The Last Jihad

by Rosenberg, Joel C.

  “Me?” asked Bennett, hardly a card-carrying member of the NRA.

  “Who’s supposed to go up there, me?” the old man shot back. “We can’t leave those two up there by themselves. If they don’t get more firepower fast, they’re going to be dead inside of five minutes.”

  Black crawled inside his tiny closet.

  The night before, bored and poking around, he’d found a hatch against the back wall of the closet, sort of like the hatch some houses have leading up to an attic. But rather than up to an attic, this led through to the next guest room. Why? He had no idea. Nor did he care.

  He opened it and quickly climbed through, into Bennett’s room. He then raced across that room, and found a similar hatch in the back of that closet. Climbing through this time, however, Black found himself staring directly into McCoy’s loaded Beretta.

  “It’s me,” he blurted, not thinking, then quickly lowered his voice. “It’s just me.”

  McCoy exhaled, then heard someone shout in Arabic.

  “We’ve got them. Down the hall. Cover me.”

  “Quick, follow me,” she ordered Black.

  She dove into the walk-in closet. Black followed suit, and sure enough, her instinct was right. There was another hidden elevator on this side of the house, just like the one they’d come up inside Dr. Mordechai’s closet. They got in, slammed the door shut, pushed a button and descended out of sight. Just then, the two terrorists burst into the room, machine guns blazing, drowning out the sound of the retreating elevator.

  “They’re in the east elevator,” Sa’id shouted.

  “Where are they headed?” asked Bennett.

  “First floor. They’ll come out at the end of the hallway leading to the front door.”

  Bennett raced back into the main war room, an Uzi now in his hand, two more slung over his back. His eyes scanned the bank of monitors and spotted two masked men, dressed in black from head to foot, racing up to a door.

  “Two more terrorists,” Bennett shouted to Mordechai. “Where is that?”

  “They’re attaching explosives to the front door.”

  The four men could see Black and McCoy on one of the TV monitors, inside their elevator. In a moment, their door would open and they’d go racing down a darkened hallway into two pounds of C-4, ready to blow them to kingdom come.

  “Black and McCoy are going to run right into them,” screamed Bennett. “Is there any way we can warn them?”

  “There’s no audio link to the elevator,” said Dr. Mordechai.

  They could only watch in horror.

  The elevator came to a stop.

  Suddenly, another massive explosion rocked the house, sending Black and McCoy crashing into one another, alive but shaken. Now their door opened. Gagging on the smoke, Black pulled himself up, popped his head and .45 out into the hallway, and saw two more terrorists heading through the “tunnel” for the circular stairway. He raced forward, pivoted out of the hallway, took aim and fired off four quick rounds.

  One missed by inches, but three ripped into the base of one terrorist’s skull, virtually ripping it from his shoulders. The man crumpled in a pool of gurgling blood.

  Black quickly ducked back inside his darkened hallway as McCoy raced up behind him. Just in time. The second terrorist whipped around, fired three bursts from his AK-47, then scrambled upstairs.

  “The President’s secure.”

  Galishnikov shouted the good news as he watched the TV coverage. Thank God, thought Bennett. He just wished he could say the same about Black and McCoy.

  Black poked his head into the hallway again, but saw nothing.

  He raced across to the other side, into the hallway leading to the west wing elevator Dr. Mordechai had used earlier. Seconds later, the hallway still clear, McCoy raced across to join him.

  “What’s the plan?” she asked, trying to calm her breathing.

  “OK, we’ve killed one and now we’ve got three more upstairs, right?” Black asked, reloading his Smith & Wesson.

  “I think so.”

  “OK, I’ll head upstairs. You wait here. If they come through the east elevator, blow them away. If anybody comes down those main stairs, blow them away. Anybody comes in through the front door, blow them away. Get it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  Bennett couldn’t hear what the two were saying.

  All he could see on the monitor was Black taking off and leaving McCoy by herself. He didn’t like it. He punched the button and waited for the east elevator to come down to him. The least he could do was bring her an Uzi and some ammo.

  He opened the door as quietly as he could.

  Black dropped to his stomach and crawled along the floor, through Dr. Mordechai’s office, using his night-vision goggles to figure out the way. At the door, he carefully snuck a peek, and suddenly saw one of the terrorists with his back to him, down the hallway. Should he shoot? That would leave two more. It would also unleash the wrath of hell. Two AK-47s against his .45? Not exactly good odds.

  Forget it, he thought. Take the shot. He raised his revolver, took aim—suddenly another terrorist came around the corner and looked straight at him.

  “Gun,” the man screamed in Arabic.

  Black didn’t know what the guy was saying. Nor did he care. He pulled the trigger hard. The bullet went high.

  He squeezed off two more rounds. Again, both missed. He fired again. This time the bullet ricocheted off the wall as the standing terrorist raised his machine gun and moved to pull the trigger.

  Black pumped out his last two rounds and froze. As if in slow motion, he watched these two bullets flash out of the barrel of his gun, streak through the air, and explode through the beady, black, lifeless eyes of the terrorist glaring at him. A blaze of machine-gun bullets began spraying everywhere as the man went down. But he was down all right. And down for good.

  Black took no time to inspect his handiwork, though. He quickly ducked back in the elevator, slammed the door shut and headed back down to McCoy.

  “Yes, yes,” cheered the men in the bunker down below.

  Two down.

  Two to go.

  The sound startled her.

  Down the darkened hall across from her, she could see and hear the east elevator door beginning to open. McCoy could hear the gunfire upstairs and her heart was racing. She had no idea who might be coming through that door. But Black had been clear. It wouldn’t be him. So blow them away.

  She waited a split second for the elevator door to open just a little more, then saw a shadowy figure holding a machine gun. It certainly wasn’t Black. She opened fire—cool, smooth, just like she’d been trained. Double-tap to the torso. The man crashed to the floor, barely knowing what hit him.

  Now the elevator behind her began to open as well. McCoy wheeled around and aimed her Beretta at the door. She’d hoped to God it was Black.

  “McCoy. It’s me—Deek.”

  “Hands! Hands!” she shouted back, her adrenaline racing.

  The door opened, and Black came out with his hands up. Both breathed a quick sigh of relief as Black hurried to her side.

  “Look out,” Black suddenly screamed. “Get down.”

  McCoy, already down on one knee, flattened herself to the floor. The bloody man in the elevator began lifting his machine gun. Black raised his revolver, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. But nothing fired. His weapon was empty and the bloody, shadowy man was still raising his weapon.

  “McCoy—I’m out,” Black screamed.

  McCoy looked up and saw the machine gun barrel aiming at her face. She instinctively emptied her Beretta 9mm into the shadows. The man’s machine gun dropped to the floor as she heard him scream and collapse, limp and lifeless.

  It was over. But it had been close. Black just stood and stared. It took a second for him to get his bearings again. But he did, rapidly reloading as McCoy did the same.

  “How many left?” she whispered, popping in a fresh clip and watch
ing nervously for any signs of movement in the dark hallway.

  “Let’s see,” he answered, taking a fast accounting of their work. “We got two in this hallway. One up in the kitchen. That should leave just one more, I think. Upstairs.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “It’s too risky to take the stairs. If he’s in the living room, he’ll see us before we see him. But he obviously knows about the elevators. He could be waiting at either one.”

  Black looked around.

  “Where did everyone else go?” he whispered.

  “I have no idea,” McCoy responded. “They just disappeared.”

  “I know. It’s weird.”

  “Come on, Deek, man. We need a plan.”

  “OK. You go up the west elevator here,” Black said, motioning to the one behind him, the one he’d just come down. “I’ll go up the other side. When the doors open, if you see movement just start firing. If not, try to work your way towards the living room. Make sure to check all the beds, the closets, whatever. Don’t take any chances, OK?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Good. Let’s do it.”

  “And Deek?” asked McCoy. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “The ‘four horsemen’?” responded Black.

  “Exactly.”

  “We’ll know soon enough. Let’s just get this last guy before he gets us.”

  Black quickly checked the hallway. It was clear. He raced across to the east elevator, grabbed the dead man’s AK-47, and ripped off his black mask. Then he dragged him back into the hallway and left him under the security cameras.

  Sanchez and the president burst into the safety of the President’s Emergency Operations Center underneath the White House.

  The vice president and Kirkpatrick—already assured the president was safe—were on a videoconference with Mitchell at CIA and Secretary Trainor and General Mutschler at the Pentagon.

  “Jim, thank God,” said the First Lady, giving him a big hug, getting him seated and holding his hand.

  “Mr. President, thank God you’re OK,” echoed the VP.

  “Have you talked to Harris?” the president responded.

  “We just did, sir. Told us the whole thing.”

  “Cupid?”

  “Unbelievable. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us earlier.”

  “How could I?”

  The cameras focused on the face of the dead man in the hallway.

  It was instantly digitized and processed through a high-speed database. A few seconds later, Dr. Mordechai saw the Interpol record come up on one of his computer screens. Sure enough, he was Iraqi. The “four horsemen” had come gunning for them.

  “Sir, I have more bad news,” said Kirkpatrick.

  “What now?” asked the president, shaken and livid.

  “There’s been an explosion inside Dr. Mordechai’s house.”

  “Oh my God. What happened? What about Bennett and his team?”

  “They’re in the house right now, sir. We don’t know what’s happened, or their status. Not yet. I immediately re-tasked a satellite to move over the house to let us see what’s going on inside. We should be in range in the next sixty seconds.”

  “Get me Doron on the line.”

  “We’ve been trying, sir,” Kirkpatrick told him. “For the last fifteen minutes. We can’t get through. Not since the gun battle at the Cathedral. We think they’ve gone into an emergency session. Our fear is that they are weighing a first strike against Iraq.”

  “Keep trying. Try every number we’ve got.”

  The president seethed. It was everything he could do not to explode at someone right now. One of his own Secret Service agents had just tried to kill him. Three of his best people were pinned down—possibly dead—inside Israel. And Israel and Iraq were on the brink of going nuclear.

  “SEAL Team Six—are they still on the Reagan?” the president demanded.

  “No, sir,” said Kirkpatrick. “They’re heading to Baghdad with the NEST guys.”

  “Well, send someone in to rescue Bennett’s team—NOW.”

  The west elevator door opened in Dr. Mordechai’s room.

  McCoy peered out anxiously, her fully loaded Beretta leading the way. There was no one in the closet. She inched forward. No one in the office.

  Black pushed the up button, but the east elevator started going down.

  Down? Why was it going down?

  Black tried not to panic, aimed his .45, and prepared to fire.

  McCoy scanned the hallway—clear.

  She darted across into Dr. Mordechai’s bedroom—clear. Then she plunged her Beretta through the bathroom door, scanning for signs of life. Nothing. She darted back across into the office and hugged the wall, trying to plot out her next move.

  The elevator clanged to a stop—but the door didn’t open.

  This is it, thought Black. I’m about to die.

  “Black,” Bennett whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  Black was stunned.

  “Jon? Is that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m going to open the door. Just don’t shoot.”

  “I won’t if you won’t.”

  Black still had his sense of humor, even under fire. The elevator door opened. Now Black saw what Bennett and the others had seen some thirty minutes before: a spectacular underground bunker where Mordechai could track two battles at once—one for his country, and one for his home.

  “We can’t leave McCoy up there by herself,” said Bennett, triple-checking his Uzi and getting into the elevator.

  “You really know how to use one of these things?” asked Black

  “Hey, just aim and shoot.”

  “Good grief, Jon. It’s an Uzi. Not a Polaroid.”

  McCoy quickly—carefully—peered around the corner.

  She still saw no one in the hallway to the kitchen. But where was Black? He’d have a much better view of the living room and the kitchen coming from the east wing than she had from this office.

  She held her Beretta close to her face, her mind racing for options. She looked down on the hallway floor and saw something small and black. What was it? It was bigger than a clip. A wallet, maybe? She glanced down the hallway again, then quickly grabbed it.

  It was Deek’s BlackBerry. She switched it to mute/vibrate to make sure it didn’t suddenly make a sound. Then she typed in a quick message.

  “jon—where are you?—seen black?—erin”

  Bennett suddenly felt his BlackBerry vibrating.

  It was from McCoy.

  “Deek, look,” Bennett whispered.

  The two glanced at the message as Black realized his BlackBerry was gone.

  “Where is she?” Black whispered back.

  The elevator stopped, and the door opened. Black thrust his AK-47 out into the guest room and scanned for any sign of life or movement. Nothing.

  He moved forward carefully, covering Bennett as he typed a note back to McCoy: Where are you? Wait there. We’ll come to you. When he was done, Black pointed to the hatch into his bedroom closet, instructing Bennett to go through it, then quietly explained he’d cross through the hallway, work his way down through the bedrooms on the other side of the hall. When he knocked twice on the wall, they should both burst out into the living room, guns blazing.

  Black took off his night-vision goggles and put them on Bennett. They only had one set between them, and Black certainly had a lot more experience at this than Bennett. Confident they were as ready as they were going to be, Black glanced out the hallway door, drew his head back in, double-checked his machine gun, then sprinted across.

  The hall erupted with gunfire, the distinctive tinkling of spent metal shells dropping to the hardwood floor. Bennett dropped to his knees, shivering with fear. His back against the wall, he huddled in the corner by the hatch, but didn’t dare go through it. What if this monster was on the other side?

  The
house suddenly became eerily quiet. Bennett strained to hear something, anything. Where was this guy? Had Black been hit? His BlackBerry vibrated again. It was McCoy. She was in Dr. Mordechai’s private office. He typed a quick note back.

  “i’m fine—not sure about deek.”

  She wrote back: “i’m praying for you guys.” Strangely enough, it actually did make him feel better. He tried to muster up some courage, settled his breathing, adjusted the night-vision goggles, and carefully lifted the hatch. He aimed the Uzi inside, peered through, not moving a millimeter, not making a sound. He saw nothing. No movement. No signs of a human presence of any kind.

  Now what? His BlackBerry went off again. He grabbed it, hoping it was McCoy. It wasn’t. It was from the White House, half a world away.

  “Jon—POTUS requests status check…you guys OK?…intel says explosions, gunfire in house…seal team three in route…thirty minutes…stand by—K.”

  It was Kirkpatrick. The president was sending in a Navy SEAL Team to rescue them. Thank God, he thought. Maybe McCoy’s prayers really were working. Then again, he thought, we might not be alive in thirty minutes.

  Black was hit.

  He was bleeding heavily from the fiery gash in his right elbow and thought the bone might be shattered. True or not, he could barely hold his weapon, and wasn’t much of a shot as a lefty.

  Slowly, painfully, he worked his way down through the bedrooms, leaving a trail of blood as he went. He made it to the final bedroom and crouched by the door. His eyes were blurring. His head was swimming. He was losing blood fast. If something didn’t happen soon, he’d be unconscious in less than five minutes.