American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) (13 page)

There was a video of an unidentifiable young man, wearing dark glasses, in a hole-in-the-wall basement bar, downing a glass of beer in one gulp.
 

“That hits the spot. Two more, right away,” said the patron. The voice was unmistakably Casey’s.

“Boy, you can really drink,” said the bartender.

Casey chuckled. “Yeah, I get lots of practice. Lots. Must admit though that Iraqi beer tastes more like cat piss than the real thing. You know what I mean?”

“No idea. Never tried cat piss.”

Casey and the bartender burst into laughter.

The video dissolved to another location, to garish, Middle Eastern nightclubs on the outskirts of Damascus. Casey was seen approaching a tarted-up teenager—just like you could find almost anywhere else in the world—and began a conversation.
 

“Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” said the girl, apparently not the least bit interested in this guy who looked like he didn’t have much money.

“You want some fun?”

“Fun costs money.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five American dollars,” the girl retorted.

“What makes you think I have that?”

“Your accent is not real. Now, little boy, go away or pay me. I have a family to feed.”

“I’ll give you eight.”

The girl exploded in sarcastic laughter. “You think I’m some cheap refugee banging guys in a tent? Go screw yourself.”

“Fifteen.” Casey pulled out a ten and five dollar bill from his pocket.

“Twenty.” The girl sidled up to Casey and reached into the pocket he pulled the cash from. Her hand stayed in the pocket, and began rubbing.

“Okay. Twenty.”

“Great. Come with me.” The girl pulled her hand out of Casey’s pocket, took his hand and pulled him toward one of the nightclubs. “But first you are going to buy me many, many drinks.”

The imam shut the iPad, lifted it and smashed it to the floor. His eyes wordlessly drilled into a wilting Casey.

There was no point in lying. “Forgive me, I was weak... I was thirsty... I didn’t think anyone was looking,” stammered Casey.

“You deserve a hundred lashes, eternal punishment,” said the cleric sternly.

“Please. I will not do it again,” cried Casey, prostrating himself. “I will do whatever you want.”

The imam looked disdainfully at the kneeling young man. Obviously, a weak untrue believer. Chilling silence filled the air despite the hundred plus degree temperature.

“Filth,” roared the cleric as he picked Casey up by the scruff of his neck and maneuvered his head to face him. “Never again let your face enter this holy room.”
 

The holy man turned to Nabil. “And you, his accomplice, get out of my sight before I dismiss you as well.”

The imam and Ahmed watched scornfully as Casey and Nabil fearfully exited the room.

***

“We can keep them. Even vermin have their usefulness,” complained Ahmed, knowing his plea fell on deaf ears.

Father and son stood up. From looking at the older man, it was clear where Ahmed got his physical power from. Sixty-five-years old, the imam would still be a formidable physical adversary for a young man a third of his age. A noted Koranic scholar, his writings implored a generation of terrorists to turn back to the Five Pillars principles.

It was a position drowned out by planes crashing into buildings, bombs blowing up subway lines and mothers crying for the loss of children and their husbands. Sadly, he could not even convince his most beloved son of this truth.
 

“Allah’s will be done,” intoned the elderly man.
 

“You do not have a direct pipeline to Allah.”

Imam Abu turned to Ahmed with eyes of fire.
Blasphemy. But he is my son.

***

Nabil helped the depressed Casey pack his meager belongings into his duffel bags. “Hey, man, you just got unlucky to get caught.”

Casey bit his tongue hard. “It was just that once. God, how could I be so stupid?”

Nabil inquired gently. “Was she any good?”

Casey shook his head. “A guy’s gotta do what he wants to do but no, she was lousy and she’s cost me everything. Dammit.”

“How the hell did the imam get it?”

“The old bugger is on top of everything that Ahmed and Fatima do.”

“He’s never done anything to them. Never said a word. Never tried kicking them out.”

“He doesn’t need to. If the imam gets rid of us, it’s just that much harder for Ahmed and Fatima.”

Ahmed entered. The eyes and the two young men’s hearts filled with anxiety—
How much did he hear? Is he going to kill us?

“I’m sorry, please, Ahmed. We’ll do anything,” babbled the young red-haired transgressor. “Give me another chance. Please, Ahmed, please.”

Ahmed raised an open hand, calling for silence. Casey and Nabil dropped to the floor and knelt before him.

“Get up, you two,” commanded Ahmed sternly.
 

Casey and Nabil stood, trembling. “I’ll never do it again. I promise,” cried Casey.

“Of course you will,” said Ahmed. “You are weak.”

“No, no. I really won’t.”

“I’m not an idiot. You will sin again. And again. That’s who you are. That’s what your time in America has done to you.”

“Please don’t kick me out,” whispered Casey. “I am a warrior for Allah.”
 

“You left here when you were a child and came back only a short time ago. Casey, a soldier of Allah needs to be in the proper place to be effective. While the work here is most important, your mindset and demeanor are better suited to North America. With your face and speech, you can gain access more easily than any of us can to manufacturing plants, tourist attractions, government offices, all of which are easy targets.”
 

Ahmed paused, letting his words sink in. “I want you to return to set up a training camp in California. You were at the top of your group in all skills so you will be an excellent trainer. You will also continue to liaise with potential new converts, but now you will also be able to do it in person, as well as over the computer.” Ahmed dropped his voice. “The alternative is we can do what my father believes we should do.”

Casey knew this was not an idle threat. “I can’t do this by myself.”

“Nabil will join you.”

“I will?” exclaimed the surprised young Filipino, both worried and excited. Worried because he didn’t know the alternative. Excited because every Filipino wanted to go to the United States if he could. “I don’t have a passport or visa.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Nabil.”

“Why, Ahmed? Am I not doing a good job here?”

Icy eyes bored into Nabil. “A good job? You? You allowed Casey to do this. You knew about this and didn’t say anything.” Ahmed pointed to Casey. “Is your loyalty to him? Or to Allah?”
 

Nabil was speechless.

“Your plane leaves in six hours,” stated Ahmed. “I have made the arrangements.”

There was no need to ask any more questions. If Ahmed said it was to be done, it would be done. The tentacles reached far, wide and comprehensively.
 

A triumphant smile spread across Ahmed’s hardened face as he gazed at Casey. “Allah has found favor with you, Casey. And you, too, Nabil. This is not the end. The two of you are the beginning of a war that will change the world forever—American Muslim Militia. Casey, you are its leader, to be headquartered in San Francisco.”

What a complete turnaround. Half an hour ago, they had been dismissed in disgrace. Now, they had been appointed to lead the new initiative.

As the words sank in, pride filled the two young men.
American Muslim Militia.
Not only had they dodged a bullet, but suddenly their lives had even greater significance than before.

Fatima is right again
. Ahmed balled his fists and shook them in a strong fighting pose at the two young men. It was her idea to film Casey. She knew that he would never return to America of his own volition. She also knew he was ready to navigate through the murky waters of leadership there.

Casey’s indiscretions were perfect for Ahmed’s plans. If he was going to be able to taste the fruits of Western harlots and Jack Daniels, he was going to need to establish a hold in America. Casey and Nabil’s new efforts would be the first steps in making intentions become reality.

Chapter 13
 

First Militia Enterprises (FME) was a unique organization due to the different desires and backgrounds of its founders. Most were former soldiers, but others were health professionals, engineers and construction workers. About the only thing they had in common was that they had all worked for large bureaucracies and hated it. That, plus they didn’t get a salary from FME but had to raise their own support.
 

In exchange, they got the opportunity to make instant decisions in the field without layers of red tape. Also, most of them were Christians and, while none of them were ever going to be a Billy Graham, they liked the fact that they could talk about God to anyone without fear of reprisal.
 

For the thirty some-odd soldiers, all Canadian, the freedom to meaningfully engage with the enemy was the driving factor in their decision to join. They had all served in the Middle East, but felt increasingly frustrated with government policy, especially after Canada adopted an official “peacekeeping” role in the Middle East and involved itself only in airborne sorties. Many soldiers felt this was the wrong approach to take and that it was a policy that could only be adopted by those who were trying to keep voters happy and not win a war. It was also difficult to accept that their missions were ultimately dictated by those who had no military experience at all. They believed the only way that elimination of the terrorists was possible was for those with superior firepower and combat knowledge to directly engage in battle with the enemy—boots on the ground.
   

***

There was one other passenger besides Rayna on the flight. He tried to introduce himself but Rayna quipped, “Hi. I’m sorry but I just can’t speak right now. I’ve got to get some shut eye because, once I get to Iraq, I’m going to be going balls to the walls.”

Slightly taken aback by Rayna’s colorful language, the middle-aged man politely nodded. “Good idea.” About the lamest pickup line in the world.

With her eyes closed, Rayna thought of different missions she had been on in the pressure cooker that is the Middle East. This was a prime target area for Kurdish and Islamic battles, and Rayna had participated in well over fifty of them. There were at least eight villages with populations of five hundred or more that were possible candidates for the village in the beheading video but, in her determination, none of them really resembled the town. Or it might have been that her memories were just outdated. Landscapes were constantly changing, and looking for a village that had been under attack described just about everywhere in civil war-ravaged Syria.

Rayna hated searching her hidden memories for these clues. Every day she was there, someone she knew or knew of lost his or her life defending people who were often hostile to them. But, despite this, she knew that if she and her military colleagues weren’t there, chaos would overcome not only the Middle East, but probably the whole world.

There was also the matter of guilt, knowing she could have done more. Thinking about seeing Boom Boom again, she realized that, despite his boorish manners and gruff temperament, he was a man who cared deeply about others. He and the other soldiers in FME were a fierce contingent of combat assaulters. Like Boom Boom, it pained them when they operated as members of armed forces not to engage directly in battle when they saw the valiant and dedicated Peshmerga soldiers they were training slaughtered by an enemy that was not hamstrung by some bullshit government dictate. Like Boom Boom, some Canadians violated the rules of conduct to directly engage in battle, but this was not a solution that could last. It was dishonorable discharge versus a gnawing in your soul that ate you alive.
 

Rayna understood the FME soldiers. When you didn’t get paid, honor and pride in what you did was your remuneration and, in this regard, the members of FME were in an elite league. She thought of her pastor dad teaching her, “Greater love hath no man than he give up his life for another.”

Yes, being a soldier meant a willingness and desire to protect your family and country. But it began with your fellow man. She looked forward to seeing Boom Boom and his new cohorts. They would be assholes, no doubt. But they would be good assholes. With this thought, Rayna was finally able to fall asleep.

Chapter 14
 

Northern California

The flight to California was long but uneventful, passing through Munich and New York before finally landing in San Francisco. Casey was a returning American citizen so there was not much suspicion raised—lots of young people took a year or longer to travel the world. After all, there weren’t a whole lot of jobs available. Ahmed told Casey not to let his family know he was back in the United States, not that it was necessary. They would ask too many questions and eventually grill him until he admitted that the Muslim leader wanted him gone because he had been caught drinking alcohol and spending time with a whore.
 

Nabil’s situation was a bit trickier and several thousand dollars more expensive. Bribes were required for Nabil’s rush-forged travel documents. A necessary cost-of-doing-business pain in the butt.

For start-up money for the new American Muslim Militia, Ahmed gave Casey five thousand dollars in cash and had arranged for another fifteen to be deposited into his Bank of America account. The first three thousand of it was spent within hours of arriving at SFO. During the stopover in Germany, Casey scoured Craigslist and auto trader sites for a vehicle, eventually finding a truck fleet that was unloading the last of its old panel vans. It was located fifteen minutes from the airport. An exchange of emails got one of their drivers to pick them up at the airport so Casey could use the trip to their office as the test drive. The van, even with 225,000 miles on its engine, delivered just as the fleet manager promised.