Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (27 page)

As if they knew what he was thinking, Abdullah’s two bodyguards stepped between Dawson and Abdullah, and turned to face him, their fingers on their trigger guards. Dawson nodded, a slight smile of respect on his face.
Not amateurs after all!
Impressed they were well enough trained to infer, and neutralize, his plan, he instead headed for his men at a trot. As he reached the ridge, headlights from several vehicles sliced through the darkness, bouncing as they drove across the rough terrain of the Saudi Arabian coast line.

Dawson was within five feet of Red’s position when he looked up and saw a pair of hoofs clear the ledge, followed by the rest of a massive horse, its rider obscured by the immense bulk of the beast’s frame. Dawson leapt forward and rolled against the ledge, next to Red. He pressed his back against the berm and looked out at the beach, as horse after horse jumped over their heads, landing deftly on the soft sand in front of them, encircling Abdullah, cheering “Allahu Akbar” over and over. A tingle raced down Dawson’s spine, the other times he had heard chants like that had always resulted in gunfire.

He heard a vehicle slide to a stop above them, its headlights illuminating the scene before them. It was soon joined by two more sets of lights.

Red slapped him on the shoulder.

“I sure hope these are the guys we’re supposed to meet!”

Dawson nodded. “Let’s keep everyone cool until the Sheik gives the all clear.”

As if on cue, Abdullah raised his hands, quieting the crowd, then motioned for Dawson to join him.

Dawson glanced at Red.

“Better you than me,” said Red with a grin.

Dawson punched him in the shoulder, Red feigning injury. “Some friend you are,” muttered Dawson as he rose, careful to shoulder his weapon. He looked over at Reading and Acton who huddled nearby, covered by Atlas and Niner. He cocked his head at the group on horseback. “Care to join me?”

Reading looked at him with an, “are you kidding me?” look, then rose as Acton did. The three walked toward Abdullah, the eyes of all the horsemen on them.

Abdullah stepped toward them, with both hands outstretched, and gripped Dawson by the shoulders, leaning in and kissing him on both cheeks. He repeated this with Acton and Reading, who appeared as if he were about to belt Abdullah if he got too fresh.

“Welcome, my friends, to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Someday it will be returned to the people, rid of the tyranny of the House of Saud, a family so arrogant they allow those in the West to call Arabia by their own blasphemous name.” He turned, his right arm extended, sweeping in a great circle, indicating the men around them, then spoke in Arabic.

Rahim leaned in and translated. “He is saying, ‘Brothers, these men are our friends, and are here to aide us on our most desperate mission, for if we fail, all we have strived for, all our ancestors have fought and died for, will be lost. Tonight, we will do nothing less than save Islam from destruction by the infidel!’”

The men roared, shaking their rifles in the air. “Allahu Akbar!” they chanted, three times in unison.

Abdullah smiled and turned to the trucks on the ledge and yelled something in Arabic.

A man, silhouetted in the headlamps, waved back, yelling an acknowledgement. Moments later bundles of something Dawson couldn’t identify were tossed onto the beach.

Abdullah walked over to the closest bundle, and picked it up. He tossed it to Dawson.

“You and your men will put these on,” said Abdullah.

Dawson held up the bundle, which he could tell was a coarse material. He shook it out and the long black material fell to the ground, revealing some sort of long robe.

“What the hell is this?”

Acton leaned toward him, chuckling.

“It’s a burqa, dear.”

Jeddah-Makkah Highway, Saudi Arabia

The rap on the metal his head was resting against jolted Cole awake. Several more raps, in quick succession, sent adrenaline rushing through his veins. He took a quick look at the others to make sure they were awake, then returned the signal, rapping his knuckles against the still sealed secret panel to the cab.

“This is it,” he whispered. “Nobody make a sound, no matter what.”

The others nodded as they quickly secured their gear, making sure nothing could shake loose and make a sound. This was the most critical phase of the operation. They needed to make it through the ring of security surrounding Mecca. And the keyword was
they
. The other two trucks were expendable, merely their means of escape, however if caught, it would most likely trigger a security alert leading to their discovery, and discovery of the bomb.

But this truck would be first in case something went wrong. They could detonate from here if need be, but they couldn’t guarantee the blast would wipe out the Kaaba, along with the hundreds of thousands of nutbars tossing little pebbles at it then rejoicing by sacrificing a damned animal. That’s something they should do when they get back. Get PETA on board since over two million animals were slaughtered during the Hajj, they should be outraged. Would Pamela have the courage to get out there and say they deserved to die because they were killing the poor, defenseless animals?

Doubt it.

She, like so many others, had a double standard when it came to Muslims, or any minority for that matter. If it’s white folk doing it, then it’s okay to protest, it’s okay to force them to change. But if it’s Muslims or some other f’n minority,
we
have to change,
we
have to accept
their
ways.

Unless you’re an Eskimo.
But the seals are so cuuute!
Screw you, Pamela, they’re not killing the cute babies, they’re killing the fat old bastards that look like an oversized slug and eat all the damned fish.

Why am I getting worked up for the
’
skimos?

Cole took a deep breath to calm himself. He knew the rage that consumed him day in and day out would eventually kill him. Either in some fight, somewhere, or by just having a stroke.

But today, if they could just get through this road block, there might be hope, might be a way to bring everything back on track.

If only we succeed.

The truck jolted to a stop. Cole, his feet braced against the now half empty box of water bottles, was ready for it this time. A loud double-bang, the sound of something slapping metal, rang through the cab, and into their hiding place.
Someone slapping the hood of the truck?
The engine cut off as if in response. Cole removed his feet from the case of water and one of the bottles, an empty placed in there earlier, snapped back into shape with a loud crackle that echoed through the tiny area.

Cole’s heart stopped. He gripped the edge of the bench he was perched on with both hands, his knuckles turning white as he cursed himself for the moronic mistake. The other two did the same, staring at the outer walls as if in an attempt to see through them, to see if anyone outside heard the sound.

Shouts erupted on the other side of the thin metal wall separating them from the massive security force inches away, a security force that would be only too happy to make sure they were never seen again if caught, torture most likely to fill the remainder of their days, which he knew would probably not be brief enough.

He heard Sharpe in the cab grunt something in Arabic, distorting his voice to suggest he was a deaf mute. Sharpe repeated the sound, something he knew would be unintelligible to anyone listening. He had practiced on them for weeks. He had practiced on strangers for weeks. Cole was impressed with how the three drivers chosen for the mission had taken their work seriously. They each would need to get through the road blocks in plain sight. There was no hiding from the guards. Their clothes would help, the dark tans and beards they had worked on for months would help, and so would their covers. Sharpe was playing a deaf-mute. Eid “Eddie” Kowalski actually spoke Arabic, his mother Lebanese Christian, something some of the members of New Slate weren’t comfortable with at first, but after getting to know him, realized he was as American as any of them, which was what they wanted. Yes, a pure white America was a great idea to some, but it wasn’t realistic. Cole was more concerned with a pure American America. White, black, brown or yellow, he didn’t care. Were you a true American? Then fine, stick around. Otherwise, piss off and get out of my country.

More grunting erupted from the front, then shouting, in clear Arabic, from outside. The click of the door opening in the cab sent Cole’s pulse racing. He glanced at Brannick and Parker. Both were as on edge as he was, Brannick bent over, pulling at his hair, Parker sitting, his back straight against the cab wall, his hands gripping the bench as he tried to take steady breaths, in and out. They heard the shouting move its way from the front of the truck down the side, then reach the back where the clanking of metal on metal, then the roar of tiny wheels sliding through their runners, screeched through the hold as the truck’s rear door was thrown open.

This better work!

The truck shook from side to side as the weight shifted, most likely as someone climbed into the back. They would be greeted with crate after crate of dates. Heavy to search, easy to stack floor to ceiling. The perfect cover.

As long as no one measured the size of the cargo area.

Cole found himself holding his breath, not daring to make a sound. He had no idea how much soundproofing was built into the walls surrounding them, but every creak from the truck, along with orders being barked at whoever was searching the back, seem amplified in their confines.

Brannick sneezed.

It was a small sneeze. A stifled sneeze. A sneeze that anywhere else might not be even noticed. But today it was the loudest sneeze Cole had ever been witness to. Both he and Parker stared at Brannick in shock, who returned their gaze, horror written all over his face. All three turned slowly to face the back of the truck where the search was taking place.

Silence.

Or was it Cole’s imagination? He focused on the sounds around them, drowned out by the roar of blood rushing through his ears, the panic created by the sneeze growing. He took several deep, shallow breaths, as quietly as he could manage without them turning into gasps, and closed his eyes.

Calm down and listen!

The roar slowly settled, the sounds outside the truck coming back into focus.
Had they changed?
No, he was certain they hadn’t. But then again, it was the same screaming and shouting they had listened to for the past fifteen minutes, all in a language none but Kowalski understood, and he wasn’t here to tell them what was going on.

The truck shook, sending his pulse racing again, then he heard the rear door rolling down, the crash as it smashed into the floor of the truck, then the click of the lock engaging, the most satisfying sounds he ever recalled hearing.

He smiled at his companions and gave a thumbs-up. Parker returned the gesture, while Brannick, who had one hand pinching the bridge of his nose as if fighting another sneeze, was too terrified to notice their ordeal was almost over.

The cab door opened and the truck shook again, followed by the door slamming shut. The engine roared to life, the gears ground and the truck lurched forward.

This time Cole let out a deep sigh and looked to the heavens, his eyes closed.

“Fuck me, that was too close.”

Jeddah-Makkah Highway, Saudi Arabia

Tarek threw open the door and stepped out onto the scorching pavement, the early evening sun finally beginning to yield, the black pavement, years old but barely used, its jet black asphalt shimmering in the heat, quickly made the bottom of his feet sweat in his sandals. He looked both up and down the highway. Nothing. He leaned back into the car to grab his satellite phone as the dash gently chimed at him, indicating his door was ajar, and his engine was fucked. He grabbed the phone off the passenger seat and stood back up, stretching his back as he flipped up the antenna. He dialed his brother, ready for the “I told you so” conversation about to occur.

“Hicham? Is that you?”

“Tarek? As-salam alaykum.”

“Wa alaykum e-salam. Brother, I need your help.”

“What is it?”

Tarek thought he heard something in the distance. He looked down the road and saw a cloud of dust.
What is that?

“My car broke down. I need you to come get me, and to send a tow truck.”

His brother laughed.
Here it comes.

“I told you you shouldn’t have bought that piece of junk.”

“Yes, yes, I know I should have bought the Mercedes.”

His brother laughed again. “Everybody knows Jaguars are shit. They look good, but a diseased camel is more reliable!”

Tarek smiled slightly.
He’s right. I should have listened.
“Yes, yes, I know. I’ll never get a Jaguar again. Piece of dung has spent more time in the garage than on the road.” Tarek kicked the tire. “So, are you going to pick me up or what?”

“Where are you?”

The noise was closer now. Tarek looked again and was shocked to see two trucks barreling toward him, and a dozen horses racing beside them in the sand. The vehicles whipped by, their drivers eyeballing him, their sunglasses and face coverings hiding their details. He was more surprised by what was in the back. Rows of women, their faces covered by the burqa. One pointed at him, as they sped past.

Was that a gun?

It was over in moments, the cloud of dust left behind the only evidence they had ever been there.

“Tarek? Are you still there? Where are you?”  

Tarek had let the phone drop to his shoulder as the procession raced by. The muffled sounds of his brother yelling brought him back to reality. He raised the phone to his ear.

“Where are you?”

“About one hour outside Mecca.”