Infidels

A Delta Force Unleashed Thriller

by

J. Robert Kennedy

From the Back Cover

FROM USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR J. ROBERT KENNEDY

ISLAM’S HOLIEST RELIC IS STOLEN.

AMERICA IS BLAMED.

CHAOS ERUPTS.

When the elite Delta Force’s Bravo Team is inserted into Yemen to rescue a kidnapped Saudi prince, they find more than they bargained for—a crate containing the Black Stone, stolen from Mecca the day before. Requesting instructions on how to proceed, they find themselves cut off and disavowed, left to survive with nothing but each other to rely upon.

With the worldwide Muslim population erupting in violence at the news of the theft by infidels, Bravo Team desperately tries to return the relic they are accused of stealing, relying on the help of friends who defy the orders of their government. Colonel Clancy, the CIA’s Dylan Kane and Chris Leroux, as well as Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer, all join forces to save America’s heroes after their country abandons them.

For should they fail, all-out war could be inevitable.

From USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy comes Infidels, a heart-pounding thrill ride sure to keep you on the edge of your seat until the very last page. Filled with action, humor, romance and heartbreak, prepare to be emotionally exhausted after finishing this provocative, controversial thriller.

About J. Robert Kennedy

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has been ranked by Amazon as the #1 Bestselling Action Adventure novelist based upon combined sales. He is the author of over twenty-five international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series of which the first installment, The Protocol, has been on the bestseller lists since its release, including occupying the number one spot for three months. He lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.

"If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J Robert Kennedy."

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Books by J. Robert Kennedy

The James Acton Thrillers

The Protocol

Brass Monkey

Broken Dove

The Templar's Relic

Flags of Sin

The Arab Fall

The Circle of Eight

The Venice Code

Pompeii's Ghosts

Amazon Burning

The Riddle

Blood Relics

Sins of the Titanic

Saint Peter's Soldiers

The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers

Rogue Operator

Containment Failure

Cold Warriors

Death to America

Black Widow

The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

Payback

Infidels

The Lazarus Moment

The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries

Depraved Difference

Tick Tock

The Redeemer

Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series

The Turned

Table of Contents

The Novel

Acknowledgements

Get 5 Free eBooks!

About the Author

Also by the Author

For Dave Camp, a loyal fan taken before his time.

Glory to (Allah) Who did take His Servant for a Journey by night from the Sacred Mosque to the Farthest Mosque, whose precincts We did bless, - in order that We might show him some of Our Signs: for He is the One Who heareth and seeth (all things).

Koran 17:1

Narrated Abu Dhar: I said, “O Allah’s Apostle! Which mosque was first built on the surface of the earth?” He said, “Al-Masjid-ul-,Haram (in Mecca).” I said, “Which was built next?” He replied “The mosque of Al-Aqsa (in Jerusalem).” I said, “What was the period of construction between the two?” He said, “Forty years.” He added, “Wherever (you may be, and) the prayer time becomes due, perform the prayer there, for the best thing is to do so (i.e. to offer the prayers in time).”

Hadith 4:585

Preface

On September 30th, 2005, the Jyllands-Posten, a Danish newspaper, published twelve cartoons, mostly of the Prophet Mohammad. They claimed it was an attempt to contribute to the debate surrounding criticism of Islam and self-censorship.

Never could they have imagined what would happen next.

The controversy may have gone mostly unnoticed if it were not for the fact a group of Danish Imams put together a 43-page dossier about the cartoons, perceived injustices and insults, and several factually incorrect allegations. They then toured the Middle East, handing copies of this dossier to anyone who would take it. It’s hardly surprising that protests began soon after.

Violent protests erupted in many Muslim dominated countries, but they weren’t limited to these nations. Protests were held in the United States, United Kingdom, Canada, Australia and many others.

In the end over 200 people were killed, including Christians specifically targeted because of their religion.

In time the protests died down, yet the violence never ended. There have been multiple attacks and attempted assassinations against those involved, and then of course there were the Paris attacks in January 2015 over another set of cartoons.

If millions protested around the world over cartoons, if hundreds died over cartoons, how many would die if something truly egregious were done that offended the Religion of Peace?

What would happen if the most holy relic in all of Islam were stolen?

And blamed on America’s most elite of soldiers.

The Delta Force.

Author's Note

What follows is a work of fiction, not commentary. The topics discussed in this novel are inflammatory, emotional and all too real. If you are easily offended by fictional characters expressing anti-Islamic views, or by fictional events portraying Islam in a negative fashion, be forewarned you will most likely be upset by what you are about to read. The views of a character are not necessarily those of the author.

Assistance Publique Hôpitaux de Paris, Paris, France

“She seems to be doing well.”

Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson nodded as he stepped on the hospital elevator with his girlfriend, Maggie Harris, the car filled to capacity. Just as the doors were about to close a man rushed up, squeezing himself inside, much to the annoyance of those already aboard.

Dawson gave him the once over, the man Middle Eastern which unfortunately in his line of work as a Delta Force operator meant he deserved a second look, profiling perhaps not politically correct, but a necessary and effective tool.

Even if he was on vacation.

He and Maggie had been dating now for over a year, and after wrapping up an off-the-books op helping out some old friends, he had invited her to join him here for a week-long vacation with the blessing of his Colonel, and Maggie’s boss, she his secretary.

Or assistant. Or whatever.

He still hadn’t figured out how to ask her the correct term for her job. He just knew ‘secretary’ couldn’t be it since he had been told in no uncertain terms years ago that the term was now apparently offensive.

Mom never seemed to have a problem being called a secretary.

Times had changed, everyone so concerned with offending everyone else, Western society had turned into a bunch of apologists, so hung up with apparent past transgressions they were willing to hand over all they had accomplished to those who were offended by it.

The doors opened on the ground floor and the elevator emptied, he guiding Maggie out with a gentle hand on the small of her back, he long having decided that if any woman he dated felt chivalry were sexist, she wasn’t for him.

Maggie didn’t mind, in fact loved it.

“She’s looking a hell of a lot better than when we found her,” he said, resuming their conversation. They had just visited Professor Laura Palmer and her husband, Professor James Acton. Both were archeology professors with a knack for getting themselves into trouble, and events just last week in Italy, France, Spain, Austria and right here in Paris had resulted in her being shot and kidnapped.

But she had been saved, and the grateful couple, who had become friends over the years—though in an odd way considering he had tried to kill them in their first encounter—had insisted on paying for his vacation. One of his best friends, Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung, who had been instrumental in saving the professor, had headed off to Spain for a week on the beach, the Actons sending their private jet to pick up Maggie.

Must be nice to be rich.

According to the dossier he had read on Professor Palmer, she was ridiculously rich, her brother leaving her hundreds of millions of dollars when he died, he having apparently sold some dotcom startup for megabucks.

Yet despite their ridiculous wealth, they were normal people, not flaunting it. He had never seen either of them dressed up, they lived in the house Acton had bought on a professor’s salary, drove a normal car and ate normal food.

And would do anything to help friends, including using the wealth at their disposal for just that.

Despite their less than auspicious introduction, in the end he had spared their lives, and over the years had made it his mission to try and make up for what had happened, the false intel they had been fed leading to too many innocent deaths.

And the two professors had repaid them in kind, helping them whenever they could.

Definitely an odd relationship.

Maggie was saying something but he had tuned her out for a moment as he watched the Middle Eastern man holding open one of the doors to the outside, ushering people through with a smile. As Maggie stepped through the door with a “Merci” his alarms went off, two other Middle Eastern men in suits standing outside.

Something slammed against the back of his head sending a searing pain through his entire body. His eyes watered and he collapsed toward the ground, his training kicking in as he tucked in his left arm, swinging his right out so he ended up on his back instead of his stomach.

“Stay down, Professor Acton!”

Acton?

Somebody screamed in the distance, the only clear sound the pounding in his ears as a foot pressed down toward him, slamming into his chest, taking his breath away.

As the pain pulsed through his body, his senses almost overwhelmed, the screams coalesced enough in his fog-filled brain to register the source.

Maggie!

“BD!”

His world rushed back.

His hand darted out and he hammered his clenched fist into the man’s nuts, causing him to scream out in pain as he began to double over, his foot lifting slightly. Dawson grabbed the shoe, twisting the man off balance and sending him tumbling to the floor then rolled, raising his right leg off the ground then dropping it hard on the man’s neck, crushing his windpipe.

He popped to his feet, catching sight of Maggie as two men held her by the arms, half dragging, half lifting her toward the open side door of a black van.

“Maggie!”

He bolted forward, his feet shoving hard against the ground as he gained speed, racing toward the first woman he was pretty sure he had ever truly loved just as they reached the van, tossing her inside and climbing in after her. The door slid shut as the van raced away, Dawson slamming his fist against the side, reaching it too late.

Sprinting after the vehicle, he spotted two motorcycle cops to his right, one talking to a group of civilians, the other just climbing off the back of his bike. He broke right and pushed the new arrival off balance before he could remove the key. Straddling the Yamaha FJR1300, he fired up the engine and gunned it into traffic before the surprised officer could react.

Threading the bike between the vehicles, he caught site of the black Mercedes van before it turned right and disappeared from sight.

A siren sounded behind him and he glanced in his side mirror to see who he assumed was the second officer now in pursuit.

And it gave him an idea.

He looked at the dash and found the switch for the lights and sirens, flicking them on then pressing the button on the handle to fire the siren.

The traffic took notice, angling out of his way as he gained on the van.

A horn blared to his right as he was about to enter an intersection, the van blasting through just after the light turned red. He looked and cursed as he gunned it hard, his front wheel popping up as the large delivery truck racing toward him locked up its brakes, missing his rear wheel by too close a margin.

But it was forgotten, the van his only concern, his siren aiding in his efforts to clear through traffic, but it also being heard by the traffic ahead of the van, it clearing out of the way of his target as well.

Damned if you do…

He had a clear line of sight now, nothing between him and the van. Gunning the motor, he rapidly closed the distance, his heart slamming into his chest as he saw two hands suddenly appear on the rear window then Maggie’s horrified face press against the glass for only a moment.

Hold on, hon!

The left lane was suddenly clear and he tilted left, roaring up beside the vehicle. The driver swerved toward him and he jerked the bike out of the way, narrowly missing a row of parked cars. Falling back slightly, he visually assessed the situation, noting the van had running boards and a luggage rack on the top.

Foot and handholds.

The van swerved away from the parked cars and Dawson rushed into the void, pushing his weight onto the handlebars as he kept the throttle steady, his feet rising off the pedals and onto the seat.

He leapt.

His right hand caught the rack and he tightened his grip, hard as the van swerved again, his motorcycle knocked off balance and sent careening into a parked car, flipping end over end before coming to rest in the back of a convertible, top down, several car alarms now screaming for attention.

Flipped onto his back, he held on, determined not to let the kidnappers get away, his shoulder protesting angrily as his entire bodyweight smacked against the side of the van.

Suddenly they turned right, physics working with him, the pressure instantly gone. He swung back, reaching up and grabbing on with his other hand then swinging onto the roof, crawling toward the front. The van was jerking from side to side now, but his feet were spread out across the roof, braced against the rack, and his hands had firm grips.

They weren’t getting rid of him that easily.

Maggie screamed.

A gunshot rang out, a hole appearing six inches from his head.

Shit!

He shoved himself forward as another shot rang out. At the front, he reached into his pocket to get his keys, a window breaker on the keychain.

And flew headfirst over the hood of the van as the driver locked up the brakes. He hit the ground, tucking into a roll, tumbling several times before coming to a stop. He took a knee, reaching for his non-existent weapon.

Hard way!

He burst to his feet as if running the hundred-meter dash at the Olympics, his eyes on the driver, when suddenly Maggie’s head was thrust between the seats.

And a gun pressed to her head.

He stopped, his hands slowly rising as he realized there was no hope.

The driver reversed then turned, disappearing down a side street as the second officer finally caught up to him, screeching to a halt, his weapon drawn.

Dropping to his knees and clasping his hands behind his neck, he burned the license plate into his memory.

And swore revenge.

Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque, Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Three days earlier

Qasim Hatina’s heart pounded in his chest as it always did on this day, but today it hammered a little harder, for he was “The First”. It was he who was personally handling the ceremonial handover of the Black Stone to the royal representative, the Governor of Mecca, Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud. It was a rare event and only occurred if a problem was found during the semi-annual ceremony known as “the cleaning of the Kaaba”. Last week the Prince himself had noticed a crack in the support structure for the Black Stone and it was now to be repaired in preparation for Ramadan.

He had been witness to the cleansing ritual dozens of times in his years as one of the Ulama, the most senior of clerics responsible for interpreting the Koran and the hadiths, but today he was The First at this rare ceremony.

A true honor.

And a true terror.

Neither he nor Prince Khalid touched the relic, in fact, no one actually touched it, metal poles slid into two slots at the base of the stand containing the stone and its silver frame. He still remembered as a young man how he had felt when the curtains that hung around the Kaaba were pulled back to reveal the stone. The illusion the massive cuboid building the faithful marched around seven times at the Hajj was shattered in one moment, the revealing of the revered stone almost anticlimactic, almost a disappointment in fact, he expecting something much more elaborate.

But the disappointment had done nothing to shake his faith, and he had pledged his life to Islam and the teachings of the Prophet Mohammed, and would continue to do so until his death, whenever that might be.

He bowed to Prince Khalid as the men transferring the Black Stone to the military transport truck completed their task. The ceremonial guard snapped to attention, their rifles smacking against their shoulders, their faces all etched with the pride and humility they all must have felt at the event they were participating in.

But he doubted they felt his fear.

He simply wanted the ritual over with so he could stop worrying about something going wrong. Once the truck left the mosque, it was no longer his responsibility until its return in seven days. During this time the Black Stone would be under the protection of the Royal Family, the House of Saud taking its responsibility as the protector of the most holy relics and sites of Islam seriously. It was the only time the Black Stone wasn’t under the protection of the clerics of his tribe, the Bani Shayba.

And outside of the secure walls of the shrine.

A shout rang out across the massive expanse of the shrine’s open Mataf area. The ceremonial guard didn’t flinch but Qasim did, nearly jumping out of his skin as Prince Khalid casually looked in the direction of the outburst.

Qasim’s jaw dropped.

Dozens of armed, hooded men streamed into the open-air mosque, opening fire just as the Prince climbed into his limousine. The ceremonial guard, slow to react, as this was unprecedented, began to unsling their weapons, but too late, the first of them cut down by the opening volleys. Qasim dropped to the ground, scurrying toward the only structure that might provide cover, the fairly imposing structure of the Kaaba, with its massive black curtained façade, the only shelter available in the wide expanse witness to hundreds of millions of feet over the centuries.

He dove into the gap created by the removal of the Black Stone, hitting the ground, his old bones and joints protesting with stabbing pains, his breath now gasps as he tried to battle through the agony. As gunfire and screams continued outside the walls, his pain abated and he found himself irresistibly drawn toward the lone shaft of sunlight. Crawling gingerly toward the gap, he peered out from the darkness to see the bodies of the ceremonial guard lying on the ground, their blood staining this sacred place, this egregious sin unforgiveable. The gall, the arrogance, of attacking a holy site filled him with a rage that emboldened him foolishly.

He pushed himself through the opening, shouting curses at the top of his lungs as he looked for those responsible. Swinging toward the gunfire, now sporadic, he froze, a lump forming in his throat as a single man walked briskly toward him, a handgun raised, pointed directly at his head.

“You’re either brave or a fool!” shouted the man as the other attackers swarmed over the area, putting bullets in those not yet dead but merely wounded.

“What you are doing is blasphemy! This is sacred ground, blessed by the Prophet himself, peace be upon him! To shed blood here of all places, is the most egregious sin one can commit.”

The man lowered the weapon, still pointing it at him, but in a little less imposing way. “What I am about to do is far more so.” He turned his head toward his men. “Now!”

Qasim’s jaw dropped as the men stripped out of their black coverings, revealing ceremonial guard uniforms. Inside of a minute they had been transformed, now manning the vehicles of the small security convoy that would take the Prince and his holy charge out of the shrine.

And to his horror, they all seemed to be speaking English.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper now, the shock simply too great. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because Islam has worshipped at a blasphemous idol for too long. It is time for the true Islam to emerge from the yoke of oppression in all its forms, whether that be praying to this piece of stone, or allowing ourselves to be subjugated by the infidel. Today we fulfill the will of Allah as written in the Koran. Today we take the first step in establishing the Global Caliphate, where those who oppose us will either convert, or die.”

“You’re mad!”

The man smiled, raising his weapon once again.

“Perhaps. But aren’t most great men?”

The trigger squeezed, the flash from the barrel causing Qasim to gasp as his world suddenly went dark, his last thought a desperate prayer for forgiveness in failing in his duty to protect the holiest of relics.

And his fear of no longer being worthy of Paradise.

Sana’a, Yemen

“This is a shit assignment.”

“That’s what happens when you sleep with the boss’ daughter. I hope it was worth it.”

Josh Pullman grinned at his cameraman, Bill O’Toole. “Sooo worth it.”

Bill bent over and picked up a small rock. “Yeah, well next time just keep in mind your tallywacker”—he whipped the rock at Josh’s crotch—“ended up dragging me along with you to this godforsaken country and I didn’t get any of the good memories to go along with it.”

Josh rubbed his stinging leg, the rock thankfully missing the boys. “You had your chance with her friend.”

Bill snapped the camera case shut, lifting it off the dusty table. “Riight, the Program Director’s daughter. Brilliant. You do remember that I’m a happily married man?” He pointed at Josh’s crotch as he swung the camera equipment into the back of their van. “You really need to start thinking with the right head.”

Josh reached for his crotch to give it a Michael Jackson when he thought better of it, the crowd of curious onlookers devoutly Muslim and most likely to frown upon any genital grabbing. “I’m young, dumb and full of—”

“Jesus!”

Josh spun to look at what had shocked Bill, jumping back as four masked men poured out of the back of a van, rushing toward them with AK-47s at the ready, their faces covered with balaclavas. Josh shoved off with his left foot, trying to put their own van between them and the approaching men as Bill stood frozen.

“Run!” he shouted at his friend, reaching out to grab him, trying to urge him on. Recognition of their situation finally appeared in Bill’s face as his jaw snapped shut and he turned to rush after Josh. Suddenly his body whipped around as a shot rang out. Josh skidded to a halt, turning back toward his friend, his feet slipping out from under him on the gravel. His knees hit the ground, sliding on the stone and packed dirt and he winced as he skinned one of them, his hands painfully slamming into the shards of rock.

Bill screamed in pain as the four men rushed into view, two with their weapons trained on Bill, the other two swinging wide, their aim coming to rest on Josh as he pushed himself to his feet.

“You are Josh Pullman?” demanded one of the men, walking swiftly toward him, AK-47 raised high and at Josh’s head.

Josh nodded, his eyes flitting between the man and his moaning friend, blood oozing out from between his fingers as he clasped his shoulder.

“You will come with us.”

Josh felt bile fill his mouth as he realized what was happening. All through the Middle East journalists had been taken hostage by extremists, paraded around on camera and months or years later, beheaded for the world to see.

There was no way he was going to have his parents see him die that way.

He shook his head. “No goddamned way.”

“Blasphemer!” The man turned the butt of the assault rifle around and slammed it into Josh’s stomach. As he doubled over in pain, collapsing to his knees, he realized at that moment this was the first time in his life he had ever been hit. By anything. He had never been in a fight, whether it was in a bar or on the playground as a kid.

It felt far worse than he could have ever imagined.

Two of their assailants grabbed him by the arms, hoisting him to his feet as the apparent leader walked over to Bill who lay on the ground, terror in his eyes.

“We don’t need you.”

Josh screamed as two bullets fired into Bill’s chest.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

CIA Senior Analyst Chris Leroux wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the beads forming on his forehead. He was definitely coming down with something, and from the hint of gray he had seen in his face a few moments ago in the bathroom, it was probably the flu.

The last thing I need.

His girlfriend, CIA Agent Sherrie White had left yesterday on a protection detail, and if his understanding of the flu was correct, she might be coming down with it at any time. And an agent had to be 100% at all times when on an op.

Which had him worried.

He always worried about her when she was in the field. Most of her work was fairly routine at the moment as she gained experience and was trained in other languages, something she seemed to have a knack for. Right now she was learning Russian, which also had him worried. He didn’t trust the Russians as far as he could throw one of them, and if the CIA was teaching her Russian it was for one reason.

To work in Russia.

Or Soviet Union 2.0 as he had come to think of it.

Today he was in a briefing room with a dozen section heads like himself, all of them having received an emergency summons only minutes before. It wouldn’t surprise him if the Russians were doing something stupid again—but of course denying it—their propaganda machine now so ridiculous they actually believed their own message.

If only the Russian people knew what was really going on.

Then again, the Russian mindset was completely different from the Western one, despite them thinking they were European. They weren’t, never were, never would be. Which was one of the big mistakes inexperienced analysts made—trying to attribute Western styles of thinking to Russian actions.

You’re better off thinking Chinese. Much closer.

Everyone rose, Leroux a little slower, as the National Clandestine Services Chief, Leif Morrison, entered the room.

“As you were,” he said, taking a seat at the head of the table, inserting a memory stick into a slot in front of him. The screen at the far end of the room activated and the first of a slide deck appeared with the CIA logo. “I’ll be brief as time is of the essence. Moments ago we began to receive reports that Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud was kidnapped in Mecca, his entire security detail killed. This man is fifth in line to the throne, and about the only one who is actually healthy enough to still be alive when the King dies—so in other words, he’s important. The White House has reached out to the Saudis but they’re denying it, of course.”

Morrison motioned toward the screen, giving a quick rundown on what was known, which was little. Leroux watched, his eyes glazing over slightly as his general malaise took a firmer hold. Part of his mind continued to listen to his boss, but another part was trying to figure out what was nagging at him, for there was something there that he couldn’t quite put a finger on, something important, and if he were feeling better, he’d probably have already figured out.

Perhaps analysts need to be 100% too.

Then it clicked.

“Sir, you said this happened today?”

Leroux flushed as he realized he had just cut Morrison off in mid-sentence. The room turned, their chairs swiveling away from the screen and toward the youngest section head in the room.

“Yes.” Morrison’s reply was curt but not annoyed, Leroux thankful the man was one of his biggest proponents. “What’ve you got?”

Leroux leaned forward, suddenly queasy. “Well, in the morning brief there was a mention that the Governor of Mecca would be attending a ritual at the Kaaba. Apparently the Black Stone was to be taken for repairs.”

Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall seeing that.”

Leroux shrugged. “It was buried. Maybe it wasn’t in the briefs; I have my own crawlers looking for news items.”

“Your point?”

“Well, sir, if he was kidnapped today, then he might have been kidnapped at this ritual.”

Morrison leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on the tips. “You don’t think…” His voice drifted off as the room realized the implication.

“Could the Black Stone have been stolen?”

“Jesus,” muttered Donovan Eppes. “Who would dare do that?”

Eppes’ ex-girlfriend and number one hater, Cindy Fowler, leaned forward. “Surely Muslims wouldn’t, would they?”

Eppes seemed to forget their ongoing feud. “No, but I could see Mossad doing it.”

“If it was stolen, they’ll find some way to blame us.”

The room fell silent, Fowler turning to Eppes. “If they do, every Muslim in the world will declare war on us.”

Leroux felt his chest tighten at the thought.

“God help us all.”

Saudi Arabia, near Yemini border

Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud, literally translated as Khalid, son of Abdullah of the House of Saud, stepped down from the transport truck he had been travelling in for hours, tired and weary. He had been given the option of travelling in comfort in the rear of his own limousine, but he hadn’t wanted to let the Black Stone out of his sight.

He stretched, hard, pushing his old joints to the limit with a groan, something one would never see a British Royal do in public, but the Saudi monarchy was an entirely different beast—decorum wasn’t the name of the game, power and obedience were.

His had been a life of privilege, incredible privilege. His family was large, direct descendants of the first king numbering well into the hundreds, with distant claims in the thousands, and they controlled the country with an iron fist, their loyalty bought and paid for with oil.

And as fifth in line to the throne, he was beyond rich. He had read intelligence reports that the CIA estimated his family’s worth at over fourteen trillion dollars. Having seen the official numbers himself, he had to guess that the number was a little low. It was why people like him could buy yachts and airliners worth hundreds of millions of dollars without blinking.

It was why he always drove in comfort.

Except today.

“Your Royal Highness.”

Prince Khalid turned to the voice as Abu Tahir al-Qarmati approached him, his smile broad, his arms open wide. Khalid smiled as they hugged and kissed. “It is good to see you, my friend.”

“I am pleased you are safe. Our men are well-trained however when bullets fly, sometimes the innocent are killed.”

“Fortunately I was in my car when the first shot was fired.” He watched as the men, still in the ceremonial guards uniforms he had provided, unloaded the holy relic. “I fear if they had known it was I who had betrayed them, my guard would have killed me without hesitation.”

Al Tahir laughed. “From what I understand, they barely did any shooting, so perhaps even then you would have been safe.” He patted one of the men on the back. “I can’t imagine things having gone any better.”

Khalid rotated his shoulder, wincing slightly.

“What is wrong?”

Khalid shook his head. “Nothing. One of your men pulled me out of the car a little roughly, but it is no matter.”

Al Tahir’s face flushed with anger as he turned toward his men. “Which one of you hurt His Royal Highness?”

Eyes all dropped to the ground, one man glancing nervously at another who was trembling.

“Step forward, now!”

The man, visibly shaking now, took a hesitant step forward.

“Explain yourself!”

“I-I didn’t mean to hurt His Royal Highness. I merely wanted it to look real in case anyone was watching. If-if I was too gentle, p-people may have become suspicious.”

Al Tahir nodded slowly, looking at Khalid. “He’s right, of course.”

“Indeed.”

Al Tahir unholstered his handgun and put two bullets in the man’s chest, the look of shock on his face as he grabbed at his wounds while collapsing to the ground matched by no one—none dared show surprise at Al Tahir’s ruthlessness. Khalid had been dealing with the man for several years now and had found him to be a violent, temperamental tyrant who never accepted failure.

He was also an incredibly effective leader, his men loyal to a fault, his charisma when he spoke of their cause infectious, even Khalid swayed to his way of thinking after hearing him speak only once.

For his analysis of the Koran and the hadiths could have only one logical interpretation, and once their plan had been completed, Islam would be returned to the true path.

“Back to work!”

The men all jumped then rushed back to what they were doing, those who hadn’t been busy quickly making themselves look so. Al Tahir turned to Khalid.

“I apologize for my man’s actions. I will arrange for your physician to be brought here at once.”

“It’s not necessary. Besides, he’s served me faithfully over the years and I’d hate to have to kill him just for knowing what we are involved in.”

Al Tahir smiled. “Soon it will be of no matter. Once our task is complete, he will have no choice but to believe, and after a few years have passed, all Muslims everywhere will wonder why they ever followed such a blasphemous practice.”

They entered a large Bedouin tent, tea steeping in a fire at the entrance. A servant leapt forward with a bowl of rose water, Khalid washing his hands and drying them with the provided towel. He lay down on a thick carpet, pillows abundant, and made himself comfortable as tea was brought. He looked at Al Tahir, sitting across from him.

“Our message must be seen by the world. Have you secured the reporter yet?”

Al Tahir nodded. “He will be here tomorrow.”

“Excellent. The sooner this task is done the better. Though I have faith we are doing the Prophet’s work, peace be upon him, I fear Satan may interfere with our actions.”

Al Tahir nodded.

“Or the Great Satan.”

Khalid smiled.

“With our men speaking English, suspicion will be directed at them. By the time they know what’s going on, it will be too late.”

Mabahith General Investigation Directorate

Ministry of the Interior, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

“This is unbelievable! Unacceptable!”

Colonel Faisal bin Nayef watched as his General ranted from behind his desk, picking up a stapler and hurling it into the corner, it smashing against the marble wall and clattering to the floor, joining several other objects that had been within his reach during his tirade.

Suddenly the General stopped, glaring at the corner for a moment, then at Nayef. “At ease.”

Nayef spread his legs slightly, clasping his hands behind his back, thankful the display was complete. Displays like this were tiring, predictable and all too expected when dealing with the Saud family. Whenever anything bad happened to one of them there was the requisite anger at the injustice or crocodile tears at the loss. It reminded him of when Kim Jong-il had died. Those who didn’t cry “hard enough” were taken away and beaten, some killed.

The level of grief displayed publicly became a matter of survival for those unfortunate souls.

It wasn’t quite so bad here.

Yet.

He was a distant cousin in the entire scheme of things so he had many perks living in Saudi Arabia, but his relationship was so tenuous, he didn’t have the lavish lifestyle the truly direct descendants enjoyed.

Like the man in front of him.

“What is the latest?”

Nayef bowed slightly. “General, survivors have confirmed that His Royal Highness was taken by force by a group of men who stormed the Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque, killing the ceremonial guard and several of the Ulama. They then removed their clothing, revealing uniforms of the ceremonial guard underneath. They took the transport vehicle with the Black Stone and the other escort vehicles, driving out of the city unchallenged.”

The general shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve heard the story half a dozen times already and I still can’t believe it. Are there any leads on who did this?”

Nayef hesitated for a moment, the latest piece of reported intel so incredible, he felt the General would appreciate the dramatic pause.

The man leaned forward expectantly.

“One of the survivors reported that the men who kidnapped His Royal Highness and stole the Black Stone…”

“Yes?”

“…were speaking English.”

Saudi Arabia, near the Yemini border

“Put these on, quickly!”

Josh Pullman finished toweling himself off, the unexpected bath he had been provided a shock—a welcome one, though still a shock. He had vomited all over himself the day before when he had been hauled away, his friend and colleague, Bill O’Toole, left to die in the street. He was ashamed that it wasn’t the sight of his friend that had caused him to vomit, but that of the orange jumpsuit they had handed him at their first stop.

He had watched the videos that most Americans hadn’t, those of his fellow journalists and aid workers being beheaded by barbarians, those of Christians lined up on a beach and massacred, all because they refused to convert to the only religion on the planet that demanded all who left it die.

There were many lively discussions among himself and his colleagues, especially when the liquor started to flow in the hotel room—finding a bar in a devoutly Islamic country difficult at the best of times, impossible when the zealots were running around with canes and guns, whipping and killing anyone who violated their strict interpretation of Islam.

But someone always managed to sneak a bottle or two in with the camera equipment.

About the only time they bit their tongue was when an Al Jazeera reporter was in the room, though sometimes they were the most outspoken, a refreshingly unexpected turn when it did happen.

The consensus among his European colleagues was that Europe was already lost to the Muslims, their birth rate more than double the average and left-leaning socialist governments still bringing in hundreds of thousands more in a misguided effort to be politically correct.

“North America is the last hope of Western civilization,” Bill had said just two nights before.

“And Australia.”

“True. We have to kill any notion of multiculturalism. The old melting pot philosophy is the way to go. You come to our country, you become American. None of this covering your face bullshit, trying to get bacon banned at your favorite breakfast place or segregated prayer rooms in our public schools. You come to America, be American.”

“Or get the hell out.”

There had been a round of cheers at his statement. Unlike most Americans, he and his fellow reporters had seen firsthand the horrors this religion was capable of, horrors unheard of from Christianity in hundreds of years. Josh and Bill had a good laugh when they heard the tired example of the Crusades trotted out to excuse the modern horrors of Islam. Didn’t they realize that the cause of the first Crusade was the Muslim slaughter of three thousand Christian pilgrims in Jerusalem? Europe didn’t send thousands of knights to the Holy Land on a whim, they sent them to protect fellow Christians from the marauding hordes that were massacring innocent people on peaceful pilgrimages to the Holy Sepulcher.

In other words, they slaughtered thousands of Christians, then blamed Christianity for reacting, and continued to blame them for a thousand years.

And the lie had been repeated so often, even world leaders now believed it, and a left-wing dominated press rarely challenged its poster boys when they spoke about politically correct topics.

It was politically correct to hate America, to hate Christianity, to hate those of European descent who were responsible for everything from the oppression of Muslims and other minorities to slavery and poverty.

There of course was no mention of the fact slavery had existed for millennia, long before Christianity had even been heard of, long before the kingdoms of Europe were more than rampaging barbarians, or that it was the Europeans who put an end to it and it was non-Christian cultures and countries that were continuing the practice to this day.

It frustrated him, and as a reporter he had always tried to sneak in the little tidbits that the honchos back home frowned upon, but it had proven popular, so as long as he didn’t push too hard, they kept him on the air.

And it made him wonder if that was why he had been taken, the conservative reporter about to be beheaded by the very madmen he had condemned time and time again for this very action.

I guess it would be a fitting end.

He grunted.

And it would sort of prove my point.

But what faced him now was unexpected.

A set of business-casual clothes were sitting on a cot, his guard pointing to them. “Get yourself ready quickly. His Royal Highness is waiting.”

His Royal Highness?

His Arabic was pretty good, actually, damned good, his mother Lebanese, it spoken around his house for most of his youth, especially at family gatherings. He didn’t begrudge her this indulgence, though he now held the view she should have spoken English more to integrate into her new country.

Yet it had given him a qualification few Americans had—he was a red-blooded American who fiercely loved his country and spoke the language of its greatest threat.

Which put him in demand as a journalist.

And was also a handy tool when dealing with Arabs who simply assumed he didn’t speak their language.

Like those he was dealing with here.

He had heard enough mutterings to know something big was going on and that there was a VIP awaiting their arrival, but he would never have guessed royalty.

“His Royal Highness? Who?”

“No questions!”

He nodded, the barked order and glaring eyes cleaving any courage he might have had from his stomach, the pit left behind threatening the onset of another bout of dry heaves, his last meal long gone.

As he dressed, he kept a wary eye on the guard, AK-47 slung across his back, and the bright orange jumpsuit sitting in a pile on the floor by the bath, and couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be wearing it once again when these madmen were finished with him.

For he had zero doubt he would never be allowed to live.

“Ready?”

The man sounded impatient. He nodded, running his hands through his curly brown hair, wishing he had some styling products to tame what was likely an unruly mane.

As he was led from the tent he had been kept in since his arrival, he was nearly blinded by the blazing early afternoon sun, its heat quickly baking him dry in his Western-style clothes, sweat beginning to trickle down his back as he was led into a large, impressive Bedouin style tent. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, it was everything he could do not to gasp.

In the center of the tent was a perfect replica of the Black Stone he had only seen pictures of, non-Muslims forbidden from seeing it in person. And beside it stood a man in impressive traditional Arab garb, his robes flowing, his beard trimmed and his bearing regal, his chin elevated a touch, a slight curl to his upper lip as if he were above anyone else in the room.

“Mr. Pullman, I am Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud, Governor of Mecca, fifth in line to the throne, and your host.”

Host. Incredible.

Josh bowed slightly. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

Prince Khalid motioned toward a camera and two chairs, one of his men operating the equipment, Josh’s gut flipping for a moment as he pictured Bill behind the camera, a sight he had become accustomed to over the five years they had been together.

Inseparable. Like brothers.

Khalid sat in one of the chairs and Josh took his seat next to him, a microphone handed to him.

“Umm, may I ask what I’m doing here?”

“You may. You are here to report on a press conference.”

Josh refrained from stating the obvious. With only one reporter? “And the subject matter?”

“Immaterial to you. You are to introduce yourself, then me, just like any normal press conference, then I will make my address to the world. When I am finished speaking, I will walk off camera and you will close out the broadcast.”

“And who will be seeing this?”

“The world.”

“Are we live?”

The Prince looked at another man who was manning some computer equipment, the droning sound he had been hearing since he arrived explained—diesel generator. The man nodded. “We are livestreaming to the Internet, all major Arabic networks have agreed to broadcast us because it is you, your highness, and I am quite certain the major Western networks will quickly pick up the feed as I have notified them of this most momentous broadcast.”

“Excellent.”

Josh pursed his lips, reporter mode kicking in, the danger he was in momentarily forgotten. “Is this to be in English or Arabic?”

“Arabic. This is a message to my fellow Muslims and it is of utmost importance that they understand what is being said.”

“Then why am I here? I’m American.”

“You are here because you are recognized around the world as a serious journalist, and I can trust that you will not, shall we say, overreact, to what I’m about to say. You are also one of the few who appears to be able to converse comfortably in Arabic.”

Secret’s out.

“So I should do my part in Arabic?”

“Yes.”

“We’re ready, sire.”

“Wait, where are we?” asked Josh.

“Saudi Arabia of course.”

Not much better than Yemen.

Prince Khalid nodded and the cameraman counted down from five, the last three all fingers as a crowd gathered behind the camera, a roughshod group of thick beards and a special kind of crazy behind the eyes.

He felt everyone was staring at him, but it took him a moment to realize they weren’t.

They were staring at the replica of the Black Stone sitting to their right, plainly in camera view, the monitor showing the broadcast shot suggesting a wide angle was currently being used.

He got his cue.

“Good evening, this is Josh Pullman. We’re broadcasting today from Saudi Arabia with this breaking news story. With me today is His Royal Highness, Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud, Governor of Mecca and fifth in line to the throne of this oil rich country. His Royal Highness has a prepared statement.” He turned to his “host”. “Your Highness?”

Prince Khalid nodded, a slight smile on his face, it clear this man was perfectly comfortable in front of the camera. “My fellow Muslims, I bring you an important message today, one that will shock most of you, but it is important that you listen to my words before passing judgment upon me or my actions. The Prophet, peace be upon him, was clear in his teachings. Is it not written, ‘God does not forgive idolatry, but He forgives lesser offenses for whomever He wills. Anyone who sets up idols beside God, has forged a horrendous offense.’?” Khalid pointed toward the Black Stone beside him. “This, my brothers and sisters, is an idol. A false idol. The prophet himself, peace be upon him, when he arrived in Mecca, found three hundred and sixty idols, all worshipped by pagans. He himself even admitted to worshipping these same idols before he received the blessed words of Allah himself through his messenger, Gabriel, and once he had been enlightened, he destroyed all but one of these idols.” Khalid leaned forward. “The question is why?”

Josh listened in fascination, his eyes drifting between the monitor, the Prince, and the replica. The words the Prince was speaking, if spoken by anyone else, would probably lead to immediate death, the very idea of calling the most holiest of Islamic relics a false idol shocking, something he never would have imagined hearing in his lifetime from a devout Muslim.

Is he a devout Muslim?

He had to admit he was making an assumption, and as the words continued to pour from the man’s mouth, he started to have his doubts.

Surely no Muslim would say these things?

Unless they had a death wish.

“What many don’t realize is that before the word of God spread throughout our lands, many worshipped pagan gods, and goddesses, one of whom was named Al’Lat. And her symbol?” He pointed to the stone. “This, this shattered rock, broken apart over the ages by those who knew the truth, mended together by those misled by their leaders, those who had missed the test the great Prophet, peace be upon him, had left for us to discover ourselves. He destroyed all of the three hundred and sixty idols being falsely worshipped, but one. Why?” Khalid leaned back in his chair. “For that we must look at history. We know the word of Allah is perfect, there can be no mistakes. And we know the Koran is the word of Allah, as dictated to the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him. Therefore the Koran can contain no mistakes.” Khalid paused, raising his finger at the camera, jabbing the air with each syllable. “Then why is there a mistake?”

Josh noted the shifting of feet beyond the camera, it clear the men were uncomfortable with what was being said. Yet surely they had known what this was all about before they signed on for whatever this was? He looked at the stone, its silver casing reminding him of something he couldn’t put his finger on.

“The mistake is clear. Is it not written that the great Al-Masjid-ul-Haram mosque in Mecca was built forty years before Al-Masjid-ul-Aqs-a in Jerusalem? This is in the Hadiths, the Prophet’s questions, peace be upon him, answered by Allah’s Apostle himself. But we know from history that the great temple in Jerusalem was built by Solomon around 950 BC, to use the infidel’s own calendar. History has recorded it as such, and it is fact. So if the Sacred Mosque in Mecca was built forty years before, and we know it is written in the blessed book that it was built by Abraham himself, then that would mean Abraham would have to have been alive a mere three thousand years ago.” Khalid again jabbed his finger at the camera. “And we all know he lived—and died!—over four thousand years ago.”

Khalid paused, as if to let his words sink in, Josh noting a few of the men watching appeared shocked at the words, a few scared, a few angry.

You better make your point soon, old man, or you’re going to lose your audience.

Khalid suddenly clapped his hands together, spreading them apart quickly as if in a gesture of conciliation. “But we know Allah is perfect, and the Koran is the word of Allah, therefore it too is perfect, so how can we explain this?” He rose, stepping over to the stone and placing his hand on the silver form encasing the shattered fragments. “Since Allah makes no mistakes, then this mistake must be intentional. And if it were intentional, then it had a purpose, and I believe I know that purpose. It is really quite simple. We worship this stone because we believed it was handed down to us by Abraham himself, but even Abraham was just a man, and men are not to be worshipped lest they themselves become idols. And we shouldn’t worship something just because it is associated with one great man. But we have excused this one transgression in our beliefs because it has been written that we should.

“But I tell you this, the Koran is wrong; it has an intentional mistake meant to test our faith, and for far too long we have failed, all of us have failed by missing this puzzle introduced by Allah himself. All of us, all one point six billion of us, have worshipped this rock because we did not recognize the test given to us by Allah himself. And look what has happened. The infidel has flourished, he kills us in our homelands, the Jews are in our midst, and the Global Caliphate demanded of us by the Koran has failed to materialize.

“Yet it is not too late. For today I will save us all, save Islam from itself, return us all to the right path, and once we stop praying to this false idol, and pray instead to Allah and his prophets, peace and blessings be upon them, we will rise up and shake off the yoke of our oppressors and bring about the Global Caliphate once and for all!”

Gunfire erupted from outside the tent, the Prince spinning toward the sound, the men behind the camera hesitating for a moment before rushing out to see what was happening. Two men entered, grabbing the Prince, ushering him away as the cameraman joined them, Josh suddenly finding himself alone as the automatic weapons fire intensified, shouts and screams drifting through the thin cloth walls of the tent.

He looked at the camera, wondering if he was still on the air, and decided to take the chance.

“If anyone is seeing this, tell my mom and dad that I love them, and my little sister too. And Connie, I’m really sorry about Bill. He was a good friend and he loved you very much. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.” He sucked in a deep breath. “This is probably my final broadcast. I hope somebody somewhere watched it. This is Josh Pullman, signing off.”

He tossed the microphone to the ground and rushed to the back of the tent, pulling aside the rugs and prying up the side, the harsh daylight pouring in. Poking his head out, he saw no one. He pushed his head through, then his shoulders, and as he wiggled his way through the opening he began to think he might just make it out of this alive.

When suddenly somebody grabbed his foot, yanking him back inside.

And as his fingers dragged through the sand, he suddenly realized what the silver frame reminded him of.

And laughed.

Saudi Arabia, near Yemini border

Abu Tahir al-Qarmati slammed his fist into the passenger seat in front of him, startling his driver for a moment. He needed an outlet for his rage, the sight outside the window unbelievable. Bodies were strewn about, blood staining the desert sands, the winds already beginning to erase the memory of what happened only hours before.

Betrayal.

That was the only explanation. No one had known the Prince was here with the Black Stone. Only those among the New Qarmatian Order, an organization he himself had founded ten years before, knew of their plans, and even within the Order there were few.

Secrecy had been paramount if they were to succeed like the original Qarmatians had. In 930 AD the great Abu-Tahir Al-Jannabi, the man who he had taken the name of when he began down his path to enlightenment, had led a revolt against the ruling Abbasid Caliphate, sacking Mecca, desecrating the Zamzam Well and in the ultimate statement, stealing the blasphemous Black Stone itself.

An act he had orchestrated a repeat of yesterday.

But now his plan had been thwarted.

He had grabbed a transport as soon as he had heard the gunfire, he, like much of the world, watching the broadcast live. He had never felt prouder as their message was revealed to the faithful and infidel alike, but had been crushed, then furious, when the broadcast was interrupted, their final purpose halted.

And to add insult to injury, the Saudi government had immediately claimed the broadcast was faked, a lookalike used, then immediately issued a statement in Prince Khalid’s name stating he was alive and well and in Riyadh.

He had thrown his chair across the room.

The car skidded to a halt and he stepped out, not waiting for his driver to open the door. One of his men rushed up to him but he held up a hand, cutting him off before he could speak a word. Marching into the tent he dropped to his knees at the sight of his friend’s body, struck down only feet away from the now knocked over camera, a large pool of blood staining the carpets where his head should be.

The barbarians!

A roar escaped from deep within, filling the tent with his rage and despair as he tossed his head back, his eyes wide with hatred staring at the flowing silks overhead.

Then there was silence, the few men inside saying nothing lest they feel his wrath, one which was famous in its brutality.

Al-Qarmati rose then looked around for the Black Stone, frowning. “Where is it?”

“They’ve taken it, sir.”

He looked at the man brave enough to have replied. “Who is ‘they’?”

“They left one survivor. He said it was Houthi rebels from Yemen.”

Houthi!

They were always interfering, conducting raids within his country then fleeing across the border where they couldn’t be pursued, and his cowardly, traitorous government would do nothing, instead pleading to the Americans to take action on their behalf.

Which the Great Satan was more than willing to do.

“Where is this survivor?”

He was led outside to one of the relief vehicles that had been dispatched from a nearby camp when the attack had begun. They had arrived too late, and it wasn’t their fault—no one could have made it here on time—but he needed someone to blame.

“This is him.”

Al-Qarmati looked at the weary man who struggled to his feet, his badly beaten face a clear indication he hadn’t escaped the attack unscathed.

“And why did they leave you of all people alive?”

The man hesitated a moment, fear in his wide eyes, before delivering his shaky reply. “I w-was the last alive.”

“You didn’t die for your cause?”

His eyes widened further as his head began to shake rapidly back and forth. “No, sir! I fought back until I ran out of ammunition, then attacked with my bare hands but there were too many of them!” His chin dropped to his chest as his shoulders slumped. “But I still failed you.”

Al-Qarmati nodded, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Yes you did, but you fought hard, and with that you have honored Allah and the prophet, peace be upon him.” He squeezed the man’s shoulder. “You have earned your place in paradise.”

Al-Qarmati emptied his Beretta into the man’s chest, his grip on his shoulder tightening as he held him in place. His magazine emptied, he released his hold, the body crumpling to the ground.

He strode toward his vehicle, ignoring those around him.

Now to find out where they went.

He climbed into the back seat, his driver closing the door.

And kill them all.

1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta HQ, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

A.k.a. "The Unit"

“We need your help.”

Colonel Thomas Clancy leaned back in his chair, his unlit cigar between his fingers, tapping on his desk as he listened on the phone to Colonel Faisal bin Nayef of Saudi Arabia’s secret police, the Mabahith General Investigation Directorate. They had met on one occasion several years ago at a Pentagon briefing on the Syrian civil war, and had actually hit it off, their shared love of a good cigar enough to keep a rather dull evening entertaining.

He had also proved invaluable on several occasions with intel on the region.

But this was the first time the man had ever asked for help, and he felt the proverbial other shoe dropping.

“How?”

“Just so we’re clear, we’re not having this conversation. I’ll deny I ever said any of what I’m about to say, understood.”

Clancy pursed his lips, tilting forward in his chair. “Understood.”

“Prince Khalid has been kidnapped.”

Clancy suppressed a laugh.

Tell me something I don’t know.

The Saudi assertion that the video was a fake was absurd, and the video they trotted out of a happy Prince Khalid on vacation with his family, waving at a camera, had already been shown to be weeks old, though the state press in the Middle East was keeping that under wraps.

But it’s almost impossible to stuff a gag in the great mouth that is the Internet.

“We’re aware of that,” he replied.

Nayef chuckled. “Of course you are. My government’s attempts to hide the fact the broadcast was genuine have been ineffectual at best. To admit that not only has a crown prince betrayed his religion and his country, but to also admit they have no idea where he is, is simply something they have no contingency plan for.”

“The end of the broadcast seemed to suggest an attack of some sort. Was that your forces?”

“No, I can assure you if we had mounted an attack, we would have succeeded.” A sigh from the other end caused a momentary burst of static. “I’m afraid it was Houthi rebels crossing the border from Yemen once again.”

“They’ve been quite the annoyance as of late.”

Yemen had been a basket case for quite some time with the collapse of their government just recently occurring, supported by many groups, the most important of which were the Houthi rebels. They opposed the Saudi government, mostly for being an ally of the United States, and for its control over Islam’s holy sites, conducting regular raids across the border.

His own men had been in Yemen on countless occasions, he the commanding officer of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta, commonly known as Delta Force. With over one thousand men and women under his command, his teams were called upon when the best of the best were needed, where no credit would be due.

Including on American soil.

They were the only military unit in existence with permission to carry out operations on American soil, the President having the power to suspend Posse Comitatus and activate Delta when the need became necessary.

As it had just recently.

The several hundred highly trained operators he had under his command were just the latest generation of the small force created in 1977 by Colonel Charles Beckwith as an answer to the growing threat of terrorism around the world. And though Operation Eagle Claw—their inaugural operation during the Iran Hostage Crisis—had been disastrous, they had served with honor and distinction since, successfully executing hundreds of missions.

And now he had a sneaking suspicion he was about to be asked to put his men into harm’s way once again. His men had taken on Houthi rebels and others of their ilk across the world. They were a nasty bunch that you couldn’t underestimate, though his men had yet to be bested by them.

For him the ultimate question was whether or not the Yeminis had just been lucky, or if they knew what they were hitting. It was a question he wouldn’t get a reliable answer to.

“An annoyance is putting it mildly,” said Nayef. “Despite your drone attacks on their camps, they still seem to swarm like cockroaches.”

Clancy jammed his cigar back in his mouth, desperate to light it, his promise to his wife to give up the delicious habit the most difficult promise he had ever made.

And I promised to be nice to her sister.

“What do you need from me?”

“We need you to find Prince Khalid.”

“That might be possible. And if we do?”

“Rescue him.”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Chris Leroux chewed on his umpteenth Breath Savers, trying to rid himself of the taste and smell of his second bout of vomiting today. He had isolated himself in his office with the hopes of going home after this final briefing of the day, where he’d find an empty apartment, Sherrie on her op.

It was times like these he wished he lived closer to his parents.

But as it was, he’d have to make sure they didn’t find out he was sick and alone, otherwise his mother would insist on coming to take care of him, and he knew she couldn’t afford to be taking off work every time “her baby” was sick.

He groaned.

“Are you okay, Chris?”

He jerked upright in his chair at the sound of his boss’ voice over the speakerphone. “Umm, sorry, sir. I’ll live.”

“Good. Give us your update then head home. Last thing I need is the entire section sick with the flu.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve confirmed that Prince Khalid arrived at the Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque as scheduled. Apparently damage was discovered last week during a cleaning ritual. He was supposed to accompany the stone to be repaired.”

“Why would they not just repair it there?” asked Donovan Eppes.

“Apparently it’s sacrilege to perform manual labor within the grounds of the shrine other than routine cleaning and maintenance of the structure itself. As well, with this object being so revered, they can’t risk slipshod work, so they have a dedicated team that has been trained to maintain and restore this specific object.”

“So you’ve confirmed he arrived to pick up the relic. What then?”

“Our analysis of the chatter indicates at least one dozen men stormed the mosque, killing the ceremonial guard, then according to witness accounts, left the mosque with the Prince and the Black Stone, while wearing uniforms of the ceremonial guard.”

“Did they steal the uniforms off the dead guards?” asked Cindy Fowler.

“No, they apparently had them on underneath their robes.”

“So the Black Stone has been stolen,” stated Morrison.

“It would appear so, sir, though the Saudi authorities have managed to keep that piece of intel compartmentalized. Right now the public has no idea of what has happened, except that the Prince was either kidnapped or turned traitor, and their government is lying about it.”

“We’ve had new intel come in from a confidential source well-placed within the Saudi government that confirms the prince has indeed betrayed his government and his faith,” said Morrison. “The attack heard at the end of the broadcast was apparently Houthi rebel forces from Yemen attacking. He apparently now is indeed a hostage.”

“Are the Saudi’s planning a rescue operation?”

“No, their agreement with us is to not cross international borders with equipment sold to them by us.”

“So that basically means everything,” interjected Eppes.

“True,” resumed Morrison. “They’ve asked us to rescue him.”

There was silence over the speakerphone for a moment as the implications set in. It was Leroux that broke the silence.

“Sir, what if they have the Black Stone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if our forces recover the Prince and this relic, then that means infidels will have the stone in their possession.”

“Uh huh.” Morrison paused as he apparently mulled over Leroux’s statement. Fanatics the world over were always looking for some way to blame the West, especially America, for all their ills, and if it were to come to light that American soldiers had the Black Stone in their possession, even with the best of intentions, he shuddered to think how it could be twisted by those fuelled by so much hate. Yet there was one piece of intel he hadn’t had a chance to impart, and once he had, he was pretty certain any question on whether or not to mount a rescue would be settled.

“Sir, there’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

Leroux moved closer to his phone.

“Intel reports indicate that those who attacked the mosque were all speaking English.”

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Morrison. “Meeting adjourned, I have to talk to the White House.”

Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, USS Iwo Jima, Gulf of Aden

Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme watched the split screen display with his boss, Colonel Thomas Clancy in one panel along with several others including a CIA analyst he had dealt with in the past named Chris Leroux.

He looked like shit.

Hell, he looks worse than I did.

Red had just finished commanding his first op since infected with Ebola a few months ago. It had been rough going but he had recovered and had been begging the Colonel to put him back into the rotation for weeks now.

It wasn’t until Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson had cleared him three weeks ago that he had been put back on the board. He hadn’t expected his first op to be in command, but with Dawson on vacation in Paris with his girlfriend—the Colonel’s personal assistant—he had been tasked to lead an op recovering some moron millionaire with connections who had sailed his yacht off the Horn of Africa and found himself captured by Somali pirates.

He and seven of the Bravo Team had successfully rescued the hostage, plus two others, killing pretty much the entire group of khat chewing criminals the international community had yet to figure out how to combat.

“The White House has approved the op,” said Clancy, “but this is completely compartmentalized. Only a handful know you’re going in so try not to get caught, gentlemen. And for God’s sake don’t kill the prince. The last thing we need is it getting out that he died by our hand.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Red. “How recent are these satellite images?”

Leroux moaned out a reply. “These are less than two hours. It looks like they’re down for the night. We’ll have a UAV over the area to give you live intel when you’re inserted.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The young man seemed to flinch at the formality. The man was younger than him, though not by the couple of decades Clancy had on him. Special Ops was a young man’s world, and young men in the military grew up fast if they wanted to make sergeant, faster still if they wanted to make Delta.

There were no boys in The Unit.

“Be careful on this one, Sergeant. There’re a lot of rumors flying about, including the possibility that some Islamic relic has been stolen, and if that’s the case, then Prince Khalid was behind it. If this cell you’re about to hit has the relic, they’ll fight to the death to keep it out of American hands.”

“We’ll watch our sixes, sir.”

“You do that. Clancy, out.”

The various squares of the screen went black as the teleconference ended, leaving Red to look at his second-in-command for the mission, Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James. “So, what do you think?”

Atlas, his nickname earned by looking like his muscled self should take a knee then a planet on his shoulders, responded in his ridiculously deep voice. “I think if this mission goes south, we’re going to be hung out to dry.”

Red frowned, nodding.

“So do I.”

Qarmatian Camp, Saudi Arabia

Abu Tahir al-Qarmati stifled a yawn, it now well past dark, the only light from the fire and several candles. They had a generator but it was powered down for the night, it a waste to use it for something as trivial as light, it reserved to power computer equipment and charge cellphones and laptops.

His head drooped as he drifted off, his body beginning to fall forward, the sensation enough to startle him awake.

The sound of whispered words outside gave him a jolt of energy, the flap to the tent pushed aside as the man he had been waiting for finally arrived.

“Sir, I’m sorry I’m late, but there was a patrol near the border. We had to go around them.”

Al-Qarmati waved off the excuse, motioning for the man to sit near the fire and for tea to be brought. “What have you found?”

“It is as we suspected. They are camped just across the border, not ten miles inside Yemini territory.”

“And they have the Black Stone?”

The man frowned. “We saw no sign of it but they must have taken it.”

“But it could have been moved beyond their camp?”

The man shook his head. “I’d be surprised. We weren’t far behind them, maybe an hour. I have a feeling the illiterate fools believe the story the government is feeding them—that what they have is fake.”

“If so, then they may just accomplish what we had planned.”

“They might.”

“It would be unfortunate. I had hoped to capture the event on camera. It will be a glorious moment in history.”

“True, very true. But you still may. I left two men behind with the necessary equipment. They’ll film anything should it occur.” The man took a sip of his tea, sighing. “How do you plan to get it back?”

Al-Qarmati smiled.

“A plan is already in motion.”

Houthi Rebel Encampment, North-Western Yemen

Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme crawled on his belly to the top of the sand dune, taking up position just enough over the crest to see the camp below. Peering through his night vision goggles, the hazy green glow showed half a dozen tents with waning fires glowing at the entrances and two technicals, old Toyotas with rear mounted .50 calibers.

Exactly what the UAV had shown, though the perspective was always different from the ground, the terrain a little more obvious than the bird’s-eye view.

He flicked a switch and the view changed to infrared, their hostiles now visible.

“I’m counting fourteen targets, two guards, one on the south side, one on the north, the rest inside the tents, sleeping or lying down. Confirm.”

“Confirmed,” came Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James’ low rumble beside him. “But which one is the Prince?”

“Let’s assume anyone without a gun,” replied Red.

“And if he’s got one?”

“Then he’s on the wrong side.”

Atlas chuckled. “So wake ’em and bake ’em?”

Red nodded. “Yup. But look at those tents. Two of them have four men each, lying side by side. There’s no way they’d have a prisoner sleeping with them like that. Two other tents have just two guys in each, sleeping far enough apart that at least one of them could conceivably be the Prince, but…”

“But it just doesn’t make sense,” said Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman. “If they’ve got a high profile prisoner, he should be guarded, and that guard should be awake.”

“Agreed,” said Red. “I have a funny feeling he’s either no longer here, or never was.”

Spock grunted. “My bet’s on never was. Vehicle engines are cool and the UAV overflight a few hours ago showed the same two vehicles.”

“And the same fourteen heat signatures,” added Atlas.

“Okay, second-guessing gets us nowhere. Two teams of two, one on the north side, one on the south. Two sniper teams positioned here, take out anyone with a weapon that moves. We’ve got four tents with occupants. Spock, you’re with me. We’ll take out the guard on the north side then enter the nearest tent with the two occupants. Atlas, you’re with Jimmy. Take out the south side guard and the other tent with two inside. Confirm your targets before eliminating them. If we get our target, fall back to the ridges here and here,” he said pointing at dunes to the north and south of the camp. “If we don’t get our hostage, fall back to the same ridges and we’ll fire a couple of rounds. That should get the eight remaining hostiles up and at it. Take out anyone with a gun, and if someone’s left alive, he’s either a hostage or a coward. We’ll interrogate him to find out where our Prince actually is if he’s not down there. Questions?”

Head shakes from his team of eight.

He activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. Ready to proceed, over.”

“Bravo Zero-Two, Control. UAV shows the area clear beyond the target zone. Clear to proceed, over.”

“Roger that Control, Bravo Zero-Two, out.”

Using hand signals, he sent Atlas and Sergeant Gerry “Jimmy Olson” Hudson heading south, he and Spock racing north. He kept an eye on the camp but was relying on the two sniper teams to be watching the guards, telling them to drop if they turned toward their approach vector, taking the hostiles out if necessary.

It wasn’t necessary.

They made it to the ridge, both hitting the deck with Jagger and Sweets, both spotters for the sniper teams, giving the all clear.

“Zero-Seven, Zero-Two. Report, over.”

Atlas responded instantly. “Zero-Two, Zero-Seven. In position, over.”

Red surveyed the camp below, the two guards still within sight, no movement evident within the tents. “Zero-Seven, Zero-Two. Execute in Three… Two… One… Execute.”

He and Spock jumped up, rushing silently down the dune toward their target, a guard who was busy unsuccessfully lighting a cigarette, his lighter sparking repeatedly in the dark, no flame appearing. The man spun, whipping his lighter in anger just as Red reached him. Red plunged his knife deep into the man’s stomach, jerking it up hard as he clasped a hand over the man’s mouth and used his momentum to bring the struggling man silently to the sand. He yanked his knife free then slit the man’s throat as Spock covered them with his MP5.

“Zero-Two, Zero-Seven. Target eliminated, over.”

“Roger that Zero-Seven, proceed to next target, over.”

Red wiped his blade on the man’s shirt then sheathed his knife as he drew his Glock 22, threading the suppressor in place. Rushing toward the tent, Spock on point, he listened as Jimmy and Sweets continued with updates over the comm.

Atlas signaled he was in position with a thumbs up to the spotters, not able to verbally confirm without possibly waking those sleeping inside their tent. Red gave a thumbs up.

Jimmy’s voice came over the comms. “Execute in three… two… one… execute!”

Spock swung the flap of the tent aside and Red stepped inside, his night vision goggles in place as he took a bead on the first sleeping man.

Thick, long beard, not our man.

He swung his weapon to the second man.

Thirty years too young.

Both had weapons lying beside them.

He double tapped the younger man in the chest, quickly swinging his weapon to the bearded man who woke from the sound, his eyes wide.

A double tap put him down permanently.

“Bravo Team, Zero-Two. Two hostiles eliminated, we don’t have eyes on the target, over.”

“Zero-Two, Zero-Seven. Two hostiles eliminated, no eyes on target, over.”

“Roger that. Fall back to the ridgeline, over.”

“Hold!” came Jimmy’s voice. “I’ve got movement from the western tent, someone is getting up. Zero-Seven, you’re clear. Zero-Two, hold, over.”

Red squawked twice on his comm, taking a knee as he listened, flipping his night vision goggles out of the way.

“Target has left his tent, he appears unarmed. Walking toward your position, Zero-Two—”

“Zero-Seven in position, over.”

“He’s rounding your tent, he’s going to see your target any second now.”

Red handed his Glock to Spock, unsheathing his knife. Using the blade to open the tent flap, he peered out just as the late night stroller shuffled past, his feet bare, dragging in the sand. Red flipped his night vision goggles back into place.

Not the prince, but is he a hostile?

The man’s eyes were half closed, it clear he was barely awake. This was a piss break and nothing more. If they were lucky he might walk right by the body, do his business, and head back.

But they’d never get a better chance to take this guy out safely, leaving them with only seven to deal with.

The man lumbered past the body, oblivious, then stopped at the bottom of the dune they were supposed to take cover behind. He turned to face the camp, Red slowly letting the flap close, leaving all but a sliver. Suddenly he reached behind his back, pulled something out, tossed it on the ground, then dropped his pants around his ankles and squatted.

A fart rolled across the desert sand, followed by several more.

“Pleasant,” muttered Spock.

“I guess he’s never heard about not shitting in your own campground.”

“Zero-Two, One-Zero. We’ve confirmed the object he threw on the ground is a handgun. Subject is hostile, over.”

Red squawked twice, sheathing his knife and taking his Glock back. “Let’s take him out.”

Red pushed the flap aside, stepping out as if he owned the place, his weapon behind his back as he strode toward the man, deep in thought, oblivious to his impending doom.

Another fart and a giggle this time, the man looking up, his jaw dropping. Red fired twice, the man falling back in his own pile of shit.

Explain that one to your 72 virgins.

He raced past the dead man, holding his breath to avoid the pungent odor, quickly clearing the ridgeline, Spock at his side. “Bravo Team, Zero-Two in position. Prepare to take out confirmed hostiles in three… two… one… firing.”

Red fired a single shot from his MP5, immediately peering through the scope, the night vision attachment giving him a clear view of the camp below.

Somebody shouted.

Followed by more shouts as the tent closest to them suddenly stirred, the flap thrown open as the first victim poured out, AK-47 in hand. Red took a bead on the man, leaving him for the sniper teams.

He crumpled to the ground, a massive hole where his heart used to be.

Another emerged, spotting his buddy, shouting a warning as he whipped his own rifle into position. His body skid across the desert sand, catching on his fallen friend.

Red switched to infrared, there only one man left in the tent, the shitter having already left it.

Gun.

He squeezed off two rounds, the man dropping.

More gunfire from the other side of the camp echoed through the dunes, the distinct sounds of the M24A2 Sniper Weapon System burping single shots from their left along with MP5 rounds ahead quickly dwindled as only a single AK-47 round was heard.

“Bravo Team, One-Zero, all clear, over.”

“Roger that, One-Zero. Keep us covered. Control, Bravo Zero-Two. Anything to report, over?”

“Negative, Bravo Zero-Two, UAV continues to show all clear, no movement on your hostiles, over.”

“Roger that, securing area, over.”

Red advanced cautiously, Spock at his side, confirming their kills, meeting Atlas and Jimmy at the center of the camp. He activated his comm and gave the all clear.

“Jimmy, get photos to Control for identification, let’s see if we got anybody worthwhile. No eyes on our man?”

Atlas shook his head. “Negative.”

“Okay, search the tents, see if there’s any intel. We’ll start with this one,” he said, pointing to the largest tent where no one had been sleeping. Pushing aside the flap, he stepped inside the large tent, high enough to stand fully erect inside. He flicked his MP5’s tactical light on, as did Spock, revealing half a dozen good sized crates of weapons and ammo.

“These guys were loaded for bear,” said Spock, his trademark eyebrow cocked. He pried open one of the crates revealing half a dozen AK-47s. “These are brand new.”

Red lifted one of the weapons. “Still got that new gun smell.” He tossed it back in the box. “Check the rest of these, we’ll disable them before we leave.” He turned to survey the rest of the tent, several large baskets lining the other side. He slipped the lid off the first to reveal it half-filled with rice. “Looks like food supplies here,” he said, moving down the line. He flipped the lid off the last basket, smaller than the rest. “Oh shit.”

“What?” asked Spock as he looked over at Red.

Red shone his light into the basket and shook his head.

“I think we found our prince.”

Spock walked over and took a look, cursing.

Inside was the head of Prince Khalid, his neck a bloody stump, his face showing signs of having been beaten before the beheading.

Red stepped back, activating his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. We found our target. He’s dead, over.”

“Bravo Zero-Two, Control, please confirm your last transmission, over.”

Red tapped the side of the basket with his boot. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. We found a basket with the prince’s head inside. Sending you images now, over.”

Spock snapped several shots, transmitting them then nodding to Red.

Red’s comm squawked. “Zero-Two, Zero-Seven. We’ve got something here you’re going to want to see, over.”

“On my way.”

Red motioned toward the crates. “Document everything then set some charges for when we leave.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“And don’t you forget it.” Red left the tent, heading for where Jimmy was beckoning him. “What’ve you got?”

“Trouble.”

He stepped inside, Atlas turning toward him, his tactical light shining on a crate near the rear. “Take a look at this.”

Red stepped over to the crate and looked inside. “Oh shit, is that what I think it is?”

“I’m not going to say what I think it looks like,” said Jimmy. “But maybe I’ve been hanging around with Niner too long.”

Red chuckled as he examined the large silver object, protecting a black hole in the center that he assumed held the Black Stone referred to in the briefing.

“This can’t be real, can it?” asked Atlas.

Red shook his head. “I’m way out of my depth with this. But I know someone who might be able to help us.”

Assistance Publique Hôpitaux de Paris, Paris, France

Archeology Professor James Acton looked toward the door of the hospital room, the hard rap on the door startling him and his still recovering wife, Professor Laura Palmer, awake. She had been shot in the stomach barely a week ago and had nearly died. She was still battling a bad infection that had almost cleared up, though she still had ten days of antibiotics to take before she’d be able to leave the hospital, her wound torn back open during her ordeal in the French countryside.

It had been a terrifying experience for both of them, with devastating consequences that would have repercussions for the rest of their lives, the past few days being a horror of rollercoaster emotions.

Yet despite their history of finding themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, a man so clearly government standing in their doorway was still enough to startle them.

Especially in the middle of the night.

He rose from the chair he had fallen asleep in, placing himself between his wife and the man. “Can I help you?” he asked as Laura moaned, rubbing her eyes.

“Are you Professor James Acton of St. Paul’s University?”

Acton felt his chest tighten slightly. “Who’s asking?”

The man stepped inside the room, another taking his place at the door, facing outward as if covering the entrance. “I’m with the United States Government,” he said, flashing identification without giving Acton time to actually inspect it. “Your government requires your assistance.”

Acton frowned, looking over at a now wide-awake Laura. “In what way?”

The man placed his briefcase on the tray table by Laura’s bed, spinning the tumblers to unlock his briefcase before snapping it open. He withdrew two folders. “First I need you to both sign these Classified Information Nondisclosure Agreements.”

“Why?”

“What you are about to hear cannot be revealed to anyone. We need any promise you make to maintain the secrecy of this information to be in writing so it is legally binding.”

“And if we violate this agreement?” asked Acton as he quickly skimmed the document.

“You will be charged and face possible prison time.”

Acton shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He looked at Laura. “What do you think?”

“I wonder how as a British subject this would impact me.”

The man nodded toward the second file. “Yours is specific to you and already cleared with your government.” The man tapped his briefcase impatiently. “Please, professors, this matter is extremely urgent.”

“Can you give us an inkling?” asked Acton.

The man pursed his lips then looked over his shoulder. “Close the door.” The other man complied, sealing the room from prying eyes and ears. “You have friends who need your help.”

Acton instantly felt a rush of adrenaline as he exchanged a quick glance with Laura before scribbling his signature on the document. There could be only two possibilities as far as he knew. One was his former student, CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane, but with the term ‘friends’ being plural, he was leaning toward the Bravo Team, members of the elite Delta Force, and men who had done their best to kill them both during their first encounter.

Operating under falsified intel, they had been told he was the head of a domestic terrorist cell, leading a group of students who were about to commit terrorist acts against their country. The Bravo Team had been sent in to eliminate them. It had been several days of hell, but in the end he had survived, met Laura, and made some of the best ‘friends’ anyone could hope to have, especially in his line of work that took him far too often into conflict zones.

Or the fact conflict seemed to seek him and his wife out.

But members of the Bravo Team had helped save his wife only days before, so whenever he was able to help them in any way, he never hesitated.

Laura handed her file over.

“Thank you, Professors.” The man flipped open some sort of fancy laptop from within the briefcase, entering a code in a side panel. The display snapped to life revealing the smiling face of a man he only knew as Red, his nickname apparently earned by his fiery red hair he kept shaved clean, though today he seemed to have a little stubble revealing his true colors. Acton had met him on several occasions and trusted the man with his life.

“Hello, Professors, sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, but we have a situation that requires your expertise.”

Laura’s bed rose as she pressed the button to get a better view of what Acton assumed was some sort of secure communications terminal. Red appeared to be in combat gear, which meant he was definitely in-theatre somewhere, which also meant there would be no time for pleasantries.

“How can we help you?”

“I’m sending you photos now of what we just found.”

The screen started to flash several photographs and Acton gasped, Laura squeezing his arm. “It can’t be!”

Acton shook his head as what was clearly the Black Stone was shown, but he knew that was impossible. It had to be a fake. He said so.

“That’s why we’re contacting you, doc. We need to know if this is the genuine article or not.”

“It can’t be, there’s no way.” Acton paused, his jaw dropping slightly as his eyes drifted toward the ceiling, recalling the news broadcasts from earlier in the day. “Does this have anything to do with that Saudi prince?”

“It has everything to do with it. We found his head about fifty feet away from this crate, and chatter has him kidnapped when he was picking up this thing to get it repaired.”

“What have the Saudi’s said?”

“They’re denying it, but we can’t take the risk that it’s the real McCoy and just leave it here.”

“Where’s here?” Acton waved his hands at the camera. “Never mind, forget I asked. Listen, I’m not sure what you want from me?”

“We need to know if this is the genuine article.”

“The only way I can know is if I see it in person.”

“We’ll have you on a plane within thirty minutes.”

Laura gripped his arm a little tighter and Acton shook his head. “No, I can’t, my wife’s still recovering from being shot.” He tapped his chin for a moment, thinking, then smiled. “But I know someone who can help, and if I had to hazard a guess as to where you are, he’s a hell of a lot closer than Paris.”

“Who?”

“Professor Mahmoud Hamidullah from Umm Al-Qura University, he’s an expert in all things Islamic. I’ve met him several times and I think he can help.”

“Can you reach out to him discretely?”

“He’ll need to know why I’m calling.”

“Give the agent his contact info. We’ll arrange a conversation.”

“How?”

Red smiled.

“We have our methods.”

The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Colonel Thomas Clancy swiped his pass, entering the secure control room for the Yemini op Bravo Team was in the midst of. The briefing he had just received from the Op Center Chief had him pissed off and concerned.

He had been lied to.

The question was had he been screwed directly by Colonel Faisal bin Nayef, or were they both victims.

Or was it all just an elaborate hoax?

“Status?” he asked as he entered the darkened room, a wall of video screens showing various camera feeds from the Bravo Team, one from the UAV over the area and a map of their exact location, each member pinpointed on a zoomed in portion. Flash bulletin messages the Pentagon thought might be important general knowledge also scrolled by on a display, one he usually ignored.

“The Colonel is online now, sir.”

“Colonel Clancy, I understand you have news?”

Clancy nodded as Colonel Faisal bin Nayef’s image appeared. Clancy yanked his cigar out of his mouth, flicking it back and forth between his fingers. “We successfully infiltrated the camp and eliminated the hostiles. I’m afraid I have bad news.” He motioned with a jab of his finger for the photos to be sent. “We found Prince Khalid’s head in a basket. I’ve just sent you the photos. There’s no sign of his body.”

“So he had been dead for some time?”

“Yes.”

“That is most unfortunate.”

Nayef didn’t sound too disappointed, probably because Khalid had betrayed his country and his religion, two things unforgiveable in Saudi society, which one the more serious offence he wasn’t sure. But either way, the beheading of a crown prince of Saudi Arabia wasn’t going to go over too well with the House of Saud. If restraint wasn’t exercised, he could see the Saudi’s invading Yemen to put an end to the Houthi rebels and the various other factions contributing to the chaos in the region.

Which would suit him just fine.

Take care of your own damned problems. Why do we always have to be the ones risking our lives?

“There’s one other thing,” said Clancy, jabbing air again, a second batch of photos sent. “Our team found this.” Nayef looked away from the camera and became visibly excited for a brief moment, then frowned. “What do you make of it?”

Nayef shook his head. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“You can tell me whether or not this thing is real.”

“It most certainly is not. I can assure you the Black Stone is safely in Mecca. This is clearly a fake.”

“Clearly.”

“Where is it now?”

“With our team at the target site.”

Nayef shifted in his chair, briefly leaning out of camera view. “What will you do with it?”

Now for the true test.

“Take it with us.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Nayef’s face changed completely, a mix of anger and shock before the rapid reply. “They mustn’t!”

Clancy resisted smiling. “But I thought you said it was a fake?”

Nayef sighed.

“We need to talk.”

Houthi Rebel Encampment, North-Western Yemen

Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James kicked at the dirt outside the tent they had found the Islamic relic inside then stretched, looking up at the spectacular night sky. It was something he never tired of looking at, being hundreds of miles away from the nearest artificial light leaving the black canvas vividly beautiful unlike anything most city dwellers ever experienced.

Including his young nephew Michael.

Michael lived in the Bronx where light pollution was a way of life and had never seen a star until he visited his Uncle Leon. He had been so fascinated, bedtime was almost unenforceable.

It had been one of the best weeks of Atlas’ life having the little man around, and the guys in The Unit were fantastic with him. Michael had even hit it off with Red’s son Bryson, the two of them almost inseparable after their first meeting.

It had made him want to have a kid of his own.

Unfortunately too much of his life had been spent playing the field, never wanting to settle down until about a year ago, which was when Michael had visited.

It had changed him, the one-night stands no longer satisfying, the list of go-to girls if he were lonely just making him feel like a consumer of women rather than a human being looking for companionship.

And then he had met Vanessa.

She could be the one.

They had met at the grocery store, which he had always heard was one of the best places to meet a good woman—besides church, which is where his Mama had always told him he should be looking. Phone numbers had been exchanged, and the rest was history. He had fallen for this girl, and she him, and there was even talk of moving in together, though his Mama might have something to say about that.

Might have to keep that one on the down low.

“Quite the view, eh?”

Atlas grunted as Spock approached. “About the only good thing in this piece of shit country.”

“True dat.”

“Don’t try to be black.”

“Niner isn’t here, so someone has to be.”

“I think I can handle it.”

“I don’t know, have you heard Niner rap?”

Atlas chuckled, his deep voice echoing among the dunes. “He’s actually pretty good. A Korean Eminem.”

“Better than what you called him at Karaoke night.”

Atlas shrugged. “Too many brews that night. What did I call him?”

“The Asian Bieber.”

Atlas grinned. “And he thought I said ‘beaver’.”

“Who knows, you were slurring pretty good that night, you might have. What did he say you had?”

“Yellow Man Fever.”

Spock stifled a full-on laugh.

Atlas held up his finger, cutting Spock off as he cocked an ear.

“What is it?”

“I thought I felt something, a vibration.”

“Vehicle?”

Atlas shook his head. “No, like something pounding the ground.”

“Horse? Camel?”

“I’m not Carnac the Magnificent. Quiet.”

The vibrations were distinct now, it clear something was approaching. Spock held out a hand. “Wait, I feel it too.”

Atlas activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Seven. We’ve got some sort of movement out here, not sure what to make of it, over.”

“Bravo Zero-Seven, Control. UAV still shows area clear, over.”

Atlas’s eyes narrowed as he exchanged a confused look with Spock, the pounding still happening, if anything, increasing in intensity. “Roger that Control. We’ve got some sort of ground vibration here. Stand by.”

Red and Jimmy approached and Atlas held up a finger, pointing at the ground as he took a knee, placing a hand on the sand.

And he could feel the pounding.

And he could hear something else. Muffled.

“There’s somebody under the sand,” he finally said. “I can hear them shouting.”

The others dropped to the ground in silence as everyone listened.

“I hear it,” said Red, activating his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. We’re definitely hearing something coming from under the sand, sounds like somebody’s buried here. Are you picking up anything, over?”

“Standby, Bravo Zero-Two.”

Red looked about. “How long would someone last buried with no air?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I saw something on TV once. I think they said you could survive five or six hours in a coffin if you were buried alive.”

Spock cocked an eyebrow. “What the hell kind of TV are you watching?”

“Nothing but the finest reality TV.”

Spock shook his head. “When millions of people watch Honey Boo Boo I sometimes think Western civilization is doomed.”

“Bravo Zero-Two, Control. We’re showing a faint heat signature on the original UAV footage, fifteen feet north of your current position, over.”

“Roger that, Control. Stand by.”

They all turned, walking fifteen paces north before stopping.

“Bravo Zero-Two, Control. Two paces to the right of your position.”

They all converged on the spot, Atlas unclipping his MP5 and pounding the ground three times with the butt of the weapon.

He distinctly felt three knocks in return then nothing.

He hit twice.

And again two in return.

“Hold on!” shouted Red. “We’re going to get you out of there!”

“Help!” came the faint voice as the four of them quickly began digging with their hands.

“English,” said Red as he stepped back to update Control. Atlas continued to dig furiously with Spock and Jimmy, the rest of the team still deployed to cover the area.

His fingers scraped on something hard.

“Got something.”

“Help!”

The voice was loud now, as if on the other side of a door, there no doubt now they were digging in the right place. Red returned from updating Control, his MP5 aimed at the hole not even two feet deep. Atlas continued to scoop dirt out, his knees now resting on the top of what appeared to be a crate perhaps four feet across. Reaching the final edge, he leaned back on his haunches, surveying their handiwork. There was a small hole near one end, about an inch in diameter, but other than that, it seemed to be a plain crate built from flimsy one-by-fours.

A finger suddenly poked through the hole.

“Get me out of here!”

Red stepped forward as Atlas pulled his knife, jamming it in the side and prying up the top of the crate.

“We’re opening the crate now,” said Red. “Keep your hands visible, no sudden movements, or we will kill you.”

Atlas popped one side of the crate then tore the top off as he fell back to give the others a clear shot.

“Don’t shoot!” cried the man inside, the pungent odor of feces and urine greeting them as the beaten and bloodied man covered his head. The crate was so small he was lying on his side, his knees pulled up to his chest, his feet pressed against one end, the back of his head against the other.

“Identify yourself,” said Red, his weapon still trained on the man.

“My name is Josh Pullman. I’m an American citizen. A journalist for Fox News.”

“Christ, it is,” said Jimmy as he leaned in for a closer look, snapping several photos for Control. “I recognize him from TV.”

“Well, if Jimmy Olson says so, then it must be so,” said Spock.

“He was an ace reporter in high school,” agreed Atlas as he reached in and sliced the man’s bindings. “Can you stand?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Shame washed over his face. “I’m s-sorry. I couldn’t hold it any longer.”

“I’ve smelled worse,” smiled Atlas as he took the man’s hand and hauled him to his feet. He nodded at Spock. “You should smell him the day after a chili cook-off.”

The man chuckled slightly, it clear he was in pain as he gingerly took a few steps, supported by Atlas and Jimmy.

“Bravo Zero-Two, Control. ID confirmed as one Josh Pullman, kidnapped two days ago from Sana’a, Yemen. His cameraman was killed in the incident, over.”

“Roger that, Control,” replied Red, lowering his weapon. “Mr. Pullman, what can you tell us?”

The reporter stretched, then frowned, standing slightly spread eagle. “Any chance at getting some clothes?”

Atlas looked at the orange jumpsuit he was in, sizing him up. “There’s over a dozen guys here who don’t need their clothes anymore.”

“Fine by me. This is the second bunch of bastards that’ve held me in the past two days. I just need a couple of canteens of water, a change of clothes and something to eat.”

Red looked at Jimmy. “Check the tents for some clothes, if there’s nothing, strip the dead.” He nodded at Josh’s shoes. “Are those okay?”

Josh nodded. “About the only thing that’s mine besides my underwear, which I plan to retire.” He looked at Jimmy. “Oh, and if you’re strippin’ the dead, I’ll go commando, thanks.”

Jimmy chuckled then headed for one of the tents that had slept four just minutes before. Atlas handed Josh a canteen and a protein bar, Josh quickly downing half the water then attacking the bar. He nodded at his former grave. “At first they put a breathing tube in there but I guess they got tired of hearing me so some jackhole yanked the pipe. Good thing you guys came along when you did.” He tore off another bite of the tacky bar, chewing and talking, ceremony not necessary when you were standing with shit-filled pants. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Sorry to tell you this, but we weren’t here for you.”

Josh paused, looking almost disappointed at Red’s answer, then shrugged, taking a swig of water. “The Prince then?”

Red’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What can you tell me?”

“Well, they kidnapped me from Sana’a, then—” He stopped, his face suddenly clouding over. “Bill, my cameraman? Is he—?”

“I’m afraid so,” replied Red.

“Shit,” muttered Josh, still chewing. “He was—” His voice cracked, his head dropping to his chest. “He was a good man. And a good friend.”

Jimmy emerged from the tent, waving some clothes. “These yours by any chance?”

Josh looked over at the Western style clothes, a pair of khaki cargo pants and a faded denim shirt. He shook his head. “Nope. But judging by them not being pajamas, I’m assuming you didn’t have to strip them off a dead guy.”

“Nope. They were just lying in a pile.” He handed him the clothes and a couple of t-shirts. “Ass wipe.”

Josh grinned. “Give me a few minutes, gentlemen.” He turned to head for one of the dunes when he paused. “Umm, anyone got a spare canteen?”

Jimmy produced his and Josh continued for the dune. Red nodded after him. “Watch him.” Atlas followed Josh over the nearest dune and out of sight of the camp, turning his back slightly to give the man some privacy.

“Man, I thought I was going to be a YouTube sensation before you found me,” said Josh as he stripped out of his jumpsuit. “As soon as those Qarmatians had me put this on I figured I was going to star in a propaganda video.”

“Qarmatians?”

“That’s what they called themselves. Did anybody see the broadcast?”

Atlas nodded. “Apparently. I saw it as part of the briefing.”

“Good, I’d hate to think what might have been my final broadcast ended up in the ether somewhere.”

“No, I think it’s safe to say it didn’t, though the Saudi’s are claiming it’s a fake.”

“Of course they are,” said Josh as Atlas caught him out of the corner of his eye squatting and using the desert sand to help clean himself before using the water and t-shirts. “That Prince was in on whatever was going on from the get-go. And the shit he was spewing, man, that’s gotta ruffle some Muslim feathers.”

“It doesn’t take much.”

Josh laughed, the sloshing of the canteen suggesting he was entering the final phase of his ablutions. “This was pretty radical stuff. To claim the Black Stone was a blasphemous idol is pretty out there, but hey, no skin off my nose if they want to destroy the thing.”

Atlas turned in surprise, then jerked his head away. “Sorry, dude. What do you mean, destroy?”

“That was the whole purpose of this thing. It didn’t make sense at the time, but they were talking about destroying something. When I saw the Black Stone sitting in the tent, I thought it was some sort of replica, a prop for his speech. But after the attack they interrogated one of the surviving Qarmatians and he told them it was real. These new guys didn’t believe it.” A zipper fastened. “Oh man, does that feel so much better. You can look now.”

Atlas turned toward Josh, the man kicking sand over the soiled orange jumpsuit before pouring water over his hands and using sand as an abrasive. “Probably best if I try to keep my hands out of my mouth until I find a shower.”

Atlas chuckled, nodding back toward the camp. “We better get back.”

Josh stretched, raising his elbows then twisting back and forth. “Man, I thought I was going to die in that box.” He started up the dune, Atlas slightly behind him. Josh paused. “Did you find it?”

“Find what?”

“The Black Stone?”

Atlas nodded. “Yes.”

“So it wasn’t destroyed.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Good. I’d hate to see what would happen if it was. They kill each other now because of who succeeded their prophet over a thousand years ago. I can just imagine what would happen if some of them destroyed their rock.”

Atlas frowned.

And what would happen if they found out an American Special Forces unit had it?

Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Professor Mahmoud Hamidullah bolted upright in bed, wondering what had woken him. He glanced at his bedside table, the alarm clock’s harsh red numerals far too close to midnight than he’d like.

3:32 am?

He was exhausted, and the last thing he needed was to be woken in the middle of the night, this one of the most stressful times of the year for his line of work, work that had been halted unexpectedly. Inexplicably, really. He was part of the team that would service the damaged Black Stone, and now, when he and the team should be hard at work, they were idle with no official explanation.

The unofficial explanation was obvious.

Prince Khalid was a traitor.

Yet with Ramadan fast approaching, the necessary work had to be completed, which was why there were tight schedules with no room for deviation built into them. The Black Stone was inspected during the cleaning of the Kaaba ceremony exactly thirty days before the Hajj and the beginning of Ramadan. Should a problem be found, exactly seven days later the relic would be brought to the Umm Al-Qura University under ceremonial guard by the governor of Mecca—currently Prince Khalid—to be repaired. Repairs were almost always routine, so this left them three full weeks to get the work done, it rarely taking more than a week. There were ready duplicates for all parts of the structure supporting the shattered stone, the only portion truly holy the fragments themselves. Every attempt was always made to preserve the original frame for historical purposes, but should that not be possible, a substitute would be made so there was no risk of not being ready before the Hajj or Ramadan began.

It was important work, work he was proud to take part in, and work he felt deep in his soul brought him closer to God.

But now he had been sent home, told to await instructions. It had been a trying evening with sleep eluding him until only an hour before.

Three sharp raps at the door had him swinging his legs out of the bed as he realized what had woken him.

“What is it?”

He looked at his wife as she rolled over toward him.

“Somebody’s at the door.”

She sat up, concern on her face, for in Saudi Arabia, good news never arrived at night. “Who could it be?”

He shook his head, tying his robe around his waist. “You better put something on just in case.”

She nodded, fear replacing concern. With everything that had happened over the past couple of days things were tense in the streets. Everyone connected to Prince Khalid had been questioned after the attack, some hauled away for further interrogation, some not seen since.

It had been a witch-hunt.

When he had been questioned he had been asked what he figured were routine questions involving the attack at Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque, and thought nothing more of it. Yet after the broadcast everything had changed.

The questioning had stopped.

Instead he had been called in and rather than being questioned further, he was given an explanation.

“It was a faked broadcast, the Prince is safe, he was never kidnapped.”

He didn’t dare question these new “facts”.

Now he worried if the authorities were cleaning up their mess. If the Prince was never kidnapped, then why had they been asking questions about his kidnapping? Were they now arresting anyone they had interrogated so no one would question the new party line?

“Who is it?”

“State Security. Open the door.”

He nearly released his bladder.

He unlocked the door and opened it, a man standing in the darkness, his features hidden by the lack of light. Mahmoud was about to ask him to come inside when the man stepped in himself, another man he hadn’t seen emerging from the shadows to follow.

“Wh-what is this about?”

“You are Professor Mahmoud Hamidullah of Umm Al-Qura University?”

Mahmoud nodded. “Yes.”

“You know a Professor James Acton of St. Paul’s University?”

Mahmoud’s eyes narrowed, confused. Professor Acton? Why would they be asking about him? He nodded. “Yes.”

The man pointed at a nearby table and the second man stepped over to it, opening up a briefcase, a computer monitor flashing to life, casting a pale glow over his living room.

“Are you alone?”

“No. My wife is here, and two of my children still live at home.”

A light flicked on, bathing the entire room in a warm, yellow glow. “What’s going on?”

He spun toward his wife’s voice, the two men merely looking at her casually, as if not surprised at all.

“Have your wife make certain the children remain in their room. No one can hear our conversation. And turn out that light.”

He rushed over to his wife, flicking the light switch, then taking her hands in his as he urged her back down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

“What’s going on?” she whispered, the fear evident in her face.

“I don’t know. They asked about an American professor I know.”

Her hand darted to his chest as a breath caught in her throat. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“I don’t know. They don’t seem like the people I’ve dealt with before.” He stopped at the room with their two boys. “Just stay here, make sure no one interrupts us. Should something happen, take the boys to my father’s house. He’ll know what to do.”

She nodded, pushing herself up on her toes and giving him a kiss on his cheek. “I love you.”

He smiled, giving her a quick hug. “And I you.” He quickly returned to the living room to see the computer, or whatever it was, showing some sort of video. It took him a moment to realize it was a live camera shot of the American archeologist he had dealt with on several occasions, Professor James Acton.

“Professor Acton needs to speak with you.”

The words were delivered in English this time, their entire conversation to this point in Arabic.

And the accent sounded American.

Who are these people?

He sat in front of the computer, a small window on the screen showing his own image. He repositioned himself so Acton could see him properly.

“Hello Mahmoud, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

“I-it’s no bother,” he replied, his voice as shaky as his hands.

He gripped his knees.

“Mahmoud, I need your help. We need your help.”

Mahmoud glanced at the other two men, getting the sense they weren’t the ‘we’ he was talking about. “How can I assist you?”

“I’m sending you photos of an object we’ve recovered.”

Images began to flash on the screen and he gasped, it clear what they were. The Black Stone and its frame. Then his eyes narrowed as he noticed it was in some sort of crate. He let out the breath he had been holding as he realized this was merely a replica.

“What am I looking at?”

“That’s what I need you to tell me.”

“Well, it appears to be a replica of the Black Stone.”

“Are you certain?”

Mahmoud’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Professor, a man of your renown knows what this is.”

“Oh, I know it’s the Black Stone. That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“I’m asking if you’re certain it’s a replica.”

Mahmoud’s eyebrows shot up his forehead as his eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. He snapped it shut as the implications of the question caused his heart to pound in his chest. An American professor he barely knew didn’t contact him over what appeared to be some sort of secret satellite communications device in the middle of the night unless he firmly believed that what he had found may actually be genuine.

And that had to be impossible.

Hadn’t it?

“It has to be, I mean, it can’t be real. It…”

His voice trailed off as he began to think about the past several days. There had been an attack at the mosque during the ritual and the Prince taken. Then the Prince appeared on television with what was assumed to be a fake Black Stone.

Could it have been real?

“We have a witness who says they were Qarmatians, and that Prince Khalid was one of them.”

Mahmoud nearly fainted, gripping the arms of his chair tightly as Acton’s words sank in.

Qarmatians!

They were a group long dead, relegated to the dust of history over a thousand years ago, but they had been the only group to successfully steal the Black Stone and hold it for a lofty ransom, returning it damaged over twenty years later.

And if the Prince considered himself a Qarmatian, then the Black Stone was almost certainly genuine.

But surely they couldn’t keep this secret?

“Wh-what do you want from me?”

“We need to know if what we’ve found is genuine or not.”

“You have it?”

Acton shook his head. “No. Let’s say friends of mine have it. They need to know if it is genuine and should be protected, or if it’s a fake and can be abandoned.”

Mahmoud clasped his hands in front of his face as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “If it were real…”

“Then we need to get it back to Mecca.”

“But how?”

“We’ll worry about that once we know whether or not it’s real. Do you have any idea how we might find out?”

“I would need to see it for myself.”

“I’m told that’s not possible.”

Mahmoud frowned, his clasped fingers bouncing off his chin repeatedly. He stopped. “I can go to the Kaaba in the morning. My position permits me. If it’s genuine or fake, I should be able to tell.”

“Okay, be careful.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

Houthi Rebel Encampment, North-Western Yemen

“Roger that Control, Bravo Zero-Two, out.”

Red looked at the others who had heard the secure communication as well. “Looks like we’re here for a while.”

“Lovely,” said Atlas, looking to the east, the first sliver of sunlight barely visible on the horizon. “It’s going to be too damned hot too damned soon.”

Red nodded toward one of the supply tents. “They’ve got plenty of food and water, so we’ll be fine. Control says other than a single vehicle about five miles north of here there’s nobody in the area.” He looked over at the crate with the relic, now sitting outside in anticipation of a rapid retrieval. Beside it sat the sack with the Prince’s head in it.

That’s going to be attracting flies soon.

“Once this friend of Professor Acton’s confirms it one way or the other, we’re out of here.”

“Control said he was going there in the morning. What does that mean?” asked Spock.

“Civilians,” muttered Jimmy. “Waay too imprecise.”

“Just be thankful the Doc knew somebody to help us out. He can’t be blamed for not getting an exact time.”

Spock nodded. “Not criticizing, just saying.”

“Bravo Zero-Two, Control. We’re picking up some sort of transmission in your area, over.”

Red stepped out of the huddle, scanning the horizon in all directions as he activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. Can you get a fix on it?”

“Coming from the north. It wasn’t there a minute ago, but it’s there now, over.”

“Roger that, we’ll check it out. Bravo Zero-Two, out.”

Red pointed at Atlas, Spock and Jimmy. “You’re with me. The rest of you stay here.” Red walked briskly toward the dunes to the north, the sun now high enough for him to see clearly, long shadows cast by the dunes to their right still hiding anything that might be concealed in the sand.

“What the hell is that?” asked Atlas, pointing to the top of one of the mounds.

Red looked up and saw a long, thin, dark shadow cast on the sand as they approached. He squinted as he tried to get a better look, and as they neared he cursed.

Something was resting atop a tripod.

He rushed up the hill, and as they got closer it became clear there was an iPhone aimed at the camp below. He broke left, out of the line of sight, motioning for the others to do the same. It was already too late if it was recording, but they might just get lucky.

Red approached the phone from behind, careful not to touch it. Atlas leaned in close, looking through the viewfinder then pointed at the display showing it was recording, then at a device about the size of a laptop sitting on the ground, masking tape covering any indicator lights that might have revealed it during the night.

Red held a finger to his lips then leaned in himself, taking a look. And cursed. Silently. The angle had been set up perfectly, giving the camera a clear view of the camp showing his team and the tents, including the Black Stone, sitting in the open, the top off the crate, and with the down angle the camera had, it was quite evident what was inside.

He stepped back and ran his finger over his throat. Atlas tapped the display, stopping the recording. “Stopped.”

Spock pointed at the device on the ground. “What do you make of this?”

“I think it’s a portable satellite modem,” replied Jimmy.

“Which means anything they were recording could have been transmitted,” said Atlas, cursing.

Red shook his head. “Photograph everything then bring it down to the camp. See if you can tell if anything was transmitted.”

Atlas snapped several photos then grabbed the tripod in one massive hand as Spock retrieved the modem from the desert sand. As they slid down the dune to the camp below, Red activated his comm.

“Control, Bravo Zero-Two. We found the source of the signal. And we may have a problem, over.”

Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque, Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Professor Mahmoud Hamidullah’s heart slammed against his chest, his palms drenched as he tried to keep a no-nonsense expression on his face. The guard inspected his pass, running it through the computer, seeming to spend far longer than was normal on the regular security procedure.

Or is it just your imagination?

“Your purpose?”

He gulped.

Calm down or they’ll know something’s wrong.

“I’m here to prepare for His Royal Highness’ arrival.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not aware of any visit scheduled for today.”

Mahmoud decided to channel his inner thespian, reaching back to his theatre elective in University and imitating the demeanor of yesterday’s interrogators.

“Of course you’re not aware of any visit! After what happened to His Royal Highness Prince Khalid, do you seriously think they’d let the likes of you know of this new ceremony?” He pointed at the entrance. “Now let me through, there is little time!”

The guard recoiled slightly, then quickly handed the ID back, motioning for the others to let the professor through. He strode past the guards with purpose, his journey to the Kaaba a blur as his heart pounded in his chest, his desire to urinate right here, right now, almost overwhelming.

Deep breaths. Slow and easy.

It was easier said than done, but his breathing eventually came under control until the great Kaaba came into sight, sending adrenaline pumping through his veins once again. There were guards throughout the mosque but he continued forward with resolve, confidence being the key in a society such as his where the more certain you looked, the less certain those around you became.

And no one dared interfere with someone who might be more important than themselves.

As he rounded the corner toward the Black Stone he held his breath, not sure what to expect.

Instead he found nothing, simply the stone encased in silver, the black ceremonial curtains of the Kaaba in place, hiding the structure surrounding the stone.

Nothing looked amiss.

Could Professor Acton be mistaken?

He pursed his lips as he got closer. Acton hadn’t actually said it had been stolen, just that they had found a duplicate that they feared might be the genuine relic.

Leaning forward, he gasped as the truth was suddenly revealed.

There’s no damage!

The reason he and his team were in Mecca for the ritual was to repair the damage caused during the last Hajj. The silver frame, attached to the Black Stone by silver nails, had become slightly separated. It needed to be repaired so that during Ramadan, when hundreds of thousands if not millions of the faithful desperately lay their hands and lips on the sacred stone, it didn’t come apart.

The consequences could be disastrous.

But this stone was flush against the silver frame, no evidence whatsoever of there being any damage.

This was not the Black Stone in the photos he had been provided with.

“You, what are you doing here?”

He spun toward the voice to find a guard storming toward him, anger written on his face as his eyes glared at Mahmoud, sending a shiver down the scholar’s spine.

He grabbed his phone, speed dialing the number left for him.

“This is—”

He was grabbed from behind, his phone yanked away.

“There’s no damage! It’s a fake!”

A fist to his nose ended his shouts as he collapsed to the ground, boots delivering Saudi justice as he had never experienced it before.

Assistance Publique Hôpitaux de Paris, Paris, France

“There’s no damage! It’s a fake!”

Acton pulled at his hair as the recording played again, the sounds of the phone clattering to the ground then the cries and grunts as poor Mahmoud was beaten, excruciatingly, Acton almost feeling each blow. He winced as the recording stopped, somebody finally ending the call, probably with the stomp of their boot.

“And you haven’t heard from him since?”

The man whose name he hadn’t bothered to ask shook his head. “Our agent saw him led away from the mosque and placed in the back of a police car. He was alive, but we haven’t been able to find out anything more. We’re continuing to make discrete enquiries, but we have to be careful. If they find out he was acting on our behalf, it could simply make things worse for him.”

Acton felt his stomach flip, bile filling his mouth.

It’s your fault!

“I should never have asked him to help.”

“This situation is much bigger than one man’s life.”

“Tell that to his wife and kids.”

The man nodded, sympathy on his face as the agent absentmindedly spun his wedding band. “What do you think he meant by ‘there’s no damage’?”

Acton looked at Laura. “What do you think?”

“Well, didn’t this incident take place during a ritual to take the stone for repairs?”

Acton smiled, his head bobbing. “You’re right! Which means the genuine stone has damage! Now he said ‘there’s no damage, it’s a fake’. Now, if the stone now in Mecca was damaged, then would he have risked calling to tell us the one we had was fake?”

Laura shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so. But either way, the one without damage is fake. So, either he saw no damage in Mecca, meaning that one was fake, or he remembered seeing no damage in the photos, meaning the one Red’s team has is fake.”

Acton pointed at the secure terminal. “Can you bring up the photos again?”

The man nodded and a few clicks later they were looking at the photos. Acton leaned forward, using the trackpad to cycle through.

“There!” he and Laura said simultaneously.

“What?” asked the agent.

Acton pointed toward the screen, tracing out a half-inch gap between the silver frame and the black stone. “It’s separated. It’s supposed to be flush with the stone, attached with silver nails. This is definitely damaged.”

“And Mahmoud would never have missed that.”

Acton glanced at Laura, nodding in agreement. “No way. We didn’t pick up on this because it’s not our area of expertise, but a man who has spent his entire life studying it would never miss that.”

“So you’re saying what?” asked the agent.

“That the Black Stone your team recovered is the genuine article.”

The agent frowned. “That can’t be good.”

Acton nodded. “If Muslims find out that their holiest relic is in the hands of infidels…”

He stopped, unwilling to give voice to the horrors that might ensue.

Ministry of the Interior Branch Office, Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Colonel Faisal bin Nayef shook his head, frustrated. He was trying to save this idiot’s life, but the man simply wouldn’t cooperate, adamant in his contention that the Black Stone at the Kaaba was fake.

The problem was the man was 100% correct.

And yet he couldn’t be allowed to repeat his contention otherwise the Muslim world, and by extension the entire world since people of his religion were now everywhere, could erupt in unprecedented violence.

“Professor Hamidullah, you are mistaken. I can assure you that the holy relic has not been stolen.”

“But it has been! I saw the stone with my own eyes. We were to repair damage done during the Hajj. The silver frame had become separated from the stone. What I saw today had no separation, it was perfectly fine.”

Nayef smiled. “Is that all this is about? The explanation is perfectly obvious. The stone was already repaired.”

The professor’s eyes opened slightly wider, his jaw dropping as he seemed caught off guard by the suggestion. His eyes suddenly narrowed. “When?”

Nayef shrugged. “Who am I to know these things? My information is that it was taken shortly after the attack and repaired by a team other than yours, as there were concerns of a possible security breach.”

“I can assure you none of my people were involved!”

Nayef smiled. “Of course not, and your people have been cleared, I assure you.”

Professor Hamidullah grunted then paused, his finger suddenly tapping on the tabletop. “You said it was repaired by another team?”

“Yes.”

“Led by whom?”

Nayef resisted frowning.

You can leave if you stop asking questions, you idiot!

“That I cannot say.”

The professor shook his head. “There’s no way any team could have completed the work that quickly, not if they were following all the proper protocols.” He jabbed his finger into the table. “There’s no way that was repaired, and there’s no way the other one I saw could have the exact same damage as the one we were preparing to fix.”

Nayef paused.

What other one?

He asked.

And fear filled the face of the once confident man sitting across from him.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, it’s definitely not nothing. You will tell me now what you meant.”

The professor looked at his fingers, nervously tapping them against each other as his hands rested on the tabletop. He looked up at Nayef, his voice lower, conciliatory. “Colonel, you agree that the Black Stone is our most holy relic?”

“Of course.”

“And as good Muslims, it is our duty to protect it.”

“Yes.”

“Then I must inform you that I am certain that the Black Stone currently held at the Kaaba is a fake. If you insist it is not, then either you are fully aware that it is a fake and are covering up the fact so as not to cause panic, or you are not aware it is a fake, and are a victim as I am, of a cover up. Either way, what is now at the Kaaba is fake, and it is our duty to recover the genuine stone.”

Nayef sucked in a slow, deep breath, then sighed it out. “Professor, even if what you say is true, of what benefit would it be for you to repeat such a story? Only harm can come of it.”

“I agree, if others were to find out it could be disastrous, but…”

The man’s voice drifted off as his gaze dropped to his fingers again.

“But?”

The man looked up. “But I know who has it?”

“Who?”

“The Americans.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I saw photos of it last night; it had the damage we were preparing to fix.”

“Who showed you these photos?”

The man paused.

“Who?” demanded Nayef, leaning forward slightly, his eyes glowering.

“Professor James Acton.”

“James Acton?”

“Yes. And his wife.”

Nayef pursed his lips. “Did you discuss this with anyone else?”

Professor Hamidullah shook his head.

“Not even your wife?”

The man’s jaw dropped, horror in his eyes as he rapidly shook his head. “She knows nothing of this! I would never put her in such danger!”

“So you only spoke of this to this Professor James Acton and his wife.”

“Yes, I swear.”

Nayef kicked out his chair, sending it clattering to the floor as he rose to his feet, startling the professor and the two guards by the door. He pulled his handgun and placed two shots in the scholar’s chest, then spun and eliminated the two guards before they had a chance to react.

Holstering his weapon, he stepped calmly into the hallway.

Nobody can know what is going on.

Embassy of Saudi Arabia, Paris, France

“Why not just kill them?”

The question seemed a fair one to Hisham Bitar, head of security at the Saudi Embassy in Paris. And it had been a solution employed before. If someone was making trouble, especially trouble that might embarrass the royal family, they were quite often “disappeared”. Sometimes that meant a secret jail, other times that simply meant they were eliminated.

And with what was going on with Prince Khalid, whatever these two professors had done to deserve the attention of the Mabahith, must be bad, which meant it could add to the troubles now facing his country’s leadership.

So why not kill them?

“One’s an American citizen, the other a millionaire British citizen. They are too high profile,” replied his contact, a man so senior he was just a voice on the other end of the phone he knew never to ignore. “Just capture them and contain them until the crisis has passed.”

“Can you provide us with photos, files?”

“No, there can be no record of this operation. If you are captured, we will deny any involvement and tell the authorities you were acting on your own. Understood?”

“Y-yes. But—?”

“But what?”

“Well, how are we to find them?”

“Professor Palmer was shot last week. She’s recovering at the Assistance Publique Hospital, room two-one-three. Her husband apparently rarely leaves her side. Find them, take them, isolate them, but don’t harm them. Understood?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll see to it personally.”

Assistance Publique Hôpitaux de Paris, Paris, France

“You can tell he’s just itching to be there with them.”

Dawson feigned shock at the perfectly correct accusation. “Not at all, you know I’d rather be here with you.”

“Liar!”

He grinned. “You know me too well.”

“Uh huh.” Maggie turned to Laura. “Do you have the same problem with your husband?”

“If I gave him permission he’d be heading out that door right after BD.”

“Not true!”

Laura looked at her husband. “Bollocks! You’re desperate to go to wherever Red and his team are right now and see for yourself whether or not what they have is real.”

Acton sucked in a deep breath then sighed, nodding with a resigned look on his face. “You’re right, but to be honest, the less time Red and the guys have that thing in their possession, the better, despite the fact that before Islam was created Christians and Jews alike worshipped at the Kaaba. For non-Muslims to have it now though is extremely dangerous.”

“I’m sure somewhere in the Koran it demands their death,” agreed Dawson, frowning, his desire to be with his men deepening.

If the shit hits the fan, I should be there, but instead I’m here playing tourist.

He immediately regretted the thought as Maggie squeezed his hand. He looked at her and gave her an unconvincing smile.

She looked at him “I thought they always said that Islam was a religion of peace, that the Koran didn’t say all these bad things?”

“Repeat a lie often enough…” muttered Acton. She looked at him and he shrugged. “Listen, it’s called abrogation. Basically anything written in the Koran that contradicts itself, is considered correct if it’s a newer verse than the one it contradicts. So if something in the ninth Surah, for example, contradicts something in the fifth, then what is said in the ninth is considered correct.” He held up his hands as Maggie was about to say something. “Look, I’m just the messenger. Abrogation, or supersedence, exists in most religions, including Christianity. There are those who say the Old Testament has been replaced by the New, others who say the old still applies except where it contradicts the new. The difference I guess is that in the New Testament there is very little if any preaching of violence, whereas in the Koran there clearly is, and it’s some of those passages that are what creates the spirited debate.”

Laura rolled over to her side to face them better. “It’s like that passage we found on the Templar knight that time. How did the accepted version go? ‘And when the sacred months have passed, then kill the polytheists wherever you find them and capture them and besiege them and sit in wait for them at every place of ambush.’” She sighed, shaking her head. “You’d never find something like that in the New Testament. And that was in Surah nine. When a Muslim scholar quotes a passage from earlier that contradicts that, they’re most likely intentionally deceiving their audience, because they are fully aware of abrogation.”

Acton nodded. “Agreed. Westerners have trouble with the idea because they think of the Koran like the Bible. You have the Old Testament, then the New Testament, then if you’re Muslim, the Koran. The Old Testament was supposed to lay out a path to the arrival of Christ, so if the New Testament contradicts anything in the Old, it’s accepted that this was by design, because after His arrival, everything changed. So really, the word of God was correct in both the Old and New Testaments.

“This assumption is then carried over to the Koran, but as many have pointed out, there are over one hundred contradictions in the Koran. Muslim scholars though claim this was by intention, since the Koran was written over a twenty-three year period. As people began to follow the new religion, God changed the teachings as necessary to help guide them in their journey.” Acton shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not saying who’s right or who’s wrong, all I’m saying is that when Westerners listen to people talk about the Koran, they need to understand that just because it says something doesn’t mean it’s meant to be followed. Verses later on in the book could completely contradict something earlier, so we need to educate ourselves in what is truly being said, and what is truly being worshiped.”

“I heard about a poll done in Britain just a little while ago after the Paris attacks saying almost thirty percent of Muslims there believed the attacks were justified,” said Maggie. She shivered. “That’s terrifying.”

“And that’s only the ones who were stupid enough to admit their true feelings,” said Dawson. He raised his hands. “I can’t talk about this, I have to try to be impartial.”

Acton chuckled. “I guess your line of work makes it hard sometimes.”

“You have no idea. When people are trying to kill you day in and day out, spouting rhetoric from their holy book, you have to wonder how anyone could have the gall to call it a religion of peace. I truly do hope that it’s just been hijacked and that the majority do want to live in peace.”

Acton massaged the small of his wife’s back causing her to moan slightly and close her eyes. “I think they do, I think the vast majority do. What you need to keep in mind though is what kind of society do they want to live in? I’m certain they want to live in peace, who wouldn’t except psychopaths? The problem becomes whether or not devout Muslims can live in peace and happiness among us. Our way of life fundamentally contradicts not only the Koran, the hadiths and Sharia law, but many of the cultures that Muslims come from. Christianity is a religion, and since the Reformation and Enlightenment, we’ve become a more and more secular society, where Church and State coexist peacefully. But Islam is not only a religion, it is a set of laws and governance that encapsulates every part of life. Until there is a reformation from within, they’ll continue to butt heads with Western democracies because the very concept contradicts their way of life.

“I’m not saying that all Muslims believe this, they don’t. Many have no problem participating fully in our Western way of life, and don’t condemn it in any way beyond simply not participating in some aspects of it, just as a devout Catholic might not believe in drinking or a Jew might not eat pork. And just like the Old Testament might have laws in it that we find ridiculous today and don’t follow, these Muslims feel the same way about parts of the Koran. They accept that these books are products of their time, and over time, we’ve evolved. The books are there to guide us to be better people, but when they clearly contradict what is now accepted as right, we move on.”

“It seems they blame us for everything, though,” said Maggie. “And now they’re killing us all over the world. France, Belgium, England, Canada. It’s crazy!”

Acton nodded. “It is. But remember, we’ve got the same thing in the Muslim world. Muslims are killing Muslims in unprecedented numbers simply because of what sect they belong to, all the while blaming Christians, Jews and other infidels. Remember Nazi Germany. All their ills were blamed on the Jews. It was the Jews who were responsible for Germany losing World War One, it was the Jews who were responsible for the Great Depression, the Jews who caused the Spanish Flu, the Jews who caused all the miseries that Germans suffered. It gave the German people something to rally around, to focus their misery and hatred and frustrations on.

“And then they killed them.

“And the same is true with militant Islam. All their problems are clearly the fault of the infidels. It can’t possibly be their fault since they’re following the word of God. So rather than look inward to see why they suffer, they lash out at those their charismatic leaders tell them to.” Acton shook his head, a sheepish grin appearing. “I’m sorry, I’ve done it again. Too heady a topic for what’s supposed to be a vacation.”

“Scary stuff,” murmured Maggie, her hand tightly squeezing Dawson’s. He didn’t get much time to spend with the professors, but when he did he was always impressed with their breadth of knowledge and their willingness to try and provide context to whatever situation they found themselves in. And now, with his own team stuck in the middle of Yemen with the holiest of relics of a religion prone to brutal violence at the slightest offence, their words simply made him itch to get into the fight he feared was about to come.

Laura yawned.

And that was his cue.

He rose, Maggie quickly following. “We’ll get out of your hair and let you get your rest. Thanks for all your help, Professor.”

“Jim.”

Dawson chuckled. “Jim.” He nodded to Laura. “Prof—”

“Laura.”

“Laura.” He grinned. “It’s the training, it’ll take some getting used to.”

She smiled. “We’ve got lots of time.”

He nodded. “Let’s hope.” He waved his hand, trying to erase the words. “Forget I said that. Yes, lots of time.”

Acton shook his hand then sat back on the edge of his wife’s bed.

“So, what have you two got planned for the rest of the day?”

Dawson looked at Maggie and gave her a toothy grin.

“BD!”

He laughed, the professors joining in.

“Just be thankful you didn’t fall for Niner,” said Acton. “He wouldn’t be as subtle.”

Maggie laughed then grabbed the side of her stomach, wincing in pain. She looked at Laura. “Must be sympathy pains.”

“Or we were wrastlin’ too hard this morning.”

Maggie slapped him. “Be careful, Niner’s single.”

Dawson winked at the professors. “Careful, I might call your bluff.” He raised his chin slightly. “Time to leave you two in peace. And thanks once again for treating us to this vacation, it’s much appreciated.”

Acton rose again, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for saving my wife.”

“I won’t tell you it was Hugh who actually found her just in case you change your mind about that hotel you’ve got us in.”

Acton laughed. “Hey, we offered but the bastard said he was on duty so couldn’t take any credit.”

“That’s why I love off the books operations.” Dawson grinned and put his arm around Maggie. “We’ll stop by before we head home.”

Dawson followed Maggie out of the hospital room and into the hallway. Maggie gasped, gripping her left side then breathing through the pain.

“Are you okay?” asked Dawson, suddenly concerned it might be more than a muscle pull.

“Yeah, just had a sharp pain all of a sudden. Appendix maybe?”

“Wrong side.”

“Oh yeah. Gall bladder?”

“Still the wrong side.”

“Then what the hell’s down here?” she asked, gingerly pressing the lower left side of her stomach.

“Intestines.”

“Gas then?”

“Probably. We’ve been hitting the French cuisine pretty hard. It’s richer than we’re used to.”

“But soo good.”

“You’ll get no argument from me, but as soon as we get home I’m hitting the drive thru.”

Maggie grinned. “Bacon double cheeseburger with fries and a strawberry shake.”

“Maybe we’ll try mayo on the side for the fries like they do here.”

“Pommes frites avec mayonnaise!”

Dawson smiled. “Now how do you say ‘Freedom Fries’ in French?”

Maggie shrugged. “Les fries de freedom?”

“Good Franglais!”

“Merci!”

Hisham Bitar stood halfway down the hall from Professor Laura Palmer’s room, pretending to be reading a text message. Two people left the room, a man and a woman, the woman gripping her side and wincing in pain.

That must be them.

He sent a text message, readying his men.

Falling in behind, leaving a ten foot gap while keeping his eyes on his phone, he almost missed the elevator. Leaping forward he jammed his hand in and forced his way between the doors and into the crammed car. There were several none too subtle complaints from behind him, including a crack about him being Muslim.

How can you tell, you ignorant pig?

He could just as easily been a Christian from Lebanon or Egypt or any other Middle Eastern country where Christians were being forced to flee for their lives since the Arab Spring threw the region into chaos.

But not his country.

The official number of Christian Saudi citizens was zero.

There were over one million Christians in Saudi Arabia, but they were all foreigners, mostly Filipino temporary workers who weren’t allowed to practice their religion while in the country, or to possess any of its symbols including Bibles and crucifixes.

And if anyone dared try to convert from Islam to Christianity, influenced by one of these infidels?

It was apostasy, punishable by death.

For both.

There were few conversions.

The elevator opened and he stepped out, heading for the main doors under the assumption his targets would too. The man looked strong, dangerous even, and his plan of simply sticking a gun in his back was quickly being rethought.

This guy looks military.

He wished he had a dossier on Professor Acton. At least then he’d know whether or not he had to be worried, but he couldn’t take the chance. Worst-case scenario would be they take the woman then use her to force him to surrender.

That’s the new plan.

Holding the door open, several people walked through, one even thanking him, then Professor Palmer stepped through followed by her husband. He pulled his weapon from its shoulder holster, gripping the barrel and raising it high.

Maggie stepped through the doors, the outside air a welcome change from the claustrophobic hospital. She hated hospitals. Hated being in them, hated being near them. She had been there too many times when she was younger to ever want to set foot in one again voluntarily, but BD had insisted and he was right—they could hardly not thank their two benefactors.

She found the relationship between these two professors and her boyfriend’s team odd. Something had happened between them, something bad, and she wasn’t sure what it was. She had learned quite quickly that things were not to be overheard where she worked, and if she were hearing something she wasn’t supposed to, she would remove herself from the situation, either by leaving, closing a door or putting earbuds in.

But she was luckier than many of the women that dated Delta operators. None of them knew what their boyfriend actually did for a living. The wives knew of course, but not the girlfriends. And even the wives never knew where their husbands were being sent or when they’d be home.

It was a difficult life.

It would be a difficult life.

Should they get married.

She heard BD grunt behind her and she turned to see him falling to the ground, the Middle Eastern man from the elevator swinging a gun.

She screamed.

Suddenly two men appeared on either side of her, their hands clamping around her arms as they began to haul her away. She tried to yank herself free, kicking at the men and crying for help that didn’t come, the onlookers simply staring in shock, at least one pulling out their cellphone to record what was happening.

She twisted around and caught sight of BD punching his attacker then taking him down.

“BD!”

She was lifted from the ground and she turned to see the gaping side door of a black van in front of her. Hands inside seized her, pulling her into the darkness and throwing her to the floor as the two men who had grabbed her climbed in. A question was asked in Arabic, the others hesitant, as if their plan had somehow not gone as expected.

They didn’t expect BD to take out their man.

She leapt for the door but was caught and painfully slapped across the face. “Stay down, Professor Palmer, and you won’t be hurt.”

Something was shouted in Arabic and the door slid closed, the van surging forward, sending her tumbling backward, her head hitting something hard.

The next few minutes were a blur, a cacophony of squealing brakes, revving engines and panicked shouts from her kidnappers. The sound of a police siren behind them gave her hope that her ordeal may soon be over, and if she could just get out, she’d be safe. She eyed her assailants, three of them in the back with her and two in the front.

And none looking at her. She reached for the side-door handle.

Someone grabbed her shoulder and hauled her backward, a hand pushing on her bum and shoving her against the rear window. She reached up to brace herself as the driver hit the gas, shoving her face into the glass.

Where she caught sight of the police motorcycle pursuing them.

With BD on it.

A surge of hope and pride rushed through her body at the sight of the man she loved racing toward her, his spring jacket fluttering in the wind behind him, the expression on his face not one of worry or panic, just all business.

A man on a mission.

A man she had no doubt could defeat all five of these assholes with one hand behind his back.

The van jerked to the left and she lost her balance, falling back to the floor. Something hit the side of the van as she struggled to regain her balance, then she heard a crash, catching a glance out the window to see the police motorcycle flip end over end as it careened into a row of parked cars.

BD!

Something hit the roof and the driver began to swerve from side to side, hope returning as she realized her hero had survived.

Someone pulled a gun.

She screamed.

A shot fired, then another.

Then she flew forward as the van came to a shuddering halt.

She pushed herself to her knees and saw BD rolling on the pavement then suddenly rising, marching directly toward the van. One of the men grabbed her hair, twisting it around his hand, then shoved her head forward, between the seats and only inches from the front windshield.

Then pressed a gun against her temple.

She watched the love of her life stop, his hands slowly rising as he glared at the men who would do her harm.

And as the van pulled away, the gun still pressed against her head, she collapsed, all hope lost as the one man who could have saved her was left in the distance.

Defeated.

Unknown Location, Saudi Arabia

Abu Tahir al-Qarmati watched the video that had been transmitted, the last few frames showing the American soldiers heading toward the camera from the Houthi camp they had assaulted the night before. His men had shown initiative by leaving the camera on the hilltop after pursuing the Houthi rebels into Yemen. It was standard practice to have these setups with mobile satellite connections monitoring things from a distance, just in case something were to go wrong.

Like it had two days ago.

But now they had crystal clear footage showing American soldiers with the Black Stone, which meant they had no way of getting it back from them short of an all-out assault. And any attack of that type, even if it could be mounted, would most likely fail, and should it succeed, the victory would only last until the Americans could deploy their airpower.

No, there was no hope of getting it back.

He pursed his lips, pushing a breath out between them, causing them to pucker even more.

What to do? How can we capitalize on this?

He had hoped to destroy the blasphemous artifact on international television, Prince Khalid himself being the instrument of Allah’s will. But now that was no longer possible. The Americans would no doubt return the Black Stone to the Saudi government very shortly, within hours most likely, and then it would be under extremely heavy guard probably for decades to come if not longer.

Their only opportunity to destroy it had been lost.

So how to make the best of the situation?

If the Saudi government regained control of the relic, there would never be another chance of destroying it.

But what if the Saudi government were to fall?

He leaned back in his chair, the footage of the Americans with the Black Stone playing on a loop.

Then smiled.

Unknown Location, Paris, France

The hood was suddenly jerked off Maggie’s head, leaving her to blink several times before her eyes adjusted. The van had come to a halt after a rather sedate drive once her captors had escaped from BD. The hood had been placed over her head after they had escaped, blocking her view of where they were going. All she knew was it hadn’t taken too long and the sounds of the city had been constant.

She was still in Paris.

One of the men turned to her. “You will remain calm and say nothing. If you try anything we will kill you.”

She nodded, her lip trembling slightly as she tried to keep things together. Her heart had been slamming in her chest the entire time, every word of Arabic—or what she assumed was Arabic—evoking images of horrendous torture and eventual death.

Or worse, she’d be sent into Syria or northern Iraq as a sex slave, handed around like a piece of meat until she finally died from the ordeal or was able to kill herself and end it.

She hated having time to think.

Her imagination was out of control, she having read too many stories about what was going on with these terrorist groups. She couldn’t understand how anybody could possibly oppose fighting these groups when the evidence of what they were doing to women and children was overwhelming. Mass murders, mass rapes, women being handed over to fighters as rewards, children raped and buried alive.

How anyone could call themselves a feminist and oppose stopping these maniacs was beyond her.

But now here she was, caught in the middle, all because they thought she was Professor Palmer.

Something she hadn’t yet corrected them on.

In her moments of lucidity, which were few among her near constant panic attacks of the past half hour, she had come to the conclusion that she wouldn’t tell them the truth, at least not yet. If they had meant to kill her, they would have done so already, or if they did mean to kill her, they were in no hurry.

And the longer she could stay alive, the more likely it was that BD could find her.

For she was certain of one thing.

He would stop at nothing to find her.

She just prayed it wouldn’t be too late.

The side door slid open and she stepped out into a small parking garage, a handful of high end vehicles neatly parked with no one but her captors in sight. As they led her quickly toward a nearby door, one of them gripping her upper arm tight, she continued to contemplate her situation.

They tried to abduct Laura.

Which meant they were after a specific person, not just any random woman, which meant she most likely wasn’t being prepped to be a sex slave somewhere. That thought did comfort her slightly, though she swore if it looked like that might happen, she’d kill herself the first chance she got.

But they wanted Laura.

What wasn’t clear was whether or not they had wanted BD as well, and if they had, did they know he wasn’t Professor Acton?

They stepped through a door secured by a keycard then strode quickly down a long hallway, dim yellow lights in the ceiling covering the state of decay of the walls, the paint peeled and chipped, the floor scuffed and cracked from years of neglect.

One of the lights flickered overhead then went out, only to snap back on a moment later with a buzz.

Her biggest fear now was what would happen if they started to ask her questions. She wasn’t an archeologist, and knew very little about the two professors beyond their names and a little bit of background BD had given her. She certainly knew nothing of their personal lives, where they worked, who they worked for.

I don’t even know where they live!

A door at the end of the corridor was opened and she stepped into a dimly lit basement, an elevator directly ahead, two women dressed in what she thought was called the niqab, the head to toe black outfits oppressed Muslim women were forced to wear in some countries, the garb only revealing their eyes. They quickly stepped forward, holding up a niqab that they quickly put on her. Within moments she was wearing the human tent, her body already beginning to get uncomfortably warm, the cloth covering her face almost claustrophobic.

How could anyone claim to wear this voluntarily?

She felt dehumanized, anonymous. With this loose cloth over her entire body she looked like nobody, unidentifiable, no longer a person, no longer an individual. She realized the purpose at the moment was to make her just that—just another Muslim woman, not to be paid attention to.

But the activist in her realized that it was much more than that. As she looked at the other two women through her now narrow view of the world provided her by the men who forced their women to go through life like this, she grew angry. She could tell nothing about them beyond their height and eye color. They were nobodies, neither man nor woman, young or old, thin or fat. They were bundles of flesh hidden away because a culture of men had told them it must be so, otherwise they’d prove too tempting to the men around them who couldn’t be expected to control their sexual urges.

The only way anyone could possibly say they wore this thing voluntarily is if they had been brainwashed since birth that it was normal. Or were trying to make a political statement.

The button was pressed and they waited a few moments before a chime sounded and the doors opened. Stepping on, she was led to the back, flanked by the two anonymous women, the men forming a wall in front of her, as if they didn’t want her to be seen.

Her heart leapt.

Maybe I’m about to go outside?

She made an immediate decision.

If she had the opportunity, she’d rip these coverings off and make as much noise as she could. If someone saw her, she might be able to get help.

The button was pressed for the second floor and the brief hint of hope deflated as she realized they weren’t going outside. The doors opened and they stepped out into what looked like an upscale office, traditional wood paneling and artwork suggesting the building was fairly old with a lot of money put into the upkeep.

She spotted a green and white flag and her stomach churned.

Saudi Arabia?

If there was a country that belched forth hatred across the globe, it was Saudi Arabia. Wahhabism was one of the strictest forms of Islam and with Saudi oil money behind it, they had founded, and continued to found, countless mosques the world over, funding schools and organizations across the globe preaching their fundamentalist interpretation of their religion.

With the full knowledge of the Western governments they thumbed their noses at.

And it explained the niqab she was now wearing.

If seen by anyone here, they’d just assume she was one of them. Clearly being a woman was going to work against her.

I wonder what they would have done with BD.

She still had the impression something had gone wrong and this entire plan was being hobbled together on the fly. But whatever the case, it had worked with her, the proof the windowless room she was led into, it the stereotype of every interrogation room she had ever seen on television, from the plain table and uncomfortable chairs to the bright lights and two way mirror.

The man holding her arm shoved her toward one of the chairs facing the mirror.

“Sit.”

She looked at herself in the mirror, startled at first that someone else was where she should be before she remembered she was wearing the niqab and that black, anonymous, sexless form was her.

She turned to the man. “Can I take this off?”

He seemed caught off guard, began to stammer out a reply then suddenly glared at her.

“Sit!”

She sat.

The door slammed shut and she was suddenly alone.

Sweat began to trickle down her back and her breathing became labored as the sense of claustrophobia, of being trapped, not inside the room but inside the heavy black fabric, set in.

She tore the head covering off, tossing it onto the table and breathing deeply, the air seeming cool on her sweat-drenched face. Suddenly she jumped to her feet, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and lifting it, dragged the niqab off her body as if it were burning her flesh, her yanking and tearing becoming more and more frantic as she struggled to remove the unfamiliar garment, it getting caught around her shoulders for a moment, her arms stretched out in front of her as she was bent over, her head trapped, her breathing once again rapid.

One final growl and she had her head out, the cruel uniform now only on her arms. She jerked one arm free then pulled it off the other, tossing it in a twisted ball on the table before dropping back into her chair and grabbing her hair in frustration. Leaning forward, her elbows hit the table followed by her forehead, her hands clasped atop her head as she closed her eyes and took deep, slow breaths, trying to stay as calm as possible.

Remember, you’re Professor Laura Palmer and your job is to survive until BD can find you.

The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“Sir, they took Maggie!”

Colonel Clancy bolted upright in his chair at Dawson’s words, his heart racing harder than the news of any recent terrorist attack had caused. Maggie Harris was his personal assistant, a woman he had come to know and respect over the years, who did her job well and understood the nature of their work. It didn’t go unnoticed that she would close doors when someone started spouting off classified information in his office without first checking themselves, or that she’d sometimes put her earphones in when some Washington brass-hole decided to express his displeasure through volume rather than tact.

In fact, she was like a daughter to him.

Part of the family.

Part of The Unit.

“Explain.”

“We were visiting the professors at the hospital. On the way out I was pistol-whipped and Maggie was abducted. At least six men, Middle Eastern in appearance. I gave pursuit but had to break off when they threatened to kill her.”

“When?”

“Almost three hours ago.”

“Three hours! Why am I just hearing about this now?”

“Because I’ve been in a French interrogation room. I called Interpol Special Agent Hugh Reading just before they arrested me. It took him a few hours to get me out.”

“Is he with you now?”

“Negative. He’s in London and can’t get away.”

“Okay, any leads?”

“Just the license plate number and some physical descriptions. Nothing else. I’ll send you everything I’ve got in a few minutes. But there’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I think they thought we were the professors. The guy who hit me called me Professor Acton. Any idea why they’d be targeted?”

“I can think of only one reason.”

“Yeah, me too, but who would know they were helping us?”

“Only a handful knew, and I can guarantee you the leak isn’t at our end. What’s your status?”

“Clearing out of the police station now and going back to the hospital to take the professors to the embassy where they’ll be safe. I’m going to get Niner back here to help me.”

“Good thinking. Keep me posted. I’ve got a call to make.”

Clancy killed the call then requested a secure line to Colonel Faisal bin Nayef’s office. While he waited, cigar spinning on his index finger and thumb, he had too much time to think. Maggie had been taken, but her captors thought they had kidnapped Laura Palmer. The fact they had screwed up meant one of two things. Either they didn’t have good intel on who they were abducting, or they were idiots, and if they were conducting a public abduction without good intel, they were idiots regardless.

The question was whether or not they knew who they had.

It obviously wasn’t an assassination attempt, they would have just killed them publicly since they had no problem abducting them publicly. That meant they wanted them for some reason, either to interrogate them for some piece of intel they thought the professors possessed, or they needed to silence them temporarily.

Or they wanted them for leverage.

If this was connected to the op in Yemen then he couldn’t see how the leverage aspect would work since the professors were unconnected officially to the United States government, and he was pretty certain the Saudi’s would have no idea about the unofficial connection.

The question then became how did they know that Acton had been contacted about the Black Stone?

The Saudi Professor.

The CIA said he had been captured and taken to a Mabahith facility where he hadn’t been seen since. The Saudi’s wouldn’t hesitate to torture the poor man, so he would have most likely given up Acton’s name, probably within minutes.

That’s how they got the connection.

Which meant somebody at the Saudi end had called for Acton and his wife to be taken for some reason, probably to keep a lid on things, or to find out if they knew where Red’s team was.

Yet that made no sense, since it was the Saudi’s who had supplied the information. They knew exactly where Red’s team was located.

So they don’t want the professors talking.

Which made sense. If he were the Saudi’s he’d be trying to squash any rumors about the Black Stone being stolen.

But that assumed it was the Saudi government behind it.

The phone rang with his call.

“Colonel Clancy, how can I help you?”

Clancy decided to go the confrontational route, it his experience that Middle Easterners reacted better to strength rather than weak diplomatic talk.

Especially those within their secret police.

“Who the hell did you tell?”

“Excuse me?”

“Someone abducted one of my assets in Paris, attacking a second!”

“Who?”

“You know damned well who.”

“I assure you, I do not.”

“If you don’t, then someone within your organization does. You’ve got a leak, Colonel. I want it plugged, and I want to know who was involved so I can get my asset back.” Clancy leaned forward, jabbing his desk, wishing the daggers he was shooting could be seen at the other end. “And Colonel?”

“Yes.”

“If anything happens to that asset, I’ll make it my personal mission to eliminate every single person involved.”

“I understand.”

Clancy slammed the receiver down just as a written report from Dawson arrived in his secure email.

Now to get Maggie back.

Alive.

Hotel Astor Saint Honore, Paris, France

Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung knocked on the hotel room door, a quick three-two-three pattern, before stepping back slightly so the other side would have a good view of him.

The door opened, a grim faced Dawson greeting him, Glock 22 in hand.

“How are you holding up?” he asked as he stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him then dropping his duffel bag in the entrance.

“Going a little batty. I’m waiting for Langley to get back to me, they’re trying to trace the van now.”

Niner headed for the kitchenette of the large two-bedroom suite, he having occupied one of the rooms just a few days ago before heading to Spain for some sand, surf and sun with an old buddy. With everything that had happened just last week still fresh on his mind, he had never expected to be back in the thick of it so soon.

Especially for Maggie.

He looked at his friend sitting in one of the comfortable chairs, phone in one hand, TV remote in the other as he stared blankly at the screen.

He must be going through hell.

Though the boys ribbed Dawson good-naturedly about his relationship with Maggie, they all wanted the best for him. Dawson was a bit of a loner when it came to women, his relationships never lasting longer than a few weeks, almost always broken off by him as soon as he felt a connection forming.

It was a pattern even he was guilty of.

Most of the guys in The Unit were married or in serious relationships, but a few just hadn’t found the right fit yet, but with Maggie, Dawson certainly seemed to have found ‘the one’.

He just hoped his friend didn’t lose her before he could find out for sure.

Niner grabbed two bottles of water from the well-stocked fridge, joining Dawson in the living area, placing a bottle in front of him. He dropped into a chair and cracked the lid, taking a long swig.

“When are you expecting to hear from them?”

“Any time now I would think. They’ve been on it for hours.”

“I read your secure email. So you think this is a case of mistaken identity?”

Dawson nodded, his eyes still glued to the television. “He definitely called me ‘Professor Acton’, and we had just left Palmer’s room.” He snapped his fingers, finally looking at Niner. “Maggie had some sort of stomach cramp and was holding her side. I bet you they thought that was Palmer’s stomach wound.”

Niner took another drink. “Makes sense. So you’re pretty sure this has to do with what’s going on in Yemen?”

“Can’t think of anything else. The Colonel’s looking into it. He thinks there’s a leak at the Saudi end that told the wrong person that the Actons were helping us.”

“Jesus, those two are just shit-magnets.”

Dawson grunted. “No friggin’ way I’d go to Vegas with either of them. I’d lose my shirt.”

“Not if you bet against them,” grinned Niner. “You might just win some of their money.”

Dawson shook his head. “No thanks, I’m happy with my measly salary. Money means problems.”

“True dat, but I wouldn’t mind having an extra hundred grand just to get my folks out of the mess they’re in.”

His parents had lost their home during the housing crisis, declaring bankruptcy and losing everything, even their friends, his father too proud to remain in the same city. They had left in the middle of the night and were still trying to rebuild.

It had broken his heart.

“Why don’t you ask Palmer? I’m sure she’d give it to you.”

Niner gave Dawson a sideways glance as he looked at the television. “The sad thing is that she probably would.”

“You’re probably right.”

“So the professors are secure?”

“Yeah, I had a DS detail escort them to the embassy as soon as I was sprung. No one’s getting at them now and they’ve got decent medical facilities there just in case.”

“Shit, I forgot about that. What about getting them stateside?”

“The doctors don’t want her flying yet, but—what the hell is this?” Dawson cranked the volume on the television, the CNN International anchor talking on one half of the screen, a Breaking News banner in red emblazoned across the top, a hooded man speaking on the other half.

“—just received this prerecorded message. We will play it for you in its entirety in a moment, but first we at CNN want to explain what you are about to see. Embedded with this statement is footage that appears to show American soldiers with what the speaker claims is the Black Stone, the ancient holy relic that is normally located at the Kaaba in Mecca. Viewers may have seen images of the Kaaba with hundreds of thousands of the Muslim faithful walking around it during the Hajj holy festival. The footage of the American soldiers has been modified by CNN to hide the identity of these men in the event the footage is genuine. Here now is the speech in its entirety, delivered to us in English and Arabic versions.”

Niner looked at Dawson. “This can’t be good.”

“No shit.”

The screen split with the hooded man on the left, the footage of what was instantly recognizable as Red’s team on the right.

“Praise be to Allah who created the creation for his worship and commanded them to be just and permitted the wronged one to retaliate against the oppressor in kind. To my brothers and sisters I say this: we are the wronged, and we have proof of who the oppressor is. Two days ago the great Prince Khalid al bin Abdullah Al Saud was kidnapped and killed by operatives of the American government. At the same time they stole the great holy relic, the Black Stone, an unforgiveable, sacrilegious sin.

“As was clear to me and to all who follow the prophet’s teachings, peace be upon him, Prince Khalid was forced to deliver a televised address against his will, as no true Muslim could say the horrible things he said, willingly. His speech was thankfully halted when forces loyal to the teachings of the prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, attacked, in an attempt to free Prince Khalid and recover the stolen holy relic.

“Unfortunately they failed. The American soldiers responsible beheaded our great Prince and took the Black Stone to a location only now discovered by our operatives. As the footage clearly shows, these men not only wear the uniform of the enemy, use the equipment of the enemy, but possess the Black Stone.

“This cannot be tolerated. No greater offence has ever been made against Islam and the prophet himself, peace be upon him. The Americans and their allies attack us at every turn, declare war on our very way of life, and massacre us by the tens of thousands, all in an attempt to subvert the one true religion. We have fought back against them, killing their soldiers, killing their wives and daughters, destroying their mighty buildings, but now, in an act of unspeakable blasphemy, the infidels have taken the most holiest of relics for themselves, with the clear intention of destroying it.

“This cannot be allowed to happen, and there is only one way to stop this horror.

“I call upon all true Muslims around the world to rise up against those who would subjugate them, against those who would insult our religion, against those who would dare to destroy the holy relic. I call upon all true Muslims to kill the infidels, to slaughter them where they live, where they work, where they pray. I call upon all true Muslims to declare Jihad against the infidels until the holy relic, the Black Stone, is back in the hands of the faithful and the followers of the prophet, peace be upon him.

“The time has come, my brothers and sisters, to put an end to the attacks on our faith, and take what Allah himself divined was ours. All peace be upon he who follows this guidance, and delivers justice to the infidel.”

The view changed back to the talking head, several more appearing as the commentary and analysis began, Dawson muting it and turning to Niner.

“I think we better get to a secure location.”

Niner nodded in agreement. “I think I might give my folks a shout.”

Dawson rose. “Me too.”

The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“Thank you for taking my call, Mr. Secretary.”

“I’m busy, Colonel, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

Colonel Clancy frowned, the tone of the Secretary of Defense not one suggesting cooperation was about to be had. Clancy decided not to beat around the bush. “Of course, sir, which is why I’m calling. I have a team deployed in Yemen and need to extract them immediately, but I’m getting the runaround. The Captain of the USS Iwo Jima is refusing to deploy the evac helicopters. He says the order came from your office.”

“He’s correct, Colonel.” Clancy’s teeth sank deeper into his unlit cigar. “After that broadcast catching your men with their pants down, all hell’s broken loose. We’ve already got reports of attacks on civilians all across the globe and protests beginning to form in front of our embassies worldwide. We’ve got to get ahead of this Colonel, and the first step is denying any and all involvement.”

“But what about my men?” Clancy could feel his blood begin to boil, his cheeks hot and red.

“They were never there. We were never there.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means they’ve been disavowed. No United States assets will be used to retrieve them, and we will deny any knowledge of them should they be captured. As far as the United States government is concerned, they never existed.”

Clancy yanked the cigar out of his mouth, whipping it across the room. “That’s bullshit, sir! Those men were there under my orders, approved by my superiors, by their government. They deserve better than to be abandoned in the middle of some goddamned desert!”

“Listen, Colonel, I understand how you feel. But with the footage released to the press showing your men with this Muslim artifact, the most holy damned one they’ve got, we have to distance ourselves from this as fast and as hard as we can.” There was a pause followed by a sigh. “Colonel, Tom, do you know what tomorrow is?”

“I don’t understand. Friday?”

“Exactly. Friday. Mosques around the world, including all across our own country, are going to be filled to capacity, and if we can’t get ahead of this message, those people are going to be pouring out onto the streets thinking our government killed Prince Khalid and stole this black rock. And if that happens, hundreds if not thousands are going to die. Remember what happened with those Danish cartoons. Hundreds around the world died, even more were wounded, all over some cartoons. What could happen with their holiest of relics being stolen terrifies me, Tom, as it should all of us.”

Clancy sucked in a deep breath, calming his voice if only slightly. “Sir, with all due respect, retrieving my men means retrieving the artifact. We can then deliver it back to the Saudis and put an end to this.”

“Absolutely not, Colonel. If we did that then we’d be admitting the footage is genuine. Even if we denied stealing it, no one would believe us and God knows when the violence would end. We’re better off denying all involvement and maintaining that denial.”

“So my men, this country’s men, are the ones who are left holding the bag.”

“I’m sorry that’s the way it has to be. Colonel, Tom, these are good men. The finest our country has to offer. I know the type. They’ll find a way to get home.”

“Despite your best efforts.”

“That’s not fair, Tom.” He paused, the sound of a deep breath being taken bursting through the phone. “Tom, Colonel, I have to ask this officially. Are you absolutely certain they had nothing to do with this? The theft I mean?”

Clancy’s grip tightened on the receiver. “Sir, you’re lucky you’re on the other end of a phone.”

“I understand. Good bye, Colonel.”

The call ended and Clancy slammed the phone into its cradle then jumped from his chair, rushing out of his office and down the hall. “Make a hole!” he shouted, startled staff jumping out of the way and hugging walls. Swiping his pass, he entered the Op Center for the Yemini operation, pointing at the coordinator. “Get me Bravo Two.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir. They just blocked all their comms. Their codes have been locked out.”

“So we have no way of communicating with them?”

The coordinator shook her head. “Negative. Not unless they have a personal cellphone and can get coverage. But this is Yemen, sir, there’s almost no coverage.”

Clancy clenched and unclenched his fists, looking for something to hit before he calmed himself enough to continue.

“Get me Dawson.”

Houthi Rebel Encampment, North-Western Yemen

“Shit, our comms just went dead!”

Red spun toward Atlas. “What?”

“I was just checking in and then it went dead. I tried reentering my code but it’s coming back invalid.”

Red immediately activated his comm but received an error tone through his earpiece. He rekeyed his code into his TransApp enabled phone.

No joy.

What the hell is going on?

He activated his unsecured comm, motioning to Atlas. “Zero-Seven, Zero-Two, comm check, over.”

Atlas gave a thumbs up. “Zero-Two, Zero-Seven, reading you five-by-five, over.”

Red nodded. “Gather around, boys.” The others quickly joined him, including their rescued hostage, Josh Pullman. “Here’s the situation. Our secure comms are down. The computer is showing a connection but our codes aren’t working, which means the satellite is good but we’ve been locked out.” He nodded toward the crate with the Black Stone. “I’m guessing this has everything to do with that thing.”

“Somebody talked.”

Red looked at Atlas, nodding. “Or the video from that damned camera setup you found was released. Either way, there’s no way we’d be left out here hanging unless something’s gone very wrong.”

“So what’s the plan?” asked Jimmy.

Red motioned toward the two vehicles belonging to the now dead terrorists. “Make sure they’re operational, load up on supplies, and get the hell away from here. If someone talked, then they might have given away our location.”

Atlas motioned toward the crate. “What about that?”

“We can’t leave it here, it’s too important. Load it in the back of one of the trucks, we’ll take it with us.”

“And the head?”

Red frowned, eying the basket with Prince Khalid’s head inside. “We better take it as well.”

Atlas held up the portable satellite modem. “I’ll see if I can get this thing going, maybe we can get a satellite connection through it.”

Red smiled. “Good idea.”

“I’ve been known to have one from time to time.”

Jimmy cleared his throat. “Not calling in sick for this Charlie-Foxtrot wasn’t one of them.”

Atlas eyeballed him. “If we’ve been disavowed, then I can kick your ass and not get court-martialed.”

Jimmy kissed his fingers then smacked his ass. “You’d have to catch me first, big boy.”

“You may be fast, twinkie, but I’ve got stamina.”

Jimmy opened his mouth but Atlas cut him off with a raised finger and a cocked head.

“One joke about my girlfriend and I tear your nuts off.”

Jimmy cupped his boys. “Yes’m!”

One of the trucks roared to life, Sergeant Zack “Wings” Hauser hanging out the driver side window, giving a thumbs up. “Nearly a full tank. Engine light’s on, but who the hell knows.”

The second truck started, Sergeant Eugene “Jagger” Thomas giving a wave. “Three quarters of a tank and no indicators. She looks good!”

Red motioned to the crate. “Load it in the back, get water and enough of their food for three days. We need local camo too—strip the dead if you have to—we need to look like we belong here. Also take an AK each and all the ammo you can find. We don’t know what we’re heading into.”

All I know is it can’t be good.

Embassy of the United States, Paris, France

Dawson exchanged an angry glance with Niner, his blood past the boiling point, and judging by Niner’s clenched jaw, the usually jovial man was just as irate.

“Who the hell’s decision was that, sir?”

“Straight from the Secretary of Defense. I’ve confirmed it with the White House and Pentagon. As of less than an hour ago, Red’s team has been disavowed and are on their own.”

Dawson could tell Colonel Clancy was just as pissed. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

Dawson’s eyebrows jumped. “Nothing?”

“Officially.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, Niner shoving back in his chair, the tension getting to both of them. “Unofficially?”

“I’m working the phones, but everyone’s ass is as tight as an inmate’s on his first night. Regular channels aren’t going to cut it.”

Dawson pursed his lips, his mind racing for solutions. “And if I have some non-kosher ideas?”

“I don’t want to hear about them, but do whatever it takes. I want my men back on American soil. Alive.”

“Consider it done, Colonel.”

The call ended and Dawson looked at Niner. “Can you believe this shit?”

Niner nodded toward the television on mute, images of torched cars, smashed windows and smoldering American flags on a continuous loop with an inflammatory headline, How much worse can it get?

“With what’s been going on in the news, absolutely. This is bad, BD, real bad. Our guys have the goddamned Black Stone. They’re damned if they do, damned if they don’t. If they’re caught with it, they’ll be hacked to pieces after they’re paraded in front of the cameras, accusing us of stealing the damned thing, and if they try to hand it over, the same damned thing will happen.”

Dawson closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly as he tried to think. “They’ve got no comms, so how do we get a message to them?”

Niner raised a finger, leaning forward. “Not true!”

Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve got perfectly functioning comms. They’ve just been locked out.”

Dawson had a feeling he knew where Niner was running with this but decided to let the man finish the race. “So?”

“So, we need someone to break that lock.”

A smile broke out on Dawson’s face. “Have anyone in mind?”

Niner grinned. “A little Kraft Dinner, anyone?”

Laucala Island Private Resort, Fiji

CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane felt like shit, though at least it was no longer ninth level of hell shit. He had been suffering from wicked food poisoning for almost a week—bad raw oysters, he figured—the diarrhea and vomiting having finally passed several days ago.

But he was still weak.

Fortunately he had two of the hottest nurses on the island tending to his every need. He wasn’t sure of their qualifications beyond being gorgeous and attentive, but he wasn’t that picky. He was being kept hydrated, fed, and the sponge baths were frequent and enjoyable.

If he was going to be sick, this private resort with local talent was better than any hospital he could imagine stateside.

His phone vibrated on the nightstand and it was immediately handed to him with a heart-stopping smile and caress of his hand by Levani, a particularly friendly woman he had come to know over the past several years. When his need for help had become clear, she was more than happy to volunteer.

Man, life can be good sometimes.

As a CIA operator he went deep into most of the world’s shitholes, sometimes for weeks or months on end. He had no family to take care of, few friends, and parents with a secure income and good retirement savings—in other words, no one to worry about.

And with his own retirement plan being death, he didn’t bother with saving his money. When he came out of some cesspool, he immediately decompressed in one of the pleasure centers of the world, this time Fiji, where he’d drink himself stupid, have sex with the loveliest of ladies, and generally embarrass his mother if she ever knew.

But since his parents thought he was an insurance investigator for Shaw’s of London, the chances of his sins being discovered by anyone he cared about were slim.

He glanced at the message and his eyes popped a little wider.

Interesting.

Over the years he had set up his own untraceable communications network where a few trusted souls could reach out to him, should it become necessary, without his CIA handlers knowing about it. Most operators worth their salt had similar setups, one never knowing when they were about to get screwed by their own government because of politics.

He had more than enough fingers and toes to count how many people knew how to reach out, and someone had.

“Can you bring me my laptop, darling?”

Levani nodded, rising from her perch on the edge of his bed to retrieve the laptop sitting on a nearby table as Miliana adjusted his pillows to help him sit up. Levani placed the computer on his lap as he sipped some chicken noodle soup from a large coffee mug, prepared special by the kitchen for their VIP guest.

He smiled a thank you to his attendants then logged into his secure laptop with a password and biometric scan. Within moments he was looking at the secure email from his former Delta buddy Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson. Kane had joined the army after 9/11 and set a career trajectory to get into the thick of things, first making the Army Rangers from which most Delta recruits were chosen.

Then he had made Delta.

It had been a proud day he had no one to share with except his new buddies in The Unit.

It had been enough for a time.

Then he wanted more.

And when the CIA had approached him, he had jumped at the opportunity.

And never looked back.

But from time to time his old buddies needed a hand that their government couldn’t officially provide, but he could. And it looked like from the brief SOS email, they might need it today.

Unfortunately he was still too ill to dive in with both feet.

Kane dialed the number Dawson had left in his encrypted email, the private account set up to automatically ping him if there was a message containing the correct code or ‘from’ address.

“Speak.”

Kane recognized Dawson’s voice immediately, and he didn’t sound happy.

“Hey, buddy, how they hangin’?”

“Like they’ve been chopped off at the root. You got my message?”

“Yup. What’s going on?”

“Haven’t you been watching the news?”

“I never do, not when I’m decompressing.”

“Turn your TV on.”

“Just a second.” He motioned to Levani for the remote then turned the television at the foot of his bed on, switching to CNN International. “Jesus, what’s all this?” The usual Muslim mayhem seemed to be playing out on the screen, though this time the normally docile CNN seemed to be in a real panic, their news scrolls reporting killing after killing, their headline reading ‘World Leaders’ Plea for Calm Ignored’. Kane shook his head, realizing too much was going on. “Give me the executive summary.” The screen suddenly began to show footage of a group of American Special Forces types standing around a crate, the video looking like it had been taped through a phone’s night vision setting. “Wait a minute, is that Atlas?”

“I guess you’re seeing the footage?”

“Yeah. Christ, BD, what the hell is going on?”

“Eight man team led by Red was sent into Yemen last night to rescue a Saudi Prince. Instead they found his head and an Islamic holy relic called the Black Stone.”

“What’s that?”

“According to Professor Acton it’s some ancient relic that the Muslims worship in Mecca. Part of that big black cube they walk around during the Hajj.”

“Oh yeah, that silver and black thing that they try to touch.”

“Exactly.”

“How the hell was that stolen?”

“It looks like the Prince was in on it and stole it during a ceremony where it was being taken to be repaired. Now this footage has been released and the entire effin’ Muslim world is calling for blood because they’re claiming we stole it.”

“So why not return it?”

“Political idiocy. The White House is saying our men were never there so they never stole it and they don’t have it, so they can’t return it because then they’d be admitting we had it.”

“Backchannels?”

“Oh, I’m sure something’s going on, but in the meantime they’ve disavowed the team and cut off all comms. There’s no way to reach them and no cellphone service in the area.”

“What do you need?”

“We need to somehow mount a rescue and let them know where the hell the rendezvous point is.”

“That’s not going to be easy. It’s going to take money. And a lot of it.”

“I might have a source that I can tap.”

Kane had an idea who that source might just be. His former archeology professor, James Acton, was now married to an extremely wealthy woman who had freed up her wallet on more than one occasion to help. Acton and his wife were two of the few people in this world who knew what he did for a living, Acton the man he had turned to when deciding whether or not to leave university and join the military.

He had counselled him wisely.

“Palmer?”

“Exactly. They’re here at the embassy now.”

“Where are you?”

“Paris.”

“Ahh, did Maggie join you?”

There was a pause, then Dawson’s voice was like he had never heard it before in all his years of knowing the man. “They took her.”

Kane bolted up in his bed. “What? Who?”

“The prevailing theory is they thought we were the professors. They took her but I managed to take out my guy. There’s been no word yet, no demands, nothing.”

“Any leads?”

“None yet, but Langley’s trying to get their hands on the traffic camera footage and trace the van.”

“Jesus, BD, I’m sorry to hear that. I know how much Maggie means to you.”

A grunt was the only response he got, and it was all he expected, Dawson never one to show much emotion.

Kane pursed his lips. “Okay, first things first. If you were Red, what would you be doing right now?”

“Getting the hell out of the area. By now they know they’ve been disavowed by the simple fact their comms are down. Red would lead them out of the area in case a superior force is sent in to eliminate them.”

“Saudi?”

“Or Yemeni, terrorist, prayer group, who the hell knows. Right now there’s almost two billion Muslims calling for their heads.”

“Do you know exactly where they are?”

“That footage was taken about ten miles inside the Yemeni-Saudi border, a couple of hundred miles from the Red Sea.”

“That’s where I’d be heading.”

“Agreed. I’m thinking they’ll try to cross into Saudi territory since it’s a little more sane than Yemen, then try for international waters by boat.”

Kane watched the footage of Red’s team looping again and pointed at the screen. “That looks like the back end of a pickup truck.”

“Yeah, I noticed that too. Sit rep before they went offline was two vehicles. No idea if they’re functional.”

Kane was quickly bringing up a Google map of the area. “If we assume they are, there’s several roads nearby they can use to shoot straight to the coast.”

“They’ll have to be careful, everyone is looking for them. Red’s probably going to try and keep off the roads when the terrain permits.”

“That would be the wise move, though it’s going to slow them down a lot.”

“And we have no idea how much gas they’ve got access to so they might not be getting far regardless.”

Kane shook his head. “This just keeps getting better and better. Okay, if we assume they’re heading for the coast, we’ll have to try to arrange a pickup. We can’t do anything without comms. Let me get to work on that.”

“Good. And if you can, send them a message from me.”

“What?”

“Tell them they’re not forgotten.”

Embassy of the United States, Paris, France

“Oh for Christ’s sake, what the hell is that?”

Dawson had barely entered the infirmary where Laura Palmer was being tended to, her husband sitting in a chair by her bed, both watching the latest horrors on television, when Niner’s outburst caused him to look at the screen rather than respond to the professors’ greetings.

He shook his head at the sight, several bloody bodies lying on the street, British bobbies keeping onlookers back.

“Apparently they hacked them to pieces with machetes,” explained Acton, his voice subdued. “And that’s just the latest. There’s been dozens of attacks like that, especially here in Paris and in London.”

“They’re slaughtering Christians in Pakistan and Nigeria, burning their churches and schools.” Laura turned away from the television, her eyes glistening. “It’s horrible.”

“All over a freaking piece of rock,” muttered Niner.

Acton hit the mute button on the television’s remote control, his face grim. “Unfortunately we don’t have a parallel in our society to compare it to. Imagine we had the bones of Jesus, preserved let’s say at the Vatican for the past two thousand years, worshipped by billions worldwide. Then imagine Muslims stole it from us. How would we react?”

“With a lot less barbarism, I should think,” replied Laura, folding her arms across her chest.

“Agreed. Like I said, there’s just no parallel because Western society has evolved past this level of blind, violent devotion. Imagine if it had happened five hundred years ago? Or a thousand. Remember the Crusades. Muslims slaughtered three thousand Christian pilgrims, so the leaders of Europe send thousands of knights to exact revenge and protect the pilgrims. Today Muslims kill thousands of Christians in Africa and we do nothing. If we had the same mentality as we did five hundred or a thousand years ago, we’d have carpet bombed the assholes out of existence. Today we’re too civilized to respond that way. Unfortunately, too much of Islam isn’t, so they’re reacting the way we would have centuries ago.”

“Still no excuse.”

Acton smiled at his wife. “Oh, I’m not defending them, I’m just trying to give some context to the reaction. We can’t think in Western terms, and that’s always been the problem. We’re fighting a war, not against a country, but against an ideology. We’ve never really done that before, and unfortunately our political correctness is fuelling that ideology. Think about it, Wahabbism is one of the strictest interpretations of Islam, and it is spread from Saudi Arabia using their oil money. Their hatred against all things not Islamic is well documented, yet we continue to buy their oil and subsidize their military. Why? If we said to the Saudis ‘no more money until you stop spreading your message of hate’, what would happen?”

“The Saudi government would probably fall,” replied Dawson.

“Oil prices would shoot through the roof,” added Niner.

Acton nodded. “Yup, chaos. And that’s because we’ve been silent so long, it’s now too late. The pain to fix it is going to be horrible. The risks if we don’t are going to be far worse.” He stood and perched on the side of Laura’s bed, taking her hand in his. “Any word on Maggie?”

“No,” replied Dawson, shaking his head. He motioned to Niner to close the door. “And things just got worse.”

Acton and Laura exchanged glances. “How?”

“Red and the team have been disavowed.”

Laura’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means they’ve been cut off from any and all help. No communications, no retrieval options, no resupply, nothing.”

“Why the hell would they do that?” asked Acton, his face turning slightly red with anger.

“The government is terrified of what’s going on. They don’t want to risk there being any connection between them and that footage.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to get them out so no one finds them?”

“If I know my White House thinking, they don’t want anybody spotting any American assets heading into the general vicinity as it would be an admission of guilt. If someone got some footage of our guys being helo’d out, they wouldn’t be able to stick to the party line that the footage is fake and we were never there.”

“But what about Red and the others?” asked Laura, sitting up slightly straighter, wincing as her stomach wound compressed.

Dawson frowned, looking at Niner for a moment. He hated what he was about to ask, hated that he needed to ask. It should be his government taking care of this, doing the right thing, but it wasn’t. It was up to him to come to those with money, cap in hand, begging for help.

He hated it.

“We need your help.”

Acton exchanged a quick glance with his wife, who nodded, as if they already knew what he meant.

“Anything,” replied Acton.

“It could get expensive.”

“Whatever it takes, BD,” said Laura. “Just tell us what you need, and I’ll make the funds available to you.”

Dawson felt a wave of goose bumps rush over his body as he realized how fortunate he and his men were to have people like this in their lives. These two civilians had charged into harm’s way to help them in the past, never concerning themselves with their own lives, always thinking of others first. It was a trait he rarely saw outside the military or emergency services.

They were genuinely good people.

Which was why he felt filled with shame, part of him thinking he was taking advantage of them, especially with how expensive this could end up being. He had no way to repay them except with his thanks, and in the end, they might still fail, and it would all be for not.

Yet he had to try.

He couldn’t leave his friends, his comrades, twisting in the wind because of cowards in the White House.

He sighed, his lips pressing tightly together as he tried to come up with a number that didn’t sound greedy.

Laura saved him, no smile, no judgment, just an answer that solved everything.

“I’ll have five million put in the account we already set up. If you need more, you let us know.”

Relief swept through him as he stepped forward and shook Laura’s hand, then Acton’s, Niner doing the same.

“You have no idea how much we appreciate this,” he said, stepping back. “I don’t know how I’m going to repay you, but I will, somehow.”

Laura shook her head. “You already have on too many occasions. It’s only money, and we’ve got too much of it as it is. If we can use some of it to help save lives, we’re more than happy to.”

Niner was shaking his head in disbelief, finally jabbing a finger at Acton then his wife. “You two…you two…” He just shook his head, unable to speak, instead wiping what looked to be a tear about to escape. He sucked in a deep breath. “I hate you two. Look, you made me turn into Jimmy. He’s the emotional one.”

Acton chuckled as he squeezed Laura’s hand, a tear rolling down her own cheek. “We’ll have the funds transferred immediately. Use it to save the team and Maggie. Whatever it takes.”

Dawson’s chest tightened at the mention of Maggie, his own emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He nodded with a grim smile then stepped out of the room, fearing his own voice might betray his emotions, Niner saying some quick goodbyes as he heard Laura asking for her phone.

And now, with funding secured, he needed Kane to come through for them.

But how the hell do you mount a rescue operation in the middle of an Arabian desert with no government assets?

He feared any rescue might simply come too late.

Northwestern Yemen

Atlas scanned the horizon for any unwelcome guests, turning his attention to the late evening sky, trying to catch the glint of sunlight reflecting off a possible UAV or aircraft. Anything that might indicate they hadn’t been completely abandoned.

But again he found nothing.

“This is bullshit,” he mumbled, his ass killing him, Red having wisely kept them off the roads, instead sticking to the hardened terrain they had found to the west. It was slower going, rougher going, but it was safer, and according to the GPS they had covered over a third of the distance they needed to, their start late.

“We’re going to have to stop soon,” said Jimmy, driving the Toyota pickup truck bringing up the rear of the two-vehicle convoy. “I’m going to have to turn my lights on and they’ll be able to spot us for miles.”

As if reading Jimmy’s mind the truck ahead coasted to a stop near a large outcropping of rocks. Red stepped out of the lead vehicle. “We’ll set up camp here for the night.”

Atlas stepped out, stretching hard, clenching and unclenching his butt cheeks to loosen them up as Red stepped over. “Take two men, recon the area; I want to make sure we’re alone. Then set up a rotating watch, four men on, four men off.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He pointed at Jimmy, Spock and Wings when his comm suddenly squelched, a tone indicating a burst transmission had just been received.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, everyone apparently hearing the same thing.” He activated his tactical computer and read the message, smiling. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Spock slapped him on the back, the first smile Atlas had seen out of any of them in hours plastered on his face.

For hope had been restored.

He looked again at the display.

You have not been forgotten. BD.

The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours, Colonel.”

Clancy was exhausted. He hadn’t been home since his men had been sent into Yemen, and hadn’t slept a wink in two days.

But that was nothing compared to what his men were going through, abandoned and alone, probably without a clue as to what was going on in the world around them. Official estimates were that hundreds were now dead but the tally was ratcheting up quickly, the latest CIA briefing suggesting thousands, mostly in Muslim countries where the violence was being used as an excuse to settle old scores.

But dozens were dead in Western countries, hundreds injured, protests swelling as word spread. Military personnel around the world were on high alert and confined to base when off duty for their own safety. Even here at home there had been some violence, mostly targeting Jewish stores. Some peaceful protests were being held but the violence seemed to be contained overseas.

Paris and London were the worst hit.

And Dawson was in the thick of it there.

The American embassy was surrounded by protesters, a cordon of French police holding them back for the moment, but the violence was getting worse, random attacks on civilians growing in numbers, retaliatory attacks by bands of vigilantes and white supremacists increasing.

It was chaos with no end in sight.

Unless we get the Black Stone back into the right hands.

It wasn’t his job to question his orders from the White House, though he did feel they were completely wrong in their approach. He had it on good authority that the backchannels were being worked, but that could take days, and his men might not have it. He was convinced that if they could hand over the relic to the Saudis secretly, the situation could be quickly defused and his men retrieved.

Yet he couldn’t officially act on it.

However disavowed soldiers could.

He just needed to get the ball rolling, and the only way he could see how was getting Colonel Faisal bin Nayef involved.

“I’m so sorry, Colonel, but things are quickly falling apart here. I’m sure you’ve seen the intelligence reports, your Pentagon and CIA are very thorough.”

“Yes, I have.” The briefing he had attended less than an hour ago indicated several units of the Saudi military had confined themselves to base, refusing to take orders from Riyadh, violent protests erupting across the volatile country. The situation was quickly worsening, the House of Saud beginning to lose its grip on power, the Iranian backed opposition speaking out openly now for their overthrow.

“Then you know I don’t have much time. We shouldn’t even be speaking. If someone found out, I’d be executed.”

“Listen, you know my men have been disavowed—”

“Yes, I assumed that was the case when your government denied their troops being involved.”

“Well, your government knows damned well that my men have nothing to do with this. We need to end this insanity, and quickly.”

“Colonel, I realize what you are saying is true, however at this time it is easier for our government to claim that your government is responsible. To do otherwise would make us look weak. Imagine if our citizens knew it wasn’t the mighty American military that had stolen the relic, but a group of our own, led by one of our own princes, that had done it. We would lose what little control we have left within hours. Just an hour ago a rogue military unit attempted an attack on Murabba Palace to assassinate the King. More and more units are breaking off communications with central command. Things are falling apart here quickly.”

“Then we need to stop it. We need to get the stone back into Saudi hands.”

Nayef sighed. “Colonel, I agree with you, but there’s no way my government will officially endorse such a plan.”

“Unofficially?”

“Right now the Royal family is too busy trying to survive. Our airports are filled with planes loaded with the ruling class. Half our government offices are empty. I fear there’s no one here to take your government’s call.”

“Then let the two of us put an end to it.”

“There’s no way I can mount an operation to get the stone from your men. They’ll have to get it to me.”

Clancy frowned.

Coward.

Nayef could easily send a chopper to collect the stone, he just didn’t have the balls to admit he knew where the stone was and who it was with. In times of crisis there were too few good men willing to stick their necks out to do the right thing. Sometimes it got hacked off, sometimes it was kissed. If things were as bad as Nayef was describing, he had a funny feeling a head cleaving was in his near future.

“Where can they meet you?” he asked, fearing the answer.

“Our loyal forces are consolidating around Mecca to preserve the Sacred Mosque in the hopes that when we do get the stone back, the Kaaba will still be there to receive it.”

Clancy shook his head.

Mecca!

It was hundreds of miles north of where his men were and the route between was probably swarming with hostiles.

Yet he could see little choice.

“We’ll be in touch.”

Main Gate, Embassy of the United States, Paris, France

Corporal Charles Griffith stood at the front gate of the embassy, the metal bars providing little comfort as the angry mob being held back by the Paris Gendarmerie only ten yards away grew. Scuttlebutt suggested an evac was being prepped, but he knew damned well the Marines would be the last out.

Not that he had a problem with that.

He didn’t have a problem dying for his country, not that he was eager to do so. His only problem was how he might die. The news reports were terrifying—people being hacked to pieces by machetes and butcher knives, burned alive and even mowed down by cars.

It was ridiculous.

The hatred displayed by those who practiced the religion of peace never made sense to him. The fury in their eyes whenever they felt slighted by anyone had always made his skin crawl. After two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, he had come to realize that when happy, these people could be the friendliest of sorts, but when angered, especially over something religious, they were uncontrollable.

He had loved history in high school, it his best subject—his only one he ever got an A in, if he recalled correctly, and it was one of the few subjects he had actually read any books on outside of school. And as part of his Marine training, whenever going into a foreign culture, they were briefed on the history, the customs, the dos and the don’ts. One of the biggest things drummed into them, unofficially, was ‘don’t piss off the Muslims’. Don’t touch a Koran, don’t step inside a mosque, don’t lay a finger on an Imam, don’t even use the word Allah, it apparently an affront if one wasn’t Muslim.

It all felt so puritan to him, like the Christians and Jews were the witches in Salem, the Muslims the town elders.

And now here he found himself, surrounded by eyes filled with hate, the embassy at his back the pyre upon which he had a funny feeling they were all about to burn.

Somebody threw a rock, it breaking into several pieces not five feet from his position, a shard hitting his leg, bouncing off painlessly.

Another landed nearby, this one a cobblestone, the thud it made making him thankful it had missed. He glanced around for some cover should things really begin to fly.

A window shattered, the guardhouse taking a hit, his Master Gunnery Sergeant getting on the radio to report the escalation. They had been hoping nightfall would lessen the crowds, especially after midnight, but they had been sadly mistaken. These people either didn’t have jobs, or simply didn’t care whether or not they were well rested for their morning commute.

Something bright caught his eye.

Oh shit!

A Molotov cocktail arced through the air, smashing into the guard hut, the alcohol immediately igniting, bathing the entire side in a fury of sickly flame, the two men inside immediately rushing out and retreating to his position.

The Gunny called in the fire.

“No goddamned way they’re going to let any fire crews through.”

Griffith looked at the guard who had barely avoided a good singeing, not able to place his name, the man new only last week.

Fox?

“Let’s just hope they can’t throw much farther,” he said just as another flaming bottle spiraled through the air, shattering on the road in front of the gate. “This whole situation is bullshit.”

“No shit! Man, I was in Fallujah. Never thought I’d see so many pissed off Muslims in one place again.”

Griffith looked at the man. Christ, how old are you? He had joined after Fallujah so had managed to avoid that hellhole, but had heard enough stories to know he was lucky to have been born a couple of years later than this guy obviously was.

And if this were about to turn into a Charlie-Foxtrot like that, a lot of people were going to die.

He fingered the safety on his M4 assault rifle, Fox apparently noticing.

“Just keep your shit together, Marine, we don’t want to start anything.” He tapped his sidearm. “And remember to keep one bullet for yourself.”

The distinctive thumping of a helicopter had them all looking up, Griffith at first not spotting it, the sound filling the area, the din of the ‘Death to America’ chanting mob making it difficult.

Fox pointed. “There!”

Griffith looked and immediately spotted the dark silhouette of a Eurocopter AS-532 Cougar approaching. Suddenly the entire embassy went dark, the bright security lights that had been blazing for hours turned off, almost silencing the crowd for a moment.

Making the sound of the chopper unmistakable.

The crowd roared in renewed anger as the helicopter bounced to a landing on the lawn, a group of people rushing from the front entrance toward the transport.

A whistle blew, then another. Griffith’s head swiveled back toward the crowd to see a group shoving the security barricade aside, charging the police position.

A shot rang out.

It didn’t sound like one of theirs, more likely French or from the crowd.

Another shot.

Screams.

He flicked the safety off his weapon.

The French police fell back, parting at the center as the cordon broke, the crowd surging toward the gate.

“Hold your fire!” ordered the Gunny as the chopper lifted off behind them, a second one he hadn’t noticed landing moments later. The crowd was at the gate now, hands grasping the bars, shaking it hard.

There’s no way they’re taking that down.

Someone began to climb over as several shots rang out in the distance. A quick glance over his shoulder and he saw the second chopper being loaded, a third hovering overhead.

There’s not going to be time.

The first protester landed on his knees on the wrong side of the fence, two Marines charging forward and grabbing him, dragging him away from the gate before zip-tying him.

“Look out!”

He spun toward Fox’s cry, seeing him turn, shielding himself with his arm. Griffith spotted the flame out of the corner of his eye, too late, the bottle smashing at his feet, the fluid inside rushing out and up his pant legs, the flames following a moment later.

The rush of heat was intense as he turned away from the explosion, covering his head. Then he felt something strange that he couldn’t place for a split second before an eruption of agony gripped his body.

He screamed, every muscle clenching as he turned toward the crowd, wondering why they were doing this to him, his finger spasming on the trigger, his weapon belching three-round bursts at the crowd behind the gate as his comrades leapt for cover, the Gunny racing toward him, diving through the air.

It was then he finally noticed his entire lower body engulfed in flames.

And he wondered if he still had a bullet left for himself.

Mohammed Aziz felt a rush of adrenaline flow through his system as he watched the American pig burn, the Molotov cocktail he had just thrown finding its mark. Someone beside him grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking him with joy as the crowd around him roared their approval as the infidel screamed in agony, his fellow soldiers trying to douse the flames.

Another helicopter lifted off.

And the rage burning in the pit of his stomach grew as he realized more and more of the infidels responsible for the greatest affront ever to Islam escaped.

When he had heard about the original broadcast with the kidnapped Saudi prince he hadn’t believed it at first. He simply couldn’t fathom a true Muslim saying such hateful things, but when the truth had come out, that the broadcast had been faked and the prince was actually forced to say such things by his captors, things had made sense once again.

No true Muslim could hope to live another day saying such blasphemous things.

But when the second broadcast had been shown, a blind rage had filled him, his shouts of anger so great his neighbors had come to see what was the matter, and as they all watched the broadcast being shown over and over, they too joined his fevered pitch of fury.

They had immediately gone to their mosque, it quickly filling with others from the neighborhood as they discussed the unbelievable possibility that the Americans had actually been the ones who had kidnapped the prince and stolen the Black Stone. Their Imam had quoted from the Koran and his duty was immediately clear, he and his friends quickly returning to their homes to prepare for a march on the embassy.

The embassy that now sat in front of him, filled with infidels he intended to burn.

He shook the bars in front of him, his eyes glaring at the smoldering man, a thin smile still on his face.

You’ll all pay for what you’ve done!

He had travelled to Mecca three years ago for the Hajj, it taking him years to scrape together enough money to attend. He had been disappointed not to be able to touch the sacred stone, despite his best efforts—there were simply too many people. On one of his circuits his hand had come within feet of the stone, the experience so moving he had almost broken down in tears as an overwhelming sense of faith and fervor washed over him.

And he had vowed he would save every penny he could to return one day, to make a second attempt to touch the stone Mohammed himself had kissed so long ago.

But now if the Americans had the stone, he’d never be able to fulfill that promise to himself, nor would any other Muslim. After much heated discussion and little debate last night, it had been agreed that there could only be one reason the Americans would take the stone—to destroy it. The only logical reason for doing so was their misguided belief that if the stone was gone, Muslims around the world would lose their faith, converting to their sacrilegious Christianity.

A ridiculous notion.

Islam was more than a holy relic, more than a point on a map. It was a way of life, a faith stronger than any the world had ever known. There wasn’t a true Muslim alive who wouldn’t die for their beliefs, and though he had had doubts until only moments ago, he now knew he was among the hundreds of millions willing to take a life to further the establishment of the Global Caliphate demanded by Allah himself through his vessel Mohammed.

His thin smile turned into all out joy as he saw the soldiers trying to carry the now twitching body of their friend, a man who should he survive, would suffer for the rest of his life for his misguided beliefs and his government’s sacrilegious actions.

And he wouldn’t be the first.

Mohammed reached up and climbed to the top of the fence, turning back toward the crowd and raising his fist.

“Death to America! Kill them all!”

“Code Black, I repeat, Code Black. All personnel report to their assigned secure area, I repeat, all personnel report to their assigned secure area.”

Dawson frowned, looking at Laura Palmer lying in a hospital bed, fear on her face. This was a woman he had known to display exceptional courage in the past and that hadn’t changed—except for the fact that today she was helpless, stuck in a bed with no hope of defending herself.

Her husband showed the same concern, though instead of fear it was clear he was angry.

“Let me see what’s going on.” Dawson stepped into the hallway, flagging down a Marine. “Sergeant, report!”

“Sir, protestors have overrun the main gate and are on the grounds. We’re falling back to inside the building. All civilian personnel are to report to the basement bunker.”

“Carry on.” The Marine bolted, Dawson stepping back into the room, looking at Niner. “Find out where we need to get the professors.”

Niner nodded, about to leave when the door flew open and a nurse rushed into the room. “We’re moving you now,” she said, her voice shaking as her flushed cheeks and trembling hands indicated just how terrified the woman was. She unhooked the IV bag from the stand, placing it on Laura’s chest then disconnected the monitors with a yank, the snaps and clips popping off in a single shot. Unlocking the bed with her foot, she pulled it out from the wall, Acton helping.

“I’ll push,” said Acton, “you lead.”

She nodded as Niner opened the door and they pushed out into the hallway, turning left. A second nurse appeared, relieving Acton. “I’ll do it, these can be hard to handle if you’re in a hurry.”

And they were. Gunfire once sporadic was becoming more steady, the distinctive sounds of American issued weapons mixed with others, some probably brought by the locals, others perhaps captured from the overrun police, the live news broadcasts showing police being beaten and murdered, their comrades unable to reach them, instead falling back with weapons drawn but not firing.

This isn’t going to end with negotiations.

Four Marines, faces grim, charged toward them, M4’s at the ready. “Gunny, where’s the armory?”

The Gunny stopped, motioning for his men to continue on. “Civilians are to report to the basement immediately.”

“We’re not civilians.”

“Your unit?”

“I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”

A smile spread across the man’s face.

“Follow me.”

Acton squeezed into the elevator, most of it taken up by Laura’s bed. Her hand gripped his tightly as they waited for what seemed an eternity for the elevator to descend several levels, opening to a dull gray room, thick metal doors greeting them with half a dozen guards flanking the entrance to what Acton assumed was some sort of nuclear bomb shelter repurposed into a panic room.

The two nurses guided Laura’s bed out of the elevator then they quickly rushed through the massive doors and down a brightly lit, featureless hallway, closed, windowless doors on either side, each neatly numbered and labelled.

He didn’t read a single one.

The first nurse ran ahead, opening a door labelled Infirmary and moments later they found themselves inside a basic medical bay with four beds and a lot of dated equipment.

Looks like it hasn’t been updated since the Cold War.

The nurse seemed to read his mind.

“Sorry, but no one ever thought we’d actually use this place.”

Acton shook his head. “No need to apologize. Do you have the supplies to take care of her?”

The nurse pointed at a wall of cabinets. “Fully stocked. We’ve got all the meds and supplies we’ll need, just not the fancy equipment.” She patted Laura on the hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll be able to take good care of you down here, and there’s no way they’re getting through those doors.”

Acton chewed on his cheek for a moment.

“How long can we hold out down here?”

“Long enough.”

Niner flicked the safety off his M4 as he and Dawson rushed up the stairs to take positions on the roof. M4’s and Berettas were opening up outside, the situation apparently out of control.

This is insane!

He could only imagine what would happen to Red and the guys should they be captured and said a silent prayer for their safe return. As they burst through the door to the roof he focused on the job at hand.

Hold until relieved.

The words echoed in his head, the voice replaced by Richard Todd’s from The Longest Day. This wasn’t Pegasus Bridge, but to those inside, it was just as important. They needed to give the civilians enough time to get into the bunker buried deep beneath the building, then if necessary, execute an orderly retreat into the same bunker, otherwise they could be looking at another Benghazi.

Only worse.

Benghazi was an attack by less than 150 men. This time there were thousands. The only way the embassy would be taken back would be by force. Fortunately the French weren’t pussies. They wouldn’t hesitate to use the force necessary to end the siege, the problem was how long it would take to get things rolling, what with the chaos erupting throughout the city. With an estimated two million Muslims in metropolitan Paris and nearly five million in France, the French had a nearly impossible problem on their hands if even just a fraction of those decided to participate in a violent uprising.

Many people had already forgotten the 2005 rioting by mostly Muslim youths that swept across France resulting in almost 10,000 vehicles being torched and hundreds of millions of dollars in damage—not to mention the deaths. It took over 20,000 police officers to restore order. And that was all caused by the perceived injustice by the police when two boys died from electrocution, hiding from the authorities after allegedly vandalizing a construction site with other youths.

What would it take to stop tens if not hundreds of thousands upset over their holiest relic being stolen by infidels?

Niner shuddered to think.

Taking a knee at the roof edge at the one-two corner, he had a clear view of the front gate and the gardens to the right of his position. Three choppers had managed to land and evacuate the senior staff, but there were still hundreds inside including terrified American citizens who had sought refuge from the rampaging hordes.

And one ambassador who had refused to abandon his post.

He glanced to his left and spotted Dawson twenty yards to his left, about mid-point on the front of the building, other Marines taking up positions around the entire perimeter. As he scanned the ground below he could see dozens of people now over the fence of the main gate, dozens more climbing the fences, some advancing short distances before falling back to the perceived safety of numbers, no one yet making an attempt to charge the building.

Gunfire erupted to his left, outside the embassy grounds, flashing red and blue lights of police and other emergency vehicles lighting the night sky as smoke grenades were launched and high-pressure hoses turned on the crowds.

Are they going to try to take back the embassy already?

Niner looked through his scope and frowned. It wasn’t a counterattack, it was a rescue operation. Or more accurately, a recovery operation, the bloodied bodies of two fallen police officers being retrieved, the riot police immediately falling back to their previous position, the crowd swarming back in as if a levee had broken.

And the crowd was massive. There were thousands filling the streets for as far as the eye could see. Smoke rose across the city, flames flickering as cars and buildings were set ablaze, the once beautiful city looking like it hadn’t in over a century, even the Nazis having enough respect to not try and destroy this jewel of culture.

“Here they come, warning shots only!”

Niner leaned forward for a better line, taking a bead at the feet of the boldest of the crowd in his zone, now numbering nearly one hundred inside the grounds. He adjusted his aim and squeezed off two rounds. The crowd recoiled, similar short bursts sounding out from around the building.

This isn’t going to work for long.

No one had authorized deadly fire unless the crowd breached the building, and even then the rules of engagement were to only fire if absolutely necessary—in other words, if lives were in danger, not property.

He squeezed off another two rounds as the crowds continued to pour over the fence, people now sitting on the top, pulling others up and over. Fortunately the bollards in place along the entire road outside the embassy fence prevented any vehicles from getting through to the gate, the controls to lower those at the entrance locked down from inside the embassy itself.

He had images of medieval movies, wondering when the ladders to climb the castle walls would appear.

“They’ve got a ladder!”

You’re kidding me.

He looked to his left and spotted what appeared to be a standard contractor’s ladder, probably stolen off the back of a vehicle, the traffic not moving, most people having abandoned their vehicles.

They were streaming up the ladder now, the numbers inside the grounds swelling quickly.

“The embassy has been sealed!” shouted someone from the door. “Prepare to fall back!”

Niner squeezed off a few rounds at the feet of the approaching crowd, but they were wise to the tactic, hesitating for a moment, then continuing forward, knowing full-well their adversary wasn’t prepared to fire upon them.

At least not yet.

Several shots rang out, tearing into the façade of the building, only feet from his position.

“Taking fire!” he shouted, ducking down until the shots stopped, then immediately popping back up, trying to find the shooter.

“Got him,” shouted Dawson. “My two-o-clock, behind the guard house.”

Niner adjusted. “Got him. Permission to fire?”

“Permission granted.”

“Taking the shot.” He squeezed the trigger and the man dropped, screams erupting as the crowd scattered like cockroaches when the lights were turned on.

Then they charged.

Mohammed Aziz raced toward the main entrance, his fist raised, a roar emanating from his chest as he swore blood vengeance on those who had just killed one of the faithful. He reached the doors, slamming his fists against the glass then stepping aside when someone else began hammering away with a cobblestone. The glass began to splinter and he stood back, urging others to give the man room.

One of the cars in the small parking lot that ran along the front of the building, inside the gates, was flipped over, the car alarm wailing as other vehicles were destroyed, some set ablaze, some simply bashed with rocks and whatever else the faithful could find to use as weapons. He felt the urge to join them, to take part in the destruction, but he resisted, knowing the real enemy wasn’t the vehicles, but the owners inside.

And he wanted to be among the first inside the doors to exact revenge on the infidels, to slaughter as many of those who would defy the will of Allah and defile the holy relic meant to honor their faith. The very thought of the stone in the hands of the Crusaders enraged him to the point he wanted to tear the flesh off of every American he could get his hands on, to chop the head from their shoulders and spit down their necks, to broadcast the delivery of justice to the entire world so no one would ever dare insult the one true religion ever again.

And should the infidels succeed in destroying the relic?

The decision had already been made in the meeting at his mosque.

All the infidels would die.

As Allah would will it.

A gleeful cry came from the man with the stone as the glass finally gave and he pushed through the opening. Within moments the doors were opened and they rushed into the building.

Only to find no one.

Where did they go?

Footfalls to his left had them all turning toward a set of stairs, a group of soldiers rushing down the steps.

“Kill them all!”

Dawson sprinted down the stairs, M4 in hand as he and Niner covered the rear, half a dozen Marines leading the way followed by almost a dozen stragglers, civilian staff that had hid under their desks or locked themselves in offices in panic rather than follow the orders to report to the shelter in the basement.

It was a colossally stupid move, but panicked people often did colossally stupid things.

No amount of drills could prepare you for the real thing. He had lost count of how many soldiers fresh out of basic, all gung ho and eager to get into the fight, had pissed their pants when under fire for the first time. But usually, after the initial shock, a seasoned vet was there to give your helmet a smack and snap you back to reality.

Never to piss your pants again.

It was human nature to panic in the face of danger. Soldiers were trained to push through the panic and take action, just like fire fighters, police and paramedics.

You did it because no one else would.

And now a dozen people were being saved because the Marines ahead of them had insisted on a floor-by-floor search since their training told them not everyone would have obeyed the order.

And judging by the bloodthirsty looks in the eyes of those now staring at them from down the hall, these civilians would have been slaughtered mercilessly. Six Marines immediately formed a shield line as the others continued to lead the civilians down to the next level.

Dawson joined the line, Niner beside him as the crowd seemed undecided on what to do.

“I’m not seeing any firearms.”

Dawson nodded. “Neither am I. But a thrown knife can kill.”

“Good point. So, fire if thrown upon?”

Dawson looked at the Gunny standing with his men. This was his turf. He knew the building inside and out and knew his men better than anyone. And Dawson had no problem following this man’s orders.

He hadn’t met a Gunny yet that wasn’t on the ball.

“What’s it going to be, Gunny?”

The crowd answered for him, someone throwing something and shouting, the entire crowd roaring and racing toward the firing line.

“Let’s teach them how fine a weapon the M4 is.”

“Roger that, Gunny.” Dawson took a bead on the leader and squeezed the trigger, hitting him in the leg, the man stumbling forward then collapsing with a scream of pain. More shots, controlled, disciplined, continued to wound, not kill the approaching hostiles, but they continued to pour through the now open front doors, there simply too many to handle.

They’d be out of ammo long before they’d be out of targets.

A shot rang out from the crowd and a Marine dropped beside Dawson. He grabbed him, pulling him out of the line of fire, quickly inspecting the shoulder wound. “You’ll live, Corporal. Can you make it down the stairs?”

The young man winced. “Yes, sir!”

“Then haul ass!” Dawson pulled him to his feet and returned to the shield line, the hallway jammed with people now, stepping over the writhing wounded.

The Gunny acknowledged a communications over his gear.

“They’re in the bunker! Fall back to the lower levels!”

The line began to retreat, still firing low, but as soon as the crowd sensed what was happening, they charged.

“Fire for effect!” ordered the Gunny. “Take the bastards down!”

Dawson raised his weapon slightly, picking his targets, taking the center of mass shots. Attacker after attacker dropped as Dawson and the others slowly retreated. His mag empty, he quickly reloaded, emptying the magazine into the slowed but still advancing crowd before disappearing around the corner, rushing down the stairs to the next landing. Dawson and Niner turned, aiming up the stairs, the Gunny between them as he ordered the rest of his men to continue down to the lower level.

“Three shots each, then down to the next landing on my mark!” he ordered.

“Roger that.” Dawson, on the left of the firing line took a bead on the first to round the corner in his field of fire.

“Fire!”

He squeezed off three quick rounds, one for each of the first three on the left, all three dropping, as did six more as the trio immediately rushed to the next landing, taking aim again. A gunshot from above tore open the concrete of the landing they had just been on, Dawson adjusting his aim to find the shooter.

He squeezed the trigger, the man dropping, his weapon immediately retrieved by another.

“Fire!”

Nine more rounds slammed into the crowd, the fallen slowing down the mass of flesh noticeably.

“Let’s make a break for it!”

“You don’t have to ask me twice!” said Niner, taking the lead as they tore down the final flights to the lowest sub-level. As Dawson exited the stairwell he found the Marines they had been with waiting at the massive metal doors leading to the underground bunker.

“Come on!” shouted one of them as the doors to the stairwell burst open behind them. Three Marines stepped out to the far side of the wall, raising their weapons as Dawson, Niner and the Gunny immediately hugged the side, continuing toward the door. M4’s opened up on the first through the stairwell exit as Niner cleared the metal doors, the Gunny following. Dawson spun toward where they had come, raising his weapon and firing.

“Inside! Inside! Inside!” he shouted at the Marines providing covering fire as he opened up. The three men sidestepped through the doors as they began to close, Dawson retreating inside, continuing to fire through the ever narrowing opening.

Until the doors slammed shut, the hiss of heavy cylinders locking into place, sealing them safely inside, and a world gone mad outside.

And with it, any hope of retrieving Maggie.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Chris Leroux actually felt a little better than he had yesterday, which meant there was no way he was staying home. He had worn a mask, certain to not touch anything on his way in, and isolated himself in his office to try and minimize the risk of infecting his staff or anyone else.

He knew he should have stayed at home, but he had to be here. The world was turning into a violent hellhole and he had a part to play, even if it meant saving just a single soul.

Maggie Harris.

He had gone home early to try and get his rest while his team ran through all the camera footage they could find in an attempt to track the van that had been used in her kidnapping. And he had come in as soon as he had received the call telling him they had successfully tracked the van.

His phone beeped with the secure call to the embassy in Paris, an embassy under siege, the footage he had seen while scarfing down his instant oatmeal disturbing. Paris was ablaze, as were significant segments of London, Amsterdam, Brussels, Copenhagen and dozens of other Western cities.

But his immediate concern was the embassy where Dawson and the professors were apparently secure for the moment.

“This is Mr. White.”

Leroux brought up the footage showing the van entering a parking garage. “Mr. White, this is Leroux. We’ve managed to track the van used to abduct Miss Harris.”

“Where did it go?”

“It was last seen entering a private underground parking garage on Avenue Hoche.”

“Anything beyond that? Any footage of her being taken out of the garage?”

“No, but here’s the interesting thing. Directly across the street from this garage is the Saudi Embassy.”

“Really.” The word was spoken as if from a clenched jaw, Leroux immediately recognizing the tone as if tightly controlled anger were about to be unleashed.

“Yes, sir. I have my team analyzing all the footage from the area from the time of their arrival onward, but have found nothing yet to indicate she has left. That being said, other vehicles have left the parking garage since, so it is possible she was in one of them. However, nothing left that garage for over an hour, so it’s likely this was not a vehicle exchange point.”

“And where could they have taken her from there without going outside?”

Leroux brought up several diagrams on his screens. “There are several entrances to attached buildings, but there are indications of a tunnel that leads under the street to the row of buildings across from the garage. The Saudi Embassy is in those buildings.”

There was a pause for a moment, and Leroux felt the need to fill it. He was about to speak when a reply finally came.

“Is there anything else in the area of significance that might suggest the Saudi Embassy wasn’t the destination?”

“No, of all the buildings accessible, this is the only one that makes sense.”

He could hear a long slow breath being drawn in and held before an equally long exhale. “Sir, do you have a girlfriend?”

Leroux felt a sudden flush of pride as he thought of Sherrie, and how it was always such a rush to actually admit he had someone that he shared his life with. “Yes.”

“And you love her?”

Leroux hesitated, not sure if he had ever actually been asked that question before. “Yes.”

“And I love Maggie. I’ve never told anyone that before, but it’s true. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect her, as I’m sure there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to protect your girlfriend.”

Leroux’s head bobbed as he thought of how he felt when Sherrie had been kidnapped several months ago during the terrorism crisis that had gripped the nation. He had been desperate to do any and all things, and if he had the skillset that this man had, he’d have probably gone in and killed everything in sight to rescue her.

Instead he had used his assets—his brains—to find her and get the intel into the proper hands.

Into the hands of the man on the other end of this line.

“I’d do anything I could. You know that.”

“Yes, I do. If there’s anyone in this world who understands what I’m going through right now, it’s you.”

“What do you need from me?”

“Nothing for the moment. But if this all falls apart, and we die here today, I want you to promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Get this information to Kane. He’ll know what to do with it.”

“You have my word.”

Red Sea Coast, Saudi Arabia

“I spy with my little eye, something that is blue.”

Atlas looked at Jimmy, who motioned with his chin to look ahead. Atlas took a glance, not seeing what Jimmy was talking about at first as their truck climbed a slight upward grade before cresting. Atlas smiled.

“Blue indeed,” his deep voice rumbled. Before them lay the Red Sea in all its glory. They had crossed into Saudi territory hours ago having set out at first light, Red wanting to try and reach the coast as quickly as possible in case Dawson succeeded in arranging transport. The night had been uneventful but restful, his years of serving in hellholes meaning he could sleep just about anywhere, and the desert was quiet at night.

And chilly.

But that always made him sleep better he found, he himself a human furnace. It was one thing he had never found a way to handle until he watched a rerun of Friends. Many of the women he went out with loved to cuddle at night, and he found he’d be dripping in sweat as they slept peacefully, but Ross’ hug ’n roll technique worked like a charm.

Fortunately Vanessa wasn’t a cuddler, at least not in her sleep. She preferred to be on her side of the bed unless a little somethin’ somethin’ was going on, which was yet another reason he really liked this girl.

This woman.

It wasn’t until they had really started to settle into their relationship, after the initial infatuations matured, that he realized he had always been dating girls. Vanessa was a woman. She knew what she wanted from life and from him, and he thought that was fantastic. She was the first girl he could see himself settling down with, but before they could he’d have to get permission from the Colonel to read her in on what he did.

But they weren’t there yet.

He just prayed she would understand why he had needed to lie to her all these months.

Some didn’t, some taking it as a betrayal. He hadn’t faced that yet, but he knew several guys in Special Ops, too many, that thought they were heading down the aisle to the altar when the revelation that they had been lying to their future spouse since they met them caused things to fall apart. Sometimes it was the lie that sent them running, sometimes the fear.

It isn’t easy to marry a man whose country demanded he be at its beck and call twenty-four-seven, to be sent at a moment’s notice to the most violent shitholes in the world, all for a salary that would make the average civvie indignant if offered to them.

We’re not in it for the money.

Red’s vehicle came to a halt in a dip, the vehicles shielded from view, the Master Sergeant stepping out and climbing the rise at a crawl, scanning the area with his binoculars. They were less than a mile from the coast, Highway 5, which ran the entire coast, now behind them and quiet at the time of their crossing.

According to the GPS, that road and shipping traffic should be about the only things to expect in this area except for possible patrols or nomads.

Red scurried back down the rise, signaling for the engines to be cut. Atlas stepped out as Jimmy turned off the truck, leaving the keys in the ignition in case a quick getaway was needed.

“This is as good a place as any. I don’t want to be sitting on the beach in case somebody comes along.”

“Speak for yourself,” replied Atlas. “Lying on a beach sounds nice to me.”

“Getting in a good swim does too,” agreed Jimmy.

“You can work on your breaststroke later,” said Red as the team gathered around. “Standard recon. Make sure we’re alone, double-check our equipment and supplies. Two teams, one hour on, one hour off, try to find some shade during your downtime. It’s going to get pretty damned hot here pretty damned quick. Keep yourselves hydrated, watch for signs of heat exhaustion. Buddy system, got it?”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

The team started to break for the recon when Red flagged Atlas down. “Sergeant, you’re with me.”

“What’s up?”

“I was thinking—”

“Dangerous thing to do nowadays.”

Red chuckled. “True enough, but if I rely on you guys to do the thinking, we’ll spend forty damned years roaming this desert.”

“But it’s the Promised Land at the end of it.”

“I’ll take The Unit any day.”

“Amen to that.”

Red nodded toward the truck Atlas had been travelling in. “Have you had any luck with that satellite equipment yet?”

“Negative.”

“I was afraid of that, so I checked my phone.” Red waved it in his fingers. “No coverage, and there should be along the highway.”

Atlas frowned, pulling out his own phone and confirming it. “What do you think’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but I’m guessing the network has been shut down. We need intel, and we need it bad. Try to get that equipment working, Sergeant, it may be our only hope.”

“Roger that.” Atlas turned to leave when he stopped, looking at Red. “Any thoughts on what might be happening?”

Red shook his head. “Whatever it is, it can’t be good. They don’t just abandon troops in the middle of hostile territory for no reason.”

“It’s definitely because of that relic we found.”

Red grunted. “No shit. The question isn’t what this is about, it’s what’s going on outside this desert that’s got our own government so scared BD has to be calling in favors.”

“Do you think they’re going ape shit over this?”

Red shrugged. “Look what happened over the cartoons. Something tells me they’re not going to be holding a hug-in if that footage hit the airwaves of us with their stone.”

Atlas frowned, eyeing the backseat of the truck. “Give me some time, I’ll try to get answers.”

“Let’s hope we find out the world we left still exists.”

“Amen to that.”

But Atlas had a sinking feeling that the very reason they had been abandoned was because the world they knew was gone.

Replaced with what, he wasn’t sure.

And that terrified him more than any enemy he had ever faced.

The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“What the hell is going on, Colonel?”

It was clear to Colonel Clancy that his Saudi counterpart was flustered. He was increasingly difficult to reach, and from all accounts, so was most anybody inside the Kingdom.

“I’m sorry to say, I don’t know, Colonel,” replied Colonel Faisal bin Nayef. “It doesn’t appear that anyone is in control anymore, at least not completely. We have rioting in the streets and most of our military units outside of the major cities are no longer responding to Central Command. At the moment all I can tell you is we do have control of Mecca. We’re trying to limit communications within the Kingdom in an attempt to limit the capabilities of those disloyal to the Crown, but I fear it is too little too late.”

“My people tell me you’ve shut down the cellular networks.”

“We have. It was being used to facilitate moves against our government.”

“I was counting on using the cellular network to contact my people if I’m going to let them know where to deliver your stone.”

There was a pause, then Nayef’s voice lowered. “You didn’t hear this from me, but tonight at six o’clock local we will be turning the network back on for exactly thirty minutes for essential communications. If you’re going to get a message to your men outside of official channels, it may be your last opportunity.”

“Six p.m. You’re sure?”

“Yes, but like I said, you didn’t hear it from me. And don’t expect it to be easy to get through. Millions of cellphones will immediately connect trying to send and receive their backlog of text messages. Our engineers are trying to coordinate with the cellular providers to purge the backlog awaiting delivery, but there’s nothing they can do about what’s about to hit them as soon as these phones find a network that’s working.”

“So there still may be no way to get through.”

“I highly recommend you text your men, Colonel. A text message gets put into the queue. A voice call just gets shut out if there aren’t enough lines available.”

Clancy chewed on his cheek for a moment. It was good advice, good advice in any situation. He was reminded of a plane crash survivor in British Columbia who couldn’t call for help with his cellphone because there was no service in the mountains, but a text message sent on his phone did get through, it only taking a moment of a stray connection for the phone to fire off those lifesaving characters.

He just hoped it would work for his men. Depending on the backlog, any message sent might never make it through.

Yet he had to try.

“Colonel Clancy, tell your men to meet me in Mecca, with the stone. I’m still trying to coordinate something on this end. If I’m successful, I might be able to send a team to retrieve your men, but it’s doubtful—it would be an admission we knew all along who had the stone.” He sighed. “Colonel, the best bet is if they can reach Mecca on their own. If they can, I can guarantee their safety until the crisis has been averted.”

“We’ll be in touch, Colonel.”

Clancy ended the call, kicking back from his desk and turning to look out the window, the sun bright at Fort Bragg today, but nowhere near as scorching as it would be for his men trapped in the desert with no way to reach them for hours.

He growled.

Am I just sending them into harm’s way?

He didn’t trust the Colonel as far as he could throw him, especially in a situation like this where being seen as collaborating could lead to beheading.

Nayef is just as likely to kill my men and claim he ‘rescued’ the stone.

He slammed his fist on his desk, rattling his keyboard.

But what choice do I have?

Embassy of the United States, Paris, France

“Monsieur Ambassador, we do not want another Benghazi, not on French soil.”

“I can assure you, Mr. President, neither do we.”

Dawson looked at Ambassador Neil Harrison, impressed. The man had been given the opportunity to evacuate on one of the three helicopters that had managed to set down, but he had refused, instead insisting that he not leave until the last soul had been rescued.

And he looked completely calm, despite the fact a horde was tearing apart everything and anything fifty feet over their heads, and were already beginning to cut through the massive steel doors protecting them with plasma torches. Current estimates were that they could be inside within an hour.

And then there’d be nothing they could do to stop them.

“Monsieur Ambassador, you understand that the focal point of the riots in Paris is your embassy and various other American government and private interests. If what you tell me is accurate, and you expect the terrorists to breach your security doors in as little as an hour, then we have no time to attempt a negotiated settlement.”

“Agreed.”

“Then since we are agreed, I am giving the order now for our forces to move in using all necessary force to retake the embassy and surrounding area. Please keep your people inside your secure area for as long as possible. We will be targeting anyone on the embassy grounds with lethal force.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Good luck, Monsieur.”

The call ended and Ambassador Harrison leaned back in his chair, the conference room they were in tight, dated, and stifling, aides, advisors, security and civilians crammed in to hear the call that could decide their fate.

Harrison rose from one of the few chairs. “Ladies and gentlemen, you heard the French President. Their forces will be moving shortly to retake the embassy, and once they do, we’ll be safe. As soon as the authorities have secured the premises, we will begin immediate evacuations by convoy if possible, helicopter if necessary, to Charles de Gaulle Airport where our government has chartered passenger aircraft evacuating American citizens around the clock. One is being held for us with more than enough room for everyone.” He turned to the Master Gunnery Sergeant in charge of the Marine Security Guard. “What’s the latest on their attempts to breach the door?”

“Not good, sir. They’ve added a second plasma torch. They’ll be through within an hour.”

“Recommendations?”

The Gunny nodded toward Dawson. “Mr. Ambassador, we have a specialist here who I would like to defer to in this situation.”

Harrison looked at Dawson, the two having met earlier, Harrison aware in a roundabout way who Dawson actually was. “Mr. White, your recommendations?”

Dawson bowed slightly. “Sir, we still have the advantage with weapons and at this point the object is to delay for as long as possible. Once the French press their assault, we should see results fairly quickly, if their past is any indicator.”

“Meaning?”

“Frankly, sir, the French don’t pussyfoot around. They will use any and all means to retake this facility before it is too late. Their national pride is at stake, and to not put too fine a point on it, they are tired of these problems. I personally believe they will be successful in their attempt—we simply need to give them as much time as possible for them to reach us.”

“And how can we do that?”

“Barricade the hallway so as to impede their progress. I don’t mean pile a bunch of desks against the door, they’ll just push those out of the way. I mean a long, irregular obstacle course that they’ll have to navigate with clear line of sight for our men to take them out.”

“Is that what I saw before the meeting started?”

“Yes, sir. The Gunny gave the order to begin just minutes ago. We’ll move all personnel to the rooms deepest in the facility and give everyone with weapons training a firearm. The security detail will take up position at the far end of the blockade and take out anybody who comes through the door. The more bodies the more obstacles.”

“Maybe they’ll think twice after a few of their friends are killed?”

Dawson shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ambassador, but from my experience, once in a religious fervor like this, people tend to not back down. They believe if they die by the hand of the infidel, they will go to paradise.”

“And their seventy-two virgins,” muttered someone behind him.

“Haven’t they run out yet?” asked a woman near the door.

There were snickers, cut off by the raised hand of Harrison. “It is the policy of the Administration to not pass judgment on anyone’s religious beliefs.”

“No matter how violent they may be.”

The entire room turned toward the woman standing near the door, a raven-haired thirty-something in a crisp pantsuit, arms crossed over her chest, eyes glaring at the ambassador.

“Now isn’t the time,” replied Harrison.

“Then when is? After we’re all dead? We’ve been tiptoeing around this religion for years now, always careful to never blame Muslims for all of the attacks we’ve suffered, but to blame extremists. And of course it’s not their fault, it’s our own for killing them eight hundred years ago in the Crusades. Are you kidding me? What kind of moron thinks murder is justified by actions taken almost a thousand years ago?

“And you all saw the briefing notes that circulated a few weeks ago. Almost a third of the so-called moderates in England believed the attacks carried out right here, in this very city we live and work in, were justified! How the hell can we continue to live with our heads stuck in the sand? When is the time, Mr. Ambassador? When will we finally wake up and realize we have a problem that continues to get worse every day with every single immigrant from this religion that we accept in our country?” She uncrossed her arms and jabbed a finger at the ceiling. “Those maniacs trying to kill us today, are the same people who will be landing in New York City next week, peaceful as can be, looking for a better life because it will have become intolerable for them here. And when the shit hits the fan next time, whose side will they be on?”

Harrison nodded. “Kelly, I understand your frustration. Hell, I feel your frustration. But right here, right now, is not the time for this debate. I have no doubt that after these events are over, governments everywhere will be seriously reevaluating their positions on things.”

A burst of air spit from Kelly’s mouth. “Sir, you and I both know that the real reason Western governments including our own refuse to acknowledge what the real problem is, is that they have no solution but the unthinkable. It’s already too late for Europe. There’s tens of millions of people who have nothing in common with their adopted homelands, and have no desire or need to integrate. What can you do about that? Deport them? Deport them to where? Deport them how? There’s forty million of them!”

Harrison’s jaw squared. “This meeting is over. We have preparations to make. Kelly, report to your assigned station with the others.”

Kelly’s jaw clamped shut, her face red with rage, her tirade stifled for the moment as the room began to quickly empty. Dawson said nothing, it not his place as a soldier, but there was a lot of muttering in the room suggesting she had significant support for her views.

And he didn’t blame them.

When thousands of people on the other side of a wall wanted you dead for no other reason than you weren’t the same religion as them, it was hard not to think there was a serious problem.

But that wasn’t his problem. His problem was to make sure these people survived to be proven wrong, or, he feared more likely, right.

“Holy shit! It’s starting!” shouted someone from down the hall, civilians rushing toward one of the rooms with a television set connected to an outside cable line, military and security personnel rushing toward the danger.

Niner walked up to Dawson, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “How’s that?”

Dawson looked and smiled. “Perfect.” Dozens of desks, chairs and cabinets filled almost half the long hallway, some on end, some on their side, the configuration the sergeant had come up with not allowing the attackers to just climb up and run along the tops—and if they did they’d be easy pickings anyway—nor providing them cover unless they were willing to crawl on their hands and knees, thus slowing them, and with a downward trajectory, again easy pickings.

It would definitely buy them some time.

“We’ve also got two fire hoses positioned. The water’s still working. We’ll use those to take their breath away and disorient them.”

“Good thinking. How are we for ordnance?”

“We found about half a dozen flashbangs plus lots of ammo. We’ll put up one hell of a fight.”

Dawson looked at all the wood in the hallway then frowned. “And if they try to smoke us out?”

Niner motioned toward the ceiling. “Apparently the ventilation system is very good. And we’ve got hoses.” He said the last part as if he were a twelve-year-old boy.

“You really want to get on one of those, don’t you?”

Niner grinned. “I’ve already volunteered. You know, I always wanted to be a fireman, but I didn’t have the pecs for the calendar.” He reached out and squeezed Dawson’s chest. “But you’ve got a nice set on you.” He rubbed a finger over Dawson’s nipple. “Ooh, somebody’s happy to see me.”

Dawson looked at Niner, straight in the eyes. “Fingers broken in three… two… one…”

Niner jerked his hand away as Dawson grabbed for it. “Hey, don’t blame me for your body’s reaction. Deep down, some part of you finds me attractive.” He turned and rushed down the hall before Dawson could say anything.

All the while swaying his hips.

Dawson chuckled.

“I think I’ll sic Maggie on him when we get out of here.”

Gloom swept over him as he realized he had forgotten Maggie’s situation for a moment.

God, please take care of her.

Place de la Concorde, Paris, France

Rally Point Alpha

Corporal Pierre Laviolette of the National Gendarmerie Intervention Group inspected his weapon, the large line of riot police with shields doing little to cut down the din from the rioters on the other side. He could see the embassy from here, and from what he could tell, there were about ten thousand protesters in their way.

And barely one thousand opposing them.

But hardware was the great equalizer.

And their orders were rather remarkable.

Do whatever it takes to clear the embassy within the next 30 minutes.

His sergeant had briefed them only minutes ago. There were over one hundred embassy staff trapped in the basement and the terrorists had almost cut through the steel doors protecting them. Once they were through, they would slaughter those inside.

And he was sick of the slaughter.

Not a day went by where there wasn’t another report of Muslims killing innocents, and he was tired of it. He had been born and raised in Paris, and now entire neighborhoods were essentially no go zones for non-Muslims, with Muslims taking over during prayers, blocking sidewalks and entire streets to traffic.

And after the attacks, he no longer felt safe in his own country.

Which was unacceptable.

A megaphone squawked nearby.

“This is the police. You are ordered to clear the area immediately and return to your homes. You are in violation of a mandatory curfew. I repeat, you are ordered to clear the area immediately and return to your homes. You are in violation of a mandatory curfew. If you do not disperse immediately, lethal force has been authorized.”

Laviolette felt butterflies in his stomach.

Lethal force.

He had never thought he’d be ordered to kill French citizens, but as he looked past the row of shields at the crowd beyond, the hatred in their eyes told him everything he needed to carry out his orders.

Though these people may be citizens of France, they weren’t of France.

They had never and would never embrace this wonderful secular society, enjoy its freedoms, its desires for equal rights and freedom of the individual. These people had no desire to be truly French, which had nothing to do with skin color or religion, but with a belief in one’s country and fellow man.

And what he had seen on the news before being called up, and what he had heard in the briefings, sickened him. Christians were being targeted the world over, American businesses set ablaze, embassies attacked and random violent swarmings so numerous the news channels were now just running counters on their screens rather than covering them individually.

The death toll was confirmed in the thousands, and the pace seemed to be quickening.

But right here, right now, the violence was about to be met with violence.

And he was eager to get into the fray and take back his country.

“Ready, Pierre?”

Laviolette looked over at his buddy Jean Bastien and nodded. “Absolutely. You?”

“I’m ready to piss my pants.”

Laviolette grinned. “Me too.”

The warnings continued to repeat, and the crowd roared in response, bricks and bottles raining down on the staging area.

“Prepare for stage one!” shouted someone in command, Laviolette not certain who. He just kept eyes on his sergeant as he positioned his gas mask. “Execute!”

A massive volley of teargas canisters launched at the crowd, seemingly hundreds in number. Screams erupted as much of the crowd began to retreat, the line of riot police immediately advancing to take advantage of the momentary break in the crowd, each coordinated step forward accompanied with a smack of their batons on their shields along with a shouted “Move!”.

He formed up with his Sergeant, their group tasked to actually assault the embassy and head directly for the underground bunker, their orders to shoot anything that got in the way. He had never killed before, though he knew how.

Remember your training and you’ll be fine.

His sergeant’s words were of little comfort, for at this very moment he couldn’t remember anything about his training. But that was the great thing about military training. It was repeated so often it became second nature.

And though he couldn’t think straight, he found himself advancing with the others, men he knew better than his own brothers.

Shots rang out from the crowd and one of the front line of riot police went down, the line quickly forming up to seal the gap as two officers rushed forward to pull the man to safety.

Laviolette tried to tear his eyes away from the writhing man, clearly in agony.

“Prepare for stage two!”

A row of officers, a hundred strong, rushed up behind the riot line, teargas launchers at the ready.

“Ready!”

The front line dropped to a knee, lowering their shields enough for the second line now formed behind them to have a clear shot at the crowd.

“Fire!”

Another round of teargas fired directly into the crowd, dozens of protesters hit with the canisters, collapsing from the impact as more screams erupted, the crowd falling back again, the front line of police resuming their advance as the second line reloaded.

If this continues, we might not need to kill anyone.

They cleared the street corner in front of the embassy, the line of riot police splitting, those on the right holding the line to prevent the rioters from outflanking them. Within minutes the front line had reached the gate, the line curving, starting at the fence and arcing forward slightly.

“Prepare for stage three!”

The officers with the teargas launchers readied themselves, this time aiming only into the fenced compound containing the embassy, filled to capacity, the gate torn off its hinges earlier by chains hooked to the back of a truck.

“Ready!”

The officers raised their launchers as Laviolette double-checked his mask.

“Fire!”

Dozens of popping sounds filled the air as the canisters launched over the fence and into the compound toward the façade of the building. Immediately the rioters fled in the opposite direction, toward the fence and the open gate, the crowd streaming through, the cordon of riot police shields funneling them farther down the street.

As the surge slowed another volley sailed onto the embassy grounds, much of the remaining crowd fleeing leaving less than one hundred behind.

But how many are inside?

“They’re through!”

Dawson took a knee as one half of the heavy double doors holding back the rioters collapsed inward, shattering two large desks in its way. Immediately the roar of those on the other side could be heard, the first rioter scrambling over the door, it at about a thirty degree angle, the desks still propping it up slightly.

Dawson took a bead on him. “Taking the shot!” He squeezed the trigger and the protester went down but was soon followed by another and another. He and Niner alternated taking shots, the small Marine detachment providing backup behind them should one of them fall. There was no point wasting ammo with multiple shooters hitting the same target.

The other side of the door was hauled open.

And the dynamic changed.

“We need two more shooters!” ordered Dawson.

Immediately two Marine corporals advanced, the fire still coordinated, the intensity doubled.

“Cocktail, front!” shouted Niner as a flaming bottle spun through the entrance, shattering against the wall about ten feet inside, the flammable fluid spraying across the concrete wall, the flame racing after it. Within moments the hall filled with smoke as the furniture caught fire, obscuring their view.

Dawson kept up his deliberate fire, hitting anything in his field of fire that moved as he noted the ventilation system indeed pulling the smoke up fairly efficiently, but it would do nothing to stop the fire.

“I need a shooter here!” yelled Niner, a Marine taking his place as he retreated, grabbing the hose while another Marine cranked the valve, the water trickling out before a strong stream suddenly erupted. A second stream near Dawson arced over his shoulder and soon both hoses were directing water down the hallway, but barely reaching the flaming furniture.

Dawson coughed.

“We’re going to have trouble breathing in here soon.”

The Marine beside him nodded as he squeezed off a round. “Too bad all those gas masks we’ve got in storage have no filters.”

Dawson chuckled. “Haven’t you heard? The Cold War is over.”

“Somebody tell that to Russia. I’d rather be fighting them any day.”

“I hear you.” Dawson fired then reloaded, tossing the spent magazine behind him, another being rushed forward while things were still relatively under control.

“What are they doing?” asked the Corporal.

Dawson squinted through the smoke then frowned. “They’re pulling the damned furniture out.” He fired at one of the protesters who was on his belly, holding a table leg as he yanked the flaming piece of furniture toward the doors.

Another well-tossed Molotov cocktail exploded forty feet inside, directly in the center of the hallway, the furniture immediately engulfed in flames only twenty feet from their position. Niner and the Marine on the other hose immediately redirected their attention to the closer fire, but the acrid smoke was completely obscuring the view of the other end.

Dawson pulled the pin from a flashbang and hurled it toward the entrance. “Fire in the hole!”

Everyone covered their ears and closed their eyes, the hoses clattering to the floor. The explosion at the other end was deafening, Dawson immediately popping back up as screams erupted from the protesters. Niner grabbed his hose, trapped under a foot, immediately resuming fighting the fire, the Marine having a little more trouble, he neglecting to trap his hose before letting it go.

Dawson slammed a boot down on the errant hose, the Marine immediately grabbing hold.

“Thanks, sir.”

Dawson fired a round through the smoke, a shout telling him his best guess was still better than most other’s best shot. “Just get that fire out, I can’t see a damned thing!”

“Yes, sir!”

The two hoses were quickly put to work but by the time Dawson had even a murky view of the other end he knew they had lost valuable ground. Dozens of protesters were now inside, several holding up makeshift shields.

Car doors?

Those with the shields were now trying to protect the advancing crowds as furniture was hauled out of the way.

Time to teach them that Hollywood has been lying.

He fired two rounds through the first door, the man behind it collapsing, the door falling on top of him, giving Dawson a clear view of the rioters behind him.

He emptied his mag, steady, carefully placed single shots taking out nearly a dozen protesters.

Yet they kept coming, the wide-eyed look of rage, all too familiar to him, now clear, the fires almost doused.

“Gun!”

Dawson dropped to a knee at Niner’s warning as shots rang out. The Marine beside him groaned, falling backward. “Medic!” shouted Dawson as he popped back up, firing several rounds of suppression fire as the downed Marine was hauled away.

A second weapon opened up on their position.

He spotted the shooter and fired, the woman dropping, her weapon immediately picked up by another.

Something hurled through the thin smoke.

“Cocktail, front!” he shouted, jumping toward the Marines to his left and Niner, his arms spread wide as he shoved them toward the wall, the flaming bottle shattering where he had been standing only a split second before.

He felt the splash of the alcohol hit him and suddenly he was engulfed in flames.

He dropped to the floor, covering his face.

I guess this is it.

Acton listened at the door, a Glock gripped tightly in his hand. The sound of gunfire, explosions and screams had him terrified for his friends, and itching to get into the fight. The contingent of Marines was small, after all this was Paris, a supposedly safe country. Security was supposed to be provided by the French, their responsibility including keeping people outside the fence.

But today they had failed, and now every gun was needed.

And he was trained.

He looked over at his wife, lying on the bed, helpless. She had her own gun but she’d be firing prone, with no way to run if she had to.

It would be a last stand that would end when her ammo did.

She’d have a better chance surviving if they never reached the room.

“You want to join them, don’t you?”

He stepped back to her side, the nurse with them making herself busy, Acton was sure in an attempt to occupy her mind and block out the horrors taking place only feet away.

“I’ll stay with you,” he said, taking her hand.

She shook her head. “Go help our friends. If they fail, we’re dead anyway. One more gun on the line might make all the difference.”

Acton smiled at her, leaning in and giving her a long, tender kiss.

And for some reason it felt like it might be their last.

“I love you.”

She reached up and cupped his cheek. “And I you.”

He pressed her hand against his face then stepped back, checking his weapon. “I’ll see you soon.” He opened the door, the din suddenly overwhelming, just as a fireball erupted twenty feet down the hall.

Engulfing Dawson.

He rushed forward as Niner and a Marine on the hoses quickly doused the Delta operator, two Marines coming off the line to check on him, the hoses aimed back at the fires farther down the hall.

A hall that looked unlike anything he was expecting. The furniture, piled so carefully earlier, was either gone—to where he had no idea—or destroyed by fire, thick smoke making the air hard to breathe, obscuring the view.

But not enough to hide the dozens of rioters inside the hallway, fighting their way forward.

There’s no way we’re stopping them!

He slapped one of the Marines tending Dawson on the back. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Yes, sir!” The Marine immediately returned to the line as Acton and the other Marine pulled Dawson to safety. He hammered on the door of the infirmary.

“It’s me, don’t shoot!”

“Okay!” he heard Laura yell. He opened the door and they pulled Dawson inside the room, the Marine immediately returning to the fight. “Who is it?” asked Laura as she leaned over in the bed, the nurse immediately rushing over to help.

Dawson coughed, smoke belching from his lungs. “Just me,” he said, trying to sit up.

“Stay down,” said the nurse. “Let me examine you.”

“I’m okay. I need to get back out there.”

“Not until I check you. Stay still and this will go a lot faster.”

Dawson looked at Acton, rolling his eyes. “You just had to take me off the line.”

Acton shrugged. “Sorree, but you were looking like an overcooked roast out there.”

The thunder of a flashbang shook the room.

“Hurry up, nurse. I’ve gotta get back in the fight.”

The nurse stood back. “Help me get him up.”

Acton extended a hand and hauled Dawson to his feet as the nurse cut his clothes off his body.

“I’m going to need something to wear.”

She pointed toward a cabinet. “In there.”

Acton opened the doors and saw a pile of hospital scrubs. He picked up a set and turned toward Dawson, laughing, the poor bastard looking a little pink with nothing but his underwear and combat boots on.

“Laugh it up, sweetheart.” Dawson nodded toward the bright green scrubs. “Is that all they’ve got?”

Acton shook his head, reaching inside and pulling out another set.

“They’ve got pink!”

Mohammed Aziz smiled as the flames engulfed one of the Americans then frowned as two hoses immediately doused the flames, the man hauled away within moments.

I hope he suffers.

He lit another bottle and threw it.

Until I remove his head.

Though he was surrounded by the dead and dying, it was clear to him they were going to win the day. They were halfway down the hallway now, the furniture used to try and block them either moved out of the hallway or smoldering wrecks easily broken apart.

And they now had weapons.

Apparently those outside were having a tough time of it, the riot police advancing, so the few with guns retreated into the embassy to help the cause, the ultimate goal to kill the Americans hiding here before they were overtaken.

For he had no doubt they would be.

It was inevitable.

Yet he didn’t care. He was prepared to die for Allah, for Islam, knowing he’d be welcomed into paradise, into Jannah, as a reward for slaying the infidels for their unspeakable affront.

In fact he wanted to die.

France was no longer his home, actually it never had been. It was a prison his parents had chosen decades ago, before he was even born, and now he was forced to live out his days surrounded by people who looked down on him, who hated him because of his thick beard or the clothes he chose to wear to demonstrate his devotion to Islam, who refused to hire him despite his excellent grades.

He was one of the over forty percent of young Muslims who couldn’t find work.

And probably never would.

His generation had had enough. It was time to fight back, to take what was owed, to show those around them that they wouldn’t be kept in their ghettos, ignored any longer.

He had participated in the riots a few years ago, torching his fair number of cars, in fact it was then that he had learned the fine art of the Molotov cocktail, the amateur sometimes igniting himself if not careful.

He flicked his lighter, it sparking futilely. He tried again, and again nothing.

He cursed.

And immediately recited a prayer of forgiveness.

Something clattered on the ground beside him. He turned and gasped at the sight of what looked like a grenade. Covering his head and squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to leap out of the way but it was too late, the explosion deafening, shoving him into the wall, his head smacking hard.

He slipped to the floor and out of consciousness as his comrades screamed in pain around him.

I’m ready.

Corporal Pierre Laviolette performed his umpteenth weapons check as the lead line of riot police advanced again, this time passing the entrance to the embassy grounds, trapping those still defiant enough to remain.

“Remember your mission!” shouted the Sergeant over the crowds. “The Americans are trapped in the basement and their security is breached. They only have minutes before they are overrun. We enter through the front, go left to the stairwell, down to the sub-basement, and free the hostages. Our orders are to eliminate anyone who gets in our way.” He looked at his men, his face grim, his eyes resting on a nervous Laviolette. “Remember, they will do everything they can to delay us. Their goal is to murder those trapped below. We can’t let that happen. Understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

Laviolette felt goose bumps race up and down his spine as the dozen strong strike force responded, his own automatic response barked out, loud and clear, volume belying confidence.

Remember your training and you’ll be fine.

“Proceed!”

Four of the most experienced men took point, leading the way, the others behind in a wedge formation as they advance through the gate, weapons aimed at their opposition.

Somebody charged.

And was dropping instantly.

More rushed toward them.

“Open fire!”

Laviolette wasn’t sure if he pissed his pants or not, but he suddenly felt too relaxed down below. Gunfire erupted beside him and he squeezed his trigger, focusing on the centers of mass in front of him rather than the faces charging their position.

And he continued to advance.

They will do everything they can to delay us.

He ejected his empty magazine and reloaded, taking aim at the nearest target in his field of fire.

They turned to run.

He held his fire.

The crowd seemed broken as they advanced toward the front entrance, police pouring in behind them to arrest those still on the wrong side of the fence, a long row of transport vehicles waiting to cart them away to Bercy Arena for processing.

But that wasn’t his concern.

The lead hit the steps, firing steady, short bursts at those inside to clear the way, pressing the advantage, however fleeting it may be. Laviolette’s boot hit the first step as the wedge narrowed and advanced, he on the outer edge, covering their left flank until he too was through the doors.

It was up to the police behind them to cover their backs, they had to reach the subbasement before it was too late then worry about whether or not they had to fight their way out again.

“Jesus, did we do that?”

He shrugged at his friend’s question as they stepped over a mass of bodies. Judging from the fact they all seemed to have been heading toward the stairwell and shot in the chest it looked like the defenders had made some sort of stand here, probably to delay the mob while civilians descended to safety.

Again goose bumps.

To think that only a few armed personnel inside the embassy held their ground against an overwhelming crowd filled him with an almost euphoric sense of pride in people he had never met and may never meet.

But these were soldiers. Allies. These were people who were fighting to protect the innocent, just like he and his comrades were, and as he climbed over the last of the bodies before the stairwell, he was determined more than ever to save them.

Shouts from behind had him spinning to check their six but he was relieved to see armed riot police rushing through the doors, weapons raised, advancing into the building.

They’ve got our backs.

Into the stairwell, down the stairs, those in the lead opening fire as protesters rushed toward them, the unit never slowing down. A dozen strong, they pressed forward, down the narrow stairs and over the bodies of felled invaders, Laviolette almost numb from the deafening echo of gunfire in the confined space, nearly slipping on the blood that drenched the steps.

Several shots rang out from below and one of those in the lead dropped, immediately replaced as the others poured a steady stream of gunfire on the shooter, silencing him forever. Laviolette passed the wounded man, their medic already at his side.

It doesn’t look so bad.

But he wasn’t a medic. His buddy, Marcel, looked calm, looked alert, but who knew if an artery had been nicked and he was bleeding out without even knowing.

In sixty seconds he could be dead.

He passed his friend, losing sight of him around the next bend in the stairwell, pushing him from his mind.

The stairs suddenly opened up, a stairwell door all that separated them from the mob on the other side and their destination, the damaged wired glass windows providing a narrow view of what they were facing.

A barricade that could take some time to break through.

And dozens of crazed fundamentalists.

Let’s just kill them all and get it over with.

Dawson looked at himself in the mirror as he quickly donned a set of hospital scrubs, his own clothes burnt so badly they had literally fallen apart as they had been removed. He was a little toasted but none the worse for wear, at most first degree burns on some of his exposed skin.

He’d be a hundred percent within a couple of days.

But he was still good enough to get back into the fight.

Somebody hammered on the door as he shoved his feet into his boots. Acton went to answer it when it was thrown opened, Niner standing in the door, his weapon aimed down the hall, the roar of the assault suddenly filling the room.

“You decent?” he asked.

Dawson grunted as he squirmed his left foot into its boot properly. “Good to go.”

Niner nodded toward Laura, still in the hospital bed. “We’ve got to get you folks out of here, they’re getting too close. Can she be moved?”

“Bloody right she can be moved,” said Laura, pushing herself up on her elbows and beginning to swing her legs off the bed.

Acton stopped her. “No, stay on the bed, we’ll push you out.” He unhooked the IV bag and placed it on her lap just as one of the nurses who had helped earlier rushed in, clearly terrified but focusing on her duty.

“Let’s get you moved, now,” she said, her voice trembling as she unlocked the bed with a kick of her foot, positioning herself at the head.

Dawson readied his M4 and looked at Acton, a man he knew was more than capable of handling a weapon, he being ex-Army Reserves and trained more recently by his wife’s ex-SAS security team.

It wasn’t the first time they’d been in a firefight together, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

And today every gun counted.

“Jim, you lead, pulling the bed, Niner and I will cover you. No matter what happens to us, you just keep going and get Laura to safety, got me?”

Acton nodded. “Got it.”

“Okay, enough of the love in!” shouted Niner, squeezing off two rounds. “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Acton grabbed the foot of the bed and Dawson stepped out into the hall, raising his M4 and firing down the hall, the advancing rioters much closer than when he had been hauled out of the battle only minutes before. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bed clear the infirmary door then disappear out of sight as he continued to fire.

“Where the hell are the French?” he asked the Gunny to his left.

“Hell if I know!” he said, firing his own weapon at the crowd. “I haven’t had an update in ten minutes.” He glanced at Dawson. “You hurt?”

“Negative, just a little singed.” Dawson emptied his magazine, loading his last one. “I’m almost out.”

“Ass pocket.”

Dawson reached over and grabbed a mag from the Gunny’s pants pocket, slipping it in a pocket in the scrubs. “I feel almost naked in this shit.”

Niner glanced over. “You’d look much better if you were, sexy.”

Dawson squeezed the trigger, taking out someone near the far end, making the others still pressing their way inside think twice if only for a moment. “Friendly fire is still a possibility, Sergeant.”

“Always the rough one.”

Gunfire erupted from the other end then a large explosion as a grenade went off.

“What the hell was that?” asked the Gunny, lowering his weapon slightly.

“That, my good man, was the distinctive sound of the MAT-49, a preferred weapon of our French allies.”

“Thank God!”

“Cocktail front!” shouted Niner.

Dawson took a bead and fired, the bottle shattering like a skeet target, raining fiery alcohol down on the protesters, screams of agonizing pain following almost immediately. He raised his weapon to put them out of their misery, then thought better of it.

Ammo was precious.

And these people hadn’t thought twice about torching that poor kid at the gate.

Laviolette pushed through the door, breaking left so he had a clear line of fire, opening up on the crowd as a wall of lead belched at the protesters, the dozens still crammed into the area that remained standing quickly dropping like flies, it not remotely a fair fight.

Then again neither was a couple of thousand against a small embassy security force and a bunch of civilians.

He kept firing until the last protester dropped.

Stepping over the bodies he reached the door, hugging the wall. Inching forward, he turned the corner and gasped at the unbelievable carnage inside the secure bunker, one of its thick metal doors sliced away and lying in the entrance, soaked in blood, several bodies draped over it.

“Allahu Akbar!” screamed a man’s voice. Laviolette stepped into the open, giving him a clear shot of the man as he leapt to his feet, a lit Molotov cocktail in his hand.

Laviolette fired.

Mohammad Aziz leaned back to throw the bottle, finally lit, at the approaching infidels, a wave of disappointment at the realization they had failed in their efforts to punish the Americans quickly shoved aside as he realized he was about to die, to die for Allah, to die defending the religion His prophet had created so long ago.

He was going to die a martyr.

Guaranteed entry to paradise, to Jannah.

And as the bullet tore into his stomach, fired from a soldier who looked no older than him, he wondered what it would be like to have seventy-two virgins to do with as he pleased.

The thought titillated his own virgin self as he gasped in pain, the flaming bottle dropping from his hand in mid throw as he reached to grip his stomach.

The bottle shattered at his feet, a rush of heat and flame racing up his legs and into his hunched over body, every nerve ending of his exposed flesh igniting in intense pain.

And as he felt the life passing from his body he was suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding as he experienced the same agonizing death he had wrought on the soldier at the gate.

And wondered how such an act could gain anyone access to paradise.

Infidel or not.

Red Sea Coast, Saudi Arabia

Atlas sat against a stone outcropping, the shade it providing welcome in the intense heat as he tried to gain access to the portable satellite modem. Unsuccessfully. The firewall built into it seemed to be using significant encryption, which made sense—you didn’t want just anyone hijacking your very expensive satellite feed.

If only we had our comms!

He growled in frustration.

“Any luck?”

He looked up at Red, silhouetted by the sun, the man prone to sunburn, the bane of redheads the world over. He shook his head. “Negative. This thing is zipped up tighter than Kirk’s cummerbund.”

“Season one, two or three?”

“Forget that, we’re talking Generations tight.”

“That tight, huh?”

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re getting into this any time soon, but I’ll keep at it.”

“I think you just enjoy being on your ass in the shade.”

“Damn skippy. I have sensitive skin. Look.” He held out a dark brown arm. “You don’t want to see me sunburnt. I get cranky.”

Red stared at him for a moment. “I think maybe it’s time for Jimmy to have a go.”

Atlas was about to try and save the shade when his comm beeped, Red’s as well. Both quickly checked the display. “What the hell is this?”

“Looks like coordinates.”

Atlas quickly brought up the GPS. “Yup, north of here on the coast. Looks like about sixty miles.”

Jimmy rounded the outcropping. “Are we back online?”

Atlas shook his head as he tried to establish a link. “Negative.”

Jimmy looked at his display. “BD again?”

“DK,” said Red, reading the last two characters of the short transmission. “That’s got to be Dylan Kane.”

Jimmy smiled. “Remind me to tell BD how wonderfully intelligent he is.”

“Don’t forget handsome, he likes handsome,” added Atlas.

“I’ll leave that to Niner,” laughed Jimmy. “I never would have thought of reaching out to Dylan, but he’s perfect. Those CIA boys have a few more options than we do.”

“Yeah, like not following the rules.”

“True dat,” said Jimmy, channeling his inner Niner.

“This says eight pm local,” said Red, “so I’m guessing it’s some sort of extraction he’s arranged.”

Something rumbled in the distance.

“What the hell was that?” asked Jimmy, spinning toward the sound, another rumble reaching them, the ground vibrating slightly.

“Sounds like artillery, maybe a tank?”

The three of them, joined by the others, climbed to the top of the depression, lying on their stomachs for a look.

“Jesus,” muttered Atlas as he took in the scene through his binoculars. Several dozen M–1A2 Abrams tanks were exchanging fire on the desert floor only a couple of miles from their current position. At least half a dozen were already smoking hulks, infantry scurrying about to find new cover or rescue those inside. He focused on the flags hanging from the back of the tanks, one set showing the distinctive green and white flag of Saudi Arabia, the other showing nothing.

“Who do you think are fighting the Saudi’s?” asked Jimmy.

“Probably other Saudi’s,” replied Red. “Nobody else in this area has that type of tank.”

Atlas felt his chest tighten. “Civil war?”

“It looks that way.”

Atlas looked over his shoulder and back at the truck containing the relic. “All because we have that damned thing.”

“How about we just ride up into the middle of that little skirmish and hand it over?” asked Jimmy with a tone that suggested he was only half joking.

“We wouldn’t know what side to give it to. Besides, if that were an option, I’m sure we would have been informed, not cut-off. No, there’s something bigger going on here.” He punched the sand. “We need intel!” He looked at Atlas. “Where were those coordinates again?”

Atlas nodded toward the tank battle raging below.

“Right through that shit.”

Embassy of the United States, Paris, France

Dawson sat in a chair while the nurse rubbed some sort of salve on his burns, reconfirmed as nothing more than a mild sunburn. Niner sat on the floor, back and head resting against the wall, eyes closed, as the only two other occupants of the room, Acton and his wife Laura, recovered from what had been an insane couple of hours.

With a death toll of over two hundred in the embassy alone and hundreds more injured.

And with the exception of the brave Marine who had died of his wounds received at the gate, and one wounded Marine, everyone within the embassy had escaped unscathed if not terrified.

The nurse stood, snapping off her gloves. “You’re good to go. Monitor the burns just in case there’s any blistering, but I don’t think there’ll be any.”

“I hosed him down pretty quick, doc,” said Niner, his eyes still closed. “In fact, I think he’s just doing all this for the attention.” Niner opened his eyes and grinned at the nurse. “Now me, on the other hand, I actually do have a burnt back from the beach in Spain.”

The nurse gave him a look. “I’m married, and he’s a hell of a lot better looking than you.”

Niner grabbed at his chest, mocking a broken heart.

“Burned!” laughed Dawson as he stood up, Acton and Laura grinning. “You just made my day, nurse.”

Niner looked up at Dawson. “You’ll be hearing about my broken heart for the rest of it, so don’t be so sure.”

The nurse turned to Laura. “We’ll be arranging transport for you shortly. We’re evacuating the embassy as soon as it’s safe to do so.”

Laura nodded and the nurse left.

“CIA says Maggie is probably being held at the Saudi embassy. I’m heading there now to see what I can do.” Dawson looked at Niner, still on the floor, his eyes closed again, a hand still clasped over his heart. “You coming?”

“Yes. But only if you hold me.”

“I’ll have Atlas give you a big hug when we get back to The Unit.”

Niner pushed himself to his feet. “No thanks, that bastard will crack a few ribs.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Acton as he rose from his perch on the edge of Laura’s bed. “You’ll need all the help you can get.”

Dawson shook his head. “Negative. They were after you two. You showing up will just give them what they want.” Acton opened his mouth to protest but Dawson cut him off, nodding toward Laura. “You stay with your wife and get her to safety. Niner and I will take care of Maggie.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. We’re going to head for the hotel if we can. A delivery was supposed to have been made with some equipment we’re going to need, then we’ll try to get to the Saudi embassy, retrieve Maggie, then get the hell out of Dodge. You two get your asses on a plane and stateside as fast as you can. From the briefing we just had, what happened here tonight is being broadcast across the world and has just made things worse. There are reports they’re going building-to-building, house-to-house and massacring people in revenge all across Europe. I want you two safe back home. I’m going to have you met at the airport though, because we don’t know if whoever was after you will make another attempt.”

“Do you really think they might?” asked Laura, concern on her face as she reached out for her husband’s hand.

“I have no idea, but we can’t take the chance. You’ll be met by friendly faces. They’ll take you to a safe house until this is all settled.”

Acton frowned. “However long that might be.”

Dawson sighed. “Let’s just hope Red and the guys can get that thing back into the right hands. That should hopefully settle things down.”

“Any word?”

Dawson shook his head. “No, but Dylan’s on it. I haven’t heard from him yet, but I’m going to assume he’s got something in the works.”

“He’s a good kid,” said Acton. “He’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Of course he will,” said Niner, slapping Dawson on the ass. “He was trained by the best.”

Dawson rolled his eyes. “We better get out of here, seeing that bed is giving him ideas.” He extended his hand, shaking Laura’s then Acton’s. “Good luck, professors.”

“And to you, BD. Give Maggie my best when you get her,” replied Laura.

“I will.”

Dawson opened the door and navigated his way through the carnage, the area swarming with French police, their assault team already gone to deal with the next crisis.

“This is insane,” muttered Niner as they passed through the fallen metal doors, the first set of body bags arriving, tossed in a pile as the grim task of hauling away the dead began.

“Such a waste, all over some perceived injustice.”

“All over religion. I was raised that religion was supposed to bring out the best in people, not the worst.”

Dawson stood aside as a group of police exited the stairwell. “Not all of them, I guess.” They took the stairs, two at a time, quickly arriving at the ground floor, the stairwell already cleared of bodies though the bloodstains remained.

The hallway where they had made their stand was another matter.

Bodies had been piled to the side so there was a clear path to the main entrance, dozens of civilian staff members lined up for evacuation, the grim task of removing the bodies not yet begun. Through the broken windows the grounds appeared cleared of rioters, a heavy police presence still evident as a chopper set down to continue the evacuation interrupted earlier.

Dawson stepped outside into the crisp night air, the stench of thousands of fires burning across the city filling his nostrils, the calm of the night spoiled by the sounds of sirens and megaphones still too close for comfort filling the air.

A group of ten civilians were led quickly to the helicopter, one woman stopping and gasping as she pointed to what was left of her car. “Oh my God! They torched my Jag!”

Dawson looked. “Sorry to hear that.”

The woman turned to him and grinned. “No, that’s fantastic! Now I can use the insurance to buy a car that doesn’t spend half its time in the garage!” She rushed off toward the helicopter, a bounce in her step that seemed out of place among the carnage.

Niner laughed as the chopper lifted off.

“I guess a little bit of good can come out of anything.”

Unknown Location, Saudi Arabia

“Where are the Americans now?” asked Abu Tahir al-Qarmati of his underling on the satellite phone, a man he had known for years and trusted with his life. But a man who had failed him, he responsible for the security of the operation, having insisted a smaller force was preferred as it would be less noticeable.

He had been wrong.

And now the Prince was dead, and the Black Stone in the hands of the infidels.

An unfortunate outcome that had proven in the end to be a wonderful blunder, the chaos worldwide more than he could have ever hoped for. His intentions had been clear and pure—the destruction of the false idol, and it was still his ultimate goal. It was more important to put Islam back on the right track than to punish the infidels for their crimes against the one true religion, though he took delight in every news report that streamed across his computer screen.

It was a good day.

But to make it a perfect day, he needed the Black Stone so it could be destroyed.

“We don’t know where they are, sir. They had left the Houthi camp before we got there and they took the false idol with them by the looks of it.”

“Were they evacuated by helicopter?”

“I don’t think so. We know the Houthi’s had vehicles and they’re gone now, so most likely the Americans left in them. I think it’s like you said, sir, they’ve been abandoned by their government.”

“Good. That will make them easier to find.”

“It’s a big desert, sir.”

Al-Qarmati nodded as he looked at a map of the area, his man’s current location highlighted with a red arrow. “If I were them I’d be heading for the coast for possible extraction, or to steal a boat and extract themselves. Try to find them, Rahim.”

“Sir, I fear we may be looking for a grain of sand in the desert.”

“True, but it is a grain of sand that must be found at all costs.”

And there may be another way.

Avenue Hoche, Paris, France

Across from the Embassy of Saudi Arabia

Dawson peered through his binoculars, the night vision mode giving the entire area a hazy green glow. The front of the embassy was surrounded by French police along with half a dozen camera crews though there weren’t any protesters here, the Saudi’s not a prime target for the hatred displayed by the Muslim population now that they were no longer blamed for the loss of their relic—America was, and by proxy, Westerners.

“How the hell are we getting in there?” asked Niner, lying beside him with his own binoculars trained on the area.

Dawson focused on the main entrance, a rather plain looking affair, the embassy actually housed in a row of buildings, it small compared to the American Embassy they had just been in. The CIA analyst Leroux had suggested there were tunnels underneath the very building they were now atop, however they had to assume any entrance to the embassy building would be monitored and most likely heavily guarded with the current situation.

There was no way they were getting in.

Which meant only one thing.

“We need to get them to come out.”

“How the hell do we do that? Fire alarm?”

Dawson shook his head. “No, they’d just check and confirm there was no fire. If they’re holding someone illegally, they know damned well they have to be careful.” He rolled to his side, fishing out his cellphone. “No, I’ve got a better idea.” He dialed Colonel Clancy’s number.

“Speak.”

Dawson had to keep what he said non-specific and fast, the line not secure. “Sir, it’s me.”

“Status?”

“We need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“We’re at the location as previously discussed but there’s no way in.”

There was a pause, the Colonel’s chair creaking. “So you need them to come out.”

“Exactly.”

“With the current situation, there’s no way they’re evacuating that building without some sort of confirmation.”

“Oh, I’ve got a way to convince them that any threat is real. I just need the threat delivered without them knowing it came from our side.”

“Leave it to me. How much time do you need?”

“We’ll be delivering our confirmation within the next fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, good hunting.”

Dawson ended the call and shoved the phone back in his pocket, scurrying back from the edge of the roof. Unzipping a large duffel bag, delivered to their hotel room as promised, he removed a miniature drone.

Niner grinned as Dawson pulled out a brick of C4. “Oh, Sarge, you da man.”

“Don’t get all doughy eyed on me now.” Dawson tossed the C4 to Niner then a bag of remote detonators. “Small charges. We’re not looking to do damage, just scare the shit out of some people.”

Within minutes Dawson had the first drone ready with a package he doubted would ever be delivered by Amazon Prime Air. Approaching the roof edge, careful to keep out of sight from the police below, he launched the drone, expertly guiding it across the street to the roof of the building housing the embassy, releasing his package when the camera on his tablet showed him over the roof and there no risk the charge might actually fall to the cordoned-off street below.

“One away,” he said, guiding the drone back for another pickup.

“Five more charges are ready,” said Niner as he crawled up beside Dawson, launching their second drone. Dawson set his down beside them, loading another charge.

“Two away,” said Niner as Dawson launched his drone. “Do you think six is enough?”

“More than enough.”

“But I really want these bastards shitting their pants, enema style.”

Dawson grimaced at the image as he tapped the control, releasing his charge. “Third away.”

Niner’s drone launched just as someone shouted from below. Dawson hit the control to put his drone on hover and peered over the side.

He cursed.

Several people were pointing at the two drones, cameras suddenly redirected to try and catch a glimpse of the unusual sight. “We’ve been spotted.”

“What should I do?” asked Niner, his drone already heading for the roof.

“Drop your package then keep going south. Put it in the river.” He pushed on the joystick, resuming control of his own drone and sending it south, back over the embassy and toward the Seine.

“Four away.”

“That should be enough,” said Dawson, watching the city whip by on the display as he directed the tiny vehicle to its watery grave.

“It’ll at least scare the piss out of them.”

“And make the news.”

Dawson’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he fished it out, reading the text.

Done.

He returned the phone to his pocket, taking a surreptitious peak over the edge, careful not to be spotted by the reporters or police below. “The Colonel has done his part. Now let’s see what happens.”

Captain Phillip Sikes waited impatiently, his phone pressed hard against his ear, the Saudi’s seeming to take pride in not answering his calls for at least six rings.

Don’t they know we’re trying to help them?

“Embassy of Saudi Arabia, how may I help you?”

“This is Captain Sikes again.”

“Captain, what is it this time?”

“We have just received a credible threat that there is a bomb on the premises. We must evacuate your personnel immediately.”

“Commander, we have no intention of evacuating. We are perfectly safe here.”

“Sir, the threat is credible. I must insist—”

“And I must insist that you stop calling. We are secure, and that is the end of it.”

Sikes turned toward the sound of airbrakes behind him, the first of several buses dispatched for the evacuation just arriving. “Sir, we have buses out here ready to evacuate you to a secure facility. We need to get your people to safety, now.”

“Just where would you take us that is safer than where we are? It is not us that is under attack, Captain. It is you. Look about you, Captain, and what do you see? Police and reporters and no one else. No one here wants to harm us. You are wasting your resources and my time. Please do not call again.”

The call ended, Sikes’ phone beeping in his ear.

Merde.

The bus pulled to a stop in front of the embassy, a second rounding the corner when something tore at the air overhead, the night sky lit up for a moment as an explosion erupted on the roof, small pieces of debris raining down on them.

“Everybody back!” he shouted, urging his men away from the façade of the building and toward the other side of the street just as a second explosion shook the area.

As he reached the opposite sidewalk he turned to see the front doors of the embassy burst open, panicked staff surging through the narrow doors in an every man for himself rush toward the buses.

A third explosion urged them forward.

“Get them on the buses!” he shouted, racing back across the street, his men following, the reporters cowering behind parked cars, their cameramen bravely on their feet, taking in the panic.

He felt a slight rage build in his chest as he spotted the man he had just been speaking to race down the steps, pushing others out of his way.

Who’s under attack now, asshole?

Maggie sat alone, as she had been for hours, the hood or veil or whatever the hell they wanted to call it sitting on the table in front of her, she having ripped it off again hours ago in a fit of rage.

Her captors hadn’t been pleased, but had done nothing to force her to wear it again.

She had been allowed one bathroom break and food and water had been brought to her twice.

And that was it.

No questions, no intimidation.

Nothing.

She was going stir crazy.

She pushed the plate sitting in front of her another few inches across the table, some left over food slowly turning color, similar to how guacamole might. She had no idea what she had eaten, but had to admit it had been tasty.

If I didn’t hate Saudi Arabia so much right now, I might try their food again.

She was always one to try new things, to experiment with different flavors and the foods of different cultures. It would never occur to her to hit the golden arches in a foreign country—she could eat American any time.

Here she wanted to eat French, to eat like the locals. She so rarely got away on a vacation that most of her experimentation came when she’d discover some small, out of the way local ethnic restaurant not influenced by their surroundings, steak and pasta not on the menu.

The fact that BD had wanted her here, to spend so much one-on-one time with her had meant the world to her. She loved this man, unlike any man she had ever loved before. She knew he had feelings for her, but it would take him time, he not exactly known for expressing himself.

But she could tell by the way he doted on her, always kept a hand on her when they were together, whether it was simply holding her hand, resting his on her leg or shoulder—whatever it was, it was there, constant, and she loved it.

It was his way of telling her how he felt.

She sighed then kicked the table leg in frustration.

This was supposed to be the trip that sealed the deal, that let them both know it was meant to be.

Instead she was stuck here in a room only God knew where, with BD out there, somewhere, not even knowing if she was alive.

He must be so worried.

But there was more. She could hear the tension on the other side of the door. There had been too much shouting and pounding of feet the entire time she had been here for this to be a normal office day.

And it was the middle of the night. Shouldn’t everyone have gone home by now?

No, something big was going on involving these people. She had seen the Saudi flag in the hallway before she was hauled in here, and had spotted it again when she went to the bathroom.

But what would the Saudi’s want with Professor Palmer?

The entire room shook and she yelped, grabbing onto the table with both hands as plaster dust slowly settled. She looked up at the ceiling as screams and shouts from the other side of the door erupted, more heavy pounding of feet, the urgency outside ratcheted up several more notches.

Another explosion rocked the room.

And she smiled.

It has to be BD!

The door flew open just as a third explosion rumbled through the building, two men rushing in and grabbing her, one shoving the hood back over her head.

Yet she didn’t care.

He knows I’m here!

And there was one thing she knew.

Her boyfriend was the best at what he did.

And these men were dead.

They just didn’t know it yet.

“I think that’s enough,” said Dawson as he watched the staff evacuate through the main entrance, dust from pulverized concrete obscuring the roof across the street, shattered concrete sprayed across the road below. “We’ll keep the last one in reserve, just in case they change their minds.”

Niner nodded, a slight look of disappointment on his face. “Well, we’ll have to set it off before we leave. Can’t have any kids finding it.”

Dawson smiled slightly. “Umm, the kids that will be playing on the roof before the bomb squad gets here?”

“Exactly!”

A car rushed out of the parking garage below them. “We’ve got activity. Get ready.”

Dawson had little doubt they wouldn’t risk taking Maggie out the front entrance, and now that there had been an actual bombing at the embassy, the entire facility would be swept by French security, though the Saudi’s could deny access if they wanted to.

Which would look pretty suspicious.

No, he was almost certain they would take her out the exact same way Langley suspected she had been brought in, and the fact vehicles were now pulling out of a parking garage in the middle of the night minutes after an explosion seemed to suggest he was right.

He peered through the infrared, only a driver and passenger in the front seat visible, their heat signatures suggesting they were both men. Two more cars followed, none with what looked like women, before a van emerged, two heat signatures in the front with three in the back, one lying on the floor.

Maggie!

“Tag the van on my mark.” He readied the trigger for the final explosive. “Three.. two… one… Mark!” He squeezed the trigger as Niner leaned forward and fired, a magnetic GPS tracking device attaching itself on the roof just as debris rained down from the final explosion. “Status?” asked Dawson, his heart beating a little harder than usual. If the device had failed to attach, or malfunctioned, they may never find Maggie again.

Niner checked the tracking display and nodded. “We’re good.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Colonel Thomas Clancy listened to the update provided by his counterpart, Colonel Faisal bin Nayef. The situation in Saudi Arabia had deteriorated even more in the past several hours, though Mecca sounded like it was now secure along with government and House of Saud facilities in Riyadh.

They might just last this one out.

Yet even if they did there was going to be one hell of a shake up afterward with over half their military detachments refusing to obey orders, several even openly fighting government forces.

And it would take a blood bath to take back the smaller cities and towns where the populace had essentially thrown anyone connected with the government out into the desert to fend for themselves.

And he had no sympathy.

Treat your population like serfs or worse while you live high on the hog, what do you expect?

“And there’s nothing under government control between Mecca and the Red Sea coast to Yemen?”

“No, Colonel, nothing.”

Clancy cursed, snapping his pencil in half, he having given up on the cigars, the temptation too great to finally light one up after keeping his promise to his wife for so long.

Cheryl, if only you knew what you’ve done to me!

“But I may have an alternative to them getting here.”

Clancy’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“I have a commando unit here with helicopters. We can pick up your men and bring them here, with the Black Stone. I can guarantee their safety once inside the city, and with the Black Stone returned to the Kaaba, the situation should quickly ease. Once it does, we can arrange for your men to be returned to you, through backchannels if necessary.”

Clancy pursed his lips as he leaned forward, elbows on his desk, one hand squeezing his temples. “Can you trust these men?”

“Absolutely, they are loyal, I guarantee.”

Your guarantees have been worth shit so far, Colonel.

But he didn’t see that he had much choice. All he knew at this point was that his men had received a burst transmission, he assumed from Kane, with a set of coordinates and a time. That was all their computers told them. And that pickup was over half a day away, through miles of lawless territory, with the risk of discovery at any moment.

He made a command decision.

“Very well, Colonel, I’ll give you their location.”

Rue de Colonel Delorme, Paris, France

Dawson looked through the infrared goggles, frowning as he counted the number of hostiles they were about to engage, but breathing a sigh of relief to see that Maggie was alive, though her condition was questionable. She appeared to be in a second floor room, tied to a chair set against the wall, next to the door, with one guard watching her.

“I’m reading twelve hostiles,” said Niner, rolling onto his back, the morning sun just starting to take the chill out of the air. “What do you think their orders are?”

“I’m guessing for the moment it’s to not harm the hostage, but that might change once we make entry.”

“There’s only three on the second floor plus one in the room with Maggie by the door,” said Niner. He rolled back onto his stomach and peered through his goggles. “The roof next door is too low, there’s no way to jump across and access the second floor directly.”

“I know,” said Dawson, taking another look with the infrared turned off. “The only way in is through the main floor.”

Niner pushed back from the edge, sitting up on his haunches. “Well, if Liam Neeson can do it, so can we. He’s like sixty and just an actor, so this should be a piece of cake for us.”

Dawson crawled back from the edge of the roof and looked at Niner.

“If we’re using movie metaphors, then you’re the expendable sidekick.”

“The lovable expendable sidekick.”

Red Sea Coast, Saudi Arabia

57 miles from rendezvous coordinates

“Jesus,” muttered Atlas as they slowly navigated the burnt out hulks of tanks, the bodies of their crews draped over the hulls or scattered in pieces over the desert floor, the infantry support dead beside them or long having fled. The battle had lasted for hours before the Saudi side retreated, the unknown challengers victorious but badly wounded themselves, leaving their own dead and dying behind to lick their wounds.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual tank battle before,” said Jimmy. “It’s like something out of Patton.”

“It looks sort of like that opening scene,” agreed Wings. “I half expect to see people stripping the bodies.”

“This is how war used to be,” rumbled Atlas. “Two sides that were more equally matched, strategy, tactics and a little bit of luck winning the day instead of superior firepower.”

“I think I’d rather have the superior firepower,” said Jimmy as they cleared the last smoking wreck. He hit the gas, the truck accelerating as he maintained the distance between them and Red in the lead vehicle. It had been decided to make a race for the rendezvous point—or presumed rendezvous point—and put as much distance as they could between them and this battle.

Someone was bound to come back to collect their dead.

Atlas checked the GPS. They had almost sixty miles to go before they’d reach the coordinates sent by Kane but plenty of time to reach them should they have to get off the back road they were now using. They were avoiding the highway only a couple of miles to their east, the dirt road they were now on more likely to be devoid of military assets though they were bound to encounter scattered groups of locals if daily life were continuing outside of the major population centers.

Whatever was going on in Saudi Arabia couldn’t be good, a civil war clearly having broken out, but it was the extent that wasn’t known. Could what they just witnessed be a limited skirmish, a single disloyal unit, or was it just one of dozens, perhaps hundreds of battles raging across this large desert nation.

All because of what sat behind him.

A religious artifact nobody seemed to want.

Hand signals from ahead had Jimmy braking and turning as the lead vehicle raced toward an outcropping. Atlas scanned the horizon for what Red’s vehicle might have spotted and cursed.

“Gunships.”

Jimmy eased the vehicle to a stop behind Red’s in an effort to minimize the dust that might be thrown up and they all piled out.

“Did you see them?” asked Red as he rushed around the outcropping to get a better look.

Atlas nodded, joining him. “If you’re referring to the three gunships, then yes, we did.” He dropped beside Red, pulling out his binoculars. “Any sign they spotted us?”

“Negative, but it looks like they’re heading for the coast.”

Atlas watched the three choppers streak across the landscape toward the water, suggesting they weren’t on a patrol along the Red Sea, but instead heading for a specific destination.

Missiles suddenly streaked from their weapons pods, a chunk of the coastline erupting in flames as the three helicopters rid themselves of everything they were carrying then circled the area, the sound of machine guns tearing into the shoreline reaching their ears even from this distance.

“What do you make of it?” asked Atlas.

“I have a nasty feeling that was for us and someone just got the coordinates wrong.”

The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“That bastard!” muttered Clancy as he watched the satellite feed now displayed in the Operations Center. Explosion after explosion filled the screen, the top down view almost eerie, miniature mushrooms forming with each detonation, as if they were watching blue dye being added to water, a single drop at a time.

With each drop deadly enough to rip apart his men.

He was only thankful he didn’t trust Colonel Nayef.

The Operations Center Coordinator stood beside him. “Good thing you gave the wrong coordinates, sir,” she whispered. Barebones staff were manning the Ops Center at the moment, the team officially disavowed, this a “training exercise”.

“Looks like the good Colonel failed the test.”

“What now?”

“Now they’re on their own.” He shook his head as one of the helicopters landed, troops pouring out to search the area, then just as quickly departing, finding nothing. Clancy raised his voice. “This training exercise is over.”

He turned on his heel and left, returning to his office to call the man who had just betrayed him. It didn’t take long for his call to be answered.

“Colonel, I was just about to call you!” exploded Colonel Faisal bin Nayef’s voice, clearly in a panic. “You must tell your men to not go to the coordinates you gave me!”

Clancy sucked in a deep breath, controlling his temper. “Colonel, I just watched a live satellite feed of the entire area being bombarded by your forces.”

“Not my forces, Colonel! Qarmatian loyalists!”

“Explain.”

“My aide, a man I have trusted for years, is a Qarmatian spy! He’s been passing on everything to the Qarmatians, Colonel, everything! I am so sorry about your men, so sorry.” There was the sound of a genuine sob at the other end. “I will pray for their souls, Colonel, rest assured. And since they died honorably, they have earned their place in your Heaven, I am certain.”

Clancy shook his head.

Your heaven. It’s the same damned place, you ignorant asshole.

“Fortunately my men were not at the coordinates provided therefore will have to take a rain check on your gracious invitation to the afterlife.”

There was a pause from the other end before Nayef finally replied. “Umm, I don’t understand. They weren’t there?”

“Negative. My men are alive and well, as far as I know.”

“Oh, praise be to Allah! Colonel, it is clear that no one can be trusted, not even within my command. And things continue to get worse. Even among the loyal commanders here in Mecca they are demanding action on retrieving the Black Stone. I fear their loyalties may turn should we not retrieve the stone shortly.”

“This can all be resolved with a single phone call from your government.”

“You know diplomats, Colonel, they are slow and deliberate, all in an attempt so neither side loses face. Meanwhile us soldiers fight and die while they talk and dine. I fear it will be days before some arrangement is made, and, well, you’ve seen the news reports.” He paused. “Colonel, is it as bad as they say?”

Clancy frowned. “Worse. We’ve even begun to see some rioting here, but it’s minimal. Too many civilians with guns that won’t hesitate to shoot to protect their property. Europe doesn’t have an armed populace so they have to rely on the authorities, though some civilians are fighting back with what they have.”

“Yes, the vigilante squads. I’ve seen this on the news. Most disturbing what they’re doing.”

Clancy felt his chest tighten. “No less so than those they’re fighting, I assure you.”

“Of course, Colonel, of course. I didn’t mean to imply the horrors were any less on the other side.” A sigh burst through the headset. “Colonel, we must stop this. You and I, right here, right now. Your men have what we need to end this, I have the means to end it. Have your men get the Black Stone to me in Mecca tonight, and I will go publicly on the news telling the world that it was retrieved by loyal Saudi forces after raiding a Houthi rebel camp and that the footage with the American soldiers was faked. Trust me one last time, Colonel. I promise I will tell no one of our plan. Have your men meet me at the Ibrahim Al Khalil checkpoint at midnight local time. I will be there personally to see them to safety.”

Clancy looked at the snapped pencil from earlier sitting on the bottom of his empty wastebasket. Everything Nayef was telling him could be true. The country was divided, traitors in the midst was a certainty, but his own aide?

Anything was possible.

Yet a decision had to be made.

And it wasn’t his to make.

“You’re still turning the cellular network back on at six pm?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have my decision then.”

Rue de Colonel Delorme, Paris, France

Niner pulled open the door and Dawson advanced through the side entrance to the house Maggie was being held in, squeezing his suppressed Glock twice, the guard dropping in a heap. Moving forward silently, he quickly cleared the bathroom to his right, Niner clearing a small room on the left, it known to be empty from their surveillance across the street.

Dawson nodded toward the kitchen where voices could be heard, loud and boisterous, some game of chance being played by the men inside. Someone announced in Arabic they were going to the bathroom.

Dawson jerked a thumb over his shoulder and he and Niner quickly retreated to the room Niner had cleared, Dawson closing over the door, leaving it only slightly ajar as he watched a man enter the bathroom, his back to them. Dawson opened the door and looked down the hallway to confirm it was still clear, then pumped two rounds into the man’s back as he advanced, grabbing him by the collar and lowering him silently to the floor.

Closing the bathroom door, Dawson resumed their advance, weapon trained down the hall toward the entrance where they knew two men were standing guard. Dawson motioned toward the entrance and Niner nodded, taking up a position to cover them should the two guards approach as they expected.

This kitchen wasn’t going to be cleared quietly.

All it would take would be a single shout or someone falling from their chair, the noise certainly alerting those at the front entrance.

He stepped into the doorway, weapon aimed inside, four men sitting around a table, playing cards in hand, those facing him looking up in stunned silence.

He double-tapped the first man on the left, a cigar dropping from his shocked mouth, then stepped left and out of the doorway, firing at the man facing the doorway as he rose. The third started to shout as Dawson rounded the end of the table, pumping two rounds into him, then turning his weapon on the fourth as the man spun the wrong way in his chair, confused, reaching for his shoulder holster.

Dawson put the round through the man’s head as Niner’s weapon fired from the hallway. He put another round into the still moaning fourth, silencing him, then reloaded as he joined Niner in the hallway. The two guards were down and out at the end.

“First floor cleared,” whispered Dawson as they rushed toward the stairs at the far end near the entrance. Shouts could be heard from the second floor, feet pounding overhead. They had only moments to reach Maggie—he just prayed the element of surprise was still on their side, the shouts above from confused men, unsure of what was going on.

Then he heard something in Arabic that sent a chill down his spine, and his legs pumping even harder up the stairs.

“Kill the girl!”

Maggie sat in a simple straight-back kitchen chair, her bum killing her from the hours she had been forced to sit in the unforgiving seat, almost every muscle in her body aching, especially her shoulders, her hands zip-tied behind her. After being hauled unceremoniously out of her prison after explosions rocked the building, she had been rushed back down the elevator and through the tunnels she had come through earlier.

She had been tossed on the floor of the van, unable to see what was going on outside, but it was clear something big was happening, there a lot of shouting, police sirens, then another explosion that rained debris down on them.

But they had escaped, and with it her hopes of rescue by BD dashed, it clear to her it was him behind all the chaos.

And now here she sat, this time not alone, a single guard sitting in a chair facing the door and her, she sitting beside the door, her back to the wall so he had a clear view of both.

And again nothing was being said to her, but this time it was clear these men were scared.

And you should be. When BD gets his hands on you, you’re all dead.

At least that was her fantasy. From time to time she’d find herself closing her eyes, visualizing BD and his team rushing into the building she was now in. Their guns would be blazing, her captors dying horrible, painful deaths, then BD would burst through the door, killing her guard and freeing her, taking her in his arms and laying a kiss on her that would melt her to her very core.

But it was just a fantasy.

Several loud thumping sounds from below had her heart racing, the bored guard suddenly sitting upright in his chair. More loud thumping, then several shouts were heard from below, all in what sounded like Arabic.

Gunfire from the other side of the door was unmistakable. Feet pounding on flooring, more shouting, her guard leaping to his feet, drawing his weapon from its shoulder holster, nervously eyeing her and the door. More thumping, closer now, a loud thud as something heavy hit the floor.

A body?

Something was shouted and the guard began to shake as he slowly raised his gun toward her, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

She was going to die.

It had to be BD attacking. If it were police there would have been sirens, megaphones, orders in French.

This was silent. All she had heard so far were the odd thumping sounds and shouts from her captors. Whoever was attacking them was doing so silently.

Stealthily.

Like Delta operators would.

Footsteps pounded in the hallway, these approaching her as gunfire was exchanged.

It has to be him!

“BD!” she cried as she pushed herself back in the chair, hitting the wall, there nowhere to go.

The man raised his weapon and she screamed, closing her eyes.

Loud pops on the other side of the door caused her to nearly faint, the door only inches away from her head splintering loudly. She opened her eyes slightly to see her captor standing, shocked, red stains spreading on his crisp white shirt as the door flew open, two men rushing in, each firing at the guard as he fell backward onto the floor.

“Maggie!”

Sobs immediately racked her body as BD spun toward her, dropping to his knees as he grabbed her in his arms and hugged her. Her hands were suddenly free and she wrapped her arms around him, never wanting to let him go as her fantasy had come true, her savior rescuing her just as she had imagined.

She pushed back, looking into his eyes, eyes filled with concern.

And kissed him.

“I’m next.”

Niner watched as Dawson and Maggie reunited, a little envious, it having been a long time since a woman had ever shown such genuine affection for him. But he was happy for them, Dawson definitely deserving someone like Maggie in his life.

And he had nearly lost her.

Man, I don’t know if he’d have ever gotten over that.

Maggie began to laugh as the kiss ran its course, she resting her forehead against Dawson’s, holding the back of his head as she caught her breath.

“Thank God you’re here.”

Dawson helped her to her feet and looked her over. “You’re lucky we found you.”

She looked over at Niner as he covered the door.

“I’m still waiting,” he said.

She laughed and walked over to him, kissing his cheek then patting it. “Thank you.”

He frowned. “His was better.”

Tires screeched outside and Dawson rushed to the window. “We’ve got company. Two vehicles, at least eight men.”

“Nothing’s ever easy.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Dawson, stepping out into the hallway, weapon in one hand, his other gripping Maggie by the arm, as if he’d never let her go again. There was pounding on the door downstairs, then the sound of a shoulder being tossed against it. “We’re not getting out through the main floor.”

“The roof next door?”

Dawson nodded, already heading down the hallway toward the window at the end of it. The door downstairs burst open, shouts reaching them as the new arrivals rushed into the house. Dawson threw open the window and looked out.

“It’s doable.”

Maggie leaned out, fear in her eyes. “Maybe for you.”

Dawson tried to reassure her with a smile. “I’ll go first, you’ll see how easy it is.” He stepped out on a small roof covering the window below then pushed off, disappearing from sight, Maggie gasping as Niner stepped over to see Dawson rolling to a stop on the roof below. It wasn’t far, not even five feet separating the two buildings, and only about a five foot vertical.

To the untrained however, it would appear daunting. He stepped out onto the roof and held out his hand for Maggie as footsteps pounded up the stairs. “Come on, you can do it.” He tried to keep any pressure out of his voice, and to her credit, Maggie stepped out with him. “Ready?”

“No.” Her eyes were jammed closed. “Throw me.”

“Open your eyes.”

“No, throw me.”

“I will, but you need to open your eyes.”

She did and he grabbed her by the belt and tossed her like a sack of potatoes, immediately following as gunshots rang out behind them. Maggie screamed the entire way, Niner enjoying the ride as he prepped himself for the impact. Dawson caught Maggie just as she hit, taking her in his arms and falling backward, absorbing the impact as Niner rolled beside them.

He immediately drew his weapon and aimed at the window they had just come from.

A face appeared.

He placed a hole in its head.

“Let’s go!” ordered Dawson as he grabbed Maggie by the hand, racing along the flat roof, ducking under clotheslines and telephone wires. Niner followed, backward, still aiming at the window, their pursuers a little more reluctant to show their faces now that one of their own had been removed from existence.

A shot rang out from the street below, a brick chimney beside them hit, shards of razor sharp stone exploding in all directions. Maggie yelped as they all ducked, Niner taking a shot at the road below as Dawson and Maggie, hand-in-hand ahead of him, jumped to the next roof.

Good girl!

Her fear of jumping seemed gone, or at least overwhelmed by her fear of getting shot. Niner jumped after them, skidding awkwardly as he landed on clay roofing tiles, several slipping away under his feet. More shots rang out as they scrambled across the angled roof before jumping to another flat roof.

Dawson stopped behind a shed housing rooftop gardening implements as he fished out his cellphone. Niner took a bead on their pursuers below, five on foot, two in the vehicles. He ducked as someone fired. Maggie cried out in fear as Dawson talked with someone, giving them their location and status.

“Police are being notified,” said Dawson, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Let’s say we even the odds a bit.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Niner leaned forward, firing three shots, sending those below scrambling for cover and allowing Dawson to aim. Two groups of two had a tire from each vehicle hissing in defeat as they rushed to the next rooftop, this one a gap of less than two feet. Niner quickly took up position behind a chimneystack and aimed at the still regrouping men below. He squeezed off two rounds, one of the men dropping, the others bravely jumping for cover.

A police siren suddenly sounded, it clear they were nearby. Niner fired two more shots, taking out another man cowering behind one of their disabled vehicles, not clear on the concept that regular car glass didn’t make for much of a shield.

Tires screeched farther down the road. Niner glanced quickly to see a police car skidding around the corner, lights flashing, siren wailing, a second close behind. He stepped back, out of sight, as the remaining Saudi’s fled in the opposite direction. He looked at Dawson.

“How about we get the hell out of here before they cordon off the area?”

Dawson swept his hand across the horizon. “Something tells me they’ve got their hands full.”

Niner shook his head and Maggie gasped as they took in the sight. The entire city was covered by a dull haze of smoke, dark plumes dotting the horizon as fires of varying size continued to burn out of control. It was a devastating sight.

Even Hitler left Paris alone.

“What’s going on?” asked Maggie.

Niner looked at her for a moment then realized she had been in captivity the entire time. She had no way of knowing what had been going on since her kidnapping.

“The world’s falling apart,” he said as Dawson wrapped an arm around her. “And we’re stuck in the middle of it.”

Boulevard de la Villette, Paris, France

Pascal gripped the carving fork in one hand, the butcher’s knife in the other. His younger brother Marcel stood beside him, pressed tightly against his body, trembling with fear as their parents were massacred on the other side of the closet door.

It had happened so fast they hadn’t been prepared.

His father had barricaded the front door of their apartment, locked all the windows and taped all the panes so nothing could be thrown through them. They were on the second floor so the only way really in was through the front door.

Which was exactly how they had come.

It had happened so fast.

His father had gone to the bathroom, leaving the family in the tiny living room, all the lights turned off, the television on low so they could see what was happening outside.

The picture-in-picture was tuned to the lobby camera.

His mother saw them first.

There was about ten of them.

Only ten.

If everyone in the building had stood together, they would have been able to stop them.

But instead they all cowered in their own apartments, awaiting death, alone.

They had heard the screams less than a minute later in the apartment below.

Madame Dion.

She lived alone, with her cat.

At least eighty years old.

The screams became progressively quieter as they worked their way down the hall below, the sound of doors being kicked down, angry shouts, screams, then silence.

Until the next apartment.

He had peed his pants.

And it had happened so fast.

In less than fifteen minutes they were on their floor. Their mother’s desperate attempts to call the police were futile, the lines all busy. His father began to pull the tape off the window in the bedroom, realizing his error, finally taking an antique chair, handed down for ten generations, and smashing it repeatedly against the window in a desperate attempt to get through.

They were at their door.

And it happened so fast.

“Get in the closet!” hissed his father, pointing at the closet in the master bedroom. He had shaken his head, not wanting to leave his father alone, too scared to be lone himself. “Go! Now! Take care of your brother!”

Pascal looked at his younger brother, tears streaking down his face, and nodded.

“Here, take these.”

The only weapons in the house were from the knife block. He looked down. A carving fork and a butcher’s knife. His father hurried them into the closet, their mother refusing to go with them, instead taking one of the knives in her hand, determined to stand at her husband’s side and defend their children.

But it happened so fast.

The door burst open, the tables piled against it tossed aside as if they weren’t there. Shouts erupted, men screaming “Allahu Akbar” at the top of their lungs.

His father shouted.

His mother screamed.

Somebody cried out, not his parents.

Then there was a thud. A sickening thud, as if something hard and heavy had hit something soft.

His father cried out, his pain obvious.

His mother wailed in fear, begging for them to stop.

Another thud, and another.

And another.

He pushed the closet open slightly to catch a view out the door and into the living area.

And regretted it immediately.

Two men were hacking his father to pieces, long blades he had only seen in movies, raised high above their wielders’ heads, then dropped hard and fast into the meaty pulp that had been their protector, their provider.

Their father.

And they kept swinging.

Their mother suddenly appeared from behind the wall, throwing herself over their father’s body, begging them to stop, a hand held up to block the blows.

Her arm was cleaved off.

Pascal closed his eyes and stepped forward.

Marcel grabbed him, pulling him back inside, shaking his head, a knuckle in his mouth as he tried to stop himself from crying.

Then there was silence.

“Search the apartment!”

Pascal made a split-second decision. He shoved the closet door open, grabbing his brother by the hand and rushed toward the bedroom window. Jumping on the bed, he threw himself at the glass, the already weakened window giving way and he plunged through, his brother dragged along. As they fell he dropped his weapons, their only defense, and braced himself for what was sure to be broken bones.

Or death.

He hit hard, his brother landing directly on top of him.

But they were alive.

And he wasn’t in as much pain as he thought he should be.

His brother scrambled off him and began to yank him to his feet. Suddenly realizing where he was, he extricated himself from the bushes then looked for some place to hide.

“The alley!” said his brother, grabbing his hand and dragging him. He looked back for the knife but didn’t see it. Running after his brother, they turned down the alleyway and froze.

At least a dozen men stood at the other end.

They turned and began to run just as the mob gave pursuit.

Bursting from the alleyway, Pascal spotted a car coming toward them. He started to run to it when something hit him in the head and he went down.

His brother turned to help him, but Pascal waved him off.

“No! Run!”

But it happened so fast.

And it was already too late.

Red Sea Coast, Saudi Arabia

Red grabbed at his side pocket, fishing his phone out as he signaled for them to pull over. A text message had just been received, and if they had lucked into a stray cellphone coverage area, he didn’t want to risk losing it.

“What’s it say?” asked Jagger. Suddenly he reached for his pocket too. “What the hell, mine’s going off too.”

Red looked at the message, reading it aloud. “Thirty minute window for civilian comms. Stand by for updates, will attempt voice communications. CA.” He looked at Jagger. “Control Actual?”

“Clancy?”

Red shrugged, stepping out into the afternoon sun. He had full bars on his display for the first time since they had arrived in this hellhole and he wasn’t going to waste it. Jimmy pulled up beside them and everyone gathered around, all with their cellphones out. “I’m going to keep my phone clear but we need intel. Atlas, try CNN, Jimmy, BBC, Jagger, al-Jazeera. Wings, check the State Department website, see if there’s any new advisories. Something big has been going on in Saudi Arabia and we need to know what we’re dealing with. The rest of you try to reach out by text to our guys back home, see if we can get some info from them.”

The team broke off, all thumbs on phones when his phone vibrated in his hand with a call. “Hello?”

“This is Control Actual, we don’t have much time. Status?”

Red felt a sense of relief wash over him at the sound of the Colonel’s voice. He knew he’d never abandon them no matter what the Pentagon ordered him to do. This was just proof their faith in the man hadn’t been misplaced. He put the call on speaker so they could all hear. “We’re intact with one rescued American citizen as previously reported. We have the relic with us, two operational vehicles, heading for a rendezvous point sent to us by a friend.”

“Here’s the rundown. You’ve been disavowed. Footage of you with the relic was released to the press and the claim is that American soldiers stole the Black Stone. The administration has denied all knowledge of this but are trying to work the backchannels to get the stone into Saudi hands. A civil war has broken out in Saudi and Muslims are rioting across the world. Thousands are dead, if not tens of thousands. Copy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve been in unauthorized contact with a Saudi Colonel named Faisal bin Nayef. He has agreed to take possession of the stone from you, however you have to get it to him.”

“Where?”

“Mecca.”

Red frowned, the others having gathered around to hear the conversation. Atlas tapped his tactical computer. “Four hundred miles north of here.”

“That will take some doing, Colonel.”

“Sergeant, if it were up to me I’d say leave the goddamned thing in the middle of the desert and get your asses to that rendezvous point and home. But there’s more at stake here. If we don’t get this damned thing back into Muslim hands, for the world to see, I don’t know how the violence is going to end. Paris and London along with most of the capitals of Europe are burning. Fatwahs are being issued by the hour demanding the killing of infidels until the relic is returned, and nobody at your end seems to want to take it. It’s a Charlie-Foxtrot if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Sir, we’ll do whatever it takes to get the relic to this Colonel Nayef.”

“I know you will, Sergeant. But be careful, I’m not sure if he can be trusted.”

“Why?”

“I gave him some fake coordinates for your location and instead of a retrieval team being sent, the area was bombarded. He claims his aide was a traitor, but I just don’t know.”

Red could hear the frustration in Clancy’s voice, and he felt it as well. There was nothing worse than having to deal with someone you didn’t know whether you could trust.

And unfortunately the risk this time wasn’t whether they were being lied to, it was whether they were being led into a trap.

Capture the Americans with the relic. Red handed.

“If things are as bad as you say they are, sir, I don’t see that we have much choice.”

“I don’t see much choice either. But the first sign of it being anything but an exchange, you bug out. Leave the damned thing on the road and mail them a postcard, I don’t give a shit. Just get it close to Mecca so they can carry it in themselves if need be.”

“Will do, Colonel.”

“Okay, you’re to meet Colonel Faisal bin Nayef at the Ibrahim Al Khalil checkpoint at midnight tonight. Can you make it?”

“It’s going to be tough. Kane gave us a set of coordinates. We’re supposed to rendezvous at twenty-hundred hours local. We’re almost at those coordinates. I recommend half the team head to the rendezvous with our reporter. I’ll lead a four-man team to Mecca. We’ll be faster and less conspicuous in just one vehicle.”

“Copy that, Sergeant. Good luck.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

The call ended and Red turned to his team. “How are we for gas?”

“I’ve got half a tank,” said Jimmy.

“Same,” replied Wings. “But there’s a few jerry cans in the back that are full.”

“Which is the better vehicle?”

Wings raised a hand. “I’d say ours, but then again, I’m driving. You know Jimmy can’t drive a stick, all that damned grinding can be heard halfway to Riyadh.”

Jimmy gave Wings the finger. “Bite me.”

“I’m afraid it might lead to something more serious, and I’m already in a committed relationship.”

Chuckles echoed across the desert floor as the age old tension breaker of insulting your comrade-in-arms did its job.

Jimmy grinned. “You should be so lucky.” He turned to Red. “But he’s right. The clutch is shot on this one and she’s burning oil.”

“Okay, transfer all the fuel we can to Wings’ truck. Atlas, Jimmy, Spock, you’re with me. The rest of you take Mr. Pullman here to the rendezvous point and get the hell out of here. Understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

Atlas held up his phone. “Have you read this shit?” he asked. “The Colonel was right, there’s a shit storm rolling across Europe and pretty much everywhere else.”

“Anything on Paris?”

The tone turned somber as Red knew they were all thinking of Dawson, Maggie and the professors.

“Yeah. It’s the worst hit of them all. The military is preparing for a full scale assault to retake the city.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Red. “I hope they got the hell out of there.”

Boulevard de la Villette, Paris, France

Maggie yelped from the backseat as something hit their SUV. Dawson fingered the Glock in his lap as he guided them through the streets, little traffic on the roads, smashed and burned out cars lining the sides. At major intersections there were large groups of police guiding them toward the main evacuation center at Charles de Gaulle Airport, north of the city, but other than that, the authorities seemed powerless to stop the rioting and looting.

“Look!”

Dawson turned to see what Niner was pointing at. Two young men—scratch that, boys—burst from an alleyway, stopping to look in both directions, clearly in distress. One spotted the car and pointed just as a crowd of thugs brandishing machetes and other blunt instruments suddenly appeared from the same alley, one throwing a bottle and hitting one of the boys in the head as they began to run toward the car. He stumbled and fell, his friend stopping to help as the group descended upon them, knifes and crowbars flailing as the two boys screamed for help.

Dawson rolled down his window and pointed his Glock at the crowd, firing four rounds into them. Several cried out and dropped, the rest scattering as Dawson pulled up beside the two boys, leaning out his window.

“They’re dead.” He hit the accelerator as he rolled up his window. He had a pit in his stomach at what he had seen since they rescued Maggie. Niner was streaming the BBC through his phone, paired with the radio. Fortunately cellular service was still functioning in the city though little else seemed to be. According to the news reports they were listening to, Muslim youths had begun building-by-building searches, killing anyone who couldn’t cite certain passages from the Koran, slaughtering men, women and children in their bloodlust. It was something the world had seen far too often in countries with significant non-Muslim minorities, but it was usually relegated to Africa.

To see it here in Paris was unthinkable.

And it was a level of violence being repeated all throughout Europe, the economically challenged ghettos, dominated by Muslim populations, effectively ethnically cleansing themselves and walling out the authorities with roadblocks of burning tires and vehicles.

And northern Paris was ground zero for much of this violence.

“We need to get to the airport and get the hell out of here,” said Dawson as he made another turn under orders of the GPS. “Shit, now what?”

Ahead was a large group of police vehicles, barricades set up blocking the entire road that led to the airport. He slowed to a halt, passport in hand as he rolled down the window.

An officer approached, accompanied by several others, MP5’s and other impressive hardware aimed at the vehicle.

“American?”

Dawson nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Where are you heading?”

“The evacuation center at Charles de Gaul.”

The man shook his head. “The roads have been completely blocked by rioters. There’s no reaching the airport, not this way. You will have to try to get out of the city then get to the airport through the countryside.”

Dawson frowned, Maggie’s grip on his shoulder tightening. “That could take hours.”

The officer nodded sympathetically. “At least. We have roadblocks set up throughout the city to try and reduce the spread of the violence, and the only reason I am not arresting you now is because of your passports. There is a curfew in effect.” He leaned over, his face in the window, and lowered his voice. “I must warn you. The military is preparing an assault. Tens of thousands of troops with heavy equipment will be entering Paris in exactly one hour. If you are on the streets then, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

“What’s the best way to go then?”

The man stood back up, shaking his head. “There isn’t a good way, there’s just least bad. North is out of the question. I would go south to the E15 ring road, then west and into the countryside.”

“Thank you, officer.”

The man nodded, his face grim. “Good luck to you, monsieur.”

Dawson turned the car around and pressed the gas. “If the military is hitting the city in sixty minutes, we’ve got to get as close to the outskirts as possible then off the road.”

“Too bad this GPS didn’t tell you where the Muslims lived,” said Niner, updating the computer for the E15.

“After today I have a feeling it will be an upgrade option.”

The phone rang over the car’s Bluetooth. Dawson and Niner looked at each other. “Wonder who that is?” He pressed the button on the steering wheel, taking the call. “Hello?”

“It’s Jim, are you guys alright?”

Dawson smiled at the sound of Acton’s voice. “We retrieved Maggie. We’re cut off from the airport though. We’re now heading south, trying to get out of the city.”

“From what they’re telling us at this end, you don’t have much time. I can’t say why over the phone.”

“We already know. Are you safe?”

“Yes, we’re on Laura’s jet. Wait, you said you’re heading south?”

“Yes.”

“How far are you from Orly Airport?”

Niner began to enter the new destination into the GPS.

“Why?”

“That’s where we are.”

“I thought you were at Charles de Gaul?”

“No, there weren’t enough choppers to evacuate everyone in time so we were part of a convoy that went south to Orly which was where our private jet was anyway.”

“Why haven’t you left yet?”

“Frankly, we’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

Dawson shook his head, glancing at Niner who grinned at him. “If you have clearance to depart, you get your asses in the air. Don’t wait for us.”

“There’s still time and trust me, we’re low priority for leaving. They’re sending the fully loaded heavies out before the private jets. Get your asses here, and we’ll all fly out of this mess together.”

“Forty-five minutes according to this,” said Niner, pointing to the GPS.

Dawson pressed harder on the accelerator. “It’ll be slower with roadblocks and rioters.”

“It’ll be close.”

“We’ll wait as long as we can,” said Acton. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Professor, no matter what happens.”

“Just get here. Safe.”

Dawson ended the call as he turned a corner, slamming his brakes on, a crowd of people at the other end blocking the road, their hands filled with whatever makeshift weapon they could find.

“They look white.”

Dawson nodded. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“Do we risk it?”

“This is the quickest way to the airport.” He edged ahead, his window down, as several people approached, two of them senior citizens. “Do you speak English?”

“Who are you?” asked the oldest, a man who looked like he had seen some action in his younger days, but had long since put that behind him.

“We’re Americans. We’re trying to get to Orly Airport.”

“Americains!” shouted the man to the crowd who cheered. He turned back to Dawson. “You shouldn’t be on the streets. You could get hurt.”

“I know. But we have a plane waiting.”

The man frowned, shaking his head. “They’ve cut off all access to Charles de Gaul, and according to our sources they’re now marching on Orly and the train stations. They’ve started lying on the railroad tracks and roadways out of the city. Basically they’re trying to cut off all means of escape while they kill us.” The man slammed his fist on the hood of the SUV, causing Maggie to yelp. The man immediately looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He pulled out a small notepad from his pocket and quickly began writing. “You have a map?”

Dawson nodded. “GPS.”

“Good.” The man tore off the piece of paper, handing it to Dawson. “Ignore that computer and follow these directions. They will take you around the Muslim areas. But I fear once you reach the airport, there will be no avoiding them.”

Dawson stuck his hand out the window and shook the man’s hand. “Merci, monsieur.”

The man nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. “Good luck, my friends.”

The crowd parted and Dawson moved slowly through, Niner already entering the new directions into the GPS. “This is going to take a lot longer.”

“Maybe,” said Dawson as he pressed the accelerator, the crowd cleared. “But it gives us a chance to arrive alive.”

Rue Oberkampf, Paris, France

Sarah O’Conner gripped the railing in front of her seat with both hands, her knuckles white, her face almost as pale. Behind her were twenty high school students, inner-city kids from New York City, selected to participate in a once-in-a-lifetime trip, all expenses paid through a charity set up by several church groups back home.

This year Paris had been chosen.

The bus driver, a Parisian named Henri, slowly guided them through the streets, the children glued to the windows, too many of them thinking what they were seeing was cool, or describing how they’d be kicking ass if anybody dared attack their neighborhood.

They’re all so naïve!

The bus came to a halt, Henri immediately putting it in reverse, panic on his face. Sarah looked down the street they had just turned onto and gasped, her bladder almost releasing. Several dozen youths, not much older than those sitting behind her, were charging toward them, bats and blades raised over their heads, hatred in their eyes.

“Get us out of here!” she cried, her partner on the trip, Lowell Madely, rushing from the back of the bus.

“What is it?”

“L-look!” She pointed at the crowd charging them as the bus reversed, the loud beeping sound like a beacon to the entire area.

“Yeah! Put it up! They won’t dare mess with Americans!”

Sarah looked back and her jaw dropped in horror as she spotted two of her precious idiots holding up a large American flag in the window.

“Put that down, now!” she screamed. The startled kids’ heads whipped toward her, shocked. “Now!”

One kid dropped the flag, the other still holding his end up. “No! They won’t touch us, we’re American!”

“You little twit! They’re killing Americans all over the world! We’re who they want to kill! If you took your noses out of your phones for once in your life and actually read the news you’d realize what’s going on! Now put that flag down now!”

The flag dropped as something hit the windshield, shattering it. The driver shifted out of reverse, the bus lurching forward, but it was too late. Dozens surrounded them, pounding on the bus, the windows shattering, several forcing their hands through the doors, trying to pull them open.

Somebody screamed behind her.

And then they all screamed.

The sound of twenty panicked, terrified kids behind her fueled her own fear as she looked at a white-faced Lowell beside her. “What do we do?”

“Drive through them!” he shouted at Henri who had stopped. “They’re going to kill us! Drive through them!”

Something hit the windshield, glass shattering, a liquid spreading across the front of the bus immediately igniting.

The panic reached a new pitch.

The hammering on the windows continued, the bus rocking now as smoke began to fill the cabin.

“Please! Stop! We never did anything to hurt you! Why are you doing this?” shrieked a girl from the back.

Sarah couldn’t force any words out, her mind shutting down, preparing herself for the inevitable slaughter she had seen played out on the television.

Why would they have sent us this way?

It was the police that had sent them in this direction. They were supposed to be evacuated at Charles de Gaulle airport, but instead they had been sent into the belly of the beast, Lucifer himself sending his hordes to punish them for not being Muslim.

We all believe in the same God. Why do you hate us so much?

“Look!”

She looked to where Henri was pointing, he having abandoned his seat, the flames bringing an end to their escape. Dozens of men and women were streaming out of a nearby building causing Sarah to cry out in horror as even more were added to the fray, more Muslims coming to kill them, their traditional North African garb and dark black skin setting her into an uncontrollable panic, her entire body beginning to shake as repeated, short screams erupted from within.

“Sarah, they’re fighting them!”

She opened her eyes, jammed shut just moments before, her mouth agape at what was happening. The men streaming out of the nearby building were attacking those surrounding the bus, wielding bats and other objects as they beat back their attackers.

A path was cleared to the rear door of the bus, several women, their heads covered in scarves, hammered on the glass, shouting something in French.

“They want us to open the door!” translated Henri.

“No! They’ll kill us!” shrieked one of the girls cowering in the back.

“Do it!” ordered Lowell. “They’re trying to help!”

The bus driver pressed a button and the doors hissed open.

Sarah rushed toward the door as several of the women came aboard, shouting in French, urging everyone to come outside. Angry shouts and cries of pain from their men competed with the panicked sobs of the students.

“Listen everyone, we need to get off now!” she said, trying to calm herself.

“You’re American?” asked one of the women.

Sarah was terrified to answer, her head bob a betrayal of what she knew was the right answer in a situation like this.

“You must come, now, before they return in greater numbers!”

Sarah nodded, grabbing one of the girls and hauling her from her seat, pushing her toward the Muslim woman who handed the struggling girl to another woman behind her. Lowell and the bus driver did the same, physically hauling the panicked children toward the door.

Every fiber of Sarah’s being told her not to trust these people, but they had no choice. They were dead if they stayed, and perhaps they’d be dead wherever they were going, maybe this was some sort of trap, but the expression on the woman told her it wasn’t.

She was a mother.

A woman.

Surely a woman couldn’t be involved in such evil, such violence?

She glanced out the window and saw her children running toward the building their rescuers had come from, each escorted by a woman, disappearing inside. She pointed. “Look! They’re going inside! They’re safe! Now let’s go!”

The knowledge that those who had been dragged off were safe seemed to be all the impetus the remaining kids needed, all bolting for the door, screaming the entire way, their terror filled eyes, their tear streaked cheeks, breaking her heart.

No child should ever have to experience a horror like this.

“Let’s go!” said Lowell, grabbing her by the arm, Henri directly behind them. She stepped off the bus then ran, not looking back, terrified what she might see could reignite her mental shutdown.

She was through the doors, followed by dozens of men and women, then immediately surrounded by the panicked children, hugging her and sobbing as they were slowly ushered deeper into wherever they were. Pounding was heard on the other side of the doors, but they held, the men bracing themselves against the thick, heavy wood.

“Drink,” said one of the women, handing her a glass of water, others being given to the children, each handed an orange as they were guided to rows of chairs.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse. She took a sip, then drank deeply. “Thank you for saving us.”

“Come, please.”

She and Lowell were led to a man who looked barely older than the children under her care, but he had a bearing that suggested wisdom and serenity. “Welcome to the Sacred Mosque of Paris. I am Imam Achmed. Are you okay?”

She wasn’t sure what to say, stunned at the revelation. “We’re in a mosque?”

The man smiled and nodded. “Yes. You are surprised?”

Sarah looked at Lowell, who seemed equally shocked. “Frankly, yes.” She shook her hand in front of her. “Please, don’t get me wrong, we’re grateful, but…” She stopped before she said anything that might offend these people that had saved them from certain death.

“But you expected that all Muslims were out killing the Christians?”

The wry grin on the man’s face set her at ease slightly. She nodded. “I’m sorry, but yes.”

He squared his shoulders, sucking in a deep breath as his expression changed.

Oh my God, he’s going to kill us!

He jabbed a finger at the door. “That is not Islam. That is an abomination. What those people are doing in the name of my religion”—he held out his arms, encompassing those around him—“our religion, is pure evil. Too many of those who claim to preach in the name of Islam have been coopted into a violent interpretation of the Koran.” He put an arm around one of the men who had helped. “But not all of us. Many of us—most of us—want to live in peace.” He looked at the children, huddled together, still whimpering with fear and uncertainty, then at Sarah. “No matter what happens here today, know that true Muslims are ashamed of what is happening in the name of their religion. Know that when this is over, people like us will fight to take back our religion from those who have steered us from the true path laid out by the Prophet, peace be upon him, and we will try to make amends for what has happened here today.”

“Amen to that,” whispered Lowell.

The Imam smiled.

“Yes, Amen to that, my brother.”

Red Sea Coast, Saudi Arabia

323 miles south of Mecca

“Hold up, I see something.”

Red eased off the gas as they crested a rise in the road, allowing the vehicle to coast back down, it too easy to spot from a distance if sitting on top of the small hill. They had made decent time, there few vehicles on the road, the military apparently having everything locked down, though whose side these units were on was unknown.

“Looks like another checkpoint,” said Atlas from his perch out the window, it his turn to use the scope to view down the road, and the higher the vantage point, the more likely the lookout was to see something in the distance. “There’s some cover to the left that should get us past them.”

Red cranked the wheel, gently pulling off the road and heading back toward the coast, careful not to kick up too much dust. They were still over three hundred miles from their destination with less than five hours to get there, and with these constant roadblocks he had zero confidence they were going to make it.

“Choppers!”

Red hit the gas, the truck surging toward a gap between two outcroppings, using the emergency brake to bring them to a stop, the brake lights still dim.

“Everyone down!”

Atlas climbed back in, dropping his large frame as low as he could, Red ducking over him as Spock and Jimmy hid under a tarp in the rear bed of the truck, lying on either side of their precious cargo. He left the engine idling just in case he had to gun it out of there, but there was no outrunning a chopper, no matter how skilled he was at driving.

“I get the distinct impression someone’s looking for us,” said Atlas as the thumping of the helicopter propellers got louder.

“And knows what route we’re taking,” agreed Red.

Which meant either they had been betrayed by someone on the Saudi side, their communications with the Colonel were somehow monitored, or this was just a regular patrol.

He’d prefer the first two if they were discovered. At least then those in the choppers might actually know what cargo they were carrying and hold their fire.

The choppers rushed overhead, the thunder slowly waning as they continued past their position. Red waited for a few moments, listening carefully to see if they turned back.

“I think we’re clear,” said Atlas, the noise now distant and still fading.

“We’re going to have to keep off the main roads,” said Red as he put the truck in gear, slowly easing out from their cover to continue bypassing the checkpoint. He stuck his head out the window. “Take out the brake lights!”

Jimmy and Spock quickly complied, eliminating one worry. Once the sun no longer provided him enough light he’d switch to night vision and drive without headlights, hopefully allowing them to stay out of sight.

Atlas resumed his perch in the window. “We’ll never make it on time.”

Red nodded. There was no way they were going to make the rendezvous, he just hoped that getting there eventually would be good enough. And like the Colonel said, they could always just dump the artifact and bug out.

He rounded a dune and picked up the old dirt road they had used on several occasions, it most likely the predecessor to the paved Highway 5 they had just been on.

“We’ll stick to this as long as possible,” he shouted to the others. “We’ll be late, but we’ll hopefully be alive.”

Hopefully.

He had survived Ebola, one of the deadliest diseases known to man. If he was going to die today, he wanted it to be an honorable death, and he wasn’t quite sure if trying to return some religious artifact counted.

It could save thousands of lives.

That would normally be enough, more than enough, but it was the entire situation that was disturbing him. If someone accused Muslims of stealing something important to Christianity, would he and others like him feel compelled to riot and murder?

He couldn’t imagine even one in a thousand doing so.

He growled slightly as he slowed to put the night vision goggles on. Flipping them down over his eyes, the road ahead became clear again and he pressed on the accelerator a little harder. With the sun set, there’d be no need to worry about anyone spotting dust from the tires.

As they continued forward in silence, he thought of the reports he had managed to see during the brief communications window. It was sickening what was happening. He wished he were in Paris or London or Amsterdam right now with his team, eliminating these rampaging hordes with extreme prejudice.

He sucked in a deep breath, calming the rage.

Every single one of the rioters deserved to die for what they were doing as far as he was concerned, and their victims deserved peace, which would never happen until they successfully completed their mission.

And should he die tonight, delivering a piece of rock that meant nothing to him but everything to the Religion of Peace, he’d die knowing it was those innocents he was trying to save, not some religion’s stolen artifact.

And he could live with that.

Approaching Orly Airport, Outside Paris, France

“Jesus,” muttered Niner as Dawson brought the SUV to a halt, the airport finally visible. Planes were taking off with little gap between them, others landing in a steady stream, most likely charters from various countries trying to evacuate their citizens.

And there were a lot still waiting.

As they neared the airport it was clear chaos ruled the day. More and more vehicles were abandoned on the side of the road, the traffic barely moving until it finally ground to a halt, desperate souls taking to walking and running toward the airport in the distance.

There were thousands.

“Look over there.”

Dawson turned to where Niner was pointing. Fires were burning at the eastern end of the airport where the terminals were. From this distance it was as if thousands of ants were scurrying away from something, some predator, screams reaching their ears even from here.

“Oh my god,” whispered Maggie. “What’s happening?”

“I’m guessing the rioters our friend back there was referring to have reached the airport.”

“Then how the hell are we going to get to Acton’s plane?” asked Niner. “We’ve got to somehow get through that, and we’re already late.”

Dawson dialed the professor’s phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Doc, it’s us. What’s your status?”

“Tenuous. We’re still stuck here waiting and it looks like the rioters have reached the airport. From what I can see they’re burning and smashing everything. Our pilot is getting ready to jam his way into line to get out of here.”

“Okay, we’re just outside the airport now. Send us your exact GPS coordinates and we’ll try to get there. But if you get a chance to leave, you take it.”

“Not bloody likely. You just get your asses here as fast as you can.”

His phone vibrated.

“Did you get the coordinates?”

He handed the phone to Niner who nodded, entering them into the GPS. “We’ve got it. We’re coming now.”

“Good luck.”

He ended the call and looked at the GPS. “That things useless. We can’t use the roads.”

Niner tapped the coordinates on the phone and brought up the actual location on the map. He pointed to the left of the terminals. “They’re down there.”

“Text him for the tail number,” said Dawson as he surveyed the area, his eyes settling on a road that appeared to ring the airport. The only problem was it was on the wrong side of the fence that also ringed the airport. The road was jammed with vehicles and refugees, now not sure where to go, the chaos ahead of them clear to everyone.

The airport was no longer a safe haven.

He spotted a gate about a hundred yards ahead.

He slammed the SUV into gear and jumped the curb, rushing along the grass then hopping back onto the access road leading to the unmanned gate. He hit the brakes about ten feet short. “We can’t risk the airbags deploying and cutting off the fuel.”

“C4?”

Dawson nodded, Niner already reaching into their bag of tricks then jumping out of the vehicle. Within moments he had the charge in place, running back toward the truck, using the open door as cover. “Fire in the hole!” He flicked the switch for the remote detonator and a small explosion tore apart the lock. Running toward the gate, he pulled one side open as people began to surge toward the opening from the road.

Dawson pulled up beside Niner who jumped inside as the SUV surged onto the airport grounds, racing down the ring road. Niner held up the cellphone. “We’re less than a mile away.”

“What’s that?” asked Maggie, pointing between the seats toward the terminals.

Dawson rounded a bend in the road and cursed. Hundreds of rioters were swarming around the terminal and toward the runways. Niner pointed toward a group of smaller private jets. “That’s them!”

Dawson steered off the road and onto the grass, gunning it toward where Niner was pointing.

Gunfire cracked nearby and something hit the SUV.

Maggie screamed as Niner dove into the back of the vehicle, pushing her to the floor and acting as a human shield.

“Tail number!”

Dawson was rushing toward a dozen planes, all looking like the rich’s weekend toys.

He smiled.

“Never mind, I’ve got them!”

Acton was standing on the top of the stairs of a Gulf V, heat rippling from its engines. Dawson honked the horn and Acton turned, spotting them.

“Shit!”

He slammed on the brakes, cranking the wheel to the right as a deep ditch suddenly became visible, it freshly dug, some sort of maintenance work underway before the rioting had broken out. He gunned the engine, the tires spinning on the slick grass, straight toward dozens of protesters.

A bullet tore through the windshield, directly where Niner had been moments before.

“Suppression fire!” He reached over and lowered the rear passenger side window as Niner repositioned himself, another shot pinging off the hood. “Aim low!”

“Roger that!”

Niner’s Glock began to belch lead at the crowd as Dawson headed directly toward them, there no alternative, the ditch with new piping laid inside running the entire way, blocking them from the tarmac. Rioters began to drop as Niner’s aim proved true on a few of his shots, shooting accurately from a bouncing vehicle not the easiest of tasks.

They slowed up.

Dawson spotted temporary steel plating over the ditch ahead and hit the brakes, skidding into a left turn then gunning it over and onto the tarmac. He could see Acton clearly now at the bottom of the steps as the gap closed quickly. To their right there were hundreds if not thousands of people flooding the tarmacs, planes starting to taxi through the rioters, one 747 pilot turning and blasting his engines sending bodies skidding across the tarmac, arms flailing as they tried to stop tumbling.

He smiled.

Slamming the brakes on, he angled the truck to be a shield between them and the crowd, but he knew it was of little use. He threw open the door and jumped to the ground, grabbing Maggie as Niner piled out after her. Aiming at the crowd, he fired at their feet to try and slow them down.

It didn’t work.

“Come on! Let’s go!” shouted Acton as Dawson and Niner provided cover, backing toward the stairs.

Shots from the crowd rang out and Dawson heard a thud behind him and Acton shout in horror. He spun to see if Acton was okay and felt his world collapse when he saw Maggie lying at the base of the steps, her body a crumpled mess, Acton rushing down to help her.

And blood flowing freely from her head.

“No!” he screamed, running over to her and gently lifting her head, checking for a pulse, finding none. Tears welled in his eyes as his chest tightened, a flurry of emotions ripping through him as he looked down at the lifeless face of the woman he loved, the woman he had never told how he felt.

As tears flowed down his face Niner slapped him on his shoulder. “BD, we’ve gotta get out of here, now!”

Niner’s voice was distant, the pounding blood in his ears overwhelming. Acton was shouting at him and the plane surged forward a few feet, the pilot desperate to leave. He gently moved Maggie’s hair from her face, cupping her cheek in his hand.

“I love you.”

He stood and returned to the SUV, pulling an M4 from the rear seat and several mags, slipping them in his rear pocket. He stepped to the front of the vehicle, using the hood for cover and opened fire. Maggie was dead and these people, these fanatics, these insane pieces of shit were responsible, and as far as he was concerned, every single one of them deserved to die even if they hadn’t pulled the trigger.

“BD! We’ve gotta go!”

He ignored Niner’s plea, instead reloading, a swath of the crowd on the ground, the religious fanatics, their bloodlust equal to his own, continued to surge forward. Someone grabbed him from behind and tried to pull him toward the plane.

He shook them off.

“Jesus Christ, BD, she wouldn’t want you to die too!”

Niner bodily lifted him off the ground in a reverse bear hug, pulling him toward the steps. Dawson didn’t resist, but kept his weapon raised at the wrist, squeezing the trigger, still taking out some of those responsible for Maggie’s death.

They reached the steps and he felt another set of hands grab him, spinning him away from the crowd, his eye contact with the object of his hatred cut. Acton grabbed him by the back of the head. “Focus! You need to get on the plane or we’re all dead!”

Dawson nodded and began to climb the few steps when he heard something over the roar of the engines. Looking to the south he saw dozens of gunships on the horizon, the French response apparently about to begin.

Kill them all!

He stepped inside the Gulf V and the steps immediately pulled up, the door closing as the pilot began to roll forward. They quickly picked up speed as Dawson dropped to the floor beside Maggie, the nurse from the embassy at her side, apparently having accompanied Laura.

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” she said. “I don’t know if she’s going to make it.”

The words didn’t register at first, the sight of Maggie, pale and still, overwhelming. He took her hand in his, holding it to his lips, kissing it gently as a tear rolled down his cheek.

I wish I had told you how I felt.

Her hand squeezed his slightly.

He looked at the nurse then back at Maggie. “What did you say? Is she alive?”

“Barely.”

“But she’s going to live?”

The nurse shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I just don’t know, I’m not a doctor and it’s a head wound. Depending on what it hit she might be perfectly fine, or dead in minutes. We need to get her to a hospital.”

Dawson jumped up, pressing his face against one of the windows. “We need to stop the plane.”

“There’s no way that’s happening, BD,” said Niner. “They’ll kill us all.”

Dawson dropped into the seat, nodding as the plane taxied onto the runway, seemingly only feet away from the plane ahead of it, the pilot already pushing the throttle. He closed his eyes for a moment as he was pressed back into his seat, the plane lifting off then banking sharply. His head turned and he watched as the gunships raced across the airport, guns blazing, the crowds scattering as hundreds were felled.

And he felt no satisfaction at their deaths.

He rose, kneeling beside Maggie, taking her hand in his once again, then leaned over, placing his lips to her ear.

“I love you.”

Red Sea Coast, Saudi Arabia

Near rendezvous coordinates

Wings lay prone on the embankment, looking out across the water. The sun had long set but the stars and a half-moon were casting a pale glow over the entire coastline, enough so that he had decided they should remain hidden, just south of the actual rendezvous coordinates, in case it turned out to be another trap.

Not that he doubted Kane.

He simply wasn’t about to risk his team and their rescued hostage when there was a chance something had leaked to the Saudi’s.

He cocked an ear. “Did you hear that?”

Jagger grunted. “If you’re referring to the engines of the Zodiac now making its way to shore, then yes.”

Wings grinned. “So you did hear it.”

“You not speaka da Engleesh?”

“Maybe I couldn’t understand you with those fly swatters you call lips flappin’ about.”

“Hey, Mick’s a sex symbol, why can’t I be?”

“Cuz you can’t sing.”

“And you can’t dance,” said Sweets.

“And you’re not very good looking,” added Mickey.

“You guys can all go to hell. My mommy says I’m cute, and that’s all that matters.”

Wings peered through his binoculars. “That opens a whole other can of worms that I don’t wanna touch.” He spotted something a couple of hundred yards out. “Gotta RIB. Any sign of anything else?”

A string of negatives came from the team as they scanned 360 degrees.

“Then let’s go, that’s US Navy issue, no way the Saudi’s have that.”

Wings pushed himself to his feet then sprinted down the embankment and across the sand, the others behind him. He hit the water’s edge just as the Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat arrived.

“Hey boys, need a lift?”

Wings grinned as Kane killed the engines of the Zodiac, angling it parallel to the shore. “Nice to see a friendly face.”

Kane shook his head. “You’re lucky to be seeing mine,” he said as everyone climbed aboard.

“Here’s one you can take a look at.” Wings handed him the sack containing Prince Khalid’s head. Red opened it, immediately jerking his head back.

“Funny.” He paused. “Aren’t we missing some people?” He nodded toward Josh Pullman. “And who the hell is that?”

“Josh Pullman, meet nobody,” said Wings. “He was never here.”

Josh extended his hand. “Delighted.”

Kane smacked the hand, firing up the engines. “Explain on the way,” he said, angling the boat back toward open water then gunning it. “Where’s Red and the rest?”

Wings stood beside him, hanging onto a handhold, yelling over the roar of the engines and the none-too-calm sea. “They’re heading for Mecca with the artifact.”

Kane stole a quick glance at Wings. “Are you kidding me? Do you guys have any idea what the hell is going on in the world?”

Wings shrugged. “We had less than thirty minutes of comms. I’m guessing it ain’t good.”

“That’s putting it mildly. Just before I launched, the French military began an all-out assault on Paris. The Brits are prepping to do the same with London. Thousands are dead. Tens of thousands. And that’s in Europe. There’s pretty much no Saudi government left. Who the hell are they going to rendezvous with?”

“Some Colonel named Faisal bin Nayef.”

“Did you say Nayef?”

“Yes.”

“Of the Mabahith?”

“No idea.”

“Well, if he’s the same guy I’m thinking of, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

“Why?”

“Why? The guy’s got more blood on his hands than all of us put together. This guy is ruthless. He’ll kill anyone who gets in his way, without hesitation.” Kane shook his head. “We’ve got to warn them before it’s too late. They might be heading straight into a trap.”

“A trap? But why? They’re trying to return that goddamned rock.”

“Because if Colonel Faisal bin Nayef kills the infidels that stole the rock, and returns it to his people, he’ll have more power and money than he could ever dream.”

Josh leaned in, having listened to the conversation.

“I might have an idea on how we can prevent that from happening.”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“Did you get the footage?”

Leroux nodded, the video feed of his friend CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane crystal clear from the state of the art communications room of the luxury superyacht Dubai, apparently “rented” by Kane somehow.

He didn’t bother asking.

His friend looked like shit and probably felt as bad as he did. His flu was running its course and he was definitely on the mend, but he was exhausted. He needed to go home and just die for two days but he couldn’t. He was driving himself harder than he ever had, his dead Red Bulls lined up on his desk like tombstones, each buying him a couple of hours to try and save lives.

And it had left him shaking like a leaf, his heart racing, the palpitations starting to actually become concerning.

But he had to go on. Just a few more hours.

Because if it wasn’t over in the next few hours, it was never going to end.

He glanced at the list of files on his computer. “Yes, the last of it arrived just a few minutes ago.”

“Good. I need it edited together and broadcast to every single news organization in the world and across the Internet. We need every possible eyeball on this so these people know we didn’t steal the damned thing.”

“Do you think that’s going to help?” Leroux had his doubts. Non-stop broadcasts had been made by various governments including several addresses by the President himself trying to convince Muslims that the United States wasn’t behind the theft of the Black Stone. Unfortunately a desperate Saudi government was contradicting those stories, hell-bent on deflecting any blame from themselves.

What was no longer in dispute was that the Black Stone had been stolen.

And what also wasn’t in dispute among those in the know was that the footage of the Delta team with the Black Stone was genuine.

But the footage he now had was the complete helmet-cam video taken from the moment the op started, clearly showing the team assaulting the camp and discovering the Black Stone and Prince Khalid’s head.

Would it be enough to convince the world?

“I have no idea, buddy, but we’ve got to try something. Red’s heading into a trap as far as I’m concerned, and we’ve got to stop him. Any luck finding him yet?”

“Officially we’re not looking for them. Unofficially I’ve got my team scouring satellite footage of his expected travel route since those satellites are still over the area monitoring the violence. We now also have several drones in the area monitoring Saudi military units to try and determine their loyalty. We’ll find them.”

“I know you will. Listen, don’t forget to edit in that footage from the reporter. He talks about some chatter off camera about the prince being in on it and wanting to destroy the thing. Put together something good, buddy, our asses might just depend on it.”

Leroux felt a pit form in his stomach. He hated having lives in his own hands, and really hated being reminded of it. He realized that the intel he put together every day was acted upon and that quite often meant lives were saved or lost due to his analysis.

But it was rarely if ever friends.

“What are you planning?”

“Let’s just say it’s a Hail Mary pass, but this will only work if everyone knows we’re coming.”

Leroux’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his friend. “Are you nuts?”

“You know me, what do you think?”

“Certifiable if you think letting thousands of Muslims with guns and surface to air missiles know you’re coming is a good idea. Beyond certifiable! They’ll kill you in a heartbeat.”

“Not without destroying the stone.”

Leroux leaned back in his chair, Kane’s insanity suddenly genius. He was right. If they could let the Saudi’s know that they were coming to Mecca with the stone, they couldn’t risk killing Kane and crew without destroying the stone. They’d be able to return it then bug out, hopefully unscathed.

But…

He frowned.

“Umm, Kane?”

“Yeah.”

“What if they’re Qarmatian?”

Kane shrugged.

“Then we’re dead.”

Somewhere over France, approaching the Atlantic seaboard

Dawson’s phone vibrated in his pocket, the desire to ignore it overwhelming as he sat beside Maggie, her breathing shallow, her face as pale as he had ever seen it.

But the bleeding had been almost stopped.

And thanks to Laura being on the plane with several bags of medical supplies, the nurse had been able to hook Maggie up to an IV, give her anti-inflammatories and antibiotics, and Acton had already tapped a vein, his blood type the same as hers.

But so far she had been completely non-responsive with the exception of that one, gentle squeeze of his hand, a squeeze he had now convinced himself was nothing more than a reflex. The nurse said she appeared to be in a coma, which could be a good thing, but without proper equipment, there was no way of knowing.

The pilot had radioed in a medical emergency to the nearest safe haven which at the moment appeared to be Dublin, Ireland, the Muslim population so low, there had been only a few protests with little violence.

And it was less than two hours away.

Hang on, sweetheart.

He pulled the phone out, fearing it might be an update about Red that he’d never forgive himself for missing. “Speak.”

“Hey, buddy, it’s me. Did everybody make it out okay?”

Kane clearly hadn’t heard what had happened and Dawson found the words catching in his throat. Not trusting himself, he handed the phone over to Niner, who looked at it puzzled for a moment, then held it up to his ear.

“Oh, hey, Dylan. What’s up?” Niner rose from his seat, putting a little distance between him and Dawson, but Dawson could still hear him nonetheless, the luxury Gulf V too quiet a ride to hide things from your fellow passengers. “Yeah, we made it onto the professors’ plane but Maggie was shot…in the head…it looks bad, we’re not sure if she’s going to make it…Dublin, they’re expecting us…ninety minutes…no, there’s nothing closer. Continental Europe and the UK are a mess, their Muslim populations are just too large…okay, just a second.” Niner turned and knelt beside Dawson. “You’re going to need to hear this.” He put the phone on speaker. “Go ahead, you’re on speaker with BD, the professors and one nurse who can be trusted.”

“Okay, first, BD, I’m really sorry for what happened to Maggie. She’s a tough woman from what I’ve been told so hang in there.”

Dawson said nothing, his chest simply tightening further.

“Here’s the skinny. I’ve retrieved four of your boys and a wayward reporter, but Red’s heading to Mecca with Atlas, Jimmy and Spock.”

Dawson’s jaw clenched but he let Niner do the talking knowing full well he’d ask the same question burning in his mind.

“Why the hell are they doing that?”

“To return the Black Stone.”

“Under orders?”

“Negative, they volunteered. Clancy’s arranged an exchange with someone on the Saudi side, but if it’s who I think it is, I just don’t trust the man.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s just say he’s well known in my world.”

Dawson turned toward the phone. “What’s your plan?”

“I’ve got a chopper here. The boys are just retrofitting it with a couple of fifty cals I brought along then we’re going to go pick up the team and deliver the package by air rather than land.”

Dawson pursed his lips. It was a good plan. Assuming they didn’t get blown out of the damned sky. “What about air defenses?”

“Langley’s prepping a broadcast. They’ll know we’re coming and why. There’s no way they’re going to risk blowing up their precious rock.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Dawson, battling to control the hatred he felt at this moment for an entire religion. He looked down at Maggie. “As soon as we’re on the ground I’m heading out to join you.”

“Negative, BD. By the time you get here, it’s either over, or we’re dead. Either way you won’t be any help.”

Dawson frowned, knowing Kane was right.

Argh!

He felt so helpless it was infuriating. His girlfriend was dying beside him, all because he had invited her to Paris for a vacation paid for with blood. The world was too dangerous a place, he should have known that, should have declined Acton’s offer to pay for him to stay longer and have Maggie join him.

I should have said no!

Trouble followed him wherever he went. It was the nature of the job. He could be called up on a moment’s notice, he could become a target if his cover was blown.

And he could get the people he cared about hurt, or worse.

He should have learned when his sister and niece were kidnapped. They almost died, all because of him, all because he and his team had been targeted by a madman with substantial resources available to him.

And now Maggie had been targeted by mistake, all because he had dragged her to Paris.

No woman will ever be safe around me.

He sucked in a deep breath as he made a decision, one he should have made long ago.

Maggie deserves a man who will keep her safe, and that’s not me.

He squeezed her hand in his, his heart breaking as the decision was made.

Once you’re better, it’s over.

It was for the best. He couldn’t protect her, not from all the dangers out there, and with him around, those dangers were simply too close to home. She deserved a man who would be there for her every day, not someone who spent half his life either on ops or training.

She deserved a man who led a normal life, who’d be beside her at the end of the day where she wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not he’d be coming home, whether or not that knock on the door was the padre coming with the news of a “training accident”.

He looked down at her, moving a stray hair out of her face.

You deserve to be safe.

He turned to Niner and took the phone. “Dylan?”

“Yes?”

“End this thing.”

“One way or another, buddy, this ends tonight.”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“Is it ready?”

Leroux looked up as the door to the Op Center opened and his boss, National Clandestine Services Chief Leif Morrison entered. Officially the United States was denying any involvement with or knowledge of the Black Stone, but the CIA operated slightly differently. Morrison had authorized the use of an Op Center, manned by Leroux’s team, in order to push out the message Kane had requested, and to monitor their progress through satellite and drone surveillance feeds.

If Kane’s plan worked, it just might diffuse the international crisis the world found itself consumed by.

If it didn’t work, Leroux wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

The slaughter in France had taken on epic proportions, the army opening fire on groups of protesters with gunships and armored vehicles, essentially targeting anyone on the streets, a full curfew in effect, martial law declared. Vigilante groups had formed to protect their neighborhoods and were identifying themselves to patrolling aircraft with French flags, and the tide seemed to be turning at last report.

Yet at what cost?

How could these two solitudes, Muslim and non, coexist after such a brutal confrontation? He feared even if Kane succeeded and the violence waned, the crisis would simply shift into a different gear, militant groups provided with a massive new source of disaffected youth to tap, resulting in a larger caliphate and stepped up terrorist attacks the likes the West had never seen.

He feared what would happen to the majority who just wanted to live in peace.

What freedoms will we sacrifice this time to feel safe?

And how far would we take things? Would the West look to rid themselves of the problem should it escalate? Would Europeans tolerate frequent bombings, murders and restrictions on their freedoms all because of a minority in their midst?

Europe had a history that wasn’t so old that had dealt with another perceived problem, supported by not only Nazi Germany, but sympathizing states including Vichy France.

Surely we’ve evolved beyond that?

He hoped civilization had, but then again, look at what had happened. Tens of thousands were dead in the civilized cities of Europe. Tens of thousands more in Africa and Asia. If calm were restored to Europe, what about the rest of the world? Would America and its allies spend money and blood to protect the Christian minorities from being ethnically cleansed from the continents of the Third World?

Eight hundred thousand people, mostly Christians, had been slaughtered in Rwanda in one hundred days.

And the world had stood by and done nothing.

Would it have made a difference if it were Muslims killing them instead of fellow Christians?

He doubted it.

What was truly terrifying to him was the dearth of Muslim leaders speaking out against the violence. Despite heads of state begging the Islamic religious leaders for help, they were silent. Most in the Western countries were thunderously quiet, the few speaking out quickly silenced, some by death, some through threats.

Even the Muslims were afraid of themselves.

He wondered what those Muslim families, those who had never harmed or wished anyone any ill will in their lives were thinking now, huddled in their homes, waiting for the chaos to end. Were they wondering what their neighbors would say to them tomorrow, what their co-workers would do next week? What would be the backlash against those who hadn’t participated? Would they be blamed for not standing up to those committing the violence?

It’s hard to confront an angry mob when you’re just one person.

And that was the problem. Was there a silent majority out there that truly did condemn this violence? After the attacks in Paris where reporters were murdered, a disturbingly high percentage of Muslims had indicated their support, despite having lived in Western countries for most if not all their lives.

Would anyone dare take a poll this time?

And now that almost everyone had been affected, would a poll like that ever be ignored again?

He sighed.

“Chris?” He felt a hand on his shoulder and he jumped. It was Morrison. “Where were you?”

Leroux shook his head. “Sorry, sir, just thinking.”

“About?”

“About what’s going to happen tomorrow. Next week. Next year.”

Morrison smiled, clearly understanding what Leroux meant. “We’ll worry about that tomorrow. Tonight we do our jobs and hopefully we’ll make tomorrow, next week, and next year a little bit better than it’s looking right now, okay?”

Leroux nodded, then motioned toward one of the screens. “We’re ready to launch the broadcast. We’re hitting every major and minor news network in the world, posting it all across the blogosphere, social media, everything we can think of. We’re expecting it to go viral very quickly, we just hope it makes it to where it needs to go.”

“Will we know?”

Leroux shook his head.

“The only way we’ll know is if they don’t shoot them out of the sky.”

St. James’s Hospital, Dublin, Ireland

Niner wasn’t good at just sitting. He had never been good at it. When he was a kid they thought he had ADHD but his father had called bullshit on that.

“He’s a boy! Boys fidget. He’ll grow out of it.”

He had, sort of. He still fidgeted, especially when he was uncomfortable. Place him in a foxhole or some deep growth, lying in his ghillie suit for hours on end, no problem. He’d be as calm as a turtle in the cold.

But force him to wait in a hospital for word on whether or not the girlfriend of one of his best friends was going to survive?

He was going to fidget.

He jumped from his chair and paced the room, Dawson silent, staring at the floor. “Can I get you anything?”

“A valium for you.”

Niner stopped then chuckled. “Sorry, I guess I’m not helping.”

Dawson smiled slightly. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you get me a coffee, decaf for yourself, and check in on the professors, give them an update. It’s going to be awhile before we hear anything anyway.”

Niner nodded. “I guess no news is good news in this situation.”

Dawson sucked in a deep breath and held it for a moment. “If she was dead they’d tell us.”

Niner nodded, not sure of what to say. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Dawson returned to staring at the floor, saying nothing as Niner headed toward another section of the hospital where Laura was being tended to. The priority had been to get Maggie to the hospital, Laura insisting the paramedics ignore her until Maggie was safely ferried away with Dawson. It was then that she had finally given in to the pain, the seat on the airplane, the mad rush from the embassy, taking its toll.

Niner hadn’t seen Laura since arriving at the hospital but had been given the room number when Acton came to see how things were going a little while ago. He knocked on the door gently, just in case Laura was sleeping.

“Come in!” called Acton.

Niner pushed the half-open door aside and poked his head through. “Allo! Allo! Disturbing you?”

“Not at all, come in,” said Laura, smiling and looking much better than when he had last seen her.

Niner entered the room, closing the door over just in case the conversation took a turn to the classified. He looked about the private room. “Must be nice,” he said. “I think I’m entitled to a semi-private room if there’s one available.” Acton laughed, Laura trying to limit her reaction to a smile.

“Laura didn’t want to take up the space but I figured with what we’re mixed up in, a private room might be better. More secure too.”

“We should get a cop on your door,” said Niner. “We don’t know if they’re still after you.”

Laura shook her head. “They’ve got their hands full, I’m sure. Hugh’s on his way, he’ll be here in an hour.”

Hugh Reading was an Interpol Special Agent that Niner had met on several occasions and had tremendous respect for. An ex-soldier, former British Army, former Scotland Yard Detective Chief Inspector, he had put in his dues and was good in a fight, though getting a little old for all the running around that sometimes entailed. But with him on the door, Niner would breathe easy, as he was certain the Actons would as well. “How’d he get away?”

“I’m not sure if he told anyone he was leaving,” grinned Acton. “You know Hugh, friends and family come first.”

“He’s a good man.” He looked at Laura. “You seem to be doing better. They must have you on some good drugs.”

Laura nodded, gently patting her stomach. “They checked me out and said I’m okay. Just all the bending and twisting caused it to become a little inflamed and painful, but the stitches held and there’s no bleeding. Bed rest is what I’m needing.”

“When can you be moved? We should get you stateside ASAP.”

“We’ll wait to make sure Maggie is okay then worry about that.” Laura’s face clouded over. “Any word?”

Niner shook his head, dropping into one of the guest chairs. “Nada. BD’s going crazy, I can tell because he’s not saying anything. I guess no news is good news at this point.”

“Our prayers are with her and BD,” said Laura, her eyes glistening. “She’s such a nice lady, I hope to get to know her after this is all over.”

Niner pursed his lips, taking a deep breath. “BD wanted to thank you for what you did with the hospital expenses but, you know, he’s a little preoccupied.”

“Think nothing of it. He should be focusing on Maggie, not money,” replied Laura. When they had first arrived there had been questions at the front desk on how Maggie’s care would be paid for. Acton had produced a black credit card ending the conversation. Once Maggie and Dawson had disappeared, Acton had insisted on speaking with the hospital administrator and explaining the situation and the fact that no expense should be spared, it would all be covered. They wanted the best, and apparently just that had been called in, one of the best neurosurgeons in the country now working on Maggie.

Niner just wished they were back home. Ireland was a completely modern country, but there was just something about being back in America with access to what he believed was the best healthcare in the world—if you could afford it.

But America didn’t have a lock on all the best surgeons, so he just prayed this was one of the best in the world, not just Ireland.

“I don’t know what BD will do if Maggie doesn’t make it. Back in Paris you should have seen him. He snapped. He was perfectly willing to stay and die as long as he took as many of those rioters out with him.”

Acton took Laura’s hand in his. “I understand how he feels.”

Niner spotted something flashing on the television mounted on the wall, CNN playing silently. “Something’s going on.”

Acton looked then grabbed the remote, turning the volume up. Helmet camera footage of what was clearly the assault on the Yemini rebel camp was being shown, spliced together from the initial insertion from the helicopter, to the assault and finally the discovery of the Black Stone and the decapitated head of Prince Khalid.

With a computer distorted voice over in Arabic that then switched to English.

“We are the American soldiers that have recovered the Black Stone. As this footage proves, we did not steal it, nor kill Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud. At the request of the Saudi government, we raided a Houthi rebel encampment in Yemen in the hopes of rescuing the kidnapped Prince Khalid. What we found instead was his severed head and the Black Stone. I repeat, the Prince was already dead for some time before we arrived.”

The footage changed, a reporter Niner recognized appearing. “That must be the guy they rescued.”

“My name is Josh Pullman. I was kidnapped by a group of militants called the New Qarmatian Order. Prince Khalid was a member of this group. Their sole purpose is to destroy the holy relic known as the Black Stone. The footage you have been told was faked was not. It was a genuine interview with the prince, and he was speaking freely and was not coerced in any way. Prince Khalid and members of the New Qarmatian Order stole the Black Stone with the intent of destroying it on live television, however Houthi rebels attacked them first, killing almost everyone and taking the Black Stone with them as well as myself.

“The American soldiers you have just witnessed in this video assaulted this Houthi rebel camp with the hopes of rescuing Prince Khalid and had no idea the Black Stone was there. Since this discovery, they have treated the Black Stone with the appropriate reverence, and have not physically touched it in any way, respectful of how important this object is to Muslims the world over. I ask my fellow journalists to share this message with the world, and to make certain that the message about to be delivered is heard by all military and government forces in Saudi Arabia, especially Mecca.”

Niner’s chest was tight as he watched the broadcast, the footage looping as the reporter spoke, highlights in Arabic and English showing time codes and dates to try and prove the authenticity of what was being displayed. The reporter disappeared, and the voiceover returned, a map of Saudi Arabia shown, zooming in to show the Red Sea Coast and Mecca with a red line running from the sea to the city.

“We have the Black Stone in our possession. It is safe, it is intact, and it has been treated with respect. We will be returning the Black Stone to Mecca shortly. We will be arriving by helicopter from the west at midnight local time. Do not fire upon us. If you do, you will destroy the Black Stone, and will be responsible for the consequences. I repeat, we will be arriving from the west at midnight local time. Do not fire upon us. If you do, you will destroy the Black Stone. Allow us safe passage and your holy relic will be returned, safely and intact, non-Muslim hands never having touched it. Fire upon us, and it will be destroyed.”

A talking head appeared, the footage relegated to the right of the screen. “This was received in our studios only moments ago and has appeared all over the Internet and social media. The source is unknown and the government is denying all involvement, still claiming American forces are not involved. This video would seem to contradict the government line and CNN is working to confirm the authenticity at this time, however with the midnight deadline referred to fast approaching, the proof may only be known if a helicopter does indeed arrive over Mecca and return the Black Stone, the theft of which has resulted in the deaths of untold thousands around the globe. French President—”

Acton muted the broadcast as a highlight reel of carnage began to play. He looked at Niner. “What do you think?”

Niner stood. “I think it’s ballsy.”

“Or suicide.”

Niner’s lips pressed together tightly. “I’m sure they thought they had no choice.”

“Let’s just pray it works,” said Laura.

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

Red Sea Coast, Saudi Arabia

120 miles south of Mecca

“There’s too many of them!”

Red didn’t bother replying to Jimmy’s redundant statement. They had rounded a bend on the old coast road and ran straight into a Saudi patrol of almost two dozen men including a Humvee and a troop transport. It was his fault, he having insisted that they pick up the pace, their rendezvous now only minutes away with far too many miles in between. And it had led to them running into the patrol.

Though in his defense, even if they were travelling at ten miles per hour they still would have run into the patrol, it heading south on the same road they were heading north on.

But maybe we would have spotted them first.

“Drop some surprises for them!” he shouted to Atlas and Spock in the rear as he kept his weapon trained on the rise ahead, Jimmy travelling in reverse as fast as he safely could with no lights, just his night vision goggles to show the way. The Humvee crested the rise and Red didn’t bother firing, it an up-armored model that thankfully didn’t seem to have a turret mounted weapon.

It was no threat other than the men inside.

But one lucky shot and their vehicle would be disabled, it unfortunately completely unarmored.

Muzzle flashes from the vehicle had him ducking back inside and returning fire, his AK-47’s barrel resting on the side view mirror.

“Deploying surprise!” shouted Atlas. Red couldn’t see the device in the dark but had to trust his friend’s aim. “Fire in the hole!”

An explosion erupted from underneath the Humvee, flame belching out the front and sides, lighting up the entire area for a brief moment as the vehicle shuddered to a halt, two of its occupants bailing out, apparently the only survivors.

Red shoved himself out the side window and took aim at one of them but held his fire when he saw the man was badly wounded.

He’s out of the fight.

A quick scan left showed the same for the other survivor.

The transport truck rolled over the rise, lead belching from the rear, a row of four soldiers standing upright in the back, their muzzles flashing.

Someone found their mark.

Bullets tore through the hood, cracking the engine block as steam burst through the new holes and out the sides, the vehicle lurching to a halt.

“Everybody out!” he shouted, grabbing the bag at his feet with his weapons and ammo before bailing out the door and sprinting toward the nearest cover, a rock outcropping just off the road. The transport truck pulled around the flaming hulk of the Humvee, the troops still firing. Red took aim, firing three rounds into the windshield, the truck suddenly veering to the right, his aim true. “Pick your targets!” he shouted. “We’re going to need that truck to get out of here!”

Disciplined single-shots from his men responded, the Saudi’s bailing from their truck and taking up position behind it, their only means of reaching Mecca now a shield.

Shit!

His comm squawked, something he had in his ear only out of habit. “Bravo Zero-Two, Pony Express, come in, over!”

Red grinned, exchanging an excited glance with Atlas to his right. “Pony Express, this is Bravo Zero-Two, good to hear you, over.”

“Zero-Two, is that your little firefight I’m seeing, over?”

“Could be. Sending my coordinates now, over!” A few practiced taps on his display and the coordinates were sent.

“Zero-Two, we’ve got you. Keep your heads down, over.”

“Roger that. Avoid hitting our Toyota, it’s a rental and has precious cargo, over.”

“Roger wilco, daddio!”

Red shook his head with a smile as he looked to the horizon, the thunder of helicopter rotors finally reaching his ears.

Kane to the rescue!

What sounded like a beautiful .50 caliber opened up, the muzzle flashes highlighting the outline of the chopper against the night sky like a strobe light, revealing someone hanging from the open side of the chopper, belching lead on those below. Red opened up with his own AK, the others joining in, their enemy’s cover no longer valuable since they had a new ride.

As the helicopter banked around its target, the heavy machine gun slicing through the transport truck, those using it as cover were forced to choose between the deadly .50 cal or the equally deadly 7.62mm AK-47’s.

They chose poorly.

Rounding the front of the truck in an attempt to escape the chopper, Red’s men cut them down, the entire battle finished almost as quickly as it had begun. The team advanced, weapons trained on the corpses, but it was unnecessary.

The entire Saudi patrol was dead.

“I wonder whose side they were on?” asked Atlas as he waved to the chopper, it beginning to set down on the other side of the depression they were currently in.

“Whichever side it was, it wasn’t ours.” Red and the others jogged down the road to find the helicopter landed, its rotors powering down but not off. Jagger gave him a wave as he walked up, their comrade-in-arms manning the .50 cal that had saved the day. He poked his head inside.

“Am I ever glad to see you guys!”

Wings gave him a grin from the controls, Kane turning in his seat, tapping his watch. “A little birdie told me you needed a lift.”

Red slapped Jagger on the shoulder. “I see you found our stragglers.”

“They were sunning themselves on the beach when I arrived. I was insulted that you weren’t there as well.”

“Well, we’ve got a package that needs delivering.”

Kane pointed to cargo netting in the back. “Another birdie told me that.”

Red smiled. “I assume you’ve got a plan?”

Kane laughed. “Always, my friend.”

“And it is?”

“We go in, balls to the wall, music blarin’, guns a blazin’ and return their little rock.”

Red shook his head. “How about we leave out the music and hold off on the guns?”

Kane frowned. “Man, you must be a lot of fun at a party.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the back. “Let’s boogie, buddy. We’ve got a date to keep.”

Ibrahim Al Khalil Checkpoint, Mecca, Saudi Arabia

“Quiet!”

Colonel Faisal bin Nayef held a hand up to his ear, certain he had heard a helicopter over the chatter of his men. He had a dozen loyal men with him, men who would follow any order he gave them, though at the moment he wasn’t sure what that order might be.

The broadcast sent out by the Americans had been seen around the world. Colonel Clancy had denied any knowledge of it, claiming he had no contact with his men since the small communications window had opened earlier in the day, but he didn’t believe him for a second.

The broadcast had infuriated him.

It showed a complete lack of trust on behalf of Clancy, and was a betrayal of his government by the Americans, their revealing of the truth to the world completely undermining what was left of the Saudi regime.

The tension had increased exponentially, even here in Mecca.

Troops and citizens alike were questioning their leaders, demanding to know if what the Americans were saying was true. The footage was convincing, especially considering Nayef knew it to be genuine, but the party line was that it was fake. The government wanted to be able to take credit for retrieving the object themselves, and he had convinced them that the best way of doing that was to arrange a handover at a secluded but secure location.

And kill the Americans.

The truth would have been concealed, the glory would have been claimed by the Saudi regime, and the crisis would have been over.

But now everything had been ruined.

According to the broadcast the Americans would be arriving by helicopter, and everyone knew exactly when and from where they’d be coming.

He could definitely hear the thump of helicopter blades in the distance. He looked at his watch.

Midnight.

“Exactly on time,” he muttered.

“Do you think it’s them, Colonel?”

He glanced at Major Samara, a man who had served under him some years ago before he had joined the Mabahith. When he had heard he was here in Mecca, he had picked him to command the unit at the checkpoint, knowing Samara would follow his orders without question.

“It must be,” he replied.

“What are we going to do?”

Nayef still wasn’t sure. The original plan had the Americans arriving by ground transport, easy to kill and retrieve the Black Stone. But now they were arriving by helicopter which changed everything. He knew what he wanted to do, but he couldn’t be certain the men with him would obey the order. For today he served two masters. He served his monarch in Riyadh, but he also served the Prophet himself. And serving the Prophet meant serving Allah, and though monarchs used to be treated as divinely chosen, this was blasphemy.

The King was not a representative of Allah, therefore his wishes could never override those dictated by Allah, outlined in the Koran itself. The Koran was the word of God, delivered by his messenger Gabriel to the Prophet Mohammed, to guide all of mankind back to the true path intended for His creation.

And despite the holy book, man had still managed to stray, by failing its test.

By worshipping a false idol.

It was a little over ten years ago that he had first realized the failure of the followers of Islam. He had been participating in a passionate debate about the inconsistencies in the Koran, explaining them, he felt quite successfully, as not inconsistencies at all, but merely changes due to necessity. The Koran was delivered to the Prophet over decades, and during those decades, this new word of God had helped transform the region, bringing hundreds then thousands and tens of thousands back to the true path intended for them, and as the Prophet’s success continued to grow, the word of God evolved to match the new needs of His people.

Therefore the inconsistencies weren’t inconsistencies at all.

They were merely old guidance, replaced by new.

Abrogation.

He felt he had successfully convinced all in attendance that he was right. It was hardly a unique position, he merely articulate enough to present the case handed down over centuries by men far smarter than he was. He found though that as he got older, more and more of today’s youth were questioning the Koran and these inconsistencies, their exposure to the blasphemy coming through modern communications, the Internet clearly the work of the Devil.

It was a constant struggle, but when the youth he spoke to heard the truth, they were quickly brought back to the true path, often with an understanding of how the infidel knowingly twisted the meaning of the Koran to try and sow doubt among the true believers.

It wasn’t until the glaring error was pointed out to him by a student that his own beliefs had been truly shaken.

The discussion on when the Al-Masjid-ul-Haram Mosque in Mecca and the Al-Masjid-ul-Aqs-a in Jerusalem were built.

He had sloughed off the question, saying it wasn’t relevant to the discussion at hand as it wasn’t an inconsistency in the Koran, two passages not contradicting each other.

But it had disturbed him.

He had read the Koran and the Hadiths almost every day of his life, the passages referring to the building of the mosques memorized, but he had never made the connection, the historical record never part of his reading.

He had just always assumed the Koran was infallible.

After all, it was the word of God.

But when he had researched it himself, he had found the error was irrefutable.

The Koran was wrong.

Which meant Allah was wrong.

And that was impossible.

So if Allah couldn’t be wrong, but the Koran was, then the Prophet had made a mistake when he repeated the words of the Archangel Gabriel to those who would record the word of God.

If only the Prophet had known how to read and write!

If the Prophet had been literate, then there would be no chance for mistakes. Nayef had initially come to the conclusion that since God was infallible, the fault must lie with his chosen Prophet, and it was Mohammed himself that had made the error.

But that would mean God had chosen poorly.

And since He was infallible, that could not be the case.

Which meant the fault lay at the feet of those who had transcribed the Prophet’s words.

That had satisfied him for a short time, but never fully, for surely the words written must have been repeated back to the Prophet on many occasions, and he would have noticed the error.

This led him to the only logical conclusion.

That the error was intentional.

And if the error was intentional, it could only mean it was a test. A test that man had failed.

But not all men.

Upon researching the history of the Black Stone he discovered a shocking truth.

Someone else had discovered the error, had discovered the test, and they had attempted to bring man back to the true path but had ultimately failed, giving into greed instead, returning the stone damaged but still whole in exchange for a king’s ransom.

The man was an inspiration to him, his people and their beliefs a beacon in the night waiting for this misguided, lost religion to see its light and be returned to the path meant for all mankind to follow.

And when he had discovered the truth, he had been reborn.

As Abu Tahir al-Qarmati.

“Do we have any idea if they saw the broadcast?”

Kane looked back at Red, activating his mike. “No idea, but that’s what makes it fun!”

Red raised his eyebrows, Spock cocking one. “Flying into one of the most heavily defended regions of the Middle East with dozens of surface to air missile batteries and other sundry anti-aircraft weaponry is fun for you?”

“Hey, I filed a flight plan.”

“Riiight. If we survive this, remind me to thank you later for rescuing us. If we don’t, you’re going to feel my boot up your ass all the way from the Pearly Gates.”

“So you don’t think I’m coming with you?”

“Not if you get me killed.”

“My size fourteens will be wedged in there too,” rumbled Atlas.

“Faith, gentlemen, faith!”

Kane flicked a switch, all the lights on the helicopter turning on, lighting them up like a beacon in the night sky.

He cleared his throat then activated the external megaphone.

“Do not shoot. We have the Black Stone. If you fire upon us you will destroy it.”

Major Samara looked to where Colonel Faisal bin Nayef was pointing and frowned. A bright light in the distance was clearly the helicopter they were hearing. Something was being broadcast over a speaker in Arabic, but at this distance it was mostly incomprehensible.

Colonel Nayef looked over at the men manning the SAM battery. “Take them out, now!”

Samara felt his heart leap into his throat.

Is he crazy?

The man at the controls looked equally confused, reaching for the control panel then stopping, his wide eyes moving between his Colonel and his Major. He finally lowered both hands, gripping the edges of his seat, saying nothing.

“You’re relieved!” shouted Nayef. He pointed at another man. “Take over and fire!” The man hesitated. Nayef unholstered his sidearm, aiming it at the man as the first scrambled from his post.

He fired.

The man dropped, gripping his stomach, as two others quickly hauled their friend away. He shifted his aim to another soldier who began to shake. “Don’t you people see? This is a ruse! The Americans stole the Black Stone for one purpose, to rid themselves of Islam. And this is the final part of the plan! They claim to be returning the stone, but they aren’t. They are going to drop a bomb on the Sacred Mosque, on the Kaaba itself, and destroy the most holiest of Islamic sites where the great Prophet himself, peace be upon him, first kissed the stone. If you let the Americans over the city, all will be lost!”

The man still didn’t move, his entire body shaking now in fear.

Nayef lowered his weapon and his voice.

“Do your duty, save the mosque, save Islam.”

The man nodded, moving toward the weapons platform.

Samara wanted to step forward, to stop what was going on, but his duty held him in place. He had seen the footage over the past days like everyone else had. The Prince’s broadcast had been confusing, blasphemous, and he hadn’t understood its point. When the footage of the American soldiers with the Black Stone had been released, he had been outraged, the Prince’s broadcast suddenly becoming very clear to him and his fellow officers—Prince Khalid had been coerced into making the broadcast. The rumors of the Sacred Mosque’s attackers speaking English suddenly made sense.

The Americans had stolen the stone.

But to what end?

What could they have possibly hoped to accomplish? He had met many American’s during his career, more soldiers than civilians, and had always found them to be very professional. He definitely at times detected a hint of Islamophobia from some, more commonly from the younger soldiers, but he chalked that up to ignorance. People feared the unknown, even in his own culture. When he was their age he had a deep distrust of Americans and non-Muslims, but he had moved beyond those prejudices as he had learned more about these different cultures, met the people and realized they weren’t the enemy.

At least not the individuals.

Their governments he wasn’t so certain about. After all, it was governments that set policy, and those policies time and again seemed anti-Islam to him.

Yet he still couldn’t see how stealing the Black Stone would accomplish anything except more violence and distrust. Surely the chaos being experienced around the world couldn’t have been the desired outcome.

Only a madman could want that!

But if Nayef was right, and that was only part of their plan, then this could very well be the endgame. Destroy Mecca and trigger an all-out war with Islam. It would give the West the final excuse to rid themselves of the problem they had created by letting tens of millions of people into their countries that had nothing in common with their culture. The Western governments surely knew they had no palatable solution to the problem their political correctness had created, and a military solution was unthinkable.

Unless it became absolutely necessary.

Like when tens of thousands of its own citizens began killing in the name of their religion.

It was brilliant!

Everything suddenly became clear and he realized Nayef was right. The Americans had wanted this war, not to rid the Middle East of Muslims, but to rid themselves of Muslims. It was an insane plan, an insidious plan.

An unbelievable plan.

He watched as the soldier operated the weapons platform, the SAM missile battery rotating into position as a missile lock was achieved.

There’s no way the Americans would do this!

It was an unbelievable plan. No matter how much he was raised to believe Jews and Christians hated Muslims, he had never really bought into it, especially after serving for over twenty years in the military, meeting and serving with foreigners the world over. Yes, their way of life was completely different, but deep down they were the same. They had families, friends, and careers, just like he did. They laughed, loved and mourned, just like he did.

They were more alike than they were different.

It was the fanatics on both sides that had driven a wedge between them, and it was exactly that fanaticism he was seeing in his friend’s eyes right now. The almost irrational assumption that the “other side” must be evil, can’t be trusted, must be out to take or destroy or undermine.

And what if Nayef was wrong?

Or what if he was right?

Wasn’t Islam stronger than one mosque, no matter how holy? Would Catholics give up their faith if the Vatican were destroyed? No! They would become stronger, more united. And the same would be true of Islam.

He stepped forward, his courage, his certainty, found.

“Colonel.” He paused, taking his friend by the arm. “Faisal. What if they’re telling the truth?”

Nayef turned to him. “You believe the Americans? Didn’t you see the footage with them in possession of the Black Stone? How could they have possibly obtained it?”

“But the video shows that it was already there.”

“Hollywood! Just because you see a ten meter tall talking robot on the screen doesn’t mean it’s real!”

Samara’s chin dropped, his eyes staring at the ground, the man’s defiance almost overwhelming, almost emasculating. “But can we take that chance, sir? What if you’re wrong?”

“Can we afford not to? If we destroy them, we merely break the stone. It has happened before and will happen again. But if they destroy the Sacred Mosque and the Kaaba, what then? What if they have a nuclear weapon? A Muslim pilgrim may not set foot here for another thousand years!”

“But Islam is stronger than any one stone, any one building, any one piece of land. It is a faith over a billion strong that will live on and grow stronger with any adversity we may face.” Samara stepped in front of his friend, blocking the view of the SAM’s control panel and the soldier manning it. “Faisal, let them through. If they are telling the truth, then there is no harm. We get the Black Stone back and things may calm down. And if they are lying, then they destroy us all, but Islam will go on. We have to ask, what would Allah ask of us? Would Allah truly let anyone destroy the Kaaba, and if He did, wouldn’t He have a reason for it? Put yourself in Allah’s hands, Faisal. Let His will be done.”

Nayef glared at him for a moment, then his face suddenly relaxed, a smile breaking out. He put a hand on Samara’s shoulder, squeezing it. “You are right, of course, my friend. What happens here tonight is Allah’s will.”

A shot rang out and Samara gasped, his hands grabbing for his stomach as he looked down to see a gun pointed at his belly, smoke wafting up from the barrel. He fell backward, slamming into the hard desert sand, so soft to the touch, like led when smacked.

He tried to speak but the pain was overwhelming.

“Do you have a weapons lock?” asked Nayef, stepping over his body as if he weren’t there.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then fire.”

“Just keep it low and slow. We don’t want to spook them.”

Red sat at the winch control, one hand on the cable, the crate containing the Black Stone swinging below them in a cargo net. Though he would much rather be coming in hard and fast to get things over with quickly, Kane was right. There were simply too many SAM batteries around the holy city to take the chance. Rushing in might mean they’d avoid small-arms fire, even some shoulder launched missiles, but there was no avoiding multiple SAMs at any speed.

Not in a helicopter.

Low and slow was the plan and it was the right one.

Now all they needed was for everyone on the ground to keep their cool. Kane had been bringing them up to speed on events around the world and they were even worse than the news reports had suggested in the brief comm window they had earlier in the day.

And now Western militaries were taking action.

It was unbelievable.

And unless he and his team were successful, the bloodbath could be unprecedented.

How do you not kill those who desperately want to die?

An alarm sounded up front and Wings cursed.

“Weapons lock!”

“No!” mumbled Samara, his pain intense but slowly waning, either because he was dying, or simply blocking it. Either way it allowed him to raise his head slightly. The soldier was still at the panel working, Nayef standing with his back to him, staring at the slowly approaching helicopter, its lights still on, its announcement still blaring.

If they were trying to destroy the Kaaba, wouldn’t they have used a fighter jet?

Why couldn’t the others see what was happening here? Were they blinded by their hatred and distrust of non-Muslims, or were they operating under fear of death at the hands of the fanatical Nayef. If he had to guess, it was a little bit of both. His story was compelling, his theory absolutely possible, if you ignored the fact it simply wasn’t the Western way of thinking.

He had to be stopped.

And there was only one way.

He reached for his sidearm, flicking the snap open, his fingers inching down until they wrapped around the grip. He pulled the gun free, his trembling thumb flicking off the safety as his free hand pressed against his stomach wound.

You must be stopped.

“Ready, sir!”

“Fire!” ordered Nayef, the soldier at the console nodding.

Samara squeezed the trigger.

“Breaking left!”

Wings banked the helicopter, the damned white elephant under its belly making any evasive maneuvers near exercises in futility. He reached to deploy chaff before he remembered they were in a civilian chopper.

He cursed.

If the Saudi’s were determined to take them down, they would.

There was no avoiding it.

At least not with that thing under them.

“Can we cut that damned thing loose?” he asked, tossing the question over his shoulder at Red.

“Have they launched?”

“Negative!”

“Then no! We need to deliver this thing intact if we can. We wait to the last possible moment in case they change their minds!”

Wings grimaced as the crate underneath acted as a counterweight, pulling them in the direction of the swing. “Yes, Sergeant!”

Today’s as good a day as any to die.

Suddenly the alarm stopped, the weapons lock gone.

Or maybe not?

Colonel Faisal bin Nayef—Abu Tahir al-Qarmati—collapsed on his back, the shot catching him in the shoulder and spinning him around. Samara’s weapon was still aimed at him, the man’s hand shaking violently as he pushed himself to a seated position.

“Disengage!” ordered his friend through clenched teeth. “And arrest the Colonel.”

The men remained frozen, not sure of what to do.

“Now!”

They jumped. The man at the control panel immediately killed the weapons lock, the missile battery rotating back to a readiness state. Two of Samara’s men, for they were Samara’s men as this was his unit, rushed toward al-Qarmati, weapons drawn and aimed at him.

He sat up, gripping his shoulder as he winced in pain. “You fools! Arrest the Major! He shot a superior officer!”

The men glanced at Major Samara who shook his head. “You know what your orders were. They were to meet the Americans for the exchange then kill them, not shoot them out of the sky and destroy the Black Stone.” Samara gasped and fell back to the ground. “The Colonel has gone mad. He must be stopped.”

Al-Qarmati rose to his knees. “You must destroy the Americans before it’s too late!”

“But you’ll destroy the Black Stone,” said Samara, his voice strained, it clearly taking all his remaining strength to force the words out.

“Good! Destroy it! It’s a sacrilegious idol that we have been fools to worship all these years! We have all failed Allah’s test but tonight we can set things right!” He pointed at the weapons platform, staring at the soldier who had just abandoned it. “Shoot them down now!”

Samara’s jaw dropped as his eyes widened in shocked realization of what had just been revealed.

And al-Qarmati realized he had let his passion get the better of him.

But it didn’t matter.

“You’re Qarmatian!” cried Samara.

Several guns were suddenly aimed at al-Qarmati. He rose, slowly backing away, still gripping his shoulder wound, the bullet having gone straight through. But it was his left shoulder, which meant it was his right hand holding the wound. A hand that would have no hope of reaching the weapon on his right hip.

He made a decision.

“Yes, I am! I am the head of the New Qarmatian Order. I am Abu Tahir al-Qarmati, and I am on a mission from Allah to put Islam back on the right path. We must destroy the Black Stone, a blasphemous relic left by the Prophet to test our faith, a test we have failed for over a thousand years. Today we have that opportunity, to not only restore us to the true path, but to make the infidels pay. Look at what is happening right now around the world! Our brothers are rising up against the infidels, our brothers have united against those who would oppress us. It is I who have done this, not your leaders in Riyadh, but I! What I have done here today will go down in history as a turning point for Islam, for our people. My name will be remembered for all time!”

Samara raised his weapon.

“No one will remember your name.”

And fired.

“Are we clear?”

Wings nodded. “I think so. No weapons lock.”

Red leaned out the side, checking to make sure their package was still intact. It was, though swinging wildly back and forth. “Then let’s get this damned thing over the target before they change their minds!”

“Roger that!”

Wings pushed the controls forward, the chopper’s nose diving as he pushed the throttle hard. They quickly picked up speed, shooting over the SAM battery that had just locked onto them and into the city, the massive mosque, surrounded by Vegas style hotels from some of the biggest names in the Western hotel industry, looming before them. It was an irony he wondered if most of the faithful picked up on—they stayed at hotels provided by the Hiltons, but wouldn’t dream of letting the hotel’s namesakes into the city, let alone the mosque.

Red eyed the city below, Wings keeping them barely above the rooftops, and if it weren’t for the crate dangling ten feet below, he’d be even lower. Not many people were in the streets, it clear the local populace was keeping indoors where they felt safe, but he could see the occasional police or military patrol looking up at them.

This is where the speed would pay off, as long as the SAMs were left in their launchers.

“Almost there!”

Red looked forward and nearly shit when he saw Wings aiming them between two massive hotel towers. “Ahh, Wings…”

“It’ll save us two minutes but hang on, it’s gonna be tight!”

The thunder was unbelievable, the two hotel towers creating an echo chamber that reverberated the pounding of the propellers back on each other. Hotel lights began to flip on as windows shattered from the pressure.

Then they were through.

“Get ready!” yelled wings, Red repositioning himself to operate the winch. The bright lights of the Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque, the Sacred Mosque, filled their entire view. It was a breathtaking sight to behold, despite this not being the first time Red had been up close and personal with the holiest of Muslim shrines.

Wings had them over the wall in seconds, pulling up hard to kill their forward momentum as the black curtains of the cubic Kaaba suddenly appeared.

And dozens of soldiers with guns aimed up at them.

“We have the Black Stone. Do not fire or you will destroy it. We are lowering it to you now.”

Kane’s voice was remarkably calm, his Arabic perfect, a necessity Red assumed since Kane quite often found himself performing his CIA mandated duties in this part of the world.

“Now!” shouted Wings, their forward momentum killed. Red activated the winch, the cable playing out at a painfully slow speed.

A shot rang out, pinging off the helicopter, Wings jerking sharply to the left on reflex, the crate swinging wildly below.

“Do not fire! We have the Black Stone! If you fire again we will drop it!”

Kane looked back at Red, shrugging. “Will we?”

“Damned right we will.”

He resumed lowering the crate, Wings repositioning, no one else below firing though the guns were still aimed up at them.

Suddenly a group of white robed men rushed out from an entrance to their right. They were waving their arms, Red not at first certain if their actions were aimed at him and his team, or the soldiers below.

The soldiers began to part, making a hole where the crate was about to touch down.

The robed men, about a dozen of them, formed a circle, reaching up for the crate as it continued to lower until it was finally low enough for them to grab the netting, stabilizing the load.

“Almost there…”

There was suddenly slack in the cable, the pitch of the motor changing. Someone began to unhook the cable then waved, Red reversing the winch, the cable quickly spinning up.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!”

He took one last look as Wings banked away. The top was already off the crate, the Black Stone revealed inside.

And dozens of soldiers were dropping to their knees in prayer, their weapons tossed aside.

Now let’s just hope they do the same around the world.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“Is that going out to the world?”

Leroux nodded to his boss as the room erupted in cheers, the satellite and helmet-cam footage showing the crate touching down and the helicopter banking away, quickly clearing the city limits in its race back to the coast.

With no signs of pursuit.

But what was truly encouraging were the satellite images showing the soldiers praying, their weapons tossed aside. Morrison had ordered the live footage streamed to the Internet for the world to see, despite the government still denying any involvement. Leroux had his team mask the origins of the upload, but there could be no doubt to the world that it was footage from a classified military satellite.

It was just too damned good.

“Are they clear yet?” asked Morrison.

“Yes, sir,” said Leroux, pointing to a map with a dotted line showing international waters, and a red dot indicating the helicopter’s location. “They just entered international waters. They should be landing shortly.”

The room breathed a sigh of relief and Leroux collapsed into his chair, completely physically and mentally exhausted.

In fact, he felt seriously ill.

Hospital worthy.

“Chris, are you okay?”

Morrison’s voice was distant and the room began to go black as concerned voices surrounded him.

I just need to rest…

St. James’s Hospital, Dublin, Ireland

Dawson closed his eyes, imagining the window of the Intensive Care Unit, Maggie on the other side, her head bandaged, monitors displaying her vital signs, a nurse double-checking everything.

She was going to live.

The relief he felt was indescribable, overwhelming. When the surgeon had delivered the news he hadn’t said anything, instead simply shaking the man’s hand then leaving the room. He had walked outside for about ten minutes as he wrestled with his emotions, finally getting them under control.

She was going to live.

But she was in a coma.

A coma she may never come out of.

Only time would tell.

And if she did come out of it, he was going to dump her.

What kind of a man are you?

The thought of losing her had made him realize that he couldn’t live without her. Not having her in his life now was unimaginable, and to end it when she needed him most would be the act of a coward.

And nobody had ever called him that twice.

The choice should be hers, not his. His plan to end things wasn’t for the right reasons. He was trying to anticipate her needs, not his. He wanted her, he needed her, so to end things with her had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her.

And that meant it should be her decision to make.

If she wanted to end it because she felt she’d be safer without a man like him in her life, he’d respect that decision. It would devastate him, but at least he’d understand it.

But if she wanted to keep going, to give this thing they had a chance, then that should be her choice.

And it would be.

“How are you doing?”

Dawson spun to see Interpol Special Agent Hugh Reading standing behind him, his expression one of concern. He had obviously heard what had happened.

“She’s going to live.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Dawson drew in a deep breath, trying to keep control. “Not good. But I’ll survive.”

“I understand what you’re going through.”

“Kinti.”

Reading’s face clouded over, a profound sadness taking hold.

He knows exactly what you’re going through.

“I only knew her for a few days, but when I lost her, I felt like a part of me died.” He looked away. “A part that’s still dead to this day.”

Dawson nodded. “She was a special woman.”

“She was.” Reading sucked in a quick breath. “Enough of this feeling sorry for ourselves. Maggie’s going to live from what I’ve been told, and there’s good hope that she’ll come out of the coma soon.”

Dawson pressed his lips together. “I wish I had your confidence.”

Reading smiled. “I know, it’s easier for me to say than you to believe.” He motioned toward the main entrance with a tilt of his head. “How about we go inside and see if there’s been any developments?”

Dawson nodded. “How did you make out in London?” he asked as they began to walk back to the hospital.

“Horrendous. Made the riots of a few years ago look like playtime. There’s no official death toll yet, but it’s in the thousands, probably tens of thousands. The military moved into London last night then decided to hold their positions when the broadcast went live of the Black Stone’s return. They began broadcasting messages via megaphone to the crowds about the return and that seemed to take the fire out of their bellies. Most ended up leaving, but enough stayed to still cause problems. The military’s now providing support for the police who are dealing directly with those that stuck around.”

“The military should never have to be used against its own citizens.”

Reading nodded. “Agreed. But I don’t think we had much choice this time. At least in the UK it didn’t turn into what happened in Paris.”

Dawson shook his head. “I saw the start of the initial counterattack and it looked pretty brutal. Any word?”

“The French are keeping a tight lid on it right now but if you believe the Internet, thousands were killed within the first few minutes. That seemed to break their backs, then when the word spread of the return, things began to break up. I think you’re more likely to hear official death tolls at the hands of the rioters first. They’ll use those numbers to justify their actions.”

Dawson stepped through the sliding doors, heading for the elevators. “The way I feel right now, any response was justified after what those people did.”

Reading held out his arm, holding the elevator door open as Dawson stepped aboard. “Understandable. I think a lot of people are going to feel that way for a long time. But unless we figure out a way to all get along, the way of life we’ve enjoyed for the past century is going to be destroyed.”

“How are things stateside?”

The doors opened and they stepped out. “You guys fared pretty well. Some protests, mild rioting, mostly opportunistic since it turned into looting pretty quickly. But nothing compared to what happened in Europe. Canada had some problems in Toronto that they were able to contain. Mostly just isolated incidents outside of Europe with respect to Western countries. Africa was a bloodbath as is to be expected, and throughout Asia they killed a lot of Christians but far more of each other.”

Niner waved to them, holding vigil in the ICU waiting area.

“Hiya, Hugh. Glad to see you made it.”

“A little delayed. Had to go through Heathrow, Gatwick was overrun. But I’m here now.” He nodded toward Maggie on the other side of the glass. “Any word?”

“Nothing yet,” replied Niner. He raised his chin, looking over Reading’s shoulder. “Look who it is!”

They all turned to see a smiling Laura in a wheelchair, pushed by her husband.

“Laura!” Reading rushed toward his close friends, leaning over to give Laura a peck on the cheek and Acton a two-fisted handshake. “Are you okay?”

Laura nodded. “Perfectly fine. Just needed to get out of that bloody room before I went barmy.” She nodded toward Maggie. “How’s she doing?”

“No change,” replied Niner. “But I guess that’s better than it could be.”

Dawson stepped over to the window, placing one hand on the glass. “All because of a lie.”

Acton pushed Laura’s chair up to the window so she could see. “And it ends with a lie.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Saudi king is taking credit for the return of the Black Stone, despite the footage of Red’s team.”

“Typical.” Dawson shook his head. “Whatever it takes to end this insanity.”

“It seems to be working,” said Acton. “According to the news report we just saw, the Saudi military units not obeying their central command have stood down and the major population centers are back under control. Religious leaders across the Muslim world are calling for prayers rather than protest, and a period of mourning and reflection.”

Dawson grunted. “Where were they yesterday?”

“Probably out killing with the rest of them,” muttered Niner. “How much more of this BS do we have to put up with? I mean, it’s ridiculous. Every. Single. Day. It just never ends. If they’re not killing us, then they’re trying to kill us, and if they’re not trying to kill us, then they’re blaming us for killing themselves. I’m tired of being blamed because I’m American and Christian.”

Laura reached out and squeezed his hand. “I think we all are.”

Niner turned to Acton. “How do we fix it, doc?”

Acton chuckled. “If I had those answers, they’d call me a prophet.”

Niner nodded, his concerned look not going away. “But from history. What does history tell us?”

Acton took in a deep breath, looking at Maggie.

“History tells us that until Islam has its own reformation like Christianity did, things will never change.”

“Is there any sign that’s happening?”

Acton shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen, but maybe, somewhere out there, out of this chaos, someone will emerge with enough courage to persuade the masses that they must change in order to progress, otherwise risk stagnating for another thousand years.”

“They need a man of courage like Christianity had over five hundred years ago,” said Laura.

“Yes they do,” said Acton.

“But who?” asked Niner.

Acton shrugged. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Who will be their Martin Luther?”

Dawson began to tune out the conversation, his eyes glued to Maggie for some reason.

Suddenly his heart leapt as he realized why.

She was looking at him, smiling.

THE END

Acknowledgements

My God this was a violent book, even by my standards. But after watching footage of the carnage the Danish cartoons resulted in, I realized just how plausible this scenario was and didn’t feel it should be toned down. If it were, I felt it simply wouldn’t be believable given the past history of such things.

Do I think a scenario like this might happen some day?

I hope not, but unfortunately I don’t have the confidence to say it wouldn’t, though I would hope that someday, some brave soul would stand up and demand change, just as Martin Luther and others did for Christianity half a millennia ago. The death toll in this conflict with Islamism is already so high, it would be unthinkably high if it were to broaden into a conflict with Islam itself.

For there is a difference, though sometimes it seems hard to differentiate them.

This time I lay the blame for the carnage in this novel squarely at the feet of a buddy of mine, the real Chris Leroux, who sent me an article on something—what I can’t remember—that had a single short paragraph at the end of it that mentioned the original Qarmatians.

Yes, they are real, and yes, they stole the Black Stone over a thousand years ago.

Many more people to thank: my father for his usual bang-up research job, Ian Kennedy and Brent Richards for help on some fight sequences, weapons, tactics and a whole bunch of other military stuff, Ian Davidson for some motorcycle info, Marc Quesnel for some French help, Fred Newton for some car engine stuff, and Greg “Chief” Michael for some Navy technical info and military rank info (if a Gunny and a Command Sergeant Major are placed in a room together…).

To those who have not already done so, please visit my website at www.jrobertkennedy.com then sign up for the Insider’s Club to be notified of new book releases. Your email address will never be shared or sold and you’ll only receive an occasional email from me as I don’t have time to spam you!

Thank you once again for reading.

Oh, and yes, St. James’s is correct!

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Bravo Team returns in the international bestseller The Lazarus Moment, now available everywhere!

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

Did you miss Bravo Team's first outing on their own? Check out Payback (Delta #1) today!

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About the Author

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has been ranked by Amazon as the #1 Bestselling Action Adventure novelist based upon combined sales. He is the author of over twenty-five international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series of which the first installment, The Protocol, has been on the bestseller list in the US and UK since its release, including occupying the number one spot for three months. He lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.

Visit Robert's website at www.jrobertkennedy.com and sign-up for the Insider's Club to be notified of new book releases.

Books by J. Robert Kennedy

The James Acton Thrillers

The Protocol

Brass Monkey

Broken Dove

The Templar's Relic

Flags of Sin

The Arab Fall

The Circle of Eight

The Venice Code

Pompeii's Ghosts

Amazon Burning

The Riddle

Blood Relics

Sins of the Titanic

Saint Peter's Soldiers

The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

Payback

Infidels

The Lazarus Moment

The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers

Rogue Operator

Containment Failure

Cold Warriors

Death to America

Black Widow

The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries

Depraved Difference

Tick Tock

The Redeemer

Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series

The Turned

The Protocol

A James Acton Thriller - Book #1

For two thousand years the Triarii have protected us, influencing history from the crusades to the discovery of America. Descendent from the Roman Empire, they pervade every level of society, and are now in a race with our own government to retrieve an ancient artifact thought to have been lost forever.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Brass Monkey

A James Acton Thriller - Book #2

A nuclear missile, lost during the Cold War, is now in play--the most public spy swap in history, with a gorgeous agent the center of international attention, triggers the end-game of a corrupt Soviet Colonel's twenty-five year plan. Pursued across the globe by the Russian authorities, including a brutal Spetsnaz unit, those involved will stop at nothing to deliver their weapon, and ensure their pay day, regardless of the terrifying consequences.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Broken Dove

A James Acton Thriller - Book #3

With the Triarii in control of the Roman Catholic Church, an organization founded by Saint Peter himself takes action, murdering one of the new Pope's operatives. Detective Chaney, called in by the Pope to investigate, disappears, and, to the horror of the Papal staff sent to inform His Holiness, they find him missing too, the only clue a secret chest, presented to each new pope on the eve of their election, since the beginning of the Church.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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The Templar's Relic

A James Acton Thriller - Book #4

The Vault must be sealed, but a construction accident leads to a miraculous discovery--an ancient tomb containing four Templar Knights, long forgotten, on the grounds of the Vatican. Not knowing who they can trust, the Vatican requests Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer examine the find, but what they discover, a precious Islamic relic, lost during the Crusades, triggers a set of events that shake the entire world, pitting the two greatest religions against each other. At risk is nothing less than the Vatican itself, and the rock upon which it was built.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Flags of Sin

A James Acton Thriller - Book #5

Archaeology Professor James Acton simply wants to get away from everything, and relax. A trip to China seems just the answer, and he and his fiancée, Professor Laura Palmer, are soon on a flight to Beijing. But while boarding, they bump into an old friend, Delta Force Command Sergeant Major Burt Dawson, who surreptitiously delivers a message that they must meet the next day, for Dawson knows something they don’t. China is about to erupt into chaos.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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The Arab Fall

A James Acton Thriller - Book #6

An accidental find by a friend of Professor James Acton may lead to the greatest archaeological discovery since the tomb of King Tutankhamen, perhaps even greater. And when news of it spreads, it reaches the ears of a group hell-bent on the destruction of all idols and icons, their mere existence considered blasphemous to Islam.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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The Circle of Eight

A James Acton Thriller - Book #7

The Bravo Team is targeted by a madman after one of their own intervenes in a rape. Little do they know this internationally well-respected banker is also a senior member of an organization long thought extinct, whose stated goals for a reshaped world are not only terrifying, but with today's globalization, totally achievable.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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The Venice Code

A James Acton Thriller - Book #8

A former President's son is kidnapped in a brazen attack on the streets of Potomac by the very ancient organization that murdered his father, convinced he knows the location of an item stolen from them by the late president. A close friend awakes from a coma with a message for archeology Professor James Acton from the same organization, sending him along with his fiancée Professor Laura Palmer on a quest to find an object only rumored to exist, while trying desperately to keep one step ahead of a foe hell-bent on possessing it.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Pompeii's Ghosts

A James Acton Thriller - Book #9

Two thousand years ago Roman Emperor Vespasian tries to preserve an empire by hiding a massive treasure in the quiet town of Pompeii should someone challenge his throne. Unbeknownst to him nature is about to unleash its wrath upon the Empire during which the best and worst of Rome’s citizens will be revealed during a time when duty and honor were more than words, they were ideals worth dying for.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Amazon Burning

A James Acton Thriller - Book #10

Days from any form of modern civilization, archeology Professor James Acton awakes to gunshots. Finding his wife missing, taken by a member of one of the uncontacted tribes, he and his friend INTERPOL Special Agent Hugh Reading try desperately to find her in the dark of the jungle, but quickly realize there is no hope without help. And with help three days away, he knows the longer they wait, the farther away she’ll be.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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The Riddle

A James Acton Thriller - Book #11

Russia accuses the United States of assassinating their Prime Minister in Hanoi, naming Delta Force member Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung as the assassin. Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer, witnesses to the murder, know the truth, and as the Russians and Vietnamese attempt to use the situation to their advantage on the international stage, the husband and wife duo attempt to find proof that their friend is innocent.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Blood Relics

A James Acton Thriller - Book #12

A DYING MAN. A DESPERATE SON.

ONLY A MIRACLE CAN SAVE THEM BOTH.

Professor Laura Palmer is shot and kidnapped in front of her husband, archeology Professor James Acton, as they try to prevent the theft of the world’s Blood Relics, ancient artifacts thought to contain the blood of Christ, a madman determined to possess them all at any cost.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Sins of the Titanic

A James Acton Thriller - Book #13

THE ASSEMBLY IS ETERNAL.

AND THEY’LL STOP AT NOTHING TO KEEP IT THAT WAY.

INCLUDING KILLING MEDDLING ARCHEOLOGY PROFESSORS.

When Professor James Acton is contacted about a painting thought to have been lost with the sinking of the Titanic, he is inadvertently drawn into a century old conspiracy an ancient organization known as The Assembly will stop at nothing to keep secret.

Hearts will be broken, the innocent will die, but the truth will finally be revealed of what happened the night Titanic sank.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Saint Peter's Soldiers

A James Acton Thriller - Book #14

A MISSING DA VINCI.

A TERRIFYING GENETIC BREAKTHROUGH.

A PAST AND FUTURE ABOUT TO COLLIDE!

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy delivers another torn from the headlines thriller in Saint Peter’s Soldiers.

In World War Two a fabled da Vinci drawing is hidden from the Nazis, those involved fearing Hitler may attempt to steal it for its purported magical powers.

It isn’t returned for over fifty years.

This is fact.

And today, archeology Professor James Acton and his wife are about to be dragged into the terrible truth of what happened so many years ago, for the truth is never what it seems, and the history we thought was fact, is all lies.

Spanning seven decades, J. Robert Kennedy’s Saint Peter’s Soldiers is an action-packed adventure taking readers on an adrenaline-fueled thrill-ride across Italy and her troubled history. Deftly crafted in true Kennedy style, this fast-paced stunner is jam-packed with action, intrigue and laughter, as only he can deliver.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Payback

A Delta Force Unleashed Thriller - Book #1

Doctor Sarah Henderson, daughter of the Vice President, is kidnapped from an Ebola clinic, triggering an all-out effort to retrieve her by America’s elite Delta Force just hours after a senior government official from Sierra Leone is assassinated in a horrific terrorist attack while visiting the United States. Sarah battles impossible odds to survive her captors and one of the most vicious diseases known to mankind. As she struggles to prove her worth to her captors who have promised she will die, she’s forced to make unthinkable decisions to not only try to save her own life, but those dying of an indiscriminate disease, all in the hopes an unleashed Delta Force can save her before her captors enact their horrific plan on an unsuspecting United States.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Infidels

A Delta Force Unleashed Thriller - Book #2

When the elite Delta Force’s Bravo Team is inserted into Yemen to rescue a kidnapped Saudi prince, they find more than they bargained for—a crate containing the Black Stone, stolen from Mecca the day before. With the worldwide Muslim population erupting in violence at the news of the theft by infidels, Bravo Team finds themselves disavowed as they desperately try to return the relic they are accused of stealing.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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The Lazarus Moment

A Delta Force Unleashed Thriller - Book #3

When Air Force One crashes in the jungles of Africa, it is up to America’s elite Delta Force to save the survivors not only from rebels hell-bent on capturing the President, but Mother Nature herself.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Rogue Operator

A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller - Book #1

Three top secret research scientists are presumed dead in a boating accident, but the kidnapping of their families the same day raises questions the FBI and local police can’t answer, leaving them waiting for a ransom demand that will never come. Central Intelligence Agency Analyst Chris Leroux stumbles upon the story, and finds a phone conversation that was never supposed to happen but is told to leave it to the FBI. But he can’t let it go. For he knows something the FBI doesn’t. One of the scientists is alive.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Containment Failure

A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller - Book #2

New Orleans has been quarantined, an unknown virus sweeping the city, killing one hundred percent of those infected. The Centers for Disease Control, desperate to find a cure, is approached by BioDyne Pharma who reveal a former employee has turned a cutting edge medical treatment capable of targeting specific genetic sequences into a weapon, and released it. The stakes have never been higher as Kane battles to save not only his friends and the country he loves, but all of mankind.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Cold Warriors

A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller - Book #3

While in Chechnya CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane stumbles upon a meeting between a known Chechen drug lord and a retired General once responsible for the entire Soviet nuclear arsenal. Money is exchanged for a data stick and the resulting transmission begins a race across the globe to discover just what was sold, the only clue a reference to a top secret Soviet weapon called Crimson Rush.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Death to America

A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller - Book #4

America is in crisis. Dozens of terrorist attacks have killed or injured thousands, and worse, every single attack appears to have been committed by an American citizen in the name of Islam. A stolen experimental F-35 Lightning II is discovered by CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane in China, delivered by an American soldier reported dead years ago in exchange for a chilling promise. And Chris Leroux is forced to watch as his girlfriend, Sherrie White, is tortured on camera, under orders to not interfere, her continued suffering providing intel too valuable to sacrifice.

To sample or purchase, please visit Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Australia, or click here for additional purchase options.

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Black Widow

A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller - Book #5

A MASS MIGRATION

AN OUTPOURING OF COMPASSION

THE ULTIMATE BETRAYAL

USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy serves up another heart-pounding thriller in Black Widow. After corrupt Russian agents sell deadly radioactive Cesium to Chechen terrorists, CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane is sent to infiltrate the ISIL terror cell suspected of purchasing it.

Then all contact is lost.

From the war-torn deserts of Syria to the humanitarian corridors of Europe, J. Robert Kennedy delivers another action-packed thriller torn from today’s headlines, taking readers on a heart-wrenching journey from the perspectives of the innocent victims, the terrorists among them, and the heroes trying to stop them. In true Kennedy style, this deftly-crafted, taught thriller, provides all the action, humor, romance and heartbreak only he can deliver.

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Depraved Difference

A Detective Shakespeare Mystery - Book #1

SOMETIMES JUST WATCHING IS FATAL

Would you help, would you run, or would you just watch?

When a young woman is brutally assaulted by two men on the subway, her cries for help fall on the deaf ears of onlookers too terrified to get involved, her misery ended with the crushing stomp of a steel-toed boot. A cellphone video of her vicious murder, callously released on the Internet, its popularity a testament to today's depraved society, serves as a trigger, pulled a year later, for a killer.

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Tick Tock

A Detective Shakespeare Mystery - Book #2

SOMETIMES HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE

Crime Scene tech Frank Brata digs deep and finds the courage to ask his colleague, Sarah, out for coffee after work. Their good time turns into a nightmare when Frank wakes up the next morning covered in blood, with no recollection of what happened, and Sarah’s body floating in the tub.

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The Redeemer

A Detective Shakespeare Mystery - Book #3

SOMETIMES LIFE GIVES MURDER A SECOND CHANCE

It was the case that destroyed Detective Justin Shakespeare's career, beginning a downward spiral of self-loathing and self-destruction lasting half a decade. And today things are only going to get worse. The Widow Rapist is free on a technicality, and it is up to Detective Shakespeare and his partner Amber Trace to find the evidence, five years cold, to put him back in prison before he strikes again.

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The Turned

Zander Varga, Vampire Detective - Book #1

Zander has relived his wife’s death at the hands of vampires every day for almost three hundred years, his perfect memory a curse of becoming one of The Turned—infecting him their final heinous act after her murder. Nineteen year-old Sydney Winter knows Zander’s secret, a secret preserved by the women in her family for four generations. But with her mother in a coma, she’s thrust into the front lines, ahead of her time, to fight side-by-side with Zander.

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Published Internationally by J. Robert Kennedy, Ottawa, ON Canada

Copyright © 2015 J. Robert Kennedy

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, J. Robert Kennedy, is an infringement of copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

The Protocol

Brass Monkey

Broken Dove

The Templar's Relic

Flags of Sin

The Arab Fall

The Circle of Eight

The Venice Code

Pompeii's Ghosts

Amazon Burning

The Riddle

Blood Relics

Payback

Infidels

Rogue Operator

Containment Failure

Cold Warriors

Death to America

Depraved Difference

Tick Tock

The Redeemer

The Turned