Assault Force. Don Pendleton

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      5

      The woman’s sniveling about being a mother darkened his rage as her cries edged toward hysteria. Her ample stomach told him she was pregnant. Good, he decided. When they had something they were so terrified of losing—beyond their own lives, of course—then total compliance was all but assured. Her plight alone should make a perfect example to the others. Obey, or his wrath knew no limits, no outrage too great.

      As the last of cell phones, pagers, IDs and walkie-talkies were piled in the far corner, Bharjkhan walked up to the woman and jammed the muzzle of his pistol to her forehead. She choked on her shriek, eyes widening in terror and the sound dissolved into a whimper. As she began to collapse, two of his men grabbed her shoulders. Yamil forced her up, barking curses and threats in her ear, shaking her out of her trance as Khajid finished fastening the dynamite vest around her torso. Suddenly there was a vicious curse, and a hostage rose from the group of corralled captives.

      Yelling obscenities in Arabic, two of Bharjkhan’s men pummeled the would-be hero’s face and head with the butts of their assault rifles. Blood spurting as repeated blows pulped his nose, they drove the man to the floor, vicious kicks opening skin around the eyes and scalp until he didn’t move.

      “If anyone speaks or moves,” Bharjkhan told them, grabbing the pregnant woman’s hair and thrusting her face up, inches from his slitted eyes, “I will kill your colleague here and choose another to take her place.” He let go, grunting for his men to take her out in the hall.

      As he moved for the bank of security monitors, he ran a stare over the hostages. There were thirty-six captives, mostly men. All of them had their hands bound behind their backs with plastic cuffs, and had been dumped, facedown, on the floor. His black-clad men were planting blocks of C-4 primed for radio remote detonation around the room. In the event someone attempted to make contact before it all began, Bharjkhan would use the assistant head of security to lure them into joining the group.

      The man who had made this part of the operation possible was being removed from the room. Fulfilling the charade, the bit player was squawking questions, pleading cooperation all the way out the door. The act, complete with bleating to at least release the women, had the desired effect on some of the captives. He heard a muffled sob, found two faces twisted his way, hate and defiance in the eyes. Filing away their faces, he decided they were next to be executed should there be any more interruptions.

      “Do not resist and none of you will be hurt,” Bharjkhan said, stepping in front of the security monitors. “All of you, just relax,” he added, his tone as soothing and reassuring as he could fabricate.

      Checking his watch, ticking down the numbers, he began looking at each monitor. The miniature cameras, he knew, were built into statues, hidden in palmettos and other shrubbery, mounted inside the frames of paintings or mirrors. Safeguarding themselves against invasion of privacy lawsuits, the hotel architects had not fitted any of the rooms or lavatories with minicams, but that wasn’t necessarily a problem. Each floor, he observed, was covered from the south and north ends, double eyes for front and rear watching on each camera. Close-ups came with a twist of a dial on his panel, if necessary. The high-tech spying included the broad scope of the lobby, shopping mall, pool, all playground interiors, bars and restaurants. It was near one hundred percent visual precision, as far as he could tell, in both sweep and clarity. That the building’s designers, he thought, didn’t install cameras in the basement complex beyond the watcher’s lair had allowed them to get in and take down the hostages, but could be a problem—perhaps a fatal one—if commandos responded.

      However, breaching their defenses would be suicide. Unless, of course, they were willing to overlook initial devastating casualties. Again, he thought with confidence, no one, once warned, would be that daring, or foolish.

      Bhajkhan plucked the handheld radio off his belt. “Abdul! Report.” He scanned the lobby traffic, thinning out as people made their way for bars and restaurants. Spotting two men with black bags in business suits ambling to the desk, he smiled. Four other men he recognized from Team Red were lounging around the lobby, comfortable in big leather armchairs, smoking, reading newspapers or magazines. There would be others, he knew, some of them unseen until it started, but all of them ready for the big event.

      “We are sealed in,” came the answer in Arabic. “Should they pass through the motion sensors outside the service doors and stairwells—”

      “Yes, yes. I want to know about the elevators,” Bharjkhan said.

      “As I feared. Even with our software program tied into the main engineering computer that powers their electricity, with the elevators constantly moving, we still need thirty minutes, perhaps more. We discussed this, the number of cars alone…”

      There were eight banks of two cars, staggered at roughly equal intervals, east to west, north to south. Including service cars for staff, he was well aware of the numbers, understood the task. “You do not have thirty minutes,” he growled. “Do it quickly and do not call me until it is done. And I do not want to hear any more about fear. Understood?” He punched off before Abdul could respond.

      Bharjkhan felt the heat from anxiety rise, willing Abdul to hurry and complete the critical chore as he looked at his watch. The first sheen of sweat showed on his face. He glanced at the doorway when he heard the head of security cry, “No! Wait—”

      He heard a muffled chug from the far end of the corridor, followed by the thud of deadweight. Bharjkhan returned to watching the screens. Just a few more minutes and he would become the great and avenging warrior of jihad he had dreamed about since fleeing the hateful occupation of his country.