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“Nevertheless,” said Team Leader, turning the weapon over in his hand to check the weight. “Since you are the only one left alive in your unit, I’m going to make you an American hero.”

Team Leader examined the mouth of the barrel before removing a suppressor from his cargo pocket and screwing the device into the Glock.

“I’m sure your family will be extremely proud of you,” he said in accented English. “And I’m sure you’ll be awarded something posthumous for your efforts in taking down two known terrorists. I think Americans love that sort of thing, don’t you?”

After the suppressor was fitted, Team Leader placed the weapon by his side so the mouth of the barrel faced the floor.

“At least your children will grow up in a safe place,” he concluded. “That is something I only dreamed of.”

At that moment he raised the weapon and shot al-Bashrah and al-Hashrie with shots to the chest and throat. They dropped as fast as the bullets that felled them.

Agent Cross’s knees buckled, his balance wavering. The commando forced him back to stable footing. Once the agent stood on his own again, the commando stepped back.

“I’m almost jealous of what you are about to become,” said Team Leader. And then he drew a silencer-equipped pistol from his holster and shot Cross in the throat. After teetering for a moment in a wide-eyed drunken stance, Cross fell to his knees with his hand pressed against his neck, then fell to the floor, hard.

While blood bubbles foamed in the gaping hole in Cross’s neck and his eyes stared at nothing in particular, Team Leader, after removing the suppressor, placed the pistol in al-Bashrah’s hand. The other commando placed the Sig in the hand of al-Hashrie.

After Team Leader removed the suppressor from Cross’s weapon, he worked the agent’s hand around the Glock. With what little strength he had left, Cross lifted his head slightly to see what Team Leader was doing. His throat rattled with an awful wetness and his eyes were beginning to lose their luster. Finally, his eyes taking on a detached stare, he succumbed to his wound.

Team Leader watched and listened as Cross took his last labored breath with somewhat of a detached stare of his own, then placed the agent’s finger on the trigger and laid his hand carefully against the blood-soaked tile.

Standing, Team Leader took note of his work.

The stage had been set. Al-Bashrah and al-Hashrie had been killed in a fire-fight with Cross.

“Everything secure?” asked Team Leader.

“Cleared and sanitized. We’re ready to move.”

Team Leader nodded his approval. “All in less than fifteen minutes,” he said. “Yahweh will be most pleased.”

The time was 0259 hours.

* * *

At exactly 0700 hours Eastern Standard Time, CNN in Atlanta would receive a call from someone claiming to be a member of the Soldiers of Islam. The caller would clearly state that Pope Pius XIII was now under the authority of their regime.

It was the first step of the Final Jihad.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Annapolis, Maryland
September 23, Late Morning

Yellow DO-NOT-CROSS tape had been set around the perimeter of the governor’s estate. The Forensics Unit had already staked their claim, combing and sweeping every inch of the interior. Using high-intensity lamps, which passed varying wavelengths and colors of light over all surfaces, the team sought to identify latent friction-ridge prints, which could point out certain types of trace and biological evidence.

Other investigators used mini-vacs, typical hand-held vacuums with sterilized bags, to pick up trace evidence such as dust, dirt and cellular matter. In the governor’s bedroom, a CSI technician was carefully going over the area to acquire possible prints for the VMD, or vacuum-metal deposition device. Unfortunately, in most crime scenes, more than 97 % of all prints were indigenous, 2 % either contaminated or untraceable, and less than 1 % traceable.

When Special Agent Punch Murdock of the president’s Secret Service detail was halted at the entrance door by D.C. Metro, he flashed his credentials and was allowed to pass. He was a man of simian build and pug-like features. His nose angled badly to one side from too many years in the ring, something he never had corrected since it served as a personal badge of honor and exhibited something savage about him. His eyes also appeared wild and untamed, yet they were alert and all-seeing as Murdock absorbed every detail of the governor’s bedroom. He made his way toward a technician who was running a scanner slowly over the surface of a nightstand.

When Murdock spoke, he did so with an inflection acquired from growing up in the mean streets of the city’s toughest neighborhoods. His accent maintained a rough edge that served to intimidate and repel those he encountered rather than to magnetize them. Moving closer to the technician, Murdock leaned forward until he was level with the technician’s ear. “How’s it going, buddy?”

The forensics investigator continued to examine the surface of the nightstand with meticulous study. Beside him, the covers of the governor’s bed were in disarray. “It’s going,” he said.

“Any traces of blood?”

“Not up here.”

“Thanks.”

Murdock exited the room and worked his way through a mass of investigators, some wearing gloves and paper booties, others taking photos from numerous angles and viewpoints. In the kitchen, the body of Darlene Steele lay on the floor in a supine position, the lids of her eyes at half-mast. A medical examiner was inspecting a bloodless hole in the middle of her forehead. In the back of her head, the pared flesh formed a blooming rose petal of pulp and gore. Carefully, the medical examiner picked alien particles from the edges of the wound with tweezers and placed them in a small vial.

A second examiner stood at the Jackson Pollack wall of design making a critical examination of the blood spatter pattern, trying to determine the angle of the shot from the configuration of blood and tissue and errant hairs that had dried on the wall. To the examiner, there was nothing artistic about the killing or the star-like motif that clung to this canvas.

Murdock looked on with detachment. He had seen this many times over his twenty-five years in law enforcement and had steadily learned how to disengage his emotions from the many bloodbaths visited.

A man wearing a gray suit and maroon tie moved next to Murdock with pen and pad in hand, his face having the fresh-scrubbed look of youth, movie star good looks, and frosty blue eyes that absorbed everything with photo-like retention.

“You’re Punch, right? Punch Murdock?”

Murdock stepped away without responding. The last thing he needed right now was some kid latching onto his lapels.

The young man followed, keeping up with Murdock‘s quick pace. “My name’s Melvin Yzerman,” he said.

“Yeah, well, good for you, kid.”

“I’m from the Washington Post.”

Murdock stopped in his tracks. He knew what was coming. “How did you get in here?”

“That’s not important. What is important is a comment from you regarding your team. As chief of the president’s security detail, how do you feel about your team—”

“Okay, you’re out of here.”

“—being killed by terrorist extremists?”

“Go on, get out of here!”

“And as head of the detail, why weren’t you—”

“Are you deaf, kid? Get out of here!”

“—with your team at such a critical moment?”

“Officers!”

“Answer me that, Agent Murdock. Just give me a simple comment.”

Responding to Murdock’s call, two officers from the D.C. Metro Unit entered the room, one with an extended baton in his hand.