Jones cursed under his breath and scanned the area for exit points. At this height, elevators were the main option. As far as he could tell, one had been built on each side of l he Hotel Tower. The front shaft was clearly visible from I he plaza, something the shooter would want to avoid. His goal would be to eliminate exposure time. Less exposure meant fewer witnesses.
The other three were all hidden from the main street, the closest being on the eastern face of the tower. It was par-lially concealed by building two and less than thirty seconds away. Jones took a chance and sprinted as fast as he could, darting through the equipment and supplies that cluttered the massive space. The squeaking of cables greeted his arrival as the platform dipped below floor level. With no time to waste, Jones squeezed through the bars of the metal tube and jumped into the open shaft, plummeting several feet before landing on top of the elevator.
Until then, the sniper had been oblivious to Jones's pursuit. More concerned with the targets below than anyone lurking above. Now, suddenly, he was face-to-face with a black superhero. At least that's what Jones looked like as he stood on the plummeting steel cage, his white robe fluttering in the breeze like he was in midflight.
The sniper screamed one word-FUCK-before Jones pulled his trigger.
The mutaween were feared throughout Saudi Arabia, where they were empowered to enforce Sharia, a system of strict religious laws based on the Qur'an.
Unlike normal police, the mutaween were given discretionary power to enter homes, interrogate suspects, and punish violators on the spot. Sometimes these punishments were as simple as a warning; at other times they were much more severe. According to Sharia law, the penalty for adultery was death by stoning. If neither of the participants was married, they got off easy: a hundred lashes in a public flogging. Thieves were typically imprisoned for a first-time offense (if the stolen item was inexpensive), but repeat offenders were punished with the amputation of hands or feet. Then again, a more vital body part was cut off if a man or a woman was seen performing a same-sex sexual act. And anyone who was caught campaigning for gay rights was beheaded in a public ceremony.
However, on such an important religious holiday, the mutaween weren't searching for grievous offenses such as these as they patrolled the streets around the Great Mosque. They were more concerned with the mundane violations that seemed to increase when Mecca was flooded with Westerners. Dress code infractions. Consumption of alcohol. Possession of un-Islamic items such as American movies or CDs.
The last thing they were expecting was the sound of gunfire.
And it came from the Abraj Al Bait complex.
Covered in blood, Payne left the mechanical penthouse carrying two bags, one over each shoulder. Gun still in hand, he walked to the northern edge of the roof and peered over the thick wall that separated him from an eight-hundred-foot fall.
This was an opportunity he couldn't pass up.
The Great Mosque stretched before him, a series of arches and columns built from gray stones found in the local hills. Several towers, trimmed in green and topped with golden spires shaped like crescent moons, rose toward the heavens, casting shadows on the pilgrims who stood in line outside the main gates, patiently waiting to get inside, where they could fulfill their hajj duties. Shifting his focus to the center of the open courtyard, Payne spotted the Kaaba, draped in black cloth, the holy cube that was honored by all Muslims. From this height, he couldn't see the Black Stone, the focus of so much attention during the past few days, but he knew it was down there, set in the eastern corner of the shrine.
Thanks to him, it was temporarily safe from peril.
"Six is clear," he said as he hustled over to the construction elevator that was supposed to be broken-at least according to his men. In actuality, Schmidt's crew had turned off the controls so it remained at the penthouse while they went about their work. A smart move on their part, but one that would benefit Payne. With a flick of a switch, it was operational again, and he was able to ride it all the way to the plaza.
Trevor Schmidt sensed trouble when the rendezvous point was empty. His men were always punctual-trained to be on time, every time-especially in situations like this. The clock was ticking, and their escape depended on a precise schedule.
He glanced at his watch. The bombs would be going off in less than ten minutes.
They needed to get to the tunnel soon.
Scanning the plaza, Schmidt saw the two dead guards that Luke had gunned down. They were dressed in Arab clothes and laid in puddles of blood that matched the color of the towel on the one guy's head. Schmidt smiled at the image. According to his source, patrols weren't expected inside the complex, but he always planned for contingencies. That's why he put his best sniper in the Hotel Tower. He protected the unit while they went about their business.
"Luke, what's your status?"
Thinking back, Schmidt realized he hadn't heard from Luke since he reported the shootings. Not uncommon for a sniper, who was more concerned with finding his next target than giving updates. Still, it was slightly unsettling when combined with his tardiness.
The same thing applied to the others. He hadn't heard from them in several minutes.
"Matthew? Mark? What's your status?"
No answer. Not a single word.
Last Schmidt had heard, Mark was having trouble with his detonator. He called for Matthew, the engineer, who was in the control room, making sure that the jet fuel was pumped to the proper tanks in the proper amount, to come to the roof and help him with some rewiring. Once the levels were adjusted, Matthew had plenty of time to help. He reported his movement-so Luke wouldn't shoot him- then scurried to building six.
But that was a while ago.
Since that time, there had been silence. No updates. No complaints. Nothing.
All along, Schmidt had assumed that meant no problems. Now he wasn't so sure. Maybe there were more guards floating around that he wasn't aware of. Maybe someone was trapped in one of the towers. Or maybe, just maybe, his transmitter was broken. That had happened once before, on a mission several years ago, but he never knew about it until a soldier was sent to find him. It was so embarrassing, to be pulled out of the field like that, but what could he do?
"Hello?" he muttered, hoping to avoid a similar incident. "Can anyone hear me?"
A voice startled him from behind. "I can hear you."
49
Trevor Schmidt turned around slowly, unsure if he was imagining things. He was in the middle of Mecca, a forbidden city in Saudi Arabia, on a secretive mission, yet the voice he heard was out of his past. Like taking a remote control and rewinding five years. Back before he had his own squad. Back when he was in the MANIACs, still learning from the best.
For the past several months, he'd been having trouble with his long-term memory. Nothing that affected his day-to-day efficiency, but disturbing nonetheless. Pieces of things-incidents from his childhood, lectures from his parents, even advice from his former commander-were no longer there. He tried to pull them up, tried to use them to shape his decisions, but they simply weren't available. Like computer files that could no longer be accessed.
Like someone had messed with his circuitry.
Of course, he had never been an emotional guy; emotions simply weren't his thing. In his mind, he always considered himself pragmatic, someone who focused on results rather than policies or repercussions. Leave that shit to Congress, he liked to say.
Just give me a gun and a target, and I'll take care of the rest.
Yet, for some reason, that viewpoint had grown stronger in recent weeks. Suddenly everything was black or white. Right or wrong. Good or evil. Us versus them.
Gray no longer existed in his world.
Somehow it had been erased.
Schmidt blinked a few times, just to make sure he wasn't seeing things. Years had passed since he'd seen his former mentor. Now Captain Payne was standing in front of him, wearing a white robe that was streaked with blood. He held a gun in his hand. Two bags sat by his feet.
"It's been a long time," Payne said.
Schmidt nodded, still trying to decide if this was real or imagined. Worried that his conscience was fucking with him right before the bombs went off.
"You don't write. You don't call."
Was this guilt? A manifestation of guilt?
"Schmidt!" Payne barked, just like he used to. "I'm not worthy of a response?"
"Sir?"
"What's with that weak-ass, sir? Say it like you mean it."
"Sir, yes, sir."
"Better. Much better."
Schmidt stared at him, confused. "What are you doing here?"