B. Dark Water: A Ryan Weller Thriller Book 1 Paperback

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CHAPTER 1
The Terrorist
Austin, Texas

Mustafa Wahib Abdulla knew he would die today.
The suicide bomber sat in the driver’s seat of the Toyota 4Runner, his finger resting on the detonator switch.
His lips moved silently as he rocked back and forth in rhythm with his holy pleadings, staring straight ahead at the closed garage door of the old four-bay auto repair shop and caressing the switch as he prayed.
Abdulla smiling as he finished. He was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice, to be received into Paradise, and to be rewarded for his zeal.
“It is almost time,” Professor said, checking his watch.
The Pakistani looked up at the American he knew only as “Professor” and tried to hide his disdain for the man with a nod. While he American had been instrumental in helping them to infiltrate the United States, had sheltered them in the city, and had provided materiel and support for their cause, he was not a believer in the one true religion. Abdulla had to remind himself that the help they’d received from Professor was just a means to an end—the end of the Great Satan.
Allah forgive me for taking the aid of this nonbeliever. I will die in jihad and bring many more nonbelievers with me, Abdulla prayed, certain of his cause.
Abdulla climbed from the SUV. As he closed the door, he could feel the extra weight it contained. It shut with a satisfying thunk. They’d molded one hundred pounds of Semtex into the hood, doors, and quarter panels of the Toyota before pouring quarter-inch steel ball bearings—a deadly, flying hail—on top of the plastic explosives. The switch Abdulla had caressed would arm the device when he was ready to ram his target. He’d connected it to the front bumper airbag sensor. An impact strong enough to deploy the airbag would also trigger the bomb.
Abdulla signaled to his men to gather around. They were swarthy men from the Afghan and Pakistani mountains and smooth-skinned Saudis, all clothed in black combat fatigues and wearing a chest rig packed with extra ammunition and grenades. Except for Abdulla, the driver of the deadly vehicle-borne improvised explosive device, each holy warrior would carry an AK-47 when the time for battle came. They were all skilled men who had trained relentlessly on a mocked-up target in a Syrian training camp to perfect their timing and coordination of the mission they were about to undertake.
“We will pray one final time,” Abdulla said to his men, ignoring the pacing Professor.
Abdulla knew he and his men were only pawns in a larger game orchestrated by his leader, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, and the leader of the Mexican movement who had brought them to the U.S. He didn’t know the name of the Mexican leader, nor had he dealt with anyone but Professor. Abdulla studied his contact again. He was of medium height and slim build, with white hair styled into a long ponytail. Square glasses framed brown eyes above a wide nose and neatly trimmed mustache. What Abdulla found most curious was the silver coin Professor wore around his neck on a matching silver chain. Professor had told Abdulla it was his symbol of his defiance of the Great Satan.
Professor glanced at his watch again, then said, “Hurry up.”
The arrogance of the man angered Abdulla. He wanted to break his neck. Closing his eyes, Abdulla willed himself to remain calm, then he turned and walked across the stained and scarred cement floor of the two-story concrete block building. The structure stank of used oil and burnt rubber. Outside, garbage cluttered the gutters, rusty car parts leaned against the chain-link fences, and graffiti covered the walls. Abdulla abhorred the filthy garage and the rotten stench that filled his nostrils with every breath. This was America, the land of milk and honey, and yet the neighborhood was no better than the slum he’d been raised in outside Islamabad. He was ready to leave this awful place, with its hard cots and the electric hotplates that warmed their food. He was ready for Paradise.
Abdulla knelt beside his men on his own prayer rug. In unison, they bowed and prayed, consecrating themselves to the Prophet Muhammad and to Allah so their actions might bring glory and honor to their cause. When they finished, they rose and walked over to where Professor waited.
“We are ready,” Abdulla said.
Professor nodded and motioned for them to proceed with a circular gesture of his hand. The fighters loaded into a Ford Explorer and a Honda CR-V while Abdulla sat in the driver’s seat of the Toyota. He gripped the steering wheel at ten and two until his knuckles whitened. He’d prepared for this moment, yet he was still nervous. Abdulla swallowed the lump in his throat and muttered another prayer as he turned the ignition key. Ahead, the garage door slid open to reveal brilliant sunlight beyond.
It's a metaphor, Abdulla thought. They were about to step out of darkness and into the light. He would venture from this dreary world into a glorious Paradise.
The Explorer exited the garage, and Abdulla fell in line between it and the CR-V. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses as they turned onto the main road. He accelerated to keep up with the lead vehicle, thankful for the bomb’s kill switch.
All around him, Americans were going about their daily lives, blissfully unaware of the carnage Abdulla and his men were about to unleash. Knowing he was about to destroy a sacred landmark and kill and maim leaders of the cult of consumerism, made him smile.
The infidels would die a scorching death and burn forever in the fires of Hell.


CHAPTER 2
Professor
Outside the Texas Governor’s Mansion
Austin, Texas

Rueben Morales, the man known as Professor, stepped out of his SUV in the parking lot on Lavaca Street, across the street from the rear of the Texas Governor’s Mansion, ready to watch the carnage Abdulla and his men were about to bring.
Morales closed the door of the Dodge Journey, a vehicle made in Toluca, Mexico, which was partly why he’d purchased it. Mexican hands had built the Journey for an Italian company that had then sold it to Americans, who believed they were helping the Detroit economy by buying from the American Big Three. He chuckled at the irony as he walked to the rear passenger-side door and opened it. Morales leaned across the seat and turned on a video camera. Aiming it through the already open window, he positioned it to provide maximum coverage of the events that were about to unfold.
A breeze ruffled his clothes as Morales moved to the front of the Journey and leaned against the hood. They had chosen this day with care. The Republican governor was hosting a luncheon for election campaign donors. He and his family would be mingling with state senators and representatives, as well as select visitors who had contributed large donations to the re-election war chest. Morales had also heard a rumor that a sitting U.S. senator would attend, and he hoped it was true.
He watched the tall sycamore, pecan, and cottonwood trees surrounding the white Greek Revival mansion sway with the breeze. The wind would help to fan the flames. His gaze fell on the two vehicle entrance gates set into a white concrete-block fence topped with black wrought-iron spikes, and the Texas State Troopers who patrolled the sidewalk.
“Let la Revolución begin!” Morales muttered. The peace these white mercenaries believed they held over their ill-gotten gains was about to be shattered. They’d stolen the Southwest from Mexico with their concepts of manifest destiny and by waging unjust wars on the Mexican people. It was time to take back Aztlán.
Morales’s attention snapped back to the present as a Ford Explorer careened onto Lavaca Street and came to a screeching halt alongside the gates. Three men jumped from the vehicle. Two immediately shot the uniformed troopers and placed explosives to blow the gates open. The third terrorist ran to the guard booth, where he shoved a grenade through the window before racing toward the patrol car sitting at the corner of Lavaca and West Tenth Street, where he rolled a second grenade under the car.
The first two men took refuge behind the Explorer as they detonated their explosives, knocking the gate to the ground. The first grenade demolished the interior of the guard house and threw chunks of concrete twenty feet into the air. The second grenade blast lifted the troopers’ Ford Crown Victoria off its wheels. Fire curled out from underneath, and when the gas tank exploded, it sent the trunk lid somersaulting through the air. Morales howled with delight.
Abdulla’s modified Toyota 4Runner swept into view as it rounded the corner from Tenth Street. He curved wide into the oncoming traffic lane, then shot through the now open gates of the vehicle entrance. Morales knew a carload of Abdulla’s men would commence an assault at the front of the mansion, blowing up the patrol car on Colorado Street, breaking through the wrought-iron gates, and killing everyone they could find.
The 4Runner disappeared behind the wall. Morales blew out his breath and covered his ears. He could see the steps leading to the rear entrance under the porte-cochère. The Toyota reappeared and charged up the steps at full throttle. The massive tires of the modified vehicle bounced as they hit the first step, hung in the air for a moment, and fell back in slow motion, then the four-wheel drive powered the vehicle up the steps.
White light burst from the car as it exploded.
Morales felt the heat and shockwave roll over him. His mind couldn’t take in all the details of what happened in those seconds after detonation.
Later, he would play back the video frame-by-frame to see the 4Runner strike the mansion, the initial explosion that shot ball bearings from the car to punch, tear, rip, and gouge anything in their path. The porte-cochère disappeared in the initial ball of flame, and the back of the mansion disintegrated. Fire spread from the Toyota’s gasoline tank to the mansion’s wooden siding and framing. A secondary explosion rocked the grounds as natural gas, spilling from a ruptured line, ignited in a scorching fireball.
Debris pelted the roadway more than a full block away. Morales ducked behind a nearby building as wood splinters and ball bearings rained down all around him.
Pride swelled inside him as he turned to run for cover behind a brick building, and he discovered he was laughing.
The first blow had been delivered, and it wouldn’t be the last.