The Hammer of God

“I said, silence.” He slapped her hard.

Number 1 was reviewing the back up plan with Number 4 and 9 when he turned in the direction of the commotion coming through the door. He was shocked to see the girl from the train being dragged by Number 12 into the room.

“Mahmoud! It’s me, Ann. Tell this guy to let go of me.”

Number 1 closed his eyes, and washed his hand over his face. “Sit her here in the chair.”

“Who is Mahmoud?” Number 12 asked.

“That is not your concern, Number 12. Just leave her here and get back to your post.” He turned to Numbers 4 and 9. “We will finish this later. Go to the kitchen.”

Ann watched the men leave. She looked at Mahmoud. He was just as she remembered. “I am so glad I found you. I wanted to get to know you better. Maybe even work with you.”

“How did you find me?”

“I kinda followed you that night. I saw you come here. I waited all night but you didn’t come out ‘til morning. The man at the deli down the street told me you live here. It’s pretty cool living in a storage place. Do you have an apartment here?”

Number 1 just stared.

Ann felt her cheek. “That man hit me. Why would he hit me?”

“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

“What? No, who would I tell?”

“Please, Ann, this is very important. You told no one?”

“No, no one. Wait? You are worried, aren’t you?”

Number 1 crouched down to her seated level. “Now what would worry me?”

“I am so into your cause. I know how hard it’s been, how unfair you and your entire nationality have suffered.”

“Is there anyone who is expecting you back?”

Ann saw an opening to appeal to the man. “No, no one. I am free as a bird. No one to report to and no one to go home to.”

“Surely, someone will miss you.”

“Why Mahmood, are you expecting me to spend the night? I mean, it’s okay with me.”

“Why are you here? Why did you follow me?”

“I left Mark. He’s a monster. I want to join you. I want you to teach me about the great struggle. I want to learn from you.”

“I run a storage warehouse. There is nothing to learn.”

“You must be suffering from prejudice, hate, and social injustice.”

“Where do you get such ideas?”

“I studied Islam along with all the oppressed religions: Buddhism, Hindu…”

“Enough; wait here.”

Number 1 left the room. His men were waiting in the kitchen. He scanned their faces, faces awash in confusion and worry. He knew what they were thinking. That he somehow had seduced this girl, brought her here, and, in doing so, risked the entire operation. Number 3 was looking at him in the way an undertaker looks at a body he is about to bury. He remembered a lesson from his earlier life. “Strength, decisiveness, no mercy is the key to survival.” He took a knife from the counter and, without a word, left the room.

On the way back to where he left the girl, he thought of his mother who died when he was young, and of his sisters who were killed by Russians, the youngest and prettiest, Maya, raped repeatedly and savagely, then shot in the head. All done by Infidels, Infidels who disrespect Allah, who deny his supreme reign over all the affairs of men. Infidels who are no better than dogs, to be kicked and slaughtered before they attack.

He stopped outside the door. Up until now, Jihad had been a cause, a way of life. Although he was the key to what would soon be a massive amount of death and destruction, he would never live to appreciate it (or worse, regret it). The few instances of killings from when he trained with the Mujahedeen were matters of death at long range, roadside bombing Russian tanks and troop carriers. This would be his first up-close elimination of the enemy. He gritted his teeth. He would not falter, not fail. He entered the room.

Ann rose. “Mahmood. Are you angry that I came here?”

Without a word, he approached her. She dropped to her knees and started to unzip his fly and open his belt. His thoughts caught him off guard. I am a sixty-five-year-old man. What is this Infidel whore expecting? As she took him, he felt a flushing over his entire body. The girl had skill. He found himself responding, pushing himself deeper. She responded, accommodating him and bringing pleasure. The hand that held the knife relaxed. His back arched and he experienced the first orgasm since he was a young man in Budapest with the butcher’s young daughter. He shuddered and she moaned. But Ann didn’t relent. He had to pull away because of the sensitivity. She went to follow, but he held his hand out to stop her. She obeyed and began to stand.

She didn’t see the knife as she went to hold him and rest her head on his shoulder. The sharp shooting pain in her stomach followed the punch that forced the breath out of her. Then searing pain as Number 1 pulled the knife up through her sternum, cutting her open like a filleted fish. She fell away with an expression of fear and seeming disappointment. In a few seconds, she stopped breathing. He stood there, looking at her, zipping his fly. It had to be done. She would have threatened the whole operation.

He returned to the kitchen and threw the bloody knife down on the counter. “Clean it up” was all he said. He left the kitchen now filled with the new respect he had gained from among those he would lead into death.

The next night, Number 5 waited until the deli was empty and entered the store. He approached the Pakistani immigrant who scrapped together enough money to purchase the store from the old Jewish couple who ran it since the ‘30s. Number 5 grabbed a newspaper and threw a dollar on the counter, “Did a girl come here asking about the Store amp; Lock?”

“Um yes, a few days ago. She was asking about that other guy.”

Number 5 looked around and, seeing no one near, raised a street-silenced.22 gun and shot the owner once in the forehead. The owner crumpled behind the counter. Number 5 then banged on the register and pulled all the cash out of the opened drawer. On the way out, he turned the “open” sign to “closed” and walked in a direction away from the Store amp; Lock. A block later, he removed the hooded shirt and his big white sneakers, tossing them into a trash barrel. He threw the.22 caliber pistol with the 3 chambered, ghetto silencer on the end, made from plastic water bottles, into the next dumpster. Making it easy for the police, who would certainly view the deli’s security tape, and find only the evidence of one of the local black or Hispanic gang’s guilt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I Love A Parade…

It was a problem of circular logic. Owing to Bill’s national security position, the ride from LaGuardia for Janice and him was a mini-motorcade. Two Secret Service cars sandwiched an armor-plated Chevy Tahoe with flashing lights and two armed-to-the-teeth agents in the front. A New York City police car led the way. Bill pondered whether this was better than Janice and him just getting a cab and melting in with the thousands of others headed to the Big Apple. Didn’t the flashing lights and sirens say “Aim here!” to any would-be bad guy?

Turning to Janice, he suddenly realized that all this security made her feel safer and therefore the argument in his head stopped. He placed his hand on her protruding belly as she sat in the half-rotated crescent moon curve a pregnant woman assumes when sitting. When he thought how the lights and agents also proclaimed “Stay away from my wife and kid,” he took a deeper breath, relaxed a little, and watched the skyline of New York loom larger as the convoy raced through the unusually light early morning traffic of the Grand Central Parkway.

On the other side of the limo, Citi Field passed by, quiet in the morning light. The only barely noticeable activity was the small smattering of people and trucks along with a helicopter lashed down in the parking field.