Ankle holsters, held in place by compression straps, were worn on both legs.
Extra ammo was stored in utility belts, concealed by their robes.
Wireless transmitting devices were discreetly tucked in their ears.
All other equipment was varied, depending on preference. Payne was partial to blades. He wore one on each forearm, tucked in black leather sheaths. Meanwhile, Jones carried a small set of tools, just in case he had to deactivate a bomb or pick a lock.
Walking briskly but never running, the men moved in pairs, weaving through the crowds of tourists that filled the sidewalks and ancient streets. The pilgrims would be entering the city from the east on the aptly named Pedestrian Road, trickling in at first before finally arriving en masse, a sea of white surging through the desert like a flood, monitored by thousands of guards and dozens of helicopters. Payne knew Schmidt would be somewhere else, probably concealed close to the mosque, patiently waiting for his prey to come to him.
Unless, of course, he had already planted an explosive device, one with a timer or a remote detonator, and was currently far from Mecca. If that was the case, then they were screwed because they didn’t have the time, manpower, or authority to conduct a search. Their only hope was spotting Schmidt and taking him out before he started his assault.
Jones said, “Omar’s place should be up ahead.”
Payne nodded as he scanned his surroundings, searching for trouble. People. Windows. Rooftops. Hoping to spot something that seemed out of place. The city itself was not as he expected. He had traveled extensively in the Middle East and usually felt as if he had stepped through a time portal, leaping back to another era. Ancient buildings. Ancient streets. Ancient everything. But here, there seemed to be an equal mix of new and old.
Ancient traditions, yet contemporary comfort.
Ironically, the closer they got to the mosque, located in the center of the old city, the more modern the infrastructure appeared. Building projects were popping up all over, areas fenced off for demolition and new construction. Dump trucks and bulldozers, cranes and scaffolding, rocks and sand. This closed city was definitely open for business— especially to American corporations. In one block, there were signs for Hilton Towers, Sheraton Hotel, and McDonald’s.
“Where would you like us?” asked the Arab soldier in l he middle pair, which was labeled team two. Payne and Jones were team one. The final duo was team three. The two Arab Americans, who could speak Arabic, were split up in case their language skills were needed.
Payne heard the question in his earpiece. “Team two, stay on the street. Team three, continue forward to the mosque plaza. But stay close.”
Jones nodded toward Omar Abdul-Khaliq’s property. It looked virtually unchanged from the satellite photo they had studied in the truck, a picture taken two weeks ago. Piles of stone and dirt filled one corner of the lot. Construction materials, protected by a chain-link fence, were stacked in the back near a small shed made of plywood. Payne stepped off the sidewalk and studied the terrain. Tread marks could be seen in the arid ground. They were recent.
“What do you think?” Payne asked.
“I think you were right. They’re not building anything.”
“Then what’s with the rocks?” They were fractured and covered in dirt, like they had just been pulled from the ground. “They had to come from somewhere.”
Jones agreed. Property this close to the mosque wouldn’t be used as a dumping ground. It was too valuable as commercial space. However, as far as he could see, there was no excavation on the lot. Curious, he walked toward the chain link and spotted dozens of footsteps heading into and out of the shack. “I might have something.”
Payne scanned the street for witnesses. No one was paying attention. “You’re clear.”
Jones pulled a gun from his ankle holster and slipped through the unlocked gate, cautiously approaching the shed, which looked more like a long outhouse than a construction office. Yet for some reason, thick power cables ran through the right wall, the type of cords that were used for large industrial projects, not small shacks. The door was made of plywood and rested on iron hinges. Nudging it open with his free hand, Jones peeked inside.
As he stared at the interior, his eyes widened, stunned by what he saw.
“What is it?” Payne demanded.
“It’s a tunnel. A big-ass tunnel. We’re going to need more men.”
Payne hustled across the lot, not pulling his gun until he reached the door. He glanced inside before he spoke. “We have a possible location. All eyes required. Team two, follow us in. Team three, guard the yard. Prepare to join us on my command.”