Fuse of Armageddon by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff

nodded.
    “Two of you,” Abu barked at this men. He picked up the knife from the floor and continued his instructions, pointing the blade at one bodyguard and then another. “Carry the body and follow the American to his car. But be fast. You don’t want to miss my time with Zayat.”
    Abu advanced on Zayat, and Quinn turned away. As he was stepping outside, he heard a sharp cry of pain.
    The man was going to die, but not until he’d been mutilated in ways Quinn didn’t want to imagine. Even so, Quinn couldn’t find sympathy for the man, only anger at the price Zayat’s children would pay by dying as a warning retribution so that Abu would not look weak or, if Quinn had swayed Abu, by living without a father in the concentration camp that was called the Gaza Strip.
    Sunshine hurt Quinn’s eyes. When he’d been pinned to the table, he had not expected to be in sun or heat again. It was as if he were seeing light and feeling heat for the first time. His core abdominal muscles began to tremble in the emotional aftermath of surviving an execution and witnessing a man torn apart by machine-gun fire. Common as violent death was in Gaza, it was a horrible thing to see, and Quinn knew it would be a long time before the memory was gone.
    The two bodyguards followed Quinn toward the CCTI Mercedes parked just down the street. Quinn popped the trunk with his remote, and the younger men hurried ahead with their macabre burden. They had loaded it and closed the lid before Quinn got to the Mercedes. No passersby had said anything about the sight of two men dragging a dead body down the street. The bodyguards hurried away without acknowledging Quinn.
    Quinn was clumsy opening the door to get inside. He had to first put the laptop on the roof, then open the door with his good hand, then put the laptop inside with that same hand. Finally he was able to slide behind the wheel of the Mercedes.
    Quinn’s Mercedes was ten years old. It was dusty with multiple dents and a creased back fender. Barely worth a second glance, even in Gaza. But the engine was new, souped up to five hundred horsepower. The car’s transmission had been modified to handle the extra power and the entire suspension system bulked up to deliver performance capable of matching most race cars. The windows and body could stop anything but armor-piercing shells. All told, the car weighed some two thousand pounds more than it looked. But that was the point. A new and obviously fortified Mercedes would draw too much attention. Unlike Abu’s Mercedes, this one was impervious to a drive-by shooting.
    It meant now that he was inside the car, Quinn would be safe all the way to the security checkpoint, where he was already resigned to complications explaining the body in the trunk. His biggest danger would happen if he was careless with his wounded hand and bled on the leather upholstery. Rossett was fussy about things like that.



4
    CCTI Headquarters, Tel Aviv • 10:42 GMT
    Quinn gave his usual sigh at the chiming of the metal detector in the lobby of the five-story office building owned by Corporate Counterterrorism International. He took a half step forward and raised his arms for the wand search.
    “Be gentle on me,” Quinn said to Steve Gibbon, the big, redheaded former marine who ran the X-ray machine and the metal detector. “It’s been a tough morning.”
    “I heard. This operation go fine?”
    “I think so,” Quinn said, holding up his bandaged hand. Two months and three operations since the knife had pinned his hand to the table in Gaza, the pain was gone. But the memories were still fresh. “Bones are fine. Apparently a few ligaments need more time.”
    “You being his partner and all, you’d think a trip to the hospital would be enough for Rossett to let you through without this today,” Steve said, waving the wand along Quinn’s belt loop.
    “Being his partner and all just guarantees he won’t make any exceptions for me. Ever.”
    “Now you’re