Holy Terror: Wynn Garrett Series, #2

A

Wynn Garrett Series

Novel

WYNN C. GARRETT

#2

Holy

Terror

Bruce A. Borders

BORDERS

PUBLISHING

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2005, 2012

Bruce A. Borders

Cover Design 2012

Bruce A. Borders

All Rights Reserved.

Except for use in any review, the reproduction of this book in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any informational storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the express written permission of the author and publisher.

The Wynn Garrett Series

#1 Mistaken Identity

#2 Holy Terror

#3 Remote Control

#4 Judicial Review

#5 Even Odds

#6 Safety Hazard

#7 Dark Day (2014)

Warning: This book is unapologetically pro-American and anti-terrorist. It contains language that some may consider offensive. This language, along with multiple acts of violence, is directed toward Islamic radicals. If you are sympathetic to the terrorist's cause, sensitive to criticism of radical Islam, or are easily offended by such content

DO NOT READ.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About The Author

Other Books by Bruce A. Borders

CHAPTER ONE

It was cold. The bank's thermometer insisted the temperature was a balmy forty-three degrees, but the wind and rain chilled him to the bone.

This was the third week of rain and it was slowly making him crazy. The soggy ground. The damp air. He couldn't stand the wet weather. Simply stated, he despised the rain.

He had kept busy, doing everything he could think of that needed done – inside. But a guy could only take so much! He was ready to get out of the house.

The thought of moving to a more arid climate had occurred to him, but given his luck, it would probably rain. He'd once taken a three-day vacation to the desert, where the locals told him they hadn't seen a single drop in over ten years. It had rained for two days straight. Rain was like a private curse for him.

His mother had been part Indian. Maybe she'd done a rain dance while she'd been pregnant. The dance of the perpetual rain. If so, it had worked.

Maybe he should offer his services for sale, he thought. Like a modern day rain man. He wouldn't even need a forked stick. All he'd have to do is to show up.

No, he shook his head. It'd never work.

If he wanted it to rain, there'd be a drought. Sort of, inversely raining on his parade.

Rain was highly overrated. The existence of deserts and the nomads who had long thrived in dry climates were proof; life could be sustained without rain. Plants, animals and people adapted.

Rain certainly made farmers happy, but they were never satisfied. No matter how much precipitation fell, invariably someone would say, But we need the rain. It was one of his many pet peeves.

He had a pretty good idea, the last thing Noah heard from outside the ark was a gurgled gasp of, But we need the rain!

Then they all drowned.

After nearly a month of drizzling wet weather, the saturated ground couldn't absorb any more water. The run-off had risen nearby streams and rivers to flood-stage levels, turning the entire city into a giant swamp. Yet, just yesterday, at the post office, he'd heard some moron utter the stupid phrase. But we need the rain.

No, he'd told him, We don't need the rain!

People hadn't changed much.

Gloomily, he crawled out of bed and headed for the kitchen. Coffee wouldn't make the world any better, but at least it would wake him up. He hated mornings, especially rainy mornings.

Opening the curtains, the dreary skies provided little light but didn't do much to brighten his spirits. He frowned at the dark clouds. Today's forecast had been for a calm and sunny, sixty-three degrees. As usual, the weathermen were wrong. It was raining. And cold.

With the prospect of blue skies and sunshine looking dim, he sat at the computer, playing solitaire. The TV was on, but he wasn't watching. It simply provided noise to mask the constant dripping from the roof. Two hours later, bored, and tired of being cooped up, he turned off the computer. Rain or no rain, he was going outside!

His barbecue grill had seen no use in the past few weeks. The neighbors might call him crazy, and maybe he was, but he had a craving for steak. The grill didn't know it was raining!

He wasn't the only one having a bad day. Although, the other's troubles weren't due to the rain.

In a mosque, a few miles from his house, radical Caliphs from various sects of Islam, were holding a meeting. The clerics were discussing the possibility of joining together in order to form a united assault on America.

The recent failure of Sahrid Rahal and his Al Jahbid terrorist organization, in their quest to conquer the United States, lent a strained atmosphere to the assembly. The religious leaders agreed on the need for a new plan, but couldn't devise a strategy, or decide which of them would be in charge.

The bickering Arabs hated each other almost as much as they despised the Jews and Americans.

Almost.

But the rage and incensed anger they felt for these two groups kept them there, amid the squabbling and fighting.

Arguing loudly at times, the heated discussion had become so intense, they'd forgotten about the Muslim ritual of daily prayer. Twelve hours of debate, and they were still no closer to an agreement.

Muhammad Shaweh, the local Caliph who'd arranged the meeting, knew it was time to make his move. Abruptly, standing to his feet, he cleared his throat loudly. The rest of the Islamic leaders looked at him expectantly.

We are getting nowhere, he told his colleagues. While America still flaunts itself in our face.

For the first time in twelve hours, the room fell silent. Turbans aligned, eyes fixed on Muhammad; they waited for him to continue.

I believe I have a solution to our problem.

Amazingly, he still had their attention.

He continued, We'll form a committee. Each of us will cast a ballot of four names. The four of us receiving the most votes will make up the committee. The rest of us will then follow their lead, with the support of our members. No one faction will have sole authority.

It was an outlandish idea. Muslims voting? Embracing a democratic philosophy? It was incomprehensible. A dictatorship was the only form of governing they understood; rule by fiat. Anything else was simply uncivilized.

American influences must have affected them – at least in some small, yet significant way. Muhammad was mildly surprised, but quite pleased by the favorable reception to his idea. Most of the leaders seemed willing to accept the compromise, calmly and rationally discussing the concept. Almost like humans, instead of the barbarians they were.

Soon all were convinced, agreeing this was the most sensible method of achieving their goal. Ten minutes later, after just one vote, the Caliphs had elected their committee members.

Muhammad Shaweh tallied the votes, tabulating the ballots under the watchful eye of the other clerics. Taking great care to allow each of them the opportunity to view the procedure, he meticulously counted the votes twice before announcing the names aloud.

Ramad Korah, Ashir Jabul, Bin Sharel and myself.

Not surprisingly, Muhammad had received a vote from nearly everyone present – just as he had hoped. By taking the initiative to voice the proposal, he knew they would feel beholden to him. The other three members of the newly elected committee would likely carry this deference to the bargaining table, leaving him in effect, solely in control.

As the more than fifty leaders filed out of the mosque, Muhammad assured them that when a plan had been finalized, each would be contacted and given the details. Some nodded, others sulked, but no one argued.

The four Caliphs who had been selected to form the committee remained; convinced they could work together to form an effective strategy. As the first order of business, they discussed the appropriate name of their organization.

Muhammad Shaweh was steeped in symbolism and imagery. With very little prodding, he persuaded the others to adopt the name Death To America, both for the operation and their organization.

Death to America, has been the battle cry of the Arab Nations for decades. With the forming of this organization, we are bringing the fury of the Middle East to the streets of America, he declared.

Muhammad knew, as did they all, the name would invoke the fervor and passion of zealous Islamic terrorists worldwide, fostering the unified support of the entire Middle East.

The four bearded sheiks labored ardently over the details of their new plan of attack for the better part of the night. Muhammad was a master politician, wielding influence without the others even being aware he was manipulating them. Ramad Korah, Ashir Jabul, and Bin Sharel, each believed the ideas had originated with them.

Muhammad smiled as, one by one, they approved each point of the scheme he'd devised years ago, and set in motion shortly after the breakdown of Al Jahbid, a few months earlier.

Inviting the Caliphs to a neutral site and playing the mediator role had proven extremely profitable. Thanks to his ingenuity, and a bit of luck, he'd soon have the majority of the world's terrorist population backing him. His Death To America campaign was at last, a reality.

The newly formed organization would become the common thread to unite the many sects of Islam in a single mind and purpose. Muhammad, being the architect and orchestrating the operation, would be in a position to reap the rewards of a solidified Islam.

In general, Muslim extremists suffered from a strong delusion, Muhammad Shaweh was particularly disillusioned, believing himself to be the reincarnation of the Muhammad, Islam's first prophet. Sharing the name, birthplace and inherent desire for blood and violence, he was convinced Allah had once more sent him as a messenger to the world. So deep was his derision, he'd even married his wife, Khadija, simply because that was Muhammad's wife's name.

The defeat of capitalism and democracy, with the conquering of America and Israel, would easily move Muhammad into the position of the accepted leader of Islam, controlling the entire world empire. Then would begin the reign of peace.

Muhammad actually believed it was all possible. The delirium extended far beyond the normal bounds of insanity. He was strangely obsessed with his role as prophet.

Leaving the mosque, the mentally deranged Muhammad Shaweh drove to his home, never knowing he passed right by the house of the man who was possibly the fatal flaw in his plan.

The guy in the house had no idea who was passing either. He was engrossed in the Nightly News program on ANN, the American News Network.

The local reporter was standing in ankle-deep water in a residential district of one of the suburbs. Describing the scene, she paused to allow the camera to pan the neighborhood.

Resuming her report, she said, Residents here, and at many other areas throughout the city, are shoring up their homes, preparing for even more flooding. The rain is expected to continue for at least the next two to four days.

Well that sure narrows it down, the guy watching commented.

Plywood and sandbags could be seen, encircling the houses, as people struggled to keep their homes from being swept away. The still rising water rendered their efforts futile, washing away the makeshift dams faster than they could be constructed. A murky brownish liquid, not really resembling water, swirled around the buildings, flooded across driveways, and rushed through the streets.

With an anguished look of despair, the homeowners continued their attempts to divert the water, stubbornly refusing to give up.

Another reporter appeared on the screen, fifteen miles away,