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A Lifetime of Terror The fear of terrorism subsides after the failed attempt to knock down the World Trade Center Twin Towers in New York City in the early 1990's. People returned to their normal lives across the country. What happens when the country lets its guard down and exposes itself to attack in unexpected places? A chilling story so real you'll be watching your neighbors, your employees, even your family, wondering what destructive weapons they might be hiding. A Lifetime of Terror is available now in paperback and most eBook formats. Go to the Home page for more information on how to get your copy TODAY! Read the prologue of A Lifetime of Terror below.
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Prologue June 1967 Heat radiated from the desert floor in all directions as the sun beat down on the parched earth. The approaching aircraft appeared to be rising out of the valley from the west towards the Golan Heights. As they passed overhead, the ground to the north of the Sea of Galilee shook. The roar of the jet engines caused the young Syrian to cover his ears. The formation was so close to the ground that he could feel the heat from the engines’ exhaust, the fumes filling his lungs. His eyes followed the jets heading east into Syrian territory; his family’s territory. He saw the missiles hanging under each wing. It had begun. Just the week before, his father spoke quietly to his mother. “We are no match for the Jews. They will come with great force. Their American-made jets and weapons are superior to the Russian MiGs. I pray to Allah that we will put aside our hatred for the sake of our children.” His wife had said nothing in reply, but her eyes were filled with the sadness of generations of Syrians. She’d begged her husband to move the family closer to Damascus, away from the border with Israel. Away from the hatred, the fighting, the oppression. But her words fell on deaf ears. “This is our homeland. We will stay.” So they stayed. Now the day that she and her husband feared was upon them and the young man was witness to his father’s prophecy. Those fateful words now echoed in his ears along with the thunder of the jets passing to the east. Minutes later, the fifteen year old heard the high pitched scream of the missiles as they darted from the attacking jets. The explosions of the fuel tanks of the Syrian MiG fighters, as they sat motionless on the ground, sent shock waves along the earth’s surface. Shielding his eyes from the low morning sun, he saw the black plumes of smoke moments before he heard the muffled explosions. After another moment, the ground trembled again under his feet. He imagined the screams of men as their lives were snuffed out in an instant, either from the shock waves of a bomb blast or from the incinerating heat of a fireball. From his position near the highest point in the Golan Heights, he looked to the northeast out over the lowlands towards Damascus. Then he looked to the south and the smaller cities as more explosions erupted at his homeland’s air force bases. The complete annihilation of the Syrian Air Force was happening before his eyes. He slipped into a trance as another vision of his father came to mind. We’re not ready to defend our families. Our planes have no spare parts. Our pilots do not have the experience needed to survive real combat missions. They will be slaughtered. And his father would know. He was a jet mechanic at the military air base west of Damascus, north of Al Kiswah. He was trained by Soviet mechanics, the experts who knew the MiG jets inside and out. He knew that they were ill-prepared for battle. As the early morning sun rose over the horizon, the fifteen year old placed a hand over his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He watched the area near the base where his dad worked, and saw the plume of black smoke rising into the sky, casting a shadow over a large area west of the great capital. He feared the worst; that his father’s visions of his own death had come to pass right before his eyes. He cursed the Jewish pilots and their American made weapons. He felt like crying, but tears would not flow. He was a man, after all. Only hours later, his fears would be realized, as news of the attack on the air base filtered back to his home town of Al Qunaytirah. Their small home was filled with his mother’s shrieks of anguish. For hours, her sobs consumed her and her family. But what he thought were his worst fears only proved to be the beginning of his real-life nightmares. Just days later, while sitting in the same spot overlooking the valley to the east and Al Qunaytirah to the north, Israeli tanks thundered into town, destroying everything in their path. The mighty Syrian Army retreated, leaving the city and its civilian population defenseless. A blast from an Israeli tank obliterated his family’s home, killing his mother and two sisters as they hid, praying for Allah to deliver them from their enemies. He wasn’t with his family, but was out watching the battle from a distance. After dark, dodging the occupying Israeli military, he returned home to find his entire family buried in the rubble, dead. He knew what he had to do. The words of his mother came back to him. “Move to Damascus, away from the border, away from the hate.” It was too late for his family, but not for him. He fled his hometown. He could move away from the border, but hatred was embedded in his being. As he walked along the road towards the great city, the hatred was displaced by a hunger, not for food, but for blood; the blood of his enemies. On the road to Damascus he met two people who would change his life. Salma Nidal his future wife and Iman Khidir Khadduri, who would become his mentor and financier. July 1982 It had been a good day for Javier Lopez. It was late in the day and not quite as hot in the South Texas desert as it had been earlier. He intended to go straight home and avoid the bars that would siphon his money away. He always managed to keep the majority of his pay from his job tending horses at the Double T Ranch, east of Del Rio. His mother and sister depended on him for support back in La Purisima, Mexico. Javier worked for an American ranch owner who empathized with the Mexicans who risked their lives crossing the Mexican-U.S. border to find work and support their families. The rancher knew he was taking a risk. If he were caught, he would be prosecuted. It would surely cost him a pretty penny, but he might also get jail time if some judge decided it was time to make an example of someone. But most likely, the judge had illegals in his employ as well. It was all a game of chance. Javier was a hard worker. He spent over sixty hours laboring each week, even though he was only being paid minimum wage for forty hours. He wanted his employer to know that he could depend on him. He had a family to care for and needed the work. His mother depended on him to survive ever since his father died in a bar fight in Del Rio. That was another reason he steered clear of the local bars. He feared he would end up dead, like his father. Javier didn’t want to die at such a young age. After all, at sixteen, he’d barely experienced life. All he knew was hard work and the church. When he wasn’t working, his mother insisted that he attend church services or help the young priest by working around the rectory. Javier got a ride to within a mile of the border fence then walked the remaining distance in a dry wash. The area was low and hidden from most anyone’s view. He was able to make good time while staying out of sight of the local population. Most folks in the area were tolerant of the Mexicans passing north by morning and south by evening. They understood that they were working, doing the jobs that most U.S. citizens wouldn’t do. The work was either too hard or didn’t pay enough, or both. Either way, it was beneath them. But the Mexicans would do it. They weren’t happy doing the work, but they were happy to get the pay. Even at minimum wage, they could make more in one day in the United States than they could get in nearly a week in Mexico. That was if they could find work at all. Javier Lopez was one of the lucky ones. He was tired after his long day, but he had his day’s pay in his pocket, and he was headed home. Up ahead he saw the ten foot high fence that had been built years ago on the banks of the Rio Grande. The rust had overtaken the barrier so much so that it was hardly a fence at all. The reddish-brown, jagged, chain-linked fence was nearly on the ground in places. Years of men, women, and children climbing over the fence had bent the posts over, even snapping them off in some stretches. Javier was within one hundred yards of the fence. At his favorite crossing point it was still upright, but a large hole had been cut, the links pulled so far apart that several people could walk through it side-by-side. Once through the fence, he had to cross the river then walk another mile and he’d be home. He smiled thinking about a cool bath and a beer. Then he would ask about his mother’s day and whether his little sister had studied like she promised. His sister was really only a half sister, but he adored her. She was beautiful. And she was smart; very smart. She could read, was good at math, and could already speak both Spanish and English fluently. He told her, Stay in school, learn something new every day, and move to the United States. There is great opportunity for smart, beautiful women. She would flash that beautiful smile when he said that to her. Even at eight years old, she was gaining confidence. Javier feared that if he didn’t push her, she would never leave this pitiful little town. He made it his mission in life to free her from the daily rut of life in poverty. Still walking along in the dry wash, he was now within fifty feet of the fence. He looked left. Clear. He looked right. Clear. He looked left again and started towards the fence, walking, but at a quick pace. He heard a voice yell in a loud, Texas drawl, “Hey, you! Hold it right there!” He turned to see a large man in a tan cowboy hat, light green shirt, blue jeans, and boots heading in his direction. The man was about thirty feet away. Javier thought about running but it was just one man. He was big and probably couldn’t run fast. So he decided to wait. He hadn’t seen the man use his cell phone to contact his son and his friends just moments before. By the time Javier heard the ATV’s motors, it was too late to make a run for it. Three more men pulled up on ATVs, one blocking his path to the fence, the others blocking his path back to the wash. They were young, probably in their late teens, tanned, like ranch hands. They were also lean and strong. The big man walked up to Javier, standing very close. He was nearly a head taller than the young Mexican. His face was hard and wrinkled, like he’d spent his whole life in the sun. His mustache was mostly gray with some black mixed in. He had a scar nearly three inches long just below his left eye, which was nearly shut. The closed eye had a nervous twitch. For a long moment, nobody said a word. Then the big man rubbed his right hand over his mustache as he looked at the horizon where the sun was making its run for cover. In a gravelly voice he asked no one in particular, “What do we have here?” No answer. The man looked at one of the ATV riders. Then asked, “What does it look like to you, Jeb?” “Looks like we got us a wetback, Daddy.” “It sure does. A dirty wetback. Takin’ our jobs. Stealing our cattle. Getting’ free food. Who knows what else? Probably kidnappin’ our women.” The man was so close that Javier could smell the alcohol on the big man’s breath. He didn’t know what to do. If he tried to make a run for the fence, he’d never make it. What if the man hit him? Would he dare to fight back? He knew he couldn’t fight all four men and win. He wasn’t a fighter anyway. Try to reason with them. Try to keep calm.
Across the river, his little sister was waiting. She’d come to greet her brother and walk with him the rest of the way home. She had good news to tell him about her day. Her lesson today was about how Mexico used to extend well into what is now the United States. It bothered her that her country had lost the land. But that was history. Maybe someday they would get their land back. Then she saw her brother standing beyond the fence, surrounded by four men. This confused her. Why was he talking to them? Then she saw the big man point his finger at her brother’s chest. Javier didn’t raise a hand. Then one of the other men pushed him back towards the bigger man. What was happening? She sensed that her brother was in trouble. One of the men slapped Javier on the back of the head. He raised his hand to rub the spot as he turned to see which one of the men hit him. When he did, one of the other men punched him hard, sending him into the arms of the big man. Javier tried to stay against the man, but he was pushed back to the middle of the circle of angry men. She watched as the men took turns punching her brother until he could no longer stand. She wanted to yell to him to run, to get away from the bad men. He fell to the ground. She hoped they would leave him alone now that he was defenseless. Then she saw the first kick from a pointed boot. It hit his right kidney with such force that he arched his back. More kicks followed to his head, stomach, and back. The men continued to kick him long after he lost consciousness. She screamed Javier’s name. She screamed at the men to stop hurting him. They laughed at her. In those few short minutes, her world was shattered as her older brother was beaten to death, his body tossed into the murky waters of the Rio Grande.
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