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“We will not disappoint you, Amir,” said Farid.
“Good.” Karim would always worry about the men. He had poured everything he had into getting them ready for this mission, and he knew he would never be completely satisfied. That was his nature. Those concerns, though, had taken a backseat to something that was weighing very heavily on him. He knew the Americans were good, but he was not naive enough to think the other two units had been intercepted by sheer luck. More and more, Karim was convinced the leadership of al-Qaeda had been compromised.
“I have one other concern,” Karim announced in an extremely dire voice. “I am afraid that Zachariah may have been passing information along to his uncle.”
The two Moroccans, who were closest to the Egyptian, shared a nervous look.
Karim picked up on it and asked, “Am I right?”
Both men nodded.
Karim told himself that he could be angry about it later. His suspicions confirmed, he felt very vulnerable standing in the clearing. He got that feeling he’d had many times in Afghanistan. The one where he could almost sense one of the American drones circling high above. A faint buzz that foretold death from the sky. He was suddenly very glad that he had killed Zachariah and even more glad that he had made other preparations.
“Does anyone have any questions before we leave?”
“Where are we going?”
“The airstrip.” Karim looked to the north. “If we make good time we should be there by nightfall.”
“And then on to Mexico City?” Fazul asked.
“No.”
“But what of the plan?”
“We can no longer trust our own people. Somewhere along the line the Americans have penetrated our leadership. We are on our own.”
“But how will we get into America?”
“I have made other arrangements.”
“What are they?”
“I will tell you when the time is right.” The men accepted this without further question. Karim looked at Farid and said, “Set the buildings on fire. I don’t want any clues left behind in case the Americans learn of this place.”
“Yes, Amir.”
Karim scanned the blue sky above them in search of a sign that they were being watched. The mere act of doing so made all the men nervous. “I think we should leave this place as quickly as possible.”
No one argued. The men moved from one building to the next, using the oil from the lanterns to start the fires. The two laptops, extra radios, maps, and satellite phones were all thrown into the raging fire. Fourteen notebooks filled with research on individuals, buildings, entities, and organizations were all torched. Karim had made them memorize their battle plan. From this point forward nothing was to be put on paper. All communication with the al-Qaeda leadership was to cease.
With the fires raging behind them, the men moved along a narrow foot trail. Karim stood at the edge of the jungle as each man disappeared under the dense canopy. He was happy to finally leave this place, and more than a little content to be cutting all ties with his commanders. There was nothing else they could do for him. He and his men were on their own. They would face Goliath, and they would strike a mighty blow for all of Islam.
CHAPTER 19
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MIKE Nash lay on his side, the wind knocked from his lungs, his arms pinned beneath his body. His eyes fluttered, then opened only to find a sea of dust and debris. With great effort he rolled onto his back. A jolt of stabbing pain shot through his body. After a moment it passed and was replaced by a strange, comforting warmth that spread beneath him. It was oddly silent, the air filled with a pungent odor. Slowly, steadily, the pain in his ears began to build. A figure emerged from the dust, holding a rifle. A slack-jawed Nash stared up at the man, trying to make sense of it all. Where in the hell was he? None of this made sense.
It was the weapon that brought him halfway back to reality. It was an M4 Carbine. Nash didn’t know why he knew what it was, but he had an almost instinctive familiarity with the weapon. The man standing above him swung his rifle around, dropped into a half crouch, and began firing. Shell casings tumbled from the ejection port, peppering Nash’s head. The hot brass on his cheek was like a slap to the face. His perception of reality went from narrow to panoramic in a split second, and then back again. The last few tumblers fell into place and Nash realized there had been an explosion. That warm feeling spreading beneath him was his own damn blood.
Nash tried to move. Knew he had to move. Once the shooting started, you had to move. Movement meant survival. The opposite meant death, or worse, capture. He rolled onto his side and felt a warm, sticky goo begin to pour out of his ear. The man standing over him dropped to a knee and began running a hand over Nash’s back while his eyes and weapon swept the area. The man jerked his weapon to the left and unleashed another volley while Nash rolled flat onto his back again.
Nash watched the man hit the magazine release on his weapon. Saw the empty metal box fall free. Watched the man slam a new magazine home without looking. He fired another volley, glanced down at Nash, and screamed a question. Nash couldn’t hear a thing the man was saying, but he finally realized who it was—Mitch Rapp.
Somewhere in the distance there was a rhythmic banging noise; oddly familiar, but distinctly out of place. Rapp grabbed him by his shoulder harness and began dragging him out of the line of fire. Nash’s back was suddenly on fire with pain as he was pulled over the debris from the explosion. As the first wave of pain passed, he came to the horrifying realization that he couldn’t feel his legs. The strange banging noise grew louder.
Nash’s eyes snapped open, and he was instantly transported thousands of miles from the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of Pakistan to his home in suburban Washington, D.C. His right arm slid under the sheets and found the warm skin of his wife. His eyes focused on the familiar pink-and-white crystal chandelier she had insisted on hanging above their bed. He sighed, closed his eyes, and wiggled his toes. The banging noise started up again. It was coming from down the hallway and was neither unfamiliar nor unwelcome.
