Point Blank

By Don Knighthouse

Part Four of the ‘Patriot Black’ series: The global jihad organization, a.k.a. the “Central Trust of the Muslim Brotherhood” has suffered a major setback with the destruction of its North American leadership team and its infrastructure nearly completely disabled. The heroic clandestine team, formed by Murphy & Co.—Patriot Black—still has their work cut out for them because the plot to destroy America continues to move forward with inexorable force. With every new bit of information, the team continues to peel back layer-after-diabolical-layer of traitors and co-conspirators...some who may even be in Patriot Black itself!
Keeping pace with the first three thrillers in the series, Point Blank leaves you breathless with one plot twist after another. From ultra-intense close quarters combat to hair-raising mass destruction attacks, Point Blank will keep you on the edge of your seat with provocative plot twists that will keep you guessing with each and every chapter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Knighthouse
• Release date: Dec 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463981245

Don Knighthouse

Marine Veteran, Author, Martial Artist, history enthusiast, competitive & recreational shooter.

Book preview

Point Blank

By Don Knighthouse

Published by Don Knighthouse

Copyright 2019 by Don Knighthouse

Smashwords Edition

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

BONUS: Excerpt from In the Shadow of Meth Valley

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Chapter 1

Brother, hurry! I see smoke coming from one of the upstairs windows!

The passenger of the sedan rolled his window down as the car pulled up to the wrought iron-barred gateway. As the vehicle was still coming to a stop he reached out and began punching the key code on a keypad affixed to the side of the post beside the gate’s stone masonry pillars. Each number let out a tiny ‘beep’ with each depression of the tiny metallic buttons. The passenger pressed the ‘#’ button after he had entered the requisite 4-digit code and suddenly the lock of the gate unlatched and an unseen electric motor began moving the barred gate sideways out of the way.

The slender black man in the back seat pulled the binoculars away from his face, "Hurry! I am seeing smoke coming from many windows!"

The tan-skinned man seated beside the African male rolled down his window and waved wildly, signaling for the trailing vehicle to pass them through the open gate, to take the lead. In a flash, the white van squealed its tires as it blew past the black Acura four-door sedan.

Go, Omar! Go! demanded the Arab leader from his back seat.

With a stomp, the driver pounded the accelerator to the floor and, with a screech of the front tires, the sedan was quickly squeezing up tight behind the van. The two vehicles raced up the twisting, tree-lined private drive that ran from the county road up to the mansion of Malik Hazmi. The heavily laden van swayed from side-to-side as it negotiated each sweeping curve. The huge oaks, maples, and chestnuts passed by in a blur as the vehicles sped along the narrow paved driveway. As the huge mansion began to come into view through the estate’s forest, the Arab man spoke urgently, I see the smoke, brother! Something is wrong. Give me the radio!

The passenger handed the Arab a hand-held radio. The Arab keyed the push button on the side of the radio: Security team, there is trouble in Brother Hazmi’s residence. Use ‘Assault Plan-B’ now!

The two vehicles raced up to the mansion’s lower garage door and came to a screeching halt. The cargo van’s side door flew open and six heavily armed jihadists erupted from the vehicle, their AK-47’s at the ready. The lead soldier for Allah dropped to one-knee beside the staff entrance door located beside the large, heavy overhead door. The team stacked one after another behind the lead man, while the ‘tail-end-Charlie’ moved quickly up to the door and, without hesitation, keyed in the pass code to open the steel door. When the door opened, the team entered as one man, rushing in and quickly clearing the garage area.

The occupants of the sedan as well as the van’s driver and passenger were out and moving towards the door, their handguns drawn and ready. While the entry team was clearing the garage area, the Arab man, using a hand signal, sent the others around to the front of Hazmi’s castle. The four mujahideen team scuttled away, following the hedge and ivy undergrowth that camouflaged the structure’s massive concrete foundation. The Arab and the African stayed positioned outside the door.

Man down! We have found a man down, came a call from the entry team’s radio.

Who? Who is it? said the Arab into the walkie-talkie’s small microphone.

Saleem, came the curt reply.

The Arab sighed. This is not good! What of Master Hazmi???

Clear! came the call over the radio. We are moving up the stairwell to the second level.

The two men moved into the garage and quickly noted the pungent, acrid smell of smoke. As they moved up to and past the black Mercedes they saw Saleem’s lifeless body, his opaque, unseeing eyes staring out from a skull that lay foundering in a huge puddle of blood. Passing the grisly scene, the Arab and the African continued up towards the second level with the rest of the entry team.

Find Hazmi! blurted the Arab into the microphone.

"And then find that infidel Murphy! He must pay for this!"

Chapter 2

Let’s go, Marines! whispered Murphy as he pushed open the operations room door. Peering out into the hallway, he satisfied himself that the hajjis were all up the stairs and out of sight.

The jihadis had only performed a quick entry into the room. They hadn’t looked behind the wet bar, behind the server rack, nor that they noticed the large leather sofa pulled about 18" away from the wall. If they had been more thorough, then they would have found Murphy, Robbie, and Horse sequestered away, their weapons drawn and ready for a gunfight. But, to the Team’s good fortune, the jihadists were in a hurry to get upstairs; therefore, their room ‘clearing’ was barely more than a room ‘look-see.’

Horse grabbed several servers that he had disconnected from the rack and tucked them under his arm while in his other hand he grasped his M4 carbine. Robbie shoved a laptop computer into a backpack, along with a wad of maps that he found lying out on the operations room’s center table.

Let’s move! Murphy said as he grabbed his backpack and threw it over his back. Reaching from behind the wet bar, he pulled the olive-drab steel jerry can of gasoline from behind it. Opening the lid, he began to douse the operations center with liberal splashes of the flame-inducing liquid, making sure to soak the carpet and furniture as well.

Robbie and Horse moved down the concrete hallway that led from the op center back to the garage, with Murphy trailing behind them, leaving a generous trail of accelerant down the hall in their wake. The two leading Marines went out the door first while Murphy stopped at the Mercedes. He poured the remainder of the can’s contents in a puddle beside the luxury car. Setting the can down, he unslung his backpack and fished around inside its main compartment, eventually pulling out another thermite grenade. He took the grenade and pulled the pin and then tossed it into the open trunk of the car. Murphy dove out the side door and pulled it closed behind him.

In seconds the grenade lit off, causing the car’s gas tank to explode. In the enclosed, hardened concrete space, the explosion was funneled back into the hallway, causing the hallway and the op center to explode in a huge sheet of flame.

Robbie and Horse were already busting out through the trees, heading back out to their car that they had left parked out on the county road. Murphy pulled a K-Bar from his belt and went to the jihadists’ van, punching several holes in the rear tires. After giving the sedan’s front tires a similar treatment, Murphy took off at a sprint to catch up with his buddies.

Just before he parted the brush at the edge of the driveway, he could hear the screams of the trapped jihadists inside of Hazmi’s now fully flame-engorged mansion.

Chapter 3

Yes? answered a distracted Abdul Muhammad Al Yasser, barely taking his gaze away from the 39" flat screen TV mounted to the wall opposite his desk.

"Alqayid! It is…"

What is it, Javeed? snorted the agitated Yasser into the telephone’s handset. He was completely pre-occupied with the news reports of the attack on The Institute that were blaringly displayed on the plasma across from his desk.

It is Omar on the other line, stammered the lieutenant. "It is not good, alqayid."

Yasser diverted his eyes away from the TV screen and looked at the phone’s LCD screen. He noted the blinking button representing the call holding for him. He mashed the button and answered, What is it, Omar? What has happened?

"Alqayid! Our team was ambushed at Master Hazmi’s home, Omar fairly shouted into the other end of the line. The entire house is in flames! I fear that…"

Did you find Malik? interrupted the now panicked Yasser, suddenly fully engaged with this new crisis.

There was a pause, a suddenly ominous silence that got louder with each passing moment.

Omar! shouted Yasser into the phone’s receiver. Did you find Malik Hazmi?!?!

The beleaguered muj finally replied, "I don’t know, alqayid. Our team was not able to enter because we had been posted at the front of the building. By the time we were able to breech the door, the building was completely ablaze. We could not get past the front room before the smoke and flames drove us back."

Yasser scooped up the remote from his desk and began to surf through the channels. Finally, he found what he was looking for. The words BREAKING NEWS scrolled across the bottom of the screen while a helicopter news crew showed scenes of a huge mansion estate completely engulfed in flames and smoke.

"Alqayid Yasser, we performed a thorough search outside the house as well as the surrounding grounds. We found no signs of Master Hazmi or Abdullah Saleem. I fear that…"

They are dead, replied Yasser dejectedly.

And with that, he hung up the phone. He retrieved a cell phone from his top desk drawer. He sighed heavily as he scrolled through his contacts list. Finding the number he needed, he tapped the screen, making the call.

Malik Hazmi was dead.

And The Council needed to know right away.

Chapter 4

Arnold Fairbanks drained the tumbler of scotch in a gulp, allowing the alcohol to burn its path down into his gullet. He slammed the glass tumbler down on the wet bar’s marble top so hard that several of the small ice cubes bounced out and skittered across the bar.

Laid out before him was today’s paper, with its bold headline:

Fire at Mansion Kills Diplomat!

Fairbanks poured himself another scotch and then snatched up the paper. Spinning about on his heel, he paced over to the large bay window that overlooked the expansive Metropolitan skyline. As he hoisted the tumbler to take another draw from it—this time, more of a controlled sip—he glanced down at the sub-title and descriptions under the color photographs adorned on the Page 3 main article:

"Diplomat’s mansion seen ablaze and burning out of control."

"Iconic residence fire could be seen for miles."

"Fire crews find several bodies, but no survivors."

Fairbanks sipped again as his eyes slowly moved down through the article:

…one of the bodies recovered is believed to be the owner of the mansion—Mr. Malik Hazmi…

…he was a noted speaker and philanthropist, striving to foster peace and goodwill between America and Muslim nations around the world…

…a highly respected leader in the Muslim world, his efforts of diplomacy to help bring peace in both the Middle East and here at home, as well as to increase the everyday American’s understanding that Islam is, in fact, a religion of peace…

And finally, Fairbanks came to the final paragraph. As he read each terrible word, his blood ran cold:

…authorities speculate that the fire may be connected to the domestic terrorist attack that had taken place earlier in the day at Hazmi’s place of business, The Institute for Islamic-American Studies for Peace. The Institute had been attacked earlier in the day, but authorities are not sure at this point if Hazmi was the target in that attack…

…federal agents are beginning to comb over both The Institute’s and Hazmi’s e-mail accounts, phone records, internet traffic, social media traffic, and financial records to see if there were any correlation between these two tragic events…

Fairbanks chugged the last bit of scotch as he re-read the last part of that sentence:

"…and financial records to see if there were any correlation between these two tragic events…"

Immediately his mind begin to go through the process of how, if at all possible, the Feds may come across the two million dollars that had recently been wired to his offshore account in the Caymans. They would certainly want to know where those funds originated…

With his mind thus pre-occupied, he marched back to the bar and poured yet another three fingers of his favorite single malt over the dwindling remains of the ice cubes lingering in the tumbler. He grabbed the tongs and plunked two more cubes into the glass. Running his stubby fingers through his silver-gray hair, he pondered his next move.

The last thing he needed was to be tied into an investigation regarding this whole mess. He really didn’t want the Feds digging around into his business…that would definitely make his Middle Eastern friends and associates nervous.

Nervous enough to distance themselves from him…

But what worried him more than that was if it was discovered that Hazmi had paid him the money for intel on Murphy, and then The Council would begin to get nervous, too, that those funds could be traced back to them. That would not only make him person non grata, but it would also make him a liability, a loose end…

A loose end to be cut off and disposed of…

Chapter 5

Good… The tape is still in place…

Opening the door and walking partway in, Ward’s eyes cast a weary, disgusted scan around the room. He let out a long, slow sigh as he took another swig from his jet-black coffee. This is supposed to be an office… It looks more like Yucca Flats after the blast…

He pushed his way into the office, letting the self-closer device shut the door behind him. Dropping his leather attaché’ case on the pile of papers, files, and folders heaped on what was supposed to be a small couch, he continued on around the corner of his desk and, with a quick shrug, doffed his London Fog trench coat and draped it over the back of his office chair. The maneuver would have cost him several sloshes of coffee but for the saving grace of the travel lid over the paper cup. As if on cue, his desk phone rang.

Yes? Ward here, he answered.

The stern, low voice on the other end of line sounded urgent.

Certainly, I am planning on being here all day, responded Ward. OK, I will see you in a bit.

Ward set down the receiver and stood from his desk. He took a quick glance at the administrative jetsam around his office. He then scanned again, this time, more thoroughly, carefully. He pulled out his smart phone and began surfing through his photographs. He compared last week’s pic of his office to what now lie before him in all of its chaotic splendor.

Nothing appears out of order… And, the tape wasn’t disturbed…

At least his most primitive and rudimentary detection methods seemed to tell him that no one had been in his office