TWENTY

 

Death rode to the holy mountain, not on a pale horse, but in a pair of road-weary and battle-scarred minivans. The men inside the vehicles speeding along Nuweiba Road, the highway that snaked through the lesser peaks, all the way up to the infidel church on the slopes of sacred Jabal Musa, were killers, freshly blooded after a swift surprise attack on a police checkpoint further down the mountain.

The firefight had been unavoidable. There was no hiding the fact that they were armed to the teeth. Most carried AKS-74 carbines, but their arsenal also included an RPG-7 anti-tank rocket launcher. So even though killing policemen wasn’t their primary mission, it had been a necessary action. A prelude to what would soon happen when they reached the end of the road. And, from what Abdul-Ahad al-Nami could discern after listening to the subsequent conversation of his fellow passengers, their first chance to kill in the name of the Prophet.

They were all strangers, all young men like him, gathered from Egypt and all over the Arabian Peninsula, all full of zeal for the fight. At first, he was not sure that he should trust any of them. However, the more he heard, the more he knew that they were his brothers, fellow soldiers who had heard the trumpet of Israfil.

Israfil was one of the Malak—a messenger of God, an angel—who would sound the trumpet on Yawm al-Qiyāmah—the Day of Resurrection. But Israfil was also the nom de guerre of a senior organizer in the army of the Caliphate—the Islamic State—or at least that was how he had introduced himself to Abdul-Ahad a few months earlier, in an online forum where holy warriors gathered to indulge their passion for jihad. Over the ensuing weeks, Israfil had opened the young man’s eyes to the urgency of the times and prompted him to be ready. The Caliphate had been restored, and soon the armies of Rome would gather on the plains of Dabiq, for the final battle. Abdul-Ahad had wanted to travel to Syria and join the fight, but Israfil had urged him to be patient, promising him a far greater role in the outworking of God’s plan.

Tonight, he had made good on that promise, summoning Abdul-Ahad and the others to a coffee shop in Suez, where the minivans and the weapons were waiting, along with the mission: go to the Jabal Musa and stop the agents of Masih ad-Dajjal—the anti-messiah—from defiling the sacred ground where Moses spoke to God.

Israfil had explained that the outcome of the great battle between good and evil would be decided here, on the holy mountain, and Abdul-Ahad knew that it was not an exaggeration. He had heard the news reports, of the earthquakes, and the signs in heaven.

The end of all things was upon them.

He glanced down at the pictures Israfil had sent them, photographs of the enemy’s agents. A man, a woman, and a girl—all Westerners.

Abdul-Ahad had no reservations about killing women or children, not if they were servants of the anti-messiah.

Tonight, they would kill the enemies of God, and, he did not doubt, they would be welcomed into Paradise as martyrs.

But first, the world would burn.