The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) (31 page)

“Umm,
I’ve got more than two neurons firing?”

Red
booted him in the shoulder, Dawson unable to make the block in time.

“Didn’t
you ever play Monopoly?” asked Dawson, massaging his shoulder.

“Who
didn’t?”

“Well,
it’s pronounced ‘Redding’ Railroad.”

Red’s
eyebrows narrowed.

“It is?”

Dawson
nodded.

“Huh. I
guess I shouldn’t have corrected Bryson when he was calling it ‘Redding’. He
said he was at a friend’s house and that’s what they called it.”

“What
did you say?”

“I said
his friend was an idiot.”

“That’s
nice. Who was the friend?”

Red
laughed.

“You.”

Dawson
chuckled and pulled his knife half way from the sheath when the door opened.

“Call
for you, sir, you can take it here.” The Seaman pointed at the wall and Dawson
nodded. A few keys were pressed, and the phone handed over.

Must
be the Colonel.

“Sergeant
Dawson here.”

“I
thought it was Mr. White?”

Dawson
smiled, immediately recognizing the voice of CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane.

“What
can I do for you?”

“Oh, ask
not what you can do for me, but ask what I can do for you.”

“Okay,
what can you do for me?”

“Care
for a little payback?”

Dawson
smiled, staring at the television screen showing the ruins of the Statue of
Liberty.

“Absolutely.”

Mahmoud Bassiouny Street, Cairo, Egypt

Two days later

Imam Khalil sat in the back of the black 1982 Mercedes 380SEL
provided by one of his supporters, of whom today there were many more than last
week. It was a poorly kept secret that he had been behind the coordinated
attacks that had brought the infidels to their knees, but word was out, and
accolades continued to pour in, even from various governments around the world,
though through discrete backchannels.

Today,
nobody could be seen in support of the attacks, as the Western militaries were
desperate for a target to hammer into the stone age, but over time, when things
had calmed, he would be a hero, acclaimed by over a billion of his brethren for
his boldness. He would need to remain in hiding for the rest of his life,
however that was a sacrifice he would be willing to make. Already he had been
offered sanctuary in a palace in Saudi Arabia, where he would live out a life
of pampered luxury, with all the modern conveniences available to the richest
of the rich.

And
women of all shapes, sizes and colors.

It would
be paradise on earth, a gift for sure from Allah himself.

The
driver slammed his fist into the steering wheel and looked in the rearview
mirror.

“I’m
sorry, Imam, but the traffic at this time of day, it is terrible!”

Khalil
waved off the man’s concerns with a flick of his wrist.

“It is
of no concern. We have air conditioning, plenty of gasoline, and no set time
for our arrival. Let the people enjoy their market.”

“I think
it is a little busier than usual, Imam,” said the driver, looking at the
bustling streets and sidewalks.

“Indeed,”
smiled Khalil. “There seems to be a spring in their step that was missing last
week.”

A
motorcycle revved its engine behind them, Khalil ignoring it, the driver taking
a glance in his rearview mirror, then side mirror. It pulled up beside them,
the driver, his black helmet and visor completely blocking his face, stopping,
then looking at the driver, then Khalil.

Khalil
felt his chest tighten slightly, his left leg beginning to push himself away
from the window when the motorcycle’s engine revved again, and shot ahead into
traffic, then out of sight.

He
breathed a sigh.

Perhaps
I should get to Saudi Arabia as soon as possible.

Red banked right, racing into the traffic circle and out of sight of
Imam Khalil’s vehicle, as he spoke into his comm. “Occupant confirmed. One
driver, left hand side, one passenger, positively ID’d as Mahmoud Khalil, rear
seat, left side. They’re stuck in traffic, looks like they’ll be there for at
least a few minutes, over.”

“Roger
that,” came Dawson’s voice over the comm. “Proceed as planned.”

Red
pulled into an alleyway about half a mile from their target, and waited. His
part of the plan was over, but he was to remain in the area for backup in case
it was needed. This was a precision plan, devised by Big Dog and the CIA guy
whose name he had never been told.

The
intel had arrived quickly, the moron Khalil a little too vocal in his boasting,
and using Echelon and various other tracking methods available to the CIA and
the Pentagon, they had quickly found him in a well-secured compound, awaiting a
transfer to a nonexistent palace in Saudi Arabia.

Pathetic
hypocrite.

The man
was willing to let his followers die for their cause in exchange for a paradise
filled with virgins, but lacked the courage to die for his convictions here,
instead jumping at the opportunity of living in decadence offered to him by a
Sheik in the Saudi royal household, who owed a favor to the CIA, lest a certain
set of photos of him with several young men should surface on the Internet.

Red
lifted the visor slightly to scratch his nose, then flipped it back down with a
smack as his anger grew. He recalled one of their briefings for a recon mission
a few years back, where a terrorist was suspected of frequenting a rub and tug
parlor run by Muslims in Detroit. But these were devout Muslims, and having sex
outside of marriage was against the Koran, and an offense to Allah.

No
problem!

There
was an Imam on site to marry you to the girl, then you’d do your business, and
then he’d divorce you on the way out.

Problem
solved.

Hypocrisy
intact.

Bigamy
laws be damned.

Red
sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming his racing heart.

“Moving
in now,” said Dawson over the comm.

Red
gripped the handles of his bike a little harder.

Time
for revenge.

Dawson gunned the engine, speeding along the left side of the cars,
deftly avoiding the pedestrians, most seemingly oblivious to the dangers
surrounding them, but also managing to somehow always avoid getting hit. Part
of him thought it was a game between the traffic and the pedestrians, the
latter pretending to not see the traffic, the former pretending to not see the
pedestrians. And always, at the last moment, someone would lose the game of
chicken, avoiding the collision, and smartly, that was almost always the
pedestrian.

When
Kane had called with the offer for some payback, he had jumped at it, receiving
immediate clearance from Colonel Clancy, and insertion into Cairo the next day
with several of his team. They knew where Khalil was, and thanks to their false
offer, knew where he’d be heading. They just had to wait.

It was
Red’s shift that alerted them to the move, satellite imagery from several
specially tasked birds, plus a UAV confirming the mass murderer entering the
vehicle.

Within
minutes they were in place, the plan simple, yet precise timing necessary.
There were quite a few variables beyond their control, but the key to a good
plan was minimizing those variables, and having contingencies in place should
something unexpected happen.

But as
expected, the Imam had become stuck in traffic, a completely expected, planned
for, and indeed hoped for, occurrence.

“Approaching
the vehicle now,” said Dawson through his comm, slowing down as he approached.
At the last second, he slowed down dramatically, almost coming to a stop,
leaning the bike toward the vehicle. Niner, on the rear of the bike, leaned
over and placed a magnetic shaped charge on the rear driver side door, patted
Dawson on the shoulder, and Dawson gunned it toward the traffic circle that
provided five separate means of escape.

It’s
like God’s on our side today.

“Charge
placed,” he said as he banked into the mess of traffic.

“Roger
that,” came Spock’s voice over the comm. “Stand by.”

Spock, sitting on his motorcycle about fifty feet back, watched for
an opening in the crowd, their aim to minimize, if not prevent entirely,
civilian casualties. They had placed a shaped charge on the door which would
direct the blast inward, reducing shrapnel and the concussive force that would
be ejected toward the pedestrians.

But
getting an opening where the civilians weren’t right beside the car was proving
a challenge.

Then he
saw one point at the charge, waving over a friend.

“The
charge has been spotted. I’m moving in.”

He
revved the engine, gunning the bike toward the pedestrians beginning to gather around,
pressing the button for his horn as he gained speed. People began to jump out
of his way, the time honored dance between pedestrian and vehicle forgotten. He
laid on the horn, now reaching almost thirty miles per hour in this last ditch
effort to save the op.

He
reached the rear bumper and the crowd jumped back, shaking their fists at him,
and he pressed the trigger.

There
was a large roar behind him, then screams, as the charge blew a hole through
the door, and in his side mirror, he could see those closest the blast laying
on the ground, the traditional white robes appearing soiled, but not bloody.

“Explosive
triggered,” he reported needlessly as he turned into the traffic circle, the
few who had given chase left behind as he raced through traffic and to his
exchange point where he’d dump the motorcycle, and switch to a diplomatic
vehicle.

 “Moving
in,” came the voice of the CIA operator over his comm.

Payback’s
a bitch.

CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane rushed forward, pushing aside the
gathering crowd. He had been following the vehicle on his own motorcycle when
it had been trapped in traffic and the plan set in motion. He had passed
Khalil’s vehicle, parking his bike near the entrance to the traffic circle,
then quickly made his way back to the Mercedes as it crawled through traffic.
Keeping pace with it had been easy, and his gentle manipulations of the crowds
had helped keep their casualties to simple cuts and bruises.

But now
it was time for the money shot.

He raced
around a group of bystanders, most pushing back from the vehicle in fear of
another explosion. Kane jumped inside, drawing his weapon, suppressor in place.
The driver, still in shock, spun around at the new arrival, and Kane put a
bullet in his head, splattering his brains across the shattered windshield.

He
grabbed Khalil, pulling him upright, the moaning man covered in blood, but
still alive. Kane grabbed him by the face, shaking his head back and forth
until he had his attention.

“Who are
you?” asked Khalil in Arabic.

“I’m a
messenger,” replied Kane in perfect Arabic.

“From
who?”

“From
the American people. They say hi.”

Kane
fired a shot into each knee cap, then one into the groin, another into Khalil’s
stomach, then his neck, each shot eliciting a cry of pain. Though he’d like to
prolong the torture, he didn’t have time, the crowd outside getting louder.

He
pulled the man’s face closer and placed his Glock against the man’s temple.

“See you
in hell.”

He
squeezed, and Khalil’s eyes widened as the bullet sped through his skull,
turning his brain matter into mush, then exploding out the other side. Kane threw
him down on the seat, took a quick photo with his phone, then jumped out the
other side of the car, walking with purpose through the crowds as if he
belonged there, some nearby looking and pointing at him. He ducked into an
alleyway and climbed on his bike, roaring away from the gridlocked street as he
pushed the helmet on his head.

“Mission
accomplished,” he said through the comm, marking the end of America’s first
counterstrike against the horror struck against it and its allies.

Cairo International Airport, Cairo, Egypt

Later that day

James Acton sat in the international passengers’ waiting area, Laura
on one side, Reading on the other, their students spread out across several rows.
It had been a grueling several days. Chaney had been airlifted back to England,
and was still in a coma, leaving Acton to wonder what the message was he had
tried to deliver, and leaving his friend, Hugh, to wonder whether or not his
partner was going to make it or not.

Apparently
there had been complications on the flight, and Chaney had nearly died. They
had managed to save him, but the coma they had been optimistic he would recover
from, was now thought worse.

Again,
only time would tell.

Acton
looked at his friend and could see the worry on his face, his stare already in
London. Laura’s head was on his shoulder, herself in a deep sleep at the relief
all her students were safe.

He
himself was wired. He was exhausted, but couldn’t sleep. His mind was preoccupied
with the dig site, and what they had left behind. The world had forgotten the
discovery, side tracked by the terrorist attacks and its aftermath, but he was
left wondering if their discovery was still intact, or had it been destroyed.

And it
was driving him nuts.

He had
told Laura they should return immediately, at least he himself, and she had
called him daft.

And she
was right.

If it
was destroyed, there was nothing he could do. And if it wasn’t, the chances of
anyone finding it again were slim. Then his heart leapt into his throat as he
remembered the reporters, and the fact they had footage of where the tomb
actually was.