Sword of God

Payne and Jones were the last to leave. They lingered in (he subbasement for an extra minute, looking for something to improve their odds, hoping to find a better map, one with floor plans or mechanical drawings. Anything to point out the weaknesses that Schmidt might have spotted when he did his research.

As it turned out, their biggest break wasn't an object. It was a sound. A simple sound. Nothing more than a drip of liquid falling on concrete. Like a droplet of rain hitting the sidewalk. Jones heard it as he searched for paperwork. On most occasions it would have blended into the outside world and he would have ignored it. But in this case, his senses were in overdrive. Adrenaline was flowing, and everything around him was part of a much bigger puzzle.

A sound could be a footstep. A sound could mean his death.

Drip. Somewhere to his left.

Drip. Back near the maintenance shaft.

Drip. What was that smell?

Suddenly his curiosity was doubled. Not only was there a noise, but there was an odor. A familiar scent that reminded him of his time in the military. Back when he was flying planes and helicopters. Killing time in hangars. Waiting for his next mission to begin.

He took a few steps forward, searching the ceiling and floor for moisture. Finally he saw it. A small puddle underneath the massive water pipe they had followed from the hatch. Curious, he crouched and inspected the liquid. It was clear like water but had a strong chemical smell. He put his nose closer and took a whiff.

"Jon," he called over his shoulder. "Come over here."

Payne spotted him in a catcher's stance, examining a puddle on the ground. He couldn't imagine what his friend was doing. "Please tell me you didn't take a piss."

Jones ignored him. "I think it's fuel."

"What do you mean?"

"I think this pipe is leaking fuel."

"But that's a water pipe."

He nodded. "I know it is. But I'm telling you, this isn't water."

Dubious, Payne leaned closer and breathed in the fumes. An acrid stench filled his nostrils, burning the back of his throat and making him gag.

"Told you it isn't water."

Payne coughed a few times, trying to catch his breath. "What the hell is that?"

But Jones didn't answer. Instead, he took a few steps down the maintenance shaft, trying to figure out what was going on. He glanced back into the subbasement, following the plumbing, then back into the shaft again, the pieces still not fitting together. "Where do those pipes go?"

"To some private facility in the desert. Shari said the towers were so big they had to pump in their own water."

"But that's not water."

"I know it's not water. I'm still choking." He paused for a second as all the nasty possibilities started to sink in. "Wait. What do you think it is?"

"Aviation fuel."

45

When designing a skyscraper, water pressure is a significant problem that must be overcome. Large pumps in the basement usually service the lower floors. However, it is impractical to pump water directly to a penthouse, several hundred feet in the air. Most buildings are equipped with mechanical floors, every ten floors or so, which are filled with everything from air-conditioning units to ventilation systems. This is where intermediate pumps are stored, used to push water from one stage to the next until the liquid reaches its highest destination.

Unfortunately, this is an inefficient system in the tallest of buildings, always relying on the pump below to send water to the pump above. One mechanical failure and the water stops. This is a huge concern in emergency situations, when sprinkler systems cannot afford to fail because ground-based fire equipment is incapable of shooting water above certain heights.

To remedy this situation, tanks are often installed on the upper floors, where water is stored in case it is needed.

Sometimes the tanks are small, placed on every mechanical lloor in the building. Sometimes they're large, scattered throughout different parts of the system, based on estimated demand. And occasionally, in really big projects such as the Abraj Al Bait Towers, the designers opted for something different.

In the mechanical penthouse, on top of every tower in the seven-building complex, sat a water tank with a capacity of 40,000 gallons. Engineers designed these tanks with a dual purpose in mind. First and foremost, they could supply water to the 65,000 guests who would fill the towers and all the extra people who used the mall, convention center, and prayer halls. Second, the tanks served as tuned mass dampers, absorbing vibrations from high winds and possible earthquakes-not to mention 2.4 million people as they strolled through the Meccan desert during the hajj season-which helped to protect the structural integrity of the building's core.

Ironically, the tanks were installed to keep the towers standing, but they were the very things that might bring them down.

Trevor Schmidt smiled as he placed the charge along the base of the water tank.

It was the perfect choice for the perfect mission.

C-4, an abbreviation for Composition 4, was a military-grade plastic explosive, one that was preferred by the U.S. Special Forces because its velocity of detonation was ideal for metalwork. Not only was it malleable, allowing it to be molded into specific shapes or wedged into the tiniest of spaces, but it was also highly stable. It could be shot, dropped, kicked, or thrown into a fire, but it wasn't going to explode without a detonator. For the past few hours, Schmidt had carried five pounds of it in a shoulder bag and never worried about it blowing up prematurely.

Of course, there were other reasons why he'd selected C-4 for this particular job.

Personal reasons.

Due to its precision, C-4 was frequently used by terrorists, including the bombing of the USS Cole, a guided-missile destroyer refueling in Yemen, and the destruction of the Khobar Towers, a U.S. military housing development in Saudi Arabia where nineteen servicemen were killed. Both of those were horrible tragedies that deserved to be avenged, but in Schmidt's mind, they paled in comparison to the incident at Al-Hada Hospital, where C-4 was used to detonate a fuel truck parked outside the private wing where his men were staying.

That was the attack that fueled his rage.

He thought back to that painful day as he prepared the detonator. For him, it was a simple procedure, one he had done so many times in the past that it was second nature. Like brushing his teeth or tying his shoe. There were no nerves or trepidation. His hands simply did what they were trained to do.

Much like Schmidt himself.

Payne sent the transmission as he and Jones charged up the stairs. "All teams, check in for priority update. Repeat, priority update."

His men responded in turn, waiting to receive the information.

"Jet fuel has been found in the plumbing. Repeat, inside the plumbing. Focus your search on mechanical floors. Tanks and pumps are prime targets. Sweep for explosives."

There was a three-second delay before one of his men spoke. "Are floor numbers known?"

"Negative," Payne answered. "Floor numbers are unknown. But follow pipes when possible. Listen for machinery. Anything to suggest activity."

Jones added, "Maps might be posted in stairs or elevators. Check there before entry."

Payne nodded. It was a good suggestion. "Good luck."

The man they called Luke was positioned high above the central plaza, giving him a bird's-eye view of the entire complex. Up there, he felt like God sitting on his golden throne because he decided who lived and who died.

Staring through his sniper's scope, he made his decision.

Death would come swiftly.

With the ball of his finger, he eased the trigger back, careful not to jerk his rifle. The bullet was discharged at three thousand feet per second and slammed into the base of the target's skull, entering the cerebellum and instantly stopping his motor skills. Pink mist erupted in the lobby as one of Payne's soldiers fell to the floor.

Luke flicked his wrist, ejecting the spent casing before he chambered a new round.

The Arab American never heard the shot. One moment his partner was jogging in front of him, the next he was falling in a violent burst of blood.

Stunned by the development, he reacted the way most people would: he rushed to his friend's side, hoping he could help. Unfortunately, it was a choice that ended his life.

The second shot arrived eight seconds later. Same pinpoint accuracy, same maximum devastation. It punctured iiis red-and-white headdress, entered his skin and skull, then exited the other side, taking chunks of brain with it.

Two dead men in one messy pile.

Payne spotted them across the lobby and shoved Jones behind a thick stone pillar that shielded them from a frontal assault. They peeked around the corner, soaking in the details of the scene, trying to understand what had happened.

"Sniper," guessed Jones, who was familiar with their techniques because he had trained as one before the MANIACs. He scanned the terrain, searching for possible positioning. "Somewhere high, but not too high. Range is too tough to gauge."

Payne listened as he swore under his breath, blaming himself for their deaths.

"Maybe in the hotel. Probably near an exit point."

"What?" Payne asked, trying to focus on what was said. "Which exit?"

Jones pointed toward the tower above them. Of all the buildings, it had the least amount of work done. Nothing more than a steel and concrete skeleton rising five hundred feet into the sky. Not even a third of its intended height. "Up there somewhere."

Payne glanced up. Most of the building was hidden from view, blocked by a large overhang that would eventually support the atrium in the mall. Right now there was no glass, just an empty space that opened to the heavens above. "How'd he get there?"

"Construction elevator. No way he walked it. Snipers need to control their breathing to get a precise shot. That doesn't happen if you're out of breath."

"So he's just sitting up there, waiting to pick us off?"

"Probably."

"Which means he isn't placing a charge."

"Probably not."

"Then we have to leave him," Payne said with regret. "At this point it's all about the math. Bombs can kill a lot more people than the sniper, so we have to focus on the bombs."

Jones nodded in agreement. "Where do you want me?"

"Take building three. I'll warn the men, then slip around back to building two."

Jones turned to leave, then suddenly stopped. "Hey, Jon."

"Yeah?"

"If you find Schmidt, don't focus on the past. Don't hesitate."

Payne shook his head. "Don't worry. I won't."

46

They surged toward Mecca like a dust storm sweeping in from the desert. It started with a slow trickle, a few hundred people who left Tent City right after their required duties, closely followed by a flood of 2.4 million pilgrims, all of them looking to fulfill their hajj obligations.

Payne saw them in the distance on Pedestrian Road, the main route from Mount Arafat, as he rode up the construction elevator attached to the eastern end of Hajar (building two). The crowd's movement was like a ticking clock, for he knew Schmidt would coordinate his attack with their arrival. Thankfully, they were still a mile away, which gave Payne twenty minutes to find the explosives and render them useless.

Floors whizzed by as the open-air elevator continued to rise. One hand on the remote control and one hand on his gun, Payne slowed his ascent as he approached the top floor, more than eight hundred feet above the plaza. Before exiting, he scanned the rooftop, focusing on the corners, making sure he wasn't walking into an ambush.

"Checking roof two," he whispered.

Every few minutes his earpiece would buzz with the latest update from his squad. So far, no luck in any of the towers. No sightings. No discoveries. No explosives. Nothing but two dead soldiers and nothing to show for it.

Time was running out.

Payne took a deep breath and sprinted across the beige roof, trying to reach the mechanical penthouse as quickly as possible. Although this building was currently the tallest one in Mecca, he was surrounded by eight tower cranes that could easily conceal a sniper. Sliding to a stop behind a stack of decorative stones, he turned back and stared at the closest mast, which rose two hundred feet above him and had a working arm capable of lifting twenty tons. Thankfully, no one was up there, but it was the type of machine that could lift a massive water tank and move it into place.

"Going in," he whispered.

The access door was thick and unlocked. He turned the handle and eased it open six inches, just enough space to glance inside. A set of metal stairs descended into shadows. The only light was the sun, peeking over his shoulder. Time was precious, so he didn't hesitate. He slipped through the gap and closed the door. He was instantly swallowed by darkness.

Instincts told him he had nothing to fear, that Schmidt and his men wouldn't be sitting in the dark, waiting to strike. Manpower was too valuable. So Payne slid his hand along the wall until he found a switch. One flick of his finger and the room filled with fluorescent light.

Gun in hand, he eased down the stairs, step by step, scanning his path for booby traps. From there, he shifted his focus to the room itself. Equipment and supplies were scattered along the perimeter wall, nothing that posed a threat or seemed out of place. Then, and only then, did he turn his attention inward, focusing on the object that dominated the center of the room.

The water tank was the size of a small bus. Supported by steel cables attached to the building's frame, it appeared to hover in space. Payne was familiar with the basic principles of tuned mass dampers-skyscrapers sometimes swayed several feet in the wind, and TMDs were designed to counteract that, acting like a pendulum-but he had never seen one like this.

If Schmidt had filled one of these with jet fuel, an explosion would be catastrophic. Not only from the force of the blast, but also the lingering effects of the burning fuel, which would pour over the roof like a waterfall of fire, dousing millions of pilgrims, literally melting them in the streets. The prolonged heat would be so intense that the steel columns in the tower would start to melt and buckle. Couple that with the added sway from the disabled TMD and a pancake effect would occur. One floor would fall upon the next, which would fall upon the next, until the whole building collapsed in a pile of rubble. Just like the World Trade Center.

The impact and the debris and the panic and the fire would turn the Great Mosque into a war zone. No one would be safe. No one would be protected. Chaos would run rampant in the city.

It would be the worst man-made disaster in history.

Payne tried to block those thoughts from his mind as he searched the room for explosives. It didn't take long to find one. Made out of C-4, it was molded to the northern side of the tank and armed with a timed detonator. At first glance it appeared to be a simple design, one he could disarm by separating the explosive from the device, but Payne knew things weren't always as they seemed, especially in the world of munitions.

Who knew what kind of trigger was concealed?

Just to be safe, he decided to get a second opinion.

"Device located. I repeat, device located in building two."

There was a slight delay before Jones's voice filled his earpiece. "Location?"

"Attached to a water tank in the mechanical penthouse."

A crackle of updates filled his ear as the remaining soldiers scrambled to check the penthouse tanks in their assigned buildings. Once things calmed down, Jones spoke again.

"Type of device?"

"C-four. Armed with a timed detonator."

"How much time?"

Payne stared at the mechanism. "Good question. The timer is covered in the housing."

"Any triggers?"

"You tell me."

Jones paused. "Sorry, I can't see any from here."

"No shit. I meant, what should I be looking for?"

"You're in the penthouse, right? Don't worry about mercury switches or tilt detonators. There's too much sway up (here to risk it."

"What would you use?"

"A hidden tripwire. I'd attach it to the water tank from the back of the casing. That way, if someone removed the device, it would detonate."

Payne looked closer and spotted everything that Jones had described. A thin green wire dangled out of the device, affixed to the tank with some kind of epoxy. "Okay. I found one."

"You did? Then you owe me lunch because I just saved your ass."

"Not a problem. Tell me what to do and the falafel are (in me."

"Do you have any tools? A screwdriver? Anything like I hat?"

Payne smiled. He reached up his sleeve and pulled a blade from its sheath. "I have a knife."

"Of course you do," Jones said with a laugh, well aware of Payne's fascination with knives. "With one hand, hold the wire steady against the casing. Do not let it pull away."

"Okay."

"With your other hand, use die knife to pry the wire off of the tank."

"That's it?"

"But don't cut the wire."

"I won't."

"Or let it pull away from the casing."

"You already said that."

"I know, but I really want to get a falafel."

Payne smiled, thankful for die tension breaker. "Is there anything else?"

"Nope, that's everything. Just do what I said and you'll be fine."

He nodded, taking a deep breath. "In that case, get back to work. I need to get this done and you need to search your tower."

47

I'nyne held the knife like a surgeon-confident, yet with the utmost care.

His left hand secured the green wire against the casing while his right hand guided the blade, sliding the tip along I he edge of the water tank until he felt residue from the qioxy. He knew different formulas produced different strengths. Some were weaker than modeling glue; others were used in aerospace construction. Obviously, he was hoping for the former.

With a hint of pressure, he inched his knife into the resin, uying to pry the wire loose. It quivered slightly, moving with his effort as he slowly broke the bond that held it secure.

First a chip. Then a crack. Then a huge sigh of relief as the wire popped free from the tank but stayed imbedded in I lie detonator. Just like Jones had promised.

Shit. I owe him afalafel.

Payne smiled at the thought, realizing it was a debt he'd gladly pay if he managed to get out of the city alive. Unfortunately, he wasn't ready yet. Not even close. The

tripwire was one thing; the bomb itself was another. Not only did he have to disarm the timer mechanism, he also had to figure out what to do with the C-4 so it wasn't used by someone else. Whether that be Schmidt. Or the Saudis. Or some terrorist group that operated out of the area.

Which meant he had to do more than disarm the bomb.

He had to take the damn thing with him.

Jones finished his search of building three but came up empty. Literally.

The mechanical penthouse did have a water tank, just like Payne had described in building two, but there was no liquid inside. The massive tank was bone dry, not a drop of water or jet fuel to be found. When he tapped on its side, it sounded like a hollow drum.

"Three is clear," he announced.

Jones hustled back across the roof and into the construction elevator. Due to the death of his soldiers, there were still two more towers to inspect. Building five (Sarah) sat to his west, in the back corner of the complex. Strategically, it would be the least likely target, since it posed the smallest threat. On the other hand, building seven (Safa) was right up front, overlooking the main road that would soon be filled with pilgrims. In his mind, that made it a probable target until he stared down at it from the elevator and saw that the top floor was still being built. There was no water tank or mechanical penthouse. There wasn't even a roof. That meant unless Schmidt found some other weakness on the lower floors, the odds were against its attack.

To Jones, the building that seemed most vulnerable was building six (Marwah). It was closest to the Great Mosque, sitting just north of Payne's tower, and its construction seemed to be the farthest along. He saw windows. And stonework. And painting. All the little details that get takencare of after the big stuff was finished. Including the installation of pipes and water tanks.

"Building six, what's your status?"

There was a slight delay. "The elevator is broke, so I'm hooting it to the penthouse."

"Current location?"

"Floor nine."

"Nine? What's the holdup?"

"There's scaffolding everywhere, and I keep tripping on my goddamn dress."

Payne heard the transmission and nearly burst out laughing; the only thing that prevented it was the severity of the situation. "If Nancy needs my help, I'm available."

Jones smiled, glad that Payne was still alive. "Is two clear?"

"Two is finally clear."

"Glad to hear it."

Payne continued. "I spotted a walkway that connects my building with six. I can get to the penthouse before he can."

"Where do you want him?"

"Send him to one of the remaining towers. Whichever is closest to the mosque."

"Sending him to seven."

"Where are you headed?"

"I'm going to …" Jones stopped, breaking off his response in midthought. Several seconds passed before he spoke again. "I think I see the sniper."

The soldiers known as Matthew and Mark were getting frustrated. According to their watches, they should have hccn heading toward their rendezvous point, not dicking around with the detonator in building six. The explosive had been placed, and fuel was in the tank. Just as it should be. Unfortunately, when Mark tried to set the timer on the device, it wouldn't start. Either it was defective or broken or its battery was lacking juice.

Whatever the case, the damn thing didn't work.

At this point, they didn't have many options. The other device was set to go off in less than twenty minutes, and when it did, they didn't want to be anywhere near the complex.

The clock was ticking and the pressure was building.

They couldn't afford any more delays.

Spotting the sniper was nothing more than a lucky break. Jones was in the construction elevator in building three, studying the layout of the complex. While he spoke to Payne, he saw a flash of movement in building one. The Hotel Tower would eventually be twice as tall as the others; however, right now it was just a partial shell, a third of its eventual height.

Jones slowed the elevator for a better look and confirmed his initial sighting. There was a man with a rifle positioned near the northeastern corner. He was gathering his things, getting ready to leave. Maybe to find a better spot. More likely to evacuate the site. Whichever the case, Jones knew this was his best chance to stop him.

Payne had mentioned a walkway between two and six, and Jones knew the same thing existed between one and three. In fact, all of the buildings were interconnected with a series of bridges and corridors. Two connected with four and six. Three connected with five and seven. And one connected with two and three.

Seven buildings, but no need to walk through the lobby to move between towers.

At least that's how it would be when the complex was done. Right now, the only ming connecting one and three was a series of long steel beams separated by the width of a car. No floor. No ceiling. No windows. Just a lot of open air and five hundred feet to fall if he took a misstep or a strong gust of wind decided to knock him off. If so, he would land in the central plaza, creating a much bigger mess than the two soldiers who were killed by the sniper.

Screw it, he thought. This guy is mine.

Jones exited the elevator and walked to the edge of the steel frame. In his mind, the key to staying calm was getting things over with before he had a chance to get nervous, so he pulled his thobe above his knees-not wanting to trip- took a deep breath, and stepped onto the narrow beam. It felt solid underneath his feet, like walking on a curb.

Step after careful step, he moved at a steady speed. Never looking down. Always focusing on a point five feet in front of him. Make it there, then move to the next. Nothing but small segments. Never large. It was the best way to avoid being overwhelmed.

The entire trip took thirty seconds. By the end, his heart was pounding and his left hand was quivering from all the adrenaline. He flexed the hand a few times, took a deep breath, then continued forward. Refusing to look back at what he had conquered.

More concerned with the perils that waited around the corner.

Payne crept along the outer wall of the mechanical penthouse. Voices could be heard within. Shouting of some kind. He couldn't make out the words-the wind was whistling, and someone was giving him an update on building seven- but it was definitely an argument.

Something to be taken advantage of.

With gun in hand, he opened the metal hatch and slipped inside. Angry words were being exchanged. Two men shouting about their responsibilities. One man said they must finish the job; the other disagreed. The detonator was broken and couldn't be fixed in the next fifteen minutes. They didn't have the tools or the extra parts.

It was music to Payne's ears.

He crouched on the stairs, listening to what was being said, hoping to get as much intel as he could. Neither of the voices belonged to Schmidt-that was too much to hope for-but this was half his squad. Two of the men responsible for the violence in the cave. The murders in the village. The plot to blow up Mecca.

He'd listen for as long as possible before he made his move.

And when he did, they'd pay for their transgressions.

48

When Jones arrived in the northeastern corner, the sniper was no longer there. He had packed his things and abandoned his position less than a minute before.

Unfortunately, that was the problem with snipers. They were slippery bastards.

Jones cursed under his breath and scanned the area for exit points. At this height, elevators were the main option. As far as he could tell, one had been built on each side of l he Hotel Tower. The front shaft was clearly visible from I he plaza, something the shooter would want to avoid. His goal would be to eliminate exposure time. Less exposure meant fewer witnesses.

The other three were all hidden from the main street, the closest being on the eastern face of the tower. It was par-lially concealed by building two and less than thirty seconds away. Jones took a chance and sprinted as fast as he could, darting through the equipment and supplies that cluttered the massive space. The squeaking of cables greeted his arrival as the platform dipped below floor level. With no time to waste, Jones squeezed through the bars of the metal tube and jumped into the open shaft, plummeting several feet before landing on top of the elevator.

Until then, the sniper had been oblivious to Jones's pursuit. More concerned with the targets below than anyone lurking above. Now, suddenly, he was face-to-face with a black superhero. At least that's what Jones looked like as he stood on the plummeting steel cage, his white robe fluttering in the breeze like he was in midflight.

The sniper screamed one word-FUCK-before Jones pulled his trigger.

The mutaween were feared throughout Saudi Arabia, where they were empowered to enforce Sharia, a system of strict religious laws based on the Qur'an.

Unlike normal police, the mutaween were given discretionary power to enter homes, interrogate suspects, and punish violators on the spot. Sometimes these punishments were as simple as a warning; at other times they were much more severe. According to Sharia law, the penalty for adultery was death by stoning. If neither of the participants was married, they got off easy: a hundred lashes in a public flogging. Thieves were typically imprisoned for a first-time offense (if the stolen item was inexpensive), but repeat offenders were punished with the amputation of hands or feet. Then again, a more vital body part was cut off if a man or a woman was seen performing a same-sex sexual act. And anyone who was caught campaigning for gay rights was beheaded in a public ceremony.

However, on such an important religious holiday, the mutaween weren't searching for grievous offenses such as these as they patrolled the streets around the Great Mosque. They were more concerned with the mundane violations that seemed to increase when Mecca was flooded with Westerners. Dress code infractions. Consumption of alcohol. Possession of un-Islamic items such as American movies or CDs.

The last thing they were expecting was the sound of gunfire.

And it came from the Abraj Al Bait complex.

Covered in blood, Payne left the mechanical penthouse carrying two bags, one over each shoulder. Gun still in hand, he walked to the northern edge of the roof and peered over the thick wall that separated him from an eight-hundred-foot fall.

This was an opportunity he couldn't pass up.

The Great Mosque stretched before him, a series of arches and columns built from gray stones found in the local hills. Several towers, trimmed in green and topped with golden spires shaped like crescent moons, rose toward the heavens, casting shadows on the pilgrims who stood in line outside the main gates, patiently waiting to get inside, where they could fulfill their hajj duties. Shifting his focus to the center of the open courtyard, Payne spotted the Kaaba, draped in black cloth, the holy cube that was honored by all Muslims. From this height, he couldn't see the Black Stone, the focus of so much attention during the past few days, but he knew it was down there, set in the eastern corner of the shrine.

Thanks to him, it was temporarily safe from peril.

"Six is clear," he said as he hustled over to the construction elevator that was supposed to be broken-at least according to his men. In actuality, Schmidt's crew had turned off the controls so it remained at the penthouse while they went about their work. A smart move on their part, but one that would benefit Payne. With a flick of a switch, it was operational again, and he was able to ride it all the way to the plaza.

Trevor Schmidt sensed trouble when the rendezvous point was empty. His men were always punctual-trained to be on time, every time-especially in situations like this. The clock was ticking, and their escape depended on a precise schedule.

He glanced at his watch. The bombs would be going off in less than ten minutes.

They needed to get to the tunnel soon.

Scanning the plaza, Schmidt saw the two dead guards that Luke had gunned down. They were dressed in Arab clothes and laid in puddles of blood that matched the color of the towel on the one guy's head. Schmidt smiled at the image. According to his source, patrols weren't expected inside the complex, but he always planned for contingencies. That's why he put his best sniper in the Hotel Tower. He protected the unit while they went about their business.

"Luke, what's your status?"

Thinking back, Schmidt realized he hadn't heard from Luke since he reported the shootings. Not uncommon for a sniper, who was more concerned with finding his next target than giving updates. Still, it was slightly unsettling when combined with his tardiness.

The same thing applied to the others. He hadn't heard from them in several minutes.

"Matthew? Mark? What's your status?"

No answer. Not a single word.

Last Schmidt had heard, Mark was having trouble with his detonator. He called for Matthew, the engineer, who was in the control room, making sure that the jet fuel was pumped to the proper tanks in the proper amount, to come to the roof and help him with some rewiring. Once the levels were adjusted, Matthew had plenty of time to help. He reported his movement-so Luke wouldn't shoot him- then scurried to building six.

But that was a while ago.

Since that time, there had been silence. No updates. No complaints. Nothing.

All along, Schmidt had assumed that meant no problems. Now he wasn't so sure. Maybe there were more guards floating around that he wasn't aware of. Maybe someone was trapped in one of the towers. Or maybe, just maybe, his transmitter was broken. That had happened once before, on a mission several years ago, but he never knew about it until a soldier was sent to find him. It was so embarrassing, to be pulled out of the field like that, but what could he do?

"Hello?" he muttered, hoping to avoid a similar incident. "Can anyone hear me?"

A voice startled him from behind. "I can hear you."

49

Trevor Schmidt turned around slowly, unsure if he was imagining things. He was in the middle of Mecca, a forbidden city in Saudi Arabia, on a secretive mission, yet the voice he heard was out of his past. Like taking a remote control and rewinding five years. Back before he had his own squad. Back when he was in the MANIACs, still learning from the best.

For the past several months, he'd been having trouble with his long-term memory. Nothing that affected his day-to-day efficiency, but disturbing nonetheless. Pieces of things-incidents from his childhood, lectures from his parents, even advice from his former commander-were no longer there. He tried to pull them up, tried to use them to shape his decisions, but they simply weren't available. Like computer files that could no longer be accessed.

Like someone had messed with his circuitry.

Of course, he had never been an emotional guy; emotions simply weren't his thing. In his mind, he always considered himself pragmatic, someone who focused on results rather than policies or repercussions. Leave that shit to Congress, he liked to say.

Just give me a gun and a target, and I'll take care of the rest.

Yet, for some reason, that viewpoint had grown stronger in recent weeks. Suddenly everything was black or white. Right or wrong. Good or evil. Us versus them.

Gray no longer existed in his world.

Somehow it had been erased.

Schmidt blinked a few times, just to make sure he wasn't seeing things. Years had passed since he'd seen his former mentor. Now Captain Payne was standing in front of him, wearing a white robe that was streaked with blood. He held a gun in his hand. Two bags sat by his feet.

"It's been a long time," Payne said.

Schmidt nodded, still trying to decide if this was real or imagined. Worried that his conscience was fucking with him right before the bombs went off.

"You don't write. You don't call."

Was this guilt? A manifestation of guilt?

"Schmidt!" Payne barked, just like he used to. "I'm not worthy of a response?"

"Sir?"

"What's with that weak-ass, sir? Say it like you mean it."

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Better. Much better."

Schmidt stared at him, confused. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to find you. I came to bring you home."

"But-"

"But nothing. I heard you were in trouble and I came to get you. Case closed."

Schmidt fiddled with the gun he held in his hand. It was pointed at the ground, completely nonthreatening. Every once in a while he tapped it on his hip, absentmindedly, like he forgot it was even there. "I thought you were retired."

"I am. But all that changed when I heard about you. I came to get you out."

"We came to get you out," said Jones, who emerged on the other side of the plaza. Far enough from Payne that they had Schmidt hemmed in, just in case their words didn't work. They figured, with the bombs under control, it was worth a shot. "We flew all night to get here."

"D.J.?" he said, even more confused. "I don't understand. How did you know where I was?"

"The Pentagon figured it out," Payne fibbed. 'They said something about evidence you left in South Korea. One thing led to another and they asked us to extract you. Just like old times."

"They know I'm here?"

"Hell, yeah," Jones said. "And they applauded your initiative. Killing all these Arabs is a stroke of genius in their minds. Unfortunately, some politician found out about it, and the shit hit the fan. You know how it goes. If they sent a team of soldiers to help you out and they got caught? Think of the ramifications. That's why they asked us to help. Total deniability."

Schmidt shook his head. "But I don't need help. Everything's under control."

Payne disagreed. "No, it's not. There's a problem. A big problem."

"Sir?"

"After you went dark," Payne lied, "the CIA received some terrible news. An Islamic group got their hands on some nukes, and we think they have them in Mecca. Probably somewhere near the mosque. Our guess is they're participating in the hajj, cleansing all their sins, in hopes of striking soon."

"Then what's the problem? Let's wipe those fuckers out."

"We wish," Jones said. "But that's not the problem. The problem is the wind."

"The wind?"

Payne nodded. "This time of year the wind blows to the east, right across the friggin' desert. If we launch an assault and the nukes go off, guess what happens?"

Schmidt paused, trying to figure it out. "Shit."

"Shit is right," Jones said. "The radioactivity will blow right across the peninsula. Within hours, it will blanket Taif Air Base, Al-Gaim, and Al-Hada Hospital. We're talking hundreds of dead Americans, all of them loyal soldiers. Hell, we probably know half of them."

"Fuck!" Schmidt screamed, still tapping his gun on his hip. Much harder than before. Like the constant pounding was helping him think. "Then we gotta hurry, because I already planted the charges. They're set to blow any minute."

"Relax, man, relax." Payne's voice was calm, not showing any stress. "Were there two?"

"Yeah, in the eastern towers."

"Then I got you covered." He pointed toward the bags at his feet. "We found the explosives before we found you."

"On the tanks? You found them on the tanks?"

Payne nodded, confident. "Someone taught you how to do this shit. And it sure wasn't D.J."

"Screw you," Jones teased, trying to keep things light. He figured the more banter there was, the less time Schmidt would have to think. "I taught Trevor plenty of things. I took him to his first strip club."

Schmidt frowned. "No, you didn't."

"Well, I would have. And that's what's important."

Payne cut him off. "If you don't mind, can we talk about it later? Right now we need to get out of here. The sooner, the better."

"Back through the tunnel?" Jones asked.

"Yeah. We need to keep off the streets as much as possible. Especially with all the pilgrims arriving. I already sent Trevor's crew ahead." Payne turned toward Schmidt. "Unless you have a better plan."

"You talked to my guys?"

"Someone had to," Payne lied. He remembered Schmidt's troubles when he first spotted him, repeatedly calling to his men, asking for their positions. "They said they tried but couldn't get through to you. Is your earpiece working?"

Schmidt shrugged. "Apparently not. I haven't heard a damn thing in fifteen minutes."

Jones laughed. "Talk about deja vu. Remember that time in Asia when we had to go looking for your ass? You couldn't hear a thing all night, but you stayed in the bushes for six hours even though the mission should've taken five minutes."

Embarrassed, Schmidt nodded. "I was just thinking of that."

"The next day we bought him a case of Q-tips to clean out his ears and a Dumbo watch to help tell time."

"His trunk pointed to the hour," Schmidt recalled. "At six o'clock it looked like his dick."

Payne smiled at the memory, glad to see the old Trevor was still in there.

During the past several hours, Payne had had his doubts, worried that he was going to find some kind of lobotomized zombie he would be forced to put down because nothing human remained. In fact, if Payne had stumbled across him earlier when the clock was still ticking, when he had no time to waste, he would have done just that. No regrets. No remorse. Anything to save the lives of all those people Schmidt wanted to harm.

But now, how could he do that?

The threat was over, and Schmidt trusted them enough to follow them back to their truck. From there, they'd sneak across the border and return to Taif, where he'd let Colonel Harrington deal with him. Whether that was prison, psychotherapy, or a combination of the two, Payne figured it was better than putting a bullet into an old friend.

Sure, he realized Schmidt wouldn't see the light of day for a very long time, if ever. And the truth was he didn't deserve to-not after all the pain and suffering he caused.

However, in his heart, Payne figured his best choice was bringing Schmidt home alive.

Unfortunately, he never got the chance.

50

The bullet was fired over Payne's shoulder. It whizzed past his ear and struck Schmidt in the throat. One second he was laughing about the past, the next he was taking his last breath.

Blood gushed from his carotid artery, leaking through his pale fingers as he frantically clutched his neck. No words were spoken, no last-second good-byes. He simply dropped his gun and slumped to the ground as a puddle of red formed around him.

Payne spun and saw two Arab men, both of them armed, wearing dark uniforms that prominently displayed the emblem of Saudi Arabia. The patch had a green palm tree underscored by two crossing scimitars, a curved sword popular in the Middle East. A second insignia, beige and encircled with Arabic script, was sewn on their chest. Payne didn't need a translator to read their badges. He knew all about these men and their barbaric ways.

They were mutaween.

"Drop your weapons!" one screamed in Arabic.

When no one moved, the other repeated the command in English. "Drop your weapons!"

"Don't shoot," Payne said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. In stressful situations, he knew that people had the tendency to match the volume and the venom of those around them. If he screamed, their adrenaline would flow and they would get more aggressive. But if he stayed composed, they would subconsciously relax, possibly letting their guard down.

Payne smiled. "It's about time you got here. We weren't sure how long you'd be."

"Put down your weapon!"

"Relax. We're the ones who called you. We've been waiting for you to show."

The lead officer did not bite. "Drop your weapon or you will be shot like your friend."

"My friend?" Payne repeated. "Why would we be pointing our guns at a friend? He was the person we were sent to stop."

"Put down your weapon."

Multiple scenarios floated through Payne's head. He knew he could follow orders and turn himself in, which would probably result in the death penalty-maybe before they even left the complex, since the mutaween were known for their swift justice. He could start a shoot-out, an iffy proposition since his gun was at his side and his opponent, a proven marksman, was aimed and ready to fire. He could delay as much as possible, hoping the other two members of his squad heard him talking and were moving into position. Then again, that wasn't something he could count on-especially not from a soldier who was tripping in his dress less than twenty minutes before. Hell, for all Payne knew, the mutaween had hit the complex with force and had already disarmed his men. There could be twenty of them running around, securing all exits.

Payne glanced at Jones, who stood several feet away. He stared back at him, waiting for Payne to make a move. Whatever Payne did, he would follow. No questions asked. Over the years, they had developed a special bond that was hard to explain, one that was forged in stressful situations like this, where life and death hung in the balance. They'd reached a point where they could finish each other's sentences, a trait that was often seen in identical twins-although one look at them proved they had different parents-and guess each other's thoughts.

That's one of the reasons why they were able to convince Schmidt to come with them so peacefully. Payne started piling on the bullshit, and Jones immediately broke out his shovel. Throw in the fact that Schmidt had a long history with them, trusting them implicitly from all their missions together, and they were able to persuade him in record time.

Unfortunately, the current situation wasn't quite so easy. Payne knew he wouldn't be able to convince the mutaween of anything. They were too hard-core, as evidenced by their warning shot to Schmidt's throat. Too protective of their sacred city. As soon as they figured out that Payne and Jones were non-Muslims, they were going to open fire. No questions asked.

Still, Payne knew if he could buy some time, if he could pile on enough bullshit to get an extra minute, he had an idea that just might work. It was going to take a grand gesture on his part and some even bigger cojones, but it was the best he could come up with on such short notice. Then again, it followed the creed he had been taught many years ago when he was training for the Special Forces, one he adhered to during his stint with the MANIACs.

A good plan violently executed now is better than a great plan later.

And if there was one thing Payne was good at, it was violence.

"Listen to me," he said. "I am a United States soldier who was invited by your government to track the man you just killed. He came to Mecca to damage the Great Mosque and kill thousands of pilgrims in the hajj. We called for backup several minutes ago. Are you them?"

"Put down your weapon!"

"Look," he said, as he turned his gun backward and lowered it to the ground. "I am putting my weapon down. Just answer my question. Are you my backup?"

"Your partner, too! Tell him to drop his weapon."

Payne nodded at Jones, who followed Payne's instructions. "We are not here to hurt anyone. We are here to help. Your government should have told you."

"Told us what?"

"We are here to save the Great Mosque."

The officer shook his head. "We know nothing of your tale."

"Then you need to call it in. For your sake and ours. We have permission to be here."

"What does it hurt?" Jones added. "Call it in."

The mutaween whispered to each other in Arabic, discussing what they should do. Currently, they were in a position of power. Both of them were armed and far enough away from the suspects, who willingly surrendered their weapons, that they couldn't be attacked without getting off several deadly shots. Besides, if what the Americans were allying was accurate-that they did have authorization to be-in Mecca-then harming them would result in the mutaween's dismissal. Or even worse. Their bosses did not lake kindly to incompetence.

Finally, the officer spoke.

"You," he said, pointing at Jones, "move closer to your 11 friend."

Jones raised his hands in surrender and took several steps toward Payne.

"Stop right there."

He nodded and stopped about five feet away.

The officer returned his attention to Payne. "Who is your contact?"

"His name and number are programmed into my phone." Payne pointed toward the bag that sat near his right foot. "May I reach inside and get it?"

More whispering in Arabic. Then an answer in English. "Slowly."

"Understood."

Payne bent at his waist and inched his hand inside the bag. He fumbled around for a bit, his hand hidden from sight. An action that spooked the mutaween.

"What are you doing? Let me see your hand."

"Relax," he said. "I already gave you my gun. My partner gave you his gun. I am simply accessing my phone. It is password-protected. I cannot read the screen without the code."

"Let me see the phone. Let me see your hand!"

"Don't worry. I'm almost done. Just a couple more buttons."

"He's almost done," echoed Jones, who appeared borderline serene despite everything that was going on. "He's just getting the name of our contact."

"Let me see your-"

"There!" Payne blurted. "The phone has been accessed. Now you can make the call yourself. He will tell you everything you need to know."

"What is his name?"

"His name is Jabaal. He works for your government. Just talk to him and he will tell you everything. You will see."

The officers whispered again, discussing who should make the call.

"Should I toss you the phone?" Payne asked, reaching toward his bag.

"Stop!" the officer shouted. "Leave it alone. Back up ten steps and leave the bag there."

"Fine," Payne grunted. "We'll both back up. Ten giant steps."

Jones looked at him in understanding. "We're backing up."

"Giant steps," Payne mumbled. "Ten giant steps."

One.

They kept their hands in the air. The perfect prisoners.

Two.

The mutaween moved closer, never taking their eyes off Payne or Jones.

Three.

Each step was huge. Getting as far away as possible.

Four.

More words in Arabic. Discussing their situation.

Five.

Payne scanned the plaza, searching for additional guards.

Six.

The officer reached the bag and tapped it with his foot.

Seven.

Jones glanced at Payne, ready to move.

Eight.

Still aiming his gun, the officer dropped to his knees.

Nine.

Confused, he opened the bag and glanced inside.

Ten.

Payne and Jones grinned, covering their ears.

The timer, which Payne had set a moment before, sent a burst of electricity to the primer, which triggered the main explosive. The C-4 erupted with a vengeance, shredding the mutaween like they'd been struck by the sword of God, spraying chunks of bone and blood across the open courtyard and knocking Payne and Jones backward onto the hard ground.

If they had been any closer, they would have been in the kill zone.

But their giant steps backward had saved their lives.

It took several seconds before Payne was able to shake off the blast. When he did, he crawled over to Jones, who was rubbing his eyes, trying to refocus. "Are you okay?"

He nodded, even though he wasn't sure. "What about you?"

"I'm better than them."

51

Tuesday, January 2

Taif, Saudi Arabia

Payne and Jones were battered and bruised, but they reported to Colonel Harrington's office as soon as the Taif medical staff cleared them for duty. Each had sustained minor injuries, compliments of the bomb blast, but nothing a few days of rest couldn't cure.

Unfortunately, they realized a vacation would have to wait.

Harrington sat behind a large desk, staring at his computer screen, anxiously jotting notes on a legal pad. Every lime he opened a new file, he flipped a page and started again. His concentration was so intense he didn't notice I'ayne standing in the doorway.

"Colonel, you wanted to see us?"

Harrington glanced up. "Gentlemen, please have a seat. I'll be right with you."

Payne walked in first, followed by Jones. Both moved slower than normal, still feeling the effects of the previous day-one that had spanned several time zones and resulted in multiple bruises. Adrenaline had carried them through their mission, but now that they were back on base, the only thing that kept them going was their thirst for answers. And a lot of coffee.

"First of all," Harrington said as he finished writing, "let me thank you again. I know we talked briefly when you arrived last night, yet somehow I feel the need to repeat myself. Thanks to you, a major crisis was averted, and I just wanted to express my appreciation."

Payne and Jones said nothing, realizing that Harrington wasn't finished.

"That being said, there are still a number of loose ends that need to be dealt with, some of them more puzzling than others." He turned the pages of his notebook and focused on the first item. A single name was written: Shari Shasmeen. "What can you tell me about the girl?"

"Not much," Payne admitted. "We found her tied up and beaten pretty badly in a back room. She was in charge of some archaeological dig and gave us a tour of the maintenance tunnel before our assault. Other than that, we didn't have much time to chat."

"Yet you brought her back with you?"

Payne nodded. "After the blast, we slipped past the Saudi guards by going out the same tunnel. When we got back to the entrance, she was still standing there, unable to leave without a chaperone because of all the mutaween running around."

Jones added, "We figured she needed a way out, and we needed more information about Abdul-Khaliq. It seemed like a match made in heaven."

"On the trip home, did she tell you anything about the envelope?"

"Not really," Payne said. "She slept the whole way back. Why? What was inside?"

"Two things," Harrington answered, glancing at his notepad. "One of them is confusing, the other we're still trying to decipher. While you two were getting your beauty rest, my team spent the night trying to connect the dots. In fact, that's what I was working on when you walked in."

"Go on."

Harrington grabbed a manila folder that sat on the corner of his desk. Inside, there was a single document. He took it out and handed it to Payne. "Don't worry. It's not the original. We sent that out for testing."

The sheet was folded in two. It was written in English and had a simple logo on the front, a similar design on the back. Payne opened it and scanned the listings. He saw everything from nachos to hamburgers to chicken fingers. "What the hell is this?"

"It's a take-out menu from the restaurant at Al-Gaim. We found it inside the envelope."

"Someone sent her a menu? That doesn't make sense."

"Like I said, it's confusing."

Payne handed it to Jones, who stared at the menu with great interest. He studied everything, paying particular attention to the interior text.

"Do you see something?" Payne asked.

Jones nodded, smiling. "The club sandwich looks good."

Payne ignored the comment, knowing that he would continue.

"Actually," Jones said, "the menu doesn't bother me. It's what it represents that bothers me."

"Meaning?"

"Whoever sent the envelope knew about Schmidt long before we did."

"How so?" Harrington demanded.

"Two years ago, when Schmidt's unit was killed at the hospital, where were you housing their families?"

"Al-Gaim."

"And when Schmidt attacked the towers, what was his access point?"

"The tunnel," Payne answered.

"Obviously that's not a coincidence. Whoever sent the package knew about Schmidt, knew about his motivation, and knew where he was going to attack several days in advance. Of course, that triggers a floodgate of questions that I'd rather not think about until I know what else was inside the package. That might put things in a proper context."

Nodding in agreement, Harrington grabbed another manila folder. This time he handed it to Jones. "We found this taped inside the menu."

Jones opened the folder and stared at the image. It was a picture of an SD card, a computer storage device that was slightly bigger than a postage stamp yet capable of holding gigabytes of information. Some held more data than a DVD. "What's on it?"

"We're still trying to figure that out," Harrington admitted. "All of the files are encrypted, including one substantial video file that we've been working on all night. Once we crack the code, we should know a whole lot more. I'm expecting to hear something soon."

"In the meantime," Payne suggested, "would you mind if we talked to Shari? Since we bailed her out, I'm sure she'd be willing to open up. Who knows what she might know?"

Harrington smiled. "I think that's a great idea. In fact, I've already set it up. She's waiting for you down the hall."

Shari Shasmeen paced back and forth in the interview room. Her nose was covered in white tape; her eyes were black and swollen. She looked like a prizefighter the morning after a bad loss.

When Payne opened the door, she stopped and broke into a huge grin. The stress that had been evident a moment before was replaced with instant relief. "Thank God, it's you."

Payne smiled at her comment. "God's a little formal. You can call me Jon."

Jones followed him into the room, closing the door. "And I'm D.J."

She gave each of them a hug. "It's great to see you both. It really is."

Payne pulled out the chair that faced the video camera, mounted on the ceiling, and helped her sit down. "Are you okay? You seem upset."

"What can I say? It's been a rough couple of days." She took a deep breath, trying to relax. "I guess I shouldn't complain. Things could've been a lot worse. I mean, I could be dead. But-"

"But what?"

"But I was this close to making a major discovery. This close to a fulfilling a dream. And right before I could grasp it, it was taken away."

"You mean the site?"

She nodded, an aggrieved look in her eyes.

"You know," Payne said, "we still don't know much about your time in Mecca. What you were looking for, how you were recruited, and so on. If you don't mind, we'd love lo ask you some questions about your work."

"Of course. Whatever you need."

"Let's start with the basics. Who hired you for the dig?"

"His name is Omar Abdul-Khaliq, a wealthy Saudi with ii vast network of connections. A few months ago, he con-luclcd me by phone and asked if I'd be interested in running a team in Arabia. He'd heard about my research and lell I'd be the perfect person for the job. Clearly, it was lliitlering-especially when he told me that the dig would he in Mecca. Until then, I never thought I'd have a chance in work there."

Jones asked, "Because of your religion?"

"And my sex. Mecca doesn't look kindly on either."

"But he got you inside?"

"Me and the others. All of us were Americans. None of us were Muslims. He said he was looking for the strongest team possible and felt we would work well together. So he got us the appropriate paperwork and snuck us into the city."

"And you weren't hassled?"

"Not once. I'm not sure how Omar pulled it off, but we were never bothered at the site. At least not until recently. Obviously, things changed drastically over the past few days."

52

Payne was known for his ability to read people. And in this case, he had nothing but positive feelings about Shari Shasmeen. She might have worked for Omar Abdul-Khaliq, but she sure as hell wasn't helping him. At least not knowingly.

"When did things start to go bad?" he asked.

"About a week ago, I called Omar to update him on our progress. When I told him that we were getting ready to verify the site, he was thrilled with the news. At that time he was out of the country but said as soon as he returned he was going to stop by for the big unveiling."

"Did he ever make it?" Jones wondered.

She shook her head. "A few days later he called to let me know that he'd been delayed. However, he was so confident that he'd make it to Mecca in the next day or two that he was going to have a package delivered to the site. He hinted that it was very important but wouldn't tell me what was inside."

Payne asked, "When did it show up?"

"On Saturday afternoon."

Payne nodded. That meant whoever sent it knew about the attack at least two days before it happened. "And what can you tell me about the delivery guy?"

She closed her eyes and tried to remember. "Middle-aged. Tan complexion. Probably Middle Eastern. But no trace of an accent. I'm guessing American."

Jones glanced at Payne. "What's with all the Americans?"

"I was wondering the same thing." He paused for a moment, trying to figure out the significance, before he returned his attention to Shari. "What happened next?"

"He gave me the envelope and left."

"No conversations. No clues about who he was or where he was going."

She shook her head. "We found him about an hour later. Someone had slit his throat and dumped his body by the exit. There was blood everywhere. After that, I did the only thing I could. I called Omar and told him what had happened."

Payne nodded. "How did he react?"

"He was calm. No hint of panic. He said he'd take care of it. Less than an hour later, a team of guards showed up and removed the body."

"Were they Americans?" Jones asked.

"No," she said. "They were Arabs."

She gave them a basic description of the guards and explained how Omar ordered her to leave the tunnel until the hajj was over. He said the Arabs would protect the site while she explored the city or stayed in the safety of her hotel room, which was a few miles away.

"Yet we found you in the tunnel," Payne commented.

"What can I say? I'm stubborn. I stopped by to get some work done late Sunday night, and the place was empty. No guards in sight. They didn't show up until Monday morning. And when they arrived, they were carrying tools."

"And that's when they attacked you?"

She nodded. "After that, everything's fuzzy."

Harrington watched the interview from an adjacent room. Much like Payne, he believed everything that Shari said. Her answers were straightforward. She never stammered or avoided a topic. She constantly looked her questioners in the eyes.

In some ways, he was disappointed. Things would have been much simpler if she had partnered with Abdul-Khaliq. In that case he could have put the screws to her, getting as much information as possible before he sent her to military intelligence, who would have treated her even worse. Before they were done, she would have confessed to everything, including Abraham Lincoln's assassination.

Unfortunately, as things currently stood, it was his ass on the line. Not hers.

From the moment he notified the Pentagon about a possible attack, he knew his career was going to be put under a microscope. Committees were currently forming, all of them designed to look into his recent operations- including the black ops run by Trevor Schmidt. All things considered, Payne and Jones had done a remarkable job cleaning up his mess in Mecca. However, they didn't have the time or the resources to be perfect. By now, the Saudis were sorting through all the evidence at the towers and had recovered the bodies, which meant they were one step closer to figuring out their true identities: non-Muslim American soldiers.

No matter how Harrington tried to spin it, he knew that he was screwed. American troops plus explosives plus the Great Mosque meant an international crisis. Not nearly as bad as if the attack had succeeded, but bad enough that he would be relieved of his duties.

At this point, the only thing that could save him was a miracle.

Or help from an unexpected source.

After the interview with Shari, Payne and Jones were summoned to the conference room, where Harrington was waiting for them. A day before, photos of the Great Mosque filled the large video screen while an expert lectured on the events of the hajj. Today there was a single image-a freeze-frame of a Middle Eastern man sitting in a dilapidated warehouse.

"Gentlemen," Harrington said, "Christmas just came early."

"Crap!" Jones joked as he took a seat. "I didn't get you anything."

"Actually, you did. You got me the best gift in the world. You brought me the disk."

"The disk?" Payne asked.

'The SD card from the take-out menu. My tech boys finally cracked the encryption. It took all night, but it was worth their effort. That thing was filled with all kinds of information. Building designs for the towers. Escape routes from Mecca. American contacts in Riyadh and Taif. The type of intel that would've been hard to explain if the Saudis had recovered it."

Payne rubbed his eyes. "I don't get it. Why would someone send that to the tunnel?"

Harrington grinned. "If you'd like, I can sit here and explain it to you. Or if you'd prefer, you can hear it straight from the Arab's mouth."

"Which Arab is that?"

He pointed toward the screen. "Earlier today, I mentioned there was a large video file on the SD card that we were trying to crack. Turns out it was a video message. One I think you'll enjoy."

Harrington hit play, and the video sprang to life.

Filmed with a webcam in poor lighting, the man's face dominated the screen. He had dark skin and five-o'clock shadow. His lips were dried and cracked. When he spoke, he whispered in serious tones, like everything he said was a matter of life and death. His English was fluent, yet tinged with a slight Arabic accent.

"My name is Raheem Al-Jahani, and I am twenty-six years old. I was born in Medina, not far from the final resting place of the Prophet Muhammad, sallallahu alayhi wasallam. For the past four years, I have been an active member of the Soldiers of Allah, an organization that strives to make the world a better place for all Muslims. Until recently, I was proud to call myself a Soldier. But that pride exists no more."

During the next few minutes, Al-Jahani explained how he was recruited out of college, where he'd earned a computer degree, and slowly proved his worth to the Soldiers by running a terrorist cell in London that was responsible for several bombings. Eventually he moved higher and higher in the network until he was contacted by one of Hakeem Salaam's top advisers, who asked him if he'd be interested in working on a mission that would utilize his technical expertise. Al-Jahani was honored, especially when he discovered the project had been planned by Salaam, a man who rarely showed his face and trusted no one.

To protect the sanctity of the mission, Al-Jahani was transported to a secret location, where he was housed in seclusion for months. No phone. No Internet. No access to the outside world. He was given a brand-new computer, pre-installed with some of the best encryption software available, and several pieces of hardware. Every few days a guard would drop off food and an envelope filled with the materials for his next assignment.

In the beginning, the information was mostly American. Names of soldiers. Locations of contacts. Ways to manipulate them. To Al-Jahani, the prospects were thrilling because he longed to launch an assault against the country he hated the most. Unfortunately, as his work continued, the focus of the mission began to shift. Before long he started to see Arab documents. Maps of Mecca. Permits for digging. Diagrams of the towers complex.

None of it seemed to fit.

Several weeks passed before Al-Jahani pieced everything together. Hakeem Salaam, a hero to all Soldiers, wasn't attacking the United States. Instead, he was helping them stage an attack of their own-one that threatened the Kaaba, the most sacred landmark in all of Islam, and the millions of pilgrims who honored it-by providing them with information through his vast network of Arab contacts, some of whom had worked with the Americans for years but, in actuality, were supporters of Salaam. The ultimate goal was to unite Islam against a common enemy, but millions of martyrs would die in the process.

The realization made Al-Jahani nauseous.

At that point he realized he had two options. He could stop working for Salaam, which would result in his swift execution, or he could try to sabotage the mission. Obviously, the latter seemed the more promising of the two. The only question was, how?

He had no connection to the outside world. No way to communicate the threat to anyone.

All he could do was sit and wait, praying that an opportunity would present itself.

His big break finally arrived in late December, when he was ordered to take all the data he had been working on- the blueprint for the terrorist attack-and store it on a SD card that would be delivered to a team of Americans who were working in the tunnel. To Salaam, they were the perfect people to frame. Non-Muslims. Fake paperwork. Access to the towers. Once Saudi officials were tipped, they would find the SD card filled with all the damning evidence, and accuse the Americans of aiding the terrorists.

On the surface, it seemed like a good plan-another way to link the United States to the attack, thereby demonizing them as the butchers of Islam.

However, Al-Jahani viewed it differently. This was his chance to reveal the truth.

"As you have figured out," he explained, "my computer is equipped with a webcam. No one thought to remove it, since I have no connection to transmit a video feed. Yet this camera has many functions. I am using it to record this message. Earlier today, when the guards came in to give me my final assignment-to encrypt all the data for delivery- 1 filmed die entire conversation. It will be included on the disk."

He glanced over his shoulder, afraid that someone might be listening.

"As the guards left, I heard them talking about a pickup they would be making at a tunnel in Mecca and a delivery to Jeddah. I do not know what this means. It could be nothing. It could be everything."

He paused again, searching for words.

"For all I know, this message might never be seen or heard. Either way, I am confident that it will survive longer than I will. After today, they have no reason to keep me alive."

He took a deep breath, realization in his eyes.

"In my heart, I know what they are doing is wrong. My only hope is they will be stopped."

53

Shari Shasmeen sat in the lounge for more than an hour, staying as close to the interview room as possible in case Payne or Jones had any more questions. To her, the furniture looked like it had been donated by Goodwill. Mismatched chairs, a badly scratched card table, a coffeepot that was older than Juan Valdez. She tried to get comfortable on the lumpy couch, but it felt like it had been stuffed with straw.

"I'm guessing you've never been in the military," said Kia Choi as she entered the room. "Otherwise you'd be used to our opulent accommodations."

Shari smiled. "I've spent the past few months in a tunnel, and it was nicer than this."

She reached out her hand in introduction. "I'm Kia, by the way."

"I'm Shari."

"Actually," Kia admitted, "I knew that already. I work with Jon, and he told me all about you when he returned from Mecca. How are you feeling?"

She touched the tape on her broken nose. "About as good as I look."

"Can I get you something? Some aspirin or-"

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm tough. I can take it."

Kia smiled. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Of course not. I'd welcome the company. It's been a while since I've talked with a female. All of my coworkers are men, so our conversations were somewhat limited."

"In that case, I'm kind of hesitant to ask you my next question."

"Why's that?"

"I wanted to ask you about your job."

Shari laughed. "Don't worry. It's fine. I'm happy to talk about it. What did you want to know?"

"Well, as I mentioned, Jon told me about finding you in the tunnel. Unfortunately, he didn't have enough time to tell me about the site. So I was wondering-"

"What we were looking for."

Kia nodded. "Is that too personal?"

"A few days ago, I probably would've played stupid and said, What site? But as things stand, I guess there's no harm in talking about it now."

"Just so you know," Kia said, "I work as a translator for the military, and Arabic is one of the languages I speak. So I'm not a total novice when it comes to Islam. I know some of the basics about its history and culture."

"What do you know about Muhammad?"

"I know Muhammad is revered as the Prophet. Muslims believe he received the word of God, and his revelations form the pages of the Qur'an."

"I'm impressed. That's more than most non-Muslims know."

Kia smiled. "Unfortunately, that's where my knowledge ends."

"That's okay. I can pick up the story from there. Even though Muhammad died in 632 AD, the first copy of the Qur'an wasn't written until 650 AD. It was compiled by Uthman ibn Affan, the third caliph of Islam, based on all the transcripts and teachings he could find."

"Eighteen years after Muhammad died?"

Shari nodded. "Some scholars, myself included, have always wondered what might have been omitted in that span. Languages were evolving, politics were changing, and Muhammad's original followers were dying off. There's no telling what could have been lost during that time. Furthermore, many people believe the oldest surviving Qur'an was written in the eighth century, approximately one hundred years after the Uthman version. Suddenly we're talking about a wide chasm in history that could've altered Muhammad's initial message."

"So what did you find?"

"As I mentioned, the Uthman version was compiled from transcripts of Muhammad's direct recitations, recorded by his companions on anything they could get ahold of. Bark, bones, whatever was available. Uthman formed a committee that sorted through all these messages, eventually agreeing on the text of the first Qur'an. For years I have been searching for one of these copies, thinking it was the purest version available. But I was wrong. I neglected to consider the transcripts themselves."

"The transcripts?"

"The bark, the bones, the loose parchments of text. In actuality, they contained the original message from Muhammad, the literal word of God. All this time I was looking for the first Qur'an and neglected to search for its source."

"And that's what you found?"

Shari nodded. "I think I did. Unfortunately, before I had a chance to find out for sure, the site was violated and everything was stolen."

The discussion stopped when Payne and Jones walked into me lounge and closed the door.

"Shari," Payne said as he took a seat next to the couch, "I have some photos that I'd like you to look at. Please tell me if you recognize anyone."

He handed her a folder filled with pictures from Al-Jahani's webcam. Harrington's staff had decrypted the files and altered the brightness so the photographs were much clearer.

The instant she glanced at the first image, her face went pale. It was a reaction she couldn't fake, a combination of fear and hatred.

"Oh my God! That's the guard. The one who attacked me!"

She flipped to the next photo and nodded. And the one after that. She recognized them all.

"These are the guards. The ones from the tunnel."

Payne smiled. "We had a hunch they were."

"Wait. Does this mean you caught them?"

"Not yet, but we're working on it. We're running down some leads."

"Then where did you get these photos?"

"Actually, we got them from you. They were inside your package."

"What do you mean?" she asked, confused. "I had pictures of the guards?"

Payne told her the simplified version of the SD card, not wanting to overwhelm her with all the details. When he was done, he shifted her focus back to the photographs.

He said, "I know you've been through a lot, and I know the last thing you want to do is stare at the guys who attacked you. But if you could, I'd like you to take a closer look at them. Maybe their faces will jog your memory. Something from the tunnel or something they said. At this point, any information would be helpful. Sometimes the smallest things mean the most."

"Sure," Shari said. "Whatever you need."

She took out the first picture and studied the face of the main guard. She stared at his eyes and mouth, trying to remember anything she could about the man who knocked her unconscious. "He talked on his phone a lot. The first day he arrived he made, like, twenty calls."

"Did you hear anything?" Jones asked.

"To be honest, the guy spooked me from the very beginning, so I stayed away from him as much as I could. I spent half the day avoiding him."

"This was when? On Saturday?"

She nodded. "Omar called them to remove the body."

"What were they driving?" Kia wondered.

Payne looked at her and smiled. It was a good question.

Shari tried to remember. "It was a red van. Kind of new-looking. They backed it all the way to the tunnel entrance so they wouldn't have to carry the body very far."

"That's good. Real good. Try the next picture."

Shari handed the first photo to Kia, who looked at it closer while Shari took the next one out of the stack. "This guy searched the body. He frisked him for his wallet and keys."

"Did he find anything?" Jones asked.

"Keys. He found his keys. After that, he ran off to move the guy's car."

Shari handed the photo to Kia, then moved on to the next one.

"This guy," she said as she stared at his face, "helped move the body. He pulled out a big carpet from the back-"

"Jon," Kia said, interrupting Shari, "where were these pictures taken?"

"What?" he asked.

"These photos. Where were they taken? Were they taken in Jeddah?"

Payne glanced at Jones, perplexed. Al-Jahani had mentioned the city during his video testimony, but neither of them had brought it up during this conversation. "Why do you ask?"

"Because of this photo," Kia said. She pointed over the shoulder of the second guard and tapped the background. "All these crates. They say Jeddah."

Payne leaned forward, hoping to see, but all he saw was a bunch of lines and squiggles.

"You won't be able to read it," Kia stressed. "It's written in Arabic. But I'm telling you it says Jeddah."

Shari took the photo from Kia and held it up to the light. She stared at it for several seconds before her lips curled into a huge grin. "Actually, it says a lot more than Jeddah. It's stamped with the name of a business."

"Which business?" Payne demanded.

Her grin grew wider. "One I know quite well. It's owned byOmarAbdul-Khaliq."

54

Jeddah Seaport, Saudi Arabia

With a population of more than three million people, Jeddah is the second-largest city in Saudi Arabia. According to legend, it was named after the Arabic word jaddah, which means grandmother, because the mythical tomb of Eve, the matriarch of all civilization, was there until 1928, when the Saudi government, fearing the perversion of Islam, had it destroyed.

Nowadays, Jeddah is the commercial center of Saudi Arabia, anchored by a sprawling seaport that sits on the Red Sea and handles the majority of the country's shipping. Barges, tankers, and ships of all sizes filled the blue water, but on this day the U.S. military was more concerned with the buildings that surrounded the harbor.

While flying to Jeddah, Payne and Jones studied satellite images of the terrain, focusing on four warehouses owned and operated by Omar Abdul-Khaliq. An advance team that was already in the city on another mission had located the suspects from the photographs and secured the immediate area while they waited for Payne and Jones to arrive. Their chopper landed on one of the port's helipads, less than a mile from the site, where a young soldier met them and briefed them en route.

"The suspects are in warehouse twenty-nine," he said, pointing to a detailed map. "Multiple points of entry. Minimal security. Right now they're loading cargo into a shipping vault."

"Cargo?" Payne asked, hoping it was the artifact from Mecca.

"Can't tell what it is, sir. It's boxed up in a large crate. Must be important, though."

"Why do you say that?"

"The old guy keeps yelling at them."

"What old guy?"

"Sorry, sir. I should've mentioned him. There are five men in total. Four suspects and some old guy who's bossing them around. We've been calling him the sheik."

"The sheik?"

"Yes, sir. Because he looks like a sheik."

"Creative name," Jones said sarcastically.

"Thank you, sir."

Payne glanced at Jones. "Would Omar would be dumb enough to be here himself?"

Jones shrugged. "According to Shari, the cargo would be invaluable to the Islamic world. So who knows? If Omar wanted to see it or doesn't trust the guards, he might've made the trip."

"Seems kind of stupid to me. Why would he risk it?"

"Hey," Jones said, "the same could be said about us. We're supposed to be retired."

"Good point." Payne smiled as he refocused on the soldier. "Do your men understand the parameters of mis assault?"

"Yes, sir. The suspects are wanted for questioning. Nonlethal force unless necessary."

"Be extra careful with the sheik. We want him alive." "Understood, sir. I'll stress it to my men." Payne nodded. "What do you have for transport?" The soldier pointed at the map. "Our boat is waiting in the harbor. On my signal, he'll make his approach along this channel and stop at this dock. If all goes smoothly, we'll load the boat in five minutes. After that, we're off to international waters."

"Can you handle some extra weight?" "Why, sir? Are you thinking of joining us?" Payne shook his head. "I was referring to the cargo. We want to take that as well."

The assault started with a flashbang, a nonlethal grenade that was commonly used in hostage retrieval. No shrapnel. No toxic gas. Just a flash of light that was so bright it activated all of the photosensitive cells in the suspects' retinas, blinding them for several seconds. Couple that with a blast that was so deafening it disrupted the fluid in their inner ears, and they had no chance to fight back. One moment they were standing; the next they were falling to the ground in agony.

Temporarily blind and completely disoriented.

Soldiers breached the warehouse from multiple angles, swarming the suspects before they had a chance to recover. Within seconds they were bound and gagged and ready for transport. Payne and Jones studied their faces, making sure they had everyone in their grasp. Four guards in total, including the one who had assaulted Shari.

"Let me break his nose," said Jones, who was only half joking.

Payne shook his head, realizing that the guards would be roughed up worse than that once Harrington's men started interrogating them. Early in his career, Payne had asked one of his commanders what would happen to a prisoner they had just captured, and his response was one that always stuck with him.

He's going to be beaten until he starts leaking answers.

For some reason, that expression seemed to fit.

Next, Payne turned his attention to the old guy. It was, in fact, Omar Abdul-Khaliq.

He did not look very happy.

Like the soldiers had mentioned, he looked like a stereotypical sheik-though not nearly as dignified, since he was hog-tied on the floor. Payne wanted to ask him why he was there. Why he was dumb enough to give up the sanctuary of his oil business, which made him off-limits to some American politicians, to supervise the shipment of an artifact that had been stolen during a terrorist attack.

It was one thing to send your goons. It was quite another to be there yourself.

Now the door was wide open. They had caught him red-handed and could question him about anything they wanted, for as long as they wanted, and they wouldn't have to worry about lawyers breathing down their necks. And if Payne guessed right, the process would go on indefinitely.

In the vernacular of the U.S. military, it was called a ghost detainee.

Abdul-Khaliq would enter their system and simply disappear.

EPILOGUE

Tuesday, January 9

U.S. Army Base, Kwajalein

Republic of the Marshall Islands

A week had passed since Payne and Jones wrapped up their mission in Jeddah. Afterward, they spent several days in Taif, tying up loose ends and dealing with the political mess that their unauthorized trip to Mecca had caused. Harrington was the lightning rod in the whole ordeal, taking the blame for Schmidt and the massacre in Jeju but being congratulated off the record for saving die Great Mosque and capturing several terrorists who could be linked to the Soldiers of Allah.

Payne wasn't privy to what Abdul-Khaliq and his men had revealed during their first few days of questioning, but Harrington hinted that Hakeem Salaam would soon be in their grasp.

As for the Saudi government, they were furious when they first learned the identity of Schmidt's crew. They demanded an explanation from the United States, wanting to know why Special Forces soldiers had threatened their most sacred city. Obviously, the Pentagon responded in the only way they could: they lied. They claimed that Schmidt and his men were actually Muslims and had been sent to Mecca to rescue the lives of American archaeologists who were being threatened by terrorists. While they were there, they stumbled across a bigger plot and eventually saved the day.

The Saudis didn't believe it for one minute but were willing to overlook everything when the Pentagon sweetened the deal. They told the Saudis about a stone crypt they had recently discovered that was filled with dozens of documents that were written by Muhammad's closest companions. Transcripts of Muhammad's revelations. If the Saudis were interested, the Pentagon would be happy to let them study it as a token of goodwill. The Saudis were so excited about the possibilities that they allowed Shari Shasmeen to participate on the research team.

Eventually, when Payne and Jones were permitted to leave Taif, they decided to take the long way home. Instead of flying west, toward Pittsburgh, where it was cold and snowy, they flew east, toward the Pacific, where it was warm and sandy. Besides, Kia Choi had told them they were free to visit anytime, and they wanted to take her up on the offer before she forgot.

The plane landed on a familiar runway and eased to a stop near one of the main hangars. The temperature was in the low eighties but felt cooler due to the tropical breeze that blew across the Kwajalein atoll. Jones glanced out the tiny window and admired the sapphire sky.

"Wow, would you look at that sun! I can't wait to work on my tan."

"Yeah," Payne joked. "You've been looking kind of Caucasian."

Jones smiled as he grabbed his bags and headed for me open hatch. Taking one step outside, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. A beautiful island woman, wearing a coconut bikini and a hula skirt, stood at the bottom of the plane stairs. A flower lei swayed in her hands as she moved to the rhythm of a Don Ho song that played over the hangar's loudspeakers.

"Welcome to the Marshall Islands," she announced.

Jones stared at her, then glanced back at Payne, who was struggling to hold in his laughter. He'd been dying to tease Jones about the kissing incident with Kia for several days, and now he had managed to do it in style.

"You know what?" Jones said. "Screw you and screw Kia. That's not funny."

"You're right," he said with a laugh. "It's hilarious."

"Ha, ha. I get it. Make fun of the pale black guy." He dropped his bags and glanced into the cockpit, where even the pilot was laughing. "Driver, I've had enough. Take me home."

Which made Payne laugh even louder.

"Fine," Jones said. "Be that way. But I'm telling you, I'm marching down there and slipping her the tongue."

"You better not," said Kia, who had snuck up the stairs behind him. "She'll charge me extra."

"She's a hooker?"

Kia laughed and gave him a hug. "She's not a hooker, but she is single."

"In that case, we can stay." Jones turned toward the cockpit and shouted. "Bellman, change of plans. Please get my bags. I'm going downstairs to make a friend."

Payne waved him off, glad he was being such a good sport.

"Wow," said Kia, who had set everything up at Payne's request. "That worked well."

He nodded in agreement. "Perfect. Simply perfect. No way you can top it."

"You don't think?" she flirted.

Payne smiled at the possibilities. "Honestly, I can't wait to find out."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Even though Sword of God is a work of fiction, most of the locations in my novel are quite real. Al-Gaim is a military housing compound in Taif, Saudi Arabia. Lava tubes stretch for miles underneath Jeju, South Korea. And the Abraj Al Bait .Towers are being built across the street from the Great Mosque in Mecca.

(Payne and Jones showed me the blueprints. They look amazing!)

Anyway, when I first started researching this book, I quickly realized an important fact: I can't read Arabic or Korean. Heck, I can barely read English. That meant I was forced to rely on translated documents to provide several details in my story. Normally this wouldn't be a problem, but there was one major issue that kept popping up over and over. Translators tend to disagree on the spelling of proper nouns. I swear, to this day I still don't know the official name of Jeju. Some call it Jeju-do. Others use Jejudo. Then there is Jeju Island. And Cheju-do. And Cheju. And, well, you get my point. After a while, I realized that I needed to choose one spelling for every location-even if many linguists disagreed with my choice- and stick with it throughout.

Then again, I guess that's what writing is. A series of choices.

That being said, I think the riskiest choice I made was the concept of a terrorist attack in the holy city of Mecca. My goal was to entertain, not to offend. If I crossed any lines, I sincerely apologize. As I mentioned during my story, there are a number of similarities between Islam and Christianity. That might seem strange, considering the clear cultural differences between Saudi Arabia and the United States, but if you take the time to examine the sacred texts of the two religions, you will find many shared beliefs.

Obviously, it would be great to live in a world where everyone got along.

Until that day, stories about terrorism will continue to be written.