Black Widow Page 6

  Yet why the Russians were here today was strange. His men’s presence was nothing new, though another group had come through the town earlier, he himself having checked their IDs. When he had seen the first worked for the Caliph himself, he had immediately waved them through.

  That must be why the Russians are here.

  He glanced toward the woman and her daughters, turning to grab them when the building behind him erupted in flames, the blast knocking him off his feet. Dazed, he lay still for a moment as shrieks and cries surrounded him, the bombing incessant, the Russians seemingly determined to flatten the entire town for some reason.

  Could the new arrivals be that important?

  He shook his head, trying to regain his senses as he pushed himself to his knees, staring at the devastation around him. Almost every building was flattened, most of his men lay scattered about, dead or dying.

  And the woman and her daughters were nowhere to be seen.

  Instead, only a pile of rubble where they had once huddled together.

  13

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  “They double-crossed us, but I can confirm it’s only half the shipment.”

  Leroux and his team sat at their stations in silence as the Delta operator filled them in on what had happened, Director Morrison taking the lead on the questioning.

  “So the Russians have it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Morrison nodded. “Well, you’ll be interested to know that the Russians have reported that you were all killed during the assault by the terrorists and that they would be recovering your bodies after their air assault is complete.”

  “They pounded the town pretty hard, sir. Something tells me they’ll use that as an excuse for why they couldn’t find our bodies.”

  “Why do you think the Russian Major left you alive?”

  “I got a sense he had some honor left in him.”

  “Lucky for you.”

  There was a chuckle. “Yes, sir, absolutely. Did you correct them?”

  “Negative. The White House is pissed so I think they’re going to let the Kremlin hang themselves a little while longer.”

  “Well, maybe they’ll learn you can’t trust them.”

  Morrison smiled. “Eventually.”

  “Sir, has there been any word from you know who?”

  Leroux knew Kane had once served with these men, and they had been the ones who brought Kane in on his currrent mission. If he were them, he would be extremely concerned, perhaps even feeling responsible for his fate.

  “Not yet. All we know is that based on the footage you transmitted before you were betrayed, the ISIL members that were there for the sale have links to the cell he is supposed to have infiltrated.”

  “Christ, I hope he wasn’t killed in that bombing.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “Do we know where the Chechen leader is?”

  “We tracked the second vehicle to Al-Mayadeen, but lost them there.”

  “I think it’s safe to assume they had the other half of the Cesium.”

  “Agreed.”

  Leroux frowned. “Which means ISIL now has enough radioactive material to contaminate pretty much any city in the world.”

  14

  Al-Raqqah, Syria

  Amira groaned. Every part of her body was in pain. Her head throbbed, her mouth was dry, and she could see nothing. Or almost nothing. There was a dull orange glow surrounding her, though that was it. She tried to move but couldn’t. As her eyes adjusted, she realized she was lying on her stomach, something heavy pressing down on her back.

  The girls!

  “Maya! Rima!”

  A whimper to her left, another to her right had her breathing a brief sigh of relief. They were alive, though what condition they were in she had no clue. There were shouts nearby, the sound of men running back and forth in confusion, but she didn’t dare call out for help.

  Allah may not have answered her prayers the way she wanted, yet he had delivered them from evil, at least temporarily.

  She sucked in a deep breath and felt whatever was on her back move.

  So she could lift it.

  She drew her arms in then pushed up, whatever was on her back rolling off and painfully hitting her leg.

  She yelped.

  The girls whimpered.

  “It’s okay, Mommy’s coming.”

  She sat up on her knees, looking about. She was surrounded by rubble, the building behind her apparently having collapsed on them or around them, it a miracle from Allah that she was still alive. Gingerly testing her arms and legs, she could feel no broken bones.

  She turned, searching for her youngest, Rima, barely eight years old. “Rima, honey, where are you?”

  “Over here, Mommy!”

  The girl began to sob and terror rushed through Amira as she realized someone might hear them, and their misery continue. “It’s okay, dear, just be quiet, we don’t want anyone to hear us, okay?”

  “O-okay.”

  She groped in the dark, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, most of it provided by the fires burning around them and a quarter-moon overhead. She spotted the corner of her daughter’s dress and quickly removed the rubble lying atop her. Before she had a chance to check her over, Rima had leapt into her arms, hugging her tightly.

  “Are you okay? Do you hurt anywhere?”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  Amira smiled, squeezing her tightly then letting go, quickly checking for broken bones in the dark, squeezing everything, listening for a gasp or a cry.

  Nothing.

  “Let’s find your sister.”

  “I’m here.”

  Amira turned to see the shadow of Maya standing behind them. “Are you okay?”

  Nothing.

  “You have to speak, honey, I can’t see you.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Amira rose, taking both girls by the hand. “We must leave quickly and quietly, understood?”

  “Yes, Mommy,” replied Rima.

  “What about Daddy?”

  Amira looked back and could see the tires still burning in the village square. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away.

  “He is with Allah now.”

  “Can we go with Allah?” asked Rima.

  Amira bent down and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. “Not today, sweetie, not today. Today Allah watches over us, and we must not waste His gift. Now let’s go. Quickly and quietly.”

  She picked her way through the rubble, toward the edge of town, knowing that this was her one chance of escaping the clutches of those who had killed her husband, and those who would happily turn them all into sex slaves.

  Even her precious little girls.

  15

  Al-Raqqah, Syria

  Nazari stared into the fire as his friend jabbed at it with his scarred hand, a long stick prompting hisses of protest from the burning embers. The Russians had killed many of his men in the air raid earlier in the day, and all of the group sent from Al-Raqqah as well. The woman and her children had escaped, though he had sent some men after her, he hopeful he would hear back soon that they had been found.

  A new group had already arrived, led by Kanaan, a man he had dealt with for years now, a man he respected and trusted, and their regional commander. He had apparently successfully completed the transaction interrupted by the Russians.

  A transaction he had yet to reveal the details of.

  But the plan he was briefing them on was incredible.

  Bold.

  Worthy of dying for.

  For should they succeed, they would surely die.

  “Do you think it can be done?” asked one of the others.

  Kanaan nodded. “Absolutely. Never doubt your ability to succeed when Allah is on your side. Our brothers never doubted they would succeed on 9/11, though I think they never thought they would be so successful.”

  “It was a glorious victory,” agreed Nazari
, his head bobbing as he chewed on a piece of lamb. “And if what you propose should succeed, this victory could be even greater.”

  “I agree,” said Kanaan. “We will deliver a mighty weapon into the infidel’s stronghold and shake their faith to the core.”

  “What is it?” asked another.

  Kanaan shook his head. “I can say only this. It has the power to change everything. No longer will the war only be fought here in our home. After we succeed, the war will be in the infidel’s cities and homes. And with Allah’s help, we will be victorious!”

  Shouts of Allahu Akbar filled the night until Kanaan raised his hands, silencing those gathered.

  “Where will the blow be struck?” asked Nazari, taking a sip of water.

  “In America.”

  “How many of us?”

  “All who sit here tonight,” replied Kanaan, his arm stretching out to the others. “But we are but a small part. Thousands will be sent, including our new friend here.” He slapped the back of an American convert that had been sitting beside him the entire time, saying nothing since introduced as a loyal servant of Allah, a man who had apparently been with them for less than two weeks though had already fought in several battles, proving his loyalty and fervent faith.

  But Nazari didn’t trust converts.

  There was a reason Islam demanded the death of all converts from Islam. There was, after all, only one true path to God, and if you left that path, you were wasting His gift, therefore you forfeited the right to the life He had granted.

  And to switch to Islam late in life was a wonderful thing, but a man who switched his faith once could switch back. And to have him on a mission as important as this seemed foolish.

  Though he was wise enough to keep his concerns to himself.

  Kanaan clearly trusted the man, and having a white American might just help them.

  “When do we leave?” he asked.

  “Tonight.”

  16

  Tell Abiad, Syrian-Turkish Border

  Amira held her daughters’ hands tightly. It hadn’t taken long to reach the border with Turkey, their hometown close, and with the recent air campaign ramping up with the Russians involved, they had simply joined the stream of misery heading for safety.

  But they were hungry, thirsty, sore, exhausted.

  And the little ones were cranky.

  She wished her husband was here with them, he always having a way with the girls that quieted them down during troubling times.

  And there had been so many of those.

  The girls were too young to really remember what living in peace was like. Syria hadn’t been so bad, in fact, from her perspective as a schoolteacher, it had been quite good. They had a nice little home, were never hungry, and had a happy life until the civil war.

  Things had quickly spiraled downhill from there.

  At first she had thought overthrowing the Syrian leadership would be a good thing, yet when the fundamentalists had taken over much of her area, she realized she was wrong.

  Terribly wrong.

  Then things became worse.

  ISIL.

  She was a good Muslim, a devout Muslim. She believed in the supremacy of Islam over all other religions, and its destiny—the establishment of the Global Caliphate, though she didn’t agree with all the violence that seemed to come with that dream.

  She could never understand how others could be so hostile toward her chosen religion. Didn’t Christians feel their religion was better than the Jewish, an improvement over what had come before? Then why was it so hard to believe what had come last was also an improvement? If Allah had delivered his last words to the Prophet Mohammad, then why couldn’t the world simply accept the latest and last word from God? Wouldn’t it be better for everyone simply to have one faith, one belief? Wouldn’t there then be peace?

  She had to admit it made no sense to her, but then again, she knew from her books that there were over seven billion on the planet, and less than two billion of them followed the teachings of the Prophet.

  If all the others must die!

  She shivered with the thought.

  She could see the border ahead, a large, long fence stretching in both directions, loud speakers pleading for calm. She had never been to Turkey before, and had frankly never heard anything good about it, it a Muslim state that had abandoned the true fundamentals of Islam.

  Complete implementation of Sharia.

  Then again, so had her native Syria.

  Until the fundamentalists had taken over.

  She was confused. She could admit that to herself. She believed in the Koran, though if Islam was meant to be so wonderful, then why was life under it so often horrible?

  Angry young men.

  She looked about. Almost everyone within sight was a young man. It made no sense. She spotted a woman to her left staring at her and pushed her way through the throng of testosterone. “Hello!” she called.

  The woman smiled. “Hello! How are you?”

  Amira reached the woman to find her with two young children of her own and her husband. “Tired. What is going on here?”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s so strange. Where are the families?” She held out her hand. “I’m Jodee Basara. This is my husband, Sami.”

  “I’m Amira Shadid.” She cocked an ear. “Can you hear what they are saying?”

  “I think they’re saying they’re only taking families,” said Sami. “We need to get closer.” He stepped forward, talking to some men ahead of them but she couldn’t hear what was said. She looked at the mass of men blocking their way, quickly losing hope.

  “Please! Let us through! We have children!”

  Her futile pleas fell on deaf ears.

  Or so she thought.

  One of the young men Sami had been talking to turned back and stared at them. She knew she looked rough. Filthy, sweaty, not the lady she liked to present to the world.

  And her children appeared even more pathetic.

  As did her new friends.

  The young man slapped the shoulders of several of those around him, words she couldn’t hear quickly exchanged, then something miraculous happened.

  “Come, follow us!”

  A wedge of young men formed in front of them, shoving through the crowd, pushing those in front to the sides. There were protests at first, but as they saw what the men were trying to do, the crowd relented, even joining in, several more families fed into the center of the wedge. Amira’s chest swelled with pride in the good displayed by those around her, thanking them as she passed, her girls waving to the wall of flesh surrounding them.

  It didn’t take long for them to reach the border, the Turkish guards on the other side pointing at them and waving them ahead.

  She turned to the young man who had orchestrated their salvation.

  “Thank you! Thank you so much! You are good boys!”

  The young man beamed and stood aside, letting them through.

  As Amira stepped into Turkish territory, she overflowed with a sense of relief.

  And foreboding.

  Were they truly safe here?

  And what would they do now, now that they were refugees in a country she knew little about?

  17

  Tell Abiad, Syrian-Turkish Border

  Kane dropped a shoulder and charged, several of his cell already engaging the Turkish soldiers guarding the border. He had no intention of killing any of the guards, nor did they seem to have any intention likewise. They were merely putting up a half-hearted attempt to stem the flow, Turkey seemingly resigned to housing over two million refugees.

  His aim was to get through so he could pass on his intel.

  It had been almost two weeks since he had been out of contact, and he now knew enough that could help. As had been suspected by the various intelligence agencies, the refugee crisis would be used as cover to infiltrate perhaps thousands of terrorists into the Western democracies. From the bits and pieces he was a
ble to glean—his Arabic perfect, unbeknownst to the others—the vast majority of those infiltrating in this wave would be left as sleepers for future attacks.

  But not his cell.

  His cell had been assigned an immediate attack using what he could only assume was the Russian Cesium-137.

  And that had to be stopped.

  Yet right now he had absolutely no way of warning his country unless he could get away from his “brothers”, at least for a few minutes. And that would only be of use if he could get his hands on a phone.

  He elbowed a guard in the side of the head, sending him to the ground, then shoved another out of his way as he sprinted past the line, joining the hundreds who had already done so, pushing deeper into Turkish territory. He continued to race forward, past those in less shape, until he was about a mile inside the country, far enough that if caught, he’d be redirected to a refugee camp rather than the border.

  Someone slapped him on the back and he spun around to see Nazari, his new cell commander, Kanaan having stayed behind, he apparently too valuable to risk on this mission.

  I guess the leaders don’t sacrifice themselves for their 72 virgins. Just the minions.

  He had a brief flash of a bright yellow minion in a suicide vest.

  Give it time. Hamas will have that on their kid’s TV shows before long.

  He could never understand the blind hatred by some of Israel for defending itself against an ocean of people that wanted it wiped from the face of the Earth. Over four times more money per capita had poured into the Palestinian territories than had been given to Germany during the Marshall plan.

  And look at Germany now.

  What was the difference between them and the Palestinians?

  Perhaps it might have been that the beaten Germans, when allowed to vote again, wouldn’t have promptly elected a Nazi government. Perhaps it was that the beaten Germans wouldn’t have allowed remnants of the Nazi regime to continually attack its neighbors then cry foul when those neighbors retaliated.