“At least we’re safe here. No more harm can come to our families.”
“Right, because other than us, they’re all dead!” Saajid was seething. “Now it’s our turn to hit back again. Even harder. I want every American to fear for their lives the way our families have feared for theirs for decades now.”
Jamila cleared the emotion from her throat. “That’s what I came up here to tell you. New York City is ready.”
“All six of them? And they know their sacrifice?”
“All six, and they all are happy to die for what is right.”
Saajid knew that while the plane that had crashed into the baseball stadium in Miami would frighten Americans from flying, what was coming next would scare them from moving from their homes at all. His people in New York City had been scouting the subway systems for months. Now, six of them were headed there with backpacks full of explosives, and every five minutes, for a half an hour, they would detonate them as the trains came into the stations. It would be the most terrifying thirty minutes in America’s history. The way social media worked today, by the time the third blast went off, all of New York, and the world, would be watching while the next three blew up in their faces.
Saajid turned to the sky and looked up at the moon. The same moon that would be passing over a broken New York City in a matter of hours. He remembered a question his brother had asked him the day they executed their first attack well over a decade ago. Husaam had said, “Do you think taking other people’s lives is the right way to go about spreading the word of our god?” This question had always stuck out to Saajid because he had asked his father the same question, the morning of the day the Americans killed his father in cold blood.
His father’s answer was the same one Saajid had given Husaam. He told him that killing isn’t the evil that society makes it out to be. It is a cleansing. Islam is the only religion that should be recognized, and all who denounce it, especially Western Christian societies that claim to be so righteous, need to be cleansed from the earth, to make way for the true people of God. Saajid told Husaam that day what he still thought about the men who were willfully dying today in these cleanses in the US, that they will be rewarded for showing the world that things, and beliefs, must change. And in order for there to be change, there must be a cleansing.
The New York City subway stations at Eighty-First Street/Museum of Natural History–Manhattan, World Trade Center, E–Manhattan, Forest Hills–Queens, Lorimer Street–Brooklyn, 161st Street/Yankee Stadium–Bronx, and Times Square Forty-Second Street, would all be cleansed in the next half an hour. And because of social media, Saajid would be able to tell the world why it happened, without fear of consequence.
The only thing Saajid was worried about at the moment was the ghost haunting him thirty kilometers away in Athens. However, he felt good about the fact that at least this agent who was able to stop their plan last time was nowhere near the United States to help them now. This was Husaam’s gift to his people, and to his god. He gave his life to show Saajid this agent was here. He gave his life to set these cleanses in motion. And even if it was the last thing Saajid did, he would initiate these cleanses, one by one, all around the so-called great nation of the United States.
His brother would not die in vain.
Chapter Forty
A half an hour after the couple had driven them out of danger, King and Sam had boosted a nearby four-wheel drive and were driving in the dark, looking for their turnoff for the road, EO83. Rafina was just a few miles ahead, a coastal town that neither of them had ever heard of. However, the notebook that King had extracted from the painting in Fred Johnson’s apartment explained that the compound, or village, that Saajid Hammoud had built was somewhere near the foot of the Penteli Mountains.
“There was a notation at the top of the page that the informant was a bartender,” Sam explained. “Looks like Fred had received word from another informant that this bartender was a cousin of the Hammouds, but like a black sheep. He was trying to work his way back into the fold, and his duties were to work in Athens and be a scout for trouble, and recruit for future business.”
“Let me guess,” King said from the driver’s seat. “The Hammouds treated him like shit so he squealed.”
“In a way, I guess. They got his girlfriend killed and he wanted revenge. Fred even put a star in the notes with the words lucky break written beside it.” Sam pointed at the sign that glowed in the headlights. “Turn off here, then take a left.”
As King exited the highway and turned left, other than some lights spotting the darkness around them, there wasn’t much to see.
“Loyalty might be the only redeeming quality of a terrorist. After all, they’re willing to kill and die out of loyalty to their faith.”
“Yes,” Sam said. “But you also have to realize that because they’re so extreme, men like Saajid are so disconnected from basic morality, they’re also willing to lose people close to them for the same reason.”
“I suppose people quit trying to figure out these wackos a long time ago. That’s why we just started blowing them up, right?”
Sam didn’t answer. King glanced over at her, and in the light of the dash, he could see that something was bothering her. Over the years, King had gotten to know all of her faces, and what each of them meant.
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing.”
One of the reasons it took King so long to get to know Sam, to really get to know her, was because she was always so closed off. Time had lessened this trait but hadn’t stolen it completely.
“Come on, Sam. We’ve got nothing else to talk about for a bit.”
“I can’t believe I let that man fool me.”
King was lost. “Fool you? What man?”
“The man who met with me, posing as Fred Johnson. If I’d sniffed that out, I might have kept us out of danger this afternoon.”
“Yeah, and I might not have had the chance to take out a wanted terrorist.”
“Still . . .” Sam trailed off.
“You really don’t like getting something wrong, Sam. Believe me, I understand. I’m the same way. But you didn’t know Fred, and the man you met with had all his check downs because they tortured it out of Fred. Nothing you could do.”
King looked over again and could see her clenching her fist. “You want to find that guy when this is all over, don’t you?”
Sam whipped her head in his direction, and her face held a scowl. “I do.”
Her expression was priceless, and her determination was inspiring. And knowing just how much she meant it, how much she was stewing over this, made it funny to him. Especially considering how much more serious the drama that lay just ahead of them was.
“I just hate open endings,” she said.
“I know,” he said and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll close it.”
King’s phone rang. It was Agent Roberts. He put it on speaker so Sam could hear. “Talk to me,” King answered.
“Bentley Martin left the country.”
King and Sam exchanged a glance.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, surveillance identified her at the airport earlier today,” Roberts said.
“Alone? Where’d she go?” King said.
“As far as we can tell, she went alone. And . . . we’re not sure where she went.”
“What?” both Sam and King said at the same time.
“Well, run her name then, Roberts. She had to have ID to get on the plane,” King said.
“I’m not a rookie,” Roberts said. “I ran her name. Nothing came up. But I’m on it. We’re all over this.”
King searched his mind for answers. For something that made sense. Then he remembered the conversation he had when he first snuck up on the car with the woman watching him walk down the street. When pushed, Bentley had admitted that Karen—now known as Althea—and her were like twins, and that she was letting her go for the run while Bentley put
the tracking device in Althea’s hat. Therefore, Althea was posing as Bentley. What if now . . .
“Run the name Althea Salameh with the airlines,” King said abruptly.
“What? But she’s dead.”
“Just do it. And call me back as soon as you know something.”
“Okay—”
King ended the call.
“What are you thinking?” Sam said.
“I’m not sure. Just that if Bentley is unaccompanied at the airport after being kidnapped, yet there is no record of her getting on a plane . . . since they’ve posed as each other before, if Bentley is up to something we don’t know about, maybe she figured she could use her dead look-alike’s passport to try to get away unnoticed.”
“Not sure what else it could be. Good thought. And good timing too,” Sam said as she pointed to a barn just off the side of the road. “There’s our marker.”
King slowed and pulled off the road. The rocky surface gave way to dirt. He pulled around the right side of the barn. “We just going to walk in from here?”
“Notes end right here.” Sam was reading in the dash lights. “Last thing it says is that the commune is at least a mile toward the mountain. And apparently that’s where Saajid operates underground.”
King couldn’t dwell on not having more information. These notes put him and Sam in the game. Without them, they’d be stuck in Athens while these maniacs continued with their cowardly revenge. He could wish all he wanted that the instructions were more detailed from there, but wishing wouldn’t make it so. All they knew was that any car that made it beyond that barn was going to get scrutinized by the security measures Saajid had set up to keep out trespassers. At least that’s what the notebook said.
King watched as Sam took pictures of the notes with her phone. “I’m sending these to Deputy Director Rodgers so he knows where we are. He’s telling us to wait. He said he is putting together a team in Athens to help us out here.”
“You told him there was no time to wait, right?”
“Of course. He said to use my good judgment.”
“He must not know you very well,” King said. “Good judgment doesn’t really come into play when we get together.”
“Good thing he doesn’t know about you then, right?” Sam said, closing the notebook.
King watched as she sent the photos to the man filling in for Mary Hartsfield. He heard something ding on her phone, but she was already halfway out of the vehicle. King got out and shut his door. Before King made it to Sam’s side, he heard her gasp.
“Oh my God, X.”
King rounded the back of the vehicle, and Sam was staring at her phone.
“Don’t scare me like that, Sam. I thought someone had a gun on you or something.”
When she looked up at him from her phone, he knew whatever it was she was reading was worse.
“Three suicide bombers have already blown up three trains in New York City.”
“What?” King’s stomach dropped.
“Each of them five minutes apart. Deputy Director Rodgers thinks there will be three more.”
“What? How could he know that?”
“The Tweet,” Sam said, then showed him a screenshot on her phone.
King recognized the name and profile photo of the Tweet immediately. It was the account that had claimed the plane crash into Miami Marlins stadium. It was Saajid. The Tweet said, “For my brother. Enjoy the next thirty minutes.”
King hung his head. This one had some extra sting to it. Though he would never change killing Husaam Hammoud—it was the only thing he could’ve done in that situation—all of the lives lost in New York would never have happened if he’d just let him go.
“It’s not your fault, Alexander.” Sam read his mind. “That is what Saajid wants you to think. You think that, he wins.”
“He already won. His message is being spread like wildfire.”
Sam looked over her shoulder into the darkness. “Not for long.”
King followed her gaze. The black night in front of him matched what moved over his heart when he saw that Tweet. All he wanted to do was get his hands on Saajid. To stop the killing.
King snapped out of it and cleared his mind. “Why haven’t they shut down the Twitter account yet?”
“They did. This one was made as a new account with one letter different. We can’t keep him from telling the world he’s a monster. But we can keep him from being one. At least in this lifetime.”
“Then let’s go shove a bullet up his ass,” King said.
“You lead the way.”
Chapter Forty-One
“What is that noise?” Saajid asked his sister.
Saajid, Jamila, and three of his top lieutenants were watching the coverage of the bombings in New York City on the news. In between silent moments created by the commentator as the footage rolled, Saajid swore he could hear something going on above them.
“I don’t hear anything. Maybe you are a little paranoid? Let’s just enjoy the show our brothers are putting on for the world.”
Saajid listened to Jamila and turned his attention back to the television. There was sheer chaos erupting in New York. All the intricate planning and money that Anastasia and Gregor had put into building the nanotechnology a year ago had been a waste. Losing their lives was a waste. These subway bombings and the crashed plane into the stadium proved to Saajid that good old-fashioned planning and patience were more important than technology and over the top plans. The men who had sacrificed for Saajid today, and for Allah, they had done far more for the cause than everything Anastasia and Gregor, and Andonios’s money, had ever accomplished. He was feeling better about his brother’s death as well. Already his death had proven to be worthwhile. Without it, none of these cleanses would have happened. Instead, they would be waiting months for the presidential election to see if the work paid off. This was much more gratifying.
“Wait,” Jamila said. “Turn that down. I think I do hear noises above us.”
Saajid muted the television, and the five of them all heard something coming from the street above them.
“What the hell is that?” Saajid said, jumping up from his chair and rushing out of his office. He walked over to the steps that led to the door in the floor of the market, and tuned in. “Is that . . . is that singing?”
Saajid rushed up the stairs and threw open the door. As he climbed out, the singing became louder. Everyone followed behind him, and when he rounded the tables, he saw fire.
“A fire?” Jamila said, gasping.
Saajid’s blood boiled. In the middle of the street, there was a gathering of people, all standing around a bonfire. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop singing!” He turned to his men. “Get something to put out the fire. Now!”
The three of them ran off to find something to extinguish it.
“I said, stop singing!” Saajid jogged over to the people. They were singing a death hymn, and all around the fire were pictures of Husaam. They were holding a vigil. A wave of sadness rolled over him as the fact that he would never see his brother again crashed through him like a tidal wave. But he pushed the feeling aside and refocused on the people’s blatant disregard for one of the most important rules Saajid had made when he started this village: no lights and no fires!
“Stop singing! Who made this fire? Who did this? This will get us all killed!”
He felt Jamila grab his arm, but he ripped it away. In the kind of darkness that surrounded the compound, a fire could be seen for miles. Even a small one. His men ran up and began pouring bags of sand over the fire to put it out. Another man attempted to tame it using a large blanket. The sobs of those gathered grew louder with Saajid’s interruption. And then he noticed his wife and his children across the blaze. He nearly lost it entirely.
“What are you doing? You know the rules! Get back to the house. Now!” He closed the distance between him and his wife. “Did you do this?” He got right in her
face. “Did you?” His children were looking on in fear, at their own father as if they didn’t recognize him.
His wife put a defensive arm in front of her face. “The children wanted to remember him, Saajid.”
Saajid punched her in the mouth. His wife dropped to the ground. Jamila tried once again to stop him, but he shoved her away.
“You know better than this! Get up!” Saajid shouted as he kicked her in the backside. “Get up and get the children inside. I’ll deal with you later!”
Jamila finally pulled him away. The fire was still going, and in the commotion, pictures of his brother were pushed into it. Saajid was heaving with madness as he watched his brother’s face turn to ashes in the flames.
“Get this put out! And everyone get inside!”
He moved back over to his wife and picked her up off the ground. Her lip was bleeding and she was shaking. His children were crying, holding onto their mother’s leg. “Do you not understand? If someone sees the light from this fire, they won’t just kill me, they’ll kill us all! You know what the Americans have done to my family. They will line up everyone in this village and shoot us dead. Get to the bunker, now! Take the children to the back room. Go!”
The fire was on its last legs.
“All of you,” Saajid said to his men and Jamila, “get back in the bunker. Let’s go!”
He pushed them all in front of him down the dirt road. He was a ball of emotions. Anger, sadness, fear, they were all swirling in him, making him crazy. He couldn’t believe his wife would put everything in jeopardy after all the work and sacrifices he’d made. Saajid continued to usher his family and his men down into the bunker. He moved down the stairs, pulled the door closed overhead, and prayed to the god he was so valiantly serving, hoping that if anyone was looking for them, no one saw the fire. His village deserved that much, at least, for all that he had done for the cause in just the past twenty-four hours.
Saajid turned away from the stairs after climbing down and stalked down the hallway. Jamila grabbed for his arm as he stormed past the office, but he ripped away from her. When he entered the back room of the bunker, his children were sitting on the beds against the far wall.
Alexander King Thriller Series: Books 1-3 Page 19
