BASHIR HELD THE GUN with both hands, removed his finger from the trigger, and placed it against the trigger guard. His aim did not waver, nor did his intense eye contact with Abdullah, who held onto the back of his chair to steady himself. Only five feet separated them. "And were you told to kill me?" Abdullah asked in a shrill voice.
Bashir calmly considered the question. "That's optional."
Abdullah took a deep breath and struggled to take charge of himself. He waited to respond, hoping this might be a test and would end soon. Bashir's eyes did not flicker. "Optional? You dare to stand there pointing a gun at me and say my death is optional?" Abdullah's grip on the chair turned his knuckles pale. "There is nothing optional about my mission. I am the chosen vanguard of Allah the Exalted. The man who will change history." He tried not to look at the hole in the end of the gun barrel. "I will give new life to our holy jihad against the infidels of the west, who dare to impose their will on us." In a scathing tone he ordered, "Put down that gun before Allah strikes you dead."
Bashir ignored the order. "You may consider my warning to not eat the food laced with Liquid X a professional courtesy."
"A courtesy?"
Bashir slipped his finger off the trigger guard. "Yes, a courtesy not extended to our former associates who now lay silent around us."
Abdullah, who cared little for the others, now faced an immediate threat. Bashir was inferior to him in every way, but the gun gave him power. "You are my servant. It is not your decision to bring my crusade to an end."
"True, it is not my decision, and yes I am a servant, but not your servant. I spared you from my meal of death because you deserve a chance to redeem yourself."
"Redeem myself?"
"Yes, to fulfill your pledge to do the work of Allah the Magnificent."
Abdullah, stupefied by this contradiction, blurted out, "But I am fulfilling my pledge!"
"Our leader, Caliph Abd al-Ghayb, described it best. He said you have lost your way. You are influenced by weak morals and a lack of discipline–unwilling to sacrifice for Islam. Your plan would waste a rare opportunity to inflict monumental chaos among our enemies while allowing you to survive."
Abdullah fired back, "Untrue! My plan will save Islam from a catastrophic retaliation by the Americans. A calculated attack, as I plan to carry out, will get their attention and make them question their further involvement in our affairs. A reckless attack and loss of American life will force them to annihilate our people!"
Bashir sneered. "So you stand by your football stadium target in Las Cruces, and a ground level detonation?"
"My target will cause many thousands to die, you fool."
"Words, Abdullah. You speak many words that hide the truth: you are a coward. You plan to live, not die for Islam."
His face flushed, Abdullah shouted out his answer. "If necessary I will die a martyr, but I shall not commit suicide. The Quran forbids it, as you must know."
"Then, my misguided soldier of Islam, I will grant your wish of martyrdom." Bashir's finger pulled the trigger sending a hollow point 9 mm bullet into Abdullah al Jamal's chest.
BASHIR LOWERED THE GUN and watched the man from Saudi Arabia die. Abdullah lie on the floor, an expression of disbelief on his face, and eyes open wide as if straining to see a fading light. His hand covered the wound that oozed blood between his fingers. When he sucked in his last breath, it left his mouth agape.
His killer, standing in an-ever widening circle of blood, surveyed the room decorated with splatter patterns and fragments of human tissue. He studied the motionless bodies around him, each in a different grotesque pose as if in a wax museum of horror. A wave of satisfaction flooded through him. Phase one complete.
He moved into the kitchen.
The Doberman pincher lay next to his bowl of half eaten meat. Careful to avoid a damaging ricochet, he leaned down and fired a shot into the dog's head. Then he tossed the silencer equipped handgun into a metal garbage can and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands. The clock on the microwave oven read 6:15. He had much to do in a short time.
He opened a kitchen cabinet and removed the black duffle bag that contained Abdullah's money, and set it on the counter. He checked the bag for booby traps and found none. The bag contained tens of thousands of dollars and a handgun Abdullah had replaced last night as everyone slept. Bashir knew this because he had watched Abdullah’s movements.
Next he retrieved the heavy lead container that housed the nuclear bomb. Abdullah had cleverly hidden it under his bed–who would guess? The oversized briefcase with the detonators and battery charger sat perched in plain sight on the living room coffee table displayed by the Russian who had considered it of no value to him after their meeting. Bashir gathered these items and made a pile on the kitchen counter. Then he went about the house turning on lights so the place would look lived-in tonight. He closed most of the window blinds and locked the front door.
Based on the range-finder readings calculated in his field binoculars, the man across the highway in the white van would not be a problem if he stayed put. Everything depended on the house appearing occupied and normal. Bashir searched his mind to be sure he had performed everything that needed to be done. Satisfied, he then returned to the kitchen and removed a plate of food from the refrigerator he had set aside for his dinner. He heated it in the microwave and sat down to feast on his delicious meal. When he finished eating, it would be time to leave, right on schedule. Life couldn't be better.
Bashir welcomed the heavy cloud cover that made the night exceptionally dark. It would allow him to slip unseen into the backyard and open the shed that hid Abdullah's old 1979 pickup, the one he had bought for Abdullah months earlier. He hoped the truck would start, but if it didn't he had an extra twelve volt battery in the Suburban.
Dressed in black pants and shirt, at 8:15, well after the sun had set, he moved catlike across the back porch. Crouching down, he took a few steps at a time until he reached the shed, a light rain begin to fall. Bashir opened the door six inches. The bottom edge scratched a shallow grove in the dirt. He lifted the door enough to clear the ground and slowly walked it open.
Back in the house he put the lead box under his left arm and held the briefcase handle and duffle bag straps in his right hand. When he got to the truck he opened its door and the dome light came on. Good, he thought. The battery still has a charge. He yanked the cover off and twisted the bulb. It went out. After packing the briefcase, the bag and the box behind the seat, he inserted the spare key he had saved into the ignition, and turned it. The engine hesitated, cranked twice, and then started. "Bless Mohammad the Prophet and Allah the Merciful," he whispered and put the truck in low gear.
Bashir had researched his escape route. He would not drive on highway 82. His plan was to head south into the open desert, making slow progress in the darkness at about two miles an hour. He turned on the windshield wipers, but did not turn on the lights and didn't touch the brake pedal. If he had to stop he would use the emergency brake. Bashir dodged the endless maze of oil field pump jacks, work-over rigs and storage tanks. Often he avoided crashing into a fenced area by the sound of a pump motor straining against the lift cycle.
Ten miles from Maljamar lay state Highways 62 and 180. He hoped to intersect with those roads by midnight. At ten-thirty, when the odometer registered five miles from the house, he stopped and pulled out his phone. He entered a predetermined code.
Next to the house, in one of the cargo containers on top of the Suburban, he had stored 150 pounds of PBX plastic bonded explosives. Buried in this highly stable material, Bashir had planted a detonator complete with a tiny antenna. Even at his distance, the initial explosion lit the night sky, shattering the house, the Suburban, Abdullah's old car and everything within a hundred yards. The oil storage tanks on the east side ruptured and soon ignited, sending a fireball and black smoke into the night sky.
Bashir flipped on the headlights, increased his speed to five miles an hour, and never looked back.