Read The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel for Free Online

non-Jordanian, non-Arab, non-Muslim, non-Hashemite reporter   —in his command bunker while he was orchestrating a massive counterassault against the forces of ISIS and an extensive search and rescue to find the president of the United States must have seemed nonsensical and unbearable.
    It made me wonder why, in fact, the king would keep me around. I certainly didn’t have the security clearance to be in the war room at such a time as this. Surely the king, who still hadn’t come back into the room, was taking a moment to consider his brother’s counsel. It was one thing to show me a measure of kindness and hospitality given the role I’d just played in saving his life. But now the king had serious work to do. There was no reason whatsoever to keep me around.
    But if   —and more likely, when   —he kicked me out, what exactly would I do? Where would I go? Would I be stuck in the lobby upstairs with no sources, no access, perhaps not even any ability to communicate with the outside world, in the middle of a base in full lockdown and under imminent threat of attack by the forces of the Islamic State?
    It suddenly struck me that not flying out with Yael and the prime minister might have been a serious mistake.

5

    I decided I had to stay in this room, whatever it took.
    It was the only way I would be able to cover the hunt for the president, a story of enormous import. But staying in this room meant finding a way to make peace with the prince. He very likely held the key to whether I stayed or was kicked out. But how was I going to win him over? Feisal and I had never met before. He didn’t know me, and I knew precious little about him other than his public career.
    I did know he was born in 1963 and was thus just a year younger than Abdullah. What’s more, I knew the royal brothers had taken similar career paths, straight into the military. Abdullah, of course, had made the special forces his focus and had risen through the ranks to become commander of all Jordanian special forces before his father, the late King Hussein, had appointed him crown prince just days before passing away, thus leaving the kingdom to his eldest son. Feisal, by contrast, had focused on the air services. He, like his older brother, had gone to school in the U.K. and the U.S. Later he’d trained with the British Royal Air Force, completing his studies in 1985 and going on to become an accomplished pilot of fighter jets and helicopters in the Royal Jordanian Air Force. Over time, he had distinguished himself as an impressive airman and strategist.I recalled that in 2001 or 2002, Feisal had been appointed chief of the Air Staff and had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant general several years ago, later becoming deputy commander of all of Jordan’s military forces. Beyond that, I knew the prince was married and had several children. But I didn’t know what I could possibly say to convince him to let me stay. He was sitting on the other side of the table, working the phones but careful not to let me hear anything he was saying. I couldn’t build trust if I couldn’t talk to him, and I couldn’t talk to him if he was on the phone. My anxiety was rising fast.
    Dr. Hammami gave me a shot and then a bottle of pills to manage my pain. Just then, His Majesty reentered the bunker and we all rose. The generals saluted him. I merely stood there, waiting for the ax to fall.
    The king told us to take our seats and turned to me. “Mr. Collins.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I understand you used our flight here to tell the world the president of the United States is missing.”
    My stomach tightened. “Yes, sir.”
    “That was a mistake.”
    I disagreed but held my tongue.
    “I told you that in confidence. I never imagined you would tell the world.”
    “I didn’t quote you, Your Majesty.”
    “You didn’t have to,” he replied. “The White House and Pentagon know you’re with me. They know they didn’t release the information. Nor would