One-Legged Geese: The Ninth Book in the Johnny Skull Series

By Vincenzo Spiaggi

The super-secret, international anti-terrorist organization known as WI-7, is on a mission to eliminate a North America-based, Iran-sponsored network of jihadists. But the Iranian government and the Boston mafia are on separate missions of their own; coincidentally, and incredibly, their independently arrived-at missions are identical, and WI-7 is caught in the middle of an international race to turn the world upside down.

Bravo! Another nail-biter. Johnny Skull and his WI-7 team are on a mission to rid the United States of modern-day Nazis; an extremely vigorous goal, indeed. But who in the American government is working against them? Who in the underworld is working with them?
The prologue sets the stage, then events happen at break-neck speed all the way to the end. Its like watching a spy-thriller movie. I wasnt able to turn the pages fast enough! I didnt want it to end An exciting, multi-plotted thriller. Timely, relevant, fast-paced, and thought provoking. It makes me think about the way things might be if
Mary Jones, Literary Consultant

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496972231

Vincenzo Spiaggi

Vincenzo Spiaggi, a native of New York City and a graduate of The City University of New York, is a geologist, novelist, journalist, fine arts photographer, and screenwriter. He has lived and worked throughout the United States, in Canada and the Middle East. He currently resides in rural upstate New York.

Book preview

ONE-LEGGED

GEESE

by

VINCENZO SPIAGGI

The Ninth Book in the Johnny Skull Series

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©

2015 Vincenzo Spiaggi. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/25/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7224-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7223-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015903086

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue Thursday, February 28, 2013to Friday, March 15, 2013

1 Monday, April 15, 2013 to Thursday, April 25, 2013

2 Friday, April 26, 2013 to Saturday, April 27, 2013

3 Monday, April 29, 2013 to Tuesday, April 30, 2013

4 Wednesday, May 1, 2013

5 Thursday, May 2, 2013

6 Friday, May 3, 2013

7 Saturday, May 4, 2013

8 Monday, May 6, 2013

9 Tuesday, May 7, 2013

10 Wednesday, May 8, 2013

11 Thursday, May 9, 2013

12 Friday, May 10, 2013

13 Saturday, May 11, 2013

14 Sunday, May 12, 2013

15 Monday, May 13, 2013

16 Tuesday, May 14, 2013

17 Wednesday, May 15, 2013

18 Thursday, May 16, 2013

19 Friday, May 17, 2013 to Saturday, May 18, 2013

20 Tuesday, May 21, 2013

21 Monday, May 27, 2013

22 Tuesday, May 28, 2013

23 Saturday, June 1, 2013

24 Sunday, June 2, 2013

25 Monday, June 3, 2013

26 Saturday, June 8, 2013 To Monday, June 10, 2013

27 Monday, July 1, 2013 To Wednesday, July 3, 2013

28 Friday, July 5, 2013 To Saturday, July 6, 2013

Epilogue

About The Author

For All Those Who have been given a second chance,

and have succeeded in turning their lives around.

"Life is tough, pilgrim;

it’s even tougher if you’re stupid."

John Wayne

Subchapters denoted by

a triple asterisk (*   *   *)

signifies a continuation of the ongoing Time line.

Subchapters denoted by a single asterisk (*)

signifies a flashback sequence of events.

KEY MEMBERS OF WORLD INTERCONNECT (WI-7)

– North American Division –

WI-7 Directors

Jack Davidson – Executive Director, New York City.

Greta Vogelein – Western Regional Director, Denver, Colorado.

Mikki Paarsalu – Member, Board of Directors, New York City (also Secretary General of the United Nations).

Congressman H. Mathias Neimark – Member, Board of Directors, Washington, D.C.

WI-7 Operatives

Johnny Skull – Patagonia, Arizona.

Paul Davidson – Story, Wyoming.

Reva Kahani – New York City and Washington, D.C. (also a Mossad Operative).

Jenny Jessup – Story, Wyoming.

Levi Ashkelon – Deming, Washington and Tel Aviv, Israel (also a Mossad Operative).

Morty Cohen – Spearfish, South Dakota.

Solomon Cohen – Spearfish, South Dakota.

Yali Shevet – Denver, Colorado (also a Mossad Operative).

Jarvis Greene – Washington, D.C.

Ibrahima Oosminaqi – New York City.

Xerxes Malouffi – London, England.

WI-7 Consultant Status Force Members

Saundra Jessup – Story, Wyoming.

Jimila Jimmie Masroun – Laramie, Wyoming.

Fannie Scalisi – Laramie, Wyoming.

Morning Rae Ferris – Deming, Washington.

Della Casias – Denver, Colorado.

Sue Ellen Richey – New York City.

Virgil Thorpe – Las Vegas, Nevada.

Sister Hernanda Molina – Ignacio, Colorado.

PROLOGUE

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 2013

TO FRIDAY, MARCH 15, 2013

The men had been slogging through the cold rain and the mud and the dense forest for the past three days, their fifteen-year-old car having broken down in a violent rainstorm on a rural mountain road. They were tired and they were cold and they were hungry; but mostly, they were scared for their lives. Really scared.

Huzim Muhammadi, and his twin cousins Muzim and Shuzim Muhammadi, were running for their lives. Disoriented by a lack of sleep, they knew they only had to make it across the border into Canada to escape their enemies. Over the few past months, many of their fellow jihadists-in-hiding in America had mysteriously disappeared; and they, out of a sense of self-preservation, were forced to become fugitives, fleeing an invisible and unknowable force, lest they become victims themselves.

Three years earlier, the trio had been smuggled into the United States from a point just north of Deming, Washington, a town on the Nooksack Indian Reservation in the northwestern part of the state. Since then, they’d been living under the radar in Wichita, Kansas, working at minimum-wage jobs, biding their time until they would be called to participate in The Great Holy War against The Great Satan that was America.

The Muhammadis had first become concerned for their safety back in May 2012, when they’d heard reports of the disappearances and murders of certain radical Muslim men at various locations across the United States. First, there was the disappearance of Fuad Mifulani, and the murder of Muhammad al-Zecq, in Colorado. Then, within a few weeks, the murdered bodies of Qadri al-Zaqorimah, Hassan and Shamir bin Shamir, Aziz Achmed al-Sfudulah, Hamdil el-Qitani, Qazmil Fartu, and Zubeydeh Salobi, were discovered at locations from New York to Nevada. Some were shot to death, some were decapitated. And finally, the body of mullah Ali Hamati Kipchogi of the Ibn Asir Meshkiri mosque in Boulder, Colorado, was found among those who’d mysteriously been killed by lions in Zambia, Africa.

Too many dead radical Muslims, and too many unanswered questions, had caused the Muhammadis to run for their lives, for they believed they’d certainly be the next victims. They knew that outrunning their collective paranoia would be difficult.

However, the mysterious disappearance of the Muhammadis’ mentor, Mahmoud ibn Mahmoud ali Mahmoud, was the most disruptive event for them. It had been more than nine months since they’d heard from him, and they wondered if he, too, had been a victim of the enemies of radical Islam. If that were true, they would be rudderless, mentorless, and without direction in a hostile land. They considered themselves to be good Soldiers Of Allah, but they needed a leader; and their leader, ali Mahmoud, was incommunicado and incognito.

Indeed, over the past three months, they’d received word of yet additional disappearances of jihadists and radical mullahs, which had caused the Muhammadis to plan to leave America and, via Canada, return to their homeland of Syria sooner than later, such was the fear they had for their souls.

For two days after coming into the United States in late 2010, the Muhammadis were secretly housed in a small apartment building in Deming. Their handler, and the owner of the building, was Nathaniel Jackson, a black-American jihadist sympathizer and successful smuggler of Muslim extremists into the United States. But before they were let loose to venture into America after their arrival, Huzim Muhammadi had stolen a set of keys for the apartment building’s front door and one of its apartments, just in case he would need them in the future if a situation such as this presented itself. Indeed, when he and his cousins recently left Wichita for points north, his mind was set on using the Deming apartment as a safe haven. From there, and with the aid of Jackson, he would plan their escape to Canada and walk into the welcoming arms of his jihadist collaborators, who would then certainly help him and his cousins make their way from Canada back home to Syria, where they would join up with the relatively new Islamic State terrorist organization, to fight against Bashaar al-Assad’s government.

However, unbeknownst to Huzim, Jackson was dead; and Jackson’s widow, Morning Rae Ferris – a full-blooded Nooksack, an American patriot, the director of special projects for the Nooksack Indian Reservation, and an agent for World Interconnect, or WI-7 – had installed motion-detecting video cameras and audio devices outside the empty apartment building. She had also installed listening devices and cameras inside the lobby and inside the four apartments, just in case any formerly smuggled jihadists and assorted Muslim trash – such as the Muhammadis – might want to use the premises as a hide-out before illegally crossing the Canadian border to escape whatever American-based, anti-jihadist threat they may perceive. (Over the previous nine months, a similar jihadist-smuggling network also had been dismantled by WI-7 on the Mexican border, in the Juarez/El Paso area.)

WI-7 is a secret, international, anti-terrorist organization, which has had many successes over the previous quarter century in tracking down, and eliminating, the world’s worst characters. Indeed, it was WI-7 who had been responsible for the disappearances and elimination of key radical jihadists since the previous May, including ali Mahmoud, who had committed suicide while being held captive at WI-7’s secret detention center in western South Dakota, a place known as The Antelope Farm. Without ali Mahmoud in command, the jihadists were, for all intents and purposes, on their own and without a specific mission. Even the mullahs at twenty-one ultra-radical mosques in the United States, were, for the most part, at a loss to act on behalf of the jihadists without ali Mahmoud’s guidance. Jack Davidson, WI-7’s executive director, called these blowing-in-the-wind jihadists one-legged geese, referring to the leaderless terrorists-in-waiting who were swimming – metaphorically speaking, that is – in circles while treading water, unable to gain any particular direction or momentum, as would a one-legged goose.

Concerning the many under-the-radar jihadists and radical mullahs who were still in place in the United States and Canada, it was WI-7’s task to locate and surgically eliminate them all … ruthlessly, with no quarter given. And WI-7 was on track to completing that task. Since the previous Thanksgiving, eight jihadists – two in Washington, D.C., two in Portland, Oregon, two in Las Vegas, and one each in Denver and Salt Lake City – and six radical mullahs – two in New York City, one in Tucson, Arizona, and three in Boulder, Colorado – had been eliminated without a trace by WI-7 agents.

*   *   *

At eleven thirty that evening, Morning Rae Ferris was speaking on her cell phone with her fiancée, Levi Ashkelon, himself a WI-7 operative and also a member of the Mossad, the Israeli international spy service. She was in Deming, he was in Tel Aviv.

As they were winding up their call, a buzzer on her laptop computer sounded. Levi, someone’s at the apartment building, she said into the phone. The computer alarm just sounded. I knew it would only be a matter of time before someone showed up. Let me check the computer screens.

She lit up the computer screen on her laptop and three mini-screens appeared: one mini-screen was for the camera outside the building, one was for the lobby camera, and one was for the camera inside the building’s only furnished apartment; also on her desk was a separate, portable tablet device that was programmed to wirelessly display all camera feeds. On the center mini-screen, which was connected to the infra-red camera inside the lobby of the apartment building, she could see the men entering through the front door.

How many are there? asked Levi.

Three. They’re going into the furnished apartment.

Almost immediately, as the light was turned on inside the apartment, another computer mini-screen clearly showed the men’s movements therein.

What do you see? asked Levi, who had assisted Morning Rae in the wiring of the premises for audio and video.

Two of the men have dropped their backpacks and have fallen onto one of the beds; they look ragged and exhausted, she answered. The other is checking the kitchen cabinets and the fridge for food. There’s enough food for a few days. At least they won’t have to go to the store. They’ll think they’re safe, especially because they won’t have to leave the building. I’m sure they’ll make contact with their handlers across the border sooner than later.

What do they look like?

Typical Middle Eastern; scrawny, skanky. I’m sure they’re on the run to the border; I’m also sure they know that their compatriots in the U.S. are disappearing at an alarming rate. Which, of course, they are, thanks to us. They probably just want to use the apartment to rest up before they attempt to cross over.

What will you do?

Don’t ask. Her tone was matter-of-fact, yet stern.

Levi knew better than to ask what she meant by the words don’t ask. The previous summer, when she’d used that very phrase, two jihadists were rendered lifeless by her hand. The girl had had a plan then, and she no doubt had one now, too, he mused. I won’t ask, he said. I know better.

That’s why I love you, Levi. You’re such a fast learner.

He smiled, then said, By the way, how are your Arabic-language lessons coming?

They’re coming along just fine. I can understand it better than I can speak it or read it, though.

Well, that’s normal for a beginner. Anyway, call me or send me a text message when it’s all over. And be careful.

I will. Have a nice day, sweetheart. I’ll be talking to you soon, and you should live and be well. She blew him a phone kiss and clicked off.

Ten minutes later, with her wireless video-tablet in hand and her wireless headphones on her head, Morning Rae approached the apartment building. The video on her tablet showed the twins asleep on the bed; Huzim Muhammadi was sitting on a chair, having just finished dialing a number on the apartment’s land-line phone.

Through her headphones, Morning Rae was able to hear both sides of Huzim’s conversation, she having previously placed listening devices into the apartment’s land-line phone when she wired the building for audio and video. Huzim’s cell phone probably had lost it’s charge somewhere along the way to Deming, she figured, forcing him to use the land-line phone. She smiled and patted herself on the back for making the decision to not disconnect the building’s phone service when she wired the place. She also knew that whatever telephone number was called from that land-line phone, she would be able to track the number through the local phone company’s records.

This is Huzim Muhammadi; we are here in Deming, at the apartment, he said into the phone in Arabic.

Good, said the man’s voice on the other end of the phone. I’ve been expecting your call. Do you have enough food?

Yes. For a few days, anyway. He paused for a moment, then said, Tell me, any word yet from ali Mahmoud?

Morning Rae smiled, knowing that ali Mahmoud was dead, and knowing that the jihadist network still thought he was alive.

No, none, said the other man’s voice. And Nathaniel Jackson has been incommunicado for a while now, too, as you may already know…

No. I didn’t know.

… So you may not be able to count on his help while you’re there. But he must still be alive and well since he’s keeping the cupboards stocked full of food. I’m sure he has his reasons for not being available to make contact. So, just stay put and we’ll be getting you out of there soon. Don’t worry. Just rest for now, and don’t do anything to attract attention to yourselves. Two men will come to collect you Saturday night at midnight to take you across the border into Canada. So be ready to leave at that time. Praise Allah.

As soon as she heard him hang up the phone, Morning Rae, with her silencer-equipped revolver at the ready, burst into the room from the darkened lobby. Huzim was about to call out to his cousins when a bullet from her gun entered his mouth, exiting through the base of his brain. He dropped to the floor with an almost imperceptible thud. Then she approached the two sleeping men on the bed and quickly ended their lives with quiet bullets to the backs of their heads.

She searched their clothes and backpacks and found some cash, Kansas drivers licenses, two hand guns, and three cell phones with only one charger, all of which she placed into her backpack. Then, one by one, after cleaning up the blood on the carpet-less apartment floor, she dragged the bodies into the darkened lobby and out the back door, loading them into her SUV, which she’d parked there prior to entering the building. Even though she was not a large woman, she was strong and had no problem moving the bodies, mainly because they were not much weightier than she. Then she drove north out of town and deep into the forest.

At first light, after five hours of restful sleep in the front seat of the SUV, Morning Rae got out of the vehicle, opened the back door, pulled the men out one at a time, and tumbled their bodies over a two-hundred-foot cliff.

Bon appetite, my furry little friends, she said aloud, speaking to the wolves that were known to inhabit the area at the bottom of the ravine.

On her way back to town, she called Levi. It’s done, she said matter-of-factly.

That’s my girl, he said proudly, with a smile in his voice. What’s next?

Well, from what I learned from eavesdropping on the telephone call one of them made, two jihadists from Canada will be coming down here Saturday night to collect the now-deceased Huzim Muhammadi, and his twin cousins Muzim and Shuzim Muhammadi. It seems that they’ve been laying low in Kansas for the last three years or so, probably waiting for directions from ali Mahmoud.

Where are they now?

At the bottom of Wolf Canyon. The local residents are having them for breakfast.

Can I assume that you’ll be waiting for the Canadian jihadists Saturday night?

You got that right, sweetie.

If you need any help, I’m sure Jenny can lend a hand. She’s the closest. Jenny Jessup is a WI-7 agent who lives in Story, Wyoming.

I’ll call her if I need to.

Good. So, what did you get from the Muhammadis?

Only some cash, three dead cell phones and a charger, a couple of hand guns, and drivers’ licenses. That’s how I knew they came up here from Kansas. And I’ll be able to get the location of their Canadian contact from the telephone records for the apartment’s land-line phone. My cousin, Running Scorpion Ferris, works at Washington Bell in Bellingham. She’ll give me all the info I need.

Running Scorpion? What a great name!

"Yeah. She’s really cool. We call her Pio for short. Anyway, gotta go. I’ll keep you posted."

By the way, make sure you send the three cell phones and the charger to Jenny for safe keeping. As you know, she’s WI-7’s expert on getting information out of electronic devices.

I will.

The next afternoon, Morning Rae’s cousin Pio was able to trace the telephone number and location of the call Huzim had made the night before: the Iranian Embassy in Ottawa, Ontario. Then, before she FedExed the cell phones and charger to Jenny, Morning Rae checked the recent-calls’ lists and speed-dial listings from the newly-charged cell phones she’d taken from the dead bodies, and she found only one telephone number on each phone’s contact and recent-calls lists, the very same number she’d gotten from Cousin Pio.

One minute before midnight of the next day, Saturday, March 2, as the two Islamic jihadists from north of the border entered the apartment and turned on the light, they were greeted by two well-placed 9mm bullets right between their eyes. By sunrise the next morning, the men were filling the stomachs of the local wild dog population at the bottom of Wolf Canyon.

Morning Rae found only one cell phone in the pocket of one of those jihadists; the only contact phone number in that phone was the number at Ottawa’s Iranian Embassy. The drivers’ licenses she’d found on the two men were phony, and their vehicle was of the stolen variety with fake license plates. She got rid of the vehicle the following Monday by donating it to her cousin, Caribou Skeets, who owned a scrap-metal yard in Deming. Then she reminded herself to FedEx the jihadist’s cell phone to Jenny.

And, once again, as per the planned mission of WI-7’s agents, dangerous radical jihadists had disappeared without fanfare and without any trace of foul play.

*

Several months earlier, at the annual WI-7 Thanksgiving Day conclave in Story, Wyoming, Jack Davidson, the executive director of WI-7, had instructed his operatives concerning the organization’s upcoming program of eliminating certain jihadists who, in recent years, had been smuggled into the United States and Canada, and were still at large.

The effort was the outgrowth of a nearly year-long WI-7 program of kidnapping and/or eliminating advisors to the American president in the run-up to the 2012 election. The theory was to remove those personalities closest to the president and hold them incommunicado until after the election, all in an effort to ruin the president’s chances of re-election. And, while the tactic was an electoral failure because of the apathy of the American voting public to the president’s purposefully seditious and openly anti-American policies, it did serve as a vehicle to eliminate some of the president’s most evil political shills.

The kidnappees were held at a detention center known as The Antelope Farm in the southwestern Black Hills of South Dakota, at the site of the old coal-mining ghost town of Dewey. To the casual observer, The Antelope Farm was just that, a wildlife farm that raised exotic animals for zoos and hunting ranches. In reality, the place was a front for the detention center. And even though it is not holding any inmates any longer, some WI-7 staffers remain at the site to take care of the small herds of animals. Whether or not The Farm would be used ever again as a detention center was yet to be determined by the secret organization’s top brass, namely Executive Director Jack Davidson, Nevada Congressman H. Mathias Neimark, United Nations Secretary General Mikki Paarsalu, and the organization’s Western Regional Director, Greta Vogelein.

Two of those kidnapped in 2012 were Miguel Torres and Nathaniel Jackson, the kingpins behind the White House-approved, jihadist smuggling operations – from Mexico and Canada respectively – which permitted a large number of radical jihadists to widely disperse and dissolve into the American landscape, where they would await orders from ali Mahmoud to attack … someday.

The Muhammadis had been three of the more than thirty such jihadists still hiding under-the-radar in the United States – the so-called one-legged geese – who were treading water in an unfriendly sea, waiting for their captain, ali Mahmoud, to appear on the horizon to rescue them, or, at least, to give them their new instructions for the Holy War against America. But unbeknownst to the one-legged geese, their captain was floating at the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft within spitting distance of The Antelope Farm’s detention center.

However, with Jackson and ali Mahmoud now out of the picture, and Torres’s smuggling operation now defunct, the remaining jihadists – who did not know that ali Mahmoud was dead – were a disenfranchised, rudderless and directionless lot. They were fearful for their lives, somehow knowing that their days of anonymity in the United States were numbered. Indeed, many jihadists-in-hiding were contemplating a quick exit from the United States. But most of the radical mullahs at twenty-one American-based radical mosques – which was supposed to be the jihadists’ safe-houses in times of trouble – were afraid to extend help to the hyper-nervous jihadists, fearful for their own safety.

However, unbeknownst to those mullahs and jihadists, WI-7 – thanks to Jenny Jessup’s knowledge of how to get information out of even the most complicated electronic devices – knew who and where they were, and a program of their complete elimination had already begun. Indeed, since the previous Thanksgiving, fourteen jihadists and radical mullahs had been eliminated by the same WI-7 operatives who had been key players in The Antelope Farm’s kidnapping-and-elimination program of the spring, summer, and fall of 2012.

*

In New York City, on the morning of December 4, 2012, Reva Kahani and Sue Ellen Richey followed two radical mullahs – Amir bin Qasri and Jeloo Hazilorahman – out of Adano’s restaurant on 49th Street and lured them to Reva’s apartment. Subsequently, both men were rendered unconscious by the women; and then, after their cell phones and identification were taken from their pockets, the unconscious mullahs were dumped into the building’s incinerator, which just happened to be roaring at the time. Needless to say, there was no trace of the bodies; however, for several days thereafter, the pungent odor of lamb fat, fried hummus and baba ganoush filled the air in the neighborhood around the 104th Street and Riverside Drive apartment building.

Muslim religious officials at the neighborhood Allah bin Ishkabibl mosque were quick to blame ruffians from the local Hassidic community center for the mullahs’ disappearance. Tensions remained high for about two weeks, abating only when an outbreak of chicken pox ravaged the local Muslim population, an outbreak that also was blamed on neighborhood Jews. Since then, a group of students from nearby Yeshiva University, who just happened to also be Mossad agents-in-training, had been keeping the peace in the neighborhood.

Reva, an American of Iranian-Jewish descent, and a graduate of Hillsdale College, is an operative for WI-7 and the Mossad; Sue Ellen, a former American ambassador to the United Nations and an aide to the U.N. Secretary General Mikki Paarsalu, is a member of WI-7’s consultant status force, which is composed of part-time agents. The Nooksack’s Morning Rae Ferris is such a WI-7 part-timer.

*

At eight o’clock in the evening of December 27, Jimila Jimmie Masroun and her cousin Fannie Scalisi, sat on a bed in a dimly lit room in the upscale brothel known as Holly’s Place, situated on a winding dirt road on the north side of Boulder, Colorado. The girls, both consultant status force operatives for WI-7, were about to eliminate three powerful, radical mullahs from Boulder’s Ibn Asir Meshkiri mosque.

Holly Alessi, the owner of the place, is on the payroll of WI-7’s Denver-based regional director, Greta Vogelein; Holly had been keeping tabs on the comings and goings of the mosque’s mullahs over the past few years. The brothel was a favorite diversion for various bigwigs at the mosque, and Holly had been videotaping their many trysts with her working girls. Her video file is probably worth a fortune on the open market, but she only shares the information with Greta. And, while Holly gladly took the mullahs’ money, her loyalty was to WI-7’s fight against radical Islam. Her motive was revenge, because a few years earlier one of her girls was murdered by one of her Muslim customers.

These three particular mullahs – Lusab Yuseffi, Shlamahzel Meshlimi, and Rashili al-Rashili – were the core leaders of the radical Islamic wing at the mosque and were part of a nationwide, 21-mosque conspiracy to help weave jihadism into the fabric of American society. The former leader of the mosque’s radical wing had been Ali Hamati Kipchogi, who’d been eliminated by the actions of WI-7 several months earlier.

Holly had mentioned to Greta that these three mullahs were into kinky group-sex, usually with two or more women. So Greta dispatched Jimmie and Fannie from their home in Laramie, Wyoming, to Holly’s Place to pose as trollops, with the express purpose of sending the radical mullahs off to paradise where they could eat manakeesh, shish tawook, tabouleh, and halloumi with Allah and Muhammad, and have group sex with seventy-two smelly virgins until the end of time.

So, once the men had been drugged – before they’d even disrobed – the girls took the mullah’s cell phones from their pockets and loaded the men into the back of their SUV; then they drove them into the country and proceeded to dismember their still-live, but still-unconscious bodies, dumping their assorted parts into the South Platte River between the towns of Greeley and Sterling in northeastern Colorado, eventually to be deposited as bits of organic flotsam in the muck on the floor of the Gulf of Mexico.

Jimmie is a graduate student at the University of Wyoming in Laramie, having graduated with honors from UW with a degree in geology the previous June. Fannie works as a nurse at Ivinson Memorial Hospital in Laramie. Both girls are Afghan orphans: Jimmie came to America when she was three years old; Fannie, whose birth name was Faniba Sqaloosh, came to live with her cousin Jimmie in 2010, after working as a nurse for the Yemeni government at their embassy in Rome, Italy. Both girls are strongly anti-jihadist, both are patriotic and proudly pro-American, and both had had a hand in helping WI-7 eliminate radical Islamic terrorists over the past few years. During that period, they’d amassed a veritable arsenal of firearms they’d taken from various radical-Muslim riffraff after they’d sent them on their way to paradise.

*

On December 29, Paul Davidson and Jenny Jessup both made their way from their homes in Story, Wyoming, to suburban Portland, Oregon, catching an early morning flight on one of WI-7’s Lear jets. It was Jenny’s keen computer- and cell-phone-investigative research skills that enabled her to locate the contact information for most all of the scattered one-legged geese and radical mullahs on WI-7’s list of those to be eliminated. Both Paul and Jenny spoke Arabic, so setting up a face-to-face meeting with their targets – two Portland-based jihadists-in-hiding – was easily accomplished.

On a phone call with one of the jihadists, Paul and Jenny had posed as jihadists themselves, and made plans to ostensibly help their targets escape with them into Canada. The two men, Abu Sqanqu and Ali el-Tuqasili, eager to leave the United States because of the recent news of the five missing mullahs, were easily convinced to meet with Paul and Jenny at a small airport near Troutdale.

Needless to say, it was the last airplane ride the jihadists would ever take. Their cell phones were taken from them and their bodies were flown to Newcastle, Wyoming, then trucked to The Antelope Farm thirty miles to the south, for disposal in one of the deep, flooded mine shafts in one of the many abandoned coal mines on the property. Over the past several years, two flooded mine shafts inside one of the mines had been used as the final resting place for a host of assorted jihadists and Muslim ne’er-do-wells. The shafts in that particular mine had since been sealed.

(However, a small, briefcase-sized nuclear bomb had been hidden in one of the other mines two years earlier; it was an explosive device that had been taken from Vespa Jiggs, the president’s former top advisor. Jiggs, a deep-cover Iranian agent, who was going to use the bomb to start a world war, now resided at the bottom of one of the sealed mine shafts; the detonation device for that bomb is stored in a vault in WI-7’s Denver office.)

Born in Israel, but a naturalized American citizen, Paul, who is Jack Davidson’s son, works as a reporter at The Sheridan County Sunrise, an award-winning weekly newspaper in Story; he is a former all-conference linebacker for the University of Wyoming and a WI-7 operative. Jenny, a graduate of the University of Wyoming with a degree in criminal justice, and a three-year-veteran operative with WI-7, lives in Story with her twin sister, Saundra, the editorial writer for The Sheridan County Sunrise and, herself, a consultant status force member with WI-7.

*

Della Casias is a reporter for the local Fox News affiliate in Denver. She is also a consultant status force member for WI-7. So, when she was given the assignment of eliminating a local, deep-cover jihadist, she was thrilled. Her hatred for radical Islam was rooted in her psyche as the particularly vivid memory of her Muslim high school girlfriend being murdered by her father for falling in love with a Hispanic boy in her home town of Dallas. The Hispanic boy was Della’s brother, and both of them avenged the girl’s honor killing by eliminating the girl’s father. Therefore, she figured, eliminating radical Muslims was nothing short of her patriotic duty to America.

It was the in early evening of January 16, 2013, when Della pulled up to a stop sign in Lakewood, a western suburb of Denver, and rolled down the passenger window. Standing alone on a street corner at a bus stop, in the wind and freezing cold, was her target, Abu Goomali.

Do you need a lift somewhere? shouted Della through the open window.

Goomali pointed to himself, as if to ask if she meant him.

Yes, she said. You look really cold. Who else would I be talking to, you jerk? she thought. You’re the only one standing out there, aren’t you?

He stepped off the curb and approached Della’s SUV. That was his first mistake. His second mistake was actually getting into her vehicle. Of course, she knew his work schedule, and she knew he’d be at that particular bus stop at this particular time of the evening.

The following morning, her reporting assignment was to cover the controlled burn of an old wooden grain elevator near the town of Limon, east of Denver; it was a teaching exercise to be carried out by the Lincoln County Fire Department for the benefit of rookie firefighters. As she watched the building go up in flames, she smiled, for she knew there would be no remaining trace of Abu Goomali’s body, which she’d hidden inside the structure late the night before. Goomali’s cell phone, which was in her pocket, was the only thing that remained of his sorry life.

*

Early in the morning of January 30, Morty Cohen stood in front of the imposing Mormon Temple in downtown Salt Lake City. He pointed his camera upward, taking a handful of photos and saying touristy things like Wow! and Cool! and Awesome!

Then, focusing at the edge of his peripheral vision, Morty whispered to himself, Here he comes, right on schedule.

Ayoub Salmiq had just ended his graveyard-shift job as a janitor’s helper in a downtown office building. He had not slept well in months, constantly worrying about his safety. He desperately wanted to leave America, and he was trying to get up enough nerve to make a break for the Mexican border. Getting back to his native Pakistan would be easy from there, he figured. However, having developed a case of hyper-paranoia over the past six months or so, he knew that staying put in Utah and awaiting instructions from ali Mahmoud was his only safe course of action.

Taking radical action on his own was not Ayoub’s strong suit; but being safe and living a life of quiet routine and boredom was turning him soft and complacent, and he didn’t like the feeling. He was frustrated and he desperately needed to do something that would make Allah proud of him; but he was afraid that ali Mahmoud would be upset with him for creating havoc for its own sake, especially because the last communiqué he’d received from his leader was to "not do anything until further notice." But he still wanted to do something … anything. The last person he’d killed in Allah’s name was four years earlier, and he yearned to spill blood again for the sake of a holy conflagration against the West. He was suffering from a malady known as ants in his pants, and he wanted so much to scratch.

Walking at a safe distance behind him and across the street, Morty followed Ayoub across downtown and into a covered parking lot on the 700 block of South Second West. Morty watched as Ayoub opened the door to the car: a pale green, 1952 Dodge Wayfarer, a vehicle that was being held together with spit, chewing gum and shoe laces.

In the back seat of Ayoub’s car, Solomon Cohen, Morty’s twin brother, was slumped down out of sight. As soon as Ayoub slid into the driver’s seat, Morty knocked on the driver’s-side window to distract Ayoub.

As Ayoub looked to his left and rolled down the window, Solomon grabbed Ayoub by the hair, pulled his head back, and drove a hypodermic needle into his neck. The push of the plunger guaranteed a quick death of the jihadist, the strychnine/rattlesnake-venom mixture working its wonders in mere seconds.

Leaving Ayoub’s car in the parking lot, the Cohen brothers – with the body in the back under a blanket, and Ayoub’s cell phone and ring of keys on the front seat – drove their SUV west on Interstate 80 to the south shore of the Great Salt Lake just west of Stansbury Park, to dispose of the body in the salt at the edge of the lake.

Crossing the railroad tracks, the Cohens found a secluded spot and began digging into the soft salt about a hundred feet from the water line. Half an hour later, they dumped the body into the five-foot-deep grave, covering it with the excavated salt.

On a hunch, Solomon suggested that since they were going to pass through Salt Lake City on their way home, they should go back to the parking lot to check out Ayoub’s car for anything incriminating. Thirty minutes later, in the trunk of Ayoub’s car, they found an armed suicide vest.

Y’know, Morty, Solomon said, maybe we should check out his apartment, too, I would imagine there’s more explosives there. Whad’ya think?

Let’s do it.

One of the keys on Ayoub’s key ring opened the apartment’s door. Inside they found several unfinished explosive vests, but no other electronic devices. They took the vests and left town, heading east on I-80.

Brooklyn natives, Morty and Solomon Cohen were former sharpshooters in the U.S. Marines; both had graduated in 2011 from Black Hills State University in Spearfish, South Dakota, with degrees in criminal justice. Since then, they’d been important cogs-in-the-wheel of WI-7, having played key roles in, among other projects, The Antelope Farm program in 2012.

They lived in a large house in Spearfish with their girlfriends, Cimmaron Aspinwall and Emily Ainslie, both graduate students at BHSU.

*

Abdikarim Selah Muham and his cousin Korfo abd el-Afi, both Sudanese jihadists who had been smuggled into the United States via Mexico two years earlier, had been trying to contact ali Mahmoud for the past three months. Like their fellow one-legged geese, they were fearful about staying in the United States too much longer without any contact with, or directions from, their leader.

The cousins lived in a lice-ridden motel room on the north end of Sloan, Nevada; they worked breaking rocks at a construction site just southwest of Las Vegas. And, like most Sudanese, they missed the nomadic lifestyle of their ancestors. They’d been recruited by Muslim Sudanese warlords as soldiers when they were barely teenagers; they were turned into terrorists after their immediate families were murdered in the tribal wars that seemed to never end. After several years of committing wanton mayhem on local non-Muslim tribal populations, Abdikarim and Korfo were chosen by ali Mahmoud to become deep-cover jihadists in America.

They were dedicated terrorists, to be sure; but now they needed to be re-assured of their purpose. So, when they were contacted by WI-7’s Paul Davidson about a meeting with two people who would take them to safety in Mexico, they were hopeful for their future. Paul had assured them he was acting as an agent for ali Mahmoud.

Virgil Thorpe is WI-7’s consultant status force member in Las Vegas, and Denver-based Yali Shevet is a Mossad agent on loan to the organization; both were chosen by Paul to eliminate the Sudanese cousins. So, equipped with silenced revolvers, Virgil and Yali, who’d been waiting for them outside their motel room, shot both Sudanese jihadists between the eyes just after they entered their motel room just before midnight February 11.

With some difficulty – both Sudanese men being well over seven feet tall – Virgil and Yali stuffed the bodies into the back of Yali’s SUV and drove them into the hills about ten miles south of the town of Pahrump, where they hid the bodies in a grouping of granite boulders. They figured that by morning, the coyotes and the mountain lions would have had their feasts; the bugs and birds would take the rest, and the natural elements would eventually destroy all traces of their sorry lives. As they left the scene, Yali smiled as she patted the dead men’s cell phones in her jacket pocket.

Virgil, a black, thirty-something former Marine, is a journalist at a politically conservative weekly magazine in Las Vegas. He’s been working for WI-7 for less than a year. Yali, an Israeli, is a nurse by training and an actress by avocation. Both Yali and Virgil were instrumental in the successes of the previous year’s efforts at The Antelope Farm.

*

Anwar Bakdi Chawkiri was the grand mufti at the Masjid Ahmaddiya Yousuf mosque in Tucson, Arizona. To his parishioners, he was a mild-mannered, studious, peaceful, understanding, gracious, and pious late-middle-aged man, who was always there for the spiritual and righteous members of his flock. But to the whores on South Sixth Avenue in South Tucson, he was an easy fifty-bucks-for-five-minutes-of-work customer, five nights a week, every week. Even during the holy month of Ramadan, his sexual addiction trumped his piety.

Just after two in the morning on February 25, a rather tall fellow followed the grand mufti from the east-side mosque’s compound to the seedy South Sixth Avenue strip; he watched from a safe distance as the holy man parked his sedan in a dark corner at the edge of a convenience store’s parking lot, next to a dumpster; then the rather tall man got out of his vehicle and waited. Momentarily, a youngish-looking woman emerged from inside the store; she was carrying a roll of paper towels; she approached the pious man’s car and got in. Five minutes later, the woman emerged from the sedan; then she walked over to the dumpster and tossed in a wad of used paper towels.

As she walked away from the parking lot, she passed the rather tall fellow and said, Hey, honey, in the mood for a nookie party?

Not tonight, sweetheart, the rather tall fellow said as he headed toward the dark edge of the parking lot.

Well, come back later if you change your mind. I’ll be here ’til around four. Then she turned and walked away from the store and proceeded down the block. Within ten seconds, she was picked up by another customer and they drove off. Ain’t love grand, thought the rather tall fellow as he watched the girl drive off with her new customer.

Crossing the parking lot, he opened the grand mufti’s right-rear car door and got in.

What are you doing?! the surprised holy man said as he was in the process of buckling the belt on his pants. I’m not that kind of a…

Pervert? I know exactly who and what you are, you slimy piece of Muslim trash, the rather tall fellow said, brandishing a sound-suppressed, 9mm hand gun. Now, we’re going to take a little ride, you and me. Just get onto Interstate 19 and head south.

I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else, said the now-shivering whoremonger.

Not a chance … Anwar. Now, get moving.

Half an hour later, Felipé Roybal, who worked as a chemical engineer on the graveyard shift in the acid plant at the Copper Coyote Mine Complex south of Tucson, opened the back door to the building just moments after he’d received a call from his father’s first cousin, the rather tall Johnny Skull. Johnny entered the building dragging a large, heavy-duty, black plastic bag.

Without a word being spoken, Johnny and Felipé put on protective masks and gloves and carried the lifeless body of the grand mufti to the edge of a large cauldron of steaming hydrochloric acid, dumping it over the edge. It began sizzling almost immediately.

Was he one of the bad ones, Cousin Johnny? asked Felipé.

"If not the baddest, he’s certainly one of the top-five baddest. And getting rid of him will put at least a temporary halt to the jihadist’s plans for the subversion of this country. He’s a pervert to boot. His favorite thing, before he came to America, was beating little Muslim girls into submission and then raping them … while their mothers watched. From what I understand, he really liked them younger than twelve… Anyway, thanks."

My pleasure, Cousin Johnny. Glad to help the cause. Call me anytime. And say hello to your family for me.

Sure will. See ya. Moments later, as Johnny got into his vehicle, he smiled at the grand mufti’s cell phone on the front seat, and he patted himself on the back for remembering to take it from the body after he’d broken the grand mufti’s neck.

Johnny Skull is a pecan farmer near his hometown of Patagonia, Arizona, where he lives with his wife, Darla, and four children. He also is a key operative for WI-7. Before resettling in Patagonia in 2008, Johnny, a former U.S. Marine assassin, had been a newspaper and magazine editor, his last job as such was at The Sheridan County Sunrise in Story, Wyoming. He was instrumental in helping WI-7 foil several terrorist threats to the United States over the past few years, including a plot by a mad imam to takeover northern Wyoming and turn it into an Islamic enclave, the hunting down of an ex-Nazi war criminal, the short-circuiting of a plot to kill the Secretary General of the United Nations (who just happens to be a member of WI-7’s Board of Directors), and exposing the terrorist agenda of the president’s top advisor, Vespa Jiggs. He also played an important role in the previous year’s program at The Antelope Farm.

Within a few days, the news of the grand mufti’s disappearance would give an unwelcomed shock to an already heightened paranoia within the under-the-radar jihadist community in the United States.

*

Just before midnight on February 26, Reva Kahani, Jarvis Greene and Ibrahima Samiri Oosminaqi waited across the street in their vehicle as two young women exited their place of work, a convenience store in suburban Washington, D.C. They watched the women walk down the street toward a bus stop.

After a short ride, the twin sisters, Adiba and Chadia Djillalia, got off the bus and walked two blocks to their apartment building, a circa-1920s structure that was on its last legs as being a decent place to live. They entered the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor. On the third floor, the elevator door opened and in walked Ibrahima. She smiled at both girls and stood against the back wall as the car ascended.

Recognizing Ibrahima, Adiba said in Arabic, Excuse me, but aren’t you Ibrahima Oosminaqi?

Why, yes. Yes, I am, Ibrahima said, smiling.

We are your biggest fans! Chadia said, excitedly.

Well, you are very kind. Praise Allah.

A moment later, the elevator door opened on the fourth floor and in walked a smiling Jarvis Greene. He quickly approached Chadia and, without hesitating, grabbed her head and slammed it hard against the side wall as her shocked sister looked on. But before Adiba could react, Ibrahima grabbed her head and slammed it hard against the back wall.

The twins slumped to the floor, unconscious, both with seriously cracked skulls. Jarvis and Ibrahima knew the violent history of the Djillalia twins – and of the fact that they had not been seen on the world stage for two years, they having been in hiding in America for that length of time – and they had no doubt that the only answer to the twins’ past nefarious deeds, was to quickly eliminate them from the greater theater of terror, lest they wreak more havoc in the future as deep-cover jihadists.

Jarvis hit the STOP button, then he punched B for the basement floor. When the doors finally opened on the sub-street level, Ibrahima and Jarvis dragged the sisters out the building’s back door, where Reva waited next to the SUV, the vehicle’s hatch-back door already open. An hour and a half later, Adiba and Chadia, without their cell phones, were in a weighted, heavy-duty canvas bag on their way to a watery grave at the bottom of Chesapeake Bay, where Allah, Muhammad and seventy-two virgin boys waited to escort them to paradise.

The Djillalia twins had been familiar with Ibrahima, she being an internationally known Islamic-jihadist activist with a large, radical Islamic-youth following. What they didn’t know was that Ibrahima was now a deep-cover WI-7 operative, working under the tutelage, direction, and close scrutiny of her mentor and lover, Reva Kahani. Ibrahima had been an inmate at The Antelope Farm before she was considered to be a prime candidate to flip her allegiance away from jihadism, and to work as an undercover agent for the greater good of the world under the auspices of WI-7. It was an offer she couldn’t refuse: death versus life; working for the bad guys versus working for the good guys; and, of course, the opportunity to make love with the beautiful Reva Kahani from time to time. Ibrahima was glad she had chosen life.

At the annual WI-7 staff conclave the previous Thanksgiving, it was decided that Ibrahima would be kept in the dark about the mission of the organization; that