J Saint - Collateral Damage

Andreas tapped his baton on the computer screen as if calling an orchestra to attention. "Ever since I hit America's oil market, the radicals have been cheering, patting each other on the backs for a job well done. Pero, tonight they will sing a different tune," he told George, who was probably tired of hearing Andreas's weeklong rant. But the arrogance of the towel heads was as bad as that of the gluttonous gringos. They didn't have a clue who had attacked America's oil reserves and didn't have the balls to admit it. Instead, the Jihadist had been riding high on his dime for a week now. "How dare they claim victory for my genius, George. Mierda, can you believe it?"

George shook his head.

"They will learn their lesson tonight, si? By dawn they'll be lamenting in the streets and crying to Allah for Western blood as they face Mecca."

George nodded.

Andreas glanced back at the screen, anticipating the thrill of bringing the world to its economic knees. There was no limit to the havoc he could wreak. He had the money to accomplish the impossible and with the hard-hitting power of his highly specialized Black ops teams-one good thing Bill Collins managed to do-he now had the resources. The clock was already ticking. Shortly, the heart of both Saudi's Qatif and Qatar's Dukhan oil production would suffer a major coronary thanks to the US military issue C-4 he'd stolen from Israel. Once detonated, the strategically placed explosives would kill the production of over a million BPD's (barrels per day) of crude oil. That, combined with the destruction the al-Qaeda signature bombs he'd used to wipe out the Alaskan pipeline, US distribution hubs and SXL's tank facilities last week, would topple the current power structure ruling the world. By the time he finished his plan and nailed the rest of the targets on his agenda, the ensuing political tit for tat battle between Western ideology and radical Muslim fanaticism would set the stage for Andreas's ultimate goal, worldwide social and environmental justice-a masterpiece of political manipulation and world domination that would propel him to the ranks of Alexander the Great. He would be the one man to accomplish what all other revolutionaries had failed to do.

Madre de Dios, but he was a genius. Each blow he'd made had rocked the world beginning with the perfectly orchestrated assassination of Imam Aziz by two of his skilled operatives and a scoped-to-the max L115A3 sniper rifle. The evidence pointing hard fingers at the Allied West had been irrefutable. It was true the kidnapping of Prime Minister Nehemia Shalev's and Ambassador Owen James's daughters hadn't gone as planned, but the results had played well into his hand despite Bill Collins's idiocy. Bill never should have been on site. They both knew the US had the balls to act if information leaked, so it was his own fault that Delta had nailed him. Covering up Collins's tracks had been a major nightmare, but Andreas had worked it out. He smiled and winked at his son. "Pero, St. Jude is still looking out for Andreas, eh, George?"

George smiled, a gaping, open mouth grin that warmed Andreas's heart. His son would never personally know the pain and the horror of the streets, but he made sure George prayed to St. Jude daily. Beginning the day Andreas had been abandoned at eight, his every prayer had been answered by St. Jude. From a knife to kill the raping bastardo on top of him just before his tenth birthday to everything he needed now to be the one on top of everyone. By the time he finished, he would have accomplished in two months' time what political activists and progressives had been trying to achieve for decades, if not centuries-every man and every nation around the world would be on equal footing.

Only once global social justice was in place would the environment have a prayer of surviving mankind. In an odd way, George had started it all for Andreas-new identity, new life and new purpose. It was through his love for George that he'd become an environmentalist, a passion that had led to his meeting the inventor, Enrique Santos and learned about the man's algae-based biofuel, GXP. Andreas had become fascinated enough to finance the scientist's experiments, coming to believe that Santos's focus on triglycerides and several unique and secret additives from the Amazon rainforest would revolutionize energy. Little did he know at the beginning that he would use it to gain power and revolutionize the world itself.

"Descanso de su alma a Dio. God rest his soul. You remember Santos, George?"

George let out a cry, the name still upsetting him even though years had passed. Santos had been a fellow genius, but had made a fatal mistake. He'd struck Andreas with his cane during an argument about the biofuel's development and George hadn't liked that. There'd only been pieces of Santos left. Andreas still relished George's primal show of savage protection as he tore the man limb from limb.

Mierda, but he wanted to be with the operatives tonight. He wanted to experience his genius first hand. Breathing in the sharp desert air. Running across the shifting sands. Slicing into flesh. He wanted to taste the grit, smell the acrid tang of blood, and feel the pumping power of adrenaline flooding his veins. But that would have chanced exposure and he couldn't afford that. Not now. Not when he was so close to gaining everything. Maybe it was that thrill that had drawn Bill Collins to the terrorist's stronghold. Pero, it didn't matter. All gringos were stupid anyway.

By dawn the eastern Arabian Peninsula would look like Armageddon had ensued. From Mesaieed's industrial complexes to Ras Tanura's refineries, the fires would rage and so would the hearts of all of radical Islamists. Perhaps even all of Islam would stand up and roar against this outrage.

Andreas would win this game because he knew winning took more than money and might. It took a ruthless disregard for anything that stood in the way. Except for harming George and his kind, no amount of collateral damage was too high. Many drug lords and most terrorists operated on this axiom. Most of the civilized world and especially the United States's brown-nosing politicians were clueless to this fact. Why else would they keep castrating its military?

Andreas had no restraints though. The world was now in the hands of a master and his symphonic melody would play until the last note. He was much more than a little boy lost on the streets now. He was a connoisseur of luxury, and, if you will, an audiophile and an environmentalist in their purest essence. All extraneous sounds should be eliminated from any symphonic experience and all unnecessary human life should be eradicated from the world.

Fewer people equaled less pollution. Many would die in getting him to the top of the world arena and many more would perish to make the world what it needed to be. That wasn't important though. It would be good for George and his kind and that's all that mattered.

A knock sounded at the door. George jumped up to answer it just as the operative on screen six slipped his knife to another guard's throat and Andreas missed the show as he glanced up at George's cry. Irritated, Andreas stabbed the button, killing the sounds of Requiem, his orchestrated moments of vicarious pleasure destroyed.

George didn't like Andreas's current assistant and Andreas wasn't sure he did either. It was his third Fidel in as many years, and the man was proving to be as dysfunctional as the others.

"?Que carajo es?" Whatever the fuck it was, it had better be good. George added an irritated screech as well.

Fidel gave George a nervous glance. Santos wasn't the only one George had had a problem with over the years. Andreas knew of the whispers among his staff. Murderous George is what they called his boy-a source of amusement that had Andreas contemplating buying and wearing a yellow hat and suit. George's favorite bedtime stories were about his hero, Curious George.