American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) (10 page)

As the team of death left the schoolhouse, a village sniper from an unknown rooftop shot surprising fire at his attackers. An instant from death, the leader’s sensitive ears picked up the sound and he dropped to the ground as the miniature missile whistled by his ear. Other shots whizzed by a cohort’s ear. They were close, too close, and the young man quickly zigged and zagged out of the way.

A quick scan showed the shooter readying to fire again. The leader rolled to the side, leapt up and tossed a grenade skyward. The long, arcing throw landed perfectly, exploding beside the sniper. His body remained on the roof as his head tumbled two stories to the ground.

Then the barrage abruptly ended. The terrorists waved their weapons in the air as they victoriously drove their pick-up down the street. The car abruptly halted when they spotted a shaking man trying to hide behind the doorway of a small Coptic church. Two of the team members pulled him out to the middle of the street and kicked him mercilessly.
 

“Please, no. Spare me,” he pleaded. “I am nothing. I have nothing.”

The leader called out, “Stop!” Immediately the young men halted their assault. The villager continued to whimper as the leader walked to him and motioned with his head.
 

Nodding, one of the young men stepped over to hold the struggling man down. It was impossible not to miss the grin on his face and read his lips as he whispered, “Yes!” The leader stood over the simpering man and boomed, “What do you have to say for your sins?”

“Al... Al... Allahu Akbar,” said the man, hoping that God would forgive him for his blasphemy.

“Wrong answer!”

“No, no!” the man screamed, but no one paid any attention to him.

One of the team climbed onto the church’s roof and triumphantly waved a black flag of jihad. A full five seconds were spent on the flag-waver before returning to the leader.

The leader walked to the pick-up truck and took out a scimitar. The blade gleamed in the sunlight, and the leader swung it back and forth as he strolled back to the cowering man.
 

“Perfect. Just great,” muttered the videographer, the only time his voice was heard.

The leader used two hands to hold up the scimitar, letting it rest on his palms as if offering a sacrifice or present to God. The curved tempered steel blade glistened in the sunlight. On both ends of the handle’s cross guard were carved birds’ heads with ruby eyes.

The leader stared into the eye of the camera. “This is the time of cleansing, of truth. No more false prophets. I swear to God, the only true God, that Sharia will reign. We will kill the infidels, the apostates. When an infidel crosses our path, we must deliver judgment with our hands, with our guns and with our swords.”

From a posture of offering, the leader changed his hand positions so that both gripped the hilt of the ancient weapon. Standing face to the sun, he pointed the tip of the blade skyward and raised his hands over his head. A moment later, justice was served upon the heathen. The hooded executioner turned to the camera and yelled in English, “We are coming for you, America, you pig-friendly slut. You see we are small but, like a mustard seed, we will grow quickly to heights greater than the tallest trees. This is the beginning of the American Muslim Militia, and we will light up America!”

***

Julio shut off the disturbing video of homicidal frenzy. Even though many in the room were used to death, there was something so evil, so barbaric about a beheading that fear clanged loud in the moment of quietude.

“Did you take it down?” asked Barry.

 
“Nyet.
I didn’t shut it down completely because I want the people who put it up to think it’s still there. But I did put together a quick program so they’ll think they’re getting a ton of hits. I blocked access for most potential viewers but damn, there’s more than fifty thousand related websites, forums, chat rooms, blogs, user groups, social networking sites, video-sharing sites, virtual terrorist worlds... I can’t get all of them and it’s only a matter of time before some dysfunctional kid with too much time finds it. If we’re lucky, we’ve got a week. If not, it’ll be a minute. And, when it’s found, they’ll share it and share it and share it.”

A free-flowing conversation ensued. Everyone chipped in; no one cared who said what.

“It’s gore porn aimed at kids.”
 

“The leader is one strong mother. That grenade was thrown at least a hundred yards, which kind of confirms or at least strengthens the idea that he is a strong father figure to his little flock.”

“Which means that, quite possibly, the kids have bad relationships if they have them at all, with their dads.”

“There is something familiar about the accent.”
 

“The guy holding the victim’s head down sounds American.”
 

“The only thing he said was, ‘Yes!’”

“Yeah, but there was that tone of voice we use when we are totally pumped. Soldiers say it all the time.”

“The leader—he sounded sort of Iraqi or Syrian, but then he had the slight hint of a diphthong—when someone says a single vowel but it sounds like he’s saying two. And there’s also a bit of rhotic, enhanced sounding of the “r” at the end of the words.”
 

“Maybe he’s from close to the Iraq-Syria border and has spent a bit of time in the United States.”

“‘Maybe’ doesn’t help,” Julio jumped in. “I’ll see if we can get computer analysis to deconstruct and give us suggestions as possible places of origin or combinations of origins that will get someone sounding like that.”

Barry took command. “Do computer analysis on the body images to determine probable height, weight, age.”

“For sure,” nodded Julio.

“Julio, Helena. Check out all the voices in every database we can get to see if we can find a match on who it is. If you can’t, see if the accent matches any location or combination of locations of origin,” ordered Barry.

“Sure, boss.”

“Can you back it up a bit?” asked Rayna. “Check out the guy holding the victim’s head down.”

Julio backed up the video to the gruesome spot and hit play.

After two seconds, Rayna yelled, “Stop.” She pointed to the terrorist’s arm. “Look at that. He’s got red hair.”

Julio and Helena glanced up for a moment—Rayna was right.

“Middle Eastern men do not have red hair, at least not naturally. It’s mainly people with a Germanic or British origin. There are probably exceptions, but I haven’t met one,” stated Rayna.

“That’s good. That’s good. So Red may be a homegrown terrorist. Ouch.”

“How about the sword?” asked Barry.
 

“Okay, okay.” Julio typed frantically.
 

An image of an ancient Syrian scimitar came on screen. It looked remarkably like the one the leader held. “This is a real Syrian sword. I think the one they used in the video is a newer fake.”

“Which would bolster your theory that these guys don’t have dough.”

“Exactly.”

“I think there’s something phony about the whole thing,” said Barry. “Yes, the killing is real, but I think this American Muslim Militia is very likely bogus.”

“I’ve just been checking and I can’t find the American Muslim Militia mentioned by anyone,” said Helena.

“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist, or maybe they’re just in too deep. What makes you think they might not be legit, Barry?”

“It’s the use of words and phrases. Like the mustard seed reference. That’s more Christian than Koran. The ‘time of cleansing’ is much like the Jewish book of Leviticus, which is about atonement for sin. ‘Pig-friendly slut’ is so over the top.” Barry paused for a moment, then continued. “The way he handles the sword... and then, ‘We must deliver judgment with our hands, with our guns and with our swords.’ It just reminds me so much of Winston Churchill when he said, “We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”

“That may be so, Barry, but there’s one thing that is definitely not phony or faked. That guy’s head got chopped off and we are dealing with some serious crazy here.”

“I agree. They’re not bluffing... Julio, get some satellites onto it and see what you can find. Helena, see if you can find any facial rec or geographical similarities.” He intoned thoughtfully, “What’s your assessment, Julio?”

“We’re on our own here. Our friendly feds won’t be able to spare anybody from the bomb scares plus they’re going to think these guys are too low level and poor to devote any immediate resources.”

“I think we need to make to make a personal visit,” Barry said. “Rayna, get ready to leave in an hour.”

“I’m happy to go but I won’t be able to get much out of anybody. The old farts won’t listen to me. I’m a woman.”

“It’s not the men we need to talk to. It’s the women. We need active, direct face-to-face contact with the victims, and direct observation of the kill zone. As many of the victims were young women, we need a soft, cuddly, gentle, fuzzy, sensual...”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.”
The last place I ever wanted to go to again.
“I did study psychology a lifetime ago and I think I can handle traumatized teenaged girls.”

“It’s not just them. It’s the mothers, widows and older women in the villages, too. Let me make a call.” Barry punched in a number, putting the phone on speaker.

“Christ, Barry. Can’t a guy get some sleep?” said a groggy but vaguely familiar voice to Rayna.

“Boom Boom, I’m sending someone over to keep you company.”

“I love babysitting. What’s the deal?”

“New group calling itself the American Muslim Militia just posted a video of their leader beheading somebody.”

“That’s hardly news over here.”

“They’re threatening to come here. We need to nip it in the bud so I’m sending someone over.”

“Why? You don’t trust me?”

“You lack the feminine touch. I’m sending Rayna Tan over. She’s working with us now.”

“You mean the ‘I’m better than you because I got into JTF2 Chinese broad?’”

“I never said I was better than anyone,” interjected Rayna.

“You’ll have enough time to catch up later,” Barry interjected. “We’ll send details on what’s happening and we’ll connect in an hour.”

“Roger that.”

Barry disconnected the line and turned to Rayna. “Boom Boom’s with First Militia Enterprises (FME). When we first met, I told you I didn’t know that much about them. That was... a bit of an exaggeration.”

Julio bellowed. “A bit? Fidelitas helped found the damn thing. It’s registered in Canada as a not-for-profit organization and as a humanitarian Non-Government Organization (NGO) in the United States, Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“How long has Boom Boom been with them?” Rayna asked.

“A little while,” Barry replied. “When he left the Canadian military, he joined up with a mercenary group, but killing for money just didn’t suit him—even though he was damned good at it. When he quit that, he went around America trying to talk other ex-U.S. and Canadian soldiers to join the cause. While he had interest, he had no money and no infrastructure. We suggested the humanitarian aspect, which made it easier to gain NGO status and, consequently, access to sensitive areas. You don’t have a problem with Boom Boom, do you?”

“No, we’re good.”

Chapter 10
 

The video became known as the “Beheading Video” to make it easier for all the team to refer to. For the next half hour, Rayna pored through it again, trying to see if there was any new info she could glean, but nothing worked—she was paralyzed by fear of failure. Inwardly, she was sweating bullets. How could she possibly come up with anything useful when she was surrounded by geniuses?
 

Suddenly, in the back of her mind, she found herself thrust into the memory of her fiancé, Tanner, as he was violently killed in front of her, and her brain and emotions threatened to shut down. To take her mind off the brutal scene, she went back to watch the video for the sixth time when Helena came up to her and plopped two-year-old Kasha on her lap.
 

“Look at her, Rayna. Look inside her.”

A curious command. Rayna obeyed while Helena prepared a pot of herbal mint tea. After pouring the water into the pot, Helena began to massage Rayna’s neck—her muscles were wound tighter than a drum. Helena’s deep penetrating fingers worked into Rayna’s neck, then down her spine. Rayna felt tension exiting her body. Oohing and gasping, she held baby Kasha up in the air as if offering a sacrifice.

It was only ten minutes but, in that brief span, Helena managed to take away, at least for a moment, the ache and agony of losing Tanner.

“You haven’t had a chance to properly grieve, Rayna,” whispered Helena in a voice that felt like a fresh mint soothing a sore throat. “It doesn’t go away fast. It might take years... or it might be never...” Helena giggled. “Or it might happen when I set you up on a date.”

“Am I that obvious?”

Kasha began to bawl and reached her arms out to Helena, who quickly took her back. She held the tot to her bosom and, in the safety of her mama’s breast, Kasha started to purr. “It was pretty obvious to Kasha.”

As Rayna’s eyes fondled the closed eyes of the toddler, she felt the knots in her body start to unwind. As Helena bounced gently, Kasha opened her eyes and smiled. Rayna turned to her mother. “Thanks, Helena. I needed that.”
 

Then it was time for a video conference.

***

Omigod.
Boom Boom, now twenty-eight, had become a lady killer.
What the hell are you doing there?
“Hey Boom Boom, good to see you again,” said Rayna lamely with the most stock greeting.
 

“So you’re working for the asshole now?” said a grinning Boom Boom to Rayna on the big screen monitor.

“Well, that makes two of us.”

“Nope. I work for myself. He’s an advisor, but I still call my own shots.”