Sword Of God (30 page)

“It’s been a long time,” Payne said.

Schmidt nodded, still trying to decide if this was real or imagined. Worried that his conscience was fucking with him right before the bombs went off.

“You don’t write. You don’t call.”

Was this guilt? A manifestation of guilt?

“Schmidt!” Payne barked, just like he used to. “I’m not worthy of a response?”

“Sir?”

“What’s with that weak-ass,
sir?
Say it like you mean it.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Better. Much better.”

Schmidt stared at him, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to find you. I came to bring you home.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I heard you were in trouble and I came to get you. Case closed.”

Schmidt fiddled with the gun he held in his hand. It was pointed at the ground, completely nonthreatening. Every once in a while he tapped it on his hip, absentmindedly, like he forgot it was even there. “I thought you were retired.”

“I am. But all that changed when I heard about you. I came to get you out.”

“We
came to get you out,” said Jones, who emerged on the other side of the plaza. Far enough from Payne that they had Schmidt hemmed in, just in case their words didn’t work. They figured, with the bombs under control, it was worth a shot. “We flew all night to get here.”

“D.J.?” he said, even more confused. “I don’t understand. How did you know where I was?”

“The Pentagon figured it out,” Payne fibbed. ‘They said something about evidence you left in South Korea. One thing led to another and they asked us to extract you. Just like old times.”

“They know I’m here?”

“Hell, yeah,” Jones said. “And they applauded your initiative. Killing all these Arabs is a stroke of genius in their minds. Unfortunately, some politician found out about it, and the shit hit the fan. You know how it goes. If they sent a team of soldiers to help you out and they got caught? Think of the ramifications. That’s why they asked us to help. Total deniability.”

Schmidt shook his head. “But I don’t need help. Everything’s under control.”

Payne disagreed. “No, it’s not. There’s a problem. A
big
problem.”

“Sir?”

“After you went dark,” Payne lied, “the
CIA
received some terrible news. An Islamic group got their hands on some nukes, and we think they have them in Mecca. Probably somewhere near the mosque. Our guess is they’re participating in the hajj, cleansing all their sins, in hopes of striking soon.”

“Then what’s the problem? Let’s wipe those fuckers out.”

“We wish,” Jones said. “But that’s not the problem. The problem is the wind.”

“The wind?”

Payne nodded. “This time of year the wind blows to the east, right across the friggin’ desert. If we launch an assault and the nukes go off, guess what happens?”

Schmidt paused, trying to figure it out. “Shit.”

“Shit is right,” Jones said. “The radioactivity will blow right across the peninsula. Within hours, it will blanket Taif Air Base, Al-Gaim, and Al-Hada Hospital. We’re talking hundreds of dead Americans, all of them loyal soldiers. Hell, we probably know half of them.”

“Fuck!” Schmidt screamed, still tapping his gun on his hip. Much harder than before. Like the constant pounding was helping him think. “Then we gotta hurry, because I already planted the charges. They’re set to blow any minute.”

“Relax, man, relax.” Payne’s voice was calm, not showing any stress. “Were there two?”

“Yeah, in the eastern towers.”

“Then I got you covered.” He pointed toward the bags at his feet. “We found the explosives before we found you.”

“On the tanks? You found them on the tanks?”

Payne nodded, confident. “Someone taught you how to do this shit. And it sure wasn’t D.J.”

“Screw you,” Jones teased, trying to keep things light. He figured the more banter there was, the less time Schmidt would have to think. “I taught Trevor plenty of things. I took him to his first strip club.”

Schmidt frowned. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I would have. And
that’s
what’s important.”

Payne cut him off. “If you don’t mind, can we talk about it later? Right now we need to get out of here. The sooner, the better.”

“Back through the tunnel?” Jones asked.

“Yeah. We need to keep off the streets as much as possible. Especially with all the pilgrims arriving. I already sent Trevor’s crew ahead.” Payne turned toward Schmidt. “Unless you have a better plan.”

“You talked to my guys?”

“Someone had to,” Payne lied. He remembered Schmidt’s troubles when he first spotted him, repeatedly calling to his men, asking for their positions. “They said they tried but couldn’t get through to you. Is your earpiece working?”

Schmidt shrugged. “Apparently not. I haven’t heard a damn thing in fifteen minutes.”

Jones laughed. “Talk about deja vu. Remember that time in Asia when we had to go looking for your ass? You couldn’t hear a thing all night, but you stayed in the bushes for six hours even though the mission should’ve taken five minutes.”

Embarrassed, Schmidt nodded. “I was
just
thinking of that.”

“The next day we bought him a case of Q-tips to clean out his ears and a Dumbo watch to help tell time.”

“His trunk pointed to the hour,” Schmidt recalled. “At six o’clock it looked like his dick.”

Payne smiled at the memory, glad to see the old Trevor was still in there.

During the past several hours, Payne had had his doubts, worried that he was going to find some kind of lobotomized zombie he would be forced to put down because nothing human remained. In fact, if Payne had stumbled across him earlier when the clock was still ticking, when he had no time to waste, he would have done just that. No regrets. No remorse. Anything to save the lives of all those people Schmidt wanted to harm.

But now, how could he do that?

The threat was over, and Schmidt trusted them enough to follow them back to their truck. From there, they’d sneak across the border and return to Taif, where he’d let Colonel Harrington deal with him. Whether that was prison, psychotherapy, or a combination of the two, Payne figured it was better than putting a bullet into an old friend.

Sure, he realized Schmidt wouldn’t see the light of day for a very long time, if ever. And the truth was he didn’t deserve to—not after all the pain and suffering he caused.

However, in his heart, Payne figured his best choice was bringing Schmidt home alive.

Unfortunately, he never got the chance.

The bullet was fired over Payne’s shoulder. It whizzed past his ear and struck Schmidt in the throat. One second he was laughing about the past, the next he was taking his last breath.

Blood gushed from his carotid artery, leaking through his pale fingers as he frantically clutched his neck. No words were spoken, no last-second good-byes. He simply dropped his gun and slumped to the ground as a puddle of red formed around him.

Payne spun and saw two Arab men, both of them armed, wearing dark uniforms that prominently displayed the emblem of Saudi Arabia. The patch had a green palm tree underscored by two crossing scimitars, a curved sword popular in the Middle East. A second insignia, beige and encircled with Arabic script, was sewn on their chest. Payne didn’t need a translator to read their badges. He knew all about these men and their barbaric ways.

They were mutaween.

“Drop your weapons!” one screamed in Arabic.

When no one moved, the other repeated the command in English. “Drop your weapons!”

“Don’t shoot,” Payne said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. In stressful situations, he knew that people had the tendency to match the volume and the venom of those around them. If he screamed, their adrenaline would flow and they would get more aggressive. But if he stayed composed, they would subconsciously relax, possibly letting their guard down.

Payne smiled. “It’s about time you got here. We weren’t sure how long you’d be.”

“Put down your weapon!”

“Relax. We’re the ones who called you. We’ve been waiting for you to show.”

The lead officer did not bite. “Drop your weapon or you will be shot like your friend.”

“My friend?” Payne repeated. “Why would we be pointing our guns at a friend? He was the person we were sent to stop.”

“Put
down
your weapon.”

Multiple scenarios floated through Payne’s head. He knew he could follow orders and turn himself in, which would probably result in the death penalty—maybe before they even left the complex, since the mutaween were known for their swift justice. He could start a shoot-out, an iffy proposition since his gun was at his side and his opponent, a proven marksman, was aimed and ready to fire. He could delay as much as possible, hoping the other two members of his squad heard him talking and were moving into position. Then again, that wasn’t something he could count on—especially not from a soldier who was tripping in his dress less than twenty minutes before. Hell, for all Payne knew, the mutaween had hit the complex with force and had already disarmed his men. There could be twenty of them running around, securing all exits.

Payne glanced at Jones, who stood several feet away. He stared back at him, waiting for Payne to make a move. Whatever Payne did, he would follow. No questions asked. Over the years, they had developed a special bond that was hard to explain, one that was forged in stressful situations like this, where life and death hung in the balance. They’d reached a point where they could finish each other’s sentences, a trait that was often seen in identical twins—although one look at them proved they had different parents—and guess each other’s thoughts.

That’s one of the reasons why they were able to convince Schmidt to come with them so peacefully. Payne started piling on the bullshit, and Jones immediately broke out his shovel. Throw in the fact that Schmidt had a long history with them, trusting them implicitly from all their missions together, and they were able to persuade him in record time.

Unfortunately, the current situation wasn’t quite so easy. Payne knew he wouldn’t be able to convince the mu-taween of anything. They were too hard-core, as evidenced by their warning shot to Schmidt’s throat. Too protective of their sacred city. As soon as they figured out that Payne and Jones were non-Muslims, they were going to open fire. No questions asked.

Still, Payne knew if he could buy some time, if he could pile on enough bullshit to get an extra minute, he had an idea that just might work. It was going to take a grand gesture on his part and some even bigger cojones, but it was the best he could come up with on such short notice. Then again, it followed the creed he had been taught many years ago when he was training for the Special Forces, one he adhered to during his stint with the MANIACs.

A good plan violently executed
now
is better than a great plan later.

And if there was one thing Payne was good at, it was violence.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I am a United States soldier who was invited by your government to track the man you just killed. He came to Mecca to damage the Great Mosque and kill thousands of pilgrims in the hajj. We called for backup several minutes ago. Are you them?”

“Put down your weapon!”

“Look,” he said, as he turned his gun backward and lowered it to the ground. “I am putting my weapon down. Just answer my question. Are you my backup?”

“Your partner, too! Tell him to drop his weapon.”

Payne nodded at Jones, who followed Payne’s instructions. “We are not here to hurt anyone. We are here to help. Your government should have told you.”

“Told us what?”

“We are here to save the Great Mosque.”

The officer shook his head. “We know nothing of your tale.”

“Then you
need
to call it in. For your sake and ours. We have permission to be here.”

“What does it hurt?” Jones added. “Call it in.”

The mutaween whispered to each other in Arabic, discussing what they should do. Currently, they were in a position of power. Both of them were armed and far enough away from the suspects, who willingly surrendered their weapons, that they couldn’t be attacked without getting off several deadly shots. Besides, if what the Americans were allying was accurate--that they did have authorization to be- in Mecca--then harming them would result in the mutaween’s dismissal. Or even worse. Their bosses did not lake kindly to incompetence.

Finally, the officer spoke.

“You,” he said, pointing at Jones, “move closer to your
11 friend.”

Jones raised his hands in surrender and took several steps toward Payne.

“Stop right there.”

He nodded and stopped about five feet away.

The officer returned his attention to Payne. “Who is your contact?”

“His name and number are programmed into my phone.” Payne pointed toward the bag that sat near his right foot. “May I reach inside and get it?”

More whispering in Arabic. Then an answer in English. “Slowly.”

“Understood.”

Payne bent at his waist and inched his hand inside the bag. He fumbled around for a bit, his hand hidden from sight. An action that spooked the mutaween.

“What are you doing? Let me see your hand.”

“Relax,” he said. “I already gave you my gun. My partner gave you his gun. I am simply accessing my phone. It is password-protected. I cannot read the screen without the code.”

“Let me see the phone. Let me see your hand!”

“Don’t worry. I’m almost done. Just a couple more buttons.”

“He’s almost done,” echoed Jones, who appeared borderline serene despite everything that was going on. “He’s just getting the name of our contact.”

“Let me see your—”

“There!” Payne blurted. “The phone has been accessed. Now you can make the call yourself. He will tell you everything you need to know.”

“What is his name?”

“His name is Jabaal. He works for your government. Just talk to him and he will tell you everything. You will see.”

The officers whispered again, discussing who should make the call.