by James Hunt
“Agreed,” Nathan said.
Ben nodded and softly repeated to himself that it was what she would have wanted. The three of them left their chambers and stepped back out into the town hall. Their population was less than half of what it was when they arrived, but the fence had been finished, supplies had been recalculated, and they still had more than enough to last for a few years.
Iris smacked her gavel, calling everyone to order. “We have listened to and heard everyone’s opinion. And based off of the community’s voice, we shall start looking for others to bring to the camp. Anyone that comes to us will be given asylum, but thoroughly vetted and closely monitored.” She reached for the gavel but hesitated. She twirled it in her hands then set it down. “I know many of you were moved by what Wren Burton did for this community. By all she sacrificed. Humanity should never be something that’s lost in times of crisis. It should only be strengthened. Our actions shape us. How we conduct ourselves will shape the future. And though she is gone, we will keep her spirit within all of us.” She lowered her head, a smile gracing her lips at Wren’s memory, then smacked the gavel.
***
Reuben cracked his knuckles then turned the spit outside the cabin. The four rabbits crackled, and the grease from the meat sizzled into the fire below. Chloe sat on his right, while Addison was on his left. “Should be done soon.”
“I’m starving.” Chloe threw her head back and overexaggerated the throwing of her arms. “It smells so good.” She leaned closer, but Reuben pulled her back.
“Easy now. We don’t want to cook you.” Reuben patted her on the back and reached for the spit, slowly, still recovering from his fight back in town. He tore into the charred flesh, and determined with a satisfied grunt that it was done. “All right. Time to eat. Zack!”
A log split in two, the axe wedged right in the middle. Zack looked over from the logs of firewood and limped over, his leg still acclimating to the freedom from his cast, not all of his strength completely returned. “Smells good.” He took a seat next to Addison, wiping his hands on his jeans, then playfully wiped them on Addison’s hair, which triggered a squeal and a giggle.
“All right. That’s enough, you two,” Reuben said. “Chloe, why don’t you run inside and get the rest of the party, huh?”
“Okay.” Chloe jumped to her feet and sprinted as fast as her tiny legs allowed. Before she went inside, she ran her fingers over the old bullet holes in the cabin walls and then pushed the door open. The cabin had grown even smaller from the sudden increase in occupants, but never had it felt more like a home. “Mom, food’s ready.”
Wren looked up from the pistol on the table and smiled. “I’ll be out in a minute.” Chloe disappeared back outside, and Wren tucked the pistol in her holster and pushed up from the chair gingerly. Bandages protruded from the collar of her shirt and she walked slowly, the effort of breathing still difficult from the gunshot wounds.
Outside, Wren found a seat next to Zack. The girls split one of the rabbits, while Reuben, Zack, and she had their own. She closed her eyes as she bit into the meat and cleaned every last morsel off the bones. Once they were done, the kids played, and Zack returned to the firewood. “If you get tired, sit down. Don’t push it too hard.”
“I know, Mom.”
“He’ll be okay,” Reuben said, tossing the bones into a pile. “You’re sure you still want to go tomorrow?” He raised his eyebrows. The wounds on his face had mostly healed, and the beard helped cover up what hadn’t.
“Yeah. It’s time.” After the attack on the camp and Edric’s death, she awoke in the infirmary with her kids surrounding her and Reuben sitting in the corner. It was nearly an hour before all the tears had dried. Once Doug was buried, they left the community and returned to Reuben’s cabin. Though Iris and the others were more than supportive of having them stay, she couldn’t. It was a part of her life she needed closed. And with Reuben’s help and a large supply crate from the community, they had everything they needed. And even if they didn’t, the community was only a day’s journey. “We’ll start with some of the smaller towns. See what we find there.”
“It’s risky. We don’t know what it’s like out there anymore.”
Wren watched the girls play, chasing after one another with sticks, then looked to Zack splitting wood. Everything had changed. But they needed to move forward. “It doesn’t matter what we’ll find. Whatever it is, we’ll be okay. If it’s broken, we’ll rebuild it.” She turned to Reuben and smiled. “It’s time to start putting the pieces back together.”
Terror Rising
Secret Meeting
A covert operation was in effect under the cover of a blackened sky. The desert, vast and barren, stretched for untold miles. A windstorm had picked up, pushing a blanket of sand in all directions. Amid the rolling headwinds sat a hideout obscured by night and covered by a tan canopy that concealed the clay-and-stone building even in brightness of day. Such covert operations weren’t unique to this desolate location. The desert had many secrets, known only to those who inhabited its hollow terrain.
The young men working throughout the night knew these secrets all too well. They were at war. They had been at war since their leader declared a fatwah against perhaps the greatest evil in the world: the United States of America. And this time, they were right in their enemy’s backyard, along the southern border of El Paso, Texas.
The Islamic State was already embedded throughout Texas and had been growing steadily since its subsequent conquest of major cities throughout the Middle East.
Their expansion throughout Iraq, Syria, and Libya was important—crucial to their cause. But their ambitions didn’t stop at there. They were going to infiltrate the enemy from within, through strategically placed sleeper cells ready to activate at a moment’s notice.
For the longest time, Salah Asgar, leader of the Texas sleeper cells, hadn’t heard anything from back home. He had a family in Fallujah, Iraq—a wife and two sons. His youngest son, Umar, had been killed in a drone strike by American forces, a target supposedly based on bad Intel. The shop explosion killed fifteen other Iraqi civilians, including Salah’s neighbor, Mustafa.
Ten years after his son’s death, Salah wanted nothing more than revenge against the U.S. As a dedicated Sunni, he joined the Islamic State during its rise in power in the spring of 2013 just as the last remaining American forces had left Iraq. From there, he was ready to do whatever necessary to avenge his son and his people.
One of their many Texas hideouts was a small concrete compound where they hid supplies underground. Its modest size and dilapidated exterior gave the impression that, even if discovered by outsiders, it was just an abandoned outpost not utilized in ages.
Tubes of long fluorescent bulbs hung along the ceiling powered by a gas generator, their only source of electricity. There was little to be found inside the building, as their weapons caches, sensitive documents, and dirty-bomb materials were all stored below ground and out of sight.
Salah told his men that they could never be too careful and that they were to cover their tracks at all times.
“Fail me, and you fail the Islamic State,” he had told them. And he meant every word of it.
That evening, about thirty operatives—mostly young men—had gathered in the cramped confines of their hideout for an important meeting. Salah walked out from the room in which he had just finished talking with his closest advisors and turned toward the open hall.
Salah’s men were prepared for anything. Back home, they wore their uniforms proudly, which ranged from desert tan military fatigues to a more urban gray patterns, similar or identical to U.S. Army uniforms. In America, however, they were required to blend in amongst the population. Casual T-shirts and jeans, polo shirts, and trim or no beards at all were the standard. The less attention they brought to themselves the better.
Many of the men had traveled far to be there, having been alerted to the meeting days prior. Those given the call were eager to hear wh
at their respected leader had to say. Not everyone had been summoned, and such an exclusivity fed the anticipation in the air.
They sat in rows across the floor where crates of Kalashnikov AK-47 rifles sat open in the corner. The dimly lit room provided an equal amount of illumination and shadow. Quiet chatter ceased the moment the door opened and Salah entered, flanked by two high-ranking security men, Bosra and Nabil, both with thick beards and white caps on their heads known as Taqiyahs. Back home, they were known to have carried out public executions against apostates, spies, and anyone who failed to adhere to the strict doctrines of ISIS. They were both feared and respected, providing Salah with a level of quiet awe whenever he entered a room with them at his side.
Silence fell as he took center stage, dressed in a long white robe with a checkered keffiyeh head scarf tied around his head. He was a tall man, skinny with a narrow beard that reached his chest. The men knew that their leader had not called the meeting for just any reason. There was news to be told. The time to strike was near.
Salah began his speech by first leading the men in prayer. They bowed their heads and prayed to Allah to provide them with the strength to slaughter their enemies, no matter who stood in their way. Salah then raised his head and thanked them for arriving on such short notice.
“Brothers, I am more impressed today with your discipline and readiness than I was last time we met,” he said with the gravelly baritone of an experienced lecturer. It had been two months since their last meeting.
“And today, I invited you here to discuss our next phase in establishing a caliphate in these United States.”
The young men applauded as though a switch had ignited their passion. Bosra and Nabil turned from their corners in the room and stared into the crowd, not saying a word. The cheers quickly died out, replaced by silence. Salah smiled slightly in response, looking out at the crowd with fondness.
“I know you are excited,” he continued. “For so am I.” His face went stern again. “But remember, you must hide your emotions, conceal your tendencies. The time for celebration is not yet upon us. Our leaders are watching us from afar. They have confidence in the mission, but the Americans will stop at nothing to wipe us out if we expose ourselves.”
The crowd looked on as the generator hummed in the back of the room. Salah, who looked strangely pale that evening, cleared his throat and continued.
“I say to you, brothers, that this mission carries with it an extreme risk. You may never see your families again. Once we awaken the beast, many of us will die or spend the rest of our lives in a prison cell. The Americans experiment is a great injustice unto the world, something our people have suffered under for a very long time.” He jabbed a finger at them. “And it is up to you in this room tonight to send a message to the Americans that their reign of terror is over!”
The crowd launched into a frenzy of applause once again. This time, however, Salah didn’t seem to be bothered by it, but instead basked in their evident motivation and enthusiasm. He opened his mouth to speak, and the young men went quiet, not wanting to miss a word.
“We’re only as strong as our cause, and, my brothers, our cause is great. We give thanks to Allah for getting us this far—for getting us into America—because He is the guiding light in our lives, and we will stop at nothing to make Him proud.”
Salah stopped suddenly as his eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd, but none of the men would make direct eye contact. He then spoke slowly and with conviction. “Caution. Prudence. Dedication. Devotion. Discipline. These are the basic tenets we must live by to make this mission a success. All of this is threatened when we lose sight of our purpose.”
He stopped and cleared his throat again, looking away from the crowd, then turning back and zeroing in on them with foreboding dark-brown eyes.
“I announce to you this evening that we have a threat from within. And while this threat involves one among us, we are all culpable. Even myself.” He then stepped forward, his voice booming with passion. “Because when one of us commits an offense, it reflects on us all. When one slanders the prophet, he slanders every one of us.”
Clear confusion became evident throughout the gathering as the men looked around in uncertainty. Salah looked on with a penetrating stare, not eyeing anyone in particular, which made everyone even more uneasy. He then turned to Bosra at his right and signaled into the crowd. Bosra nodded and stepped forward toward the men, with Nabil following suit from the other side of the room.
More confused glances followed as the two towering men rushed to the middle row and yanked one bushy-haired young man up by the back of his shirt. The man shouted as they led him to the front with his hands held behind his back. Murmurs of fear rumbled throughout the crowd.
“What is this?” the young man cried out. “What are you doing?”
Salah said nothing in response as Nabil pushed the man onto his knees. Dust flew into the air. Salah stared down with his eyebrows furrowed. The man looked up, trembling, his boyish face stricken with fear.
“Mahir Kouachi, I remember your father,” Salah said. “He died a martyr at the hands of Americans during their invasion of Iraq. Before he died, I promised him that I would see to it that you were taken care of. I owed him because he was a good man.”
Salah then took a step back, shaking his head. “And this is how you repay me!” he shouted with a slap across Mahir’s stunned face.
The crowd looked on, stunned but hesitant to speak or move. No one, it seemed, knew what was transpiring. But things didn’t look good for their singled-out brother.
Mahir held the side of his head as sweat dripped down his forehead past his widened eyes. “My leader…” he began in a daze.
Another resounding blow to his face came this time from Nibal. “You do not address him unless spoken to,” he said gruffly.
Mahir said no more as Salah took a step past him and raised his arms to address the room. “Mahir has betrayed us. He has disgraced his father’s memory and his family’s trust.” Without disclosing any details, Salah leaned down inches from Mahir’s terrified face. “Your family members will pay the ultimate price, I can assure you.”
Mahir opened his mouth to speak, his mind racing, but nothing came out. Salah rose and turned to the crowd. “One mistake, my brothers, and we lose. That’s all it takes. It has come to my attention that our brother, Mahir, has spoken with the enemy. He is, in fact, a spy.” He then looked down at the frightened Mahir at his feet.
Mahir looked around the room in a panic. “It’s not true! I am not—”
Another smack came across Mahir’s head as he tried to shield himself.
“But you are a spy,” Salah said looking down at him, as a disappointed father might do.
Mahir raised his head with tears streaming from his eyes, a deep look of shame embedded across his face.
“How did we find out?” Salah asked him. “Because we have people everywhere. On all levels. All reporting to me.”
Mahir looked down, ashamed. He then looked into the stoic crowd for mercy. “I told them nothing!” he cried out. “I talked to a few Americans that’s all. I was trying to recruit them. Trying to do Allah’s will!”
Salah stared at him for a long, quiet moment. “You are weak, Mahir. And your carelessness is a threat to us and our mission.”
Mahir wiped the tears from his face, remaining on his knees, a defeated man who knew what was to come next. Salah looked at Nabil and nodded.
Nabil pulled a long bowie knife from the sheath on his belt, yanked Mahir’s head back, and drew the blade across his throat.
The crowd gasped. Salah watched impassively as blood gushed from the open wound. Mahir’s eyes widened with shock, as though he had not expected such swift retaliation. The room remained silent as vacant faces stared ahead.
“Leave this world, young Mahir,” Salah said. “May Allah judge you accordingly.”
Mahir gargled and gasped his last desperate breaths. Nabil released his grip on Mahi
r’s hair and pushed his head down. His body slumped over his knees as a thick puddle of blood formed slowly beneath him. His legs twitched with his wheezing until he went still on the floor.
Salah nodded again at Nabil and Bosra. In response, they lifted Mahir and carried him away past the silent crowd.
“Give him a proper burial,” Salah said, signaling to the door. “It’s the least I can do for his father.”
Bosra and Nabil nodded back, holding Mahir by his arms and legs, spilling blood along the floor as they moved. Salah then turned to the crowd without an ounce of remorse in his eyes.
“All part of Allah’s plan. This is where we are at, my brothers. No room for error.” He stepped forward with a deadly serious glare from his dark coal eyes. “And if any of you decide to betray me, the very same will happen to you.”
The men said nothing. Their frightened faces were all that Salah needed to see. Having made his point, he continued in a much calmer tone. “In one week, we deliver our first full-scale attack. Those are our instructions. The moment we’ve been waiting for has arrived. If there is a man among us not ready for the task, raise your hand now.”
Salah stopped and looked into the crows, finding no objections. “Good,” he said, smiling. “Let us prepare for battle.
Standoff
It was in the high eighties in Del Rio, Texas, a small border city one hundred fifty miles west of San Antonio. The United States Border Patrol had a busy presence in the area, and their hands were often full with long hours and meager assistance from the federal government and Homeland Security.
From her first year on the force, Angela Gannon had seen many disturbing trends in drug and human trafficking. She had heard the stories about terrorists sneaking across the border. She had seen the waves of migrant children apprehended and held in limbo at the border station. She'd seen a lot of things. But nothing could have prepared her for the day ahead.
