Seventy-two Virgins

SEVENTY-TWO VIRGINS

         The bone-chilling air rushed down from Canada and swirled around Michigan Avenue stirring up miniature eddies of Detroit-dirty snow along with bits of paper and other debris. On the graveled roof of a five story building, a half mile away, the sniper waira patiently in her nest watching the men through her Schmidt&Bender 12x50 scope.

              Three men stood shivering in the boarded-up alcove of an abandoned movie house.  Two wore dirty frayed long brown Army overcoats with the collars turned up against the cold. Their black ski-masks hid the Arab features of their faces and their murderous intentions. Nine-millimeter Glock automatics were slung under their long coats. The third man, much taller than the others, wore one of those fat silver winter coats that made him look like the Michelin Tire Man. He checked his wristwatch and looked up and down the avenue. His name is Ali Mustafid. The other two are known only as Mahmoud and Mohammed. Stamping their feet and slapping their arms for warmth, the two in the long overcoats emitted long white clouds of breath, quite unaware that instead of being the hunters, they were the hunted.

         At noon, and still below freezing, the sniper is former Marine sergeant, Karen McCann has her M40A3 sniper rifle loaded with five hand-loaded 7.62 rounds. She honed her ’craft’ in Afghanistan during Operation Wishbone by bagging some high-profile bad guys near the Pakistan border, earning herself the knick-name of Annie Oakley. Leaving the Marines in 2005, she hired herself out for big bucks to a black-ops U.S. shadow government agency. She didn't know who they really were and wasn't interested. Through the scope she mentally adjusted for the low light of the gray overcast. The swirling wind might cause some problem but she had dealt with cold unruly weather in the mountains of Afghanistan.

         Mahmoud and Mohammed are two of many Al-Qaida 'sleeper' agents living in many cities in and among a complacent and compliant American society. They had discovered through the Muslim grapevine that the hated, yet feared sniper they called Annie Oakly, who had martyred so many of their beloved leaders, was Karen McCann, sister-in-law of Ali Mustafid. They formed a two-man cell to kill Sgt Karen McCann aand Ali Mustafid and all his family. And then, of course, there is that million U.S. dollars bounty for McCann's head. In Saudi Arabia they would be hailed as heroes and each be promoted to general. If they failed, Allah would bless them each with rivers of honey and seventy-two virgins. Meanwhile, they stood shivering in the shelter of the old theater, patiently waiting to spring their ambush on the one known as Annie Oakley. The third man, her brother-in-law, Ali Mustafid, an Iraqi ex-pat  and owner of a string of dry cleaners in and around Detroit, was her voluntary decoy.

              It all  began last month when Karen answered her phone early one morning. It was Ali Mustafid, her brother-in-law. He was in a panic and needed to discuss an urgent matter and could she come to his down-town office immediately.             

                She heard the disconnect, looked at the dead phone and said, "Sure Ali, I'll be right over."  In less than an hour, she arrived at his main dry cleaning plant.  Ali greeted her and motioned her into his office where he closed and locked the door behind them.           

          “Karen,” whispered Ali, pacing the floor of his office.  “The word in the Muslim community is that your life is in danger, and the lives of your sister and myself and the three children have been threatened.  And it’s all because of you.”  A big Pakistani and a solid businessman, Ali's face was pale and his hands were shaking. 

                Picking nervously at his well-trimmed black beard, he continued, “I have been contacted by a team of two sleeper agents, Mahmoud and Mohammed is all I know, who have come to Detroit to kill you. There is a big price on your head. A million dollars, American. They tell me you were a marine sniper in Afghanistan who killed many of their people, important people. They want me to help to set you up for an ambush. They promised me a share of the money, and to spare the lives of my family, but I don't believe those animals. I think they plan to kill all of us after they kill you.

         Karen thought, only two? This will be a piece of cake. “Hey, I was just doing my job Ali,” said Karen. “I might have ruffled some feathers and pissed off some Al-Qaida big wigs but, it was just job, that’s all.”
         
         “Whatever." said Ali, "We have to do something because these people they will stop at nothing to kill you, me, and my family. Ali's bright black eyes seemed to scan her mind. “What are we to do Karen?”

         Karen didn't find it too improbable that her secrect identity would be discovered.  After all, Mom and Dad knew she was a sniper, her sister knew and she's married to Ali. Sometime or another, at a family get together with Ali's people, someone must have let it slip. These sleeper cells are everywhere. How they found out didn't matter to her now. 

                Karen spoke to Ali in the same conspirital, whispering tones, "Ali, I want you to agree to help them kill me, and maybe we can turn the tables."

                "What do you mean?"
         
                "Look, they're not going to believe that you would double-cross them. They know you are too scared for your family to even think about it."

                "Yes, and they'd be very much correct," Ali said, stroking his beard.

                "Well, what choice do we have but to kill them before they kill us?"

                The reality of it finally hit Ali like a mule kick to the gut. He looked at Karen and punched his right hand into the palm of the other. "Yes, of course, you are right!"

                “Trust me," Karen said, "I can handle these guys. If you can get them positioned where I tell you, I can take them out. Only problem is, Ali, if they suspect a setup, they'll kill you and your whole family.

                "I'm pretty sure these two animals are working alone," Ali said. "I didn't get the impression they were very smart. Besides, these independent cells do not dare to contact each other electronically. There are government eyes and ears everywhere. Also, I think these two do not want to share the bountry with anyone else. Do you know where I can hide your sister and the kids until this is over?" 

         "I have some friends in the mountains of West Virginia." Karen lied. "They are completely trustworthy."

         Allah willing, they will be safe until this problem is solved." 

                "Here's my plan..." 

                The rest of the morning was spent drawing diagrams, time tables, codes, and contacts. For his own safety, she didn't tell Ali of her alternate plans for her sister and the children.

         Now, a few days later, Ali, acting on Karen's plan stood in a boarded up alcove of an abandoned movie house with Mahmoud and Mohammed. They waited for one of Ali's dry cleaning vans to appear. His sister-in-law, Annie Oakley, is the supposed driver and will be by at exactly 1:00 pm. to pick them up.

         They waited in the alcove and Karen waited in her sniper's next a half-mile away. The two bounty hunters finally moved around to where she could take them both with one shot. They were facing each other talking about the million dollars they would receive and how everyone would look up to them when they were generals when suddenly, they raised their heads and looked around as if, like hunted animals, they sensed a presence. They moved apart. They didn't hear the shot that took out Mahmoud and before Mohammed could react, he crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings were suddenly snipped. The shots were silent, the acrid smell of cordite, sweet to Annie Oakley's nostrils. Honey rivers and Seventy-two virgins awaited two more Al Qaida "warriors."

         She pulled the pin on a smoke grenade and let it roll. White smoke billowed from the rooftop, alerting Ali to call 911 to report a fire. In the minutes it is taking the police and fire departments to respond a half-mile away, a white panel truck with the words 'Ali's Excellent Cleaners' has pulled up to the front of the old theater. Ali and his driver quickly load the two bodies, clean the sidewalk, then pull away to drive at normal speed down Michigan Avenue, away from all the hullabalu.

         Karen made a quick call on her cell phone, calmly packed her "tool", policed her two rounds of 7.62 center-fire brass, and walked slowly to the utility elevator.  On the ground floor, five blocks from Michigan Ave., a pale fragile-looking blond woman with a black leather suitcase climbed into a waiting taxi and left the cold, windy, mostly deserted district of Detroit in the rear view mirror.

                A few hours later, at the Detroit International airport, a 747 with a kangaroo painted on it's tail fin lifted gracefully off the tarmac bound for Austrailia.  As she adjusted her headset to listen to her favorite Moody Blues music, she looked across the aisle and smiled at her sister and fluttered her fingers in a wave to her two beautiful neices.