Read Enemy of Mine: A Pike Logan Thriller for Free Online Page A

Palestinian people in the camp for nothing more than a bank robbery. A simple crime that garnered nothing.
    His actions spawned a plethora of myths: Hezbollah assassins had infiltrated the camps to blunt the growth of Sunni extremism; Israeli Mossad agents were using a secret weapon that killed from a distance; or a Jack the Ripper–type bogeyman was on the loose. The last was closest to the truth, with Palestinian mothers using his acts to keep rowdy children in line. He didn’t bother to correct them. He became known as
Ash’abah
, or the Ghost.
    He didn’t associate himself with any specific group, but he’d worked for them all at one time or another. The Palestinian Liberation Organization, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, Palestinian Islamic Jihad, and many more. At the least, even with the politics and infighting, they’d all been driven by the same desires he had: pushing Israel into the sea and reclaiming Palestinian land. Recenthistory around the Middle East had changed that equation, frightening him to his core.
    Libya was gone as a supporter, and Syria, once a staunch ally in the struggle, providing funding, equipment, and protection, was now struggling with its own survival. Osama bin Laden was dead. And the once vaunted Palestinian Liberation Organization, which had evolved into the Palestinian Authority, was on the slippery slope of capitulation, eschewing terrorism and even discussing whether to overtly affirm Israel’s right to exist.
    It made him physically ill, and forced him into bed with organizations whose goals he did not embrace and to whom he never would have given the time of day. Which was why he was searching for a coffee shop in south Beirut, in the heart of Hezbollah territory. Far from the protection of his Palestinian brethren.
    It was only a two-hour journey by time, but seemed much further as he left the area controlled by his people and entered Beirut, a free-for-all of sectarian feelings. The civil war had ended over ten years ago, but the scars from it still existed. It was a risk just entering Hezbollah’s domain, regardless of the fact that they’d asked him to come.
    He traveled through the city proper, following the old green line from the war. Reaching the south of the city, he began traveling west, toward the suburb officially known as Haret Hreik, but called the
Dahiyeh
by everyone else. The home of Hezbollah.
    The Beirut he knew was left behind. More and more propaganda began littering the streets, with images of Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hezbollah, plastered everywhere, along with pictures of suicide bomber “martyrs.” Green-and-yellow flags with a fist holding an AK-47 emblazoned on them fluttered in the breeze. Sullen men were on every street corner, armed with assault rifles, glaring at him. Begging him to do something that would allow them to stop him.
    He had believed that Hezbollah was but one militia among many, and that the Sunni groups were just as powerful. He now saw he was wrong. There would be no Lebanese incursion here, like his home hadsuffered in 2007, because of one crucial fact that made all the difference: Hezbollah was armed better than anyone else in the country, including the military. And men on the street corners were proud to show that off.
    It aggravated him to see it, because no other group or sect was allowed to bear arms in Lebanon. Actually, by a United Nations resolution, neither was Hezbollah, but nobody seemed to question this fact. Nobody but the Zionists, that is.
    He parked his car on a side street and got out to walk. He knew he was close, and circling the block was getting him nowhere.
    No sooner had he stepped away from his vehicle than an enforcer carrying a radio approached him. The usual young jihadi with something to prove, a strong beard, and a stronger attitude. The Ghost knew the type, and, although it disgusted him, he also knew he was at the man’s mercy. This was the last place on earth he, a