Julio flicked to a news feed of a reporter pointing at the Washington Monument. The top part of it had been sheared off.
“Fifteen minutes ago, twenty drones, each equipped with explosives and coming from all directions, attacked the top third of the Washington Monument. Washington security forces were able to intercept seventeen of the explosive-carrying aerial devices but three of them made it through and crashed into the historic monument. They exploded simultaneously, resulting in the top third of the monument being blown off. While there seems to be no obvious connection, the timing of this attack with the explosion in the New York subway is highly suspicious and authorities believe there may be a connection between the two events. As of now, no person or organization has claimed responsibility.”
Julio turned to Barry and Rayna. “Our friends at Homeland, FBI and the CIA have gone into overdrive, trying to find any morsel of info but, as of now, there’s absolutely nothing, which is scary, scary. All available resources are being thrown at these situations, which makes what I’m about to show you even more dangerous. This is actually the reason I called you down, but then the bombings happened in New York and Washington.”
Julio hit a button on his keyboard and a video appeared. “The picture quality, editing and sound effects are excellent. Whoever put this together knew what he or she was doing. It’s actually a mini-movie. The first few shots are jerky and unstable. Probably shot while traveling in a vehicle.”
* * *
Dawn. The brilliant orange sun was breaking in the dark blue horizon, illuminating flat desert terrain with little vegetation.
A small town emerged in the distance. The camera panned across the town, which appeared small from a distance. Might even be too small to have a name.
As the vehicle got closer, different buildings came into focus and there were single shots of each. Like most towns, religious buildings were the tallest. Many churches featured the Syrian Cross, with clover-like shapes at the top, bottom and the extremities of the crossbar. There was also a brown brick building with two towers, each with its own cross; a bombed-out brick domed building with a cross on top of the dome; a smaller church that was part of a fortress wall; rubble, broken stone, bombed-out cars in the street; and several one-room churches, seating maybe sixty people.
The town itself was like so many Syrian villages—brick or clay buildings, the majority of which were in a state of disrepair or suffering from bomb, artillery or grenade damage.
There was a switch in perspective. The camera showed a twenty-year-old ubiquitous Japanese pick-up mounted with an anti-aircraft weapon. The engine clattered loudly and the shocks were completely shot. Every vibration jogged the unsteady weapons of six armed terrorists. All of them wore masks or balaclavas.
* * *
Julio hit the pause button. “Okay, I want to show you something here. Look at the vehicle. This is not your typical radical Islamic terrorist driving a bunch of fancy Toyota Land Cruisers. This is a Japanese beater that’s older than the kids it’s carrying.”
“What makes you say they’re kids?” asked Rayna.
“I’m looking at body types. These guys, except for the one I’ll come to in a moment, all have the lithe bodies of young men in their teens or early twenties.”
“Something you never had, Julio,” Helena quipped.
Julio ignored the jibe. “But check out this guy. He’s the leader. Even though his face is mostly hidden, you can see his beard is full, his arms muscular, and you only get that dark leathered skin with years of exposure to sun. I’m pretty sure this guy’s a Middle Eastern man in his late twenties, thirties or possibly early forties. If you look at his and the kids’ body language, there’s some kind of father figure image going on. Now check this out.”
Julio zoomed in on the rocket launcher. “See anything unusual?”
Barry answered instantly. “It’s not hooked up. Hell, it might not even be operational, the way that thing looks. And the guns? Some are Chinese. Some are old Russian. I think one of them is from the old Vietnam War.”
“Exactly. And look at the clothes the kids are wearing. Holes in the elbows of the shirts and rips in their pants. This is no fashion statement. Cheap car, cheap clothes, cheap weapons, and busted rocket launcher... what does it mean? These guys don’t have any money. Let’s go on. This is probably an hour or two after the last section.”
Julio hit “play” again.
* * *
The town was starting to wake up. Children and women carried large blue plastic bottles to refill with water. In the small marketplace, vendors started to unpack their vegetables, spices, baked goods and clothes. Men and women in their long robes began to leave their homes. There were a few goats bleating and one person even rode a bicycle.
Then, from behind a bombed-out wall, the men jumped off the pick-up and dashed into the awakening market. The thunderous barrage that followed was powerful... astonishing. Screams of the wounded and dying regaled the smoky air. Tables were upturned and merchandise strewn all over as everyone tried to find protection. Shells exploded like hideous popcorn.
The barrage ended and five men followed the leader as he strode confidently through the town.
The camera picked up a turbaned man in a brick house peering out his window. He thought he saw an open gap and did a quick double check to confirm no one was around. It appeared he was trying to quickly and discreetly get his family to evacuate their home of a dozen generations and hurry to freedom at an abandoned, ramshackle shack down the street.
No such luck. The bearded leader spotted them running. He chased after them and took out a couple of grenades. When he saw where they were headed, he slowed his pace. With the arm strength of a professional baseball outfielder, he threw three explosive miniature pineapples two hundred and fifty feet—right at the family.
“No!” The father saw the first grenade land in front of his wife. Pushing her aside, he threw himself on it. There was an explosion loud enough to rupture eardrums. The father’s body was blown to bits. Milliseconds later, the second little bomb landed in front of his daughter and wife. Another deadly, deafening blast. The body parts of his wife, young daughter and two sons permeated the air. Blood and carcass fragments showered down.
The cacophonous detonation sent a group of children to fearful wailing of tears. The leader spotted them. He barked out orders in Arabic and a phalanx of bullets ended their fear and crying. The young bodies hit the ground in random puddles of crimson.
One brave, or stupid, soul surged from behind the earthen wall of his home, firing bullets from his barely functioning weapon. The leader launched another incendiary grenade. A billow of black smoke and sky-piercing scream indicated he’d scored a bull’s eye. The leader thrust up his fists in triumph before returning to his march of destruction.
Spotting a one-room schoolhouse, the leader and his cronies marched in to see five children huddling with their teacher, praying and no doubt hoping they would be considered too inconsequential for anyone to pay attention to. No such luck. Six men opened fire. The children screamed as they tried to hide behind desks and each other. All were cut to ribbons.
As the team of death left the schoolhouse, a village sniper from an unknown rooftop shot surprising fire at his attackers. An instant from death, the leader’s sensitive ears picked up the sound and he dropped to the ground as the miniature missile whistled by his ear. Other shots whizzed by a cohort’s ear. They were close, too close, and the young man quickly zigged and zagged out of the way.
A quick scan showed the shooter readying to fire again. The leader rolled to the side, leapt up and tossed a grenade skyward. The long, arcing throw landed perfectly, exploding beside the sniper. His body remained on the roof as his head tumbled two stories to the ground.
Then the barrage abruptly ended. The terrorists waved their weapons in the air as they victoriously drove their pick-up down the street. The car abruptly halted when they spotted a shaking man trying to hide behind the door
way of a small Coptic church. Two of the team members pulled him out to the middle of the street and kicked him mercilessly.
“Please, no. Spare me,” he pleaded. “I am nothing. I have nothing.”
The leader called out, “Stop!” Immediately the young men halted their assault. The villager continued to whimper as the leader walked to him and motioned with his head.
Nodding, one of the young men stepped over to hold the struggling man down. It was impossible not to miss the grin on his face and read his lips as he whispered, “Yes!” The leader stood over the simpering man and boomed, “What do you have to say for your sins?”
“Al... Al... Allahu Akbar,” said the man, hoping that God would forgive him for his blasphemy.
“Wrong answer!”
“No, no!” the man screamed, but no one paid any attention to him.
One of the team climbed onto the church’s roof and triumphantly waved a black flag of jihad. A full five seconds were spent on the flag-waver before returning to the leader.
The leader walked to the pick-up truck and took out a scimitar. The blade gleamed in the sunlight, and the leader swung it back and forth as he strolled back to the cowering man.
“Perfect. Just great,” muttered the videographer, the only time his voice was heard.
The leader used two hands to hold up the scimitar, letting it rest on his palms as if offering a sacrifice or present to God. The curved tempered steel blade glistened in the sunlight. On both ends of the handle’s cross guard were carved birds’ heads with ruby eyes.
The leader stared into the eye of the camera. “This is the time of cleansing, of truth. No more false prophets. I swear to God, the only true God, that Sharia will reign. We will kill the infidels, the apostates. When an infidel crosses our path, we must deliver judgment with our hands, with our guns and with our swords.”
From a posture of offering, the leader changed his hand positions so that both gripped the hilt of the ancient weapon. Standing face to the sun, he pointed the tip of the blade skyward and raised his hands over his head. A moment later, justice was served upon the heathen. The hooded executioner turned to the camera and yelled in English, “We are coming for you, America, you pig-friendly slut. You see we are small but, like a mustard seed, we will grow quickly to heights greater than the tallest trees. This is the beginning of the American Muslim Militia, and we will light up America!”
* * *
Julio shut off the disturbing video of homicidal frenzy. Even though many in the room were used to death, there was something so evil, so barbaric about a beheading that fear clanged loud in the moment of quietude.
And that’s just the beginning. Pick up a copy or read for FREE with Kindle Unlimited at your local AMAZON or copy and paste into your browser http://mybook.to/AmericanTerrorist
Also by Wesley Robert Lowe
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THE NOAH REID ACTION THRILLERS
Evil Rises In this prequel novella, rogue monk CHIN arises to redefine Shaolin Kung Fu as a battle plan for his lust for criminal power. Yet in of the darkness glows a glimmer of light… a little boy who might be a savior.
Betrayed New attorney Noah Reid is catapulted into a brutal Shaolin underworld when his boss is discovered to have bilked billions from Chin, the firm’s biggest client, a psychopathic Kung Fu Master.
Heaven Shattered When Noah accompanies his mentor on a journey of death and adventure back to China, Chin’s son King, master of all things connected to snakes, leads a savage charge to recover the family’s illicit fortune with clandestine military precision.
Innocence Assaulted Under pressure from New York’s Russian mob to repay a loan, Queenie, Chin’s beguiling daughter, brings her arsenal of winged destruction to pressure Noah to return her family’s fortune, using a group of school kids as leverage.
The Noah Reid Box Set: Books 1-3 For a limited time, get the first three books in the series plus bonus material for a very healthy discount.
Forsaken Cargo Prince, Chin’s steroid-fueled son, shares a depravity with a Russian mob partner: a lust for children. Noah has taken “their girls” and they want them back. Can Noah shut down this unholy alliance before they drown the Big Apple in depravity?
The Dragon Deception Prez, Chin’s eldest daughter, is a cult leader with a purpose. With cash and influence from her followers, crooked politicians and her father, Prez can build a casino empire on the backs of an unsuspecting Native American Tribe. That is unless family nemesis – Noah Reid stops her first.
Find out more at www.wesleyrobertlowe.com
THE RAYNA TAN ACTION THRILLER SERIES
Recruited is the story of why twenty-six-year-old Rayna Tan chose to leave the secretive world of the elite Canadian Forces Special Operations counter-terrorism unit (JTF2) to join an even more shadowy operation, Fidelitas. She’s a fascinating character: stunningly gorgeous, IQ off the charts, a sniper in the league of Chris Kyle… Yes, Rayna has her flaws but overall, she’s one very dangerous and very human lethal weapon.
American Terrorist A video of desecration and beheading in a small Syrian village appears briefly on the deep web. When the sword-wielding executioner proclaims Jihad on America, no one knows whether to take him and his ragtag marauders seriously. Can they deliver? Or is this a cover for a more devious conspiracy? Rayna Tan, ex-Canadian Special Forces and newly minted covert operative, heads the mission to disarm the potential attack and discovers rats among the radicalists—not every terrorist is a true believer.
The Mandarin’s Vendetta When Rayna goes to China to administer justice to corrupt officials and businessmen who caused death and injury thousands of schoolchildren, a heinous plot is discovered: one of the perpetrators, bent on revenge against the American system that allowed his son to die, plans to kill a million Americans with a deadly new drug.
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About the Author
Wes has worked in media for over twenty years, beginning as a composer for film & tv, including four seasons on Sesame Street. In the 1990’s, he expanded to writing, producing films and digital media.
As a writer and producer, Wes travels extensively— Los Angeles, Toronto, Beijing and Shanghai. His work has been shown on big screens, festivals and broadcast throughout the world. His action thrillers regularly appear on Amazon’s best sellers lists.
As a writer, his stories have breathless plots with high-stakes suspense that churn the psyche. Contemporary worlds infused with mysticism. Relentless, warp-speed action. Colliding and colluding worlds.
Thrillers that grip the soul.
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Acknowledgments
I am indebted to many who have contributed and helped with this book.
Inspiration came from Pacific Unit 280, Chinese Canadian WWII veterans, a group I have been privileged to serve as Chaplain for over twenty years. These men and women who fought for Canada, even though they were not considered citizens or had the right to vote, proved to Canada that Chinese deserved a seat at the table. In 1947, they received the right to vote. My grandfather, who was born in Canada, was almost fifty before he was allowed to vote.
Special mention should be made to Col. Howe Lee, Cdr (Ret'd) King Wan; author, editor and veteran of two tours in Iraq, R.A. Peters, for his editing and on-site insights; Jun Ares for his striking cover design; JW (dv8.ca) for photography and Janet R. Musick for her keen eye to detail.
A great big thanks to the Rayna Tan Launch Team with special thanks going to David Levy, Dave Cohn, Jim W., Lisa Haycocks, Lisa G., Connor Bedell and Ali Lowe. Their suggestions and encouragement were invaluabl
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