End Days Super Boxset (21 page)

Ma’mun rose from his chair as it squeaked against the tile floor. He looked angry. “You make plenty of demands for a boy in your position.” He walked to the door shaking his head and muttering, “And I thought I was paranoid.”

He opened the door a crack and told the guards to go back to the operations. As he closed the door, Ma’mun came back to the table and slumped down in his chair. “There, happy? Now quit wasting my time and tell me what information you have.”

“I have names,” Husein said, not giving too much away.

Ma’mun seemed to get the picture as he leaned back in his chair. “If there’s one thing we loathe within our ranks, it’s spies. I have to be honest with you, I never trusted the Chechen ISIS faction too much. Which is one of the reasons I had to do what I did. It was nothing personal, but once trust is gone, only suspicion is left in its place.”

Husein felt anger boiling from within. From under the table, he pulled the knife from his pocket, leaving it folded for the time being.

“What are these names you speak of? What is your proof?”

“Friends of my cousins, Rasheed and Darion.”

“Ah, so your cousins were in league with traitors and spies?”

“No,” Husein said. “They were in the process of trying to weed them out. My aunt told me their names in case anything ever happened to her. Like an insurance policy.”

Ma’mun folded his hands. “I have to say, I’m very intrigued.” He pulled out a pocket-sized notebook and a pen and slid them across the table. “Write their names down. First and last. And any other information you can provide. Street addresses. Other family members. Employment.”

Ma’mun stood up suddenly as Husein began to scribble. The boy’s eyes darted between the paper and Ma’mun walking around the table. He couldn’t remember all their surnames. In fact, out of five names, he only remember two. He scribbled random addresses down off the top of his head. Nothing matched. The information was flimsy, but at best, he was using it to forestall the inevitable. He could sense Ma’mun behind him.

“The general told me that your interest in providing these names was to stay alive?”

“That’s correct,” Husein said, writing the last address he could think of.

“How many names do you have there?” Ma’mun asked, leaning over him and looking at the sheet.

“Five,” Husein answered.

“Impressive. And you’re certain they’re spies?”

“That’s what my aunt told me.” From under the table, Husein’s free hand clutched the knife. His fingers fidgeted to unlock the blade.

At the same moment, Ma’mun slowly pulled his Bushmaster knife from its sheath.

“She was wise to give you this information. You can tell her that I give my thanks.”

The intent of the words immediately registered with Husein. He whipped around and lodged the small knife directly in Ma’mun’s gut. Ma’mun screamed and dropped his knife to the ground. Husein stood up, yanked the knife out and drove it into Ma’mun’s chest. His captor’s eyes were wide with shock. He fell back against the wall, clutching the wound, as Husein pulled the knife from his bloodied chest.

Husein held the knife in his shaking hand. Ma’mun tried to keep his balance and breathe, despite his sudden pallor and his waning consciousness. As he slid down the wall to his knees, Husein thought the stabbings efficient enough. Just the same, something triggered in Husein—a burning rage he had suppressed against Ma’mun for the suffering he had inflicted and the future evil he intended.

He stepped toward him, closed his eyes, and thrust the knife deep into Ma’mun’s neck. The blade slipped in easily past the skin, the deep muscles, and blood vessels. Husein opened his eyes to the sound of gurgling. So much blood had already flowed out of Ma’mun’s neck, and Husein quickly dislodged the knife, surprised. Ma’mun’s wild eyes displayed complete shock. Nothing else. Husein backed up as Ma’mun waved his arms, trying to grab him, and then he fell face-first against the floor. There was a muffled, choking sound then silence. Husein shifted his attention to the door. Miraculously, no one was around. He checked his own T-shirt and jeans for blood spots and moved his sneakers away from the growing pool of blood under Ma’mun’s face. The murder had happened so quickly and had been so surreal that Husein hardly remembered doing it.

He knelt down next to Ma’mun, wiped the blood off his knife on the back of Ma’mun’s coat, retracted the blade, and stuffed it into his pocket. As he looked down at the pistol on Ma’mun’s belt, he remembered Craig’s words:
Just get me a weapon.

He unlatched the holster and pulled out a Desert Eagle 9mm pistol. It had some weight to it. He held it up and aimed it, just to get its feel. He then yanked the black bandana off Ma’mun’s head and put it on, hoping to blend in with the other men in the warehouse.

The most urgent question then entered his mind:
What next?
Ma’mun lay dead at his feet. If caught, Husein had guaranteed his own quick and brutal execution. The only option he had was to fight on. But he couldn’t do it alone. He needed Craig. He observed the eerily quiet room. It was time to move on. With pistol in hand, he slipped out the door, hoping to get to the basement undetected.

***

The video preparation was complete. The broken light had been cleaned up and disposed of, and everyone was in position. They would have to make do with one light—a fact that yielded constant harassment directed toward Yassif. Craig’s knees ached. His discomfort, however, was the last thing on his captors’ minds.

One large stage light shone on Craig, the three masked men, and the ISIS flag backdrop. If they had to have Craig announce their propaganda, he would milk it for all it was worth. His survival rested on the shoulders of a seventeen-year-old Chechen boy. The glass shard in his hand was a last resort.

He had been digging the blade of the glass into the rope around his hands since he’d grabbed it. The muscles in his wrist and fingers were cramped almost beyond movement. Once free, he figured he’d be able to take out one, maybe two men, before they gunned him down. But it would all be recorded, and they wouldn’t have the satisfaction of sawing his head off as they had done to so many other unfortunate souls in their last seconds of life.

“Are we finally ready to do this?” the general asked the group as he paced in front of them. He sounded agitated and impatient. “Unbelievable! You would think this is the first video you people have worked on.”

Qadar manned the camera as Yassif stood guard by the remaining light they had. Craig shifted his weight between knees, cringing from the pain. Behind him, the three masked men stood together, like mirror images, with their rifles angled into the air.

“Where’s Adam?” Qadar said, looking through the camera viewfinder.

The general circled around, tossing another cigarette butt to the ground. “Adam! What are you doing?”

“Relax, I’m just getting my neckerchief on,” Adam said. He had changed into full military fatigues and was taking his spiteful time getting adjusted.

“It’s called a keffiyeh, you idiot,” Qadar said. “Hurry the hell up.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Adam said.

Qadar quickly stepped away from the camera, but the general put his arm out, blocking him. “Both of you stop it right now. Keep messing around, and you’re going to have answer to Ma’mun.” He glared at Adam. “Relative or not.”

Qadar stepped back behind the camera, shaking his head. He had never cared much for Adam—from his American name to his Western upbringing. He hoped to see him kneeling in front of their camera one day.

Adam put his black ski mask on and walked over to the set. Like the others, his mask had a long slit across the eyeliner. Uniformity was important down to the very last detail.

“Any day now, princess,” the general shouted. He was worn out and hungry, and the filming hadn’t even started yet. “Why did I agree to do this?” he said under his breath.

Adam moved into position right behind Craig and placed a gloved hand over the back of his neck. Inside, Craig seethed with anger, mingled with fear. Having sudden doubts about Husein, he continued to cut at the rope with as little movement as possible.

“Is everyone ready?” Qadar asked.

“I’m ready,” Adam said.

The three masked gunmen nodded.

“Hey!” the general shouted, causing Qadar to turn around. “I’m in charge, and I’ll tell you when we’re ready.”

Qadar shrugged. “Whatever you say, General.” He wasn’t too fond of the old man, either.

“Are you all ready?” the general asked. Noticing Craig’s head drooping, the general yelled to Adam. “Wake him up!”

Adam smacked Craig on the back of his head. “Stay lively there, FBI man.”

“Head up and level, and eyes to the camera,” the general said, standing behind Qadar.

Craig lifted his head and tried to look as defeated as possible. Inside, however, he was exploding with anticipation.

“All right, we start recording at my command. Adam, remember your lines. And you, American. Start talking when I say so,” the general said.

He held up a finger and counted down. Qadar began recording. The general pointed to Craig with a forceful, thick finger. Earlier, they had taped the paper to the wall and made Craig read it again and again until he’d memorized it. The words were what he expected: sinister, twisted, and delusional. Now it was time for him to recite them.

“My name is Special Agent Craig Davis, and I am an American citizen, captured in my home country illegally harassing innocent Muslims, detaining and torturing them. I am a part of the criminal cabal known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation which has, for the past century, terrorized its own citizens and others. I am here today to deliver a message to America on the part of the Islamic State. It is this: Your government’s domination of world affairs ends today. Throughout history, your government, duly elected by its people, have committed unspeakable atrocities against people of different…” Craig suddenly stopped, trying to remember the words.

Qadar looked up from his camera as the general watched with his mouth open.

“Uh…” Craig said.

“Stop!” the general said. “Stop recording.”

Qadar sighed and pressed the stop button on the camera.

The general stepped forward and shouted. “Unspeakable atrocities against people of different faiths and backgrounds for over two hundred years! Get it right or we’ll be here all night!”

“Maybe we can start from there and splice it together,” Qadar suggested.

“No,” the general said. “Have him at least say it through in one complete take before we start doing different cuts.”

Adam leaned down and held the knife in front of Craig’s face. Its sharp nine-inch blade glistened in the light. “Maybe you just need the right motivation.”

Craig stared at the blade with his non-swollen eye, saying nothing.

“Okay, let’s try this again. Go!” the general said, pointing.

“My name is Special Agent Craig Davis, and I am an American citizen…”

***

Husein walked carefully down the hall with the heavy pistol in his hands. He passed several darkened, unoccupied offices, getting closer to the warehouse floor, where he could hear several different televisions and see the shadowy movement of militants moving around at the eleventh hour.

He stopped before reaching the end of the hall. The door to the basement was across the way, and it would be nearly impossible to walk through the place without being seen. Some of the ISIS men would recognize him, question him, and most likely detain him.

He peeked around the corner of the hall and looked out to the busy warehouse floor. There were about thirty men in all, their backs to him, eyes glued to the television monitors displaying the carnage of the day. Calls for war were being shouted by pundits as solemn news anchors offered a complete timeline of where and when the port attacks had occurred. Almost everyone was dressed in desert combat fatigues, similar to what U.S. Marines wore. Husein wondered where they had gotten such uniforms.

Months ago, he could remember hearing on the news that much of the equipment in the possession of ISIS was stolen from the American-backed Iraqi and Syrian rebel armies. It could have been the case.

He saw men walking around with cell phones to their ears, talking rapidly in Arabic, a language he did not understand. Bright lights from overhead illuminated the warehouse floor. There were large industrial machines everywhere and bins and bins of empty plastic bottles.

The militants were occupied with their seemingly urgent tasks, with no apparent shortage of technological devices at their fingertips. What did ISIS want? Did they really think they were going to defeat the Americans? Although his own country was no paradise, there was no place, at that moment, he would rather be.

He didn’t dare stand there much longer. Craig was waiting for him. His legs froze in place, preventing him from moving. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. It was time to move. With one step, he walked out into the bay, open and exposed. The basement door was only about fifty feet away, near a plastics molding machine, but as he moved—eyes on the ground—the door seemed farther and farther away.

***

Craig was on his third run-through. He had stopped halfway through the second time. Three paragraphs of rambling ISIS propaganda were not the easiest to remember and recite. Adam held the knife in Craig’s view again and promised to cut him if he messed up again.