Infernal

7

-15:21

Shortly after the sun dipped below the horizon, Joey turned onto the block of the Center for Islamic Charities. Jack scanned the twilit sidewalks. Not much happening. Of course, in a largely Muslim neighborhood, not too many would be worried about having fewer than two shopping days till Christmas.

Joey found a parking space near the front of the Center. Jack slipped out of his leather jacket. He pulled his watch cap low and the collar of his coveralls high, hunching his shoulders to hide as much of his face as possible.

"Pop the trunk, will you?"

As Joey complied, Jack stepped out with one of the Tokarevs in his belt and the shotgun under his jacket.

He did another sidewalk scan while Joey turned off the car, grabbed his weapons, and stepped out. Only one man in sight, down at the corner to the right. As Jack watched he stepped off the curb and walked away.

Jack held the sawed-off tight against his thigh as he dropped the leather jacket into the trunk, then stepped onto the curb. Joey came around and joined him.

"Case anything happens, the keys are under the front seat."

"Nothing's going to happen."

Joey grinned. "Lots gonna happen. Ready?"

Jack nodded. He still wished they'd had more time to plan, but this was all he had. He'd been handed a lemon, so…

They crossed the sidewalk, Joey going first to open the door. They stepped through as one, Jack so close on his tail they could have been Siamese twins.

Rug-draped walls, bare floor. Rickety chairs, battered desks and tables that looked like secondhand rejects. And five bearded wonders—four sitting, one standing—talking, reading, or drinking coffee from little cups. Three wore robes, two long coats, all wore headgear of some sort—kufis or skullcaps, some beaded, some open-weave knit. Not a turban in sight.

As planned, Jack and Joey split to flank the doorway. As Jack kicked it shut and pointed his sawed-off at the occupants, Joey began shouting and waving his pistol.

"All right! FBI! Everybody! Hands in the air!"

Shocked faces, wide startled eyes as three of the sitters jumped to their feet, hands in the air. The fourth stayed where he was, didn't raise his hands, and didn't look frightened.

"You are not FBI," he said.

Jack saw the bruise on his cheek and recognized him: Hamad Al-Kabeer.

An icy wave of rage washed away all doubt and some of Jack's sanity as he recognized something else.

The voice… here was the gloating voice he'd listened to almost every day for over a week.

We are the Wrath of Allah, fedayeen in the war against the Crusader-Jewish alliance. We have struck and we will strike again, until all the enemies of God and helpers of Satan are cleansed from the face of Allah's earth. This is but the beginning.

He felt his arms start to lift the Browning, his finger tighten on the Browning's trigger. One blast of double-ought… reduce his head to red mist…

No. Not yet. After we find out who's behind them, then Al-Kabeer goes.

"Not FBI?" Joey flashed his shark smile. "Really? What makes you think that?"

"You do not have the jackets or the vests. You are fakes. Get out!"

"You forgot to mention one other thing: The FBI don't carry silenced pistols." He pointed it at Hamad. "Can you guess why this is silenced?"

The pistol jumped and made a phut! sound. Al-Kabeer fell out of the chair, screaming as he clutched his left leg.

Jack couldn't imagine a sweeter sound.

Joey's voice went cold. "So I can do that whenever I want."

The four remaining upright began shouting in panic, waving their hands, pleading.

As much as Jack wanted to start pulling his own trigger, he forced himself to stick to the plan. But the situation could head south fast if he didn't slap the reins on Joey.

"Everyone be cool," Jack shouted, waving the shotgun at them. He lowered his voice and said, "You too, Joey."

"Yeah-yeah. Okay." He raised his voice. "Just cooperate and this will all be over real quick. Give me any lip and you'll end up like El-Kabong there."

"Down on the floor!" Jack said. "Face down, arms out."

"Yeah. Like you're praying to your candy-assed god. You do it, what, ten times a day, right? So you should know the position."

Jack thought it was more like five times a day. Or maybe six. Didn't matter. Why was he thinking about it?

He watched their hands as they stretched themselves out on the wooden floor. Anyone who made a move toward a pocket or a waistband…

But everyone did as they were told. When they were all stretched out—the bleeding Al-Kabeer too—Joey nodded to Jack and made his way to the rear of the space.

Okay. Back on target: The plan had been to get everyone onto the floor immediately, then check the back rooms. Jack hadn't seen a floor plan, didn't know how deep the space was, and so he was only guessing that back rooms existed.

Only one door visible in the rear wall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Joey go through in a crouch, his pistol ahead of him. Jack kept the shotgun moving, back and forth, holding his breath as he waited for a burst of gunfire, a scream of pain. He heard doors opening and slamming shut—one… two… three…

And then Joey returned carrying a pair of machine pistols.

"Well, well, well. Look what I found. A couple of Tavor-twos. Imagine that."

Jack felt a fresh surge of rage.

Joey moved toward the five prone men. "So this is Wrath of Allah. What a sorry bunch of fucks you are. If this is all Allah's got going for him, he's in deep shit." He kicked the nearest Arab in the ribs. "What was the Wrath's next target? A nursery school? An old-age home?" He kicked harder as the words strained through his clenched teeth. "Huh? Huh?"

"Please!" the man wailed. "We have done nothing!"

"Yeah?" He waved the Tavor. "Then what are these here for? Paperweights?" He stepped over to another and kicked him. "Which one of you did the shooting? Huh? Which one of you raghead fucks killed my brother?"

A man on the opposite end began a panicked wail. "We did nothing! It wasn't us!"

"Really?" Jack said. "We have your pal Hamad's phone records. We have a tape of his call to the papers to brag about his brave deed."

One of the men screamed something at Al-Kabeer in Arabic.

Al-Kabeer cried out, "That was only because no one had taken credit! We decided we would. It is a made-up name!"

Joey lifted the Tavors again. "And these are just made-up machine pistols, I guess?"

As they all started to babble at once, Joey shot another in the leg. That shut them up. Except for the moans of the wounded, all became quiet.

Joey began pacing back and forth before them.

"Here's how it's gonna go down: You're all gonna die."

More panicked wails.

"Not all," Jack said in a low voice.

Joey stopped, glanced at him, and smiled. "All. But one will go a little later than the others." Then he started pacing again. "Shut up, you shits! The only reason I'm telling you this is so you can feel what my brother and my friend's father felt when they saw two of you mowing everybody down… how they felt when the barrels pointed their way."

More wails of, "We didn't do it!"

"Shut up, goddamn it! Here's what you've got to look forward to. Me and my friend, we kill the five of you quick and easy. Me, I'd like to take a whole day with each of you, experimenting, seeing who takes the longest to die. Lucky for you that's just a dream. But listen up. Here's the really cool part. After you're dead I'm gonna cut off your dicks and feed them to the pigs on a certain farm I know in South Jersey."

More wails, but some sobs and tears too.

Jack cleared his throat. When Joey glanced his way he shot him a questioning look. This hadn't been in the plan.

Joey winked and said, "Stay with me. I know what I'm doing."

Jack had to trust him on that. Joey had made a very good living via his glib tongue.

He nodded but said, "Hurry it up."

Joey returned to his pacing and preaching.

"And what do you think Allah will say when you arrive in heaven without your dicks? No virgins for you. And when he finds out that your dicks have been turned into bacon, or baby-back ribs, he's gonna be pissed. He'll kick your hairy asses out of heaven and into hell. Who knows? Maybe he'll invite the pigs to take your places."

They wailed louder.

Joey's pacing repeatedly put him between Jack and their prisoners. Jack wanted to tell him that was a bad idea, but Joey was on a roll and had worked up a head of steam.

"And when your dickless bodies are found I'm gonna call the papers and tell them it was the work of the Wrath of Guido."

He laughed and turned to Jack. "Pretty good, huh? Just made that one up on the spot."

"No Fidel—remember?"

"Just let me finish." He turned back to the sobbing Arabs. "But there's a way one of you—and only one of you—can avoid this fate worse than death. And that's to identify the two shooters and tell us who's behind Wrath of Allah. Because I know there's got to be more to this than you losers."

Jack had been thinking the same thing. He so wanted those answers.

The guy on the far left rose to his knees and jabbered in Arabic as he pointed to Al-Kabeer. Al-Kabeer made no reply.

Joey put a bullet into the floor next to the speaker.

"English! None of this dune-nigger speak!"

The guy kept pointing at Al-Kabeer. "It was Hamad! It was his idea! It's all his fault!"

Al-Kabeer lifted his head and shouted a single Arabic word.

"No! I will not be silent!" The Arab turned back to Joey. "I warned him, I warned them all that this would bring the enemy to our door, but they wouldn't listen." Back to Al-Kabeer. "Now see what you've done. You are to blame for whatever happens to us!"

"Our old friend El-Kabong, eh?" Joey said. "Now we're getting somewhere. What've you got to say for yourself?"

Slowly, painfully, Al-Kabeer began to rise.

Joey raised his pistol. "Easy…"

"I would speak."

Jack kept a closer eye on the rest as Al-Kabeer rose and stood awkwardly, favoring his bloody left leg.

"All right," Joey said. "What was your part in this? Who were the shooters?"

Al-Kabeer sneered. "I do not answer to you, only to Allah. I only wish there had been more than two heroes. I wish there had been dozens of them running through the whole of the airport killing everyone in sight. I wish they had killed hundreds, thousands. I wish such a fate on every infidel in this stinking manure pile of a country."

Joey took a bead on Al-Kabeer's face. "And I wish the same about you dune niggers. Consider this a start."

"One more thing," Al-Kabeer said, looking Joey straight in the eye. "May cancerous swine devour your whore of a mother and shit her out on the grave of your illegitimate brother."

Phut! Phut!

Joey's first shot went wide but the second caught Al-Kabeer in the neck. He fell backward and lay writhing and kicking as he clutched his throat.

And then a screaming bearded man stormed into the room through the rear door, firing a pistol as he ran. Joey was between Jack and the attacker. He must have caught one because he crashed back into Jack. As Joey went down Jack whipped the shotgun around and fired. A deafening boom shocked his eardrums as the double-ought blew open the newcomer's chest. Pumping a new cartridge, Jack swiveled to find the three unwounded Arabs charging him, their eyes on the Tavors that had slipped from Joey's grasp.

A shot rang out and one of the three screamed and doubled over, clutching his abdomen. Joey was down but not out. Jack's second blast tore into the remaining pair as they charged, shoulder to shoulder. He'd aimed off center so that the one on the right would take the brunt of the buck—he had plans for his buddy—but the sawed-off's short, unchoked barrel allowed too wide a pattern. Both went down.

Jack looked around. Last man standing.

Shit! This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

He knelt beside Joey. He looked like hell—white face, shallow, stuttering breaths. His bluish lips moved. Jack could barely hear him through the whine in his ears.

"Looks like I fucked up."

Yeah, he sure as hell had. But Jack didn't belabor it. The poor guy was paying the price of his rushed search.

He slipped his arms under Joey and lifted him.

"Let's get you out of here."

Jack did a quick scan as he stepped through the door and onto the sidewalk. Nobody near enough to matter. He carried Joey to the car, eased him into the passenger seat, then hurried back inside. A quick check of the Arabs yielded one survivor: Al-Kabeer, moaning and writhing as he clutched his bloody throat.

Perfect.

Jack hauled him out to the car and dumped him on the backseat.

Now he did a careful scan. Spotted a couple of people to his left approaching cautiously along the sidewalk, another to his right running down the middle of the street.

Jack pulled his Glock, turned, and fired three shots back through the open door at the Center's rear wall. That seemed to discourage the curious—two threw themselves flat and the third made a quick U-turn and booked.

Jack ran around the car, jumped behind the wheel, fished the keys from under the seat, and did some booking himself.