East of the Jordan (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 2) Read online

  The people mumbled and hummed in response.

  Abu Kishaa roared, “Look to the moon.”

  Everyone’s eyes turned towards the moon. Meena lifted her camera up. Thought it was not a full moon that night, it would be in a few days, though. As they watched, a shadow seemed to slide over the moon. The shadow was a deep orange-red cloak that fell over the moon. Eventually, the shadow settled on the moon like a crimson photo filter.

  That’s it? That’s just a lunar eclipse. I’ve seen…

  Lightning crackled. Brilliant white light smashed through the obsidian night. Tendrils and fingers of light splintered off the original, arching through the sky and climbing. It looked as if the entire night sky were a pane of glass that suddenly shattered. Fractures exploded in every direction. The bright light of the lightning bolt left a white blur on Sydney’s vision. When her vision cleared, the moon hung in two pieces. Half of the moon floated in the sky, but like a marble smashed with a mallet, the other half dangled. Black space filled the void between them. Sydney gasped.

  There it was. The moon was a golf ball in the sky, sawed in half and floating. Qedex, Sydney thought. It’s just the drug. She shook her head and tried to rub her eyes, but she couldn’t rub away a hallucination. Lightning blasted again. When the light cleared, the moon was completely normal.

  But how could Abu Kishaa engineer a mass hallucination?

  Sydney gasped to Princess Ilham, “Did you see that?”

  Ilham nodded. “I did. Two hands, Chemosh’s hands, they grabbed the moon and ripped it in two. Chemosh is real.”

  Okay, we’re not all seeing the same thing. Everybody sees something different. A drug that makes you susceptible to pre-hypnotic suggestion. We’ve got to get a lid on this quick.

  A massive roar went up in the camp. The crowds of people began chanting, “Chemosh Akbar.” Chemosh is great.

  A few more days, Sydney thought.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Logan got out of Mahdi’s car. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” He said as he closed the door.

  The trunk popped open and Logan took a rifle, a bow, and a quiver of arrows out.

  He pulled the Dragunov sniper rifle up onto his shoulder then walked towards Abu Kishaa’s camp, the sound of Mahdi driving away at his back. The Dragunov was a gift for Sydney. He was likely going to rely on her sniper skills to keep him alive in the coming days. In the distance, he could see the barrel fires burning against the night sky.

  Finally, they reached the last full night of Abu Kishaa’s reign. The sun would rise tomorrow, and hopefully, it would be Abu Kishaa’s last sunrise as a free man. Tomorrow, at sunset, Haile Gibran and his Interpol agents would storm the camp.

  On his other shoulder, he carried Eric’s bow and the quiver of arrows. He didn’t know why he brought them, but Logan knew better than to leave evidence behind, so he’d gathered the arrows from Bin Mehmed’s office before he’d left him to call the police and had just hung on to everything. Logan needed to get into the camp, find Sydney, and devise a plan. Fortunately, the Brothers kept their faces covered all the time. He just needed to get a Brother’s clothes. He also needed to avoid Abu Kishaa. There was a good chance Kishaa would notice if one of the Brothers was suddenly a white guy.

  More than he cared to admit, spycraft relied on good luck. Mahdi’s car threw up enough dust to draw the attention of one of the Brothers approaching on an ATV. By his estimation, Logan was about three miles from Abu Kishaa’s camp. It was far enough that the Brothers probably couldn’t see the car’s make, just the trail of dust in the moonlight. As he walked towards the camp, Logan heard the signature whine of the two-stroke engine. The engine screamed against the desert calm. If the Brothers were trying to be indiscreet, a two-stroke engine was not the choice. They could only run right at full throttle.

  Logan climbed down to a prone position in the dirt. He assumed the textbook position. As good as Sydney was, he was almost as good with a sniper rifle. He laid his feet flat in the sand and propped himself up on his elbows. With the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, Logan yanked the charging handle. There was no need to be quiet out here. Nothing was going to be louder than the raspy noise of the ATV engine.

  He stared down the short scout scope, lined up the Brother on the ATV in his sights, and took a deep breath as he tracked the man. He let his breath out slowly and squeezed the trigger. “The bullet should never surprise you,” Titus Crow used to say. He squeezed with even pressure. Then, the gun barked and jumped back into his shoulder.

  Logan squinted against the night sky, but he didn’t need to look to know he missed. The screaming of the four-wheeler engine didn’t falter at all. By now, the Brother was passing right by him. Logan put his cheek back to the butt of the rifle and stared down the scope again. He got the Brother lined up again. He inhaled slowly, paused, and then exhaled. As he exhaled, he squeezed the trigger again. Yet again, the bullet surprised him. Yet again, the engine kept roaring.

  Okay, maybe he needed to revise his understanding of his skills. It was years since he’d gone to a shooting range.

  Eventually, the Brother came to a stop at the edge of the road where Mahdi let him out. He sat on his ATV and stared down the road. He was only a silhouette in the moonlight. Logan spun a little bit in the dirt and reset himself. He lined up the Brother’s head but then paused. Without the sound of the ATV, the sound of a gunshot would travel clear across the desert.

  He crawled to his knees. He put the Dragunov down beside him. He reached around for the quiver of arrows strapped across his back, grabbed one, and nocked it on the string. He drew the arrow back, jumped up, and started running across the desert. He couldn’t hear much after the two gunshots rang in his ears, but he assumed he was making a lot of noise. Hopefully, the sound of the engine dulled the Brother’s hearing too.

  As he got close, the Brother spun around. Logan froze. A cloud passed over the moon.

  Logan aimed the bow.

  In Farsi, the Brother said, “Is someone there?”

  Logan loosed the arrow. The bowstring twanged, and the bold sank deep into the Brother’s chest. He grunted and grabbed at the wound. Logan put another one on the string and aimed slightly higher. This arrow hit the Brother in the neck. The man gasped, but it came out as a wet, gurgling.

  He fell to the dirt. He kicked and flailed a few times as his life drained into the sand. Then, he went quiet. Logan went back to pick up the Dragunov and carried it over to the four-wheeler. He stripped the Brother’s clothes. He pulled on the linen pants and shirt. He wrapped the black head wrap around his head and face, leaving only his eyes exposed.

  He then jabbed an arrow through the chest of his shirt and then soaked the shirt in the Brother’s blood. Finally, Logan rolled the Brother’s bloody body into the ditch at the edge of the road. He just hoped no one would find him until the morning.

  Logan was now dressed like a Brother. He tossed the bloody shirt on the back of the ATV with the rifles, got onto the Brother’s ATV, and hit the gas for Abu Kishaa’s camp.

  What language was the Brother speaking? Persian? I’ll go with that. Logan’s thoughts raced as he pulled up to a fiery barrel. A Brother stood with his AK-47 at the ready.

  “What was that?” The Brother asked.

  Logan kept the throttle turned just slightly on the ATV so that the engine roared. He hoped it was noisy enough that the Brother wouldn’t notice the change in his voice. He shouted some garbled Farsi, barely louder than the engine’s whine.

  In Farsi, he said, “Logan Connor tried to betray Abu Kishaa. He’s dead. I killed him.”

  He held up the bloody shirt and poked his finger through the arrow hole.

  The Brother clapped his hands and smiled. “Excellent. Abu Kishaa should never have trusted him.”

  Logan waved to the Brother and said, “Chemosh be praised.”

  The Brother responded, “Chemosh be praised.”

  With that, Logan gave the engine some gas and rolled away. Once
he was a few yards away, he killed the engine and got off the ATV. He needed to be inconspicuous. Abu Kishaa’s followers seemed a little scared of Brothers anyway, so they would probably leave him alone.

  He walked casually through the tents, avoiding any large groups of followers. They were likely clustered around Abu Kishaa. He took a rambling, weaving route to get to where Sydney’s tent had been before he left, hoping it was still in the same place. A Brother already stood outside of Sydney’s tent.

  Logan feigned a hacking cough as he spoke, so the guy wouldn’t notice his accent. “Abu Kishaa sent me to watch her. You can go.”

  The Brother nodded. In German, he responded, “Chemosh be praised.”

  Logan responded in Farsi, “Chemosh be praised.”

  A German? What are the chances? How far has this nonsense spread?

  It could have been Dutch or Afrikaans. Those were spoken in some parts of southern Africa. I really need to download Rosetta Stone.

  Logan stood with his back to the tent and kicked at the fabric a little. He heard some rustling from inside.

  Sydney emerged. He didn’t turn around. He just heard her stick her head out.

  “What do you want?”

  In English, Logan whispered, “Fear not. I bring you good tidings of great joy and a sniper rifle.”

  Sydney whispered excitedly, “Logan? Holy hell.”

  Logan hissed, “Yep.”

  Sydney responded, “Where’s Eric?”

  “Ireland. In jail. Long story.”

  Sydney snorted. “I bet.”

  Logan backed up until he was standing against the opening of the tent. Sydney slipped the Dragunov sniper rifle off his shoulder. She rustled around in her tent for a minute before showing back up at the door.

  “What’s the plan?” She asked.

  Logan whispered back, “Interpol agent is bringing maybe fifteen.”

  “Fifteen what? Units?”

  “Fifteen officers.”

  Sydney groaned. “That’s not nearly enough.”

  Logan looked around the camp. There were maybe fifty Brothers. A good team could easily take fifty of them.

  Sydney added, “The Jordanian Army is coming here tonight.”

  Logan chuckled. Of course, they were. That’s precisely what he should have expected would happen because every time he made a move, something jumped up to bite him in the butt. Maybe Chemosh was real and did hate him.

  “Damn,” Logan said.

  “Is there anyone you can call?” Sydney asked. “I’d rather not die horribly.”

  Logan replied sarcastically, “Oh yeah, sure. Let me just call the commando team I know but haven’t mentioned until this moment.”

  Sydney punched him in the shoulder through the tent flap. “You were gone for months, and you didn’t meet anybody.”

  Logan replied, “Not true. I met a very nice fisherman in Ethiopia.”

  That wasn’t a horrible idea.

  Logan said to Sydney, “I need to make a call. I’ll be back.”

  Logan slipped away from her tent and headed to a part of the camp cloaked in shadows. The burning barrels threw shadows in uneven and flickering ways. He found where the shadows overlapped and stood there for a minute. He pulled out his phone and dialed Abiy.

  Abiy answered on the third ring. He answered in Amharic. “Hello?”

  “Abiy, it’s Niles.”

  Abiy’s voice perked up instantly. “Niles. Yes, hello. I received the money you send. You send too much. It is millions.”

  Logan responded, “It’s fine, Abiy. Don’t worry about it. Listen, I need you to do me a favor. Do you know how to contact the Jubba River Militia?”

  Abiy’s voice darkened. “Why? They are, how you say, pirate.”

  Logan said, “I know they are. I wasn’t candid with you. I’m working for the Australian government. I need the Jubba River Militia.”

  “Need them?”

  Logan replied, “Yes. Can you contact them?”

  “Yes.”

  Logan said, “Excellent. Tell them that they can have exclusive control of the black market on the Jordan River. Interpol won’t bother them. They just have to be at these coordinates by sundown tomorrow to help us defeat a rival cell.”

  “That sounds, I don’t know, illegal.”

  Logan replied, “It’s not illegal if Interpol is in on it. Just tell them. Sundown at the coordinates I’m going to send you. Bring every fighter they’ve got.”

  “If you say so.”

  Logan replied, “Thank you, Abiy. You’re the best.” He hung up.

  He walked back to Sydney’s tent. She waited by the open flap. He said, “Okay, I got you your commandos.”

  * * *

  The Jordanian army must have been traveling all night because they arrived at Abu Kishaa’s camp at about 4:00 AM. The sun wasn’t up yet. The morning didn’t show signs of the purples of dawn. The desert was still cloaked in darkness. The barrel fires were burning low. Brothers still patrolled the area, but now they were bundled up against the cold. It was truly astonishing how quickly the heat could vanish once the sun went down. By 4:00, it was frigid in the desert, and the wind coming across the sand was even colder.

  The Brothers stuck close to the dying barrel fires. Thunder began to build in the distance. The sound of the fury preceded seeing anything. It started as a low roar in the distance. The roar grew louder and louder, but it remained an indistinct sound, like a single cascading roar. Then came the dust cloud. The cloud of dust was only visible because dozens of headlights behind it illuminated the thick fog. The glowing gray cloud boomed as it grew closer. Still pretending to be a Brother stationed outside of Sydney’s tent, Logan watched the growing scene. It looked like something apocalyptic.

  As the sound grew louder, Abu Kishaa’s followers started filtering out of their tents. A few of them just poked their heads out, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and trying to see what sort of hell was coming their way. A few of the Brothers who were sleeping in their downtime came out of their tents with their rifles on and their faces covered.

  Abu Kishaa stepped onto the roof of a truck near the center of the camp. When does this guy sleep?

  He placed his hands on his hips and watched as the convoy materialized. Two tanks led the convoy. They rolled side by side, chewing up sand as their engines roared through the desert. Logan squinted. They looked like American tanks, from what he could tell. They didn’t fly any flags, though. They were followed by five Humvees each, all desert beige without markings.

  Logan was pretty sure the men who got out would be in fatigues with no identifying markings either. They wouldn’t fly Jordanian flags or have names on their uniforms. In foreign policy, these were called little green men: uniformed regiments without any identification. It was a violation of the Geneva Conventions, but they were useful.

  The convoy of tanks and trucks stopped at the edge of the camp. Soldiers began filtering out of the Humvees. Four soldiers got out of each Humvee and four from each tank. Forty-eight little green men climbed out in total. The one who was in the lead Humvee was balding with a beer belly and gray hair. He was clearly in charge. He was probably a colonel before he took off all of his identifications.

  Abu Kishaa hopped off his truck and walked to the edge of the camp. The man stopped, went to the position of attention, and saluted. Abu Kishaa nodded his head. The man struck his crisp salute and shook Abu Kishaa’s hand.

  Logan couldn’t hear what they said, but he knew it wasn’t good.

  Sydney came to the tent flap.

  “What was that? Did hell just open up?”

  Logan replied, “Pretty much. 48 soldiers. Ten Humvees. Two tanks.”

  Sydney groaned. “The tanks are going to be a problem.”

  Logan said, “Each Humvee has a 50 cal on top. That feels like a problem, too.”

  Logan couldn’t see her, but he knew Sydney was smiling. She said, “If I remember Benin, you’re pretty good with a mounted machine gu
n.”

  Logan sighed. “It’s going to be a bloodbath.”

  Sydney nodded and said, “I better get some sleep, then.” She disappeared back inside the tent.

  No sleep for Logan. Fortunately, Titus Crow kept him awake for days straight in training. He could go at least 48 hours before he started to fall apart.

  The soldiers fanned out through the camp. They moved in groups of four, which must have been their Humvee teams. They talked with Brothers at their different posts and waited for the sun to rise.

  As the sun began to rise, Abu Kishaa made his way towards Sydney’s tent. Logan saw him coming. Uh oh, this is not good.

  Logan kicked the fabric of the tent to alert her. Sydney emerged from the tent a few moments later. She stretched as if she’d just woken up. Abu Kishaa walked up to Logan. In Arabic, he said, “Good morning, Brother.”

  Logan pretended to cough some more as he responded, “Good morning.”

  Abu Kishaa stopped and stared at Logan. His face was all but covered with a thick scarf, but his light-colored eyes were still pretty rare in the camp.

  Abu Kishaa said, “I don’t think I recognize you, Brother. What’s your name?”

  Logan replied, “I call myself Al-Rasheed.” It was Arabic for “rightly guided.”

  Abu Kishaa responded, “You seem familiar.”

  The best lie was only a little bit away from the truth. “I was recruited by Sydney herself because she says I look like the false prophet Logan Connor.”

  Abu Kishaa squinted. He studied Logan up and down. Was this going to work? Abu Kishaa looked skeptical, to say the least. Abu Kishaa reached into his pants and pulled a pistol out of his waistband.

  Logan flexed his fingers. If this thing was about to blow up, he was going to fight until the bitter end. With all of the Brothers and almost fifty soldiers, he was never going to get out alive, but he wasn’t going to accept capture. Capture would mean torture and public execution.