by J B Black
“Hassan, my old friend,” Randall Wilson said. “It’s been a while since I last heard from you. What can I do for you?”
“If you are available,” Hassan said, “I have a project for you.”
“It just so happens that I’m between projects right now,” Randall said.
“I must warn you that there has already been one go at this project and it failed,” Hassan said.
“I am not concerned,” Randall replied. “I have succeeded where others have failed before.”
“Very well then,” Hassan said. “Where are you and what time is it there?”
“I’m in Paris, France and the time here is three fifteen in the morning,” Randall said.
Hassan chuckled. “Paris, you say. Could that have been some of your handiwork I saw on the news yesterday?”
Randall laughed. “Anything is possible,” he replied, noncommittally.
“Give me a few minutes to make your travel arrangements and I’ll call you right back,” Hassan said and broke the connection.
“Who was that?” Megan asked.
“Give me a second to finish up here and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Hassan pulled up the travel booking website he frequently used. In Randall Wilson’s name, he booked a first class seat on Delta flight 1022 leaving Charles de Gaulle airport at 8:35 a.m. and arriving at JFK airport in New York City at 12:20 p.m. Then he booked a first class seat on Delta flight 423 which would leave JFK at 1:30 p.m. and arrive in Atlanta at 4:07 p.m. And finally, he booked a first class seat on Delta flight 1236 which would leave Atlanta at 5:38 p.m. and arrive in Pensacola, Florida at 5:49 p.m. After payment was made by credit card, he received an e-ticket.
Hassan then called Abdul Aswad on his burner phone. After the sign and co-sign code phrases had been given, Hassan said, “Imam, I need you to have someone meet a friend at the airport. He’ll need a car and some other items. I’ll upload a file with the details for you in the next few minutes.”
“I will have someone at the airport to meet him,” Abdul said.
Hassan ended the call with Abdul. He quickly composed a text message to Randall Wilson that gave Wilson the details of his flight itinerary, how he would recognize the person who would meet him at the airport in Pensacola, Florida, the name and address of the person he wanted terminated, and a file attached with the images of Reb Rogers and the e-ticket.
Hassan sent the text message to Wilson. Then he called him.
When Wilson answered, Hassan said, “I’ve sent you a text message with a file attachment. You’re on Delta flight 1022 leaving Charles de Gaulle at 8:35 this morning. You’ll be met at your final destination with transportation and gear. Any questions?”
“No, just be sure to make the necessary arrangements for my fee,” Wilson said, before breaking the connection.
When Hassan had met Randall at the camp in Libya with the first team of jihadis from Pensacola, Randall told Hassan to keep him in mind if he ever needed help on a special project. When Hassan asked Randall what types of projects he was available for, Randall mentioned several including assassination. Randall also told Hassan what his fees were for the various services and how to make payment to his bank account in the Cayman Islands.
After making the necessary payment to Randall’s bank account, Hassan called Randall again and said, “Your fee has been taken care of.”
Randall, who was online monitoring his bank account in the Cayman Islands, saw the deposit to the account and said, “I’ll start packing.”
Hassan then prepared a file with the pertinent information Abdul Aswad would need for Randall’s arrival in Pensacola and uploaded it to his organization’s website on the darknet for Abdul to access.
Once that was done, Hassan turned around on the bed to face Megan. “To answer your question, I was speaking with my friend Randall Wilson, who, by the way, was behind the terrorist attack in Paris that we heard about on the news, yesterday.
“I met Randall last year at a training camp in Libya. He’s the bastard offspring of an English barmaid who was raped by a man of middle-eastern descent. That was the story his mother told him. He grew up poor, joined a gang in his neighborhood, got caught stealing a car, and went to prison where he discovered that he was a born killer. He discovered his Muslim roots while he was in prison and when he got out he went to a mosque where he was introduced to the jihadist movement and was sent to the very same training camp in Libya where I met him to learn how to be a proper terrorist.
“He has fought against the infidels in Afghanistan and in Iraq. He’s damn good at what he does.
“He will kill the Butcher of Lashwan, this Reb Rogers, I promise you that.”
CHAPTER 35
Aboard Reb’s Revenge
Out in the Gulf of Mexico
70 Miles off Seaside Beach, Alabama
Saturday, April 17, 2010
10:45 p.m. Central Time
When the Revenge arrived at the next oil rig, Reb found that they had the place to themselves. The radar indicated that the nearest vessels were back at the rig they had just come from. Reb pulled within fifty feet of the rig and turned on the boat’s auto-pilot system to hold the Revenge in position.
Reb and Billy went below deck to the cabin where the three jihadis had been stashed during the ride out to the rig. They hauled the three up on deck one-by-one, while Honey and Rusty removed the lids from the four buckets labeled LARD.
Inside of the buckets, there was a bloody, soupy mix of fish parts and fish guts—commonly referred to as chum—that Rusty had been accumulating and saving for his monthly shark fishing expedition. When Honey had asked Rusty if he had any chum she could borrow, he had been reluctant to give up his supply, but, once she had explained to him that what she had in mind involved the middle-eastern looking men Rusty had encountered earlier in the evening—the very same ones who had called him an inconsequential old fool—Rusty had quickly agreed to donate his chum to Honey’s plan.
After Honey and Rusty had removed the lids on all of the buckets, Honey went back to the helm, took her seat at the controls and disengaged the boat’s auto-pilot system. She then put the boat in forward gear and, at idle speed, steered the boat so that it would take a circular path around the oil rig. In the meantime, Rusty started dipping a long handled, homemade ladle into the first bucket and slinging the chum as far as he could away from the boat toward the oil rig.
When they had all three jihadis laying on the deck in the stern of the boat, Reb and Billy grabbed up Tariq and Omar, propped them against the back of the helm seats and—using bungee cords—secured them there in a standing position so they could watch what was about to happen to Mohamed.
Both of the jihadis jerked their heads from side-to-side trying to take in their situation. They didn’t like what they saw.
Reb and Billy grabbed up Mohamed and sat him down on the bench seat in the stern. As Billy stepped back to watch, Reb started unwinding the duct tape gag that had been wrapped around the bearded face of the jihadi in order to keep him quiet. Several layers of tape had been required because of the beard. When he got to the bottom layer that was stuck to Mohamed’s facial hair, Reb jerked on the tape with the idea that by doing so the trauma would be over quickly.
As soon as Mohamed’s mouth was free of the tape, he howled in absolute agony. Much of his beard had been ripped out by the roots and Mohamed was genuinely concerned that his beard would never grow back. Tears streamed down his face and he hung his head in shame.
Reb rolled the hair covered duct tape into a ball. He started to throw it overboard, but changed his mind and walked to the helm where he kept a litter bag for trash and disposed of it there.
Reb walked back and stood in front of Mohamed, who was glaring up at Reb with hate filled eyes.
“Who sent you?” Reb demanded.
The jihadi spat in Reb’s face.
By now, the Revenge had made a full circuit around the oil rig. The chum that Rusty was slinging out i
nto the sea had started doing its job.
Reb jerked Mohamed up from where he was sitting and propelled him to the port side of the stern and forced the upper half of Mohamed’s body out over the side of the boat. Mohamed saw at least three shark fins circling in the water between the boat and the oil rig.
Reb spun Mohamed around and said, “Aren’t you the asshole who said something about raping my girlfriend?”
Reb turned back toward Honey and said, “Honey, let Billy take the helm and come help me with this asshole.”
Billy went to the helm and took over the job of steering the Revenge, and Honey joined Reb in the stern.
Rusty, who was finished chumming, pointed toward a group of fins and said, “Damn, I think one of those sharks out there is a Great White. Those things can eat a man whole”
“I don’t know about you, Reb,” Honey said, “but, if it was me, I would not want to take my chances with a Great White shark swimming around out there.”
“I’m with you, sweetheart, but what can I do?” Reb said, as he knelt down and started cutting the terrorist’s pant legs off just below the knee with his tactical folding knife. “I asked him who sent him and he spit on me. If he doesn’t tell me who sent him and his buddies, he’s going swimming with the sharks. That’s all there is to it.”
“Sweetie,” Honey said, looking at the terrorist, “I hope you’re not a virgin because, if you don’t tell us who sent you, you’re a fool if you think you’re going to get laid by seventy-two virgins in the afterlife after those sharks tear you apart. You’ll just die a really horrible death and never know what good sex is.”
Honey unbuttoned her shirt, revealing the bikini top underneath that did little more than support her breasts. Standing there in front of Mohamed, she held her hands under her breasts and taunted the jihadi with the sight of her breasts jutting out at him. Mohamed stared lustfully at her breasts for a moment, then looked away and started whimpering.
“Well, bless your heart,” Honey said. “If the very sight of a woman’s breasts is so disturbing to the males in your society that you can’t control yourselves from molesting women and require that they wear full-length burlap bags to conceal their bodies because of your lack of self-control, then you have no business being in my country. You obviously don’t know how to treat your women and why they put up with it is beyond my understanding.
“Now, I realize you’re probably a virgin and you’ve never had the chance to play with puppies like these and it’s a real shame those sharks will eat you before you get that chance, but that’s what’s going to happen, if you don’t answer our questions.”
After cutting both of the terrorist’s pants legs off below his knees, revealing the terrorist’s hairy legs, Reb continued to kneel down in front of him holding his tactical folding knife in his right hand.
“Reb, darling, what are you going to do with that knife?” Honey asked innocently.
“Well, sweetheart, I was planning on just making some cuts on this jihadi asshole’s legs so the blood would draw the sharks to him,” Reb said.
Reb reached up and, in one swift motion, jerked the terrorists pants down around his ankles and then turned to Honey and said, “But now what I’m thinking is that, if I cut his dick off in this life, will he be able to do anything about those seventy-two virgins in the afterlife? What do you think, sweetheart?”
“Our Imam sent us,” Mohamed screamed, as all his willpower disappeared, and his bladder failed him. Urine ran down his leg forming a yellow puddle around his feet on the boat deck.
Quickly standing up—to avoid the puddle forming at Mohamed’s feet—Reb yelled, “Who’d you say sent you? Someone named Imam?”
“No, no, it was our Imam. The Imam at our mosque sent us. His name is Abdul Aswad,” Mohamed said. “Pleeease,” he wailed, “don’t cut off my manhood. I will tell you anything. Just don’t ruin me.”
“Where’s this mosque of yours located?” Reb shouted.
“It’s at 600 West Winthrop Avenue in Pensacola,” Mohamed whimpered.
Reb turned to Honey and Rusty and said, “Hold on to this asshole, while I go have a talk with the other two.”
Reb moved over in front of Omar and ripped off the duct tape gag from his mouth so he could speak.
“Who sent you?” Reb asked.
“It is true,” Omar said. “Abdul Aswad, our Imam, he sent us.”
“Where does he live?” Reb demanded.
“He lives at our mosque at 600 West Winthrop Avenue in Pensacola,” Omar said. “He lives in the apartment in the back of the mosque.”
Reb moved over in front of the last jihadi and, after ripping off the duct tape gag, said, “Who sent you?”
“Allah sent me to cut your head off, infidel, and to rape your whore and to establish the Caliphate and subjugate your country to sharia law and, if I don’t succeed, you can be assured that my brothers will,” Tariq said, with a sneer.
Billy, who was steering the boat, turned around and shook his head, thinking, Whoever said you can’t fix stupid must’ve had this asshole in mind.
No longer able to contain his rage, Reb reached into his right front pocket and brought out his tactical folding knife, flicked it open, and sliced through the bungee cord holding Tariq upright. He closed the blade and returned the knife to his pocket. Quick as a rattlesnake striking, Reb’s left hand shot out and grasped Tariq by the throat. Reb then grabbed Tariq’s belt buckle with his right hand and lifted him up above his head. Reb swung around so that he was facing toward the oil rig, took two long strides, and catapulted Tariq out into the shark infested water where he landed in a big splash.
Tariq was only in the water a moment when the first shark swam up to him and ripped a chunk out of his right thigh. He screamed once in agony and then another shark dragged him under the water.
Reb walked back over to where Omar was standing.
“Hey asshole, you still want to cut my head off and rape my girlfriend?” Reb asked, as he cut the bungee cord securing the jihadi.
Omar was so terrified of what he feared was about to happen to him that he couldn’t speak. Instead he just shook his head from side-to-side.
“Reb, you need a hand with this one?” Billy asked.
“Yeah, Billy,” Reb said.
Billy engaged the auto-pilot and came over to help Reb. They dragged Omar over to the side of the boat where Honey and Rusty were holding onto Mohamed.
“Billy, you wanna grab this guy’s feet?” Reb said.
Billy bent down and grabbed Omar by the ankles and lifted as Reb, who had a firm grasp of Omar under his armpits, let him fall back so that he was parallel to the deck of the boat.
Reb looked at Billy and said, “Ready?”
Billy nodded.
Reb and Rusty swung Omar outward.
Reb said, “One.”
Reb and Rusty swung Omar outward again—his body a little higher this time.
Reb said, “Two.”
On the third swing outward, as Omar’s body was as high as it was going to get, Reb said, “Three.”
Reb and Billy released Omar at the same time and Omar yelled, “Nooooo,” as he flew out over the side of the boat and into the shark infested water where he landed with a loud splash. Omar started screaming as soon as he hit the water. He continued screaming as the sharks attacked him.
“Please don’t throw me to the sharks,” Mohamed wailed. “I don’t want to die.”
After throwing Mohamed to the sharks and the sharks finished their job, Billy said, “You notice they didn’t start any of that Allah Akbar shit as they went to meet their maker?”
“I think we’ve learned a valuable lesson here,” Honey said. “You can fix stupid. You’ve just got to eliminate it from the gene pool.”
“What are we going to do about that damn minivan of theirs that’s parked at my marina?” Rusty asked.
“I’ll call it in to the junkyard that handles the abandoned vehicles for Seaside Beach,” Billy said.
“They’ll pick it up tomorrow, crush it, and sell it as scrap metal to the highest bidder.
“Okay then, let’s get out of here,” Reb said. “I’ve got an Imam I need to see.”
CHAPTER 36
Seaside Tower Condominium Complex
Seaside Beach, Alabama
Sunday, April 18, 2010
12:00 a.m. Central Time
Reb, Honey, and Rusty got off the west elevator on the 12th floor and started walking down the breezeway toward Reb and Rusty’s condos.
They had already parted company with Billy, who had to go in to work in the morning, when he got off the elevator on the 6th floor.
When they reached Rusty’s condo, Reb and Honey stopped and waited while Rusty unlocked his door.
“I appreciate your help tonight, Rusty,” Reb said.
“I guess you’re going to go on over to Pensacola, tonight?” Rusty said.
“Their Imam sent them after me,” Reb said. “I’m going to find out why and I’m going to make him regret it.”
“You sure you don’t need any help?” Rusty asked.
“Thanks, but we’ve got it,” Reb said.
Reb and Honey continued down the breezeway to Reb’s condo. Reb unlocked the door and, when he stepped inside, he realized that the lights were on and, as he was drawing his handgun, he heard a familiar voice say, “That you, Reb?”
Reb walked down the hallway to the living room where he saw his old friend Jake Gant sitting in one of his easy chairs. Jake had an MP5 laying across his lap.
“Well, this is an unexpected surprise. What the hell are you doing here, Jake?” Reb asked.
Jake saw Honey standing behind Reb and got up. He said, “You must be Honey. You’re even prettier than Reb said you were.”
“Honey this is Jake Gant and Jake, as you correctly surmised, buddy, this is Honey,” Reb said.
“Nice to meet you, Jake,” Honey said and, being pretty tired out, went and took a seat on the couch. “You’ll have to forgive me but it’s been a long day.”
Without waiting for Jake to tell him why he was there or why he had a submachinegun, Reb went into the kitchen and came out with three long neck bottles of ice cold beer and a bucket full of cold fried chicken and biscuits. He went over and handed a beer to Jake and then joined Honey on the couch, handed her a beer, and placed the bucket of chicken and biscuits between them.