The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

– empty words. After all, what proof did they have?  Had Jarral been entrusted with Allah’s plan?  Or was he merely improvising as he went?

Ordering Raza to go pay for the gas, Jarral watched as the driver climbed out and crossed to the cashier’s office.  In short order, three more vehicles – a rusted gray VW Jetta, a battered Ford pickup that had seen better days, and an ancient olive drab canvas-covered stake bed truck – drove into the station as well.  A half dozen sullen men dressed as nondescript day laborers, clambered out from the back of the truck while four more climbed out of the pickup and began to stretch their legs.  Collectively, Jarral had called them “al-Battar” after the Sword of the prophet Mohammed.  He had preached to them that under his leadership they were an extension of the al-Nasra Front.  Mujahideen.  Foot soldiers in God’s army and as such they must be wholly committed to and prepared to die for Allah.

As Raza returned from the cashier and began to fill the Peugeot’s gas tank, Buttar and the man called Noor did the same for the Jetta and the pickup while the others took turns using the toilet.  The last to refuel was the stake bed truck.  Nearly out of gas, it took forever to fill.  Milling around as they waited, the men began grousing among themselves about how long they’d been sitting with nothing to show for it, the abysmal road conditions and the need for food.  Sensing their mounting impatience, Jarral had become acutely aware of the need for a distraction, something dramatic.  Absent such an action, his claim that Allah had revealed the part they must play in God’s plan to him alone might be seriously challenged.  Without question he would have to do something.  The question was what?

At the same time, recognizing their discontent as well, Buttar exchanged an accusatory look with Jarral. It was as if he were saying, “If Allah indeed speaks to you, tell us His plan.”  Turning away, Buttar moved to the Jetta where he retrieved a small prayer mat.  As the driver of the stake bed finally finished pumping gas and screwed the gas cap back in place, Buttar moved to the edge of the tarmac and faced toward Mecca. Taking his own mat from the Peugeot, Jarral joined him.  Seeing this, the others began to do the same.  Standing in two parallel lines facing east, the men raised their hands above their shoulders and uttered “Allahu Akbar” in unison as they began to pray.

Seated on his stool behind the counter inside the cashier’s office, Diego watched through the window in silent disapproval as the men began to perform Maghrib, the sunset prayer.  “Los culeros,” he muttered, cursing under his breath while debating whether or not to confront them.  But they finished and began to return to their vehicles before he could settle on a course of action.  Sliding open the cash drawer, his fingers found the .9mm Beretta hidden there.  Feeling the cool metal of the pistol grip as he pressed it against his palm, he carefully kept it out of sight as he removed it from the drawer.  Lowering it to his lap, he nervously thumbed back the hammer and extracted the clip, checking to be certain it was fully loaded.  Then restoring the magazine, he slipped the pistol into his belt, covering it with the loose tail of his shirt.  Looking back out the window, he stared at the men still milling around near the pumps.

Returning his prayer mat to the Peugeot, Jarral reached in through the open passenger window and retrieved his mobile tracking device from the seat where he had left it.  Rebooting it, he entered a half-dozen quick keystrokes, reacting to the results with a frown.  Seeing his expression, Buttar approached.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It makes no sense.  They should be right here.” Jarral answered.  Acutely aware that the others were watching, they spoke quickly in hushed tones, conversing in Urdu.

“Here…?”

“Look for yourself,” Jarral indicated the map on the screen of his tracking device where a red cursor was flashing. “This is the signal from the device you planted. And this is where we are.” He pointed to the green arrow on the screen virtually concurrent with the cursor.  “According to this, they should be right in front of us.”

The two men exchanged a look then glanced around as if half expecting the university convoy to be sitting unnoticed in the station parking lot.  It was then that Jarral spotted it: the dime-sized transmitter affixed to the housing of the gas pump.  Stepping up, he pried the bug free from where Corbett had attached it.  Then turning in anger, he hurled it into the roadway.

“The attendant,” he commanded. “Bring him.” Without hesitation, Buttar motioned to the man they called Raza and together they quickly crossed to the cashier’s office where Diego watched and waited.

Entering, the two men rushed to confront the old man, grabbing him as he reached for the .9mm hidden in his belt.  Fearing for his life, Diego fumbled for the pistol, accidentally causing the gun to discharge.  The bullet lodged harmlessly in the wall behind the cash register.  Overpowering him, Buttar ripped the pistol from his hand and struck the old man hard across the face.  Shaken and bleeding, Diego offered no resistance as Raza dragged him forcibly out into the open while Buttar quickly scanned the corkboard behind the register.  Spotting the instructions to the camp on a piece of paper bearing university letterhead, he tore it from where the old man had tacked to the board. Outside, Raza shoved the old Spaniard toward Jarral.

Livid with rage, Jarral grabbed the man by his blood-spattered shirt. “¿Donde estan…?” he shouted.

“¿Quien?” Diego managed, obviously confused by the violence and Jarral’s sudden outburst.

“Los de la Universidad.”

“No se.”

“He’s lying,” Buttar said.  “This was on the