Sabotage (6 page)

He pulled out his wallet, the only thing he took with him. That left him with a thousand dollars in cash and two good IDs. He had no compass, but he could feel his way back to town. Now, he needed to get a new cell phone and warn his enemies.

B
ritt looked just dark enough to pass for about any ethnicity. White? Sure. Black? You could kind of see it. Mexican? Indian? Middle-Eastern? Absolutely. No one would mistake him for being Swedish or Scottish, but, for his purposes, it worked well.

He wasn’t overly tall at about six feet. He was slender, well-built, and had his straight black hair cut long. When he went out on the town, it could honestly be said he looked like almost every other Las Vegas hipster with garish Robert Graham shirts and thousand-dollar jeans. He could have passed for thirty just as well as the forty-one he really was, and, even without his money and under ordinary circumstances, he could have bagged his share of Vegas beauties.

It wasn’t the way he dressed or his workout-fit body that everyone remembered, it was his eyes. They were what first attracted Caitlin. They were so light you couldn’t really call them blue, although that’s what it said on his driver’s license. Most people couldn’t describe them, but they sure remembered them. They seemed to look right past you.

For Britt, the flesh could be easy, or so he told himself, perhaps tired of being embarrassed by the end results. Women found him very attractive, and when they found out he didn’t immediately fawn over them, they practically threw themselves at him. But then the object of his affection would open her mouth, and silly, stupid words would come tumbling out. She would call incessantly, and all of that dance floor attitude that initially attracted him would be gone, leaving only a needy and insecure exterior, regardless of how many inspirational quotes she might post on Facebook.

He liked Caitlin if for no other reason than she kept her mouth shut. He sought her out for her past, but he could see why his enemy chose her. He didn’t always know what she was thinking, and, for Britt, that was rare. She was worth 100 of those VIP sluts. Her allure and what she represented meant, to his great chagrin, she was the only woman he could bring himself to be with; in other words, she was the only one who could help him perform sexually, a problem since his enemy stole his future. Beginning with his dethroning by the FBI and other agencies years before, his sex drive hadn’t worked with any other woman in several years. For that reason, alone, he wanted her to stay by his side, join him on this strange, little journey he had committed to. It was a shame that now he would have to kill her.

Partly because of his performance issues, Britt’s only interests for the last several years were money and intellectual superiority, most of the time in that order. He was sure that if he ever stooped so low as to allow himself to be psychologically profiled he would be categorized as a sociopath or worse, and, after today, you could profile him as a serial killer as well. But that was fine by him. Serial killers, although often too needy, were an amazing breed. They maintained the organizational capacity of a five-star general but, unfortunately, the emotional maturity of a needy four-year-old. He wasn’t their kind of serial killer. He didn’t need the recognition. He would make his mark, and then be quite happy to go away and never be heard from again.

The first few hours of his plan had gone swimmingly. If Caitlin had been a good girl and hadn’t come up missing, everything would have been perfect. He admitted he once again underestimated her. He didn’t realize she saw as much as she had, but he sent his best man—the best man still living, anyway—to handle her, the only living man that understood any part of his connection to this plot. Now that Naseem was charcoal in the middle of America, he couldn’t think of anyone else who could tie him to the crimes that were already perpetrated and those that were yet to come. The smart dummies he sent with Tony didn’t have a clue what he was about. They thought he was heartbroken over Caitlin running off with another man, and they would be paid too well to ask questions. They had no idea they were aiding and abetting the largest crime spree America had ever seen.

He needed one more piece of business to be concluded before he would definitely need to leave Vegas. He found this part regrettable, if only because he respected the cold-blooded planning of the Islamic terrorist group Sons of Allah and its leader Khalil Muhammad. But his plan was much more important, and, again, he stood intellectually superior to them and their silly superstitions. He could still be a fan and do his job.

The warehouse was on the outskirts of Vegas, well on the way to the desert. It housed various parts of the plan, all of them looking like normal business, known to very few other than Naseem and Britt just how deadly the plans were. The one ego trip Britt allowed himself was the office on the second floor. It was overdone just for moments like this one, where he would have to meet someone who would expect opulence and would respect what went on to put it in an otherwise drab environment.

He rose to greet Muhammad, accompanied by two bodyguards. He had asked for this face-to-face meeting for years, but only the events of today proved his worthiness. He told these men years ago of his plan and then told them to come and celebrate the bringing down of the Great American Infidel. To Muhammad, he was one of them, a devoted believer. Britt cultivated this perception for half a decade with a seriousness that dovetailed through this entire operation. The link to Muhammad and all of the hidden killing machines over Europe and Asia was how he found Naseem, so brilliant, so tied to his cause. He died for a cause all right: Britt’s.

“A salaam alaikum,”
Britt said as he rose. Muhammad grinned. The two had met via videoconferences and through other modern means, but, now, with America hurt and cowering, the sheik felt it more than fair to meet Yankee in person.

“Wa alaikum salaam,”
Muhammad replied. He sat down in Britt’s brilliantly white office. It was quite large, filled with the trappings of manly success: the pictures of Muslim dignitaries Britt winced through and the large tank filled with exotic fish, which cost way too much for Britt’s taste but seemed fitting for this place. It had been arranged today for maximum effect, just for this head of a terrorist state, with a chair for the great leader directly across from him, the whole scene feeling like a crucial moment in a gangster movie. In a way, it was. They were religious gangsters. Muhammad’s two body guards flanked him, stared down by Britt’s guards, who outnumbered them.

Britt needed to do it like an Old Testament usurper. If you’re going to be the king, you’ve got to kill the king. No chance of defectors or angry righteous men coming back to give information about him. This man couldn’t figure out he had been duped. Let him go to his god believing that.

“Great work, my friend,” said Muhammad, who long dreamed of masterminding a major jihad on the United States. He scooted his chair closer to Britt.

“When you came to me with your idea, I thought there was no way you could get it done. Too ambitious.” He thought about that for a second, caught in thought, gazing at the rings on his hands. “But you did everything you promised. I must admit, you have made an old man jealous but in the best way. You have been a great friend to me. I want to thank you.”

“Give all the glory to Allah,” said Britt, shaking his head, putting on his best act, the one that worked for all those years. “All Allah, your holiness. There is no god but God.” This entire plan required him to know more about Islam than most mullahs. He made more trips than he ever wanted to the other side of the world. He detested most of the rank and file Muslims he met, though he detested most everyone, but there had been a few men whose presence stuck with him. This man was one. Too bad. Too bad.

“I have a gift for you, to celebrate our great triumph,” said Britt.

Muhammad nodded his approval.

“More attacks are going on as we speak.”

Britt handed him a large and expensively wrapped package. It was white linen wrapping paper with a gold bow around it. Muhammad opened the package, took care to work slowly through the wrapping, and laughed as he pulled out a gold-plated .45. He held the gun in his hands and turned it over. The weight surprised him.

“It has been many years,” he said, laughing. The gift touched something childlike. “Am I Scaramanga?” Muhammad asked, remembering James Bond films from his youth.

“Ah, no.” Britt said cheerfully. “No blasphemy intended. Just a rare specimen of a Palestinian gunmaker named al-Ibral. May I explain the significance?”

Muhammad’s eyes blazed with delight. “Indeed.” He handed the weapon to his friend.

“It’s made for one purpose, perhaps not surprising,” said Britt as he cradled the gun and lovingly stroked the barrel. He made a show of all of this, displaying both sides of the weapon, caressing it.

Muhammad chuckled.

“And what is that? Exchanging pleasantries?” He laughed at his own joke.

Britt smiled. The gun felt like a gold brick in his hand. “Certain and sudden death.”

Britt stood and pointed the gun straight at Muhammad. He pulled the trigger as he aimed right between his eyes.

T
he driver was good. He took liberties, cut corners, honked as if he were carrying a wounded president, and made it from Hollywood Boulevard to the north 101 in record time. He was working his hands free phone to find out what was going on. He turned on the satellite radio to CNN and got the latest.

“Complete pandemonium … attacks across the nation …”

No mention of LA yet; that was too new. The talking heads were bringing on talking heads to analyze the situation before anyone had the slightest clue what was really going on.

He played this for his passengers as well.

In the back, Joey created some distance between himself and Becky, who clearly didn’t know what to think. His worries that this had something to do with him personally subsided. But now, it was even worse. It looked like these people used him to draw a crowd. He heard tidbits from the radio about how shit went down in other places, but he was the only celebrity to be named in the radio broadcasts.

That seemed strange to him. He was a star, but he wasn’t a household name by any stretch. Most teenagers would know him and every jewelry dealer in California already knew him but most white people and even older black people certainly didn’t. Why would they choose him? Was it just some coincidence? He had to think more big names were coming. Certainly they wouldn’t just tap little old him.

Joey remembered September 11. He remembered how the nation came to a standstill, how they honored the heroes, and took a couple of days to get together and mourn before returning to business as usual.

He thought this would be similar. But he was enraged they involved him. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t a Muslim; he wasn’t anything really. He occasionally wore a cross, but that was as religious as he got. Why had they used him?

At this point, everyone seemed to think he was dead. One report from a guy so white he probably pissed milk said he was on stage in the middle of his set when this happened. Dumb fuckin reporters.

He had missed five calls from Raylon, but he hadn’t even tried to answer any of them. He wasn’t going to pick up the phone, at least not until he knew what he was going to do. This hurt him. He needed Raylon at a time like this, and he sure as hell knew Raylon needed him. But he didn’t know what was up.

Was this targeted for him, or did he happen to be just another incidental casualty?

Becky picked up her phone and started to dial.

Joey grabbed the phone from her and turned it off.

“What you doin?”

“Sorry, baby. Give me a minute to think. They may have been after me.”