by Vince Milam
The stranger chuckled, low and malevolent. “No, Saif. No. You lack an understanding of your potential. I am here to anoint you. To give you courage.”
They spoke and Saif’s blood rose. He was filled with clarity and conviction and courage. A strength, sure and dark, washed through him. Yes, he would fight. Yes, he would kill. Yes, he would fulfill his potential and strike. Strike and kill for the cause. Jihad. Glorious jihad.
***
Rima moved through the downtown streets of Houston. The commercial hustle and bustle repelled her. Lights, noise, laughter. No order, no focus. Frivolous. Rima had arrived from the North African country of Tunisia to study at the University of Houston. She missed home.
For months she had grown closer to a new group of friends online—the most attentive she had ever experienced—who taught her what true Islam meant. They told her of the Islamic State and how the caliphate built a Syrian and Iraqi homeland where the true followers lived according to God’s law.
Rima spent hours each week on ISIS websites, adding her affirmations and condolences and celebrations. The online community greeted her with warmth and acceptance, respect and support. Her isolated island of existence within America’s fourth largest city ended with this new affiliation. A new community. A virtual community, but real and active and performing great things.
One particular online friend, Faisal, had become her constant companion, spending hours each day with her on Twitter, Skype, and email. Faisal painstakingly guided her through the fundamentals of the faith according to ISIS.
And now she walked, head down, and contemplated the meeting she had left an hour ago. A meeting with a senior person for ISIS in Houston. The man had claimed to know Faisal, and initiated contact with her on the University of Houston campus while she studied at the school library. They met, talked, and established subsequent meetings. They grew close and Rima’s fervor grew to a fever pitch. A place, a mindset, where absolute truth reigned. The truth wrapped around honest friends and believers. The truth as provided by her new ISIS family, safe and sure.
This latest meeting with the senior leader, the friend of Faisal, delivered an opportunity. An opportunity to perform the duties of a warrior. She had accepted, with enthusiasm.
Yet doubts filled her as she walked. Did she have the strength? The absolute dedication? The ability to perform?
She stopped at a coffee shop and ordered a chai tea, sweet. As she left the small shop, a voice called her from a corner table on the tiny patio.
“Rima. Rima, my dear.”
A striking woman, wrapped with a long black shawl, held her hand open toward an empty chair next to her. “Come. We must talk.”
The woman’s voice resonated with an openness, an acceptance. Rima took a seat, curious. A strange power, fulfilling and enveloping, washed over her as the woman smiled and sipped from her cup.
“You lack but one thing. One thing necessary for your mission.”
Rima waited. The reach of ISIS! Another sister, strong and aware!
“Your hatred has yet to flow. To provide clarity, definition,” the woman said, smiling. “No, my Rima. Your passion only stirs. But I come to support you. To provide for you.”
A long arm extended across the table and grasped her hand. Energy, raw and coursing with hatred, filled Rima. Bright, intense purpose. The power of hatred, incandescent and true.
“It is time to act, my dear. Time to lead. Time to allow your desire to manifest itself.”
Rima nodded back. Yes. A time to lead. To act. She had been lost, and was now found.
“They deserve to die,” the woman said. “You despise them and all they represent. Time to kill, Rima. It is time to kill.”
Rima shivered with anticipation. Yes. A time to kill.
***
John maneuvered his cab through the streets of D.C. and headed home. John. He hated the name, and at the earliest convenience would have it changed to Amir. Amir translated to “Prince” in Arabic. He wasn’t an Arab, had no Middle Eastern blood, and understood little of Islam and the various Muslim sects. But he understood one group. ISIS. He understood they fought.
They fought against the corrupted powers that kept him down and humiliated. The shitheads. Each day his cab delivered them. Every color and persuasion, bound together by self-importance and utter conviction to keep the oppressed of the world down. To keep him down. They laughed and prattled from the backseat, treating him like dirt and a peasant. A nothing, a nobody. They kept him from developing pride. Shitheads.
John. It represented nothing. Amir, though, represented connection. An introduction and connectivity to others from foreign lands. A connection that heightened his awareness of the perversion and trampling by those in power.
He’d bought Islam for Dummies, and absorbed the rudiments. His new knowledge led him to the Internet and association with ISIS on websites and group chats.
They salved an overwhelming desire for fairness, order, and life structure. They relieved the gnawing doubt and uncertainty. They provided answers and closure—clear and final answers. Wipe the earth clean and start over. A cleansing. Yes, a needed action. It was long overdue. A cleansing.
An ISIS member found him, sought him. The met several times and each visit brought more certainty. More absolute certainty of the path. The brief meeting earlier that day involved a mission. A mission with danger, yes, but also an opportunity. An opportunity to strike at the powers. The shitheads that screwed him, oppressed him, and trampled his purpose. Powers soon cleansed from the earth. He had agreed to the mission—anxious and filled with a desire to fight, to strike.
He stopped to pick up a possible final fare. The passenger’s destination would have to be in the direction of John’s home. The home he shared with six others. Thanks to the darkness, John could not discern the man’s face, but he admonished him through an open window, “I’m driving home. East of the Anacostia. You going that direction?”
The man entered the cab and the overhead light doused, inexplicably, as he sat on the backseat. Warmth and courage—bright and clear—washed over John. “Drive, Amir. Drive. I am with you now.”
Chapter 16
They sat together, the seven gathered, and shared breakfast. Flights had been arranged, departures imminent. The gathering was scheduled to break up and return to their respective homes. Feels good and powerful, but more than a little bit lost, Cole thought. No fireworks, no definitive plan.
“Let’s nail down the knowns,” Jude said. “First, we know it was through God’s will we assembled. That’s no small deal in and of itself. You could argue whether or not it’s a miracle, but you can’t argue against a divine hand leading us.” She had added bright red highlights to her purple hair spikes. The color shone at the tips.
“No argument,” Jean said.
“I’m in,” Nick added. “Weird and everything, but it’s clear something outside the ordinary happened to get us all here. So yeah, I’m in. At least on the gathering part.” Nick glanced at Luke’s plate, piled high with pancakes, sausage, bacon, eggs, toast, and syrup poured over the whole mess. The young DHS agent shook his head, tried to eat, and glanced back in wonderment.
The affirmations from Jean and Nick melted any remaining barriers among the group. They coalesced around a powerful force unseen and deeply felt. Other hurdles could show up later. But on the overarching force at that moment and in this place, belief reigned.
“Oui.” Francois had ordered waffles, now drenched with huckleberry syrup. He’d become infatuated with this berry—previously unknown to him—over the last two days. “Oui. God’s will. This is so. And more.”
Luke wiped his mouth and took a long drink of iced tea. “Agreed. The hand of God. Meeting each of you has been a blessing. A true blessing. Isn’t that right, young Nick?”
“Yeah. Sure,” Nick replied, casting a look at Jean, Cole, and Nadine. “Two vacation days. Fifteen hundred bucks down the drain for flights and hotel. What’s a blessing is the bishop�
�s breakfast comes with the room.”
Everyone, Luke included, laughed and smiled at each other. Francois delivered a small belch, pushed away from the table, and lit a smoke. They ate on the outdoor patio of the hotel. The staff had ceased to admonish him about smoking, simply worn down by the Frenchman.
“And so,” Francois began. “As you know, I have experienced personal confrontation with the Enemy. Several times.”
Francois’s telling—over lunch the day before—of past encounters had enthralled both Jude and Luke. They had probed, asked questions, and absorbed the information with wonder and admiration. Francois loved it. Jean had listened with her cheek resting on a hand, eyes hooded, watching Francois like a subject in an Oakland PD interrogation room. Nick had looked from one to the next during Francois’s tales, as if to seek an answer to “Is this guy for real?”
“We cannot know God’s ways, n’est-ce pas?” Francois continued. “He gathered us. Oui. And yet, we must depart. For the next ‘known,’ as our Jude would say, is not complex. Battle has begun. We are to engage.”
“Agreed,” Luke said.
“Feel it in my bones,” Jude said.
The three ecumenical players, satisfied with this accord, fell silent. Jean scanned the participants. Nadine’s index finger began a tabletop triplet tap. Nick checked his cell phone.
Time to kick the mule. “Alright,” Cole said. “Fine. So we separate back to our respective geographies. That’s it? Start tweetin’ each other? Send Christmas cards?”
Luke finished his ice tea and pushed back from the table. His plate showed streaks of syrup and little else. “It is something large. A hellish endeavor and a direct challenge.”
“Most astute, mon ami. Most astute.”
“Something big,” Jude added. “But vague. Big, vague, and it swirls around us. Us. The people at this table.”
Again, silence. Nadine’s tapping increased in tempo and volume. Francois placed his hand on hers and stopped the insistent noise. “Your data points. These may not be available at the moment. God has yet to reveal our path. We have talked of such things, cher, many times. Many times.”
“Looking for a tendril or two to weave together, Francois,” Nadine said. “Anything definitive, no matter how small.”
“But of course. Allow me to attempt a provisioning of such.” Francois looked to Jude and Luke, both of whom nodded back.
Palpable and powerful, the table filled with an emotional sense of the connections between them. Cole had never experienced this type of bond. It glued soul to soul, and separation found no handhold among them. Jean relaxed and adopted a half smile. Nick crossed his hands on his lap and paid full attention. Love, Cole thought. No other word for it. It dang near lights up the immediate area.
“And so,” Francois continued. “Jude, Luke, and I have focused, prayed. And have reached a concurrence. A broad concurrence, yet one true and real if not, my dearest Nadine, definitive.”
The priest paused, sipped coffee, and waited for input. None came. The high desert of Boise brought spring warmth as the sun climbed the sky, the outdoor flagstones radiating the sun’s energy.
“The Enemy, the great deceiver, organizes. Now,” Francois said. “At some point in this battle, each of us may encounter a physical manifestation of evil. A demon. Yet this present danger, this horror, is to be delivered by very human beings. Jude, Luke and I sense this. Feel this. Humans with free will, influenced, to be sure, by the Enemy. Influenced heavily. But of human imposition.”
“Directly in opposition to us?” Nadine asked. “A direct physical challenge?”
“One cannot say,” Francois said.
“Well, that’s damn sure a long way from definitive,” Cole said.
“No need to curse, Cole,” Luke said.
“This is important,” Nick said, contributing for the first time. “You’re talking about domestic terrorism. Homeland Security stuff.”
“Sounds like it, Nick,” Nadine said. “What I’m hearing is conspiracy. Some horrific conspiracy. That right, Francois?”
Francois waved a hand and blew smoke above their heads. Luke and Jude nodded in agreement. The three appeared satisfied with, or at least accepting of, this large bucket of unknowns. Cole wasn’t.
“So let me say something without you three gettin’ all bent out of shape.” He paused to lock eyes with Francois, Jude, and Luke. They each returned looks of tenderness and not a trace of hackles rising. “What I’m hearing here is a law enforcement issue. Which is fine.”
“Very fine,” Jean said. “Outside the spiritual, dealing with people—human people.”
“Right,” Cole continued. “Right. Which raises the question, if we’re not going to run into one of those creatures—and I understand that’s a maybe—what the heck are the three of you going to do?”
“Do?” Francois asked.
“Yes, do,” Nadine said. “Cole’s right. How does this play out, Francois?”
Francois looked to Jude and Luke, and the three smiled over some unrevealed secret. The waiter arrived, and everyone ordered more coffee. Francois requested a morning cognac. Jude asked him if she could have a sip. The priest responded with a French nod of kindred spirits.
Cole and Jean locked eyes. Right up their alley—bad guys doing bad things. Human things. They both looked at Nadine, who responded with her own tight-lipped nod. Earthly forces, joined. Nick squirmed in his chair, on high alert as he waited for substantive information. Information that would unleash DHS.
Luke’s low resonant voice drew their attention. “We will sound the alarm, my friends. Direct our focus on the evil we all seek. The claxon ring of demonic activity may be muted. But it will ring. And we shall listen and be prepared to engage. ‘In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.’ Our young Nick can testify to this power.”
“Like an early warning system?” Cole asked.
“So are we able to get ahead of this whole thing?” Nick asked. “I like it. We’re talking about my job. What I do. I don’t like the idea of waiting for the shoe to drop.”
Luke laid a massive hand on Nick’s shoulder. “We shall try, Nick. We shall try. But be prepared. We—all of us—have been called and will be tested.” He turned to everyone at the table. “We will be united in heart if not in location. We must communicate, talk, provide awareness to one another. This will be a fight, my brothers and sisters. A fight with the Enemy. Put on the armor of God.”
Hugs, kisses, and tears were shared as they stood to say their goodbyes. Unable to immediately separate, group hugs formed, morphing and moving among them as laughter and smiles and love flowed. A gathering united, filled with oneness, and awash in common purpose. One by one, they broke away, wiping tears, rubbing backs, and patting arms.
“Not a departure,” Francois said. “Non. A mere physical separation. Yet we are together, always.” The Frenchman’s faucet turned on again, and his shuddering emotion and tears led to more hugs, sharing of handkerchiefs, and tender laughter. At length, they each wandered back into the hotel to pack for their respective flights.
Jean, Nadine, and Cole stayed behind. “I’m failing to get a warm fuzzy out of this deal,” Jean said. “You two have been down this road before. Is it always this open-ended?”
“Nope,” Cole said. “Before, we had a target. Real and known.”
“And Francois is usually so focused,” Nadine added. “Focused on an event or entity with specificity. This is more than a little strange. Too nebulous.”
A desire for targets, for aimed action, permeated the three. This separation of forces, each back to their respective towns and cities, lacked a concrete path forward.
“So what do we do?” Jean asked. “They are convinced some horrific effort is underway. And here we sit. No direction, no game plan.”
“Well,” Cole said and paused. He had no easy answer, other than to offer, “This deal is bigger than any we’ve dealt with before, Jean. And the Enemy our three folks
keep talking about?” He paused again and locked eyes first with Jean, and then Nadine. “Real good odds at some point they’ll be coming after us.”
Chapter 17
Well, that didn’t take long.
They had arrived in Houston late the previous evening, the trip from Boise having routed them through Denver. And now, bright and early, Francois banged on his hotel room door, demanding entrance.
“Aller! Aller!” Francois called as he entered the room and looked Cole up and down. Cole hadn’t changed from his morning sweatpants and T-shirt. He was working on his second cup of coffee and perusing his laptop for news.
“Evil is active! We must drive, immédiatement!”
Cole didn’t question his friend as he threw on jeans and a clean shirt, slipped on his boots, and took a minute to brush his hair. Francois, clearly irritated at having to wait, lit a smoke.
“Put that damn thing out,” Cole said from the bathroom.
“You will be armed?” Francois asked. “The gun? I sense it may be needed.”
“Yeah. Locked and loaded. And put that damn thing out. I mean it. You’re stinking up my room.”
Francois strode into the bathroom, stared at Cole in the mirror, took a long final drag, and dropped the smoke in the toilet. “Vous êtes enfin prêt? Are you finally ready? Or we should wait, perhaps, for more grooming so you might look your very finest?”
Enough, already. “Look, bud. I’m with you. Full tilt boogie. Let’s go. But you can stop with the sarcastic horseshit.”
“Horseshit?”
“Yeah. Oui. You’re copping an attitude I don’t appreciate.”
Francois shrugged and pursed his lips.
“And your shrugging BS ain’t helping. Let’s go.”
With that, Cole led the way out the door.
They hit the freeway, Francois instructing him to travel east.
“Just east?”
“Oui.”
“Care to be a little more specific?”
