Enemy of the People
Page 23
The first fighter spread his arms, motioning for Morris to do the same. Morris did, spreading his legs as well. The fighter quickly frisked him, patting down his chest and waist, front and back, then his legs and arms. Satisfied, the jihadi fighter stepped back. The two others also retreated, lingering in the shadows, weapons at the ready.
Morris eyed them warily, then scanned the lobby to get a sense of what he faced. The towering stone fireplace dominated the room and scattered around it were leather couches and chairs. A smear of dried blood covered the polished stone floor in front of the fireplace. Morris swallowed hard, realizing it was where Senator Blount had been executed. The stale scent of death hung in the still air.
His throat tightened as Morris wondered how his daughter could have been taken in by these savages. How could she be among the men who had so willingly and wantonly killed the lodge staff and aides, then watched as Tariq took knife in hand and sliced it across the throat of a US senator? Morris flashed on how deadly brutal a human could be.
Morris snapped himself back to the moment as he became aware of the other fighters in the room. They seemed to appear out of the walls, stepping into the lobby, until he could make out six or seven jihadis, some standing, some squatting, each armed with an AK-47 automatic pistol, their pockets filled with the banana ammo magazines. Several fingered their weapons as they gazed warily at Morris.
Morris drew a breath as the man he recognized as Tariq stepped into the lobby light. He strode up to Morris, his face uncovered, his thin and scraggly beard decorating his cheeks, chin, and upper lip like mangy fur. Morris was surprised at how young Tariq looked, more like a teen-ager than a seasoned executioner in his mid-twenties. Tariq leaned close and stared into Morris’s eyes.
Morris held Tariq’s gaze, and in the depth of Tariq’s eyes, he saw the abyss of a lost soul, the black hole of a lost spirit. He now felt unsure of himself as Tariq stepped even closer, nearly nose-to-nose. Morris held his ground.
“You deceived us,” Tariq said, as if it was a revelation that carried grave consequences.
Morris stared at Tariq and said nothing.
“The bomb is worthless,” Tariq said.
“No,” Morris said. “It’s operational.”
“But only by you?”
Morris nodded. “Now keep your part of the bargain, or I don’t make it operational. Where is my daughter?”
Tariq waved his hand. One of his men disappeared into a side room and reappeared, pushing Jennifer in front of him.
She was bent forward, her hands tied behind her, her scarf hanging around her neck. She lifted her head and looked sheepishly at her father. Her face was bruised, her nose bloodied, her eyes swollen. Morris opened his eyes in horror, his chest tight with anger, his stomach sinking at the helplessness he felt. He wanted to grab her and hold her. Jennifer! His eyes shot back to Tariq.
“What have you done to her?” Morris yelled, doing all he could to stop himself from knocking Tariq to the ground and choking the life out of him.
Tariq smiled, amused at Morris’s reaction, his eyes dancing with laughter. “Nothing that she didn’t deserve,” he said, his mouth spreading into a grin.
Carlito came up behind Jennifer, stopped, and gazed at Morris, looking ashamed and embarrassed, his eyes dropping to the floor.
Morris glared at Carlito, his hatred of the young man seething. “How could you let them do this?”
After a moment, Carlito slowly lifted his head, shrugged helplessly, and stared at Morris, shaking his head. “It’s your fault!” Carlito said with a growl. “You rigged the bomb!”
Morris considered the words. Deflecting blame was a tactic of the guilty. “They’re going to kill you, the president, and everyone else,” Morris said calmly. “Is that what you want?”
Carlito lifted his chin proudly and said, “Better to die a martyr than a slave!”
Morris pitied the young man and shook his head. “Who’s a slave now?”
“You’re all slaves!” Carlito said, his voice rising. “These men are freedom fighters.”
An uneven smile twisted Morris’s lips. He stared at Carlito and asked, “Freedom from what? Sanity?”
“Freedom from evil,” Carlito barked.
Morris glared at Carlito and shook his head in disgust.
Carlito pointed an accusing finger, poking the space between them. “You don’t understand! You’re a non-believer!”
Morris let the words hang in the air, even as they echoed in his mind. He drew a breath, exhaled slowly as he fought to keep calm, then glanced around the room before his eyes resettled on Carlito. “I understand, all too well,” he said in a low voice. “You’re among killers, Carlito. Religion is just their excuse.”
“Shut up with all of your talk,” Tariq shouted, waving an arm for them to stop.
Morris, Carlito, and Jennifer turned to Tariq as his men straightened, their fingers finding triggers.
Tariq glared at Morris and pointed. “Arm the bomb and she can go free.”
Morris looked at Tariq, then at Jennifer and Carlito, and nodded somberly. He followed Tariq across the lobby, trailed by a couple of jihadi fighters, past the dining room to where Tariq pushed open the swinging door to the lodge’s sprawling stainless steel kitchen.
A compact desert camo backpack sat on a stainless steel counter top. Head bent forward, Tariq carefully opened the zippered closure. He grabbed the handle of a rigid, orange case of molded plastic about the size of a basketball, and lifted it free of the pack.
The bomb.
Morris looked at it without emotion. He knew it well. It was a Pelican case, waterproof, dust proof, and most importantly crush proof. He’d found the case online and for $100 plus shipping, it was at his door in two days. He’d chosen the orange because you can’t miss it. Perfect for a bomb, he’d thought, because it looked dangerous. Morris had chuckled to himself at the irony when he read the case was NATO tested and approved for military use and was unconditionally guaranteed to last forever.
It came with a foam interior, which he had molded for his purposes. The bomb had fit inside nicely, and along with the potent battery that kept it alive. He’d made the bomb rectangular, a four-inch thick slab, using five pounds of C4, which alone was enough to destroy the lodge. In the center of plastic compound was a pellet of highly enriched uranium 235 the size of a BB, and it sat at the end a small metal tube the size of ball-point pen. The C4 explosion would drive the pea through the tube and against a tiny piece of plutonium, enough to set off a small nuclear explosion that would pulverize the Vista Verde lodge, leaving nothing more than a crater of rubble and spreading radiation throughout the valley. The valley would be uninhabitable for generations.
Morris snapped open each of the clasps and slowly lifted the hinged and padded cover. A touchpad screen sat atop the bomb, just as he’d left it, a modified I-phone he’d cannibalized months earlier. Morris tapped the screen and it came to life. He turned to Tariq, who looked on, dark eyes wide and glistening. “It won’t operate until it reads the iris of my eye.”
Tariq nodded. “I understand. You are smart man. If you want your daughter, then do it.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Morris asked. “Once it starts, there’s no turning back.”
Tariq’s eyes blazed, then narrowed as he nodded, his lips tight with intent. The look make Morris shudder. Tariq was hell bent on destruction. A skeptic and agnostic his entire life, Morris was not at all religious. But as he stared into Tariq’s eyes, he felt a deep chill in his core and knew he was gazing at evil.
Morris nodded, used the fingers of his right hand to spread open his eye lids, then bent toward the phone’s camera lens. He then touched the phone’s camera icon, then touched the white circle, and took a photo of his eye as the click of a camera shutter sounded. He stood, blinked at Tariq, and asked, “How much time?”
Morris shuddered again, aghast at what he’d heard. “Ninety minutes?” It was barely enough time to make his escape with Jennifer. On foot, they’d be far enough from the blast, but maybe not the radiation. “Are you sure?”
Tariq nodded. “This is our greatest day, for today we shall surely become martyrs!” his voice squeaking with delight.
Morris sighed, his stomach knotted, then tapped small screen where a calculator face appeared. He tapped in the numbers. A series of melodic noises and trills sounded and then the phone beeped. He tapped in the numbers: 00:90:00.00. His finger paused above the enter key as he looked at Tariq and shook his head, no.
Tariq scowled, then used his own index finger to tap the enter key.
The screen became a digital counter, the numbers flickering as the passing of the hundredths of a second became a blur, the timer reading: 89:59...89:58.... Morris looked up at Tariq. “You happy now?”
Tariq grinned and nodded.
“My daughter and I will need all of the ninety minutes to get away,” Morris said, as he turned to step around the jihadi fighters, leave the kitchen, and find Jennifer.
“Stop!” Tariq shouted.
The jihadi fighters blocked the kitchen door, shoulder to shoulder, each with a rifle held at their chest, their eyes drilling Morris.
Morris froze, then shuttered as a jolt of fear shook him, then was quickly followed by a surge or uncontrollable anger. He spun and faced Tariq, his shoulders hunched, his fists balled.
Tariq stared, eyes wide and gleeful, a smile on his lips. “Did you really think I’d let you leave?”
Morris flexed his jaw and growled, “You … fucking … bastard.”
Morris lunged at Tariq, and outweighing him by forty pounds, knocked the young jihadi leader backwards.
Tariq stumbled and clung to the kitchen counter to keep from falling as Morris grabbed Tariq’s AK-47 pistol and tried to yank it away. But the strap was looped across Tariq’s back and shoulders and he yanked the weapon back. In the see-saw struggle, the two men staggered to the side and tumbled to the floor, Morris’s using his strength and weight to fall onto Tariq’s lithe torso, Tariq’s weapon between them, the barrel pointing to the wall.
Morris rolled to his right, grasping the pistol, but Tariq kept his hands tight on it as well, and twisted the barrel upward, hoping to wrench it free. But Morris was equally as strong, and though his arms ached, his anger raged, his body pumped with adrenaline.
Morris let go with his right hand and slammed his fist into Tariq’s face, striking just below the cheek bone, jerking Tariq’s face sideways and jolting Tariq enough to loosen his grip.
With his left hand, Morris’s yanked the pistol upward and with his right, squeezed the trigger. The weapon erupted, spewing a barrage of bullets that clanged noisily against the hanging pots and pans, striking the walls.
Tariq’s jihadis danced around them impotently, darting and ducking to avoid being shot, waving their weapons and pointing wildly, each hesitant to shoot as Morris and Tariq wrestled on the floor.
Chapter 35
Crouched in the shadows of the pines a hundred yards from the lodge, Kyle twitched at the sound of shooting inside the lodge. He looked at Raoul, who rose to his feet and scowled as the muffled gunfire crackled like distant fireworks. “The shit has hit the fan,” Kyle said.
“Time to move,” Raoul said with a nod. He looked across the valley to the forested slopes on the far side of the lodge. He pulled a small walkie-talkie from his belt and held it to his lips. “Now!” he said with muffled urgency. “With everything we got.” He clipped the radio back on his belt and turned to Kyle. He nodded again. “Here goes,” he said.
“Wait!” Kyle said, holding up a hand. He swallowed hard, looked at Raoul. “I’m going with you.” Kyle fought against every fiber of his being that told him not to do it. But how could he not help dismantle these jihadis? He wanted to be among the men who were about to free the American president from the control of terrorists. His best by-line ever. Kyle had another reason to go with Raoul: Nate Kennard. He wanted to see the man they called Jihadi John get his just reward. He wanted to see this demented killer dead.
“What?” Raoul said, incredulously.
Kyle stared at Raoul. “I’m going with you.”
Raoul shook his head in disbelief. “It’s not part of the plan.”
Kyle shook his head. “No time to talk.”
Raoul took the Sig Saur pistol from belt, clicked the magazine release, and let it drop into his palm. He checked that the magazine was loaded, slammed it back into the grip, and handed the pistol back to Kyle, handle first. “Only use it if you need to stay alive. When we cross the field, stay low and close. I’m going in first.”
Kyle held the pistol in his hands. It felt like a foreign object. His tools of the trade were a voice recorder, a pen, a pad of paper, and a laptop. Thoughts and words were his weapons. Kyle slipped the Sig Saur pistol into the back of his pants, took a deep breath, and nodded.
“I’m going, too,” Ariel said, her jaw clenched, her eyes determined.
Raoul scowled at her. “No way.”
Ariel picked up the Heckler and Koch assault rifle they’d taken from cabin, and held it in the crook of her left arm, her right hand on the pistol grip, her finger resting on the trigger guard.
“Do you know how to use it?” Raoul asked, unable to hide his exasperation.
Ariel nodded. “Jerome taught me. We spent a lot of time at shooting ranges. He showed me how to shoot. Pistols and assault rifles.” She hefted the rifle as if it was her familiar friend, then flashed a smile at Kyle.
“What other tricks do you have that I don’t know about?” Kyle said.
She then patted the commando knife from the scabbard tied to her belted jeans.
Raoul shook his head. “Are you kidding me? That won’t stop a bullet.”
“It’s good for cutting off gonads.”
“That’s what you’re planning to do?” Kyle asked.
Ariel shrugged. “I’m not going to sit back, watch and wait while you guys play heroes.”
Raoul groaned. The crackle of automatic weapons fire outside the lodge jerked his attention back to the assault. “We’ve got to move. Now!” With glistening eyes, Raoul looked at them both, nodded, and said again, “Stay low and close!” Raoul took a deep breath and bolted into the sunlight, running low and fast across the grassy meadow toward the porch of the Vista Verde lodge, his weapon held close to his chest.
Kyle looked at Ariel and nodded, then they both sprinted after Raoul, who was already twenty five yards ahead. They ran side-by-side, bent at the waist, their legs churning.
***
The sharp crackle of gunfire from outside the lodge sent a surge of panic through the jihadis who still danced around Tariq and Morris wrestling on the kitchen floor. Suspecting that the shots from the pistol had launched the assault, Morris felt a jolt strength return to his aching arms, and with a desperate grasp, unsnapped one end of the AK-47’s shoulder strap and wrenched the weapon away from Tariq.
Tariq fell back, panting heavily, outweighed by Morris, his arms splayed and suddenly helpless, looked at Morris with fear.
Morris scrambled to his feet and jacked his head around to where Tariq’s men had been. But they were gone, having darted from the kitchen at the crackle of gunfire outside, the shattering of glass, and the panicked shouts of their fellow jihadis.
“Help me, you idiots,” Tariq shouted from the kitchen floor, his pleas echoing off the stainless steel, drowned by the growing gunfire.
Morris held the AK’s pistol grip with his right and slipped his left to the barrel grip as he swung the weapon toward Tariq’s torso. He squeezed the trigger.
A metallic click was the only sound he he
ard.
Morris’s jaw dropped, his eyes opened wide, and he glanced at the black metal cover of the weapon. In the struggle, the safety lever had been turned on. He thumbed the lever down, but as he did, he caught a flash of movement to his left and flinched. He feared an attack, but saw one of the jihadis toss a serrated combat knife to Tariq, who with knife in hand, leapt up and slashed at at Morris. But Morris stumbled backwards, his right shoulder crunching on the floor.
Morris cried out in pain, but his cry was cut short as a deep and searing pain filled his chest, his lungs wheezing. Tariq worked the knife blade, turning Morris’s torso into a pit of fire. Tariq slowly pulled the knife from Morris’s rib cage, and released his hand from Morris’s neck. Morris gasped as Tariq pushed himself up to his feet and stood unsteadily over Morris.
Morris stared up from the floor to his executioner, Tariq, his chest heaving as he held the bloodied knife in his right hand. Morris worked his jaw, wanting to spew obscenities, but nothing would come. He raised a shaky hand and pointed his finger. Tariq’s emotionless eyes were the last thing he saw before Morris’s world went dark.
***
Gunfire erupted at the far side of the lodge from the handful of armed men who emerged from the tree line. A couple wore urban camo grey with black tactical gear and helmets, with others in desert camo, boots, brown t-shirts and boonies hats, all converging on the lodge.
The weapons fire from the lodge windows, however, forced the commandos to dive to the ground and roll, taking defensive positions wherever each could find minimal cover behind the scattered and stunted pines and bushes.
Gun barrels protruded from the shadowy lodge interior, the air erupting with the staccato of gunfire. The assault drew the jihadis’ fire in multiple directions, just as Raoul had hoped, giving the impression that the lodge was under attack from all sides. It would give him and the others a sliver of a chance to mount the porch and penetrate the interior of the lodge.