Suicide Mission

by William W. Johnstone

  “Are you all right, old man?” he asked.

  “Sí, gracias, I will be,” Bill said. He pulled a wadded-up handkerchief from his hip pocket and dabbed at the blood. “I’ve been hurt worse.”

  “I’ll bet you have,” Bailey muttered under his breath.

  A minute later Catalina was brought to the truck. Her blouse was disarranged and the top button had been torn off, indicating that at least one of the men, most likely Jorge, had pawed her. Bill felt Bailey stiffen beside him at the sight. He understood the reaction. Rage burned inside him, too. But he had to keep those fires tamped down . . . for now.

  A day of reckoning would come, not just for Jorge but for all of America’s enemies.

  A few more prisoners were forced into the truck, but it appeared that the cartel soldiers were just about finished with their culling. Two guards climbed in and pulled the tailgate closed. They stood at the very back of the truck with their automatic weapons covering the captives. Once the truck got under way, it might have been possible to jump those guards, but Bill could tell from looking at the prisoners that they had no fight left in them. They all sat with their heads down, either crying or just sitting there in numb silence.

  The truck’s engine started. It lurched into motion. The SUVs must have been leading the way because Bill couldn’t see them, but the two jeeps fell in behind the truck to bring up the rear and fight off any pursuit . . . not that there was going to be any.

  The highway fell behind them. In the distance, through the opening at the back of the truck, Bill saw the bus start moving again. The passengers who had been left behind were on their way to Villa Guajardo, where they would tell their story of terror and violence. It wouldn’t take long for word of what had happened to get around the small town.

  Wade, Megan, and the others would hear the news, but they would already know what had happened from tracking the signals of the GPS chips. When those signals stopped moving and stayed stopped, that would be the location of the terrorist training camp. Then the rest of the force could move in, to find with any luck that Bill, Catalina, and Bailey had already struck at the enemy from within and softened their defenses.

  Even if everything worked perfectly, the odds would still be overwhelming. But they didn’t have to wipe out every low-level cartel soldier and would-be jihadist, Bill mused as he swayed slightly from the truck’s bouncing motion over rough ground. The goal they really needed to accomplish was to wipe out the leadership of both factions. That would cripple the operation.

  He wondered if they would find Tariq Maleef at Barranca de la Serpiente. It seemed likely that’s where Tariq would have gone after he was rescued from custody. In a way, Bill was looking forward to seeing the terrorist again.

  If he did, he would make sure to finish the job this time, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

  CHAPTER 35

  Barranca de la Serpiente

  Tariq jerked back with his left arm as it looped around the man’s throat. That drew the skin of the neck taut so that the keen-edged blade went in easily and cut deep. The man spasmed in Tariq’s grip as blood spurted a good five feet from the severed carotid artery. As the man went limp in death, Tariq let go of him and stepped back to let the corpse fall to the ground with a soggy thud.

  “Like that,” Tariq said as he held out the knife to one of the killers in training. “Now you try it.”

  The man took the knife and turned toward the small group of prisoners who had been herded at gunpoint to the training ground.

  Tariq heard his name being called and turned his back on the scene as the trainee picked out a victim and moved in on him. Anwar al-Waleed was hurrying toward him from the low, white building that housed the laboratories. Anwar’s gangling, bird-like form moved awkwardly and his hair was falling over his eyes, as usual. The tails of his white lab coat flapped around his skinny shanks.

  “Good news, Tariq!” Anwar called as he waved a hand over his head excitedly. “The formula is ready to test.”

  Tariq heard a gurgling sound behind him and knew that another of the prisoners had just had his throat cut. He felt a small surge of pride that his lesson had been successful. The regular instructors could handle the rest of this session. He had just stepped in momentarily as a favor to provide a demonstration.

  Tariq went to meet his friend and said with a smile, “You should be careful about running around in this heat, Anwar. You’ll give yourself a stroke.”

  Anwar pushed his glasses up and giggled.

  “I know. It’s just that I’ve been working on these spores for quite a while now, and I’m anxious to see if they’ll really work like I think they will.”

  “The Night Flowers? That’s what you’re talking about?”

  Anwar nodded and said, “I thought you might want to observe the test.”

  “Of course I do.” Tariq slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Lead the way.”

  They went into the lab building, where the air-conditioning felt even colder than it really was after the heat outside. Anwar took Tariq into a darkened room with a large pane of glass set into one wall.

  On the other side of the glass was a table. A stocky Hispanic man sat at the table in a straight-backed chair. He wore a pair of handcuffs, and despite the cool air inside the building his face was beaded with sweat. His eyes bulged with obvious fear.

  “He can’t see us, can he?” Tariq asked.

  “No, not at all. He may be intelligent enough to guess that someone is on the other side of the glass, but I don’t know about that. It doesn’t really matter.”

  “He’s frightened,” Tariq said. “What did you tell him?”

  “Only that I needed his help to conduct an experiment and that I would be in to see him later.” Anwar smiled. “It’s true, you know. I couldn’t conduct the test without him, and I’ll be examining his body once it’s over.”

  “Carefully, I hope.”

  “Of course. That room is hermetically sealed, and I won’t enter it until it’s been swept with enough ultraviolet to render the spores harmless.”

  “All right. Just don’t take any chances. We can’t afford to lose your genius, my friend.”

  Anwar ducked his head shyly and clucked in a self-deprecating manner, but he was obviously pleased.

  “In the long run, this weapon will kill more infidels than that nuclear device would have. There is a reason Allah decided you should be spared, Tariq. You will carry this to the very heart of their godless government.”

  Tariq nodded. Anwar was right. The seeds of destruction in the Night Flowers would take root and ultimately wipe out the Americans’ capital, and with it their capacity to govern themselves and resist their inevitable destiny.

  And the best part about it, Tariq thought selfishly, was that he didn’t have to die in order for this new plan to succeed.

  He could live to see paradise right here on earth.

  He peered through the glass at the Mexican and asked, “When are you going to expose him to the spores?”

  “Oh, I’ve already done that,” Anwar said. “An hour ago. They’ve had time to implant themselves in his trachea and lungs. Now they’re just waiting for the activating agent.” He reached down and pressed a button on a control console set underneath the window. “Which I’ve just released into the ventilating system in there.”

  Tariq felt his pulse quickening as he waited to see what was going to happen. For a couple of long minutes the answer seemed to be nothing. The Mexican was still sweaty and frightened, but he appeared to be none the worse for it.

  Tariq found himself wishing the man would go ahead and die. He didn’t know the test subject, didn’t know anything about him, not even his name. But he felt nothing but contempt for these Mexicans, even the ones like Sanchez who were working with Tariq and his organization. They were all degenerates, and once Islamic rule was established over the United States, then they could turn their attention southward and either expand Allah’s domain over the Latin c
ountries . . . or wipe out the sinful creatures.

  Suddenly Tariq became aware that the man in the other room was breathing harder. The Mexican’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to draw enough air into his lungs. He swallowed hard and lifted his cuffed hands to rub his throat, as if it had suddenly become sore.

  “Ah,” Anwar said softly. “The spores are activating.”

  Tariq watched with keen interest as the Mexican quickly grew panicky. The man bolted to his feet so violently that the chair fell over behind him. He leaned forward and rested his hands on the table. His back heaved.

  Suddenly the man lunged at the glass and began to pound his open hands against it. His mouth opened wide and the muscles in his throat worked as if he were shouting, but if he made any sound, Tariq couldn’t hear it. He didn’t know if that was because the other room was soundproofed or if it was impossible for the Mexican to get any words past the grotesque growth clogging his throat and the inside of his mouth.

  The white stuff was similar to thistles or spiderwebs or strands of cotton. They thickened and braided together before Tariq’s eyes to block off more and more of the Mexican’s airway.

  “The Night Flowers are growing in his lungs the same way?” Tariq asked in a hushed voice.

  “That’s right,” Anwar replied. “Even if he could get enough air down his throat, his lungs couldn’t do anything with it. They’re already being choked out by the growth. Eventually, if the spores are left unchecked, they’ll reproduce exponentially until they fill the entire body to bursting. The tissues won’t be able to withstand the pressure.”

  “He’ll explode from inside out.”

  “Yes. We won’t let the process continue that long, however. Once he’s dead, we’ll deactivate the spores.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Of course, like I said, with UV bombardment.”

  Tariq stroked his chin as he thought.

  “But when the people in Washington D.C. start dropping dead, no one will know to bombard their bodies with UV. The spores will continue to reproduce until the bodies explode, spreading the spores even more.”

  “Yes, and since the activating agent will already be present in the systems of those who are uninfected because of the aerial spraying earlier in the day, the Night Flowers will quickly find new homes and the process will begin again.”

  A concern occurred to Tariq.

  “What’s to stop it from spreading until it wipes out the entire population of the world?”

  “We’ve nano-engineered a limiting factor into the spores. They’ll begin to die off quicker than new spores can replace them. Within three days after the initial attack, they’ll all be inert and no longer a threat.”

  “And most of the Americans in the eastern third of their country will be dead.”

  “If our computer models are correct, yes,” Anwar said. When talking about things like this, he wasn’t shy or hesitant or gawky. He was in his element when it came to the potential of science to terrorize and kill the infidels. Westerners, in their arrogance, often seemed to forget that the very foundations of science had been laid in the Middle East.

  In the other room, the test subject began dashing back and forth in a frenzy, clawing at his throat. He stopped and hunched over. His body spasmed like he was trying to cough out the thing that was killing him, but of course he couldn’t do that. It was in him. It was part of him.

  The Night Flowers filled him.

  He started running again and slammed into the wall, but there was no way to break out, and it wouldn’t have done him any good if there were. He rebounded from the wall and lost his balance, falling to the floor. Tariq moved closer to the glass and craned his neck for a better view.

  The Mexican lay with his face turned toward the observation window. He jerked and spasmed. His feet kicked helplessly.

  Then a shudder went through him and it was over. His clawing hands fell away from his throat. His eyes stared sightlessly at the glass.

  As Tariq watched, the threadlike spores crawled over the man’s vacant eyeballs and covered them with an impenetrable white blanket.

  Anwar flipped a switch on the console, and the spores seemed to turn a bright, glowing purple. That was because of the ultraviolet light washing over them, Tariq knew.

  “Ten minutes of this and it will be perfectly safe to go in there,” Anwar explained. “The reproductive mechanism of the Night Flowers will be destroyed.”

  “Amazing,” Tariq muttered. “And you can manufacture this in the quantity we require?”

  “Yes. It won’t be any trouble. We can have the tanker loaded in less than a week. Then it will be a simple matter to drive it to Washington, turn a single valve, and spend the day driving around the city. Then a plane flies nearby and takes advantage of the prevailing winds to spread the activating agent.”

  “There’s a large no-fly zone over and around Washington,” Tariq pointed out.

  “That’s why we let the wind do our work for us,” Anwar said with a smile. “The activating agent is longer-lasting than the spores themselves. Odorless, tasteless . . . the Americans won’t even know they have the mechanism of their destruction in their own bodies.”

  “When I said you were a genius before, I meant it, Anwar.”

  “Please. I just do what I can for our holy cause.”

  “And Allah will reward you greatly for it. No one will have more virgins in paradise than you, my friend!”

  And maybe by then, Tariq thought, Anwar would have figured out what to do with them.

  He left the lab a few minutes later. As he walked across the camp, several vehicles, including a truck with a covered bed, pulled up near the buildings where the prisoners were housed. He had known that some of the cartel men were going to hold up another bus today and bring back more captives. Tariq devoted little thought to such matters. It was up to their allies to keep things running smoothly around here, to make sure there were men to kill and women to serve the needs of the flesh.

  Tariq turned away without looking back as guards began to unload the new prisoners from the truck.

  CHAPTER 36

  Although Bill hadn’t been able to see much from inside the back of the truck, he had tried to keep track of where they were going as best he could, making mental notes of any landmarks he’d been able to spot and trying to remember all the twists and turns.

  That had proven to be impossible once they entered a canyon with steep walls that he had seen rising behind the truck and the jeeps. It bent and curved back upon itself so frequently that it resembled a snake twisting across the ground.

  Barranca de la Serpiente, he had thought to himself with a wry smile. Now he knew how the place had gotten its name.

  Eventually the winding canyon had come to an end, opening into what appeared to be a wide valley ringed with mountains. A good place for a stronghold, Bill thought, easily defended against conventional attacks from outside. A few laser-guided missiles dropped into the place would wipe it out, but something like that would also cause a war between Mexico and the U.S.

  Once upon a time, the outcome of such a war would have been a foregone conclusion. Now with the anti-American apologists running the government and the news media constantly beating the drums in their favor, Bill wasn’t sure the United States could win a war against anybody. The government and a large percentage of the populace simply lacked the will and determination to do what was right in the face of any odds. The statists had almost succeeded in turning America into Europe, a nation of weak-kneed mollycoddlers content to sit back and suckle the teats of Big Government.

  Almost . . . but not quite.

  Not while men like Wild Bill Elliott still lived.

  The truck came to a stop in front of a large prefab building that Bill recognized as a barracks. Such buildings always looked the same, no matter where or when they might be found. Guards opened the tailgate, and the two gun-toters who had ridden inside the truck hopped out.

  “Me
n, stay where you are,” one of the gunmen ordered. “Women, come with us.”

  Catalina turned to Bill and embraced him, exclaiming in apparent fear, “Oh, Tío Hector!”

  Bill patted her on the back and murmured, “It’ll be all right, it’ll be all right.”

  She whispered in his ear, “Can’t I kill a couple of the bastards?”

  “Later,” Bill told her. “You’ll get your chance later.”

  When the female prisoners didn’t move fast enough, some of the guards handed their weapons to their friends and climbed into the truck to drag the women out. One of the men grabbed Catalina, and for a second Bill thought she was going to fight back. He could see her control the impulse, though. She allowed herself to be manhandled out of the truck.

  That would have been the end of it for the time being, more than likely, if one of the prisoners, a girl who looked to be about fifteen, hadn’t gotten hysterical. She started screaming and struggling in the grip of the guard who held her, and she took him enough by surprise that she was able to jerk free. She tried to run, but she had taken only a couple of steps when another guard tripped her and sent her sprawling on the dusty ground.

  His face flushed with anger, the guard she had gotten away from stepped forward and started kicking her. His booted foot had landed twice in her ribs with solid thuds when a figure flashed through the hot afternoon sunshine and tackled him. It was Catalina, of course, and the impact of her collision with him knocked both of them to the ground.

  Before anyone could stop her, she had slashed the side of her hand across the brutal guard’s throat. As he gagged for breath she rammed the heel of her other hand up under his chin and drove his head back.

  The guards were yelling in alarm now. One of them shouted, “Shoot her! Shoot her!” and Bill knew that if any of them lifted a gun, he would have to come flying out the back of the truck and take a hand in this fight. Beside him, Bailey was tensed and ready to do the same thing.