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Authors: Lisa Marie Rice
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contact was too close. She could almost
hear the hum of power coming from him.
He started up the engine and was pulling out before she could react. He was
staring straight ahead but she felt he was aware of her every move. Soldiers
developed good situational awareness, as they called it.
"I've been wanting to do that since I first saw you moving in." The deep
voice was matter-of-fact, stating something obvious. He slanted a quick glance at
her, not grinning like a male who'd made an advance. No, he was deadly serious,
as if stating a military objective. "It was better than I imagined."
Nicole huffed out a breath from a suddenly tight chest. She had no
comeback, none at all.
New York
38
June 28
He was tall, blond and blue-eyed. Very fair, prone to freckling in the sun.
Courtesy, no doubt, of a Crusader who had raped one of his ancestors in Acre,
bequeathing the cowardly genes of the West. The cowardice had been bred out of
him by centuries of Arab warriors, but the coloring remained.
He didn't mind. It was a gift from Allah. His weapon against the infidels, to
be used to the fullest, imshallah. He'd been born for this. Born to fit in with the
unclean. Born for revenge.
Muhammed Wahed, aka Paul Preston, had the perfect cover. A Manhattan
stockbroker, one of the tens of thousands toiling in the money mills on Wall
Street. It was a genuine cover. He'd studied economics at Stanford and had made
more than $10 million in the past five years investing in futures. He was one of
few traders to profit in the recession.
Most of the money had gone to "the Cause." Freedom for Palestine. The
destruction of the Jews. And where better to make the money for that destruction
than in the belly of the beast, Manhattan?
His brethren in Hamas had worked hard on this. Twenty years training him
to blend in, and three years of planning, of procurement, evading the sensors of the
NSA and the spies who were everywhere.
Muhammed had worked a lifetime for what would happen over a few hours
in five days' time. The day before the celebration of the Fourth of July. An apt
moment to bring America down. By the Fourth of July, Manhattan would be a
wasteland and America brought to her knees.
The plan was perfect. Forty martyrs in a secret hold of a ship. Several
canisters of cesium 137, to be apportioned in equal parts to the martyrs. Forty
martyrs wearing shaheed explosive belts laced with radioactive cesium, detonating
at the same moment on July 3 throughout Manhattan.
Muhammed knew Manhattan, knew exactly where the financial nerve
points were. He'd pinpointed forty buildings, the very nerve centers of the
American and the world economy. Banks, brokerage houses, hedge funds. The
SEC. The Federal Reserve Bank of New York.
The martyrs didn't have to go up to the offices, necessarily, though
Muhammed had made appointments under false names with the CEOs and
directors and presidents for all of them. But if they couldn't make it to the heart of
the buildings, it would be enough to enter the lobbies and blow themselves up to
make the buildings uninhabitable. The tens of thousands of workers in the
buildings would have to exit from the irradiated lobbies and would never go back
to work again. Only hazmat teams would ever enter the buildings. By the next day,
all of Manhattan would be evacuated.
All the paperwork, the computers holding the economy together--gone.
Completely unusable. All the drones working in the financial mills--dying of
39
radiation poisoning.
Perfect.
Finishing the work begun on September 11 and making the entire island a
radioactive desert for thirty years, the way the West had made his homeland a
desert.
Western capitalism would be no more.
Bringing the West to its knees has been his dream since he had been
recruited into the organization at the age of ten.
They'd found him in the camps, a homeless orphan, scrounging scraps from
the destitute, dressed in rags, this blond, blue-eyed,
hear the hum of power coming from him.
He started up the engine and was pulling out before she could react. He was
staring straight ahead but she felt he was aware of her every move. Soldiers
developed good situational awareness, as they called it.
"I've been wanting to do that since I first saw you moving in." The deep
voice was matter-of-fact, stating something obvious. He slanted a quick glance at
her, not grinning like a male who'd made an advance. No, he was deadly serious,
as if stating a military objective. "It was better than I imagined."
Nicole huffed out a breath from a suddenly tight chest. She had no
comeback, none at all.
New York
38
June 28
He was tall, blond and blue-eyed. Very fair, prone to freckling in the sun.
Courtesy, no doubt, of a Crusader who had raped one of his ancestors in Acre,
bequeathing the cowardly genes of the West. The cowardice had been bred out of
him by centuries of Arab warriors, but the coloring remained.
He didn't mind. It was a gift from Allah. His weapon against the infidels, to
be used to the fullest, imshallah. He'd been born for this. Born to fit in with the
unclean. Born for revenge.
Muhammed Wahed, aka Paul Preston, had the perfect cover. A Manhattan
stockbroker, one of the tens of thousands toiling in the money mills on Wall
Street. It was a genuine cover. He'd studied economics at Stanford and had made
more than $10 million in the past five years investing in futures. He was one of
few traders to profit in the recession.
Most of the money had gone to "the Cause." Freedom for Palestine. The
destruction of the Jews. And where better to make the money for that destruction
than in the belly of the beast, Manhattan?
His brethren in Hamas had worked hard on this. Twenty years training him
to blend in, and three years of planning, of procurement, evading the sensors of the
NSA and the spies who were everywhere.
Muhammed had worked a lifetime for what would happen over a few hours
in five days' time. The day before the celebration of the Fourth of July. An apt
moment to bring America down. By the Fourth of July, Manhattan would be a
wasteland and America brought to her knees.
The plan was perfect. Forty martyrs in a secret hold of a ship. Several
canisters of cesium 137, to be apportioned in equal parts to the martyrs. Forty
martyrs wearing shaheed explosive belts laced with radioactive cesium, detonating
at the same moment on July 3 throughout Manhattan.
Muhammed knew Manhattan, knew exactly where the financial nerve
points were. He'd pinpointed forty buildings, the very nerve centers of the
American and the world economy. Banks, brokerage houses, hedge funds. The
SEC. The Federal Reserve Bank of New York.
The martyrs didn't have to go up to the offices, necessarily, though
Muhammed had made appointments under false names with the CEOs and
directors and presidents for all of them. But if they couldn't make it to the heart of
the buildings, it would be enough to enter the lobbies and blow themselves up to
make the buildings uninhabitable. The tens of thousands of workers in the
buildings would have to exit from the irradiated lobbies and would never go back
to work again. Only hazmat teams would ever enter the buildings. By the next day,
all of Manhattan would be evacuated.
All the paperwork, the computers holding the economy together--gone.
Completely unusable. All the drones working in the financial mills--dying of
39
radiation poisoning.
Perfect.
Finishing the work begun on September 11 and making the entire island a
radioactive desert for thirty years, the way the West had made his homeland a
desert.
Western capitalism would be no more.
Bringing the West to its knees has been his dream since he had been
recruited into the organization at the age of ten.
They'd found him in the camps, a homeless orphan, scrounging scraps from
the destitute, dressed in rags, this blond, blue-eyed,
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