*****
Quarter miles away, Moawad glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time today, retiring his gaze over his two confederates, who looked all but happy waiting at the Bobigny-Pablo Picasso station hub, for the Tramway Line 1, which never came until now.

At the order of Yakeen, they’ve waited here with a cash-filled briefcase, shut-out from the main action going down within the enclave of the tram that served as the R.V point.

Another awful, sickening five minutes passed, before the tram lumbered into view, picking up more speed as it drew nearer to the station. The moment it grounded to a stop with a halting lurch, its automated doors slid open, allowing the outward and inward of passengers, of which Moawad and his hellions were one.

On arriving on board, they elbowed their way through the cramped spaces of the tram, all the way to the tail-end, where the exchange was going down.

“Looks like we have a full house now.” Death knell remarked gruffly upon sighting them.

Impatient, Yakeen shot back. “We haven’t got all day, so make that call already.”

“You sure like to play hardball when it comes to business, monsieur Yakeen.” He said gamely.

Yakeen let that one passed without a response, content on watching the other man, as he brought out his cellphone and placed a call to one of his men.

“You have the greenlight boys, move to the exchange point.” He said curtly into the phone, ended the call, and made an expression, which interprets as ‘Satisfied?’

Yakeen’s only reaction was a short nod of his head and a patent drop of his puffed chest.

It took a dragging twelve minutes till their final stop at Val de Fontenay; a Paris suburb. And another two minutes walk to reach the nearest bus interchange, where the Frenchman’s men were eagerly waiting in a Mercedes Sprinter van.

“I’ll need a visual confirmation,” Yakeen demanded.

The French man shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “C’mon, have a go at it!”

Yakeen wasted no time, walked up close to the van’s rear, and fiddled with the latches until the cargo holds door were wide open.

True to his words, he climbed onto the van’s cargo area, yanking at the lids of every casket-like receptacle holding the hellfire missiles for visual confirmation.

Taking the curt nod of the head as a positive cue, the French man further added. “We’re good, I presume.”

Satisfied with what he’d seen, Yakeen climbed out the van, signaled to Moawad, who walked right into the scene with the briefcase in hand.

“I guess we have a deal, then,” Yakeen announced to the other man, who in turn, thrust a hand out, to grab the briefcase from him.

With just a little fingering here and there, the briefcase clicked open and the French man glanced in for inspection.

That done, they shook hands at the same time their men swap places in the van.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Monsieur Yakeen.”

With that, they parted ways: Yakeen walking briskly in the company of Moawad and friends into the enclosure of an idling estate wagon, while, the French man sauntered back with his men to an approaching van.

In the final acts of the day, Yakeen invited the latest recruitments in his ranks over to his room. The mission had ended without a glitch, and Yakeen despite himself was in high spirit.

“That was some good job we pulled, guys,” Yakeen said in all smiles.

“It was a piece of cake.” Caleb put in rather unconvincingly.

“We want in on some real action, Yakeen. Not just some greet and meet, handshake-deal.” It was Moawad that put his thought into words this time, and he meant it.

Lucky enough for Yakeen, he found the opening he had long sought. “Speaking of some real action, I found Moawad or should I say Afattalah’s profile quite convincing. I think you’re a force to reckon with, and a lucky man to have made such publicity in a short span: you made a niche for yourself, and a strong enemy of the West, that the FBI and CIA had you on their most wanted list.”

The silence that lagged after the rather shocking statement brought him so much joy that he felt he had dropped an A-bomb on the White House. Of course, he had blindsided them when they least expected. None of them would’ve expected him to bring up such a subject in the middle of their conversation, and that meant victory.

“Ah, Your faces! You take me for a fool, huh?” he said with a broad smirk across his face. “I had someone do some background check on you guys. And call it a trust issue or paranoia. For all I care, this is what has kept me this long in this line of business.”

The silence grew thicker by the seconds, settling over the room like a giant Nimbus cloud.

“But what I can’t seem to wrap my hand around is you two.” He said, indicating the other two men. “Nothing big pops up on you two, but the obvious. And I guess am shrewd enough to know there’s more to you two than meet the eye”

Just in the thick of the moment, his henchman played the unlikely hero, barging into the room unannounced.
“I-I’m sorry, what-ever I’ve got to say can wait till later.” He explained falteringly.

“Oh, come on Affan,” Yakeen said care-freely, studying the look projected by his right-hand man, which interpreted as; ‘Are you sure you wanna do this’. “They’re family now. So just spill it all out!”

“We have something on that lousy spy; ‘Uthman this time.”

“That’s some good news, huh?”

“Habibi needs twenty-four hours to crack the data we intercepted from his cell.”

“Not to worry Affan. Caleb here will crack that data for us in twelve.” He turned a smile on and added. “Count this as your chance of getting some real action, and take the place of that mole; ‘Uthman for good.”

Caleb on the other hand could only hope things work his way while he muttered. “Count it done, then.”

“Do that and we can close in on ‘Operation clean house’.” His visage took on a cold, stranger look as he added. “And as for our prior discussion, we’re not done yet.”

Well done Salahdin. I miss your long absence. Please know that good work may not be easily appreciated. Just continue your update----timely. Kudos

(Caleb’s P.O.V)

It’s been ten straight hours of seating from across computer screens, trying my best to bypass the symmetric Algorithm encryption key of data in transit intercepted from ‘Uthman’s cell. And as it stands, I’m far cry from cracking the super-encrypted data with its 2048 bits’ keys having an awing ad infinitum possible combinations. Which in any news meant the twelve hours’ cycle mandated by Yakeen was still a long shot. More sadly, the data had been backed with a fail-gracefully malware that eats up every bit of data at a failed attempt.

They had set up a workstation for me in our suite immediately after the little chat with Yakeen, and had expected me to come through before the cycle eventually lapses. But lacking the mainframes and wideband I once had at my disposal at my ‘Pad’. And with a ‘Brute force attack’ rendered useless by recent modern encryption keys. And a shot at quantum computing; with its superpositioning and its exceeding sheer power to process exponentially more data off the table, due to its unavailability here. I was at a loss, and time’s running out.

Wedged in the thick of it, a promising idea lit up in my conscience. What if I could use the ciphertext length to my good and get to look in on some sensitive information about the data, supposing the data wasn’t padded. It was a big ‘If’, yet I was willing to take a crack at it.

So, I dove right into it, using ciphertext length—a special form of metadata to gain access to sensitive information on the data.

Lucky enough for me, the data wasn’t padded. And that one move proved to be a huge headstart at arriving at the citadel. Now with the outer wall down, I was left with finding a walk around the moat, which I did with par finesse.

Another ten minutes of tweaking things around passed before I eventually gained access to the core of the data. And voila! I had the actual deciphered text across from me in a block typeface. 

This brought so much relief, but it was no lasting effect nonetheless, as I was faced with the last hurdle of the task. I took a go at it in no time, trying to pinpoint the receiver’s actual location through the cellphone’s ping from the nearest cell tower.

I had to triangulate some between the axis of three French neighboring cities; Nantes, Rouen, and Calais before I can get the actual fix on the ping. And here I have it; a landmark right at the neck of the modern part of Calais.

Once I did, I shouted in ecstatic joy, hence, courting the attention of my new-found friends, whom came to my side in all smile and patted on my back and shoulders.
    {Nur’s P.O.V}

I guess Moawad who I now identify as Afatallah was speaking for me when he came out bluntly and said: ‘We want in on some real action, and not just some greet and meet lame handshake deal’. ‘cause for one, having to sit around in a freaking worn-down apartment and going through the same damn routines each day was worrying me sick. And more so, despite my person, I love to get my hands dirty. Get in the heat of the moment. But here I am, salivating for such a moment to come.

The last window to such moment was long shut. But still, it was a huge leap at success. Now I can say for sure that we must have earned a corpuscle of Yakeen’s respect. And that was a piece of good news.

The bad news was, he did some background check on us. Digging into such was something I for one will do. And now, that I was at the receiving end of such gestures, I couldn’t feel any less hurt. Which results in the million-dollar question, if we’ve won ourselves some points before now, how much have we left with the background check shite?

I’ve done the math in my head a thousand times already, and the figures are not quite encouraging on our ends. And even though it saddens me to be a hitch to the mission, I knew bone-deep it wasn’t my fault that I’m an onion with several layers to me. For it was something I have pride myself in for far too long. And my only way to get back at the cruel world I found myself in.

So, when Caleb halloaed in joy after successfully deciphering the intercepted data from ‘Uthman’s cell, I could feel my spirit lifted the same way.

In a fitful show of whim, I patted down on his shoulder, grateful that we had ourselves another last-ditch attempt to regain Alamal Yakeen’s trust and respect.
   {Afattalah’s P.O.V}

I’ve had my suspicions of him ever since I stumbled upon him in the hallway couple days back. And if my years as a G.I had taught me anything, that has got to be to trust my gut. It had proven to save me than any talisman would. But with sparse proofs as at then, it was a long shot to nail him as a snitch to his face.

From then on, every moment had rolled by fast. And I for one was knee-deep in the core courses of fitting well into the ranks and earning Yakeen’s respect. And as fate would engineer, it paid off pretty well at sundown yesterday, when he gave us the free tickets to a showdown, meant to go down at Seine Saint Dennis.

That piece of news had given me a thrill despite myself. But yes, in the final acts, I’ve come to know not to put such high hopes in the man’s words. For, in the end, the tickets had been a free pass to a dumbshow rather than an actual showdown. It was some bland handshake deal, for which a tram enclosure of all places was picked as a rendezvous. And I was part of the delivery team.

However, he had me a little pepped up when he confronted me with his background check facts. But that even wasn’t worth a candle, because I’ve kept a weather eye out for such chess move all along. And from where I stand, all I could think of was, who had carried it out for him. And how much longer till he figured out my confederates’ real identity.

Well, since Caleb’s discovery confirmed it all, it didn’t take all the knowledge in the world for me to connect the dots. And for my prior suspicions to turned into facts, looking me straight in the eye. It was him all along—the good, unwavering stooge and computer guy. And now, in a sudden change of tides, he was a renegade bastard.

And I’d bet my life, there’s no backing out for him this time. No redeeming chance. No saving grace. He’s so screwed and there’s no way in hell he’ll come through.

Since fate had yet sided with us, it was evident someone had to fetch Yakeen. Needing no clap in the back, I got a move on.

Mantee:
Well done Salahdin. I miss your long absence. Please know that good work may not be easily appreciated. Just continue your update----timely. Kudos

Thanks for always showing you care sir! Trust me, you've no idea what this means to me.

Chapter seventeen   

The day had started real quick, just after the first crack of dawn within the compound. And everything had fallen right into place just like every other day. But what was different about today was, Yakeen had led the herds for the aerobics and other stamina tests and had later retired to his apartment before the gyming session.

His henchman and the new addition in the ranks were by his side through it all. And had given nothing away about last night. Not a word of it had been spoken nor the slightest of reaction made.

Yakeen had wanted it to play out to the end before he struck where it hurts the most. Moreso, he had intended to beat the mole at his own game. And end this the best way he can. For good.

At the gym, however, the mole himself had stolen out of the hall in the middle of a workout session, with nobody knowing, or perhaps, those who did gave no hang either.
          {‘Uthman’s P.O.V}

The day had started for me well before it began. I’ve had to report the latest development—the acquisition of those Hellfire missiles to my handler at our designated cycle and do some more digging on those three new faces. And as it was rite in the compound, I had joined in with others for the aerobics and stamina tests. The gyming session—my most favored reeled in fast but was truncated before it even began. I’d only hefted the dumbbell a couple of times before the megaton bomb dropped and every damn thing shifted.

I can’t still figure how or why. But within a nanosecond, I caught a sight from the corner of my eyes. It was something I still wished was a dream, but hell, who am I kidding though?

Within those slow-moed seconds, one of the mercenaries went out his way and eyemorsed me. The message was slight yet understandable. In a concise way, he had managed to tell me I’ve been ‘burned’. And that was all I ever needed to get a move right on.

The shooting test would’ve to wait till another day. And besides, last time I checked I wasn’t very much invested in the shooting practice crap, for reasons known only to me.

In a furtive show, I prowled out of the gyming hall and out of eyeshot. To reach my room, I had to switch between a run and a jog. Only after the door was shut behind me do I get the chance to calm my palpitating heart, and think of the next course of action.

Right there and then, I found there’re thousand possible options on the compromise.  And fearing for the effects of such causes, I knew I must act. Pretty fast at that.

Having flagged all my means of communications to the outside—digital or analog as a possible compromise, I was left with only a card on my deck.

Needing less thinking and more action, I punched in some short commands into my ‘Timex Beepwear Pro watch’—an LCD-screened wristwatch, featuring two-way alphanumeric paging capabilities, hoping for my good that things work out just fine.  

*****
The dawn of the day Yakeen tagged ‘Operation Cleanhouse’ broke in as burglars would. It had earned its so-called name because it was meant to be a day of days. A day when it all ends.

Seating at the backseat of the time-worn sedan, Yakeen was trying hard to conceal the moiling hate he felt toward the man seating across from him on the car’s death seat, but couldn’t help marveling at the ingenuity of his plans. He would be using a stone to kill two birds at a go. And yeah, it’s been a long time coming.

To begin with, the first stone would strike where it hurts the most. He’d be aiming for the heart when he strikes at the goddamn Black sites where his comrades had been holed in all this while.  And to cap it off, the second stone was meant for this mole right here, who has been sent by the CIA to infiltrate his ranks and had seen to it that some of his men were captured. It would be a warning shot for anyone who dares walk down this path among his men, and show them what stuff he was made off.

It’s a clear, fine day, after all, this occurred to him as an afterthought, after looking out the window as the car whizzed past the metropolitan vicine of Calais.

All of a sudden, he caught sight of ‘Uthman’s askance look through the rearview mirror and was forced to ask. “Something wrong, ‘Uthman?”

Startled as a child caught chucking at a stocked away chocolate, it took a while before he had his voice and a while longer for him to stuttered out a response:

“Nothing really boss… I was only wondering where we’re headed.”

“Curious as ever,” Yakeen said with a smile in his attempt to keep things geek and casual. “We’re seeing someone. And it’s nothing to worry about.”

He further went out his way to pat him on the shoulder and had a ready chuckle to go with it.

It’s one thing to think you’re the player and another to find out you’re just a piece being played. Be wise and be played for a fool was the rule ‘Uthman was playing by when he asked that particular question. Good thing, he knew what he was up against from the get-go. It had given him the edge to play dumb and be kept in the dark as Yakeen would have him. Even better, he had played right into their plot never asking where they were headed before they embark on their short trip. Well, it’s not as if he has ever had a say anyway. 

And since things had panned out just fine after the wildcard he played the day before, he was out playing by the script of his own melodrama. If Yakeen had thought he had the element of surprise, then, he had the fireworks to go hand in hand with it.

He couldn’t help but wonder how they’ve wound down this path. How they’ve resulted to their little scheming games?

And as he awaits the right time to pull off his wonder trick, he silently prayed to God to make things go his way, and hope his risk-taking will worth it.

Twenty minutes into the helluva of a ride, ‘Uthman felt for a bulge in his pants. And in a well-coordinated move, reached a hand into his pocket, retrieved a tiny canister, swiveled at forty-five degrees, and sprayed its content at Yakeen and his handyman. In the same breath, he grabbed at the driver’s collar and smashed his face in with the wheel twice.

They say boxers are the world’s number one risk-takers, but so are spies.

While still very much positive on his plans, Yakeen sagged into the seat, content on enjoying every thought popping in his head on how to do ‘Uthman in for good.

He was jar back into the present by the asp-like movement from the sucker himself. It was well over before it began, he learned in the fleeting seconds that followed, as his eyes stung and burned from the effect of the pepper spray ball. It had been a minute spray but also happened to be the right amount, since he was bat-blind and disoriented afterward, and couldn’t get his hand to reach the holster at his side try as he might.

Much worse than the sting in his eyes was the reverberating ring in his ears. It was some sort of drumbeat sound that lasted but a minute. Only to be replaced by the unerring sound of silent gunshots. He knew who the shots were for and that they were long gone from this world. At least, that much he can tell, blind at the moment as he was.

So, when a hand reached for the gun in his holster, he didn’t very much fight it. He knew resignedly, he had lost to the same man twice.    

‘Who we are, and what we do to survive are not the same’, ‘Uthman had to remind himself of this as he pressed the barrel of the Beretta 92 harder against the driver’s ribcage, before eventually giving the trigger two good squeezes. After which, he switched sides to take up the wheel.

Right from the start, the odds were against him, but with his dogged ways, even fate as implacable as it was couldn’t deny him a say. And with no one left to rescue Yakeen, it can well be said, he was victorious again.

“It’s gonna be a long, hard drive home, boss.” He drew out the ‘boss’ sniggeringly, pistol-whipping Yakeen in the face with the butt of the gun just once, which was enough to knock him out cold.

He made a quick right at a point, where the road forked out into a broad ‘Y’, evanescing from sight for good.

Very much like a mosquito in its design, with the high mounted exhaust on either side of the fuselage, a four-blade main and tail rotor, stub-wing pylons, and the four hardpoints mounted on them; the Boeing AH-64 Apache attack helicopter was the perfect rendition of art in steel, powered by twin-turboshaft engines, with tail-wheel landing gear arrangement and a tandem cockpit for a crew of two.

Now at an altitude of 1,400 ft. from the ground, and ten klicks from the target. The bird of steel steeped into a descent after some maneuverings from Afatallah, losing on altitude as it veered over the horizon of southeastern Calais.

The first deterrence to this mission for the mercenary trio had presented itself right after they had learned of this new angle to the plot of the plan. Of which Yakeen had kept away from them for reasons known only to him. And worst-case scenario, he had wanted them to fly the birdie close to the target’s perimeter, and initiate an Air-to-surface strike, just so to incapacitate the enemies before the ground team sweeps in to deal the deathblow.

To state the obvious, it was a big ask and had caused hesitation on their end. Perhaps, because they have not been kept in the loop. Or, because of the fact that none of them could possibly fly a chopper.

But more pressing at that point in time, was the inherent purpose of that little trick by Yakeen. It was crystal clear it was a test. And a very big one at that.

So, when Afatallah volunteered to fly the bird and save their skins, none had bothered with the ‘How’ he was supposed to, content at knowing they had pulled through a tight one yet again.  
   
And though rusty as his skill at handling a chopper may seem at the moment, Afatallah had proven beyond doubt how invaluable he was to the team and their objectives.

Seated at Gunner’s seat, Caleb was down playing his role, engaging all necessary setups to get the launch sequence up and running. After some minutes spent toggling and locking on the nose-mounted Optoelectronics sensor suite on the target, he was ready.

“We’re lock on target.” He announced over the radio.

“Let’s do this, then.” Afatallah managed, throwing him a thumbs-up.

“Aight. We sting like a bee in; 3..., 2…, —.” He was thrown off by the booming sound given off as three AGM-114R Hellfire ii missiles—a semi-active laser homing guided fire and forget weapon shot up from the hardpoints at a speed that could rival shots fired from a gun, and out of sight.

Miles across from there and approximately one klick from the target, Affan and his packs—a make-up of nothing less than eighteen men, saddled in jeeps and pick-up trucks had seen the deadly procession of missiles flashed across the sky, and had taken that up as a clue for heads-up.

Strangely unbothered, they sang some strange jihadist air as they blundered down the---- that sits the Black site in Calais. What’s the sense in keeping a low profile when the element of surprise was already blown?

Fifty yards out, with the song dwindling down to a wisp, they were down checking the clips of their magazines and replacing the dud rounds of their various AK’s with good ones.

They arrived hot at the Black site, pouring out the vehicles in spurts and fanning out quickly to secure the perimeter.  

Only at close range did they find to their disbelief, the damage taken by the building. To say the missiles had dealt a fair share of damage was an understatement, as half the building had caved in under the heavy whiplash of the Hellfire missiles, and what remained of the structure itself was hanging by a thread.

Still, it was no deterrence to Affan and his packs, who defied death and common sense, marched into the dilapidated building, and combed through what remains of it.

Not much later, they found to their collective disappointment that the almost torn-down structure was deserted.  And that despite all they’ve given, they were out on a lost cause.

Needing some air to clear his head, Nur had walked away from the pack and the crucibles that were now the Black site structure. He’d found their wild-goose chase down here ironic. For one, because the trail had led them 287 km from Paris, and was indeed solid because things they’ve found here from waterboarding box and other macabre torture instruments were enough proofs. And more annoyingly, they’ve met the place deserted.

“They must have left in a hurry.” He heard someone said from behind him.

Caught unaware, he dared a look behind him and met the gaze of Affan, who was standing few paces away.

“Someone must have tipped them off.” He came out fatly, keeping a straight face and pose.

“And we’re this close this time.” He held his thumb and index fingers out for emphasis.

Unbothered still, Nur asked. “What do we do now?”

“Nothing. We wait till the boss is here.” Affan replied with some finality to his tone, turned on his heels, and walked off.

“Then, I guess I’ve got some time on my hand to sky gaze some more.” He said more to himself this time, as the sound of Affan’s footfall receded behind him.

Not long afterward, the chopper burst into view with a loud chorus of prolonged ‘Tchick-Tchick’. Arriving five minutes ahead of time, it plunged lower till it was few feet from the ground, coming to a grounded halt with its tail-wheel at a safe distance from the site.

“That’s a hell of a ride, man,” Caleb remarked, taking out his harness and radio both at a time.

“It’s all down to team effort.” Afatallah gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder as they both climbed out the chopper.  “I wouldn’t have made it this far without a better co-pilot like you.” He added offhandedly as they both walked the short distance to the site.

Affan and his packs had heard the loud whirring of the chopper from within the ruined site. And had stepped clear of the building and into the open, where they awaited the approaching duo.

“What’s wrong, guys?” Afatallah forced out soon as he was within earshot, after noticing the situation on ground.

“Nothing aside that we’re so bleeped.” Nur came out round and curt.

“The place was deserted when we came. They moved before we got here.” Affan finished explicitly.

“Damn!” Caleb couldn’t veil his shock at the breaking of such news. “And Yakeen?”

“He’s supposed to arrive ten minutes ago.” Nur gave a short response to that.

“And what’re we waiting for? Let’s put a call through to him already.” Afatallah sort of commanded than suggested.

“It wasn’t part of the plan,” Affan argued, still ever-loyal as a dog.

“Like hell, it wasn’t,” Nur said. “Now we make it!”

Now at a crossroad, Affan knew they were past the time of blind loyalty, and that desperate measures as such were unavoidable. So, he settled for the unthinkable, bringing out his cell from his pants and placed a call to his boss.

The call went unanswered after the first three attempts. And thus, raising some suspicions and all among them, before it was finally answered at the fifth attempt.

“Asalam Alaykum yah Yakeen.” Affan breathed into the phone.

“Walaykum salam.” A rich balmy voice returned. The voice wasn’t Yakeen’s, of that, he was damn sure. But still, it was impossible to mistake the owner of the voice for another.

And for this sole reason, he chosed his next words wisely and placed the call on speaker. “What’ve you done with him, ‘Uthman?”

Far cry from the Black site’s location, with the aid of his left hand ‘Uthman clipped the cellphone to his left ear and put his foot down on the gas, thereby, bringing the pin on the car’s accelerator to 90 mph.

He’d ignored the phone’s beep three times over, after seeing the name displayed as the caller ID, and on second thought had answered it at the fifth. It was a chance to finally say goodbye. And he couldn’t deny himself such luxury.

He dared a glance at the man seated limp as a doll behind him before answering the raspy voice on the other end. “Nothing. You’ll be surprised to know it took just a blow to knock him out cold, and get him to sleep like a baby.”

“You’re treading down the path that even angels don’t dare put their foot on, ‘Uthman.” The voice said, sounding more entreating than he had imagined. “You can still do the right thing now by giving him back ‘fore it’s too late.”

“What’s it gonna be if I don’t? cut my tongue out and feed it to sharks? Or, rip me from the inside out this time, Affan?”

“I promise I’ll make you suffer unlike I’ve made any through the bulk of my life.” There goes the enforcer in him, he thought as he sounded more threatening. “We’ll always find you, you know?”

“You’re welcome to try before I come for your head, Affan. Au revoir! And by the way, Yakeen sends his best.” The phone went dead right at that instance and out of the window onto the asphalt in another.

Impelled to blow off some steam after the little verbal exchange on the phone, Affan in a fit of maddening rage, threw the phone off into the distance, stamping his foot hard against the ground till it hurt to his bones.

“That bastard has some balls toying with me.” He said through his teeth.

“So, what do we do now?” Caleb asked, child-like.

“I think it’s game over from here,” Affan said, beaten.

“Maybe not.” Afatallah offered with the slightest hint of hope. “Who can tell for sure? Perhaps, it may yet be game on.”

Well done

Mantee:
Well done

Thanks boss.

The plot thickens from here!

Salahdin:
The plot thickens from here!

Yeah sure. More dramatic actions I envisage coming

Mantee:

Yeah sure. More dramatic actions I envisage coming

Just grab your seat belt. We're going for a helluva spin this time!

Salahdin:




Just grab your seat belt. We're going for a helluva spin this time!

Open source:
What's the subject matter for reaching out to me with an email request?
Use google....one of them is Textro...sent one yesterday.
Kindly stop sending email requests.
You can quote me here for any assistance needed or reach out via the facebook ID on my profile.


@Seniorwriter

Seniorwriter:


Open source:
What's the subject matter for reaching out to me with an email request?

@Seniorwriter

Ned some recommendations on the text2visuals apps.
And thanks for reaching out.

Chapter Eighteen

“A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.”—Francis bacon,
{Afattalah’s p.o.v}
The day had ended on a dreadful note for me. And I had the sinking feeling my night would fare no better. After the wild adventure which ended in no victory, I had flown right back with Caleb to the compound, struggling with the throttles and other sophisticated sets of the Heli through the course of the flight.

At this point, I must admit my past with those people I’ve once served, and whom, I now loathed had paid off pretty well. If not, who’d have thought my experience at handling a chopper, though rusty would come in handy in the sorry excuse of a life I was living at the moment.

With daylight burning real fast and having nothing to do but to sit down and while away time. I decided to get some rest, reclining in a metal chair.

Then it began. A subconscious daydream vivid and real as life itself. It was the same scene from a fortnight ago when I was still at the devil’s lair. And the devil herself had chaperoned me all the way to the deeper underbelly of her secret place. She had accessed all doors with the flat of her palm, leading me all the way through a network of hallways till we reached a corridor.

At the corridor, however, she walked up to a metal door and gave a prompt voice command.

I stood there like a statue, watching google-eyed as the scene unfurled and as the door slid open with a groan.

All the while, I was wondering what she was on about, taking me away from my newfound friends. But that changed soon as I walked right through those doors and met the glazed look of my cute, little girl.

Locked up in a 12×8, six-inch-thick, translucent insulated flint glass, she stood there, arms languishly at her sides, flamy red-hair tucked behind small ears, and face tightly pressed against the pane of the glass.

The only difference from the real thing was, I stood glued to a spot, all emotions reined. And an ankle-high pool of water rising within the cell of a place. And just as badly, while she sloshed right through it, beating wildly against the unyielding glass and calling my name, the water level rises.

Then, I saw that smug look on her small, pert face. It was the perfect replica of what I’d seen down in that same room the first time. Also, I saw those rich, plumy borders of flesh on her mouth moved in concert, mouthing the same words as from before.

“She’ll be safe here long as you stay the cause, Afatallah.”

“…You’re a wild horse, which needed to be tamed by all means necessary. And your explosive nature if not used the right way could jeopardize everything we’ve sweat for. I hope you understand for your own good we couldn’t let that happen. Thus, calling for the need for this.” She was saying but I wasn’t listening anymore. Partly because I’ve heard that too many times already.

Instead, my gaze and the whole of my being were for once concentrated on a thing. That being, my helpless girl locked behind a glass cell, and the water that had risen well up to her neck.

Through tears, I could see her choke on the dreary water while trying to make another sound. Abjectly hapless, I could see her flailing arms go limp, upon losing all the fight left in her. Strangely vulnerable, I watched her downcast eyes shut against the light of this world. And her lithe, whip-cord figure sinking deeper into the depth of the water.

Then, as if transported back from a far-off world, I jolted from the out-of-the-body experience in sweats and ragged breaths. I had to rub my eyes couple of times before I can finally get my bearing.

And when I finally did, I knew I must breast the stark realities of this quagmire of a life I was caught in head-on. Also, I’ve come to believe as an article of faith that it was imperative that I stay the cause, even more than I have before, if for anything, for my daughter.

If I didn’t know otherwise, it would seem my subconscious was playing a trick on me through the thought pattern on my conscious mind. But since I was smart enough to know this was no mere mental image. And since, it was the only drive to me agreeing to this mad cause from the onset. For my lash out at the devil and the little show-down with Caleb at the airport. I knew it was act or something worse.

And about what I had said earlier in the day to Affan. Then, I had meant it to be a soothe to his wound. But now, it was way more than that.

And now more than ever, the thoughts on what to do and how to go about it were beginning to take form in my head.

{NUR’s P.O.V}
There’re several thoughts preying on my mind right at the moment. First off, I’ll begin with the one I can wrap my head around and make sense of like we were taught in school.

Jihad, mainstream or not is a path fraught with loads of danger, at least that much I knew since it’s a venture I’d chosen myself. But thing is, with Yakeen it seemed all but different. He had close to anything under his command, from men to weapons and resources. And by resources I mean the necessary buttons to push and assets; liquid or fixed.

This alone got me thinking he was already cut in on some taxpayers’ money or receiving logistics support from Base to fund his jihadist scheme. Or, what else could explain the chopper thingy better? Yeah, I’m fine with the Hellfire bit. Just anyone could get their hands on that with the right call. But an Apache with its high-end maintenance? That’s wide off the mark.

I’ll be damned if I believe all these came down the food chain from some crude oil magnates as an Antizionist sponsor fund like I read in his profile.

Much worse, it got me wondering what I’d do if I had close to these resources. The implications of that were clear as day, though: I’d have made the world bleed, big time! and not to take anything away from him, I felt my Jihadist campaign was much better to his with the resources and all.

Moving on to which baffled me and seemed a long shot from home. I found it ironic that we lost to that sucker ‘Uthman, when we had thought we had him cornered. That bastard had turned the table around with a bit of a twist and had us all socked right in the face.

Matter of fact, I can’t still figure where things went wrong. Neither have I the slightest clue of the loopholes in the plan. Everything had seemed all right and well-orchestrated. And I for one, was a fan of it from the start.

In other news, I knew it would take an inside job to pull off something that big. Hence, it made some sense to think there was still a mole within the ranks. But the missing piece of the puzzle as of now was the identity of the person responsible.

Lastly on my list was what Afatallah had meant when he said, ‘Who can say for sure? Perhaps, it’s game on.’ Trickier questions had spawned from that statement alone. Questions like: what’s he driving at when he said that? Was there still hope when we all knew otherwise? Or, did he really meant what he said?

But with all the curiosity in the world to egg me on, I guess I’ll have to wait to unravel this newfound mystery.

{Caleb’s P.O.V}
The ride was actually more fun than I thought, albeit, I had felt otherwise from the very start. To put it mildly, I’d a mixed feeling about the ride. Anxious, because I was scared like hell, we’re gonna crash and plunged right into oblivion. Curious, because silly me couldn’t help but wonder if Afati could really fly a birdie. My bad, he’d pulled it off in grand style.

The thrill of the ride gave me gooseflesh and I can gladly say the forty-five minutes ride on the Heli made the day one of the red-lettered days of my very existence.

Contrary to the fun and all, I also had some hard time, lying back in my seat, watching the playthings—consoles and buttons, encompassing my end of the compartment idling away, especially the IHADSS [Integrated Helmet and Display Sighting System], which I had earlier slaved to my helmet and apparently had no use of. Since there were no obvious reasons to get the M230 Chaingun of the Apache blazing.

I was down in action a tad later, after noticing Afati had transversed well within the reach of the target. Snatching the moment, and taking every necessary precaution, I began working the requisite consoles of the nose-mounted Optoelectronics sensor suite of the Heli double-quickly.

Once locked on target, I fired up the missiles, feeling more than watching as the missile trio coughed out of the stub-wing pylons and zipped away from focus.

The effect was spontaneous of course. From a good vantage point in the sky, I could see a miasmic combo of dust and fumes rolled up the sky in Chiffony waves, vying for dominance of the Calais skyline with landmark features like the Tour Du Guet and Eglise Notre Dame’s Norman tower.

A couple of minutes passed by before the chopper touched down. But I later found to my utter disbelief that we’ve been conned. And yeah, I wasn’t surprised a bit. Guess all the tricks and twists are norms of our little world.

What did surprise me, however, was the wildcard Afatallah had played. What he had said was definitely out of sort. And as much as I wanted to ask him on the flight homeward, I couldn’t bring myself to. Partly because he’s the closest thing I have to a friend in years, and I so much cherished what we had that I hate so bad to ruin that now.

Rather than letting my curiosity get the better of me, instead, I stick with playing the best sidekick ever with my silence.

The writer has tried to abandon us. Please do not be discouraged , continue the story

Mantee:
The writer has tried to abandon us. Please do not be discouraged , continue the story

I definitely will continue, brother.

To every faithful follower of this work of art. I will first like to render an apology to you for my long hiatus here. And with that said, I'll like you to know that I discontinued this book here on NL simply because the work has been signed on a particular book platform—Dreame.

However, for anyone, who will like to keep following the story. You can do so via this link: https://m.dreame.com/novel/wO8XqBr9SII+9kC7qZ1iKw==.html

Thanks for the love and understanding. Muchas Graciaas!

Here's the latest episode of the hit back series:
https://m.dreame.com/novel/wO8XqBr9SII+9kC7qZ1iKw==.html