Free Strike Force Delta by Mack Maloney

time. It was also why he made a habit of intimidating the fuel-truck drivers whenever they appeared. Inside these walls should be last place anyone would want to be. Faheeb also insisted that the same drivers never appear twice. He didn’t want anyone getting too good a look around in here. Especially with the eight new “inmates” the prison had taken in recently.
    There was also a safety issue involved: Even though there was a rudimentary fire-suppression system in place, the prison was literally a powder keg of TNT—its most radical defense against an outside attack. But now they were allowing a truck filled with four-hundred gallons of gasoline to drive in the front gate. One spark—from an improperly tuned car engine or the flick of a cigarette—and the prison and at least half of Loki Soto would be blown sky-high, long before any water sprinkler system kicked in. So Faheeb had to make sure that not only were the people driving the truck on their toes, but the men who would be watching over the operation were alert as well.
    He reached the main door to find the officer of the personal guard waiting for him. This man was in charge of the 10 extra fighters who, along with the prison’s normalcontingent of guards, provided the muscle for this place. These extra gunmen were the hard-core Al Qaeda members inside the fort. They were like Faheeb’s Praetorian Guard; where he went, they went. This morning they would be stationed on the ramparts just above the main door, ready to blast away at anything that even hinted of hostile intent.
    Faheeb slapped this man as well, but very gently. The officer reported his people were in position and ready. Faheeb glanced up the wooden stairway to the left of the door, and indeed he could see half of his bodyguards already leaning over the west-facing wall, their AK-47 assault rifles up and loaded. Two huge Chinese machine guns were also in the mix. Anyone making a wrong move out on the street, in the nearby buildings, anywhere, would be facing a virtual wall of gunfire.
    It was now 10:00 A.M ., delivery time. The officer of the guard called down from the next floor that the truck was indeed approaching the gate. Faheeb drew up his own rifle and then nodded to the man sitting next to the gate controls. He punched a button that activated a chain pulley assembly, and slowly, like something from medieval times, the huge wooden door began to draw open.
    The twin smells of the morning’s tide and the stinking gasoline hit Faheeb at once. It was another day in Loki Soto. Beyond was the slummy downtown and, beyond that, the port itself, as usual full of coastal tankers, dilapidated fishing boats, and rusty containerships.
    Faheeb pulled a kerchief over his nose and mouth, a thin barrier against the stench. The old four-wheel tanker truck was waiting right where it always was, about ten feet from the edge of the bridge that crossed the moat and led to the prison’s front door. Per procedure,the truck would wait here until receiving directions from Faheeb himself.
    It idled while Faheeb did his own look around. He scanned the street in back of the truck, the moat, and the roofs of the buildings beyond. Everything seemed clear. The food delivery kids had arrived at the same time. Faheeb brusquely waved them in; they scampered across the bridge with baskets of sugar rolls, pita bread, and raw lamb. Then he pointed in a sinister way at the driver of the fuel truck and indicated he, too, should come forth.
    The man hit the accelerator a bit too hard, causing the truck to backfire and nearly giving everyone involved a heart attack. The tension became as thick as the stink in the air. The truck rumbled uncertainly across the old bridge, its driver hidden by the early-morning shadows. Faheeb watched its approach like a hawk. Was it going a little slower than usual? Was this even the right truck? He raised his weapon a notch. Was something wrong here? Or was his