by Omar Tyree
Then the cameras began to disappear in the basement, one by one.
“He’s covering the cameras with bags,” one of the men stated.
“Let’s go,” Habib told the others. It was time for them to defend themselves.
“You go first,” one of the men responded nervously.
Unafraid of the challenge, Akil decided to go, firing first into the basement hallway at ghosts.
They all waited for a response and heard nothing. Akil then stooped down and began to work his way up the hallway. The other men followed him, standing tall, with Habib in the back. Only one of them was left inside the camera room.
With only the sound of whipping wind, a seven-inch hunting knife spun through the air and landed in the neck of the first man behind Akil.
“ULLKK!” the man responded with the knife poking through the back of his neck. His death was certain.
Akil immediately fired up the hallway again, while Habib nearly lost his lunch. He could only imagine how much blood would squirt out of his man’s neck if he ever attempted to remove the blade.
Before they knew it, a second man was struck in the chest from a single bullet.
The immigrant man looked down at his chest in shock at the bullet hole that had sliced through his shirt. He slowly dropped his gun to the ground and fell to his knees, knowing that he would die.
Akil and Habib watched it all as if it was in slow motion, before their man fell sideways into the wall.
Incensed, Akil shouted, “We must not die like pigs, but like men!” and he charged forward like a maniac, shooting his way up the hallway. Habib breathed deeply and followed him, but the two remaining men looked at each other and ran the other way, deciding to escape through the parking lot exit in the back.
Through his recklessness, Akil was able to make it up the hallway, only to be tripped by the same American that he had lost in combat to earlier. But this time he was more prepared, kicking the American with a right foot that sent him crashing hard into the wall and losing his gun.
Habib took aim at the American with his assault weapon, but he was too slow to pull the trigger before being struck by bullets from the Pakistani.
As Habib fell backward, shaking dreadfully in response to his fate, he still fired his gun in the direction of the American.
Gary ducked the bullets just in time, but only to take an elbow to the jaw from the fierce fighting of Akil. The two men were too close for Akil to effectively aim his gun, so he prepared to fight the American in close combat with it. But the American grabbed the handle of the gun again. Remembering the headbutt from their earlier fight, Akil released the gun from the American and shoved him into the wall with it.
Akil followed up with a jumping right knee to the American’s ribs. He then grabbed back onto the long assault gun and headbutted the American back.
In amusement, Saleem watched the two grapple. It was a one-on-one fight, and he wanted to see how well the American could handle himself in combat.
The American stomped on the Arab’s toes and kneed him in the chest. He followed up with a right elbow to Akil’s jaw that sent him crashing to the floor. And before he could recover, Gary kicked him in the face with his heel.
Saleem was impressed. He nodded. “Good. Now finish him.”
He then moved forward with their mission to overtake the surveillance room. He was sure that there were more men inside, so he led with his gun and was very cautious. But when he arrived at the desired camera room, there was no one there.
Saleem grinned to himself and mumbled, “To live another day as a coward is far more important to some men than to die in valor.”
He then viewed the dozens of small monitors that filled the room, in search of one man: Ra-Heru.
As he continued to eye the many screens in search of Heru, Saleem could see where the UAE soldiers were finally overtaking the building and allowing the hostages to escape from the lower levels. He also viewed a beautiful and uncovered Arab woman with an immigrant man who helped her to guide tourists and families to the exits.
As expected, the American man walked in and joined him there inside the surveillance room. He had obviously won his second battle over the tough immigrant.
Saleem looked back at him and grinned. “How did it feel to finally kill a man?”
Gary paused. “If I didn’t kill him, I would be dead. I had no choice,” Gary said somberly.
Saleem turned away and had his doubts. But at the moment, he had other urgent matters on his mind. He pointed to a monitor from the top floors of the hotel and said, “Here. Once we manage to kill him, this nightmare will be over.”
Gary looked at the monitor and saw an average-sized Middle Eastern man helping another to attach a rope to his belt.
Saleem became excited. “That is Ra-Heru, the Egyptian leader of this insane revolt. And he knows that he will die today. Nevertheless, the immigrant laborers of Dubai have already made their point. We will never be ignored in Dubai again.”
Gary thought about what Saleem meant when he said, “We will never be ignored.” Could Saleem be part of the revolt? But why would he kill the other immigrants? Why would he work with me?
Gary thought he must have heard Saleem incorrectly in all of the excitement, then he scanned the monitors and focused on one screen. He spotted Ramia and Johnny in the middle of rescue missions inside the hallways.
“What are they doing? The police allowed them in here?”
Saleem looked back at him and asked, “You know them? I thought they looked out of place myself. But they are doing a good service for the tourists. They are showing extreme bravery. You must admire that.”
Gary made a note of what floor they were on to get them out of there and back to safety outside. He saw no reason for them to be there. He felt the police and the soldiers should have been more involved. But they had their hands full in the lobby.
“That lobby entrance will be their last stand,” Gary said.
Heru’s imposing lieutenant was still holding down the fort there, and with more hostages and more men, he showed no signs of breaking his reserve.
Saleem asked the American, “Do you think you can handle him?”
Gary sized the man up and nodded confidently. “Yeah. But the hostages are the problem.”
“Indeed they are,” the Pakistani agreed. “And Heru is my problem.”
They watched again as the rebellion leader prepared a daring tactic inside of the left staircase, more than halfway up the building.
*****
Back inside the high staircase up the building, Heru attached his immigrant follower to the thick rubber rope at his waist. He then looked down the staircase to measure how many flights down the soldiers were.
“I still don’t understand what you’re doing,” the immigrant gunman said apprehensively.
Still loyal to Mohd, he felt that his initial ideas of catching the determined son Heru off-guard and attacking him were getting further away from reality.
But Saleem the immigrant traitor did not want to die at the hands of the soldiers without at least taking a shot at Heru, as Mohd would have inspired him to. Nevertheless, the thoughts of a sneak attack were growing slimmer. Heru checked the position of the men below them a final time. He then turned his man to face his toward the staircase window.
“I love my father and can forgive him for his treason against me, but I do not love you.”
In one ferocious move, Heru ran his man toward the window and shot out the glass before tossing the armed immigrant through it and down the side of the building, while the man screamed in shock, “NOOOO!”
As the man careened down the side of the building like a bungee jumper, the UAE soldiers were momentarily distracted by the screaming man falling, seemingly to his death. In that instant, Heru made his way down the stairs and began shooting down the soldiers like bowling pins.
By the time the remaining soldiers realized his successful ploy, Heru’s end of the rubber rope yanke
d him back up the steps, where he was able to fly back up in the air while firing his gun down on more of them.
With no training of how to defend themselves against such insane tactics, a dozen more of the soldiers were shot and killed as more of them retreated back into hallways of the building. Heru then cut himself from the rubber rope, sending the hanging immigrant gunman to his death below.
*****
Inside the surveillance room in the basement, Gary asked the Pakistani in confusion, “Why would he kill his own man? Is he sacrificing him?”
Saleem grinned sheepishly and said, “No.” He was utterly amazed at the American’s naivete. “There are men amongst him who have been planted by his father, Mohd, to stop him. Obviously, he knows.”
Gary had no idea how layered the situation was. There were subgroups within the immigrant revolutionaries sabotaging the terrorist attack. Immigrant fighters and the United Arab Emirates soldiers were being killed like pawns on a chessboard. Father was battling son, police were battling immigrants from the crowd outside, and innocent tourists were the ultimate victims in a class-warfare dispute that had nothing to do with them.
All Gary knew was that a group of terrorists had taken over the International Suites that was filled with unsuspecting, innocent people. So he chose to act.
Saleem took a deep breath and secured his assault weapon in his right arm. “Wish me luck,” he said to the American. “Heru is mine and will die at my hands.” As he turned to walk out of the room, Saleem came face-to-face with Akil, who was severely injured but still alive. Akil stood in the doorway and aimed his gun.
But before he could shoot, Gary grabbed Saleem’s gun and pushed them both to the floor while shooting the immigrant adversary multiple times in the chest and avoiding his return of bullets.
As Akil fell out of the doorway to his death, the Pakistani gave the American a serious eye from the floor where they both landed out of harm.
“Let that be your final warning,” Saleem told the American. “This is not an occupation of compassion.” He then climbed to his feet and brushed himself off. He took the gun back from the dazed American and added, “If your intention is to save lives in warfare, then you must overcome your avoidance of death.”
He then stepped out in the hallway, over Akil’s dead body, and pulled his knife from the neck of the man that he had killed earlier. He wiped off the blood of his blade on the man’s clothing. Then he headed for the staircase to find Heru.
Gary exhaled as he remained inside the surveillance room alone. He was only inches away from death, and the realization of his fatality had finally caught up to him. He gave the man that he had shot and killed a good, long look. Gary had to accept the fact that he had truly killed someone now. He felt numb and emotionless, like the dead bodies of the men that now flooded the hallways.
Chapter 31
In the middle of the madness outside the hotel, Tariq hustled Mohd into the Union Defence Force’s armored truck headquarters. Chief Ali and the UDF’s commanding officer awaited them while viewing a screen pulled up with information about Mohd’s first son, Talib Aquil Nasir, or better known as “Ra-Heru” and “Heru” for short. And there were few pleasantries exchanged when the Egyptian father entered their truck.
Ali eyed him sternly. “The last time we met, you were on the side of peace and justice. But this time you are on the side of war and treachery.”
They sat the Egyptian down in a chair with handcuffs before they released them so that he could talk freely with use of his hands.
Mohd ignored the chief officer’s slight and looked past him in the armored truck to view the computer screen that was pulled up on Heru.
“I see that you’ve now done your research on my son,” Mohd said.
The commander of the Union Defence Force nodded with deep respect. “Your son’s military record is impressive. Trained in the Egyptian Special Operations unit, he has served in eleven tours of anti-terrorism, including Afghanistan, Iraq, Jordan and Lebanon. So it is blasphemous that he has now reduced himself to his own acts of terrorism here in Dubai.”
Mohd continued to ignore their slights. He knew that he was there for them to listen. They had no choice. As the prime suspect and architect of the terrorist rebellion at the hotel, the police and the military were commissioned to report all information and findings to the Prime Minister and the President of the United Arab Emirates so that they might prevent another incident of an immigrant laborer revolt in the future.
Realizing his level of importance in their case, Mohd was able to take his time with them. He even asked them for something to drink.
To move the process along quickly, Tariq granted him his wish with a fast bottle of water, while the other men showed their obvious disdain with much slower movements.
“Thank you,” Mohd said to Tariq. “You have been very kind to me.”
Ali impatiently scowled at the Egyptian again. “This is not a game. You are only here to tell us what we need to know.” He stopped just short of reminding the Egyptian that he would surely be put to death when the dust settled, and that they would be ordered to torture him if needed. But Mohd already knew as much, and he did not plan to stall them any longer. He understood how valuable his story would be for the future of immigrant laborers in Dubai, for his nation of Egypt and as a lesson for the wealthy Arabs of the Middle East.
“Do any of you know the Egyptian legend of Osiris?” Mohd asked.
Including the UDFs second in command and the intelligence officials, Mohd had an audience of seven men. A few of them knew the story of Osiris vaguely, but they were not willing to admit to it to the extent that the wise, old Egyptian would know it. So they remained silent and let the man continue his revelations.
“In the ancient Egyptian legend, Osiris was a god and the king of Egypt, who was murdered by his jealous brother, Set, to capture his throne. Set chopped Osiris up into many pieces and spread his body all throughout Egypt. Then Isis, Osiris’s wife and queen, gathered all of the parts of her slain husband to resurrect him with a golden phallus to sire a son, Horus. And then it was Horus who was raised to avenge his father and take back the kingdom of Egypt.”
Ali cut him off and asked, “Are you making this reference in light of your own son to avenge you and the loss of your wife?” The chief continued to be impatient, particularly in the midst of hostages and warfare. Who wanted to hear some ancient legend in the middle of disarray? But the other men were interested in hearing how all the dots connected to the present.
Mohd answered, “Indeed. My son only recently changed his name to Ra-Heru, which is referenced as the Egyptian god of war and vengeance. But the name has its roots in Horus, who would avenge his own father.”
The commander of the UDF soldiers nodded, understanding his own ideas of the story to be correct. “But Egypt is a Muslim nation now. You are our brothers.”
Mohd smiled and shook his head. “This is where our true conflict lies. Egypt was never a Muslim nation. Nor was it Christian. So although I now carry the name Mohd Ahmed Nasir from my own father, it was my Nubian Egyptian wife who understood more of the country’s history. And she reminded me and all of her five children that Egypt had been invaded by everyone, including Romans, Greeks, Persians, Turks and finally the Arabs. And each invading nation would force themselves and their cultures on Egypt in an attempt to change the beliefs, the language, the customs and the most elaborate history of mankind.
“So as I reveal more of the legend of Osiris,” Mohd continued, “we find that he was from the true lineage of Egyptian ancestors, where Set, his jealous brother, was linked with foreign invaders, who became his army. And when Isis was made to gather the slain parts of her husband’s body, she did so with the allies of Egypt, who would later help her son Horus to overthrow Set and his army of foreigners.”
“But we’re not in Egypt,” Ali argued. “That was all a long time ago. Your son is now holding hostage hundreds of innocent tourists and their families w
ho have nothing to do with Egypt or Osiris.”
Mohd stroked his chin as he prepared a measured but stern response.
“That is where you are wrong. We are all in Egypt, my friend, and this has everything to do with Osiris. Just as the nomadic Arabs have now occupied lands that they build on and call their own, it is only through European investments in oil and more recently in construction, real estate and foreign trade that your so-called royal ‘Skeikhs’ mean anything. It is all stolen land and stolen wealth, where the arrogant Arabs now mistreat the Indians, the Africans, and the Asians, who are the true builders of these new Egypts around the world.
“So as I was first conflicted by my son’s mission to remind us all of our need for human justice, the present day Osirises are the true ancestral people of peace, who continue to be plotted against, slain, enslaved and shipped around the world to work and appease the greed of nomads. I have now realized that today was my son’s fate. And who else would be more qualified to remember this than the thousands of terrified tourists and their families, including thousands of more immigrant laborers who will all be affected by what happened here today at the International Suites?”
Even Ali fell silent. Suddenly Mohd’s story of Ancient Egypt made perfect sense. For what was the city of Dubai but a modern showcase of Arab wealth and amateur relics at the hands of cheap and foreign laborers? Even their building of man-made islands could easily be said to be inspired by the greatness of the Egyptian Pyramids. The whole world had been inspired by Egypt—Italy, Greece, Persia, Russia, France, Israel, Spain, Great Britain, India, China, Japan, Mexico, and the North and South Americas. It was not even an argument.
Mohd cut through the brief silence. “That is why the ancient Egyptians’ bloodline continue to have a chip on their shoulders, knowing that they are the true royal people of this earth, no matter how much the nomads from the North, the East or from the West continue to amass their stolen wealth. And even Egypt fell from greed.”