Stand Against Evil: Spectre Series, #6

By C.W. Lemoine

After taking down a corrupt politician at the highest level in Washington, D.C., Spectre has finally found happiness. He and his new family have settled into what they hope will be a quieter life while Kruger and his team continue to hunt terrorists.
 

But when a horrific terror attack rocks a quiet New Orleans suburb, Kruger blames himself and walks away from his team. As the country recovers from the aftermath of the devastating attack in the following weeks, a pilot in Spectre's new squadron mysteriously goes missing.

When Spectre convinces Kruger to get back in the game, Kruger and his team soon discover that another, more sinister terror plot is underway.

Determined not to let more innocent people die, they must use every resource available to prevent another massacre on U.S. soil and take down those responsible. But as the dead terrorist bodies start to pile up, Kruger and his team once again find themselves one step behind - although this time, not the terrorists, but an unknown vigilante whose mission is to STAND AGAINST EVIL.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.W. Lemoine
• Release date: Dec 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540141903

C.W. Lemoine

C.W. Lemoine is the author of SPECTRE RISING, AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL., ARCHANGEL FALLEN, and EXECUTIVE REACTION.  He graduated from the A.B. Freeman School of Business at Tulane University in 2005 and Air Force Officer Training School in 2006. He is a military pilot that has flown the F-16 and F/A-18. He is also a certified Survival Krav Maga Instructor and sheriff’s deputy. http://www.cwlemoine.com Facebook http://www.facebook.com/cwlemoine/ Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/CWLemoine/

Book preview

Chapter One

Jackson, MS

One Year Later

Siddiqui Ghalib finished his morning prayer and rolled up his prayer rug for the last time. He knew that he would never again pray from such a holy place. His journey to martyrdom was nearing its end. He felt strangely at peace with that realization.

As the other believers moved out of the prayer room and into the kitchen for breakfast, Siddiqui headed straight for his room. He pulled a bag from beneath his modest single bed and began packing. 

Won’t you stay for the morning meal? Imam Farah asked from behind him.

Siddiqui continued packing as the Imam stood in the doorway. After he was sure he had everything – a Quran, Glock 17 handgun, fake driver’s license, passport, and a small bag full of clothes – he turned to face the short, fat Imam.

Although the Imam had been a gracious host, Siddiqui knew that Farah was anything but pure, having succumbed to the gluttony of living in America. He was known for his expensive cars, prostitutes, and even alcohol. It was shameful, but Siddiqui never spoke of it, knowing that the Imam was an important piece in their operation, regardless of whether or not Siddiqui actually respected him.

Will you be taking me to the rental car center? Siddiqui asked tersely.

Why are you in such a hurry, friend? Farah asked. You seem very troubled.

Imam, we have less than a week until the operation, Siddiqui replied. The men will begin to arrive this afternoon. I must be there to welcome them.

Yes, you are right, the Imam replied thoughtfully. I will take you to the rental car center myself, of course. Please let me know when you are ready.

Siddiqui nodded as Imam Farah closed the door behind him. He sat on the bed and closed his eyes, thinking of his family that had been killed by American airstrikes in Raqqa, Syria, five years earlier.

His wife had been visiting his parents when an American bomber dropped a five hundred pound bomb on a nearby building. The explosion had caused the structure to collapse onto his parents’ apartment, killing everyone he loved instantly.

He had worked late that night, working on a Humvee the Islamic State had captured from the Iraqi Army. He had seen the explosions firsthand as the air raid sirens sounded. He would never get that image out of his head.

A mechanic by trade, Siddiqui’s shop had stayed open as the Free Syrian Army, and eventually the Islamic State, had taken over Raqqa. The constant bombardment by the Americans, the military blockades, and the dying agriculture, however, had taken its toll on the city.

He watched as the city went from a prosperous cultural center with trade and agriculture to a bombed out prison.  As others had fled, Siddiqui and his family had stayed. The Islamic State had never bothered him. He was young and a good mechanic. They liked him. They had even offered him a position in their police force on several occasions, but Siddiqui had always felt that he was best suited to serve through his shop.

But that all changed when the Americans killed his family. He found a rage that he had never before felt. They had taken everything from him. The infidels had killed his family from thousands of feet in the air like the cowards they were. Siddiqui joined the Islamic State the next day.

They had trained him to be a warrior. The more he heard of their teachings, the more convinced he was that theirs was a righteous path. He had found his new calling – to cripple the Americans and drive out the non-believers, while establishing the caliphate. It was Allah’s will.

Siddiqui opened his eyes and stood, throwing his bag over his shoulder as he left the small room. He walked to the kitchen where Imam Farah was eating with the others.

The rental car center will be open soon, Siddiqui said. I am ready.

Sit, Imam Farah ordered, while motioning to the empty seat next to him. Eat. You will need strength for your journey.

Siddiqui started to protest, but thought better of it as some of the others watched him. Questioning an Imam in a place of worship was highly frowned upon. Siddiqui reluctantly sat as one of the others placed a plate of food in front of him.

As he had grown used to doing on the battlefield, Siddiqui quickly cleaned his plate. Eating was necessary for energy, nothing more. He had no time to sit and enjoy the carefully prepared meal.

Do you feel better? the Imam asked, still casually chewing on a piece of bread as Siddiqui finished.

Imam, we must go, Siddiqui pleaded.

Yes, of course, Imam Farah said with a smile as he pushed his plate aside.

Siddiqui grabbed his bag and followed the Imam through the kitchen and out of the front door of the mosque. The alarm on the Imam’s BMW chirped as Farah unlocked it and popped open the trunk. Siddiqui gently placed his bag in, removing the Glock 17 and tucking it into the waistband of his khaki pants.

He covered the handgun with his untucked polo shirt as he closed the trunk and took his place in the passenger seat next to the Imam.

You remind me of Tariq, the Imam said as he backed out of his parking spot at the front of the mosque and started down the long, isolated gravel driveway.

Tariq failed, Siddiqui snapped. I will not.

Is that what you think? the Imam asked, as he turned from the driveway onto a paved road leading to a nearby subdivision.

It is because of Tariq that we had to delay our plan for over a year, Siddiqui replied.

"His plan, Imam Farah replied. Do not forget what he has done."

Al-Baghdadi devised this plan, Imam, Siddiqui argued. Tariq Qafir caused its delay.

And yet you were willing to fight for him, Farah replied.

I am a warrior for Allah and the Islamic State, Siddiqui said proudly. Tariq Qafir was sent by al-Baghdadi to strike a blow against the Americans, but instead he obsessed over trivial victories that did nothing to further our cause.

Farah’s brow furrowed. Trivial victories? Do you believe that shooting down the symbol of American excess and military might is trivial?

It bought nothing, Siddiqui said, ignoring the building anger in the Imam’s voice. The Americans denied it and the world believed them. They claimed that the F-35 fighter jet crashed because of the pilot. It only led to the death of Tariq and many good men. It compromised our plans. It is because of him that our women and children still die by their cowardly bombers.

And you think that, if you are successful, the Americans will just give up? Farah asked. Do you believe it is that easy?

"When we are successful, the Americans will know that the Islamic State cannot be defeated. They will know that they are not safe, even in their quiet suburbs. They will cower and bow to the will of Allah. Allahu Akbar!" Siddiqui yelled while clenching his fist.

Allahu Akbar, Imam Farah repeated, not willing to push the point any further.

They made the rest of the trip to the rental car lot in silence. When Farah pulled into the lot, Siddiqui thanked him and retrieved his bag out of the trunk. There was nothing more to say. They both knew they would never see each other again.

Siddiqui walked into the empty lobby and presented his fake ID and credit card to the young woman working the desk.

Mike Ritz? she asked as she searched her system for a reservation.

Yes, that is correct, Siddiqui said, nervously eyeing her as she typed.

Yes, it appears we have a one-way rental for you to New Orleans, she said. Is that correct?

Yes, Siddiqui replied.

For one week? the woman asked. Her eyebrows were raised as she looked up at him.

Is there a problem? Siddiqui asked. He moved his right hand toward the butt of his handgun, ready to dispatch the woman if necessary.

No problem, sir, the woman replied. I was just making sure that was right. Most people with one-way rentals don’t keep them for that long.

I am going to do some sightseeing on my way, Siddiqui said.

The printer whirred to life behind the woman as she nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. Do you wish to buy insurance coverage for your rental? she asked as she retrieved the paper from the printer.

That won’t be necessary, Siddiqui said.

Ok, sign here, the woman said. She pointed to several places on the contract to sign and then handed Siddiqui’s ID and credit card back to him. After taking her copy of the contract, she walked into a back office and returned with a set of keys.

Toyota Camry out front, she said as she handed him the keys. I hope you enjoy your trip.

I will, Siddiqui said ominously. He retrieved the keys and walked back out into the hot, humid air.

Siddiqui found the car and loaded his bag. He breathed a sigh of relief as he left the parking lot and headed for the highway. He had been worried that his fake ID and credit cards would arouse suspicion, but the desk attendant seemed only to care about the length of his rental.

Although he had cleared the first hurdle, he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax again. The Americans had proven that they were capable of striking at any time. The fact that he was using the same training facility where Tariq Qafir had been assassinated didn’t sit well with Siddiqui, but there were no other options. It was a critical part of the plan, and part of the reason they had waited so long to strike.

The morning traffic was surprisingly light as Siddiqui cleared Jackson heading to Utica. He set the cruise control slightly below the speed limit and settled in for the one hour drive. He didn’t want to risk getting pulled over.

Siddiqui thought of the seven other men of his group. They were mostly battle-hardened warriors from Iraq, Syria, and Libya. As far as he knew, they had done well over the last year by blending in with the general public and staying off the radar. He hoped they would exercise that same caution in their journey to the training center.

He was still angry that Tariq Qafir had ruined it for them. He had gone through so much to get to America – sneaking in through Mexico with the drug cartels six months before Tariq had arrived. He had been ready to die for their cause.

But Tariq had been arrogant, and his foolish ways had compromised the mission. An American special operations team had killed Tariq while Siddiqui and Muhammed al-Iraqi had been out doing surveillance on their target. When they returned, they had found Tariq’s lifeless body impaled on the perimeter fence. With the second-in-command dead alongside Tariq, Siddiqui had been forced to take charge and abort the mission.

But the wheels of the operation were already turning. Kamal Hamid Salman and his twin brother Ali had managed to sneak into America among Syrian refugees arriving in New Orleans. Siddiqui had to come out of hiding to retrieve them, only to tell them that their plans had been foiled and that they had to remain dormant until the danger of discovery was over.

As Siddiqui droned along the two-lane highway lost in thought, flashing red and blue lights on the side of the road ahead of him suddenly caught his attention. His heart raced as he approached, seeing multiple police cars lined up on the side of the road with their lights flashing.

Siddiqui slowed, frantically searching for a way to turn around on the shoulderless road. Have they discovered me? Siddiqui’s adrenaline surged.

Realizing there was no way to turn around, Siddiqui slowly approached the roadblock. He removed the Glock from his waistband. He vowed to go down shooting rather than risk capture and interrogation by the Americans. He had heard about their ruthless tactics and wouldn’t risk compromising the operation. The rest of the team could function without him if it came down to it. Another delay was unacceptable.

A police officer with a yellow vest stood in the middle of the road, waving for him to approach. Siddiqui slid the Glock down between the seat and center console next to his right hip, resting his hand loosely on it as he neared the officer.

The officer didn’t seem to recognize Siddiqui as he motioned for Siddiqui to lower his window. Siddiqui slowly lowered the window, loosely keeping his right hand on his lap in case he needed to kill the policeman and attempt to escape.

Good morning, sir.  We’re just doing an insurance checkpoint.  Do you have your proof of insurance on you today? the officer asked with a thick southern drawl.

It is a rental car, Siddiqui replied softly.

Ok, sir, do you have that contract on you by any chance? the officer asked.

Siddiqui nervously pulled the paper the woman had given him from the visor above him and handed it to the officer. He stared straight ahead as the officer review the paperwork.

Mike Ritz? the officer asked.

Siddiqui continued staring straight ahead, counting the number of officers he would need to take out.

Hello? Mr. Ritz? the officer asked again.

Huh? Siddiqui said. He had been caught off guard, having forgotten that the contract was under the name of his alias. Yes.

That’s your name? the officer asked.

Yes, I am Mike Ritz, Siddiqui replied nervously.

Do you have your driver’s license on you, sir?

Siddiqui hesitated for a moment. The officer now seemed to be very suspicious.

Is something wrong? the officer asked.

I am sorry, I am just very nervous, Siddiqui replied. Where I am from, the police are very brutal.

And where’s that? the officer asked.

Siddiqui pulled his driver’s license from his front pocket and handed it to the officer. Texas, he said nervously.

Texas? the officer asked with a chuckle as he studied the ID. Really?

I am a refugee from Syria, Siddiqui said. I changed my name as part of my immigration into America.

The officer stared at the ID for a moment and then handed it back to Siddiqui.

Well, welcome to America, the officer said with a warm smile. You’ll find that we’re nothing like that here.

Thank you, Siddiqui said as he stuffed his ID back into his pocket.

Have a nice day and drive safely, the officer said before waving Siddiqui through.

Chapter Two

Siddiqui made it the rest of the way to the compound without further incident. After leaving the main highway, he traversed a long, narrow dirt road to the compound. It was heavily wooded, providing excellent protection against aerial and satellite surveillance.

When he arrived at the outer perimeter fence, Siddiqui exited his rental car and unlocked the padlock before removing the chain from the gate. He pushed both sides open and then walked to the right side of the road.

Squatting down, Siddiqui removed a knife from his pocket. He pushed aside the dirt with his left hand and then used the knife to pop open a cover, revealing the improvised explosive device filled with shrapnel Muhammad al-Iraqi had set up before leaving. It was connected to a tripwire running across the road, set to detonate if a vehicle were to intrude upon their compound.

Finding the detonator, Siddiqui disabled the IED and replaced the cover. He disconnected the tripwire and tossed it aside, before getting back into the Toyota Camry and continuing the last quarter mile to the compound.

Siddiqui pulled the Camry to the side of the building and parked. He grabbed his bag and walked through the front fence. He found the training compound just as he had left it a year earlier. The blood stains and bodies were gone, replaced by overgrown weeds. He and Muhammed al-Iraqi had given Tariq Qafir and the men killed by the Americans proper burials in the wake of their murders.  Their bodies were buried on the east side of the property. Afterwards, they had boarded up the doors and windows of the modest compound before leaving.

Siddiqui pried away the board covering the broken front door and pushed it open. It had been damaged when the Americans had kicked it open during the raid. It was one of the many things Siddiqui would have to fix before the others arrived that evening.

After depositing his bag in his musty, dark room, Siddiqui went outside to the tool shed. It was next to a series of practice targets, and a mock-up of the target of their upcoming attack. Finding the key for the padlock, Siddiqui opened the shed and retrieved his tool bag.

He verified that all of the tools he needed were there, and then went to the generator on the side of the house. The Americans had disabled it during their assault by cutting several wires. It took thirty minutes to rewire it and get it running again, but Siddiqui’s experience as a mechanic paid off. The compound once again had electricity and, more importantly, air conditioning.

Satisfied that the generator was working and had enough diesel, Siddiqui returned to the house. He went to work cleaning up the debris and dead animals he found, and then fixed the doors and windows.

He worked throughout the day in the heat and humidity. Just as he finished cutting the tall grass, he noticed a tan SUV coming down the long driveway. As the vehicle grew nearer, Siddiqui recognized Kamal Hamid Salman and his twin brother Ali. The SUV slowly pulled next to Siddiqui’s rental car and parked. Siddiqui approached them as the driver quickly exited and helped the passenger out of the vehicle. From the distance, he couldn’t tell the twins apart.

The passenger moved slowly toward Siddiqui, as the driver shut the door for him. Siddiqui realized that Ali had been the passenger. Up close, he could tell them apart by a scar on Kamal’s right cheek.  Otherwise, they were identical.

Assalamu 'alaykum, Siddiqui said as they stopped in front of him.

Wa alaykum us salaam, Kamal replied. He had served with Siddiqui in Iraq, fighting for the Islamic State.

Ali began a coughing fit as the Kamal and Siddiqui exchanged the traditional greeting. Are you alright? Siddiqui asked with a look of concern.

It is not good, friend, Kamal replied as Ali continued coughing.

Please, you must be tired from your travels, Siddiqui said, motioning for them to go into the house. I have prepared the compound for our stay.

Thank you, Ali said weakly.

Did you bring the required items? Siddiqui asked as they helped Ali into the house.

The weapons are in the vehicle, and the intelligence we gathered is in my bag, Kamal replied. As former soldiers in the Syrian Army, Kamal and his brother were the most tactically experienced of the cell. Kamal had been tasked with gathering intelligence and planning the attacks.

Very good, Siddiqui said approvingly. They helped Ali into one of the rooms. Ali began another coughing fit as they helped him onto the bed to rest.

As they left Ali and went back out to the SUV to gather the weapons, Siddiqui suddenly stopped and turned to Kamal. Your brother seems very sick, he said.

Kamal nodded. We have been lying low, as we were ordered, working for a construction company in Alabama. Six months ago, however, Ali began this coughing fit. We took him to an emergency room where doctors found an inoperable tumor in his lungs. He was told he has less than a year to live.

It is surely the work of the Americans and their chemical agents in Iraq, Siddiqui said. He will not be able to take part in the operation with his condition.

Kamal shook his head somberly. He has medicine for the symptoms, and he will not sit idly by while we fight for the glory of Allah. We have been through too much together.

Kamal and his brother had enlisted in the Syrian Army together as young men, serving together until the Syrian Civil War began to rip the country apart. They joined the Free Syrian Army, a group of officers and soldiers that had split from the government with the goal of bringing down the ruthless regime of Bashar al-Assad, and fought against the Syrian government.

They were given weapons and training by American intelligence operatives. The Americans taught them how to wage guerrilla warfare, and to defend themselves against an army with superior numbers.

But as they fought against the oppressive Assad regime, they fought alongside Al Nusra and Islamic State fighters. Kamal in particular had taken to these men. Theirs was a righteous endeavor, for they fought in the name of Allah to reunite the Middle East and restore the caliphate. Ali didn’t much care for the ruthlessness against some of the Christian civilians, but Kamal assured him that it was a necessary measure to destroy the will of the non-believers.

With their training and battle experience, they were recruited by high level Islamic State commanders to take the fight to the Westerners. The Americans and their partners had begun more targeted strikes in Syria, taking out oil pipelines that ISIS used to fund their operations. The ISIS commanders knew that the only way to defeat the International Coalition was to destroy their will to fight.

Using their extensive network of computer experts, Kamal’s commanders were able to forge documents for him and his brother. They assumed the identities of poor farmers, driven off their land after coalition fighters had bombed it. They were fleeing to escape the death and destruction, they had told the aid workers.

But upon arriving in New Orleans with the other refugees, Siddiqui had been there to pick them up and inform them that the operation had been delayed. He brought them to the mosque in Jackson, where they obtained money and new identities, and then moved to Alabama with orders to blend in until the time came to attack.

He is in no condition to fight, Siddiqui replied.

He will do what is necessary, Kamal replied defiantly. Allah will give him strength.

We only need three men for our operation, Siddiqui argued. He can stay here.

Kamal shook his head. I have given this much thought, and we have spoken many times about this matter. Ali will fight and die as a martyr for Allah.

Insha'Allah, Siddiqui replied. If Allah wills it.

Siddiqui helped Kamal bring in the rest of his equipment. He had acquired several AK-47 rifles, ammunition, and handguns for the attack. They locked the weapons in a storage room, and then returned to the front of the house in time to see another vehicle approach.

The sedan parked behind Kamal’s SUV, and Muhammad al-Iraqi emerged. Siddiqui had trained with Muhammad for the operation with Tariq Qafir. They had been out on a surveillance mission together when Tariq and the others had been killed.

The two shared an embrace and exchanged greetings. Siddiqui introduced Kamal to Muhammad before showing Muhammed to his room.

Ali is very sick, Siddiqui explained as they passed his room. But he wishes to die a glorious death for Allah.

With the other four men not scheduled to arrive from Memphis until late that night, Siddiqui and Kamal set up a planning room near the back of the house. Siddiqui and Muhammad helped Kamal hang a corkboard, upon which Kamal pinned the black and white surveillance pictures he had taken of the objectives. He had also managed to acquire daily schedules, employee listings, and other sensitive data pertinent to the attack.

How did you gather all of this from Alabama? Siddiqui asked as he stepped back and admired Kamal’s work.

We had many days off while working construction, Kamal replied. We took several trips to do surveillance and gather intel. These targets are very poorly guarded.

And the schedules? This man’s information? Siddiqui asked, pointing to a picture of an older gentleman on the board.

All available on the internet, Kamal said.

Muhammad stared at the rough drawing Kamal had made of the ambush location and planned route of travel. My brother, you have done fine work, he said, smiling through his thick, black beard.

Our work has only begun, Kamal said. We must devise a plan that will create the greatest spectacle. The infidels must know that no matter where they hide, they are not safe. This target suits that purpose, but I fear that there will not be enough exposure.

Muhammad nodded as he studied the drawings and map. He was an expert in improvised explosive devices from his time in Iraq fighting the Americans. A wicked smile flashed across his face as the plan came together in his mind.

Do not worry, he said confidently. I have an idea that will cause panic in the heart of every parent in America. They will kneel before the will of Allah.

Chapter Three

Siddiqui watched as Kamal ran the men through shooting and malfunction drills. Kamal was firm, but patient, as he instructed the less experienced warriors how to move together as a team. It was training Kamal had himself received from the American CIA in Syria.

The men that had been chosen for the second attack were all young Americans that had never been to the Middle East. Siddiqui had chosen them because he knew that the news media would be more likely to panic over the prospect of homegrown terrorists. It would cause even more fear as the American infidels realized that they would never be safe.

But Siddiqui knew neither he nor any of his men would live to see such fear. To die a Shahid, a martyr, was the ultimate goal. Their reward in heaven would be great. Siddiqui believed that their efforts would lead to the eventual collapse of the Great Satan, and the further rise of the Islamic State and the caliphate.

As Kamal continued working with the younger warriors, Siddiqui saw Muhammad exit from the storage building. He had turned it into his makeshift workshop, using it to build the explosive devices that would be used in the attacks.

Do you think the men will be ready? Muhammed asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

Allah will guide them, Siddiqui replied confidently.

Tomorrow will be a great day for the Islamic State, Muhammed replied with a malevolent smile. Come, I have something to show you.

Siddiqui followed Muhammed into his workshop. Muhammed sat down at his workbench. There was a large plastic container sitting on the table. He opened it, revealing several smaller canisters.

Do you know what these are? Muhammed asked.

Siddiqui shook his head as he studied what appeared to be improvised explosives.

I have been working on these for the last week, Muhammed said, holding one of the canisters up proudly. This is a thermite bomb, capable of burning at over four thousand degrees.

Muhammed put the canister down and picked up another container that looked like a light bulb. And this is napalm. It will stick to anything, causing a magnificent flame.

Siddiqui stepped back slightly, afraid that it might ignite at any moment.

Don’t worry, Muhammed said. They are safe for now. But tomorrow, they will burn brilliantly, and these...

Muhammed stopped as he picked up a vest. The ball bearings in these vests will kill hundreds.

But what if they shoot us before we can trigger them? Siddiqui asked.

Muhammed handed Siddiqui a trigger, who held it gingerly as he nervously looked back at the collection of explosives a few feet from him.

Relax, it is not connected to anything, Muhammed said, taking the detonator from Siddiqui’s hand. But this dead-man switch will ensure that the vest explodes no matter what the infidels do to us.

Siddiqui smiled. Allahu Akbar.

They heard a loud scream outside as Muhammed returned the vest to its container. Siddiqui ran outside to see Kamal lying on the ground next to the target mock-up. The men he had been training all stood around him as one tried to give him aid.

What happened? Siddiqui asked as he pushed the men out of the way. He reached Kamal, who was clutching his right leg as he grimaced in pain.

We were going up the stairs, and Aabir slipped and fell into Nashir, who fell back onto his leg, the second cell leader, Layth Awaki, said.

Siddiqui squatted down next to Kamal. My brother, are you going to be ok? Siddiqui asked.

Help me stand, Kamal said.

Siddiqui and Layth helped Kamal to his feet. Kamal screamed out in agony as he tried to put weight on his right leg, nearly collapsing before Layth caught him.

Remove his boot, Siddiqui ordered as he helped Kamal stand. Aabir squatted down and gently removed Kamal’s boot. Kamal groaned in pain as Aabir rolled up the pant leg of Kamal’s khaki tactical pants.

The ankle was bruised and swollen. The fall had broken Kamal’s ankle. He would be useless in the operation.

Get him inside and put some ice on it, Siddiqui ordered. Aabir took over for Siddiqui, and he and Layth helped Kamal hobble into the house.

Siddiqui turned back to Muhammed, who had been quietly watching the events unfold. He pulled the bomb maker aside after telling the men of the other cell to go back to their drills.

We do not have enough men to execute our plan tomorrow, Siddiqui hissed.

It only requires three, Muhammed said.

And we now have two, Siddiqui replied angrily, before pointing to the other cell. We will have to bring one of them with us.

That was not the plan, Muhammed said. Their operation requires four.

We don’t have a choice, Siddiqui replied. You and I cannot do this alone.

We won’t, Muhammed said. Ali will be with us.

Siddiqui shook his head. Have you seen him in the last two days? He stays in bed. He can barely walk. He won’t survive the drive to the objective.

"But he can walk, Muhammed replied. It is more than his brother can do at the moment."

Then we will delay the operation, Siddiqui said.

"And what of the other cells? Tomorrow is the day, Muhammed said. The Americans will surely increase security. We cannot wait. We have to strike tomorrow."

I will seek guidance from Adid, Siddiqui said as he turned to walk back to the house. Kaleed Adid was the financier and coordinator of American operations, reporting directly to Ayman Awad al-Baghdadi, the head of foreign operations of the Islamic State. The son of a Saudi Prince, Adid served as the head of the Southeast Division of the Coalition of Islamic-American Cooperation.  

Muhammed grabbed his arm, spinning him around as they came face to face. You would risk the entire operation by making a phone call the day before the operation? he asked angrily.

What other choice do I have? Siddiqui asked, pulling away from Muhammed’s grip. It is not my decision to make.

No, you are right, Muhammed said. Kamal is our leader. It is his decision to make. Let us ask him.

Muhammed followed as Siddiqui turned back to the house. They walked past the group of fighters still training and entered, heading straight for the kitchen where Kamal was applying ice to his elevated ankle.

Siddiqui asked the others to leave them. Muhammed took a seat next to Kamal as Siddiqui stood next to them. We must postpone the operation, Siddiqui said.

If we postpone, the other attacks will still happen and we will lose our window of opportunity, Muhammed argued. It cannot be postponed.

We cannot complete this mission with only two men, Siddiqui shot back.

Kamal groaned slightly as he closed his eyes. The mission will continue as planned, he said as he tilted his head back.

But how? Siddiqui protested. You cannot even walk.

I will stay behind and prepare for the next attack while I recover, Kamal said, opening his eyes as he looked at Siddiqui. My brother will go in my place.

Siddiqui scoffed. Ali? What good will he be from the bed? He is already dead.

As soon as he said it, Siddiqui heard a cough from behind him. He spun around to see Ali standing behind him. He still looked very sickly.

You should choose your words more carefully, my brother, Ali said hoarsely.

Siddiqui squared off with Ali. Although they were the same size, Ali’s hunched posture made him seem much smaller. I have chosen them very carefully. You are of no use to us on the battlefield, he replied.

Ali’s right hand instantly wrapped around Siddiqui’s throat as he kicked Siddiqui’s leg from beneath him and drove him into the wood floor. Siddiqui gasped as the wind was knocked out of him when he hit the ground.

I am still very capable, Ali growled, still squeezing Siddiqui’s neck. You would be wise not to underestimate me again.

Brother, please, Kamal said.

Ali released his grip on Siddiqui’s throat and stood. Muhammad smirked as he watched the beaten Siddiqui pick himself back up.

The plan will be modified slightly, Kamal said. But make no mistake, it will be even more devastating than anything the infidels could have ever imagined. You will all die as glorious martyrs for Allah, and although I will not be there tomorrow, I will join you soon enough. This is not a setback. It is an opportunity.  Allah has blessed us with the ability to kill even more of the nonbelievers.

Chapter Four

Julio Meeks downed his last Rip-It energy drink as he stared anxiously at his computer screen. He was shivering from a combination of lack of sleep, high levels of caffeine, and the extreme cold temperature of the server room.

Meeks looked at his watch before flipping the hood of his jacket over his head. He had been down in the basement server room for nearly three hours. It was almost 6 AM at their offices in Falls Church, Virginia, which meant it was approaching 4 AM in El Paso, where Kruger and the team were waiting for him to crack the code. All of the intel pointed to an early morning attack on a soft target. They were running out of time.

His computer beeped and a dialogue box popped up on the middle screen of his three-monitor setup. The night prior, Kruger and his team had found the Mosque where the Islamic State had set up shop in El Paso, Texas. They had found and uploaded encrypted files to Meeks’ secure server, hoping to get a lead on where and when the terrorist strike was planned. Their only intel was that an attack was imminent.

Meeks frantically scrolled through the newly decrypted files. It seemed to be a jumbled mess of pictures, e-mails, and documents, mostly in Arabic. It would take weeks to sort through it all – time they simply didn’t have.

Meeks froze as he found a picture of a hospital. It appeared to be taken from a distance. The name of the hospital was obscured, but he could tell it was a