Patriots & Tyrants (14 page)

Tying his golden hair into a ponytail and securing the rifle with a shoulder strap, he jogged towards the compound, his slender frame moving as deftly as a shadow across the coarse ground. As he reached the bottom of the ravine and drew within a hundred yards, the compound rose out of the desert like a maximum security prison, looking just as menacing, with the fences easily twelve feet high and the razor wire looped in gigantic spirals daring even the most agile to try to pass. At eighty yards he stopped and cradled the rifle on the branch of a cactus.

Through the scope he could see two guards standing atop twenty five foot watchtowers on either side of the front gate following the beams of the searchlights with AK-47s. Each man wore a white robe bearing a red cross and a tan rawhide belt, their beards and hair unkempt. Judging by the way they handled the weapons, they were experienced. Whoever they were, they were about to meet whatever god Snowden had convinced them existed.

Removing the rifle from the branch he secured a suppressor and adjusted the shoulder rest. After measuring the wind and adjusting the scope he took aim and pulled the trigger. With an inaudible POP the first guard fell silently, his head exploding like a shattered pumpkin. His death had been so quiet that his counterpart didn't even know he'd been slain. The next guard met a similar fate, falling to the ground with the right side of his head missing and the wall of the tower covered in scattered gray matter, the 7mm round making a clang as it passed through and struck the watchtower.

Sands waited. No alarms sounded and the automated searchlights continued their patterns uninterrupted. His assault had gone unnoticed. Moving swiftly between the sagebrush he closed to within thirty yards and again took aim, this time from a prone position next to a long piece of tumbleweed. As he swept the rifle left to right, searching for guards patrolling the ground, the sound of an agitated rattle filled the air. Moving nothing but his eyes, he looked to the left and spotted his error.

Coiled into a tight circle, tail pointed skyward, was the biggest rattlesnake Sands had ever seen. As thick around as a human arm and ready to strike, the snake vibrated with an authority that it only possessed here, nearly sixty miles from any medical treatment over some of the roughest terrain in America. A full envenomation here could be deadly. Slowly, he released his grip on the rifle and moved his arm toward the Makarov on his hip. Any sudden movements and the snake would strike him in the face, his knit mask doing little to stop its razor sharp fangs. Sliding his gloved hand across the harsh ground he reached the grip of the pistol, unsnapping the restraint. He was only going to get one shot at this. Gently he moved his hand back towards his head ready to fire. Without warning he launched upwards and twisted to the left, aiming. At the same moment the snake struck, launching its body into the air with its jaw unhinged. Venom coated fangs descended as its mouth closed around the barrel of the suppressor, dripping jaundice colored poison as it squeezed the metal. Sands pulled the trigger and the snake exploded, the bullet exiting just above its tail and leaving a twitching pile of muscle in its wake. Landing on his back he breathed heavily in relief.

The clatter of a machine gun shattered the stillness of the desert night and awakened Sands from his introspection. He hated snakes, and having come so close to one had tested his nerves. Rolling behind the tumbleweed he narrowly avoided a burst of fire, the bullets churning dust as they hit the ground. From between the branches he could see another white robed guard running toward the front gate, his Kalashnikov held at waist level.

Flattening himself against the ground he waited. Another curtain of fire sailed over his head. Clearly, the guard had gotten a good look at his position. He unholstered his second Makarov, aiming both weapons. The guard brought a radio to his mouth. "This is 402 at the front gate" he managed to get out before six bullets tore into his chest. His arms flew above his head and his body fell backwards to the ground, his white robe turning inky red.

The dead man's radio crackled.
"Repeat last transmission 402, copy?"
Silence followed.
"Disciple 402 d
o
you copy? Come in 402."
Seconds later a series of loud tones sounded. Sands recognized the broadcast as an emergency tone out, so much for a surprise attack.

Holstering the Makarovs, he closed the distance between himself and the gate. The watchtowers were constructed of four inch metal tubing with horizontal crossbars every eight feet to steady them. Sands jumped and grabbed a hold of the first crossbar pulling his body upwards with his powerful arms. Using the vertical beam to keep himself from falling, he repeated the process. He was above the fence line in thirty seconds. Standing on the second horizontal beam he crossed like a tightrope walker stepping deftly between the strands of razor wire just as he heard boots crushing gravel. Standing rigid next to the vertical beam, his chiseled frame coupled with the inky darkness made him nearly invisible.

Two guards came around the corner of a building, sweeping Kalashnikovs in front of them. Sands cracked a smile as they approached. Diving backwards into a flip he landed feet first, crouching to absorb the impact. He heard the surprise of the two guards behind him. Drawing the Makarovs he spun on his heels and fired before the two registered what was happening. Their bodies jerked as the 9mm slugs battered them, blood spattering as their bodies hit the arid ground.

The sound of a motor broke the silence and a pair of headlights pierced the night as a Jeep skidded into view. Sands dove away as another robed sycophant let loose a barrage of fifty caliber bullets from the gun mounted in the rear of the vehicle, a cacophony of hollow clangs sounding as the projectiles struck the metal buildings. Sands fired as he rolled. The windshield of the Jeep spider webbed as bullets smashed through sending shards of glass into the air, a painful scream echoing as the driver met his death, pulling the steering wheel to the left. The machine gunner flew out as the vehicle crashed into the fence, his neck broken.

Using a mental map from blueprints supplied to him by Queranus, Sands moved silently between the one story buildings, his black bodysuit making him invisible. He knew The Prophet's quarters were in the rear of the cult's chapel. He moved around several buildings until he reached the rear of the chapel. Just as the blueprints had shown, a singular door stood in the center. From the front of the compound he could hear the sounds of at least two more vehicles being driven around in search of intruders and the shouts of at least a dozen men.
You'd better make this quick you fenian bastard
he thought but as he neared the door his hopes of a quick entry vanished. The door was welded shut. It looked like this was going to require a frontal assault after all.

Returning to the perimeter fence, he moved right until he was cattycornered from the front of the chapel, hidden in a gathering of shadows. A silver cross with an open eye in the center hung above the door and four guards stood with AK-47's, one on each side of the door and one on each corner. Crouching low he considered his options. For now, most of the cult's attention was being paid to the area around the front gates, and keeping it that way worked to his benefit. The four guards would have to die quietly and that meant a hand-to-hand attack relying on the element of surprise.

Doubling back around the rear of the chapel he moved silently up the side until he was looking at the back of the guard on the left corner, who leaned lazily, unaware of the threat behind him. Standing to his full height Sands unsheathed two push daggers and secured one in each hand between the second and third finger. Flattening himself against the wall he moved menacingly towards the guard. When he was within two feet he reached out and grabbed him around the head jerking him away from his post and punching him several times in the throat as he took him to the ground. The guard gasped and gurgled as the blade entered and exited leaving a wide chasm. Blood soaked the gravel as the man struggled to breath. In seconds he was dead and his killer gone, moving away behind the building.

The remaining three guards reacted fiercely, the first one around the corner firing a hail of bullets, hitting nothing but shadows. As the other two arrived and observed their fallen friend, Sands emerged from behind them. Delivering a crushing kick to the closest guard's spine, he drove the man into his friend knocking them both to the ground. The only guard standing turned and Sands dropped an ax kick across his forearm knocking away his weapon. Two punches to the throat finished him and Sands dropped the daggers, drawing his pistols and sending hot lead into the foreheads of the guards who'd been struggling to get off the ground, so much for dying quietly. The first guard had fired his weapon and seen to it that anyone listening knew there was something happening near the chapel. He could only hope the roaring engines of the patrolling vehicles had covered the sound.

With his guns raised, Sands cleared his six before turning to the entrance ten yards away. The gunfire had surely warned anyone inside that something was coming. With no way of knowing what was waiting, he holstered one Makarov, gripped the door handle and pulled it open.

Inside, the air stunk of powerful incense that mercilessly assaulted him as soon as the door opened. The floors were constructed of castle rock, the walls of split faced block and the vaulted ceiling of planks that looked like they'd come from a shipwreck. With the exception of the cult's insignia, the interior rivaled any church built by Catholics or Protestants despite its humble outward appearance. Sands eased up the center aisle that divided two rows of meticulously carved pews towards a podium at the front.

The room appeared empty, but halfway to the podium a thin white man with long gray hair and reading glasses stepped into view. Sands recognized The Prophet immediately from the pictures he'd studied. Snowden was wearing a brown robe tied at the waist with a red cord like a monk's habit. He raised his pistol but the smile on The Prophet's face stopped him from firing immediately. It was a look that told him The Prophet had known he was coming.

A shuffling sound from outside drew his attention and he snapped his head back in the direction from which he'd come, drawing his second pistol. With their weapons raised twelve men entered one after another, some with semi-automatic pistols aimed and others with M4 Carbines. All twelve were dressed in desert fatigues, their expressions cold and confident, with a European look about their heat rashed faces. He stood still keeping his pistols aimed, one at Snowden and the other at the crowded entrance. The sound of hands clapping echoed off the rock walls and he turned his attention forward.

From behind a velvet curtain, two men joined Snowden, one wearing desert fatigues and a rough shave, his face like that of a constipated bulldog, and the other an older man with a learned look and receding hairline, wearing a dark red sweater and khakis. Sands recognized him and knew immediately that he'd been set up. The older man was Senator Tristan Taylor, thrice elected senior senator for the state of Texas and the man who'd hired AU to kill Snowden.

"Bravo, bravo. I'm impressed," the senator said as he finished clapping. "While Sam's boys certainly weren't hardened killers like these guys, they weren't complete pushovers either. I tell you though; the most impressive kill tonight has to be that rattlesnake, worth the price of admission by itself."

Sands pulled off the balaclava knowing the camera had allowed his every move to be tracked making the ambush possible.

"I suppose you'd like to know why. Why go to all this trouble just to corner you and kill you?" asked the senator, pacing slowly. The mercenary behind him stood like a thick redwood with crossed arms, apparently still unable to pass gas judging from his expression.

Sands didn't answer.

"Well, I'm going to tell you anyway" Taylor said. "I want you to know. I wish I could say it was something as lofty as fatherly honor. But, in truth, it's just plain old fashioned revenge. Two years ago you killed a very close friend. Perhaps you remember the name Aviv Sayar, former head of the Israeli Mossad? That's why."

Sands remembered every kill he'd ever made. From the streets of Belfast to the sun scorched deserts of the Middle East, he'd been the final blow for over one hundred people over two decades. He remembered the old Jew well. He'd died on his knees in the basement of his home in Haifa.

"You were hired by that bottom feeding Iranian scum Sa'adi Nouri and that Charlie foxtrot he called a terrorist network" Taylor said nodding, forming a smile. "Oh yes. He ratted you out when we came for him. Spilt his guts like a leaking sieve and then spilt them for real when Mr. Dunvegan here opened him up with a bowie knife."

"Like cutting through warm butter, mate" the hulking mercenary said drawing a large knife from his belt and waving it in a taunting manner. "It's a shame I won't get to do the same to you."

You're right about that old son
Sands thought as his Makarov whispered death. The Prophet's forehead opened up and gore splashed the curtain, becoming nearly invisible against the red velvet. The dead body stood still, suspended upright by the last firings of a hollowed brain. Surprise registered on the politician's face as the body fell limp onto the castle rock floor with a sickening thud like that of a melon being split against a hatchet, the sudden realization that taking out AU wasn't going to be as easy as he'd thought. Like the rattlesnake, Sands was even more dangerous when he was cornered.

Sands ran forward firing. Taylor and Dunvegan dove away as bullets impacted the curtain and clouds of dust rose from the heavy velvet. Having missed the two leaders Sands dove behind a row of pews as a volley of gunfire filled the chapel and wood splintered into the air. Sands returned fire from his cover and struck two of the men in the feet, causing them to fall painfully to the floor where he finished each with a shot to the head.
Ten more t
o
go.