The Insider Threat by Brad Taylor

us? How did they know where the emir was staying?”
    Omar held out his hand, showing the Thuraya phone Adnan had given him. “Through one of these.”
    Ringo shuffled his feet, wanting to say something else, and Omar said, “Load up. The Jordan team in the last two trucks. The Lost Boys in the lead truck.”
    Everyone began moving except Jacob. Omar said, “Load the truck.”
    Jacob said, “Why did you retrieve the phone if the Americans are tracking it? We’ll get killed on the move. You say don’t give them a reason to attack, and yet you’re holding the reason.”
    Hussein saw Omar start to boil over, but Jacob stood his ground, unperturbed at any potential outcome, his eyes devoid of life, pale blue like the meat stamp on a haunch of rump steak. Amazingly, Hussein watched Omar back down.
    He said, “The attack last night was from a drone. It was surgical, directed to that one building. They could have used a flight of aircraft and obliterated this place. They did not. If they were going after this phone, it would have been struck last night, and I’m glad it wasn’t. It is our contact for the explosives for your mission. A necessary risk.”
    Hussein waited, feeling the greasy sweat of fear begin to sprout, praying that Jacob wouldn’t push it any further. He was sure Omar’s patience was at an end.
    After a moment, Jacob climbed into the back, settling next to him.
    Omar nodded, then moved to Ringo’s vehicle. “We didn’t get the chance to adequately prepare, but you know your mission. Find the contact in Ma’an. He is ready for his phase. When you do, call me on this.”
    He held out the phone and read off a number, Ringo copying it down.
    He said, “You only call me, understand?”
    “Yes. Who else would I call?”
    Omar slitted his eyes and said, “The al-Nusra front. Do you still have contacts there?”
    Ringo nodded, then contradicted the action with his words. “I did, but I don’t talk to them anymore. Only on Twitter and that sort of thing. We share stories.”
    Omar snatched Ringo’s chin with his right hand and said, “Do you feel allegiance to them?”
    “No, sir, no. I’m the Islamic State now.”
    Omar let him go and said, “No more. I hear you’re talking to them, and I’ll cut your heart out.”
    Ringo bobbed his head up and down, over and over, like a child.
    Omar continued. “Hussein will be arriving in Jordan in two days. He’ll provide access. You do the killing. I want at least a hundred. If you can make it to the convention center, you should get three times that. Videotape everything. If you can behead some, all the better. Once the news hits, the contact will turn the city of Ma’an into a river of blood for the Hashemite kingdom. He’ll start the second front. But it rests on you.”
    Hussein saw Ringo’s eyes slide to him, and he looked away. Ringo said, “I don’t like our mission relying on a Lost Boy. He’s a weakling.”
    Ringo said it loud enough for Hussein to hear, and he felt shame. Before Omar could respond, Jacob stood up, his hollow eyes on Ringo. He jumped over the side of the truck and walked to the man in a measured pace. Ringo was a few inches taller than Jacob, but the size difference mattered little. Jacob leaned into his face. No anger. No fear. Nothing but potential violence, like an axe hanging in a shed.
    Jacob said, “Ringo, you complain that I haven’t learned the ways of Islam, but I have. I and my brother against my cousin. I and my cousin against the world.”
    Omar stepped in between them, his face inches from Jacob’s. “Do not test me, Lost Boy. Get. In. The. Truck.”
    His face expressionless, Jacob backed up, then turned to the HiLux, saying, “Ringo, my tribe, my war. Remember that.”
    Hussein could feel the tension in the air like static before a storm. The only one who was immune was Jacob. He’d sat down in the bed across from Hussein, and had smiled. A wicked, twisted thing. Hussein had grinned weakly in return, and