“You what!”
Payne explained the situation as he walked along the water’s edge, looking for somewhere private to sit. Although he doubted anyone was listening, all this open space made him vulnerable to parabolic microphones. “So, any luck with your search?”
“That depends on your definition of luck. I attribute my recent success to being so damn good.” He laughed to himself. “Anyway, I talked to multiple sources, who briefed me on the rumors that have been floating around. Over the past few months, several big fish have fallen off our radar screen. Not surprising, since they’re terrorists. Of course, we don’t know if they were killed, if they’re playing bingo in a mosque basement, or if we got sloppy and lost them.”
“That’s the problem with terrorists. They never tell us anything.”
“Actually,” Dial said, “sometimes they do. Two months ago the French government nabbed a Muslim named Abdul Al-Amin trying to sneak a firearm into an art museum in Paris. Why? I have no idea. I’m guessing it had something to do with The Da Vinci Code.”
“Go on.”
“Anyway, Abdul’s paperwork seemed clean, so the French decided to give him a slap on the wrist and let him go. But before they could, the idiot started blabbing, claiming he was part of an active terrorist group called the Soldiers of Allah and he’d be willing to give up vital information if they would cut a deal for his release.”
Payne laughed. “What an idiot.”
“Yeah, a real Einstein. Anyhow, this is where it gets good. Once the French did some legwork, they realized the Soldiers of Allah had committed most of their acts of terror in America. So what did they do? They called Interpol and asked us to get involved. Long story short, I got access to a whole lot of info.”
“Anything useful?”
“That’s for you to decide. Abdul was exactly who he said he was: a midlevel asshole for the Soldiers of Allah. He gave us names, dates, locations—the type of intel that only an insider would have. Some of it proved quite useful. We actually busted some of the smaller cells.”
“Good.”
“But not good enough. We told Abdul that we weren’t going to let him go unless he gave us some intel on their leader, an Arab named Hakeem Salaam.”
Payne frowned. “Never heard of him.”
“Me neither. So I called one of my buddies at Homeland Security to get some background info, and he nearly popped a boner when I mentioned Salaam’s name. I honestly thought he was going to drop the phone and play with himself right there. Turns out Salaam is at the top of one of their special lists. I’m talking extra-special. You ready for this? He’s what they call a Big Tit.”
“Did you say tit?”
“Stands for Towel-headed Islamic Terrorist. And no, I’m not making that up. Half those boys at Homeland Security are racist bastards. They claim it helps them do their jobs.”
“Go on.”
“So I make a joke of it. I tell him we should trade information, you know, tit for tat, but for some reason he didn’t think it was funny.”
Payne stifled his urge to laugh. “He tell you anything else?”
“Actually, he wanted me to tell him what I knew. Turns out Salaam and his top advisers disappeared a week after the incident at the museum. Poof! Just like that. No one knows why or where, but no one’s heard from them since.”
Payne winced. Three days ago Colonel Harrington had used similar terminology to describe Schmidt and his squad.-They had disappeared, but no one knew why or where. Now the same thing was being said about Salaam and his advisers. The major difference? The terrorists disappeared several weeks ago, back when Schmidt was running a black op for Harrington in the Persian Gulf. Something he was reluctant to talk about when Jones questioned him.
A coincidence? Probably not.
In Payne’s mind, the most likely scenario had Schmidt tracking down Salaam and his men, dragging them to the secret cave, and torturing them for information. At least until something went wrong. Now Schmidt and his crew were dead, Salaam was missing, and the only witness was an eight-year-old boy who had managed to disappear.
“Where’s Abdul now?”
“Good question,” Dial said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have access to that information.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s no longer in Interpol custody.”
“He was released?”
“Hell, no. We don’t release terrorists. Even dumb ones.”
“So what happened?”
“About a week ago, we cut a deal with some country that took possession of Abdul. I’m not sure which one because the transfer papers were sealed. But the obvious choice is America.”
28
Perched on a picnic table, Jones scanned the crowd for fathers and sons. The only memorable pair was across the street at one of the gambling booths. The chubby kid was no more than two years old and wore a bright orange snowsuit that made him look like a pumpkin. Gamblers, possibly confusing the child with Buddha, let him hold their bets for good luck while they wagered on cards being dealt by his father, who seemed proud that his boy was following him into the family business. Every so often the kid would get caught up in the excitement and throw all the money in the air, causing a mad scramble among the participants.
It was a comical scene on an anxious night.
Several minutes passed before Payne strolled back to the table. He briefed Jones and Kia on his phone call from Nick Dial, explaining his theory on Hakeem Salaam. From Payne’s perspective, it fit all the pieces of the puzzle. Schmidt’s black op in the Persian Gulf. Kia’s need to speak Arabic. And everything else he could think of. He still wasn’t sure what happened in the village, but he hoped Yohg-Su Park would fill in all the details.
That is, if he showed up with his father, like he was supposed to.
“May I ask a question?” Kia wondered. “You mentioned that Salaam and his advisers recently disappeared. Does that mean we knew where they were beforehand? If so, why didn’t we pick them up back then?”
“Actually,” Jones grunted, “I wish it was that easy. That’s the most frustrating thing about the war on terror. Sometimes we know people are terrorists—because of their associations, their business dealings, their ideologies—but can’t prove it in a court of law. And in those cases, our hands are tied, especially if they’re living outside of American jurisdiction. All we can do is track their movement and hope they screw up.”
Payne added, “It’s kind of like the Mafia. A lot of times we know who the bad guys are. We even know where they live. But we can’t arrest them until we find the smoking gun.”
Jones agreed. “That’s a great analogy, because organized crime has the same basic structure. The goal of a terrorist cell is to protect the larger organization. Team A knows nothing about Team B, and so on. The leaders know what’s going on—they’re the ones pulling the strings—but the pawns don’t know squat about long-term objectives. They keep everything compartmentalized, just in case the group is infiltrated.”
“And some terrorists are protected by so many layers that we can’t prove anything. That means they can walk the streets and we can’t arrest them. Or even threaten them. And if we do, we ‘re the ones who get crucified.”
“By whom?” Kia wondered.
“The UN, the media, his home country. Everyone expects us to be global peacekeepers, but no one wants us to get our hands dirty. And let’s face it: that’s just not practical. Sometimes, for us to do our job, we have to cross the line.”
“You mean, like the cave?”
Payne frowned. “Obviously, that’s an extreme example. But yes—”
“Hold up!” Jones whispered.
He nodded his head to the left, pointing out two people who had just opened the gate to the marina. One tall, one short. Both wearing winter coats and hunting caps that were clasped around their chins. They clung to each other like family. Maybe out of warmth. Maybe out of fear. Darkness prevented a positive ID, but this looked like them.<
br />
Payne checked his watch. It was nearly midnight.
“Kia,” he ordered, “you stay here. D.J., come with me.”
As luck would have it, the marina was a dead end. One way in, one way out. A long wooden dock ran straight from the gate into the center of the cold water. Maybe fifty yards in length. Most of the slips were empty—-owners had taken their boats into the harbor for a better view of the celebration—so there was nowhere for the Parks to go. They were trapped. Unless they decided to swim for it. Which was pretty damn unlikely in the middle of winter.
Payne and Jones decided to play it cool. They walked slowly, like tourists, talking to each other while pointing out the sights. Who knew how desperate the father would be? Was he armed? Was he irrational? After all he had been through, the odds were against a peaceful conversation. That meant they needed to get as close as possible before they made their move. And even then, it would probably get messy. Screaming. Shouting. Kicking. And that was just from Jones.
No telling what the father might do.
Payne hit the first plank as the clock stuck midnight, punctuated by a cheering crowd and a bolt of lightning that streaked across the sky. Then another. And another. But instead of thunder, the sky exploded with a burst of colors-fireworks being launched above Seongsan Peak. The burning embers fell toward the water as every boat in the harbor turned on their lights and sounded their whistles to greet the New Year. A raucous symphony of sights and sounds.
Up ahead, the two suspects stopped on the pier and admired the pageantry. They stood and turned like every other tourist in town. They smiled and clapped and enjoyed the moment. The taller one even pulled out a camera. And that’s when Payne realized they had made a mistake.
They were following the wrong people.
He reached for Jones’s shoulder, but it wasn’t necessary. He’d spotted the same thing. They quickly turned around, hoping to retreat before the real Parks showed up. But it was too late. One glance was proof of that. The boy and his father were standing there, panicked. Watching them from the other side of the gate.
And the father had a gun.
The first shot was fired without warning. Just a muzzle flash and a splash of water, somewhere near Payne’s feet. Common sense said to run in the other direction. But what good would that do? They needed to talk to the boy, and the only way to accomplish that was to subdue his father. So they did the irrational. They ran toward danger.
A second shot rang out, this one much closer. It buzzed between Payne and Jones and buried itself in the dock. Wood splintered in a puff of smoke as the two tourists dove into the harbor.
It was a sane response to an insane situation.
The father fired once again, this time hitting Jones in the upper arm. The bullet tore through his coat and ripped through his skin, casting goose down and blood splatter in every direction. The impact knocked him sideways, twisting him just enough to ruin his balance. One second he was running forward, the next he was falling backward on the slippery wood. His left hip took the brunt of the fall, followed by his injured arm and the left side of his face. Not enough to knock him out, but enough to leave him dazed.
Payne screeched to a halt, more concerned with his friend than the suspect, who suddenly stopped shooting and ran into the crowd. Blood oozed from Jones’s left biceps but didn’t squirt, a good sign with any injury. Jones would have a scar but would survive. No worries there.
“Get out of here,” he grunted. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” He blinked a few times, dazed from the fall. “But I keep seeing flashing lights.”
Payne laughed. “Those are fireworks.”
“Oh ... then I’m fine.”
A shrieking gate stopped their conversation. Payne raised his gun before he could decipher the threat. But it was a false alarm. It was Kia.
“Oh my God! Is he okay?”
But Payne ignored her question. “Where are they?”
“To the right. They ran to the right.”
“Stay with him,” he ordered as he ran past. He leaped the gate, swinging his legs sideways without breaking stride, and sprinted into the surging crowd. The Parks had a head start, but they were no match for Payne’s speed. He dodged people when he could, knocked them over when he couldn’t, and didn’t slow down until he spotted them hustling toward the outdoor theater.
Fireworks continued to burst and boat whistles continued to sound, all of it masking the drama that was developing in the tiny town. All of that changed when the father used his gun again, this time firing a shot into the nighttime sky. People turned and stared, unsure if it was a firecracker or something more dangerous. What they saw caused them to panic. A muscular white man was running down the road, knocking everyone out of his way while waving a large firearm. It didn’t matter that he was innocent. That the shot had come from someone else’s gun. All they knew was that he needed to be stopped.
Things got much worse when Mr. Park started shouting in Korean. He screamed, He’s trying to kill my boy. He wants to kill my son.
That was like fuel on a fire. In a flash, it was Payne versus an entire village.
Moments before, a team of six men had been on center stage, displaying their martial arts skills in a performance they called Tiger-Strike. All of them were dressed in black and wore permanent scowls. Three of them carried swords. The others held nunchucks. They ran toward him en masse, hoping to overwhelm Payne with their sheer numbers. Assuming their Tiger-Strike teamwork would cause him to cower.
But they were wrong.
Payne started with an elbow, throwing it with such power and precision that he shattered the nose and cheekbone of the first ninja before he could even raise his blade. The sword bounced to the ground with a loud clank that echoed through the crowd, soon followed by a louder gasp. Payne’s momentum propelled him forward, helping him throw his leg skyward in a roundhouse kick that caught his next victim under the chin. His head snapped back with the force of a car crash, tumbling into the third attacker, who knocked over several chairs, then scampered away.
The fourth man was far wiser, charging into battle behind the point of his sword. He swung it back and forth, flipping his wrists in fluid circles, a dazzling display of precision and grace. The type of showmanship that could win awards. Yet not very effective in a street fight. Payne pointed his gun and pulled the trigger, blowing the man’s kneecap through the back of his leg. A second later, his screams filled the night as he fell to the ground in a puddle of his own blood.
The remaining duo wasted no time, swooping in from behind before Payne could turn around. One landed a solid strike with his nunchuck, hitting him in his rib cage. Thankfully, his jacket and body armor softened the blow. So much so that Payne was able to grab his attacker’s weapon and pull him closer. An instant later, Payne thrust his knee upward, hitting him in his groin. Balls ruptured from the force. As the man bent over in agony, Payne grabbed the back of his head and slammed his knee into the guy’s face, knocking him unconscious. But Payne didn’t let him fall to the ground. Instead, he pushed him toward his friend who mistakenly tried to catch him. Before the guy could react, Payne launched himself forward, striking him in the mouth with the butt of his gun. Teeth cracked and nerves frayed as Payne spun and waited for a counterassault.
But none was to follow.
Payne stood tall in the middle of six men, all in various states of pain, unwilling to test him further. The same could be said of the crowd, which had scattered in every direction.
He stood there alone, staring at the father and son.
The father stared back, gun still in hand.
Willing to die for his boy.
29
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
(41 miles west of Mecca)
Hakeem Salaam had been a terrorist since he was a young child growing up in Medina. He had learned the craft from his father, a man who stood up for his beliefs even when they weren’t popular in his native Sau
di Arabia. Sometimes using violence, sometimes using words. Doing whatever he felt was necessary to make sure his message was heard.
At the age when most boys were taught how to play sports, Salaam learned how to assemble weapons and make explosives out of household chemicals. How to plan a sneak assault in an urban environment. And how to escape afterward. To him, there was nothing strange about it. This was the only life he knew, and his father was his role model. If anything, he felt pity for the other Arab children, who wasted their lives listening to music and playing silly games, instead of making a difference in the world.
Didn’t they know that they were being corrupted?
The country he blamed the most was the United States, a seed his father had planted in him from the very beginning but one that grew more obvious with each passing year. Everything about their culture was immoral. Their drinking. Their depravity. Their lack of religious structure. The way they glamorized sex and drugs in their movies and books. Half-naked women walking around in public. And teenage girls doing the same.
And what did their government do about it? Nothing.
They were too busy fighting wars in places they didn’t belong.
Ten years ago, Salaam founded the Soldiers of Allah, an organization destined to become one of the most feared terrorist groups in the world. He started small, recruiting a few trusted lieutenants who preached his word while protecting his identity, always maintaining the veil of secrecy that surrounded him.
Unlike some terrorists, he didn’t crave personal attention. He craved results.
When he first started out, he had a specific agenda: to protect the religion of Islam. He figured the best way to accomplish that goal was to punish its corruptors, to make them pay for the erosion of his people and their morals. Just like Muhammad had done when he purified the Kaaba by removing all the false idols that were worshiped there.
Salaam’s group focused on the United States, labeling them as their biggest threat. Targeting them and their allies every chance he got. He supplied weapons. He blew up embassies. He attacked buses and subways. He did everything he could to hurt his enemy, all in hopes of uniting his people under a common cause. Hoping his passion would be contagious.
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