getting things over with before he had a chance to get nervous, so he pulled his thobe above his knees-not wanting to trip- took a deep breath, and stepped onto the narrow beam. It felt solid underneath his feet, like walking on a curb.
Step after careful step, he moved at a steady speed. Never looking down. Always focusing on a point five feet in front of him. Make it there, then move to the next. Nothing but small segments. Never large. It was the best way to avoid being overwhelmed.
The entire trip took thirty seconds. By the end, his heart was pounding and his left hand was quivering from all the adrenaline. He flexed the hand a few times, took a deep breath, then continued forward. Refusing to look back at what he had conquered.
More concerned with the perils that waited around the corner.
Payne crept along the outer wall of the mechanical penthouse. Voices could be heard within. Shouting of some kind. He couldn't make out the words-the wind was whistling, and someone was giving him an update on building seven- but it was definitely an argument.
Something to be taken advantage of.
With gun in hand, he opened the metal hatch and slipped inside. Angry words were being exchanged. Two men shouting about their responsibilities. One man said they
It was music to Payne's ears.
He crouched on the stairs, listening to what was being said, hoping to get as much intel as he could. Neither of the voices belonged to Schmidt-that was too much to hope for-but this was half his squad. Two of the men responsible for the violence in the cave. The murders in the village. The plot to blow up Mecca.
He'd listen for as long as possible before he made his move.
And when he did, they'd pay for their transgressions.
48
When Jones arrived in the northeastern corner, the sniper was no longer there. He had packed his things and abandoned his position less than a minute before.
Unfortunately, that was the problem with snipers. They were slippery bastards.
Jones cursed under his breath and scanned the area for exit points. At this height, elevators were the main option. As far as he could tell, one had been built on each side of l he Hotel Tower. The front shaft was clearly visible from I he plaza, something the shooter would want to avoid. His goal would be to eliminate exposure time. Less exposure meant fewer witnesses.
The other three were all hidden from the main street, the closest being on the eastern face of the tower. It was par-lially concealed by building two and less than thirty seconds away. Jones took a chance and sprinted as fast as he could, darting through the equipment and supplies that cluttered the massive space. The squeaking of cables greeted his arrival as the platform dipped below floor level. With no time to waste, Jones squeezed through the bars of the metal tube and jumped into the open shaft, plummeting several feet before landing on top of the elevator.
Until then, the sniper had been oblivious to Jones's pursuit. More concerned with the targets below than anyone lurking above. Now, suddenly, he was face-to-face with a black superhero. At least that's what Jones looked like as he stood on the plummeting steel cage, his white robe fluttering in the breeze like he was in midflight.
The sniper screamed one word-
The mutaween were feared throughout Saudi Arabia, where they were empowered to enforce Sharia, a system of strict religious laws based on the Qur'an.
Unlike normal police, the mutaween were given discretionary power to enter homes, interrogate suspects, and punish violators on the spot. Sometimes these punishments were as simple as a warning; at other times they were much more severe. According to Sharia law, the penalty for adultery was death by stoning. If neither of the participants was married, they got off easy: a hundred lashes in a public flogging. Thieves were typically imprisoned for a first-time offense (if the stolen item was inexpensive), but repeat offenders were punished with the amputation of hands or feet. Then again, a more vital body part was cut off if a man or a woman was seen performing a same-sex sexual act. And anyone who was caught campaigning for gay rights was beheaded in a public ceremony.
However, on such an important religious holiday, the mutaween weren't searching for grievous offenses such as these as they patrolled the streets around the Great Mosque. They were more concerned with the mundane violations that seemed to increase when Mecca was flooded with Westerners. Dress code infractions. Consumption of alcohol. Possession of un-Islamic items such as American movies or CDs.
The last thing they were expecting was the sound of gunfire.
And it came from the Abraj Al Bait complex.
Covered in blood, Payne left the mechanical penthouse carrying two bags, one over each shoulder. Gun still in hand, he walked to the northern edge of the roof and peered over the thick wall that separated him from an eight- hundred-foot fall.
This was an opportunity he couldn't pass up.
The Great Mosque stretched before him, a series of arches and columns built from gray stones found in the local hills. Several towers, trimmed in green and topped with golden spires shaped like crescent moons, rose toward the heavens, casting shadows on the pilgrims who stood in line outside the main gates, patiently waiting to get inside, where they could fulfill their hajj duties. Shifting his focus to the center of the open courtyard, Payne spotted the Kaaba, draped in black cloth, the holy cube that was honored by all Muslims. From this height, he couldn't see the Black Stone, the focus of so much attention during the past few days, but he knew it was down there, set in the eastern corner of the shrine.
Thanks to him, it was temporarily safe from peril.
'Six is clear,' he said as he hustled over to the construction elevator that was supposed to be broken-at least according to his men. In actuality, Schmidt's crew had turned off the controls so it remained at the penthouse while they went about their work. A smart move on their part, but one that would benefit Payne. With a flick of a switch, it was operational again, and he was able to ride it all the way to the plaza.
Trevor Schmidt sensed trouble when the rendezvous point was empty. His men were always punctual-trained to be on time, every time-especially in situations like this. The clock was ticking, and their escape depended on a precise schedule.
He glanced at his watch. The bombs would be going off in less than ten minutes.
They needed to get to the tunnel soon.
Scanning the plaza, Schmidt saw the two dead guards that Luke had gunned down. They were dressed in Arab clothes and laid in puddles of blood that matched the color of the towel on the one guy's head. Schmidt smiled at the image. According to his source, patrols weren't expected inside the complex, but he always planned for contingencies. That's why he put his best sniper in the Hotel Tower. He protected the unit while they went about their business.
'Luke, what's your status?'
Thinking back, Schmidt realized he hadn't heard from Luke since he reported the shootings. Not uncommon for a sniper, who was more concerned with finding his next target than giving updates. Still, it was slightly unsettling when combined with his tardiness.
The same thing applied to the others. He hadn't heard from them in several minutes.
'Matthew? Mark? What's your status?'
No answer. Not a single word.
Last Schmidt had heard, Mark was having trouble with his detonator. He called for Matthew, the engineer, who was in the control room, making sure that the jet fuel was pumped to the proper tanks in the proper amount, to come to the roof and help him with some rewiring. Once the levels were adjusted, Matthew had plenty of time to
