Before he had any time to revel in his victory, he heard approaching footsteps echoing down the hall. Hawk turned and ran in the opposite direction.
“Alex, I’m gonna need your help right now,” he said.
“Doing all I can,” she said. “Turn left.”
Hawk followed her instructions as she continued to guide him through the maze of Bashir’s hideout.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked.
“To the storage facility,” she said. “It’s where I am—and where backup will arrive.”
After several minutes, Hawk arrived in the storage facility and was sprinting across the vast room when someone told him to stop.
“Make another move and you’re dead,” the man said.
Hawk, whose hands were already in the air, braced himself for a bullet. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised.
“Who are you?” the man asked. “Mr. Bashir doesn’t allow just anyone in here—and if you’re running, you likely don’t belong here.”
Before Hawk could answer, the door to the outside exit began to roll up, allowing the entrance of several Humvees with mounted machine guns. Hawk didn’t wait around, instead sprinting toward several parked tankers on the other side of the room.
The man took a shot at Hawk but missed.
Seconds later, the Humvee roared toward the man and peppered him with several shots. He collapsed to the ground, dropping his weapon.
Hawk raised his hands as he jogged toward the vehicles.
“Are we glad to see you,” Hawk said.
“Glad you survived, sir,” one of the soldiers said. “But we don’t have time for chit chat. We need to get to work because there’s still a big job to do.”
CHAPTER 20
KARIF FAZIL WARMED HIS HANDS with a cup of tea while he stood outside the bakery in the village of Rejal Al-Maa. Through a secure email complete with a cipher, The Missile Man delivered detailed instructions to Fazil regarding the exchange. Fazil would be blindfolded and taken to The Missile Man’s hideout, where Fazil could inspect the product, make final payment, and ride with his men to the port town of Jazan. Once there, the missiles would be loaded onto a cargo ship headed for the assigned port.
While Fazil usually let his top lieutenants handle these exchanges, he felt the magnitude and importance of this deal necessitated his presence. The Missile Man’s protocol seemed standard for most of the weapons dealers Fazil had personally ever conducted business with, and the procedure gave him no reason for concern. Until they were five minutes late.
Fazil had already finished his tea when a black SUV rolled up to the bakery and immediately initiated contact. Without saying a word, one of the guards ushered Fazil near their vehicle and began a pat down. Fazil’s efforts to engage in small talk were met with silence.
As Fazil was about to get into the vehicle, a black bag was slipped over his head and his hands were tied together.
“How long does this take?” Fazil asked.
“Half an hour,” one of the men said.
Unable to see any of the beautiful surroundings that he found breathtaking during his ascent into the mountainous region, Fazil was left to imagine where he was. But the landscape wasn’t what had captured Fazil’s thoughts. Something far more captivating had arrested Fazil, something far more gratifying, too—revenge.
As the vehicle lurched and rolled up the hills and around the tight corners, Fazil pictured the missiles striking iconic American cities. New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Houston, St. Louis. Each one accessible from the water, each one allowing his soldiers to reach striking distance with the ballistic missiles he was about to buy without ever having to worry about how to get such destructive weapons, much less people, past customs and into the country. Fazil could already hear the reports delivered by somber newscasters over the shaky aerial images of smoldering landmarks. The chaos caused by Al Hasib’s attack would set off a domino effect—widespread and rampant crime, finger pointing among politicians to score points with constituents, and a rush to strike back at someone.
Americans are so predictable.
He smiled as he considered how he’d already been working two steps ahead. If the U.S. military responded as Fazil forecasted, he’d be able to move into phase two of his plan, wreaking even more havoc on U.S. soil.
It’s almost too easy.
But that was far from the truth. Nothing had been easy for Al Hasib in its efforts to strike America. Time after time, great plans had been thwarted through leaked information or incredible intelligence, both of which left Fazil wondering how the U.S. intelligence community had been able to stop them at every turn. But those days were over. It was Al Hasib’s turn to reverse the roles. Because of Black Wolf’s ability to syphon millions of dollars from the Bank of London, Fazil was in a position to move forward in an unexpected way. Black Wolf made it easy by helping finance their entire operation. And if it hadn’t been for the hacker’s hatred for the United States, the mutual partnership may have never materialized.
The long ride up the mountain seemed to pass quickly for Fazil. He’d been so absorbed in his thoughts that he’d barely noticed the SUV had come to a stop. He could hear the muffled voices of several men talking with the driver followed by the hum of the window rolling up. They continued on for a few more minutes before finally stopping.
Fazil felt the firm grasp on his bicep by one of the guards, who led him out of the car and into what he presumed was the hideout for the Missile Man.
“Where are we going now?” Fazil asked. “I want to see the product.”
“Just keep walking,” the guard growled.
Less than a minute later, they arrived in another room. The guard yanked the bag off Fazil’s head and shoved him farther into the room. Fazil spun around to see the man who’d treated him so roughly and with complete
