Chris Kuzneski - Sword of God

Spotting the sniper was nothing more than a lucky break. Jones was in the construction elevator in building three, studying the layout of the complex. While he spoke to Payne, he saw a flash of movement in building one. The Hotel Tower would eventually be twice as tall as the others; however, right now it was just a partial shell, a third of its eventual height.

Jones slowed the elevator for a better look and confirmed his initial sighting. There was a man with a rifle positioned near the northeastern corner. He was gathering his things, getting ready to leave. Maybe to find a better spot. More likely to evacuate the site. Whichever the case, Jones knew this was his best chance to stop him.

Payne had mentioned a walkway between two and six, and Jones knew the same thing existed between one and three. In fact, all of the buildings were interconnected with a series of bridges and corridors. Two connected with four and six. Three connected with five and seven. And one connected with two and three.

Seven buildings, but no need to walk through the lobby to move between towers.

At least that's how it would be when the complex was done. Right now, the only ming connecting one and three was a series of long steel beams separated by the width of a car. No floor. No ceiling. No windows. Just a lot of open air and five hundred feet to fall if he took a misstep or a strong gust of wind decided to knock him off. If so, he would land in the central plaza, creating a much bigger mess than the two soldiers who were killed by the sniper.

Screw it, he thought. This guy is mine.

Jones exited the elevator and walked to the edge of the steel frame. In his mind, the key to staying calm was getting things over with before he had a chance to get nervous, so he pulled his thobe above his knees-not wanting to trip- took a deep breath, and stepped onto the narrow beam. It felt solid underneath his feet, like walking on a curb.

Step after careful step, he moved at a steady speed. Never looking down. Always focusing on a point five feet in front of him. Make it there, then move to the next. Nothing but small segments. Never large. It was the best way to avoid being overwhelmed.

The entire trip took thirty seconds. By the end, his heart was pounding and his left hand was quivering from all the adrenaline. He flexed the hand a few times, took a deep breath, then continued forward. Refusing to look back at what he had conquered.

More concerned with the perils that waited around the corner.

Payne crept along the outer wall of the mechanical penthouse. Voices could be heard within. Shouting of some kind. He couldn't make out the words-the wind was whistling, and someone was giving him an update on building seven- but it was definitely an argument.

Something to be taken advantage of.

With gun in hand, he opened the metal hatch and slipped inside. Angry words were being exchanged. Two men shouting about their responsibilities. One man said they must finish the job; the other disagreed. The detonator was broken and couldn't be fixed in the next fifteen minutes. They didn't have the tools or the extra parts.

It was music to Payne's ears.

He crouched on the stairs, listening to what was being said, hoping to get as much intel as he could. Neither of the voices belonged to Schmidt-that was too much to hope for-but this was half his squad. Two of the men responsible for the violence in the cave. The murders in the village. The plot to blow up Mecca.

He'd listen for as long as possible before he made his move.

And when he did, they'd pay for their transgressions.

48

When Jones arrived in the northeastern corner, the sniper was no longer there. He had packed his things and abandoned his position less than a minute before.

Unfortunately, that was the problem with snipers. They were slippery bastards.

Jones cursed under his breath and scanned the area for exit points. At this height, elevators were the main option. As far as he could tell, one had been built on each side of l he Hotel Tower. The front shaft was clearly visible from I he plaza, something the shooter would want to avoid. His goal would be to eliminate exposure time. Less exposure meant fewer witnesses.

The other three were all hidden from the main street, the closest being on the eastern face of the tower. It was par-lially concealed by building two and less than thirty seconds away. Jones took a chance and sprinted as fast as he could, darting through the equipment and supplies that cluttered the massive space. The squeaking of cables greeted his arrival as the platform dipped below floor level. With no time to waste, Jones squeezed through the bars of the metal tube and jumped into the open shaft, plummeting several feet before landing on top of the elevator.

Until then, the sniper had been oblivious to Jones's pursuit. More concerned with the targets below than anyone lurking above. Now, suddenly, he was face-to-face with a black superhero. At least that's what Jones looked like as he stood on the plummeting steel cage, his white robe fluttering in the breeze like he was in midflight.

The sniper screamed one word- FUCK -before Jones pulled his trigger.

The mutaween were feared throughout Saudi Arabia, where they were empowered to enforce Sharia, a system of strict religious laws based on the Qur'an.

Unlike normal police, the mutaween were given discretionary power to enter homes, interrogate suspects, and punish violators on the spot. Sometimes these punishments were as simple as a warning; at other times they were much more severe. According to Sharia law, the penalty for adultery was death by stoning. If neither of the participants was married, they got off easy: a hundred lashes in a public flogging. Thieves were typically imprisoned for a first-time offense (if the stolen item was inexpensive), but repeat offenders were punished with the amputation of hands or feet. Then again, a more vital body part was cut off if a man or a woman was seen performing a same-sex sexual act. And anyone who was caught campaigning for gay rights was beheaded in a public ceremony.

However, on such an important religious holiday, the mutaween weren't searching for grievous offenses such as these as they patrolled the streets around the Great Mosque. They were more concerned with the mundane violations that seemed to increase when Mecca was flooded with Westerners. Dress code infractions. Consumption of alcohol. Possession of un-Islamic items such as American movies or CDs.

The last thing they were expecting was the sound of gunfire.

And it came from the Abraj Al Bait complex.

Covered in blood, Payne left the mechanical penthouse carrying two bags, one over each shoulder. Gun still in hand, he walked to the northern edge of the roof and peered over the thick wall that separated him from an eight-hundred-foot fall.

This was an opportunity he couldn't pass up.

The Great Mosque stretched before him, a series of arches and columns built from gray stones found in the local hills. Several towers, trimmed in green and topped with golden spires shaped like crescent moons, rose toward the heavens, casting shadows on the pilgrims who stood in line outside the main gates, patiently waiting to get inside, where they could fulfill their hajj duties. Shifting his focus to the center of the open courtyard, Payne spotted the Kaaba, draped in black cloth, the holy cube that was honored by all Muslims. From this height, he couldn't see the Black Stone, the focus of so much attention during the past few days, but he knew it was down there, set in the eastern corner of the shrine.