Sword of God(52)

Things got much worse when Mr. Park started shouting in Korean. He screamed, He’s trying to kill my boy. He wants to kill my son.

That was like fuel on a fire. In a flash, it was Payne versus an entire village.

Moments before, a team of six men had been on center stage, displaying their martial arts skills in a performance they called Tiger-Strike. All of them were dressed in black and wore permanent scowls. Three of them carried swords. The others held nunchucks. They ran toward him en masse, hoping to overwhelm Payne with their sheer numbers. Assuming their Tiger-Strike teamwork would cause him to cower.

But they were wrong.

Payne started with an elbow, throwing it with such power and precision that he shattered the nose and cheekbone of the first ninja before he could even raise his blade. The sword bounced to the ground with a loud clank that echoed through the crowd, soon followed by a louder gasp. Payne’s momentum propelled him forward, helping him throw his leg skyward in a roundhouse kick that caught his next victim under the chin. His head snapped back with the force of a car crash, tumbling into the third attacker, who knocked over several chairs, then scampered away.

The fourth man was far wiser, charging into battle behind the point of his sword. He swung it back and forth, flipping his wrists in fluid circles, a dazzling display of precision and grace. The type of showmanship that could win awards. Yet not very effective in a street fight. Payne pointed his gun and pulled the trigger, blowing the man’s kneecap through the back of his leg. A second later, his screams filled the night as he fell to the ground in a puddle of his own blood.

The remaining duo wasted no time, swooping in from behind before Payne could turn around. One landed a solid strike with his nunchuck, hitting him in his rib cage. Thankfully, his jacket and body armor softened the blow. So much so that Payne was able to grab his attacker’s weapon and pull him closer. An instant later, Payne thrust his knee upward, hitting him in his groin. Balls ruptured from the force. As the man bent over in agony, Payne grabbed the back of his head and slammed his knee into the guy’s face, knocking him unconscious. But Payne didn’t let him fall to the ground. Instead, he pushed him toward his friend who mistakenly tried to catch him. Before the guy could react, Payne launched himself forward, striking him in the mouth with the butt of his gun. Teeth cracked and nerves frayed as Payne spun and waited for a counterassault.

But none was to follow.

Payne stood tall in the middle of six men, all in various states of pain, unwilling to test him further. The same could be said of the crowd, which had scattered in every direction.

He stood there alone, staring at the father and son.

The father stared back, gun still in hand.

Willing to die for his boy.





29


Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

(41 miles west of Mecca)

Hakeem Salaam had been a terrorist since he was a young child growing up in Medina. He had learned the craft from his father, a man who stood up for his beliefs even when they weren’t popular in his native Saudi Arabia. Sometimes using violence, sometimes using words. Doing whatever he felt was necessary to make sure his message was heard.

At the age when most boys were taught how to play sports, Salaam learned how to assemble weapons and make explosives out of household chemicals. How to plan a sneak assault in an urban environment. And how to escape afterward. To him, there was nothing strange about it. This was the only life he knew, and his father was his role model. If anything, he felt pity for the other Arab children, who wasted their lives listening to music and playing silly games, instead of making a difference in the world.

Didn’t they know that they were being corrupted?

The country he blamed the most was the United States, a seed his father had planted in him from the very beginning but one that grew more obvious with each passing year. Everything about their culture was immoral. Their drinking. Their depravity. Their lack of religious structure. The way they glamorized sex and drugs in their movies and books. Half-naked women walking around in public. And teenage girls doing the same.

And what did their government do about it? Nothing.

They were too busy fighting wars in places they didn’t belong.



Ten years ago, Salaam founded the Soldiers of Allah, an organization destined to become one of the most feared terrorist groups in the world. He started small, recruiting a few trusted lieutenants who preached his word while protecting his identity, always maintaining the veil of secrecy that surrounded him.

Unlike some terrorists, he didn’t crave personal attention. He craved results.

When he first started out, he had a specific agenda: to protect the religion of Islam. He figured the best way to accomplish that goal was to punish its corruptors, to make them pay for the erosion of his people and their morals. Just like Muhammad had done when he purified the Kaaba by removing all the false idols that were worshiped there.