“I got it,” he called to the bedroom where she was relaxing in the rocker in front of the air conditioner — she had hot flashes too. Johnny Bravo crossed the living room and opened the door, still wearing his grilling apron and holding a large two tined fork. He opened the door.
Three bearded men stood outside. All three shot him in the chest and abdomen with pistols. Johnny Bravo crumpled to the floor. The men rushed inside, dragging his body into the living room, leaving a bloody smear across the cream colored tiles.
A cry of alarm sounded from the bedroom, “Johnny!”
The terrorists dropped Johnny on the shag carpet and looked up. Little Sherry, barely five feet tall and a hundred and twenty pounds — even pregnant — stood in the doorway of the bedroom. The men put away their guns and drew hunting knives, advancing on her.
Johnny Bravo went in and out of consciousness. He couldn’t quite recall what was happening, only that he needed to get up, get going — danger! Instincts and training forced him to fight for consciousness. Screaming, pain — danger! — a realization that he was failing. Get up soldier! His eyes fluttered open to a bleary world. There were blurs above him and a sickening flowery smell of sweat and perfume mixed with gunpowder and the brassy stench of blood.
The cold, sharp sensation of a knife blade against his neck rallied him. It started sawing through the muscle and sinew on the left side of his throat. Johnny Bravo surged. His right hand still had the barbeque fork wrapped around his wrist by the leather thong. Johnny Bravo stabbed upward toward one of the blurs. A shriek answered his action. He pulled the fork out and stabbed at another. There was a gurgling howl. He stabbed again, blindly, knowing there was nothing else he could do but go down fighting.
Then sirens.
Finally darkness, a long corridor and a bright white light.
It was one in the morning when the sedan pulled onto the curb in front of Slade’s suburban house. Unlike most guests, the three men who got out took great care to close their doors quietly. One remained behind, keeping the car running. The men furtively but quickly crossed the lawn and climbed the steps, speaking in whispered tones. The gleam of knives could be seen from the street light.
One man went to the door while the other two crowded right behind him, showing anyone that might be watching that they had no tactical training and little common sense. The man at the door tried the latch — it opened — he nodded to his friends.
He threw open the door and all three rushed inside the front hall, shadows disappearing into a darkened house. The door remained open, but the only thing that escaped the house was the hard to be recognized sound of heavy objects falling to the wood floor.
Outside, the driver waited impatiently. Secretly, he was glad he did not have to go in. He was excited that he was taking part in the jihad, but the prospect of facing American Special Forces in their own home made him nervous. Then there were the kids. The information said that this Jeremiah Slade had six kids. His fellow jihadist’s had joked about the horror they’d inspire in the neighborhood when they awoke to find the families heads all lined up on the front porch rail like Halloween Jack o lanterns.
He laughed along with them, but the thought of sawing off the head of a little girl or little boy was revolting to the naturalized American citizen. Better that he drive the car.
“What’s taking them so damn long?” he said out loud. His increasingly agitated voice carried a distinct eastern accent. He needn’t have asked, and he swore at himself for a fool. The answer was obvious. It took time to slaughter a family of eight.
Taking a deep breath he calmed himself, dutifully checking the engine and gas. As he glanced back to the house the sound of his door opening startled him. One of the jihadists — they were all true blue jihadists now — he was pranking him. A heavy blow to his head changed his thinking, but he blacked out.
The sensation of cold water roused him and he awoke suddenly, sputtering. “What? What the Hell?” he exclaimed, his eyes snapping open. He was in a room. The jihadist tried to rise but he was duct taped to a non-descript grey institutional chair. There was no other furniture in the room. Ignorant though he was, the young jihadist knew that his career was over. He’d been caught.
“Allahu Akbar! I will tell you nothing — nothing!” shouted a hoarse voice from the room next door. Was it Ahkmed? Muhammad, or the other Muhammad? He couldn’t tell.
An answering voice replied testily, “Suits me buddy. It saves us space in Guantanamo!”
A strangled cry was followed by silence.
He began to sweat.
The door opened with a bang. He started, his head snapping to the opening. A man was standing there, a tall man with a mustache, Director MacCloud of the FBI. Two other men came in with him. MacCloud dragged another chair into the room and noisily set it before him, turning it around so that when he sat down he was leaning on the back.
“So Abdul, you’re answering the call to jihad,” he said in a condescending hard Texas drawl.
“My name is not Abdul! I want to see my lawyer! That’s my constitutional right asshole!” he retorted angrily.
The man simply smiled. “Your jihadist playbook doesn’t exist with me Abdul,” he said with derision. “You’re in the big leagues now.”
“You are the police. You have to follow the rules,” he insisted. “I want my phone call and my court appointed lawyer right now — do you understand?”
“I’m not the police. That means I can do any damn thing I want to you.”
“It will never stand in trial,” he sneered. “No matter what you do to me nothing I say can be used in trial. You haven’t even read me my rights! You are so screwed; I’ll sue your ass for false arrest and police harassment!”
One of the two men with the director back handed him across the face and then grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back painfully. He sat there stunned, unable to believe the police could actually do that to him. “You are so screwed. I’m not going to tell you a damn thing until my lawyer is here. Then I’m going to have your badge.”
“Funny, that’s what the last guy said; the one who broke into Agent Slade’s house with a butcher knife.”
“Did he succeed? Did he kill the infidel?”
“Why don’t I let him tell you himself,” the director shrugged. “Andy, would you please bring Abdul-One in here?” The man left the room and came back — with a severed head — only it wasn’t the infidel, it was one of the Muhammad’s. The agent tossed it into the jihadist’s lap. Blood started seeping out of the wound and through his pants onto his legs and crotch. Muhammad’s dead eyes looked up at him. His mouth was open in seeming protest.
MacCloud pointed at the head. “He didn’t want to talk. If you don’t want to talk — fine — I got your other two buddies in the room next door. Maybe after I put your head on their laps they’ll be more interested in telling me what I need to know.”
“How, how could you do this?”
The man who brought Muhammad in, picked up the head and shoved it against the jihadist’s face.
MacCloud told him, “Get it through your head; I’m not a cop! I’m government! We are at war Abdul; at war with your ilk! Now, since you’ve already violated the Geneva Convention you know what that means? It means I don’t have to follow it. Here are the rules: you talk, you live; you don’t talk, I send you to Allah in pieces; and trust me, I won’t begin with your head.”
The jihadist began to tremble. “This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening!”
“You bet it is, Abdul. You are now in the deepest, darkest hole in this United States of America! No one knows you’re here; no one knows you exist! The only way you leave this room alive is by answering my questions — do you get it Abdul?”