“Once the Regulators are fully operational, you’ll have plenty to do,” Cantwell said.
“I have a feeling Jacob Sensor will see to that,” Kennedy said.
Cantwell nodded. “He will. If he isn’t in jail.”
“He won’t be,” Sarah said. “Put Sensor in jail and he’ll sing like a canary. By the time he finished talking you’d have to lock up most of the government and half the intelligence departments.”
Pete Kennedy seemed puzzled by this talk. “Do you two know something about Sensor I don’t?” he said.
“Yeah, and we’ll tell you about it sometime, that is if you don’t find out for yourself,” Cantwell said.
The Venom helicopters chattered westward, heading for the airport, and troops were filing into the Chinook, leaving it to the Portland police and fire department to do the cleanup.
“I have an idea,” Sarah said. “We take the helicopter back to the Air National Guard base and pick up our car.”
“And then?” Kennedy said.
“And then we drive to the Hilton and prop up the bar for an hour or maybe three,” Sarah said.
Frank West’s face broke into a wide grin. “Miss Milano, you’re a lady after my own heart,” he said.
“And mine,” Cory Cantwell said.
CHAPTER 60
Jacob Sensor sat in front of his fire, drinking single-malt whisky and remembering what had happened. The anti-terrorist action had gone to plan, and only the ending was screwed up. Instead of the glory and fame that was rightfully his, the President had claimed it all. Her plan. Her determination to end the pyroterrorism menace. Her presence at the airport, wishing the troops bonne chance as she watched them leave. Her raw power bid for another term.
And for Jacob Sensor. Nada. Not even a mention. Not so much as a crumb.
It was unfair. So damned unfair.
Firelight cast a crimson glow on the walls of his darkened library and the tick-tock-tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway was loud in the silence. His phone rang.
“How are you, my old friend?” Sir Anthony Bickford-Scott said.
“Are you here to commiserate?” Sensor said. “My fortunes are at a low ebb.”
“Yes, I watched the President on TV,” Bickford-Scott said. “She took all the credit for Guts and Glory. Didn’t she, old chap?”
“Bitch,” Sensor said. “Two-timing bitch. Sir Anthony, there’s no honesty and plain dealing left in this world.”
“A very unfortunate turn of events,” the Englishman said. “My staff at the British Embassy are appalled.”
“And with good reason,” Sensor said. “I laid my life on the line in the Willamette, and what do I get in return? Nothing. The cold shoulder. Jacob who?”
“Oh, my dear friend, how awful for you,” Bickford-Scott said.
“I don’t need sympathy to make me feel better, Anthony,” Sensor said. “I need revenge.”
After a long pause, Bickford-Scott said, “There is something . . .”
“What is it?” Sensor said.
“I hesitate to mention it,” the Englishman said.
“Mention it,” Sensor said. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“It involves the Russians.”
“Damn, I hate the Russians. Always meddling in my affairs,” Sensor said.
“This comes down from Vladimir Putin himself,” Bickford-Scott said. “The stakes are high, Jacob. Very high.”
“I don’t trust Putin,” Sensor said. “He’s a snake in the grass.”
“It’s an insertion, Jacob,” Bickford-Scott said.
“Where?”
“Haiti.”
“What kind of insertion?” Sensor said.
“No troops, no ships, no planes. Only advisers.”
“Advising on what?” Sensor said. A log fell in the fireplace and sent up a scarlet shower of sparks.
“A deepwater port at Le Mole St. Nicolas,” Bickford-Scott said.
“How deep?” Sensor said.
“Deep enough for an aircraft carrier task force.”
“Hell, Tony, that’s on the west coast about . . .”
“Fifty-five nautical miles from Cuba, give or take.”
“So, Russian carriers on our doorstep, you mean,” Sensor said.
“Eventually,” Bickford-Scott said. “Of course, with the port goes the usual nonsense about bringing food and medical aid to the Haitian people.”
“What’s Putin’s deal?” Sensor said.
“A ten percent reduction in nuclear warheads in time for the next presidential election.”
“She’ll never go for it. Congress won’t go for it, and there will be saber-rattling.”
“You have to smooth it over, Jacob,” Bickford-Scott said. “As far as the United States government is concerned, all the Russians want is to build a deepwater port to help alleviate the suffering of the poor Haitians. A port for trade purposes only, Jacob. Make it clear that Putin has no warlike intentions.”
“But he does, obviously,” Sensor said.
“You know that, I know that, but no one else needs to know it,” the Englishman said. “It will be years before the Mole St. Nicolas port is ready to accept carriers.” Bickford-Scott laughed. “Jacob, we could all be dead by then.”
“In the meantime, if I can swing this for the Russians without starting a war, what’s in it for me?” Sensor said.
“A recently built, million-dollar dacha fifteen miles from downtown Moscow in the posh Rublevka district, a stone’s throw away from Putin’s own dwelling,” Bickford-Scott said. “You will also get the credit for bringing Vlad to the nuclear disarmament negotiating table and that can only help your future presidential aspirations.”
Sensor took time to light a cigar and then said, “The port thing can be done, Anthony. Yes, and by God, I’ll do it.”
“Jolly good show,” Bickford-Scott said. “And there’s icing on the cake, old boy. Haiti exports more than half the world’s vetiver oil, used to make very expensive perfumes. The Russians will pressure the Haitian government to make sure that you get a substantial cut of those profits as a retainer while you work for their interests.”
“The deal gets better and better,” Sensor said.
“Of course, you’ll be taking bread out of the mouths of Haitian children, Jacob,” the Englishman said. “Will that hamper your efforts on Russia’s behalf ?”
“Whether or not Haitian children eat is hardly my problem,” Sensor said. “Getting a deepwater port for Russia is.”
“Jacob, you’re such a wonderfully remorseless man,” Bickford-Scott said. “If you weren’t there already, I’d say you’ll go far. Oh, hold on a moment, Jacob. My cat wants up on my lap. Come on, Bonnie. There you go. Comfy? Now, where was I?”
“You were telling me what a wonderfully remorseless man I am,” Sensor said.
“Ah yes, now you tell me this . . . how is your Regulator project going now the Willamette action is over?”
“Splendidly,” Sensor said. “I’m sure I can get the funding for a headquarters complex in Portland. Superintendent Cory Cantwell will be in charge, at least for the time being.”
“You don’t think he’s the right man for the job?”
“I’m not sure. He’s a little laid back. I’d like someone more aggressive. And I have a feeling that he and my former assistant Sarah Milano will marry soon, and that might distract him from his duties. Time will tell, I suppose.”
“Indeed, it will,” Bickford-Scott said. “On a happy note, I have a new supply of the Beluga caviar, and I’ll send you over some, along with some Cuban cigars.”
“That’s decent of you, Anthony,” Sensor said. “I’m running low on both items.”
“Good, then I’m just in time. I think Bonnie wants her din-dins, so I’ll leave it here for the time being, Jacob. Ta-ta for now. I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, goodnight, Tony,” Sensor said.
Sensor poked a burning log into place and smiled.
; Once again, things were looking up. Damn it all, there was nothing he couldn’t do.
CHAPTER 61
The great sheikh Jamari Qadir was dead, assassinated by Zionists, and for Nasim Azar that was a terrible blow. The main source of his income was gone. Azar still had a few thousand dollars in the bank, nowhere enough to keep him in any style. He was forced to rent a mean little house in a mean street in the meanest part of town and had been forced to go begging, cap in hand, to the decimated Jacks of All Trades in Los Angeles.
They told him someone would be in touch to discuss the matter of his poverty.
The man they sent two weeks later was a blind man, the eighty-four-year-old scholar Zaman Al-Mufti, who’d lost his sight when a suicide belt accidentally exploded in his home in Palestine. The Jacks had brought him to California, eager to share in his wisdom. With the old man was the imposing Daud Harbi, a six-foot-four Saudi Arabian executioner, famed in the Arab world for his skill with the sulthan, the beheading sword. It was said that Harbi had executed five hundred people, sometimes as many as ten a day. He was a devout Muslim, well versed in the Qur’an, and a cold-hearted killer. He had flown into LAX the day before at the invitation of the Jacks.
The two men Azar had allowed into his home refused coffee, and he took that as a slight. But more disturbing was that the tall man carried something long and curved wrapped in a blanket.
Al-Mufti was dressed in the Western fashion in slacks and a polo shirt, mirrored glasses concealing his empty, burned-out eye sockets. Harbi also wore tan pants and a shirt, but his glittering black eyes were not hidden. The old man took a small leather pouch closed with a drawstring from his pocket. He said, “Nasim Azar, for every back there is a knife. You chose to wield that knife.”
Suddenly Azar was frightened. But his voice was steady when he said, “I do not understand.”
“A fatwa has been issued by the Jacks of All Trades, calling for your death,” Al-Mufti said. “That much do you understand?”
Azar was shocked. Numb. His own voice sounded hollow to him. “Why? What have I done?”
“The saddest thing about betrayal is that it comes from friends, never enemies,” the old man said.
“Whom have I betrayed?” Azar said. “Am I not a loyal soldier of Islam?”
Outside in the street a car skidded, a horn honked, and a man yelled.
Al-Mufti said, “Perhaps you once were, Nasim Azar, but no longer. How many pieces of silver did you receive for betraying the mujahideen in the Willamette forest? The tears of the widows bear witness to your terrible crime.”
“I betrayed no one,” Azar said. “Who dare say I betrayed the mujahideen?”
“Perhaps the holy martyr Ibrahim Rahman for one,” the old man said. “I heard his voice in a vision, calling out for vengeance.”
“I am wrongly accused,” Azar said. “Blind man, you bring a giant to punish me. This is not justice. It is the work of the devil.”
Daud Harbi spoke for the first time. “Son of a dog, only you knew the martyred Ibrahim Rahman’s plan of attack. Only you could have betrayed him.”
Azar was now on the verge of hysteria. “My only sin was not dying with the rest of the brothers that day. There was no betrayal.”
“I am deaf,” Al-Mufti said. “I do not hear your lies. Show me your hands, Nasim Azar.”
Azar stretched out his hands.
“Turn them over. Show me the palms,” the old man said.
When Azar did, Al-Mufti untied the leather bag and poured sand into his open hands. “This is the sand of your native land, and you can hold it as you die. Nasim Azar, it is a small mercy I extend to you, and you can but hope that Allah will also be merciful.” He pointed to the floor. “Now, kneel you and take the blade.”
But Azar was not ready to die. The Smith & Wesson. 38 was in the drawer of the side table beside his chair by the window. He made a play for the gun . . . but forgot, or didn’t know, that not all victims of the headsman meekly bow their heads and quietly await the sword.
As Azar dashed for the table, Daud Harbi expertly swung the sulthan, its razor-sharp, curved edge catching him on the run. The blade hit Azar in the front of his throat, sliced though flesh and bone, and neatly lopped off his head. The head sprang from Azar’s shoulders, hit the floor with a dull thud, and rolled into Al-Mufti’s feet. The old man kicked it away. It was the head of a traitor and an unholy thing.
Harbi raised the sword high, and blood from the blade ran down his muscular forearm in scarlet rivulets.
“Allahu Akbar!” the executioner yelled.
And Zaman Al-Mufti said, “Praise be to God.”
Keep reading for a special excerpt . . .
KNOCKDOWN
by WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE and J. A. JOHNSTONE
They call him “The Rig Warrior.” Name: Barry Rivers. Occupation: Long-haul trucker. Special skills: Defender of freedom. Patriot. Government-sanctioned killer.
A NATION OFF THE RAILS
No one saw the first attack coming. A perfectly orchestrated assault on a mass-transit railroad line that left countless Americans dead. Then came more attacks. More rail systems sabotaged. More civilian lives lost. Intelligence experts are convinced this is no ordinary terrorist attack. To pull off something like this, it would take a deep-state traitor with dark foreign connections. And to stop them, it will take someone who isn’t afraid to shed blood.
A HERO OFF THE GRID
Enter Barry Rivers, the Rig Warrior. An urban legend in the intelligence community, Rivers has been living off the radar for years. But when he sees his country under attack, he reaches out to his son in the FBI to track down the enemies in our own government. To these high-ranking traitors, Rivers is a threat to their global agenda. But when Rivers revs up his tricked-out 18-wheeler—and goes after a runaway train on a collision course with disaster—all bets are off. The war is on. And with Barry Rivers at the wheel, it’s going to be the ultimate knockdown, drag-out fight for America’s future . . .
Look for KNOCKDOWN, on sale now.
CHAPTER 1
The fat man ran the keen edge of the blade across the ball of his thumb, studied the bead of dark red blood that was the result, and then licked it off.
“You see, my machete is very sharp, gringo. You will barely feel a thing when I cut your head off with it.”
“Yeah, well, I guarantee you’ll feel it when I shove that pigsticker up your culo and start twisting it, Pancho.”
The man sitting at the table in the corner of the little cantina slurred his words. The mostly empty bottle of tequila in front of him explained why. The fiery liquor he had guzzled down also explained the boldness of his response.
The fat man scowled and stepped closer to the table.
The three men who had been at the bar with him started in that direction as well, as if they sensed that the situation had just become more serious. They couldn’t have actually heard the words—not with Tejano music blaring in the cantina, mixing with the breathless drone of the announcer calling the soccer game on the TV mounted above the bar and trying to make it more exciting than it really was. No, it was far too loud.
Maybe they smelled the blood.
A big man sitting at the bar turned his head to watch the three amigos headed for the table in the corner. He swiveled on the chair and stood up. He towered over everybody else in here, and his shoulders were as wide as an axe handle. Thick slabs of muscle on his arms and shoulders bulged in the fabric of his black T-shirt.
“Señor,” the bartender said behind him. The big man looked around. The bartender shook his head worriedly and went on in English, “You should not interfere, señor. Those men, they are . . . Zaragosa.”
The big man frowned.
The bartender lowered his voice even more. The big man could barely hear him as he half-whispered, “Cartel. Comprende? Look around.”
The big man looked and got what the bartender was talking about. Everybody else in the cantina was doing their best not to e
ven glance in the direction of the looming confrontation in the corner. Nobody wanted to get involved and risk offending the cartel.
“That guy’s an American,” the big man said. “I’m not gonna just stand by and let him get hurt.”
An eloquent shrug from the bartender. He had tried to prevent trouble. No one could blame him now for what might happen.
Over in the corner, the fat man with the machete said, “What did you call me?”
“Are you deaf as well as stupid, Pancho?”
The man at the table reached for the bottle. He had lean, weathered features under close-cropped gray hair. It was difficult to tell how old he was. Anywhere from fifty to seventy would be a good guess.
His hand trembled a little as it closed around the neck of the bottle. Whether the tremor was from age, a neurological condition, or too much to drink was also impossible to say.
The fat man spat a few curses in Spanish, lifted the machete, and slammed it down on the table in front of the gringo. The blade bit deeply into the old, scarred wood. The fat man’s lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl as he leaned forward.
“I will not cut off your head,” he said. “The next time, my blade will cleave your skull down to your shoulders, viejo!”
“Ain’t gonna be no next time. You really are stupid. Your little knife’s stuck, gordo!”
At the same time, the big man moved up behind the fat man’s three compadres and said in a loud voice, “Hey! What’re you doing to that old geezer?”
The fat man wrenched at the machete. The old man was right. The blade had embedded itself so deeply in the tabletop that it was stuck.
The old man came up out of his chair like a rattlesnake uncoiling and swung the tequila bottle he held by the neck.
The fat man tried to jerk back out of the way. The old man was too fast. The bottle smacked hard against the side of the fat man’s head but didn’t break. The impact made the fat man take a quick step to his right, but he caught himself and grinned.
The Scorching Page 27
