Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [44]
"Don't worry. I'll get you to a safe place," Tony vowed.
* * *
3:48:52 P.M. EDT
Community Center
Kurmastan, New Jersey
Brice Holman awoke with a start, screams battering his ears. He felt hands gripping him, and he opened his eyes.
He was sitting upright in a metal folding chair, ropes loosely circling his arms and torso to hold him in place. He was in a large room with unfinished walls and a low ceiling.
He moaned and shifted in the chair. Someone struck him in the face with a balled fist. Brice saw stars — then, when his vision cleared, scores of wild, mocking eyes stared at him from behind black burkas.
Fists punched and prodded him. A woman gouged the flesh of his cheek with long fingernails. Holman ignored the pain as he tried to stare through the crowd, looking for Reverend Ahern and the rest of the passengers from the bus.
Then an old man stepped onto the platform, a pitchfork in his wizened hands. He shook the implement in the air, and Holman nearly gagged when he saw Emily Reed's ruined head impaled on its prongs.
Holman strained at the ropes. They were meant to constrain him, but the ropes had been applied carelessly, and he easily freed his left hand. He slipped it into his pants pocket, felt around, then smiled grimly.
The crazy fools didn't take my cell phone!
While the women danced around him, and the old men brought in another trophy — the grisly remains of Mr. Simonson's head — Brice opened the phone inside his pocket and pressed the speed dial button, sending out a call to CTU Headquarters in Manhattan.
Holman heard a scream. The crowd parted long enough for him to see Mrs. Hocklinger, bound and helpless. An old man had cut the woman's throat with a shard of broken glass. The woman twitched in her chair, her blood spilling onto the bare concrete floor. The flow soon ceased, and her eyes rolled back. When Mrs. Hocklinger was dead, a twelve-year-old boy attacked her throat with a hacksaw.
An amplified voice boomed, filling the room. Holman looked up to see a large man stride onto the platform, dressed in robes and a prayer shawl. Holman noticed prison tattoos on the man's arms and neck.
The mob began to chant. "Noor... Noor... Noor..."
"The day is now at hand," the man cried, silencing them with a gesture. "Your husbands, sons, uncles, and brothers have departed this compound and will never return. Now I will tell you what bold and daring things they are going do to bring about Khilafah!"
Awestruck cries greeted his words. The women tore at their clothing, their hair. The old men and young boys howled like hungry animals. The room stank of sweat and blood.
Amid the chaos, another figure mounted the platform. A striking contrast to the muscular African American, the newcomer was tall, lanky, and very pale. The Albino's colorless eyes watched the mob impassively while the man named Noor continued his speech.
"On this day, the prophecy has been fulfilled. Twelve trucks — twelve chariots of death — have left this compound, to sow death and destruction against the infidel!"
Brice clenched his teeth, his mind roiling.
I hope to God someone at headquarters is monitoring this call. I don't want to die for nothing...
* * *
3:59:05 P.M. EDT
Communications Station One
CTU Headquarters, NYC
"This is Allah's punishment on the unbeliever. We are the sword of God, the vessel of his wrath," the male voice declared, before the rest of his message was drowned out by a cheering mob.
"What do you make of it?" Peter Randall asked.
Morris O'Brian shook his head. "You are recording."
Randall nodded. "Every word, every sound, since the call came in."
"Good," said Morris. "We're going to have to put it through filters and screen out the background noise in order to decipher the main speaker's words. Didn't he say something about chariots