Sabotage by Dale Wiley Read Free Book Online

maximum effect, just for this head of a terrorist state, with a chair for the great leader directly across from him, the whole scene feeling like a crucial moment in a gangster movie. In a way, it was. They were religious gangsters. Muhammad’s two body guards flanked him, stared down by Britt’s guards, who outnumbered them.
    Britt needed to do it like an Old Testament usurper. If you’re going to be the king, you’ve got to kill the king. No chance of defectors or angry righteous men coming back to give information about him. This man couldn’t figure out he had been duped. Let him go to his god believing that.
    “Great work, my friend,” said Muhammad, who long dreamed of masterminding a major jihad on the United States. He scooted his chair closer to Britt.
    “When you came to me with your idea, I thought there was no way you could get it done. Too ambitious.” He thought about that for a second, caught in thought, gazing at the rings on his hands. “But you did everything you promised. I must admit, you have made an old man jealous but in the best way. You have been a great friend to me. I want to thank you.”
    “Give all the glory to Allah,” said Britt, shaking his head, putting on his best act, the one that worked for all those years. “All Allah, your holiness. There is no god but God.” This entire plan required him to know more about Islam than most mullahs. He made more trips than he ever wanted to the other side of the world. He detested most of the rank and file Muslims he met, though he detested most everyone, but there had been a few men whose presence stuck with him. This man was one. Too bad. Too bad.
    “I have a gift for you, to celebrate our great triumph,” said Britt.
    Muhammad nodded his approval.
    “More attacks are going on as we speak.”
    Britt handed him a large and expensively wrapped package. It was white linen wrapping paper with a gold bow around it. Muhammad opened the package, took care to work slowly through the wrapping, and laughed as he pulled out a gold-plated .45. He held the gun in his hands and turned it over. The weight surprised him.
    “It has been many years,” he said, laughing. The gift touched something childlike. “Am I Scaramanga?” Muhammad asked, remembering James Bond films from his youth.
    “Ah, no.” Britt said cheerfully. “No blasphemy intended. Just a rare specimen of a Palestinian gunmaker named al-Ibral. May I explain the significance?”
    Muhammad’s eyes blazed with delight. “Indeed.” He handed the weapon to his friend.
    “It’s made for one purpose, perhaps not surprising,” said Britt as he cradled the gun and lovingly stroked the barrel. He made a show of all of this, displaying both sides of the weapon, caressing it.
    Muhammad chuckled.
    “And what is that? Exchanging pleasantries?” He laughed at his own joke.
    Britt smiled. The gun felt like a gold brick in his hand. “Certain and sudden death.”
    Britt stood and pointed the gun straight at Muhammad. He pulled the trigger as he aimed right between his eyes.

 
     
     
     

     

Ten
     
     
    T he driver was good. He took liberties, cut corners, honked as if he were carrying a wounded president, and made it from Hollywood Boulevard to the north 101 in record time. He was working his hands free phone to find out what was going on. He turned on the satellite radio to CNN and got the latest.
    “Complete pandemonium … attacks across the nation …”
    No mention of LA yet; that was too new. The talking heads were bringing on talking heads to analyze the situation before anyone had the slightest clue what was really going on.
    He played this for his passengers as well.
    In the back, Joey created some distance between himself and Becky, who clearly didn’t know what to think. His worries that this had something to do with him personally subsided. But now, it was even worse. It looked like these people used him to draw a crowd. He heard tidbits from the radio about how shit