The Uvalde Raider by Ben English (great books for teens TXT) 📕

seemed somewhat taken aback by the alarming display of emotion. The second-in-command stood there, primed to spring into action but unsure of what he should do or why. It was plainly evident that none of them had ever seen their commander behave like this before.

Qassam kept the long, piercing wail going and then in the midst of his overwrought fit lunged forward. He began pummeling the older man rapidly with open palms about the face and head. At this point Mustafa did make his move, grabbing Ezekiel with both of his powerful hands and jerking him to his feet.

The wail died away as Qassam expended all of the air left in his lungs. But in his blinding anger, the Hezbollah leader pushed his henchman away and shoved Ezekiel down on to the couch again. He resumed his attack with mostly ineffectual slaps at Ezekiel, who had hunched himself up to brace against the blows. No one else dared to interfere or try to pull Qassam off and calm him down.

The terrorist leader discontinued the indecisive slapping and then started a series of awkward kicks aimed at the older man’s head and torso area. Twice he nearly lost his balance before he stepped back, chest heaving and with the tottering stance of someone in the midst of exhaustion. His eyes were partially unfocused and rolled ever so slightly as if he were experiencing some sort of physiological disorder. Looking down at his bound prisoner, they refocused and filled again with a peculiar brand of rage reserved only for the most inhumanly cruel or the certifiably insane.

Redirecting upon the origin of his rampage, the Hezbollah leader started forward again but stopped in mid-stride as some other idea entered his head. His right hand went into the front pocket of his trousers, producing a diminutive Beretta Bobcat .25 ACP pistol. He brought the blued steel handgun up, cocking the exposed hammer and pointed its muzzle squarely into Ezekiel’s face, finger on the trigger. Mustafa stepped back and away, while everyone else in the room grimaced at what was most likely to come. Everyone except Ezekiel Templar, who stared down the barrel of the small pistol as if it was nothing more menacing than a number two lead pencil.

The terrorist leader stood there, chest heaving and breathing heavily with a crazed, disheveled look on his face. The lack of reaction from the older man seemed to stymie his murderous provocations, and indecision began to creep across his features. The pistol barrel wavered ever so slightly, as a sliver of a resurgent self-control came again to Yahla al-Qassam’s consciousness.

Qassam slowly lowered the pistol, glowering at the retired colonel and now acutely aware of how his behavior must have been viewed by both captives as well as captors. Ezekiel Templar grimly held to his same piercing stare, a thin line of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth amongst the other cuts, bruises and welts that were beginning to dot his face.

“Well done, Colonel, very well done”, the Hezbollah leader literally spat out the words. “Probe for your enemy’s weak points, identify them and concentrate to exploit them. Your long-ago reputation as an intelligence operative is well deserved.

“Providentially enough for you, it came to me just now what you were attempting to do. Yes, I know what you were thinking: Let me see if I can put this man off balance, to so irritate or anger him as to make him cease thinking logically. That is when we all make our mistakes, isn’t it? When we become so emotionally involved or distracted as to lose control of ourselves as well as our objectives.”

As Qassam spoke the tiny Beretta hung loosely at his side, muzzle down. However, the pistol had not been returned to its prior hiding place and the hammer was still cocked back. Ezekiel Templar remained silent, never breaking his line of sight.

“You very nearly overplayed your hand, Colonel,” the terrorist continued. “But I suppose if I had put a bullet between your eyes, it would have worked to your advantage. I would be missing one high profile hostage, and far more importantly would have shown my men that I am not the leader they believe me to be. Killing thousands as part of a plan to win a war is the mark of a strategist, killing one in a fit of rage is nothing more than the conduct of a common criminal, someone with no concept of strategy, discipline, or honor.

“Yet you have managed to make me lose face in front of my men, and I will have to deal with the reverberations from that as well as the resultant loss of any respect. For that, you will be punished. This will not be done in anger though, nor as part of some senseless personal vendetta.” Turning to Mustafa, he communicated rapidly in Arabic. After receiving his instructions, the second-in-command nodded and quickly went out the door. Soon enough he had returned with the others who had been working on the bomber. The men crowded themselves into the room, and the close confines became thick with uncertainty and tension.

After everyone was present, Qassam began to address his compatriots using a slow, emphatic tone. As he did so, Micah Templar again tried to understand what was being said but could only pick out the occasional word or expression. In general though, it was obvious the terrorist leader was explaining what had occurred and was coincidentally painting himself in the most favorable light possible.

Micah looked over to his uncle, who sat there calmly with a nigh inscrutable presence about him. Beyond him the younger Templar could see Max Grephardt. The German perched on the edge of the couch exuding a quiet defiance, his blue eyes having turned cold as stone to match a jaw set as if made of granite. Whatever was to come, Micah drew a grim satisfaction in being among