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 Saudi 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.
Yet his actions were for naught. Islam remained a house divided.
Ultimately, he realized he needed to alter his approach. He had to figure out a way to bridge the gaps that separated his people, gaps that were significant. There were more than 1.2 billion Muslims scattered around the world, making it the second-largest religion behind Christianity. Yet Islam wasn't isolated in the Middle East. In fact, there were more Asian Muslims than Arab ones-more than 150 million in Indonesia alone. Not to mention a large number of Muslims in the United States, nearly twice as many as Jews there.
Still, the variety of cultures and languages was just part of the problem.
The biggest hurdle was the diversity of beliefs.
There were the Sunnis, the largest subgroup, which contained more than 80 percent of Muslims, who believed one school of Islamic thought. And the Shiites, who followed another. Then there were the Wahhabis, whose influence was spreading quickly. Plus all the minor sects that had so many subtle differences that even he couldn't tell them apart.
How was he going to unite all these people under one flag when most of them weren't even willing to be in the same room?
He knew it would take a miracle.
Ironically, it was the tragedy in New York City that gave him the idea.
He watched in amazement as the events of 9/11 unfolded on his television screen. The way the planes crashed into the Twin Towers and sent them toppling to the ground in a burst of fire and ash. How people scurried for their lives and mourned those who didn't survive. It was an amazing sight to see in such a diverse nation. The way Americans and their allies joined together and formed a united front. Men and women. Young and old. Rich and poor. Blacks and whites. Democrats and Republicans. It didn't really matter. Everyone was equal.
In their time of tragedy, they became one.
Salaam disappeared into the mountains for days, meditating like Muhammad had done, thinking about his problem from all angles, weighing the positives and the negatives, trying to determine the best way to take advantage of what he had witnessed in America.
In his mind, all he needed to do was find a common thread among all Muslims, and once he did, he would give it a yank. The natural reaction would be to pull together. To unite. Whether it was out of love, sorrow, or fear, it didn't really matter as long as they were standing as one.
Of course, the key was finding that thread.
And then it dawned on him. There was only one thing that all Muslims-Sunnis, Shiites, and all the sects- agreed upon. One thing they would fight for. One place they cared about.
The birthplace of their greatest prophet.
The site of their most holy mosque.
The centerpiece of Islam.
30
The boy buried his face in his father's hip, unable to look at the blood. He had seen enough in the past week to last him a lifetime.
Trembling, his father held him tight. One hand on Yong-Su's head, the other on his gun. He tried aiming at Payne but was doing a poor job. Adrenaline made him shaky. Emotions made him unstable. Tears flowed from his eyes as he grasped the situation. Four shots fired. One man down. Cornered and unable to run. No other options in sight.
Thankfully, Payne recognized the mind-set. The desperation. The feelings of hopelessness. Many of his former enemies had felt the exact same way. So he knew how to deal with it.
"Chung-Ho," he said. His voice was calm, steady. "My name is Jonathon Payne, and I'm here to help. I know it doesn't seem that way, but I am."
He waited for a response, but none was forthcoming.
"Can you understand me? Do you speak English?"
Several seconds passed before Chung-Ho nodded.
"Good. That's good." Payne lowered his weapon six inches, a gesture of goodwill. "Your neighbor Mr. Kim told me what happened to you. I'm sorry for your loss. I truly am."
But Park said nothing.
"He's worried about your safety. Same with Yong-Su's."
"You no talk about my son! Leave him alone!"
"Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to …" He bowed his head slightly. "I'm sorry."
"How you find me?"
"I talked to Chi-Gon Jung, the man who rented your boat. He told me where to find you."
"Why? What you want?"
"I want to help. I simply want to help. I'm not here to hurt you. I swear I'm not."
"It no look like that! Look what you did to men!"
"I had no choice. You shot my partner. You started a riot. I had to defend myself."
"No!" he shouted. "I defend myself!"
Payne nodded, taking a small step forward. "I know you are. That's why I'm not upset. You were scared, so you did what you could to protect yourself. There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, it's instinctual. You felt threatened, so you fought back."
Park stared at him, his gun still trembling.
"Unfortunately, sometimes a problem can be so big, you can't face it alone. Sometimes you need help to survive. Which is why I'm here. I'm here to help."
"How you help me?"
Payne stepped closer. "First of all, I can take you somewhere safe. That's most important. Wherever you want to go. To the mainland. To Japan. To the States. Anywhere you'd like."
He paused, letting that sink in. "Then, once I know you're okay, I'm going to hunt for the men who attacked your village. No matter what, no matter where, I will search for them. And when I find them …" His voice trailed off for just a second. "Let's just say what happened here tonight is nothing compared to what I'll do to them. I promise you that."
The wail of sirens cut through the night, somehow rising above the fireworks, gunshots, and screams from the crowd. Payne heard the sound and realized what it meant: Park had to decide immediately. No way they could risk police involvement. Not with so much on the line. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure if Park felt the same way. For all he knew, Park might view the cops as a better option. Safer than talking to Payne. It was a risk Payne couldn't afford.
"Mr. Kim told me horror stories about your village and all the atrocities that have happened in the cave. Through it all, the thing that surprised me the most was his hatred of the local police. The way they killed innocents during the massacre, the way they betrayed their own people. Until that point, I couldn't understand why you had decided to run. Then it made perfect sense. This island isn't safe for you. And it isn't safe for your son."
The sirens grew louder, coupled with the glow of flashing lights.
"I know you don't trust me. And the truth is you probably shouldn't, considering all that's happened in the past week. But in my heart I know you trust your neighbor Mr. Kim. That's why you ran to him in your time of crisis. You trusted his wisdom and guidance above your own."
Payne lowered his gun, going for broke.
"So tell me this. If he was here right now, which would he recommend? The police or me?"
The Korean National Police Agency (KNPA) is the only police organization in South Korea. Based in Seoul, it is divided into fourteen local bureaus, including one in Jeju.
During the Sunrise Festival, most on-duty officers were assigned to crowd control, helping the flow of traffic, arresting drunks, and doing what they could to make the celebration safe. Seongsan was a small village with very little crime, so the last thing they expected was a series of shootings. Not only at the marina, but at the theater as well.
By the time they were notified, crucial time had been lost, made worse by the hordes of people who blocked the roads. Sirens sounded and lights flashed, but the streets were so narrow that people had nowhere
to go. A journey that usually took a minute suddenly took ten. Way too long to make a difference.
The first officers at the scene-proudly wearing the new police insignia, a Steller's sea eagle carrying a Rose of Sharon-checked the theater for gunmen before rushing to the aid of six victims, all of whom had black ninja outfits and a number of bruises. One was missing a knee, and the others were visibly shaken.
Their Tiger-Strike teamwork had been ineffective against a more worthy opponent.
Other witnesses were rounded up. Some Koreans. Some Japanese. Even a few Europeans. When questioned, all of them said the exact same thing. A crazed American had started the brawl. A tall, muscular guy who carried a gun and wiped out half the crowd.
Then again, they said, his violent behavior should have been expected.
Why? Because he played in the NBA.
Payne knew the main roads would soon be blocked. So they left town to the east, taking Jung's fishing boat to the open sea.
The hardest part of the journey was the first thirty minutes. Sneaking the Parks into the marina. Convincing Jones, who was bleeding from his biceps, to play nice with the guy who'd just shot him. Hot-wiring the boat, since they didn't have time to wait for Jung's guide. And keeping the Parks calm as Payne steered past hundreds of boats that filled the harbor. Kia played a major role in the last one, speaking to the Parks in Korean, doing whatever she could to reassure them of their safety. Still, despite her best efforts, Chung-Ho refused to part with his gun.
He clung to it with one hand, his son with the other.
The waters of the Korea Strait were notoriously tough to handle, especially in the dead of night. The sea was deep, the currents were strong, and all the boat's gauges were in Korean. After some translation help from Kia, Payne called Jones to the wheel.
"How's the arm?"
"It's fine. I found a first-aid kit and patched myself up. I'm sending the bill to Harrington."
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