Four inches of plastic in the shape of an arrowhead with a handle perpendicular to the blade, it looked like the T-bone of a porterhouse steak, with four ridges that ran from the handle down to the tip. None of the ridges held much of an edge, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t made to cut, but to stab.
The assassin turned to the guard behind him, tied up the hand holding the pistol grip of his AK, and punched the man three times in the neck with the push dagger. He grunted twice, and a fountain of blood jetted out of his neck, spraying the walls like a garden hose dropped by a child.
The assassin let him fall to the ground and swung open the door. As expected, the first guard was coming through it to find out what had happened. His eyes went wide at the slaughter, but his brain wasn’t quick enough to react.
The assassin punched him three times in the fold where his neck met his shoulders, and another fountain of blood erupted, spraying the hallway in an obscene amount of crimson liquid.
The assassin let him drop, picked up his AK-47, and entered the room.
24
Like some bloody apparition from a horror movie, the Hezbollah leadership watched Infidel close the door.
“I understand you guys have some issues with my work.”
To their credit, they showed no fear.
Majid spoke first. “Abu Infidel, I have no idea why you chose to seal your fate, but you are done now. Your choice is how you die. Put down the gun, and it will be quick.”
“Shut the fuck up. I have no time for bullshit Arabic bravado. You hired another assassin, and I want to know who. There’s also the matter of money going out. A great deal of money. I want to know where.”
Ja’far said, “The other killer is none of your concern. It isn’t Hezbollah business. Leave us now and we may reconsider your fate.”
The assassin walked over to Ja’far, grabbed a fistful of hair, pulled his head back, and punched him deep with the push-blade. Ja’far’s arms swung wildly. He leapt to his feet, clamped his hands over the wound to his carotid artery, and ran in a circle like a decapitated chicken, finally slamming into a wall and sliding to the floor, the blood still pumping out of his destroyed neck.
The assassin looked at Majid. “I understand you plan on killing the Druze like you were planning on killing me. You guys just don’t give a shit who you fuck over, huh?”
Majid’s eyes were wide, but he said nothing.
“You’d better start talking, you raghead piece of shit. You wanted me dead, and now you reap what you sow.”
Majid said, “Abu Aziz will be here any time. You can kill me, but he will kill you. Make no mistake, you are dead.”
“Abu Aziz? The guy bringing the computer from the Druze? Is that who you mean? Actually, I don’t think he’s going to show up. At least not anytime soon. Maybe a little later. With a fucking mop to clean this place up.”
Majid showed his first sign of fear. “What do you want?”
“I want to know who the killer is. That’s it.”
“I don’t know his name. He calls himself the Ghost. That’s all I know.”
“Really. What alias did you give him? How’s he traveling?”
“I don’t know. He got his identity from a Palestinian group. We had nothing to do with it.”
“Bullshit. You gave him something.” He saw a computer at the back of the room, and went to it.
“Is it in here? The information?”
“That computer is nothing. Just a desktop work machine for the coffee shop.”
“Really? Okay, then type in the password. Now.”
Majid did as he asked, and the screen filled with Arabic.
“Can you read that, Infidel?”
The assassin felt his phone vibrate. He smiled. “No, but I think I know someone who can.”
He spoke briefly into the phone, then turned to Majid. “That’s the Druze computer coming up. Last chance. You help me now, and you live. You don’t, and you die.”
Majid closed his eyes and began rocking slightly, chanting in Arabic. The assassin shook his head.
He walked around the chair until he was behind the chanting man. He circled Majid’s neck with his forearm, cinched it tight, and twisted harshly. He let go and watched the body hit the floor, the right foot twitching.
He went quickly to the door and dragged inside the bloody body he’d killed on the threshold. He placed both of the dead guards’ bodies against the near wall, hiding them from first view. He was moving to the dead Hezbollah leadership, intent on hiding them as well, when he heard a knock at the door. He cursed, took one look around, then walked over and pushed it open.
The boy stood on the threshold, looking wide-eyed.
“Abu Infidel, what is all of this blood? What’s going on?”
The assassin smiled. “Nothing now. We had some issues. But it’s taken care of. I told you I’d get you in to meet the party faithful. Come on in and say hello.”
The boy nodded hesitantly and crossed the threshold. When he saw the massacre inside, he balked, attempting to back up and escape through the door.
The assassin stopped him, trapping his elbow joint in a come-along and forcing him to drop the computer he’d brought.
“I didn’t say they’d talk back. Be happy you get to see them at all.”
When the boy calmed down enough to assimilate his surroundings, the assassin continued.
“What I need you to do is go through these computers and tell me the identity of the target and the identity of the forger helping out the assassin. Do that, and I’ll let you live.”
25
I pulled up the geolocation software suite one more time and was rewarded yet again with a null ping. I began to think we’d made a mistake giving the computer back to the enemy.
We’d made it out of the Ain al-Hilweh camp surprisingly easily. It had turned out that the building wasn’t heavily occupied, and since Jennifer and Samir had killed everyone above us, we only had a small contingent below, which had been effortlessly sandwiched between us and Samir’s men out front. No issues whatsoever, except I would have liked to make them suffer a little more.
We had split up and searched, with me giving guidance to focus on computer equipment. I knew we had plenty of time, since the “police” wouldn’t respond to a firefight here in the camps until they were sure it was over, but I didn’t want to push my luck by digging through terrorist sock drawers. We’d come away with a single laptop and some thumb drives.
We’d fled to Samir’s house in the Chouf Mountains. I had wanted to gut every single one of the Druze militiamen in the back of the van, but Jennifer held me back. Eventually, Samir had managed to convince me that he wasn’t Dr. Evil and hadn’t set me up. Which meant that someone else had an agenda. It remained to be seen who.
Going through the computer, we’d found the itinerary for Jeffrey McMasters, the new Middle Eastern envoy from the United States, along with a bunch of tangential information about the meeting that occurred today, including the bona fides for the two sides.
What caught my eye was the description of the assassin. It was nothing like the guy I had seen, with the
