“A smile! Nice, glad to see you’re happy again,” Chris blared.
“Me too, I just hate it when we fight. I love her so much but sometimes she can just be so damn stubborn,” Brett confessed.
“Aren’t all women?” Chris joked.
Brett took a large gulp and put his beer down. “Listen, I’m going home.”
“You do that. Makeup sex is always great.”
“Exactly,” Brett said with a broad smile.
“Remember to start ordering your other stuff and get some ammo,” Chris advised.
“I will,” Brett replied stepping away from the bar but not before tossing a couple of twenty-dollar bills on the bar. “My treat.”
“Not necessary.”
“Nope, my pleasure,” Brett said, happily striding away.
“Lunch tomorrow at the range?” Chris hollered.
“I’ll be there,” Brett said as he happily walked off.
Rancho Bernardo, California
Mo didn’t know what to expect from his first formal meeting as a member of an official terror cell. All day he kept thinking it was too easy to join a terror cell. Didn’t they do more vetting?
Malik couldn’t relax, he kept bouncing around and jabbering nonsense like earlier.
“Is he normally late?” Mo asked, looking at the time on his phone.
“Ahh, yeah, I think so,” Malik said.
Mo cocked his head and asked, “Hold on, you’ve been to one of these so-called official meetings before, haven’t you?”
Malik shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Not really.”
“I thought you knew this guy,” Mo said.
“I do, I mean, I met him a week before you did. I was introduced to him at our mosque.”
Mo leaned in and grumbled, “How do you know he’s not a cop or FBI? Huh? What if this is some sort of sting operation.”
“It’s not, chill out,” Malik happily replied.
Mo glanced around the small back room of Amir’s Smoke Shop, a local business run by a Pakistani immigrant. Sitting in pairs of two were three other groups, each conversing with themselves. Mo wondered if they too were having doubts like he was.
The door opened suddenly and in walked four very intimidating men.
A tall and lean man walked to the front of the room and said, “Welcome, everyone. Now can everyone stand.”
No one hesitated. They all stood up.
“I need you to take off your jackets, sweaters. I then need you to empty your pockets, that includes your phones,” he said as he snapped his fingers.
The other men walked by with large bins, collecting the phones.
“Are we getting them back?” Mo asked.
“Of course, you just don’t need them where we’re going,” the man answered.
“Going?” Mo mumbled to Malik.
Malik responded by shrugging his shoulders.
After the men collected the phones, the man ordered, “Now strip down.”
The group began to mumble to each other.
“Do it!” the man barked.
Like recruits in the military, they all began to undress.
“Hurry up,” the man snapped. He walked to one of the young men in the group who stood with his underwear still on. “All of it, naked.”
“But—” the young man sheepishly said.
“No one cares how little or how big your cock is. Strip or you don’t go.”
The young man dropped his underwear but covered his crotch with his hand.
The man laughed and continued. “When you’re done, please line up at the door.”
The group did as they were told.
Mo felt uncomfortable and his stomach began to tighten with nervous fear.
Before they could walk out the door, they needed to raise their arms and were subject to a quick examination.
“We’re not perverts. We’re just making sure you don’t have a wire stuck up your ass. We can never be too careful,” the man explained.
One by one they were examined, given shorts and a tee shirt and told to proceed to a van waiting out back.
“This is cool, isn’t it?” Malik whispered over Mo’s shoulder.
Cool was the last thing Mo would call this.
“Open your mouth, raise your arms and spread your legs,” one of the men asked.
Mo did as he asked.
The man flashed a light in Mo’s mouth and ran a gloved finger along his inner cheeks. After that he examined under his armpits, his crotch and the crack of his butt.
“You’re good. Take these, get dressed and go to the white van,” the man said.
Violated is the only word Mo could think to describe the ordeal. He quickly put on his new clothes and marched to the van.
Everyone sat in the van, quiet.
Mo could feel the fear. It hung over everyone like a thick fog.
The man who led the inspection came out to the van and looked inside. “Put these on for the trip.”
The other men handed out large thick brown canvas bags.
The group took them and looked at each other, bewildered what they were for.
“Cover your heads. Once that’s done, we’ll be able to depart,” the man ordered.
Each new step was only making Mo regretful of his decision. He cautiously slipped the bag over his head. The earthy smell of the canvas filled his nostrils and the thickness made seeing impossible.
The side door of the van slammed shut.
Mo could hear others in his group breathing heavily, a clear sign they were panicked.
The driver’s door opened then closed.
The van roared to life.
Mo closed his eyes and whispered to himself, “Allah, if this is your will, I am your humble servant. I put my life in your hands. Do with me what you desire.”
The driver mumbled something unintelligible.
Mo’s ears picked up the gear shift engaging. Seconds later the van lurched forward and sped off.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tuesday, April 25
Ankara, Turkey
David slowly walked down the long hallway. The hotel was nice for Turkish standards. The carpet in the hall was old, worn and faded with the center showing the deepest signs of wear. Small tears and peeling of the wallpapered walls was noticeable in the corners near the floor and the ceiling. This he could overlook, it was the musty smell that got to him most. The low textured ceiling and dim lights made him feel claustrophobic.
As he passed one door after another, he drew closer to room 506. There he hoped to finally meet with Joram and get an interview he needed for his film.
David stopped just outside the door and took a deep breath. A chill ran down his spine. He didn’t know what to expect once the door opened. Fearful questions suddenly came to him. Is this all a ruse to capture me? Am I to be used as a pawn in the war? He immediately squashed them. Why would Joram take me prisoner? Why me? Unsure if he’d grabbed everything he needed, he hastily looked through his backpack. Seeing he had the tools of his trade, he deliberately slowed his breathing. Once he was confident he was ready, he knocked.
The door opened swiftly and there stood Joram.
Being a person who picked up on the smallest details, David instantly noticed several small razor cuts on Joram’s neck. He imagined they came from having shaved for the first time in a long time.
“David, my friend, come in, hurry,” Joram said stepping aside and motioning with his hand towards the back of his room.
David stepped across the threshold and stopped just inside.
Joram stuck his head out the door and looked in both directions. Seeing no one was in the hallway, he closed the door and locked it. He turned to David, who had his hand extended to shake. Joram pushed his hand aside and gave David an embrace.
This was entirely unexpected for David. His body tensed when Joram’s arms wrapped around him and hugged.
“My friend, welcome to Turkey, so good to see you and thank you for coming,” he
said.
“Sure.”
Joram let him go and raced into the room. “Can I get you something to drink? I have some tea.”
“I’m good, thank you.”
“Please come and sit,” Joram said, pointing to a set of chairs in the back of the room.
David looked around the room, it was exactly like the standard room he had. The bathroom was the first room on the right and past that was one space with one queen-sized bed, across from it a dresser with an old analog television sat near the window, two chairs and a small table stood. The room was untidy, with trash, newspapers and dirty plates from room service beside the bed. Empty bottles of Coke covered the tops of the dresser and nightstands with ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts on each table.
“David, sit, please,” Joram insisted.
David walked towards the chair on the left and took a seat. He felt uncomfortable and hoped his body wasn’t showing his apprehension. “Why am I here?”
“I told you, I defected.”
“But why call me, why not go to Damascus, to your family, your father?” David asked curious as to why he hadn’t gone back to the presumed protection of his father.
Joram grinned, his yellow-stained teeth showing a lack of hygiene. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. He stuck the unfiltered Camel cigarette in his lips, but just before he lit it, he offered one to David.
David was tempted but refused. He opened his backpack and pulled out his camera and digital recorder.
“You’re all business, I like that.” Joram laughed.
“Let’s get this straight, I’m not here to chitchat and swap stories. I’m here because you have a story to tell and I’m the perfect person to hear it and share it.”
“All true, all true, that’s why I called you,” Joram said, exhaling a thick plume of smoke into the air above David’s head. With his fingers, he picked a small piece of loose tobacco that lingered on his tongue and wiped it on his jeans.
David clicked the recorder and asked, “So you defected from ISIS?”
“Ha, you are all business.”
“Timing is everything,” David replied.
“That it is. Something is different with you, I sense fear.”
“I’m fine.”
“What happened in Copenhagen shook you?”
David thought about turning the recorder off but changed his mind. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“That’s to be expected. I was shaken too when I saw those ISIS butchers murder innocents,” Joram declared.
“Looks like we share something,” David said.
Joram paused and thought about what to say next. When he had made up his mind, he said, “I apologize for having you wait for so long. I needed to make sure you were by yourself. I wasn’t sure if you told anyone. You see I can’t risk being caught by your CIA. I don’t wish to spend time in one of your American black sites.”
“No one knows except me, you and my agent,” David lied, having told Dylan Grim he was in Turkey to meet his ISIS contact.
“Max, right?”
“Yeah, Max, good memory.”
With the cigarette between his fingers, Joram tapped his right temple and said, “Like a trap.”
“The last time we talked you had fled Damascus and came to Ankara to meet with someone, a recruiter of sorts, for lack of a better word, who was going to ferry you back into ISIS-controlled Syria.”
“Yes.”
“Based upon the fact you’ve defected, it’s safe to say you made it there and assimilated into ISIS?”
“Yes.”
“When did you defect and why?” David asked.
“I defected a week ago. The why is a much longer answer.”
“I’ve got time,” David replied.
“Good, because you’re going to need a lot of it.”
Riverside, California
The van stopped abruptly.
Mo woke. He couldn’t believe he fell asleep. He opened his eyes but was only greeted by darkness. Unsure of how long he’d been out, he whispered, “Malik, Malik.”
“Yes,” Malik replied.
“Where are we?” Mo asked.
“How would I know? I can’t see a damn thing,” Malik answered.
The side door opened. An unfamiliar voice boomed, “Take off your hoods.”
Mo ripped off the hood as fast as he could. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh air.
“Out of the van, hurry,” a man in the shadows ordered.
Mo climbed out and looked around the darkened space save for a single overhead light in the far corner.
We’re in a large building, he said to himself.
The shadowy man stepped into view. “Follow me.”
Everyone obediently did as they were told and shuffled behind the large man.
“Sit down,” the man barked.
Mo looked at the rows of chairs and took a seat in the back. His eyes darted around and settled on a dry-erase board emblazoned with the emblem of The Bloody Hand.
“They’re The Bloody Hand, can you believe it?” Malik whispered to Mo.
“This all seems so surreal,” Mo replied.
The others talked amongst themselves in whispers.
The clang of a metal door sounded behind the dry-erase board out of sight of everyone. The clack of hard sole shoes echoed off the concrete floor.
All fell silent.
A well-dressed, tall and slender man appeared from behind the dry-erase board. He walked the edge of the chairs, looking carefully at each recruit, until he came full circle, stopping in front of the chairs.
He stepped aside and pointed at the image of the bloody hand. “This here isn’t just an emblem. It isn’t just a symbol. It is who we are. The great prophet Mohammed was Allah’s heart and soul here on Earth. We are Allah’s right hand, a hand covered in the blood of our enemies, Allah’s enemies. We have and will strike down all those who oppose Allah’s will. We will fight and destroy those who do not submit to God’s laws. Our cause is holy.”
All sat mesmerized by the man’s words.
“You have been chosen to be an instrument, a warrior in this fight. Allah is proud and so am I. Together we will strike a blow to the infidels, a blow so deadly that the streets will flow with their blood. Soon, all of you will take to the battlefield in a battle that will finally end the Great Satan and usher in a new age of believers.”
A roar of applause and cheers rang out.
“Sit down!” the man barked.
Everyone fell silent.
“This is not a game. This is not a pathetic spectator sport. Show discipline. You are warriors!” the man snapped.
At first, Mo felt a sting of pride, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the nauseous feeling in his body. Something felt off, something felt…wrong.
Malik nudged him.
Mo looked and Malik was smiling, his eyes wide with joy.
“Are you truly dedicated to fight for Allah?”
Fearful, the room was silent.
The man smiled and said, “You may now respond.”
“Yes!” everyone said in unison, including Mo.
The man walked up to the front row and looked down at the faces there. “Are you committed?” he asked to the first young face he saw.
“Yes,” was the answer given.
The man stepped in front of the next and asked again, “Are you committed?”
“Yes.”
Through the ranks, the man went, asking the same question over and over. When he was finished, he stepped back in front of them and said, “Today will be your first test.”
Doors located far off screeched open.
Everyone turned to see, but couldn’t.
Mo’s stomach tightened.
Out of the shadows, a single file line of bound and hooded people appeared. They were paraded to the front.
The man hollered, “Right now, you will get to show your loyalty and commitment to Allah.”
Mo looked down
at his quivering hand and the urge to vomit was growing.
“Pick one and stand in front,” the man ordered.
Many didn’t hesitate, including Malik. He rushed and stood happily in front of a hooded person.
Mo followed and stood next to him. He gave Malik an uneasy look then fixed his gaze on the person in front of him. He could hear their labored breathing.
“Look, this one pissed their pants.” Malik laughed, slapping Mo on the arm.
One by one, the hoods were removed. Their mouths were taped and gagged, but each one mumbled pleas of mercy. There wasn’t a pattern to the soon-to-be victims. They were black, white, Hispanic and Asian. Men and women both. Young and old.
Mo looked at his victim, a young woman. Her begging eyes pleaded for him not to hurt her.
“Take a knife, hold it to the infidel’s throat and repeat after me,” the man said.
Several men handed out long-bladed knives.
When Mo took his, he had a hard time admiring it like Malik was. Doubt continued to fill him every second. The man was right, this was a test of commitment and he wasn’t sure if he could do it. However, the question then turned to what if he didn’t?
Mo jumped when the man appeared behind him and whispered in his ear, “Put the knife to the infidel’s throat.”
Fearful of what could happen to him, he did as he was told.
The woman’s eyes bulged when the cold steel of the blade touched her tender throat. Tears began to well and flow from her eyes.
“Repeat after me, I am a warrior of The Bloody Hand. I take your life in service of Allah and the caliphate. Praise be to Allah!”
In a loud chorus, everyone repeated the words, including Mo.
More tears flowed from the woman.
Unable to look at her, he set his gaze upon the dry-erase board.
“Press your blade hard against their throat and slide it firmly across,” the man instructed.
Malik laughed as he followed the order.
Mo didn’t; he froze.
“What are you doing?” Malik asked ensuring he kept his voice low.
“I can’t,” Mo replied.
“Do it,” Malik urged.
“I can’t.”
Yelling from the end of the row turned everyone’s attention there.
Day of Reckoning Page 12