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

leisurely took the measure of the three prisoners before him. Then his gaze shifted, settling upon the gleaming aluminum skin of the Boeing B-17 perched in the background. The calculating eyes lingered on the old bomber with open appreciation and the man smiled thinly, nodding his head slightly in the manner of inner true satisfaction. He returned his attention to Micah and the others.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen” he spoke English in an educated, almost British-styled dialect. “Please do not make any sudden motions. My compatriots would not appreciate it.”

The leader quietly issued an order in Arabic and six of the men moved forward, breaking into three groups of two each. While one of the pair acted as cover for his partner, the other did a physical search of his assigned detainee. The three captives were relieved of their personal effects including their watches, wallets, pocket knives and other such items. The process was detailed and professional, and pointed to some sort of special training.

Once satisfied, they shoved their charges into a position directly in front of the lighter complected man who had spoken such perfect English. While standing there, Micah did a mental head count. The six men who searched them were to his rear, and a seventh one busied himself while sitting in the front seat of the lead Suburban. The evident leader who had addressed them made for eight.

A ninth and final man had taken a ready position beside his commander. Easily taller than even the leader, this ninth man was in superb physical condition with broad shoulders, a muscular build and not an ounce of fat showing. His hatchet-like face was accentuated by a full goatee framed by long, raven black hair that fell to his shoulders. Most noticeable of all were his dark eyes burning with a peculiarly malevolent hatred, a hatred that was purposely being directed at Micah.

“I want you to know, you have my assurance that we mean you no harm personally” the leader continued. “Let me introduce myself: I am Yahla al-Qassam, a humble follower of the Prophet and fighter for the liberation of the Shi’a Lebanese people.”

Qassam gestured with a sweeping motion in regard to the armed men around him. “These are my comrades. We serve the Lebanese resistance movement known as Hezbollah and you are our prisoners. Now that you know who we are, allow me to determine exactly who you might be.”

His attention first settled upon Max. “You are former Luftwaffe Hauptmann Maximillian Friedrich Grephardt, holder of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves with 79 confirmed aerial kills during the Second World War. You are currently a high-ranking executive for Lufthansa Airlines and live with your family on an estate near Frankfurt. At present you are visiting your very close friend Ezekiel Templar here in the United States and enroute to a memorial air show in Midland, Texas. That is your Messerschmitt, the same kind of fighter aircraft you flew in the war.” Qassam pointed at the nearby 109G.

Max gazed serenely at Al-Qassam, mentally gauging the man. “Ja” he said slowly, “I am Max Grephardt.”

“Thank you” replied Qassam, who seemed to revel in showing his knowledge of the German. “One thing I should mention, Herr Grephardt. Do not attempt another storied escape as you did from the Soviets during that war. We are not a mob of ignorant peasants and would not take well to such a distraction. Suffice to say, there are far more important tasks demanding our undivided attention.”

He shifted his attention to Micah. “Let’s see now, you must be Trooper Micah Templar. You have nearly twenty years of experience as a police officer and your wife’s name is Abby, I believe. You have two sons currently in the United States Marines. Also, you served in the Marines yourself during your country’s war in Vietnam. Am I correct?”

Micah tried to keep his best poker face and simply nodded in affirmation. Inside of himself, he was still trying to mentally deal with this abrupt change in circumstance, as well as the highly disconcerting fact that someone he had never met seemed to know a whole lot about both him and his family. Someone who also gave every indication of being an especially dangerous enemy.

Without a further word spoken the long-haired taller man stepped forward and struck Micah a vicious round house slap, his open right hand making impact directly over Micah’s left ear. It sounded almost like a pistol shot and the report was loud enough to echo off the parked aircraft.

Caught completely by surprise, the blow staggered the trooper as the man’s palm slammed full force into Micah’s temple. The younger Templar managed to keep his footing, but his vision blurred while a galaxy of stars and planets exploded in bright flashes before his eyes. His left ear rang loudly from the air being compressed by the cupped hand, which in turn mixed with the pain and accompanying dizziness brought on by the impact itself.

Looking through his disjointed vision, the highway patrolman gave his assailant an angry glare as the man stepped back alongside Qassam. In return, Micah’s tormentor stared back with reptilian eyes that lacked any promise of humanity. Then the man smiled and it occurred to Micah that if a rattlesnake could do so, it would probably look like this guy.

“I see that you make friends quickly, Officer Templar.” Qassam said with an appreciable snicker. “Further introductions are evidently in order. This is my second-in-command, Mustafa Abbas.” He gestured to the powerfully built man to his side.

“Another bit of business that needs noted,” continued Qassam. “When I speak to you, you will respond verbally. Nodding is considered as disrespectful and will not be tolerated.”

Smugly, the Hezbollah leader eyed Micah. “And I would be very careful around Mustafa. He is well-known in Hezbollah as being without peer in unarmed combat and does not need a gun to kill a man.”

Leaning