by Milam,Vince
***
Ahmad Tahan rested after his evening jog and ensured his phone and lock-blade knife remained secure in his running pouch. The park paths were empty, devoid of kuffār, apostates. Holy war had begun.
A decision—a commitment—weighed heavy, and the run had helped clear his head. The second son of a well-off mechanical engineer in Seabrook, Texas, Ahmad believed in the cause. Raised as Muslims, his parents lacked sufficient zeal on the issues of true community, belonging, and belief. They had even spoken out against the holy war now underway! Western and polluted, they were now lost.
A call of duty had led him to contact ISIS through a Facebook page months ago, and online conversations brought him closer to the true meaning of life. It was meaning based on the ancient texts with unequivocal demands for battle, for jihad.
He no longer belonged to these people, these Americans, with their frivolity and snap-the-fingers killing of his brethren in foreign lands. No, his true family had expanded outside geographical borders. He considered himself a member of ISIS, and had expressed this to the young man his age who had contacted him in the nearby city of Houston. They had met, talked, and exchanged ideas over coffee and tea. At each meeting, Ahmad slid closer to what he now saw as inevitable. He was a holy warrior, passionate and strong. When the ISIS recruiter explained the opportunity to inflict terror on the infidels and apostates and replace a fallen brother, Ahmad committed.
As he sat on a bench in the large park, rays of sunlight filtering through the trees, he flinched at a strange presence. A man, tall and bony and with eyes that drove into his heart, appeared as if crafted from air. The stranger sat, leaned a long arm across the back of the bench, and gave him a tight smile.
“Doubts and concerns—a sign of weakness, Ahmad,” the stranger said. “A sign you do not believe.”
The voice came sibilant and smooth, reassuring, even as the stranger accused him of weakness.
“I believe,” Ahmad said. Certainly this was another recruiter sent by his new ISIS friend in Houston, or perhaps someone high in the American ISIS hierarchy. A leader, sent to allay his concerns. “I believe,” Ahmed continued. “I will assume the mantle of jihad.”
“Yes. Yes. But doubt, fears, your family—all understandable,” the stranger said. He crossed his legs and leaned closer to Ahmad. “You weigh these things. I know. I know.”
Ahmad looked left and right along the park pathway and confirmed their isolation. The salt air carried crisp the smells of marine life. “Does this fulfill a destiny?” Jihad would mark the near end of his life, and created a veneer of doubt. “Does this truly strike a blow against injustice and restore honor?”
“Oh, Ahmad, my warrior. My strong and resolute warrior,” the stranger said, the words searing into Ahmad’s brain. “You will be magnificent. Mighty and feared.”
The stranger placed his hand on Ahmad’s shoulder and an energy, sharp and bright and focused, coursed through him as hatred and conviction rose. The infidels, the atheists, the apostates of his own religion surrounded him. They mocked the cause. They waged war on the true path and now—yes, now—he would wage war on them.
“Are you prepared, Ahmad? Prepared to strike?”
“Yes! Yes, I will strike and bring terror into their hearts.”
A strong breeze, localized, swirled around them. The air filled with fallen leaves from the winter spent and spring awakened.
“I have selected your first one, my warrior. A special infidel. A priest of the enemy.”
“Shall you select my victims?” Ahmad asked. “Shall we meet each day?”
The stranger’s eyes flared, red and molten as he shook his head. “No, no, my mighty one. The others—and there shall be many—are at your discretion. Your choice. But the first one fights us in oh so many ways.”
Ahmad nodded back, reached into his jogging pack, and caressed the heavy knife.
“Tell me of this priest.”
The stranger described his first victim and where he would be found. It was a short drive away, in Houston.
***
Hoda Najjar left the D.C. mosque alone and walked to the L’Enfant Plaza Metro entrance at 7th and Maryland. The subway still ran, although that, too, would soon end. She paused before she entered and decided to rest on a small concrete wall encircling a bed of shrubs. Pulling a water bottle from her shoulder bag, her fingers brushed against the semiautomatic pistol she’d stolen from her brother.
Hoda’s brother, two sisters, and parents had expressed vocal and strident concern over her becoming “too religious” the last year. They did not understand. They did not grasp the significance and urgency of the movement.
For years, day and night, flowed insults to the Prophet, sexual immorality, and flawed faith. And here, in the nation’s capital, emanated plans—no longer secret, as her ISIS family had revealed—to take over the Middle East. Plans to subjugate her people and own the oil and riches so rightfully claimed and deserved by her community—her true family.
Magnificent jihad in America changed everything. A hard line drawn, while her family stood on the side of false belief. Hoda stood across the line, siding with the caliphate and filled with rage.
She had left a final meeting with an ISIS brother and the enormity of the honor he had bestowed on her caused reflection. The glory! She would replace one of the holy warriors struck down by the infidels.
Hoda didn’t notice the woman approach, surprised when she sat beside her on the low wall. Enough coolness filled the air to justify the cape-like wrap, although the cape’s hood pulled up and over most of her face struck Hoda as out of place.
The few people around them scurried about in their vile infidel ways. They paid no attention to Hoda or the woman who now cast a tight smile. The cape gently brushed Hoda’s skirted leg.
“You are ready, sweet Hoda,” the woman said. “So ready. How beautiful you are, shining with the light of righteousness.”
The voice, accented, carried affection and divinity and strength. An ISIS leader, Hoda thought. A woman. Strong. Assured. And walking among the enemy.
“I have been ready,” Hoda said and reached into her shoulder bag to fondle the pistol. “I am not afraid.”
“They steal our treasure,” the woman said.
“Yes.”
“They wallow in moral filth, my beautiful Hoda.”
“So true.”
“They insult our belief and our vision, my strong warrior.” The woman placed a long-fingered hand on her knee and leaned closer. The touch—electric and powerful—filled Hoda with potent dark capacity.
“Jihad, my sister,” Hoda said. “Glorious jihad.”
“Yes, oh yes. And you must begin appropriately. Your first is special. Thereafter, my beautiful Hoda, you shall strike at random. But the first requires your attention now.”
“It will be done.” Hoda shivered with anticipation. A specific target relieved her of a first selection.
The caped woman described a large man of African descent who resided some distance away in a place called Culpeper. A teacher of the book. Powerful and fearless but one easily cut down.
“You must approach carefully,” the woman said. “Get close, my love, get close. And utilize the weapon you carry.”
“I will do this. I cannot wait! I cannot be still! It is time to strike,” Hoda whispered with fever and passion. “Blood will flow!”
Chapter 38
Nadine dried from her shower and donned sneakers, black sweatpants, and a sweatshirt emblazoned with artwork in the style of an old western “wanted” poster. It showed a cat with the caption, Wanted: Schrödinger’s Cat. Dead And Alive.
Cole had dashed off to the hotel. He’d finished a call and explained on his way out the door that the weird radars of Francois, Jude, and Luke had sounded—loud and shrill. Evil prowled and they knew the “why.” Three new positions had opened and remained to be filled for murderous jihad. Three newly recruited terrorists to carry hell on earth.
&nbs
p; She made coffee and contemplated how much she missed the physical action of previous quests. The chase, the movement, the encounters. She missed the adrenaline rush. And she missed her previous relationship with Cole.
The time together during this crisis brought poignant reminders of when they’d had a romantic connection. I miss the passion, she thought. The anticipation.
Mule the Cat perched on a top shelf above the array of computer screens and servers. She reached up and scratched behind his ear. The last twelve days had exhausted her. Both Cole and Francois had enveloped her with concern and compassion. They insisted she sleep and eat, but neither could relieve the depression. She steeped in a self-imposed obligation to stop this reign of terror.
She’d driven data from one dead end to the next. The random and senseless nature of the killings and the constant movement of the terrorists thwarted her efforts to hunt them. Personality profiles, family and friend associations—each led to dead ends. Frustration had days ago peaked, replaced with depression and guilt.
Please, please, please, pick up a flash drive, you bastards. She padded back into the kitchen and grabbed a Fuji apple. The multiple daily conference calls with all the federal agencies wore on her as well. No leads, even with three of the killers eliminated and their cell phones recovered. Some tendrils, some threads had developed, but she wasn’t able to weave them together to pinpoint the other eighteen. She sensed disappointment from the task force members with her inability to find answers. At least the copycat killings stopped, she thought. One more—in Denver—had surfaced, but none since that incident. On both occasions, the murder count had increased to nineteen.
Check would have had the flash drives smuggled into Syria and delivered to Raqqa hours ago, then scattered by a taxi driver. Can’t believe our best shot relies on a Syrian taxi driver. Just pick one of them up, you assholes. Pick one up and plug it into your computer.
She pondered her relationship with Cole, which added to her depression. The trip to Boise had reignited an interest to give it another shot, with reservations. She wasn’t sure it was reciprocal.
His laconic nature and terse conversational gambits left a lot on the relationship table for her to pick up. But his tight bod, chiseled features, and resolute character made up for a lot. She shoved aside the thought of them as lovers and focused on the moment. See the flash drive on the ground, one of you stupid SOBs? Well, pick it up and carry it into your office and plug it in.
Cole had shown positive signs of an attempt to carry more of the conversational load. He was rock-solid, honest as the day is long, and a certified badass when riled. He was a great father to those two young women. Come on, pick one up, you assholes. Just one. Plug it in.
She considered another cup of coffee and listened to symphonic background music when the package knocked on her electronic door. An electronic buzz signaled its arrival, distinct and unlike the horrid beeps of another murder. Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!
One of the ISIS snakes in Raqqa had screwed up and plugged a “found” flash drive into their computer. The virus had done its work, and now the package had arrived, compressed, encrypted, and ready for her perusal. Please, oh please, Lord, let it have the right data. The phone numbers and maybe the names of those murderous scum roaming America. Please, please, please, Lord.
She extracted the zipped file and spread the contents. She found documents, spreadsheets, and maps. Yes! Yes! Yes!
The electronic package also contained seven sets of pinpoint geographic coordinates. Seven secure network computers used in Raqqa with an ISIS leader, at some point, sitting at each one.
Check would have to wait until she found the phone numbers and perhaps identities of the American jihadists. Sorry, Check.
Her virus had scooped up and sent her a large, packed load of data. Nadine initiated search algorithms of the documents and spreadsheets. Clusters of data soon returned. She rifled through them and refined the search criteria. Come on, come on, come on.
Her electronic bloodhounds sniffed around corners, looked under logs of useless data, crawled, climbed, and made millisecond turns of direction.
There! There, there, there! Buried under the third tab of a spreadsheet containing records of operating expenses was a list of twenty-one numbers. Phone numbers! With US area codes! Yes!
She cross-referenced the area codes to locations. Seven from the northwest. Eight from the south. Six from the northeast. And three phone numbers—now highlighted bright red by her bloodhounds—that matched the phones of the three jihadists stopped by ordinary American citizens.
Nadine May slumped back in the middle of her clustered computers and stared, shivered, absorbed by the enormity of her discovery. The golden egg and the key to the terrorists’ locations.
Fists clenched, she started a prayer and rose to stand. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! She jumped, arms extended overhead and pumped her fists. Thank you! She moved to a karate position and began delivering front kicks to the air as she moved across the room. Yes! Thank you! She stopped kicking and punched the air, shadow boxed. A left jab, a right cross, a left hook—each punch joined with a loud “Thank you!”
Then Nadine May started a wild happy dance. She shook her head, torso, arms, and legs to an unheard song with joyous tempo and a driving beat. She moved across the room, leaping, jumping, and thrashing. Computer equipment rattled in their racks, and Mule the Cat fled to the bedroom. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
She stopped, out of breath, with a smile so large it made her jawline ache and caught falling tears of relief. Okay, okay, okay, gotta push these into the right hands. She leapt back across the room, spinning once in mid-air, and plopped into her desk chair. Thank you! Yes, yes, yes! Oh man, I wish Francois was here. I could use a smoke.
She leaned forward to disseminate the information to the task force. Zuhdi would see to the engagement of every available US law enforcement personnel. The eighteen phones would be tracked by either GPS—if the jihadists left the navigation function on—or through cell tower triangulation of any calls each phone made. The full and deadly might of local, county, state, and federal law enforcement would be unleashed within minutes.
She bundled the list of phone numbers and sent it to Zuhdi and the rest of the task force. The other information collected—the documents and maps and spreadsheets—she copied for her personal library and then sent them to Zuhdi, the FBI, and the CIA. A quick phone call later and Zuhdi sprang into action.
“If I could crawl through the phone and kiss you, I would!” Zuhdi had said. “You rock, Nadine May!”
“I may take you up on it later, Zuhdi,” she laughed. “For now, though, go get those bastards.”
Now to take care of Check. She plotted the seven sets of geographic coordinates with Google Earth to confirm they pinpointed buildings in Raqqa. Then she bundled the coordinates, added the other captured documents as a way to salve her guilt over making Check wait, and sent them to her curmudgeonly CIA friend.
She followed her email with a phone call. He picked up and as always remained silent, expecting the caller to speak first.
“Coming your way. Seven locations,” Nadine said.
“Just received them. Thanks, kiddo. What about the phone numbers? You have a match with the three dead ones?”
“You bet. And suffice it to say, it’s going to get mighty lively for the remaining eighteen very, very soon.”
He hung up without a goodbye. Nadine understood he had things to do, such as orchestrate the raining of righteous retribution from above on specific locations in Raqqa, Syria.
Glad my butt isn’t in one of those Syrian offices, she thought, and heard steps, squeaking, on her stairs. Cole and Francois. Can’t wait to share the news!
She opened the door and Cole smiled back from the small landing at the top of the stairs. A cry from Francois rang out, then shouts of anger, struggle, and pain near the garage.
Chapter 39
Cole left Francois to linger and smoke and sneez
e at the end of the driveway, next to the garage. His French friend appeared irritated, on high alert. Francois paced slowly, casting glances left and right. Cole figured he was going through one of his “Francois moments”—an internal dialogue. A small wooden gate hung open and showed garbage cans waiting to be hauled to the curb. The sound of a distant lawn sprinkler carried through the stillness of the quiet old neighborhood.
Francois, Jude, and Luke had announced personal radar warnings. They had understood what it meant—new terrorist recruits and ancient forces. Evil forces, entities, that tied back to ancient Samaria and the earliest recorded history. What a world, a reality, I’ve gotten into. Mercy.
He and Francois had driven to the east and then circled, frustrated. Three hours later, they returned to Nadine’s place.
Cole tromped up the wooden stairs as the boards squeaked and tapped Nadine’s door. She answered wearing a Schrödinger’s Cat sweatshirt. The change in her appearance—alive, bright, enthusiastic—was so dramatic it could only mean good news.
A cry from Francois snapped him around. A quick glance back at Nadine and then he flew down the steps three at a time. Shouts of a struggle followed from both Francois and someone else. Then a loud cry of pain from his French friend. Cole drew his pistol as he landed on the pavement stones at the bottom of the stairs and whipped around the corner of the garage to see a young man astride his friend, both on the ground. Francois lay on his back as the man plunged a knife toward the priest’s chest. Francois gripped the assailant’s wrists but the battle of the blade moved, inexorably, toward his heart. They struggled in a death grapple and Cole rushed toward them.
A shirt-swaddled blotch of blood spread across Francois’s chest. The blade had already struck home. The attacker strained to finish the job and bury the knife in the Frenchman’s chest. Francois, with a loud cry of maximum effort, flipped the attacker. They rolled together on the ground with grunts, groans, and sharp gasps of effort.