When he came to the corner he stepped outward, still at tactical present, and leaned to the left. The target was standing by a personnel door, smoking a cigarette. Marlboro from the drifting smell of the smoke. The cigarette spun out of his lips and into the grass by the side of the entrance pad as the three nine-millimeter rounds impacted with the side of the target’s head.
Twenty-one rounds left but only two spare magazines. Mike stopped at the target and found three more, including the one in the target’s weapon, and stuffed them in his back pockets. The night was quiet, still no sound of alarm from the terrorists in the building. There was probably some sort of rotation schedule for the sentries. Time to get inside the decision cycle.
He gently checked the handle on the door and determined that it was unlocked. Then the decision had to be made, slow or fast. He finally decided on slow and casual. One of the sentries coming in for some reason. He pulled the door open and stepped through looking unconcernedly to either side. The view from the door into the room was blocked by a stack of the “coffins.” When he cleared them to either side, he’d be in view of the terrorists. Time to go tactical again. He lifted the MP-5 to his shoulder and stepped to the side quickly.
Party time.
Chapter Two
“Yes, Hamid,” Hazzah Bud said, nodding as he talked on the phone. “The delivery has been made on time, on my honor. The shipment will be at your warehouse no later than tomorrow night. We had trouble finding sufficient stock, but at the last moment we found a significant amount and not only have fulfilled the first order but have stock left over to start the second. Yes. Yes, we will ensure that the cargo arrives in good condition. Go with God, Hamid.”
Hazzah had been a member of Hezbollah since the outbreak of the civil war in Lebanon. A member of the Joharra tribe, he had fought the Amal and the Hamas, the Irish and the American Marines. He had been one of five potential drivers for the attack on the Marine barracks but at the last minute his best friend, Murtaza Batatu, had been chosen for martyrdom instead. Over the years he had waned in his faith in the jihad and these days he was just happy to awake each morning alive. Martyrdom was for the young. But a job was a job and failure in this one would mean martyrdom for sure.
Bud looked up at Abdul Mohiuddin and shook his head.
“Halal is unhappy that it took so long to round up the full cargo and he already wants more. In good condition.”
“That means we cannot rape these infidel bitches,” Kahf Shishakli said, angrily. Kahf was a youngster among the mujahideen and full of the work of Allah and the chance for martyrdom. A student from the Emirate of Kuwait, majoring in business, his family was fiercely Wahabbist and he had been raised to believe that death in the fight against the Dar Al Harb was the highest of callings. But he was young and the bitch on the floor was pretty. Like all the American whores she went not much more clothed than she was now. All such whores deserved to be raped.
“Are either of them virgin?” Bud said, grinning at the girl on the floor.
“The one who is packaged was not,” Abdul said, settling into the open door of the van, then gesturing at the blonde. “These are all whores, are they not? None of them have been virgins.”
“He said in good condition,” Bud replied, pulling a pistol out of his waistband, and walking over to the blonde. “He didn’t say unraped. I think we’ll rape this one. If she is in bad condition when we are done, we’ll send her soul to Satan and find another.”
“In’sh’allah,” Shishakli said, reaching down to grab the girl’s hair and twist it. “It is as Allah Wills. Women taken in battle are allowed to be raped and these women are taken in the Great Jihad against the Americans. Let us rape them to the Glory of Allah.”
As Mike stepped to the side he heard males speaking in what he was pretty sure was Arabic and then a muffled scream from the girl. He stepped around the coffin, at present, and targeted a male holding the hair of the girl. Three rounds to the chest put the target down, the silenced 9mm rounds punching into his chest cavity and blasting blood and bone out to cover the cowering girl.
Hazzah Bud had been fighting one group or another most of his adult life and had the scars to prove it. But it was a long time since he had had to fight for his life and the attack was unexpected. As Kahf’s chest erupted in blood, he turned towards the faint “thocks” from the silenced submachine gun, raising his pistol as quickly as he could. In his haste, he actually triggered a round into the floor and he prayed to Allah that it would disturb this djinn who had appeared long enough for he, Hazzah Bud, Allah’s servant for most of his life, to live.
Mike shifted to a male holding a pistol in his hand. The male was rotating to the side to fire and actually triggered a round into the ground in his haste. Mike ignored it and serviced the target with a burst, then shifted to the group by the van.
Abdul Mohiuddin grabbed his AK and rolled into the body of the van for cover. If this was an American police assault team they would soon find that those who did not fear death were dangerous to battle! Allah would be with them in this battle!
The one that had been sitting in the doorway was gone, presumably into the cargo area; the other three had reached for weapons that were scattered on the ground. One was raising an AK variant assault rifle and was serviced as was a second reaching for another AK. At that point, an automatic part of his brain told him to cover and reload so he pulled back behind the coffins, ejected his magazine down the front of his shirt, and slapped in another. He wasn’t standing still while he did it, but moving counterclockwise behind the cover of the coffins, looking for another shot.
Murtaza Saqqaf was amazed. He had gotten but one brief view of the assailant and it was not the heavily armored tac team they had expected. Indeed, there appeared to be but one American who had already killed many of his brothers in Allah. It was infuriating!
“There’s only one of them!” he shouted. “We can trap him! Come around the coffins; he is hiding in there!”
There was shouting from the coffins behind him and he ducked into a space between two stacks, waiting a moment. After shouting the person was trying to move stealthily but it was nearly impossible in this echoing room. Mike followed the cautious movement and then took a coin from his pocket and tossed it over the coffins beyond his present position. The metal coin made a loud bong as it hit, too loud really, but the target sped up, actually passing his position in a quiet trot. Mike waited a moment and then leaned out…
There was a metallic sound, like a magazine being dropped accidentally, well down the south wall, and Murtaza sped up, closing on his quarry. Allah was with him and he smiled.
“Allahu Akbar!” he shouted as he spun around the corner and emptied his magazine into the space where the sound had occurred. But there was nothing there and as he realized that, over the ringing in his ears from the firing, he heard a faint sound behind him…
Mike wanted to laugh at the actions of the target but, instead, as the tango turned to check behind him he fired a three-round burst into the “sniper triangle” of the head and upper body, where there were numerous critical blood vessels, then began moving again, heading clockwise to his previous firing position.
Ahmed Rabah nodded as he heard the shout from Murtaza. There had been no flood of police into the warehouse, which meant it was likely to be only one American, thinking he was Rambo and trying to save the Satan’s whores. Well, the mission was probably a failure, they would have to pick up and move elsewhere at the very least. But the purpose of the Warriors of Jihad was to spread fear amongst the infidels of the Great Satan and killing the bitch would do that well enough. So he darted out of the cover of the coffins towards the bitch on the floor. Let the American continue to battle, but even if he was victorious it would be as ashes in his mouth. He had just reached her when he heard the squeak of a tennis shoe from among the coffins and looked up into the barrel of a submachine gun…