Stanley approached the gate at a slow leisurely pace, his face turned slightly to the side as if he was studying something off into the distance to his right. The guards’ attention would naturally be focused outside the compound and he hoped that since he was already inside and coming from the general direction of the house, he could get close enough to use his Glock before they became suspicious and brought their AK’s to bear.
He was seriously outgunned in the event of a firefight and though the cloudy moonless night worked in his favor, there was absolutely no cover.
So far, the ploy seemed to be working. The maximum effective range of the Glock19 was about fifty meters and though he was an expert shot he wanted to get closer than that, the closer the better. When he was sure he was within fifty meters, still looking to his right and up into the distance, he uttered a greeting in perfect Arabic.
“Wa-Aleikum Aassalaam.” the guards replied, more interested in the direction of his gaze than in him. Still moving forward, he brought his left hand up and across his body pointing to where he still gazed intently.
“Ma hatha?” (What is this?)
While both guards’ eyes and concentration were focused in the direction of his finger and with his body partially turned covering the movements of his right hand, he drew the silenced Glock. He was twenty feet away.
“Matha? Ayn?” (What? Where?)
“Never mind.” he said in English and the pistol spit death until the two young men lay dead.
He met Allen at the front door of the house. It was locked but they were prepared for that. Allan sprayed the lock itself and the area around it with an acid also developed in Agency labs. It was a mixture of hydrofluoric acid and some other chemical that Stanley had never heard of. This mixture destroyed anything it encountered except Teflon. Allan sprayed and watched. He sprayed again and waited. Carefully sitting the small sprayer to the side, he pushed the door. They were in.
As it often did for him once he entered the active stage of an action, things slowed down for Stanley and his movements seemed surreal as if he were in a dream.
Allan went directly to the second floor. They would meet on the third floor where their primary target probably was after “sanitizing” the two bottom floors.
Stanley tried the first door he came to. It wasn’t locked. Good. An overweight Arab male with a flowing beard and a huge paunch lay grunting atop a bored looking girl who looked to Stanley not a day over fifteen. The man never looked up but the girl was looking directly into Stanley’s pale blue eyes when he pulled the trigger and killed them both. Methodically and carefully he sanitized the entire floor.
In one room, he found five boys between the ages of about six to thirteen. Only one of them stirred and raised his head when Stanley came through the door so Stanley shot him first right between the eyes before making sure the others would never wake up.
In the last room, he surprised three frustrated young wives well along into an experiment in Lesbian love. He shot them too but in this case, he regretted the waste of human life. Stanley noted that he hadn’t had to burst through any doors. These were not people expecting a raid at any moment like he had assumed they would be.
They had apparently been living here for years and had grown complacent- dangerously complacent. Twenty-three minutes after he and Allan had entered the house, the first floor was completely and eerily silent and he was sure he was the only living soul on it. Sliding a fresh magazine into the Glock he raced up the stairs to the third floor.
“What was that?” Abu Faraj tore his eyes from the laptop and the images of beautiful Baywatch breasts and listened. He turned the volume down as he tried to decipher the sounds coming from downstairs. He wasn’t worried or alarmed. If something were truly amiss he knew the women and children would be yelling, screaming, and giving the alarm.
To tell the truth he wished something exciting would happen. He had been cooped up here in Abbottabad too long. He longed for action. He wanted to kill more Americans or better yet some Jews. He had been on the run and hiding since the glorious events of 9/11. What a coup that had been, when the sons of Islam had brought the wicked American beast to its knees! But none of them had dreamed America could be this relentless, so ruthless, so…patient. They had thought things would cool down after Bush left office but instead that that black devil Obama proved worse, much worse.
“It’s probably Khairiah and some of the other women, up with young Abdur Rahman. The boy has been complaining of stomach pains all day” Khalid replied casually. He concentrated on emitting an air of casual unconcern but couldn’t keep his eyes from nervously returning again and again to the bedroom door.
“I will go check on them.” the courier said standing up. He too tried to appear nonchalant but Khalid could see his eagerness to get out of this room where death was fast approaching. The courier took one step towards the door then the Americans burst into the room.
Abu Faraj al-Libi’s eyes widened in surprise and disbelief at the intrusion, but not for nothing was he known as the Lion of Islam. He jumped up, abruptly knocking over the laptop as he made a desperate dash for his AK-47 leaning behind him in the corner of the room.
Meanwhile Khalid and the courier scrambled to opposite sides of the room to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the doomed man, both were keenly aware of the indiscriminate nature of bullets.
The Lion never made it to his weapon. Both agents identified their primary target and opened fire at the same time. Stanley’s bullet hit the terrorist in the small of his back which exploded in a spray of blood. Allan’s bullet caught him right in the middle of the neck and came out the other side shattering the Adam’s apple and driving the dead man into a bookcase where he knocked down a box of magazines. He fell among them with his face resting, appropriately enough on the centerfold of the October1989 issue of Playboy.
“It is done.” Khalid intoned piously to add a bit of dignity to his superior’s demise and let his assassins know there was no need for further shooting.
“Not yet.” Stanley replied then he and Allen calmly shot the courier. Stanley hit his heart while Allan put one through his face. The three men stood there in the now silent room and slowly Stanley noticed a sour smell seeping into the air. He didn’t recognize it until it became overwhelming and he realized that the new Al-queda number three had shit his pants.
“Now it’s done. The courier had to die too. It was Allah’s will. May he have mercy on the poor man’s soul.” He crossed the room and handed the trembling Khalid a note containing an address, a name, and a password.
“Go to this house in Jalalabad. You will receive instructions and take charge of your new team there. Then without so much as a “Ma’a Salaama” the two Americans were gone.