In prison it was a matter of survival. Death to others meant life for him, and he wasn’t about to forfeit his life to some convicted felon seeking to establish his bona fides on the yard. More than one prisoner felt the assassin’s powerful hands around the throat, crushing the windpipe and snapping the neck. Few were willing to challenge his strength and no one was willing to discuss with prison authorities the killer’s propensity for resolving conflicts through violence.
Each time he killed it became easier. Now it was a part of him. The prison psychiatrist was wrong. He really wasn’t a sociopath, but another man’s death meant nothing to him. He didn’t necessarily kill for thrills but he admitted to enjoying the rush. He loved the adrenaline racing through his veins as he gripped the weapon and anticipated pulling the trigger. When he held his breath and squeezed the index finger, it was as pleasurable as anything he experienced, especially when he watched his intended victim collapse. He found a cause that welcomed his skills and now he justified his work because killing had purpose… tonight he would kill for preemptive protection.
He had been recruited in prison, where he had spent most of his adult life. At thirty-three, Kareem Abdul, the name he chose to honor his grandmother’s favorite basketball player, was converted through the efforts of a prison imam. He found a different kind of fellowship with “followers of the Prophet.” Kareem learned the ways of the faith but also learned the game many in prison played. Following his conversion, the strict discipline he evidenced while incarcerated served him well when the parole board met. They observed the changed man, his unblemished prison record since his conversion, and his willingness to admit to previous wrongs. Though still morally elastic, he sold the board on his sincerity and was given an early release on the armed-robbery conviction. With his demonstrated continued devotion to the faith after his prison stint and as part of a state cost-cutting move, he was also released early from parole. Islam served him well and as in prison, he was willing to exploit the religion to his advantage.
They paused briefly as he and his passenger assessed the situation, scanned their surroundings, and listened for the unusual. They nodded in agreement and quietly opened the doors to the Honda. In addition to switching license plates, Kareem had already removed the dome light, preventing a quick flash of the interior light, which would have alerted a neighbor when the car doors opened.
As she exited the car, the passenger tossed the candy wrappers on the ground as if in defiance of the community’s wealth. Each carefully shut their door and padded down the sidewalk.
A large, powerful man, Kareem Abdul moved with commando-like stealth up the short driveway. She followed in trace. Dressed in black, he was easily concealed in the shadows on the darkest night of the month. She too was dressed in black and her slight build served as sufficient camouflage for the evening.
Though the streetlights illuminated the road, the mature thick trees in the front yard shaded the house. It was nearing eleven o’clock but they knew bedtime for the middle-aged Asian was immediately following the news. Tomorrow he will make the news but miss the broadcast. As they suspected, a flickering light from the living room creeping through the bamboo curtains signaled the target was watching television.
By Beverly Hills standards the residence was small, but as any real estate agent will tell you, “location, location, location.” The diminutive home commanded a multimillion-dollar price tag merely because it had a coveted zip code.
While cautious, the intruders weren’t really worried about nosy neighbors making a 9-1-1 call. The assassin would follow the motto of the military sniper: one shot, one kill. A single suppressed gunshot might draw someone’s attention, but like most people, the listener would wait to hear a second sound. Failing that, he would dismiss the noise and go on about his business. Since few residents in this elite community exercised their Second Amendment rights, most knew the sounds of gunfire only from those provided by Hollywood. A quick subdued pop was hardly what any resident would expect. Stealth and speed would accomplish this evening’s task.
The woman slipped behind a large crepe myrtle bush and spied into the living room through a small divide between the window and the curtain. The target was alone, resting comfortably, his feet propped up on a brown leather footstool as he watched TV in an exquisitely furnished home, antiques complementing the utilitarian furniture.
The man was guilty of betrayal, an offense worthy of death. His offhand comments at the bar and his inquisitive nature seemed more than just trying to impress a beautiful woman. When he bragged to her in private of his association with law enforcement authorities, his treachery was confirmed. But he was no government-sanctioned spy… he was a snitch, a rat. The law of the street prevailed. Cheese-eaters must die!
Some at the mosque objected to tonight’s mission but the complaint was never about murder. Their concern was drawing undue attention to the “cause.” Kareem assured everyone that what needed to be done would never be linked to them. When the cell leader concurred and the followers realized they wouldn’t be participating, the men easily acceded to their leader’s decision.
Kareem rang the doorbell, then flattened his body against the darkened wall, concealing himself should the quarry decide to peer out the living-room window.
The target was fighting to stay awake, his eyes growing heavy. He wasn’t expecting company at this hour and was startled by the sound of the doorbell playing the first few notes of a traditional Korean ballad. Rising slowly from his wingback chair, the man shouted, “Who is it?” as he approached the door.
There was no response.
“Who is it?” he asked again, perhaps thinking it was a delivery of some kind. From surveilling the block over the past few days Kareem knew FedEx or UPS sometimes dropped off a package and rang the doorbell without waiting for a reply, but never this late.
With still no answer to his third inquiry, the target peered out the window, scanning in all directions, and saw nothing.
The assassin moved directly in front of the door, his focus straight ahead, his weapon just below the eyepiece. He rang the doorbell a second time. When the porch light came on, the assassin didn’t flinch, remaining steady, prepared to strike.
The target hollered, “Yes!” then made the final mistake of his life. He put his eye to the security peephole.
When Kareem spotted the resident peering through the tiny opening, he raised the semi-automatic two inches and fired a single round. The suppressor minimized the muzzle flash, but the sound of the .45-caliber echoed against the heavy wooden door. It was louder than the assassin expected and he hoped he hadn’t attracted a neighbor’s curiosity. The gunman casually picked up the spent shell casing and put it in his pocket.
A wicked smile covered the woman’s face as she watched a pink spatter flood the living room and the man crumble to the floor, his life extinguished in an instant, his account closed.
Kareem and his companion retreated down the driveway toward the Honda. They entered the vehicle, holding the doors closed, but waited until they were down the block before slamming the front doors shut.
The woman gave the assassin a congratulatory stroke of his thigh, and when he glanced over at her, she provided an approving smile. Turning right at Olympic Boulevard, the murderers disappeared into a steady late-evening stream of Los Angeles traffic.
CHAPTER FOUR
The mosque on Olympic Boulevard was in a run-down strip mall tucked away in the far corner of the complex between a bakery and a dry cleaners. It was no mega-mosque or Islamic cultural center like those being funded by Saudi oil money. In fact, most, including nonpracticing Muslims, didn’t know the facility existed. The call to prayer didn’t echo throughout the business district signaling believers of the hour. Most worshippers came and went without much fanfare.