Reprisal Read Online Free PDF Page A

coolness. He withdrew several of the weapons from the locker, both handguns and rifles. Paul laid some of his handguns on the table.
    There was the cute little Glock 29, the subcompact with the powerful 10mm upgrade from the Glock 26. He held the grip in two fingers, as it was designed, and set it down. So light, it almost felt like a toy. Next to it, he put his larger Glock 21 that boasted a heavy .45-caliber shell. He marveled at the fact the Austrian Glock was made of high-strength nylon-polymer, much more resilient than carbon steel.
    His cell phone rang.
    Usually, his friends texted him, so it was unusual for a call. Paul wiped his hands on a paper towel and walked over to pick it up.
    Didn’t recognize the number, clicked on receive, and said hello.
    “Paul, sorry to disturb you, but I’ve got some questions,” Zehra Hassan said.
    His breath caught in his throat involuntarily at the sound of her voice. He’d met her in law school, dated her for a short time, then they drifted apart. He still remembered how attractive she was, flawless skin and big, almond shaped eyes. “That’s okay. I’m not doing anything important. What’s up?”
    He had initiated contact with her a few days ago. She’d been surprised, but Paul insisted he called as a friend to see if he could help her. She probably saw through that but agreed. He told her of the difficulty the police and FBI had in figuring out what happened to the missing young men.
    It was a lucky break for the FBI when the witness came forward about the victim, Mohamoud Ahmed, and identified the suspect. The distrust of authorities in the Somali community made investigation difficult. Their loyalty to their clans trumped all other duties.
    And Zehra didn’t trust the reason for his call. He’d told his boss about the possibility of using Zehra to gain information about the murder case in the hopes of getting an advantage for the FBI.
    After Zehra agreed to talk, Paul suspected she’d use him for the same reason.
    “I just met my client, Ibrahim El-Amin, this afternoon. Since you’ve worked on the case, I wondered if I could talk to you. I mean, you said to call.”
    He sat down in the straight-backed chair at his bench. “Sure. What’s he like?”
    “I hate the son of a bitch. And he hates me … well, all women.”
    “Did he do something to you?”
    “Other than to try to hit me, no,” she said. “He stands for everything I’ve worked against all my life. These traditional Muslim guys from over there are jerks. They treat women like they’re camels. Quoting me the Qur’an. Can you imagine?”
    “Can’t help you there,” he chuckled, remembering how tough she was. “You know how badly we want to take this guy out.” She didn’t respond, and he knew why. Making contact with her hadn’t been an accident, and Paul knew she had her suspicions, but he couldn’t tell her everything right now. Primarily, the case was the most important aspect to him, not her. It involved connections much larger than she imagined. He’d have to be careful. “What else?” he asked her, fishing.
    “Since I only watch the gardening shows, I don’t catch all the news. What’s the background?”
    “The young Somali men disappeared from many families and locations, and it remained a local police case until a few developments this year.” Paul paused, careful how much he could reveal to her. “One of the boys, Shirwa Ahmed, blew himself up in Somalia last October to become the first American suicide bomber. Then, recently, Burhan Hassan was found shot dead in Mogadishu.”
    “Odd.”
    “Yeah. One of ’em was studying engineering and suddenly left.”
    “What ages?”
    “Anywhere from seventeen to their late twenties.”
    Zehra sighed. “Why in the hell would they want to go back to Somalia? I thought most people couldn’t wait to get out.”
    “Somalia hasn’t had a functioning government since 1991. It’s ruled by tribes, and that remains true today. It’s a