American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) (20 page)

Fatima looked down at her dead lover, surprised to see the gloves on his hands. She reached into Hank’s pocket and pulled out two items: the handgun and his cell phone. She immediately understood what was going on. Anger welled in her.
He tried to play me!
But then reason took over.
He had to have had a plan to get away after he killed me.

“Check out front, Tariq,” she ordered.

“Yes, Fatima,” said Tariq obediently as he discreetly moved to the front of the building, hugging the wall as he looked outside the window.

“The limo Hank came in is still there,” called Tariq from the front. “The driver looks like he’s playing games on his phone. Want me to take him out?”

Fatima was about to give the okay, then paused.
If Hank was going to take them out, that meant he had a buyer for the parcel already.
She went to the window and looked hard at the driver.
Russian? Ukrainian?
 

“No, don’t do that,” she said. “Hank probably got the driver to wait for him to take the stuff to his buyer. Whoever owns the limo is going to be tracking the car with GPS or whatever. If it’s Russian mob like I think it might be, not a good idea to take one of theirs out. I think we got to cut a deal.”

“But our buyer will be pissed if we back out. He’s counting his profits already.”

Fatima’s mind raced through a dozen scenarios before nodding. “How much C4 do you have here?”

“I could blow up this block if I needed to.”

Fatima smiled. “Just prepare the building, then join me out back. Count of nine.”

Tariq nodded. Fatima removed the gloves from Hank’s hands, put them on herself, and exited the cleaners. Quickly crossing the street, she knocked on the limo door.
 

The driver rolled down the window. “Sorry, I already have a fare.”

“No, you don’t.” Fatima took out her cell phone and showed the driver a picture of Hank’s body lying on the shop floor. She then snapped a picture of the driver.

“Hey, you can’t do that!”

“I just did and here is the deal. You are going to whoever Hank was going to meet and tell him Hank was unable to complete the deal.” Fatima reached into her pocket, took out the gun she shot Hank with, then reached over the open window and dropped it in the driver’s lap.
 

“Pick it up, grip the handle and give it back to me.” Fatima put her hand in her other pocket where a bulge indicated there was another gun ready for action.

The driver reluctantly obeyed.

“So this is the deal,” Fatima said. “If any word of Hank, me or anything about our little adventure is made public to anyone, I am going to post your picture everywhere and send it to a few of my nasty friends. I will also put the gun that killed Hank in a place where the police can find it. Understand?”

The driver nodded. Fatima got in the car and made the driver drive to the back of the dry cleaners where Tariq waited at the open back door.

“Open the trunk,” ordered Fatima.

The driver pushed a button and the trunk popped open.

“Now let’s go inside.”

The Russian followed Fatima inside to the spot where Hank’s bloody corpse lay.
 

“Pack him in the laundry bag, take him outside, put him in the trunk and take off... I never want to see or hear about you again.”

The driver ground his teeth as he followed Fatima’s orders. Like men everywhere, he hated taking directions from women, especially confident, arrogant bitches who just assumed they would be obeyed.

Seven minutes later, the driver closed the limo trunk while Tariq loaded Hank’s suitcase into a late model American sedan. As the Russian drove slowly down the alley, he thought it odd that Tariq drove less than a dozen car lengths before stopping. Maybe they had forgotten something but he didn’t care. He just wanted to get as far away from them as he could.

Inside Tariq’s car, Fatima turned to the building as she punched numbers into a cell phone.
 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

BOOM! An explosion rocked the dry cleaning shop. The flames were so high, they seemed to lick the sky.
 

While Tariq quickly drove down the alley and turned the corner, Fatima made a call to Iraq.
 

“Hello,” answered the familiar voice of her brother.

“Thank you so much for the birthday cake. You are most generous,” said Fatima. “It was delicious and I hope you will be able to join me and celebrate.”

“I would not miss it.”

Chapter 23
 

It was the third Slurpee that eighteen-year-old Alex had gulped during this shift at the Speedi-Mart Convenience store. Free Slurpees and lousy hot dogs were about the only perks he had in this minimum wage job he’d had for five months. He’d like to do something else but what? Even though he made it through grade ten, his reading and writing level was only that of grade four, courtesy of a public school system that passed everyone whether they could read or write because no one wanted to hurt the feelings of the students. Thank God for cash registers that gave out exact change and that any idiot could operate a credit card swipe machine. Otherwise, he’d never have been able to get this high-level job.

Fifteen-year-old Fanny Smith sauntered into the store. This little sexpot has driven Alex crazy ever since he laid eyes on her. However, she was the boss’s girl and boss man Sal made it clear in no uncertain terms that he was the only one allowed to violate this young piece of sweetness.

“Hey, Fanny. What you up to?”

“I want to smoke some weed.”

“Don’t have any.”

“You liar. Losers like you always have some. Just give it to me.”

That was the way this bitch always was. Expecting and getting but never dishing out because she knew she didn’t have to.
 

“I’m down to my last three joints and they’ve got to last me another two days.”

“You wanna feel my tits?” she tempted.

Now that was unexpected. Alex’s hormones were going crazy. He was trying to make a smart decision here and, to be honest, it wasn’t easy, especially as Fanny just unbuttoned the top buttons of her blouse, revealing her very ample cleavage.

What the heck. He could get stoned another time but his temperature—and a significant part of his lower body—was rising fast.

“You got a deal. I get off in three hours.”

“Nope. This is a right-away deal. No dope, no deal.”

“Okay. Okay.” Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out a three-inch oblong paper tube filled with some of Mexico’s finest.
 

Smiling lecherously, he pointed the joint at her. Fanny was just about to snatch it from him when the door burst open and Sal burst in.

“What the f*** are you doin’? Get the hell out of here, Alex. You’re fired!”

“I wasn’t doing anything, Sal. I was...”

“He was trying to bribe me, Sal. Wanted me to do him for a joint.”

“Are you kidding me? My girl is worth a whole lot more than that. If you don’t leave now, I’m going to beat your ass to kingdom come.”

“Screw you.” Alex quickly packed his stuff and headed to the door. “What about my final paycheck?”

“Sue me,” screamed Sal as he squeezed Fanny’s crotch.
 

***

Alex walked into the living room where his stepfather Scotty Brooks smoked a cigarette while swigging back a brewski. The half dozen empties on the coffee table attested that this was an activity he was quite expert at.

“Rent day,” burped Scotty.

“Can’t. Got fired and the asshole won’t pay me,” said Alex.

“If you don’t got no rent money, how am I gonna get gas for my truck?”

“You could try to get a job,” barked Iris, Alex’s thirty-three-but-looking-sixty-three mother.

“Damn niggers and spics and kikes and pakis are takin’ all the work. Nothing left for us good American boys.”

“Yeah, my boss is some Mexican illegal, talks with that shit accent,” said Alex. “He’s a number one a-hole.”
 

“Bust his sorry ass. What kind of man are you? Letting him push you around like that? You’re just a little pussy. Hey, pussy, pussy, pussy,” mocked Scotty, “which way you want to bend now?”

“Shut up, Scotty. Alex is a good boy.”

“He’s a wuss.”

Scotty got up and tossed a drunken blow at Alex, hitting him on the cheek. “Pussy, pussy, pussy.”

That did it. Alex drove his head into Scotty’s bloated beer belly but there was no way the scrawny kid weighing a hundred and thirty was going to make a dent.

Scotty sneered, picked Alex up and slammed him to the ground. “Get out of here before I get mad.”

It was a scene played so often that all the viewers were inured to it. Alex slunk silently to his room while Scotty bellowed at Alex’s mom, “Now it’s your turn to give me some pussy.”

“Screw you.”

“That’s exactly what I want.”

***

This room had no one other than Alex and his buddies in it for years. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere, dust was half an inch thick in the closet and under the bed, sheets that were last changed a year ago, and posters of naked women covered some of the peeling paint.

Lying on his bed facing the ceiling, Alex glared at the stupid, friggin’ light bulb.
This life totally sucks
.
 

Lucky for Alex, Sal didn’t see that he stuck a mickey of scotch into his baggy pants. An hour later, half the bottle was gone.
 

No longer in bed, Alex was at his computer, playing DEAD THRILL 3, killing off half the bitches in the universe. But he had spent half his life playing stuff like this and it was getting boring. To save the day, Freddy walked in.
 

“About time you showed up,” said Alex. “Got some new babes to show you. Totally, totally, sick.”
 

***

As Alex was about to fire up the website, the screen went dark and a message in large, blood-red letters appeared onscreen.
You passed Alex Fraser and Freddy Jamieson. Are you ready?

“Holy shit, Freddy. It’s the terrorist guy. I thought he’d forgotten about us.”

Alex’s fingers couldn’t move faster. GIVE THE WORD. WE’RE THERE.

Moments later, the response appeared onscreen.
 

Get to Munich tomorrow. Training begins in two days. When you arrive, I will give you visas and then take you to the desert.

“Where the hell is Munich?” asked Freddy.

“It’s in France, stupid,” chastised Alex as he typed. HEY CASEY, I NEVER BEEN OUT OF CALIFORNIA EXCEPT FOR THE TIME I HID IN A VAN AND WENT TO TIJUANA TO GET SOME WEED.

So you don’t have a passport?

“What’s that?” asked a curious Freddy.

“Dunno but I’m not going to let Casey know that.” USED TO HAVE ABOUT TEN OF THEM BUT SOLD THEM TO GET A BIG SCORE. FRESH ONES COMING IN NEXT WEEK.

That sucks. We could have used you. Goodbye.

NO! WE CAN START RIGHT AWAY IF YOU DO IT IN CALIFORNIA.

There were about ten seconds of interminable anxious nothingness and then a message came onscreen.

I will come to San Francisco to meet you.
 

The monitor changed to a porn movie.

“Did he say where? I didn’t see anything. Did you?”

“No, but the dude is damned smart. He knows what he’s doing.”

Chapter 24
 

Ahmed got off Fatima’s phone call a relieved man. The cryptic message was just the thing to lift his spirits. He was burdened, angered and humiliated by that woman at the Christian village, and then there was Casey’s American disaster. He and Fatima watched other imams build a power base, even without a big organization. Ahmed truly believed the misfit convicts could be manipulated to raise and direct donations to sympathetic mosques and religious centers. While some of this had to be used for genuine religious activity, a certain portion would be re-invested into the drug trade, but the biggest portion would go into his and Fatima’s pockets. Former prisoners were ideal dealers, using the mask of religiosity to peddle their illicit wares, and then to fund destruction, which in turn would encourage a flood of new donors. It was potentially a brilliant concept: jihad on America, financed by Americans, inflicted by Americans.

The failed experiment was disheartening and, to worsen matters, Nabil was a genuine loss to him, personally as well as for the future. The young man was a true warrior and devoted to whatever Ahmed wanted. On more than one occasion, he had put himself in harm’s way to protect Ahmed on the battlefield.

But it was time to press on. Fatima was ready and in America. Casey was ready and in America. The money was ready and in America. The infrastructure, while it hit a temporary setback, could be rebuilt.
 

It was time for the leader of the American Muslim Militia not only to be ready, but to be in America.

He summoned Namir the cook to his presence.

“Yes, Ahmed,” intoned the aged personal chef to the family.

“It is time.”

“You are sure?” asked the trembling house servant.

“Do I look like a man that is unsure?” snarled Ahmed. “Or do I need to demonstrate what I am talking about?”

“That is not necessary.” Namir scampered out of the room.

Ahmed folded his hands tightly, deep in thought. There would be no turning back and the next few hours were critical. Subtlety and disguising his thoughts were never his strong suit but, for the sake of his future, he would need to put on a performance worthy of an Academy Award.

***

Ahmed and Fatima had had to be most careful in discussing their plans with their father. After all, they needed his money. They couldn’t tell him nothing, but they definitely could not tell him everything. In other words, brother and sister played the same game with their father that children around the world had played with their parents—the parents thought they knew everything about their children but in actuality knew nothing.

Before Fatima and Ahmed could proceed, the next stage needed extremely delicate treatment. The best time would be when Ahmed and his father partook of the only thing they shared—the joy of eating.