Path To War. Don Pendleton

cash to burn on dancers and hookers, while he waited to be contacted by his handlers and told to move. No shadows were on his trail, as far as he could tell.

      And he was now ready to strike down his designated targets here in the countryside of Fredericksburg, Virginia.

      The targets here were high value. He and his brothers in jihad would pull off a mission that would shock and horrify their enemies, thrust terror and confusion, if nothing else, into the hearts of the highest infidel authority. Like the others, he was an assassin, trained in the camps of Afghanistan, skilled to move as silent as a ghost, infiltrating what high value targets believed were safehouses or fortified compounds. He had done this many times before, and in vastly more treacherous and hostile turf than the wide-open, so-called free society of America.

      As he crouched behind brush at the tree line, tugged on the hood to match the rest of his black combat fatigues, he scanned the split-level home, some two hundred meters east. It sat alone on a grassy field that rolled in spots, but he had already determined after poring over the intel pics he would crawl until he reached the first hump. Supposedly the only sensors and cameras were placed around the immediate perimeter, but there would be no alert to his incursion, as his handlers claimed their man on the inside was in charge of security. For a second he thought he had to be insane to place his life so freely, perhaps recklessly in the hands of those he had long ago sworn to kill. If not for the exorbitant sums of cash they had paid his brothers in jihad back in Peshawar, with pledges to deliver small and large arms, with vows to aid and assist their future operations on American soil, he would have never accepted the mission, which, in truth, was their mission. When the Americans wouldn’t state the reasons they wanted these selected high value targets dead, there had been some heated discussion, he recalled, laced with threats, and directed at the infidels if they were simply infiltrating him into America, only to arrest him. After all, he thought, touching the hilt of his combat knife, he was Al-Jassaca, and he and his two brothers were themselves high value targets on the list of the Americans’ so-called most wanted.

      Stealing one last moment to shore up his resolve, he checked the clear, velvet sky, noted the scimitar moon. Pride and confidence swelled his soul, as he believed—had to believe—God was watching down, smiling, ready to sweep him with a Divine Hand to steer him safely through the night, with the blood of infidels on his hands. Removing his hand from the hilt of his fighting knife, he stared at the engraving of the strange, frightening beast. The ivory handle was carved into the head of a bull, the body of a lion, the legs of a camel. According to Islamic lore, he knew Al-Jassaca was the supernatural monster who would mark all souls, both saved and damned, with a sacred seal on Judgment Day.

      Why wait until then? Why not deliver his enemies to judgment at the feet of Al-Jassaca whenever, wherever, the opportunity arose?

      Ready now, he gave the house another search. Light spilled from the edge of the north face, lower level, barely outlining the lone figure standing guard. Adjusting the lens on his night vision field glasses, he found the one sentry, stationed on the west side, armed with an HK MP-5 subgun, another operative allegedly posted on the east end. which left—if his handlers were telling the truth—the lone operative planted on the inside. Whoever the infidel traitor he would be his way into the CIA official’s lair. Of course, he was leaving nothing to chance or treachery. Between the AKM, the Makarov pistol for a side arm, a dozen spare clips for both pieces, the F1 frag grenades fixed to his webbing and the SVD Dragunov sniper rifle it should be more than enough if his handlers had decided to march him into an ambush.

      If that was the case…

      Why bother with stealth? he decided. Drop the sentry, sprint across open ground, hit them hard, a dark lightning bolt delivering sudden death. He would find another way into the house, other than the side door leading to the game room his handlers had told him would be open.

      He dropped to one knee, lifted the Russian sniper rifle, already fitted with sound suppressor. Failure was never an option, but in the event he was killed, he found it vaguely amusing fingers of blame may point toward Russia. Confusion, stirring up strife was the next best thing to terror.

      With virtually no wind, a stationary target at his killing touch, Mirba adjusted the PSO-1 scope, specially upgraded for night vision by his handlers. He framed the sentry’s face, green in the crosshairs, so close it seemed he was but mere inches away.

      He drew a breath, exhaled, finger taking up slack on the trigger. Judgment Day, he told himself, had arrived.

      THE SENATOR’S POLITICS was a moot point. From where he sat, the Democrat from Florida, an infidel of voice and authority who headed some committee on so-called terrorism, would be dead as soon as the waitress delivered their dinner. Whether liberal or conservative, he was still a powerful demon who helped engineer the suffering and oppression of Muslims, and just by breathing the same air as his political opponents and constituents. Whatever his policies on the Middle East or his own country, he was still a poisonous serpent, one that needed trampling, even if he publicly voiced objections to the plight of Arab misery brought on by American military occupation and interference in sovereign Islamic nations. And his guest, an official from their Department of Defense, or so his handler informed him, was likewise a high value target.

      Halud Demma sipped his coffee. Savoring the twin rush of caffeine and adrenaline, he weighed the setup. As fate had it, he was given a table within a few yards from where the curtained double doors kept the senator and the DOD man in isolation from the other guests, as they were granted complete privacy in the banquet room. The intelligence provided him by his handlers in Pakistan stated the senator was predictable in his dining habits. Same Italian restaurant in Virginia, same day, nearly the same time, give or take thirty minutes or so. One bodyguard for each man, side arms their only hardware. That the bodyguards were standing post just inside the doors, taking drinks and appetizers from the waitress once she knocked, would make his task that much easier. So far, it appeared their strange and unnatural collaboration with the American intelligence operatives was panning out, though he wasn’t about to take the mission for granted for one moment.

      Which was why, at the last minute, he had acquired certain ordnance from a sleeper cell in the Foggy Bottom area of Washington.

      He figured the targets would be granted sufficient time before the main course was delivered, but he found himself becoming impatient. They were special guests. VIPs, after all. Why rush them through a pleasant dining experience? What was another few minutes? It had been a fearsome strain on nerves alone just to make it this far, trusting his fate to men he would have normally shot on sight. Only their money, their willingness to betray their own country for undeclared reasons, hire assassins to do their dirty work…

      The mullah had given his blessing, and that was enough for the three of them.

      Finally the waitress went to the door, tray on her shoulder. Quickly, he palmed his cell phone, tapped in the sequence of numbers required to time the executions. Call it one minute and counting, he figured, and the six-ounce block of C-4 would cover his exit from one of the side doors in the banquet room. Indulging a last-moment smile, he thought himself clever, walking in, dressed as a cleanshaven businessman, the briefcase perched on the empty seat, doomsday ticking down to the last supper for all gathered.

      He unzipped the small duffel bag at his feet, easy access now granted to the Czech M-25 submachine gun. Grasping the weapon, he stood and marched ahead just as the bodyguard filled his hands with plates.

      RIKAZ HANAHZUD WAS the avenging angel of death for all Islam.

      Trained in the Afghanistan camps, he had sharpened his skills to lethal perfection in the killing grounds of Iraq. How many Iraqis, betraying Islam by serving the Great Satan, had he slain? he wondered. How many American soldiers had he sent on to judgment with roadside bombs or sniped dead from a distance?

      Not nearly enough, as far as he was concerned.

      There were always more enemies, millions, in fact, that needed to feel the sting of death if Islam were to thrive, remove itself from under the bootheel of the Americans.

      No, his mission wasn’t the glorious big event he had often dreamed about in Peshawar, or fantasized about during the missions he had pulled