by Richard Bard
Hadi had been fifteen years old when he left Farhad’s tribe in 1986 to fight against the Russian occupiers in Afghanistan. He’d thrown himself into the fight with little experience and less training. But he’d survived, coming out the other end an expert in guerilla warfare. He hadn’t wanted to return home, so while some mujas in the early 1990s joined the new Taliban movement led by Osama bin Laden, Hadi had joined other veteran mujas in coming to the aid of Muslims in Bosnia who were being systematically subjected to ethnic cleansing, persecutions, and rapes. It was then that his heart had hardened. His soul turned black, and fighting was in his blood. For five years after the Bosnia action subsided, he sold his services as a mercenary, joining a multinational contracting group that fought in Kosovo, Macedonia, Chechnya, and elsewhere. The enemy was always different, but the bloodlust was satisfied in any case. His death wish drove him to extraordinary feats that captured the respect of his superiors, bringing him fame amongst the network of mujas and mercs. It all ended when, at the age of thirty, he was critically wounded. He would have died if it hadn’t been for the swift actions of their tribal leader, a man known to the world as Luciano Battista, whose seemingly unlimited funds had made it possible for Hadi to receive care from one of the finest hospitals in Switzerland. Seven surgeries later he returned home to recuperate, and it was then that he’d honored his life debt to the sheik by accepting the role of mentor to the twelve boys now gathered around him.
“Yes,” Hadi said, “you’ve learned well. American soldiers train for three or four months before being released for combat duty. You’ve been training since you were children.” The regimens were always rugged and unforgiving. Weapons, tactics, hand to hand, tradecraft, and more, honed to razor-sharp readiness for what was to come.
Hadi added, “I would put your tactical abilities up against anyone.”
Ghazi beamed. He raised his palm to Jamal for a high-five, but before Jamal could slap it, Hadi’s voice hardened. “But, remember, whether you live or die in battle depends on your brain, not your brawn.” He jabbed a gnarled finger into Ghazi’s forehead. “And the time for exuberance is over. With what lies before us, anything less than one-hundred-percent focus will get you killed."
Ghazi lowered his hand. His friendly countenance vanished, and expressions tightened throughout the group. Farhad felt their resolve and was proud to be with them. These men were his family, and likely not all of them would survive their mission.
This was our last training session.
He’d been ten years old when it all began, when his Afghan mother and father had said their final good-byes to their only son, and he and eleven other boys had been taken to the walled estate in Kabul that would become their new home. The armed guards in the courtyard had been locals, but the staff and teachers were disheartened American transplants anxious to join their cause. The living accommodations and classrooms were remodeled to look no different than those one would’ve encountered in an upscale American neighborhood, fully equipped with computers, tablets, cell phones, video games, and high-speed internet access to take advantage of it all. They had changed Farhad’s clothes, face, name, and way of thinking, slowly ridding him of all visible vestiges of his roots. He rubbed his knuckles as he thought back to the raps he’d received when he dared to speak his native language during class. “You’re an American now,” the teacher from Indiana would snap. “Act like it!”
In the beginning, they were permitted to conduct daily prayers as a group. Eventually that too was disallowed, the imam granting them dispensation—as warriors of Allah—to pray only in private, and only when it was certain the act would go undetected by all others, including friends. That was the most difficult task of all, especially when, as part of their new identities, they had to absorb the basic tenets and practices of the Christian faith. Farhad learned easily enough how to pretend to be Christian, but he and the others still found ways to secretly gather to praise Him and ask for His guidance.
Thanks to the contacts and deep pockets of their benefactor, their manufactured legends as orphaned children of US citizens were impeccable, and four years later the documentation had provided them entry into the American Schools Abroad program. Farhad, Jamal, and Ghazi attended the Leysin American School in Switzerland, where they completed their secondary schooling with a broad mix of students from all over the world. No one ever questioned their backgrounds. Likewise, the rest of his team was separated into twos and threes to attend similar American schools in Europe. Four years later they all entered the US, bound for universities in New York, Chicago, Dallas, and Los Angeles, where each team developed plans for their regional attacks.
Like a lethal cancer hidden deep within its unsuspecting host, they’d flourished undetected, assimilating into America’s soul while they honed the skills necessary to complete their task. Now all was ready, and they were gathered here for Stage One.
An alert tone interrupted Farhad’s thoughts.
Jamal pulled a small tablet from a cargo pocket. “We have movement.”
Farhad and the others edged closer to watch the feed. The motion-activated camera panned as it tracked a small pickup truck bouncing along a rutted road toward a group of log cabins in the woods. They’d tracked Bronson’s friends and family to what they’d discovered was a former nudist colony. According to Google, it had been built in 1960 by a wealthy film producer and abandoned thirty years later when he died. His will directed that the property be used solely as a location for motion pictures, with the lease proceeds going toward maintaining the property’s original look and feel. It was located at the base of Mt. Wilson, little more than an hour’s drive from the current location of Farhad’s team. When the targets had taken residence on the property, hiding the RV in the thick trees, Amir’s team—which had returned from Lake Tahoe—had re-outfitted Pelican-1’s pods with four small camera drones and launched her toward the hideout. After separating from their mother ship, the drones had affixed themselves atop tree limbs in discreet locations around the property, recording activity as they awaited the arrival of Jake Bronson.
But he hadn’t shown up, and Farhad had begun to lose hope.
“There are two in the truck,” Jamal said. “They’ve disguised themselves, but I think the big cop is driving.”
“The blond woman is next to him, jefe,” Amir added, speaking with a Latino accent. He was one of the few whose face had been spared the knife, his natural features making him look more Mexican than Middle Eastern. He’d had to learn both Spanish and English to play his role. “No Bronson.”
“But there’s something under the tarp in the back,” Ghazi said.
The truck pulled to a stop in front of the porch. The blond woman got out and pulled back the tarp.
Farhad’s shoulders dropped. “Groceries.”
Jamal placed a hand on his back. “We’ve waited long enough.”
His friend was right. Bronson must be dead. Farhad knew from the stories he’d heard that the man was loyal to a fault. It was why Bronson had infiltrated their tribe’s Afghan mountain fortress eight years ago—to rescue the woman and child who had later become his family.
Jamal said, “If he hasn’t shown up by now, he never will.”
Farhad took a deep breath and nodded. “I can’t disagree.”
No one spoke. No one moved. The moment they’d all longed for had arrived, and it was as if each wanted to savor it.
Hadi broke the silence. “Let’s get back and reload. It’s time to go to war.”
Chapter 15
Five thousand feet above San Gabriel, California
EVEN IN DEATH, I’ve placed them in danger.
After seeing the TV broadcast in the Port Hardy luncheonette twelve hours earlier, Jake had taken off from the airport without clearance. Devon’s radio challenge from the tower had been halfhearted, and in the end the man had wished him well in return for a promise to someday share that cup of coffee. Jake knew he couldn’t return. His family and friends needed him.
Death surrounded them.
All because of m—
He blocked the thought. He was done wallowing in self-blame. What good had it done? He hadn’t intended any of it. He’d been yanked from the brink of his own death by a whirlwind of events on the far side of imagination, and at each step along the way he’d done his best. Not just for himself but for those around him. And he wasn’t about to stop now.
After a quick stop in Vancouver’s Harbour Flight Centre to top off his fuel, and to use his fake ID to get the proper clearances, he’d crossed the US border on his way to L.A. With a cruise speed of only 143 mph and a range of 455 miles, it was a three-pit-stop trip. The sun was setting, and he was finally on the last leg.
He had worried about the fate of his family after the assault in Tahoe, but his Google searches revealed there had been no sightings of them since their narrow escape, so he permitted himself to hope. After everything that had happened because of the alien grid appearance, he and Tony and the others had known that one faction or another might discover their identities and try to cause them harm. So they’d established an escape plan—grab bags, alert codes, safe houses, the works. A year and a half had passed without incident, and it had seemed as though they’d dodged a bullet, until everyone but Jake had been simultaneously abducted by a megalomaniac bent on revenge.
Less than a week and a half ago…
From his online searches during the flight, he’d seen the damning confession videos of him and the others claiming responsibility for terrorist atrocities, and even for the grid itself. The videos were cleverly edited works of fiction, but people believed. It was no wonder there was a price on their heads.
The magnitude of it all challenged Jake’s sanity. He needed to find his family and friends but they were holed up, and he had no means of contacting them electronically. The secret chat site they’d established had likely been compromised during the mass kidnapping, and by now they’d probably abandoned their phones and social media accounts. His only hope resided in their sticking to the escape-and-evade plan they’d established long ago.
Keep them safe until I get there, Tony.
The further south he had flown, the stronger he’d felt the pull to the rainforests of Brazil. The undeniable lure, spawned by the vision in the bear cave, continued to pick at his consciousness. Somebody, or something, wanted him and Alex.
He glanced toward the forested foothills beyond Mt. Wilson, banking the plane onto final approach for the lone runway at San Gabriel Valley Airport. The hairs on his neck tingled in anticipation, and it seemed as if the miniature pyramid in his pocket stirred in response.
Francesca, I’m coming.
***
Foothills of Mt. Wilson, California
Francesca snapped her head around, but Jake wasn’t there. She returned her gaze to the bathroom mirror. Her haggard visage stared back through swollen eyes, the same eyes Jake loved so much.
Had loved, she reminded herself.
Her husband was dead, even if her soul—and my brain—didn’t want to accept it. Her mind was simply playing tricks on her. Dirty tricks. His telepathic voice had comforted her time and time again when they were together, his presence entering her mind at times when she’d most needed him.
Never again.
She shook her head to clear the thought. This was no time for self-pity. Her son was missing and she needed her wits about her. She tied her hair back, washed and dried her face, and went to join the others.
The rustic, high-ceilinged room was dominated by a wall-to-wall flagstone fireplace, its wide mouth darkened from years of use. It was fronted by an expansive sitting area, with coffee tables, two sofas, and an assortment of chairs. An adjoining dining space featured a long, dark wood table and chairs beneath a wagon-wheel chandelier. All the walls were decorated with photos of motion picture sets, movie stars, and film crews. The window curtains were closed, and the space was illuminated by floor lamps and sconces.
Marshall worked on his laptop at a card table he’d converted into his workstation. He grunted, hammering a fist on the table so hard the laptop jumped. She winced as another piece of her heart got chipped away. His frustration could only mean he still hadn’t found a sign of Alex in any of the cell phone videos uploaded from the battle at the motel in Lake Tahoe. He’d been working on it ever since they arrived.
Tony barely reacted to Marshall’s outburst. He appeared lost in thought as he paced in front of a long table scattered with supplies, weapons, and other equipment they’d hidden on the property long ago. Francesca suspected he was thinking about his wife and three kids.
“How can you sit there?” Sarafina asked. Francesca’s daughter stood in the dining area with her arms crossed, staring at Ahmed who sat at the table. He spun a pencil on the worn, wooden surface, and one of his legs was bouncing.
He slammed his palm over the pencil and glared at his sister. “We’ve been here for two days. Get over it,” he said. He swept his hands in wide arcs across the tabletop, and then along the sitting surfaces of the chairs on either side of him. He held up his palms. “See? No slime.”
Sarafina cringed. “You’re disgusting.”
The lodge had been the gathering place for the dozen cabins surrounding it in the former nudist colony, and Sarafina couldn’t seem to get over what that meant. Lacey walked over and placed an arm around her shoulder. “Trust me. This place has been cleaned and disinfected many times over since those days.”
“Whatever,” Sarafina said, slipping out from under Lacey’s arm. She stalked to a window and stared through a slit in the curtains. Francesca winced at Sarafina’s demeanor. It wasn’t like her. Her daughter idolized Lacey, and over the years they’d become very close.
Lacey shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but Francesca sensed her despair. The actress brushed past Francesca without a glance and slumped into an armchair in front of the large-screen TV. She grabbed the remote, clicked it on, and began flipping channels.
Francesca sighed. Her family and friends were a mess, and so was she. The adrenaline rush from their narrow escape had worn off, and the reality of their dire circumstance had once again taken a firm hold on them.
Ahmed pushed away from the table and stormed toward the front door. “I’ve had it. I’m outta here.”
“The hell you are,” Tony said, moving to block the exit.
Ahmed tried to shoulder past him but Tony stood rock solid.
“Out of my way,” Ahmed growled. His fists shook, his face reddened, and his eyes challenged the big man.
Tony crossed his arms and hiked an eyebrow.
“Stop it! All of you,” Francesca shouted.
Everyone stilled.
“Can’t you see what’s happening here? We can’t fight like this.” Her voice broke. “Dear God, my son is missing and you’re acting like children.”
Sarafina flushed. She walked over and hugged her mom, and Marshall and Lacey rose to join them. But it took a beat before Ahmed finally broke his standoff with Tony. Ahmed huffed and returned to the dining table, avoiding Francesca’s gaze. He sat down and resumed spinning the pencil. Both legs bounced.
Tony followed and stood beside him. His voice softened. “It’s still not safe to go outside.”
Ahmed ignored him. Before Tony could say anything else, Francesca caught his attention and shook her head. She sensed her son was teetering on the edge, and she didn’t want Tony to accidentally push him over. It had been less than forty-eight hours since Ahmed killed those bikers.
Tony frowned. It was apparent he wanted to press the issue, but instead he placed a hand on Ahmed’s shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, son.”
Ahmed rose so fast the chair toppled behind him.
“I’m not your son.” Ahmed stood toe to toe with Tony, his eyes afire. He was dwarfed by the bigger man but showed no fear. “I’m your best friend’s son. And he’s dead. He abandoned us. So now we’re on our own, and we’re going have to work together to find Alex and get out of this
mess. And when I say ‘we,’ I mean me, too. I’m not a kid anymore so don’t treat me like one. Got it?”
Tony’s face reddened. Francesca held her breath.
Finally Tony said, “You’re right. You’ve shown what you’re made of. You’ve got nothing to prove and I’m proud of you. Your dad would be proud of you. So sure, we work together. As a team. You included.”
“So we’re not going to stay holed up here sitting on our hands?”
Tony smirked. “Or spinning pencils?”
Tension eased from Ahmed. “Yeah, or spinning pencils.”
“No, we’re not going to hang out here any longer than we have to, but it’s gonna be a while, so you’ve gotta wrap your mind around that. And the best way to do that is to embrace the fact that this is a safe haven. Nobody knows we’re here.”
Chapter 16
THE M4 CARBINE felt comfortable in Farhad’s grip. He knelt, hidden in the elevated forest surrounding the former nudist colony, and sighted through the ACOG—advanced combat optical gunsight—scope. Settling the illuminated reticle on the lodge’s front window, he caught glimpses of movement through the slit between the drawn curtains.
A couple of 40mm rounds from the M203 grenade launcher would end it quickly.
The sun dipped into the horizon, and the cool evening breeze felt good on his skin. He lowered the rifle, unable to shake his disappointment that Bronson wasn’t present. His hand dropped to the combat knife strapped to his leg. He’d wanted to bury it in the man’s gut, to witness Bronson’s shock as he realized the man about to steal his life was the son of the warrior who’d attempted to martyr himself in Bronson’s biplane seven years ago. He yearned to see the horror etched on the American’s features when he learned that everyone dear to him would die next. Farhad wanted desperately to stare into the infidel’s eyes as his life seeped away.
But that was not to be.
Hadi stirred beside him. “Revenge brings little satisfaction to the living,” he said, as if reading Farhad’s thoughts. “Brush it aside and treat this attack as an exercise. It’s a valuable opportunity to gauge the team’s effectiveness in a real-world situation.”