Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (23 page)

“Why the hell are we slowing down?” Justin asked.

Carrie rolled down the window and stuck her head outside, as the car came to a complete stop.

“There’s some kind of road construction ahead, just as we begin to climb up the ramp. This lane is cut off about a hundred and fifty feet ahead.”

The cars were chaotically merging into the left lane. The brown truck ahead jerked forward and Justin stepped slowly on the gas pedal. Their Nissan gained about a foot. He peered through the windshield and saw a long line of barrier boards cordoning off a part of their lane. The brown truck moved again and, without signaling, forced his way into the other lane. Justin waited until there was a gap in the traffic, signaled and drove in front of a blue van. They were now almost ten vehicles behind Nour’s GMC.

“I don’t see any cranes or dump trucks anywhere,” Carrie observed.

“No construction workers either.” Justin checked both his right side and the rear-view mirror, as they crawled up the ramp, along barrier boards and pylons.

A rattling motorcycle caught his attention, as it zigzagged through the cars behind them. Then, it sped up to their right, using the ramp’s shoulder. The motorcycle’s passenger was holding a Kalashnikov.

“It’s an ambush,” Justin shouted, his foot instinctively pressing on the gas pedal. The Nissan came dangerously close to the van.

The motorcycle cut through a gap between the pylons and drove into the cordoned off lane, gaining quickly on them.

“It’s getting closer,” Carrie said.

Justin pulled out his Glock and handed it to Carrie. “Shoot the bastards.”

Carrie cocked the gun and turned around.

“Hang onto something.” Justin ploughed through the traffic barriers.

Debris went flying over the car. Pylons and wooden fragments were thrown at other vehicles and the chasing motorcycle. Justin slammed his foot on the gas and the Nissan drifted around the curb. The bike swerved around the scattering debris. Its passenger aimed his stretched hand toward them.

“Incoming fire.” Carrie dropped against her seat.

Justin veered to the left and then to the right, as bullets riddled the car. Fragments of broken glass showered his head and neck. A bullet grazed the edge of his left shoulder. He swore then clenched his teeth. He glanced at Carrie, wondering why she was not returning fire, just as she began shooting through the shattered windows. “There you go, blast them!”

Carrie kept firing, but their car was still being hammered by automatic gun fire. The vroom of the motorcycle grew louder and the incoming barrage intensified. The car sank, its tires exploding with a loud bang. The wheels scraped the asphalt and Justin struggled to keep the swerving car under control.

“Carrie,” he cried, while the car banged against the metal rail of the climbing ramp, “take them out.”

Carrie shuffled to the back seat and the Glock was heard again. Two quick bursts and a long barrage. Justin heard a great explosion coming from somewhere underneath and saw huge flames leaping at the overpass. Another explosion erupted from the highway below. Black and gray smoke clouded the sun, mushrooming over the scene.

“Justin, you can stop now.”

He listened to her and pulled to the side. The engine puffed as he turned off the car.

“You OK?” Justin asked

Carrie was panting heavily, crouched on the back seat. The Glock lay next to her.

“Uh, uh, yes, I’m fine.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

He helped her climb out of the car. Carrie handed him back the Glock. She ran her hands through her hair, staring in disbelief at their car and at the cloud of smoke.

“Did any bullet get you?” she asked after a long moment, stepping closer to Justin, searching his face and his arms.

“A bullet clipped my shoulder.”

She helped him clear some glass fragments off his body. Then, she inspected his shoulder wound. Justin’s shirt and skin were ripped open. The bullet had made an inch-long superficial cut, and some blood had trickled down Justin’s chest.

“We’ll get you cleaned up soon.”

“Yeah, it’s nothing.”

They looked at the scene underneath their feet. The twisted wreck of the motorcycle had landed on a gray sedan. A plume of smoke was soaring upwards from the burning rubble. Another car was turned upside down. The hood of another truck was badly damaged at the driver’s side. The traffic had pretty much stopped, with the occasional car pushing its way around the burning barricade. A couple of dozen people were walking around, yelling and screaming, staring and pointing at the top of the overpass. Justin saw Nour and Abdul standing next to their car on the other side of the overpass and began waving to get their attention.

“Hey, Justin, look at this.” Carrie pointed to her left, about twenty yards away, at a man lying on his back.

“Was he one of the bike guys?” Justin asked, as they ran toward the man.

Carrie nodded. “I guess he jumped off in time.”

They saw a Kalashnikov a few steps away from the man.

“He’s still alive.” Carrie leaned over him.

The man’s face and ears were severely bruised. He was bleeding from a large bullet wound on his right side.

“You know, you should have worn a helmet,” Carrie said.

“And a vest.” Justin knelt next to the man. “Who sent you?” he asked in Arabic.

The man spat out a bloody cough. As he tried to talk, a wheezing rasp came out of his mouth. His eyes flickered irregularly, like broken windshield wipers. The dim light left in them was going to fade out very soon.

“Who sent you to kill us?” Justin asked again, this time in Arabic and in English. He wiped a trickle of blood oozing from the man’s left eyebrow, which had made its way down to his thick, black beard.

“Go… go to hell,” the man groaned in English.

“You first, you prick,” Carrie spat out.

“We’ll take you to a hospital right away, and you’ll make it,” Justin said, his mouth very close to the man’s ear. “Tell us, who wants us dead?”

“The… the Alliance,” the man let out a faint whisper, almost too quiet. In truth, Justin read the man’s bleeding lips rather than heard his words.

“Why? Why the Alliance?”

The man’s eyes grew dimmer, and he jerked his head to the left. Justin gently lifted the man’s head with his cupped hands.

“Don’t die. Don’t you die. Why did you try to kill us?”

“You… you can’t…”

The man’s breathing became shallow.

“We can’t what? Go on.”

“You can’t save…”

“Who? Who can’t we save? Who?”

“No one… no one can save the… akh,” the man hacked out his reply along with his last breath.

“What!?” Justin cried. “What was that?”

“What did he say?” Carrie asked.

Justin looked at the man’s lifeless eyes. He checked the man’s pulse at the left side of his neck.

“He’s dead. And we learned nothing.”

“What was he mumbling?”

“The Alliance sent them to stop us from saving somebody.”

“Who?”

Justin shook his head and wiped his hands. “He didn’t say. He just faded away.”

“What the hell? What the bloody hell?” Abdul bellowed as he and Nour reached the top of the ramp. “You stupid coward,” he yelled at the dead man. Nour stood to the side, punching a few numbers on his BlackBerry.

“Calm down.” Justin stopped Abdul from getting closer to the dead man. “We’re all fine. Nobody’s hurt.”

“Nobody’s hurt? Nobody’s hurt?” Abdul paced around Justin. “Shit, I’m hurt. My car’s wrecked. This mission is ruined. Dead people and burned cars are everywhere. It’s like another bomb ripped through the highway. The colonel will have my balls on a platter.”

Justin put a reassuring hand on Abdul’s shoulders. “Abdul, it’s OK. These people ambushed us. We had to defend ourselves. It’s easy to explain.”

“No, no, no, nothing is easy to explain. Not to the colonel. Nothing is easy with the colonel.”

“Listen, this is your Nissan and you were supposed to be in there.” Justin stared deep into Abdul’s frantic eyes. “This attack was against you. These men, they wanted you dead.”

Abdul blinked rapidly at the revelation of Justin’s words. He was silent for a few seconds. Then, he found his tongue. “Bloody cowards,” he hollered, this time even louder, “I will show them.” He pushed Justin aside and marched toward the dead body.

“No.” Justin clenched Abdul’s right arm. “He’s dead. Gone. We need to figure out why these two targeted you.”

“Before the police show up, we need an explanation why we were driving your car instead of you,” Carrie said.

Abdul drew in a deep breath. He had stopped struggling to free his arm from Justin’s firm grip.

“I’m calm now,” Abdul said.

“OK.” Justin released him.

Abdul began to walk toward the overpass. At some point, he turned around, stomped the ground with his foot and punched the air with his left fist.

“He said he was calm,” Carrie whispered to Justin.

“Wait till you see him angry,” he replied.

“I got it,” Abdul shouted.

“What is it?” Justin asked.

“You needed to make a few private calls and we didn’t want to waste time, so you took my car, that’s it, yes, that’s it.” Abdul moved his arms around like a wind mill in a strong storm. Then, he stopped and dropped his arms to his sides. His face sank. “This is the least of my worries. The colonel will hang me.”

“Don’t worry.” Justin stepped closer to him. “You’re not alone in this.” He gave Abdul a comforting wink.

Nour was still on his cellphone, with his back to them, oblivious to their gestures, but not their words.

Abdul feigned a smile, just as Nour hung up and turned around. “Well, I’ve informed the embassy. A liaison team is on their way. We’ll use every diplomatic means to keep this incident tight.”

Abdul nodded, but a mask of despair was slowly covering his face. Police sirens could be heard in the distance. They were getting louder by the second.

Chapter Eighteen

One hundred miles off the coast of Nice, France

May 15, 10:50 a.m. local time

Prince Husayn bin Al-Farhan glanced at the cellphone on the office desk. The phone call he was expecting was late, and he hated delays. The Frenchman was supposed to arrive at his yacht in fifteen minutes, and while waiting for his arrival, the Prince was wagging a battle of wits against his eight-year-old son Sameer.

“Checkmate!” With his small hand, the boy moved the solid gold white bishop next to his father’s emerald black king.

The Prince had seen Sameer’s strategy when the boy first advanced his troops to the center of the board, cutting off any movement of the black king. The boy’s skills were improving, but he still needed work on timing. Waiting for the right moment to strike was crucial in chess, as in real life, a lesson the Prince wasted no time drilling into his son’s mind on a daily basis. Today, though, he decided to give his son a well-deserved break.

“You win.” The Prince toppled his cornered king on the platinum chessboard.

“Yes!” Sameer threw a victory punch in the air. “My best score ever.”

“You fought well. Now, come here.”

Sameer jumped into his father’s chest and the Prince wrapped his arms tightly around his son’s shoulders and leaned back against the soft leather couch. As he played with Sameer’s dark, curly hair, he remembered the boy’s mother, Aamina, his first wife, and his firstborn son Hakim. The last time he saw them was five years ago, when they boarded one of his private jets in Riyadh to visit relatives in Yemen. Notice of the plane crash over northern Yemen came amidst accusations between rebel and government forces fighting in the area, blaming each other for the incident. However, reliable sources on the ground confirmed the plane had been shot down by a unit of the US Special Operation Forces in the area, which mistook the Prince’s plane for a weapons delivery to the rebels. The US neither confirmed, nor denied such reports, and delivered no official apology to the Prince or the royal family.

Nevertheless, the House of Saud did not allow for such a trivial matter to affect their strong friendship, commercial ties, and oil joint ventures with the US. The King and senior princes had never accepted Aamina in the royal family, since she was the daughter of a small businessman, without any blue blood in her veins. They had shunned Prince Al-Farhan and had stifled his initial calls for an inquiry into the plane crash and then his repeated demands for revenge. After the US had promised such an incident would not happen again, the House of Saud had decided to close the case.

The House of Saud may have let the matter drop, but Prince Al-Farhan could not let it go. Soon after, eight members of Team Bravo 2, rumored to have carried out the attack against Prince Al-Farhan’s family, fell into a trap during a routine reconnaissance operation in northern Yemen. Houthis, Shia rebel fighters battling the Yemeni government in the area, ambushed the Special Operations team a few miles away from the site of the plane crash. His thirst for revenge quenched, Prince Al-Farhan replayed the snuff video of the ambush in slow motion in the privacy of his Riyadh suburb mansion. The best ten million dollars he had ever spent sparked an insightful realization. These “freedom fighters” could give him something even his own family was unwilling or unable to hand over: power. True power. Without the shadow of an authoritative king looming over head. The Prince had completed his initiation into jihadist warfare.

Prince Al-Farhan began supporting ragtag militias and rogue armies fighting in the name of jihad across the Middle East and North Africa. He kept his mansion in the capital of the Kingdom but began travelling extensively throughout these troubled lands, meeting with rebel leaders and radical clerics. He embraced most of the ideology of these men, sharing in the common goal of establishing a true Islamic law state without borders.

A few years back, the House of Saud strongly rejected any and all claims of Prince Al-Farhan to the Saudi throne. A grandson of the King, Prince Al-Farhan was not seen as a favorite for the position of absolute authority in the Kingdom. He was considerably outranked by other princes, siblings and sons of the King higher up in the line of succession. Only sudden death or incapacitation of both the King and the appointed Crown Prince would advance Prince Al-Farhan’s ambition. But the bitter feud following in case of such a grim scenario would result in a fierce clash between rival branches within the royal family, whose outcome was very uncertain.