Free The Recruit: A Taskforce Story by Brad Taylor Page A

prostrate in front of him, and felt the hatred.
    They were snitches. People who’d sold out the clan for money, giving information to the enemy for targeted air strikes and intelligence on how the Islamic State functioned. Jacob would have had qualms about killing someone for eating pork or not wearing a head wrap, but he had none for traitors.
    They were the ones who had caused the pain in his past. Had caused the trips to the white house.
    He looked at his man, a Kurd. Strange that such a person had been able to penetrate so deeply, given the fight against the Peshmerga, but he had. And he’d given massive information about the Islamic State to the Americans. Now he would die.
    But the fly on his forehead would live.
    He swished the man’s face and saw it buzz away. Then leaned down, wrapping his hand into the hair, pulling it up.
    Like he had as a child, when the next “new” father came into the room, stinking of whiskey and taking off his belt, he let his humanity float away, flying on a cloud. Gone.
    He became a robot.
    He looked down the line, seeing the ubiquitous cameraman recording the killing, then Carlos and Devon eagerly snatching up their own heads and looking to him for guidance. He waited on Hussein.
    He caught the tears on Hussein’s cheeks and wondered if the man would go through with it. He saw Ringo advancing and shouted, “Hussein!”
    His friend looked at him and he said, “For the white house. Do it for the white house.”
    Hussein rapidly nodded, then pulled up the head.
    Jacob turned to his own man, seeing his eyes rolling back, feeling the shaking in his body, the bright orange smock soaked in sweat.
    The first swipe brought a gout of blood. He reached bone, and began sawing.

2
    Omar al-Khatami watched the tape without a shred of revulsion, technically looking for the propaganda value. His media specialist described how he had enhanced the image, optimizing it for YouTube, and said, “This will show the Americans what happens to their spies, and prevent others from following in their steps.”
    Omar said, “Yes. Post it tonight. End with the heads on the bodies.”
    The door opened and the emir of northern Syria entered.
    Mildly surprised, Omar exchanged greetings and said, “Adnan, I thought you weren’t returning for two days. What is happening with the oil?”
    Adnan smiled and said, “It’s coming along. We only have the wells pumping at a quarter of capacity because of a lack of technical skill, but we have found men to change that. Soon, we will double our output and our revenues. As long as you don’t lose the fields.”
    Omar said, “No chance of that.”
    “Good, because I have some news. The caliph has bestowed a great honor on you. He has promoted you to the emir of external operations.”
    The mention of the leader of the Islamic State brought a pause. Confused, Omar said, “External operations? I am the military commander here. I still have work to do. Aleppo to take. Damascus to burn.”
    “The caliph has heard of your Lost Boys, and he thinks it is time to use them.”
    “Then do so, but don’t pull me from my men. They fight because of me. The time is growing short for victory. This will be a setback we can’t afford, given the American attacks.”
    Adnan scowled and said, “The caliph believes in you. And your American cell. He chose you.”
    “Why? We have many men who could do this. You, for instance.”
    “Because of your skill, for one. And because you are Chechen. You have traveled in Europe. You know the contacts. You can build the attack he desires.”
    “These Lost Boys are untested. I’m unsure of their commitment.”
    Adnan looked at the computer screen, the video paused with four men slicing and cutting. “Is this not them?”
    “Yes.”
    “They show commitment here.”
    “It could be simple fear. Hussein, the Jordanian, cried throughout.”
    “And the others?”
    Omar grudgingly admitted they showed no qualms, but said, “The leader of