But the Taskforce lead confirmed her worst fear. “Our insider’s been shot. Sir, we need to breach the building, now.”
“It’s not going to happen, soldier,” Wilkes retorted. “I am sorry about your man, but I’ve made my position clear.”
Ike touched a hand to his earpiece, listening. “He survived the shooting, but now they’re beating him,” he growled, staring hard at the AG, who looked away from his burning gaze. Bending over him, Calhoun forced the man to look up at him. His voice, as cold and quiet as death, made Lena shiver. “Let me make this perfectly clear to you, sir. When this place becomes a blood-bath, I will hold you personally accountable for Jackson’s welfare, plus every injury and loss of life that takes place here.”
The tense silence that followed his declaration was shattered by the crackling of his radio.
“Sir!” shouted a voice on the other end. “The National Guard reports that three semi trucks just busted through the roadblock at the intersection of Route 5 and the 301! At the rate of speed at which they’re traveling, we’ve got ten minutes, tops, before they get here. National Guard is in hot pursuit and requesting back up, over.”
Lena’s heart began jumping in her chest. The cynical curl to Calhoun’s upper lip wasn’t reassuring.
“Copy,” he clipped. “Tell the Marines to launch air support, now. We’ll need at least two Cobras. Over.” He directed his gaze back at Wilkes. “Looks like the Fruit of Islam mobilized faster than either you or I imagined. Care to reconsider your decision, sir? Or would you rather brace yourself for a dog fight?”
Wilkes’s complexion paled and his grip tightened on the arms of his chair. “I stand by my decision,” he insisted but with less conviction than before.
Calhoun shook his head. His jaw muscles flexed. He keyed his mike. “Eagle One and Two, this is Eagle Nest. Be advised, three semi-trucks just breached the roadblock ten miles out and are headed in our direction. Prepare to deflect a hostile assault of unknown strength.”
Lena heard a tinny voice on the other end acknowledging the orders.
Ike turned to the AG. “Sir, you need to relocate this RV at the back of the compound between the rear wall and the tree line.” He pointed to Toby. “I want you to evacuate every civilian out there who’ll leave, and that includes your sidekick, here.” A shadow of compassion darkened his gaze as it rested briefly on Lena. “Text Jackson and keep texting him until he answers you.”
Toby nodded. “Got it. Let’s go, sidekick.” Grabbing Lena’s hand, he pulled her out of the RV into the quiet parking lot. The pounding rain had subsided into a steady drizzle. Snatching a megaphone from the SWAT van, Toby ushered her toward the dozen or so vehicles and police cars parked across from the mosque’s locked doors.
“Attention, people. We have a large, hostile force moving in this direction. If you don’t want to get caught in the middle of a firefight, you need to clear the area now. You have five minutes at the most. There’s a motel two miles south of here. I suggest you wait there. We’ll alert you when the area is clear.”
As Toby herded reluctant news crews to their vehicles, Lena whipped out her cell phone, a sudden thought occurring to her. If the parolees had their new iPhones with them, maybe she could find out Jackson’s status by texting them all and hoping at least one of them answered.
Glancing up, she saw the AG’s RV lumber into the tall grass behind the rear of the mosque. Several fearless news teams caught sight of the RV, too, and followed, ignoring Toby’s orders. Lena started after them.
“Hey, where are you going?” Toby caught up to her and caught her by the arm.
She shook him off. “I told you. I’m not leaving Jackson.” She pulled out her phone intent on composing a text, but what to say? “Did you hear from him yet?”
“Not yet.” Toby frowned at her. “What are you going to accomplish by staying, Lena? You’ll just be a distraction.”
“No, I’m not. I’m going to text some of the men inside. I might be able to talk them into turning on their leader.”
Toby looked thunderstruck. “You have contact with the men on the inside?”
“If they have their new phones with them, then yes.”
He searched the bustling parking lot until his gaze fell on a distinguished older gentleman in an FBI flack jacket. “Special Agent Donovan!” He waved the man over. “Lena, this is our hostage negotiator. Donovan, this woman has cell phone numbers for some of the guys inside. Tell her what to do.” Under his breath, Lena heard him add, “And get her the hell away from this building.”
“You got it. This way, miss.” With an implacable grip on her upper arm, the agent drew her toward the very back of the lot where a nondescript sedan was parked. “Let’s see if we can talk to the guys inside.”
Grateful for his guidance, Lena took a seat beside him and took his cues. If she could keep Jackson alive with a couple of text messages, it’d be a miracle.
**
Seated in the far corner of the closed closet where Ibrahim wouldn’t catch him texting, Corey responded to the message he’d received from Maggie asking him about Abdul.
He’s alive. He glanced at the still, dark form at his feet and added, He betrayed us. Bitterness welled up in him at the memory of Abdul’s lies, though that part about loving Maggie had sounded tragically true. Maybe that’s what had kept Corey from joining in when the others attacked Abdul. Hell, the man was already shot. A bullet was bad enough without getting all roughed up.
To Abdul’s credit, he’d gotten in some good licks, himself. Nadim was still out there clutching his gut.
Corey’s phone buzzed. He read Maggie’s response with a furrowed brow. The only traitor at Gateway is your leader.
Corey’s breath sawed harshly in the small space. Her words sounded just like the voice of reason that he’d been trying to silence in his head these past few weeks. He wondered if any of his brothers were getting Maggie’s texts, whether her words disturbed them the way they did him.
Painstakingly, he texted her back. Things is different now.
The only thing that’s different is that your leader’s plans have been exposed. He wanted to bomb Washington D.C. and open fire on white people in the streets. That's genocide, Corey. Do you really want to be a part of that?
Corey stared at the word genocide in disbelief. All this time, he’d thought Judgment Day had something to do with spiritual purification, fasting, and maybe atonement of some kind. He’d thought the white devil was a symbol for those who were racists. But now Ibrahim was looking like the biggest racists of all. No, he texted back.
There are ten of you and only one of him. It would be easy for you all to overcome him. Reclaim your future. It’s your future, not his.
Awash in a cold sweat, Corey envisioned the future as Ibrahim had depicted it: with each parolee empowered to make a decent living. He pictured himself as part of a powerful network, a Five Percenter. A dream like that only came at a price. Each parolee had to give up his autonomy, to sacrifice himself for what Ibrahim believed was a greater cause—overcoming the status quo by force and establishing black men as rulers, but he didn’t know that meant murdering innocent people.
I never got the chance to hear your story, she added. But always knew you’d be the true hero of my book.
Her words gripped his heart in a vice.
For the first time, he saw his situation objectively. He didn’t want to be a part of anything resembling genocide. If Maggie was right, then the only place any of them were headed from here was straight to jail, unless...unless they did as she suggested.
Fear and uncertainty overwhelmed him. He sobbed silently into his hand.
A hand encircled his ankle, startling his head up. “Corey,” Abdul rasped in a pain-laced voice. “Free me, and I’ll make certain you don’t go to jail.”
Still frightened, Corey kicked his foot free. “How you gonna do that?”
“I’m a federal agent,” Abdul whispered. “I can protect you. All you
have to do is cut me loose and get me a gun.”
“I don’t know, man. There’s six of them and only one of me. They’ll kill me if I don’t do what Ibrahim says.”
“If you don’t resist him, every one of you is going to end up dead or back in prison.” Abdul shifted, and Corey could see his pale eyes imploring him, even in the darkness. “You’re a good man, Corey. I know I can count on you do to the right thing.”
Confused and terrified, Corey scrambled out of the closet and put his back to the wall. All around him in the prayer hall, cell phones were lighting up, which meant Maggie was texting the other parolees she had numbers for. Ibrahim, sitting up at the top of the minbar didn’t seem to notice. He was too preoccupied with receiving his own reports on his iPhone.
Corey swallowed hard. Maybe if others joined him in defying their leader, he would do it, if only to keep from going back to jail.
In the closet, Abdul gave an audible groan.
**
When the first semi-truck came roaring down the 235, Toby’s first thought was that it resembled a Chinese dragon. Painted scarlet with amber running lights, its bold appearance inspired an immediate sense of doom. What the hell is in it? Toby wondered, peering around the rear corner of the dormitory.
“Alpha platoon, stand by,” murmured the National Guardsman hugging the wall next to Toby. The man was in charge of the soldiers dotting the grassy area between the dormitory and the mosque.
“Eagle One and Two, stand by.” Ike’s voice sounded in Toby’s earpiece.
With a hiss of brakes and the bellow of a downshifting engine, the Chinese dragon abruptly slowed. To Toby’s disbelief, it veered sharply across the median, through the oncoming lanes, devoid of traffic, and headed straight toward Gateway.
“Holy shit,” Toby braced himself for impact as it bounced through the grassy ditch and, with a roar of acceleration, crashed headlong into the shed where the propane tanks had just been evacuated.
The resulting collision sent the walls and the roof of the shed flying in all directions. The truck came to a stop. If the propane had still been in it, the impact would have created an inferno so enormous that it would have incinerated the entire truck and obstructed everyone’s view of the two remaining semis.
As it was, Toby could see that they’d stopped on the highway, parking in such a way that they blocked all four lanes. Their high beams glared, blinding every set of eyes that could see. Despite the glare, Toby made out what looked like all-terrain-vehicles zipping down ramps at the back of both trucks and dispersing into the darkness.
Christ, they were going to surround the mosque and attack the SWAT team from all sides.
“Heads up,” he advised, “I count eight, nine, no, ten ATV’s fanning out in every direction with several armed combatants in each vehicle. They’re circling the campus.”
“Everyone spread out and cover all angles,” Ike advised.
In the distance, too far away to be helpful, the clatter of Cobra helicopters grew louder as the Marines responded to the request for air support.
When the first burst of automatic gunfire lit the night and strafed the wall where Toby crouched, he realized they were in for a long gunfight.
Up on the rooftop, a member of the SWAT team fired back. Toby heard the ping-ping as bullets bounced off an ATV, telling him that the vehicle was armored. Son of a bitch.
Like a horde of bees, the ATVs circled ever closer.
“Take a covered position and shoot out the tires!” roared the National Guard captain to his men.
Over shouts of alarm and the barrage of gunfire, Toby heard Ike barking into his headset. “Outrider, what’s your goddamn ETA?”
Whatever response Ike might have gotten was drowned out by the detonation of a hand grenade. A member of the Fruit of Islam had hurled it onto the mosque’s flat roof where half the sniper team crouched.
The cries of agony that accompanied the grenade’s detonation set Toby’s teeth on edge. Oh, hell no. As the ATV performed a one-eighty to make another pass, Toby hefted his M-21 sniper rifle, pinned the driver’s side tire in the crosshairs of his night vision scope and shredded it.
The driver immediately lost control. The ATV flipped, and those who weren’t pinned or injured crawled out only to be shot by the National Guardsmen. “Say goodnight,” Toby muttered, turning his attention to the next ATV.
**
At the sound of a loud crash sounding like it had come from the entrance to the campus, Ibrahim leapt to his feet. “Do you hear?” he cried, breaking into Corey’s whispered conversation with Muhammed. “That is the sound of my faithful followers, come to liberate their leader. Even now, the Devil quails before the Fruit of Islam.” The imam’s outburst was greeted with a smattering of applause.
Muhammed and Corey shared a look. They had just been discussing Ibrahim’s crazed vision of the New World Order and their reluctance to take part now that they were aware of the gruesome brutality required of them. It sounded like all hell was breaking loose on the other side of the thick walls. Another sudden, loud explosion overhead elicited cries of agony and sent bits of plaster raining down on them.
“Hear the sound of my Righteous Army securing victory,” Ibrahim crowed. Hefting the box of pistols he had guarded at the top of the minbar, he descended with it. “Come forward, my sons who swore their loyalty to the Five Percent Nation.” He waved them closer.
With Davis arrested and Abdul tied up in the closet, only five of his seven chosen pupils remained. “Come and take a pistol,” he urged. “As soon as the enemy is weakened, we will escape. You first, Hasan.”
Hasan edged closer, and the pistol gleamed like dark pewter as Ibrahim passed it off. Muhummed seized Corey’s arm. “What do we do?” he hissed.
“Go ahead and get a gun. I’ll give mine to Abdul,” Corey answered.
“Muhammed,” Ibrahim called, and Muhammed got up and took the pistol given to him.
Gunfire belched on the roof overhead, and Corey glanced up automatically. He had noticed men up there, earlier, watching their every move, perhaps preparing to break in through the windows. He would rather cast his lot with them than be party to the slaughtering of innocent people.
“Yusuf,” Ibrahim said, calling him by his conversion name.
Corey stepped forward. When the cool weight of titanium filled his palm, his resolve to do what was right gave him courage.
Edging away from the circle of eager men, Corey backed toward the closet where Abdul lay in a puddle of his own blood. Slipping into the dark space, he dropped to his knees to shake him awake. Abdul had slipped into unconsciousness.
“Man, wake up!” Corey whispered, cutting the sticky tape around his wrists and ankles with the scissors. “You said you was gonna help me.” Anxiety wicking through his solar plexus brought tears to his eyes. The tape came apart, but even then Abdul remained motionless.
Corey’s hopes plummeted. Without Abdul’s help, how could he and Muhammed ever overcome the others?
Chapter Twenty
Pain flashed up Jackson’s spine from his hip. He opened his eyes with a gasp and recognized Corey bent over him, shaking him awake. “Yes!” Corey’s relief was palpable. “Stay awake. You gots to stay awake, man.” He thrust a gun into Jackson’s hand. “Muhammed’s on our side now,” he whispered, “and Ibrahim’s about to make his move.” Corey put a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck,” he added before scuttling out of the closet.
The cool titanium in Jackson’s hand sharpened his senses, helping him to rise above the radiating pain. Gritting his teeth, he rolled toward the cracked closet door and searched the shadowy prayer hall to assess what was going on. Ibrahim now stood at the barred door, surrounded by the parolees. They seemed to be waiting for a signal of some kind.
Jackson painstakingly coaxed his cell phone from his pocket. The very walls of the mosque shook with incessant thunder. It sounded like a war was taking place outside, only what the hell was making those lawn-mower noises?
>
Christ, his hip hurt. Ignoring the pain, he texted Ike and Toby simultaneously with fingers that shook. Hit but fairly mobile. Have pistol and two allies. Ibrahim poised to exit.
As he waited for a reply, he took inventory of his wound. His blood had apparently clotted as it had ceased to leak from the hole in his shorts. Good thing, too, for he had no way of binding the wound, and that would have only made it obvious he still had his head in the game.
Ike’s reply lit up the tiny screen. Sit tight. Air support en route.
Relief lessened Jackson’s pain. Maybe he wouldn’t have to address Ibrahim alone.
But then an explosion shook the walls and brought plaster raining down on his head. Christ, it sounded like his teammates were balls to the wall defending the mosque from Ibrahim’s army. Closing his eyes, he envisioned what he was hearing. Those small engines were apparently attached to light, fast-moving vehicles that swept around the building, swapping fire with those defending it. It sounded like the good guys were hard pressed in keeping the Fruit of Islam at a distance.
Jackson couldn’t wait for air support to tip the scales of the battle, not if Ibrahim slipped away while his Army had the upper hand. In fact, now was the perfect time to take him out.
Steadying his pistol with his other hand, he took aim at Ibrahim’s head through the cracked door. The imam stood with his iPhone in one hand, his pistol in the other, an easy target. Still, it’d been a long time since Jackson had killed anyone, since the damn war, before Colleen died.
Ibrahim’s phone lit up suddenly. Energized by the message he received, the imam shifted toward his followers, so that he no longer stood in Jackson’s direct line of sight. “Come, my sons,” he called waving the anxious, milling men closer to the door.
“Move,” Jackson breathed, willing Jamal to step aside so he could fire his shot. He could see that Jamal was also armed, as were Ibrahim’s other chosen few. Question was, would they all turn their weapons on Jackson when Ibrahim went down? He swallowed hard at the thought. Would Muhammed, who also had a gun, be any help?
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