by J. L. Saint
The fear inside the vehicle had grown into a clawing beast, ripping at them both. He could feel Mari’s heart and soul clamoring as hard as his. She cried out for help again, clearly trying to appeal to her sister, and he couldn’t stop the tears burning the backs of his eyes.
God help him. Everything inside him wanted to wrap around her, pull her impossibly close to his soul, and make the whole world right. But that wasn’t going to happen. Mari’s sister continued to rail at their brother in their native dialect.
“Tell me, Fahran! Can you not hear Mari crying for help? Your sister, someone Allah expects you to protect.” Mari’s sister’s voice became louder with every question. “Tell me and her what happens next? You take her to Father and what then? Will you hold her upright as he puts a bullet into her heart? Or will he punish her by ordering those in the camp to stone her? Will you honor Father then? Will you pick up a rock and throw it at her? What will you aim for? Her head and pray she dies quickly? Or will you make her suffer as those men who attacked her did and bruise and break her body? What then will make you and the rest any different from those evil men? Is that a man your son can be proud of?”
“Silence!” Fahran slammed on the brakes. They fishtailed on the gravel.
“No. I want an answer. What will you do? And what of Mother? Will she be forced to watch? Will you throw a stone then to honor our father?”
Fahran didn’t reply. He pressed the gas pedal hard and spun wildly in the gravel as he raced ahead. Mari’s sister only yelled louder, more hysterically, as she repeated her questions over and over.
Mari shuddered and sobbed, crying so violently that Roger feared for her baby. He’d prayed for an intervention of the status quo, but hell, something logical and useful would have helped him. This uncontrolled drive to hysteria was worse than the indifference. He and Mari were tossed back and forth with bruising force.
Then suddenly Fahran cried out in anguish. “Allah! Please!” He slowed the van to a stop.
Roger cringed inside. He recognized the cry of a man caught between two hells. He’d known it intimately since Lebanon and the moment he’d ordered a Samson missile strike on the building in which all technical signs indicated that DT’s team had been wiped out by insurgents and a top al-Qaeda leader had entered the building with a storm of men.
Mari’s sister stopped yelling.
“Maisa, if I fail to bring Mari to Father then I will die. I don’t know what is next. What am I supposed to do? My wife and son are under the care of Father and Salaam’s guards in Quetta for a reason. They will be harmed if I don’t do as Father demands.”
Roger was more than familiar with the place. Quetta, the capital of Pakistan’s Balochistan province had become a focus in 2007 when the captured Taliban spokesman Abul Haq Haqiq revealed that wanted Taliban leader Mullah Mohammed Omar was hiding there, reportedly with the help of Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI). The man had yet to be captured since his escape from Afghanistan in 2001 where, as head of the Supreme Council and commander of the Faithful of Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, he’d sheltered Osama bin Laden and numerous militants. In fact, despite all US intelligence capabilities, no one knew for sure what the Taliban’s fervent leader looked like except that he was one-eyed.
“What do I want you to do, Fahran? Let them escape. Do it now. We can tell Father Mari’s husband got me and would have killed me if you didn’t let them go.”
Roger couldn’t believe what he was hearing even as he cried out in frustration. Why intervene now? Why not several hundred miles ago? He had no doubt Mari’s father had enough men to hunt him and Mari down, but hell he’d take the odds. His breath and heart seemingly froze as he waited for Fahran’s reply.
The rap of metal on glass ended everything—Fahran’s choice and Roger’s hope. Roger listened as the guard suspiciously questioned why Fahran was just sitting in the road. Then he told Fahran to “hurry to the camp. Something bad happened in Atlanta and Salaam was returning earlier than planned.”
The short ride to the camp was made in dreaded silence. A hefty dose of reality set in when men opened the van doors and yanked him and Mari to the ground. Even if Fahran had freed them minutes ago or an opportunity to escape had risen, neither of them would have been able to move. His arms and legs were useless, throbbing masses of excruciating pain as more blood circulated and the tape binding his ankles was cut. He clenched his teeth. Mari cried out in agony. Was it just the return of her circulation? Was it the baby? God, help. Please!
Neither of them could walk, so four men and three guards—all armed—dragged them into a crude building that surprisingly was set up like a mess tent with benches, tables and a kitchen area. Hardcore assault rifles hung on the men’s shoulders—AK-47s and M4s. The men stopped before a man with slashing brows that were more prominent than his twisted turban, and a forest of iron-gray hair surrounding his grim mouth. Outrage burned in his deep-set black eyes.
“Who is the kafir with this worthless sharmotah?”
Fahran stepped forward. “He is Maryam’s husband.”
“A nonbeliever? No wonder Allah punishes us. She defies all of Islam with her sin.”
Roger stared furiously at Mari’s father. The elderly man had to be a little insane to believe the poison he spewed so fervently. Demented or not, Roger wanted to pound the man’s face into the ground. He could kill him for what he’d done to Mari, what he was doing now, and what he planned to do to her at any minute. White-hot rage coursed through Roger.
Fahran gasped and in one glance between him and the large-screen TV mounted behind Mari’s father, Roger knew the situation’s escalation potential had skyrocketed. His cousin’s face, the mug so similar to his own was front and center on CNN, speaking live from the White House. Arabic scrolled from right to left at the bottom, moving too fast for Roger’s rusty skills to completely understand but seeing his own name and that of his Uncle John in the mix, it was a sure bet the focus of the speech wasn’t on the plummeting world economy. Had Roger been standing, he would have had to lock his knees to stay upright.
Mari’s brother knew who he was. It wouldn’t take them long to find out Mari had lied about their marriage, unless Roger could convince them it was a very recent, completely secret event.
Once Fahran blew the whistle, they’d either kill Mari and him or use them to get to Paul. Adrenaline pounded through Roger’s veins, bringing strength as he waited for the axe to fall. But Fahran didn’t say anything. He just stared at him.
“They must both die!” Mari’s father shouted. “Take them to the field. Once her sins cease, then Allah’s blessings will return to us.”
Mari cried out through her duct-taped mouth.
“Silence!” Her father jerked his rifle from his shoulder, grabbed the stock and swung the butt at Mari’s head. Hands still bound behind his back, Roger exploded into action. Breaking free from the guard, he head-butted Mari’s father in the solar plexus. The older man went down, knocked unconscious. With a spinning round kick, he gave the guard rushing toward him an incapacitating blow to the head and would have been able to grab the man’s M4 and keep his balance if his hands had been tied in front. Instead, he wavered to stay upright, which gave the second guard coming at him the advantage. Roger’s kick to the man’s stomach didn’t have the impact needed to put the man on the ground.
The man grabbed Roger’s foot and twisted, sending Roger falling. As a last effort, Roger directed his weight and every ounce of his being toward Mari, who was struggling against the guards holding her. One of them had a pistol to her head.
Roger managed to knock Mari back from the guards’ grasps. The pistol fired way too late to cause Mari harm. They fell to the ground with him on top.
He didn’t even look at the men converging on them. He kept his gaze on Mari’s terrified one, and tried to tell her what was left burning inside him once everything had been stripped from him. There was only her, what he felt for her, what he wanted from her, what he wanted
to give her. But he was jerked back before he could communicate anything at all.
“Kill them,” a man shouted. “Kill them now.”
This was it. The end. What he wanted to say to the woman who’d become more important than everything else was still stuck in his gut. Life sucked even in its last moments.
Chapter Thirty-One
Outskirts of the White Aryan Vipers (WAV) Militia Training Camp
Harnett County, North Carolina
Beck uncovered a semi-broken stem on a baby poplar tree then pointed out several footprints in the soft dirt. “Dugar was here. Trail ends at this cliff. Do you smell what I smell, DT?”
Jack sniffed, identifying the faint odor lingering in the air as he spun a three-sixty. “Gasoline.”
“Yep. Look for another cave.”
Jack set his nose to work. The beaten man had been identified as the missing ATF agent and sent on to the hospital. There’d been no sightings on the dirt bike and Jack convinced the wrangling enforcement head to let him and Beck go back and track Dugar. He was beginning to think they were wasting precious time. Maybe he and Beck should have made a bid to infiltrate the Viper camp.
The fuel smell became stronger by a pile of rocks about ten feet out from the vine-covered cliff. “Gas fumes are coming from here. Maybe he poured gas on these.”
Beck grunted. “You think he’s packing gas?”
“Maybe. It would make sense if he’d stashed a dirt bike to escape on. Then again, maybe not,” Jack added as he moved an outer rock and saw rusted metal. Beck joined him and within a few seconds they uncovered a hole capped by an old, round BBQ grill. It was a tunneled entrance to something that angled too far to the left to see anything other than dirt. A wormhole to hell most likely. Walking into a cave was one thing, but this opening was barely wide enough to fit a man. “I don’t like it.”
Beck slid inside headfirst. His voice echoed back, muffled and eerie. “Me either. If it caves, you know what to do.”
“Yeah. Carve a headstone. What do you want it to say?”
“Beware. Friends are more deadly than enemies.”
“Ha.”
“Don’t laugh. You’re next. I’m feeling airflow. Could mean there’s a larger entrance to this sucker.”
“Big enough for a bear?” Beck didn’t yell back and Jack bent closer to the entrance. “Beck? Answer me, man.”
“No. No bear, but big enough for a monster. You’ll want to see this. Come on down. The tunnel is sound but avoid that wire hanging loose. Seems we entered this sucker through the chimney. Ho ho ho. It’s Christmas.”
Jack reluctantly shimmied headfirst into the tunnel and sweated bullets until he reached a wider space where he could crawl on his hands and knees. The diamond in his pocket that he’d yet to ask Lauren to wear because the perfect moment had never come scorched his conscience. What if he NEVER got the chance?
Shit. Jack mentally slapped himself. Distractions like this killed a man. He had to get a grip. Lauren was there for him and he had to have faith in that and in her no matter what came next. Taking a deep breath, he blamed his lapse on the tunnel. He’d always hated underground crap and tight spaces. In his book, spelunkers were nuts looking for a grave.
It was also true that ever since Lebanon, his phobia had worsened. Maybe he’d come too close to being buried alive to tolerate closed spaces for long.
The tunnel led down to a chamber about ten by twelve. As Jack dropped to the ground, he had to avoid the charred logs and ashes of an old fire. It was Christmas all right, if you were a Kaczynski, Rudolph or McVeigh. A battery-powered work lamp—likely accidentally left on—revealed half dozen professional-grade explosives-storage boxes neatly lined against one wall. All of them had the number 88 painted in red on the sides. Two of the boxes were left open. A few C4 bricks were in one. Homemade blasting caps in the other.
Eighty-eight. Numeric code for HH, Heil Hitler.
On the opposite wall, a folding table held wooden cabinets that opened on the top and both sides like jewelry boxes, providing bomb-making workstations with wiring, electronic supplies, timers and battery-operated tools. Corkboards at the back of the boxes held black-and-whites of Hitler, snapshots of several buildings and a bird’s-eye view of Fort Bragg’s entire layout.
Chilling.
The battle cry of white supremacist David Lane from the infamous group known as The Order capped the board. “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.”
The gas smell came from gallon jars where Dugar had C4 dissolving in gasoline, likely to make RDX powder for his homemade blasting caps.
“This shit just got deeper.” Jack went for his cell. “No bars.”
Beck stepped forward and Jack clamped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, pulling him back. “This is the guy that planted IEDs in Neil’s house. As sure as I am breathing he’s booby-trapped his treasure trove here. That loose wire in the tunnel was likely one before he disarmed it.” Jack swallowed hard. Hopefully Dugar had disarmed it completely. An explosion would bury them. “He’s on the move with explosives and I for one want to be alive to stop his ass.”
Beck grunted. “Then pray hard. We better go back out the way we came in. No guarantee but we made it through once so the odds are better.”
A cold sweat broke across Jack’s brow. His heart pounded every inch of the way to the surface as he and Beck worked against gravity and crumbling soil. All he could think of was how much time did they have to figure out Dugar’s target before he detonated?
Jack spit bullets until they reached cell reception. They were close to the surface when his call finally connected. Before he could say anything an explosion shook the ground and dirt crumbled around them at an alarming amount.
“Move. Move. Move!” Beck yelled, pushing Jack forward. They came scrambling out of the tunnel and crawled their way well past the threat of being sucked under by the cave-in.
The explosion hadn’t come from the cave or their immediate area, but it had been close. They were too late. Had Dugar targeted the gathering authorities? Jack hit Redial.
Mac answered. “You two had better get back here.”
“What blew?”
“Something big inside the militant’s camp.”
“What about the commander or Mari?”
“No sign of them from any of the posted lookouts. By all reports, injured Vipers are screaming and running in every direction inside the camp as if caught by surprise. This wasn’t a planned detonation by them and we’d yet to do anything on our end to trigger an explosion. Ambulances are on the way. If the Lt. Col. is behind the explosion though, then he’s my new hero.”
“We found Dugar’s C-4 cache with possible targets posted, including a full layout of Fort Bragg. He’s on the move with explosives. Do you think he blew the camp?” Jack scrambled through different scenarios. Why would Dugar blow up his fellow Vipers? “Shit. Mac. The Viper camp explosion could be a decoy. Spread the word. Everyone be on the lookout.”
Dugar eased the ambulance as close as he could to the thick of the activity. He’d hoped that by bombing the camp’s kitchen and propane tank, he’d start a gun battle between the Vipers and the authorities. Instead the yellow-bellied Slayer was negotiatin’ with the know-it-all authorities to let the injured be carried out to the hospitals.
Shit. Nobody could do anything right these days. He had to do it himself. But he was prepared for the job. “Ya hear me, Lloyd? I’m doin’ it right. You’d be proud.”
Show me. Show me you’re worthy.
“Just you watch.” Easing out of the ambulance that was set to blow in twenty, Dugar grabbed his “special” medical kit and blended into the crowd. He’d leave a few party favors for his guests before moving to his observation spot where Sugar and the rest of his supplies waited.
He planted just enough C4 to take out the majority, but leave the fringes alive, and him untouched. No point in putting on a show if you can’t enjoy the drama. That’s wh
at he didn’t get with this suicide-bomber shit. To go to all that trouble and miss the real rewards of your labor was just plain stupid in his book.
He didn’t get this whole virgins-waiting thing either. So what if there were a million of them. If ya done blown your dick off, they can’t do ya any good.
Chapter Thirty-Two
GBI Headquarters
Decatur, Georgia
Rico’s mind kept drifting back to Angie’s pale face as he struggled to focus on the semi-fast-forwarding stream of video. He’d shredded his insides to a pulp with self-blame. The only thing fueling his ability to function was his driving rage to get the bastards behind it all. That and the ibuprofen he popped like candy. Everyone needed to stop telling him he should be in the hospital. He’d suffered worse injuries on missions and had kept going until the job was done. Just because he was on American soil and not hostile territory didn’t mean he was going to wimp out. In fact, considering the stakes, he needed to push himself even harder. But it wasn’t enough. They weren’t getting anywhere.
As SA Gibson had said, the bank’s surveillance camera only recorded activity entering and exiting the motel parking lot from the end of the manager’s office. Anyone could come and go from the other end without notice, so getting what they wanted off the security camera was looking dim. He’d identified the cab, even timed its appearance shortly after the shooting at Piedmont Park, but he’d yet to see the black Honda. The BOLO for the car with front-end damage had yet to turn up a lead.
“We’ve got nothing.” Rico hit the Pause button and slammed his fist on the desk. “The pain, the loss was all for nothing.”