East of the Jordan (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 2)

by Micheal Maxwell

  Logan leaned forward to peek into the truck. He saw dirty boots, work gloves, and a shovel piled in the back seat.

  “You don’t work for her?” Logan asked.

  The man shook his head, “No, I serve a higher power. You can put that gun away. It won’t save you.”

  Three more trucks came barreling over a ridge, descending on the field.

  “Damn,” Logan spat.

  He looked back to his crop-duster with the idling engine. Two of the trucks were screaming straight for it. The other was coming from off to the east. If he ran back for his plane, he could get in and maybe take off, not before they got there but maybe in enough time. They’d have rifles, though. No way he’d escape a few volleys of AR-15 fire.

  It seemed Logan Connor was more captured than he intended. He clicked the safety on his pistol and tossed it to the driver. The driver caught it and stuck it in under his seat.

  He smiled, “Tell ya what, Logan Connor, you can pick the radio station. Anything you want as long as you want Waylon Jennings.”

  Logan got into the car. Was he rusty? How’d he walked into such an obvious trap? You get emotional, you get sloppy.

  He tried to stay calm, though. This wasn’t the first time he’d been captured. “You got any Hank?”

  The driver looked him up or down. “Hank or Hank Jr?”

  Logan shrugged. “Hank the third.”

  The guy smiled, “I like a country boy.”

  Logan closed the door and saw a giant Desert Eagle pointed at him. The gun was the size of Sydney’s forearm. “Don’t do nothin’ stupid. These folks I work for will gladly kill us both.”

  He turned on Hank Williams III’s “Crazed Country Rebel” and gunned the engine. The other three trucks fell in behind them. They bumped and skidded along in the fields for a while before hitting a gravel road. He let the Ford’s engine open up on the gravel road. They seemed to be sliding sideways as much as they were moving forward. He never took one hand off the Desert Eagle, though.

  They slid and spun tires through miles and miles of wilderness and dirt road. Logan tried to keep track of where they were going, but there were no landmarks. A tree here, endless prairie three, an oil pump jack here, and on and on.

  Eventually, as night was beginning to fall, they came to a ranch house. The house was a sprawling mansion with wooden sides and high gabled rooftops. The porch wrapped around to the side of the house with Grecian columns made of honey-blonde hardwood. It looked like a cathedral and it must be worth millions.

  The passenger door opened, a bag slipped over Logan’s head, and he was yanked out of the car. In complete darkness, he was marched up the stairs and into the house. He knew he was inside because his feet thudded against hardwood and air-conditioned air swirled quietly. They marched him down some stairs. He couldn’t tell how many, but it was a lot. Finally, he reached a muggy and humid room. That must be the basement.

  They sat him in a chair and yanked his mask off. He was definitely in a basement, but it was a furnished basement. There was an oak desk, a lamp, some metal cabinets, and a few recliners. It looked like a basement office or study, not much like a dungeon.

  The driver was there, along with three other men. The driver was white, but the three other men looked Near Eastern. None of them spoke, so Logan couldn’t spot their accents, even if they had one. It would only help so much anyway. Eric was the one who was good at languages.

  The driver handed Logan an iPhone. It was already on. Logan held up the phone to see that FaceTime was on. He was looking at a Middle Eastern man with swept-back hair and a carefully-groomed beard.

  The man spoke unaccented English. “Hello, Logan Connor. Do you know who I am?”

  “Am I supposed to?

  “Soon, you will. Soon.” The man looked past the phone and shook his head at someone. “My name is Abu Kishaa. I am the only begotten son of Chemosh.”

  “Chemosh?” Logan asked.

  Abu Kishaa replied, “The God of the Moabites, creator of the world, the just and merciful.”

  The formulation was vaguely Islamic, but Chemosh was not another name for the God of Abraham. This was the man Sydney and Eric went to investigate, the man in the desert.

  “What do you want with me?” Logan asked.

  Abu Kishaa smiled, “Me? Nothing. Chemosh has told me you are a false prophet. You seek to undermine his earthly kingdom.”

  Logan shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Abu Kishaa nodded. “It is as I suspected. You do not even know you work for the Deceiver. That is why I have extended you this mercy. The Lord came to me and said, ‘My good and faithful servant, kill the false prophet and bring about my earthly kingdom.’ I begged him to spare your life. He said, ‘If you can make him renounce the Deceiver and atone for his great sins, you may spare his life.’ Do you renounce your wickedness, Logan Connor?”

  Considering he didn’t know what the hell this Abu Kishaa guy was even talking about, it would have been pretty easy to renounce his supposed wickedness. What would that mean for Eric and Sydney, though? If he admitted to being whatever antichrist figure Abu Kishaa thought he was, would they be killed as collaborators? It was too risky.

  Logan lowered his head and pretended to be conflicted. “How do I know you are who you say you are? Perhaps, you’re the false prophet.”

  Abu Kishaa nodded. “I have served in the army of the Deceiver, an acolyte of another false prophet. Titus Crow, he was called when he manifested on earth. I learned from him everything earthly and wicked.”

  Logan nodded along. “And now you are converting his network.”

  “The Book of Chemosh clearly states, ‘That which the Deceiver has made for himself, Chemosh has made His own. The Deceiver’s wickedness shall become Chemosh’s glory.’ So let it be written. So let it be done.”

  So, that’s the play. Kishaa worked for Titus Crow in Jordan. Now, he wants to use Crow’s resources to create a religious movement. There’s got to be a money angle, though. He thought. Then he realized, at least I know who the forger sold me out to. I might even get a free plane ride.

  “I can help you,” Logan said. “I, too, worked for Crow. He taught me everything he knows.”

  Abu Kishaa smiled. It was warm and genuine, like a teacher smiling at a student with a perfect score on a test. “The false prophet brought into the warm embrace of Chemosh. Yes, this will glorify my Lord.”

  He rattled off a string of words in Arabic—at least, Logan thought it was Arabic—that seemed not to be directed at Logan, then the phone went blank.

  The bag went back over Logan’s head. He was in darkness again.

  Logan heard the driver talking to him. “You ever been to the Dead Sea, champ?”

  Logan replied, “No,” through the cloth hood.

  “Well, you’re about to.”

  * * *

  As the sun began to set over Umm Ar-Rasas in the Jordanian desert, the air took on a chill. A breeze would stir up the sand from time to time with a biting cold edge on it. A crowd gathered. Abu Kishaa’s roughly four hundred followers were gathered between their tents and lean-tos at the base of the stylite tower. Campfires burned around the edge of the camp to cast dancing orange and red light on the proceedings. Another three hundred or so gathered beyond that, pointing their cars’ headlights at the tower. They weren’t the target audience, though.

  Journalists came from all over the nearby city. Most of them came in their own cars with just their phones and DSLR cameras. Most important, Al-Jazeera sent an entire news van. They’d set up a cameraman and a beautiful reporter to speak directly to the camera. Abu Kishaa’s “signs and wonders” would be broadcast live to the world. This was to be his coming-out party.

  Eric bounced on his toes with excitement, occasionally rubbing his short-sleeved arms. Sydney wore a jacket that she pulled tight. It bothered her to see Eric so obviously giddy about this supposed prophet. Still, she couldn’t deny that she was curious to see what he was a
bout to do.

  Abu Kishaa knelt on the top of the tower with his hands fisted in front of him, mumbling some prayer to Chemosh. Despite the chill on the wind, he was sweating. After a long pause, he stood up. All of the talking and the milling around stopped. Seven hundred people and about twenty journalists all went quiet.

  He held out his hands to quiet the crowd, but they were already quiet. Without a microphone, Abu Kishaa spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear him without yelling.

  “You have all gathered here to hear a word. The word I bring to you is not from Yahweh or God or Allah. Not the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Job. Not the God of the Nazarene. Not the God of the Quraysh tribesman Muhammad. Not even the God of Abu Kishaa. I bring you a word from Chemosh, the god of heaven and earth. He says unto you, the people of the earth shall perish. The end of the earth is near, and the hour of judgment is at hand. Wickedness has gripped the land and turned the hearts of man against him.”

  Eric gazed at him adoringly. Sydney shivered, and it wasn’t because of the chill. She knew what apocalyptic preaching led to. There was ever only one of two outcomes, sometimes both: mass violence and mass suicide.

  The campfires took on a greenish glow. Something in the wood was staining the flames emerald. The smoke smelled sweet and slightly medicinal, like chewing on an Advil.

  Abu Kishaa went on, getting louder and more emphatic as he spoke. “I do not come to bring a word of terror, though. I come to bring a word of hope. Chemosh is the God of hope. Follow me, and you will not see the hour of destruction. When the gates of heaven are opened up, and the angel armies pour forth like lava from a volcano, you will be with me in the embrace of Chemosh.”

  As he said, “pour forth like lava,” he flung his hands wide above his head. A column of fire erupted from his outstretched hands, shooting high into the sky like a volcanic eruption. Fire rolled and tumbled into the sky and spilled back towards the ground, falling in dancing sparks.

  The crowd gasped. Journalists stopped talking. They just marveled at the fountain of fire leaping towards the sky and cascading back towards the ground. Eric’s mouth fell open.

  “Amazing,” he whispered to no one in particular.

  Sydney must admit the jet of fire painting the desert sky orange was impressive. How did he do it? Kishaa wore loose pants and a long-sleeved linen shirt. Could he be hiding some kind of equipment under his shirt? Some type of propane tank? It was possible. It would have to be a tiny one, but it was possible. Either way, the deception was impressive.

  Abu Kishaa was on a roll now. He roared, “In the embrace of Chemosh, you will see wonders you did not think possible. You will see men float upon wings as if angels.”

  He stretched his arms out wide and floated off the stylite tower as if pulled by invisible strings. He held his arms out to his sides and let his feet dangle as he drifted away from the floor of the tower and over the open air. He hovered over the heads of the supporters closest to the obelisk.

  Floating in mid-air, he said, “You will see the faithful perform amazing feats. They do not do that so you might believe in them. They will do these things that you might believe in Chemosh. Unbelievers will say, ‘show me this Chemosh that I might create doubt in you.’ You will say ‘look upon his works and be amazed.’”

  Abu Kishaa drifted back to the stylite tower and sank back onto the platform.

  Sydney didn’t know what to think. All of the fundamental scientific laws said humans couldn’t float or conjure fire, but here was a man floating and spraying fire from his hands. She couldn’t see any wires or guides, but she long ago learned to believe her eyes.

  Eric was gazing with his mouth open.

  “How do you think he’s doing it?” Sydney asked.

  Eric replied breathlessly, “Maybe it’s true.”

  “What?”

  Eric gestured at him. “Maybe all of the Chemosh stuff is true. I mean, one of the religions has to be true, right?”

  Sydney shook her head, “Not this one.”

  Abu Kishaa was still talking, preaching about the end times and some other nonsense. Sydney wasn’t listening anymore. She was watching Eric watch Kishaa, and he was completely enthralled. She knew at that moment that she lost Eric Elias Stiner. She never should have brought him. He spent his entire life being told that a messiah was coming. He seemed to have found the one he was going to follow.

  I never should have brought him.

  Abu Kishaa finished his sermon by shouting, “At the banks of the Dead Sea, there are caves. There you will find the path to Chemosh. There you will find the son of God.”

  A crack of lightning split the sky. The brilliant white streak cracked and splintered across the sky before hitting the stylite tower. The entire structure lit up, glowing like hot coals. The flash painted white lines across Sydney’s vision.

  When the afterglow of the lightning faded away, and the tower stopped glowing, Abu Kishaa was gone. Everyone scrambled, looking all around them, trying to see where he’d gone. Sydney looked in every direction but couldn’t see him in his linen outfit.

  “Where’d he go?” She muttered.

  Eric replied, “The Dead Sea.”

  This was all getting to be a bit much for Sydney. She’d seen some pretty impressive stuff from illusionists and street magicians. This could just be that. If it were, it was pretty good deception. If it weren’t, well, she didn’t know what she would do.

  One of the Brothers approached. It was so difficult to tell them apart on a good day. At night, with the temperature dropping, they all wore keffiyehs wrapped around their faces. They all looked the same.

  The brother put his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “There’s a plane landing soon. We must go to meet it.”

  Sydney asked, “Why, brother?”

  The brother responded, “The false prophet has agreed to come to Moab.”

  Oh, Logan. Dammit. Why?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Logan Connor flew commercial from Wyoming to Jordan. Cheyenne, Wyoming to Denver, Colorado. Denver to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Riyadh to Amman, and then finally to the airport at Ma’an. The entire escapade took more than 24 hours. He flew with a fake passport and identity. Abu Kishaa’s allies in the United States forged several documents for Logan before they’d killed the forger. They were waiting for him. For a spy to get caught in such a well-prepared trap was like getting caught with his pants down. It was an embarrassment. This Abu Kishaa knew his moves before he even considered making them. How was he so good?

  One of Abu Kishaa’s American allies traveled with Logan, a man named Walker. He claimed to be a ranch hand from Texas who ran heroin for Titus Crow. The heroin part was probably true, and the Texas ranch part was probably genuine too. Walker was obviously a fake name. What were the chances he was Walker, Texas Rancher? He was what Logan’s mom called a “good ole boy.” He wore Justin brand work boots, Wrangler jeans, and a plaid button-down. They slept in airports, and he even changed clothes a few times. The only thing that changed was the color of the plaid button-down.

  He wasn’t a very talkative sort either. He was so quiet that Logan knew he wasn’t a spy. A man who mostly grunted or responded with one-word answers would send the hairs on the back of anyone’s neck standing up. A spy tried to put a mark at ease. Walker, Texas Rancher, was anything but easy.

  Sitting in the airport in Ma’an, Jordan, Logan drank a Zamzam cola from a glass bottle. It tasted like Coca-Cola, which was welcome. The smells in the Ma’an airport were anything but familiar to an American. Even the McDonald’s seemed to be mixing their burgers with garam masala and biryani spices. Walker and Logan ate Big Macs with fries. They were going to stand out in the airport anyway. There was no need to pretend to be anything but Americans traveling in a faraway place.

  Around bites of Big Mac, Logan asked, “So, this Abu Kishaa, is he what he says he is?”

  Walker just shrugged.

  Logan asked, “You don’t believe he’s the son of the god Chemosh?”

>   Walker shook his head.

  “Why do all of this then?” Logan pressed.

  Walker rubbed this thumb against his fingers. Money.

  That was the extent of that conversation.

  After a while, Walker’s phone buzzed.

  He answered it. “Walker.”

  He listened for a minute and then hung up. He shoved it back in his jeans and grabbed his Zamzam. “Ride’s here.”

  They walked out of the airport and waited at pickup for a minute before a beat-up Toyota Tacoma pulled up. The car was covered in dents, scratches, and mismatched spray paint where someone did just enough to stop rust from growing.

  Sydney hopped out of the driver’s seat and leaned across the bed.

  Logan kept his face blank. Inside, he breathed a massive sigh of relief to know that Sydney was alright. Going months and months with no real communication was a low-level nagging worry. It was like seeing a wasp in your house and then losing sight of it. The wasp was somewhere around, and he couldn’t rest easy until he knew what became of it. Eric sat in the passenger seat with the window rolled down. He didn’t acknowledge Logan beyond a quick wave.

  He was doing a good job of staying in character.

  Sydney asked, “You Walker?”

  Walker nodded.

  Sydney pointed at Logan. “So, that makes you Samuel?”

  Logan nodded.

  They got in the car. To hide their actual destination of Madaba, they’d flown from Amman to Ma’an. Driving from Amman would have taken them about thirty minutes. Instead, they were in the truck for nearly three hours. The air conditioner was broken, so Sydney kept the windows down. The desert air blowing in did little to stifle the incredible heat. Instead of sitting in a dry oven, they were being toasted in something like a convection oven.

  Most of the ride was quiet. Logan asked a few questions along the way, and Sydney responded like a dutiful acolyte. He decided he was going to ask all of them the same thing.

  He asked Sydney, “Is Abu Kishaa who he says he is?”

  Sydney responded, “He is everything he says he is and more. He’s humble, so you won’t hear it from him, but I believe he can raise even the dead.”