio,
complete with a video camera sitting on a tripod facing two flags. The first he
recognized as the Iranian flag. The second was clearly white Farsi writing on a
black banner. Beneath the Farsi writing was a simple word that had come to be
common usage since the September 11 attacks of 2001 had brought terrorism to
the United States. It stated simply Jihad.

Between the flags were two razor sharp scimitar swords. They
were hung on the cold concrete of the gray wall with large metal screws.
Floodlights staged on the floor near Jackson's chair flooded this filming area
with light as his captor began to speak.

Assad cleared his throat as Jackson continued to adjust to
his surroundings.

"What do you think of our studio, Mr. Pike?" He
said finally.

"It seems familiar," said Jackson as he turned his
head to the side, trying to get a look at Assad in the light.

"It should. It's almost an exact replica of the studio
that Osama Bin Laden used to film his messages following the September 11
^th
attacks. It seemed appropriate." There was a disconcerting mirth in
Assad's voice as he spoke.

Jackson took a deep breath, controlling his emotions. He
remained silent.

Assad continued. "Are you not curious about the meaning
of all of this, Mr. Pike?"

"I know what the meaning of this is, Assad.” Jackson
answered, “You and your people are going to kill Americans.
Men,
women and children.
Innocent people like my wife and daughter. And you
are going to use the chemicals stolen from Carmike Chemical to do it."

Assad was impressed with Jackson's honesty and his evaluation
of their plan. He clapped his hands together, impressed.

"What else do you think you know, Mr. Pike?" he
asked,
his voice low and menacing.

Jackson sighed, glancing at the Iranian flag that hung in
the left corner of his field of vision.

"I think you are going to blame the Iranians. I think
you are going to start a war."

Assad chuckled menacingly. "It seems you have a pretty
good grasp on what's going on here, Mr. Pike." He stepped around Jackson's
chair until he stood towering over the helpless man.

"The problem is," Assad continued, "I need to
know who you have told this information. You can tell me now, or you can tell
me later. But sooner or later," he paused, glancing at the wicked looking
swords hanging on the wall of the dimly lit room, "you will tell me."

As Jackson watched, his eyes open and his mind calm for the
first time in days, Assad walked to a table which stood along the side of the
room. He looked down at the small wooden table and lifted three articles from
the surface. He held them in his hands as he walked towards Jackson.

When Assad got within several paces of the bound SEAL,
Jackson knew what the man was holding. It was Susan Winters' date book and file
folder, along with a small plastic bottle. Jackson's eyes widened.

"You know what this is, Mr. Pike?" Assad knew the
answer before he asked. His men had confiscated the two documents from Jackson
when they had taken him in the woods.

Jackson remained silent.

Assad opened the folder. "This is the only evidence
linking Carmike Industries and the Special Security Group to Monday's plan."

The tan interrogator walked to a small metal wastebasket
which stood near the video camera tripod. He tossed the folder and datebook
inside of the steel can and emptied the contents of the small plastic canister
into the wastebasket. The smell of gasoline flooded the tiny concrete room.

Assad smiled as he turned towards Jackson, shrugging his
shoulders. "This was your only proof."

He drew a pack of cigarettes and a small metal lighter from
his pocket. He lit two cigarettes and tucked the pack back into the pocket of
his pants. He tossed one of the cigarettes into the wastebasket, and a ball of
flame spat from the metal canister.

"Now, there is no evidence, Mr. Pike. But either way,
I'm going to enjoy getting you to tell me your side of the story."

Jackson sat silently and hung his head. He would tell this
man absolutely nothing. Any pain the man could cause him would be worth the
aggravation it would cause this murderer.

Jackson lifted his head and looked Assad square in the eyes.

"Fuck you," he said simply as he squared his jaw
and gritted his teeth.

Assad walked to the wall of the dank room and past the two
flags which hung on the gray cement of the former shipping warehouse wall. He
pulled one of the wicked scimitar blades down and walked towards Jackson.

"I figured you might say that, Mr. Pike." He smiled
as he stepped towards Jackson’s chair.

"In fact, I hoped you would."

11:02 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Naval
Observatory- Washington, D.C.

Before bed, Vice President Colgan always set his cellular
phone to vibrate. For important matters, he could always be reached by the land
line or any of the numerous Secret Service agents that made up his security
contingent.

Usually, the thin gray haired politician slept like a baby
in the luxurious quarters that the taxpayers provided
he
and his wife on the grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory. But tonight, he
rolled side to side restlessly, slamming a relentless fist into the soft down
of his pillow, trying to find some rest.

There was just too much on the line for the politician. He
rolled to his left, propped up for a second on a cold elbow that emerged from
the softness of his down comforter and looked for a moment at the sleeping face
of his wife.

He sighed, rolling onto his back and glancing at the glowing
red face of his alarm clock. It was 11:05 PM and there had still been no word.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to put the
stress of business and politics from his mind. As he finally began to relax,
the small black phone began to vibrate, the almost silent quiver of the small
electronic device like thunder in the politician's ear due to the weight of the
news it surely carried.

His feet were on the floor within a second, his pallid white
hands grasping the plastic of the phone as he stepped from the bedroom, the old
wooden floors of the Vice Presidential mansion creaking beneath his 180 pound
frame.

He closed the solid wooden door behind him and stepped into
the hallway of his quarters, his privacy as complete here as anywhere in the
world.

"What is the status," he demanded into the
mouthpiece of the telephone without issuing a greeting. The Vice President had
never been known for his social graces.

Colgan's soft linen robe was cinched around his waist as he
paced up the hallway, his gaze panning across the photos that lined the walls
of the quarters. As he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, he
scanned the room, his eyes following a progression of photos detailing his life
and career. They spanned a lifetime of achievement from college graduation,
graduate school, his wedding, meetings with businessmen, politicians and
finally to the photos of him with political and world leaders.

The photos were a reminder of how much was at stake for
Colgan. His entire life had led up to this point.

Everything he had and desired rested upon the success of his
Presidential campaign, and his Presidential campaign, and more importantly its
funding rested upon the outcome of this phone call.

His mind wandered as he gazed at the carefully framed
snapshots of a lifetime of success. Colgan shook his head, refocusing a second
later on the words of his caller, who continued to speak.

The Vice President had not spoken a word since answering the
phone.

Silence echoed deafeningly in the Vice President's ear as
his caller finally completed his briefing and the Vice President stepped down
the hallway, his thoughts fixated on accomplishing the task at hand while
achieving maximum protection for his political career and family.

"Very well," he said finally.

"Your instructions remain as previously briefed. I will
call back in fifteen minutes for an update. I hope that you will have better
news for me." He clicked the phone shut and walked down the hall to the
small den where he often escaped on evenings such as these.

The Vice President walked into the den and sat heavily down
on the plush cushions of the soft leather sofa, leaning his thin aging frame
into the embrace of the couch and peering at the grandfather clock that sat
above the brick fireplace.

He sighed. This would likely be the longest fifteen minutes
of Colgan's career.

He reached a soft politician's hand to the coffee table and
picked up the remote control of the flat screen television. He switched on the
electronic device and leaned back in his chair. He tuned to FOX News and
glanced again at the clock.

It had only been a minute and a half.

This was definitely going to be a long fifteen minutes.

As Colgan leaned his head back in the soft embrace of the
couch, pressing his white hair into the soft leather, he half focused on the
flashing images of his television screen.

He stared blankly ahead, watching the reruns of the day's
news that dominate the twenty four hour news cycle.

Tonight they were poignant. FOX was replaying images of the
September 11
^th
, 2001 attacks and running a special focusing on the
global war on terrorism.

Very appropriate, thought Colgan as he stood and walked to
the wet bar on the other side of the room and poured himself a glass of
Glenfiddich.

Very appropriate indeed.

11:17 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

At least the sword was sharp.

That was all Jackson could think when he first felt the cold
steel of the scimitar bladed sword touch the bare skin of his neck and chest.

Whatever Assad intended, whatever type of interrogation
tactics he would use, Jackson could be certain that at least he would use a
sharp blade. It was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless.

Jackson's eyes had been closed since Assad had pulled the
sword from the wall. He forced himself to focus on happier times. Images of his
family danced through his memory as he recalled the joy of being together with
Leigh and Clementine.

His defiance this evening was for them. For Leigh and
Clementine, he would suffer any amount of pain, any number of questions. For
them, he would die well.

Assad had cut away Jackson's black, blood soaked shirt
before stepping from the room. Jackson could hear him on the phone as his voice
echoed through the cold concrete hallway. Unfortunately he couldn't make out
any words, but he was sure whatever instructions Assad was receiving from his
leadership, Jackson would know very soon.

When Assad had stepped back into the room, he was agitated.
Jackson's lack of cooperation had clearly frustrated the man, and perhaps
worse, embarrassed him in front of his superiors.

"Mr. Pike." Assad's tone was low, menacing.
"I've been instructed to find out what you know, and who you have told by
any means necessary. Do you know what that means?"

Jackson opened his eyes for the first time since Assad had
pulled the blade from the wall. He stared straight ahead, motionless as his
thoughts continued to remain fixed on Leigh and Clementine. Jackson suppressed
any fear that he felt. He refused to let his captor sense his emotions. He was
a rock.

Assad stepped closer, running his hands along the edge of
the razor sharp blade of the wicked sword that he wielded menacingly. He
sighed.

"You've left me no choice," he said as he walked towards
Jackson.

Jackson breathed slowly and evenly as Assad approached.

The prisoner continued to stare straight ahead, unblinking.
His training, not to mention his stubbornness would never allow him to show a
moment's weakness or fear. Assad was going to have to flay him alive with that
sword, he swore to himself as he now squeezed his eyes closed once more.

Jackson was prepared to die. He was prepared to suffer.

No pain that this man could levy would be greater than that
his colleagues in the Special Security Group had already exacted when they
murdered Jackson’s only family. He was ready.

Jackson's eyes were shut as he prepared himself for the
sharp blade to make its first incision. So, it was as much a surprise to
Jackson as to Assad then when a deafening explosion rocked the building. The
walls shook as years old dust drifted from the steel beams of the rafters as
the building's old bones quivered.

Assad wasted no time. He keyed the radio fixed to his belt.

"Security Team Alpha, report." He was clearly ill
at ease.

An explosion of that type could have been one of the trucks.
If it had been, everyone in this building and every living thing within a half
of a mile likely only had minutes to live.

There was no response.

"Security Team Alpha," he called again. "What
is going on out there?"

Jackson's eyes were open now, a smile touching his face for
the first time as he watched Assad fall apart before his very eyes.

"What's wrong, Assad?" He asked with a mocking
tone in his voice as he watched the dark skinned assassin begin to panic.

Assad yelled loudly, "Shut the fuck up!"

Assad walked to the corner of the room and picked up a gas
mask from the steel table upon which Susan Winter's date book had rested
earlier in the evening. He stretched the rubber straps over his head fastening
the small metal clasps as he walked toward the door.

Jackson sat silently, watching as Assad prepared to step
from the room.

He knew that hadn't been one of the trucks. There had been
only one explosion, without secondary indications of detonation.

Assad checked the security of his gas mask and lightly
touched the heavy steel door that led to the hallway outside. He took a deep
breath and pulled a handgun from a holster at his belt before stepping into the
hallway.

He didn't make it more than two steps. Dull thuds of a
silenced handgun turned Assad's head into a pink mist before Jackson's eyes.
The assassin had no chance to react. His killer had not hesitated for a second.

Jackson smiled.

It would seem that Mike wasn't dead after all.

Jackson had only a limited view of the hall, provided
through the heavy metal door which still sat partially open, blocked by Assad's
lifeless body in a heap on the floor.

"In here." Jackson spoke clearly, his voice
projecting through the room and into the hallway.

Mike Jones' dark form appeared seconds later. He scooped the
handgun from Assad's body and tucked it into his belt before pulling a Ka-Bar
knife from a holster on his hip.

He ran over to Jackson's chair and sliced through the thick
plastic zip ties that held Jackson's hands and feet in place before handing him
the handgun.

"I'm glad you're OK." There was audible relief in
Mike's voice.

"I thought you were dead." Jackson replied as he
gripped the 9mm Beretta, pulling the magazine out and taking stock of his
ammunition. As he hoped, it contained a full magazine and one in the chamber.

The two men looked at each other. They only had minutes
before the heavily armed men upstairs would figure out what was going on and
come to investigate.

Jackson looked Mike in the eyes. "I know you are going
to hate this, Mike. But we need to call the cops."

Mike laughed. "I do hate it, Jackson." He looked
down momentarily, before raising his hard eyes to meet Jackson's own, "But
I already did," he said with a tight lipped smile.

Jackson stood to his feet, supported by Mike's strong thick
arm as the two men stepped towards the hall.

As they neared the door Jackson smiled along with Mike. He
could hear the approaching wail of emergency sirens.