Patriot M.A. Rothman (free ebook reader for iphone .TXT) 📖

“Agreed,” Connor said.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Thompson said. “The sheikh is on the FBI counterterrorism watch list. We need to grab him before anyone else does.”

“Let’s get the son of a bitch,” Annie said.

“We’re going to need more than just a couple Glocks and some extra magazines,” said Connor. “The sheikh’s security forces are well equipped and the mosque’s security isn’t too shabby either. Speed and stealth will get us in, but if it comes to a knock-down drag-out, we’re going to want to go in hard and heavy.”

“Look in the back.” Thompson jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Connor twisted in the seat and found two black Pelican cases. He popped off the clamps, opened the first one, and laughed. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Come on, Mom, please?” The boy tugged on his mother’s blouse and pointed at the colorful candy hanging on the rack.

Mohammad watched as the mother swatted the boy’s hand away. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five; the boy was probably about seven. There was no father that he could see.

“Stop,” the woman said. “I said we’re not getting candy this time.”

“Mom!” the boy said, pleading. “Come on, I swear I won’t ask again. I promise. Please.”

Mohammad forced his jaw muscles to relax. He would’ve throttled the young boy for speaking with so much disrespect, and in public no less. But the mom merely sighed, her shoulders drooping, and nodded. The boy clapped his hands and pulled the bag off the rack, grinning from ear to ear.

“Can I have a drink too?” he asked, following his mom to the cash register.

“No!”

Mohammad had seen the exact same scene play out several times over the last couple of days. Each time he stopped for gas, food, or restroom breaks, he witnessed a new infuriating aspect of American life. These people thought it was a hardship to lack Wi-Fi in the restroom, or to not have their favorite selection of soda available in the drink aisle. These people were soft, and the worst part was, they didn’t know it. The people in Mohammad’s country didn’t even have electricity, much less the ability to choose from fifteen different brands of water.

Mohammad shook his head at the rows and rows of bottles, selected the cheapest water, and headed for the register.

A TV in the corner was playing news footage, and he moved closer, squinting at the text on the bottom of the screen. Fourth bombing in Manhattan, suspect in custody.

Mohammad felt his stomach turn as he read the words. Who did they capture?

The footage showed a burning building surrounded by fire engines and firefighters. Police officers were ushering people away, and the female reporter standing in front of the camera was trying to clear the bystanders out of her shot. The building wasn’t familiar to Mohammad; he didn’t have a list of their targets, as part of the operational security he himself demanded. And now, with someone in custody, he was glad that he’d insisted on compartmentalizing the plan.

No one, not even Khan, knew his final destination. So nobody could disrupt his plans.

“Crappy deal, isn’t it?”

Mohammad turned to an older man standing beside him, wearing overalls and a stained red-and-white cap.

The man nodded at the TV. “Can’t believe people would do such a thing.”

For a brief moment Mohammad was worried the man might’ve seen through his clumsy disguise, his horribly uncomfortable jeans and ridiculous T-shirt. He thought perhaps the man was trying to call him out. But as soon as the thought hit him, he dismissed it. If this man had actually thought Mohammad was one of the people responsible for the bombings, he wouldn’t have started up a conversation with him. He would’ve called the police.

Mohammad hid the smile that threatened to give away his thoughts and forced a somber expression as he shook his head. “It’s horrible.” He chastened himself for not masking his accent more. Americans might not be the most perceptive people, especially out here in the middle of nowhere, but most kept a wary eye on strangers.

“It’s like they’re trying to start a war or something, huh?” the old man said, sliding his hands into the top opening of his overalls. “Can’t we just all not fight, I swear. I mean, I don’t give a good daggum what someone else believes, you know what I mean? To each their own, I say. You mind your business, I’ll mind mine. Simple as that.”

“I agree,” Mohammad said.

But Mohammad didn’t agree, and as he watched the footage play out, he felt a peace wash over him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. His benefactors—infidels, yes, but necessary—had enabled him to carry out his holy work, and standing here, in a small convenience store in Nebraska, he felt closer to being fulfilled than ever before. The pain on the faces of the people on the TV invigorated him.

Allah doesn’t suffer insults softly, he thought.

He purchased his water and stepped outside.

As he walked back to the truck, he smiled at the thought of the trucker he’d hired. The man’s body was now hidden in the woods not far off the highway a few hundred miles west of here. Getting rid of the man had made things much simpler schedule-wise, and it had allowed him to begin prayers once again without being questioned by an infidel.

Despite his reaffirmed zeal for his mission, Mohammad’s backside pleaded with him to wait just a few more minutes. The truck’s seats were not made for comfort, and after days of driving his body was stiff and sore.

He wondered at the truckers who drove all day. Mohammad was on the road only five to six hours each day—he needed to give Abdullah Khan time to do his work. The rest of his time was spent in prayer and meditation. But now he was close, and the urge to simply press on and finish was great. Still, Mohammad refrained. The impact of his mission would be greater if