THE HANGER DOOR BURST OPEN. Bashir's muscles tensed as he raised the metal pipe gripped with both hands. A moment passed, and then the woman advanced holding a gun in front of her. A flash of panic seized him as he swung the pipe wildly striking a blow to the back of her head. She pitched forward, falling face down on the concrete floor. Her gun skittered into the darkness. Bashir jumped to her side and raised the pipe ready to hit her again. Her body remained still. He became aware of the daylight flooding through the open door. Turning, he switched on the lights and pulled the door shut.
Holding the pipe at his side, he studied the woman's motionless body. Blood oozed from the wound and stained the concrete. He poked her with the pipe. She didn't move. His eyes traveled from the bloody mass of hair down to her feet and back. He exhaled a heavy breath and began to relax. The pipe clattered on the floor when he dropped it.
Now he must find out who this person is–this chameleon that changed identity as easily as a lizard changes color. To be sure she remained unconscious, he kicked her twice, then knelt down, and turned her over. Even with blood covering the side of her face, she remained a beautiful woman. He unbuttoned her jacket revealing her rounded breasts under her blouse. He touched them and found them firm like ripe oranges. He moved his hands over her body exploring every curve. He had never seen such a woman–one so perfect. Aroused, Bashir became aware of his lust for this magnificent creature. He fondled her breasts again. She didn't wear a bra like most women. He grasped her blouse with both hands and ripped it open. His breath came fast and his heart thumped as his passion mounted. Her underwear gave way in his frantic effort to undress her. She was even more desirable than he had imagined. He touched her, massaging her soft pubic hair. I must have this women! With shaking hands he exposed himself and fell on her fumbling with clothing that got in the way. Her pants, wadded at the ankles, hiding her ankle holster, forced him to jerk her knees apart giving him entrance to her. Pulling on her shoulders, he forced himself into her. He grunted with savage satisfaction. Salivating, he licked the clean side of her face as he began an urgent thrusting motion that mounted until he could no longer control himself. Stifling a cry of ecstasy, his muscles gave way and he fell on her. With his face only inches away, his eyes focused on her Star of David necklace tangled in matted hair.
Still breathing hard he pulled back as if dodging the strike of a viper. A wave of nausea passed over him. What had attracted him seconds ago became a repulsive heap of flesh. He felt unclean. As he struggled to free himself of contact, a compulsion to flee overtook him. Still reeling from his discovery, he stood on unsteady legs while pulling his clothes up. Would Allah forgive him? Could he forgive himself?
He stepped back and finished adjusting his clothing, his eyes darting about the hanger. Of course, no one saw him. Bashir walked a tight circle around her. He picked up her gun, and tossed it aside.
First he must find out who this person is. Repugnant as she had become, he began going through her pockets searching for some form of identification. Inside her jacket, he found his picture clipped to the outside of a leather folder. Inside was an FBI badge, with a set of handcuffs. His mouth opened in disbelief. FBI. How could this be? He had always protected his mission by using Abdullah as a diversion. Bashir realized that if she found him, others would soon do the same. He felt beads of sweat form on his face as he pocketed the cuffs, stuffed his picture in his back pocket and replaced the badge back into her jacket. His action caused the woman to moan. He reached for the metal pipe, and raised it over his head–then lowered it. This body, he had ravished only minutes before, looked wretched, even pathetic.
If he killed her he would have to dispose of the body or leave her on the concrete floor. Disposal would take time and be messy. Leaving her would open the chance that she might be found too soon. Someone gave her a key to his hanger door, probably that idiot Mexican. No matter how slight the chance, he must protect himself from discovery. Bashir placed the pipe on the floor and walked around to her head, reached down and grabbed both arms. Walking backwards, he created a path of blood as he dragged her almost naked body over to the plane centered in the hanger. Getting a better hold under her armpits, he pulled her up the portable steps on the port side of his aircraft. Her pants, still crumpled around her ankles snagged on the steps. Once inside he cast about trying to decide the best place to put her. A ghost of a smile creased his face.
Bashir had received the measurements of the case containing the nuclear device months earlier. He had built a metal platform designed to hold the bomb, and bolted it to the floor of the aircraft. He added clamps to the platform to guarantee the metal box would remain in place, even in turbulent weather. He would handcuff her to the base of that platform. Bashir enjoyed the irony of an FBI agent becoming a victim of what she had hoped to stop.
He snapped the cuffs on her wrists, made sure they were tight, and then pocketed the key he had found attached to them. He noticed her head wound had stopped bleeding. Good, he thought, I won't have to step in her blood.
Bashir suddenly realized that in his haste to deal with this woman he had left the bomb, detonators and money unprotected in the car. He dashed to the hanger door and quickly made his way to the adjacent parking lot where he gathered everything. Back inside, he carried his essentials into the plane, avoiding the trail of smeared blood on the concrete floor.
Bashir loved his DC 3. He had shipped it from his homeland because he had flown this plane for many years from Beirut, Lebanon to cities in Syria and Jordan as a commercial pilot. Later as a private pilot for the leadership of Hezbollah, he flew it to locations throughout the Middle East.
Restoring this Douglas DC 3 had consumed his life in recent months. With unlimited money he hired technicians to overhaul both engines, refurbish the plane with avionics including communication, and navigation controls. Now he faced the final step in his plan to carry out jihad in America. He must mount the nuclear device and assemble the detonator.
As he stood in front of the metal platform holding the bomb, he heard a gasp for air come from the woman sprawled on the floor at his feet. Good. The Jew bitch is waking up.