“Most, when they embrace the true path, also embrace Allah. Dropping the false trappings of the hedonistic West. Yet you do not. It causes questions.”

Jacob felt the fear drop away, his soul moving again into the netherworld, just as it had when he’d sliced the traitor’s neck. And every time he had crossed the threshold of the white house. He retreated to a numb place where pain existed but didn’t control him.

He looked the Chechen in the eye and said, “My commitment isn’t held in my name. It’s held in my actions.”

He waited on the outburst. Waited to be led to the Islamic State version of the white house. He was surprised.

Omar glared at him for a brief pause, then laughed and said, “Yes, yes, I guess that’s true. You were a lion in Mosul. Can you be such a lion when there are no bullets shooting at you? Can you show the same commitment?”

Jacob said, “Of course. Just tell us what you want. We’ll execute.”

“What I want is for you to martyr yourself.”

The words hung in the air, Hussein hearing them and beginning to hitch his breathing, Carlos and Devon entranced, wide eyes staring at the Chechen.

“Can you do that? Or is your name an indication of your commitment?”

“My commitment was shown in the creation of the caliphate. In the fight for Mosul.”

He maintained his eye contact with the Chechen, no longer caring about his fate, and said, “There was only one Iraqi army unit in Mosul that fought. While the other Iraqis ran away, and the Islamic State claimed victory, I ensured that success. I killed them all.”

The Islamic State succeeded by terrorizing its enemies, using brutality to beat them into submission before a fight, which is exactly what happened in Mosul when the Iraqi army fled. All but one element. They apparently didn’t get the word that their buddies were running through fields in half-dressed civilian clothes and getting gunned down by giddy Islamic State fighters driving in SUVs.

So they fought.

Jacob and the other Lost Boys were merely cannon fodder in the battle, as his element was composed of new recruits, and had no real martial skill. When their leader had been killed, the discipline broke down and the recruits began to retreat. Jacob had rallied them, fighting like a demon, and had actually routed the Iraqi element force on force, using will alone.

Afterward, he’d mopped up the survivors, shooting them in the back as they lay in a ditch pretending to be dead, or running down dark alleys, camouflaged pants under hastily stolen civilian shirts.

Omar considered his words and said, “Yes. I have heard.” He stood up. “I’ve done the same thing in Dagestan, fighting the Russians. It gives me a soft spot for you, but I promise, it will disappear at the slightest indication you or your men are considering leaving. You’re in it now. Forever.”

Jacob nodded and said, “Remember, we volunteered to come here. We have nowhere to go now. The Islamic State is our home.”

“You’ll be leaving your home soon. Going back to the West, where you’ll conduct an attack that will leave you etched into the history of the caliphate.”

“What is the target?”

“All in good time. You have some shahid training first, along with other selected instructions. First, some rules. One: Never, ever use any social media. Stay out of pictures being taken, and never tell anyone here you are on a mission. Nobody is to know. Two: There will be others arriving. They are on a mission as well, but they know nothing of yours. Do not let them know you are doing something different. Let them believe you are with them.”

The Lost Boys nodded and Omar said, “Fine. Get settled. You stay here, with the leadership. Your instruction will begin tomorrow.”

*   *   *

They’d awoken the following morning, conducting prayers and wondering when they’d start learning the art of the suicide bomber, when Ringo had shown up with a band of about twenty men. All of Arabic descent, some from the West, like Ringo, but most from countries in the Gulf States, they filtered past bringing in their makeshift luggage and weapons. The same man who had driven the Lost Boys directed them to their rooms.

Jacob watched them disappear. Jordanians, Tunisians, Algerians, and others, all younger than twenty-five. By this time, he’d learned to distinguish nationality by dress.

Ringo saw Jacob following the men with his eyes and said, “That’s right. Those are the chosen ones. Like me. The only Lost Boy helping out this mission will be Hussein. A true member of the Islamic State. Not some American surfer-boy imposter.”

Hussein snapped his head to Ringo and said, “What? I’m American too.”

“Yes, I know.” He gave his little arrogant smile and said, “If it were up to me, I’d leave you behind just because of your company, but your father’s Jordanian. Something that’s apparently going to be useful.”

Jacob said, “He can’t go with you. He’s with us. We need him.”

“For what? Cleaning our weapons? Cooking our food?”

Jacob saw his friend looking at him, Hussein’s eyes betraying panic at the words, realizing he was lost. Jacob said, “For . . . for the mission.”

Ringo laughed, and slapped Hussein’s back, saying, “Exactly right. The mission. The one you won’t be a part of.”

Jacob felt Hussein’s gaze on him, begging for help. It was all Jacob could do to physically restrain himself from killing Ringo outright.

13

Brett called, saying he was in position, but he was unclear how long he could remain. I looked at Knuckles, wearing a knit hat and a dreadlock wig, with his face, neck, and hands blacked out. I knew what he was thinking. If Brett is having trouble just standing around, how the hell am I going to last five seconds?

I keyed my radio and said, “What’s the issue?”

“Nothing big. The area’s just really rough, and the cockroaches are coming out now that the sun’s down.”

I winked at Knuckles and said, “Want me to send in your partner?”

“Hell no. I’d rather get beaten to death than be caught next to him in that ridiculous outfit. He looks like Dan Aykroyd on the train in Trading Places.”

Knuckles rolled his eyes. I studied him, and he did look a little like Aykroyd’s character. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to talk to anyone, and the whole idea was to prevent a random shanty-dweller from doing a double take at a white man wandering around the Kibera slums. It sounded stupid, but during the Rhodesian War a Special Forces unit called the Selous Scouts—arguably one of the best the modern world has ever seen—had done this very thing, infiltrating terrorist strongholds wearing greasepaint that made them look like the terrorists themselves.

We’d sent all of our data taken from Panda back to the Taskforce for analysis and learned that he was attempting to help the barbarians of ISIL increase their oil production, not with funds but with actual expertise. I’d recommended taking them off the board, and that had caused some consternation within the Oversight Council. Especially when I told them how I wanted to do it.

Retro came on. “Panda’s in position. Looks like the meeting’s a go.”

I said, “You clean? No issues?”

“No. We’re outside the ring of security, and Jennifer looks nothing like she did.”

We’d scrubbed everything associated with Panda from our entry earlier, and due to his huge electronic tether, could now follow his every move with Taskforce assets. Right after Jennifer’s little escapade in his room, we’d been forced to relocate to another hotel in the city center and stay as far away from Panda as possible, focusing on the five Nigerians. I’d come up with the plan to neutralize them, then Panda had initiated a meeting with the group’s leader.