The Genesis Plague (2010)

calculative glances and prepared to make a play for their shouldered weapons.
    ‘You want a picture? I’ll give you a picture you won’t forget.’ Jason’s expression turned dark. ‘Everyone smile.’ Finally, he witnessed the terror he’d been waiting for.
    Panic seized the Arabs. Before they could scatter or take up their weapons, Jason raised his M-16 with lightning speed and opened fire in smooth sweeps.
    Meat followed Jason’s lead, strafing the Arabs from behind with no mercy.
    Within five seconds the posse had fallen, riddled beyond recognition.
    Neither Jason nor Meat stopped firing until their ammo clips had emptied.
    When it was finished, the river ran red.
    With no words spoken between them, Jason and Meat collected the weapons from the dead Arabs and loaded them into truck.
    Jason snatched the camera from the ringleader’s dead grip. He took a few steps back, snapped some pictures of his own and slipped the camera into his pocket. Then he walked over to the truck and dipped into the driver’s seat. He grimaced when he saw paperwork on the dashboard that bore a familiar Arabic insignia.
    Meat climbed into the seat beside him and saw it too. ‘Fucking Al-Qaeda. They’re like cockroaches.’
    A disturbing realization settled over Jason: this ambush was no coincidence. These men who’d been lying in wait were no mere splinter group. ‘These guys had been tipped off that Al-Zahrani was driven out from the camp,’ he said. Contrary to his original appraisal, the enemy had cast its net wide.
    ‘They aren’t so stupid after all,’ Meat said in self-recrimination.
    For a few seconds, Jason mourned the engulfed chopper, burned the image into his mind and soul. This would be the last time he’d underestimate the enemy. Then he put the truck in reverse and rode up on to the embankment to execute a K-turn.
    Keeping the lights turned off, he backtracked through the canal towards the roadway.
    Within two minutes, the dark silhouette of the bridge came into view. As he moved in cautiously, he spotted a dark form tangled on the rocks underneath the span.
    ‘What is that?’ Meat said. ‘Is that—?’
    Seeing nothing moving, Jason flipped on the headlights. Now the form was easy to identify. ‘Yeah. It’s a body.’
    Making a slow approach, Jason scanned the immediate area. No vehicles. No men.
    ‘All clear,’ Meat confirmed with a second set of eyes.
    Jason parked the truck close to the bridge. He and Meat got out and slogged over to the dead man.
    ‘Is it one of them?’ Meat asked, focused on the headwrap and tunic.
    ‘No,’ Jason said. He pointed to the feet. ‘He’s wearing marine-issue combat boots. And that’s the same turban Al-Zahrani’s driver was wearing.’ He crouched next to the body, clasped the shoulder, and turned it over.
    The head slumped back and the throat yawned open like a grisly smile where it had been deeply sliced from ear to ear.
    ‘Awh, Christ,’ Meat said, putting his hand to his mouth. ‘That’s foul.’
    Immediately, they both recognized the face … and it was no Arab.
    ‘Staff Sergeant Richards,’ Jason said, shaking his head. ‘Figures.’
    ‘I never liked that guy,’ Meat said. ‘What a prick.’
    Jason kicked the body into the water. ‘Damn, Crawford. What were you thinking?’ he seethed.
    ‘Hate to state the obvious, Google. But there must’ve been more of those guys under this bridge. ‘Cause they killed this fuck,’ he pointed at the dead staff sergeant, ‘and the truck he was driving isn’t here any more. I think that means Al-Zahrani is gone.’
    ‘Not exactly,’ Jason replied confidently.

58
LAS VEGAS
    Brooke Thompson and Thomas Flaherty strolled up the cathedral’s centre aisle, their eyes pulled in every direction by the interior’s ambitious design.
    Shafts of muted sunlight penetrated the gravity-defying geodesic dome and wove together above the voluminous prayer hall. The outer walls were clad in alternating blocks of polished and crenulated Jerusalem limestone. The central altar, dominating the rear wall, resembled a concert stage with its huge viewing screens, speaker clusters and spotlighting arrays.
    Most impressive to Brooke was the magnificent bronze baldachin that formed a lofty canopy over the altar. It depicted the haloed Jesus with rockstar hair and flowing robe, His welcoming arms spread wide in blessing, His feet surfing a cloud. Throughout the space she noticed no other iconography: no Holy Mother; no