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Jihad Joe
Jihad Joe
Jihad Joe
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Jihad Joe

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Islamic terrorists have been killing and destroying targets in Brooklyn and Manhattan. They attack a bookstore where a reporter, Zed Nill, is working on a novel. They take him hostage to a safe house in upstate New York and demand the release of three Gitmo prisoners in exchange for his life. If the President refuses to release the prisoners, as is the protocol, Zed is to be beheaded the next day. His captor, Yusuf Ali, is assigned to the bloody chore, which is to be shown on YouTube. He is guarding Zed and is awaiting word from his terrorist partners when to proceed. In order to come away from this ordeal with his head intact, Zed must convince Yusuf that Islamic jihad is a fraud by using his knowledge of Islamic scripture to refute what Yusuf has been taught all of his life about the religion of peace. Yusuf is torn and not easily convinced, and the clock is ticking.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherRob Hoey
Release dateJan 3, 2012
ISBN9781465710888
Jihad Joe
Author

Rob Hoey

Rob is a native New Yorker who has worked as a psychotherapist, photographer and writer. He has relocated to Canada where he discovered that snow is Canada's winter default position.

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    Jihad Joe - Rob Hoey

    Jihad Joe

    By

    Rob Hoey

    Smashwords Edition

    *****

    PUBLISHED BY

    Robert Hoey on Smashwords

    Jihad Joe Copyright © 2012 by Robert Hoey

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. Except for certain political figures, the characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

    Adult Reading Material

    *****

    Chapter 1

    New York City

    The mall overflowed with Christmas shoppers, teens looking to connect with other teens, husbands looking for gifts for their wives, women looking for something to get their man, and the mall lizards who hang out in malls to check out the action. Christmas music played in overhead speakers; an old, familiar, Nat King Cole tune about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. The fast food joint was abuzz with laughter, conversation, and children making children sounds. A young man sat alone at a table close to the order counter where four college kids served burgers and fries with soft drinks. The young man wore an oversized yellow ski jacket and he was sweating profusely, but ironically, it was cool in the restaurant. Nobody noticed the young man moving his lips, talking to himself, nor his hands balled up into fists. He looked benign, harmless, like the kind of young man who never dated, or had even spoken to a girl, and for whom smiling was painful.

    At an adjacent table by the young man, a four-year-old blond haired girl in pink ski pants, furry snow boots, and white cotton sweater, was eating a chocolate ice cream cone as Mommy wiped her busy face. Her name was Samantha and she did not know it, but her Daddy was at another store buying her a doll for Christmas, while Mommy distracted her with love.

    Suddenly, the man in the yellow ski jacket stood up on the seat of his chair. Samantha looked up at him and saw that he had a book in one hand and held it up above his head—it was a pretty book with a fancy design on the cover—and he held something on his chest in his other hand, and he began to shout, Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Then there was a bright light.

    Samantha was closest to the huge blast and was instantly decapitated—Mommy’s carotid artery was severed along with most of her neck—they never felt a thing. In fact, they didn’t have time to actually hear the blast when the suicide bomber pulled the detonator cord. Carpentry nails and ball bearings flew faster than the speed of sound in every direction, taking out eyes and shredding through limbs of the food store customers. The college kids behind the serving counter died more slowly; their internal organs pierced by shrapnel. The screams of the injured were terrifying as people, covered in blood, ran for their lives. The worst seemed to be over for now, and when the panic subsided and the smoke cleared, there were fourteen dead, twenty-three wounded, and hundreds of Christmas shoppers in shock. This religious act of faith, this act of jihad, was over in less than ten seconds.

    Muhannad and Aaqib wore cleaning crew uniforms and were waiting patiently in the washroom when they heard the blast. Within minutes the police, fire department, and EMS arrived. A triage was quickly set up in the mall walkway where some of the victims that were being treated, stared in shock at the carnage. Pieces of the suicide bomber and his victims were scattered on the floor, walls, and the ceiling. Samantha’s Daddy ran to the carnage, and saw his dead wife and decapitated child. His screams were horrible and disturbing and an EMS worker had to sedate him.

    Muhannad tapped Aaqib on the shoulder and nodded toward the door to indicate that it was time; Mansur, the suicide bomber, had done his job and was already in Paradise. The men ran out of the washroom and immediately began firing their AK47s into the dazed crowd. Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! They screamed as shots rang out; people began to fall, while some tried to run, only to be shot in the back. God is great! Aaqib shouted in English as he shot a police officer several times in the face, just as he was about to fire on them. This gave Aaqib a wonderful thrill, to kill an infidel for Allah.

    Two more cops caught rounds in the torso and fell mortally wounded. The man who had lost his wife and child got up and charged at the terrorists—he was shot in the chest and face at least a dozen times; he was dead before he hit the floor.

    Muhannad and Aaqib knew they didn’t have much time before the odds would be against them once reinforcements arrived. They ran to the end of the corridor, removed their coveralls and cleaning crew uniforms, and grabbed hooded sweatshirts and ski jackets they had hidden in the emergency stairwell. By the time they ran down the two flights of stairs and reached the street, they looked like two middle class, Middle Eastern guys, out for fun in the city—and for them, this was fun.

    Blending into the crowd was easy—the neighborhood was multicultural.

    Chapter 2

    Brooklyn, New York 1995

    The schoolyard was alive with kids playing on the swings and slide, running under the water spray at the far end of the yard, and enjoying the Brooklyn summer.

    Zed was up at the plate. He held the long stickball bat by the black electrical taped end, and stared down the pitcher. Zed recalled his father telling him about the Yankee legend, Number Seven, Mickey Mantle, and how Mick’s homeruns were towering shots of superhuman proportions. His Dad used to show him home films of the Yankees with Mantle and Maris and their race to Ruth’s homerun record. Now Mickey recently had a liver transplant and was very sick. Zed knew the greatest Yankee ever to wear the uniform used to have a drinking problem and he probably was not going to live much longer. This hit would be for Dad and The Mick, if he could connect.

    He took a few practice swings, just like The Mick used to. The kids on the other team knew Zed well enough to be ready for the long ball. Four girls sat on the steps of the schoolyard entrance door pretending to be interested in anything but the boys who were busy playing. The boys pretended that they weren’t showing off to the girls, as they played as hard as possible to impress them; ready to make impossible circus catches and hit towering shots over the tall fence at the end of the schoolyard when it was their turn at bat.

    He imagined the announcer’s voice over the stadium PA system: Batting for New York and playing centerfield, Zed Nill, number five . . . Nill. The stadium crowd inside his head roared as he adjusted his Yankees cap and looked menacingly at the pitcher, Jimmy Frieze. Jimmy was a thirteen-year-old kid who projected a big league stare at the strike zone box painted on the wall. Frieze began his windup. The infielder, Bobby Seltzer, a kid who couldn’t remain still more than a microsecond, kept up the chatter, No batter, no batter, no batter, as he crouched in the ready and pounded his glove, imitating Don Mattingly’s style. The girls watched with anticipation, all of them hoping that Zed would put it over the outfield fence.

    The first pitch was a fastball. He watched it all the way, and it caught the outside corner of the box. Strike one! Bobby Seltzer screamed and jumped in place like he was doing the Pencil Dance.

    You ain’t the fucking umpire, Seltzer, Chuck McCabe yelled. Chuck was Zed’s best friend and he was in the on-deck box.

    Bite me, Bobby said, as the girls tried to suppress their prepubescent giggles with no success. No batter, no batter, no batter, Seltzer taunted.

    The next pitch was high and tight. Zed bailed out just in time. The outfielder, Gary Wilson, became distracted by a monarch butterfly and began to shoo it with his glove, just as the third pitch flew right down Broadway.

    Zed swung and connected—a tremendous blast that climbed into the stratosphere. Gary looked up just in time to see the ball fly high over him and the fence, heading straight toward the two-story house on the other side. Crash . . . glass shattered and Gary screamed, Run! and took off out of the schoolyard.

    Chuck yelled, Shit, let’s get outta here! running as fast as he could go, then all the kids on both teams ran off in different directions. Zed grabbed the bat and sprinted out of the yard. He ran like a frightened deer for his house, just two blocks away. The girls giggled as they watched the frenetic exit of both teams sprinting like thieves in the night.

    Zed was athletic and ran like an Olympic sprinter. He had his house key in his hand by the time he reached his home; he opened the front door and quickly closed it behind him. He was breathing hard and immediately saw that his mom and sister were not home—that was a relief. He leaned the bat against the wall and sat on the floor to catch his breath.

    He didn’t know what to do. He had never broken a window before and realized how shocking it would be for a person, feeling safe at home, have a ball suddenly fly through the window with an explosion of glass. He hoped the house was empty, or, if someone was there, he hoped the person or persons weren’t elderly—older people have weaker hearts and could easily die from a heart attack. That was how his father died—that was probably how he would die someday, he thought.

    Once he caught his breath, he went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Maybe the poor guy in the house was on the floor gasping for air, clutching at his heart, with no one around to help. Maybe he was already dead. Zed remembered something his father once told him that Confucius said about responsibility: To know what is right and not do it is the worst cowardice. He decided that he had to do something.

    The walk back to the scene of the crime was torture and seemed to take hours. He stood in front of his victim’s house, almost paralyzed. It would have been so much easier to do nothing. He could avoid the schoolyard and the guys could play ball at Prospect Park for the rest of the summer, maybe for the rest of their lives, and nobody would find out that he was the one who broke the window. But to know what is right and not do it is the worst cowardice.

    He finally got the courage to ring the doorbell and it seemed like another hour passed before it opened. A tall, thin woman with gray hair, tied in a librarian’s bun, stood at the threshold and asked, Yes? What can I do for you, young man? She looked at him suspiciously, he felt, but he knew she had the right to look at him that way.

    I was the one who broke your window with the ball—I’m very sorry, m’am. It was an accident but I got scared and ran away. I hope everything’s okay; and I’d like to pay for the damages.

    Well, I never thought I’d find out who did this—come look at this mess, she said, beckoning him into the kitchen. There was glass all over the place, but I cleaned it up. The worst part was that you scared eight of the nine lives out of my cat, Jellalorum, but she’ll recover. Zed didn’t see a cat but that was probably because it was hiding.

    The woman had a soft, pleasant face and did not seem as angry as Zed thought she was going to be; in fact, she seemed to be gentle and kind. He wished he hadn’t run away when it happened, but it was too late to undo that. Are you sure you got all of the glass? I could check and see if you missed any of it.

    No, I got it all; even used the vacuum to make sure. You said you’re willing to pay for it—do you have any idea how much it's going to cost to repair the glass?

    No, M’am.

    She motioned for Zed to come over to the window and when he stood there she looked out at the school yard and asked, Where were you batting from when you hit the ball?

    Zed pointed to the painted strike zone on the wall at the far end of the yard. Right from over there, he said.

    Oh my, that was quite a shot. I don’t believe anyone has ever hit a ball that reached my house from the schoolyard. What’s your name? she asked.

    Zed Nill.

    And how old are you, Zed?

    I’m twelve, M’am. He wondered why she asked; it seemed like a strange question.

    That sounds like a reasonable amount to pay for the window—one dollar for every year you are old. So let’s make it twelve dollars and we’ll call it even. She stuck out her hand to shake his and he did the same.

    I think it costs more than that to repair it, M’am. He knew it cost more but had no idea how much more.

    I’m charging you twelve dollars. A boy who can hit a home run that far shouldn’t be punished for it, especially since you had the courage to own up to it. Not many kids would do that. But I would like to keep the ball if you'd autograph it for me.

    Why would you want me to sign it? he asked.

    Because I have a feeling I'm going to hear your name some day in the future and I want to have proof that we’ve met.

    Zed wondered what she meant. Thank you M’am, I'll be right back with the money.

    My name is Loretta; you don’t need to call me ‘M’am.’

    *****

    Mrs. Nelson, the Social Studies teacher, had her back to the class as she wrote on the blackboard. Chuck passed a note to Zed, who quickly opened and read it: what did you get for #5on the math HW?

    Zed opened his notebook, wrote something on Chuck’s note and handed it back to him just before Mrs. Nelson turned back to the class. I’d like you all to respond to this question on the board—you have fifteen minutes to write a clear and concise response. Make sure your name is on the upper left-hand side of the paper and please write legibly.

    The question was: When did the Soviet Union invade Afghanistan and what was the USA’s reaction to the invasion? What do you know about the invasion? Be specific.

    This isn’t a test, Mrs. Nelson added, but it is an important world issue and I am looking to discover what you know about your world. You may begin.

    Chuck had a ‘what the hell am I going to do’ expression while Zed made a ‘wish-I-could-help-you’ face, as they began writing. The classroom was as quiet as a cemetery, which conformed to Chuck’s mood, as he tried to think of something brilliant to write; but he knew he was faking it. Zed wrote as if he was being paid by the word and did not raise his face from the paper until Mrs. Nelson said, Okay class; time’s up. Put your pens down and relax. As I said, I’m not going to grade these papers but I plan give you some feedback on them. Please pass them to the front desk and I’ll collect them.

    Zed felt confident. If he had the time, he could have written a lot more; he had a strong interest in history and knew about the Afghan invasion that happened right after he was born.

    When his dad came home from Fordham, where he taught political science, he and Zed would discuss world events. Well, his father would talk; Zed would listen, and answer his father’s questions he asked to test his understanding. When Dad died two years ago, he went into a dark state that lasted a year. His Mom and sister were also devastated, but nothing like Zed, and they worried about him. It was his friend, Chuck, who pulled him from his gloom by being around and not judging him. He was the kind of friend his Dad used to talk about—the one person who is there for you when he would rather be anywhere else. Therefore, if Chuck needed a little help from Zed when it came to homework or something school related, he would never deny it to him.

    How did you do? he asked Chuck, as they walked out of the classroom, with their too cool for school attitudes.

    Lousy. If Mrs. Nelson didn’t write Afghanistan on the board, I wouldn’t even know how to spell it. I bombed out.

    She said it didn’t count as a test. Don't worry—you’re doing pretty well in her class, aren’t you?

    Yeah, I’m passing, but I’m no genius like the Zedmeister.

    That’s for sure, Zed said. Chuck gave him a playful punch in the shoulder, and they laughed.

    When did the war actually start in Afghanistan? Chuck asked. He wanted to see how close he came to the date he wrote in his paper.

    It started on December 27th, 1979, Zed said.

    Damn, I said it started on October 31st; freaking Halloween, of that year. I knew I screwed up.

    "That isn’t so bad. You can tell Mrs. Nelson you got confused. That was the day when President Brezhnev began his secret tactics to set up the invasion. You see, he told the tank commanders to have their maintenance work done on the tanks and other equipment; you know, to catch the Afghans off guard. Then all communications were cut off to areas outside of Kabul, including the capital. Once the Russians saw they were successful at messing up Afghan security, they had their airborne forces meet up with ground troops and landed in Kabul on Christmas Day. At the same time, the Afghan President, some guy named Hafizullah Amin, got the hell out of his office because he was scared he’d get whacked, so he moved to Tajbeg Palace. Amin was a bad leader—even though he was a commie, like the Russians, they weren’t crazy about his leadership. In fact, he had the previous Afghan President, Taraki, killed so he could take over.

    "So it was the KGB and GRU special forces officers who were the first invaders. I don’t remember what GRU stands for, it’s a long Russian name for an intelligence organization, from the days of Trotsky, but I know that they were very good at getting the job done. There were about seven hundred of them, dressed up like Afghan soldiers, and they went and occupied the Afghan military and government buildings. The Soviets also got into the Tajbeg Palace, their main target, and whacked Amin. They took over some of the media buildings to try controlling information going out to the Afghans.

    "By December 28th, the Russians said the job was finished and they announced on Radio Kabul that Afghanistan was now liberated from Amin’s rule, since dead guys make crappy rulers. So now the Soviets began to occupy the country and they took over the military bases, major urban centers, and other important strategic places. They tried to convince the Afghans that they were complying with the 1978 Treaty of Friendship, Cooperation and Good Neighbors—you remember Mrs. Nelson mentioned that last week—but the Afghans thought they were complying with the basic Shit Head Act of 1977, and the Afghans became totally pissed over the Soviet occupation, which is the situation as it is now.

    Mrs. Nelson asked about what the US reaction was—well President Carter was pretty pissed off and said the invasion was the biggest peace threat since World War Two and he placed an embargo against the Soviets. That’s why we boycotted the Olympics, you know.

    Chuck’s face lit up when he heard the word ‘Olympics.’ Ah, so that’s the reason. I remember reading something about that—I bet we would have kicked butt in track and field if we went to the Games—the USA was always beating the other countries. That was pretty stupid of the President, if you ask me—he should’ve let us play.

    I agree, it was stupid, but it wasn’t gonna happen. Carter made sure to let the whole country know what he thought about the Russians. Anyway, that’s basically it, Zed concluded.

    Wow, that’s an interesting story, isn’t it? Chuck said.

    Very interesting and I’m sure we don’t even know half of it because they didn’t want us to know. You know, Chuck, I’ve been thinking a lot lately of maybe becoming a journalist, Zed said. I think it’s something my Dad would have liked for me to go after and I think it’s what I want to do--I can’t imagine doing anything else.

    Will you still want to be a journalist if you screwed up this report we just handed in?

    I didn’t screw up anything. Let’s see what Ms. Nelson says tomorrow, Zed said, as they arrived at biology class, their last one of the day.

    The class was learning about homeostasis, rocks and minerals, and the scientific method. The teacher, Mr. Lapperoff, looked about a hundred years old and seemed totally disinterested in everything but his retirement. He gave the students instructions and had them retrieve slides in the front of the room, and to mount the slides on their microscope stage. Each desk had a stereomicroscope in the middle and the students were examining the effects of osmosis on cells. Once the kids began taking turns looking at their slide, Mr. Lapperoff sat at his desk inspecting the inside of his eyelids for holes.

    A cute little blond haired girl, sitting at a desk next to Zed’s, was having difficulty preparing her wet mount slide. Can you please help me do this, she asked him. I’m not really sure how to prepare this. She held her slide toward him holding it between her fingers.

    Sure. He took the slide and had her watch as he carefully prepared and mounted it on her microscope platform. That should do it, he said.

    Thanks. I’ve been watching you—you look like you really know what you're doing. My name's Lisa, by the way.

    Mine’s Zed. They shook hands like two adults.

    That’s an interesting name.

    I get that a lot, he said, as he peered into the lens of his microscope and carefully avoided looking at her. Girls made him nervous.

    *****

    Thursday was usually spaghetti night with cauliflower and peas, or some other vegetables. Mom’s tomato sauce was the best on the planet. She got the recipe from Lucy, a neighbor, when she and Bernie were first married. They were living in Alphabet City, in the East Village at that time. Mom always prepared the sauce at least a week in advance and kept it in the freezer. Ellen helped with dinner preparation during the week, when Mom had to work late at the school. Zed’s job was to clean off the table, wash the dishes, and take out the garbage after the meal was finished. Gender roles were what Mom called their jobs.

    Betty Nill, nee Evans, taught freshman English at Erasmus Hall High School, in Brooklyn. She stopped teaching after she married Bernard Nill in 1980 because that was what women did in those days. When Bernie died of a heart attack thirteen years later, she had no choice but to return to the work force. She loved teaching and loved the kids, so the return to the classroom was not very traumatic, but it was a reminder of her loss of the man she loved.

    His father’s death probably affected Zed the most. The boy did not speak a word for weeks after the funeral, and his classmates thought he went crazy. Only Chuck stood by him and was wise enough to know when not to say something that wasn’t true, like, I know how you feel, or some other stupid lie. Nobody knew how Zed felt—he lost his hero, the only person besides his mother who talked to him as if he was a grownup, and who knew him better than he knew himself.

    How was work today, Mom? Zed asked. He always tried to show an interest

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