Infidels (2 page)

He
looked at the dash and found the switch for the lights and sirens, flicking
them on then pressing the button on the handle to fire the siren.

The
traffic took notice, angling out of his way as he gained on the van.

A horn
blared to his right as he was about to enter an intersection, the van blasting
through just after the light turned red. He looked and cursed as he gunned it
hard, his front wheel popping up as the large delivery truck racing toward him
locked up its brakes, missing his rear wheel by too close a margin.

But it
was forgotten, the van his only concern, his siren aiding in his efforts to
clear through traffic, but it also being heard by the traffic ahead of the van,
it clearing out of the way of his target as well.

Damned
if you do…

He had a
clear line of sight now, nothing between him and the van. Gunning the motor, he
rapidly closed the distance, his heart slamming into his chest as he saw two
hands suddenly appear on the rear window then Maggie’s horrified face press against
the glass for only a moment.

Hold
on, hon!

The left
lane was suddenly clear and he tilted left, roaring up beside the vehicle. The
driver swerved toward him and he jerked the bike out of the way, narrowly
missing a row of parked cars. Falling back slightly, he visually assessed the
situation, noting the van had running boards and a luggage rack on the top.

Foot
and handholds.

The van
swerved away from the parked cars and Dawson rushed into the void, pushing his
weight onto the handlebars as he kept the throttle steady, his feet rising off
the pedals and onto the seat.

He
leapt.

His
right hand caught the rack and he tightened his grip, hard as the van swerved
again, his motorcycle knocked off balance and sent careening into a parked car,
flipping end over end before coming to rest in the back of a convertible, top
down, several car alarms now screaming for attention.

Flipped
onto his back, he held on, determined not to let the kidnappers get away, his
shoulder protesting angrily as his entire bodyweight smacked against the side
of the van.

Suddenly
they turned right, physics working with him, the pressure instantly gone. He
swung back, reaching up and grabbing on with his other hand then swinging onto
the roof, crawling toward the front. The van was jerking from side to side now,
but his feet were spread out across the roof, braced against the rack, and his
hands had firm grips.

They
weren’t getting rid of him that easily.

Maggie
screamed.

A
gunshot rang out, a hole appearing six inches from his head.

Shit!

He
shoved himself forward as another shot rang out. At the front, he reached into
his pocket to get his keys, a window breaker on the keychain.

And flew
headfirst over the hood of the van as the driver locked up the brakes. He hit
the ground, tucking into a roll, tumbling several times before coming to a
stop. He took a knee, reaching for his non-existent weapon.

Hard
way!

He burst
to his feet as if running the hundred-meter dash at the Olympics, his eyes on
the driver, when suddenly Maggie’s head was thrust between the seats.

And a
gun pressed to her head.

He
stopped, his hands slowly rising as he realized there was no hope.

The
driver reversed then turned, disappearing down a side street as the second
officer finally caught up to him, screeching to a halt, his weapon drawn.

Dropping
to his knees and clasping his hands behind his neck, he burned the license
plate into his memory.

And
swore revenge.

Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque, Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Three days earlier

Qasim Hatina’s heart pounded in his chest as it always did on this
day, but today it hammered a little harder, for he was “The First”. It was he
who was personally handling the ceremonial handover of the Black Stone to the
royal representative, the Governor of Mecca, Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud.
It was a rare event and only occurred if a problem was found during the
semi-annual ceremony known as “the cleaning of the Kaaba”. Last week the Prince
himself had noticed a crack in the support structure for the Black Stone and it
was now to be repaired in preparation for Ramadan.

He had
been witness to the cleansing ritual dozens of times in his years as one of the
Ulama, the most senior of clerics responsible for interpreting the Koran and
the hadiths, but today
he
was The First at this rare ceremony.

A true
honor.

And a true
terror.

Neither
he nor Prince Khalid touched the relic, in fact, no one actually touched it,
metal poles slid into two slots at the base of the stand containing the stone
and its silver frame. He still remembered as a young man how he had felt when
the curtains that hung around the Kaaba were pulled back to reveal the stone.
The illusion the massive cuboid building the faithful marched around seven times
at the Hajj was shattered in one moment, the revealing of the revered stone
almost anticlimactic, almost a disappointment in fact, he expecting something
much more elaborate.

But the
disappointment had done nothing to shake his faith, and he had pledged his life
to Islam and the teachings of the Prophet Mohammed, and would continue to do so
until his death, whenever that might be.

He bowed
to Prince Khalid as the men transferring the Black Stone to the military
transport truck completed their task. The ceremonial guard snapped to
attention, their rifles smacking against their shoulders, their faces all
etched with the pride and humility they all must have felt at the event they
were participating in.

But he
doubted they felt his fear.

He
simply wanted the ritual over with so he could stop worrying about something
going wrong. Once the truck left the mosque, it was no longer his
responsibility until its return in seven days. During this time the Black Stone
would be under the protection of the Royal Family, the House of Saud taking its
responsibility as the protector of the most holy relics and sites of Islam
seriously. It was the only time the Black Stone wasn’t under the protection of
the clerics of his tribe, the Bani Shayba.

And
outside of the secure walls of the shrine.

A shout
rang out across the massive expanse of the shrine’s open Mataf area. The
ceremonial guard didn’t flinch but Qasim did, nearly jumping out of his skin as
Prince Khalid casually looked in the direction of the outburst.

Qasim’s
jaw dropped.

Dozens
of armed, hooded men streamed into the open-air mosque, opening fire just as
the Prince climbed into his limousine. The ceremonial guard, slow to react, as
this was unprecedented, began to unsling their weapons, but too late, the first
of them cut down by the opening volleys. Qasim dropped to the ground, scurrying
toward the only structure that might provide cover, the fairly imposing structure
of the Kaaba, with its massive black curtained façade, the only shelter
available in the wide expanse witness to hundreds of millions of feet over the
centuries.

He dove into
the gap created by the removal of the Black Stone, hitting the ground, his old
bones and joints protesting with stabbing pains, his breath now gasps as he
tried to battle through the agony. As gunfire and screams continued outside the
walls, his pain abated and he found himself irresistibly drawn toward the lone
shaft of sunlight. Crawling gingerly toward the gap, he peered out from the
darkness to see the bodies of the ceremonial guard lying on the ground, their
blood staining this sacred place, this egregious sin unforgiveable. The gall,
the arrogance, of attacking a holy site filled him with a rage that emboldened
him foolishly.

He
pushed himself through the opening, shouting curses at the top of his lungs as
he looked for those responsible. Swinging toward the gunfire, now sporadic, he
froze, a lump forming in his throat as a single man walked briskly toward him,
a handgun raised, pointed directly at his head.

“You’re
either brave or a fool!” shouted the man as the other attackers swarmed over
the area, putting bullets in those not yet dead but merely wounded.

“What
you are doing is blasphemy! This is sacred ground, blessed by the Prophet
himself, peace be upon him! To shed blood here of all places, is the most
egregious sin one can commit.”

The man
lowered the weapon, still pointing it at him, but in a little less imposing
way. “What I am about to do is far more so.” He turned his head toward his men.
“Now!”

Qasim’s
jaw dropped as the men stripped out of their black coverings, revealing
ceremonial guard uniforms. Inside of a minute they had been transformed, now manning
the vehicles of the small security convoy that would take the Prince and his
holy charge out of the shrine.

And to
his horror, they all seemed to be speaking English.

“Who are
you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper now, the shock simply too great.
“Why are you doing this?”

“Because
Islam has worshipped at a blasphemous idol for too long. It is time for the
true
Islam to emerge from the yoke of oppression in all its forms, whether that be
praying to this piece of stone, or allowing ourselves to be subjugated by the
infidel.
Today
we fulfill the will of Allah as written in the Koran.
Today
we take the first step in establishing the Global Caliphate, where those who
oppose us will either convert, or die.”

“You’re
mad!”

The man
smiled, raising his weapon once again.

“Perhaps.
But aren’t most great men?”

The
trigger squeezed, the flash from the barrel causing Qasim to gasp as his world
suddenly went dark, his last thought a desperate prayer for forgiveness in
failing in his duty to protect the holiest of relics.

And his
fear of no longer being worthy of Paradise.

Sana’a, Yemen

“This is a shit assignment.”

“That’s
what happens when you sleep with the boss’ daughter. I hope it was worth it.”

Josh
Pullman grinned at his cameraman, Bill O’Toole. “Sooo worth it.”

Bill
bent over and picked up a small rock. “Yeah, well next time just keep in mind
your tallywacker”—he whipped the rock at Josh’s crotch—“ended up dragging me
along with you to this godforsaken country and I didn’t get any of the good
memories to go along with it.”

Josh
rubbed his stinging leg, the rock thankfully missing the boys. “You had your
chance with her friend.”

Bill
snapped the camera case shut, lifting it off the dusty table. “Riight, the
Program Director’s daughter. Brilliant. You do remember that I’m a happily
married man?” He pointed at Josh’s crotch as he swung the camera equipment into
the back of their van. “You really need to start thinking with the right head.”

Josh
reached for his crotch to give it a Michael Jackson when he thought better of
it, the crowd of curious onlookers devoutly Muslim and most likely to frown
upon any genital grabbing. “I’m young, dumb and full of—”

“Jesus!”

Josh
spun to look at what had shocked Bill, jumping back as four masked men poured
out of the back of a van, rushing toward them with AK-47s at the ready, their
faces covered with balaclavas. Josh shoved off with his left foot, trying to
put their own van between them and the approaching men as Bill stood frozen.

“Run!”
he shouted at his friend, reaching out to grab him, trying to urge him on.
Recognition of their situation finally appeared in Bill’s face as his jaw
snapped shut and he turned to rush after Josh. Suddenly his body whipped around
as a shot rang out. Josh skidded to a halt, turning back toward his friend, his
feet slipping out from under him on the gravel. His knees hit the ground,
sliding on the stone and packed dirt and he winced as he skinned one of them,
his hands painfully slamming into the shards of rock.

Bill
screamed in pain as the four men rushed into view, two with their weapons
trained on Bill, the other two swinging wide, their aim coming to rest on Josh
as he pushed himself to his feet.

“You are
Josh Pullman?” demanded one of the men, walking swiftly toward him, AK-47
raised high and at Josh’s head.

Josh
nodded, his eyes flitting between the man and his moaning friend, blood oozing
out from between his fingers as he clasped his shoulder.

“You
will come with us.”

Josh
felt bile fill his mouth as he realized what was happening. All through the
Middle East journalists had been taken hostage by extremists, paraded around on
camera and months or years later, beheaded for the world to see.

There
was no way he was going to have his parents see him die that way.

He shook
his head. “No goddamned way.”

“Blasphemer!”
The man turned the butt of the assault rifle around and slammed it into Josh’s
stomach. As he doubled over in pain, collapsing to his knees, he realized at
that moment this was the first time in his life he had ever been hit. By
anything. He had never been in a fight, whether it was in a bar or on the
playground as a kid.

It felt
far worse than he could have ever imagined.

Two of
their assailants grabbed him by the arms, hoisting him to his feet as the
apparent leader walked over to Bill who lay on the ground, terror in his eyes.

“We
don’t need you.”

Josh
screamed as two bullets fired into Bill’s chest.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

CIA Senior Analyst Chris Leroux wiped his sweaty palms on his
slacks, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the beads forming on
his forehead. He was definitely coming down with something, and from the hint
of gray he had seen in his face a few moments ago in the bathroom, it was
probably the flu.