Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

David Barak, aka “Malik,” left his twenty-seventh floor penthouse, one block off the Las Vegas strip, to head to the airport. He was accompanied by his personal bodyguard, Jamal James, a former defensive tackle for the San Diego Chargers. At six foot eight inches and three hundred fifty pounds, Jamal was a menacing presence that Barak was proud to have in his employ. Jamal wasn’t just a big body. His eyes shined with intelligence, his movements were both graceful and quick, and he was loyal. People were impressed that a man of such obvious strength and quality was his servant. Barak was most impressed with the man’s unswerving loyalty. The President of the United States might have his Secret Service to stop bullets for him, but Barak had Jamal.

“Jamal, when we get to Oregon, I want you to have the biggest steak the chef at the ranch can find,” he said, as they took the elevator down to the waiting limousine. “You’ve been a loyal friend. Is there anything you might want to do while I’m busy for several hours?”

“No sir, dinner will be enough. I thought I’d just wait for you in the plane. Still haven’t gotten used to flying around in so much luxury,” Jamal said with a wry smile on his broad face. “The quarterbacks always got the private jets.”

In America, Barak had learned that symbolism was everything. Bodyguards, expensive cars, private planes, big homes, and clothing and watches that cost as much as two-thirds of the world earned in a year, were symbols of achievement, worth, and superiority. He had chosen to put his headquarters in America’s gaudiest city, where symbolism was everything. It reminded him every day why America was a fraud and had to be destroyed. A country that celebrated actors above teachers, banned its religions from public places and catered to man’s most basic instincts, in the most vile and public ways, could not be allowed to remain the world’s leader.

So he put on the symbols America cherished and was recognized as a business leader, a man of means. His company, ISIS, was a world leader in security services and executive protection. Because of its success, he had access to the secrets of many of the world’s largest corporations and its most famous and influential people. Soon, he would make use of that access to shock the rich and powerful. He would make them all wish they had not allowed their governments to make war on Islam.

Barak was concerned about the developments in Oregon. It was where he had chosen to make his first strike, and he couldn’t afford to fail. As he made his way to the Las Vegas Executive Air Terminal and his private Gulfstream G650, he knew he would have to do something about the attorney Kaamil had allowed to live. He could not be permitted to jeopardize their plan. He would have to find a way to throw the man off their track.

In four short days, when the Secretary of Homeland Security was assassinated, the world would learn that the jihad could reach everywhere. Then, those on a list of twelve of the most influential American leaders and celebrities would receive an invitation to convert to Islam-or face the consequences. He had the means and the ability to make sure they understood that opposing Allah meant a swift and sure punishment. He smiled, as he thought about headlines announcing the beheadings of Hollywood stars, television anchors, politicians and a few billionaires. People who thought they were above the violence their government’s bombs had brought to so many in Arab lands.

As his plane took off for the flight to his training facility outside Hood River, Barak stared down at the flat land that reminded him of his homeland, and the life, war with the Jews had taken from him. He had vowed at his father’s funeral that he would avenge his death a thousandfold. With Allah’s blessing, and the Brotherhood’s support, he was close to keeping that vow and getting his revenge.

As Drake left the Crown Plaza Building, he ran through his options. He didn’t have anything but his suspicion that ISIS was behind Janice Lewellyn’s murder. He didn’t have evidence the three gunmen sent to his farm were connected to the murder, and nothing that linked Kaamil and ISIS to either. He understood that. The FBI investigated federal crimes and domestic terrorism, and neither of those two categories appeared to be involved. The Secret Service had come to his aid only as a favor to his father-in-law, and they had no reason to help him any further.

The only thing he could think to do was to take a closer look at ISIS. To do that, he needed some help. A little help from someone who thought like he did, someone who had some of the same skills. Someone he trusted, a friend.

When he got back to his office, he found he had the place all to himself. Margo had left for the weekend with her husband. At his desk, he called his friend.

Mike Casey was a brother in arms, as loyal a friend as a man could have. They had served together in Delta, where Mike was the long gunner, or sniper. He’d saved Drake’s life more than once when an enemy unexpectedly stumbled onto their mission. Drake always felt more confident when Mike was providing him cover from a rooftop, a building, or a ridge, even a half mile away. Tall and gangly at six foot six inches, with red hair, he drew too much attention in their assigned fields of operation to be at Drake’s side. But from a distance, he was always there as his unseen partner.

Before Mike became a Delta operator, he flew helicopters for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne). Its sole purpose was to deliver and pick up Special Operations commandos. Because they often flew at night, the unit was known as the Night Stalkers. They were the aces of military helicopter pilots. Mike was a natural pilot who flew by the seat of his pants and made landings and evacuations other pilots wouldn’t attempt. He was quickly picked up by Delta Force for its own aviation platoon. When they learned he was a great sharpshooter, a tribute to his misspent youth in Montana hunting varmints, he was also accepted as one of their snipers.

After leaving the Army, Mike settled in Seattle, working for a small security firm. Five years later, he was chosen by the firm’s retiring founder to run the operation. He became the major shareholder, by virtue of stock options he’d earned and had been given with his promotion. Married, with a wife who adored him and three young children, Mike Casey remained a close friend and confidant.

“Casey residence,” Mike said when he answered. In the background, children were splashing in a backyard pool and something was sizzling on a grill.

“I take it I’m interrupting one of your deck parties,” Drake said, “want me to call back later?”

“Hell no. I don’t know how I get stuck doing all the cooking around here, on the weekends anyway. Give me a minute to find someone to burn these burgers,” Mike said. “Megan, honey, could you take over for a minute? Drake’s on the phone.”

Drake smiled, listening to the sounds of his friend’s normal life. There were times when they both thought such a life was too much to hope for. They had lived so far beyond normal they thought they would never make it back. They both had, though Mike’s normal life was lasting longer than his had.

“When you coming up to see us again?” Mike asked, after a minute or so. “The kids keep asking when they get to see Uncle Adam.”

“I was hoping I could talk you into coming down and spending a day with me. A new client’s secretary was murdered in his office and a couple of yo-yos came gunning for me on the farm. I could use a friend to help sort things out. Maybe get out of town, go hunting some varmints like we used to.”