The Recruit: A Taskforce Story (7 page)

Three years later, Knuckles sat in silence, the car engine ticking slowly as his mind tumbled over those actions from so long ago. Short in time, but a chasm in memories. The recollections brought a lump to his throat, but were fond nonetheless. He stared at the front door of the town house, trying to gather the courage to approach.

An Arlington, Virginia, police car rolled by, the officers eyeing him. He remained in place. When it returned, the policemen now overtly staring, he waved and opened his car door, his courage forced on him.

He advanced to the small concrete porch at a leaden pace, the entrance growing closer and closer. Eventually, as if of its own volition, his finger pushed the bell.

The door opened and he saw Carly’s face light up. Her hair was a little longer, and she was not as tan, but she still looked good. Now working in the bowels of the CIA headquarters, she was dressed like a typical businesswoman.

Her eyes searched past him, to the sidewalk behind, and he knew why. While Decoy had remained true to his perpetual quest to conquer the opposite sex, he’d also continued seeing Carly, an unspoken agreement between them. She was as close as he’d ever come to a steady relationship, and Knuckles knew how much he cared for her. And she for him.

He said, “Hey, Carly.”

He saw the terror grow behind her eyes and realized she understood what he was going to say.

“It’s about Decoy. . . .”

Read on for an exclusive extended excerpt of Brad Taylor’s

THE INSIDER THREAT

A PIKE LOGAN THRILLER

Available June 30, 2015, wherever books and eBooks are sold

Jacob Driscoll watched the four men, fascinated that they showed no resistance whatsoever. Completely resigned to their fate. A fly landed on the forehead of the nearest one—the one he was to kill—and the captive let it crawl about, tasting his sweat.

Jacob listened to the spokesman continue to rail in Arabic, a small crowd gathered in the square, outnumbered two to one by the gunmen. He didn’t understand the language but could guess at what was being said.

These men are traitors. This is the fate that befalls all who oppose the
Kalipha
. Stand with us, or suffer the same.

Far from cheering, the small grouping of people looked cowed, as if they wanted to be anywhere but here. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. They’d rather be on the outside watching than on their bellies with their necks stretched out.

The spokesman droned on, building toward a grand spectacle, his black tunic covered in dust, the AK-47 swinging about with his body language, and Jacob knew it was coming close. Execution time. His first.

In the four months he’d been inside the cult of death known as the Islamic State, he’d witnessed many, many executions, acting as a gunman on the periphery, but he’d never done one on his own.

Not that he minded killing. It hadn’t bothered him in the past, but the action had always been at the barrel of a gun, and he wondered how this would feel. In a detached, almost scientific way, he wondered if it would be different from carving the carcasses of the rabbits he’d killed in his youth. When he’d literally had to hunt for survival.

He looked at his partners, seeing Hussein fidgeting, the nervous tics growing more pronounced. He wasn’t built for this cauldron, and Jacob thought it ironic that Hussein was the one who had recruited them. Convinced them to come to this faraway land.

Not that they had many alternatives after fleeing the cesspool of “rehabilitation” they’d been placed within. Killing the guard had ensured that.

Carlos and Devon, now known as Yousef and Talib, showed no such hesitation. They had embraced the cult of death completely, changing their names and fervently soaking up the Salafist ideology like a cactus in the rain. They were on board one hundred and ten percent, considering this day a sacred one.

Jacob played the role, but he’d long since lost belief in religion. Any religion. He’d had that whipped out of him by the pious Christian guards in the white house.

No, it wasn’t the religion. It was the power. In this land, from Mosul to Raqqa, all that mattered was the courage of the battle-axe, and he’d found a skill that he didn’t realize he had. He knew he would die here, but it caused no angst. In truth, he had died long ago. All that remained was for him to slip the coils of his mortal frame. The difference was a cause. He wouldn’t end up as a page-two news story, caught stealing hubcaps and gunned down in the street. And neither would the men he had brought.

Hussein may have recruited him, and the other two may have changed their names, diving headlong into the myth of the Islamic State, but he was the leader of their small group. Just as he had been inside.

With that mantle came a responsibility.

A man in black, completely covered from head to toe, like something out of a
Star Wars
movie, began walking his way. Jacob inwardly grimaced.

His name was Abu Yabba Dabba Do, or some other unpronounceable Arabic crap, but Jacob called him Ringo. As in the Beatles. An Islamic fighter from England, he and others like him considered themselves above Jacob and his band because they were of Arabic descent. Ringo was Yemeni. Jacob was a mutt.

“So, Jacob, are you ready for your first kill?”

He drew out the name
Jacob
, showing his disdain for the Biblical reference and the fact that Jacob refused to take an Arabic one.

Jacob said, “It isn’t my first, you shit.”

Ringo smirked and said, “Death with a gun is not killing. You’ll see. This is absolute control. Absolute. As Mohammad dictated. But your little band of Lost Boys wouldn’t know about that.”

He was being tested, which was what he expected. Ringo had beheaded many men, and had developed a cult following on Twitter and other social media, but he was an ass. A small man who gained importance after the fact. After the fighting was done, using his knife and a camera to become famous. At his core, Jacob knew Ringo felt a challenge from him and his friends.

Four tightly knit brothers, forged by a fire outside the Islamic State, with—except for Hussein—no attachment to any Arabic or Islamic heritage, they were an anomaly. True foreign fighters in a foreign land. They called themselves the Lost Boys because of the iconic ’80s movie, but the analogy was apt. They lived in a world of the shadows.

And they killed better than most.

Jacob said, “Ringo, step away.”

That was all.

And Ringo did.

Ringo had seen the punishment the Lost Boys had endured. With two blond Caucasians, one African American, and Hussein, the one who had recruited them, their arrival had been anything but welcoming. Convinced they were spies or, at best, journalists, the emir had subjected them to inhuman conditions and cruelty. And they had thrived.

Because of the white house.

Ringo said, “You are not the future.
We
are the future.
Kafir
.”

Jacob looked up, catching Ringo’s pompous eyes with the dead ones he possessed, and said, “The future is dictated by the man who isn’t afraid to die. Is that you?”

Ringo said, “I am not afraid. I have proved that multiple times.”

“Do you wish to die today? Without fear?”

Jacob knew his reputation from Mosul preceded him. Knew that Ringo hated the fact that he was a blond-headed, blue-eyed American, with no ancestral ties to the coming caliphate, but he also knew that Ringo couldn’t get past the stories that had grown into legends.

Ringo snarled and said, “We’ll see, Lost Boy. We’ll see.”

And walked away.

The man on the square finished his speech, which was like every other one, and not unlike speeches given by the blowhard preachers Jacob had heard every night in the reform school. There was a flourish at the end, then a knife placed in his hand.

He looked at the four men prostrate in front of him, and felt the hatred.

They were snitches. People who’d sold out the clan for money, giving information to the enemy for targeted air strikes and intelligence on how the Islamic State functioned. Jacob would have had qualms about killing someone for eating pork or not wearing a head wrap, but he had none for traitors.

They were the ones who had caused the pain in his past. Had caused the trips to the white house.

He looked at his man, a Kurd. Strange that such a person had been able to penetrate so deeply, given the fight against the Peshmerga, but he had. And he’d given massive information about the Islamic State to the Americans. Now he would die.

But the fly on his forehead would live.

He swished the man’s face and saw it buzz away. Then leaned down, wrapping his hand into the hair, pulling it up.

Like he had as a child, when the next “new” father came into the room, stinking of whiskey and taking off his belt, he let his humanity float away, flying on a cloud. Gone.

He became a robot.

He looked down the line, seeing the ubiquitous cameraman recording the killing, then Carlos and Devon eagerly snatching up their own heads and looking to him for guidance. He waited on Hussein.

He caught the tears on Hussein’s cheeks and wondered if the man would go through with it. He saw Ringo advancing and shouted, “Hussein!”

His friend looked at him and he said, “For the white house. Do it for the white house.”

Hussein rapidly nodded, then pulled up the head.

Jacob turned to his own man, seeing his eyes rolling back, feeling the shaking in his body, the bright orange smock soaked in sweat.

The first swipe brought a gout of blood. He reached bone, and began sawing.

Omar al-Khatami watched the tape without a shred of revulsion, technically looking for the propaganda value. His media specialist described how he had enhanced the image, optimizing it for YouTube, and said, “This will show the Americans what happens to their spies, and prevent others from following in their steps.”

Omar said, “Yes. Post it tonight. End with the heads on the bodies.”

The door opened and the emir of northern Syria entered.

Mildly surprised, Omar exchanged greetings and said, “Adnan, I thought you weren’t returning for two days. What is happening with the oil?”

Adnan smiled and said, “It’s coming along. We only have the wells pumping at a quarter of capacity because of a lack of technical skill, but we have found men to change that. Soon, we will double our output and our revenues. As long as you don’t lose the fields.”

Omar said, “No chance of that.”

“Good, because I have some news. The caliph has bestowed a great honor on you. He has promoted you to the emir of external operations.”

The mention of the leader of the Islamic State brought a pause. Confused, Omar said, “External operations? I am the military commander here. I still have work to do. Aleppo to take. Damascus to burn.”

“The caliph has heard of your Lost Boys, and he thinks it is time to use them.”

“Then do so, but don’t pull me from my men. They fight because of me. The time is growing short for victory. This will be a setback we can’t afford, given the American attacks.”

Adnan scowled and said, “The caliph believes in you. And your American cell. He chose you.”

“Why? We have many men who could do this. You, for instance.”

“Because of your skill, for one. And because you are Chechen. You have traveled in Europe. You know the contacts. You can build the attack he desires.”

“These Lost Boys are untested. I’m unsure of their commitment.”

Adnan looked at the computer screen, the video paused with four men slicing and cutting. “Is this not them?”

“Yes.”

“They show commitment here.”

“It could be simple fear. Hussein, the Jordanian, cried throughout.”

“And the others?”

Omar grudgingly admitted they showed no qualms, but said, “The leader of these so-called Lost Boys hasn’t even taken a proper name. He still goes by Jacob.”

“But you tested him, yes?”

Omar nodded. Adnan said, “The name is why we want them. They will all revert back to their true names. They are gems buried in the sand. Four Americans with no ties to America. No families, no Facebook, no Twitter. They are unknown. Unlike the others who brag to their friends back home, nobody knows they exist. No authorities are fervently tracking their moves. True?”

“Yes. We instructed them on methods of recruitment, but they have shown no interest.”

“Good. Keep it that way. Their mission will be the greatest recruitment drive we have ever seen.”

The media specialist fidgeted, getting Adnan’s attention. He said, “Emir, they are on this video. The one we’re going to post for the world to see.”

“Don’t. Broadcast the stills of the verdict, but keep the executioners out.”

Omar said, “We lose the impact with our own people. They need to see. They need to fear.”

“Then let our men see it, but obscure the faces, and do not put it on social media. The Americans must be protected, and those
kafirs
in the United States have ways of determining the tiniest things.”

Omar nodded. “It will be done. What about me?”

Adnan looked at him with a question, and he said, “When do you wish me to start, and what will the target be?”

“Targets. Plural. Every attack attempted by that windbag Zawahiri and his diseased al Qaida has resulted in failure because the
kafirs
managed to hear about it before execution. We have to assume the same will happen here, so we will plan two attacks. One for them to chase, and one for you to execute.”

Omar went through the ramifications in his mind. Having fought in Grozny against a barbaric Russian army, he recognized the wisdom. He said, “Just preparation for the false flag attack?”

“No, no. A real attack. One that you will plan from start to finish. You pick the target and the method. The only parameter is that it must be outside of the caliphate. Outside the borders here. If it succeeds, so much the better, but its primary mission is to protect your American cell. Obviously, don’t tell the other team about that. Let them think they are the chosen ones.”

Omar absorbed the words, glancing away and nodding, thinking through the possibilities. He said, “And the real target?”

Adnan smiled and said, “The real one will destroy the heart of the
kafirs
.”