“So that’s what you’re planning?”
“Yes. If our attack on the Willamette is a success, and the body count is high enough, you will receive half-a-million American dollars, or the equivalent in euros if that’s your preferred currency, and a plane ticket to anywhere in the world.” Azar smiled. “We take care of our own.”
“What do I do for that kind of heathen money?” Norris said.
“Help us in the Willamette. Ensure the success of the holy firestorm, and your work is done.”
“I don’t owe anybody a thing,” Norris said, his mouth tight and thin. “Do you know that, Azar, you damned Arab?”
“Of course, you don’t owe anybody. When was the last time someone did you a favor? When was the last time someone said a kind word to you?” His voice low and soothing, Azar said, “You were a hero, everybody knew that. But they took it away from you, and because of their petty jealousies they cast you out from among them. They treated you like a leper. How can you be loyal to a people like that? Among the brotherhood, you’ll be respected and given great honor.”
“Given . . . great . . . honor,” Norris repeated, savoring the words, his eyes shining. “No more the outcast.”
“Honored as a holy warrior,” Azar said. “And for the rest of your life, no matter in which part of the globe you dwell, you will be protected from all enemies.”
Norris sat in silence for a while, his head bowed. Then suddenly he jerked upright, grabbed the tray of food, and threw it at Azar, who adroitly stepped aside as scrambled eggs flew past him like yellow shrapnel.
“You’re the serpent in the garden, Azar!” Norris screamed. “You’re driving me crazy with that smooth tongue of yours. Get out! Leave me be.”
“Mr. Norris, you will see things my way or you will starve to death in this room since my food is no longer to your taste,” Azar said. “A pity, because I offer you the world, and all you give me in return is your defiance and contempt.”
“Let me be,” Norris said. “My brain is in turmoil. You’re driving me mad.”
“One last word, Mr. Norris,” Azar said. “Your growing contempt for the human race is misguided. There are more people on this earth than the Americans, who, because of your beliefs, have shunned you. The Willamette will burn with or without you, but I beg you, turn your back on those who have turned their back on you and join us in the great jihad. The Scorching will cleanse with fire the evil from this nation, and men like you, men of great ideas, will again be able to hold their heads high.”
“We need the watchtowers back,” Norris said. “Why is something so simple so hard for them to accept?”
“Because they are fools,” Azar said. “And, because Allah whispered in my ear, my heart has suddenly softened toward you. I’ll bring you more food, whiskey, and cigarettes. That is not the way of the infidel, but it is the way of Islam.”
After Azar left, Mike Norris stared at the locked door for a long time and then whispered, “Allahu Akbar.” Then he cried out, bent over and clutched at his belly . . . as though he’d just been stabbed by a bayonet.
* * *
The Ukrainian caught a red-eye flight out of LAX and at five in the morning woke Nasim Azar out of sound sleep.
“I just arrived in Portland,” he said.
Azar quickly shook the cobwebs from his brain. “So now you will take care of my little problem,” he said.
“A well-aimed bullet takes care of most problems,” the Ukrainian said. “Where is the mark?”
“The man Cory Cantwell has a room in the Hilton hotel on Southwest Sixth Avenue. He has a woman with him.”
“I’ll also take care of that little detail.”
“Rent a car and check into the hotel,” Azar said. “And then the rest is up to you.”
“Yes, up to me. I wish all my assignments were this easy,” the Ukrainian said. “It’s raining, Azar. Does it always rain in Portland?”
“No, less than half the time.”
“But always when I’m around.”
Azar smiled. “My friend, it’s the heavens weeping for your victims.”
CHAPTER 32
Cory Cantwell and Sarah Milano pulled out of the Hilton parking lot at three in the afternoon to pick up Pete Kennedy and the three Brits at the airport. Cantwell drove north on Sixth Avenue a short distance and then turned left onto Southwest Taylor Street. He was vaguely aware of the innocuous Kia compact that pulled in behind him. He turned onto Southwest Broadway and then made another left onto Salmon Street. The Kia was still behind him, the passenger invisible behind the tinted windshield. Cantwell made another left onto Southwest Second Avenue and then took the Morrison Bridge. The Kia stuck to him. Concerned now, he followed the signs for Interstate 85 East. Fifteen minutes later, in heavy traffic, he took Exit 8 for Interstate 205 North toward the airport. The Kia followed.
“Don’t look now, but we’re being tailed,” he said.
Sarah glanced in the passenger side mirror. “The Kia?”
“Yeah, since we pulled out of the Hilton parking lot.” He nodded. “My Glock is in the glove box.”
“What do you make of him?” Sarah said.
“Hard to tell. He’s not very tall, I can see that much.”
“Middle Eastern?”
“I don’t know. Impossible to say.”
“Maybe he’s with the FBI,” Sarah said.
“Maybe. But I doubt it.”
“Me too.”
Sarah opened the glove box and laid the Glock in her lap. “A little insurance. If he’s not a traveling timeshare salesman from Iowa, he might try a drive-by.”
Cantwell smiled. “I love your sense of humor.”
“Except I’m not trying to be funny,” Sarah said.
“No, you’re not,” Cantwell said. He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Still there.”
Cantwell eased the RAV onto I-205 North and after a mile or so he saw the sign ahead of him for the two-lane merge onto Exit 24A to Airport Way. He stayed on the outside lanes and accelerated.
“Now we mess with his mind,” Cantwell said. “Hold on tight.”
“What are you doing?” Sarah said, alarm in her voice.
“A kamikaze,” Cantwell said. “Banzai!”
The ramp to Airport Way was only a hundred yards ahead. Cantwell suddenly swung the wheel into the outer right lane . . . and into the speeding traffic stream. Behind him a hissing eighteen-wheeler braked hard, and the driver blared on the horn. Cantwell charged into the inner lane, and a panel van screeched as it braked, its rear end fishtailing. Cantwell was aware of Sarah’s little yelp of alarm as he hit the ramp fast and merged onto Airport Way, leaving blaring horns and a score of angry drivers in his wake.
But the Kia was no longer filling Cantwell’s rearview mirror.
He grinned. “Took him by surprise, didn’t I?”
“You took everybody by surprise,” Sarah said. Then a frown and, “Don’t, ever, ever, do that again.”
“There’s the airport. Look for Arrivals,” Cantwell said. He felt good.
* * *
“I’m sorry you gentlemen have to double up,” Sarah Milano said. “But the generosity of the National Wildfire Service only goes so far.”
“Frank, it seems I’m in with you,” Pete Kennedy said.
“Suits me,” Frank West said. “Here, you don’t snore, do you, gov?”
“No, do you?”
“Only sometimes,” West said.
Nigel Brown and Daniel Grant had made themselves at home in Cory Cantwell’s room. Brown sprawled in a chair, and Grant studied the contents of the minibar.
“Cory, where do we go from here?” Kennedy said. He was the oldest person in the room and figured that qualified him as spokesperson for the rest.
“The answer to that is, I don’t know,” Cantwell said. “But I fully expect that future events will dictate our actions. Sorry to sound so stiff and formal, but there it is.”
“How far in the future are those events, boss?
” West said.
“I don’t know that either, but I have a gut feeling it will be soon.”
Along with Kennedy, the three Brits were dressed in the olive-green uniform of the NWS, and Cantwell was pleased with them. They were young, and they looked tough and fit and ready for anything.
Cantwell then decided to lay some bad news on them. “According to the FBI, we’re all targets,” he said. “And I think that’s the reason someone followed Miss Milano and me to the airport today. Well, almost to the airport. I managed to lose him.”
“Who’s got us in their sights, boss?” West said.
“Islamic pyroterrorists are the likely culprits.”
West smiled. “Hell, boss, they can’t be worse than the IRA. Those boys targeted all three of us for a while when we were in the SAS.”
“They’re worse,” Cantwell said. “And they’re right here in Portland.”
“Cory is correct, they’re much worse,” Kennedy said. “I’ve already faced terrorists, and they’re dangerous because they’re not afraid to die. In fact, they welcome death as martyrs for Islam.”
“And I believe there’s a large cell of them in the city,” Cantwell said.
“How do you figure that?” Pete Kennedy said.
Cantwell told Kennedy and the others about their gunfight in the Willamette and the shooting and subsequent death of an FBI agent. “His name was Tom D’eth, and he was a brave man,” he said, another small elegy for a hero. “I’m convinced the burning we saw in the Willamette was a trial run and that there will be a major arson attack on the forest targeting the crowded recreation areas.”
“And we’ll stop it,” Kennedy said.
Cantwell nodded. “That’s the general idea.”
“How big is that place?” West said.
“It’s 380,805 acres,” Cantwell said. “In your metric measure call it 1,541 square kilometers.”
West whistled through his teeth. “Bloody hell, that’s a lot of ground for a small squad to cover.”
Cantwell nodded. “I know. It won’t be easy, and it will be dangerous.”
“Hey, boss, you mind if I have one of those little bottles of Scotch?” Daniel Grant said.
CHAPTER 33
The Ukrainian had failed in his attempt to kill the infidel Cory Cantwell, and the master was very upset. Salman Assad could see it in the deepening lines of his face as the strain of the jihad and the coming great Scorching weighed on him. It was high time to relieve Nasim Azar of some of his ponderous burden.
A righteous anger spiked at Assad. The Ukrainian said he’d planned to kill Cantwell at the airport. The fool! He’d let himself be tricked so easily. Better he’d crashed into Cantwell’s car at high speed and died a martyr’s death. But what did a Ukrainian infidel know about holy martyrdom? Nothing.
Assad made up his mind. He would shoot Cantwell down like a dog and gain great favor in the eyes of the master. It would take infinite patience . . . perhaps a long wait for the opportunity to strike. But he would do it. Who would notice a compact black sedan in the busy parking lot of the Hilton? Better that than attack him in the hotel. A six-foot-two man of Middle Eastern heritage would be too conspicuous hanging around the lobby. The parking lot was the only way. The man Cantwell must come out of the hotel sometime, and when he did . . . Assad would be ready.
After a shower, Assad dressed with care in clean clothes and then prepared and ate a dish of shanklish, sheep milk cheese rolled in zaatar herbs, chili flakes, and olive oil. It might be a long time before he ate again. He smiled. Perhaps he’d next dine on fruit and honey in paradise.
He swapped shoulder holsters, exchanging the Smith & Wesson revolver for a Glock 48 9mm, preferring it over the 19 because of its slimmer width and greater conceal-ability.
“Know thine enemy, my faithful Salman.” The master had once given him a clipping from a small-town newspaper that showed Cantwell talking to a crowd of forestry people and politicians, and now he studied it. Yes, Cantwell was tall, fair and well-built. He’d recognize the crusader on sight.
Dressed in jeans, T-shirt and suede desert boots, Assad wore a light golf vest over his gun, slid a switchblade into his pocket, and donned a pair of dark glasses before he left the warehouse. To his relief, he saw no sign of the master. Perhaps, worn out from all his problems, he was napping.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later Salman Assad backed into a parking spot at the Hilton where he had a good view of the front entrance. Now his fate was in the hands of Allah, and all he could do was wait.
* * *
Pete Kennedy brought up the subject of ammunition.
“The National Wildfire Service came up with Glocks earmarked for Regulators, but no ammunition was forthcoming,” he said. “Hard times and budget constraints, I was told.”
“You have none?” Cory Cantwell said.
“Empty guns,” Kennedy said. He shrugged, “Not a single round between us.”
“Sarah . . .” Cantwell said.
“I’m on it,” Sarah said. She consulted her phone. “It would seem that the nearest place to buy ammunition is on Taylor Street, Tiara Gun and Pawn.”
“How many do you need, Pete?” Cantwell said.
“I’d settle for a hundred rounds per man,” Kennedy said. “Our SAS men know how to shoot, so they don’t need any target practice.”
“I think our budget can afford four hundred rounds or so,” Sarah said. “Cory, I’m the one with the credit card. You want me to take this?”
“After what happened yesterday, I’ll come with you,” Cantwell said.
“Mind if I tag along?” Kennedy said. He looked around at the Englishman. “Anybody else want to go?”
“Not really,” Dan Grant said. “I don’t like getting too far from the minibar.”
“Go right ahead, Pete,” West said.
“And I’ll stay here too,” Nigel Brown said. “I want to see if there’s any football on the telly.”
“Mexican or South American, maybe,” Kennedy said.
Brown shrugged. “Better than nothing.”
“Then let’s go,” Cantwell said. “A man with no cartridges in his gun is unarmed.”
He retrieved his holstered Glock from the bedside table, buckled it around his waist, and pulled his shirt over it.
“Ready?” Sarah said.
“As I’ll ever be,” Cantwell said.
* * *
Great was the rapture of Salam Assad. Allah had blessed him.
After a wait of just an hour, the thrice-cursed Cantwell stepped out of the hotel door with another man and a woman and began to walk across the parking lot, talking to one another.
Allahu Akbar!
Now was the time to strike.
Assad threw open his car door and jumped outside. His gun blazing, face twisted in rage, he ran at Cantwell. A bullet slammed into Cantwell, and he fell heavily against a parked car, sudden blood staining the front of his shirt. After a moment of stunned inaction, Pete Kennedy moved. He sprinted toward Assad, for a vital split second distracting the gunman. It was the break Cantwell needed. He drew his Glock and fired, fired again. Two hits at a range of just five yards. Assad knew he’d been hit hard and he screamed his frustrated rage. Kennedy slammed into the Muslim, hit him at hip level, and took him down. Cantwell slid to the ground, his back against the front bumper of the car, slipping into unconsciousness. Assad lost his gun when Kennedy tackled him. Leaving a snail trail of blood behind him, he crawled on his belly toward the Glock, but Kennedy kicked it away from him toward Sarah. Shrieking in a language no one understood, Assad staggered to his feet. Lurching toward the now-unconscious Cantwell, he pulled the switchblade from his pocket and thumbed it open. “I’ll kill you!” he screeched.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Sarah Milano pumped three shots into the Muslim from his own Glock and dropped him in his tracks. The man crumpled like a puppet whose strings had just been cut, dead when he hit the asphalt.
In the ringin
g silence that followed, as hotel staff rushed into the parking lot and police sirens wailed in the distance, Sarah kneeled beside Cantwell. “Cory, talk to me,” she said.
There was no answer.
“Cory, hang in there,” Sarah said. “For God’s sake, don’t leave us.”
CHAPTER 34
“The bullet entered his left shoulder and exited just above the scapula,” the St. Vincent Medical Center emergency room doctor said. He was young and grave. “The wound is serious, but not fatal.”
“Can I see him?” Sarah Milano said.
“Yes, for a little while. He’s regained consciousness but is very weak.”
The young police officer posted outside the recovery room gave Sarah an appreciative glance as he opened the door and let her inside. She stepped to the bed and smiled. “How are you feeling, Cory?” she said.
“Just great,” Cantwell said. He was very pale, and his voice was little more than a whisper.
“I didn’t have time to pick up black grapes,” Sarah said.
“A pint of bourbon will do,” Cantwell said. “If you have one about your person.”
She sat on the bed and took her hand in his. “I’ve been so worried about you,” she said. “It seemed that you were in surgery forever.”
“The doc says the bullet didn’t hit anything vital,” Cantwell said. “Apart from the fact that I’m shot through and through, and it’s my arthritic shoulder. A 9mm hollow point can put a hurting on a man.” He smiled slightly. “There I go sounding like John Wayne again.”
“The terrorist is dead,” Sarah said.
“Who was he? Anybody find out?”
“The police are still trying to ID him. He’s young and looks to be Middle Eastern, and so far, that’s all they know.”
Cantwell fell silent and Sarah said, “Jacob Sensor is very concerned about you.”
“That’s nice of him,” Cantwell said. “You look real pretty today.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said. Then, “Sensor says Pete Kennedy will take over the Regulators while you’re convalescing.”
“Does he have a task for us yet?”
“He didn’t say.”
The Scorching Page 18