Terror Trail. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
had Lang as a simple pawn in the global game of one-upmanship. A challenge to the American administration as he was paraded around by gloating radicals.
Either way, Lang decided, he was well and truly screwed.
The inside of the SUV was musty with the sweat and body odors of his captors. He had ceased moving some time back, because each time he did move a hard boot would slam into his body, adding more pain. The Hand of Allah boys were enjoying themselves. What would he give for a GPS unit upload, so he could ask for an armed drone to unleash an HE missile on the SUV. He managed a smile at the thought of the white-hot blast that would reduce them all to minuscule fragments in a second.
The ride became rougher, the SUV leaving reasonably smooth terrain to start traveling across hard, uneven ground. Despite the vehicle’s excellent suspension the SUV rocked and bounced over some unforgiving surfaces.
Lang’s Arabic was reasonable and when his captors started a conversation he concentrated on what they were saying. The talk was about an upcoming mission that was being prepared. Chosen brothers were being trained to travel to America, where they would bring down Allah’s vengeance on the streets of the Great Satan. The infidel pigs would be slaughtered by the martyrs of Hand of Allah.
Lang heard references to the Prophet and Shaia Kerim. The two top guys in the group. Maybe he would get to meet them when he reached the camp. Ironic that after all the time he had been trying to get a lead on them it could happen now. Not that he was going to be able to do much about it. Unless he got his hands on a weapon and took them out in a blaze of glory.
Some time later, again after a long, uncomfortable stretch, Lang felt the SUV rolling across a softer, smooth surface. He felt it swing around and come to a stop. Doors were opened, fierce desert heat sweeping into the SUV. Lang was dragged out and thrown to the ground. He felt baking sand beneath him.
Around him was the babble of many voices. Arabic greetings were passed between the men. Lang lay still, not wanting to draw any unwarranted attention to himself. The heat was brutal. Sand filtered through the hood over his head and, despite being careful, he breathed the grit into his mouth and nose. The sand irritated his crushed nose and caused him more pain.
A voice in English silenced the others. The tone was hard. Commanding.
Lang was hoisted to his feet. The hood was dragged from his head. He screwed up his eyes against the savage glare of the sun. He felt unsteady and might have fallen if hands hadn’t kept him upright. Lang blinked away the tears and the world settled down and came back into focus.
“See what we have, brothers,” the English voice said. “See what, by his mercy, Allah has delivered into our hands. Here is our enemy. An infidel. But not just an ordinary infidel. This one is an American spy. An agent of the CIA. Look on him well, my brothers. This American pig kills for his masters. He seeks out the innocent and has them kidnapped and taken to hidden places where they are tortured and debased.”
A figure moved into Lang’s vision.
Tall, dark skinned, with a trimmed black beard, his thick hair well cut. He wore a white cotton shirt over loose combat pants, and his boots were of supple leather. This was a man who refused to give up his sartorial style even in the desert.
“Look around, Lang. This is what you have been searching for and never found. I have granted your wish. My name is Shaia Kerim. Welcome to the Hand of Allah camp. It is unfortunate for you that it will be a one-way visit. Understandably you may never leave alive.”
Lang stared around at the sprawl of tents. The pair of wood huts. A number of vehicles were parked on the site, and behind the tents he spotted a helicopter. The camp was home to at least a couple dozen men. Most of the ones not busy with chores had come to see their visitor. Every man was armed. Some wore traditional Muslim clothing. Others were in combat fatigues. Many wore kaffiyeh headdresses, while there were U.S.-style ball caps showing, too.
Lang detected an undercurrent of dissent among the men around him. It was pure hostility. As far as these men were concerned he was their mortal enemy. The representation of the Great Satan. Infidel scum in their obsessed thinking. Lang didn’t rate his chance of survival as being very high.
“Welcome our American guest,” Kerim said. “Show him how we respect him. But do not kill him yet.”
The mob closed in with a vengeance, screaming at him in shrill Arabic, using fists and feet to beat him. When he fell they dragged him upright. Two of them held him while others struck him. Blood spattered the attackers. Lang was awash with it. The blood soaked his clothing. One eye was already swollen shut. His mouth was puffy and torn.
“Enough,” Kerim shouted above the din. “Put him in the cage like the animal he is.”
The supporting hands were withdrawn. Lang collapsed, falling facedown in the sand. He struck the ground hard because his hands were still tethered. He lay motionless, numb against the pain that would hit him later. Nothing seemed real to him at that moment. He barely felt himself being dragged across the sand. He was not aware of being rolled inside the metal cage, the door slammed and locked.
* * *
KERIM SMILED. The episode had pleased his men. The CIA agent, the focus of their rage, would be a constant reminder of why they were here. He was the true enemy. Not just an American but an agent of the reviled secret agency that was dedicated to the killing of true Islamic warriors. He would play on that each time he spoke to his men. He would build on the anger already instilled in them so that when they were sent to America and unleashed, their fury would be that of a thousand devils.
“Tell me, Ibrahim,” he said, “how should we use this CIA murderer?”
Calvin James, who had been at Kerim’s side during the entire incident, considered his answer.
“We should benefit wisely. Be certain to gain the most we can from him. Use him to embarrass the American government. Seeing him captured and not being able to do anything to save him will leave them in an awkward position. Their opponents will use this against them, too. Washington will feel the backlash from all quarters.”
“Wisely said, my brother,” Kerim said. “I was right to choose you. Understanding the way the Americans think is half the battle. He smiled. “Like our CIA friend, I will use you wisely, as well, Ibrahim Hammid.”
James was glad his thoughts were not available to Kerim. The way he was feeling right then would have exposed his true hostility toward Hand of Allah and everyone associated with it. The way the terrorists had reacted filled James with revulsion, even though he knew this was the only way they could have reacted. Lang was a living example of what Kerim had been preaching to his men, so they had shown their contempt by savagely beating him while he was helpless to resist. The Phoenix Force commando was not so naive that he didn’t expect something like this to happen. Even so it was hard to take. Having to stand there and watch had been difficult. As James had decided earlier, this was not the time to act.
Not yet.
But it was coming.
He realized Kerim was speaking to him again.
“My brother, do you not hear me?”
James snapped out of his thought process.
“I hear you.”
“Is something wrong?” Kerim asked, staring at James.
“My thoughts were elsewhere, Kerim. I ask your forgiveness. I was still marveling at Allah’s gift of the American. Delivered into our hands at His choosing. May His blessing be upon us all.”
Kerim nodded. “Our day is coming.”
“Inshallah,” James said.
Kerim began to walk away. He stopped and turned around.
“Do this one thing for me, Ibrahim. Take charge of the American. Look to his injuries. Minister to him. Feed him. If we are to follow Allah’s intentions, then we need to keep this pig alive. Our brothers have had their thirst quenched for now. I