Roberto Valencia was still fuming as he drove through the gate at the ISIS Regional Training Facility. Having to pimp for wannabe black jihadists and bringing in young women to pose as virgins, for a taste of Paradise, was bad enough. Having to suffer the condescending manner of Kaamil was more than he could stand.
If his father hadn’t ordered him to cooperate with these Muslim clowns, he would have killed the first one of them to disrespect him. He knew their kind. He saw them in prison, getting special privileges, eating special food, having special prayer time. They even got special shower privileges, so they could shower without being seen by other inmates. If he’d had his way, his prison gang would have shanked all blacks hiding behind their prison-found religion.
But, business was business. The Middle Eastern jihadists controlled a lot of the drug supply his father’s cartel moved into America. Meth wasn’t the only thing that made them money. Heroin was still popular, and the terrorist presence in South America was starting to limit the number of cocaine suppliers. If he had to put up with fools who wanted to take over the world, so be it, as long as they kept him in business.
He did have to give them credit, he thought, driving along the paved road leading to the heart of the training facility. The old cattle ranch had been turned into a first-class operation. The two-story red brick operations center, with its state-of-the-art communication capabilities, was one of the finest facilities of its kind. There was a firing range, a one-thousand-yard-long sniper range and a shooting house for live-fire practice. It also had a landing strip, long enough for private jets, a dormitory and a military-style mess hall.
Pulling up in front of the operations center, Valencia smiled at the clever deception of the place. In addition to its legitimate purpose training ISIS personnel and selected others, ISIS had a secret underground facility. It was used to train and house its own cadre of terrorists. That’s where he was headed, to make sure everything was prepared for a last supper for the three men starring in next week’s attack.
The front lobby was manned by a uniformed security guard, controlling entry to the offices and classrooms above ground. He also made sure no one wandered into the research lab below, where Valencia ostensibly worked as a contract research chemist. What a joke, he thought, passing him off as a chemist. The only chemistry he’d been around was in the meth labs he operated for his dad. If that’s how Kaamil wanted to pass him off, it was okay with him. All he wanted to do was provide the cooperation his dad had promised ISIS, and live to enjoy another day.
The security guard looked up just long enough to recognize his security badge and wave him toward the sign-in roster on the counter. A retired cop who seemed unaware of the secret nature of the company he worked for, he had always been respectful.
“Afternoon Mr. Valencia, working today?” the man asked.
“For a while, Ken. I have some tests to finish, then I’m out of here. How about you, como esta, bien?”
“Sure, I’m okay Mr. Valencia. My son is bringing the grandkids to visit this weekend. The wife has been getting ready all week. Don’t see them nearly as often as we’d like,” the old man said.
“Have a good weekend,” he said, walking to the elevator.
He knew what the man was talking about. He dreamed of being back in Mexico with his dad, and hoped he would be soon. The odds of pulling off Kaamil’s plan successfully were slim to none. Maybe he even wanted it to go wrong, just to prove Kaamil wasn’t Allah’s chosen.
The elevator descended a floor and opened to a lab on the left, and storerooms on the right. Next to the lab door was a keypad and a handprint scanner that opened the electronic locks. He didn’t know how many others were cleared to enter the lab, but from the look of the place, he was the only one to enter recently. Half windows ran the length of the front wall on either side of the door. There were two island counters inside, with all the usual lab equipment. Another door at the back of the lab was marked “Supplies.”
Valencia pulled down the Venetian blinds on the front windows and went directly to the door marked “Supplies.” When he entered the code into the keypad, the green light came on. He then placed his hand on the handprint scanner and placed his right eye onto the iris scanner. Ten seconds later, the lock on the door clicked open and he entered the secret lair ISIS used to hide and train its jihadists.
The lair consisted of a long hallway with two classrooms, four sleeping bays, a large locker room with showers, an exercise room, and a dining hall. The walls throughout were bare cement, and the gray vinyl floor tiles did little to brighten up the place. It resembled an old fallout shelter.
At the end of the hallway, another secured door led to an escape route. A tunnel ended at a ladder to a locked manhole cover. It opened at the base of a tree near the barbed-wire fence on the southern end of the ranch. If the underground facility was discovered, trainees could make their way to a nearby trailhead and disappear in the national forest that bordered the ranch.
There was also an armory with another tunnel leading to the airstrip, that allowed personnel to come and go without being seen.
Kaamil’s plan for the big evening was to decorate the dining room to look like a harem’s quarters. Fragrant garden flowers, screens depicting tiled harem walls, and satin pillows under soft lights were to be brought in. Natural-colored tent canvas would drape the concrete walls, and Persian rugs would cover the floor. No expense was spared to create the right atmosphere for the three young martyrs.
Valencia thought it was a waste, trying to create a fantasy for men who were certain to be killed. Even if they believed they were going to be met by adoring young virgins in Paradise, why give them their prize before they got there? Malik had developed a designer drug for Kaamil’s men that combined the sense of confidence ecstasy provided, with the energy and aggression produced by meth. He doubted the men would need anything more to motivate them.
He was upset, though, that he would be wasting three pretty young girls. None of them would survive the evening. The effects of the drug potion and the stimulation of the evening would make their lovers hard enough on them. He knew Kaamil would not let them live to connect ISIS to the assassination plot.
Valencia quickly checked the armory, where the supplies and decorations for the send-off feast had been delivered. Everything was there and organized, just as he had ordered. With any luck, he thought, I won’t have to come back here after next week. Partnering with these crazies was too dangerous. If they weren’t killed, they’d wind up in jail, or hung. Either way, it was bad for business.