Knockdown

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Jake didn’t think anybody was likely to spot them out here, but he parked where the shack partially obscured the pickup anyway. As he and Barry got out and checked their weapons, he looked along the sound toward Babylon. The column of smoke was still visible, as were flickering red and blue lights, a veritable sea of them. Things were bad there, very bad.

  And there was a very good chance the men they were closing in on were responsible for that tragedy.

  “We’ll stay low going through the dunes,” Barry said. “They’re not likely to spot us.”

  “They’ll have guards posted, if they’re the ones we’re after,” Jake pointed out.

  “Yeah, but how watchful are they going to be right now? They’re flush with success. They’ve just struck a blow against the Great Satan, and they believe they’ve gotten away with it. They probably figure that nobody knows what they did. They’ll celebrate a little, then move on to the next act in their cowardly little drama.”

  “You seem to know this type pretty well.”

  “I’ve been killing them for a long time,” Barry said.

  CHAPTER 54

  The sun was far down in the western sky, making Jake and Barry’s shadows long as they stole through the grassy sand dunes toward the shack where the van had gone. When they were close enough, they dropped to hands and knees and crawled up the last dune so they could peer over its top toward the shack.

  Fires were still burning in Babylon, they saw, and a pall of smoke covered the sky in that direction. Jake felt his guts tighten at the sight of it. He tried not to think about how much death and destruction the men in that ramshackle building in front of him had caused today.

  The shack had a porch built onto it that faced the water. Several men came out of the house onto the porch, talking excitedly and laughing. Jake couldn’t hear them well enough to understand the words, but he thought it was probably Pashto.

  “You catching any of that?” he whispered to Barry.

  “A little here and there. Enough to tell that they’re talking about that commuter train derailing when it reached the station and how many infidels they killed today. They’re talking about some friends of theirs, too, who must have been killed in the attack. They’re actually jealous because they figure those fellas are in paradise right now, each of them enjoying the favors of seventy-two virgins.”

  Jake’s hands clenched into fists. He had never been able to comprehend what sort of sick, twisted mind could genuinely believe that murdering innocent people was the best way to get into heaven.

  If it hadn’t been for the heat, he wouldn’t have minded being in hell when those killers got there, just so he could see the looks on their faces when they realized where they actually had ended up.

  “You see any guards?” Jake asked.

  “No, but there’s probably somebody inside watching the road. A man might be able to approach the place from the side, though, if he stayed down and moved slow and easy so the grass didn’t wave around too much. You want to give that a try?”

  “Sounds good to me. What are you going to be doing?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d take a stroll along the beach,” Barry said.

  Jake glanced over at him and frowned.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s nothing unusual about somebody walking along the water in the evening. They’ll figure I’m a tourist, or somebody staying up at that place where we pulled in.”

  “Unless they’re just paranoid enough they go ahead and shoot you.”

  Barry shook his head and said, “They’ve pulled off their big plan. It would be stupid to call attention to themselves now.”

  “Do you think this is the end of it? Derailing that commuter train was what they were after all along, and the other attacks were just practice?”

  “I don’t know,” Barry mused. “We don’t have any idea how bad the casualties are, but it could be the worst attack since 9/11. I just have a hunch they’re not finished, though.” His voice hardened. “That’s why we should try to take one of them alive, so we can question him. And after what the rest of the bunch did to Hank, I won’t be worried about how far we have to go in order to get the info we need.”

  Jake couldn’t help but agree with that.

  “Maybe we can find out,” Barry went on, “but first we have to get our hands on one of them. They’ll be watching me, so they won’t be likely to see you sneaking up on the shack. When you get there, go in from the front and take care of any resistance you find. Then we’ll have them in a crossfire.”

  Jake nodded in understanding. He said, “I’d tell you to be careful, but that would be just a waste of time, wouldn’t it?”

  Barry chuckled and said, “More than likely.”

  He slipped off to the right through the sand dunes toward the water. Jake lost sight of him after a moment.

  A couple of minutes went by. The celebration on the shack’s porch was getting louder and more raucous. The terrorists were probably debating how many women and children had died at the train station, Jake thought bitterly.

  Then Barry came into sight, strolling along the edge of the water about fifty yards from the shack. He was carrying his shoes in his left hand and had the legs of his trousers rolled up a couple of turns. He looked about as harmless as a man could look.

  Jake wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn he faintly heard Barry whistling the theme song from The Andy Griffith Show.

  The talk on the porch trailed off as the men caught sight of Barry. Knowing that their attention was on his uncle now, Jake slid over the top of the dune, bellied down in the coarse grass, and began crawling toward the shack.

  When he heard Barry call, “Howdy, fellas!,” Jake lifted his head enough to look in that direction. Barry was waving as he walked toward the house with a big friendly grin on his face. “Fixing to have yourselves a clambake?”

  One of the men said something as Jake resumed crawling toward the shack. Again, Jake couldn’t make it out.

  Barry responded, “Oh, I’m renting a place just along the water here. Thought I’d do some fishing. You boys look like fishermen.”

  The man on the porch spoke again. This time the words had a definite unfriendly tone to them.

  “Sorry, boys,” Barry said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt whatever it is you’re celebrating. You just carry on and pretend I’m not here. Say, though, seems like something mighty big happened in town. I saw a lot of smoke and heard a bunch of sirens earlier. You fellas happen to know anything about that?”

  Jake was close enough now to hear one of the men on the porch say angrily, “Go away, old man! Do not bother us.”

  Jake had reached the shack. He crawled to the front corner, stood up, and pressed his back against the wall. He slid a hand behind him and pulled out the Browning from where he had tucked it at the small of his back.

  After a minute of careful listening, during which he didn’t hear anyone breathing or moving around in the front part of the shack, he slipped around the corner. A long step brought him to the front door. He grasped the knob with his left hand. It turned, and he eased the door open.

  The shack had only two rooms, not counting a tiny bathroom in one corner. The room Jake had just entered had four bunks in it, as well as several bare mattresses lying on the floor. The members of this terrorist cell had really been crammed in here. Just beyond, through an open door, was a combination kitchen and living room.

  Barry had been wrong about a sentry being posted. The men were so high on their bloodlust, so confident they were immortal and invincible, that they had let down their guard completely. All of them were outside on the porch except for one burly, bearded man rummaging around inside an open ice chest sitting on the table in the kitchen. He had his back to Jake, who approached him soundlessly.

  However, some instinct must have warned him, because he suddenly jerked his head around to look over his shoulder. His eyes widened in surprise as he caught sight of the big American.
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br />   Jake twirled the Browning in his hand so he could strike with the butt as he lunged at the terrorist and lashed out. The man moved with surprising speed for his size, darting his head to the side so that the blow Jake intended to knock him unconscious scraped along above his ear instead.

  Even so, the gun butt struck the man with enough force to make him grunt in pain and stagger against the table. That impact knocked the ice chest to the floor with a loud crash.

  The man kept his feet by slapping his right hand on the table and bracing himself. He swung his left arm in a sweeping, backhanded blow at Jake, who had to duck to avoid it.

  The racket from the falling ice chest attracted the attention of the men on the porch. They yelled angrily as they looked into the kitchen and realized that one of the hated infidels had invaded their temporary sanctum.

  They had to turn their backs on Barry to look into the shack, and that was a mistake. He dropped the shoes he’d been carrying, pulled up his shirt, and yanked the 1911 out of his waistband, triggering three fast shots. The heavy .45 caliber slugs smashed into two of the terrorists from behind and knocked them off their feet.

  After the things Barry had heard them saying, the way they had laughed about all the innocent people they had killed, he didn’t hesitate for even a second before shooting those monsters in the back.

  The other two yelled in alarm and jerked their heads back and forth, unsure what to do. They tried to claw out pistols they had stuck in their pants. A couple of old wooden deck chairs sat on the porch, and the men frantically dropped behind them, hoping the chairs would provide some cover for them.

  Inside the kitchen, Jake grappled with the big terrorist and tried again to wallop him with the Browning’s butt to knock him out. He had a feeling that Barry was likely to kill the others, so if they wanted to have a prisoner to question, it was up to Jake to get him.

  The man shrugged off the effect of the blow to the head pretty quickly, though, and while he wasn’t as tall as Jake, he probably weighed a few pounds more. The T-shirt he wore revealed thick slabs of muscle on his chest, arms, and shoulders.

  He landed a punch to Jake’s jaw that rocked him back a step. That gave the man room to grab the wrist of the hand that held the Browning, ram his shoulder into Jake’s chest, and drive Jake back against the wall.

  The shack was pretty flimsily built. The wall quivered under the impact. If they ran into it like that again, they might both crash through it.

  Jake got his left arm between him and the terrorist and brought it up so that the heel of his hand lodged under the man’s chin. He shoved upward, hard, levering the man’s head back and forcing him to give ground. He tried to twist his other hand free so he could slash the gun across the guy’s face, but the terrorist was hanging on for dear life.

  Outside, Barry fired twice at one of the chairs where the men had taken cover. The flimsy wood was no match for the .45 slugs. They ripped right through it and the man’s body, one in his chest, one in the throat. He dropped his gun and started flopping like a fish on the porch as blood sprayed from the wound in his throat. It spattered across the planks like crimson paint shaken from a paintbrush.

  The fourth man was able to get a couple of shots off in Barry’s direction. One missed wildly, but the other came close enough that Barry heard the flat whap! as it passed through the air mere inches from his ear. He dove forward onto the sandy ground to make himself a smaller target.

  Another bullet struck the ground in front of him and kicked grit in his face, stinging his eyes and making them water. He grimaced and blinked in an attempt to clear his eyes faster. Instinct made him roll to the side. More slugs marched through the space where he had been a second earlier.

  Coming to rest on his belly again, he found that his vision was good enough to aim and fire at the last man on the porch. The bullet struck the chair back, drove on through, and blasted a chunk out of the terrorist’s skull. The man toppled out from behind the chair and sprawled on the planks, not moving again.

  So much for taking any of these terrorists alive, Barry thought. He hoped Jake was having better luck inside the shack.

  While the big man he was battling was still a little off balance, Jake lowered his head and butted him in the face. The man howled in pain and stumbled back even more as blood welled from his broken nose. Jake bull-rushed him and forced him back until the man ran into the table again. The table slid, coming up against the counter where the kitchen sink was, and when it couldn’t move anymore, Jake’s momentum drove the terrorist down on top of it, on his back.

  That finally knocked loose the man’s grip on Jake’s wrist. With his gun hand free again, Jake whipped the Browning’s butt across the man’s jaw, raking a long gash in the bearded flesh.

  While the man was stunned, Jake grabbed the front of his shirt and heaved him up, then shoved him forward so that his head dangled in the sink. Jake twisted the faucet handle and sent water gushing down into the terrorist’s face.

  That made the man start to thrash, but Jake clamped his left hand around the guy’s throat and bore down on it with most of his weight, keeping him pinned there under the steady stream from the faucet. The water went up the man’s nose and filled his mouth and throat. Desperation made the man fight, but Jake had him in a bad position. He couldn’t get any leverage to throw off Jake’s weight.

  Jake kept it up until the man stopped struggling and slumped, apparently senseless. Lifting him again, Jake let him slide to the floor, where he landed in a sodden heap, gasping and retching. Air wheezed through the misshapen nostrils of his broken nose.

  From the doorway, Barry said, “Looks kind of like a waterlogged rat, doesn’t he?”

  Jake glanced toward his uncle and asked, “What about the others?”

  “All dead,” Barry replied.

  That wasn’t surprising. Jake had been vaguely aware of gunshots outside and had figured Barry was dealing with the other men in his usual lethal fashion.

  “I’m glad you got one of them alive,” Barry went on. “Let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.”

  He used a foot to roll the man onto his back, then hunkered on his heels next to him. Barry slapped him lightly on both cheeks.

  “Time to wake up, my friend. Wake up and talk.”

  The man coughed and sputtered, turned his head to the side and spewed water from his mouth. Once he’d stopped doing that, he spewed what Jake assumed were curses instead, although he didn’t know enough of the language to recognize any of the words.

  “He’s cussing you out, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Barry said. “It’s safe to say he’s not a happy little mass murderer anymore.”

  Barry took out the 1911 and rested the muzzle between the man’s eyes. From that angle, the barrel must have looked as big around as a cannon.

  “I said it’s time to talk. What’s the next part of Saddiq’s plan?”

  Jake saw a tiny flicker of surprise in the man’s eyes. Maybe these terrorists hadn’t known that they were aware of Saddiq’s presence in the United States and had figured out that he was the mastermind behind what was going on.

  Barry put more pressure on the gun and said, “Considering what you fellas did today, I don’t have a whole lot of patience. Now, I know you understand English, so tell us what we need to know.” He paused. “If you don’t talk, I don’t have a single reason in the world not to blow your evil, twisted brains out.”

  “You Americans,” the man rasped. “Sick, disgusting, immoral . . . so arrogant . . . so proud of your eagle . . . you will learn . . . and then you will die!”

  Jake frowned and said, “Eagle? What’s he talking about? The rest of it’s just the usual blustering—”

  Jake stopped short as Barry raised the gun away from the prisoner’s head and made a curt gesture with it.

  “Somebody’s coming,” he said.

  CHAPTER 55

  “Check the door,” Barry went on as he pressed the 1911’s muzzle to the te
rrorist’s forehead again.

  Jake straightened and hurried into the other room. A glance out the door told him that two cars were approaching along the dirt lane from the highway. He could see them in the dusk even though they didn’t have their headlights on.

  “We have company,” he told Barry as he turned his head. “Two vehicles.”

  “Cops?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t see any light bars on them. Of course, they could be unmarked.”

  “Most of the cops around here, if not all of them, will still be in town at the scene of that attack, probably all night. Somebody might’ve heard gunshots out here and reported them, but it’s not that likely.”

  “So whoever’s coming, they’re friends of these guys?”

  “Maybe,” Barry said. “Could be different unfriendlies, though.”

  He lifted the gun again before, without warning, chopping down with it. The weapon thudded against the prisoner’s skull.

  Barry got to his feet and went on, “Cut some strips from this guy’s shirt and tie his hands and feet. We don’t want him running out on us when he wakes up.”

  Jake tucked the Browning away, pulled out his pocket knife, and did as Barry said. Once he had the unconscious terrorist’s wrists and ankles tied securely, he cut two more strips of cloth from the man’s T-shirt. He wadded up one of them and forced the man’s jaws apart so he could cram it in the guy’s mouth. He tied the gag in place with the other strip and left the man lying there.

  Barry was in the other room by now. He had closed the door most of the way and was looking out through the narrow gap he’d left. With his jeans and dark shirt, he was hard to see in the gathering gloom inside the shack. The fading gray light from outside didn’t penetrate much in here.

  “Both cars stopped about fifty yards away,” he reported. “Guys got out of both of them. I couldn’t tell for sure how many, but they seemed pretty full.”