THE GUARDIAN (Taskforce Series) (41 page)

Muhammed and Corey shared a look. They had just been discussing Ibrahim’s crazed vision of the New World Order and their reluctance to take part now that they were aware of the gruesome brutality required of them. It sounded like all hell was breaking loose on the other side of the thick walls. Another sudden, loud explosion overhead elicited cries of agony and sent bits of plaster raining down on them
.

“Hear the sound of my Righteous Army securing victory,” Ibrahim crowed. Hefting the box of pistols he had guarded at the top of the
minbar
, he descended with it. “Come forward, my sons who swore their loyalty to the Five Percent Nation.” He waved them closer.

With
Davis
arrested and Abdul tied up in the closet, only five of his seven chosen pupils remained. “Come and take a pistol,” he urged. “As soon as the enemy is weakened, we will escape. You first, Hasan.”

Hasan edged closer, and the pistol gleamed like dark pewter as Ibrahim passed it off. Muhummed seized Corey’s arm. “What do we do?” he hissed.

“Go ahead and get a gun. I’ll give mine to Abdul,” Corey answered
.

“Muhammed,” Ibrahim called, and Muhammed got up and took the pistol given to him
.

Gunfire belched on the roof overhead, and Corey glanced up automatically. He had noticed men up there, earlier, watching their every move, perhaps preparing to break in through the windows. He would rather cast his lot with them than be party to the slaughtering of innocent people.

“Yusuf,” Ibrahim said, calling him by his conversion name.

Corey stepped forward. When the cool weight of titanium filled his palm, his resolve to do what was right gave him courage
.

Edging away from the circle of eager men, Corey backed toward the closet where Abdul lay in a puddle of his own blood. Slipping into the dark space, he dropped to his knees to shake him awake. Abdul had slipped into unconsciousness.

“Man, wake up!” Corey whispered, cutting the sticky tape around his wrists and ankles with the scissors. “You said you was gonna help me.” Anxiety wicking through his solar plexus brought tears to his eyes. The tape came apart, but even then Abdul remained motionless.

Corey’s hopes plummeted. Without Abdul’s help, how could he and Muhammed ever overcome the others?

Chapter Twenty

Pain flashed up
Jackson
’s spine from his hip. He opened his eyes with a gasp and recognized Corey bent over him, shaking him awake. “Yes!” Corey’s relief was palpable. “Stay awake. You gots to stay awake, man.” He thrust a gun into
Jackson
’s hand. “Muhammed’s on our side now,” he whispered, “and Ibrahim’s about to make his move.” Corey put a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck,” he added before scuttling out of the closet.

The cool titanium in
Jackson
’s hand sharpened his senses, helping him to rise above the radiating pain. Gritting his teeth, he rolled toward the cracked closet door and searched the shadowy prayer hall to assess what was going on. Ibrahim now stood at the barred door, surrounded by the parolees. They seemed to be waiting for a signal of some kind.

Jackson
painstakingly coaxed his cell phone from his pocket. The very walls of the mosque shook with incessant thunder. It sounded like a war was taking place outside, only what the hell was making those lawn-mower noises?

Christ, his hip hurt. Ignoring the pain, he texted Ike and Toby simultaneously with fingers that shook.
Hit but fairly mobile. Have pistol and two allies. Ibrahim poised to exit
.

As he waited for a reply, he took inventory of his wound. His blood had apparently clotted as it had ceased to leak from the hole in his shorts. Good thing, too, for he had no way of binding the wound, and that would have only made it obvious he still had his head in the game
.

Ike’s reply lit up the tiny screen.
Sit tight. Air support en route.

Relief lessened
Jackson
’s pain. Maybe he wouldn’t have to address Ibrahim alone.

But then an explosion shook the walls and brought plaster raining down on his head. Christ, it sounded like his teammates were balls to the wall defending the mosque from Ibrahim’s army. Closing his eyes, he envisioned what he was hearing. Those small engines were apparently attached to light, fast-moving vehicles that swept around the building, swapping fire with those defending it. It sounded like the good guys were hard pressed in keeping the Fruit of Islam at a distance.

Jackson
couldn’t wait for air support to tip the scales of the battle, not if Ibrahim slipped away while his Army had the upper hand. In fact, now was the perfect time to take him out.

Steadying his pistol with his other hand, he took aim at Ibrahim’s head through the cracked door. The imam stood with his iPhone in one hand, his pistol in the other, an easy target. Still, it’d been a long time since
Jackson
had killed anyone, since the damn war, before Colleen died.

Ibrahim’s phone lit up suddenly. Energized by the message he received, the imam shifted toward his followers, so that he no longer stood in
Jackson
’s direct line of sight. “Come, my sons,” he called waving the anxious, milling men closer to the door.

“Move,”
Jackson
breathed, willing Jamal to step aside so he could fire his shot. He could see that Jamal was also armed, as were Ibrahim’s other chosen few. Question was, would they all turn their weapons on
Jackson
when Ibrahim went down? He swallowed hard at the thought. Would Muhammed, who also had a gun, be any help?

“Shahid, Hasan,” he heard Ibrahim call, “bring me the traitor. You will have to cut free his feet so he can walk.”

“We got him,” Corey volunteered, speaking on just the other side of the door. In the next instant, he and Muhammed edged into the closet, and the opportunity to shoot Ibrahim was gone. Corey dropped to his knees beside him. “How you gonna do this?” he whispered anxiously.

Jackson
had to rethink his plans. “Just trust me,” he gritted, tucking the pistol under his T-shirt, beneath the elastic waistband of his shorts. “When we get to the part where I tell you to get down, just do it. Muhammed, I need you to shoot anyone who takes a pop at me.”

Muhammed nodded, his eyes as big and bright as marbles. “A’aight.”

“Remember, you promised we wouldn’t go to jail,” Corey reminded
Jackson
frantically.

“I don’t want to die,” Muhammed blurted in falsetto.

“I won’t let either of you die or serve time for this,”
Jackson
promised, hoping he wasn’t telling a lie. “Now hurry up and drag me out of here. Go ahead and treat me rough; it’ll be more convincing that way. Let’s go.”

Keeping his arms behind his back as if they were still bound,
Jackson
braced himself for the agony that ripped through him as they pulled him to his feet. Then he let himself be alternately dragged and shoved toward Ibrahim, who clutched his pistol and extended it straight-armed at
Jackson
’s forehead
.

I could disarm him now,
Jackson
considered, but with the others standing so close in their haste to get out the door, the odds of a successful nab and grab were slim
.

“Unbar the door, Shahid,” Ibrahim directed. “The rest of you will surround me like body guards. Remember that I am your
mahdi,
and it is an honor to die for me.”

As Shahid drew the door open, the parolees surrounded their leader like a phalanx, with
Jackson
positioned directly in front of the target, acting as a human shield. Moving all together, they stepped into the corridor, where the sounds of battle echoed off the tiled floor and fantastical shadows leapt on the wall.
Jackson
was pleased to hear the unmistakable thunder of air support drawing closer. With their tracking capabilities, aerial gunners could hone in on the fleet attack vehicles and take them out, giving the Feds an immediate advantage.

“We wait here,” Ibrahim shouted, his voice strident with immediacy, his pistol gouging
Jackson
’s spine. “When my army blows the doors open, we will hurry outside and climb into the vehicles coming to collect us. Cover your ears,” he warned.

Jackson
pretended to sway. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Corey shoot him an anxious glance as he and Muhammed jerked him roughly upright. It couldn’t have been more obvious that Corey was wondering how the hell Abdul was going to save them.

Funny, he was wondering that same thing.

**

When three armored ATVs whipped through the parking lot from around the back of the building,
Lena
gave a cry of alarm. For the past half hour she had watched the enemy circle the mosque in ever tightening rings. With spurious grenade attacks and well-aimed gunfire, they had managed to break through the National Guard’s perimeter, getting close enough to the mosque to harry those defending it
.
  

“Get down!” the hostage negotiator warned her, as he fired out the window of their parked car
.
 

Lena
halfheartedly obeyed him. Peeking over the dashboard, she watched as his bullets missed the tires and bounced ineffectively off the bullet-proof hull. Despite gunfire lighting up the night sky like fireworks, it wasn’t herself she was worried about. She had heard nothing from Corey for the past half hour but silence.
Jackson
could be dead for all she knew. And despite the best efforts of the SWAT team, National Guard contingent, and local police, the invading force was clearly gaining the upper hand. Only the helicopters thundering closer and
Douglas
’s assurance that a second wave of National Guardsmen was due to arrive at any moment kept her fears from spiraling.

But then a deafening crash startled a scream from her throat
.

“Shit!” exclaimed Special Agent
Douglas
, throwing his chest over her torso and shoving her cheek against the vinyl seat.

“What happened?” she cried.

Douglas
peeked outside. “They just blew the doors off the mosque. Oh, Christ, the leader’s coming out.”

“Let me see.” Struggling free of his protective encasement,
Lena
peered outside. A cloud of dust flickered from blue to red thanks to the lights of the emergency vehicles. For a moment, the firefight died down. Then, out of the gaping hole emerged the familiar faces of the parolees she’d befriended—Muhammed, Corey, Jamal, Hasan, Shahid, and Nadim. When the man in front straightened, and Lena recognized
Jackson
, she could have sworn a host of angels burst into song. His thigh glistened with what was obviously matted blood, and he stumbled before a bearded man wearing a flowing robe, but he was still alive, and that was all Lena cared about—until she realized the imam held a pistol to his back and was using
Jackson
to protect his own person.

Fear twisted through her anew as the leader urged his small troop toward the idling ATVs. Oh God, if
Jackson
was stuffed into one of those vehicles, would she ever see him again?