The Assassin by Stephen Coonts Page A

idea of destroying two to three hundred infidels in one stupendous, spectacular, fiery blast appealed to his sense of righteousness. The nonbelievers lived so well, flaunted their sin at the sons of Islam, tempted them with sins of the flesh and spirit— they deserved to die in a horrible, public way. Mohammed knew God wanted it that way, so he did everything in his power to recruit the people and provide the money to make it happen.
    Well, he used to. Now he was just plain dead.
    Nate Allen took a deep breath of Rome and tried to forget Abdul-Zahra Mohammed and Ricky Stroud, who had given his life to rid the world of a great evil. A man has to make a stand somewhere. Nate had learned that in the U.S. Army as a very young man, and it was the guiding star in his life.
    He glanced at his watch. Sophia would be home from work now and cooking dinner. Lord, could that woman cook!
    Nate eased himself erect and picked up the sports coat and the backpack that contained his pistol. He draped the backpack over his shoulder and the coat over his arm.
    With a last look around the square, he set off for Sophia’s flat. On the way he bought a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread. They didn’t need either one, but it was a private joke.
    Humming, he climbed the outside stairs to her apartment, the entrance to which was on the roof of an old building that stood on the side of a hill. This flat had been the building superintendent’s home on the roof here by the water tank until developers condo-ized it.
    He paused at the door, the old instinct of caution very much with him. No one in sight was paying any attention to him. He opened the door. Halfway through the opening something slammed him in the head and he felt himself falling. Hitting the floor, trying to move.
    A kick in the head, stunning him.
    The backpack was ripped from him. Rough hands hauled him erect. His legs didn’t work very well and he almost fell.
    As his vision cleared Nate Allen saw her, her mouth taped shut, fear in her eyes, her dress ripped half off. Sophia! Blood covered her torso. The men who held her had knives and had been cutting on her breasts.
    There were four of them—two beside her and two beside him.
    “Nathaniel Allen,” the man beside Sophia said. He was middle-aged, of medium height, clean-shaven, with short dark hair. In his hand was a pistol, an automatic with a silencer on the barrel. The muzzle was pointed at him. “You need to answer some questions for us,” he said in English. The accent was so faint it was barely there.
    Allen said nothing. The horror of the moment had him in its grasp. He could see the fear and terror in Sophia’s eyes, and the guilt hit him like a hammer. He had brought these animals here, to harm her.
    The pistol moved a hair, and he saw the muzzle flash as something rammed him in the stomach. A bullet! The shock doubled him over.
    The man smiled. “We have many questions. You can answer them truthfully and completely, or we will butcher this woman before your eyes. When she is dead, we will butcher you.” He leaned forward. “You are both going to die. Do you understand? You can die slowly, horribly, or you can answer my questions and have a clean, quick death. Those are your choices.”
    Nate Allen felt the pain as the shock to his abdomen wore off. He found he couldn’t stand. As he sank to his knees, he whispered, “Who are you?”
    “I am known by several names. You don’t need to hear them. God knows who I am, and that is enough. Now tell me, who hired you to assassinate holy warriors?”
    “I don’t know.”
    The man on the left side of Sophia slid a knife into her breast. She writhed, thrashed; the veins and tendons in her neck stood out like cords as she tried to scream against the tape.
    “Perhaps, perhaps not. We will explore that. Let me ask another question. Who is your contact, the man who gives you your target and pays you ?”
    There was no hope—none! All they could hope for was a quick end.