Sword of God(88)

Blood gushed from his carotid artery, leaking through his pale fingers as he frantically clutched his neck. No words were spoken, no last-second good-byes. He simply dropped his gun and slumped to the ground as a puddle of red formed around him.

Payne spun and saw two Arab men, both of them armed, wearing dark uniforms that prominently displayed the emblem of Saudi Arabia. The patch had a green palm tree underscored by two crossing scimitars, a curved sword popular in the Middle East. A second insignia, beige and encircled with Arabic script, was sewn on their chest. Payne didn’t need a translator to read their badges. He knew all about these men and their barbaric ways.

They were mutaween.

“Drop your weapons!” one screamed in Arabic.

When no one moved, the other repeated the command in English. “Drop your weapons!”

“Don’t shoot,” Payne said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. In stressful situations, he knew that people had the tendency to match the volume and the venom of those around them. If he screamed, their adrenaline would flow and they would get more aggressive. But if he stayed composed, they would subconsciously relax, possibly letting their guard down.

Payne smiled. “It’s about time you got here. We weren’t sure how long you’d be.”

“Put down your weapon!”

“Relax. We’re the ones who called you. We’ve been waiting for you to show.”

The lead officer did not bite. “Drop your weapon or you will be shot like your friend.”

“My friend?” Payne repeated. “Why would we be pointing our guns at a friend? He was the person we were sent to stop.”

“Put down your weapon.”

Multiple scenarios floated through Payne’s head. He knew he could follow orders and turn himself in, which would probably result in the death penalty—maybe before they even left the complex, since the mutaween were known for their swift justice. He could start a shoot-out, an iffy proposition since his gun was at his side and his opponent, a proven marksman, was aimed and ready to fire. He could delay as much as possible, hoping the other two members of his squad heard him talking and were moving into position. Then again, that wasn’t something he could count on—especially not from a soldier who was tripping in his dress less than twenty minutes before. Hell, for all Payne knew, the mutaween had hit the complex with force and had already disarmed his men. There could be twenty of them running around, securing all exits.

Payne glanced at Jones, who stood several feet away. He stared back at him, waiting for Payne to make a move. Whatever Payne did, he would follow. No questions asked. Over the years, they had developed a special bond that was hard to explain, one that was forged in stressful situations like this, where life and death hung in the balance. They’d reached a point where they could finish each other’s sentences, a trait that was often seen in identical twins—although one look at them proved they had different parents—and guess each other’s thoughts.

That’s one of the reasons why they were able to convince Schmidt to come with them so peacefully. Payne started piling on the bullshit, and Jones immediately broke out his shovel. Throw in the fact that Schmidt had a long history with them, trusting them implicitly from all their missions together, and they were able to persuade him in record time.

Unfortunately, the current situation wasn’t quite so easy. Payne knew he wouldn’t be able to convince the mutaween of anything. They were too hard-core, as evidenced by their warning shot to Schmidt’s throat. Too protective of their sacred city. As soon as they figured out that Payne and Jones were non-Muslims, they were going to open fire. No questions asked.

Still, Payne knew if he could buy some time, if he could pile on enough bullshit to get an extra minute, he had an idea that just might work. It was going to take a grand gesture on his part and some even bigger cojones, but it was the best he could come up with on such short notice. Then again, it followed the creed he had been taught many years ago when he was training for the Special Forces, one he adhered to during his stint with the MANIACs.

A good plan violently executed now is better than a great plan later.

And if there was one thing Payne was good at, it was violence.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I am a United States soldier who was invited by your government to track the man you just killed. He came to Mecca to damage the Great Mosque and kill thousands of pilgrims in the hajj. We called for backup several minutes ago. Are you them?”

“Put down your weapon!”

“Look,” he said, as he turned his gun backward and lowered it to the ground. “I am putting my weapon down. Just answer my question. Are you my backup?”