the bomb. He had been told to be at least 5 miles away and he planned to be at least six.
“Team One, this is Team Leader, please confirm position,” instructed Zak six minutes after cruising past Hassan.
“Holding at one mile out from target as instructed,” replied the DIA agent.
Zak paused and checked his calculations. It had now been over six minutes since he had passed Hassan. Over six miles’ distance.
“Go, I repeat go, take him down!” commanded Zak.
“On our way!” replied the DIA agent.
Zak hardly heard the agent speak. After issuing the order, he had dropped the walkie-talkie onto the passenger seat and subconsciously floored the accelerator. He removed the small transmitter from the inside of his jacket and counting to thirty, pressed the button.
Hassan’s head began to nod. It had been a long day and the interminably straight and dark road was taking its toll. What he wouldn’t give for a few hours sleep. Just even twenty minutes. The stress of the border-crossing had exhausted him and the monotonous 55 mph was more effective than counting sheep. He shook his head. He was showing weakness when he must show strength. He had been selected for this above all others. He was going to surpass those of 9/11 and he felt tired! He was ashamed of himself and slapped his face and wound down his window.
As he wound the window down a flash of movement in the side mirror caught his eye. Something had moved across behind him but with there were no lights. Hassan at first thought the darkness was playing tricks on him but as the order was given the helicopters rushed towards him. Hassan spotted them instantly and knew he had failed. The glory that should have been his would now be shame. He Hassan al Husseini had failed his people and Allah. Hassan wished he could blow the bomb and take the infidels with him but he was not given a suicide trigger. His task was to blow up Washington and the White House, anything else would be regarded as failure. There had been some debate over the suicide trigger but previous plans had been thwarted by over eager bombers prematurely detonating devices. Hassan therefore was not given any option. A GPS locator would activate the bomb when its target was reached. Hassan punched the steering wheel. The bomb would fall into the hands of the Americans. He had failed.
As the helicopters swooped towards him, their powerful searchlights lit up his cabin. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he reached for his knife with the other. He was not going to spend his life in prison, just another Muslim failure. Hassan grabbed the knife and swung it towards his neck. He had been trained on how to slash both his jugular and carotid artery with one movement. He need not have worried. The sharpshooter in the helicopter opened fire. One carefully placed bullet tore through the cabin, killing Hassan instantly. Other well placed bullets shredded the tires, stopping the truck almost on the spot The Americans were not taking any chances. The truck sat motionless as the helicopters landed.
The DIA agent boarded the truck and checked Hassan for a pulse. Hassan was dead. He looked at the Satellite Navigation screen and noted the destination, Washington. He grabbed his walkie talkie just as Zak pressed the trigger and at 3.22 a.m. in Kenedy County, Texas, home to 414 Texans and over 40,000 cattle, the truck exploded and the world really did change forever.
Chapter 7
El Arish Hotel
Arish Resort
Egypt
July 2010
It had been nearly three years since Rebecca Cohen’s life, as she knew it, had ended. Josh’s expression of sheer horror, as the explosion took him from her, was as clear in her mind now as it was then. Her life was meaningless, devoid of purpose. Although there had been a few moments of happiness, these were mainly linked to death, the death of anyone responsible or involved in the bombings that had killed her precious son.
As she lay on her sun lounger and soaked in the Mediterranean sunshine, the waves lapped on the pristine sands and she smiled inwardly. Her next targets had arrived, just as predicted by her last victim.
The sniveling coward had begged her for mercy, begged her to spare him and offered more information than he could deliver but Rebecca had just sneered at him. Josh hadn’t had the luxury of begging for his young life, thanks to the piece of scum sniveling at her feet. She had kicked him hard in the face and, as he lay sprawled in front of her, she had shot him four times. Once in both kneecaps, just for the pain. Once in the balls because he shouldn’t have any for targeting six-year-olds. And finally, once in the stomach. The pain would be intense for the last few hours of his life. Death would be inevitable but thankfully not quick. It wasn’t the way of the Kidon but thankfully, they had just let her do her own thing and asked few questions. Her secondment to the Mossad Assassination Team had been arranged by her Uncle Ben. However, it soon became apparent that Rebecca was not going to be a team player. Her recklessness in the quest to avenge Josh was only going to get her or her team- mates killed but her abilities and drive were never questioned. Uncle Ben had come to her aid again, suggesting that perhaps they should just let her do her own thing. Eighteen months later and ten kills to her name, more than any other team, Rebecca was as hungry for revenge as the day she started.
It had been less than twelve hours since the sniveling scumbag had given her the details of the meeting at the El Ashir Hotel and despite her orders always to report her movements, she had on this occasion failed to report. Time was of the essence and if her information had been correct, there was a possibility that not only four commanders but the leader of Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades would be present. She knew that there was no way she’d be given such a big job herself and, as no other Kidon members would work with the ‘suicidal bitch’, she would have been sidelined which, to her, was not an option.
Rebecca inserted the small earphones attached to what to anyone would think was an iPod but was in fact a laser listening device. She pointed the base of the device towards a beachfront table which, according to the waiter, had been reserved for a meeting. Despite the small armory of weapons at her side, Rebecca was more self- conscious of the bikini she was wearing. Purchased from the hotel lobby, it had failed to cope with her slight frame and large bosom. Normally she would mix and match sizes but with little to choose from, she had the option of bottoms that fell off or a top that struggled to contain her spectacular breasts. Much to the delight of the men in attendance, she had opted for the latter. Rebecca carefully adjusted her top again and tried to maintain her position. Despite its more open attitude than most Muslim countries, topless bathing was most definitely not acceptable in Egypt’s most Northern resort.
As the afternoon wore on, Rebecca began to think that her latest victim had just been trying to bullshit her to save himself. However, just as she had fixed her top, for what felt the hundredth time, a young Arab approached the table and pulling out a seat, he sat down. His eyes fervently surveyed his surroundings and unlike every other hot blooded young male, his eyes merely scanned across Rebecca, just as they had every other sunbather. Rebecca had positioned herself well. Her feet and more importantly her listening device, pointed towards the table. Her eyes looked closed to the casual observer but were open just enough to watch the table.
The young Arab, she realized, fitted the description of Ahmed Hameed, a young man tipped as future leader of Al Qassam and possibly of Hammas itself. He waited nervously but not for long. Another two Arabs joined, one with a distinct limp and the other with a badly pock-marked face. Both fitted descriptions of Al Qassam commanders. Rebecca strained to control herself. At least another three scumbags would soon be meeting their maker.
“Assalamu Alaikum” could be heard clearly through Rebecca’s headphones. ‘Peace be upon you’ was the standard Arab greeting followed by an embrace.
“Are we early?” asked the young Arab.
“No but The Sheikh will not show himself until we are all here,” replied Pock-Mark.
Rebecca struggled not to respond visibly to the reference to ‘The Sheikh’, the mastermind behind all major atrocities and the most likely candidate for the nuclear explosion in Texas. Not since Osama Bin Laden, had a
