No Man's Land - A Russell Carter Thriller (23 page)

5

Samudra frowned at the pathetic man crying at his feet.

He hated to lose any of his mujaheddin, even a weak fool like Usif. At heart he was a compassionate man. He’d give him one last opportunity for redemption.

After all, Allah was truly merciful.

Samudra slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand.

“Do you understand what you are saying?”

Usif began sobbing.

To think he had once treated this man like a son.

“Truly I say unto you, once you take an oath before your brothers and God, there is no turning back. This is your last chance for earthly salvation. Do you want to go to heaven or hell?”

“Please, for the love of God. I don’t want to die.”

Samudra stretched his arms toward the earth, easing the tension in his shoulders, and looked away. He’d done all he could.

The time had come to do what God had called him to do.

He reached inside his robes and extracted the shiny semiautomatic handgun from its holster.

It glistened in the bright sunshine.

Usif started shaking, his eyes wide with terror and disbelief, only now appearing to grasp the dreadful wrath God visited on those who dared displease him.

Samudra switched the safety off and pointed the barrel at Usif’s forehead.

Behind him a woman shrieked and a child let out a piercing wail.

Usif looked up at him through beseeching eyes, perhaps thinking his pitiful look might save him.

Samudra straightened his back and gently squeezed the trigger.

The gun jumped in his hand.

A flash of light spat out of the barrel, followed by a loud explosion.

Usif collapsed forward onto the ground. A clean hole at the back of his skull began to ooze thick dark blood.

Samudra turned his attention to Mohammed.

The man stood rigid with fear. A wet patch formed at the crotch of his trousers and spread down his right leg.

The man was a disgrace and no mujaheddin.

A useless human being.

Samudra raised the gun and pointed it at his forehead.

Mohammed’s eyes clamped shut.

Without uttering a word, Samudra squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang out and Mohammed dropped to the ground.

The women and children were now wailing and screaming with fear. A most disgusting sound, signifying a total lack of faith in God.

Samudra’s attention shifted to the assembled men. They’d maintained their posture and kept their formation perfectly intact.

He’d trained them well.

6

Samudra returned the weapon to its holster, ignoring the shrieking and wailing of the dead men’s wives and children behind him.

He looked down at the fallen bodies, pleased to see that both were dead and already in hell. Their only purpose in life, as it turned out, had been to serve as an example to their brothers of the swift and dreadful price paid by those who forsook God’s will.

He marched back to Abdul-Aleem and put out his hand. “Give me your weapon.”

Abdul-Aleem hesitated and took half a step back.

Samudra glared at him. He would not tolerate disobedience from anyone.

Abdul-Aleem slowly unshouldered his Uzi and handed it to him.

He grabbed it with both hands.

The time had come to send a final, powerful message to the rest of his men.

This younger generation were too soft. It was time to toughen them up.

Samudra had taken inspiration from the Indonesian leader of Darul Islam, S.M. Kartosuwirjo, whom his grandfather had admired and fought alongside. He had divided the world into the “Abode of Islam” and the “Abode of War” and believed that Muslims must live by Islamic law alone. Laws made by man were an affront to God.

Kartosuwirjo had written: “Eliminate all infidels and atheists until they are annihilated … or die as martyrs in a holy war. We are obliged to fight a third world war and bring about world revolution because God’s justice in the form of God’s kingdom does not exist on earth.”

These words gave Samudra’s life its purpose. He would continue the great fight of his grandfather, as would his children and his children’s children, until they achieved ultimate victory.

God’s law would rule the earth, even if it took a thousand years.

—

Samudra studied the men standing at attention before him. They needed to be reminded that their lives and those of their families paled in significance compared to the will of God and the holy war of jihad.

Six of his men, plus himself and Abdul-Aleem, were heading to Sydney the next day for the first of his lethal attacks.

Doubt and insubordination could not be tolerated. There was no turning back for any of them.

He flicked the Uzi’s safety switch to off and marched toward the families of the two dead men, twenty yards from where his men stood.

Samudra stopped in front of the two women and their children. A boy and a girl of around three and four years of age wrapped their arms around their crying mother and buried their faces against her stomach.

The other two young girls, who were between six and eight, hid behind the other woman, clutching her waist.

They all came from weak stock.

The girls’ mother turned and looked at him through tear-filled eyes. “Please,” she said, “in the name of God, I beseech you. Have mercy on us.”

Samudra smiled. “Your sins are forgiven.”

He saw hope flicker across her eyes.

He raised the Uzi and squeezed the trigger.

A stream of bullets sprayed out of the barrel.

He never let the smile of almighty God leave his face until the job was done.

7

The distant, primal scream of two terrified women caused Carter’s eyes to snap open. Despite the extreme heat and humidity, a cold shiver ran through him.

Along with Thomas, Erina and Wayan, he lay shackled inside an airless concrete cell. Old-fashioned iron manacles around his neck, waist, wrists and ankles pinned him to a coarse wooden bench, his arms stretched above his head. His joints were stiff and his leg and shoulder muscles ached.

He looked at the solitary window, high up and covered by a grille. The angle of the light filtering through the rusty bars told him it was early afternoon.

Thomas and Wayan were both out to it. They’d been drifting in and out of consciousness all day, and even when they were awake, their injuries made it painful for them to speak.

They had been given nothing to eat or drink since being dragged in the night before. Carter was dehydrated and weak. After dumping them there, the clan had left them for dead.

To his right Erina spoke in a hoarse voice. “What the hell was that?”

His mouth was bone-dry. He twisted his head toward her, swallowed a couple of times, then worked his tongue to get some saliva flowing.

Before he could speak, two five-second bursts of intense gunfire from an automatic weapon cut through the air, drowning out the gut-churning cries of the wailing women.

“They’re killing their own people,” Erina said. “Why?”

“God knows,” he said. “But we need to get Thomas and Wayan out of here and get back to Sydney before the new year.”

She worked her lips together and swallowed. “The plan was to meet Muklas by 8 a.m. or he’d go to enlist Detachment 88’s help.”

“I wouldn’t count on them getting here anytime soon.”

“Any ideas?”

“Nothing is jumping out at me.”

Carter looked toward Thomas and Wayan. It worried him that even the gunfire had failed to stir them. If they didn’t get food and water soon, they’d struggle to survive the night. Wayan in particular looked in a bad way. But there was no point saying anything. He and Erina both knew the score and were powerless to help.

Light footsteps approached and he glanced at her. She hiked her shoulders.

He turned his attention toward the cell door. A key clicked into the lock and it opened slowly.

A woman in full traditional Muslim attire stood in the doorway, a white jilbab wrapped around her head and face, revealing only her eyes.

Her gaze settled on Thomas. The love and concern he saw in her eyes convinced Carter it could only be one person.

“Kemala?” Erina asked. “What are you doing here?”

Carter heard both surprise and distrust in her voice.

“I’m here to get you out,” Kemala said. Judging by her tone, she was far from confident.

Erina rattled her wrist. “Do you have keys for the locks?”

Kemala shook her head as if she was disappointed with herself.

Outside, they heard two sets of heavy footsteps approaching the cell at a rapid pace.

“Get out of here quick,” Carter said.

Kemala remained at the doorway. “I cannot leave.”

Her words were emphatic.

“Okay then,” he said in a calm, even voice. “Come inside and close the door.”

She stepped into the cell and pushed the door shut.

“Now stand on the right-hand side of the entrance.”

She moved at once and stood with her back flush against the wall, so the door would open in front of her, creating a shield.

Her right hand slipped into the folds of her dark dress and, to Carter’s surprise, extracted a compact Beretta 92 handgun with a silencer attached.

It only used .25 caliber cartridges, but at close range it’d get the job done.

8

The gun shook in Kemala’s hand, making Carter question whether she had what it took to pull the trigger and shoot a man in cold blood.

They’d find out soon enough.

Her dark eyes sought his.

He lifted his head a fraction and gave her a small, confident nod.

Outside, the footsteps stopped.

He turned to Erina.

Neither uttered a word. They were ready to seize any opportunity that presented itself, no matter how heavily the odds were stacked against them.

A key slid into the lock and turned, one way and then back again.

Carter mentally kicked himself for failing to tell Kemala to lock it.

The door flew forward.

Two clansmen wearing fatigues and black caps marched in, dragging a body between them.

They dropped it on the floor like a sack of flour. One of them used the toe of his boot to roll the body on its back.

Carter turned his head as far as he could.

Muklas’s dead eyes stared at him. There was a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead.

Carter swore to himself and clenched his hands into tight fists. He wondered how they’d caught him. Perhaps when Carter and Erina had failed to return to the bunker at the agreed time that morning, Muklas had chosen to come after them rather than calling in Detachment 88.

There was nothing to be done about that now. Kemala needed their help. She was hidden behind the open door.

He glared at the two clansmen in an effort to draw their attention to him. They returned his gaze full of cold hatred.

The taller of the two unslung an Uzi from his shoulder, pointed it at Carter’s head and switched the safety off.

The shorter guy drew a handgun, a SIG, from his shoulder holster and moved to stand over Carter.

“Who unlocked the door?” he asked in perfect English.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Carter said, keeping his tone conversational.

The guy pressed the cool barrel of the SIG against Carter’s temple. “Tell me who unlocked the door, you fucking arsehole.”

Carter said nothing.

The guy swung the SIG toward Erina’s feet. “Answer me. Or I blow this worthless whore’s foot off and let her bleed to death.”

“Take it easy,” Carter said, wanting to keep the focus on himself.

The guy whipped the gun back and pointed it at Carter’s right eye.

“It obviously wasn’t one of us,” Carter said. “We’ve been pretty much tied up.”

The man gave him a filthy look, no doubt itching to pull the SIG’s trigger and personally send a westerner and a member of the order to hell. The only thing stopping him would be orders to keep them alive, for now.

“We’ll see how smart you are in a couple of hours,” he said.

“Why’s that?” Carter asked.

“That’s when the first stone will smash your miserable skull to pulp. Samudra wants every one of the faithful to witness your execution. Unless I decide to shoot you first, like that worthless motherfucker.”

He pointed his gun toward Muklas’s body, like he was proud of what he’d done.

“Go ahead,” Carter said. “Put us out of our misery.”

To his right Erina cut in. “Just be quick about it. Kill us in cold blood and go to hell.”

The guy with the Uzi jabbed the weapon toward her. “Shut up, whore!”

Carter lifted his head. “Come on and shoot, you gutless wonders.”

They were doing all they could to keep the two armed men’s attention on them and away from the door that hid Kemala, hoping she would find the strength to shoot sooner rather than later.

The shorter man pointed his SIG at Carter and grinned. “You think we’re stupid. A quick death is too good for you western pigs.”

He reversed his grip on the weapon, held it by the barrel, and then, in a whipping motion, smashed the butt into the side of Carter’s head, just above the temple.

A shooting pain exploded in Carter’s brain.

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

His mind felt like it was immersed in a heavy liquid, fuzzy and out of sync with reality.

A voice inside his head told him to relax, go to sleep and it’d all be over.

But he dug deep, fought off his body’s overriding urge to shut down and forced his eyes open.

Warm blood flowed down the right side of his head and into his eye.

His vision blurred.

The guy with the Uzi aimed it at a point between his eyes, holding the barrel rock-steady.

Carter shook his head, as much as the manacle around his throat would allow, in an effort to clear his muddy thinking.

He heard the door to the cell creak and glimpsed a shadow moving out from behind it.

Kemala.

The guy lowered his Uzi and began to turn toward the door.

Carter tried to speak, to distract the guy, but no words came out, just a meaningless croak.

“You fucking cowards,” Erina screeched in a hoarse shout. “Murdering unarmed women who can’t defend themselves. Look at me and tell me you didn’t just shoot defenseless Muslim women!”

Through his blurred vision Carter saw the clansmen turn toward her. She’d hit a raw nerve.

“What did they do?” she taunted. “Show their faces in public?”

The guy with the SIG said, “Shut your dirty mouth, bitch.”

Carter heard a fist strike Erina’s face and her manacles rattle. She let out a muffled gasp.

Then four silenced shots spurted through the air, one after the other.

Carter felt himself slipping out of consciousness and drifting into a black void.