Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (28 page)

Jeddah-Makkah Highway, Saudi Arabia

Reading pointed at the broken down car as they sped past and leaned toward Acton. “Notice what kind of car that was?”

Acton shook his head. “No!” he yelled over the sound of the wind and engine in a seeming duel as to which could drown out the creaking of the truck as it rocked along the road, it having seen far better days.

“Jaguar!” said Reading. He elbowed Acton. “Just like I told you in London last year.”

Acton laughed, recalling the incident. “No worries, a Jag isn’t in my budget any way.”

“You really ought to let Laura treat you to some luxuries,” said Reading. “You know she’d do it happily, no expectations.” Reading watched his friend’s eyes glisten as they stared into the distance as if trying to find his missing love through the vast desert expanse. Reading leaned in and lowered his voice so only Acton could hear. “Sorry, mate, shouldn’t have said that.”

Acton nodded. “Don’t worry about it. I just hope we find her.”

“As do I, my friend, as do I.”

Reading decided it was best to take his friend’s mind off Laura.

“Tell me about Mecca. What’s the big deal with this thing they walk around?”

Acton smiled, most likely seeing through Reading’s attempt to distract him, but grateful regardless.

“It’s called the Black Stone. It’s actually quite the Russian doll. You have the Al-Masjid al-Haram mosque, that’s the huge white building you see on TV, it surrounds the Kaaba, which is the large, ancient stone structure they walk around during the Hajj.”

“What’s this Black Stone?” asked BD, the Delta team now listening.

“Nobody really knows. According to tradition, it’s from the time of Adam and Eve. We’re pretty sure it was worshipped by pagans, pre-Islam. It forms the eastern cornerstone of the Kaaba, and over time was broken into several fragments. They sealed them in silver, and over the centuries it has been polished smooth by the millions of hands that have touched it during the Hajj.”

“So it’s just a black rock?”

“Not just any rock. It’s the holiest of all rocks. Some say it’s a meteorite, others say it’s just a rock that was used as the cornerstone of the Kaaba, which the Quran claims was built by Abraham and his son, Ishmael, when they settled in Arabia. What it might mean, or not mean, to us, is irrelevant. If it’s destroyed, it would be the ultimate attack on Islam. Unlike the Twin Towers, this is the center of a religion, and can’t be rebuilt.”

Mecca, Saudi Arabia

They had been stewing in their own sweat for several hours, parked in an alley behind the Makkah Hilton Hotel, waiting for one of the other two trucks to pick them up. Parker eyed his watch and looked at Cole then at the weapon, its locked-in countdown persistently ticking. Cole glanced at his watch too.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have thrown away the codes,” said Parker. Cole knew from his voice he wasn’t serious, but he’d be lying if he wasn’t having the same thoughts. They had little more than two hours before detonation.
Two hours, eighteen minutes and thirteen seconds to be exact.

Sharpe rapping on the rear panel saved Cole from responding. The hidden window slid open and Sharpe whispered, “Here they come!”

“Thank fucking God!” sighed Parker, leaning back and letting out a deep breath. He slapped Brannick on the leg. “See, nothing to worry about!”

Brannick managed a weak smile, not saying anything. Cole looked at him.
Weak.
He should have followed his gut and left him behind, but after having to kill Gabe, he needed a replacement. Brannick was too young. Cole had no doubt Brannick believed in the problem, but wasn’t as convinced he believed in the solution.

Cole turned his attention to Sharpe. “Both of them?” he asked, peering through the opening but seeing nothing but a garbage dumpster in front.

Sharpe shook his head. “No, looks like just one,” he said. “They’re coming up from behind. Let me make sure everything is all clear and I’ll let you out.”

He slid the panel closed again and they heard him climb out, then a few moments later the hydraulic hiss of freedom sounded, and the ramp dropped from under their feet. Brannick was first to scramble out, followed more slowly by Parker and then himself.

Sharpe waved his hand in front of his nose. “Holy shit, boss, you guys stink.”

“Should fit right in with the locals then,” said Parker, chuckling at his own joke.

Cole took a whiff of his pits and his eyes watered. “You might be right, but there’s not much we can do about it right now.” He searched for prying eyes. It was a deserted back alley, filled with garbage bins from the hotels lining either side, a few dim lights providing the only illumination, the sun having set hours before. He looked at his watch again.
Shit!
He raised his hand, snapping his fingers three times, the sound echoing in the alley. His men turned their attention to him rather than their aching muscles. “Listen up. It’s in position, and armed, with no way to disarm it, so mission accomplished. Now let’s get the hell out of here before we’re turned extra crispy.”

“Sir?”

The hesitant voice came from behind. It was Brannick.

“What?” asked Cole as he turned to face him.

Brannick was pointing to the end of the alleyway. “Look.”

Cole turned to where he was pointing and his pulse raced. Several men stood at the end, abreast of each other, blocking the exit. As he watched, another half dozen men joined them.

This can’t be good.

He spun around and saw the other end of the alley filled with men as well, walking toward them.

“Shit, boss, what do we do?” asked Brannick.

Cole turned back to see the first group of men now walking toward them. As they passed under a light he saw all were dressed in black, their faces covered, revealing nothing but their eyes.

Eyes filled with hate.

Outskirts of Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Reading yawned and stretched, then grasped at emptiness as the truck took a sharp turn onto a smaller road, sending them all sprawling in the back. Curses filled the air as he and Acton, along with half the Delta Force team, helped each other back onto the benches lining the sides. Less than a minute later the truck slowed, pulled off the paved road, and onto a dirt trail. Reading peered ahead but could barely make out if there were tracks already in place, or if the lead truck was blazing a new trail. He just hoped the drivers knew the road ahead, the dim headlights seeming to do little to light the way.

After another few minutes of bouncing up and down in the back, the road, if it could be called that, had provided a vigorous workout to the suspension and Reading’s ass, to the point where he was ready to jump out and walk. Mercifully the truck slowed then halted. Reading looked ahead then elbowed Acton. “Look!”

He pointed ahead of the two trucks at several dozen men on horseback forming a wall of flesh, blocking the trail.
Another escort?
Along the way, they had been joined several times by teams of riders who would keep pace for several minutes, information exchanged between them and the Hassassins accompanying their motley crew, but they had never stopped. This time, their drivers not only stopped, but hopped out and opened the backs.

“Yalla yalla yalla!” they yelled, urging their cargo to disembark. As soon as Reading and the others reached the ground, the truck engines roared to life and they sped off into the night, leaving them in the near pitch black, the only light provided by the stars and a quarter moon.

“We will ride the rest of the way,” said Abdullah as he walked toward them, seemingly well rested, Reading noted, he having ridden in the front of the lead truck. He motioned to the men on horseback. “I trust you all are capable of riding a horse?”

Acton and Reading looked at each other. Reading grimaced at Acton’s grin, knowing full well Acton knew he had never ridden a horse in his life. And that Acton was an expert.

“Sure, no worries,” said Reading.

Acton laughed and walked to the nearby horses, Reading only realizing now the wall of several dozen men on horseback was mostly made up of horses waiting patiently for their riders.

Reading watched Acton and the Delta Force team swing onto the backs of their horses with ease. Reading gripped the saddle and struggled to get his foot in the stirrup. The horse’s back-end shuffled toward him, almost sending him dangerously under the massive, snorting beast.

“Steady,” he heard Acton’s calm voice saying to the horse.

“I doubt he understands English, mate,” said Reading, at last getting the leverage to push himself up and swing his leg over the beast’s rump and into the saddle. He probed the empty space with his right foot, searching for the other stirrup, with no success. Acton chuckled beside him as Abdullah walked over and grabbed his foot, shoving it into the stirrup, shaking his head.

“Thanks,” mumbled Reading. He looked over at Dawson. “Where’d you learn to ride a horse?”

“Basic training,” said Dawson.

“Yeah,” said the one he had learned was named Red. “You should see him on a camel.”

“Yup, one hump or two, camel, horse, llama, you name it, BD’s probably ridden it,” said Spock.

“And eaten it,” chuckled Niner.

Reading glanced at Dawson as he leaned forward easily in the saddle, wondering what expression was hidden behind the veil covering his face.

I don’t doubt it for a second.

Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Cole reached behind him and pulled out his MAC-10 machine pistol, swinging it toward the first group, his finger already squeezing the trigger. As the wide arc of his arm closed in on his targets, they all raised their right arms, aiming at him and the rest of his men as they too took aim. He squeezed the trigger, the machine pistol, capable of spurting 1090 rounds per minute, vibrated in his hand as round after round left the chamber, screaming toward its intended targets at over eight-hundred miles per hour.

Just before he squeezed the trigger, he could have sworn he heard a chorus of clicking noises from in front and behind him, and something metallic glinting in the air for a moment as whatever it was passed through the dim light. As the first of their attackers screamed in agony, a searing pain erupted from his shoulder, and he found he too was screaming. He searched for the source of the pain, his finger still firmly pressing the trigger, his arm, now moving automatically, sprayed across the front line of advancing men, mowing them down mercilessly. His eyes rested on a metal dart, or as his brain began to register it, a spike, about three inches of which was still visible, an unknown amount buried deep into his arm.

What the fuck is that?

All he knew was that it hurt. He heard gun fire erupting all around him as his men fought back. He reached for the spike, gripped the exposed part, and slowly pulled it out. A sharp pain almost knocked the knees out from under him, his eyes tearing and losing focus, but not before he saw inch upon inch of the spike continue to pull out of his shoulder. Finally, mercifully, it tapered, and with what almost felt like a pop, it was free, the now open wound oozing blood, but not spurting it, no arteries hit.

He gasped for breath and as the world returned to focus. He saw the crowd of men, now in the dozens, less than ten feet away. He yanked the MAC-10 from his now dead right hand, and opened fire again, slowing their advance. He took a moment to glance over his shoulder, and saw Brannick was standing, firing his TAC-9 wildly, several spikes sticking out of him, as he screamed, tears flowing down his face. Pride surged through Cole. Brannick was facing death like a man, not stopping, despite the extreme pain he was in. He could have just collapsed, but every fiber of his being was telling him to keep firing, to keep killing the bastards, to send as many to Hell as he could before his body gave out.

Another quick look showed only three of his men remained behind him, battling the second group closing from the other end of the alley. It appeared their attackers were armed only with these darts. And their numbers. There was no way they were getting out of this alive.

But at least the weapon can’t be deactivated.

As he raised his weapon for one last volley, a door less than three feet away opened, a member of the hotel staff, his back turned to them, ear buds blocking the sound of the gun battle he had backed into, stepped in front of him, pulling a cart of garbage. Cole shoved him and the cart out of the way, and darted inside, pulling the door shut behind him. He quickly scanned the hall he was in and found it deserted, clearly a maintenance corridor of some sort. He stumbled deeper inside, away from the gunfire outside. As he moved further in, the gunfire lessened, and he heard fewer and fewer separate weapons, until at last one, then none.

The door rattled and he spun around, ready to fire, but it didn’t open, it evidently locked from the outside. He breathed a sigh of relief and continued down the hall, and turned a corner, running straight into a burqa clad woman and her daughter.

Cole raised his weapon and fired.

Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Mitch Fawcett had the window rolled down as he approached the rendezvous point. The last thing he had expected to hear was the clear sound of gunfire. He cranked the wheel and brought the truck to a stop on the curb, a few hundred feet from the alleyway entrance. To his left were the colossal white walls of the Al-Masjid al-Haram mosque, the largest in the world. Ringing it to his right, the massive hotels that made the vast bulk of their billions in revenues during this week, providing spectacular views to the devotees well-heeled enough to afford the exorbitant fees charged by the Saudis for their visas.

Hotels jam-packed with sleeping worshippers now awoke from the noise, light after light turning on. Fawcett jumped out and opened the secret compartment, letting Mario Labelle and Sam Parker, Charlie’s younger brother, out.