"Smart move. The Imam has betrayed the cause. You can't even begin to comprehend the level of his betrayal. My orders are to return him so we can learn the true extent of the damage. Can you help me with this? If not, you will join your friends."
The man stuttered, clearly in complete shock at the sudden turn of events. He saw the doubt flash across the man's face. His world had unraveled too quickly for rational thought. The next few moments would be critical for Aleem.
"What do you need?"
"Is Hamid here at the mosque?"
In the background, they could both hear the group's leader struggle to force air through his destroyed windpipe, an involuntary and useless attempt by the man's body to survive.
"Can he be saved?" the man asked.
"He won't be saved. Where is Hamid?"
"Through that door somewhere."
"Did you copy that? Any movement at the side exit?" Aleem said aloud, waiting for a response in his earpiece.
"Copy. Tariq is en route. Thirty seconds. Negative movement. If the Imam was in the building, he's still there. Sensors detect a cell phone within the confines of the building. Low-level emission."
"Who are you talking to?" the man demanded.
Aleem smiled at him. "My colleagues. Who else?"
He saw the final realization flash in the terrorist recruit's eyes. When presented with another conflicting batch of information, his confused psyche had simply fallen back on what he wanted to believe, which in this case was completely correct — that Aleem worked for the enemies of Allah and had tricked him into betraying the Imam. He burst forward, quickly engaging Aleem before a sharp pain to his solar plexus dropped him to his knees with a sudden thud. Aleem kicked him in the back, pushing him down to join his friends on the floor. A pool of bright red blood spread rapidly underneath the pile. Aleem leaned over to wipe a small, serrated blade clean on the back of the dying man's, crisp white shirt before walking over to unlock the front door for Tariq.
Tariq Paracha slipped through the door, carrying a black nylon duffel bag. The pair immediately locked and bolted the door to prevent any unwanted guests.
"Allah won't be pleased," Tariq said, pulling a silenced pistol from the duffel bag and tossing it to Aleem.
"He'll get over it. Through that door. Did Graves find schematics for the building?" Aleem said.
"No. But one of the businesses a few doors down submitted a plan that required a zoning change, so he was able to download the scanned document. Looks like a similar layout from the front. We can expect a basement," Tariq said.
"Good. I'd prefer to do our work in the building. I hope it's a deep basement. If our Imam doesn't feel like chatting, we'll need to compel him."
Tariq hefted the bag up and down, shaking the assortment of metal tools contained within. "I brought everything we should need."
"Let's find this missing Imam, shall we?" Aleem said.
They approached the closed door on the far right side of the cramped prayer hall, ready to do whatever was necessary to produce a viable lead for Task Force Scorpion. Given the fact that Aleem and Tariq could proceed unhampered by legal or moral restrictions, they stood an excellent chance of success.
Chapter 12
Julius Grimes had long ago lost track of where his van was headed. They had turned off Interstate 87, headed west on I-84 in Pennsylvania. The van had exited the interstate deep in the Pocono Mountains region, taking several obscure paved roads that eventually led to unmarked gravel roads travelling deep into the rolling foothills. He had been told by the driver of the van that they were headed to one of True America's most closely guarded sites, which added to his already highly elevated anxiety level.
He knew that he'd seriously fucked up at the target site. He hadn't taken his mask off on purpose, but it didn't matter to his team leader, Kathy Nadeau. She didn't say a word until they were several miles away from the scene. Even then, she simply turned in the front passenger seat of the car and suddenly extended the business end of her silenced pistol against his forehead. He had carefully weighed his options in the milliseconds that followed.
He could have slammed her hand against the headrest, likely dislocating her elbow and disarming her, but that would have put him in an even worse situation. Instead of becoming a fugitive from both the U.S. government and the most powerfully connected shadow network in America, he did nothing as Nadeau hissed a few berating words and removed the pistol from his face. She placed a quick phone call and announced that he would have to go into hiding until they could determine the extent of the damage he had caused. She never looked at him again, which gave him an uneasy feeling about his future in True America.
His fears were somewhat eased early the next morning in one of True America's tri-state area safe houses. He received instructions to await pickup by one of the delivery vans that would deliver a consolidated shipment of canisters to a secret location out of state. He was told to take a few days off from work, while senior leadership decided how to handle his situation. They made it clear that he couldn't contact his family, since his identity might be compromised. He felt terrible as he thought he might have possibly dragged his family into a potential nightmare by his carelessness. However, the risks had always been clear to Julius. He had made a conscious decision to play a critical role in reshaping America, understanding that revolution often came with a hefty price tag.
He just hadn't expected to start paying so early. He'd made an adrenaline-filled, rookie error back at the target site. The mask he had been given for the operation had been a few sizes too small, squeezing his head and causing him to sweat profusely. Stepping back into the cool night air, his first instinct had been to get the damn ski mask off his head. The cocktail of natural stimulants flowing through his system had dampened his common sense. One little mistake and his life had been permanently changed. In the grand scheme of things, it wouldn't matter. He was part of a more important change, and when the transformation was complete, he would be rewarded. He had been assured of this.
The van bumped along a pitch-black road, eventually stopping at a large, neglected wooden gate placed across the road. In the harsh glare of the van's headlights, the gate looked ancient, yet formidable. Rising six feet high and joining the thick forest on either side of the van, the fence looked out of place for such a remote location. A simple fence would have drawn less attention, but Julius had to remind himself that it would be highly unlikely for anyone to stumble on this location by accident.
The driver lowered his window and turned on the interior lights. Julius glanced back at their precious cargo. Twenty canisters, seated in two specially designed crates, were hidden in compartments nestled underneath several pallets of bottled water. He felt exposed in the light, presuming that a camera was confirming their identities at this very moment. Several seconds later, the rickety barrier in front of the van started to slide out of the way. He suspected that there was more to the fence than rotten wood. His nervousness started to give way to excitement at the prospect of being exposed to more of True America's plan for "The Rising."
The van's rough transit smoothed out just past the gate, and they travelled for several minutes until Julius could see lights ahead. He leaned forward and watched as they approached a long, one-story, flat-roofed structure. From what he could tell, this was the only structure within sight. The sheer darkness surrounding the building swallowed up the meager glow cast by a small light fixture to the right of a single loading bay. The van pulled up to a point roughly ten feet from the building. When it stopped, the loading bay door rolled open, exposing the inside of the facility.