Sleeper Cell Super Boxset (68 page)

“Where are we?” Craig asked in a hoarse voice.

“Detroit,” he answered. “That’s all I know.”

“Detroit?” Craig said loudly.

“Shhh. Keep your voice down.”

Craig looked up at the ceiling. “What is this, some kind of dungeon?” he asked.

“We’re in a warehouse. Some kind of factory. This is the basement.”

From afar, Craig examined Husein. He had bruises all over his face. Dried tears streaked his cheeks. “Why do they have you tied up? Why did they kill your aunt?”

“I don’t know,” Husein said in a pained tone. “I don’t know anything about them. I tried to tell you that. I told you my aunt had mental issues. That she was no terrorist.”

“Open your eyes, Husein!” Craig said. “She was in league with the sleeper cells. They killed her so she wouldn’t talk. It’s not hard to figure out.”

Husein responded with silence. His eyes dropped with an expression of pain and sadness. Craig realized that his harsh words were not helping. Husein apparently had no one left.

Craig dropped his aggressive tone. “Look. We have to get out of here. These men mean to kill us. ISIS isn’t exactly known for trading prisoners for ransom.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Husein asked.

“I’m not sure yet, but we have to.” He looked up again. “So you’ve been up there? What kind of warehouse is it?”

“A place where they, like, run their operations or something. There are lots of people. They were watching the news and celebrating. Ma’mun, the man who…” Husein stopped and looked down again. He took a deep breath and looked back at Craig. “The man who killed my aunt. He said that they’re going to deliver a message to the world soon, taking credit for the attacks.”

“What else did he say?” Craig asked.

“Something about a phase three,” Husein answered. “But I didn’t ask.”

“And they brought you up there to, what? Show you around the place?”

“They wanted me to join them, but I refused.”

Craig nodded as Husein squeezed his eyes shut, releasing a tear down each cheek. “Now I’m as good as dead.”

“That’s not true,” Craig said. “We’re going to get out of this. The terrorists don’t win, starting now.”

Husein shook his head. “Doubtful,” he said.

The door to the stairs opened, and Craig could hear the chatter of several different voices. Leisurely footsteps came down the stairs, and soon Ma’mun himself, Qadar, and another Middle Eastern man were standing in a cluster. They seemed amused and self-satisfied, ignoring Husein and going straight to Craig.

Ma’mun stood in the middle, holding something concealed in each hand. He knelt on the floor and began placing the items one by one in front of Craig. The first was Craig’s pistol—the loaner from Walker, his supervisor.

“This is your gun,” Ma’mun said.

He then set the next item down, as in a line. “This is your wallet with all your identification.”

Next came his cell phone. “You cell phone needs to be charged. Imagine all the calls you’re missing.” He then placed a handheld radio next to it.

“And last, we have your radio.” Ma’mun leaned in closer. “Do you want to know how we knew it was your radio?”

Craig provided no response. Ma’mun turned the radio to its side. “Because you wrote your name on it.” He pointed to Craig’s name written in blue permanent marker.

“
Craig,
” Ma’mun added with a laugh. The other men laughed along as well.

“I show you this, Agent Davis, just to let you know that we know who you are. We know everything about you. It would seem that you’re the only person in this country who tried to stop us, and now that we have you, things don’t look so good for everyone else.”

His English was impeccable. He had a slight British accent, high cheekbones, and stern, serious facial features.

Sometimes it was better to say nothing at all, but Craig couldn’t contain himself. It was as if the face of evil was staring right at him. Cold. Remorseless. And sinister.

“You’re the monster who cut that Surkov woman’s head off, aren’t you?” Craig asked. “That’s loyalty for you.”

Ma’mun stood up and crossed his arms, smiling slightly. “I know her death must have deeply bothered you. Allah willing, you might just meet her soon enough.”

“In paradise?” Craig asked.

“Not quite,” Ma’mun said.

Craig was done talking, although he had many questions. His survival instincts kicked in. The less said the better. There was no need to add fuel to the fire. His only hope was to stall them as long as he could and try to escape. It felt like a possibility, even with his hands and feet tied.

I got loose once. I can do it again
, he thought.

He scanned the room for anything that might be of use. Unfortunately the room was barren except for the camera and lights. The boxes had been taken out, and only an empty bookshelf remained.

Ma’mun signaled to his men. “Take the boy out of here. I want a private moment with our guest.” The men complied and walked over to Husein, who showed resistance.

“Don’t touch me!”

The men kicked at him as he tried to squirm away. Qadar leaned down and lifted him up. The other man grabbed him by the feet, and they carried him up the stairs as he tried to twist and turn out of their grip.

“Give him some time to reconsider his decision on joining us,” Ma’mun said. The door shut, and Husein’s objections could be heard no more. The room went silent.

“You know, Agent Davis, you are more valuable to us alive than dead. I had planned to deliver a message today explaining the attacks and what’s to come, but I am seriously considering you for the role instead. What do you say?”

Craig looked up and tried to answer as respectfully as he could. “It’s against my oath as a federal agent to be used for the purposes of propaganda. I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline.”

Ma’mun raised his foot up and tapped Craig on the chest of his bloodstained white button-down shirt. His tie had long ago disappeared. “You do realize where this is going, don’t you?”

“Torture,” Craig said. “It’s what your cult is known for.”

“We prefer the term
motivational applications
.”

Craig shook his head. “I can’t break my oath. I’m sorry, that’s all there is to it.”

Ma’mun took a step back. “Every man has his breaking point. An American prisoner in Syria refused us as well. He was even former Special Forces. Within two hours we had him converting to Islam and reading from our script.”

Craig felt angered. His attempt to remain calm and collected with his captors was fleeting. “Does that make you proud?” he asked.

“Does what make me proud?”

“Forcing people to do things by inflicting pain upon them?”

Ma’mun locked his hands behind his back and paced the room like a professor. “Man has inflicted harm upon his fellow man since the beginning of time. We’re no different today.”

“You assholes are living in the wrong century, that’s your problem.”

Ma’mun stopped and raised a cautionary finger. “Disrespect will not get you anywhere, Agent Davis.”

Craig glanced at the items in front of him, just out of reach. The pistol had been cleared and emptied. His eyes moved up as Ma’mun turned to look at him.

“Because if you are unwilling to do these things for us, you serve very little purpose. You may not care about your own life, but surely you care about those of your wife and son.”

Craig seethed with rage at the mention of his family. He pulled at the rope tying his arms together, thrust himself onto his knees, and attempted to get up and rush Ma’mun.

Ma’mun flashed a pistol from his jacket. “Don’t get carried away like a typical hotheaded American. Think before you act and have a seat.”

Craig slowly lowered himself back to the ground.

“Listen carefully. We know where you live. So that’s that. Our network is large and wide. We can have a team at your house…” he stopped and looked at his watch. “In ten minutes. So I think you should reconsider where your oaths lie. Rachael and Nicholas are relying on you.”

In a way, Craig felt relieved. Relieved for the cabin and that they had fled in time. He still had some cards left.

“Just think about what I’m telling you,” Ma’mun continued.

Craig looked up at him. The light bulb affixed to the ceiling created a shadow on his face. He asked, “Who’s running this organization? Is it Allawi?”

Ma’mun seemed genuinely surprised. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve done my research,” Craig said. “That particular Al-Qaeda reject has been on my radar for some time.”

“Abu Omar Allawi is my brother,” Ma’mun said, his eyes flashing with anger.

“No offense,” Craig said flippantly.

Ma’mun grabbed Craig’s possessions, stuffing the pistol and the radio in his pockets, and then turned to walk back up the stairs. He stopped with one hand on the railing. “This will not end well for you, Agent Davis. That much I can guarantee.” He exited the room and walked upstairs.

Alone, Craig’s mind raced while he considered his options. There had to be a way out. There had to be something he hadn’t thought of yet. If nothing came to him, he knew he was living on borrowed time. The door opened again, and Ma’mun’s two henchmen brought Husein back and threw him on the ground. The two men laughed and walked up the stairs, not even acknowledging Craig.

Husein lay there motionless, breathing heavily, his hands and feet still tied.

“What happened?” Craig asked.

“They’re going to kill me,” he answered. “I know it. They’re going to kill you, too.”

“That’s why we have to escape.”

Husein rolled over to face Craig. “How?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet, but you have to help me.”

Husein shook his head. “It’s pointless. They gave me one last chance to join. Said I was a special asset being from Chechnya.”

“What did you say?” Craig asked.

“I told them to fuck off,” Husein answered.

Craig couldn’t help but laugh a little.

***

The upstairs warehouse floor was abuzz with activity. Television screens, monitors, and workstations were set up everywhere. They contained ISIS sleeper cell members of all ranks and backgrounds, now gathered at one of their main operations depots hidden away in the heavily industrialized and mostly abandoned area of Detroit, Michigan.

It was where most of their planning took place, hidden behind the legitimate front as a plastics factory. At night, the machines were turned off and the warehouse floor was converted into a strategic headquarters.

The news of the attacks was on nearly every screen in the room. Rifles, machine guns, grenades, explosives, and tactical gear lay on tables like wares at a gun show. The factory was heavily guarded outside, and the men had been trained to destroy all computers and equipment and flee the grounds at the first sign for trouble. No one was allowed to get caught. They were instructed to fight to the death if it came to that.

Too many of their brothers had already been caught by the American authorities, and it was considered unacceptable to join the ranks of prisoners. To dispel any notions of surrender, the men were constantly inundated with images of Abu Ghraib prisoners being degraded in Iraq by U.S. soldiers during the American occupation.

“That is what the Americans will do to you if you’re caught,” their leader, Abu Omar Allawi, told them in a recorded briefing. “A humiliation worse than death.”

With protocol established, operations seem to run smoothly for some time. The day of the port attacks marked a milestone for ISIS. To their contacts all over the world, they reported with glee the first significant strike against their greatest enemy, the United States. It had no doubt raised morale and recruitment in their ranks. No one, not even Russia or China, had the guts to hit America like ISIS had done, and Abu Omar Allawi couldn’t have been more proud.

Ma’mun sat at his desk, typing away on his laptop, sending encrypted updates to ISIS commanders in Syria, Libya, Lebanon, and Iraq. Sometimes even he felt overwhelmed with how vast their organization had become in a relatively short amount of time. The momentum was there, heightened by the cheers of his men every time the news displayed graphics speculating about ISIS’s involvement in such bold attacks on the homeland. Qadar approached him, pulled up a chair, and sat.

“We better take credit for this before someone else does,” he said.

“Patience,” Ma’mun said.

Qadar shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Why wait any longer? The damage is done. We have to drive fear into the hearts of the Americans. Isn’t that the point?” Qadar leaned in closer. “Today on one of the cable news programs, one of the pundits speculated that this attack could have come from anywhere. He even mentioned Iran. Are we going to let someone else get the credit for this? It’s madness.”

Ma’mun turned to face him, picking up his cell phone and scrolling. “Strategy requires careful planning. The Americans want answers. They’re waiting. The longer we keep them waiting, the more our message will resonate with them.”

Qadar seemed to have conceded to Ma’mun’s point with his silence. The news had already speculated on the “ISIS-inspired attacks,” but they seemed confused that no official statement from the terrorist organization had materialized. Ma’mun set down his cell phone and looked at Qadar, confiding in him.

“My brother gave me the responsibility of handling our current phase and of delivering our message to the world. A true honor. And I want nothing more than the American FBI man’s cooperation. Imagine…” Ma’mun tapped the side of his head with his finger. “Imagine if our message was delivered by our American hostage. Can you see how significant that would be?”

“No one is preventing you,” Qadar said.

“Only his own refusal. This is the man responsible for stopping our mall attack in Richmond. If not for him, Darion would have completed his mission. And now we have him. This is destiny, my brother.”

Qadar nodded in understanding. “So what do we do next?”

“He will refuse us. We will torture him and eventually break him. Or we can figure out another way. I noticed a connection between him and our Chechen prisoner.”