Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Therefore, he would have three men executed in the public square today. His instructions to the executioners were very clear. There would be no artistry in the simultaneous decapitations. The first sword slashes would do no more than cut deeply into shoulders and scalps, starting an orgy of butchery and torture that would be prolonged by the dull chipped blades and careful aim of the men doing the chopping. Severing the spinal cords and actually cutting off the heads probably would not happen until five full minutes of relentless butchery.

Ebara thought silently: This is how you get votes in my world. I will rule through the oldest and surest of ways: fear and intimidation. Anyone who does not support me is my enemy and will be declared an infidel-open targets for the retribution of Allah!

Chosen to be slain today were a university professor of archeology who believed that science could replace pure faith, a merchant who had become too wealthy to be humble, and a young man who led the Desert Leopards gang but had outlived his usefulness. The Leopards had not been aggressive enough in creating the needed urban riots and had lost many of their members while fighting the government forces. He would be replaced by an even more violent gang. There was no shortage of criminal gangs. All three of the men, even the young Leopard, were members of families with connections to the royal government.

When it was done, the pictures and the awful message would spread over the land and rekindle the fire of rebellion. It could still work. He would make it work! Ebara fancied himself as the great captain of a wonderful new movement that would combine religion, government, and military strength under his personal leadership. After all, it was he who had pushed the original idea of a coup into motion and come up with the necessary outside help.

Just as he had been wrestling with ways to begin a rebellion, the sly Russians, with oil and power on their minds, had appeared before him like a gift from Allah. The middleman was Dieter Nesch and it had taken many days of private conferences before the pieces came together.

Nesch had spelled it out carefully. A properly financed coup would replace the House of Saud and put Ebara and his religious police force in control. Ebara would subsequently request Russian troops and assistance to protect the oil production facilities. When Saudi Arabia was brought to heel, Ebara and his silent partners could move on to other oil-producing Gulf nations, picking them off like ripe fruit from a tree and spreading Ebara’s religious reign while Russia clamped control on the worldwide price of energy.

The temptation had been great for an ambitious minor cleric who was not even an Islamic scholar. The banker not only promised Russian funding, but said they were in contact with a specialist who could give birth to the revolution. Once a series of attacks was launched, Ebara’s men would propel the unrest throughout the country to create chaos. The man who could do this marvelous thing lived in Indonesia. His name was Juba.

The cleric sighed. Perhaps he had made a mistake there. Temptation had ensnared him again when the unexpected gift of nuclear weaponry had fallen in his grasp. With those horrible things, Ebara thought he might accelerate the timetable and reach into countries beyond just the surrounding nations. Juba, however, was proving to be uncontrollable, condescending, and rude. If Ebara could rekindle the rebellion, Juba might no longer be needed at all. There was enough money available to hire a team of devout Muslim scientists from Iran or Syria to replace him.

He turned from his reverie when there was a soft knock. His wife entered the room to tell him the driver had arrived with the car. It was time to go to the mosque to demonstrate his power. He rose with a sigh that only he could hear and ignored his two young sons, who were standing beside the door, their heads bowed in respect and trepidation, wondering if they would receive a pat on the head or a slap to the face when he passed. It was also time to deal with Juba and the banker again. But he felt good.

T HE TWO REAR DOORSof a dented Ford E-150 cargo van stood open as Kyle Swanson and Jamal finished loading it. A wooden crate weighted by sandbags rested firmly just inside the sliding side door, leaving plenty of room for Swanson on the other side. A black cloth curtained off the driver’s cockpit to block any outside view of what was in the rear. The van was meticulously checked, everything from tire pressure to fluid levels. Jamal lubricated the runners for the side door to help it open and close smoothly.

Then he opened the garage and got into the driver’s seat. Kyle jumped in back and closed the rear doors. They did a time check-fifteen minutes until noon-then drove out, heading for the main square of Jeddah. Kyle unlocked a long, narrow gun case and removed Excalibur from its cushioned resting place.

Fifty caliber. A fiberglass stock exactly molded to fit him. A telescopic sight that was almost magic and comparable to any pilot’s heads-up display panel-computerized and extremely accurate, with an internal gyrostabilizer, infrared laser, and a GPS transmitter-receiver. The scope did the math on everything from target range to barometric pressure. It was a long-distance, precision-firing miracle that he had helped develop for Sir Jeff, simply the best sniper rifle in the world. If Kyle could see a target a mile away in daylight, he could put a handcrafted bullet through it.

By necessity, this had to be a one-shot job. With Excalibur, one shot was enough.

“A NUCLEAR MISSILE ISwaiting for you.” Ebara looked with disdain at the over-bearing Juba. He longed to administer to this deformed infidel a punishment similar to that awaiting the three men in the square.

“Where?” Juba and Nesch were standing, while Ebara was seated, confidence building by the minute. He had deliberately chosen a room in the mosque that had only one chair, and he occupied it, so the others had to stand before him.

“It is at the army base of Tabuk, in the north, near the Jordanian frontier and Israel.” Ebara took a small sip of tea and picked up an envelope from a side table. “The commanding general is a faithful brother who is among the true believers to our cause. The details are written here.”

Juba rubbed his chin and passed the envelope to Dieter Nesch. He assumed that Ebara knew that the mutiny at the base in the south had been defeated. “As I expected, the coup seems to have stalled. You guaranteed a spontaneous uprising of the citizens, Ebara. Why did that not happen?”

Ebara rose from the chair and stood to face Juba. No longer would he be cowed and insulted. “I see now that I was wrong to bring you here,” he said, with a snort of derision. “You, Juba, have failed to deliver what you promised for our revolution, so I am now forced to assume the overall command of the military situation as well as the spiritual and political. Your only remaining assignment now is to go and take control of this remaining missile in Tabuk, an assignment that I have made as easy as possible for someone of your obviously limited capability. Then launch it immediately and lay nuclear destruction upon the infidels and our enemies. You get your choice of targets. Tel Aviv would be good. After that, you can flee back to where you came from and hide from the world.”

Nesch cleared his throat. “Be careful. Both of you. We can still make this happen, but we need to work together, not kill each other.”

Ebara maintained his aggressive posture. “Banker Nesch, we have not received the services from Juba for which we have paid so dearly. I suggest that you pass that exact message, from me to your paymaster in Moscow.”