Sword of God

by Chris Kuzneski

  With a hint of pressure, he inched his knife into the resin, trying to pry the wire loose. It quivered slightly, moving with his effort as he slowly broke the bond that held it secure.

  First a chip. Then a crack. Then a huge sigh of relief as the wire popped free from the tank but stayed imbedded in I lie detonator. Just like Jones had promised.

  Shit. I owe him afalafel.

  Payne smiled at the thought, realizing it was a debt he’d gladly pay if he managed to get out of the city alive. Unfortunately, he wasn’t ready yet. Not even close. The

  tripwire was one thing; the bomb itself was another. Not only did he have to disarm the timer mechanism, he also had to figure out what to do with the C-4 so it wasn’t used by someone else. Whether that be Schmidt. Or the Saudis. Or some terrorist group that operated out of the area.

  Which meant he had to do more than disarm the bomb.

  He had to take the damn thing with him.

  Jones finished his search of building three but came up empty. Literally.

  The mechanical penthouse did have a water tank, just like Payne had described in building two, but there was no liquid inside. The massive tank was bone dry, not a drop of water or jet fuel to be found. When he tapped on its side, it sounded like a hollow drum.

  “Three is clear,” he announced.

  Jones hustled back across the roof and into the construction elevator. Due to the death of his soldiers, there were still two more towers to inspect. Building five (Sarah) sat to his west, in the back corner of the complex. Strategically, it would be the least likely target, since it posed the smallest threat. On the other hand, building seven (Safa) was right up front, overlooking the main road that would soon be filled with pilgrims. In his mind, that made it a probable target until he stared down at it from the elevator and saw that the top floor was still being built. There was no water tank or mechanical penthouse. There wasn’t even a roof. That meant unless Schmidt found some other weakness on the lower floors, the odds were against its attack.

  To Jones, the building that seemed most vulnerable was building six (Marwah). It was closest to the Great Mosque, sitting just north of Payne’s tower, and its construction seemed to be the farthest along. He saw windows. And stonework. And painting. All the little details that get taken care of after the big stuff was finished. Including the installation of pipes and water tanks.

  “Building six, what’s your status?”

  There was a slight delay. “The elevator is broke, so I’m hooting it to the penthouse.”

  “Current location?”

  “Floor nine.”

  “Nine? What’s the holdup?”

  “There’s scaffolding everywhere, and I keep tripping on my goddamn dress.”

  Payne heard the transmission and nearly burst out laughing; the only thing that prevented it was the severity of the situation. “If Nancy needs my help, I’m available.”

  Jones smiled, glad that Payne was still alive. “Is two clear?”

  “Two is finally clear.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Payne continued. “I spotted a walkway that connects my building with six. I can get to the penthouse before he can.”

  “Where do you want him?”

  “Send him to one of the remaining towers. Whichever is closest to the mosque.”

  “Sending him to seven.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I’m going to ...” Jones stopped, breaking off his response in midthought. Several seconds passed before he spoke again. “I think I see the sniper.”

  The soldiers known as Matthew and Mark were getting frustrated. According to their watches, they should have been heading toward their rendezvous point, not dicking around with the detonator in building six. The explosive had been placed, and fuel was in the tank. Just as it should be. Unfortunately, when Mark tried to set the timer on the device, it wouldn’t start. Either it was defective or broken or its battery was lacking juice.

  Whatever the case, the damn thing didn’t work.

  At this point, they didn’t have many options. The other device was set to go off in less than twenty minutes, and when it did, they didn’t want to be anywhere near the complex.

  The clock was ticking and the pressure was building.

  They couldn’t afford any more delays.

  Spotting the sniper was nothing more than a lucky break. Jones was in the construction elevator in building three, studying the layout of the complex. While he spoke to Payne, he saw a flash of movement in building one. The Hotel Tower would eventually be twice as tall as the others; however, right now it was just a partial shell, a third of its eventual height.

  Jones slowed the elevator for a better look and confirmed his initial sighting. There was a man with a rifle positioned near the northeastern corner. He was gathering his things, getting ready to leave. Maybe to find a better spot. More likely to evacuate the site. Whichever the case, Jones knew this was his best chance to stop him.

  Payne had mentioned a walkway between two and six, and Jones knew the same thing existed between one and three. In fact, all of the buildings were interconnected with a series of bridges and corridors. Two connected with four and six. Three connected with five and seven. And one connected with two and three.

  Seven buildings, but no need to walk through the lobby to move between towers.

  At least that’s how it would be when the complex was done. Right now, the only thing connecting one and three was a series of long steel beams separated by the width of a car. No floor. No ceiling. No windows. Just a lot of open air and five hundred feet to fall if he took a misstep or a strong gust of wind decided to knock him off. If so, he would land in the central plaza, creating a much bigger mess than the two soldiers who were killed by the sniper.

  Screw it, he thought. This guy is mine.

  Jones exited the elevator and walked to the edge of the steel frame. In his mind, the key to staying calm was getting things over with before he had a chance to get nervous, so he pulled his thobe above his knees—not wanting to trip— took a deep breath, and stepped onto the narrow beam. It felt solid underneath his feet, like walking on a curb.

  Step after careful step, he moved at a steady speed. Never looking down. Always focusing on a point five feet in front of him. Make it there, then move to the next. Nothing but small segments. Never large. It was the best way to avoid being overwhelmed.

  The entire trip took thirty seconds. By the end, his heart was pounding and his left hand was quivering from all the adrenaline. He flexed the hand a few times, took a deep breath, then continued forward. Refusing to look back at what he had conquered.

  More concerned with the perils that waited around the corner.

  Payne crept along the outer wall of the mechanical penthouse. Voices could be heard within. Shouting of some kind. He couldn’t make out the words—the wind was whistling, and someone was giving him an update on building seven— but it was definitely an argument.

  Something to be taken advantage of.

  With gun in hand, he opened the metal hatch and slipped inside. Angry words were being exchanged. Two men shouting about their responsibilities. One man said they must finish the job; the other disagreed. The detonator was broken and couldn’t be fixed in the next fifteen minutes. They didn’t have the tools or the extra parts.

  It was music to Payne’s ears.

  He crouched on the stairs, listening to what was being said, hoping to get as much intel as he could. Neither of the voices belonged to Schmidt—that was too much to hope for—but this was half his squad. Two of the men responsible for the violence in the cave. The murders in the village. The plot to blow up Mecca.

  He’d listen for as long as possible before he made his move.

  And when he did, they’d pay for their transgressions.

  48

  When Jones arrived in the northeastern corner, the sniper was no longer there. He had packed his things and abandoned his position less than a minute bef
ore.

  Unfortunately, that was the problem with snipers. They were slippery bastards.

  Jones cursed under his breath and scanned the area for exit points. At this height, elevators were the main option. As far as he could tell, one had been built on each side of l he Hotel Tower. The front shaft was clearly visible from I he plaza, something the shooter would want to avoid. His goal would be to eliminate exposure time. Less exposure meant fewer witnesses.

  The other three were all hidden from the main street, the closest being on the eastern face of the tower. It was partially concealed by building two and less than thirty seconds away. Jones took a chance and sprinted as fast as he could, darting through the equipment and supplies that cluttered the massive space. The squeaking of cables greeted his arrival as the platform dipped below floor level. With no time to waste, Jones squeezed through the bars of the metal tube and jumped into the open shaft, plummeting several feet before landing on top of the elevator.

  Until then, the sniper had been oblivious to Jones’s pursuit. More concerned with the targets below than anyone lurking above. Now, suddenly, he was face-to-face with a black superhero. At least that’s what Jones looked like as he stood on the plummeting steel cage, his white robe fluttering in the breeze like he was in midflight.

  The sniper screamed one word—FUCK—before Jones pulled his trigger.

  The mutaween were feared throughout Saudi Arabia, where they were empowered to enforce Sharia, a system of strict religious laws based on the Qur’an.

  Unlike normal police, the mutaween were given discretionary power to enter homes, interrogate suspects, and punish violators on the spot. Sometimes these punishments were as simple as a warning; at other times they were much more severe. According to Sharia law, the penalty for adultery was death by stoning. If neither of the participants was married, they got off easy: a hundred lashes in a public flogging. Thieves were typically imprisoned for a first-time offense (if the stolen item was inexpensive), but repeat offenders were punished with the amputation of hands or feet. Then again, a more vital body part was cut off if a man or a woman was seen performing a same-sex sexual act. And anyone who was caught campaigning for gay rights was beheaded in a public ceremony.

  However, on such an important religious holiday, the mutaween weren’t searching for grievous offenses such as these as they patrolled the streets around the Great Mosque. They were more concerned with the mundane violations that seemed to increase when Mecca was flooded with Westerners. Dress code infractions. Consumption of alcohol. Possession of un-Islamic items such as American movies or CDs.

  The last thing they were expecting was the sound of gunfire.

  And it came from the Abraj Al Bait complex.

  Covered in blood, Payne left the mechanical penthouse carrying two bags, one over each shoulder. Gun still in hand, he walked to the northern edge of the roof and peered over the thick wall that separated him from an eight-hundred-foot fall.

  This was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.

  The Great Mosque stretched before him, a series of arches and columns built from gray stones found in the local hills. Several towers, trimmed in green and topped with golden spires shaped like crescent moons, rose toward the heavens, casting shadows on the pilgrims who stood in line outside the main gates, patiently waiting to get inside, where they could fulfill their hajj duties. Shifting his focus to the center of the open courtyard, Payne spotted the Kaaba, draped in black cloth, the holy cube that was honored by all Muslims. From this height, he couldn’t see the Black Stone, the focus of so much attention during the past few days, but he knew it was down there, set in the eastern corner of the shrine.

  Thanks to him, it was temporarily safe from peril.

  “Six is clear,” he said as he hustled over to the construction elevator that was supposed to be broken—at least according to his men. In actuality, Schmidt’s crew had turned off the controls so it remained at the penthouse while they went about their work. A smart move on their part, but one that would benefit Payne. With a flick of a switch, it was operational again, and he was able to ride it all the way to the plaza.

  Trevor Schmidt sensed trouble when the rendezvous point was empty. His men were always punctual—trained to be on time, every time—especially in situations like this. The clock was ticking, and their escape depended on a precise schedule.

  He glanced at his watch. The bombs would be going off in less than ten minutes.

  They needed to get to the tunnel soon.

  Scanning the plaza, Schmidt saw the two dead guards that Luke had gunned down. They were dressed in Arab clothes and laid in puddles of blood that matched the color of the towel on the one guy’s head. Schmidt smiled at the image. According to his source, patrols weren’t expected inside the complex, but he always planned for contingencies. That’s why he put his best sniper in the Hotel Tower. He protected the unit while they went about their business.

  “Luke, what’s your status?”

  Thinking back, Schmidt realized he hadn’t heard from Luke since he reported the shootings. Not uncommon for a sniper, who was more concerned with finding his next target than giving updates. Still, it was slightly unsettling when combined with his tardiness.

  The same thing applied to the others. He hadn’t heard from them in several minutes.

  “Matthew? Mark? What’s your status?”

  No answer. Not a single word.

  Last Schmidt had heard, Mark was having trouble with his detonator. He called for Matthew, the engineer, who was in the control room, making sure that the jet fuel was pumped to the proper tanks in the proper amount, to come to the roof and help him with some rewiring. Once the levels were adjusted, Matthew had plenty of time to help. He reported his movement—so Luke wouldn’t shoot him— then scurried to building six.

  But that was a while ago.

  Since that time, there had been silence. No updates. No complaints. Nothing.

  All along, Schmidt had assumed that meant no problems. Now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe there were more guards floating around that he wasn’t aware of. Maybe someone was trapped in one of the towers. Or maybe, just maybe, his transmitter was broken. That had happened once before, on a mission several years ago, but he never knew about it until a soldier was sent to find him. It was so embarrassing, to be pulled out of the field like that, but what could he do?

  “Hello?” he muttered, hoping to avoid a similar incident. “Can anyone hear me?”

  A voice startled him from behind. “I can hear you.”

  49

  Trevor Schmidt turned around slowly, unsure if he was imagining things. He was in the middle of Mecca, a forbidden city in Saudi Arabia, on a secretive mission, yet the voice he heard was out of his past. Like taking a remote control and rewinding five years. Back before he had his own squad. Back when he was in the MANIACs, still learning from the best.

  For the past several months, he’d been having trouble with his long-term memory. Nothing that affected his day-to-day efficiency, but disturbing nonetheless. Pieces of things—incidents from his childhood, lectures from his parents, even advice from his former commander—were no longer there. He tried to pull them up, tried to use them to shape his decisions, but they simply weren’t available. Like computer files that could no longer be accessed.

  Like someone had messed with his circuitry.

  Of course, he had never been an emotional guy; emotions simply weren’t his thing. In his mind, he always considered himself pragmatic, someone who focused on results rather than policies or repercussions. Leave that shit to Congress, he liked to say.

  Just give me a gun and a target, and I’ll take care of the rest.

  Yet, for some reason, that viewpoint had grown stronger in recent weeks. Suddenly everything was black or white. Right or wrong. Good or evil. Us versus them.

  Gray no longer existed in his world.

  Somehow it had been erased.

  Schmidt blinked a few times, just to make sure he wasn’
t seeing things. Years had passed since he’d seen his former mentor. Now Captain Payne was standing in front of him, wearing a white robe that was streaked with blood. He held a gun in his hand. Two bags sat by his feet.

  “It’s been a long time,” Payne said.

  Schmidt nodded, still trying to decide if this was real or imagined. Worried that his conscience was fucking with him right before the bombs went off.

  “You don’t write. You don’t call.”

  Was this guilt? A manifestation of guilt?

  “Schmidt!” Payne barked, just like he used to. “I’m not worthy of a response?”

  “Sir?”

  “What’s with that weak-ass, sir? Say it like you mean it.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Better. Much better.”

  Schmidt stared at him, confused. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to find you. I came to bring you home.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. I heard you were in trouble and I came to get you. Case closed.”

  Schmidt fiddled with the gun he held in his hand. It was pointed at the ground, completely nonthreatening. Every once in a while he tapped it on his hip, absentmindedly, like he forgot it was even there. “I thought you were retired.”

  “I am. But all that changed when I heard about you. I came to get you out.”

  “We came to get you out,” said Jones, who emerged on the other side of the plaza. Far enough from Payne that they had Schmidt hemmed in, just in case their words didn’t work. They figured, with the bombs under control, it was worth a shot. “We flew all night to get here.”

  “D.J.?” he said, even more confused. “I don’t understand. How did you know where I was?”

  “The Pentagon figured it out,” Payne fibbed. “They said something about evidence you left in South Korea. One thing led to another and they asked us to extract you. Just like old times.”