making their situation even more precarious. It was the reason he’d allowed his men to disperse and surrounded himself instead with local jihadists. The goal was to lose himself in the chaotic rhythms of a country that the Americans didn’t understand.
He’d made the grave error of calling Muhammad Attia during the operation. And when the man hadn’t answered, he’d compounded that error by calling again. And again. Finally he’d connected and spoken on a connection so filled with noise that the conversation was nearly unintelligible.
It was clear now that the garbled voice on the other end of that call hadn’t belonged to his loyal disciple. It had belonged to Mitch Rapp.
Halabi looked through his open window at the star-filled sky, searching for any sign of the Americans. They were out there somewhere. Watching, collecting data, calculating probabilities. Waiting to strike.
Only God could protect him now, but he wasn’t sure that protection would be forthcoming. The YARS operation had expended every resource and burned every bridge in order to ultimately accomplish nothing. The truck containing his people had been stopped just across the U.S. border, sealed in plastic, and airlifted to an undisclosed location.
Irene Kennedy had skillfully disseminated the story that the trailer was filled with the radioactive components for a dirty bomb. It was a narrative that made locking down the area child’s play. No one from the outside had any interest in approaching a contaminated zone, while the ones inside had every incentive to stay. The radiation source was gone and the government was promising testing and treatment for anyone exposed. In the unlikely event the virus had escaped the truck, it was containable.
Halabi glanced over at his Somali driver before staring off again into the darkness. Attia was dead. ISIS forces had been scattered and were now transforming into isolated criminal gangs. The highly trained group of men he’d surrounded himself with would spend the rest of their short lives being hunted by the world’s intelligence agencies.
The other major threat to America, Christine Barnett, also seemed to be fading. Her attacks on America’s intelligence agencies had been badly undermined by the heroism and competence displayed by the DEA, CIA, and army. For the first time in her political career, she was adrift.
Halabi closed his eyes for a moment, hiding from the reality of what he had done. He hadn’t just failed to destroy the United States, he’d provided it with a tangible, terrifying external threat. The country that had been busy tearing itself apart would now turn away from imaginary dangers and focus on real ones. He had unwittingly provided the American people with the truths that their politicians and media had worked so hard to obscure.
Halabi retrieved a new phone from the floorboard, removing it from its packaging before just letting it fall from his hand. There was no one left to call. Nothing left to be learned. Details, strategies, and elaborate plans meant nothing. He knew that now. Mitch Rapp wasn’t just the enemy of Islam. He was more than that. The forces of evil had chosen him. And now they were supporting him. Giving him strength.
Until he was dead, God’s will could not be done.
Halabi understood that he was aging and injured. That he and his network would become the targets of a manhunt unprecedented in world history. He would never again have an opportunity like the one that he’d just allowed to wither. But he wasn’t without resources. He still had benefactors and millions of dollars hidden in bank accounts throughout the world. He still had thousands of followers willing to die on his command.
There was no question that he was soon for the grave, but with his last breath he would drag Mitch Rapp in with him.
The poorly maintained roadbed became strewn with rocks and his driver was forced to slow, swerving through the obstacles. All sense of progress—already nearly nonexistent in Halabi’s new reality—seemed to disappear.
A flash appeared ahead in the darkness, unmistakable but impossible to pinpoint exactly. A split second later, a bullet penetrated the windshield and slammed his driver back in his seat.
Halabi grabbed the handle and threw himself against the door but found it blocked. A barely visible figure leaned closer to the open window, his features gaining detail in the hazy artificial light.
Not a Somali bandit. His face was streaked with paint and his hair was covered with a sand-colored cap. What he couldn’t hide, though, were his Caucasian features and bright blue eyes.