Read Online Into the Crossfire by Lisa Marie Rice - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Marie Rice
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light-skinned freak.
They had taken him in, given him a family and a purpose. He was like an
arrow, aimed straight at the heart of the corrupt and licentious West. Hamas had
brought in tutors, instructing him not only in the language of the West, English,
but in its ways.
At times, he had sensed that they were afraid that he would succumb to its
lures, but there was no risk of that. None. There was no honor and no solidarity to
be found among the infidels. Muhammed's heart and soul belonged forever to
Hamas and to his people, to the day of his death.
They'd fought, his handlers and him. He wanted to become a warrior,
shaheed, a martyr. It was the purest life he could imagine, exacting vengeance
against the countries who were trying to crush Islam. Giving his life up seemed
like the noblest purpose he could imagine.
But it was felt that the gift of his coloring, his looks, was too precious to
waste. So Muhammed watched with sullen jealousy as other young men in the
secret training camps were dispatched to meet a noble warrior's death while he
spent his days and nights with tutor after tutor, instilling in him the ability to
infiltrate the enemy with ease, the better to destroy him.
English, French, literature, music, math, science. And the terrible pop
culture of the West, filled with shameless movies and music, whoreish women and
soulless men. His head was filled with the useless knowledge necessary to pass as
one of them. It turned out that he even had an aptitude for studies, which in his
secret heart filled him with as much shame as his appearance. His young heart had
ached to be just like his brethren, to move and live with them as one. But he'd been
told over and over again that Allah had singled him out for a special mission.
That which had singled him out as a homeless boy in the camps, made
everyone look at him with loathing and suspicion, was to be used in the name of
Allah to slay their enemies.
So Muhammed studied hard, becoming well versed in the ways of the
West. An identity was created: Paul Preston.
One entire edge of the Strip borders the Mediterranean. It was easy enough
to smuggle him out and get him into Italy, where he emerged in Rome with a new
US passport and a business-class ticket to California.
He was sent to Stanford to study economics, where he ex-celled. It was his
40
way of combating the enemy, by studying its face, understanding its corrupt black
soul.
He became Paul Preston, born of an American father and an English
mother. He graduated summa cum laude in economics, with a network of future
movers and shakers to use.
He was set up in Manhattan with a million dollars and orders to join a
brokerage firm. Hamas's backers had plenty of money, and had been willing to
write the sum off.
But it turned out that Muhammed was clever in the ways of the Great Satan.
The million soon grew to five, then ten. He developed a solid reputation as a very
good, very careful steward of money.
They bought him an apartment on the Upper East Side that was perfect for
someone of his socioeconomic status. Muhammed--now Paul--had a season ticket
to the Met, wintered at Vail and summered at Martha's Vineyard.
And all this time, his brethren's plans were developing, all the pieces being
put in place. Equipment bought or stolen, martyrs recruited. Radioactive material
slowly acquired.
Finally, finally, the time had come. Muhammed had begun despairing of
ever being of use to the Cause, when suddenly a message arrived. An encrypted
DVD in his mailbox, with instructions on how to destroy it once he had absorbed
its message.
How his heart had pounded, how proud he had been of his brothers, of the
plan a hooded brother had laid out on the disk. It was sheer genius.
Forty men, walking dirty bombs.
All those years of study and work would finally pay off. The Brotherhood
needed Muhammed's help in knowing where to aim these human daggers. They
needed names and places. Names
They had taken him in, given him a family and a purpose. He was like an
arrow, aimed straight at the heart of the corrupt and licentious West. Hamas had
brought in tutors, instructing him not only in the language of the West, English,
but in its ways.
At times, he had sensed that they were afraid that he would succumb to its
lures, but there was no risk of that. None. There was no honor and no solidarity to
be found among the infidels. Muhammed's heart and soul belonged forever to
Hamas and to his people, to the day of his death.
They'd fought, his handlers and him. He wanted to become a warrior,
shaheed, a martyr. It was the purest life he could imagine, exacting vengeance
against the countries who were trying to crush Islam. Giving his life up seemed
like the noblest purpose he could imagine.
But it was felt that the gift of his coloring, his looks, was too precious to
waste. So Muhammed watched with sullen jealousy as other young men in the
secret training camps were dispatched to meet a noble warrior's death while he
spent his days and nights with tutor after tutor, instilling in him the ability to
infiltrate the enemy with ease, the better to destroy him.
English, French, literature, music, math, science. And the terrible pop
culture of the West, filled with shameless movies and music, whoreish women and
soulless men. His head was filled with the useless knowledge necessary to pass as
one of them. It turned out that he even had an aptitude for studies, which in his
secret heart filled him with as much shame as his appearance. His young heart had
ached to be just like his brethren, to move and live with them as one. But he'd been
told over and over again that Allah had singled him out for a special mission.
That which had singled him out as a homeless boy in the camps, made
everyone look at him with loathing and suspicion, was to be used in the name of
Allah to slay their enemies.
So Muhammed studied hard, becoming well versed in the ways of the
West. An identity was created: Paul Preston.
One entire edge of the Strip borders the Mediterranean. It was easy enough
to smuggle him out and get him into Italy, where he emerged in Rome with a new
US passport and a business-class ticket to California.
He was sent to Stanford to study economics, where he ex-celled. It was his
40
way of combating the enemy, by studying its face, understanding its corrupt black
soul.
He became Paul Preston, born of an American father and an English
mother. He graduated summa cum laude in economics, with a network of future
movers and shakers to use.
He was set up in Manhattan with a million dollars and orders to join a
brokerage firm. Hamas's backers had plenty of money, and had been willing to
write the sum off.
But it turned out that Muhammed was clever in the ways of the Great Satan.
The million soon grew to five, then ten. He developed a solid reputation as a very
good, very careful steward of money.
They bought him an apartment on the Upper East Side that was perfect for
someone of his socioeconomic status. Muhammed--now Paul--had a season ticket
to the Met, wintered at Vail and summered at Martha's Vineyard.
And all this time, his brethren's plans were developing, all the pieces being
put in place. Equipment bought or stolen, martyrs recruited. Radioactive material
slowly acquired.
Finally, finally, the time had come. Muhammed had begun despairing of
ever being of use to the Cause, when suddenly a message arrived. An encrypted
DVD in his mailbox, with instructions on how to destroy it once he had absorbed
its message.
How his heart had pounded, how proud he had been of his brothers, of the
plan a hooded brother had laid out on the disk. It was sheer genius.
Forty men, walking dirty bombs.
All those years of study and work would finally pay off. The Brotherhood
needed Muhammed's help in knowing where to aim these human daggers. They
needed names and places. Names
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