by Peter Parkin
And Fadiyah was respectful to a man—she knew what a man needed and was fully prepared to make him feel special. One thing that David liked about Arab women was their willingness to fake orgasms. White women never did that. David needed to know that the woman underneath him feared and respected him enough to give him that satisfaction. He didn't care whether they actually climaxed or not—what he cared about was them wanting him to think they were satisfied. That demonstrated the pinnacle of respect.
He rolled off to the side, and glanced at the clock on the side table. It wouldn't be long now—phase one would be finished and he would receive a text message, photos and video footage from Omar. Then the men would be on to the second and final phase—the main event.
David felt Fadiyah's soft hand rubbing his chest. He turned his head and smiled at her. She smiled back. She knew something big was going on tonight, but she knew none of the details. Each of David's operatives knew only what they needed to know for whatever operation they were involved in.
David felt the stiffness returning. He rolled back on top of her heavenly body, anxious to hear the sound of the bed springs again.
*****
Mike held his arms around Cindy as she buried her face in his chest. He could feel her trembling and the wetness of her tears was soaking through his shirt. He looked around at the group of aging alumni assembled in a large tight circle in front of the stage. Most of them still had their masks on, which added a surreal quality to the horrifying scene.
Clint Eastwood, Al Capone, and the grim reaper who had guided them back into the gym, were standing at strategic points around the group, each with their Uzis in hand. Then two more reapers walked into the gym, carrying the same weapons.
Mike glanced up at the band on the stage. The four of them looked petrified. For a split second Mike saw himself up on that same stage decades ago, receiving his diploma to a round of cheers from the audience. Back then the stage seemed to him like Carnegie Hall. Right now it just seemed like something evil.
Clint Eastwood signaled to the other four. They each removed their masks, and the grim reapers tore off their capes. Mike watched as they transformed the capes into satchels, tightening the drawstrings that were sewn into the fabric. One of the reapers had a machete attached to his hip.
Now that the masks were off Mike could tell that they were all Middle Eastern. They moved with a precision that was military-like. Calm, organized and in control. Mike wrestled in his mind with the only possible question: 'What did they want?' This was a high school reunion, not exactly a terrorist target or a great choice for a robbery. Mike was also really concerned that they had removed their masks. That wasn't a good sign. They obviously weren't afraid of being identified or described to police. He dearly wished they had kept their masks on, as he feared now that these thugs intended to commit a slaughter. Mike leaned down to Cindy's ear and whispered, "It's going to be alright. Don't worry."
"You—shut up! You will only talk when I speak to you!" Clint Eastwood was pointing his gun in Mike's direction. "Do you understand?"
Mike kept his cool. "Yes, I understand." In fact, contrary to what he had whispered to Cindy, Mike was terrified. He wasn't at all sure things were going to be alright.
Clint Eastwood moved around closer to the stage and held his Uzi up high so everyone could see. "You will all do as you are told. My men will walk around with their satchels and you will deposit your cell phones and your jewelry. Do not disobey."
The three former reapers circulated through the crowd while Eastwood and Capone stood guard. The steady clink of cell phones, watches, and jewels banging against each other dominated for the next couple of minutes. No one resisted. No one said a word. Mike dropped his watch, wedding ring and cell phone into the satchel, and Cindy followed suit, with shaky hands removing her bracelet, wedding and engagement rings. Mike noticed that Cindy had somehow found the time to button her Annie Oakley blouse right up to her throat; she was clearly hiding the heritage necklace. He cursed to himself and prayed that none of the men had noticed.
When they were finished they pulled the drawstrings tight and stashed the three bags close to the gym door. "Now, we are going to have some special evening entertainment." Clint was the only one doing the talking—he was clearly the leader of the group. "I will walk around and tap some of you on the shoulder. Each of you who have been so honored will then walk up onto the stage. And we need some music." He pointed his gun at the foursome on the stage. "Nice soft music if you please?"
The band started playing a shaky rendition of 'Midnight Rhapsody' and Clint began his stroll. He walked around the cluster of people, carefully examining each one. It looked to Mike as if he was reading the nametags. A total of twelve people had been tapped by the time he arrived at Mike. "And you will be the last—you will be our lucky number thirteen, no?" Instead of tapping Mike on the shoulder he poked him hard in the chest.
Mike unwrapped his arms from Cindy. "No, Mike—don't go," she cried softly.
"It's okay, hon. We'll do as they say. Don't worry." Mike looked back at her as he began his walk to join the others up on the stage. She had her hands over her mouth and he could see that her knees were shaking. She looked so alone.
The group on stage consisted of all men. Mike's seven teammates from the football team had been chosen, along with five other athletic-looking guys that he remembered only vaguely. Mike stood beside Steve Purcell, who simply nodded to him. Steve didn't look scared at all—instead he had the determined look of a man who was planning something. Mike whispered, "Don't even think about it, Steve. They'll kill you for sure." Steve looked at him and nodded, lips pursed together in an angry pout.
Mike looked out over the audience and could see that all of the partiers had now removed their masks. Most faces were covered in sweat, probably more from the stress than the heat. Their eyes looking up at the group on the stage reflected the paralyzing fear that Mike was feeling. He could see that Cindy still had her hands over her mouth, trembling, fingers twitching. Mike also noticed that Capone now had a camera phone out aimed at the group on the stage, his other hand firmly gripping his Uzi.
Eastwood moved closer to the edge of the stage and pointed his Uzi up at the terrified musical foursome. "I want us to hear that song, 'Moon River'. It will be appropriate." The band immediately complied.
The big man then addressed the thirteen hapless alumni standing on stage. "You will each quickly remove all of your clothes—all of them—and throw them down here."
Mike and the other twelve just stood there stunned—as if they hadn't heard the command. No one made a move to obey. Eastwood glared at them for a second then calmly flicked a switch that changed his Uzi to single shot from automatic. He turned and fired a bullet into the head of one of the hostages standing near him. The man dropped like a sack of cement, most likely dead before he hit the floor. Blood was pouring out of the side of his head, pooling quickly around him. His eyes were wide open, staring ahead seemingly in bewilderment. There was a collective scream from the audience of partiers, with several scampering backwards from the dead man as if afraid of becoming infected.
Mike felt the blood drain from his face. He couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. He glanced down at Cindy and could see that she was now kneeling on the floor, head resting in her hands, rocking from side to side. He could tell that she was crying—probably approaching a state of shock.
Mike and the other twelve quickly and silently removed their clothes and tossed them down to the gym floor. Eastwood motioned to one of the reapers, who retrieved a garbage can from the corner of the gym. He stuffed the clothes into the can and carried it over to the door beside the three bags of jewelry and cell phones.
Eastwood spoke. "Now that you are all naked, we are going to do a recreation of the degradation that you westerners inflicted on our brothers and sisters at Iraq's Abu Ghraib prison. You all remember those humorous photos, do you not? Yes, of course you do—the entire world remembers those pho
tos. You all probably had a good laugh, no? So, just like in the photos, you will form a human pyramid of naked, sweating, squirming bodies. Start now please."
There was no hesitation. The biggest men voluntarily knelt forming the bottom layer of the pyramid, and the others followed forming layer upon layer, until Mike and Steve finally climbed their way to the top. Mike could hear the grunting and groaning of the men underneath him, particularly the four brave guys at the bottom.
The pyramid held for about a minute until the men below couldn't take the weight any longer. The structure collapsed and they all tumbled to the floor. Mike could hear Eastwood laughing. He struggled to his feet and noticed Capone still with the camera phone, holding it up high to catch the drama.
Cindy was still kneeling and sobbing loudly. The noise caused Eastwood to turn his attention to her. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to her feet. Mike's stomach felt like it was in his throat. Watching the brutal killer with Cindy's hair entwined in his fingers caused a now familiar feeling to creep back again. Mike's muscles started to tense and he could feel the usual rush of adrenaline surge through his veins. It was happening.
"Now little lady, what are you crying about?" Eastwood held Cindy's head upright by the hair, pulling her face to within a few inches of his. Then he looked down. "What is this? I see a suspicious glint just under those buttons." He put his hand at the top of Cindy's blouse and ripped it down, exposing the necklace and her breasts. Her bra was dangling to her waist after being torn along with the blouse.
"My dear, you were holding out on us, no?" He slipped his fingers under the necklace and yanked with a thrust so powerful that Cindy's head snapped forward and banged into Eastwood's chin. Eastwood threw the necklace to the floor in anger, and slapped Cindy so hard across the face that she flew backwards into several other stunned hostages.
Mike was in mid-air, his naked body flying off the stage feet first, aiming for Eastwood's head. The feet connected with their target just as the shocked Arab turned his face towards him. They both went down but Mike got up first, pummeling him with his fists. Eastwood staggered backward, and Mike could see him reaching to his waistband where his Uzi was tucked. The thug was so far back from him now that Mike knew he wouldn't have time to reach him before the gun was out. A sinking feeling came over him—but then something else came over him too. Steve Purcell.
He came soaring headfirst in a flying block just as Steve used to do in their football days—Steve to the rescue, protecting his quarterback. Eastwood went down again with Steve rolling off to the side. Mike advanced...then stopped dead in his tracks. One of the reapers jumped between him and his master, leveling his Uzi at Mike's chest.
"No! Do not shoot! He was just defending his lovely wife. I admire that." Clint came up to his man and put a hand on his shoulder, then whispered something in his ear. He nodded at one of the other reapers, the one with the machete dangling from his waist. The reaper turned away from Mike and walked over to Steve who was just starting to get to his knees. The reaper held him there and put the gun to his head.
"Go ahead and put a bullet in his little brain," commanded Eastwood. Mike could see Steve's eyes widen with fear as he looked up at his assassin, silently pleading for mercy. The other reaper, the one with the machete, was standing behind him now, out of Steve's view.
Suddenly Eastwood laughed. "We are kidding around with you, sir. Funny, no? How do you say—just fucking with you? Ha." The reaper with the gun lowered it from Steve's head and backed up. Steve looked up at Eastwood with relief in his eyes. He mouthed "Thank you" just as the blow came from behind.
To Mike, the nightmare was in slow motion: the machete drawn from the reaper's waist and swinging backward over his shoulder, the glint of the steel as it came down in a perfect arc striking Steve across the neck in a smooth fluid motion. So powerful a swipe that the neck seemed to offer no resistance at all.
Steve's head detached cleanly, flipping into the air like a basketball and rolling onto the floor beside Cindy, spraying her with its blood. The headless body continued to kneel for what seemed an eternity, spouting blood upward like a chocolate fountain. Then it just collapsed like a lifeless rag doll, mimicking a macabre scene straight out of a horror movie.
For some reason Mike forced his eyes to look down at his old friend's head, lying on the floor staring up at him. He thought that the brain must have still been alive for a few seconds, as the mouth moved and the eyes blinked. A sickening and mind-numbing sight.
To the deafening sound of the screams of terror from the crowd, Mike fell to the floor, his legs feeling like rubber. He'd heard screams in this gym before, but they were happy screams, cheering screams. Never screams of despair and agony.
Mike Baxter, former high school hero, naked to the world and now changed forever by the unspeakable horror of what he had just witnessed, lowered his head and retched.
Chapter 32
Omar and his team strode calmly to the gym door, gathering up the three satchels and the garbage can. His four comrades lugged the stuff out into the hallway, while Omar turned back to the stunned audience for one last message.
"You will please be smart and not attempt to leave. We will be connecting an explosive charge to this door. The door to the locker room is already rigged as is the door upstairs in the mezzanine. So, please just carry on with your party."
Omar turned and left the gym, chuckling to himself. He unwound a long chain from around his waist, and proceeded to wind it through the door handles making as much clanging noise as he could. Then he nodded to his men and the five of them walked down the hallway toward the front exit. They left the garbage can containing the clothes of the thirteen men on the floor outside the gym door.
As they were just about to exit the school, they heard a shout from behind them. "Hey, what's going on here? Did I hear a gunshot?"
Omar turned and saw an old man in a janitor's uniform walking towards them. He sighed, not having the time or patience for this distraction right now. He quickly slid the Uzi out from his belt, slipped the switch to automatic and ripped the hapless janitor to shreds in a matter of seconds.
Out in the parking lot, the five men quickly prepared for Phase Two. Omar opened up the hatch of the stolen, repainted, re-plated SUV and began handing out supplies to each of the men. First, they received remote detonators that resembled small garage door openers. The only discernible difference was that these units had safety switches. Omar double-checked to make sure that the safeties were all in the 'on' position. Each of the remote detonators also had the initials of each of the men written in felt markers on the back. It was important that they didn't get these detonators mixed up because they were each programmed to two separate explosive devices.
Omar realized that he still had his Clint Eastwood cowboy hat on—he pulled it off and flicked it like a Frisbee into the adjacent field.
Next he handed the men explosive belts that contained about two pounds of Semtex each, which was probably overkill since only about one pound had been needed to bring down Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. Semtex was a very reliable form of plastic explosive, manufactured only in the Czech Republic. Omar's comrades in Libya were the largest purchasers in the world of this type of explosive. He thought it was ironic that the distinctive orange color of the material was identical to the color of life jackets.
Each belt also had the initials of each man marked on it, because every belt was programmed to a specific remote detonator.
Omar put his own belt on, clipped the remote to his buckle, and threw his Uzi machine gun into the trunk. The other men silently mimicked his moves. He then withdrew from the trunk small Uzi machine pistols, which could be hidden under their jackets much more easily than the submachine guns. He handed them out, with the caution, "Remember, only use if the mission will be otherwise compromised." Each man nodded his understanding. Omar motioned them to draw around him in a semi-circle. Together they synchronized their watches, then knelt in one
last prayer.
Before getting into the car, the terrorist who had dressed as Al Capone pulled out his phone and forwarded a text message along with video attachments to their leader. Omar knew that Dawud would ensure that the images went viral on the internet immediately. Perhaps the events of tonight would make Canadians think twice next time before they foolishly supported the infidel Americans in cowardly attacks on Muslim nations like Afghanistan and Libya.
The bags containing cell phones and jewelry were thrown into the ample trunk, behind a massive package that was covered up with plastic. Omar withdrew one of the partier's cell phones, slammed the hatch shut and drove out of the school parking lot. Once he was three blocks away, he stopped the car and dialed 911.
When the dispatcher answered, Omar talked frantically in perfect everyday English without his usual accent. "We need help! A gang's attacked our party and killed two of our group. One had his head cut off!"
"Sir, calm down for a second. First, where are you?"
"Northern Reaches High School, west of Yonge just north of Sheppard.
We're in the gymnasium. The bastards told us they've hooked up explosives to the doors!"
"We're on our way. Tell your group that no one is to touch the doors." "Okay, hurry. Oh, they may still be in the building because we heard gunshots out in the hall. I think they killed someone else out there."
"Thanks for the warning, sir. I'll pass that along to the tactical squad." "Some heart attacks amongst our group too—send as many ambulances as you can. There are about a hundred of us trapped in here."
Omar flipped the partier's cell phone shut and threw it out the window. He turned his head toward his comrades. "That should prove to be a major distraction. It will also nicely tie up emergency vehicles for a while, making Phase Two even more effective." The other four nodded silently to the sound of sirens that could already be heard in the distance.