Suicide Mission (22 page)

The gun-wielding men surrounded the bus and leveled their automatic weapons at it. One of them let off a burst of slugs that shattered several windows on the right side of the vehicle and sent shards of glass spraying over the screaming passengers. Bill, Catalina, and Bailey were on the other side of the bus, so they weren't in any immediate danger. Bill felt anger surge inside him, though, as he saw several people bleeding from the cuts inflicted by the flying glass.

Another man stepped up to the door and tapped impatiently on it with the barrel of his gun. The driver took hold of the lever with both shaking hands and pulled it to the side, opening the door. The man bounded into the bus and slashed at the driver with his gun, driving him cringing back into his seat as the barrel opened a cut on his head. The driver threw up his hands and begged for his life in a loud, terrified voice.

“Everyone down!” the intruder shouted in Spanish. He fired a high burst that shattered the window in the door at the back of the bus and sent the sobbing, shrieking passengers diving for the dirty floor between the seats and in the aisle.

Bill and Catalina weren't crying and screaming, but they got down with the others. Bill twisted his head to look at Bailey and saw that the big man was rising to his feet instead. He kicked Bailey in the ankle. Bailey's instincts told him to fight, but a gun battle right now wouldn't accomplish a damn thing.

Grimacing in frustration, Bailey dropped to one knee, then lowered himself onto his belly like the others. He filled up the aisle next to his seat.

“Open the back door!” the man with the gun commanded. He pointed at one of the passengers. “You!”

The man got shakily to his feet and edged past the crates of chickens to push the bar on the emergency door at the rear of the bus. More of the gunmen were waiting outside. They grabbed the door and yanked it open the rest of the way, then started climbing in. They grabbed passengers and dragged them out. Although the wailing continued, the passengers were too afraid to put up any sort of fight. Once they were out of the bus, more men brandishing guns lined them up, as if for execution.

That possibility was not lost on the terrified prisoners.

While that was going on, more men broke into the bus's luggage compartment and began dragging out everything inside it, going through bags and boxes in search of anything valuable. They were like old-time
bandidos
, joking and laughing as they searched for loot.

When the men came to Bailey, one of them kicked his foot and ordered him to get up. Bailey pushed himself to his hands and knees. As he did, his vest swung open and the gunman caught a glimpse of the revolver tucked into Bailey's belt. He let out a startled yell and drove a booted foot down into the middle of Bailey's back, knocking him to the floor again. Another man came up and pressed the muzzle of his machine pistol to Bailey's head while the first man slid a hand under the massive torso and retrieved the revolver.

That actually wasn't a bad thing, Bill thought. Now that he was disarmed, Bailey wouldn't have any choice but to cooperate with their captors . . . which had been the plan all along.

When their turn came, Bill and Catalina joined the other captives lined up on the side of the highway. There was no paved shoulder, so they were standing in sand that would make running impossible.

Bill had no interest in running, though. So far everything was going just like he wanted it to.

There were no scheduled stops between Villa Guajardo and Dos Caballos, so Megan or whoever was monitoring the GPS chips at the moment would have noticed by now that the signals were no longer moving. That was a clear indication that the bus had either broken down or been forced to halt. Once the signals began moving again, away from the highway, that would be confirmation Bill and his two companions had been taken off the bus.

Once everybody was off the bus, including the shaking, bleeding driver, the gunman who seemed to be in charge walked along the line of prisoners and studied them. He pointed to all the women between the ages of fifteen and forty, and they were dragged toward a truck that had followed the jeeps and the SUVs at a slower pace. The leader picked out several of the men along the way as well, the ones who were relatively young and well-built.

Bill worried that they might not take him because of his age, even though he still appeared to be hale and hearty. If he had to, he would do something to show them that he could put up a fight.

The leader came to Bailey and said, “This one, for sure. But watch him. He's big like an ox.”

“Probably dumb like an ox, too, Jorge,” one of the other men said.

“I'll tell you what you can do with your ox,” Bailey grated.

The leader, the one called Jorge, smiled.

“So you speak Spanish,” he said to Bailey. “So many of you Americans don't. You'll regret that when it becomes the only language spoken there.”

“That'll never happen.”

“There are already more of us than there are of you, amigo. Can you hold back the ocean's tide by wishing it so?” Jorge jerked his head. “Take him.”

Bill wanted to look at Bailey and plead with his eyes for the big man to go along with the plan, but he couldn't risk their captors realizing that there was a connection between them. He kept his eyes downcast and his arm around Catalina's shoulders as she pretended to quiver with fear.

Maybe she wasn't completely pretending, he thought. He wouldn't blame her a bit if she was really scared.

Being prodded by guns, Bailey stalked toward the truck. Bill managed not to sigh with relief when he glanced up and saw that. Everything was still on track.

Jorge stopped in front of Catalina, put the barrel of his gun under her chin, and tipped her head up. He smiled as he looked at her and said, “
Muy bonita
.”

A jerk of his head indicated that the others should take her.

Bill tightened his arm around her protectively and shook his head.

“My niece is young, innocent,” he said. “Please, leave her alone.”

His Spanish was flawless, the speech of a man who had spent his entire life south of the border.

“Let her go, you old fool,” Jorge snapped.

“No, take me instead.”

“What we want her for, you would be no help.”

Jorge grabbed Catalina's arm and jerked her away from Bill, who didn't hesitate to act.

He swung a punch that cracked sharply against Jorge's jaw and sent the man staggering back a step.

Bill knew he was running a calculated risk. The gunman could fly into a rage and shoot him on the spot. In which case command of the mission would fall to Bailey and he would have to carry on.

But there was a good chance Jorge wouldn't kill him but would pick him to be taken back to the terrorist camp instead. That was what happened, as Jorge shouted an angry curse and swung his gun, smashing it against the side of Bill's head and sending the straw Stetson flying.

“Put this old
viejo
in the truck!” Jorge yelled at his men. “He'll wish he'd let the girl go! He'll die long and hard when we get him back to Barranca de la Serpiente!”

Even through the pain in his head, Bill was glad to hear what the man said. It proved that Megan's intel and the guesses they had made about it were right. When they left here they would be on their way to where they needed to be.

A couple of men grabbed Bill's arms and jerked him to his feet. As they frog-marched him toward the truck, he heard Catalina pleading with Jorge not to hurt her beloved
Tío
Hector.

“Treat me nice, little one, and maybe I'll take it a little easier on him,” Jorge said. “But only a little. The old fool struck me, and for that he has to pay!”

The men forced Bill into the back of the truck, which had an arching canvas cover over it. The cover provided some welcome shade, but it also blocked any moving air, meaning that the back of the truck was hot and stifling, filled with the stink of fear sweat and the reek of urine. Some of the men were so scared they had pissed their pants.

The prisoners were sitting on the floor, crowded together like cattle or sheep. Bill spotted Bailey and sank down beside him. Bailey frowned at the sight of the cut on Bill's head and the trickle of blood that wormed from it, but he maintained the pose that they didn't know each other.

“Are you all right, old man?” he asked.

“
Sí, gracias
, I will be,” Bill said. He pulled a wadded-up handkerchief from his hip pocket and dabbed at the blood. “I've been hurt worse.”

“I'll bet you have,” Bailey muttered under his breath.

A minute later Catalina was brought to the truck. Her blouse was disarranged and the top button had been torn off, indicating that at least one of the men, most likely Jorge, had pawed her. Bill felt Bailey stiffen beside him at the sight. He understood the reaction. Rage burned inside him, too. But he had to keep those fires tamped down . . . for now.

A day of reckoning would come, not just for Jorge but for all of America's enemies.

A few more prisoners were forced into the truck, but it appeared that the cartel soldiers were just about finished with their culling. Two guards climbed in and pulled the tailgate closed. They stood at the very back of the truck with their automatic weapons covering the captives. Once the truck got under way, it might have been possible to jump those guards, but Bill could tell from looking at the prisoners that they had no fight left in them. They all sat with their heads down, either crying or just sitting there in numb silence.

The truck's engine started. It lurched into motion. The SUVs must have been leading the way because Bill couldn't see them, but the two jeeps fell in behind the truck to bring up the rear and fight off any pursuit . . . not that there was going to be any.

The highway fell behind them. In the distance, through the opening at the back of the truck, Bill saw the bus start moving again. The passengers who had been left behind were on their way to Villa Guajardo, where they would tell their story of terror and violence. It wouldn't take long for word of what had happened to get around the small town.

Wade, Megan, and the others would hear the news, but they would already know what had happened from tracking the signals of the GPS chips. When those signals stopped moving and stayed stopped, that would be the location of the terrorist training camp. Then the rest of the force could move in, to find with any luck that Bill, Catalina, and Bailey had already struck at the enemy from within and softened their defenses.

Even if everything worked perfectly, the odds would still be overwhelming. But they didn't have to wipe out every low-level cartel soldier and would-be jihadist, Bill mused as he swayed slightly from the truck's bouncing motion over rough ground. The goal they really needed to accomplish was to wipe out the leadership of both factions. That would cripple the operation.

He wondered if they would find Tariq Maleef at Barranca de la Serpiente. It seemed likely that's where Tariq would have gone after he was rescued from custody. In a way, Bill was looking forward to seeing the terrorist again.

If he did, he would make sure to finish the job this time, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

 

Tariq jerked back with his left arm as it looped around the man's throat. That drew the skin of the neck taut so that the keen-edged blade went in easily and cut deep. The man spasmed in Tariq's grip as blood spurted a good five feet from the severed carotid artery. As the man went limp in death, Tariq let go of him and stepped back to let the corpse fall to the ground with a soggy thud.

“Like that,” Tariq said as he held out the knife to one of the killers in training. “Now you try it.”

The man took the knife and turned toward the small group of prisoners who had been herded at gunpoint to the training ground.

Tariq heard his name being called and turned his back on the scene as the trainee picked out a victim and moved in on him. Anwar al-Waleed was hurrying toward him from the low, white building that housed the laboratories. Anwar's gangling, bird-like form moved awkwardly and his hair was falling over his eyes, as usual. The tails of his white lab coat flapped around his skinny shanks.

“Good news, Tariq!” Anwar called as he waved a hand over his head excitedly. “The formula is ready to test.”

Tariq heard a gurgling sound behind him and knew that another of the prisoners had just had his throat cut. He felt a small surge of pride that his lesson had been successful. The regular instructors could handle the rest of this session. He had just stepped in momentarily as a favor to provide a demonstration.

Tariq went to meet his friend and said with a smile, “You should be careful about running around in this heat, Anwar. You'll give yourself a stroke.”

Anwar pushed his glasses up and giggled.

“I know. It's just that I've been working on these spores for quite a while now, and I'm anxious to see if they'll really work like I think they will.”

“The Night Flowers? That's what you're talking about?”

Anwar nodded and said, “I thought you might want to observe the test.”

“Of course I do.” Tariq slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Lead the way.”

They went into the lab building, where the air-conditioning felt even colder than it really was after the heat outside. Anwar took Tariq into a darkened room with a large pane of glass set into one wall.

On the other side of the glass was a table. A stocky Hispanic man sat at the table in a straight-backed chair. He wore a pair of handcuffs, and despite the cool air inside the building his face was beaded with sweat. His eyes bulged with obvious fear.

“He can't see us, can he?” Tariq asked.

“No, not at all. He may be intelligent enough to guess that someone is on the other side of the glass, but I don't know about that. It doesn't really matter.”

“He's frightened,” Tariq said. “What did you tell him?”

“Only that I needed his help to conduct an experiment and that I would be in to see him later.” Anwar smiled. “It's true, you know. I couldn't conduct the test without him, and I'll be examining his body once it's over.”

“Carefully, I hope.”

“Of course. That room is hermetically sealed, and I won't enter it until it's been swept with enough ultraviolet to render the spores harmless.”

“All right. Just don't take any chances. We can't afford to lose your genius, my friend.”

Anwar ducked his head shyly and clucked in a self-deprecating manner, but he was obviously pleased.

“In the long run, this weapon will kill more infidels than that nuclear device would have. There is a reason Allah decided you should be spared, Tariq. You will carry this to the very heart of their godless government.”

Tariq nodded. Anwar was right. The seeds of destruction in the Night Flowers would take root and ultimately wipe out the Americans' capital, and with it their capacity to govern themselves and resist their inevitable destiny.

And the best part about it, Tariq thought selfishly, was that he didn't have to die in order for this new plan to succeed.

He could live to see paradise right here on earth.

He peered through the glass at the Mexican and asked, “When are you going to expose him to the spores?”

“Oh, I've already done that,” Anwar said. “An hour ago. They've had time to implant themselves in his trachea and lungs. Now they're just waiting for the activating agent.” He reached down and pressed a button on a control console set underneath the window. “Which I've just released into the ventilating system in there.”

Tariq felt his pulse quickening as he waited to see what was going to happen. For a couple of long minutes the answer seemed to be nothing. The Mexican was still sweaty and frightened, but he appeared to be none the worse for it.

Tariq found himself wishing the man would go ahead and die. He didn't know the test subject, didn't know anything about him, not even his name. But he felt nothing but contempt for these Mexicans, even the ones like Sanchez who were working with Tariq and his organization. They were all degenerates, and once Islamic rule was established over the United States, then they could turn their attention southward and either expand Allah's domain over the Latin countries . . . or wipe out the sinful creatures.

Suddenly Tariq became aware that the man in the other room was breathing harder. The Mexican's chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to draw enough air into his lungs. He swallowed hard and lifted his cuffed hands to rub his throat, as if it had suddenly become sore.

“Ah,” Anwar said softly. “The spores are activating.”

Tariq watched with keen interest as the Mexican quickly grew panicky. The man bolted to his feet so violently that the chair fell over behind him. He leaned forward and rested his hands on the table. His back heaved.

Suddenly the man lunged at the glass and began to pound his open hands against it. His mouth opened wide and the muscles in his throat worked as if he were shouting, but if he made any sound, Tariq couldn't hear it. He didn't know if that was because the other room was soundproofed or if it was impossible for the Mexican to get any words past the grotesque growth clogging his throat and the inside of his mouth.

The white stuff was similar to thistles or spiderwebs or strands of cotton. They thickened and braided together before Tariq's eyes to block off more and more of the Mexican's airway.

“The Night Flowers are growing in his lungs the same way?” Tariq asked in a hushed voice.

“That's right,” Anwar replied. “Even if he could get enough air down his throat, his lungs couldn't do anything with it. They're already being choked out by the growth. Eventually, if the spores are left unchecked, they'll reproduce exponentially until they fill the entire body to bursting. The tissues won't be able to withstand the pressure.”

“He'll explode from inside out.”

“Yes. We won't let the process continue that long, however. Once he's dead, we'll deactivate the spores.”

“You can do that?”

“Of course, like I said, with UV bombardment.”

Tariq stroked his chin as he thought.

“But when the people in Washington D.C. start dropping dead, no one will know to bombard their bodies with UV. The spores will continue to reproduce until the bodies explode, spreading the spores even more.”

“Yes, and since the activating agent will already be present in the systems of those who are uninfected because of the aerial spraying earlier in the day, the Night Flowers will quickly find new homes and the process will begin again.”

A concern occurred to Tariq.

“What's to stop it from spreading until it wipes out the entire population of the world?”

“We've nano-engineered a limiting factor into the spores. They'll begin to die off quicker than new spores can replace them. Within three days after the initial attack, they'll all be inert and no longer a threat.”

“And most of the Americans in the eastern third of their country will be dead.”

“If our computer models are correct, yes,” Anwar said. When talking about things like this, he wasn't shy or hesitant or gawky. He was in his element when it came to the potential of science to terrorize and kill the infidels. Westerners, in their arrogance, often seemed to forget that the very foundations of science had been laid in the Middle East.

In the other room, the test subject began dashing back and forth in a frenzy, clawing at his throat. He stopped and hunched over. His body spasmed like he was trying to cough out the thing that was killing him, but of course he couldn't do that. It was in him. It was part of him.

The Night Flowers filled him.

He started running again and slammed into the wall, but there was no way to break out, and it wouldn't have done him any good if there were. He rebounded from the wall and lost his balance, falling to the floor. Tariq moved closer to the glass and craned his neck for a better view.

The Mexican lay with his face turned toward the observation window. He jerked and spasmed. His feet kicked helplessly.

Then a shudder went through him and it was over. His clawing hands fell away from his throat. His eyes stared sightlessly at the glass.

As Tariq watched, the threadlike spores crawled over the man's vacant eyeballs and covered them with an impenetrable white blanket.

Anwar flipped a switch on the console, and the spores seemed to turn a bright, glowing purple. That was because of the ultraviolet light washing over them, Tariq knew.

“Ten minutes of this and it will be perfectly safe to go in there,” Anwar explained. “The reproductive mechanism of the Night Flowers will be destroyed.”

“Amazing,” Tariq muttered. “And you can manufacture this in the quantity we require?”

“Yes. It won't be any trouble. We can have the tanker loaded in less than a week. Then it will be a simple matter to drive it to Washington, turn a single valve, and spend the day driving around the city. Then a plane flies nearby and takes advantage of the prevailing winds to spread the activating agent.”

“There's a large no-fly zone over and around Washington,” Tariq pointed out.

“That's why we let the wind do our work for us,” Anwar said with a smile. “The activating agent is longer-lasting than the spores themselves. Odorless, tasteless . . . the Americans won't even know they have the mechanism of their destruction in their own bodies.”

“When I said you were a genius before, I meant it, Anwar.”

“Please. I just do what I can for our holy cause.”

“And Allah will reward you greatly for it. No one will have more virgins in paradise than you, my friend!”

And maybe by then, Tariq thought, Anwar would have figured out what to do with them.

He left the lab a few minutes later. As he walked across the camp, several vehicles, including a truck with a covered bed, pulled up near the buildings where the prisoners were housed. He had known that some of the cartel men were going to hold up another bus today and bring back more captives. Tariq devoted little thought to such matters. It was up to their allies to keep things running smoothly around here, to make sure there were men to kill and women to serve the needs of the flesh.

Tariq turned away without looking back as guards began to unload the new prisoners from the truck.