Payne screeched to a halt, more concerned with his friend than the suspect, who suddenly stopped shooting and ran into the crowd. Blood oozed from Jones's left biceps but didn't squirt, a good sign with any injury. Jones would have a scar but would survive. No worries there.
"Get out of here," he grunted. "I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." He blinked a few times, dazed from the fall. "But I keep seeing flashing lights."
Payne laughed. "Those are fireworks."
"Oh … then I'm fine."
A shrieking gate stopped their conversation. Payne raised his gun before he could decipher the threat. But it was a false alarm. It was Kia.
"Oh my God! Is he okay?"
But Payne ignored her question. "Where are they?"
"To the right. They ran to the right."
"Stay with him," he ordered as he ran past. He leaped the gate, swinging his legs sideways without breaking stride, and sprinted into the surging crowd. The Parks had a head start, but they were no match for Payne's speed. He dodged people when he could, knocked them over when he couldn't, and didn't slow down until he spotted them hustling toward the outdoor theater.
Fireworks continued to burst and boat whistles continued to sound, all of it masking the drama that was developing in the tiny town. All of that changed when the father used his gun again, this time firing a shot into the nighttime sky. People turned and stared, unsure if it was a firecracker or something more dangerous. What they saw caused them to panic. A muscular white man was running down the road, knocking everyone out of his way while waving a large firearm. It didn't matter that he was innocent. That the shot had come from someone else's gun. All they knew was that he needed to be stopped.
Things got much worse when Mr. Park started shouting in Korean. He screamed, He's trying to kill my boy. He wants to kill my son.
That was like fuel on a fire. In a flash, it was Payne versus an entire village.
Moments before, a team of six men had been on center stage, displaying their martial arts skills in a performance they called Tiger-Strike. All of them were dressed in black and wore permanent scowls. Three of them carried swords. The others held nunchucks. They ran toward him en masse, hoping to overwhelm Payne with their sheer numbers. Assuming their Tiger-Strike teamwork would cause him to cower.
But they were wrong.
Payne started with an elbow, throwing it with such power and precision that he shattered the nose and cheekbone of the first ninja before he could even raise his blade. The sword bounced to the ground with a loud clank that echoed through the crowd, soon followed by a louder gasp. Payne's momentum propelled him forward, helping him throw his leg skyward in a roundhouse kick that caught his next victim under the chin. His head snapped back with the force of a car crash, tumbling into the third attacker, who knocked over several chairs, then scampered away.
The fourth man was far wiser, charging into battle behind the point of his sword. He swung it back and forth, flipping his wrists in fluid circles, a dazzling display of precision and grace. The type of showmanship that could win awards. Yet not very effective in a street fight. Payne pointed his gun and pulled the trigger, blowing the man's kneecap through the back of his leg. A second later, his screams filled the night as he fell to the ground in a puddle of his own blood.
The remaining duo wasted no time, swooping in from behind before Payne could turn around. One landed a solid strike with his nunchuck, hitting him in his rib cage. Thankfully, his jacket and body armor softened the blow. So much so that Payne was able to grab his attacker's weapon and pull him closer. An instant later, Payne thrust his knee upward, hitting him in his groin. Balls ruptured from the force. As the man bent over in agony, Payne grabbed the back of his head and slammed his knee into the guy's face, knocking him unconscious. But Payne didn't let him fall to the ground. Instead, he pushed him toward his friend who mistakenly tried to catch him. Before the guy could react, Payne launched himself forward, striking him in the mouth with the butt of his gun. Teeth cracked and nerves frayed as Payne spun and waited for a counterassault.
But none was to follow.
Payne stood tall in the middle of six men, all in various states of pain, unwilling to test him further. The same could be said of the crowd, which had scattered in every direction.
He stood there alone, staring at the father and son.
The father stared back, gun still in hand.
Willing to die for his boy.
29
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
(41 miles west of Mecca)
Hakeem Salaam had been a terrorist since he was a young child growing up in Medina. He had learned the craft from his father, a man who stood up for his beliefs even when they weren't popular in his native Saudi Arabia. Sometimes using violence, sometimes using words. Doing whatever he felt was necessary to make sure his message was heard.
At the age when most boys were taught how to play sports, Salaam learned how to assemble weapons and make explosives out of household chemicals. How to plan a sneak assault in an urban environment. And how to escape afterward. To him, there was nothing strange about it. This was the only life he knew, and his father was his role model. If anything, he felt pity for the other Arab children, who wasted their lives listening to music and playing silly games, instead of making a difference in the world.
Didn't they know that they were being corrupted?
The country he blamed the most was the United States, a seed his father had planted in him from the very beginning but one that grew more obvious with each passing year. Everything about their culture was immoral. Their drinking. Their depravity. Their lack of religious structure. The way they glamorized sex and drugs in their movies and books. Half-naked women walking around in public. And teenage girls doing the same.
And what did their government do about it? Nothing.
They were too busy fighting wars in places they didn't belong.
Ten years ago, Salaam founded the Soldiers of Allah, an organization destined to become one of the most feared terrorist groups in the world. He started small, recruiting a few trusted lieutenants who preached his word while protecting his identity, always maintaining the veil of secrecy that surrounded him.
Unlike some terrorists, he didn't crave personal attention. He craved results.
When he first started out, he had a specific agenda: to protect the religion of Islam. He figured the best way to accomplish that goal was to punish its corruptors, to make them pay for the erosion of his people and their morals. Just like Muhammad had done when he purified the Kaaba by removing all the false idols that were worshiped there.
Salaam's group focused on the United States, labeling them as their biggest threat. Targeting them and their allies every chance he got. He supplied weapons. He blew up embassies. He attacked buses and subways. He did everything he could to hurt his enemy, all in hopes of uniting his people under a common cause. Hoping his passion would be contagious.
Yet his actions were for naught. Islam remained a house divided.
Ultimately, he realized he needed to alter his approach. He had to figure out a way to bridge the gaps that separated his people, gaps that were significant. There were more than 1.2 billion Muslims scattered around the world, making it the second-largest religion behind Christianity. Yet Islam wasn't isolated in the Middle East. In fact, there were more Asian Muslims than Arab ones-more than 150 million in Indonesia alone. Not to mention a large number of Muslims in the United States, nearly twice as many as Jews there.