Sword of God

Jones laughed. 'Talk about deja vu. Remember that time in Asia when we had to go looking for your ass? You couldn't hear a thing all night, but you stayed in the bushes for six hours even though the mission should've taken five minutes.'

Embarrassed, Schmidt nodded. 'I was just thinking of that.'

'The next day we bought him a case of Q-tips to clean out his ears and a Dumbo watch to help tell time.'

'His trunk pointed to the hour,' Schmidt recalled. 'At six o'clock it looked like his dick.'

Payne smiled at the memory, glad to see the old Trevor was still in there.

During the past several hours, Payne had had his doubts, worried that he was going to find some kind of lobotomized zombie he would be forced to put down because nothing human remained. In fact, if Payne had stumbled across him earlier when the clock was still ticking, when he had no time to waste, he would have done just that. No regrets. No remorse. Anything to save the lives of all those people Schmidt wanted to harm.

But now, how could he do that?

The threat was over, and Schmidt trusted them enough to follow them back to their truck. From there, they'd sneak across the border and return to Taif, where he'd let Colonel Harrington deal with him. Whether that was prison, psychotherapy, or a combination of the two, Payne figured it was better than putting a bullet into an old friend.

Sure, he realized Schmidt wouldn't see the light of day for a very long time, if ever. And the truth was he didn't deserve to-not after all the pain and suffering he caused.

However, in his heart, Payne figured his best choice was bringing Schmidt home alive.

Unfortunately, he never got the chance.

50

The bullet was fired over Payne's shoulder. It whizzed past his ear and struck Schmidt in the throat. One second he was laughing about the past, the next he was taking his last breath.

Blood gushed from his carotid artery, leaking through his pale fingers as he frantically clutched his neck. No words were spoken, no last-second good-byes. He simply dropped his gun and slumped to the ground as a puddle of red formed around him.

Payne spun and saw two Arab men, both of them armed, wearing dark uniforms that prominently displayed the emblem of Saudi Arabia. The patch had a green palm tree underscored by two crossing scimitars, a curved sword popular in the Middle East. A second insignia, beige and encircled with Arabic script, was sewn on their chest. Payne didn't need a translator to read their badges. He knew all about these men and their barbaric ways.

They were mutaween.

'Drop your weapons!' one screamed in Arabic.

When no one moved, the other repeated the command in English. 'Drop your weapons!'

'Don't shoot,' Payne said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. In stressful situations, he knew that people had the tendency to match the volume and the venom of those around them. If he screamed, their adrenaline would flow and they would get more aggressive. But if he stayed composed, they would subconsciously relax, possibly letting their guard down.

Payne smiled. 'It's about time you got here. We weren't sure how long you'd be.'

'Put down your weapon!'

'Relax. We're the ones who called you. We've been waiting for you to show.'

The lead officer did not bite. 'Drop your weapon or you will be shot like your friend.'

'My friend?' Payne repeated. 'Why would we be pointing our guns at a friend? He was the person we were sent to stop.'

'Put down your weapon.'

Multiple scenarios floated through Payne's head. He knew he could follow orders and turn himself in, which would probably result in the death penalty-maybe before they even left the complex, since the mutaween were known for their swift justice. He could start a shoot-out, an iffy proposition since his gun was at his side and his opponent, a proven marksman, was aimed and ready to fire. He could delay as much as possible, hoping the other two members of his squad heard him talking and were moving into position. Then again, that wasn't something he could count on-especially not from a soldier who was tripping in his dress less than twenty minutes before. Hell, for all Payne knew, the mutaween had hit the complex with force and had already disarmed his men. There could be twenty of them running around, securing all exits.

Payne glanced at Jones, who stood several feet away. He stared back at him, waiting for Payne to make a move. Whatever Payne did, he would follow. No questions asked. Over the years, they had developed a special bond that was hard to explain, one that was forged in stressful situations like this, where life and death hung in the balance. They'd reached a point where they could finish each other's sentences, a trait that was often seen in identical twins-although one look at them proved they had different parents-and guess each other's thoughts.

That's one of the reasons why they were able to convince Schmidt to come with them so peacefully. Payne started piling on the bullshit, and Jones immediately broke out his shovel. Throw in the fact that Schmidt had a long history with them, trusting them implicitly from all their missions together, and they were able to persuade him in record time.

Unfortunately, the current situation wasn't quite so easy. Payne knew he wouldn't be able to convince the mutaween of anything. They were too hard-core, as evidenced by their warning shot to Schmidt's throat. Too protective of their sacred city. As soon as they figured out that Payne and Jones were non-Muslims, they were going to open fire. No questions asked.

Still, Payne knew if he could buy some time, if he could pile on enough bullshit to get an extra minute, he had an idea that just might work. It was going to take a grand gesture on his part and some even bigger cojones, but it was the best he could come up with on such short notice. Then again, it followed the creed he had been taught many years ago when he was training for the Special Forces, one he adhered to during his stint with the MANIACs.

A good plan violently executed now is better than a great plan later.

And if there was one thing Payne was good at, it was violence.

'Listen to me,' he said. 'I am a United States soldier who was invited by your government to track the man you just killed. He came to Mecca to damage the Great Mosque and kill thousands of pilgrims in the hajj. We called for backup several minutes ago. Are you them?'

'Put down your weapon!'

'Look,' he said, as he turned his gun backward and lowered it to the ground. 'I am putting my weapon down. Just answer my question. Are you my backup?'

'Your partner, too! Tell him to drop his weapon.'

Payne nodded at Jones, who followed Payne's instructions. 'We are not here to hurt anyone. We are here to help. Your government should have told you.'

'Told us what?'

'We are here to save the Great Mosque.'

The officer shook his head. 'We know nothing of your tale.'

'Then you need to call it in. For your sake and ours. We have permission to be here.'

'What does it hurt?' Jones added. 'Call it in.'

The mutaween whispered to each other in Arabic, discussing what they should do. Currently, they were in a position of power. Both of them were armed and far enough away from the suspects, who willingly surrendered their weapons, that they couldn't be attacked without getting off several deadly shots. Besides, if what the Americans were allying was accurate-that they did have authorization to be-in Mecca-then harming them would result in the mutaween's dismissal. Or even worse. Their bosses did not lake kindly to incompetence.

Finally, the officer spoke.

'You,' he said, pointing at Jones, 'move closer to your 11 friend.'

Jones raised his hands in surrender and took several steps toward Payne.

'Stop right there.'