The First Palestinian Intifada in 1987 had greatly intrigued Bey. A small group, outmanned and outgunned, had the boldness to take on the superior occupying Israeli force. But although they had courage, they didn’t have enough vision. Rocks were fine; bombs would be better.
That was when the Cause was born and when Abdul Rahman Bey was reborn as al-’Aqran-the Scorpion.
Unfortunately for al-’Aqran, it seemed his vision was greater than his skills; for a decade and a half, the Cause languished in international obscurity. It was during that period that he blew off part of his face while experimenting with explosives. What the counterterrorism community hadn’t realized was that what seemed to be incompetence was really just al-’Aqran biding his time while Hakeem, his ace in the hole, was growing in power and significance.
Finally, when the time was right, the Cause had struck. And when they struck, it was not for freedom in Iraq or in belated retaliation for Saddam Hussein’s execution. Instead it was to restore the honor of an era gone by. It was to remind the world that not all the Iraqi people were willing to lie down and be America’s lapdogs.
Riley closed the file and turned off the reading light in the van. Lord willing, by the end of today, this Scorpion would be in an American cage.
The plan Riley had devised was based on the old football misdirection play-make the opposing team think the action is taking place on one side of the field while you run the ball down the other. Great in concept; difficult in execution.
Al-’Aqran was vulnerable two times each day: when he left his house with his six armed bodyguards to walk to and from the al-Arqam mosque for the morning Fajr prayer service, and when he repeated the journey for the afternoon Asr service.
At first Riley had thought that this adherence to routine was either die-hard religious devotion or simple foolishness. His opinion changed when the team had spotted three men hidden on the rooftops between the house and the mosque. Each had a Tabuk sniper rifle, and at least one of them had an RPG-7 antitank grenade launcher. Riley had to assume the other two were similarly equipped. What had seemed to be foolish routine was starting to look more like a trap.
There was one other wild card in this deck. Every morning a man appeared on the roof of al-’Aqran’s house. Because of where he positioned himself, they could never get a good look at him. He would appear while the sky was still dark and would disappear soon after sunrise. He didn’t seem to be armed, but he was still worth keeping an eye on.
A late-model Fiat Punto had been parked for the last three days fifteen feet down and across the street from al-’Aqran’s house. Riley had chosen this car to be the diversion. As al-’Aqran was returning from his morning prayers at the mosque, this little Fiat would blow sky-high. The explosion would do three things: First, it would create confusion on the ground. Second, it would draw out the rooftop snipers, who would then be dispatched by Mustang team’s own rooftop snipers-Khadi Faroughi and Billy Murphy. Third, the confusion would allow the rest of the team to burst out of the house where they would be hiding along al-’Aqran’s route, dispatch the bodyguards, and taser the Scorpion. The team would then carry their prisoner around the building and out back to where the vans were waiting. If all went well, ten minutes after the car blew, they would be on the SS16aa highway cruising back down to Bari.
Scott had sent the surveillance photos of the bodyguards to his crew in the ROU. He had hoped one of them might be Hakeem. But the crack investigation group had been able to identify each guard as long-standing in the European theater, thus making them expendable.
It was 5:13 a.m. when Mustang team’s two cargo vans turned down Via Agostino Samuelli, one short block west of Via Nazareth. Matt Logan, the team’s demolitions expert, slipped out of the second van and headed toward the parked Fiat while the rest of the team gathered in the rear of the second cargo van.
At 5:25 a.m., they heard three rapid knocks on the rear door, followed by two more. Kim Li opened the door and Logan jumped in.
“Done. A lot of flash, a lot of noise, a lot of smoke, but not a large blast radius. Should be zero collateral damage unless someone is actually in the car. Speaking of which, I also disabled the car’s ignition so we don’t have anybody driving off in the thing.”
“Good work,” Riley said. He turned to Khadi and handed her the detonator. “You know what to do. As soon as they’re in front of the building, set this thing off. Murph will pop snipers one and two, and you’ll catch three.” Then he turned to Murphy. “Either one of you misses your target, we’re toast. Got it?”
They both nodded, and Khadi gave him a smile.
Khadi was beginning to fit into the team dynamics, and Riley was glad to see it. She would probably never fully understand the loyalty and devotion these men had for each other, but she was a professional. Riley knew his own strength of character, his competency, and his willingness to lead by example all combined with some X-factor to make him a man his teammates would follow to their graves. He didn’t expect Khadi to go that far, but he was pleased that she seemed willing to do whatever it took to get the job done.
“Okay, it’s time to get in position. You be careful,” he said to the two snipers, but his eyes were locked on Khadi’s. “Now go.”
Murphy and Khadi jumped out of the van, each carrying a case that held an M24 SWS.
Riley stared at the doors as they closed. Was he doing the right thing sending Khadi out to kill someone? It wouldn’t be her first time, he knew, and she had been trained to do this. In fact, she had the second highest shooting accuracy on the team-right behind Murphy. She was the right person, but was it the right thing?
His concentration was broken by Scott’s voice softly singing, “Riley and Khadi sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-”
The song was interrupted by Skeeter’s large hand gently clipping the official team leader on the back of the head. Nervous laughter filled the van.
Riley surveyed the team silently. Wartime created strange relationships. Could there be any other situation with the power to bond together such different personalities and backgrounds? When men struggled together, suffered together, bled together, killed together, and grieved together, a connection was made that often went deeper even than blood.
“Men,” Riley said, “when I left this life a few years ago, I thought I had left it for good. When I came back, it wasn’t because I sought it out. It sought me out. I was living out my day-to-day just like you guys were. Then these little men with their big bombs came into my life and called me out. Well, since they called, I feel I’m obliged to answer.
“These terrorists took the lives of so many and destroyed the lives of so many others. One of the lives they took was my close friend Sal Ricci. Two of the lives they destroyed were those of his wife, Megan, and his baby daughter, Alessandra.” Riley took a picture of Meg and Alessandra out of his pocket and passed it around. “This is to remind you that these men’s victims are not just faceless statistics. It’s easy to get lost in the numbers of the casualty reports. But when you look at that picture, you’re looking at the faces of the victims. And when we go out there this morning and the bullets start flying and the blood starts spilling, remember this woman and this little girl.”
They all sat there silently looking at the floor of the van, processing what Riley had said.
Then a quiet voice began singing, “Kumbaya, my Lord, kumba-”
Another Skeeter slap to Scott’s head shut down the song.