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Sword of Allah

Sword of Allah

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Sword of Allah

4/5 (1 evaluare)
233 pages
12 hours
Jul 17, 2012


Insane with grief, Sand vows to destroy a terrorist cabal

Ever since he took the vows of the samurai, Robert Sand has been ready to die. But now, for the first time in his life, he has a reason to live. Her name is Ann, and he sits beside her, awaiting takeoff for Geneva, when terrorists seize the plane. Holding guns on the passengers and crew, they douse the cabin in liquor and light a fire that will burn until it reaches the gas tanks. The terrorists flee as smoke fills the plane, but one lingers—a Japanese killer with a vendetta against the black samurai. He puts two bullets in Ann’s back, and even Sand’s lightning reflexes are not fast enough to save her. 

The Sword of Allah, the most feared terrorist organization on the planet, planned the attack. Its next operation threatens to turn the Cold War up to a boil, but they made one foolish mistake. Robert Sand is angry, and will have his revenge.

Jul 17, 2012

Despre autor

Marc Olden (1933–2003) was the author of forty mystery and suspense novels. Born in Baltimore, he began writing while working in New York as a Broadway publicist. His first book, Angela Davis (1973), was a nonfiction study of the controversial Black Panther. In 1973 he also published Narc, under the name Robert Hawke, beginning a hard-boiled nine-book series about a federal narcotics agent. A year later, Black Samurai introduced Robert Sand, a martial arts expert who becomes the first non-Japanese student of a samurai master. Based on Olden’s own interest in martial arts, which led him to the advanced ranks of karate and aikido, the novel spawned a successful eight-book series. Olden continued writing for the next three decades, often drawing on his fascination with Japanese culture and history. 

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Sword of Allah - Marc Olden

Sword of Allah

Black Samurai (Book Seven)

Marc Olden

A MysteriousPress.com

Open Road Integrated Media


For My Godmother Mrs. Mary Jane Brown















Chapter 14 SOLUTION


Preview: The Katana



FINGERS TIGHT AROUND A fork, the Arab terrorist jabbed viciously at the unopened quart of Scotch, twisting his slim brown wrist right, then left, finally flicking off the shredded red plastic seal.

His head light with excitement, he stood alone in the small, narrow galley serving as the airplane kitchen, perspiration beading on his thick black moustache. The terrorist’s name was Salaam.

Flinging the fork into the wall behind him, he snatched quickly at a metal kitchen knife, hand shaking nervously as he wedged the blade between cork and bottle. He gripped the knife harder, the bottle of Scotch now squeezed tightly between his thighs.

Grinding his teeth together, he jerked his clenched fist upward, grunting in satisfaction as the cork came loose with a soft pop.

He hurled the knife to the green linoleum floor, the sharp noise exploding like a gunshot in the silent plane. Then, holding the bottle low and even with his hip, he turned it upside down, pouring Scotch on the floor of the plane as he backed quickly out of the kitchen.

Now he was in the aisle, looking down at the wet, dark trail of spilled Scotch sinking into the gray carpet. He moved past Musa-El, who shifted his Russian 7.62 AK assault rifle to the right, so it wouldn’t graze Salaam’s head.

Salaam, who would set fire to the Scotch as soon as he finished pouring it in the aisle of the airliner, pulled a corner of his mouth up in a small smile of satisfaction. Today was his twenty-fourth birthday, and along with three other terrorists—two Arabs and a Japanese—he’d found the two Russian Assault rifles with folding metal stocks, along with two American Colt .45’s, hidden in a sealed cardboard box marked Cocktails in Cans. There were also two ropes with grappling hooks, to be used in climbing down from the plane.

As planned.

And as planned, the terrorists had immediately taken over the Paris-to-Geneva airliner.

On this cool June night, the plane’s four engines sent out a low rumble, its propellers swift-moving circles of silver blurs in the darkness. It was still parked on a runway at Orly airfield eleven miles outside of Paris.

Forty-eight people were on the scheduled one-hour night flight, almost all sitting in tense, frightened silence. Some turned in their seats to take a quick look at the Arab terrorist cradling his Russian rifle at the rear of the plane, turning from him to again stare at another terrorist standing in front of them, his back to the cockpit area.

Robert Sand sat in the rear, on the left side of the plane, where seats ran only two across. He turned from the window after a quick look at the runway. Its ground lights were blue, orange, and white lines marking landing and takeoff areas. It’s calm out there, he thought.

That means no one outside this plane knows we’ve been taken over. Either the pilot couldn’t get a message out, or the Arabs haven’t communicated with the tower.

The Black Samurai frowned. He didn’t like that. Not at all. Because if his samurai instincts were correct, that meant the Arabs and the one Japanese had taken over the plane at gunpoint for one reason only: to kill the passengers.

Sand took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, his mind alert, racing. In the seat across from him, a child cried and a woman said softly, Sssh, sssh. It’ll be all right, it’ll be all right.

But the child continued to cry, and Sand knew it was wiser in its own way than the woman. Tonight, things were not going to be all right.

He wasted no time accepting the harsh truth brought to him by his acute perception. The four terrorists had taken over at gunpoint less than three minutes ago, and in that time they’d moved swiftly, precisely, with no wasted motions.

Two Arabs with Russian assault rifles covered the passengers, while a third ran to the back and made a lot of noise rummaging around in the tiny kitchen. This one was dumping his third bottle of liquor on the plane’s floor.

Sand’s brown eyes narrowed to bright, hard slits as he stared at the green-and-gold curtain separating passengers from the cockpit area. The Japanese, round-faced and muscular, with powerful shoulders and strong hands, had rushed forward into the cockpit, a Colt .45 in his big right fist.

He’d run right by the Black Samurai without noticing him. His name was Goshi, and until recently he’d been a member of the Emperor Hirohito’s private guards. Sand knew him.

Will they kill us? Ann chewed her lip, frowning, troubled green eyes staring down at her open-toed shoes of orange straw and canvas. Fear made her voice a hesitant whisper.

She clutched Sand’s right arm with both hands, fingers digging into his hard-muscled biceps.

They’ll kill some of us, he thought. Sadness touched him with cold fingers. No reason for killing these people, no goddamn reason for it at all. Will it do any good for me to tell her I know these terrorist bastards want bloodshed?

Want it!

Stay cool. He whispered to her out of the corner of his mouth, like something out of a 1930’s gangster movie. "Stay cool. It’ll be over soon, it usually is. They can’t stay here forever. Just be cool". Try, baby, try.

I didn’t answer her question, but I hope she thinks I have.

Goshi. Sadistic, incredibly strong, and a top judo and karate fighter. The last time Sand had seen him was in Tokyo, and Goshi had been lying unconscious and bleeding on a dojo floor.

The Black Samurai’s fists had put him there.

Sand’s fists. Now they were clenched in frustration, rock-hard and helpless. I know they want to kill, I know it, but all I can do is sit here and watch. And maybe bleed. Goddamn it.

Looking down at the armrest, he smiled, letting out a long breath. Ann had taken his clenched right fist in her cool, soft hands. He felt the touch of her rings, the gentle brush of her thin gold-link bracelet on his wrist, and he relaxed, unclenching his fist and taking both of her hands in his.

That’s Ann, that’s what makes her special, he thought. She’s kind, gentle, and right now she’s got to be scared enough to throw up. But she’s trying, she’s trying. And she reaches over to help me.

Yeah, she’s special.

She was English, twenty-six, with hair between brown and blond, worn shoulder-length and parted in the middle. It framed her face nicely. She was a stewardess on BOAC, and there was more to her than good looks and long legs.

She was kind. Thoughtful. Not just of him, but of almost anyone she met. Her smile was real, and often when they were together, he’d catch himself just staring at her without knowing why. In his travels throughout the world, he’d learned what he wanted to learn about women.

One thing he knew: there was nothing sexier than a woman who treated you right. And Ann Renters, from Cornwall, England, treated him more right than any woman he’d met in a long time.

She had looked at his scars, the gouges in his flesh made by knives, swords, and bullets, and she touched them, frowning, her face genuine in its concern. Then she did a remarkable thing.

Incredibly enough, she sensed that he didn’t want to talk about them. With an unerring instinct, she granted him privacy. And gave him her love. That was when he’d learned something else: sometimes love is what you let someone else do for you.

Maybe it wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, but that’s how he felt about it. Ann was one woman he didn’t push away after using her flesh.

Kind, gentle, loving Ann. Ann, who spoke three languages, who had survived a broken back in an air crash in France, and who against doctor’s predictions that she’d never walk again had painfully learned to walk again. And run.

Ann, who read him poetry in bed, who introduced him to the poetry of François Villon, a medieval Frenchman who was a pimp, thief, murderer and who somehow had managed to be a great and powerful writer.

Ann, who gently laughed at him when he was too serious, who was always there when he telephoned from wherever his dangerous life took him. Gentle Ann.

She gave him so much of herself, asking nothing, absolutely nothing in return. What peace and softness he found in a world crazed by violence and selfishness all came from her.

He looked down at her hands, his thumb brushing the blue enamel ring trimmed in gold she wore on the forefinger of her right hand. He’d bought that in Brazil especially for her. As far as he knew, she always wore it.

She looked at him, her smile small and tentative. Guess we won’t be sleeping in Geneva tonight, huh? Her lips hardly moved when she spoke.

Geneva. She loved that city, its huge lake and high mountains, half of it built on a hillside. Sand had told her he’d take her there for three days. After that, he had to go back to America and the Baron.

The Baron—William Baron Clarke, twice President of the United States and now supposedly retired to his 1,250,000-acre Texas ranch—had another mission for him. The tall, hawk-nose Texan had wanted Sand to start immediately, but the Black Samurai had been definite in saying no, almost slamming down the telephone on the Paris-to-Washington call.

Sand wanted those three days with Ann. Everything else would have to wait. Since he had teamed with the Baron, money hadn’t been a problem. He had all he needed. What he needed was a reason for living, and for the past six months Ann had been that reason.

Tonight he was more on edge than he would have been had he been alone. He was worried, and he knew why. He was worried about Ann’s safety, a drawback in his way of living. Right now he wasn’t in a mood to analyze whether emotional attachments were dangerous or necessary.

He sat quietly, Ann’s hands in his, his face hard and thoughtful. I’m holding onto her life, too, he thought. He gripped her hands harder, the smell of spilled liquor reminding him that it was also the smell of death.

The three Arabs and Goshi were members of the Sword of Allah, the most bloodthirsty and feared group of terrorists in the Middle East.

Musa-El twenty-five, thin and clean-shaven, stood in the back of the plane, his eyes moving from Salaam pouring the whiskey, to the silent passengers. A few of the women wept, faces red and swollen as they tried to comfort their children and whisper in swift, breathy tones to tense, frightened men beside them.

The men patted their women’s hands, sometimes leaning over to whisper quick words of comfort. Musa-El, a former medical student from Beirut, thought: These men are impotent now. They can bring nothing to their women, and soon they will bring them even less.

He found that amusing, the thought of giving a woman nothing, then giving her less. Looking forward over Salaam, his eyes met Harsha’s. Harsha, twenty-six, stocky, in a brown suit and tieless white shirt, had his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

But he nodded once, signaling Musa-El to be ready. As soon as this liquor bottle was empty, the Sword of Allah would strike. Harsha, in charge of this raid, took a quick look over his left shoulder, his keen eyes peeking between the curtains.

Good. Good. Goshi had everything under control. Pilot and copilot still sat at the controls, hands on top of their heads. One flight attendant, a thin man with a dark blue uniform and thick blond eyebrows, knelt on the floor behind the pilots, hands also on his head.

Say, uh, fella, what— The captain’s voice was slow, with a deliberate attempt to be calm, soothing.

Goshi never let him finish. His face contorted with hate, he backhanded the .45’s barrel across the captain’s left temple, his thick arm sending an ax blade of hot pain smashing into the captain’s brain.

The captain’s hat flew off, striking the copilot, making him flinch and duck away. Then the captain, lips pulled back in agony, teeth grinding against each other, his eyes closed against the agony exploding in his skull, fell to his right, landing against the copilot’s left arm and thigh.

Goshi’s voice was a guttural hiss. No talk! No talk! The flight attendant, still on his knees, his arms aching from the uncomfortable position, began to weep silently.

Hearing the noise and Goshi speak, Harsha turned around quickly and saw what had happened. He smiled at the muscular Japanese, then turned back to face the silent passengers.

As he shifted the Russian AK assault rifle, moving his hand from the thin steel rod serving as the rifle’s stock to the trigger, he breathed deeply with the power of life and death given him by the weapon. They look at me, these people, as though I’m the most important thing in their lives. I am.

Sword of Allah. Not psychopaths, but patriots. Not fanatics, but the cutting edge of Palestinian freedom. We are a voice the world now listens to, thought Harsha, and tonight that voice is going to cry out in rage, to be heard as never before.

Sword of Allah. It needs blood to live, and blood it shall have. Our leader, Ras el Jallud, says blood is necessary for all living things, and the life of the Sword of Allah tonight will claim the blood it needs to survive. Let our enemies dig deeper graves, for their dead will be many.

In Arabic, Harsha called out to Salaam, Hurry! Hurry!

Salaam, nodding his head, didn’t turn around. He kept pouring, breathing faster, excitement making his heart jump in awkward rhythm. He backed toward Harsha, eyes on the wet, dark trail of spilled Scotch sinking into the gray carpet. Inhaling, he let the smell of liquor go deep into his lungs, a quick tiny pleasure.

We kill, he thought, then we disappear, blending into darkness and mountains, crawling under the earth or falling in step with a faceless crowd in any major city.

The Sword of Allah! It was Salaam’s pride, his manhood.

He finished, dropping the bottle on the carpet, straightening up, and turning to Harsha.

Leaning to the right and peering around Salaam, Harsha shouted, Musa!

Musa-El ran forward, the assault rifle tight in his hands, .telling himself that when he pulled the trigger he’d have to remember to keep the rifle down if he put it on automatic. Fired that way, the gun tended to jump up and pull to the right.

Sand whispered to Ann, his eyes on Musa-El’s back as the terrorist raced toward the front of the plane. "Listen, just listen. When I move, you go down and stay down. Throw yourself over here, to your left. Dig a hole. Get down on the floor and stay there. Stay."

She was wide-eyed; then she frowned and opened her mouth to say something. Sand touched her lips gently with his fingertips, whispering, As always?

As always.

The first words he’d say to her when she answered the phone. And the first words she’d give him. They were in each other’s thoughts and lives. As always.

She whispered the words back to him, nodding her head for emphasis, the long blond-brown hair falling forward and hiding her face. Brushing the hair away from her face with one hand, she said again, As always, touching his forearm with her hands.

Tearing his eyes from her, he gazed at the front of the plane. Behind him were two empty rows, then ten feet to a back door now sealed shut by a thick iron bar.

Sand was strong enough to open the door alone, but it might take too much time, and he’d be a target for those

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