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Melvut Amri had chosen his men carefully. They were elite ISIS fighters. Each man would give his life to further the cause. Amri himself would be the first to take a bullet if anything went wrong. He’d rather die a hero than face shame. If he failed, Omar Fadli wouldn’t hesitate to parade him through the streets of Mosul. In a public demonstration, Fadli would use a machete to sever Amri’s head and proclaim him a coward. That’s how ISIS punished failures. But if he succeeded, he would be given accolades, power and wealth. He would report directly to the caliph, al-Umari. Yes, Amri would earn his place and become an equal to Fadli and then he’d prove to the world he was the tougher soldier and the more loyal servant of God.

Under cover of darkness, he led his men from the African bush. Fanning out, each man carried an AK-47 with a silencer. The Nelson employed a handful of security guards with little to no training who were no more than bushmen given meager pay to patrol the compound. Amri’s inside man had watched for weeks, and the guards’ routine never changed. Stationed at the four corners, the bushmen were doomed. Amri and his men cut them down like chaff, then rendezvoused beyond the gatehouse.

Their inside man had given Amri the room assignments, yet no one on his team knew who the target would be. No one except Amri himself.

At the gatehouse, he shot the first guard in the face, then took out the second. In less than five minutes, Nelson’s entire security team had been dispatched.

Amri pointed to his lieutenant. “Cut the power.”

“Straight away, boss.”

Then Amri took one of the dead guards’ keycard and headed for the bunkhouse at a crouch, his men falling in behind. As expected, the outdoor lights shut off, casting the compound into darkness. He pulled down his night vision goggles. No one would stop him this time.

They all knew the drill. They’d practiced a thousand times.

After using the keycard to access the side door, he led them to room 123, fired a suppressed shot at the lock and pushed inside.

The sleeping man stirred awake and pushed up. “What—?”

“Thomas Flynn?” Amri asked.

“Yeah, but—”

His lieutenant slapped duct tape across the man’s mouth.

Though the scientist wasn’t given a chance to utter another word, the surprise in his eyes gave him away. And time was everything. One misstep and they could lead the superpowers of the world to their hiding place—to the place where they would plot to raise al-Umari to ultimate power. A place where no one would think to find them.

Amri stood back while two of his men held guns to Flynn’s head while his lieutenant finished the job, making sure the duct tape held fast on Flynn’s mouth and wrists. In thirty seconds they were outside the bunkhouse. And in three minutes they were climbing the steps of the waiting Gulfstream.

Amri’s breast filled with pride. His op had run flawlessly. Come morning, Amri would be heralded as a hero throughout the Islamic State.

***

The plane jolted sideways and free-fell, making Mike’s Coke crash to the floor. Once the plane stabilized, Mike released his vise-grip on the armrests and shot Henri a look as he released his seatbelt. Jerking open the cockpit door, he shouted, “What the hell was that?”

Fox glanced back from the console, his eye wide. “A frigging plane. Came out of nowhere and buzzed. Crikey, they practically sent us into a tailspin.”

Mike squinted through the windscreen into total darkness. “What the hell? This isna exactly high traffic airspace.”

“Too right,” said Luke. “I didn’t expect to see anything. There’s nothing here.”

“Aside from a gathering of energy moguls,” said Henri, careful to leave the word “nuclear” out of the conversation.

Mike leaned against the door jamb and crossed his arms. “Who all probably arrived by private jet.”

She nodded. “Maybe.”

“What the?” asked Luke, leaning forward.

Mike again peered out the window. “What is it?”

“The airfield is supposed to be down below but there aren’t any lights.”

Henri climbed into the co-pilot seat, scanning out the window. “There’s the compound.”

“Huh?” Mike squinted and finally made out a black box-like structure. He pointed. “There?”

“Yes, can’t you see anything?”

“Pardon me, Eagle Eyes.”

“We’ve flown past the airstrip.” She ran back and got her laptop and brought up the satellite image of the compound, shoving it in front of Luke. “See?”

“Got it. I’ll double back. One fly over ought to give me the lay of the land.”

The problem?

Why were the lights out? All of them.

“We’d better buckle in.” Mike threw his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to their seats. “The place probably runs on a generator, but I dunna think it’s a coincidence that the power’s down.”

“Hooah, it’s time to dance.” Henri grabbed the Saint and ammo vest on the way aft.

“Seatbelts,” Luke said over his shoulder. “I mean it.”

And he did. Aside from a nasty crosswind, the plane hit hard, jerking and shuddering as if the airfield were infested with potholes. But the Australian proved his skill, pulling the plane to a stop and cutting the engine. “Welcome to the edge of the earth, ladies and gentlemen. Land of coal and oil, there’s nothing but bush for miles no matter which direction you go.”

Mike checked his Glock’s magazine, then looked at the pilot. “Stay with the plane. You got that sidearm loaded?”

“Yes, sir.” Luke saluted.

“Good. Be ready...for anything.”

“Roger that, mate. At least they didn’t open fire on the plane—that’s a good sign.”

“We’ll see.” Lowering his NV goggles, Mike exited first. The last thing he wanted was for Henri to take another bullet—not on his bloody watch. Never again. He leapt over the handrail and used the stairs as cover as he panned his gun across the airfield. “Clear.”

Henri slipped down the steps as silently as a cat. She carried an M4 strapped over one shoulder, a Glock in her back holster and the Saint supported by a lanyard in front of her body with her fingers wrapped around the handle. She looked like a female version of Rambo. Hot, gorgeous and ready to kill. “Lead on, Bubba.”

“Bubba?” he asked in a whisper as they dashed for the safety of the scrub at the edge of the airstrip.

Henri crouched beside him, scanning everywhere through her NV goggles. “It’s just a pet name I like to use.”

“For friends?”

“Specifically reserved for good guys.”

“All right then. You got it, Eagle Eyes.”

“Soaring-Eagle,” she said over her shoulder.

Mike chuckled to himself. They might be walking into a shit storm, but he was learning quickly it was a very good thing to have Henri on his side. And they worked well together—could practically read each other’s minds.

She moved like a panther through the dirt path that led to the compound. Still shrouded in darkness, the place loomed like a green ghost town. It was too quiet—no crickets, nothing. It didn’t take long for them to discover why. Two guards at the gatehouse had been shot at point-blank range.

“Looks like a professional hit,” Henri said. She stepped over one of the dead men and examined the compound diagram. “Generator’s located to the left.”

“Let’s sweep the perimeter first before we light the place up.”

Their tour around the grounds turned up four more dead guards, and it was a big place—complete with bunkhouse, command center and mess, not all that different from a military operation, except fancier—more resort-like. From the satellite images, the quarry was about a quarter-mile south.

As soon as they reached the generator, Henri went to work while Mike stood guard. Five minutes and the thing roared to life. Lights went on in all corners. Talk about a resort. The walks were lined with palm trees and grass as green as Scotland’s hills.

Henri brushed off her hands and picked up the Saint. “Ready to go in?”

“What canna you fix?”

“I’m hopeless with forty-year-old Ford trucks.”

By the time they hit the bunkhouse, Mike was convinced the plane that had nearly sent them into a tailspin was their target. Still, they took the building as if there were enemy suspects inside. Once they ensured the common areas were clear, they started pounding on doors.

“What the hell is going on?” barked a bald man tying a sash around his bathrobe. “I’m Caleb Gruber, Head of Security.”

“You tell me,” said Mike. “Your power was cut and you’ve got six dead guards out there.”

“We what?”

Henri gestured with her Saint. “You can help us by assembling everyone in the mess hall including employees. We also need a manifest of each person attending this summit.”

Gruber didn’t budge. “And who the hell are you? This convention is top secret.”

“Aye,” said Mike flashing the appropriate credentials. “We have NATO clearance. You were just hit by terrorists. If you dunna cooperate, I’ll assume you are one of them.”

“Jesus.” The man looked stunned.

“No one makes any calls, texts or e-mails until otherwise authorized,” said Henri. “Move!”