Misguided: The Jesus Assassin

by Jason E. Fort

  Finally, he heard the familiar sounds of young kids screaming their protests to larger, brutal bullies who were obviously forcing the youngsters to come along. He heard the bullies toss the boy recruits into the back, and he heard Mbeki yell at the others some final commands as he went to the driver’s seat. He slammed his door, and the activist heard the transmission of the truck being put into its first gear as the truck lurched forward. The activist quickly lifted his back off the ground and hung on for dear life. The activist had no way of knowing how long the drive was to the camp, but he was sure this was his only way. Years of serving his country had given him the mettle to deal with such odds. Any normal person might be thinking at the back of their mind that this was a bad plan, but not the activist. He just adapted and adjusted as usual. He would hang on to the undercarriage, and he would make it to the camp and infiltrate the training outpost. He would search for his personal objective, and once he found what he was looking for, he would then signal the operatives via his satellite phone...so the operatives of Delta Force could come in and make the camp appear to be a ghost camp. He knew he couldn’t afford to fail the operatives on this mission; their post-mission L-Z (landing zone) would be his only ticket out of the heart of the African jungle.

  The activist had been able to find a way to hang on to some unidentified rod that connected to some other unknown auto part with one hand - all while keeping his feet in place. He would save his energy by holding on with one hand at a time, switching hands and shifting his weight, but it was quite tedious. The truck bounced and shook, and he even felt his grip slipping on a few occasions, as the massive truck would hit deep grooves intersecting the road it was traveling. He would also have to adjust his grip and hang on with both hands when the truck would have to slow down and go around sharp turns. But fortunately it was only a twenty-five minute ride; it turned out that the outpost was deep into the heavy jungle. The activist could tell it was dark; the brighter his field of vision was through the shades, the darker it was without them in reality. From his inverted position underneath the truck, the activist could make out a clearing. He then felt the truck slowing down, and watched upside down as the truck slowly moved between two large gates that were propped open. He could only assume the gates were part of a large fence or wall around the camp. He was getting anxious for his uncomfortable ride to be over, when the behemoth finally came to a stop after pulling into a large, flat clearing. Nearby there was a small, run-down building with a flat roof. The activist waited while the passengers got out; he could feel the truck get lighter on its leaf springs as each person jumped off the back. Finally the engine to the truck was cut off, and the driver got out and once again shouted orders at people. The driver was definitely Mbeki; the activist could hear his voice more clearly since the truck’s engine wasn’t running. He remembered the annoying raspy sound of a high-pitched voice, and he thought that was so odd for a terrorist who was supposed to stand at 6 feet, 6 inches tall.

  Once all the noise from voices leaving the vicinity of the truck had faded away, the activist scanned his surroundings from his awkward inverted view. He slowly lowered himself all the way to the ground. Then he flipped himself over quietly, so his brain could interpret what he was seeing a little easier. The activist noticed that there were lights around the perimeter of a large wall made of giant sheets of tin, held in place in front of wooden stakes. He could also see small huts scattered around in the distance - closer to the wall. However, the dilapidated small building with the flat roof next to him had very poor lighting. He glanced around all sides of the truck that he could see, and rolled out from underneath the truck into a prone position on the ground – ready to react to anyone who might see him. Seeing no patrols nearby, he jumped up into a crouch and ran over to the flat top building. He had a feeling that the small building was where someone in the terrorist camp slept, but he would check out the lay of the land first. He peered around the corner of the building, and could see that the huts were in small, neat little rows of 10 huts per row. The activist was sure that several of the thugs who had caught the ride over from town had gone straight to their little shanties to catch some shut-eye before having to get up in the morning and go back to guard duty, or training, or whatever it was that they were supposed to do.

  He didn’t have to inhale too deeply to notice the stink of nearby latrines. Guess there was no money for plumbing in the jungle. So the activist knew where the terrorists and recruits slept; now where did they train? When he crept to the other corner and peeked around, he had his answer. The complex spread out before him, and this side revealed to him that it was much bigger than he thought. He saw a complicated maze of obstacles laid out in an obvious challenge course for the terrorist recruits. He could also see other small buildings that he assumed to be some sort of barracks for some of the leaders of the camp. He also saw a small covered shelter with lights plugged into a small generator. In the center of the shelter was a small card table with three Africans sitting around it. The activist couldn’t quite see far enough to tell what they were doing, but from their mannerisms and movements, he thought they might be playing card games. He was going to be busy for the next little while. He was going to have to be slow and deliberate; he had to find the information or evidence he was looking for before he sent the signal to the Delta Force team. He knew once he sent the signal, he probably had an hour at the most before silent hell broke loose, and the Delta Force operatives would come in like angels of death and erase the camp from existence. Since he could see several buildings in the distance across the camp, he figured he might as well start with the one right next to him. He was surprised at the slack security; he guessed the terrorists thought the concealed location was enough security for the place.

  As he rounded the corner, he realized that there were several make-shift guard towers that had been constructed of bamboo. He couldn’t make out how many guards were posted at the top of the towers – they were too far way. But as far as he could tell, he was in the clear as far as anyone seeing him in the immediate vicinity. He finally came around to the front side of the small flat top building, and saw a doorway. He knew the entrance was dark because it was nice and bright through his glasses. He quickly ran in through the entrance. As soon as he entered, he saw a small wooden table in the center of the building’s only room. There was also a small single bed against the back wall with the covers pulled down. There were notebooks with various things scratched out on the covers, scattered about the table; some drawings, some writing – mostly in a language the activist did not know. Then he noticed some brochures; travel brochures – from the United States. The activist thought at first that this was odd, but then he realized what they were.

  They were colorful pictures of targets. These men were training to wreak havoc on American landmarks! The activist thought to himself that it was a good thing he was about to send for reinforcements and take care of this little terrorist threat. Each brochure was advertising famous American landmarks throughout the U.S., such as Mount Rushmore, The Grand Canyon, the Space Needle in Seattle, the Washington Monument in D.C. – just to name a few. They were American icons, and this terrorist group had them in their sites for a plan of some kind. All of this was of course speculation on the activist’s part, but he had come to know the enemy well. He brushed aside the brochures for American destinations, and stumbled upon a map spread out underneath. It was a map of the Atlantic Ocean, and key ports along the Eastern United States, and the West African coast. There were curved arrows tracing between the port cities across the map, with the names of various cruise lines written in red. The activist figured the terrorists planned on using piracy to reach the mainland United States. Of course this plan was dead in the water, unless the terrorists had some way to stow away undetected before reaching port. The US Coast Guard was good at what they did; if there were any sign of a terrorist threat to the mainland, they would be onto it ten times out of ten if the terrorists thought they could hijack cruis
e ships. Nevertheless, it was obvious that this group had been running this training operation for a while.

  The sound of footsteps in the dirt could be heard approaching the one room building. The activist glanced over in the direction of the doorway, and then over to the bed that apparently belonged to whichever terrorist was lucky enough not to have to stay with the others in the small huts he had seen earlier. He was about to try to hide under the bed, when a large profile filled the doorway in the activist’s night shade field of vision; the man who cast it had his back turned and was about to turn into the room, but stopped and shouted loudly to someone in the camp far away. Immediately the activist recognized that the voice belonged to none other than Mbeki Thimbosa. The activist knew he was about to have a fight on his hands, and thought he would go ahead and summon the Delta Force raiding party. He pulled out his hi-tech satellite phone and hit send on the small key pad to activate his homing beacon for their stealth helicopter to home in on, and rush to his location. Just as the activist was ready to take on Thimbosa head-on, the camp leader abruptly walked away from the doorway in the direction that he had been shouting. The activist imagined wiping sweat off his brow as the large threat walked away. He was running out of time. Since he had activated his beacon through his phone, he knew he had approximately sixty minutes before the operatives invaded the camp and did what they do best. So that gave him about an hour to get what he came for. Sure, the apparent plot to somehow get their trainees overseas and give them important things to shoot at was important. But the activist knew that these bad guys were only able to come up with these schemes, and provide this training, and obtain AK-47s with one key ingredient – Money.

  Money makes the world go round, and he knew that the money would come from a very secret place, or person in particular. In all his operations, he had found that all the illegal operations for Muslim terrorist organizations had come through a religious leader. He knew his next target would be whoever was funding this second-rate operation. Unfortunately he had not seen any evidence of a trail that would lead to that financial source. The activist was about to do something drastic. He quickly decided his next course of action would be to confront Thimbosa, and force the truth out of him. If he could wait until the arrival of the Delta team, he could use their attack as a distraction long enough to beat the truth out of Thimbosa. But he would have to know immediately when the first Delta member was in the camp. He needed a high point of view…one of the bamboo towers. He slowly peeked out Thimbosa’s doorway, and saw that the camp leader was down the main road of the camp, fussing at some underling who was jerking one of the little boy recruits around. There was nobody else out and about, so he made his break from the doorway and ran in the direction of the huts. The bamboo towers didn’t have spotlights; just sentries apparently doing a poor job watching out for secret agents, dressed in black, running around their camp. The activist came to the base of a ladder to one of the towers. He tested the integrity of the structure. Once finding that it was pretty strong and sound, he began to slowly climb. He was careful as he neared the top of the ladder. He peered through the small gaps between the boards that made the platform for the observation deck of the tower. He was only able to pick out movement from one guard.

  The guard was standing over on the far side of the tower from where the activist would have to make his landing. He was hoping the guard would be looking anywhere but towards him as he slowed his ascent. Unfortunately, as soon as he crested the top of the ladder, the guard turned and saw the activist. Before he could shout for an alarm, the assassin sprung up from the top rung of the ladder and elbowed the guard under the jaw, knocking him up and backwards. The guard fell back and hit the back of his skull on the make-shift railing made of a few bamboo poles that went around three sides of the top of the structure. He was out cold. The activist had to make sure the guard didn’t awaken to warn anyone of his presence, so he reached down and grabbed the man’s head with both hands. With a fast twist, the popping and grinding sound the activist made with one quick motion indicated that the man’s neck was broken. The activist then sat on the edge of the platform, Indian-style.

  He scanned the skies, and then looked out over the entire camp. He searched for any signs that the Delta Force guys were already there. He didn’t see anyone, so he watched and waited. After ten more minutes of waiting, he heard a very low moaning sound fly overhead. He could see the Stealth Blackhawk flying over with his night shades. It flew a little further past the far side of the camp wall, and the activist could see it fly down and hover close to the jungle canopy. He saw thin squiggly lines hang out of the chopper, and from his point of view, it looked like ants coming out of the helicopter and sliding down the lines, as soldiers were repelling down ropes to the ground. He kept watching – he didn’t want to make his move on Thimbosa until he saw the Delta team enter the camp. Just ten minutes went by, and then he saw several shadowy figures squeeze through a small gap in the gate that Thimbosa’s truck had come through. As soon as all the men were through, ten men in all, they fanned out in different directions around the camp. The activist took out a small flashlight. He flashed in Morse-Code to the Delta Force squad leader. He messaged A-One Ready to Go. The squad leader saw his signal and flashed back Head to L-Z. The activist stood up at the top of the ladder. He glanced in the direction of Thimbosa’s building. None of the operatives had headed in that direction yet. He held on loosely at the top of the ladder as he climbed down a few rungs. Then he placed his feet to the outside and let loose of his grip slightly. The activist slid down the ladder and landed with a muffled Thud! He took off in a sprint to the terrorist leader’s quarters. He could hear the faint zip-zip sounds made from the double-taps of suppressed rifles the soldiers were firing into the huts. He leaned up against the wall next to Thimbosa’s doorway. It was now or never. He knew he had the advantage in vision with his night shades on, so he ran into the single room.

  Mbeki Thimbosa was standing there taking his worn out clothes off, wearing nothing but a pair of pants. He was bare-chested, and had a look of absolute shock on his face at the sight of a black hooded figure standing in his doorway. The activist did not waste any time; he swung at Thimbosa, but to his surprise, was blocked away. The terrorist had a three inch height advantage, so the activist guessed he had a slight advantage in reach as well. Thimbosa lunged at the activist and launched a quick side-kick. Since the activist was wearing Kevlar, he absorbed the blow but reached around to catch Thimbosa’s leg. He tried to hoist the man up and into the wall, but Thimbosa brought a fist across the activist’s jaw and stunned him – but only briefly. The activist was done playing with this guy; it was time to get serious. He let loose with a barrage of punches to Thimbosa’s body, and then a sudden open hand smack to the side of his neck. Thimbosa dropped like a stone.

  The activist quickly extracted a small throwing knife from a slot on the side of his shirt. He held the blade firmly under the jaw of Thimbosa as he held him in a choke hold.

  “I already know you speak English, Mbeki, so I am going to make this clear. You tell me who supplies all your money for guns, and feeding recruits, and gas for your trucks, and anything else your little group needs – and I might let you live.”

  The African terrorist tried to swallow, and as he gulped down, his throat caused a small cut to open up against the edge of the activist’s knife. He said something in French that the activist was sure was some kind of insult, so the activist hit him square in the nose, and then sliced a line across his cheek.

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I know you speak English. Tell me what I want to know, and I will make it quick; no pain at all. You’re past the point of living now.”

  He locked down his arm wrapped around Thimbosa’s neck, and the man began to speak.

  “Okay, okay,” he began with a heavy accent.

  “I don’t know his name. All I know is he is supposed to be the holiest of holies from the American City, Nude York. Please – let me
go.”

  The activist pulled the large man to his feet as he got up as well. He couldn’t help but notice a shadowy figure run past the doorway.

  He replied, “You know what – I believe you. That would be Imam Kareem Hassad – and it’s NEW York. Thanks.”

  And with that, he shoved Thimbosa towards the doorway. He glanced at his AK-47 hanging on a hook on the wall next to his bed. He grabbed it and tossed it to Thimbosa. As soon as the man caught it, the activist front kicked him out through the doorway. Thimbosa stumbled out into the open and fell down. When he got up to face the doorway, he realized he was trapped by soldiers. There were ten men standing around in a semi-circle in front of him, along with a blazing fire that had started around the compound. Mbeki Thimbosa realized he could call for help, but it would never come. But he did not want to die without a fight. So he began to raise the muzzle of his gun. As the muzzle of his gun raised up, his body was riddled with bullets. From the darkness of the sleeping quarters, the activist watched as Thimbosa’s body hit the ground. He waited until the men out front departed the scene because he didn’t want to startle American soldiers armed to the teeth. As soon as they were running away from the fire, he decided to do the same. He was making his way past several of the burning huts, and as he was running, he noticed several young boys, ranging in age from 9 to 14, bound to several standing poles several feet out in front of the huts. Well, who says Delta Force doesn’t have a heart? But the activist didn’t think the boys would survive the smoke from the fire that was building up. He thought these kids might stand a better chance surviving the jungle, instead of inhaling smoke and perhaps getting burned. The activist ran up to each pole. He took out his KABAR and cut the bonds that held all the boys together and to the poles. He pointed in the direction of the gate, and the boys followed suit. He ran up ahead of the youngsters and pushed hard against one of the gates. He could hear the little feet scamper behind him as he rested to catch his breath. Once he was sure all the kids were out, he followed them into the jungle. He had a helicopter to catch.