Courtside, Madison Square Garden, New York City
Kane stood, a slight smile on his face, his eyes wider than normal, mimicking the look of fervor fueled excitement all around him. He forced himself to look away from the bloodbath only feet from him, knowing it would only anger him so much his emotions might betray him.
Instead, he occupied himself with watching the crowd for any sudden movements.
Or so it would appear to Nazari and the others.
In fact, his attention was on the triggerman holding the dead man’s switch, the way he was leaning on the bomb suggesting he was far too stupid to be trusted with such a responsibility, Kane having the distinct impression this man had no concerns in the world as to what might happen should he drop the device held a little too loosely in his hand.
Yet it didn’t surprise him.
These men were all prepared to die.
Every last one of them.
The brainwashing was impressive in radical Islam, especially among the men. From birth they were conditioned to believe that dying in the cause of Islam would grant them entry into paradise, with access to 72 vestal virgins for eternity.
And then they sexually repressed them.
It left a massive population of young horny men with no outlet.
In Western societies you had the same massive segment of the population suffering from the same affliction, but they had outlets. Women they could actually see, girls their own age in short-shorts and tube tops, Internet pornography, and teenage sex.
These poor bastards had none of that. Most barely knew what a woman actually looked like, most had never had sex, and most probably got stiff from a hot desert wind.
ISIL had taken thousands of women and children prisoner, and the men who distinguished themselves on the battlefield were given the opportunity to buy them, to do with as they pleased.
To satisfy their carnal needs.
Whether they were born there, or converts coming in from around the Western world to have their fun then leave.
For many it was the first sex they had ever had, and for those blinded by lust and ideology, it was an intoxicating brew difficult to resist.
Yet there weren’t enough women to go around, which left most alone with their unfulfilled desires.
It was no wonder they were willing to die.
They had little if anything to live for.
Was that Western society’s fault? Was it the infidels’ fault?
No. It was their own for letting the radicals take over, slowly, bit by bit, until it was too late. And now they didn’t want to fight to get it back, either out of fear, out of apathy, or out of mutual hatred. In Mosul nearly thirty thousand American trained and equipped Iraqi troops fled in the face of less than one thousand ISIL troops.
Why?
Were they scared?
Absolutely, the ISIL treatment of captured Iraqi soldiers brutal.
But there was another reason.
They were mostly Sunni, led by a Shiite government.
And ISIL was Sunni.
They didn’t flee just out of fear, they left because they hated Shiites more than they loved their freedom.
Why was it that the Muslim world took in almost no refugees? They had the money from their oil riches, yet they did nothing to help their fellow Muslims. What was it that left countries like Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Qatar to take in zero refugees, but the Western, Christian nations of the world to criticize themselves for not taking enough?
It reminded him of the Indian Ocean Tsunami that had killed 230,000. Western countries had contributed billions upon billions in aid, sending their militaries and civilian organizations in to help.
While the rich Muslim countries did little to nothing.
At least not until somebody noticed.
Then the assistance was token at best.
These men gathered around him blamed the infidels for their problems, yet it was their own fault for rejecting progress, rejecting science, rejecting compassion. Muslim societies of the past embraced science and culture. Today they rejected it and destroyed it, bulldozing entire archaeological sites.
The Doc must want to get in there and do some killing himself.
He smiled, genuinely, as he thought of Professor James Acton, the man who had counselled him after 9/11, who had encouraged him to follow his heart, a heart that had led him into the military, and eventually, into the CIA.
Maybe I’ll drop in and say hi.
His smiled broadened.
Maybe I’ll bring Fang.
Nazari turned his back to him and Kane scratched behind his ear.
The gunfire began immediately, suppressed pops echoing throughout the arena. Kane didn’t wait to see the reaction of those around him. He strode quickly toward the triggerman and grabbed his hand, clamping down hard.
Leaving thousands of lives literally in his hands.
“Execute! Execute! Execute!”
Dawson squeezed the trigger twice, his man dropping in a heap, Niner’s beside him as they rounded the corner, the assault on, triggered by Langley witnessing Kane give them the signal.
A scratch behind the ear.
Everything hinged on the operator getting his hands on the trigger and keeping them there until they could reach him. He had no weapons beyond his body and mind.
Everyone around him had automatic weapons.
He took the left, Niner the right, as they surged down the steps, saying nothing, merely picking their targets and firing, watching their arcs so multiple bullets weren’t wasted on the same targets. The two other Bravo Teams were entering along with a dozen FBI SWAT teams, the coordinated assault going well for the first few seconds.
But only because no one had time to react yet.
He spotted Kane wrestling with the triggerman and raised his weapon to take out someone who had also taken notice.
A civilian leapt up in front of him.
Then hundreds were on their feet.
Then thousands.
Blocking almost all their shots.
“Get down!”
Wendy screamed as people rushed in every direction, climbing over bodies as more were added to the mix, the terrorists opening fire on the crowd. The words of the young soldier echoed in her mind.
Don’t give them any reason to single you out.
She grabbed her children and pulled them to the floor, draping her body over them as the panic continued around them. She peered through the feet and could see men racing down the steps toward the floor, their boots suggesting police or military.
And she realized that they were about to be saved.
If they could just survive the next few minutes.
Dawson sprinted down the steps, shoving the civilians out of his way, unable to get a shot off, the hostiles having no such problems. Though the gunfire was heavy and widespread, a lot of it seemed directed at the entrances in the mistaken belief that more were coming and they were actually providing suppression fire.
They weren’t.
And their wasted bullets meant lives saved.
He spotted Kane in a struggle for all their lives, and pushed harder, a single bullet in the triggerman all that was needed to end this thing.
A bullet that had to be delivered carefully.
Or the bomb could detonate, regardless of how tight a grip Kane might have on his opponent’s hand.
Parker heard the popping sounds and knew immediately what they were. His eyes had been on the new arrival, a piece of shit traitor, the man clearly American. How anyone could betray their country was beyond him, and he would take great pleasure in killing him should he get the chance.
Then the man did something surprising.
Shocking.
He leapt for the man holding the bomb’s trigger.
He glanced over his shoulder to see security teams rushing down the steps and toward the court, holding weapons like they knew what they were doing.
This was it.
He was only rows from the floor and kept his ass in his seat as the teams advanced, taking out targets around the arena, the end of this ordeal almost in sight.
Then everyone got on their feet.
Blocking the shots.
“Stay down!” he shouted, grabbing at those around him and yanking them back into their seats.
But it was too late.
The momentum had been lost.
The terrorists, protected by the standing crowd, opened fire on their human shields, dozens dropping as random, sustained gunfire drowned out the disciplined shots of the professionals.
Parker looked at the American, struggling for the trigger, wondering why someone didn’t just shoot the man.
“It’s a dead man’s switch!”
“What?”
He pointed at the struggle. “He’s got a dead man’s switch. If either of them let go, we’re done for. We’ve gotta help.”
Wilson nodded, elbowing their friends as Parker climbed over the few seats in front of him, bursting onto the floor, his friends just behind him. One of the terrorists spun toward him, his weapon belching lead. Parker dropped to his knees, sliding on the smooth floor, avoiding the shots and giving him a chance to reach up and twist the weapon from the man’s hands. They grappled for the gun, Parker sweeping the man’s feet out from under him as the arena filled with screams and gunfire, chaos reining.
Wilson jumped into the fray, yanking the man away, leaving Parker with the gun. He pumped two rounds into the man then spun, firing on the hostiles nearest him then tossing the weapon to Wilson. Parker rushed toward the struggling American, the triggerman having the advantage of not caring if he lost his grip, raining blow after blow on the man who seemed to take each punch in stride, landing his own, the terrorist’s face a bloody mess, the American seemingly unscathed.
He’s good.
He made eye contact with the man who then looked past him, his eyes widening slightly as he shouted a warning.
“Look out!”
Kane’s grip was firm for the moment, but how long that would last he had no idea. The man was continually trying to yank his hand away, yet Kane held on, knowing that should he fail, even for a moment, the man would be able to loosen his grip and drop the trigger, killing them all instantly.
Blow after blow landed, most on his arm as he blocked many of them, delivering his own counterpunches and the occasional headbutt. His opponent was weakening, his nose broken, blood streaming down his face, Kane’s forehead having done some damage, but the bastard kept fighting. It was as if he had only one thought, the slightly dazed expression Kane had noticed before he had even triggered the assault suggesting this man wasn’t completely there.
And now he was too stubborn to just give up.
A civilian bolted onto the floor, struggling with one of the hostiles for his weapon, another coming to his aid, the terrorist shot, then a couple more before the first man tossed the weapon to the second. Two more civilians picked up weapons from the fallen, opening another front, but putting themselves at risk of being mistaken for the enemy.
The first man charged toward him, their eyes meeting. It was exactly what he would need, a second pair of hands to pull this asshole away from the trigger.
“Look out!” he yelled, spotting Nazari raising his weapon.
Nazari wasn’t sure if he was the first to react, but he was certainly one of the first.
He opened fire on the crowd.
And it immediately had the desired effect.
Thousands jumped to their feet to flee, and he continued to fire bursts of gunfire at them, he not concerned in the least whether he killed any of them, he merely needing to give the triggerman time to react.
Time seemed to slow as his weapon continued to fire, round after round tearing into the flesh of the infidels, and he began to say his prayers, preparing himself to leave this life and begin the next. A sense of peace washed over him, filling him with an almost joyous rapture as the life he had meant to lead was almost over. He had been led astray years ago by the temptations of the infidel’s world, but he had been brought back to the path, and today his actions would help strike a blow so powerful, the ramifications would be felt for eternity as he helped bring about the prophecies.
For should the Americans not heed their demands, and instead seek revenge, they would land troops in Syria to fight his brothers, and one of their rally points would be Turkey.
Fulfilling the prophecy that indicated the beginning of the end-times.
“The Hour of Resurrection will not come until the Romans land in Al-A'maq or in Dabiq.”
He smiled as he reloaded.
Allah will surely grant me entrance to paradise.
He turned to see why the bomb hadn’t detonated and found the American fighting for the trigger.
I knew it!
Rage filled his peaceful heart as all of his suspicions were proven. He glanced to see at least half his men down and cursed the infidels. Yet none of that mattered as long as the weapon detonated. He raised his weapon, spotting a civilian running to help, and squeezed the trigger.
Something slammed into Parker’s back and he hit the ground, an incredible pain racing through his body, his breath knocked out of him as he realized what had just happened.
He had been shot.
“Parker!”
Wilson was at his side almost immediately, as were the others, guns firing at the hostiles, they providing the only cover he had.
Yet none of it mattered.
He was going to die.
But the rest didn’t have to.
He pointed at the American.
“Help…him…”
His world faded, the last sounds he would ever hear, gunfire and terror.
And his friends’ sneakers squeaking on the floor as they followed his last order.
Kane felt his rage build as the man dropped to the ground, immediately surrounded by what he assumed were his friends, but he had no time even to say a silent prayer for the man’s soul, a man he didn’t know, a man who had rushed into the danger rather than away from it.
He’d have made a good soldier.
The triggerman suddenly spun and he felt his grip about to break.
This has to end!
He grabbed the man by the back of the neck and pulled him closer, planting a kiss on him that had his opponent freeze in homophobic horror.
Kane headbutted him, dropping him to his knees, then tore the trigger from the man’s hand. A knee to the nose had his opponent on the floor then Kane stomped his heel on the man’s head, hard, crushing his skull in one blow.
He dropped to a crouch, surveying the scene around him, gripping the trigger tightly, watching for anyone who might take a potshot at him. He spotted Nazari raise his weapon then his body jerk as he took two rounds to the chest, collapsing to the ground in a heap. Kane looked to see where the shots had come from and spotted Dawson and Niner, still engaging the dwindling terrorists.
Stay alive, boys!
Something moved out of the corner of his eye and he turned, his jaw dropping as Nazari rose, his weapon swinging toward him.
“BD!”
Dawson laughed aloud as he squeezed the trigger, having caught sight of Kane’s victory in the hand-to-hand match, it a brilliant move that he had used himself on more than one occasion. Islamists were so homophobic it was actually a tactical disadvantage at times. As he took out another hostile he heard Kane yell.
“BD!”
He spun, as did Niner, and spotted the wounded Nazari on his knees, his weapon aimed at the bomb. Dawson took quick aim and fired, emptying his mag into the man, Niner’s weapon belching fury beside him as Atlas and Spock poured on additional firepower, approaching from the opposite direction.
Nazari was a bloody pulp by the time it was done.
And then the guns were silent.
Dawson headed for Kane, tossing him a roll of duct tape, the operator easily catching it and immediately taping the trigger closed.
“You okay?”
Kane nodded, clearly exhausted, collapsing in a heap on the floor. He nodded toward his opponent. “Tough bastard.”
Niner stepped over. “So, I’ve gotta know.”
“What?”
“Was he a good kisser?”
“You saw that?”
“Oh buddy, you don’t know the half of it.” He pointed at the television camera. “The whole damned planet saw that.”
Kane closed his eyes. “Shit. Not sure if my reputation can survive that.”
Dawson decided to save the man. “Don’t worry, we shut down the feeds the moment the assault started. Your sexual preferences are still your secret.”
Kane opened his mouth then stopped, apparently not sure of what to say.
Somebody clapped nearby.
Then another.
Niner pulled Kane to his feet and they turned to see thousands staring at them from every direction, the entire crowd beginning to clap, the claps breaking into a roar of cheers that sent goosebumps racing throughout Dawson’s body. It was something he could honestly say he had never experienced before.
And he prayed to God he never did again.
The price was simply too high.