76

MONTERREY, MEXICO

Tariq Youssef grabbed the phone off the nightstand beside him.

Rolling out of bed, he stepped out onto the veranda and took the call.

“Aló, José?” came the voice at the other end.

“Sí, señor?” Youssef replied.

“Todo bien.”

“Todo bien?”

“Sí.”

And with that, the line went dead.

Youssef stared out over the lush green mountains and forest spread out before him in every direction thinking it was too bad to have to leave this place so soon. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief. Zaid Farooq and his cell had made it to Miami.

Now it was his turn.

He roused his men and made sure they all had something to eat and plenty of water. Then he insisted they wipe the villa down one more time to leave no trace of their ever having been there. When they were finished, he fired up the truck and they were off.

When they reached the ranch not far from Hacienda San José de Miravalle, Youssef was furious to learn that the cattle truck they would be traveling in would be full. He told the young driver this was unacceptable. His colleagues had not had to endure such unpleasantries on the previous trip, and for him and his men to do so would be an insult.

The boy had no answer. He had his orders. There was nothing he could do. He suggested Youssef call his boss and have it out with him, then offered to let Youssef make the call in the office in the main ranch house rather than in the barn for privacy.

Youssef accepted the offer, called his contact, and argued heatedly that he was paying a fortune for this run, twice the normal rate. He and his men should not have to lie in a bed of manure, in the back of a truck packed with cattle, that stank to high heaven. But the more he yelled and cursed over the phone, the less headway he was making. The contact already had his money. The night was already wasting away. The tunnel was getting more humid by the hour. Plus, there were other paying clients who wanted to move their people and cargo through the tunnel, as well. It was now or never, he was told, and then the contact hung up on him.

Youssef was livid but he was also a realist. There was nothing more to be done. He stepped outside the ranch office, rejoined his men in the barn, told them it was time to go and that no grumbling would be permitted. Dutifully, the six of them loaded their crates and themselves on the floor of the last several stalls. The driver covered them with blankets and bales of hay, then filled the rest of the stalls with a head of cattle each. A moment later, Youssef heard the truck’s engine roar to life, and they were moving. It was all he could do to suppress his gag reflex. But in the darkness, under the cover of the scratchy wool blankets, he put in his earbuds, found a playlist of classical Arabic music on his phone, and cranked up the volume.

He had already come to terms with the likelihood that he would be martyred in this operation, that he would not see his daughters get married, never hold his grandchildren. It was a steep price, but it was one he had decided he was willing to pay. Becoming a shahid while waging jihad against the infidels was the only way to guarantee eternal life for himself and his family. He would shed his own blood so that his wives and daughters would never have to fear burning in the fires of hell. And he would still see his children and grandchildren, of course. They would spend eternity together in paradise. What greater gift, what richer inheritance, could a father bequeath to those he loved the most?