Takedown

“Go to hell!” Mohammed screamed.

Jaffe raised the Guardian Protection Devices canister so that Mohammed could see his thumb slip under the safety mechanism and said, “I can’t go to hell today. I still have so many more things to do.”

The shrieks of wretched agony were instantaneous. So horrible were they that even the two Libyan intelligence officers burst into the room, certain that the Americans were either filleting or disemboweling their prisoner alive.

As Jaffe sent another shot of pepper spray into the terrorist’s penis, Mohammed screamed at the top of his lungs for it to stop, his body absolutely rigid from the pain. Tears streamed down his face, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

Jaffe had no intention of letting up. The pain this piece of human waste was prepared to unleash upon America was nothing compared to what he was being subjected to at this moment. Jaffe had never known hate as strong as he felt it right now. What god could ever support what al-Qaeda did in His name? Jaffe wanted nothing more than to watch this man die, because he knew if anybody was going to hell, it was Mohammed bin Mohammed.

Jaffe let up for a moment only to watch the man’s body go slack against his restraints and his chest heave for air.

Then, without warning, he gave the man another blast.

Mohammed’s body tried to leap off the chair as if it were a thousand degrees.

Jaffe should have worn earplugs. Mohammed had the lungs of a lion.

He kept the button depressed on the pepper spray, determined to drain every last drop into the monster in front of him until in addition to the screaming he suddenly heard another sound-gunfire.

Eighty-Nine

With his phony diplomatic Libyan passport, Abdul Ali found the security at the twenty-four-story Libya House easily navigable when he arrived. His Libyan dialect was flawless and he demanded that the man behind the reception counter pick up the phone and dial the ambassador’s office straightaway.

When the ambassador’s assistant answered, the receptionist spoke several words, waited for a response, and then, satisfied, hung up.

After being offered a seat and told the assistant was on his way down, Ali berated the man by asking how anyone could sit at a time like this. Libyans placed a high value on courtesy, and to berate another in public was considered extremely rude. The receptionist was not stupid. He’d met this man’s type before, and he knew that regardless of what his passport said, he was no diplomat. In fact, he’d met enough arrogant intelligence agents to know that’s exactly what this man was. The receptionist had long ago developed a theory that there was a farm somewhere back in his homeland where they grew these insufferable assholes by the truckload.

Moments later, the elevator doors opened and out strolled the ambassador’s assistant accompanied by a rather large man who Ali assumed was part of Libya House’s security detail. The assistant walked over to the reception desk, chatted briefly with the man behind the counter, and then studied the visitor’s passport, sca

After exchanging the customary Libyan greetings, the assistant offered his hand and introduced himself. He did not offer the passport back. “I thought I knew all of the Haiat amn al Jamahiriya operatives stationed in New York,” he stated. “Why is it we haven’t met?”

Ali remained calm, as well as somewhat aloof-the attitude he felt best suited the role he was playing. “Because I am not stationed here,” he replied. “I’m based in Washington.”

The assistant brushed the explanation aside. “You stated you have business to discuss with the ambassador?”

“Correct.”

“I hope you can appreciate that with everything going on today, the ambassador is quite busy. Why don’t you share the nature of your business with me and I will pass it along.”

Ali feigned a smile. The weapons he had hidden beneath his specially crafted suit weighed heavily on his tired body. “If the business I have been sent to conduct was at the level of an ambassador’s assistant, I would happily do so, but my visit is for the ambassador’s eyes and ears only.”

The assistant was not fond of the visiting intelligence officer’s smug attitude. “And why is it that we were not alerted to your arrival?”

Ali was more than prepared for the assistant’s questions. “At our diplomatic missions abroad, especially when it concerns matters of state security, it is not uncommon for messengers to arrive una

“Interesting,” continued the assistant, determined to scrape some of the arrogance off this man. “But what is uncommon is for a messenger to show up in the midst of such unfortunate circumstances. I would think it more appropriate to have waited before making yourself known here. This is not a time for the U.S. missions of Arab nations to be holding clandestine meetings.”

Ali nodded his head. “Waiting, of course, would have been a more prudent course, but the information I bring for the ambassador is extremely time sensitive.”

“I’m sorry,” replied the assistant, “but without some idea of what this is in regard to, the ambassador ca

Ali smiled, and this time it was for real. “Tell the ambassador, Tripoli no longer wishes this facility to be used as a hotel.”

“A hotel? What are you talking about?”

Looking at the detail agent, Ali said, “Radio the agent with the ambassador right now and relay my message. Tell him that the Americans and their package are no longer welcome here.”

The security agent looked at the stu

The agent spoke into a microphone in his sleeve, and once a response came back over his earpiece, he turned and whispered it to the assistant.

Looking at Ali, he reluctantly replied, “The ambassador will see you now. Please follow me.”

Ninety

Sizing up the two men as they ascended in the elevator, Ali thought about taking them right there but forced himself to wait. His attack was only moments away.

Getting the ambassador’s undivided attention turned out to be the easiest part of the entire plan. Once the man had foolishly dismissed both his assistant and his security team from his private office, Ali stopped answering questions and began asking ones of his own.

Once he had everything he needed, he forced the ambassador to call his assistant back into the office. When the smarmy little man appeared, Ali fought the urge to make his death long and painful and instead broke his neck, delighting in the rather delicate pop as it finally snapped. There was no other sound in the world like it, nor was there any greater feeling of power than to take another’s life with your bare hands.

A little too high from the kill, Ali took a few deep breaths and relaxed. The next several minutes had to be perfectly smooth and without incident. He had come too far to fail now. Only one floor above where they now stood, the ambassador had confirmed that Mohammed bin Mohammed was being held and interrogated. The thought of how the Troll had betrayed him, had betrayed al-Qaeda once again, entered his mind, but he quickly pushed it away. There would be time to deal with him later. Right now, Ali needed to concentrate on the task at hand. There were still the ambassador’s security guards to deal with and then the two Libyan intelligence officers and four Americans guarding Mohammed.

Knowing he was about to be killed, the ambassador made a run for the door and began yelling for his bodyguards.