The Devil's Light by Richard North Patterson Read Free Book Online Page A

tell us a bomb has gone missing.”
    Again, Brooke faced the target, clearing his mind. No mercy, he decided; anything less would show disrespect for a man he cared for deeply. He aimed and fired with the same deliberation Carter Grey had shown.
    Again, the bullet pinged off metal. Taking the rifle, Grey peered through its scope at the target. “Where’s the hole?”
    â€œThere is none. I put it right through yours.” Brooke handed Grey the gun. “Call it a draw, Carter. We’ve got a nightmare to watch on CNN.”
    Grey placed a hand on Brooke’s shoulder. They walked toward the house in companionable silence.
    Suddenly a brief vivid memory flickered through Brooke’s mind: the first time he had fired a rifle, years before. The place was a rifle range in Connecticut; his instructor had not been a CIA trainer but the one woman, Brooke realized, whom he had ever truly loved. She had beaten him; smiling, she acknowledged that the Israeli military had taught her well, and that their contest was unfair. But that had been a different time, and Brooke Chandler a different man.

SEVEN
    T he convoy appeared as dark shapes in the night, their headlights doused—four trucks, led and followed by land cruisers with machine guns mounted on their hoods. Kneeling with Sharif on the grassy hillside above the road, Amer Al Zaroor murmured, “This is not the one.”
    Through his radio, Sharif said a few words in Pashto.
    Below them the vehicles sped past, their drivers oblivious to the men hidden on both sides. Al Zaroor noted with satisfaction that the front and rear of the convoy fit within the stretch of asphalt bounded by the two lines of plastic explosives. Glancing at his watch, he said, “Perhaps twenty minutes. Our target will look much the same.”
    He knew this from General Ayub. A larger formation, Ayub had explained, would draw too much attention, and their resources were spread too thin. The target convoy would be identical. The land cruisers that led and trailed would be manned by three Pakistani soldiers, a driver, and two machine gunners. The first two trucks were empty, serving as decoys and spares; the last carried twenty rangers from an elite fighting unit founded by the CIA. The third truck concealed the bomb, guarded by ten more rangers. In all, thirty-six skilled soldiers in a convoy moving at maximum speed.
    Al Zaroor’s mouth felt dry. The attackers’ timing must be exact, their discipline flawless. Only on paper were such plans perfect.
    Sharif’s profile betrayed nothing. Perhaps when young Al Zaroor had been this calm; now he only hoped to appear so. Leadership began with self-discipline.
    Sharif cocked his head. “Listen.”
    Al Zaroor heard the faint snarl of motors, the whisper of rubber on asphalt. At a bend in the road, moonlight caught the shadow of a land cruiser, then a truck behind it. Reflexively Al Zaroor checked his watch: 11:56.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    In a clipped tone, Sharif transmitted instructions. His fighters were invisible in the night; Al Zaroor could not tell if they had heard. A prayer formed in his mind.
    The entire convoy appeared now, moving at sixty miles an hour. The vehicles were spaced too far apart, Al Zaroor realized with alarm. Taut, he counted the seconds until the lead land cruiser crossed the first line of plastic explosives. He willed the trailing cruiser to cross this line before the leader reached the last one.
    The first cruiser sped on. Thirty yards, then twenty—
    â€œ
Now
,” Al Zaroor urged.
    As the trailing vehicle neared the first line of plastique, Sharif spoke a single word. Somewhere below, a fighter pressed a detonator.
    A loud explosion lifted the lead cruiser upward, toppling it onto its side as soldiers fell to the asphalt. A split second later the next detonation caught the front wheels of the last cruiser, swallowing it whole. With a metallic crunch, the first truck drove