“Hey little piece of Goth shit. No one walks past Ziggy without saying hello. No one,” said the first henchman.
Ziggy caught up with them and peered at Turbee. “Good drugs, guys,” he said. “The Goths have always had better stuff than us.” He grabbed Turbee’s right hand. “Hold still you little bastard.”
It was at that moment that a drop of spittle from Turbee’s mouth landed on Ziggy’s naked forearm.
“Whoa. Dude. Nobody spits on the Zigster. Especially not some fucked up little fucking Goth fuck. No-fucking-body.”
The so-called Zigster was already developing a gut at 19, was 6′2″, and weighed in at 220. He towered over the slight, pale Turbee. He also had the size and reflexes of a boxer, two attributes that had helped him gain leadership of the Aryan Knights. Within a split second, a powerful left to Turbee’s nose was followed by an even more powerful right to his temple. Turbee went down like a stone, his broken nose gushing blood. He cried out in pain, and was instantly transported back to his childhood, when he had constantly been teased, beaten, and bullied for his as-yet undiagnosed condition.
“Ready to show some respect to the Aryans, you piece of shit Goth fuck?” Ziggy demanded.
Turbee could only moan. He felt the razor edge of pain, and had no idea what had caused it. The coppery taste of blood flowed into his mouth and he slowly drew himself into a fetal position.
“Get up! Get the fuck up you fucking skinny little puke,” ordered Ziggy. When nothing happened, he gave the command to his two henchmen. “OK boys, boot fuck the little bastard.”
23
A new day was dawning on Socotra. Yousseff was enjoying the beauty of the sunrise. Two of his pilots, Abu Yusuf and Mustafa, had breakfasted with him. Now the three drove together toward the airstrip that ran along the south coast of the island. The Gulfstream was fully fueled and outfitted, and had been rolled out of its hangar to wait for him. Nobody said much. Mustafa knew aspects of the plan, but certainly not all of it. He knew that this trip was yet another step in the journey that had started with the theft of the Semtex more than ten days earlier at Bazemah. Had he known what the final steps of the plan were, he might not have been as eager as he was. But it wasn’t his place to ask questions.
When they took off in the Gulfstream, Yousseff found himself reveling in the power of the craft as it roared heavenward in a steep trajectory. They went northward toward Yemen; they were scheduled for a brief stopover in Reykjavik for fuel, after which they would head over the polar ice and south toward Los Angeles. He smiled as he saw the blue waters of the Arabian Sea fall away. He thought of his early days on the water, as a deck hand on the Indus Janeeta, where he had learned the ways of the water, and had his initiation into smuggling. They had been dangerous and intoxicating times.
When he’d taken over, Yousseff had quickly purchased a replacement for the Indus Janeeta, which he named the Janeeta II. She was a full 15 feet longer and had powerful, newly rebuilt diesel engines. She had a greater capacity for carrying legitimate cargo, but carried the obscure industrial chemicals used in his heroin refinement business more often than she carried commercial cargo. It was just another step in Yousseff’s rapidly growing empire.
The brief captivity of Mohammed Jhananda had done more than put Yousseff into the river ferrying business. It taught him the power of police, and the value of their corruption. It had reinforced his plans for Marak. “You will become a police constable. You will excel in it. You will follow the law. You will root out these evil drug smugglers… always excepting ourselves, of course. And you will watch my back and share in my wealth, just so long as you don’t act like that idiot, Noor.”
They had agreed on it, and Marak had gone to the police academy in Islamabad. There he had indeed excelled, especially in martial arts and the handling of weapons, as he’d already had unparalleled skills in those areas. He passed the courses and the initial training with flying colors. He asked for, and was assigned to, the drug enforcement unit. With Yousseff’s assistance he was able to make a number of high-profile arrests, and rooted out numerous conspiracies in Peshawar and Karachi. With each new arrest, his power and prestige grew within the Pakistani Police Force. He used his new power to help Yousseff, going after his competitors in the drug business, and making sure they were safely behind bars. Gradually Yousseff’s competitors were diminished, arrested, or killed. He was able to leverage this advantage to consolidate his holdings on both sides of the border.
His two property landlords, Ba’al in Pakistan and Izzy in Afghanistan, had prospered mightily, and both had to hire many bodyguards, rent collectors, and people to count and track the river of money. Yousseff stayed true to his word with his friends, and Marak, Izzy, and Ba’al each had many millions of American dollars deposited in accounts around the world. Yousseff seldom saw his comrades, but he always stayed true to them, and they to him.
For Mahari, this was the gift that kept on giving. A third DVD. A third Samsonite case stuffed with American money. He thought he had died and gone to Paradise. As ordered, he did not share the money with his free-spending wife, choosing instead to hide it away and wait for the project to finish. He had settled on a second apartment, in a more upscale and secure building, as his hiding place. He had extra locks installed. The only things he kept in the apartment were the Samsonite cases, stacked in a closet.
The messages themselves were powerful and ominous. The cameraman had chosen to begin this third message with an extreme close-up of the Emir’s face. The contrast between his one cloudy, dead eye and the black, living eye was striking. The media labeled it as malevolent, vengeful, and ominous. FOX, as always, sought to one up its competitors, and enlarged the two eyes to use them as a backdrop when its pro-American commentators discussed it.
The image of the man was overpowering and hypnotic. Perhaps it was the power and hatred that showed in the living eye, or the deeply furrowed brow, or the sharp hooked nose. This was not a man you would discount or ignore, whether he be warrior, judge, or religious leader. He was, in fact, all three. With this third message, it was a face the American public was learning to hate and fear.
Many of the American commentators noted that all three of the messages appeared to have been made at the same time, given the similarities of lighting, dress, and colors. A few said that because of that, the third message could be ignored. A few noted, though, with mild anxiety, that the time frame of the messages was accelerating. The first message said that the attack would come within 30 days, the second said within 21 days, and this, the third, promised an attack within ten days. They also noted that the target area was shrinking geographically. The first message noted that the attack would take place “somewhere on this globe,” whereas the second said “in North America.” This new message seemed to be referring to the United States directly. This particular portion of the third message, in its English translation, was played over and over again on every channel.
Praise be to Allah and His foot soldiers. Give thanks to His prophet, Mohammed, and His soldiers of the jihad. Mighty are His works, and blessed be His name. After a perilous but courageous voyage, the soldiers are in place, even in the lair of the Great Satan, within the very walls of her house. The weapons of Allah are positioned, and the means of delivery has been secured, praise be His name. Within ten days the great terror will strike within the serpent’s house. One of her great cities, a city of vile iniquity, will be destroyed. The strike will make every other strike insignificant. The holy jihad will come. The day of Allah is at hand. All you warriors in the path of Mohammed, reach for the sword, and strike down the Great Satan in her moment of peril…