Ford didn’t say anything for a moment; then a chuckle came from the phone. “No, I guess not. Oh, Brad Parker says to tell you hello.”
“Right back at him. He gonna be all right?”
“Yeah, he’ll be fine. He’ll be back in the field before you know it.”
“Fighting the shadow wars,” McCabe said.
“Yeah. Somebody’s got to do it.”
For a second McCabe felt that old familiar pull.
Then his wife and daughter laughed in the kitchen, and it went away.
“Good night, Fargo.”
“It’s morning over here—” Ford began, but McCabe closed the phone and didn’t hear any more after that. He turned the phone off, set it on the table beside his chair, picked up the remote, and turned on the TV. Nothing on the networks but special reports about what had happened today, he realized after a minute or two of flipping through the channels. He found a rerun of an old sitcom, heaved a sigh, and sat back to watch.
By the time Terry looked into the living room a few minutes later, McCabe’s eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell regularly.
Terry smiled and let him sleep.
Hamed al-Bashar sat on the bunk in the tiny cell, unmoving, his hands clasped between his knees. He didn’t know exactly where he was, but he knew it didn’t matter. He would tell the infidels nothing, no matter what they did to him. He would never betray his fellow warriors in the cause of jihad.
And soon the infidels would give him a lawyer. Despite the fact that he was not an American citizen and had come to this country only to do it grievous harm, the fools would bend over backward to make sure none of his “rights” were violated.
The Americans didn’t know it, but they had only one real right—the right to die, crushed by the inevitable tide of Islam that would sweep over the entire planet sooner or later. Today’s mission might have failed, but there would be another, and another, and another, and as always, the Americans would slumber on until it was too late.
In the end, Hamed knew, he and his compatriots wouldn’t even have to defeat the Americans. They were doing it to themselves with every day that went by when they refused to admit the true extent of the danger they faced. They brought themselves one step closer to extinction with each sneering, sanctimonious newscast, with each march by chanting, sign-waving “peace” protestors who had no idea what true peace cost, with each Supreme Court decision that took power out of the hands of the people and placed it in the greedy grasp of liberal politicians.
In the gloom of the cell, a smile spread slowly across Hamed’s face. He was nothing, a speck of dust in a great wind blowing from the east, a wind that one day would scour the earth clean of the infidels and their corruption. If it was the will of Allah, he would live to see that day.
If not…well, he was secure in the knowledge that it was coming anyway.
A quiet sound that no one else heard came from the cell.
Laughter, and a whispered “Allahu akbar!”
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2008 William W. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 0-7860-2066-0
Jackknife Page 27