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pavement, arms and legs punching and flailing as each man searched for an advantage. Though small in stature, Becker was strongly built, with corded muscles that flowed under the ebony skin on his forearms. In a deft blur of movement, he rolled onto one knee and spun behind the man. One hand held the man’s arm twisted to the breaking point behind his back, the other pressed the blade of Becker’s combat knife across the man’s neck.
    Beads of sweat rolled down the captive’s forehead. His wide nostrils expanded and contracted with each strained breath. He stared at Jake, his eyes filled with hate.
    As Jake pushed himself up from the walkway, two men appeared from the shadows of a side alley. They moved quickly, with military precision, their Heckler & Koch MP5 assault rifles pressed into their shoulders as the still-smoking barrels swept the area for remaining targets. Pedro “Papa” Martinez and his taller partner Snake had been on the fire team that had saved Jake’s butt in Afghanistan. Papa had a round, shaved head, dark goatee, and eyes that constantly scanned for threats. Snake was clean-shaven and built like a featherweight boxer—fast and agile. Both Latinos’ arms were sleeved with tattoos that marked them as former L.A. gang members.
    “Clear,” Snake whispered after a quick check inside the van.
     Papa nodded. He moved toward Becker’s captive and trained his weapon at the man’s head.
    “Wait,” Jake said. “We need him alive.”
    The grimace on the attacker’s face faded, replaced by a defiant glare that bore into Jake. He stopped struggling against Becker’s hold, but his free hand remained fixed on Becker’s knife-wielding wrist. Something suddenly changed in the captive’s countenance. His eyelids relaxed to half-mast. He whispered, “ Allahu Akbar. ”
    Jake caught the determined spark in the man’s eyes a second too late.
    In a flash of movement, the man pulled Becker’s knife hand inward, forcing the razor-sharp edge deeply into his neck. At the same time he jerked his head forward, twisting from side to side to ensure that the blade severed his jugular. His eyes went wide as a cascade of blood rushed from the wound.
      Becker jerked the knife away. Jake lunged and pressed both hands around the wound, trying in vain to staunch the flow.
    “Too late, jefe ,”Papa said. “The shithead will be dead in less than two minutes.”
    Jake screamed at himself. He lifted the dying man’s head, his lifeblood seeping through Jake’s fingers. “What do you want?” Jake shouted. “Who the hell do you work for?”
    The man’s head lolled. He coughed twice, spitting up blood. His eyes glazed over, but the corners of his blood-soaked lips lifted into a smile. In a faint gurgle, he said, “Allah’s wrath is upon you.” The man’s eyes rolled back and his body went limp. Becker released his grip and the body slumped to the pavement.
    Snake’s voice was urgent. “We gotta move, holmes.” He pointed up the strand. “People coming.”

 
     
     
    Chapter 11
     
     
    Torrance, California
     
    “T he key to extermination is patience,” Luciano Battista said in a throaty rasp.
    He was sitting behind the executive desk that took up much of the second-floor office above the Torrance warehouse space. His conservative blue pinstriped suit and neatly trimmed Van Dyke beard were all part of his disguise as a wealthy Italian businessman traveling to America to interview plastic surgeons.
    Abbas seemed to relax slightly with the conversation’s change in direction away from the bungled attempt to capture the American the previous night. He sat across from Battista in one of two chairs that fronted the desk. “If it works,” he said, “Kadir’s plan is genius. The Western world will cease to exist.” 
    “Yes,” Battista said, imagining a world exclusively governed by the teachings of Mohammed. “By the time the Americans realize what has happened, they will be powerless to reverse it.”