Hostage

by Don Brown

• ISBN13: 9780310259343
• ISBN10: 0310259347
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2005-11-01
• Publisher: Zondervan

Summary

Zack Brewer faces a choice. It can prevent the nextworld war. But it may cost the life of the person he lovesmost.JAG Officer Zack Brewer's prosecution of three terroristsposing as Navy chaplains was called the "court martial ofthe century" by the press. With the limelight behind him, all Zack wants to do is forget the ordeal and move on.But the radical Islamic organization behind the chaplainshas a long memory--and a thirst for revenge.Now the Navy has a need for Zack that eclipses all else.When an unthinkable act of aggression brings Israel andits Arab neighbors to the brink of war, Zack and cocounselDiane Colcernian are assigned to the case of alifetime. As the civilized world focuses its gaze uponthese two, other eyes are watching as well.Zack and Diane are in harm's way.A kidnapping, an ultimatum . . . and suddenly, Zack facesan impossible choice. If he loses this case, the worldcould explode into war. If he wins, the woman he loveswill die. And Zack himself may not survive to make thedecision.

Excerpts

HostageCopyright 2005 by Don Brown
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brown, Don, 1960 – Hostage / Don Brown. p. cm. — (The Navy justice series ; bk. 2) ISBN-13: 978-0-310-25934-3 (pbk.) ISBN-10: 0-310-25934-7 (pbk.) 1. United States. Navy — Fiction. 2. Courts-martial and courts of inquiry — Fiction. I. Title. PS3602.R6947H67 2005813'.6 — dc22 2005015807
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version. NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other — except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Interior design by Michelle Espinoza
Printed in the United States of America
C H A P T E R 1
In the hills near the Dean E. Smith Center South Campus, University of North Carolina Chapel Hill, North Carolina
Lying on his belly in the thick underbrush, the gunman peered through the powerful magnifying scope. It was about two hundred yards down the hill, he estimated, from his position to the main entrance of the brick arena. Close enough for a shot. Far enough for an escape. Students flocked like massive herds of sheep through the building’s glass doors, their heads and faces grandly visible through the crosshairs of the scope. Dozens of infidels sacrificed to Allah’s glory in an instant. His heart raced at the thought. His breathing quickened. He caressed the cold trigger with his finger, waiting to squeeze it. Longing to purify the sin ful American ground with spilled blood. Whistling wind whipped through the tops of the Carolina pines. A surge of excitement, like an electrical shock, shot through his body. My destiny is with Allah the Merciful, who controls the wind. He pulled his trigger finger from the cold steel. His glorious destiny would depend on patience. For a bit longer. The blood of the redhead and her companion would ensure his place in Islamic Glory. He would await their emergence. Allah would bring them from those doors at the anointed moment. And when they appeared in the crosshairs, he would execute Allah’s vengeance and justice. All praise to Allah! Blessed be the prophet — peace be upon him.
Dean E. Smith Center
South Campus, University of North Carolina
Chapel Hill, North Carolina
UNC Versus Duke: Halftime
Lieutenant Diane Colcernian tried in vain to protect her eardrums from the spontaneous, alternating chants of the boisterous crowd.
“TAAAAAR!”
“HEEEEEELS!”
“TAAAAAR!”
“HEEEEEELS!”
Diane’s date, Lieutenant Zack Brewer, pumped his fists into the air, contributing to the baby-blue cacophony now reaching ear-splitting levels.
His excitement mimicked that of a kid under the Christmas tree, a beaming kid handsomely decked out in his “Carolina Blue” T-shirt with the interlocking NC on the front. Hers, a gift from Zack, was identical to his and to twenty thousand others in the Dean Dome.
He screamed with exhilaration when one of the Carolina players, a Rashad somebody, dunked the ball. She smiled, shaking her head in bemused disbelief.
“Let’s just wear jeans and Carolina stuff,” Zack had said earlier. “This is the Duke game. The fans will be so pumped up we’ll never get spotted. I promise.”
She believed him. After all, basketball wasn’t that big of a deal when she was an undergraduate student at the University of Virginia.
Promises, promises.
They sat three rows behind the Carolina bench, so close to the court they could hear the famous Duke coach unleash a profanity-laced tirade, first at his players, then at the referees, and then, at halftime, at the crowd as he trotted off the court with his team. Zack, who had warned Diane earlier that the Duke coach was known for spewing such obscenities, not to mention appearing in tacky credit card commercials, cupped his hands and joined the thousands of UNC fans in a cascading chorus of boos aimed at the Blue Devils as they disappeared into the tunnel under the Dean Dome.
When the boos turned into a groundswell of applause, Diane sensed she was being watched. A man sitting behind them tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the large electronic screen over center court.
There they were on the jumbo screen, displayed for everyone in the arena and anyone who happened to be watching on national television — the image of her flaming red hair and Zack’s cute dimple.
“So much for anonymity, Lieutenant,” she said. Then, sheepishly, she smiled and waved at the camera. Another surge of applause followed.
“You look great on the JumboTron,” Zack said as he waved at the camera.
“You said we weren’t going anyplace they have cameras.”
“You think they won’t have cameras at the White House?”
His comment brought a nervous quiver to her stomach. “Thanks for reminding me.” Their image faded from the screen, replaced by halftime statistics showing individual scoring totals for the Carolina and Duke teams.
A moment later, as the Carolina dance team moved and shook to the rhythm of Chicago’s “Twenty-five or Six to Four,” courtesy of the UNC pep band, a skinny young man bounded up the aisle from courtside. “Lieutenant Brewer, I’m Jason Silverstein with the Tar Heel Sports Network. Rick Blixon asked if you could come down for a halftime interview.”
“Who’s Rick Blixon?” Diane raised an eyebrow at Zack.
He shot her an incredulous look. “He’s just the color guy for the Tar Heel sports broadcast. That’s all.”
“Oh, that Rick Blixon. Well, why didn’t you just say so?” She gave him a sarcastic smile.
“Do you mind?” His eyes still sparkled.
“It won’t take long, Lieutenant Colcernian,” Silverstein said. “Rick’s right down there at courtside.” He gestured toward a table just to the left of the now-empty Carolina bench where Rick Blixon was motioning them to come down.
“He sees us!” Zack said, grinning.
My date has ice water in his veins in front of a jury, handles press conferences like a pro on national television, but acts like some giddy kid when some sports guy I’ve never heard of wants to talk to him.
“Look, he wants you too.” Zack pointed to Blixon, who now held up two fingers as he waved them down. “Come on. It’ll be a blast.”
Diane met Jason Silverstein’s gaze, and when he nodded, she said, “Oh, all right.”
“Thanks.” Zack gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then stood, and following Silverstein’s lead, escorted her down the center aisle to the court.
Rick Blixon extended his hand first to Diane, then to Zack. “Welcome back to Chapel Hill,” he said, still shaking Zack’s hand.
“Good to be back,” Zack said.
“We’re on a commercial break right now, but I’d love to do a quick interview if you’re up to it.” The question was directed at Zack.
That was fine with Diane. She’

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Excerpted from Hostage by Don Brown
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