Grave Games: A Collection Of Riveting Suspense Thrillers

by James Hunt

  Standing with both girls at her side, holding their hands, Angela looked down the bloody corridor.

  “Asgar escaped. Bosra too. But they left a bunch of stuff behind!”

  She could stall no longer. She led the girls a few steps back into their cell and crouched down eye-level with them, speaking as calmly as she could. “Wait for me just one minute, and I’ll be back.”

  Near hysterics, Lisa reached out with one hand and grabbed at her. “No, Mommy. Please don’t leave us!”

  “Shhh,” Angela said, stroking her stringy hair. “It will only be for one minute. Then we’ll all leave.”

  She broke away from the girls, despite the sinking in her heart, and ran out of the room past the multitude of bodies in her path. She couldn’t bring herself to walk Chassity or Lisa past the horrific sight. They had experienced enough as it was. She continued down the corridor and into a room at the end, with its vault-like door busted open.

  As she carefully walked inside the largely empty room, she saw Burke standing over a small table of documents with the wholeness of fear in his eyes. A look she had never seen from him before.

  “What is it?” she asked, approaching him with concern. There were a few Kerosene lamps placed on the ground, providing just enough light to see by.

  Burke managed to look away from the documents just long enough to signal to the double mattress in the corner of the room, titled at an angle.

  “Asgar got away. Some kind of trap door I found under his bed. Thick steel. Five inches at least. None of my tools can penetrate it.” He turned back to the table and pointed to a Texas map with areas marked by yellow circles.

  “What’s wrong?” Angela asked, growing impatient. She found that she didn’t care about Asgar anymore, nor did she care that he got away. All she wanted to do was to leave this place with her daughters in tow.

  “This here…” Burke began. “This is their plan to attack the Dallas nuclear power plant. They’ve accelerated the mission.”

  “Okay,” Angela said, almost as though the plant attack was common knowledge. “How do we stop them? Who do we need to call?”

  Burke turned to her with sharp, serious eyes. “That’s the thing, Angela. According to this, Asgar has given them the green light. We may not have time to stop them.” He paused with a deep breath. “You have to run. Now.”

  Terror Rising: Book 2 - Holy War

  Retribution

  Sunday, 9:30 a.m.

  Garland, Texas

  Travis Durant sat in the driver's seat of his black 2011 Honda Accord watching the Masjid Quabba Mosque with great interest. From the far corner of a large parking lot, he examined the Muslim congregation filing into the open double doors as services were about to begin.

  The men wore casual dress shirts and pants, many of them with white cotton prayer caps, or taqiyahs, on their heads. The relative calmness in the air gave a certain spirit to what would be a lengthy service. The sun peeked over clouds on the horizon in the brightening sky, which only an hour ago had been dark, with streaks of yellow emerging in a radiant glow.

  At the entrance of the two-story mosque, no one turned a head in Travis's direction. He felt invisible. And though most of the families entering the mosque wore their summer colors—the men in white button-down shirts, women in blue long-sleeved dresses and hijabs—Travis was dressed in black. His car engine was off. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Both windows were halfway down and the stagnant air seeped into his car. Sweat beads formed on his forehead. His black T-shirt felt damp, especially where it pressed against the back of his vinyl seat. Lying next to him on the passenger seat were several local newspapers detailing events from a few days ago, their headlines nearly identical:

  Terror Bombing in Texas

  Mysterious Truck Explosion Linked to Terrorist Sleeper Cell

  Chemical Agent Scare on Texas Border

  The newspapers detailed a recent event involving a truck explosion that killed a young Border Agent named Jeremy Dawson with the Del Rio U.S. Customs and Border Protection station. Dawson, it was reported, was searching the cargo port of a box truck when he triggered an improvised explosive that blew up the truck, killing him instantly.

  Fearing the release of chemical agents, authorities cordoned off the area for miles. The truck’s driver and passenger, killed in a shootout, were later identified as militants linked to ISIS, but the story didn't end there. The Islamic State kidnapped the family of another border agent, Angela Gannon, of the same Del Rio sector, and killed her husband on camera in a videotaped message to the United States government.

  “Homegrown” ISIS Cell Executes First American in Chilling Message

  ISIS Executes American in Texas

  Government Vows to “Bring Killers to Justice” after Murder of Texas Man

  Travis stared ahead while tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Most of the congregation had entered the mosque, with only a few stragglers left exiting their cars. He was lucky enough to find a spot in the corner under a tree, which provided him some much-needed shade. He studied the tan, octagon-shaded building with a golden dome before him, prepared to do what he felt necessary. The last of the group went inside, and two nicely dressed Middle Eastern men shut the double doors behind them. Services were about to begin.

  Travis brushed his dark bangs to the side and glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. There were bags under his tired blue eyes. He'd been up for hours—nearly all night. His road map lay half folded on his dashboard, soaking in the heat. In the lead-up to his visit, he had been searching for the right mosque. The Masjid Quabba Mosque was one of the most popular and well-attended, and for Travis, that made it perfect.

  He had been sullen and withdrawn from family and friends for a while, and as he sat in his car, he had never felt so alone. Though he knew that he wasn’t alone. He was embarking on a mission far beyond himself. America had lost its way, he believed. There was nothing left but a wasteland of broken promises. At nineteen, Travis had found solace in his radicalized views. All the answers were there for everyone to see. A war had already begun, and no one was doing anything about it. That was, until now.

  Travis leaned to his side and grabbed a gym bag from the passenger floor, hoisting it onto his lap. His nervous hands unzipped the bag, revealing two .45 semiautomatic handguns and several loaded magazines, piled together like some grab-bag of carnage.

  He loaded the magazines into each pistol and then placed each remaining magazine into separate slots on a joint-shoulder-harness vest. The air was still and quiet. Cars passed by on the nearby open road, echoing in the distance. There was plenty of time for him to turn away. He could leave this place for good, and no one would be any wiser to it. The decision was all his, but for Travis, the time to reconsider had long passed. He was on a mission. It was his duty. Those inside were sealed to their fate.

  He slid the ammo vest over his shoulders, slipping it on. He snapped the clips in the center of the vest together and tossed the gym bag to the floor. On his lap lay the two hand guns, the instruments of Travis's destruction—and his power. He placed both pistols in individual holsters dangling on the sides of his vest.

  The last piece to his plan involved an Adidas windbreaker in the back seat to better conceal his intentions. He reached back, grabbed the jacket, and then opened his door, feeling relieved to exit the stuffy car. He stepped out, jacket in hand, and stretched. Once his jacket was on and zipped up halfway, he looked around carefully to ensure that the coast was still clear. No one was around. The parking lot, filled with vehicles, was undisturbed. He leaned against the side of his car, driver's door opened, and lowered his head against the hot surface, praying.

  An eighteen-wheeler semi roared by, interrupting Travis's prayer as his head jerked up. He stared ahead at the mosque, with its arched window frames and opaque tint. From where he stood, the building looked modest, small even, but there were plenty of people going inside. He shut his door and walked toward the mosqu
e, passing three rows of parked cars and reaching the shaded walkway to the front entrance.

  His legs felt stiff, as though he were moving on autopilot. A dry breeze swept past him, pushing him onward. With measured steps and his hands stuffed in his pockets, he continued to the front entrance. Suddenly, the doors opened, and out stepped one of the doormen seen before, a round, pudgy man of average build with darkly tan skin and a trim goatee. He held the door half open, scanning Travis up and down with a reserved expression of neither approval nor disapproval.

  “How can I help you, sir?” he asked with an Arabic accent.

  “I came to observe your services today...” Travis answered.

  The doorman seemed a bit skeptical. “You are interested in joining the Muslim faith?”

  “I am,” Travis responded.

  Silence followed as the doorman examined him carefully. He then lowered his guard, smiled. “Of course. My name is Bari,” he said.

  Travis pulled his hands out of his pockets and shook hands with a slight smile. “Hi. I'm Travis.”

  Bari smiled and lowered his hand, folding them together at his waist as the door slowly closed. He wasn't done with the questions.

  “Do you have family?” Bari asked.

  “Yes,” Travis said. He then looked down with a hint of shame. “Unfortunately, they’re not interested.”

  Bari nodded in solemn understanding. “I see...” His face then brightened and perked up. “Please. Join us,” he said, opening the door and extending his hand inside.

  Travis saw a large carpeted lobby that led to a closed double-door entrance. From a small window, he could see the backs of the congregation lined up in rows and going to their knees in prayer.

  “How did you find out about our mosque?” Bari asked him, seemingly out of nowhere.

  Travis snapped out of his daze and turned to Bari. “I searched on the Internet. Heard a lot of good things about it.”

  Bari smiled again. “That's great to hear. This way, please.”

  Travis thanked Bari and followed him to a side room, looking up and admiring the high, vaulted ceiling above. Bari pointed inside where shoes were lined up neatly on shelves. “Please, if you will, sir.”

  Travis looked down at his dirty sneakers and immediately made his way into the room. He took his shoes off and placed them on a nearly full shelf as Bari waited patiently. Noting Travis’s bare feet, Bari pointed to a foot-and hand-washing station in the corner.

  “You may wash there before entering,” he said.

  Travis nodded and walked along the tiled floor to the station where he dipped his feet into a porcelain tub and then washed his hands a nearby sink. Once clean, he grabbed a fresh towel folded on a stack and dried his hands and feet under the careful eye of Bari.

  Bari's hand then moved toward a line of coat hooks along the wall. Travis, after all, had arrived wearing a jacket.

  “Somewhere to hang your coat, sir?”

  “That's fine,” Travis said, feigning a cough. “Feeling a little under the weather. If you don't mind, I'd like to keep it on.” He needed to conceal his weapons, for it was important to strike when the moment was right, and not a moment sooner.

  Bari studied the scraggly boy before him, bare feet, black pants, and a blue windbreaker, deciding what to do with him. “That is fine,” he finally replied. “But you must wait until the first prayer session is finished before entering.”

  He turned and led Travis out of the shoe room and toward the tall, elegant oak doors that led to the main prayer room.

  “You're in for a treat,” Bari began excitedly. “Imam Rasheed is addressing us. He traveled all the way from Dearborn, Michigan, to speak.”

  Travis smiled. “I read about that.”

  Bari's eyes lit up. “So you know?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Travis said.

  They stopped as Bari listened against the door, waiting with curious glances toward Travis out of his peripheral. “Tell me, Travis. When did your interest in the Islamic faith grow?”

  In response, Travis turned to him, anxious and scratching his clean-shaven chin. “About a year ago.”

  Bari seemed impressed. “A year? That's wonderful for a young man like yourself to—”

  “Can I go in yet?” Travis blurted out.

  Bari stopped, taken aback, and his smile dropped. “It shouldn't be too much longer, sir.” He listened against the door, eager to get Travis on his way. After a few awkward minutes, Bari turned the door handle and opened the door for Travis to pass.

  Ahead were rows of men on their knees and raising their heads up from the floor, just as Travis had envisioned. The women were most likely praying in another room, but he had found an adequate target with the men. As he stepped inside the red-carpeted room, Bari's hand came over his shoulder, stopping him. Travis froze. Had he detected something?

  “Please stay in the back, and try not to draw too much attention to yourself,” Bari whispered, pointing to a few Turkish rugs behind the last row. “Nothing personal. You wouldn't want to bring too much attention to yourself until we've had a moment to introduce you to our members.” He patted Travis's shoulder and sent him on his way with a parting phrase. “Peace be upon you.”

  “And you as well...” Travis added, making his way toward the congregation. The door quietly closed behind him as he walked past framed photos of the Taj Mahal, the Masjid al-Maram, and other famous Muslim landmarks lining the walls.

  He stopped at a pillar, placing both feet in front of a prayer rug. The congregation remained kneeling and staring forward as a white-robed and bearded Imam entered the room at the front and took the podium. His white taqiyah fit neatly on his head. His beard was blackish gray, and his eyes behind his glasses were stern and serious. He welcomed the crowd and began his opening comments.

  Travis found himself too frozen to react. All he could do was stand there. He soon drew the attention of two men standing against the opposite walls of the room. They glanced over just as the Imam's head rose up from the podium. Travis couldn't think of a better time to act.

  He unzipped his jacket with one quick thrust and unsnapped both small straps holding the pistols in their holsters. It was as though the room had frozen in time. A rush of adrenaline flowed through his veins as he yanked both handguns out, holding them into the air and fully prepared to commit an unspeakable act of unprovoked violence.

  The men kneeling in front of him turned their heads, their faces frozen in disbelief. The Imam’s words faded as his calm demeanor slowly changed to fear. The two men watching from afar held their arms out in a panic.

  “Hey!” the one from Travis’s right shouted out.

  Travis scanned the line by methodically as the men jumped up and tried to flee. He stopped at one man who remained on his knees, frozen with fear and confusion.

  “Gun!” someone shouted from the crowd as dozens stood up and vaulted for the exits.

  Travis pulled the trigger, shooting the first man through the head. He collapsed to ground, eyes stunned, as panicked screams filled the room with men scattering in desperation. Travis aimed both pistols at the fleeing men and fired repeatedly, sending several of them writhing on the blood-soaked floor. He watched the mass pandemonium as the crowd nearly toppled over each other to get to the emergency exits. He followed, shooting any person in his way.

  From afar, he saw the Imam duck behind the podium, trying to conceal himself. His real target was in sight. Suddenly, four large men charged at him from all sides with fury in their eyes. He shot one, blasting his throat open, then turned and shot another. He raised his second pistol and put a bullet between the eyes of the third man. The fourth one tripped over his dead friend and rolled on the ground, stopping right at Travis's bare feet.

  “No!” he shouted, looking up.

  Travis shot him in the face with little acknowledgment as his focus remained on the petrified Imam. The room had been nearly cleared of any living soul. He shot a wounded man in the
head as he the man tried to crawl away. He examined the other bodies for movement and then strolled to the podium.

  The Imam’s pale head peeked up from the podium and looked toward the emergency exit. “Wait!” he cried out to Travis as his trembling hands shielded his face. “Please. We can discuss this. Tell me what your grievance is...”

  “You,” Travis said, blasting six rounds through the podium.

  The Imam flew against the wall and slumped over, dead. Travis turned around and examined the room, disappointed that his body count hadn't been higher. He counted fifteen in all, in a room that had housed at least one hundred. He had underestimated the crowd. They had moved too fast. As he headed for the exit, feeling thwarted to a degree, he pushed open the double doors and found Bari on the other side, crouched down and shaking. The horror in his eyes was immeasurable.

  “Wha-What have you done?” he asked, terrified. He saw the pistols and held both hands out in a defensive posture. “I-I have called the police. They are coming!”

  Travis didn't shoot him. Instead, he approached him calmly, while placing one pistol back in its holster. He then placed his free hand on Bari's shoulder.

  “Good. I want you to tell them exactly what happened here. You tell 'em everything.”

  Bari was beside himself with grief and shock. “But… But… Why?”

  Travis glanced at him with a vacant, sullen expression. He spoke calmly despite the adrenaline pumping through him. “Haven’t you been reading the news? This is a war.”

  He walked past Bari and out the door, leaving a massacre in his wake as police sirens wailed in the distance. Bari clung to the wall, clutching his heart and gasping for air amid the smell of gunpowder and carnage.

  Strategize

  Angela stood in a small, darkened room where only moments before, the sleeper-cell leader, Salah Asgar, had escaped along with one of his henchmen. The long corridor outside was still littered with bodies of his men, torn to shreds primarily from Burke’s 7.62mm M240 machine gun. Its loud, rattling blasts had left a ringing in Angela’s ear. Though she wore a bullet proof vest, she had overlooked earplugs. Of course, the rescue mission wasn’t supposed to go down the way it did.