The Specialists: Deadly Strike

When a mysterious terrorist group, the Sword of Allah, seizes the cruise ship Royal Princess and begins to toss vacationers overboard, the Specialists are called in, only to find themselves taking on a more dangerous plot to unleash a biological plague on the United States. Original.

Cairo, Egypt

Katherine "Kat" Killinger couldn't remember a colder day in Cairo. An unusual chilling fog and misty rain slithered around the old buildings, whipped through this out-of-the-way narrow street, and sliced through the tan, cotton slacks, thin white blouse, and casual jacket she wore. The coat completely hid the Walther P88 9mm automatic pistol in her belt holster. She shivered a moment in the damp chill, then concentrated on staring through the thinning fog and mist at the two-story white-and-yellow office building that was the target of her stakeout.

Kat watched for a bomber. She and Specialist partner Duncan Bancroft were here at the invitation of the Cairo police to help them find the terrorists who were targeting American-owned businesses. Six blasts had taken place in Cairo in the past six weeks.

Kat pursed full lips. Her brown eyes wavered a moment and she closed them. She'd been watching this well-painted white-and-yellow office building for hours now and it was beginning to tell. This was the third day of the stakeout and she was starting to question their logic and their plan. She steeled herself for more waiting. The triathlons were more like this for pure energy sapping. Kat let out a long-held breath and leaned against the building just out of the misty rain. This whole street smelled of age and dirt and stale Egyptian tobacco.

The Geological American Oil Survey office she watched stood just across the street and one building to the right. In spite of the rain, the street was peppered with people. An outdoor market a block down drew shoppers even in the wet. A pair of young girls with backpacks hurried past, chattering and laughing. People came and went from the small offices on both sides of the street. A dozen men and women walked past the survey office every few minutes. Kat studied them all. She tensed as a trio came toward the office on the far sidewalk.

A woman in full chador carried a parcel under one arm and a shopping bag that looked heavy. Close behind her a student with a backpack idled along in no rush to get anywhere.

The third person was a large man with a full black beard and a low-riding hat that hid most of his face. She tensed when she saw that the man carried a black suitcase. Two of the other bombings had involved suitcases. Her right hand hovered over the butt of the Walther.

Kat scrutinized the veiled woman. She was still one office away from the survey firm. As the matron angled closer to the building, Kat watched the man. He had moved to the outside of the sidewalk to pass the woman. He walked quickly and didn't even glance toward the oil firm.

The boy with the backpack couldn't be more than ten. She looked away from him and at the woman near the glass windows of the oil-company office.

A moment later Kat relaxed as the big man strode quickly past the target office and vanished up the street in the mists. The veiled woman hesitated in front of the oil firm, looked around, then continued past it. Two men dressed all in black hurried along the sidewalk blocking out Kat's view of the student with the backpack.

Then she found him. He was only four feet tall, slender with a tumbled mass of wet, black hair. He had stopped in front of the oil-survey office. He shrugged out of his pack. He reached inside it for a moment, then placed the pack against the façade of the store.

At once Kat pulled her Walther and charged away from the empty building she had been hiding beside and sprinted into the misty rain. She was still thirty yards from the youth.

The kid could have reached inside the pack to activate a bomb's timer. She ran flat out toward the office and saw the boy turn and rush away from the building, coming directly at her. He saw her in his way but kept running forward. The boy screamed something at Kat in Arabic. She didn't understand the words but felt his anger.

Kat charged straight at the boy. The youth glared at her, and screeched something else in Arabic. The Arab boy dodged to the left, and Kat stayed with him. He feinted to the right, then changed directions in a flash and jolted again to the right to go around Kat. She had played too much soccer to let him fake her out. She matched his moves and they slammed into each other.

Kat kicked out strongly with her right foot, hitting the boy's left leg and driving it into the other one, sending him into a stumbling roll on the wet pavement.

Kat loomed over him, the Walther put away, her small shoulder purse hanging at her back. "Get up," she barked. He looked wet and forlorn where he lay crumpled on the wet pavement. He couldn't be more than ten.

The kid looked up and yelled at her in Arabic. She had never seen such stark hatred in a face so young. It startled and pained her. How could one this young learn to hate that way? In an instant he rolled away from her on the slippery street.

Kat jolted forward and dived on top of the boy. He fought like a trapped wolverine. Before Kat could subdue him, the backpack bomb went off fifty feet down the street where the boy had left it in front of the American firm's office. The explosion created a raw force thundering through the street with a numbing roar that sucked the breath out of Kat. She automatically closed her eyes and ducked against the coming blast of hot air. The explosion shut off her hearing like a master switch had been thrown and she felt the surging mass of air that tore at her clothes and battered everything in front of it. The hot air seared past her where she lay on the street, then shards of glass, splinters of wood, and jagged metal fragments rained down on both of them like the spawn of a Missouri tornado.

In a few seconds it was over. The boy must have felt Kat relax because at once he pushed at her and screamed. He ripped one hand free and pulled something hard and black from his pocket.

A hand grenade.

Kat stabbed at it with clawing fingers. The boy humped against her hard and pushed her a foot to one side, then he jerked out the safety pin in the lethal bomb.

"I will gladly die for Islam," the boy shouted in Arabic. Kat only heard whispers of his voice. She surged forward on top of him, trapped his right hand, and tore the grenade out of his grasp. Her face felt tight, strained with terror, and her heart stammered, missing a beat, as she realized the grenade's arming handle had already sprung off. The bomb was ready to detonate. Dammit, she wasn't going to die on some rain-slick Cairo street. She had 4.2 seconds before it exploded.

Kat looked around and saw the empty building she had hidden near. She should throw the grenade through the window. But what if she missed getting it inside the vacant office and it bounced back into the street? It could kill half a dozen people. Her mind raced, picking and discarding options. Ten feet ahead Kat saw a storm-drain opening. Without another thought she threw the grenade toward the two-foot-wide hole, saw it roll into the darkness, and moments later the deadly explosive went off with a muffled roar.

The kid wilted. Kat caught both his hands and bound them behind his back with plastic riot cuffs. "Be good and I won't kill you," she rasped in English at him, not able to hear her own words yet, not caring if he heard her or not. She shook her head, trying to rattle her ears back into action.

The youth looked at her, his face mottled with hatred and fury. "If you don't kill me, then I will kill you," he brayed in English. Kat heard part of it and watched him closer. The unbounded hatred. How had he learned it? Who had sent him with the bomb? She had a dozen unanswered questions. He tried to jerk away from her grasp, but she held him down as she cinched another plastic riot cuff around his ankles.

The boy screamed in...