Target: Heartland

Chapter 1
Sunday Evening, August 28, 2016 – Interstate 29 North of Grand Forks, ND
“I can’t die!”
Stanton Wells, barely conscious, heard the scream.
“I can’t die!”
There it was again. What was happening? Who was screaming? Was someone really screaming or was it a dream? Everything was out of focus. He couldn’t think. He was in a daze and just wanted all of it to go away.
Suddenly his head jerked and smashed into the driver’s side window of his rental car. The agony of the blow was excruciating. Whatever it was it certainly was not a dream. The hurt elsewhere in his body carried him further back into reality. He began to remember what was happening, not at the lightning speed at which his brain usually functioned, but hesitantly, grudgingly, as if he wanted to avoid it for as long as possible.
His head hit the window again. He was being violently tossed around, his car tumbling. Then the staggering realization. He was the one screaming. He was the one in the middle of this horror scene.
The other car had come out of nowhere, racing upon him from behind, starting to pass and then smashing into him, forcing him off the road, over the embankment and into the field beyond.
He remembered hearing the screeching of brakes and the gnashing of metal on metal, feeling his own weightlessness as his car flew through the air, becoming aware of the excruciating pain in his knees and legs when they hit the bottom of the dash as the car bounced off the tree and tore through the boundary fence, rolling over and over down the sloping terrain into the adjacent pasture.
The car was still rolling, still tumbling. His body was jerked again by the violent movements. This time the pain permeated every nerve of his being. Then there was no movement. The car had stopped, but something was still wrong. What? He had to come out of it. Think Stanton, think. Of course. His 6’6” frame was hanging upside down, held in place only by the seatbelt. This was crazy. What was going on? Where was he? Why was this happening?
He thought again of his screams. He remembered saying “I can’t die.” The words had been precise. They were his. They were also fact. Dying today was not an option. The fate of his country would not allow it. The fate of millions throughout the world would not allow it.
He knew what had happened. They somehow learned that he had been listening and now they were trying to kill him. That had to be it. There could be no other reason.
Getting out of this car was his first priority. Getting away from them was next. They were out there. He knew it. He had to get away. He had to get away. He had to…get…away….
Stanton lapsed into unconsciousness.
The other car traveled nearly the length of a football field before it could skid to a stop after running the stranger’s car off the road. The two men in the car jumped out and ran down the embankment. Both became entangled in the barbed wire fence that bounded the 80 acre field.
“Damn it!” cursed the Russian. He struggled to free himself, becoming only more tangled. “Ahmed, get me loose!” he called to his Middle Eastern companion. Ahmed had freed himself and was already running into the pasture.
“No time.” he said.
Ahmed fired his weapon as he ran, strafing the stranger’s car. Still 100 yards away he watched the car finally stop rolling. Only a matter of seconds now. He would make sure the infidel was dead. He did not know how much the stranger had heard and didn’t care. Nothing could jeopardize his mission. He was al Qaeda’s last hope, their only hope. He had come too far and could not fail now.
Ahmed reached the stranger’s car. The next thing he knew he was laying on the ground, dazed, with flames dancing in the grass all around him. It was his turn to wonder what was happening. As his brain cleared he realized the car’s gas tank had exploded.
“Let’s go, let’s get out of here, he’s dead!” the Russian screamed from the edge of the field. “People are coming.”
Ahmed turned his head back toward the Russian and saw that he had freed himself from the fence. He could also see lights coming on and window shades rising in farmhouses up and down the road. Doors were opening and people were shouting “What’s going on, what happened?”
Violence had disturbed the silence of the night in rural North Dakota and Ahmed knew violence was an unknown here. If shots were fired it was usually someone trying to kill a coyote or deer poachers intending to procure the main course for numerous Sunday dinners, and such shots were never fired at night. Something was wrong if shots were fired after dusk and if something was wrong people would come to see what it was. In rural North Dakota, they would come armed.
Staggering to his feet, he was still dazed from the gas tank explosion. He had to make a decision. The Russian scum was an infidel, but he also played a vital role in what was to come. Besides, Ahmed saw that the fat Russian had freed himself and knew that he would run at his lumbering pace back to the car and leave without him if he stayed in the field any longer to make certain the stranger was dead.
He heard the shouting voices again, closer now. The locals would be on the scene soon. The stranger’s car was demolished and in flames. No one could have survived that crash or the explosion. He had to be dead as the Russian had said and Ahmed could not allow himself to be detained and questioned by the authorities. That would be risky at best and could put an end to his mission. He could not let that happen. His people were depending on him to return them to greatness.
Ahmed took one last look at the burning hulk of the vehicle and decided that the stranger could not be alive. He turned and ran back toward the waiting car, jumping in as the Russian was turning on the ignition. “Another ten seconds and you would have walked back,” the Russian glared at Ahmed as he spoke.
“And you would have soon after been a dead man.” Ahmed glared back.
They sped off together into the night, glowering at each other, as the first of the nearby residents hesitantly approached the burning car in the pasture.