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

they. So that leaves me as your source.”
    I kept my mouth shut.
    “Now ISIS knows. Iran knows. So do the Kremlin and Beijing.”
    No sooner had the words come out of the king’s mouth than I saw a breaking news logo appear on the monitor tuned to CNN. The sound was still muted, but the network was clearly now going with the story of the potential death or capture of the American president.
    I took a deep breath but maintained eye contact with the king. I wasn’t sorry. I was doing my job. But I was pretty sure I was about to be kicked out of the war room, and I knew there was nothing to say that wouldn’t make the situation worse.
    “Your Majesty, may I make a recommendation?” Prince Feisal asked.
    “No,” the king said. “Mr. Collins, I need your phone.”
    “My phone?”
    “You heard me.”
    “Why is that, Your Majesty?”
    “Isn’t it obvious?”
    “Not to me, sir.”
    “I can’t allow you to disseminate any unauthorized information, Mr. Collins. Is that clear?”
    Not exactly, I thought.
    “Does that mean you’re going to allow me to disseminate authorized information?” I asked.
    The king leaned forward in his seat. “Why else do you think you’re here?”
    “I honestly have no idea.”
    “The world needs to know what’s happening here,” he replied. “They need to hear it from a credible, independent reporter they trust. I’ve chosen you. You’re going to be at my side during everything that happens for the next few days. However . . .”
    “Sir?”
    “While you’re at my side throughout this crisis, Colonel Sharif here will be at your side. Nothing gets published in any way, shape, or form unless he clears it first. Do you understand?”
    “That’s not exactly the way the New York Times operates, Your Majesty.”
    “Do I look like I care?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Do you want to report from the vortex of the storm or sit in the lobby?”
    “I’ll take the vortex.”
    “Very well. Now hand over your phone.”
    My iPhone was sitting in front of me. I slid it across the table to the king. In return, he slid back a notepad and a pen. We were in business   —under military censorship, to be sure, but in business just the same.
    The king then turned to his team.
    “Okay, now, where are we in finding and rescuing the president?”
    The prince took that one. “As you’ve ordered, we have a massive aerial reconnaissance effort under way up and down Route 15, Route 35, and the adjacent roads. We’re massing ground forces into the area as well. We’re coordinating with the Secret Service, the Pentagon, and the American embassy downtown. But so far, nothing.”
    “How is that possible?”
    “I don’t know, Your Majesty, but we’re doing everything we can.”
    “And you’ve beefed up protection around the embassy?”
    “Yes, the American compound and most of the rest of the Western embassies too. But we’re stretched very thin at the moment and . . .”
    “And what?”
    “It’s a bit delicate, sir.”
    “You can speak freely.”
    “Well, sir, we’re still not entirely sure whom we can trust.”
    “I know, but there’s nothing else we can do right now. Keep giving orders and watch to see who obeys and who doesn’t.”
    The king now turned to General al-Mufti, the air force commander. “Where are we with the palace?”
    “Al-Hummar has been leveled, Your Majesty.”
    “There’s no chance of ISIS getting control of vital papers or communications equipment?”
    “No, sir   —we’ve firebombed every square inch.”
    “And how many ISIS forces are we dealing with?” the king asked, turning to General Jum’a, commander of Jordan’s ground forces.
    “Our best guess is about fifteen thousand.”
    “Just ISIS?”
    “No, ISIS and al-Hirak.”
    “The Brotherhood?”
    “No   —for the moment they seem to be standing down.”
    “How much of Amman has ISIS taken?”
    “Our forces are clashing with them throughout the city. They’ve taken out the radio stations