book

by Unknown

  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 before.

  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 par-lially 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 hi
s 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."

  "They know I'm here?"

  "Hell, yeah," Jones said. "And they applauded your initiative. Killing all these Arabs is a stroke of genius in their minds. Unfortunately, some politician found out about it, and the shit hit the fan. You know how it goes. If they sent a team of soldiers to help you out and they got caught? Think of the ramifications. That's why they asked us to help. Total deniability."

  Schmidt shook his head. "But I don't need help. Everything's under control."

  Payne disagreed. "No, it's not. There's a problem. A big problem."

  "Sir?"

  "After you went dark," Payne lied, "the CIA received some terrible news. An Islamic group got their hands on some nukes, and we think they have them in Mecca. Probably somewhere near the mosque. Our guess is they're participating in the hajj, cleansing all their sins, in hopes of striking soon."

  "Then what's the problem? Let's wipe those fuckers out."

  "We wish," Jones said. "But that's not the problem. The problem is the wind."

  "The wind?"

  Payne nodded. "This time of year the wind blows to the east, right across the friggin' desert. If we launch an assault and the nukes go off, guess what happens?"

  Schmidt paused, trying to figure it out. "Shit."

  "Shit is right," Jones said. "The radioactivity will blow right across the peninsula. Within hours, it will blanket Taif Air Base, Al-Gaim, and Al-Hada Hospital. We're talking hundreds of dead Americans, all of them loyal soldiers. Hell, we probably know half of them."

  "Fuck!" Schmidt screamed, still tapping his gun on his hip. Much harder than before. Like the constant pounding was helping him think. "Then we gotta hurry, because I already planted the charges. They're set to blow any minute."

  "Relax, man, relax." Payne's voice was calm, not showing any stress. "Were there two?"

  "Yeah, in the eastern towers."

  "Then I got you covered." He pointed toward the bags at his feet. "We found the explosives before we found you."

  "On the tanks? You found them on the tanks?"

  Payne nodded, confident. "Someone taught you how to do this shit. And it sure wasn't D.J."

  "Screw you," Jones teased, trying to keep things light. He figured the more banter there was, the less time Schmidt would have to think. "I taught Trevor plenty of things. I took him to his first strip club."

  Schmidt frowned. "No, you didn't."

  "Well, I would have. And that's what's important."

  Payne cut him off. "If you don't mind, can we talk about it later? Right now we need to get out of here. The sooner, the better."

  "Back through the tunnel?" Jones asked.

  "Yeah. We need to keep off the streets as much as possible. Especially with all the pilgrims arriving. I already sent Trevor's crew ahead." Payne turned toward Schmidt. "Unless you have a better plan."

  "You talked to my guys?"

  "Someone had to," Payne lied. He remembered Schmidt's troubles when he first spotted him, repeatedly calling to his men, asking for their positions. "They said they tried but couldn't get through to you. Is your earpiece working?"

  Schmidt shrugged. "Apparently not. I haven't heard a damn thing in fifteen minutes."

  Jones laughed. "Talk about deja vu. Remember that time in Asia when we had to go looking for your ass? You couldn't hear a thing all night, but you stayed in the bushes for six hours even though the mission should've taken five minutes."

  Embarrassed, Schmidt nodded. "I was just thinking of that."

  "The next day we bought him a case of Q-tips to clean out his ears and a Dumbo watch to help tell time."

  "His trunk pointed to the hour," Schmidt recalled. "At six o'clock it looked like his dick."

  Payne smiled at the memory, glad to see the old Trevor was still in there.

  During the past several hours, Payne had had his doubts, worried that he was going to find some kind of lobotomized zombie he would be forced to put down because nothing human remained. In fact, if Payne had stumbled across him earlier when the clock was still ticking, when he had no time to waste, he would have done just that. No regrets. No remorse. Anything to save the lives of all those people Schmidt wanted to harm.

  But now, how could he do that?

  The threat was over, and Schmidt trusted them enough to follow them back to their truck. From there, they'd sneak across the border and return to Taif, where he'd let Colonel Harrington deal with him. Whether that was prison, psychotherapy, or a combination of the two, Payne figured it was better than putting a bullet into an old friend.

  Sure, he realized Schmidt wouldn't see the light of day for a very long time, if ever. And the truth was he didn't deserve to—not after all the pain and suffering he caused.

  However, in his heart, Payne figured his best choice was bringing Schmidt home alive.

  Unfortunately, he never got the chance.

  * * *

  50

&
nbsp; The bullet was fired over Payne's shoulder. It whizzed past his ear and struck Schmidt in the throat. One second he was laughing about the past, the next he was taking his last breath.

  Blood gushed from his carotid artery, leaking through his pale fingers as he frantically clutched his neck. No words were spoken, no last-second good-byes. He simply dropped his gun and slumped to the ground as a puddle of red formed around him.

  Payne spun and saw two Arab men, both of them armed, wearing dark uniforms that prominently displayed the emblem of Saudi Arabia. The patch had a green palm tree underscored by two crossing scimitars, a curved sword popular in the Middle East. A second insignia, beige and encircled with Arabic script, was sewn on their chest. Payne didn't need a translator to read their badges. He knew all about these men and their barbaric ways.

  They were mutaween.

  "Drop your weapons!" one screamed in Arabic.

  When no one moved, the other repeated the command in English. "Drop your weapons!"

  "Don't shoot," Payne said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. In stressful situations, he knew that people had the tendency to match the volume and the venom of those around them. If he screamed, their adrenaline would flow and they would get more aggressive. But if he stayed composed, they would subconsciously relax, possibly letting their guard down.

  Payne smiled. "It's about time you got here. We weren't sure how long you'd be."

  "Put down your weapon!"

  "Relax. We're the ones who called you. We've been waiting for you to show."

  The lead officer did not bite. "Drop your weapon or you will be shot like your friend."

  "My friend?" Payne repeated. "Why would we be pointing our guns at a friend? He was the person we were sent to stop."

  "Put down your weapon."

  Multiple scenarios floated through Payne's head. He knew he could follow orders and turn himself in, which would probably result in the death penalty—maybe before they even left the complex, since the mutaween were known for their swift justice. He could start a shoot-out, an iffy proposition since his gun was at his side and his opponent, a proven marksman, was aimed and ready to fire. He could delay as much as possible, hoping the other two members of his squad heard him talking and were moving into position. Then again, that wasn't something he could count on—especially not from a soldier who was tripping in his dress less than twenty minutes before. Hell, for all Payne knew, the mutaween had hit the complex with force and had already disarmed his men. There could be twenty of them running around, securing all exits.