The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “Thank Allah, my friend. I thought the worst when we arrived. Everyone is dead, it is quite the horrible scene.”

  “Apparently there are two British citizens amongst the dead,” said Reading, recalling Leather’s debrief. “Please make certain they are treated with respect, and returned to the British Embassy as soon as possible.”

  “Absolutely, my friend, we have already found them. Are you okay? You are uninjured?”

  “I’m fine, no need to worry about me.”

  “And your friends?”

  Reading felt a lump form in his throat as he stared across the room at his friend.

  “Chaney took a hit. He’s in a coma. They think he’ll make it.”

  “I will pray for him, my friend.”

  “Please do that.”

  “I must go, my friend, I will contact you when I return to Cairo.”

  “Do that, and thanks for coming for us.”

  “Any time!”

  The call ended, and Reading hung the handset up on the wall, returning to Chaney’s side.

  And prayed harder than he ever had before.

  USS James E. Williams, Red Sea

  Segregated Common Area

  Dawson sat with his squad as they all waited for Red’s team to arrive, a second chopper having been dispatched to pick them up when they had had to do the emergency evac of the British cop. Nobody was worried, it was a routine retrieval, but until every boot that had hit the ground returned, they waited, saying nothing except watching the newsfeed of what had happened while they were away.

  And it was disturbing.

  The attacks were over, at least the large scale ones. Search and rescue operations were still underway in some cases, and the cleanup was beginning in others. Presidents and Prime Ministers the world over had taken to the air waves to urge calm, and to promise justice, but the people were furious.

  They knew justice was impossible. The perpetrators were already mostly dead, the leadership protected behind the walls of silence of Muslim countries secretly pleased with the actions, though publicly condemning them, while couching things in terms suggesting the West had asked for it due to its overreaction to 9/11.

  And this time, who would we attack?

  There was no Taliban regime in power, providing training camps and funding to a specific group. Which was the problem with terrorism. It quite often wasn’t state sponsored, and if it were, it was difficult to prove. There were no more easy targets to take out. And this time, the nationalities were mostly Egyptian as opposed to Saudi, a supposed ally in the Middle East. The US and its allies could hardly invade Egypt or bomb it in retaliation. All they could do was demand action by its government, a Muslim Brotherhood government that probably tacitly supported the terrorist actions.

  This was the new Middle East, applauded at the outset by all, now feared by those who understood what had truly happened.

  The frustrations of the populations in New York, Los Angeles, Paris, London, Toronto, Rio and others, was palpable, with random attacks on Muslims, fire bombings of mosques, and protests in the streets demanding the deportation of Muslims, reactions far worse than anything seen after 9/11.

  Last time they killed people, turning the Twin Towers into symbols of America’s loss. This time they killed our symbols, our history, our culture.

  And this time none of the morons claiming it was an inside job had anything to cling to. Dawson only hoped the protests would calm down, the retaliations stop, and the discourse begin sooner rather than later. His greatest fear was troops on the street, and if law and order couldn’t be maintained, martial law could be declared.

  And once that slippery slope was started upon, Western democracies as we know them may become a thing of the past, the terrorists winning in the end.

  The door opened and Red stepped in with a grin on his face.

  “It’s about damned time!” exclaimed Niner, jumping up and giving each man a thumping hug as they came through the door. Dawson stood and gave his friend a firm handshake then pushed him onto the other side of the couch he had been occupying.

  “Problems?”

  “Nope. Just had to duck a group of Egyptian police that arrived at some point, but other than that, nothing.”

  Dawson nodded. “They were apparently friendlies, requested by that Interpol guy, Reading.”

  “See, you say it right all the time.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Interpol guy. Every time I read a report I say ‘Reading’, but it’s actually pronounced ‘Redding’. How the hell do you keep that straight in your head?”

  “Umm, I’ve got more than two neurons firing?”

  Red booted him in the shoulder, Dawson unable to make the block in time.

  “Didn’t you ever play Monopoly?” asked Dawson, massaging his shoulder.

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Well, it’s pronounced ‘Redding’ Railroad.”

  Red’s eyebrows narrowed.

  “It is?”

  Dawson nodded.

  “Huh. I guess I shouldn’t have corrected Bryson when he was calling it ‘Redding’. He said he was at a friend’s house and that’s what they called it.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said his friend was an idiot.”

  “That’s nice. Who was the friend?”

  Red laughed.

  “You.”

  Dawson chuckled and pulled his knife half way from the sheath when the door opened.

  “Call for you, sir, you can take it here.” The Seaman pointed at the wall and Dawson nodded. A few keys were pressed, and the phone handed over.

  Must be the Colonel.

  “Sergeant Dawson here.”

  “I thought it was Mr. White?”

  Dawson smiled, immediately recognizing the voice of CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, ask not what you can do for me, but ask what I can do for you.”

  “Okay, what can you do for me?”

  “Care for a little payback?”

  Dawson smiled, staring at the television screen showing the ruins of the Statue of Liberty.

  “Absolutely.”

  Mahmoud Bassiouny Street, Cairo, Egypt

  Two days later

  Imam Khalil sat in the back of the black 1982 Mercedes 380SEL provided by one of his supporters, of whom today there were many more than last week. It was a poorly kept secret that he had been behind the coordinated attacks that had brought the infidels to their knees, but word was out, and accolades continued to pour in, even from various governments around the world, though through discrete backchannels.

  Today, nobody could be seen in support of the attacks, as the Western militaries were desperate for a target to hammer into the stone age, but over time, when things had calmed, he would be a hero, acclaimed by over a billion of his brethren for his boldness. He would need to remain in hiding for the rest of his life, however that was a sacrifice he would be willing to make. Already he had been offered sanctuary in a palace in Saudi Arabia, where he would live out a life of pampered luxury, with all the modern conveniences available to the richest of the rich.

  And women of all shapes, sizes and colors.

  It would be paradise on earth, a gift for sure from Allah himself.

  The driver slammed his fist into the steering wheel and looked in the rearview mirror.

  “I’m sorry, Imam, but the traffic at this time of day, it is terrible!”

  Khalil waved off the man’s concerns with a flick of his wrist.

  “It is of no concern. We have air conditioning, plenty of gasoline, and no set time for our arrival. Let the people enjoy their market.”

  “I think it is a little busier than usual, Imam,” said the driver, looking at the bustling streets and sidewalks.

  “Indeed,” smiled Khalil. “There seems to be a spring in their step that was missing last week.”

  A motorcycle revved its engine behind them, Khali
l ignoring it, the driver taking a glance in his rearview mirror, then side mirror. It pulled up beside them, the driver, his black helmet and visor completely blocking his face, stopping, then looking at the driver, then Khalil.

  Khalil felt his chest tighten slightly, his left leg beginning to push himself away from the window when the motorcycle’s engine revved again, and shot ahead into traffic, then out of sight.

  He breathed a sigh.

  Perhaps I should get to Saudi Arabia as soon as possible.

  Red banked right, racing into the traffic circle and out of sight of Imam Khalil’s vehicle, as he spoke into his comm. “Occupant confirmed. One driver, left hand side, one passenger, positively ID’d as Mahmoud Khalil, rear seat, left side. They’re stuck in traffic, looks like they’ll be there for at least a few minutes, over.”

  “Roger that,” came Dawson’s voice over the comm. “Proceed as planned.”

  Red pulled into an alleyway about half a mile from their target, and waited. His part of the plan was over, but he was to remain in the area for backup in case it was needed. This was a precision plan, devised by Big Dog and the CIA guy whose name he had never been told.

  The intel had arrived quickly, the moron Khalil a little too vocal in his boasting, and using Echelon and various other tracking methods available to the CIA and the Pentagon, they had quickly found him in a well-secured compound, awaiting a transfer to a nonexistent palace in Saudi Arabia.

  Pathetic hypocrite.

  The man was willing to let his followers die for their cause in exchange for a paradise filled with virgins, but lacked the courage to die for his convictions here, instead jumping at the opportunity of living in decadence offered to him by a Sheik in the Saudi royal household, who owed a favor to the CIA, lest a certain set of photos of him with several young men should surface on the Internet.

  Red lifted the visor slightly to scratch his nose, then flipped it back down with a smack as his anger grew. He recalled one of their briefings for a recon mission a few years back, where a terrorist was suspected of frequenting a rub and tug parlor run by Muslims in Detroit. But these were devout Muslims, and having sex outside of marriage was against the Koran, and an offense to Allah.

  No problem!

  There was an Imam on site to marry you to the girl, then you’d do your business, and then he’d divorce you on the way out.

  Problem solved.

  Hypocrisy intact.

  Bigamy laws be damned.

  Red sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming his racing heart.

  “Moving in now,” said Dawson over the comm.

  Red gripped the handles of his bike a little harder.

  Time for revenge.

  Dawson gunned the engine, speeding along the left side of the cars, deftly avoiding the pedestrians, most seemingly oblivious to the dangers surrounding them, but also managing to somehow always avoid getting hit. Part of him thought it was a game between the traffic and the pedestrians, the latter pretending to not see the traffic, the former pretending to not see the pedestrians. And always, at the last moment, someone would lose the game of chicken, avoiding the collision, and smartly, that was almost always the pedestrian.

  When Kane had called with the offer for some payback, he had jumped at it, receiving immediate clearance from Colonel Clancy, and insertion into Cairo the next day with several of his team. They knew where Khalil was, and thanks to their false offer, knew where he’d be heading. They just had to wait.

  It was Red’s shift that alerted them to the move, satellite imagery from several specially tasked birds, plus a UAV confirming the mass murderer entering the vehicle.

  Within minutes they were in place, the plan simple, yet precise timing necessary. There were quite a few variables beyond their control, but the key to a good plan was minimizing those variables, and having contingencies in place should something unexpected happen.

  But as expected, the Imam had become stuck in traffic, a completely expected, planned for, and indeed hoped for, occurrence.

  “Approaching the vehicle now,” said Dawson through his comm, slowing down as he approached. At the last second, he slowed down dramatically, almost coming to a stop, leaning the bike toward the vehicle. Niner, on the rear of the bike, leaned over and placed a magnetic shaped charge on the rear driver side door, patted Dawson on the shoulder, and Dawson gunned it toward the traffic circle that provided five separate means of escape.

  It’s like God’s on our side today.

  “Charge placed,” he said as he banked into the mess of traffic.

  “Roger that,” came Spock’s voice over the comm. “Stand by.”

  Spock, sitting on his motorcycle about fifty feet back, watched for an opening in the crowd, their aim to minimize, if not prevent entirely, civilian casualties. They had placed a shaped charge on the door which would direct the blast inward, reducing shrapnel and the concussive force that would be ejected toward the pedestrians.

  But getting an opening where the civilians weren’t right beside the car was proving a challenge.

  Then he saw one point at the charge, waving over a friend.

  “The charge has been spotted. I’m moving in.”

  He revved the engine, gunning the bike toward the pedestrians beginning to gather around, pressing the button for his horn as he gained speed. People began to jump out of his way, the time honored dance between pedestrian and vehicle forgotten. He laid on the horn, now reaching almost thirty miles per hour in this last ditch effort to save the op.

  He reached the rear bumper and the crowd jumped back, shaking their fists at him, and he pressed the trigger.

  There was a large roar behind him, then screams, as the charge blew a hole through the door, and in his side mirror, he could see those closest the blast laying on the ground, the traditional white robes appearing soiled, but not bloody.

  “Explosive triggered,” he reported needlessly as he turned into the traffic circle, the few who had given chase left behind as he raced through traffic and to his exchange point where he’d dump the motorcycle, and switch to a diplomatic vehicle.

  “Moving in,” came the voice of the CIA operator over his comm.

  Payback’s a bitch.

  CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane rushed forward, pushing aside the gathering crowd. He had been following the vehicle on his own motorcycle when it had been trapped in traffic and the plan set in motion. He had passed Khalil’s vehicle, parking his bike near the entrance to the traffic circle, then quickly made his way back to the Mercedes as it crawled through traffic. Keeping pace with it had been easy, and his gentle manipulations of the crowds had helped keep their casualties to simple cuts and bruises.

  But now it was time for the money shot.

  He raced around a group of bystanders, most pushing back from the vehicle in fear of another explosion. Kane jumped inside, drawing his weapon, suppressor in place. The driver, still in shock, spun around at the new arrival, and Kane put a bullet in his head, splattering his brains across the shattered windshield.

  He grabbed Khalil, pulling him upright, the moaning man covered in blood, but still alive. Kane grabbed him by the face, shaking his head back and forth until he had his attention.

  “Who are you?” asked Khalil in Arabic.

  “I’m a messenger,” replied Kane in perfect Arabic.

  “From who?”

  “From the American people. They say hi.”

  Kane fired a shot into each knee cap, then one into the groin, another into Khalil’s stomach, then his neck, each shot eliciting a cry of pain. Though he’d like to prolong the torture, he didn’t have time, the crowd outside getting louder.

  He pulled the man’s face closer and placed his Glock against the man’s temple.

  “See you in hell.”

  He squeezed, and Khalil’s eyes widened as the bullet sped through his skull, turning his brain matter into mush, then exploding out the other side. Kane threw him down on the seat, took a quick photo with
his phone, then jumped out the other side of the car, walking with purpose through the crowds as if he belonged there, some nearby looking and pointing at him. He ducked into an alleyway and climbed on his bike, roaring away from the gridlocked street as he pushed the helmet on his head.

  “Mission accomplished,” he said through the comm, marking the end of America’s first counterstrike against the horror struck against it and its allies.

  Cairo International Airport, Cairo, Egypt

  Later that day

  James Acton sat in the international passengers’ waiting area, Laura on one side, Reading on the other, their students spread out across several rows. It had been a grueling several days. Chaney had been airlifted back to England, and was still in a coma, leaving Acton to wonder what the message was he had tried to deliver, and leaving his friend, Hugh, to wonder whether or not his partner was going to make it or not.

  Apparently there had been complications on the flight, and Chaney had nearly died. They had managed to save him, but the coma they had been optimistic he would recover from, was now thought worse.

  Again, only time would tell.

  Acton looked at his friend and could see the worry on his face, his stare already in London. Laura’s head was on his shoulder, herself in a deep sleep at the relief all her students were safe.

  He himself was wired. He was exhausted, but couldn’t sleep. His mind was preoccupied with the dig site, and what they had left behind. The world had forgotten the discovery, side tracked by the terrorist attacks and its aftermath, but he was left wondering if their discovery was still intact, or had it been destroyed.

  And it was driving him nuts.

  He had told Laura they should return immediately, at least he himself, and she had called him daft.

  And she was right.