by Jack Carr
Unfortunately for the enemy, Reece had quietly moved snipers into overwatch, had multiple aircraft circling and a QRF of Bradley Fighting Vehicles staged four blocks away. What could have been a surgical spec ops direct-action capture/kill mission turned into a forty-minute gun battle. Miraculously, Reece’s force emerged relatively unscathed. Perhaps that is where Reece’s distrust of senior officers began.
Tonight’s crusade was personal and had nothing to do with sensitivity toward Islam or the Law of Armed Conflict. Tonight was different. Reece was under no constraints. He was unhindered by rules, regulations, laws, or societal norms. He was on the warpath, and his appetite for revenge was insatiable. Hammadi Izmail Masood had facilitated the worst loss of life in U.S. special operations history, and tonight he was going to pay.
CHAPTER 50
REECE PASSED A VACANT LOT filled with weeds and approached the small domed building from the sidewalk, joining two other worshippers headed inside for evening prayer. He attempted to slouch his shoulders a bit in an effort to look less threatening as he passed a wrought-iron gate and walked up the entrance steps.
A young Middle Eastern–looking man occupied an office just inside the building to the right with a sign in English reading: “Welcome. Front Office.”
“Ah, excuse me?” Reece said.
“Yes,” he responded cordially, rising from his desk and approaching Reece.
“As-salāmu ‘alaykum,” he said, using the traditional Arabic “peace be upon you” greeting, which Reece had heard many times the world over.
“Wa ‘alaykumu s-salām,” Reece responded, shaking hands and then touching his right hand to his heart. “I’m Draper Kauffman from USD. I have an appointment with Imam Masood after evening prayer. I was invited to observe tonight as well but don’t know exactly what to do,” he continued with a warm smile.
“Ah yes, you are the master’s student from USD. It is our pleasure to host you tonight. The prayer room for men is downstairs. We have another for women upstairs. Please remove your shoes. You may observe from the back of the room and then afterward Imam Masood will talk with you about the virtues of Islam and the noble work of the center as well as answer any other questions you may have.”
“I hate to impose. Thank you so much for having me. This comparative religion class is part of my international business program, but I am really excited about it.”
“We do this all the time, so it is no imposition. In fact, community outreach is one of the guiding principles of the center.”
Reece descended the narrow staircase. Donations certainly had not been used to update the facility. Reece guessed that the humble surroundings were what drew many of the patrons to this particular Islamic center.
There were only about a dozen people preparing for evening prayer when Reece entered the room. They were performing the ritual ablution at a large round sink, washing in accordance with traditional Islamic practice. Reece skipped the washing and took his place in the observation area behind the congregates. All were men in conservative dress. A few more than half looked to be of Middle Eastern ancestry, with the remainder a mix of African Americans and Caucasians.
The room was exceptionally clean and sparse, which allowed those gathered to clear their minds and arrange their prayer mats facing East toward Mecca. Reece recognized Masood immediately from the target package photos and YouTube videos he had studied in preparation for this evening’s mission. Masood took his place as imam at the front of the assembly and began the salat in Arabic. Reece’s Arabic language skills were terrible, but he knew enough to recognize a few words and phrases. Masood began with “allahu akbar,” reciting the traditional opening and then transitioning the service through the different phases of prayer: standing, bowing, prostrating, and sitting. Reece knew this ceremony was the formal way of subjecting oneself to, and remembering, Allah. There was a certain beauty to the service, a focus and devotion that Reece couldn’t help but admire.
There was no doubt that there was a crisis in Islam, and it was playing out on the world stage in a spectacle of violence. Reece had experience with Muslims running the gamut from those who were Muslim in name only, to those who adhered to the pillars and tenets of Islam as best they could—similar to Christians who went to church on Christmas and Easter—right down the line to those Muslims who had been indoctrinated by an archaic ideology of hate that pursued a political agenda and would stop at nothing short of seeing all nonbelievers put to the sword. Those were the ones who could only be stopped with a bullet to the head, and at accomplishing that, Reece was exceptionally good.
Masood finished with the taslim, “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah,” before quietly making his way to the back to greet Reece.
“Mr. Kauffman,” he said, in a heavily British-influenced Pakistani accent, “welcome to the center. Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for having me. The salat was beautiful. I have always respected the value and ritual of daily prayer. It would be a better world if more people took the time to give thanks and remembrance as you do.”
“Thank you. That is why we are here. To give believers a safe place in which to practice the facets of Islam and raise awareness about the pillars of our faith. Please join me in my office, where we can have tea and continue our discussion.”
Reece followed Masood back up the stairs and down a short hallway to his small office, stopping at the front of the mosque to say good night to the man who had greeted Reece upon his arrival and was just getting ready to depart. Masood moved with a fluid grace that belied his fifty-five years of age. His hair was black and cut short, which contrasted with the gray of his close-cropped beard. He wore earth-tone slacks and a long-sleeved button-up shirt without a collar instead of the more traditional thawb, probably in the spirit of Southern California inclusiveness.
“Please take a seat,” Masood said, gesturing to one of two modest chairs in front of his desk as he set an old teapot on a single-burner electric hot plate on a small table positioned against the wall: an improvised tea-making station. Reece wondered how it hadn’t burned the place to the ground yet. The room seemed to Reece what he presumed the office of a professor at an underfunded community college would look like. There were stacks of papers on the desk and a small bookshelf behind it, adorned with what appeared to be numerous religious texts. The walls were bare save for one framed work of Islamic calligraphy.
Masood noticed Reece looking at the painting.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s a rendition of a Mir-Ali Heravi Tabrizi. Brilliant calligrapher from the fifteenth century. It is a reminder that the Islamic Golden Age was really not that long ago.”
“I thought the Golden Age ended earlier than that,” offered Reece.
“Some scholars would suggest that, but the evidence proves it lasted up through the sixteenth century. This is to remind me of how far we have fallen and how much work there is to be done. Call it . . . inspiration.” He smiled. “The Holy Qu’ran states that ‘God does not change the condition of a people until they change what is in their hearts.’ My calling is to help change what is in their hearts. Now, how can I assist you this evening?”
“Well, first of all, thank you for taking the time. I’m in a fairly ambitious international business program at USD, and one of my electives is comparative religion. It’s a team project and my part is to interview a well-respected Muslim leader about the current state of Islam in the world today.”
“Well, that certainly is a topic I spend a lot of my time researching and speaking about at the center and as a guest speaker around the country. As you probably know, Islam is the second-largest religion in the world as well as the fastest growing.”
“Why do you think that is?” Reece inquired.
“Islam is a way of life. It is about subjugating oneself to Allah and following the Pillars of Islam. It offers a code to live by that is appealing to a mounting number of adherents. It will be our Golden Age once again, but this time through inclusive
ness.”
“What do you say to those who point to the draconian measures some Islamic countries take to control their populations and force adherence to sharia law, like throwing homosexuals from buildings to their deaths, flogging young girls who want to go to school, and beheading nonbelievers?”
“The role of the center is not to compel nonbelievers to join Islam. The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, says that ‘there is no compulsion in religion’ and we certainly do not believe in subordinating U.S. law to sharia law. Those who practice the abhorrent punishments you mention do nothing but hurt the cause and turn world sentiment against those of us who espouse the true tenets of Islam. We are a religion of peace that some have hijacked for their own self-serving, destructive means. In fact, I use Friday prayer to call for peace and unity. I have been condemned by some, but if we are going to live together in harmony we must learn to accept each other’s differences. The United States is the perfect place to show the world how both Muslims and non-Muslims can work and live together in peace.”
This guy was polished. He had the air and presence of an academic, with the charisma of an elder statesman.
“Why do you think the intolerant brand of Islam is currently flourishing in the Muslim world?” asked Reece, trying his best to sound like a grad student.
“It saddens me deeply to have to agree with you, Mr. Kauffman. Corrupt politics and sluggish economic conditions plague much of the Muslim world. Radical Islam does not represent the vast, vast majority of Muslims worldwide, and almost all of those killed in Islamic terrorist attacks are in fact Muslim,” he said, shaking his head. “The answers, though, also lie within the religion. Islam was once a force for good throughout the world and can be again. Education is the key, Mr. Kauffman. Education is the key.”
“Sir, do you mind if I use my computer to take notes?” asked Reece.
“Not at all. Be my guest.”
“How are statements about peace, unity, and responsibility like those you just made interpreted in the Islamic community at large? Do you worry about your safety?” Reece continued as he reached into his satchel, removing an old laptop computer.
Instead of recycling old computers or selling them, Reece and Lauren had just stacked them in a closet in the name of data security. This particular one was state-of-the-art back in 1998. He had taken it from his home during the previous night’s visit. It was quite a bit larger than today’s ubiquitous MacBook Air, and with the keyboard, internal components, and touchpad removed it fit Reece’s Winkler/Sayoc Tomahawk perfectly.
“Statements of inclusiveness and tolerance are not always received favorably by those with differing agendas, nor is criticism of Islam, as you are no doubt aware. It pains me to say that other imams have even issued fatwas against me, but those who have done so do not have the legal authority necessary for them to be legitimate, nor do they truly understand the history and intent of a true fatwa. So I feel as safe as one can in these times of trouble.”
Reece studied the older man’s face. Everything he was saying squared with Reece’s studies and firsthand experience in the Muslim world. How could he talk with Reece with such authority and logic about the state of Islam and then facilitate the same terror he was condemning with such conviction? How can this guy be such a good liar? He should run for political office.
“Hammadi,” Reece said, intentionally switching to the imam’s first name and wrapping his hand around his tomahawk’s maple-wood shaft, hidden by the open laptop screen, “do you know Captain Leonard Howard?”
Masood paused, successfully hiding his surprise. “No, that name is not familiar.”
“Oh, you may have forgotten. He’s the Navy attorney that contacted you to arrange the ambush of my SEAL troop in Afghanistan by your friends in the Pakistani Taliban. How much did it cost to have my men killed?”
This time Masood did not try to feign ignorance or redirect. Instead he paused and took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing.
“Ah, James Reece. I did not recognize you. You look different from your picture in the paper from your wife’s and daughter’s funeral. The beard suits you well, and the glasses are a nice touch. Too bad your family were kafir and are now in the fires of hell.” He spat out kafir like it was the most vile word in existence.
Reece slowly closed the lid to the laptop and placed his ’hawk on top.
Masood’s eyes looked questioningly, almost unbelievably, at the ancient weapon in Reece’s hand and then back to meet Reece’s icy stare.
“You should be happy, Masood. Dying like this makes you a martyr. Now, that may or may not be true, and it really doesn’t matter to me in the least. What matters to me is that you die, just like the true believers you send out to sacrifice themselves for the cause. Tonight it’s your turn.”
As Reece stood to deliver his justice, Masood lunged for his desk drawer with surprising speed, bringing out a small CZ 75 Compact 9mm pistol. If he had kept it with a round in the chamber he might have had a chance, but the time it took to reach the slide and chamber a round was more than enough time for Reece’s swing to connect with his quarry’s hand in its attempt to bring the weapon to bear. With the heaviest part of the tomahawk resting in its head, it hit the inside of Masood’s right wrist with its full force, destroying bones, muscles, and tendons, while severing arteries and veins and sending the CZ pistol clattering to the floor.
Masood screamed out in pain, grabbing at his right hand, which only remained attached by a thin shred of muscle and skin, smothered in the slippery ooze of its altered state.
Reece moved with the precision of a man who was no stranger to violence, unfazed by the coppery scent of fresh blood in the air or the primal screams of the man he had come to kill.
It was then that the headache dropped Reece to the ground.
• • •
The blinding pain was like a thousand shards of crushed glass grinding together inside his brain. This one lasted longer than his previous episodes but not long enough for Masood to reach his CZ.
It had taken the imam a few seconds to realize that this was his opportunity to escape or go for his pistol. He chose the latter and was two steps into his dash for the gun when Reece’s tomahawk buried itself in the back of his upper thigh, sending him crashing to the floor.
Coming out of his incapacitation, Reece grabbed a handful of Masood’s loose clothing to twist himself upward and swing the ’hawk down in a powerful arch, terminating in his prey’s upper back, just shy of his spine. Using the embedded hawk as a fulcrum, Reece pulled himself into a kneeling position over the broken body beneath him.
Reece had to give his adversary credit. Even with one severed hand, a thigh cut to the bone squirting blood profusely, and a tomahawk embedded in his back, he made one last effort to reach for his weapon with his good hand. Rotating the tomahawk to the side, Reece disengaged it from Masood’s back and used it to keep him from his pistol by slamming it down like an angry hammer, cutting off four of Masood’s five fingers, which stretched out to claw for the gun. Another bloodcurdling scream escaped Masood’s lips and was cut short by one last swing of the ’hawk, the tip of its blade shaped into an evil spike by the master bladesmith who had crafted it for this exact purpose, carving its way through Masood’s temple and into his brain, causing a massive intracerebral hemorrhage, and making him a martyr for the faith.
• • •
Reece extracted the tomahawk from Masood’s crushed skull and looked to the door. No footsteps in the hall betrayed a visitor. No alarms. Nothing to signify anything amiss.
Still, Reece had to work fast.
Cutting off a head was more work than one would think, even with a razor-sharp tomahawk, and Reece had to press Masood’s head into the floor with his left hand while chopping through the neck, gristle, and spine to finally free it from the body with his right. Reece did not relish decapitating a human body, nor did he hesitate or shy from the task. Sixty-eight U.S. servicemen were dead because of the conspiracy that
this piece of meat helped facilitate. It was time to send a message to the others that he was coming for them, too.
Putting the decapitated head into his satchel, Reece moved down the dark hall toward the exit, tomahawk at his side but ready nonetheless. He paused at the front door, looking outside through the glass. Nothing moved. Just gloomy streets in a part of town no one cared much about. Turning off the exterior light, Reece descended the steps toward the sidewalk, pausing only momentarily at the wrought-iron gate to impale the head of Imam Hammadi Izmail Masood on a sharp vertical spire, tossing the black flag of ISIS that had been in the package Ben had given him at the safe house over it for good measure.
The night’s work was just getting started.
CHAPTER 51
REECE NEEDED TO REGROUP. He was not yet done, and he had some preparations to make before launching his next mission.
These damn headaches might just get me killed before I can finish the list, Reece thought as he made his way back to the safe house to refit.
Reece took out his notes and the poster board floor plan of Holder’s apartment and reviewed them thoroughly. A lot had transpired since his last visit, and he didn’t want to rely on his memory. He studied the video he’d shot in the model apartment as well, to ensure he knew the layout back to front. He had continued to practice picking the lock identical to Holder’s every chance he got and had become quite adept at working it not only quickly but also quietly. Stealth would be the key on this one. If he blew it, there would be no hiding what had transpired.