End of Days, page 1
Dedication
For my friend, callsign Night Moves, a real-life combination of Jennifer and Shoshana—although a little bit more on the Shoshana side . . .
Epigraph
And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
―Book of Revelation
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Brad Taylor
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Long haired, olive skinned, and with a scraggly beard, Mustafa stood out from the other paragliders laying out their kit for the first flight of the morning. He was most definitely not of the Nordic stock who usually took tourists over the landscape of Interlaken, Switzerland. The men around him glanced curiously, but didn’t broach any questions, because Interlaken itself had become a hub of tourism for rich Arabs around the world. He was just a sign of the times as far as they were concerned, like the Halal menus and prayer mats offered at the hotels. The other pilots belonged to individual tour companies, and as such, knew each other well. Mustafa belonged to no company, but he’d taken the place of an individual operator who did.
High on a hill in Beatenberg, about twenty minutes from the town of Interlaken, it was one of the most popular places from which to launch. Overlooking the twin lakes of Thun and Brienz, plenty of tour groups used it, with the excited patrons driven by bus from the town. Mustafa knew his customer wasn’t coming on a bus. His fare was special, with unique requirements.
Content with the layout of his equipment, he took a sign not unlike a realtor’s, with the name of the company for which he’d supposedly worked, and jammed it in the ground uphill of the canopy, where it could be seen from the road. He turned to go back to the harness when he noticed a splotch of red on the corner, like someone had flung a strip of paint on it. He glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, but the other operators were too busy with their own rigs. He hurriedly wiped it off with his glove, finding it had congealed enough for him to have to use force.
For the life of him, Mustafa couldn’t fathom how a splotch of blood had ended up on the sign. When he’d shot the man who owned this canopy, he was across the room from where it had been leaning against a wall. It was a head shot, and messy, but how could the blood have splattered that far?
The mess he’d left behind was of no consequence now. No matter what they found of his passing—DNA, footprints, fingerprints, whatever—it didn’t matter, as he wouldn’t be alive to be caught. He was going to die in the next hour, along with the man strapped to him.
An expat from Iraq, Mustafa was ostensibly in Switzerland as a political refugee, but in reality he had another agenda. He was a sleeper, sent out into the world to wait until activated for a strategic attack. He’d lived in Switzerland for six years without a whisper from his higher command, until three months ago, with a plan that was so audacious it gave him chills.
Unknown by the intelligence infrastructure in Switzerland that had granted him asylum, he was a member of Keta’ib Hezbollah, a Shia militia in Iraq. Funded by Iran, they’d fought the United States early on in the Iraq War, killing soldiers with explosively formed penetrators provided by that theocratic state. Later, ISIS began to rampage throughout the country and the militia had been given sanction by the Iraqi government as a “Popular Mobilization Unit,” as anyone who could fight was needed to stop the slaughter.
They’d actually fought remarkably well against ISIS, even after the United States returned. While ISIS had given both a common foe, the militia had never forgotten the real enemy. Once ISIS was driven back underground, they’d returned to attacking the Great Satan, rocketing bases with impunity and killing with roadside bombs. They’d felt they were invincible—and had been told so by the very commander of the Iranian Qods Force, General Soleimani, who provided them with training, equipment, and expertise. They were the vanguard of a new Iraq, driving out the infidels of the Great Satan, the goal being a Shia-dominated country under the watchful eye of Iran.
And then the Great Satan had slaughtered the leader of Keta’ib Hezbollah with an air strike inside Iraq. Even worse, along with him they’d blown apart the Qods Force commander, General Soleimani. The strike came out of nowhere, the Americans killing with impunity.
The spasm of rage had been intense, but the revenge had been slow in coming. Iran had sworn vengeance, but other than a pathetic show of force involving rockets against Al Asad air base—where the Americans were stationed—nothing else had been done.
Until now.
Mustafa saw a minibus approach the turnaround point at the top the hill, then disgorge eight people, four passengers and four pilots. Even though it was early June, all were dressed for the weather, as it was crisp at eight in the morning, and would be even colder on the flight.
They spread out on the hill, giving each room to take off. Within minutes, the passengers were in the harnesses and the first pilot was screaming, “Run, run, run!”
Down the hill they went, the canopy lifting gracefully behind them. It caught the wind and their feet left the ground, the paraglider soaring out over the valley below, the passenger shrieking with delight. As soon as the first one went airborne, the next was running down the slope, then the third, and finally the fourth. Mustafa watched intently, ensuring he could get airborne.
Like the pilots on 9/11 who’d learned to fly but not take off or land, he’d had some instruction on paragliding, but he was by no means an expert, and the worst thing that could happen was face-planting his target on the slope without getting airborne.
Another bus pulled in, and this time it was only passengers. They went out to meet their designated pilots already positioned on the hill, and within a few ticks of the clock, he was alone again.
He waited another seven minutes, then saw a two-car caravan headed toward his location. The cars stopped and a swarm of men exited, taking positions of security. An older man, looking to be about eighty, exited the car and stood, waiting.
The target. One Gideon Cohen. A former head of the Mossad—otherwise known as the Ramsad—he was the man who had killed many, many of Mustafa’s clan, from patriots in the Gaza Strip to nuclear scientists in Iran. He had nothing to do with the killing of Soleimani, but he was a symbol. A powerful one.
It had been known that he summered in Switzerland, and apparently a plan had been developed the year before to assassinate him, but then COVID had struck, and made any such attack impossible. There was no way to conduct surveillance for an operation or develop any type of infrastructure necessary because of the shutdown. A year later, COVID was still rampaging about, but the vaccine was available, and various parts of the world were slowly coming back to life.
The biggest obstacle to targeting Gideon had been his security detail. They were very thorough, and very skilled. The only way to kill him was to separate him from them without a fight—and that had proven impossible, right up until they’d learned that Gideon had taken an affinity to paragliding.
Once every two weeks, he used the same company to take flight. A pastime he enjoyed, but also something that gave the security detail fits. And perhaps, that was part of the enjoyment. Being free from the chains of his past.
But those chains would follow him into the air on this day.
Chapter 2
After Mustafa had been activated, he’d spent three months learning the skills required to paraglide. He had no idea where the funding had come from to take the courses, believing it was from his masters in Iran. He was wrong on that point, but the death would come all the same.
The security man who’d talked to Gideon marched down the hill to him, his tie flapping over his shoulder in the breeze, a distinct bulge on his hip. A large man wearing sunglasses and a black mask, he had no humor in him whatsoever.
The man reached him and said, “Where’s Ulrich?”
Mustafa pulled his own mask up and said, “He might have COVID. He’s not sure. He came into contact with someone who’s come up hot and asked me to take this trip. To protect the client.”
“We don’t fly without Ulrich.”
Mustafa knew they’d conducted a background check on the man he’d killed, and understood this was the endgame, because he had no such check. He said, “Okay by me, but you still have to pay. Whether I fly or not, I’m getting my charter for this trip.”
The man fiddled with his mask for a moment, muttered, then went back up the hill. Mustafa held his breath.
And he saw Gideon shaking his head, wagging a finger, and then coming down the hill, the security man following. Mustafa exhaled, now feeling the adrenaline of what he was about to do. They both marched up to him and Gideon said, “Are you competent?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve done this as much as Ulrich. He’s my friend. We both work for the same company.”
The security man said, “Do you have the same safety equipment? Reserve parachute?”
Mustafa pointed at a bag on the ground and said, “Of course. I would never leave earth without it.”
What he didn’t say was the reserve bag had nothing but cloth in it. And a note.
The security man grunted, and Gideon started putting on the harness. Mustafa jumped forward saying, “Let me help you.”
Gideon waved him off with a laugh, saying, “I think I know how to do this now.”
Mustafa put on his own harness, then waited under the watchful eye of the security man. Gideon turned around to him and held his arms out. Mustafa pretended to check the harness, but honestly, didn’t know what anomalies or mistakes he was supposed to find. His limit of experience was flying solo, and he was beginning to panic about flying someone else.
The security man looked at him with some bit of concern, and Mustafa put his sunglasses over his eyes, shielding them. With the mask in place, he was now unreadable.
He stood up and said, “Looks good. You ready to go for a ride?”
Gideon said, “Yes, yes. Are we landing in the same place? In the field in the center of town?”
Mustafa really wanted to say, “Yes, but a lot harder than you’re used to.” But did not.
He said, “Yes, same place as all the others.”
He snapped the carabiners designed to hold Gideon to himself, tugged on them once to make sure they were secure, and glanced at the security man, seeing him staring at him like he wanted to use a knife. He turned forward and said, “Run, run, run!”
The old man started trotting down the hill, and Mustafa overtook him, almost falling on top of him. He staggered forward, the old man now dragging his legs on the ground, held up by the harness attached to Mustafa. In a panic, Mustafa leaned back, getting the man’s legs back underneath him, and then he began to fall forward. His worst fears realized.
He pumped his legs as hard as he could, dragging Gideon along, and then the canopy caught the air, lifting them off the ground. For a split second, Mustafa couldn’t believe it, dangling in the harness like a child in a bouncy chair. As the land fell farther away, he realized they were flying, and reached up for the toggles to gain control.
He swerved out over the valley, and his target said, “This is so beautiful. I never get tired of looking at it.”
Completely embroiled in controlling the canopy, Mustafa said nothing. Eventually, he calmed down, realizing that flying with a passenger wasn’t that different than flying alone. It just took a little longer for the controls to react. He began soaring over the valley, looking for his landing spot.
High over Lake Thune, he could see Interlaken to his left, but found the winds more than he expected. Try as he might, he couldn’t get back over the town. He realized that he should have started turning as soon as he was off the mountain, but didn’t have the experience to know better.
He completed a circle in the air, finding a thermal, and went higher. The target thought it was for his benefit, saying, “Yes, yes. Ulrich never does this.”
Consumed with his task and fearing failure, Mustafa thought about bringing out the hook knife right then, but that wouldn’t accomplish what his masters wanted. For one, they might actually remain alive after hitting the water. With the canopy still above them after the riser was cut, they would fall rapidly, but it would still slow the descent. For another, the letter in his reserve parachute pouch would be destroyed. The entire point of the mission gone.
He began to panic.
And then the wind died, falling away as if it had grown tired of the fight, allowing him to drive the canopy forward, over Interlaken itself. He saw the field smack in the center of town where he’d landed on his many individual training flights and steered toward it.
Gideon said, “So soon. So soon. I’d like to stay up here forever.”
Mustafa didn’t even hear him, entering another plane of existence. Knowing what was coming. He gritted his teeth and steeled himself, turning on the final leg of what would be the last controlled flight pattern he would ever do. His eyes closed, he withdrew a hook knife from his vest, similar to ones first responders use to cut seat belts. He opened his eyes and said, “Alluha Akbar.”
Gideon whipped his head around at the words, saw the knife, and began to rotate in his harness, trying to fight. Mustafa knocked his hands away, reached up, and sliced the nylon strap running from his harness to the carabiner of the left riser.
Gideon screamed, and they slipped to the left, the right riser still having some lift, the fall much slower than Mustafa expected. It wasn’t like jumping off a roof. The canopy lost air in slow motion, but eventually, they picked up speed, reaching terminal velocity at five hundred feet, both barreling straight to earth with the disabled sheet of nylon fluttering over them like a macabre flag celebrating the fall.
Mustafa screamed, “Alluha Akbar!”
And they hit the ground right where they were supposed to, only a lot harder than Gideon was used to, both bodies splattering open like watermelons tossed off a building.
Chapter 3
Aaron Bergman picked up the Guinness beers at the bar, paid the tab, and turned back to the table, ignoring the fact that the bartender recoiled at his mere presence. He’d seen that before. He did his best to hide it, but short of wearing a burka, there was no way to camouflage what he was. People just instinctively recognized him as a threat, like a pit bull growling at a visitor.
He saw his partner staring intently at the door, waiting on someone to enter. He unconsciously shook his head, hoping the man who came in didn’t have a problem for them to solve.
Anytime the Mossad asked for their help, it was because they didn’t want to risk actual assets. It was painful to admit, but they were expendable. But that did give them options. If they weren’t officially Mossad, they could solve the problem like they wanted, without the oversight.
Small blessings.
He went back to the table, set a beer in front of his partner, and said, “Irish bar. Irish beer.”
She scrunched up her nose and said, “Seriously? They don’t have any rum?”
He smiled at the inside joke. A good friend of theirs only drank rum and Cokes, and she’d taken to the drink to prove she had something to hold on to as a human being. Using his normalcy to prove she was normal. Which she was decidedly not.
“They have it, but the beer is the near side signal.”
She took the drink and said, “What’s taking so long? The meet time has come and gone.”
Aaron took a sip and said, “Calm down, dark angel. He’ll be here.”
