CHAPTER 43
With practiced motions, the attackers unfolded two collapsible stretchers. In less than thirty seconds, the senator was strapped onto one and moved down the stairs. Rowan Anderson was placed in the other.
Her stretcher was loaded into the back of an oversize Ford pickup and neatly covered with bags of grass and lawn trimmings.
If they were stopped—and they wouldn’t be—no one would see the body that was bound and gagged in the back of the lawn-service truck.
They had specific orders for this cargo.
The man in Paris had given them very detailed instructions.
They knew that the Coast Guard ship positioned off the senator’s backyard had been diverted to assist with the sinking ferry. They also knew a boat was idling just beyond the international water line. But that was all they knew.
The truck had driven exactly one mile when the driver stopped. The two men jumped out, holding a large spool of wire between them. In fifteen seconds they unrolled the wire across the road, then attached an explosive charge to one end and a battery to the other. The man in Paris would be happy.
Inside the black ski mask, it felt stifling hot. What would it hurt to remove it for a few minutes? The effort of pulling at the tight Nomex hood with one hand distracted his driving. The big truck drifted across the road into the oncoming lane.
“Watch out!” yelled the passenger in the front seat. The driver panicked when he saw headlights in front of him and turned hard to the right, tromping on the gas. As they sped past, the driver noticed that the headlights belonged to an SUV packed with five or six people.
Too bad for them, he thought. They’ll be dead in a few seconds anyway. He maintained speed without waiting to witness the IED’s work.
The remaining team moved toward the ocean. When they reached the edge of the bluff, the team leader looked for the worn path that led to the dark Atlantic. The men stealthily made their way down the same path that wealthy tourists took to the beach.
As they neared the water, the team leader turned on a flashlight with a red lens covering the bulb. He saw the reply—a green glow from a flashlight about fifty meters away in the dark water.
A few seconds later, they watched a Zodiac rubber raft crest the last breaker and reach the sandy beach.
As the group quickly turned the inflatable assault boat around in the shallow surf and climbed aboard with the stretcher, the team leader lifted the severed hand of Senator Coleman Harrison and tossed it onto the beach.
Maybe the crabs would eat it, or maybe some seagulls.
Perhaps some infidel would stumble upon it.
It didn’t really matter—that’s what the man in Paris had told him to do.
The 150-horsepower Yamaha motor was running and the Zodiac headed back out to sea. From his pocket, the team leader opened a small mobile phone and texted two people the same single word: PROPHET. Then he threw the device as far into the ocean as he could.
One more rendezvous and the mission would be complete. The money the man in Paris had promised would be deposited by the next morning. He watched as the lights of the kill zone faded from sight and they sped toward the vessel.