“Sir, do you mean you need me to speak with the investigators of the other agencies involved?” Knox asked.
The SAC nodded on the screen and responded, “That’s right. I know they will probably already know this, but it’s imperative that we keep some kind of international incident from occurring by keeping the other details of the other assassinations out of the news.”
“I’ll get right on it, sir,” Knox answered. McCoy went on, “So what else is in the works? I see your other two cohorts aren’t in the room with you.” Knox affirmed the SAC and said, “Sir, Malik had an idea. I am sure you read the big headline on the New York Times, right? Well, we were going to write some letters to the editor, regarding the religion and politics section – and we were going to give the assassin a follower. We thought maybe if the killer knows someone is there for him – in a sense – that we could eventually draw him out; maybe massage his ego a little bit.”
“That’s not a bad idea, John. Who thought of that again…Inspector Sharif?” McCoy asked. Knox nodded again and added, “Yes sir. Inspector Sharif – Malik – has been a huge help on this case. I know we are still stuck in a rut, but I feel like it is only a matter of time before we find another lead, and Malik has been an essential part of that. Honestly, sir – he wouldn’t make a bad federal agent.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure he is interesting to work with. Your differences in background haven’t been an issue, I assume?” the SAC interjected.
“No, sir. I mean we’ve had our share of miscommunication, but for the most part, we’ve gotten along pretty well – all things considered,” Knox answered.
“See to it that it stays that way, John. Now get to work on contacting those other folks; make sure they understand to keep a lid on everything – I mean everything!” his boss finished. Knox answered him one last time before terminating the connection, “Don’t worry sir; consider it done.” “Let me know where you get with the letter to the newspaper,” – and then McCoy ended the connection.
_____________ ____________ _____________ ______________
Beth walked on the sidewalk, carefully scanning her surroundings to make sure she didn’t trip while at the same time picking up the sense that someone was following her. She casually walked over to a street vendor and bought a magazine; as she was about to pay she tried to glance over her shoulder and to her left and right to see if she could spot anyone suspicious. Seeing nobody that looked out of the ordinary or ducking for cover, she finished paying the vendor and moved on. She came to the Starbuck’s she had seen earlier the previous day and knew they’d have Wi-Fi. She walked up to the counter and ordered a Tall Mochaccino Frappe. She picked her drink up and paid for it, and headed to a small wooden high table in the corner and sat down.
Shortly after she walked in, a tall slender man wearing sunglasses walked in behind her. He was just your average middle-class, Arabic-American male – wearing a collared Under Armor shirt and some 5-11’s. He was about 6 feet, 1 inch; average frame (but exceptionally fit) – with absolutely nothing out-of-the-ordinary about him; except for the fact that ordinary people don’t just randomly pick FBI agents to follow around and stalk, just to see what they are up to. Agent White was totally oblivious to this fact, and she did not even pay attention to the man when he entered. He ordered a drink and a pastry and walked over to the far corner on the other side of the partition that surrounded part of the section in which Beth was sitting. Beth had made the mistake of sitting with her back to the corner, even though she was facing the door to see people coming in. She had already booted up her laptop, and was peering at the screen when the stranger walked in; she might as well have had her head in a book.
The stranger sat in the background and carefully pretended to be playing on his phone as he watched Agent White pull up information on her web browser. Beth was watching the screen, and as soon as she had the search engine open, she typed in Navy SEALS in the search box. She read through pages of information on the training process of the SEALs, and who gets chosen or recommended to try to cut it as a SEAL. She read about the number of teams there were available on any given day. She read some pages that were just misinformation entered by some wannabe on Wikipedia. She tried to find out just about everything there was to know about the Navy SEALs that had ever been printed on the internet, and she made brief notes along the way. The stranger sitting behind her couldn’t make out any of her notes, but he was sitting close enough to see what kind of websites she was pulling up. Although the FBI agent didn’t give away exactly what her next steps might be, the stranger had enough information to know that the agents might know more than they had let on with the Colonel back at Fort Benning. He made sure that the FBI agent continued to be absorbed in her work, and finished his coffee. He got up from his small table and walked out of the Starbuck’s.
The stranger walked around the corner of the next block and then dialed a number. It was a direct line to CIA Director Marks. The Bostonian answered after the first ring. The stranger spoke immediately; he knew the Director needed no identification – his caller ID would have told him who it was, and there were very few people who had the Director’s direct line.
Marks answered, “Marks…what did you find?” The stranger replied, “You may have a problem with your asset. No definitive proof they even know what he looks like, or that he is the one behind these dead Muslims. But the FBI is definitely interested.”
Director Marks replied, “Well – we can’t address the problem, if it is a problem, just yet. We have to put the Activist to work on another assignment that just came up. Forget the agents for now; your new target is the Activist. Tail him, and pack your bags; you’ll be traveling. Find out whatever he finds out, and do not be discovered. We’ll test his innocence while observing him on the mission.”
The man who had descended from an ancient order of killers nodded on his end as he replied, “Understood. Where can I expect to travel?” Marks didn’t waste any time as he shot back, “Baghdad – the capital of Al Qaeda.”
Knox sat down on the sofa with the laptop and opened up a blank Word document. He thought for a second on how he was going to begin his editorial letter. He thought of how he could praise the actions of the assassin without putting too much controversial information that may discourage the paper from even printing the letter. Once he thought he had his thoughts in order, he began to type:
Dear Editor,
My name is none of your concern. However, the fate of our country should be. How you can sit there and insult Christianity just because of one man’s actions is beyond me. You act like there is some huge cosmic communication link that lets all Christians know what the other is doing, and that they can control what one man does. And who says that this one man is so flawed in his judgment, anyway? His methods are definitely questionable – but are his motives? Islam is quickly showing its true colors around the world, and frankly I think it is about time the shoe was on the other foot. No, I don’t think we should be selecting random targets of the Muslim religion. But I do believe we need to send someone over to that Al Qaeda nation they are building over there in Baghdad to show them who’s boss. So how about you stop trying to pick fights with the Christians who are here at home, and concentrate your bashing on the real enemy plotting to invade our shores and destroy our country. And by the way, this title you gave the killer – the Jesus Assassin; it is offensive. I can speak for many church-goers when I say that those two words should NOT be together. As for the cross used as a memorial for the fallen from 9/11…it stays! You atheists and anybody else don’t have to like it, but you better accept it. One man’s misguided embrace of a symbol does not mean the symbol’s true meaning is any different from its original intentions. Jesus died on a cross and rose three days later. He is our only hope. That’s the Truth, whether you believe it or not. So, Mr. Editor – don’t bad mouth our cross, and don’t bad-mouth Christians. And Mr. Assassin…how about going over to the Middle East and taking care of
business.
Sincerely,
A Concerned Christian
Knox read over his letter and decided it didn’t link him or his identity to the writing in any obvious ways, unless of course the reader was someone like Beth White, who knew him like a book. He decided he was satisfied and saved the file. He attached the file to an e-mail and sent it to the editor’s address that had been offered in the New York Times article. He’d have to wait and see if the editor had enough balls to print it.
22
Shenandoah Valley, Virginia
Brady’s Cabin
Entry #30 – May 1, 2016
Lord, forgive me for not having the foresight to see the sacrilege that would be spewed from the national media. They are calling me the Jesus Assassin after my latest mission was accomplished. Unfortunately, Father, I took a chance by going after the Imam right before he was in the national spotlight; I did not think about certain writers’ opinions of my work. I was simply trying to make the work I am doing known to Christians and Muslims alike; for the Christians I want to be a sign of hope, but for the Muslims I hope to be heralding their doom. I at least know I am not alone in my fight for you, Lord. The New York Times put a response letter in the editorial section today. The response was from a fellow Christian. Thank you for further assurance for what I am doing. I pray you sway others to your side, Lord. I intend to stay the course. I have dispatched three of your enemies now. Please stay with me and protect me long enough God, so I can carry out my mission and take out the last nine. Show me the way to the next enemy, and I will quickly deliver him to the appropriate place. Thank you again for all your guidance.
Amen
The activist finished his journal entry and put it away under the coffee table. He got up and left the screen porch. He walked out to his habitat shelter for the snakes. He grabbed several vials of the Black Mamba venom, and then he walked around to the back of the cabin. He had another shed in the back yard where he worked on his tactical gear and weapons. He had been working on applications for the venom with his crossbow. He had set a target up approximately 40 yards away. The target was made of a special foam that would indicate whether the tip of the crossbow bolt expended its poison into the target or not. The activist attached a modified head to the end of one of the crossbow bolts; it was fully loaded with concentrated Black Mamba venom. He primed the crossbow and readied it to fire. He placed the bolt into its slot and drew back the bow until it made a small click. He then said a short prayer; extracting the venom was a tricky procedure, so every bolt head was as valuable as gold. He had to make this shot count.
Once he loaded the bolt, he put the stock of the crossbow up to his shoulder just like he would a rifle. His crossbow had a high-tech scope with a laser site, so his chances of missing his target were slim to none. He aimed down the top of the crossbow, and he saw the bull’s eye on the target down range. He focused on the site picture in his scope and lined the crosshairs up with the center of the bull’s eye, and squeezed the trigger. He wasn’t too concerned about missing the shot; he was pretty sure of his accuracy due to years of training with virtually every hand-held weapon known to man. He was more concerned with the effective delivery of the venom from the new bolt heads. As soon as he squeezed the trigger, he paused just long enough with the crossbow aimed down range as if he was following his shot with his eyes, even though no human eye could keep pace with a crossbow bolt fired from a Tenpoint Stealth SS crossbow. He ran down to the target and saw to no surprise that the bolt hit close to the center of the bull’s eye. But what he was looking for was a yellow stain to expand directly outward from the tip of the bolt – and after he removed the bolt, that is exactly what he found. The small improvised bolt head had a small explosive mechanism inside its tip that was designed to force the liquid contained inside it to explode forth in a blast cone due to a pressurized blast of air caused from the impact at the front of the bolt. The internal damage to a living body would be devastating.
The activist’s pager went off in the holster he was wearing on his belt. He picked it up and looked at the small green screen. The small digital message that flashed across the screen simply told him to report to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland by eighteen hundred hours that evening. That gave the activist about four hours to get his duffle bag packed, get a couple hours’ sleep, and pick up his ‘little black bag’ from the office at Langley. The activist got a few last minute things together and secured his tool shed with a Fortress padlock. He didn’t know where he was going just yet, but he was sure they would brief him at the base. He got an extra sidearm pistol out of the cabin before he headed down the road to Andrews. He would have to make a pit stop at his Langley office for his ‘Activity Gear’. The activist didn’t know it, but in about twenty-four hours, he was going to infiltrate the new inner sanctum of Al Qaeda.
23
Andrews Air Force Base
Hangar 31
The activist noticed the normal Delta Force team sitting in the first two rows of metal chairs that had been set up for a mission briefing before the Activity team left for Baghdad. There was an AC-130 parked behind the chairs with its ramp down. Three men who looked to the activist like Air Force pilots were standing at the foot of the ramp, and there was an Army Major waiting to address everyone seated in the chairs. The activist was in a seat on the back row, in his token black outfit, with his hood pulled over his head. In all the nine months the Delta Force team had been working with the activist, none of them had actually seen his whole face. He was a character shrouded in mystery, and they left him alone for the most part – except for those times when the best way to cope with violence around them was meaningless banter.
The Major was Major Thomas Dozier – a long time special-forces hero, whose very reputation preceded him everywhere he went in the corridors of the military. He was a short, stocky but well-built fellow. He had a friendly countenance when he looked his men in the eyes, but that was only meant to fool those that wanted to test him. Underneath the southern gentleman and country niceness was a mean-as-a-snake, ornery Tasmanian devil that happened to have a 4th degree black belt in everything from Muay Thai to Tae Kwon Do. His physical discipline and experience in hand-to-hand combat is what got him this far in his career, and really what made him famous among his men. The Major cleared his throat to make sure his audience was listening.
He spoke with a southern drawl mixed with a bit of a country accent, “Gentlemen, I know this is different from the norm, and that you haven’t received any intel in advance on this mission. The reason for that was to make sure there were no leaks about this mission; so the enemy wouldn’t have time to prepare.”
“We have intelligence that suggests a very cunning Al Qaeda terrorist cell has been carrying out secret meetings right in the heart of the civilian population. This cell is rumored to have several heavy hitters as its local members – one Aziz al-Zawari, who is said to be the guy calling the shots for this particular cell. We also have reason to believe that they have intentionally surrounded themselves with Iraqis who are very opposed to jihad. The cell members pretend to love the West during the day, but then plan our destruction at night. Once you are on the ground at one of our outlying air force bases over there, you will wait for confirmation of all of this information from the activist.”
The Major looked at the activist on the back row. He then started speaking directly to him; “You will go in by cover of darkness, stealth Black Hawk, almost as soon as you land in Iraq. We need you to find out where these meetings are taking place, and which big name targets are present. Text what you find out to a pre-programmed number in this satellite phone. Be careful; these guys are supposed to be tougher than they appear at first glance.”
He tossed the activist a small, black, sliding smart phone. The activist caught it, slid the top screen back to reveal a small keypad underneath, then closed it and stuffed it in one of his many pockets.
The ma
jor finished addressing the whole group, “Once details have been confirmed, you’ll receive new orders, and you will be prepared to infiltrate the terrorist cell despite the immediate presence of civilians. I’m not going to lie to you men; this could end up being a very difficult mission; depending on what the activist finds and when he finds it. You will have to use absolute discipline when it comes to determining whether you are about to shoot a civilian, or a terrorist. But listen up gents – if you nail some of the bastards that we think are located in the neighborhood, you will have made a major dent in Al Qaeda’s new hold on Baghdad. Now I’ll be goin’ with you over there for the de-briefing, but of course you know this old codger can’t hang with you young scrappers in the field anymore. Good luck to each of you. That is all men – carry on.”
He watched the men all stand up and come to attention, and he snapped a genuinely sharp and crisp salute to the other men; they all returned in kind.
Thirty minutes later, they were all airborne; two pilots and a navigator up in the front of the plane, and everyone else was in the back. Although they didn’t expect to have to use the large gun on board (An M102 Howitzer mounted in the side of the plane), three of the guys on board could use the weapon in their sleep if the time came where it was necessary to take out enemy targets below. In the meantime, everyone had gotten settled in their jump seats and began accepting the normal clatter and rattle of the walls as they approached 30,000 feet before crossing the Atlantic. Casual conversation was taking place in the cockpit of the gunship.