apparently given up on ever unloading, hoping the cruiser's semiconcealment behind the big rig might buy the team a few more minutes before the authorities became aware of the murder. It was their third in the last two hours, and Tony knew they were tempting fate as the bodies piled up.
He shut down the engine and jumped out of the patrol car. He thought for a moment about taking the dead cop's riot gun--after all, he reasoned, the cop certainly didn't need it anymore, and you could never have too many weapons, especially high-quality ones like the Remington 870--but ultimately decided that it might be detrimental to his freedom if he were to get pulled over with a murdered law enforcement officer's weapon lying next to him in the front seat of his vehicle.
Tony had no doubt he could shoot his way out of any confrontation if necessary, but it was important to keep his eyes on the big picture, on his sacred destiny as it were. Getting into a shoot-out with the police during the drive back to D.C. was a distraction he didn't need when he had been given the honor of ridding the world of the president of the United States, the oppressor of so many of his people in the Middle East, Robert Cartwright.
Tony slammed the door of the cruiser, closing the dead cop inside with a satisfying clunk, then jumped when Brian, standing right behind him, announced, "We're all done and ready to roll."
Tony decided he must be extremely tired. There was no way any of these American pseudoterrorists, despite graduating from the rigorous training program in the mountains of Afghanistan, should have been able to approach from behind without him being aware of it.
He closed his eyes and centered himself, focusing on the steps he needed to accomplish to achieve his goal. Right now that meant getting the Stinger missiles out of here and as far away from Tucson as possible before daybreak. Sleep would have to wait.
"Thank you," he told Brian, forcing himself to remain calm and doing his best to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He hated for these nonbelievers to see him at anything less than his best, although he doubted Brian or any of the others would even notice.
A quick inspection of the back of the panel truck convinced Tony that the missile crates were well secured with bungee cords and completely covered with wool blankets. Anyone looking into the back of the truck would see only piles of unidentifiable material. A closer examination would reveal the true nature of the truck's cargo, but Tony would ensure that no one made that closer examination. Anyone attempting to do so would suffer a fate identical to that of the cop lying dead in his own vehicle just a couple of dozen feet away.
The team climbed into the two cars that had been used to stage the accident on the highway less than two hours ago, while Tony slid behind the wheel of the panel truck. They left the military transport vehicle parked in the rear of the lot. There was no way to hide it effectively, and it would be discovered very soon in any event.
The three-vehicle caravan snaked its way back along the rutted tarmac to the front of the Cactus RV Center and pulled onto the road, moving west toward Interstate 10. The plan was to travel north, hoping to lose any initial pursuit in the urban sprawl of the Phoenix/Glendale/Scottsdale metropolitan complex, before continuing on to Flagstaff and then turning east on I-40 to begin the long drive to their home base in Washington, D.C.
A few cars populated the roads, perhaps heading home after a long night of drinking and partying. The team observed no law enforcement activity between the RV center and the highway. They hit the interstate and accelerated to an invisible sixty-five miles per hour and drove for ten hours straight, stopping only for food and fuel. Things were right on schedule.
Chapter 23
Nick had taken just a week off from work following Lisa's death, but as he walked through the double doors into the Boston
He shut down the engine and jumped out of the patrol car. He thought for a moment about taking the dead cop's riot gun--after all, he reasoned, the cop certainly didn't need it anymore, and you could never have too many weapons, especially high-quality ones like the Remington 870--but ultimately decided that it might be detrimental to his freedom if he were to get pulled over with a murdered law enforcement officer's weapon lying next to him in the front seat of his vehicle.
Tony had no doubt he could shoot his way out of any confrontation if necessary, but it was important to keep his eyes on the big picture, on his sacred destiny as it were. Getting into a shoot-out with the police during the drive back to D.C. was a distraction he didn't need when he had been given the honor of ridding the world of the president of the United States, the oppressor of so many of his people in the Middle East, Robert Cartwright.
Tony slammed the door of the cruiser, closing the dead cop inside with a satisfying clunk, then jumped when Brian, standing right behind him, announced, "We're all done and ready to roll."
Tony decided he must be extremely tired. There was no way any of these American pseudoterrorists, despite graduating from the rigorous training program in the mountains of Afghanistan, should have been able to approach from behind without him being aware of it.
He closed his eyes and centered himself, focusing on the steps he needed to accomplish to achieve his goal. Right now that meant getting the Stinger missiles out of here and as far away from Tucson as possible before daybreak. Sleep would have to wait.
"Thank you," he told Brian, forcing himself to remain calm and doing his best to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He hated for these nonbelievers to see him at anything less than his best, although he doubted Brian or any of the others would even notice.
A quick inspection of the back of the panel truck convinced Tony that the missile crates were well secured with bungee cords and completely covered with wool blankets. Anyone looking into the back of the truck would see only piles of unidentifiable material. A closer examination would reveal the true nature of the truck's cargo, but Tony would ensure that no one made that closer examination. Anyone attempting to do so would suffer a fate identical to that of the cop lying dead in his own vehicle just a couple of dozen feet away.
The team climbed into the two cars that had been used to stage the accident on the highway less than two hours ago, while Tony slid behind the wheel of the panel truck. They left the military transport vehicle parked in the rear of the lot. There was no way to hide it effectively, and it would be discovered very soon in any event.
The three-vehicle caravan snaked its way back along the rutted tarmac to the front of the Cactus RV Center and pulled onto the road, moving west toward Interstate 10. The plan was to travel north, hoping to lose any initial pursuit in the urban sprawl of the Phoenix/Glendale/Scottsdale metropolitan complex, before continuing on to Flagstaff and then turning east on I-40 to begin the long drive to their home base in Washington, D.C.
A few cars populated the roads, perhaps heading home after a long night of drinking and partying. The team observed no law enforcement activity between the RV center and the highway. They hit the interstate and accelerated to an invisible sixty-five miles per hour and drove for ten hours straight, stopping only for food and fuel. Things were right on schedule.
Chapter 23
Nick had taken just a week off from work following Lisa's death, but as he walked through the double doors into the Boston
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