The Patriot Plan

The Patriot Plan
Devin Kerins
Copyright © 2012 Devin Kerins
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1468160699
ISBN-13: 978-1468160697
To my brother Sean,
For being hugely responsible for my twisted sense of humor.
Hope you enjoy, you sick puppy!
Chapter One
Cyril E. King Airport St Thomas, US Virgin Islands Monday, July 13 11:03, Atlantic Standard Time The American Airlines plane rolled to a stop at the lone terminal. The one story structure was surrounded by the picturesque green mountains and crystalline blue of the tiny Caribbean paradise. Eager vacationers restlessly stirred in their seats, excited to deplane and start their vacations. Two people didn’t seem to share in that enthusiasm. Mary and Henry Templeton stepped off the plane onto the gangway stairs. Upon leaving the discomfort of their seats in the rear of the plane, they were met by the wall of oppressive humidity and excessive heat emanating from the tarmac. “What kind of airport is this?” Mary whined in a nasally, Long Island accent. “I thought we’re still in the United States. How are they allowed to treat us like this? I have never had to walk down the stairs at an airport before!” Henry ignored his wife and took in the sights and sounds of the giggly college girls on vacation. He closed his eyes and imagined he was lounging on the beach with 5
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four or five of them in skimpy bikinis rubbing lotion over his stretch‐mark riddled stomach. Subconsciously he licked his lips. “Quit daydreaming and hurry up,” Mary ordered. Like the good, tortured husband he was, Henry fell into line, dragging behind him her carry‐on luggage that barely fit into the overhead compartment. That was always the case with them. Though he made a small fortune yearly as a vice president of a software manufacturing company, she clearly wore the pants in the relationship. When she barked, he jumped. What was worse was when she would degrade him in front of others. She dominated every aspect of their lives, including the bedroom – which was what led them to be landing in the tiny island of St. Thomas. She surprised him for his birthday with a reservation to the exclusive resort for couples into bondage and humiliation called Forced Retreat. Rumors and torrid tales surrounded Forced Retreat, ranging from the depraved acts that allegedly took place at the resort, to the mysterious owners themselves. Some say the owners were once spies and were now laying low. Some say they were involved in huge government conspiracies and this was their reward for silence. Whatever the case, one thing was certain for Henry Templeton – he would not be leaving the tiny territory of 6
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the United States with his dignity intact. He still hadn’t figured out how this was a birthday present for him when he knew damn well she would be in control the entire trip. “Oh my gawd,” she exclaimed loudly. “Henry, come try some of this rum!” She offered him a tiny shot glass of Cruzan Rum. He meekly took it from her and slammed it back hard. When she wasn’t looking, he took four more shots. The young lady in a khaki Cruzan uniform smiled politely but stated, “Whipped bastard,” through her teeth. It was going to be a long week. He thanked God that at least on these islands quality alcohol was so inexpensive that it was even cheaper than cough medicine. Perhaps he could kill off the parts of his brain that formed short term memory with enough Rum Runners and Tequila Sunrises. He caught up to her as she was standing by the baggage carousel. “Henry, get the bags!” Before he could say anything, she had sauntered off to find a taxi. Henry peered around and caught a glimpse of the two young ladies who had been sitting across the aisle from him on the flight down. Their skirts seemed even shorter now. He couldn’t help but flash back to his fantasy of being pampered. “Henry!” Mary’s shrill voice bored through him. “Pay attention, you dumb ox! You just let my bag go by!” The 7
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young ladies looked at him and laughed to themselves. Mary ran over his feet with the wheels of her heavy suitcase. “Let’s go!” Henry fell into his subjugated place two steps behind her, clumsily trying to manage her five bags and his one as they walked out of the baggage claim into the blistering summer tropical sun. Mary waved at a cab driver who had been waiting for them. He stood next to a brightly colored jitney bus. “Okay,” she spoke loudly and slowly. “We want to go to the seaplane terminal. Do you understand me? The seaplane terminal,” she made airplane wings and a flying motion with her arms. Henry felt queasy with embarrassment. “Why are you talking to him like that?” “So he can understand me,” she snapped back. “But they speak English here,” he offered. “No they don’t!” She screeched. “Yes we do,” the taxi driver answered back in baritone and heavily accented voice, the devious smile never disappearing from his face. “Whatever,” she dismissed everyone. “Just take us there.” “Cuckold,” the taxi driver laughed as Henry got in the back of the modified pickup truck. Henry seethed. 8
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The only customers in the taxi, Henry and Mary had no idea that the driver was taking them the extremely long route from the airport to the seaside terminal where the seaplanes landed. His route involved as many pot‐
holes, traffic jams, and potential opportunities for violent criminals to prey upon the unsuspecting New Yorkers as possible. “My gawd, this place is a dump,” Mary whined again as she looked around at some of the more rundown houses on the island. “How do people live like this?” “Please stop,” Henry begged. “They don’t deserve you criticizing them.” “But look around you,” she waved her arms. “I feel like we’re in a third world country. They’re not even driving on the right side of the road here!” That comment drew angry looks from a group of islanders walking along the road. “I expected more palm trees!” “We’re driving through town,” Henry pointed out. “And how can they stand the heat here?” She fanned herself frantically. “It’s unbearable.” When the driver couldn’t stand her voice any longer, he decided to just head directly for the seaplanes. Back at the airport, another plane landed and another group of tourists seeking fun, sun, and discounted liquor 9
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and tobacco ambled down the gangway. Like clockwork, several of them commented how they had never been to an airport where they had to walk down the stairs to get off the plane. The herd moved in unison to baggage claim. Some stopped for a shot of Cruzan rum or to listen to the man playing reggae versions of 1960’s hits on his electric guitar with a Casio keyboard providing pre‐programmed backup rhythm. But as the herd rounded the corner to pick up their bags, one olive skinned man broke off and continued on to the taxis. He carried only a backpack with a change of clothes and several fake passports. Everything he needed he would pick up on the island – and even that wasn’t much. His mission was simple: Get in, get it done, get out, and move on to the next target. Outside, an elderly man with short grey hair and a brightly flowered shirt stepped towards him, “Taxi, Mon?” “Please,” the man smiled. “Where you heading? The beach? Looking for women?” The taxi driver smiled. “I wish,” the man continued to smile back. “The seaplane dock, please.” “I can’t believe they asked how much I weigh,” Mary griped as they sat in plastic lawn chairs in the waiting area 10
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of the seaplane dock in Frenchtown. The waiting area consisted of a ratty tent with no walls slung up over moldy plastic lawn furniture. Chickens ran free, clucking incessantly. “I can’t believe you lied,” Henry muttered. “I did not lie,” she protested. “When was the last time you actually weighed one hundred and fifty pounds?” The heat was getting to Henry and making him surly. He was sure she would punish him for this later. “Excuse me? I am so one hundred and fifty pounds.” “Sweetie,” he said guardedly, “they ask you that question for a reason. It’s not wise to lie about those things.” “But I wasn’t lying.” She folded her flabby arms and turned her head. “And I didn’t appreciate you whispering to the lady at the check‐in and telling her to multiply that by two.” She turned back to him and slapped him in the back of the head. “Don’t think I didn’t hear that!” Henry rubbed his head. The sound of an approaching jet engine caught his attention. Judging by the altitude of the landing plane, he surmised they were just about a mile from the airport. It should not have taken the thirty minutes to get here. If he was more of a man, he would have demanded his money back from the driver. 11
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Behind them, a ruggedly handsome, olive skinned Middle Eastern man massaged the bridge of his nose. Try as he might to block out the incessant yammering of the married couple in front of him, he could not. He checked his watch again, hoping that the seaplane would be early. But then again, he knew that when on ‘Island Time’, it was best to never be in a hurry. “Rub my feet,” the rubinesque wife demanded as she thrust her leg onto her skinny husband’s lap. “And did you remember to pack the extra strength sun block?” “Yes dear,” the man responded dejectedly. “Good, because you know how you burn. After all, you have the complexion of a urinal cake.” “Allah,” Yousef Sadr prayed, “hurry the plane!” The short trip to Submission Cay was no less painful for Yousef Sadr. The private island lay thirty miles north of St Thomas. The flight took a mere twenty minutes. No sooner had they taken off were they preparing for their final descent. However, it seemed like an eternity for the hired hit man. He was forced to sit next to the portly wife in the rear of the plane, listening to her insist that she was, in fact, only one hundred and fifty pounds. When she wasn’t 12
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complaining about that indignity, she was outraged with how hot it was in the cabin, how small the seats were, or how she wasn’t allowed to keep her bags with her during the flight. “Do you think these planes are safe?” she continually asked Yousef, who tried as best he could to pretend he didn’t speak English. This ploy only succeeded in making her speak slower and louder in an attempt to bridge the perceived language barrier. As the plane taxied along the water to begin its take off, she gripped Yousef’s arm so tightly she broke skin with her offensively bright painted nails. Yousef couldn’t be sure, but he swore he could see her husband smiling back at him from four rows up. Submission Cay was a tiny speck of an island situated on the outermost boundary of the territorial line of the US Virgin Islands. It had recently been bought by a Mr. and Mrs. John Smith from Binghamton, New York. The clerk who sold the island to Mr. and Mrs. Smith seemed skeptical of the couple at first. However, a considerable sum of large denominational US dollars happened to ‘accidentally’ fall out of Mr. Smith’s briefcase onto the clerk’s desk. Any reservation the clerk may have had seemed to disappear into the Trade Winds. Mr. and Mrs. John Smith had quickly built the leader in fetish resorts in the Caribbean. Billed as a ‘couples only’ 13
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resort, no mention was openly made of the hedonistic and immoral activities on the island. However, word of mouth and several well placed ads on free internet porn websites drew the crowds of questionable moral fiber the Smiths were looking for. The resort consisted of a small hotel building for cheaper rooms. In addition, a dozen private beachfront bungalows dotted the landscape that was overgrown with imported palm trees that gave this otherwise rock of an island a lush tropical feel. There were several hot tubs and a heart shaped pool that the Virgin Islands Department of Health ordered must be drained and cleaned with a powerful and borderline poisonous mix of chlorine and muriatic acid each day to kill the potential for sexually transmitted diseases. There was a swim up bar, a poolside bar, a beachfront bar, and a lobby bar – all of which served the lowest grade of alcohol available paraded in bottles of high‐end liquor. Alcohol was included in the price of the resort; as were condoms and a complimentary shot of a wide‐spectrum antibiotic before leaving. To keep costs down, the staff was kept relatively small. There were of course several housekeepers, a hazardous materials technician to clean the pool, a maintenance man who spent more time drunk than he did fixing anything, a few cooks to microwave the food for 14
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the customers, and an editing technician to splice together porno videos for sale in Eastern Europe of unsuspecting guests. Mr. and Mrs. Smith usually worked the front desk themselves. Today, Mrs. Smith met the smiling new guests as they exited the plane. She still got a kick out of how the new ones marveled at the orgies taking place right out in the open. Today, the new guests were treated to the site of two pale German couples swapping next to the pool as the hazardous materials technician in a half mask respirator and Tyvek suit bopped his head to the iPod he was listening to while performing the daily cleaning ritual. After checking in under the name Mike Oxbig, Yousef has been informed that he would be staying in the ‘Jungle Room’ – which came complete with leopard print satin sheets, faux foliage, and a cage. Yousef’s good Muslim senses would not allow him to even begin to imagine what the cage was for. “Sick Infidels,” he murmured as he set about his search for Mr. Smith. After checking in, Mary and Henry Templeton proceeded to fight over whether to take a nap, Henry’s suggestion, or lay out on the beach, Mary’s suggestion after seeing a group of chiseled young hard‐bodies head out with surfboards. They quickly compromised. Henry would go nap, and Mary would go salivate over the svelte young men. 15
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The shots of Cruzan rum at the airport and his ultra‐
low tolerance for alcohol put Henry into a glorious slumber. He slept peacefully among the ‘Dungeon Room’s’ accoutrements – which included a four‐posted bed with black satin sheets, eye hooks for manacles dangled from each post, candle sconces adorning all walls, and a whipping post in the corner. He dreamed of a world where he could be in control for once. It was a happy world, where people respected him and where his wife didn’t exist. Those young girls from the airport were in that perfect, happy world too. One smiled as she ran her fingers through his graying mat of chest hair. The other fanned him with a giant palm frond. The young lady toying with his chest hair leaned over and began nibbling on his ear. He instantly became aroused. He could feel her nails on his chest as she leaned in a whispered, “Henry, where’s the lube?” He looked at the young lady in disbelief. “What?” “Where’s the lube?” Her soft, sensual voice suddenly took the tone of Mary. His eyes snapped open and Henry found that he was now tied to the bed. Mary stood next to the bed in a leather corset that barely contained her ample adipose. “Where did you put the bag with the lube?” “Oh no,” he begged. 16
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“Oh yes,” she mocked. “Those surfers got me hot something fierce. And if you don’t want me to run out there and cheat on you, you better make with the lube.” “I think I could live with that.” Henry’s rectum puckered at the thought of what normally follows that request. “Funny,” she said without a glint of humor. “Now where’s the bag?” “I put it in the closet,” he acquiesced. He closed his eyes and begged for the strength to get through another one of these humiliating episodes. His prayers were interrupted by a scream. “Oh my gawd! What the hell is this?” With his arms tied to the bed posts, Henry could only manage to lift his head partially off the bed. “What?” “Henry Orenthal James Templeton!” She shrieked. “Did you notice there was a dead man in our closet when you put the bags away?” “A what?” Henry struggled to see. “A dead man!” She moved to the side and Henry saw an older Caucasian man hanging lifelessly in the closet, suspended by a belt that was tied around his neck and attached to the hanger rod. “A dead man? How did you miss a dead man hanging up in our closet?” 17
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“It’s been a long day,” he tried to defend himself. “How long of a day could it have been that you didn’t notice a dead man hanging in the closet?” “I’m not very observant. You know that,” he protested. “I mean it took me two years to notice the closet door in our living room.” He struggled violently against the restraints. “Let me up so I can help you, I can’t remember the safe word.” She ignored him and continued complaining, “A dead man and he’s jerking off!” Henry saw now that the dead man had a firm grip on his erect manhood. “Make him stop, Henry!” “I can’t,” he struggled against the restraints on his hands. “Let me up!” “Make him stop!” She threw her hands into the air and ran out into the hallway screaming, “You’re useless Henry! Useless!” Yousef recognized the screaming instantly. It was the obnoxious woman and her beaten, shell of a husband. He knew soon that screaming would attract attention. He had to get out of there – and fast. He calmly made his way towards the main lobby while Mrs. Smith and the other guests were rushing towards the sound of the screaming. Once Mrs. Smith found out what the screaming was 18
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about, Yousef knew he would never get a seaplane out of here. Instead, he walked into the ‘gift shop’ next to the main desk. He bypassed the flavored lubes, neon colored condoms, and disposable digital cameras and helped himself to the bottled water, energy drinks, and peanuts. After loading those into his backpack, he headed directly for the jet skis. A Dutch couple was seated on a sporty, navy blue colored Sea‐Doo jet ski. They were engaged in passionate dry humping. Yousef pushed them off. “Fornicators,” he spat. However, the couple never broke their lock on each other. Without a second glance, he tore off southward towards St Thomas. 19
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Chapter Two Newark Liberty International Airport Newark, New Jersey Tuesday, July 14 07:03, Eastern Daylight Time FBI Agent Justin McCarthy was a nervous flyer. In fact, it was safe to say that he was a nervous everything. But the thought of being trapped in a cramped airplane for the four hour flight to St. Thomas was anything but appealing to him. Most agents would have jumped at the chance to head to the Caribbean, but not McCarthy. He had no desire to fly there for vacation, and even less desire to go there for work. He had received the call from the Special Agent in Charge the night before just as he was sitting down to eat his sensible dinner of properly portioned grilled chicken and steamed vegetables. One of the key witnesses in the Johnny Three Fingers terrorism case had turned up dead. This was outside of Justin’s normal assignment at the FBI. He was typically assigned to enforcing the anti‐pirating rules plastered on the consistently ignored screen at the beginning of DVDs. Since no one else was available to 20
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cover the possible murder of a Federal witness, Justin was reassigned. Passing through airport security always gave Justin indigestion. He hated being made to take his shoes off and walk along the same floor thousands of people had already trodden over. He had no idea how many different strands of foot fungus and other parasites were now crawling over his bleached white socks. What’s worse, since he was on official business, he tried to carry his weapon on the plane. Big mistake. The extremely unpleasant TSA agent snapped to attention when she saw the handle of his weapon peeking out of his hip holster. “Sir!” She ordered, normally bored with her monotonous routine and now convinced that she had finally been given the opportunity to stop the next big terrorist attack. “Drop your weapon and put your hands up!” Justin fished for his credentials. “But I can explain!” “Get your hands out of your pockets, now!” In a flash, she brought something yellow and black to her side. “But I’m with the FB…” the I part came out more like “aye aye aye aye aye” as the TSA agent unleashed the tazer on him. Two hours later, following several profuse apologies, a 12 lead EKG by the local paramedics, and a 21
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complimentary gift card to Sbarro’s Pizza in the C Terminal Food Court, McCarthy massaged away the last remnants of the electricity‐induced chest pain and read the folder on General John Trottel, US Air Force (retired). Trottel was allegedly the mastermind behind the failed AIM HIGH exercise at the Yeger Complex in Greenville, New Jersey last year. He had been responsible for convincing the base to let down its security, thinking that his nephew and his idiot friends would storm the base pretending to be terrorists in some ridiculously imbecilic plan to secure defense contractor jobs. Instead, a group of real terrorists stormed the base and almost escaped with a super virulent strain of smallpox. Three of those terrorists, including their leader Abdullah Bin‐al‐Raheem, a.k.a. Johnny Three Fingers, were going to stand trial in New York City in a few days. The apparent murder of one of the witnesses brought the FBI into this. At first glance it turned McCarthy’s stomach. Trottel had been found strung up in the closet and staged to look like he was masturbating. This was one disturbed individual who carried this out. He closed the folder when he heard his row being called for boarding. Off the Coast of St Thomas Caribbean Sea Tuesday, July 14 09:08, Atlantic Standard Time 22
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The escape was certainly not going the way Yousef had envisioned it. Then again, nothing about this assignment had been going according to plan. The fact that his target had managed to wind up dead without Yousef having to lift a finger was an odd stroke of luck. He would have no problem telling Boris Gurko that he had indeed killed General John Trottel as ordered. However, it seemed incredibly anti‐climactic that he didn’t get a chance to throttle Trottel – the play‐on‐words seemed like pure ironic genius when he thought it up. But that was just the pre‐cursor to what lay ahead for his escape. Yousef estimated that he had made it about ten miles on the Sea‐Doo Jet Ski before he ran out of gas. With the lights of St. Thomas twenty miles south, he was forced to paddle the rest of the way using water bottles as oars. It had taken him the better part of the night to close the gap. By sunrise, his arms had stopped working, strained beyond physical limits. Fortunately, a passing yacht had seen Yousef paddling for shore. Rather than stop to help him, they called the Department of Planning and Natural Resources. The DPNR sent a police officer in a speedboat to pick up the stranded jet skier. Back on shore, the DPNR officer, convinced that no sober human could run out of gas on a jet ski, issued 23
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Yousef a $250 citation for operating the vehicle drunk. Rather than argue, Yousef apologized and went about his way, having no intention of ever paying the ticket issued to ‘Mike Oxbig’. His mission now was to find a fresh change of clothes since his smelled inexplicably like fish and get the hell off this island. Virgin Islands Police Department Headquarters Charlotte‐Amalie, St Thomas, US Virgin Islands Tuesday, July 14 13:31, Atlantic Standard Time Justin McCarthy strolled along the parking lot, taking in the sights of the cerulean blue harbor water filled with tiny white sailboats and three large, festively decorated cruise ships. The smell of kettle‐drum barbeques and salt‐
air filled his olfactory receptors. For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy it. He was staying overnight at a wonderful, and expensive hotel, not to mention making a pretty decent per diem from the federal government. It was a shame that murder was the reason he was here. Justin subconsciously rubbed his chest where the barbs of the TSA tazer had hit him as he crossed the narrow street to the pastel yellow building that housed the Virgin Islands Police Department. 24
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The morgue was just like any other morgue he had ever been in, only smaller. Pea‐soup green walls were illuminated by dangling fluorescent lights. Two men stood next to a sheeted body, talking with an attractive middle aged woman. Justin surmised she was the widow, Sofia Trottel. Her hair was different and her skin was tanner than the pictures in John Trottel’s file, but she was still stunning. From across the room, Justin could see tears rolling down her cheeks. “Ah, you must be from the FBI,” one of the men said as he saw Justin approaching. The man was dressed in regular street clothes – jeans and a black Guayabera linen shirt. “I’m Detective Lazarus Sampson,” he extended a hand and Justin shook it. He gestured to the other man in a white lab coat, “This is Doctor Thomas Callwood.” Justin shook his hand as well. “And you must be Mrs. Trottel,” Justin said to the beautiful woman. “No one calls me that anymore,” she looked nervous. “Don’t worry,” Justin reassured, “we’ll catch whoever did this.” “I hope we do,” Detective Sampson remarked with conviction. “Because this was a seriously twisted individual.” “Should she be here?” Justin nodded towards Sofia. 25
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“No,” she protested and dabbed a tear from her eye, “I want to know what happened to my husband.” Justin shrugged. “Okay,” Detective Sampson relented, “but I must warn you, it is shocking.” “I can handle it,” she reassured. “What do you have for me?” Justin rolled up his sleeves and got his notepad ready. Doctor Callwood held up his chart. “First, the toxicology report showed signs of cocaine, Viagra, and amyl nitrate.” “Poppers,” Justin muttered himself. “Why the drugs, I wonder.” Sofia cleared her throat. “I can probably explain that,” she said sheepishly. All eyes studied her for a moment, but everyone decided to let it pass. Callwood continued, “Well apparently they whipped him severely about the back and buttocks.” “Yeah,” Sofia interrupted and shifted uncomfortably, “I can explain that one too.” They studied her a little longer this time. Justin broke the silence, “What else?” 26
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“Soft tissue injury and burn markings around the nipple with indicate someone attached an electrical source of some type to him. Probably a…” “12 volt battery,” Sofia sniffled and nodded. “That one is explainable also.” Justin sighed, “Let’s try this: is there anything that you can’t explain on the report?” “Equine semen around his anus?” Callwood asked, raising an eyebrow. “What?” Justin cried out, stunned. Callwood read the notes to himself. “We found a large amount of equine semen in and around his anus.” Sampson chimed in, “We think it’s a ritualistic murder.” Justin held up his hand for them to wait, “Hold on. Mrs. Trottel, can you explain that one?” She thought about it for a second; then shook her head. “No, I can’t.” “There’s a shock,” Justin mumbled. “Oh, wait!” She said excitedly. “Equine means a horse right?” “Yes,” Callwood answered. 27
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“You should have just said that,” she admonished. “Yes, that I can explain.” Justin threw his hands up, “The fuck is wrong with you people?” “Puritan,” she accused, folding her arms defensively. Callwood handed her a scrap of paper with his phone number on it. When she accepted it, he made the universal ‘call me’ sign with his thumb and pinky. She winked back. Justin coughed to get attention. “Can we just skip to the part where you tell me how he died?” Callwood composed himself again. “Yes, now it appears to be a simple case of autoerotic asphyxiation.” “What?” “Going by coming,” Callwood smiled broadly. “Yes, I know what it means,” Justin dismissed. “I was surprised to hear you say it was just an accident.” Justin studied the doctor. “Just how long have you been waiting for an opportunity to say that?” Callwood bowed his head and smiled coyly, “My whole career.” “I’m sure you have more, don’t you?” Justin remarked with mild irritation. “A few,” Callwood responded. 28
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“You won’t be happy until we let you say them, will you?” Sampson asked. Callwood shook his head. Sampson looked at his watch, “Go ahead.” “Maybe he had a stroke?” Justin frowned and shook his head. Callwood regrouped, “Maybe his heart petered out?” Justin and Sampson nodded in approval. Marriott Hotel, Frenchman’s Reef St Thomas, US Virgin Islands Tuesday, July 14 15:01, Atlantic Standard Time This trip had certainly been an odd one. After this afternoon’s meeting with the medical examiner, Justin had only wanted to retire to the luxury of the Marriot hotel in Frenchman’s Reef. Taking his iPod and Kindle down to the pool, all he wanted was to relax for a few hours. Something about the clear blue sky framed by rolling green hills managed to sooth his jittery soul. He was careful to apply a thick lather of sun block on himself, and found a spot in the shade. He even allowed himself a chance to sneak a peek at some of the nubile female forms parading around in skimpy bikinis. For a moment, Justin contemplating using his position with the FBI as an introduction to start some type of 29
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conversation with one or two of them. However, he knew that dream was just that – a dream. Despite being a member of one of the finest law enforcement agencies in the world, Justin was still too nervous and shy to talk to women. He could feel their eyes prying, evaluating, and it only made him sweat even more. He sweat so much around women, in fact, that he even tried Botox injections in his armpits at one point to stop his excessive perspiration. That was an experience he’d rather forget – having overdosed accidentally and developed botulism. As he lay there, half reclined, on his chair remembering the uncomfortable allergic reaction he had to the botulinum anti‐toxin, something brought his attention back to the reality around him – a hissing sound appeared from somewhere behind him. He looked around but couldn’t place it. All he could see were more hard bodies and lush landscaped foliage. He readjusted himself and tried to relax. But there it was again – the hissing. This time it sounded angrier and closer. It almost sounded like it was… under him? Justin looked under his seat and came face to face with an aggressive iguana that was clearly in heat. The ornery lizard sprung at Justin with amazing speed. In a flash, Justin was screaming in pain and flailing about trying to dislodge the death grip of the iguana from his left hand. 30
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Shocked hotel costumers watched in horror as this ghastly pale man viciously and repeatedly punched the head of a three foot long lizard. At one point, a frenzied blow missed the pre‐historic throwback completely and landed squarely in Justin’s testicles. Finally, Justin persevered and extricated his bloodied hand from the sharp mouth full of teeth. He kicked the lizard for good measure, punting the oblivious reptile over a railing into thick shrubbery. Justin began to panic as he looked at the body mess on his hand. A million thoughts of germs, infections, and disease sprang through his head as he could only picture those nature strikes back shows on the Animal Channel. “Oh my God!” He cried out, “Is it poisonous?” He tightly gripped his wrist and elevated the hand above his head. “It’s poisonous, isn’t it?” A glassy eyed man intoxicated on multiple pharmaceuticals in the next chair over leapt to his feet – finally able to play Stoner Doctor. “Dude,” he proclaimed, “when you get bitten by an iguana you have to piss on it!” “What?” Justin winced. “Everyone knows that,” the man reinforced. “No one knows that,” Justin protested. 31
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“Seriously, it’s common knowledge,” the man began to unzip his pants. “You’re understandably pee‐shy. I’ll handle this.” “What? No?” Justin snatched his bloody hand back. “I don’t think that’s correct.” “Nonsense,” the man adjusted himself. “I really think you have iguanas confused with jelly‐
fish,” Justin was starting to feel woozy. The man stopped, pulled his zipper back up. “You might be right.” He thought about it some more. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Are you sure you don’t want to try it anyway? I mean I have to go really bad now, and we should probably be really sure before you get a nasty infection.” “No, I’ll just talk a taxi down to the hospital.” Gathering up his belongings, Justin commenced to do a walk of shame past gawking sun‐worshippers and poolside bar patrons. He avoided all eye contact, pretending that he wasn’t still breathing heavy from the anxiety of the fight – and that he wasn’t trailing blood behind him as he walked away. He could have sworn he heard someone begin humming loudly the sad walking away music from the 1980’s Incredible Hulk TV show. 32
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Chapter Three Foley Square, Outside US Federal Court Manhattan, New York Wednesday July 15 09:21, Eastern Daylight Time “This is Darren Henderson, live from New York City,” the dashing, well groomed, perfectly fake tanned reporter stood with a somber expression. “Inside the Federal Court behind me,” he made a flourishing, yet misinformed sweep of his arm towards the McDonald’s across the street, “the three ring leaders of last year’s tragedy at the Yeger Complex in New Jersey are set to stand trial in a few days.” His cameraman made a frantic gesture towards the real courthouse. Darren picked up on it and moved more to his left so the building was now in frame. “As many of you know, I was there, experiencing the horror first hand.” Darren had been reporting on the attack for World News Network, WNN – which at the time was the 28th most watched cable news network. Now, thanks to Darren’s exploits – or more so due to his televised emotional breakdown during the attack – WNN 33
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had proudly skyrocketed to 27th most watched cable news network, bumping out the Finnish language news network that was so deeply entrenched in that coveted spot. “Both my cameraman and I bear the scars of that day.” Maurice, the cameraman shook his head slightly. He bore the physical scars of that day, having been shot through his shoulder by a large caliber rifle round. He suffered extensive surgeries and rehabilitation. Maurice thought about quitting the company going back to making snuff films like he used to in college, but WNN had offered him too good a deal to come back. So his professional snuff films would have to wait for another day. Darren’s scars were far more self‐inflicted and less obvious. His emotional breakdown inside the armored personnel carrier he thoughtlessly trapped himself inside of led to an unloading of his soul. He confessed to everything short of being the second gunman on the grassy knoll when Kennedy was killed. His panicked confessions of sleeping with several less than attractive interns led the company to consider letting him go. However, the YouTube videos of his breakdown, especially those remixed and set to hip‐hop, thrash metal, and other genres of music had made him an internet sensation. Darren wasn’t particularly fond of the one video set to the theme music from The Benny Hill Show – that was just downright hurtful. So the executives at WNN 34
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gave him a very large bonus and a more prominent spot with the viewing audience. It came with a considerably larger paycheck; of which Darren saw very little in the aftermath of over a dozen paternity tests from jilted interns. In a crossover TV marketing coup, Darren was contractually obligated to make an appearance on a paternity test episode of The Maury Povich Show. The audience booed and hissed as he denied being the father of no less than 6 women’s children, all who claimed to be “115% sure” he was the father. The YouTube videos of Darren throwing himself on the floor and wailing “It can’t true!” when informed each child was his further cemented his internet stardom status. “Even several months later, a country is still in shock from the fiendish plot to strike fear into our heartland.” Darren stopped the first person on the street who wandered near the camera. A pretty blond in a very short and revealing sundress smiled politely. “Miss,” he placed the camera in her face, “Tell us where you were when you found out the Yeger Complex had been attacked.” She continued to smile politely at him. “I know it’s difficult to dredge up so many painful memories so soon after that day, but please try.” She stared at him dumbfounded, but still smiling. Darren’s face dropped. “Do you even speak English?” 35
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“Neyt,” she said shyly. “No English,” she patted her chest, “Russian.” “Goddamn Ruskie,” Darren muttered, clearly audible over his live broadcast. She stopped smiling and walked away. Forgetting the camera was on, “Wait,” Darren grabbed her arm. “Do you dance?” He made gyrating motions with his hips. “Dah,” she smiled and nodded. He handed her his card, “Call me.” “We’re still live,” the cameraman reminded him. “What?” Darren blushed and straightened himself up. He mouthed the words ‘you’re dead’ to the cameraman and faked a frown. “As I was saying, everyone is still in shock from this national tragedy.” He stopped the next person who walked by. A businessman on his phone looked impatiently at the camera. “Can you tell us where you were when you heard about the tragic events at the Yeger Complex?” “The what?” “The Yeger Complex,” Darren replied reverently. The annoyance was obvious in the man’s face. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” 36
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Darren dropped the microphone and stared enraged at the man. “There was a terrorist attack last November no more than twenty miles from here. Remember?” “There was?” “Don’t you watch the news?” “Was it ever on The Daily Show or The Colbert Report?” Darren seethed. “I have no idea.” “Then I didn’t hear about it,” the man sauntered off. Darren clenched his teeth, but then regained eye contact with the viewers at home through the lens of the camera. “Denial is only a part of the grieving process.” Undisclosed Apartment Journal Square Section, Jersey City, New Jersey Wednesday, July 15 09:41 Boris Gurko turned down the sound on the TV he had tuned to WNN. He sat behind a mahogany desk in a nawgahyde leather chair. The curtains were closed, blocking out the world of prying eyes and shrouding his office in near darkness. A souvenir stocking leg lamp from The Christmas Story memorabilia collection sitting on his desk cast the only light in the room. On his desk, in a 37
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wooden heart‐shaped frame was a photo of Boris and Abdullah Bin‐al‐Raheem, taken at their second meeting. Boris had paid an employee at the Chuck E. Cheese where they were meeting to take a photo of them together. Abdullah didn’t know it was taken, but Boris could see the happiness in Abdullah’s eyes. That meeting was magical. They had met in the ball pit of the play area to exchange information on the mission Boris had hired Abdullah’s terror cell for. They would break into the Yeger Complex in New Jersey and steal several experimental biological weapons – including a virulent strain of smallpox, a bomb that created bad breathe, and one that induced homosexuality in straight men. When Boris had hired Abdullah, he hadn’t realized there would be such unbridled chemistry between them. Boris hoped that Abdullah’s time in prison would allow him an opportunity to realize that. Boris checked the clock on his desktop computer, his Hello Kitty wallpaper smiling back at him. Yousef was overdue for calling in. He hoped that his hit man wasn’t succumbing to the temptations on that godless island. Nervously, he stroked the stuffed lobster claw toy that never left his side. It was a gift from Abdullah, won for Boris in the stuffed animal grab machine during that magical meeting at the Chuck E. Cheese. 38
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The phone rang. Boris allowed it to ring three times before he answered it. “Talk to me,” he said somberly. “It’s Mike Oxbig,” the voice on the other end announced. It was one of the agreed upon aliases that Yousef Sadr would be traveling under. “It’s done.” Boris had hired Yousef after all the glowing recommendations he had received from some contacts in the Russian Mafiya in Chechnya. He hoped the man would live up to his expectations. “And you were positive you didn’t leave anything behind that would link you to it?” Boris couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard the man laugh. “Of course I didn’t.” “Splendid,” Boris leaned back in his chair. “Are you heading for ‘Kielbasa’ next?” “I am.” “Keep me updated,” Boris hung up the phone. He leaned back in his chair and stared longingly at the photo of Abdullah. It wouldn’t be long before they could be together. He allowed himself a moment of reverie. After which, he opened his email. Under his [email protected] email account, he had an email waiting for him from an intelligence contact that he paid to obtain confirmation on the operation in the Virgin Islands. Boris was trusting, but he was no fool. 39
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What he read in the email both pleased and disturbed Boris. He had clearly chosen the right man with Yousef. Not only had he succeeded in murdering John Trottel, he had been able to stage it to look like natural causes. Except Yousef hadn’t stopped at making it look natural. He even went so far as to stage it to look like an accidental death during some debaucherous activities – that little extravagance was uncalled for and unsettling. He would have a talk with him when Yousef called in next. Law Offices of Fallon, Kant, & Gettup LLP Manhattan, New York Wednesday, July 15 10:13 Brian Donahue massaged his temples. This wasn’t what he imagined he would be doing when he became a lawyer. He tried to continue convincing himself that everyone has to start somewhere, and that he was just paying his dues. He was young, motivated, and smart. So if he could only patiently wait out the first few months at the law firm until he got his big break case, he was convinced he would make it. Brian had been serving in the Air Force and trying to finish law school at night up until last year. When the Yeger Complex was stormed by terrorists, he was critically injured trying to subdue a 40
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sniper. Having suffered major nerve damage from the stab wound he received to his shoulder, Brian was given an Honorable Discharge and Disabled Veteran’s Status. He was able to devote extra time to his studies and graduated from Rutgers Law School two months ago. Brian was unbelievably elated when he landed a job right out of school with Fallon, Kant, & Gettup. However, as the new guy, he was charged with weeding through the ridiculous and frivolous suits, panning for some scrap of gold that one of the senior lawyers would snatch up from him anyway. “So please tell me again why you think the New York Yankees owe you twenty five million dollars,” Brian smoothed out a new page on his notepad. He had filled the other page with mindless doodling and random lines. “See, it’s like I said,” his prospective client adjusted himself in his seat. “I bare an incredible likeness to Derek Jeter,” the man paused so Brian could evaluate. Brian didn’t need to evaluate any further, his mind was made up before the man began speaking – he looked nothing like the strapping, handsome shortstop for the Yankees. But if Brian didn’t listen to him, he would have to listen to someone else with an equally dumb idea on how to get rich quick through the legal system. Brian halfheartedly nodded for the man to continue. 41
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“It’s because of my looks that people make fun of me when the Yankees lose. I’m suffering from permanent injury, sexual dysfunction emotional pain, and defecation of my good name.” “Don’t you mean defamation?” Brian corrected. “No,” the man let out an arrogant chuckle, “defamation means to shit on something. I know what I’m talking about. You should really read a law dictionary.” Brian started to say something in his defense then determined wisely that it wasn’t worth it. “What permanent injury have you suffered?” “Well some guys were harassing me and my chick at the bar the other night. They were calling me Mister Jeter and commenting on my batting slump. It got so bad that I had to step up to them and knock them out. But they got the drop on me and hit my upside the head with a barstool. I needed fifteen stitches.” “And the sexual dysfunction?” Brian knew he didn’t want to ask the question but needed to. “Because everyone calls me Derek Jeter, I can’t function in bed now without my girl calling me ‘Derek’ or ‘Mister November’.” Proudly, the man pounded the desk with his thick index finger. “And sexual dysfunction is money in the bank!” 42
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Brian sighed. “Mister Goldman,” he tried to say gently, “I must be honest with you. You look nothing like Derek Jeter. You’re short; he’s like over six foot. He’s skinny; you’re about a hundred pounds overweight. He’s good looking; you’re… we’ll you get my drift. You started the fight that got you injured. And please don’t make me even go near the sexual dysfunction claim.” The man stood up in protest. “It doesn’t change the fact that people harass me because of Derek Jeter.” Brian folded his hands contemplatively. “Do you think that, and this might be wild guess here, that the harassment may stem from the fact that you insist on wearing a Yankees’ uniform with Number Two and JETER written across the back everywhere you go?” The man thought about what Brian had said for a moment. Then, without warning, the man clumsily flipped over the conference table. “This is fucking bullshit!” He declared as he stormed out of the office, brushing wooden splinters from his pinstriped baseball uniform. Brendan Byrne State Forest New Jersey Pine Barrens Wednesday, July 15 10:51 43
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The New Jersey Pine Barrens is one of the last bastions of wilderness in the Garden State. A surprising 1 million acres of land is left wooded and undeveloped – quite an accomplishment in the nation’s most densely populated state. Tales of savage inbred clans and the famed Jersey Devil often dissuade casual curiosity seekers from exploring the many nooks and crannies of the forest, overgrown with thick pine trees and scrubby bushes. It makes it a perfect location for the disposal of Mafia corpses, production of illegal pharmaceuticals, and fostering malcontent and misguided anti‐government militias. Walter Binghamton appreciated this last fact and exploited it. Three years ago, the twenty three year old Walter brought together a group of likeminded, misinformed youths to form the Central Jersey Militia and Social Group. He was just a young man with a simple dream – topple the developing Socialist puppet government of the United Nations that was emerging inside the United States and being spearheaded by major corporations like Microsoft and Starbucks. He took his place behind the shoddily constructed podium in their ramshackle clubhouse. “I bring this meeting to order.” He banged the gavel and his mother / stenographer cracked her knuckles and began typing. “First order of business is social networking.” He studied 44
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the two faces of the men sitting on the dilapidated patio furniture that served the clubhouse. “It has come to my attention that someone has been posting Facebook Status updates that have gotten us flagged and suspended.” “This is infringement on our First Amendment Rights!” Twenty year old Jerry Pittman jumped up and raised his fist defiantly in the air. “The fascist pig regime is trying to subjugate the hard working American white man!” Walter put on a pair of reading glasses and read from a page in front of him. “July Fourth, at ten AM, someone,” Walter rolled his eyes towards Pittman, “wrote the following: Kill all the Immigrants, 9/11 was an inside job, and have a happy fireworks day everyone – don’t no one go blowing they nuts off.” “What’s wrong with that?” Morris Decker inquired. “We’ve been over this before,” Walter groaned. “First, Freedom of Speech doesn’t cover you inciting someone to riot or commit acts of violence. Plus, how many times have I told you to use Spell‐check before posting anything? I mean, come on! You spelled ‘immigrants’ wrong.” “I didn’t,” Pittman protested. “There’s no E in immigrant. And for fucksake, kill has two L’s in it and was is not spelt W‐U‐Z! Christ man, it’s the same amount of letters. Use English!” 45
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“But all the kids are spelling it that way,” Pittman defended. “It adds street credibility.” Walter shook his head. “Do you realize how silly we look to our Facebook friends and other Militia groups that follow us on Twitter when you spell everything like a thirteen year old girl text messaging her friends?” “But…” Walter held his hand up. “One more word out of you and I’ll change the password and not give you the new one.” Pittman sat down defeated. “Mom, please make sure the minutes reflect the exact way in which Jerry butchered the English language.” His mother gave him a thumbs‐up from behind the stenography machine. Walter drank the pre‐mixed Alka Seltzer concoction he had in front of him, counted to ten, and then continued. “Next order of business, and I’m happy to say is great news, is our fund raising efforts. Our first ever Militia and Social Group Bake Sale netted us a stunning two hundred and thirteen dollars – thanks largely in part to Morris’ extra chunky chocolate‐
macadamia nut cookies. You rock.” The small group applauded, Decker blushed. 46
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“That brings us much closer to our target goal for purchasing the explosives for Operation: Blow up the Terrorists.” The group applauded again. “Which brings us to the third order of business – I believe the name requires some better word‐smithing.” “Why?” Morris Decker inquired. Walter raised his shoulders. “I don’t know – it just seems rather wordy to me.” “It also leaves nothing to the imagination,” Pittman agreed. “Why do we even need a name?” Decker asked. “Because!” Walter got excited. “Every major operation needs a nickname.” He pointed at Pittman, “Cool, ambiguous names are how you get street credibility! Not by misspelling your Facebook status updates.” “Point taken,” Pittman conceded. Decker thought for a minute, “How about Operation Federal Court Building?” “Really?” Walter raised his eyebrow. “Do you even understand the concept of ambiguous? How about we just tell them exactly when we plan on attacking?” 47
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Decker quietly searched Dictionary.com on his Blackberry for the definition of ambiguous. “Oh,” he slumped. “This naming thing is hard.” Pittman interjected. “How come the Army always has the coolest names for their campaigns?” “Because they have a brain trust of creative people and a computer system that come up with random names for its campaigns,” Walter answered. “And we sure don’t have a brain here,” Mrs. Binghamton remarked. “Ouch, zing,” she muttered to herself with a broad smile. All three looked at her with pained expressions. She didn’t need to look up from her typewriter to know that. She also knew that each young man knew better than to say anything to her. Not because they feared what Walter would do to them but because they all knew that she would beat any of them to within an inch of their lives with a wooden spoon. Walter lowered his eyes and gazed at the paper. The answer came to him like a brilliant flash of light. “Operation BUTT,” he said softly at first. All eyes locked on him. His mother adjusted her hearing aid. “What was that?” “Operations BUTT – Blow Up The Terrorists, B‐U‐T‐
T.” 48
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‘It’s brilliant!” Decker voiced. “I love it,” Pittman commended. “I think it’s a stupid name, and you continue to bring shame to me and your father,” his mother answered. “But hey,” she casually shrugged, “it’s your group, sweetie. I’m just the typist.” Annoyed and more than a little hurt, Walter pouted. “Fine, I’ll work on the name of the plan. But we’ll keep it as BUTT for now,” he looked at his mother for her approval. Without looking up from her typewriter she gave him a thumbs‐up. “Okay, final order of business,” he clapped his hands and moved on. “Mom’s bridge club has challenged us to a rematch.” Cyril E. King Airport St Thomas, US Virgin Islands Wednesday, July 15 11:12, Atlantic Standard Time Justin McCarthy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The jerked chicken he had bought from the airport cafeteria in a moment of lapsed judgment was coming back to haunt him. The twelve dollars he spent on it and a thimbleful of watered down Coca Cola was clearly not worth the acid that was waging war with his intestinal 49
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lining. For someone with a delicate constitution like McCarthy, this assignment had been a nightmare. Everything he had eaten tasted as though something was off. Either it was doused in hazardous amounts of spices or watered down by poorly filtered seawater. Thankfully, the air conditioner was blasting away the blanket of summer humidity and heat that he had to suffer through for over an hour to check‐in for his full flight back to Newark. He was sweating so profusely while waiting to check‐in that he could have sworn his sweat was making noise as it dripped from his head and struck the ground around his feet. Having drenched his shirt, he was forced to buy a gaudy tie‐dyed souvenir shirt that read “Drink Right/Drive Left”. As he sat in the crowded terminal waiting room he silently wondered why it seemed that no one ever showered before getting on airplanes. The man on his right reeked of a unique blend of coffee, popcorn, and feet. He just wanted to get home, file his report and go back to his normal, mundane assignment. Mercifully the time pasted quicker than he anticipated. Before he knew it, he was boarding the plane for his trip home. Due to the last minute booking, however, the government travel agent was only able to get Justin a middle seat. On his left, in the aisle seat, was a corpulent Puerto Rican woman whose considerable 50
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stature spilled over onto his lap as she struggled to get her seatbelt on. To his left was a quiet, handsome Middle Eastern man. Justin couldn’t be sure, but he could swear the man had the faint odor of fish on his clothes. “You’ll have to forgive me,” the lady next to him jovially said in heavily accented broken English. “I’m a nervous flyer.” Justin smiled back, “Me too.” She leaned over and patted the quiet man on the shoulder, her thick arm nearly crushing Justin as she reached across him. “You’re in for a rough flight then,” she laughed. He dismissed her with annoyed glare. The man went back to reading his Soldier of Fortune magazine. The lady settled into her seat. Justin tried to relax and tried to read a new Tim Dorsey novel on his Amazon Kindle. But as the plane rolled down the short taxiway, the lady gripped his arm tightly. “Aye aye aye aye aye, is it too hot in here?” She fanned herself frantically. Justin adjusted the fan above his head so it pointed at her. “Gracias, Papi,” she panted. Slowly, she quieted down and released her vice‐like grip on his arm. Justin in turn calmed down. Then the plane began to jet down the runway for takeoff. 51
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The woman began screaming. Justin felt a blinding pain as she clamped down on his bandaged hand. In response he began screaming. The man next to him began fruitlessly pushing the flight attendant call button, knowing that nothing could be done anyway until the plane leveled off. The panic didn’t abate when they leveled off either. Every bump or sound startled the woman. That in turn startled Justin. At one point, she took him by surprise and knocked the plastic cup of Coca Cola out of his hands, spilling it all over the aggravated man next to him. As Justin apologized profusely, the man cursed at him in a language he didn’t understand. Before he could ask the man what he said, the woman began screaming that she was freezing and someone had to cut off the air conditioning. Finally, a flight attendant jostled her way through the aisle towards Justin’s row. She politely crouched next to the woman, “If you don’t calm down, I’m going to have to get the Air Marshal involved.” In a spark of blinding speed, the man next to Justin reached over and pinched a nerve on the woman’s neck. Before she could protest, she slumped over onto Justin’s shoulder, snoring loudly and drooling profusely. The man smiled at the flight attendant, “That’s won’t be necessary.” 52
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Chapter Four Undisclosed Maximum Security Federal Correctional Facility Somewhere in New York City Thursday, July 16 09:07, Eastern Daylight Time Abdullah Bin‐al‐Raheem finished his morning prayers and rolled up his prayer mat. He dutifully hung it on the wall where it would not collect any dust or dirt. He knew Allah had a plan for him; he was convinced this could not be the end. Although he would have much rather preferred Guantanamo Bay to being in this tiny cell in the middle of Allah‐knows‐where, he didn’t quite mind the company. He was allowed to have lunch and exercise in the yard with Myaz Bin Riden and Omar Shabazz – two of his co‐
conspirators in the plot to steal smallpox from the Yeger Complex. And Abdullah had made new friends in a small band of four Somali pirates who had been captured by U.S. Special Forces in the Gulf of Aden after they hijacked a ship full of toilet parts. While he couldn’t understand what they said all the time, those guys sure did crack Abdullah up. He promised himself that after Allah found a 53
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way to free him from his captivity in New York, he would find himself a boat and become a little Hell‐raiser on the high seas like these guys. His imprisonment wasn’t all laughs, of course. Something ate away at him. Myaz had always been loyal to him; both having grown up together in Iraq. Omar, though, was a different story. He was not so certain of Omar’s loyalty anymore. Things had changed between them since moving to the maximum security facility. Shabazz finally healed from the shotgun wound to his stomach he suffered during the raid. The surgeries had helped him lose a considerable amount of weight. He looked good too – very dashing with his eye‐patch and newly cropped moustache. The weight‐loss had apparently gone to Omar’s head. All he did now was work out obsessively in the yard during their exercise time. Worse yet, he had taken to hanging with the Aryan Brotherhood during lunch time. Abdullah couldn’t put one of his six remaining fingers on it yet, but something didn’t seem friendly about those guys. Maybe it was because they had rebuffed his attempt to become friends. They had practically laughed in his face when he offered to put them on his Ramadan Card mailing list this year. Or maybe it was the way the leader of the group eyed up Myaz when he lay prostrate in a narcoleptic stupor. 54
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Abdullah missed Omar’s company. While his brotherly love for Myaz ran deep, Myaz wasn’t much fun during exercise time following the injuries he sustained during his escape attempt. A large animal, that Myaz swears was a mountain lion, had severed Myaz’s right arm below the elbow. The hospital had replaced his arm with a hook. However, to ensure the hook could not be used as a weapon, they fused a champagne bottle cork to the end of it. Myaz was still the only man in the world Abdullah could bear his soul to – but there was no getting around the fact that he sucked at exercise yard pick‐up basketball games. A prison guard wrapped on the bars of his cell. “Johnny Three Fingers, you’re lawyer is here.” Abdullah nodded and smoothed his prison‐issued jumpsuit out. He had been anticipating this meeting for some time. A month ago, he had received a letter from an unknown sender saying that the sender had hired the services of a top notch defense attorney from the prominent firm of Knott, Kielty, & Attall, LLP to represent Abdullah and the rest of the “Greenville Three.” The letter was only signed: “An Admirer” and was scented with Japanese Cherry Blossoms. Abdullah felt tingles of excitement thinking about all the cloak and dagger mystery surrounding the letter. He hoped that it would be the same man who represented Timothy McVeigh and the 55
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kid who recently tried to assassinate Arizona Senator Gabrielle Giffords. Well, actually he was really hoping for someone from OJ Simpson’s ‘Dream Team’ of lawyers, but the ones who actually did anything productive were all dead. He was led in shackles past the other cells in the block. Myaz gave him a ‘thumb up’ through his bars. One of the Somali pirates gave him a fist bump as Abdullah passed. Abdullah saw Omar in the cell of one of the Aryan Brotherhood members. To his dismay, it appeared that Omar was receiving a jailhouse tattoo. In a small conference room, Abdullah was met by a young, nervous man. The man stretched out his shaking hand to greet Abdullah. Abdullah appraised the man before accepting his hand. The young man stood about six‐foot‐three, practically towering over Abdullah. He was skinny and awkward, with gangly legs and arms that protruded beyond the edges of his poorly tailored suit. His feet were disturbingly enormous. And most unnerving for Abdullah – “You’re a Jew?” The man flinched at the question, his curly blond payess jiggled with the movement. “Yes, why, is that a problem?” Abdullah studied the man through narrowed eyes. He then exploded into gut‐busting laughter. “Oh! You, you almost had me going with that one!” He doubled over in 56
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hysterics, gripping the conference table for support. “Who put you up to this?” “I don’t know what you mean,” the man looked around nervously. “Oh, you kid! Did Myaz somehow set this up? He’s a crafty one I tell you.” Abdullah howled loudly. “Mister Bin‐al‐Raheem, this isn’t a joke.” Abdullah was now on the floor, trying to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes with restrained hands. The guard who had let him in now rushed into the room to see what was going on. When the guard tried to help Abdullah up, he rolled away and panted, “He expects me to believe a Jewish lawyer is going to represent an Islamic Jihadist.” The guard joined him in laughing. “Wow, you Radical Fundamentalists sure have a great sense of humor!” The lawyer waited patiently until Abdullah’s sides cramped up from laughing and forced him to recompose himself with a series of exaggerated sighs. The guard blotted a tear from Abdullah’s cheek then left the room. “Ah,” Abdullah smiled, “Seriously now, you can stop playing around.” The man impatiently tapped his foot. “Mister Abdullah, do not think I haven’t seen the irony in this 57
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situation. And do not for a second think that I am comfortable with this arrangement either. But someone paid my law firm a ton of money to represent you and the partners feel that I need to cut my teeth on something big.” “So,” he sounded more concerned than amused now, “so you really are a Jew?” “My name is Hiram Cohen; and I prefer that you refer to me as Jewish, not a Jew.” Abdullah slumped into his chair. “I was hoping for the guy who defended Timothy McVeigh,” he said like a disappointed child. The lawyer sat down and calmly shuffled through his papers. “Need I remind you that Timothy McVeigh was executed,” he said almost in passing. “Point taken,” Abdullah gave the man his undivided attention now. “Plus, I have been informed that the presence of a Jewish lawyer extending forgiveness to an Arab terrorist would strike an emotional accord with the mindless idiots who were too stupid to find a way out of Jury Duty.” Abdullah looked up hopefully, “So you forgive me?” Cohen stared at Abdullah, “Please don’t insult me like that. I find you morally repugnant but I enjoy getting paid so I can fake it for the next few weeks.” 58
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“But why should we even bother?” Abdullah sounded depressed. “They have evidence…” “That I will argue is all circumstantial.” “My fingerprints on the weapons?” Cohen shrugged, “You were forced to carry that by the real terrorists.” He scanned his notes. “The real terrorist mastermind, whose name was Muhammad Al‐
Hazaz El‐Amir Bin‐Zawiri Thomas.” “Him?” Abdullah scoffed. “He couldn’t mastermind his way out of a paper bag.” Cohen’s expression remained irked. “I think you are mistaken. Muhammad Al‐Hazaz El‐Amir Bin‐Zawiri Thomas was the real mastermind.” “But he was just hired help.” The lawyer groaned. “One more time! Muhammad Al‐Hazaz El‐Amir Bin‐Zawiri Thomas was the real mastermind, wasn’t he?” Cohen made exaggerated winks to convey the message. “Oh! Right, I was an innocent pawn in the whole terrible incident!” Abdullah perked up. But his excitement was only shortly lived. “But they have witnesses.” Hiram folded his hands and looked around the room. “I’ve been assured that problem will be taken care of.” 59
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“What is that supposed to mean?” The lawyer put his papers back into a leather attaché case. “I have another client to meet with.” He shook hands with Abdullah. “Just maintain your innocence, keep your nose clean, and try not to do anything stupid – as hard as that may be for you.” As he waited for the guard to open the door, he turned to his client and flashed a smile. “And remember our slogan: if you got Kielty, you’re not guilty.” Schlapshwanz Residence Washington, DC Thursday, July 16 23:17 Yousef Sadr sat in the rental car listening to the Oprah Winfrey channel on the satellite radio. Through the lens of a night vision monocle he spied on the house of one General Chad Schlapshwanz, US Air Force. The General, still active in the military according to the dossier on the passenger seat next to him, had helped to develop the plan for the Yeger Complex exercise. According to Boris, the General had been responsible for killing Ibop Shebop, one of the terrorists in the cell. He saw his target and a female through the upstairs window. While the resolution wasn’t outstanding in the monocle, he could tell they were going to be engaging in 60
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sex very shortly. That would be the time he would make his move. He could see the two figures embrace and fall out of view. Yousef double checked his automatic pistol and stuffed it back into his waistband. He began to get out of the car when the dark night sky was illuminated with red and blue flashing lights. “Shit,” he cursed as he saw a police cruiser pulling up behind him. A young patrolman exited the police car. Adjusting his uniform and cap, the officer cautiously approached Yousef’s car. Following standard tactics, he had brightly illuminated Yousef’s car with the halogen floodlights. As covertly as he could, Yousef adjusted the pistol in his waistband. He had no compunctions about shooting the officer except that it would speed things up. He’d only have a few minutes at the most to eliminate his target before help arrived for the officer. “Good evening,” the officer politely and professionally opened with. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?” Yousef forced a smile. The officer casually looked through the windows at the rest of the vehicle. “We received a few phone calls about a pervert peeping through someone’s window with binoculars.” Fortunately, Yousef was prepared for this mission with an ironclad cover. He continued smiling and slowly fished 61
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a phony set of credentials out of the glove compartment. He passed the ID and badge to the officer. The officer studied them, furrowing his brow as he did so. Finally, the officer looked at him, “Are you serious?” “Yes,” Yousef began sweating, “what’s the problem?” He rapidly ran through his mind how he would draw his pistol and shoot the officer. “Michael Hunt?” The officer raised an eyebrow. Yousef shook his head, “I don’t understand the problem.” “Mike Hunt?” The officer smirked. “That’s my name,” Yousef still failed to see what the problem was. But he was starting to think he shouldn’t let Boris select his cover names anymore. “You must not have had an easy childhood I imagine,” the officer cracked. Yousef simply laughed, still not understanding the joke but not wanting to tip off the officer in anyway. “What brings you out here, Mike Hunt, Private Dick?” Now he understood. The irritation was evident in Yousef’s face, but he stuck to his cover story. “I was hired by a man to see if his wife was cheating on him.” Thinking quickly, he added, “And you I’m sure your lights aren’t helping the situation.” 62
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The officer studied Yousef a few moments longer. Finally, he gave the credentials back and offered, “Good luck. Have a good night.” Yousef smiled and muttered under his breath, “I hope you drive into a lake.” He gritted his teeth as he watched the officer pull away and drive off down the street. As soon as the car was out of sight, Yousef decided to move. He crept his way across the street, cautious to scan the neighbor’s windows for any signs of someone snooping. Yousef decided to bypass the front door and enter through the rear. Under the cover of a copse of trees, he made a quick run and leap at the wooden fence. Deftly, he hurdled himself over. On the way down, he landed hard, twisted his ankle, and stumbled into a patch of poison ivy. Adding insult to injury, the timer on the sprinklers kicked them on, drenching him. Grumbling, he limped over to the back door. Producing a lock pick gun, he quickly gained access to the kitchen. Yousef’s breathe paralyzed in his chest as he heard the squeaking his soles were making on the cheap linoleum. He tried to walk slower and more staccato, but it only succeeding in making the sound more pronounced. Fortunately, he heard the romantic sounds of Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute coming from the bedroom. Rapidly and noisily he made it to the carpeting of the Living Room. With his back against the wall, he began 63
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skulking his way up the stairs. However, each step brought another set of creaks from the aging house. Halfway up the stairs, he bumped into a vase, knocking it off a pedestal. Panicked, Yousef dropped the pistol and tried to catch the vase. He bobbled it and watched helplessly as it bounced down the stairs, shattering against the floor. The moaning from the bedroom stopped. A female voice asked, “Did you hear something?” “No,” the male companion urgently answered. Muffled moans and giggles followed. Wondering who places expensive decorations in such a precarious location, Yousef picked up the gun and continued up the stairs. At the landing at the top of the staircase articles of clothing were haphazardly tossed about. He gripped the gun tighter and tried to control his breathing. The bedroom door was unlocked. Yousef closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer. He flung the door open and aimed at the two masses on the bed. In flinging open the door he knocked over several of the hundreds of candles the sappy romantic and cliché lovers had placed around the room. The candles quickly ignited the dried rose petals scattered on the floor, which in turn touched off the flavored but highly flammable lotion they had lathered all over each other and on the bed in a moment 64
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of ridiculously poor judgment. Yousef watched in utter amazement as the entire room, including the two lovers, was quickly engulfed in flames. The blood curdling screams drowned out the irritating sound of a flute blasting on the stereo system. He contemplated mercifully euthanizing the two burning, writhing, wailing infidels in front of him. That thought was quickly shot down. It was overkill touches like those that might trip him up and get him caught. Scratching himself from the rapidly developing poison ivy on his legs and arms, he ran out through the back door. As he vaulted the fence, far more clumsily this time, he could hear the concerned tones of conversation from the neighbors. When he made his way to the front of the house by way of a neighbor’s yard, he saw that the entire neighborhood was fixated on the growing inferno in his target’s house. All eyes were locked onto the brilliant flames and billowing smoke. No one saw the car rented to Mike Hunt speed away. 65
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Chapter Five FBI New York Headquarters Federal Plaza, New York City Friday, July 17 09:03 Justin McCarthy was actually glad to be back in his office. He had taken a sick day yesterday – both to decompress mentally from his trip to the Virgin Islands as well as to seek professional medical help for what he was certain was a nasty infection in his hand. He had even insisted on getting Rabies shots too, just to be safe. He fully expected some type of good natured ribbing when he walked into the office; however he wasn’t expecting what he saw. A six foot inflatable Godzilla doll was propped up on his desk; in its mouth was a police officer action figure with the letters FBI stenciled on his back. All around the office someone had placed printouts of iguana photos with captions that asked for Agent McCarthy. Upon taking down all of the photos, deflating Godzilla, and eating his sensible breakfast of plain yogurt and perfectly proportioned mixed fruit, he diligently proofread 66
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the report for the trip to St. Thomas. He sent it as an email attachment to the Special Agent in Charge. Once he clicked send, he breathed a sigh of relief. He could now go back to enforcing the often ignored anti‐piracy laws for DVDs. He had a lead on a defiant mom who was allegedly reproducing Backyardigans DVDs for the teammates on her kid’s soccer team. Oh she would soon find out what the ‘long arm of the law’ really meant. “McCarthy!” Timothy Schuman, the Special Agent in Charge – or SAC – roared from his office three cubicles away from Justin. “Get in here!” Dutifully, Justin got up and ran into the corner office with a desirable view of lower Manhattan. “Yes, Sir?” Schuman adjusted his reading glasses and looked at the computer screen in front of him. Schuman was an institution with the Bureau. He had made his bones bringing down Mafia Dons throughout the city, foiling terrorist plots, and single handedly solving at least a dozen kidnapping cases. “Why did you say this was just a freak accident?” “Because it was a freak accident, Sir. And those people sure are freaks,” he smiled wryly at his pun. “So you mean to tell me there is no reason to suspect someone is trying to bump off our witnesses?” Schuman folded his hands calmly on the desk. 67
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“No, Sir, I don’t. This was just a sex act gone awry.” Schuman removed the glasses and massages his temples. “Then please explain to me why two charred bodies were found at General Chad Schlapshwanz’s house in Washington, DC last night?” “What?” Justin’s voice registered two octaves higher. Schuman responded by thrusting a report at him. Justin read and reread it. “I don’t understand. Maybe this is just a coincidence.” “A coincidence?” Schuman cracked his knuckles. “I don’t believe in coincidences. Now get down to Washington and get to the bottom of this!” “But Sir,” Justin pleaded, “Can’t you send someone else? Someone more…” “Competent?” Justin nodded, “Well that would be one way to put it. I was thinking something more like someone who was less…” “Incompetent?” “Forget it,” Justin shook his head. “Why me?” “Because I can’t spare anyone else. Everyone else is tied up on major cases and running down leads for this ridiculous terror trial. Plus, I need you to start acting like a real agent sometime soon.” 68
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“Real agent, Sir?” “Yes, man! Damnit, I need you to develop the killer instinct. We want to know you got our backs in a gunfight.” Schuman stood up and gestured to his groin. “Show some balls, man! Grow a set!” “But, Sir…” Schuman cut him off. “No buts, you’re going to Washington. Be on the next Acela train if you know what’s good for you.” “Understood, Sir.” Justin walked solemnly out of the office. “And McCarthy!” Schuman called from his office, readjusting himself behind the desk. “When you’re down there, stop by The Smithsonian. I hear John Dillinger’s junk is in a glass jar down there. Maybe you can borrow his balls.” The other cubicles, previously silent, erupted into mocking laughter. Society Hill North Lawrenceville, New Jersey Friday, July 17 11:21 “Are you sure this is the place?” Morris Decker adjusted and readjusted the leather gloves he was wearing with nervous energy. 69
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Jerry Pittman nodded from the backseat behind him, annoyed at being questioned again. “Yes, I’m sure.” Morris drummed his fingers on the dashboard. He looked around at the row of townhouses, convinced he would see someone watching them. “And you’re positive they won’t be home?” “Yes!” Jerry threw up his hands. “Why don’t you believe me? I checked this.” Walter Binghamton turned the volume down on the radio of his mother’s 1990 chocolate brown Volvo station wagon. “Everyone relax. Jerry, we just want to make sure we pull this off without a hitch. If this goes right, we could be set with the money we’d need to buy the explosives to carry out our mission.” “I just wish there was an easier way,” Morris sighed. “Yeah, well, me too,” Walter offered. “But we have only a short window in which to pull this off. So let’s just focus on the prize and move out.” With that, he pulled the black ski mask down over his face. His fellow patriots followed suit. Hurriedly, they ran across the parking lot. “Do you have the key?” Pittman nodded and fumbled through a ring of keys. Morris Decker pulled a semiautomatic pistol out of his pants and racked the slide back. 70
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“Dude, what the fuck?” Surprised by the firearm, Pittman dropped the keys. “What is that?” Decker shook the pistol at him as he spoke, “It’s insurance. If shit gets hairy I’m popping some caps.” “But it’s my cousin and her kids,” Pittman protested. “I don’t want anything to happen to them.” “Nothing is going to happen to them, if they know what’s good for them,” Walter reassured, nervously looking around for neighbors. “Just open the door.” “But…” Decker pressed the barrel to Pittman’s stomach and spoke slowly, “Open the door or I’ll blow your fat stomach out your ass.” Pittman’s hands shook as he picked up the keys and fumbled till he found the right one. The instant the door was opened Walter pushed him into the condo. The entrance way was cluttered with kids’ toys and clothes, the smell of eggs and bacon still hung in the air. “Let’s just get the stuff and be gone,” Walter was starting to get nervous. They had already been here way too long. “I can’t believe you pulled a gun on me,” Pittman seethed. “Relax,” Decker said, casually sifting through a pile of bras and panties on the ironing board in the kitchen. “It’s not like it’s loaded.” 71
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“What?” Pittman shrieked. Decker smiled, “It’s not loaded. See?” He pulled the trigger repeatedly, only getting clicks. “Carrying a loaded weapon is a felony. I saw Training Day – you like get one year for every bullet in the magazine.” “Oh really?” Pittman fired back. “And what do you think breaking and entering and grand larceny are?” “Maybe in some places,” Decker frowned and turned away. “Maybe in all places,” Pittman said, vindicated. “Will you two please shut up?” Walter wished he had a loaded gun. “Where is the stuff?” “Probably in Susie’s room upstairs,” Pittman led the way. At the top of the stairs, he opened the door into a small bedroom. The room was decorated in pink and red, with princess decorations and stuffed teddy bears throughout. “There,” he pointed to some large garbage bags on the floor next to the bed.” Decker shook his head, “What kind of sick bastard stores drugs in his daughter’s bedroom?” “Drugs?” Pittman was offended. “Don’t insult my cousin like that. She wants nothing to do with drugs!” 72
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Putting his hands up in surrender, Decker backed up a step. “Okay, she doesn’t do drugs. Then what are we here to steal?” “These!” Pittman proudly removed a green box and an orange box. Decker’s face lost all expression. “Girl Scout cookies? Are you serious?” Walter and Decker looked back, irritated. “Yes,” Walter said, “Girl Scout cookies.” “So we broke into someone’s house to rob them of tasty treats?” Decker shook his head. “We couldn’t just steal some TVs or jewelry? I bet they have a great selection here.” “This stuff is like crack!” Pittman tore open a box of Thin Mints and crammed one into his mouth. As he spoke, crumbs fell out, “Who doesn’t love these?” Walter nodded, “He’s right. I defy you to find one person who won’t buy Girl Scout Cookies. They’re far easier to move than electronics or jewelry.” Decker raised his finger to make a point but then stopped. He considered his words for a moment, “You have a point. May I have one?” Pittman held out the box and Decker helped himself to some. “So you’re plan is to steal and sell this?” 73
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“Simple yet effective,” Walter noted. “Five or six bucks a box, probably two or three hundred boxes here, and we’ll be golden.” “But you don’t feel guilty about stealing from little girls?” “Morris,” Walter put an arm around him, “we are going to detonate a bomb in Lower Manhattan to prove a point about American patriotism. Do you really think I’m going to feel guilty about stealing some Girl Scout cookies?” “I’m not saying there’s not an interesting dichotomy there,” Decker shrugged. “But this just seems like bad juju.” “Whatever,” Walter grabbed a bag of cookie boxes and started down the stairs. “Let’s just get out of here.” Decker and Pittman gathered up the rest of the cookies and hurried after him. Approaching the front door he heard the slam of a car door. “Shit!” “What?” Decker stopped behind him. Turning to Pittman, Walter asked “I thought you said no one would be home?” “She’s supposed to be at work.” Through the window, Pittman saw his cousin, Jessica, walking back towards the condo. She was talking on her cell phone and fishing through her purse. 74
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“What are we going to do?” Decker started to panic. “Relax and let me think,” Walter commanded. “Think faster!” Decker slapped him on the shoulders to hurry him. “Shhhhh,” Walter dismissed him with his free hand. However, before he could formulate a plan, Jessica was at the front the door. Everyone froze as they heard her ask, “Did I forget to lock the door?” The three young men frantically tried to scramble away. However, they only succeeded in bumping into each other and falling to floor. As they picked themselves off the floor, Jessica burst through the front door, a gun in hand. “She’s packing!” Decker exclaimed. Walter and Decker screamed in horror. “Run!” “Wait!” Pittman tried to reach for the gun. “Jessica, it’s…” But before he could get a word out, Jessica screamed and pulled the trigger. Pittman grabbed his arm and staggered about the living room. He pushed his way past Jessica before she could react and shoot again. Walter ran out after him, knocking the gun out of her hands. Decker grabbed a handful of lace thongs and ran out. They dove into the station wagon and peeled out. 75
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“Oh man!” Walter desperately scanned the mirrors to make sure no one was following them. “My mom is gonna kill us!” “What?” Pittman cried. “I’ve been shot!” “Yes, and you’re bleeding all over my mom’s car!” Decker wiped sweat from his forehead, “Let’s just drop him off in the middle of the woods to die,” he suggested to Walter. “I’m still alive, you asshole!” Pittman smacked him in the back of the head. “And it’s just my arm.” Decker looked intently at Walter. “He’s deadweight man, I’m warning you. He’ll only slow us down.” Decker held up the handful of panties and inhaled deeply, trying to settle himself but was thoroughly disappointed that they had just come out of the wash. “No one is going anywhere. At least not now,” Walter was starting to hyperventilate. They stopped at a red light. Walter contemplated running it but held it together. Every driver around him seemed to be staring at him. His mind told him every cell phone in operation was being used to call the police. “I can’t think,” he said frustrated, “I need some music.” Decker nervously turned up the sound on the radio. Perry Cuomo blasted from the tape deck. “Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away…” 76
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Panic‐stricken, Walter punched the power button on the radio. As his eyes darted around he saw a sign – a hospital sign. “I got it,” he held a hand up. “We’ll drop him off at an emergency room in Trenton and he can claim he got shot in a drive by.” “I still think we should leave him in the woods to die,” Decker said. “I like Walter’s idea better,” Pittman pointed out. Walter nodded, more to reassure himself. “We’ll clean the car so Mom doesn’t realize what happened. Then we’ll go sell those cookies and pick him up when he’s ready.” 77
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Chapter Six Yeger Secret Military Complex 774th Communications Detachment Greenville, New Jersey Friday, July 17 11:53 The sound of Jerry Garcia’s soulful guitar runs on China Cat Sunflower echoed through the still empty halls of the Yeger Complex. Captain Ken Shavetail carefully pruned the illegal shrubbery he had been painstakingly cultivating for several months now. He’s last foray into the world of horticulture went up in smoke, literally, when terrorist bombs touched off blazes all over the complex. Since that fateful afternoon, Ken had become somewhat of a rudderless boat. The Air Force had rebuilt some of the complex, but then reconstruction had slowed to the pace of dying snail as the Pentagon became mired in a seemingly never‐ending debate over what to do with the site. As they bickered and bantered back and forth, Ken and his fellow Communications Detachment comrade, Airman Alex Canary, had found themselves forgotten about – drifting through their days aimlessly trying to find something to keep themselves occupied. 78
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Utilizing the listening equipment that survived the attack, Ken and Alex had managed to amass a small fortune from internet subscriptions to a website of audio files of nubile and lusty college coeds engaging in all manner of promiscuous activity. However, with colleges out for the summer, they didn’t have many new audio files to edit and post, leaving them with too much time on their hands. Ken had gone back to hydroponic marijuana cultivation, and Alex fell back into his internet addiction. While many people were addicted to internet porn, Alex was addicted to finding the most disturbing videos on the internet. Ken prayed that Alex was only looking ‘just for laughs’ – but he worried Alex might have other lurid motivations. Ken was so engrossed in what he was doing that he almost missed the telephone. Had his Eight Track of The Grateful Dead’s Europe’72 not snagged on the transition to You Know Your Rider Ken would never have heard it ringing. The Eight Track was a groovy temporary replacement for the stereo system the base commander shot out during the raid. Curious, primarily because no one ever called the office, Ken made a frantic search to find where Alex had left the cordless telephone. Finding the telephone, he quickly turned off the music. In the second or two it took him to catch his breath and say hello, Ken heard the sound of breathless Germans and farm animals coming from Alex’s ‘office’. 79
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“Captain Shavetail,” he announced into the phone. “Don’t even pretend like you’re working,” Brian Donahue joked into the phone. “Speak of the Devil!” Ken called out to Alex, “Honey, our son is on the phone. He finally decided to call us.” Alex ran into the room and the two commenced to make obscene gestures and moans towards the phone. “So how are you, Mister Big Shot Lawyer?” Ken wrenched the phone away from Alex. “I’d say ‘I can’t complain’ but then I’d be lying,” Brian sighed. “What’s the matter? The world of personal injury law isn’t what you thought it would be?” Brian chuckled, “Not even close. You wouldn’t believe the types of bullshit cases they ask me to filter out. People are downright insane sometimes.” “Speaking of which,” Ken interrupted, “I’m thinking of suing the Air Force. Can you help me out?” “Oh,” Brian asked lightheartedly, “and why is that?” “Because the recruitment posters lied. When I signed up out of high school I thought it would be all Top Gun and flying flashy fighter jets. Instead, I’ve just been stuck in Jersey for my entire career.” 80
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“You’re first mistake was that Top Gun was for the Navy, we had Iron Eagle,” Brian pointed out. Ken frowned, “You might be right.” “I don’ have much time to talk,” Brian continued, “But I did get your invite for the ‘Guys Weekend’ to Chief Street’s Big Game Preserve. I’m definitely in.” “Really? Turgid is letting you off the leash for the weekend?” “Yes, as a matter of fact she is,” Brian answered caustically. Katie Turgid had been a Sergeant with the 774th during the terrorist attack. She and Brian had started a budding romance the evening before the assault and it fostered and blossomed while both recuperated from their injuries together. “She doesn’t know we’re going hunting for endangered species, does she?” Brian laughed, “No, she thinks we’re going to Vegas.” “Ah, you’re not really in love until you lie to her,” Ken said wistfully. “We’ll bring her back a panda fur coat or some penguin slippers. She’ll be fine.” Schlapshwanz Residence Washington, DC Friday, July 17 13:28 81
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A taxi dropped Justin off a block from General Schlapshwanz’s home. Two police patrol cars still secured the area, making it impossible for any of the other neighbors to access their driveways. The street around the home was festooned with bright yellow crime scene tape. A red and white arson inspector’s truck was parked in the driveway. A diminutive man with a bald head and barrel chest was waiting for Justin on the front lawn. Beneath a soot‐
ridden beige firefighter turnout coat, the man’s uniform was impeccably clean. In his mouth he clenched an unlit cigar; in his hand he bore a clipboard. “Agent McCarthy?” Justin shook his hand, “Inspector Holmgren, pleasure to meet you.” Justin gazed about, quickly taking in the scene. Every window on the second floor of the home in this upscale Georgetown neighborhood was broken out, the window panes blacked with soot and smoke. The downstairs appeared relatively untouched. As if reading his mind, Inspector Holmgren offered, “Our boys made one hell of a stop. They contained it all to the second floor. Too bad that’s where the crispy critters were.” Justin raised an eyebrow at the insensitive comment, “Excuse me?” 82
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“Crispy critters,” Holmgren repeated. “You know, the two unlucky sons of bitches upstairs.” “They are human beings,” Justin lectured. “They have feelings.” Holmgren looked at him for a moment; then erupted into laughter. “Not no more, they don’t,” he chuckled as he walked to his truck. He pulled out a set of worn out three‐quarter firefighting boots and a tattered turnout coat for Justin. “Put these on, unless you want your feelings to get hurt.” Justin bristled but complied. The boots were possibly the most uncomfortable footwear he had ever put on in his life. The coat gave off an exotic aroma of smoke, mildew, and sweat. He tried to breathe through his mouth, hoping to block out the thought of what sort of carcinogens he might be inhaling and focusing on the misguided thought that if he couldn’t smell it, it couldn’t hurt him. The inspector had been right. The firefighters had done a great job of containing the fire to the second floor. In spite of some minor water and smoke damage, the first floor looked to be in good shape. The firemen had been very careful, almost meticulous, to cover the probably expensive furniture with salvage tarps. Once again, Holmgren sensed what Justin was thinking. “Our boys are very careful when fighting fires in 83
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neighborhoods like this. Some of these furnishing cost more than a fireman’s annual salary.” He led the way upstairs. “Hell, some of these paintings might cost more than the fire department’s annual budget.” “Apparently, they weren’t that careful,” Justin said, noting what appeared to have once been a very expensive and was now a very shattered vase on the floor of the first floor hallway. Holmgren dismissed it with a wave, “That was like that before we got here.” “I’m sure,” Justin said skeptically. “Hey, it’s all in the first arriving Engine’s report,” Holmgren remarked. Justin flipped through a copy of the report he had been holding. They paused at the top of the stairs while Justin read the description of the broken vase, shocked and impressed that the officer had taken such comprehensive notes. “I told you,” Holmgren smiled, “our boys are careful. People are way too sue‐happy on this side of town and insurance companies appreciate us going the extra mile.” “So on the other side of town you might not be so meticulous?” Holmgren simply smiled. “Okay, be very careful in here,” he said as he moved crime scene tape from the bedroom doorway. 84
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Justin only took two steps into the burned out room, afraid for the structural stability of the wooden floors. He looked around at all the damage, wondering how anyone could make heads or tails of the scene. Holmgren could though, and he began narrating a tour. “The two lovers were intertwined over there on the bed. There was plenty of alcohol, Ecstasy, and Viagra downstairs, so my guess is they were too zoned out to even notice the room was on fire. Or maybe they thought they were just tripping,” he noted with a shrug. “I’m almost positive the fire started over there,” he said pointed to an area of extremely warped wood by where the door would swing open. “These two cheesy lovers had candles all over the room, and it looks like one them had gotten knocked over. Then it ignited something on the ground. My guess from how predictably sappy the scene looks is that it was probably rose petals or some other dried out flower.” Justin nodded, quite impressed with the inspector. “Fire spreads towards the bed. It catches the cheap satin sheets on fire. Then the fire reaches something extra flammable on the bed.” “What was that?” Holmgren held up a zip lock evidence bag with a bottle in it. “Some type of sex oil imported from Thailand 85
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– as best we can figure. The bed was drenched in this stuff. The two never stood a chance.” “Poor things,” Justin shook his head. “Hell, that’s the way I wanna go,” Holmgren chortled. “So blitzed out of my mind on alcohol and sex I have no idea what’s coming.” Justin ignored him. “Have you identified the bodies?” “The female was pretty easy. Her jewelry and tattoo on her back matched those in the photos downstairs of the owner’s wife, a Mai‐Ling Schlapshwanz.” Holmgren chuckled again, “Most likely a mail‐order bride.” “And the guy? Was that Chad Schlapshwanz?” Holmgren shook his head. “Not unless Ole’ Chad is from Guatemala.” “What?” Justin was caught completely by surprise. Holmgren read over his notes from the Medical Examiner’s preliminary report. “Young man, maybe late teens or early twenties – excellent physical condition, definitely Latin, most likely from Central or South America.” “What makes you think Guatemala?” Holmgren produced another evidence bag. “We found these in the hallway.” Inside the bag were men’s briefs with the blue and white Guatemalan flag on the butt. He 86
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shook his head with disapproval, “Standard issue Central American banana hammock.” Justin grimaced at the sight. “So you’re saying she wasn’t with her husband?” “You know, for an FBI agent you sure ask a lot of dumb questions.” Holmgren let the barb sting for a moment. “No Sherlock. Her husband is supposed to be an Air Force General. This guy is young enough to be the General’s son. Probably the landscaper if I had to bet money.” “Has anyone told the husband yet?” “Nope,” Holmgren closed his clipboard and began walking out of the room. “We were told not to do anything until you got here. So have fun!” Justin slowly walked out behind him. He was dreading notifying the husband. It was bad enough that his wife died horribly. But now it was compounded by the fact that she was having an affair. Something else bothered him about the scene, but he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly.
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Chapter Seven Somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike Friday, July 17 15:47 Yousef Sadr tried to ignore the cell phone. He knew that only one person had that number, and he really didn’t want to justify himself to Boris right now. He had been given bad intelligence, plain and simple. For as connected as Boris was, he had no idea how to collect good operational information. Yousef knew immediately, seeing the two bodies writhing in passion, that the guy clearly wasn’t a near‐retirement Air Force General. So he killed a cheating whore and her infidel boyfriend. He checked the phone, trying to keep an eye on the road in front of him. That made four missed calls from Boris and three voicemail messages. He knew sooner or later he would have to converse with Boris. Sighing, he decided to just get it over with. Boris answered on the first ring. “Where have you been?” His voice was steady, emotionless. It made Yousef’s skin crawl. 88
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“I didn’t want to answer the phone and have the police pull me over.” “Whatever, I need to speak to you about the Kielbasa business.” Yousef closed his eyes and braced himself. Kielbasa was the code name Boris had chosen for Schlapshwanz. “Yes, about that…” “’About that’ nothing,” Boris’ voice sounded giddy. “You are one sick son of a bitch.” “But I can explain.” “No need! I knew there was a reason I liked you.” Yousef looked confusedly at the phone. “I don’t get it.” “You couldn’t get to the target,” Boris spoke excitedly, “So you sent him a clear message. Oh, you are cold blooded and ruthless. I was a little concerned you might be getting carried away, but damn it you’re a genius. I’ll be honest, you’re kinda turning me on.” Yousef stammered, “Thank you.” “Are you heading for ‘Big Apple’ next?” “I’m on the way there now. I should be done by Monday.” “Splendid.” Boris went silent long enough for Yousef to check and see if he had lost his signal. “So how are you 89
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going to do it?” But before Yousef could answer, Boris squealed into the phone, “Oh never mind. Don’t tell me! This is so exciting!” He disconnected before Yousef could say anything else. As soon as the phone disconnected, Yousef heard the whoop‐whoop of a State Trooper’s siren behind him. “Damn it!” He cursed as he cautiously pulled over. As the tall, muscular State Trooper approached the car, Yousef fished out the next ID. “Good afternoon Mister…” the Trooper politely scanned the license for his name. “Palms, isn’t?” “Yes, Sir,” Yousef smiled nervously. “But you can call me Harry.” The Trooper nodded, “Must have had a tough childhood?” “You have no idea.” “Camp Justice” US Air Force Base Diego Garcia, Indian Ocean Saturday, July 18 03:17 Indian Ocean Time General Chad Schlapshwanz couldn’t sleep. It was really nothing new for him. Since the events at the Yeger Complex he couldn’t center himself. He had thought he 90
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was doing the right thing by setting up the ill‐fated exercise. After all, he had a right to live a fruitful life in retirement like the rest of the Baby Boomers who were now retiring. But things had gone horribly wrong. The idiots they had hired to play the terrorists had gotten themselves arrested the night before. So when real terrorists showed up, the complex was completely caught with its proverbial pants down. Following that debacle, he once again did what he thought was right. He fought his way out of the base, rescuing a wounded Lieutenant Colonel and the emotionally unbalanced base commander. Because of his heroism and his willingness to turn on General Trottel and blame him for the entire thing, the Air Force rewarded him with command of a refueling tanker wing on this desolate atoll in the middle of the Indian Ocean. He had always wanted command of his own numbered wing, but late at night he found himself racked with guilt about turning in his friend. Schlapshwanz paced the runway, watching the incoming bombers returning from missions in Afghanistan. He watched as a B‐2 Spirit stealth bomber rolled to a stop. He read the name as it closed in – Spirit of Coxsackie – and tried to place the name that seemed somehow vaguely familiar. Breathing in the warm, sub‐
tropical sea air, he prepared a Cuban cigar for his nightly enjoyment. 91
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“General Schlapshwanz,” the base commander, General Arlen Houston called from a HUMVEE. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Schlapshwanz put the cigar back in a plastic case. “What is it?” “Something happened at your house,” the old man searched for the right words. “A fire.” Schlapshwanz panicked. “Oh my God! Here? Now? When? I wasn’t gone for a stroll that long.” He rushed to the older officer and grabbed him by the collar. “For godsakes man, are my Menudo and El Debarge vinyls okay?” The distinguished officer stared at Schlapshwanz, trying to suppress a smile and figure out if this was a joke. “No, the fire wasn’t here. It was your house in Washington, DC.” The General looked at him, panting and searching into the officer’s eyes, “So…” “Yes Chad, your vinyl collection of subpar 1980’s club music is probably okay, though certainly your taste is questionable.” He added under his breath, “As are your priorities, apparently.” “Thank Heavens,” Schlapshwanz let go and smoothed out the officer’s uniform. “So what happened?” 92
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“I don’t know the full details. But the FBI is trying to contact you. An Agent McCarthy from the New York Field Office called you.” “New York?” It took him a moment to figure it out. “He must think this is in connection with the upcoming trial.” The senior General nodded. “I’ll give you a ride back to my office. You can call him from there.” “Thank you, Sir.” “And maybe during the day I can drive you over to the PX and we can buy you some real music to listen to.” Schlapshwanz sat in the back of the HUMVEE, “What’s wrong with my choice in music?” General Houston signaled the driver to leave. “Do you really want me to answer that? I mean, come on, El Debarge?” The driver took his eyes off the road and looked at Schlapshwanz. “You listen to El Debarge? For real?” Schlapshwanz threw up his hands. “Oh what? You’re going to mock me too now? I’ll have you know that’s insubordination!” “No, Sir, on the contrary I was going to say Rhythm of the Night is my jam!” He and Schlapshwanz exchanged fist bumps. 93
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General Houston shook his head and groaned as the driver found the song on his iPod and blasted it from the utility vehicle’s speakers. “General Schlapshwanz, my name is Agent Justin McCarthy,” the man on the phone introduced himself. “I apologize for calling at such an extraordinarily late hour.” “That’s okay,” Schlapshwanz replied. “I don’t sleep well here.” Schlapshwanz fixed himself a tall mug of herbal tea. “Even still, Sir, I wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell you this.” McCarthy paused to gather his thoughts. “There was a fire at your residence in Washington, DC late last night.” Schlapshwanz blew onto the tea to cool it down some. “That’s not my house anymore.” “Sir?” “I let my ex‐wife or whatever she is have the house when I got my transfer out here.” “I don’t follow, Sir.” Pouring in some honey, Schlapshwanz continued. “Shortly after the whole incident at Yeger, it was determined that I never really filed the proper paperwork 94
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so our mail‐order marriage was never actually valid.” He took a satisfying sip. “That being so, Sir, I still must regrettably inform you that your wife, or ex‐wife, or whatever was killed in the fire.” Un‐phased, Schlapshwanz slurped his tea loudly. “That is a shame.” “There’s something else, Sir,” Justin hesitated. “There was someone else with her.” “Oh?” “Yes, Sir, a young Central American man who we haven’t been able to identify yet…” “Pablo Ramirez,” Schlapshwanz, still unmoved by the news, winced – the tea still being too hot. “May I ask how you know that?” “Sure, he’s the landscaper. I hired him myself two years ago. Good looking guy, very muscular, Mai‐Ling had an eye for him.” McCarthy stumbled, “S… so, you knew they were having an affair?” “Of course,” he said indifferently. “That’s why I gave him syphilis.” “You gave him what?” 95
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Schlapshwanz made another slurp into the phone, satisfied that the tea had cooled enough, “Syphilis.” “Why? How?” Schlapshwanz smiled coyly to himself, “A boy’s gotta have his secrets.” “We can come back to that at another time, but can you think of any reason someone might want to kill her?” “You mean besides me?” He laughed but could tell the FBI Agent didn’t find it as funny. “Why would you think someone killed her?” “It’s just a funny feeling I’m getting.” “I really wish I could help you, but I have no idea.” “Thank you for your time, General. And I’m very sorry for your loss.” Schlapshwanz thanked him and hung up. He threw his hands up in triumph, remembering that they never changed their life insurance policies. He was still the sole beneficiary with an airtight alibi. He commenced to do a sloppy celebratory jig and clumsily moonwalked his way out of the room. 96
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Chapter Eight Undisclosed Maximum Security Federal Correctional Facility Somewhere in New York City Saturday, July 18 12:17 Eastern Daylight Time “This whole trial is a farce,” Abdullah spat. Myaz Bin Riden adjusted the sheet of tin foil he was using to help sun himself in the yard. “Allah has a plan for us, you just have to be patient, Sadeek.” “How can you tell me to be patient? Are you not going insane trapped by these walls?” Myaz shrugged. “A little, I guess. But what alternative could there be?” Abdullah paced back and forth. “We are enemy combatants. We should be treated accordingly. We shouldn’t be bound by the judicial proceedings of this corrupt, godless country.” “We should be bound by the military proceedings of this corrupt, godless country?” Myaz smiled. Abdullah slapped him across his sunburned face. 97
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Myaz cowered and rubbed his face. “That was a bit uncalled for.” Abdullah frowned. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that I have been so stressed out that I haven’t been able to, you know…” “No, I don’t know. What?” Abdullah sheepishly nodded downward. “You know…” Myaz shrugged and shook his head. “I’m lost. What are we talking about?” Abdullah began making a pumping gesture. “You know…” “Ahhh, yes! You haven’t been able to beat your meat like it owes you money?” Abdullah flinched. “Where did that come from?” Myaz smiled, “I overheard some Americans in the shower.” “I’m not sure I want to hear how the rest of that story ends,” Abdullah studied his friend. “But no matter, yes I haven’t been able to do that so I’m a little backed up and on edge.” Myaz held his stump with the hook / wine cork attachment. “How do you think I feel?” Abdullah studied him. “Yes, I supposed that would be uncomfortable.” The two sat in awkward silence for a few 98
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minutes. Finally, a basketball flew at their heads with amazing speed. Both men ducked, narrowly avoiding being struck by the projectile. Looking to see where it came from, they saw a laughing Omar Shabazz being slapped on the butt by other Aryan Brotherhood members. “So, you were saying,” Myaz refocused, “Enemy combatants?” “We need to be surrounded by our own kind, fellow Jihadeen. Not this riff‐raff of maladjusted and malcontent infidels. We need to be around true believers, real warriors. We need to be in Guantanamo Bay.” Myaz perked up. “I have been thinking the same thing!” “You have?” Abdullah giggled. “Yes! I want to be away from this noise, the pollution, and the constant fear for my anal virginity.” Abdullah grimaced. “You too?” Myaz nodded uncomfortably. He pointed to the obvious leader of the Aryan Brotherhood. The man stood six foot five and weighed easily over three hundred pounds of pure, prison‐tattooed muscle. Myaz’s voice quivered, “Do you know what he asked me to do to him last night in the shower?” 99
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Abdullah put an arm around his friend. “It is okay, Sahib, you do not need to speak.” Tears began flowing down Myaz’s face and he convulsively snorted back snot. “He… he asked me to give him a Bavarian Hook Job.” “A what?” Abdullah retracted at the statement. “He said a Bavarian Hook Job.” “What is that?” Myaz threw his hand and stump up in desperation, “I don’t know! But it doesn’t sound comfortable or pleasant for either party involved. And had it not been for Omar jealously dropping the soap to get attention, I might have found out.” Myaz sunk his head into Abdullah’s shoulder and whimpered softly, remembering his near‐violation. Other prisoners began shouting taunts and cat‐calls at the two grieving holy warriors in the yard. Those were soon drowned out by the sound of Myaz snoring in one of his narcoleptic slumbers. Abdullah smiled for an instant, thinking how Myaz always resembled a napping infant in these stages. But that reverie was short lived as Abdullah noticed the puddle of drool forming on his shirt by where Myaz’s mouth was. Abdullah shook him violently awake. When Myaz had regained coherency, Abdullah continued. “I want that lawyer of ours to push for us to be moved to Guantanamo Bay for a military tribunal.” 100
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“What about Omar?” They both looked across the yard to see Omar enticingly bending over in front of a group of pure white prisoners. “Omar is a lost cause,” Abdullah announced. Myaz nodded, “Agreed. We are on our own.” The two men watched the disgraceful display carry on for a few moments more. One overweight man stood up, tossed what appeared to be a pack of cigarettes to the Aryan leader, and led Omar away by the hand. “So,” disgust was evident in Myaz’s voice as he tried to change the topic, “I have thought about Guantanamo Bay as well.” “You have?” “Oh yes, the soldiers are not allowed to impede on our religious observances there, the weather is nice, and I hear that have great recreational activities.” Abdullah raised an eyebrow. “Recreational activities?” “Oh yes!” Myaz beamed. “Since its right by the beach, they have water‐boarding. It sounds like fun.” Abdullah closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. “Dearest, oldest friend, do you know what water‐boarding is?” “I imagine it is something like boogie boarding or surfing,” Myaz smiled. But that smile quickly faded as he saw the look of irritation on Abdullah’s face. “Is it not?” “Sahib, you may be a lost cause as well.” 101
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Brendan Byrne State Forest New Jersey Pine Barrens Saturday, July 18 17:02 Walter Binghamton rapped the gavel on the podium, bringing the meeting to order. “Okay, I’d like to make this a brief meeting so Mom can drive us to the White Supremacists Summer Cotillion dance.” The three aspiring patriots were dressed in their best, ill‐fitting consignment shop purchased leisure suits. “And Mom, please adhere to the strict club policy of dropping us off two blocks from the dance so all of our friends don’t see that we don’t have cars.” Mrs. Binghamton paused from typing, “And what if one of you wants to get lucky with a girl tonight?” The three young men looked inquisitively at each other. Mrs. Binghamton burst into uproarious laughter, “Like anyone would want to sleep with you losers!” She repeatedly slapped her knee, punctuating her laughter and driving the insult home. Her son glared at her, but she merely grasped her ribs to brace herself for another round of giggles. 102
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“Mom, if you are finished, could we continue with the meeting?” Dabbing tears from her eyes she sighed loudly. “Okay, we can continue now.” Walter adjusted himself. “First order of business is the Girl Scout Cookie Heist.” He scanned the notes he made for himself on index cards. “The total from the street sale of the cookies was two thousand and fifty five dollars.” Jerry Pittman and Morris Decker stood up applauding. Walter gestured for them to sit back down in their seats. “It’s not as wondrous as it sounds. After paying Jerry’s co‐
pay for his hospital visit, we’ve dropped back under our target goal.” “I told you we should have left him for dead,” Decker groused as he punched Pittman in the wounded arm. Pittman grabbed the arm that was being braced by a sling, and collapsed to the ground crying. Walter banged the gavel again. “Okay, okay. As I said before, no one is leaving anyone for dead. We need each of us to stick together if we are going to be successful in our mission.” “Do you really think it will work?” Decker asked as he begrudgingly helped a sobbing Jerry Pittman from the floor. 103
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“Of course it will,” Walter Binghamton announced confidently. “We will blow up the Federal Court Building while the trial is going on for those savage terrorists. We’ll show the Federal Government that real Americans will not stand for them treating terrorists with liberal, panty‐
waist kid gloves! Furthermore, we’ll show the Federal Government that all of the billions of dollars they spend in Homeland Security won’t stop three determined white men.” “Hold on,” Mrs. Binghamton held up a hand. Walter glared at his mother again. “Mom, what is it?” “Sorry, this damn thing is on the fritz again,” she slapped the side of the stenography machine. “Wait, yup, now I got it. Could you repeat what you just said?” “Which part?” “I got ‘Of course it will’ and then the machine froze.” “Seriously Mom? Is it even worth having minutes for these meetings?” “Of course it is, Dumbass,” she jeered. “It’s proper meeting etiquette. This is how people do it in the real world. I’m trying to teach you the skills that will land you a job and finally get your free‐loading ass out of my basement!” Walter rolled his eyes. 104
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His mother pointed a finger at him, “Roll your eyes at me again!” “I didn’t roll my eyes,” his voice cracked. Jerry Pittman and Morris Decker looked away uncomfortably. “You know you did,” she scolded. “Do you want me to tell your father?” “No!” Walter screeched. “Mom, you can’t!” “Then apologize.” “Fine,” he huffed and folded his arms. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he grumbled under his breath. “What was that?” She cupped her hand to her ear for dramatic emphasis. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said clearly. “That’s better. Carry on with your meeting, honey.” Pittman and Decker giggled. “Mom!” Walter whined. “Don’t call me honey in public.” “Okay,” she smiled. “Honey,” she added softly. Walter pounded the gavel impotently on the podium. “Can we please continue?” Everyone smiled and nodded. “Next order of business is the name of the operation. I have given it some careful consideration and I propose we 105
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change the name from Operation: BUTT to The Patriot Plan.” There was some muted discussion between Decker and Pittman. Walter smiled confidently as they discussed. After two minutes, Pittman raised his good arm. “While we like the name and feel it’s catchy, we would like to go on record as saying we are big fans of the butt.” Pittman and Decker followed the statement by snickering and giggling amongst themselves. “Oh, ha‐ha, very funny,” Walter said dryly. “Can we be serious for a moment and just vote on the stupid name?” “Fine,” Pittman said, “but can we get it written on satin tour jackets?” “Absolutely not!” Mrs. Binghamton slammed her hands down on her makeshift desk “Do you really want to be a walking billboard for the Feds?” “But they look so snazzy,” Decker replied. “Superheroes don’t wear capes,” she responded, “and Patriots don’t wear tour jackets!” “But what about Batman?” Pittman said sheepishly. Decker felt emboldened by his wounded comrade, “Yeah, and Superman? They both wear capes.” Without warning, a wooden cooking spoon, hurled through the air with dizzying speed and remarkable 106
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accuracy, smacked Decker squarely on the bridge of his nose. “I said no tour jackets!” Mrs. Binghamton held another spoon in her hand, leaving everyone wondering where she had been keeping them. Walter gave his mother a minute to calm down. “Final order of business, I want to start reaching out for vendors to purchase some explosives. Have we found any?” Decker raised his hand. “I found one.” “Excellent! Where did you find him?” Walter inquired. “Soldier of Fortune magazine? Al‐Qaeda website?” “Craigslist,” Decker said proudly. There was a moment of silence that was filled with the distant chirping of crickets. “They have explosives dealers on Craigslist?” Walter asked. “Well not exactly,” Decker said sheepishly. “I was looking for something else and happened to find him.” “What were you looking for?” Pittman asked. Decker blushed, “That’s not important right now.” “Um, yes it is,” Walter noted. “Please don’t make me answer that,” Decker begged. “Answer, you little shit,” Mrs. Binghamton menacingly stood up from her chair. 107
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Decker mumbled something inaudible. “What was that?” Walter asked sternly. Decker mumbled again. Mrs. Binghamton slammed her hands down on her tiny desk, “Answer him or I’ll bend you over my knee and spank your ass!” “Fine!” Decker threw his hands up. “I was looking for pre‐operation transsexual escorts. Are you happy now?” The group stood in stunned silence for a several heartbeats before they exploded into hysterical, mocking laughter. “Are you happy?” Pittman gasped as he dropped to a knee, bracing his arm against the pain of his laughter. “I hate you all,” Decker pouted. 108
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Chapter Nine Donahue Apartment Garwood, New Jersey Friday, July 24 05:03 Brian Donahue groaned and fumbled for the Blackberry next to his bed, it’s irritating chirping waking him from a great slumber. Carefully, he slid out from beneath the covers, his body was instantly met with the frigid chill the air conditioner was creating. Standing in his boxers he shivered some, but realized it was the middle of a heat wave outside, so he quickly suppressed the urge to complain. He silenced his phone’s wake up alarm and checked to make sure he hadn’t woken up Katie. She looked so peaceful, lying in her bra and panties following another night of incredible love making. Last night had been extra special following his proposal to her over dinner at their favorite restaurant in Summit. He knew that Ken Shavetail and Alex Canary would have something sarcastic and borderline offensive to say about that when they went on their trip to North Dakota next weekend. But for now, he was content and confident in his decision. 109
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This was the woman he had been waiting for all his life and he was ready to take the next step with her. Gathering up the clothes he left neatly folded on his dresser, he crept out to the bathroom. Katie didn’t need to be awake for her job as a personal trainer for another two hours, so he tried his best to never wake her. As he exited the bedroom, Bertha, Katie’s Calico cat, sauntered from the kitchen towards the bedroom. She greeted him with a meow and proceeded to engage in her morning ritual of curling up on Katie’s pillow and napping with her head on Katie’s. It never failed to bring a smile to Brian’s face. He remembered when they first began going out. Brian, being allergic to cats, had originally been opposed to Bertha. In fact, Katie often reminded him of how he told her to lock the cat in the bathroom so they could fool around without sending him into anaphylactic shock. But he had grown attached to the cat along with Katie. It’s amazing what love will make you do – including exposing yourself to life‐threatening allergens. After a quick shower and shave, he was ready to start his morning. As gently as he could, he bent over and softly kissed Katie on the forehead. She reached out and grabbed his arm with a sleepy hand and mumbled something that sounded sweet. Brian gave Bertha a playful scratch on her chin. His morning routine complete, Brian headed out to the train station. 110
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The train station was short walk from his apartment. However, the heat and humidity, particularly this early in morning, made him feel like he was walking forever. His commute was a relatively short one. Generally, it was a twenty minute train ride to Newark, where he would switch to a twenty minute PATH subway to New York City. From the World Trade Center station, it was a fifteen minute walk to the law offices located a few blocks from City Hall. Brian occupied his time on the train with his iPod or a book, all the while trying to repress the fact that he was going to a law firm that he hated, with a seemingly endless parade of fraudulent clients he couldn’t stand. Today’s commute started off routinely enough. He found a seat on the train, well away from any other passenger, and continued reading a Clive Cussler novel. At Newark, he walked across the platform, through the turnstile for the Port Authority Trans Hudson subway and found an empty seat. Like clockwork, the train left Newark relatively empty, but then suddenly filled up at the Harrison Station. As the doors closed in Harrison, Brian noticed a foul odor. Soft, almost imperceptible at first, it rapidly grew thicker and more offensive. It smelled like onions and grape jelly had been smeared on a tuna sandwich and set out in the sun for several days. He hoped that if he took a few deep breaths his nose would get used to the smell, but that was a misguided hope. He coughed loudly, bordering on dry heaving from the smell. 111
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The man standing next to Brian, with his malodorous armpits exposed as he gripped the railing above his head, stared at Brian with disdain. Brian tried to distract himself with the action thriller he was reading. The walking stench next to him mercifully exited at the Journal Square Station. Breathing a sigh of relief and fresher air, Brian looked up from his novel as the subway pulled away from the busy station. Someone caught his eye. He wasn’t sure when this man got on, but something about him didn’t sit right with Brian. For starters, the man was Middle Eastern. He knew he shouldn’t be concerned by that, but ever since the events of 9/11 and most recently at the Yeger Complex, Brian knew he had fallen victim to Islamophobia. He wasn’t proud of it, but how many people could say they wrestled face‐to‐face to the death with a real‐life Islamic fundamentalist terrorist? But there was something else about the man that was more unsettling than just his skin tone. The man kept looking up at Brian. At first Brian tried to play it off, thinking that he was just imagining it, or maybe that the man somehow sensed Brian’s racism. But that quickly faded when Brian saw the man’s lips moving. Was it in prayer? Was the man simply singing along to the music in his iPod, or was this man preparing to blow up the subway? Brian’s heart raced and his palms instantly 112
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flooded with sweat. He began to debate getting off at the next station, but as the train pulled into the Grove Street Station Brian found his legs paralyzed with fear. Brian studied the surge of people getting off and on the train in hopes that perhaps the man was getting off. But there was to be no such luck. The man remained in his seat, diagonally to the right across from Brian. Now his mind and primitive fight‐or‐flight instincts kicked in. Brian began to evaluate the man’s clothing to see if there were any tell‐tale signs of a suicide bomber vest. Of course, Brian had no idea what one might look like, so he just randomly evaluated any aspect that came to mind – the fabric of his shirt wasn’t a high enough thread count, his shoes weren’t sensible enough for carrying out jihad, the man hadn’t shaved this morning and anyone who watched TV or read terrorism novels knew that terrorists always shaved themselves to prepare for martyrdom. Brian’s breathing rapidly increased to the verge of a panic attack. Brian judged the distance between him and the man, evaluating how quickly he could spring into action should the man attempt to detonate a concealed bomb. But as the subway pulled into Exchange Place Station, the man got up and calmly exited with the rest of the commuters on their way to the Jersey City waterfront. Brian sighed out loud. 113
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At the World Trade Center Station, Brian allowed everyone else to get off the train first. He let the crush of morning commuters fight amongst themselves for the privilege of walking up the stairs first, using the extra time to calm himself down. When he could control his body again, he walked up past the lines of teamsters checking in for their workday at the reconstruction site. Having no illusions of just how out of shape he was, Brian took the escalator instead of attempting to walk up the six or seven flights of stairs from the platform to the surface. He’d tried that before on a whim, making it only a quarter of the way up before calling for the Port Authority Police Emergency Services Unit to carry his exhausted body back down so he could ride the escalator up after all. It was on the escalator today that he saw her again. Brian almost always walked into work with her. He didn’t know her name. He’d never spoken to her. And he had no intention of ever doing so. However, watching her walk was one of the simple joys of his early morning commute. She was just a hair over five feet tall – slim but slightly thick in certain lower areas, and her long, black Latina hair bounced as she walked. She couldn’t hold a candle to his fiancée, but he had no doubt Katie would have commented on how attractive this woman was; especially in the tiny, flowered sundress she wore today. And like any red‐blooded male, he had never fully given 114
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up on the fanciful dream of convincing his girlfriend to have a threesome. He altered his walk to the office to allow for maximum admiration. As he reached the top of the escalator, Brian hurried to catch up with her. Exiting the station though, his morning reverie was briefly interrupted with the realization he forgot to take his allergy medicine this morning. In order to safely maintain his relationship with Katie and her cat, Brian remained on a constant regimen of anti‐histamines. However, with his head still in the clouds from proposing to Katie last night, he completely forgot. It wasn’t the end of the world, but the pollen count was high today and his hay fever was quickly making itself known. The headache, itchy eyes, and mild shortness of breath made him forget about the woman he was casually following. Several times he stopped to sneeze, realizing with disgust that he also forgot to pack tissues. After a salvo of four particularly loud and juicy sneezes, he looked up to realize he had lost sight of her. He shrugged it off as no big loss, and continued on his way. As he reached the intersection of Broadway and Chambers Street he saw with delight that he had caught up to her again. Stopped waiting for the light to change so they could cross the street he allowed himself a chance to study her one more time. This was usually where they 115
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would part company. He felt a momentary pang of guilt as he admired how much cleavage she was showing. That pang was quickly replaced with another sensation. He reared his head back and sneezed profoundly. The force of the sneeze doubled him over. The loud, screeching sound of his sneeze also drowned out the sound of a gunshot. When he straightened himself up and wiped the snot from his nose, Brian saw with horror that the woman he had been admiring was now laying on the sidewalk clutching her chest. Before he could react, the bystanders around him began screaming and scurrying about in confusion. Brian bent down to help her, trying desperately to remember the basic first aid training he had been taught. “Shit,” Yousef Sadr cursed as he surveyed his mistake through the scope of his sniper rifle. He contemplated trying another shot but decided against it. One shot was difficult for even trained ears to discern an origin. But a second shot could quite possibly give him away. Yousef disassembled the rifle, wiping down every possible surface to remove any fingerprints. He had planned this operation to the last detail. He had carefully studied Brian for the past few days, realizing quickly that he was a 116
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predictable creature of habit. But now all of that careful planning had been undermined by a sneeze. Yousef could not believe the run of bad luck he was having. Witness assassinations had never been this difficult in Iraq, Afghanistan, or Chechnya. There he had been known to remove entire villages full of witnesses before breakfast. But here he had botched two and apparently shown up late for another. He knew there was no way to easily explain this to Boris. His confidence shaken, he prayed to Allah that the second phase of today’s strike would at least go according to plan. As casually as he could, Yousef walked out of the office building and found his rental car. Reaching his car he found the perfect end to his failed day – a parking ticket for an expired meter made out to false name he used to rent the car: Harry Palms. Police officers and an ambulance were already on scene by the time Yousef drove by. His target was still alive and well, and talking to the police. No matter, Yousef thought, he couldn’t know the bullet was intended for him. “I swear,” Brian Donahue cried to the detective taking his statement, “someone is trying to kill me!” The detective, the stereotypical TV gruff NYPD homicide investigator – short, stocky, receding hairline, thick moustache, wearing a suit that was oversized 117
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everywhere except his belly, and chomping a burned out cigar in the corner of his mouth – smiled. “And why exactly would anyone try to kill you?” Brian looked frantically around him, convinced the magic bullet that would take him out was coming soon, “Because, I’m the key witness in an upcoming federal terrorism trial.” The detective removed the cigar from his mouth and steadied it between his fingers in the same hand he held his pen to take notes. “Oh yeah? You don’t say. Which trial?” “The attack at the Yeger Complex last year,” Brian replied nervously continuing to evaluate his surroundings for threats. The detective shook his head, “Never heard of it.” “Are you kidding me? It was all over the news! Some terrorists stormed a base in Jersey and tried to steal secret weapons. It was all over WNN live as it was happening.” The detective shrugged. “I never watch WNN. Hell I don’t even think I get them on my cable provider. I do remember something about that though. It made the news for a few minutes until Lindsey Lohan or some other celebrity attention‐whore was arrested for DWI or petty 118
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theft.” The detective made some notes. “And what was your role in it?” “I killed one of the terrorists,” Brian said somberly. The detective studied him for a moment. Then he started chuckling, “You killed someone? That’s rich!” “I did, with my own hands.” “Ha, okay Captain America,” the detective patted him on the back. “I’m thinking this was either a jilted lover or she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ll know more after she wakes up.” Noticing the dejected look on Brian’s face, the detective placated, “If it will make you feel more important, I’ll call the FBI and let them know someone may have made an attempt on your life. Would that make you feel better?” Brian shrugged, “A little, I suppose.” 119
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Chapter Ten Masterson Residence Virginia Beach, Virginia Friday, July 24 09:33 “What do you mean they are pulling the plug on Alonzo, Debbie?” Mike Masterson paced back and forth by his pool in a robe and Speedo briefs, a mint julep in his hands to start off his morning. Mike’s agent, appropriately named Debbie Downer, was on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry, they say your Spanish is awful and the dialogue is too forced and suggestive.” “What do you mean too forced?” Mike flailed his drink hand about, causing a splash of bourbon and mint leaves to scatter about. “The executives at Nickelodeon are all on board with preaching the good word of tolerance and acceptance of the gay lifestyle to today’s youth. However, they feel you were going above and beyond with Alonzo’s character.” 120
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Mike Masterson had become hooked on Dora the Explorer when, after a mishap in Afghanistan caused him to be transferred to the CIA’s domestic terrorism desk, he saw the show as a way to learn enough Spanish to get him transferred back to a more exciting Station – like Bogota, Columbia. After he and analyst Chet Watkins were exposed to the gay bomb at the Yeger Complex while trying to stop the dreaded Abdullah Bin‐al‐Raheem, a.k.a. Johnny Three Fingers, he and Watkins married and moved to this luxury beachfront condo in Virginia Beach. With the free time he now had following his forced retirement, Masterson created an openly gay character for Dora the Explorer, Alonzo the Anteater. It was accepted at first; however these morning calls from his agent filled with bad news and new complaints were becoming an all‐too regular part of his morning routine. “Define above and beyond!” He kicked a multi‐colored beach ball across his pool. “I would love to hear what these stuck up executives consider ‘over the top’ dialogue!” “Mike,” she said calmly, “You wrote a scene in which Alonzo asks Boots the Monkey and Benny the Bull to engage in a threesome.” “Not in so many words,” he protested. “It was in those exact words. You said, and I quote, ‘Hey guys, let’s go back to my place and have a 121
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threesome?’ What kind of message do you think that presents to the kids?” Mike sat his drink down and pensively rubbed his chin. “I see your point. So what do they want us to do about it?” Debbie Downer uncomfortably cleared her throat on the other end. “Well, see Mike, they don’t want us to do anything… ever again.” “What are you saying?” Mike’s voice wavered. “I’m saying they are cutting Alonzo the Anteater out of all upcoming episodes and the series completely. And to ensure that abomination never sees the light of day again, they are retaining all rights.” Mike slammed the phone down onto the concrete around the pool, shattering it into dozens of pieces. He flopped himself into a deck chair and chanted his Zen mantra to re‐center his Chi. He finished what mint julep hadn’t spilled out of his glass and tried to relax. The sun and the warm coastal breeze soothed his soul and soon Mike found himself drifting off to sleep. A crash from inside the apartment rocked him out of his daze. Instinctively he fumbled for a gun but realized quickly that he hadn’t carried a weapon since he left the Agency. He had lived in near constant fear since the attack that someone might seek retribution on him for stopping 122
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Abdullah. His revisionist version of events at Yeger not with‐standing, he had dealt with jihadists in Afghanistan enough to know that they were prone to eliminating witnesses – and anyone remotely connected to witnesses. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the pool skimmer and crept to the back door. He saw movement inside. Immediately all the training he had at The Farm, the Agency’s training facility, kicked in. In a very fluid move, he swung the door open, somersaulted into the kitchen, and assumed a defensive posture with the skimmer in hand. “What are you doing with that?” Chet Watkins put down his suitcases and demanded. Mike Masterson lowered his guard and took inventory of the situation. Chet was in the process of carrying out luggage and items of easily removed furniture. “Wuh… What is going on?” “What does it look like?” Chet picked up his suitcases. He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s over.” “What is?” “This! Us!” Chet tried to walk out but Mike stopped him. “Why are you doing this? I thought everything was going great for us.” 123
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Chet set the suitcases down again. “It was. But then I woke up this morning and realized something important.” “And that is?” Chet sighed. “I’m not gay.” Mike laughed. “Oh yes you are.” Chet shook his head, “No, I’m not.” “You certainly were last night,” Mike said with a lascivious smile. “Be that as it may, when I woke up this morning things had changed.” Chet wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “I looked at you and I realized that all of this had been some horrible misunderstanding. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was fun while it lasted. But I seriously think we were only feeling that way because of whatever we were exposed on that base.” Mike nodded slowly. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he was coming to same conclusion. “My God, you’re right! I’m not attracted to you either!” Chet bristled, “Well don’t celebrate too much! I still have a fragile self‐image.” “Sorry,” Mike bowed his head. “Accepted.” “So where are you going to go?” 124
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Chet smiled. “I called my ex‐wife this morning and begged her to take me back.” It was Mike’s turn to smile. He had always felt a little guilt about stealing Chet awake from Edith, his wife. “And she said yes?” “Yup! She was always of the opinion that it was just another one of my stupid phases – like when I was in a dancer on Soul Train.” “Shut up!” Mike playfully slapped Chet. “You were not!” “I was too.” “Why did you never tell me?” Chet blushed, “It’s a phase of my life I’m not proud of. My hair was just ridiculous.” They stood in awkward silence for a short time. Finally, Chet nodded. “Yeah, well, I should be going.” “Do you need a hand with your stuff?” Mike smiled politely. “Thanks,” Chet accepted. Mike helped Chet load his items up into the Chevy Suburban Mike had bought for him as a wedding gift. When everything was loaded up, they took a few minutes to discuss dividing up the bank accounts and other assets, as well as who would file for the divorce. It was 125
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remarkably easy for both of them. They shook hands and Chet slipped behind the wheel. Mike walked away, watching his former lover leaving. He felt a twinge of heartache and the weight of the finality of the breakup settled on him. He wasn’t attracted to Chet any more, but he knew he’d miss the companionship. Plus, who really liked telling people they were divorced? As he turned to walk back inside something caught his eye. On the front step was a package. It was a white cardboard box of average size, with the standard shipping markings on it. He read the mailing label and saw that it was addressed to both of them. Curiosity got the better of him. He picked up the package, walked out back to the pool, and called Chet. “Yeah, I have no idea who it’s from,” he said when Chet said he would turn around and asked who had sent it. “Well who does the return address say?” Mike looked curiously at the name. “It says it’s from Dick Guzinya.” “Huh, never heard of him. Don’t wait for me to open it,” Chet instructed him as he turned the car around. Mike sat down on the backyard patio and carefully opened the package. He caught a flash of something inside the package. His field training had gone rusty in the 126
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past few months since he had retired. His brain knew something was wrong but he couldn’t process it fast enough. Maybe it was the wire. Maybe it was the tube of something. But even as his brain sent warning signals throughout his body, his hands still continued to open the box. Chet pulled into the driveway just in time to see the explosion toss his former lover limply up in the air and into the swimming pool. Shrieking like a scared child, Chet rushed into the backyard and dove into the pool. With more than a considerable struggle, Chet managed to extract Mike from the water. Mike was alive, but barely. FBI New York Headquarters Federal Plaza, New York City Friday, July 24 10:17 Justin McCarthy stared at pictures of the Schlapshwanz crime scene. The local arson investigator was still taking his sweet time determining a cause, but he seemed dead‐set against ruling it arson. McCarthy couldn’t figure out why not. Justin was almost positive it was arson. And that would mean there was definitely a conspiracy to murder key federal witnesses. And that meant a more seasoned agent would swoop in and take 127
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the case away from him so that said agent could use this case to skyrocket his career. All of which was perfectly okay with Justin. He had no problem living his life flying under the radar with a respectable but middle of the road government pay grade. What was Justin missing? He kept staring at the photo he took of the broken vase. It had to mean something, but what? It was expensive, that was for certain. The insurance company confirmed that. So if Mai Ling Schlapshwanz or her Latin lover knocked it over and broke it, would they really still be in the mood to have the kind of earth shattering sex that made them oblivious to the fact that the room was on fire? Maybe, Justin thought, but highly unlikely. His phone rang, and checking the number on the caller ID he smiled. It was from the Washington, DC area. On a whim he had called the local police precinct and asked if anyone reported anything suspicious. “Agent McCarthy,” he said cheerfully. “Hi Agent McCarthy, I’m Officer Jim Bantry with the Metropolitan Police Department. I was told to call you regarding the night of the fire at the Schlapshwanz place.” Justin grabbed a notepad and frantically searched for a pen. “Yes, I appreciate the call. I hope you’re able to help. Were you on patrol in the area that night?” 128
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“Yes, Sir,” the young man responded with military‐like discipline. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I rolled up on a guy who was staking the place out. He said he was a private investigator hired by her husband to see if she was cheating on him.” “Interesting,” Justin said, pensively remembering the recent conversation in which Schlapshwanz had said he knew all along she was seeing someone else. Could he have hired someone to kill her for the insurance money? He made a note to look into that. “What can you tell me about him?” “Average height, average weight. Pretty good looking guy, younger, maybe mid to late twenties. Middle Eastern for sure, he had that olive complexion.” “Did you happen to get a name?” “Yes, Sir,” the officer stuttered a moment, as if holding back a laugh. “He said his name was Mike Hunt.” “Common spelling?” Justin asked, diligently taking notes. “Yes, Sir,” the officer chuckled a little, “Common spelling.” Justin flipped the page over on the small notepad, “Is something funny Officer Bantry?” The officer replied, “Ah no, Sir. It’s just… Mike Hunt.” 129
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“Yes, you’ve said that before. I copied that. Michael Hunt.” “No, Sir. Mike Hunt. Mi..KeHunt.” Justin was getting irritated. “Are you through playing games?” “Seriously?” The young officer dropped the formality. “Are you that stupid?” Justin sat up straight in his chair. “Excuse me?” “Dude, you have got to be shitting me. You don’t get the humor in the name? Mike Hunt?” “No, why would I find anything funny about Mike Hu…” Justin stopped in mid‐thought, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. “Oooooh! I get it now. That was almost funny Officer. Now what was his name?” “That’s the name he gave me, Sir.” Justin tapped the tip of his pen against the notepad and digested the conversation. “Thank you Officer, you’ve been borderline helpful.” “Glad I could be of quasi‐help to you,” Bantry said as he hung up. Justin immediately began dialing the 340 area code of the Virgin Islands. He spoke to Detective Lazarus Sampson again and asked him to look into the Mike Hunt lead. Now that Justin was in on the joke he understood why even 130
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Detective Sampson got a chuckle out of it. Sampson said he would gladly check all the Hunts he could and get back to Justin. Before Justin hung up with Sampson his phone was ringing on the other incoming line. A gravelly, chronic smoker voice began speaking before Justin could say anything. “This is Detective Steve Cabrera, NYPD homicide. I need to speak to someone about witnesses for an upcoming trial.” “That might be me. Which trial?” “Something about an attack in Jersey last year?” Justin began to get a sinking feeling. “That would be me. What can I do for you?” “Do you have any reason to suspect someone might be trying to kill your witnesses?” The question took Justin by complete surprise. He wasn’t expecting the question from the NYPD. He also knew Timothy Schuman would kill him if he let the NYPD think the Bureau didn’t have things under control. “This is news to me,” Justin poorly lied. The detective chortled. “I didn’t think so either.” “May I ask what this is in reference too?” Justin prepared to take notes. 131
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“We had an attempted homicide a few blocks from you this morning.” The location made the hair on the back of Justin’s neck stand up. It was literally right next door and it was hitting very close to home. The detective continued. “Some guy standing next to the victim claims he is a key witness in this upcoming trial and that he thinks someone might be trying to kill him.” “I see,” Justin said as look a deep breath. “And what is his name?” “Some retired Air Force guy,” the detective made an obnoxious clicking noise with his tongue as he searched his notes. “Donahue, first name Brian.” Justin realized that was one of the heroes of the attack. If someone was to be targeted for retribution, it would certainly be him. “Thank you, Detective,” Justin said with a dry voice. “I’ll follow up with Mr. Donahue.” Justin hung the phone and took a drink of bottled water. Right on cue, the phone rang again. “This is too much,” he griped. He checked the number – Virgin Islands. “Damn that was quick,” he remarked as he picked up the phone. “Detective Sampson?” “Hello again,” Sampson said cheerfully. “Well, I checked with the TSA and US Customs. No Mike Hunts on the island.” 132
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“Thank you anyway,” the disappointment was clear in Justin’s voice. “But I did find out something interesting.” Justin situated his pen, “I’m listening.” “Misses Smith, the co‐owner of the resort reported that a Mike Oxbig checked in shortly before Mr. Smith was found dead. However, there is no record of him leaving.” “Very interesting,” Justin remarked. “It gets better,” Sampson paused for effect. “Our Department of Planning and Natural Resources police towed a jet ski back to shore around Magen’s Bay. They issued the operator a ticket for presumably being drunk.” “And that operator’s name wouldn’t happen to be…” “Mike Oxbig,” Sampson finished. “And wouldn’t you know it? The jet ski was registered to…” “Mister and Misses Smith?” “Bingo!” Sampson cheered. “But I wouldn’t put too much faith in tracking down Mr. Oxbig.” “Why not?” “It has to be a fake name,” Sampson said matter‐of‐
factly. “Why would you say that?” 133
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There was a pause from the Virgin Islands. Sampson questioned, “Are you kidding me?” “What?” “Mike Oxbig?” Sampson waited for a reply that didn’t come. “Mi… keoxbig?” “Really?” Justin groaned as he realized the pun. “This guy has some serious issues.” Justin finished up the call by copying down the brief description Mrs. Smith was able to provide to police. It seemed very similar to the description by Officer Bantry. Satisfied that someone was in fact targeting the witnesses, Justin stood up and confidently walked to Schuman’s office. He was certain that within a few short minutes, someone else would be assigned to this case and he could devote his attention to bringing down that wily soccer mom and her Backyardigans DVD ring. He was three steps from the office door when he heard Schuman slam his phone down and bellow, “McCarthy! Get your ass in here!” The speed with which Justin answered the call astonished Schuman, even making him flinch when he looked up and saw McCarthy. Justin said meekly, “Yes, Sir?” 134
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Schuman’s shoulders heaved as he tried to relax. “I thought you said there was nothing to worry about with this Yeger Complex witness thing?” “Why, it’s funny you should say that,” Justin held up a nervous, shaking finger. Schuman growled, “There’s nothing funny about this. I just got off the phone with the Virginia State Police.” That grabbed Justin’s attention, immediately draining all of the blood from his face and turning him a ghastly pallor. “Vir… Virginia, Sir?” “Yes! Apparently someone mailed a bomb to the two queer ex‐CIA agents.” “That’s not politically correct, Sir.” Schuman responded to the rebuke by hurling a phone book at Justin. “I want you to review every one of the other cases immediately and find something, anything for me!” “Already done, Sir.” “And?” Schuman studied Justin as McCarthy relayed everything he had learned this morning, including the fake names. “That makes sense, because this package was sent from a Dick Guzinya.” Justin finished the report confidently, “So I guess you’ll be assigning someone else?” 135
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“Nonsense,” Schuman dismissed. “You’re still on this.” “But why, Sir?” Justin protested. “Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable sending someone more competent?” “McCarthy, you remind me a lot of myself when I was younger.” “You were a bumbling boob too, Sir?” Schuman cocked his head, “Come again?” “Nothing, Sir,” Justin rolled his eyes. “Sorry to interrupt.” Schuman paced around his office. “I was once young and idealistic like you – perhaps a bit naïve at times. But all the while there was that one special case waiting for me that I knew would set me apart from all the rest. This!” Schuman clapped Justin on the back proudly, “This is your case!” “Damn it,” Justin grumbled under his breath. “What was that?” “Nothing, Sir.” “McCarthy, why are you still standing before me? Get out there and find this bastard!” 136
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Undisclosed Apartment Journal Square Section, Jersey City, New Jersey Friday, July 24 11:37 Renting this apartment in the Journal Square section of Jersey City had made Boris feel closer to the spirit of his mission. He was only two blocks from where Sheik Abdel Rahman had preached the words that would launch the first World Trade Center attack in 1993. And he often drove past the mythical Ryder Truck Rental where the bumbling idiot Mohammed Salameh had returned to ask for his deposit back on the van they used for the bomb. While not a subscriber to the religion of Islam, Boris was certainly a big supporter of the radical movement for violence against the Capitalist West. And he had decided long ago that he would gladly convert to Islam if his Abdullah asked him to. He sat alone, as he normally did, slowly sipping his herbal tea awaiting word from Yousef Sadr, and looking fondly at the picture of his beloved terrorist. “Soon,” he said aloud to an empty room. His cell phone rang, set to the special ringtone he had for Yousef – Deniece Williams singing Let’s Hear It for the Boy from the original Footloose Soundtrack. Boris calmly 137
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answered, “I suppose you’ll want me to be partially happy?” Yousef seemed taken aback, “What do you mean?” “You botched the ‘Big Apple’ job in broad daylight.” “How did you know?” “Because I know people who know everything,” Boris snarled. “You’re lucky the police are still thinking it was a jealous lover who tried to kill that girl. But that’s only going to last so long. The Americans are going to put two and two together very soon and see a clear pattern of witness intimidation and assassinations. And before we know it, every one of them will be in protective custody.” Boris sighed, “But the good news is that you managed to silence the ‘Rainbow Coalition’.” “I did?” Boris raised an eyebrow, “You seem surprised by that.” Yousef cleared his throat, “No, I mean, I did. Of course I did.” Boris nodded, unconvinced. “Well the gift you sent them landed one in a coma and the other has sworn he will not testify. I suppose a ‘good job’ is in order. So, good job I guess.” “Thank you, Mudir.” 138
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Boris giggled coyly, “You smooth talker – you know I’m a pushover when you speak Arabic to me.” Boris blushed for a moment then returned to the business at hand. “You are in luck. You will have an opportunity to redeem yourself.” “How so?” “I’ve learned from the phone taps on Big Apple that he will be joining the other two from the Air Force on a trip to North Dakota to visit ‘Buffalo.’ You’ll be able to eliminate four birds with one stone.” “I may need help for four of them.” “This I have thought of,” Boris flipped through his Rolodex of terrorist business cards. “It happens that I have a cell in the area that is simply dying to get involved in the Jihad.” “You seriously have a cell in that area? Who did they piss off?” “It’s a long story of American bureaucracy that maybe they can explain to you when you meet them. Notify me of your travel arrangements and I’ll have them meet you at the airport in Fargo.” “How will I recognize them?” Boris laughed again, “Oh don’t worry. You’ll have no problem recognizing them.” Boris waited until just before 139
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Yousef hung up and said ominously, “Yousef, do not fail me again. Or I will fail you.” “Pardon me,” Yousef said, “but that statement made no sense.” Boris clenched his fist, “Damn it! It made more sense in my head. Are you sure it didn’t…” “No, it did absolutely nothing for me,” Yousef replied. “Shit,” Boris said crestfallen. “I really have to work on the idle threats.” “Yes, you really should. I mean it did nothing.” Boris sneered, “Okay, I’ll rent some movies and get back to you. But seriously, don’t let me down.” 140
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Chapter Eleven Newark Liberty International Airport Newark, New Jersey Saturday, July 25 09:01 “Who keeps calling me?” An irritated Brian Donahue looked at his phone again. “Someone from an unknown number has been hounding me all night long.” “Why don’t you just answer it?” Alex Canary’s eyes never left the group of giggling college girls who were sitting in front of the gate across from him. He was seriously contemplating ditching this trip to North Dakota and hopping on the plane with them bound for Aruba. Life seemed so unfair to him at times. Brian shook his head. “No way, I’m sure it will just turn out to be a creditor of some type and then I’ll never get him off the phone.” Ken returned from the newsstand with a couple packages of potato chips, honey roasted cashews, and a Penthouse magazine. 141
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“You’re not seriously thinking of reading that on the plane, are you?” Brian knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. “Yes I am,” Ken said sternly. “If they saw a problem with people reading these on the plane why would they sell them in the airport to begin with?” Brian conceded a shrug, “Good point. But if you’re going to jack to it I promise to disavow any relationship with you when the air marshal comes to stop you.” “Fair enough,” Ken nodded. The flight from Newark to Minneapolis took just over three hours, and from there it was a short hop to Fargo. Along the way, Ken briefed the two of his companions on their final destination. Chief Street’s Big Game Preserve was a one‐of‐a‐kind facility in the United States – in many respects it was a one‐of‐a‐kind facility in the world. Prior to retiring from the Air Force last year, on the same day as the fateful attack on Yeger, Chief Anderson Street took the money he had been saving up through the years from stock market investments, casino gambling, illegal cockfighting, and other assorted shady dealings, and purchased just under a thousand acres of unincorporated land in the middle of North Dakota. He established a preservation for various endangered species of animals a few miles north of Jamestown along Route 281. Hailed by conservationists 142
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the world over, Anderson Street became the poster boy for environmental groups for his efforts to create a safe habitat for animals to live and breed. He uniformly turned down any offer to speak at public rallies for stricter endangered wildlife ordinances and policies. This seemed to build the mystique of Mother Nature’s Darling Son – as many groups had come to call him. The truth was quite the opposite. While Street opened a small portion of the land to sight seers, knowing full well the attraction kids had to cute and cuddly animals and the money that attraction brought it, the real money maker for him lay in the several hundred acres of ‘back lot’. In those areas, Street released all sorts of savage animals upon the wild – oil tycoons, politicians, drug dealers, NFL quarterbacks – and allowed them to hunt a variety of endangered animals for a modest, five or six figure fee. Depending on what was ‘in season’ that fee could reach seven figures. Rumor had it that Street had sunk much of that profit into genetically resurrecting previously extinct species. “Extinct species?” Brian asked as he took a sip of his Coca Cola. Ken checked his watch and decided he had waited long enough to start drinking, “Yup. Supposedly he recreated a Dodo bird or some shit like that,” Ken downed the airline bottle of bourbon in one take. “But he’s all 143
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giddy about his latest development. Won’t say what it is, but it’s pretty much the reason he flew us out here. He said he wants his friends to be part of the big unveiling.” “Wow,” Brian blushed. “He considers me to be one of his closest friends? I barely knew him.” “Yeah, about that,” Ken absently flipped through the Penthouse – much to the abject horror of the mother of two young boys sitting across the aisle from him. “He’s only fronting you for the trip. You’ll have to pay him back when we get there.” Back in New York at the FBI Headquarters, Justin McCarthy hung up the phone again in frustration. “Why is no one answering me?” He asked aloud, not expecting anyone to really answer him. “Maybe they think you are a telemarketer,” an agent offered loudly from across the office. “Or a bill collector,” another chimed in. “What?” Justin asked. The first agent rolled his chair out from his cubicle. All hands had been working almost around the clock preparing for the terrorism trial. “You don’t know that when you dial out from the office the number comes across as unknown on cell phones and Caller ID?” 144
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“Of course I did,” Brian smiled sheepishly. He ducked his head back into his cubicle and cursed himself. That completely explained by none of the witnesses he’d been calling all morning had answered his calls. Someone was out there killing witnesses and it was up to Justin to stop him – but he’s efforts were being undone by the damn federal trunking phone system. Why must everything be so difficult, he asked himself. Chief Anderson Street was waiting for the three young men outside the baggage claim of Hector International Airport. He was wearing his new ‘uniform’ of a white linen suit, cowboy boots, and a white Stetson hat. His giant belt buckle had ‘Street’ scrawled across it in a flourishing, diamond encrusted script. Prominently on display at Street’s side was an authentic 19th century cowboy holster with a Colt revolver – which Brian surmised was probably in blatant violation of North Dakota’s gun control laws. Street embraced Ken Shavetail and Alex Canary. Brian reached his arms out, thinking he would be next. Instead, he received a combination look of examination and disdain from Street. “Who is this?” Ken looked at Brian, “Chief, you remember Brian Donahue don’t you?” His question was met with a blank look from Street. “He came on board at Yeger as Second Lieutenant just before you retired?” Street merely 145
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blinked. Ken tried another approach. “He’s the friend we told you we were bringing.” “Oh, right!” Street smiled and shook Brian’s hand. “You can leave a credit card with my secretary and we’ll just bill you for the airfare.” Brian frowned. “And don’t forget to charge him for our alcohol,” Canary chimed in. “And the alcohol,” Street agreed. Brian slapped Canary, “Thanks, asshole.” “No,” Ken smiled at Brian, “thank you.” The group followed Street out to the curb where he made a hand gesture. Instantly, a stretched white Bentley limousine with longhorn antlers affixed to the hood screeched to a stop in front of them. “Gentlemen,” Street said proudly, “Our chariot awaits.” The three young men began to climb into the back. First Ken, followed by Canary, and Brian brought up the rear. However, just as Brian was climbing in, Street stopped him. “Ah, not you, Shit‐stain,” he said as he grabbed Brian’s shoulder. “You can grab a taxi. It’s only about a two and half hour drive.” “But… but…” Brian weakly protested as the limo drove off. Canary waved his middle finger out the sunroof as the car sped off down the road. 146
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Dejected, Brian hailed the first cab he saw. Upon hearing where he wanted to go, the driver informed Brian that it would be one hundred and twenty dollars. Brian groaned and acquiesced. It was just after five o’clock in the evening when the taxi pulled into the gravel driveway that led to a large log‐
exterior lodge with a rustic sign announcing he had arrived at Chief Street’s Big Game Preserve. As Brian dragged his bags inside he saw right away that Street had spared no expense in the accommodations. The lobby was rustic looking, with exposed wood beams, a wide open floor plan, giant windows overlooking the property, and a large fire place. The scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies filled the air. On the walls were antique oil paintings of Native Americans, American pioneers, and bloody clashes between the two. Behind the lobby desk were photographs of Chief Street with an assortment of famous people and the animals they had caught on their trips. Brian checked in with a pretty, young brunette at the desk. She took his credit card and informed him with a smile what the rooms cost per night. The only saving grace was that food was included in that price. As he begrudgingly turned over his credit card, she informed him that Chief Street and the others would be meeting for 147
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dinner at 6 PM. He thanked her, checked his watch, and saw that he had just enough time to shower and dress for dinner. He really hated to rush. His room was without a doubt the finest hotel room he had ever stayed in. The king sized bed was made up with satin sheets and plush pillows. More paintings of buffalo hunting parties and Indian massacres adorned the walls. The bathroom was enormous, with a whirlpool tub and a flat screen TV mounted into the wall. After a quick shower and change of clothes, Brian made his way down to the dining room. As he walked through the lobby, he swore he saw a linebacker from the Minnesota Vikings and a defensive back from the Green Bay Packers carrying high powered hunted rifles out to their cars. Street, Ken, and Canary were seated in a corner of the spacious dining hall. Only a handful of other customers were having dinner. Those customers were a mix of South American and Afghan men – who Brian could only surmise were discussing the state of drug trafficking in the world. Brian took his seat at the table. “How do you like your room?” Street pleasantly asked. “I think it’s amazing,” Brian responded. “Who gives a fuck,” Street replied and went back to looking at the menu. The others erupted into finger pointing laughter. 148
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Brian bowed his head and searched the menu. What he saw both appalled and intrigued him. The menu announced that tonight was ‘African Night’ – with all selections shipped in fresh this morning. The appetizers were: Aye‐Aye monkey fingers with honey mustard dressing from Madagascar, Barbary Hyena spring rolls, and escargot made from a freshwater snail direct from Mauritius slowly simmered in garlic butter. The main course options were: Addax antelope filets from North Africa, breaded and seasoned Cameroon Clawless Otter strips, a tantalizing blackened Mediterranean Monk Seal from Tunisia, and a grilled Ornate Eagle Ray with a dried tomato pesto from Mozambique. For desert was a chocolate Cannoli – because Street’s pastry chefs hadn’t figured out how to add endangered species into a desert without it seeming forced. But Street assured his guests that his pastry chefs were working on it. Street offered his guests a glass of a $1,500 bottle of Chateau Petrus merlot. As the waiter made his way to pour Brian a glass, Street angrily snapped his fingers at the servant. The servant bowed, apologized, and substituted the Petrus with a bottle of Charles Shaw merlot – affectionately referred to as ‘Three Buck Chuck” by those who shopped at Trader Joes. Although he didn’t want to admit it, the Addax filets were the softest, most succulent steaks Brian had ever 149
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eaten in his life. He wasn’t a big fan of the monkey fingers, feeling they were too gamey. However, he knew better than to voice any displeasure. After a dinner filled with stories of Air Force days past and jokes at Brian’s expense, Street sniffed his wine glass and asked dramatically, “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I invited you out here.” Brian mumbled, “I’m actually wondering why I agreed to come along.” “And I couldn’t possible care any less, Shit‐stain,” Street fired back. To the others, “I wanted you boys to share in the achievement of a lifetime.” He eased his chair away from the table, stood, and began pacing in front of his guests. “As you may have heard, I have invested a lot of money in research and development. Endangered species are fun and quite tasty. However, they are finite and come with a plethora of headaches from US Customs and whiney, snot‐nosed, tree‐hugging environmental groups.” He checked to make sure they had all finished their meals then gestured for them to follow him. Seeing how eagerly Brian looked at him, Street sighed, “I guess you can come too, Shit‐stain.” The three men followed Street through a labyrinth of service corridors through the basement of the lodge to a large stainless steel door. Street entered a five digit code, submitted a password into a voice recognition system, 150
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and finally pressed his fingers against a fingerprint analyzer. The giant door opened automatically with a hiss. They could see the door was as thick as a bank vault’s. Inside was a long, brightly lit, antiseptic looking laboratory. Expensive and complicated looking computers, centrifuges, incubators, and other stainless steel machines lined the walls, while a large examination table occupied the center of the room. “Welcome to the Garden of Eden,” Street said proudly, flourishing his arms around for dramatic effect. “I call it that because here is where my scientists have recreated life.” “Care to elaborate?” Ken asked as he ran his hand over a large refrigerator looking apparatus. Street smiled broadly. “As I said, endangered species come with their own headaches and complications. Soon, people will miss the animals as they disappear and cry‐
baby conservation groups will come beating down my door with pitch forks and torches. But,” He raised his index finger to get their attention, “Who can complain about people hunting extinct species?” “Extinct?” Brian asked in awe. He looked at Ken, “You really weren’t kidding, were you?” “That’s what I said, Shit‐stain,” Street announced. “The name is Brian,” he replied, sounding wounded. 151
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“And I care why?” Street dismissed him with a wave. “My scientists have been able to clone half a dozen extinct animals for this preserve exclusively. Soon I will make the announcement to the world about our breakthrough. I might even get a Noble prize for it.” “So you won’t be hunting these?” Canary asked with a furrowed brow. Street threw his head back and laughed, “Of course we will, Stupid! Why do you think I brought you up here? But to satisfy the namby‐pamby liberals in this world, I’m going to put some of these on display in our petting zoo, maybe even sell some to major zoos like San Diego or the Bronx Zoo. I haven’t quite figured out the humanitarian side of things yet. But I do know that hunting these can bring in a fortune for me.” Street started laughing sinisterly. “You’re insane!” Ken announced, “You’ll never get away with this.” Street stopped laughing and looked at Ken. “Get away with what?” Ken shrugged, “I don’t know. I’ve just always wanted to say that.” “Yeah, that did sound pretty dramatic,” Canary agreed. 152
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Street patted both of them on the back, “Always the jokesters. Come boys!” He started guiding them down a hallway, ignoring Brian behind him. “Let me show you our accomplishments.” Behind another thick steel door was a longer room. On the left side was a walkway, on the right were a line of extra large cages. In the first cage was an oversized beaver. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to castroides leiseyorum, or the Giant Beaver. Recreated using DNA extracted from fossilized bones found in Florida.” “Geez,” Brian said in bewilderment. “It’s like Jurassic Park down here.” “Yeah well Jurassic Park was about dinosaurs, Shit‐
stain,” Street rebuked. “And no one wants to hunt dinosaurs.” He stormed on to the next cage. In the next cage, which was decorated to include a kid sized swimming pool, was a long, black otter. “It looks like an otter,” Brian observed. “Your powers of perception are amazing, Shit‐
stain,” Street answered with great contempt. He turned to Ken, “Why did you have to bring him anyway?” “I’m sorry,” Brian replied. “How about you just not say anything?” Street fired back. 153
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Brian was about to say something when Ken touched Brian’s arm and shook his head. “As I was saying,” an obviously irked Street continued, “this is the California Monk Seal. And next to him,” Street motioned to the next cage over in which two bright blue birds sat on a thick tree branch, “are Sampson and Delilah. These are Lesser Antillean Macaws. Aren’t they adorable?” The three men nodded in agreement. Street proclaimed proudly, “Who wouldn’t want to pay two or three million to plug some birdshot into one of these bad boys and have it mounted over your fireplace?” Before anyone could answer, he moved on to the next cage. Inside were four plump pigeon looking birds with tiny wings and bulbous beaks that stood about three feet tall. “Gentlemen, I give you the legendary Dodo Bird.” “Wow,” the three men said in unison. “And last but not least,” Street moved on, “I introduce you to Thunder and Lightning.” He gestured to two large cats curled up next to each other in an extra large cage. They were beige with brown spots in uniform rows down their backs. From their mouths protruded giant, razor sharp incisor teeth. “Are those what I think they are?” Canary asked. 154
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Street smiled again, “Yes Alex, they are lokotunjailurus.” Canary shook his head in confusion. “That’s not quite what I had in mind. I was thinking saber‐tooth tigers.” Street frowned. “Did you guys ever wonder why I kept my distance and didn’t talk to you? I didn’t want you dumbing me down. But to answer your confusion Alex, yes those are a type of saber tooth tiger. Cloned from DNA I recovered from a trip to Kenya.” “So we’ll be hunting these?” Ken asked with growing excitement. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m not too confident how much fun they will be.” Ken studied the two large cats. “Why do you say that?” Street frowned, “I think something was lost in the cloning – that killer instinct. These docile fucks just lay around all day. Nothing seems to get them riled. I have my scientists working hard on it. We’re looking into extracting the racist gene that makes German Shepherds and Rottweilers hate African Americans. So far, no luck though.” Street led them back down the hall to the exit, “We’ll see if we can find some way to torque them up for 155
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tomorrow. Or else it’ll be the easiest hunt you guys have ever gone on.” 156
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Chapter Twelve Hector International Airport Fargo, North Dakota Saturday, July 25 17:43, Central Daylight Time Aden Alhajji had many reasons to hate America, but the treatment he received from the US State Department was definitely at the top of his list. He knew he shouldn’t complain, having fooled the United States bureaucracy and entered the country legally in 1997. However, no one ever told him this desolate no‐man’s land was even a possibility when he applied for refugee status. The plan had been to have a small group of Somali faithful claim political asylum with the US State Department and see how easy it would be to gain ‘legal’ entry into the country. Each was a veteran of the now legendary Battle of Mogadishu. With the utter chaos Somalia had been plunged into from its civil war, it was impossible for investigators to follow up on the fake identities Aden and his men provided. The plan worked like a charm – or so they thought. It was a little advertised clause in the refugee policy that banished Aden and his 157
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men to the Roughrider State. Unbeknownst to his planners, when one claims political asylum, the US State Department chooses where the refugees will be placed. And since North Dakota had a less than a one percent African American population at the time, the State Department felt it would be in everyone’s best interest to transplant the newly arrived African expatriates to an area that consistently reached ‐40°F in the winter time. Unable to afford to move anywhere else, Aden and his five men moved into a quaint little house on 5th Street South by Lindenwood Park that had three bedrooms, two baths, and a nasty habit of flooding every March and April when the thawing snow of the mountains in South Dakota caused the northward flowing Red River to overflow in biblical proportions. The house in fact qualified as a severe repetitive flood loss under federal flood insurance programs in which the government would have probably paid for Aden to move to a safer location. However, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he had five sleeper terrorists living with him, he opted to have them move to the second floor and think warm, dry thoughts during the winter and spring and spend the rest of the year doing black mold abatement. As he stood by the baggage claim, listening to the infidels yammer away in their obnoxious accents that were a mixture of Midwestern United States and 158
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Scandinavia, he checked the display again to make sure the flight from Chicago was on time. Aden had been informed by his contact to expect a fellow faithful servant of Allah on a flight from Newark that connected in Chicago. “Excuse me,” a voice said from behind Aden, “Do you have any Grey Poupon?” Aden groaned. “Is that what The Teabag told you to use as a pass phrase? What a jackass.” Aden turned to see the ruggedly handsome, olive skinned man standing behind him. “You must be Yousef?” “I am,” Yousef Sadr responded. “Boris told me that I would recognize you instantly. He didn’t tell me it was because you would be the only African I saw up here. However do you manage up here?” “It is a living purgatory, my friend,” Aden frowned. “But come, let us find your bags and carry on with our mission.” Twenty minutes later is was obvious that the airline had lost the baggage Yousef had checked under the name I.P. Frehley. “Damn it,” Yousef cursed as they walked out to Aden’s car. “All of my extra clothing and equipment are now gone.” With no hotel to send the baggage to, and no time to wait for it to work its way back from whatever city it had been shipped to, Yousef had to write off the night 159
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vision goggles, body armor, and other survival gear he had packed. “Stupid airlines!” “Relax my friend,” Aden tried to calm him. “I know a man who can get us whatever we wish. We will lose a little time, but I don’t think it will set us off by much.” Yousef still stewed in his seat. “Sahib, Allah has a plan for us,” Aden reminded him. “And that plan cannot be stopped, even by the bumbling incompetence of the American airline industry.” An hour later, they had switched cars at Aden’s house from his beat up brown 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme to his even more beat up brown 1979 Ford Econoline Van. The other men of the cell filed into the back of the van, which had “The Jihad Machine” scribbled on the inside wall in Arabic. The men sat on overturned milk crates and began checking their weapons. Each man was armed with folding stock Chinese versions of the AK‐47. All had Type III body armor flak vests, with trauma plate inserts. They were not taking any chances. Boris had provided a brief overview of the target location and they had to assume that every man there was going to be armed. Yousef surveyed his team with confidence. There was no way he was going to botch this one up – short of each of his targets shooting themselves before his team 160
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reached the preservation. “Do we meet your needs?” Aden asked, reading Yousef’s mind. “Yes you do,” he clapped Aden on the back. “Allah smiles upon us.” “Then let us depart,” Aden suggested. “We have a long drive ahead of us.” And what a long drive it was. When Aden originally told Yousef that they would have to drive almost four hours to the tiny town of Mandan, just outside of Bismarck, Yousef didn’t think it would be that bad of a drive. However, there was something hypnotic about driving nearly four hours on the same road that made no bends, with the scenery and elevation unchanging save for the color of the tractor trailers barreling down I‐94 that seemed to parallel any form of psychological torture Yousef had ever heard of. It was a mind‐numbing experience that was only made worse by Ismail and Abdi, two of the gunmen, playing “Eye‐Spy.” “I spy, with my little eye,” Abdi began, “something beginning with the letter T.” “Tree!” Yousef shouted out in frustration. “It’s tree! You have used the same object for the past half an hour! It’s either T for tree or I for infidel. Be original, or pick something else to play!” 161
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“Sorry,” Abdi said timidly. “There is not much else to pick from.” Yousef turned around in his seat and glared at Abdi. “Then pick another game,” he growled. Abdi thought for a moment then sat up earnestly on his milk crate. But before he could say anything, Yousef roared, “And if one of you sings Ninety‐Nine Bottle of Beer on the Wall I will gut you with this Bic pen and festoon your entrails around the back of this van!” He menacingly brandished a white pen. “Am I being clear?” Abdi slumped down sullenly. “Oh!” Ismail announced eagerly, “We can play ‘Out of State License Plates’!” Yousef massaged the bridge of his nose. “Fine, just do it quietly.” Twenty minutes later Yousef snapped again. “For fucksake!” He slammed his hand on the dashboard. “Every fucking car on this Allah‐forsaken road is from out of state!” “Party pooper,” Abdi whispered to Ismail. “I heard that!” Yousef bellowed. Aden said soothingly as he switched lanes to pass a tanker truck carrying farm animal feed, “Please my friend, do not stress. We do not want you to have an aneurysm before we reach our target.” 162
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“Then can you have them find a quieter way of passing the time?” Aden nodded. “Ikhwan,” he said to his brothers in the back, “please find something else to play.” It was Dekha who answered, “Can we play Mad Libs?” Yousef considered it, “Yes, but only if you substitute in dirty words.” Thirty minutes later, Yousef threw the book of Mad Libs out the window somewhere near the tiny sign denoting the Continental Divide. The five Somalia warriors in the back sat in saddened silence for the next fifteen minutes. “Is there nothing on the radio?” Yousef murmured. “Only three stations of country music and one of a Christian ministry,” Aden smiled. “Nothing else gets picked up out here. We truly are in the middle of nowhere.” “Did we die and Allah sent us to Hell without telling us?” Yousef slid down in his seat. Mustafa looked around through the tiny window in the side door of the van. He tapped Hasan on the shoulder, rousing him from a near slumber. “Hasan, can you imagine what it must have been like to have sixty million buffalo roaming around these plains at one time?” 163
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Yousef bit the inside of him cheek to try to keep from exploding. Sleepily, Hasan looked out the window, “What do you mean?” “I saw a program on the television about buffalos. At one time there were as many as sixty million buffalo running around these plains.” Hasan nodded. “No, I cannot imagine what that must have looked like.” He readjusted himself and went to sleep. Dekha’s face contorted in thought as he contemplated what Mustafa had proposed. “Sixty million buffalo? Can you imagine what that would have done to your shoes? It’s no wonder they were hunted to extinction.” All eyes, including Aden, turned to Dekha. “Why do you say that?” Abdi asked. “I’m just saying. Imagine trying to walk across the plains and stepping in huge mounds of manure left behind by sixty million of those giant animals.” Mustafa shook his head. “Why would that be a problem? Buffalo poop is not that big.” “What?” Dekha asked incredulously. “It’s huge!” 164
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Abdi eyed him suspiciously, “How would you know?” “Right,” Ismail joined in. “When have you ever seen buffalo poop?” Dekha shrugged, “Okay, I’ve never actually seen buffalo poop. But look at how big a buffalo is. Its poop must be gi‐normous.” Ismail retorted, “But it eats the same things as a deer and look at how big deer poop is. Deer poop is like little pellets.” “True,” Aden offered, slowing down to avoid a highway patrol speed trap manned by a sleeping state police officer. “But so does a cow and look at how big cow crap is.” “Why are you entertaining this?” Yousef snapped at Aden. Aden shrugged innocently, “It’s an interesting topic, don’t you think?” Yousef clenched his teeth. “Why don’t you just Google the answer?” “Great idea!” Dekha excitedly pulled out his iPhone. He searched for several minutes in glorious silence but to no avail. “I cannot find the answer,” he pouted. “All it tells me is that Native Americans used it for heating in the winter time.” 165
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“There has got to be an answer for this,” Mustafa began searching on his phone. Soon, Abdi and Ismail joined in the search. “I believe we have found the only question on Earth that is un‐Google‐able,” Dekha hung his head in dismay. Feeling another migraine coming on full force, Yousef raised his hand. “I will call someone to look into it if you all promise to just shut up.” The five men mumbled agreement. Back in Jersey City, New Jersey, Boris was getting ready for his meeting tonight. He was ironing his leather chaps when he heard Let’s Hear it for the Boy come singing from his phone. He rushed across his living room to find his phone on the charger. Slightly out of breath, he answered, “Is everything alright?” Yousef replied in a troubled tone, “Everything is fine other than the fact that you activated complete idiots to help me.” Someone yelled in the background, “We heard that!” Boris made his way back to the ironing board. “Trust me, there are bigger idiots out there. What is the problem?” “I need some information,” Yousef explained. 166
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Boris took out a pad and pen. “What can I get for you?” Yousef paused then exhaled loudly. “Can you please find out how large buffalo excrement is?” It was Boris’ turn to pause. “Come again?” Yousef cleared his throat then repeated, “Can you please find out how large buffalo excrement is?” He briefly explained the debate. Boris bit his bottom lip in thought. “Just so we are on the same page, I am paying you guys for this trip, so in essence I am paying you to have this ridiculous conversation?” “Well it’s either this or I let them play Mad Libs again,” Yousef lashed back. “Mad Libs can be fun,” Boris said nostalgically. “Especially when you use dirty words,” he chuckled. “Yeah well I threw the Mad Libs out the window twenty miles ago. So just find the damn answer so I can have peace and quiet in this van.” Boris bristled. “Ewww, nice attitude. But anything to keep you happy.” Ten minutes later the van of traveling holy warriors approached a giant statue along the side of the road. 167
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“Look!” Mustafa squealed with excitement. “It’s the World’s Largest Buffalo Statue!” He began enthusiastically slapping his hands on the head rest of Yousef’s seat. “Please! Please! Please! Can we stop?” “No,” Yousef replied sternly. “Oh come on, please?” Abdi begged. The others joined in. Yousef checked his watch. “It’s probably not even open!” “Then just pull over the side of the road,” Ismail suggested. “We can take pictures from the roadway with it in the background so it looks like we are actually standing next to it.” “Allah grant me strength,” Yousef prayed, just as his cell phone began to ring. He checked the ID. “Yes, Boris?” “I found out the answer to that pressing question for you.” “And that is?” “Buffalo poop is the same size as cow poop.” “I told you!” Dekha exclaimed in triumph. “Is there any other mission essential information I can look up for?” Boris asked sarcastically. “Yes,” Yousef dead‐panned. “Can you ask the local imam if I drive this van full of these buffoons into a fiery 168
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wreck with a bridge abutment am I still considered a martyr?” 169
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Chapter Thirteen Homer’s Odyssey Gentlemen’s Club Secaucus, New Jersey Saturday, July 25 20:36, Eastern Daylight Time “Okay Mom,” Walter Binghamton coached, “You remember the plan right?” “Yes,” Mrs. Binghamton barked. “I’ll drop you off around the corner so no one sees what complete losers you are that you still need Dear Ol’ Mom to drive you around.” Walter chose to ignore her. “Are we all set?” Morris Decker and Jerry Pittman nodded. Mrs. Binghamton stopped the car on County Road at Secaucus Road in front of the Department of Motor Vehicles. The three young patriots exited the vehicle and walked down Secaucus Road towards their destination. Each man got excited when the mysterious arms dealer ‘Teabag’ had told them to meet him at the strip club. It seemed to automatically appeal to their lusts for scantily clad women and danger. Bringing Decker and 170
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Pittman along was not necessary, Walter thought, but occasionally you had to throw the help a bone to keep them happy about the job. As they approached the Gentlemen’s Club, dim parking lot lights cast a yellowish pale over Secaucus Road. The requisite thump of exaggerated bass slowly became louder with each step. A tiny voice within Walter was telling him that something about this meeting was wrong. At first he thought it was a set up, but he figured the FBI or ATF wouldn’t go through the trouble of meeting him at a strip club. No, something else was off, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. Quickly though, any reservations he might have had dissipated as Walter saw a group of extremely attractive women stumbling over each other, laughing loudly, and staggering into the club. Nothing alleviated all concerns of a young man quicker than the possibility of watching real life lesbianism up close. Walter made a mental note to try to arrange a table next to theirs and began running through his extremely limited mental rolodex of drink names to pre‐identify the most flirtatious drink to order. He smiled to himself at his wit when he remembered a drink called Sex on the Beach – no woman could resist that bit of originality and charm. The three young men took up their place at the end of a line of other eager gentlemen and a few interspersed 171
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women waiting to get into the club. “What does an ‘all male review’ mean?” Jerry Pittman asked. “It means only the men can review the women dancing on the stage,” Walter answered frankly. Pittman nodded and continued looking around the parking lot for the promise of more women to join the crowd. Fifteen minutes later, the three men were taking a table inside the club. Much to their delight, their mysterious contact tonight had arranged for a reserved table close to the stage. As a waitress brought them a round of beers on the house the sounds of Motley Crüe kicked in and the voice of the announcer boomed over the PA system. “Are you ready fellas?” The almost entirely male crowd roared to life. “I said are you ready, fellas?” The flames of enthusiasm were stoked even higher. “Well then put your hands together and give a warm, Homer’s Odyssey welcome to our first performer! Let’s hear it for Luscious Outlaw!” The crowd went crazy as the lights dimmed and the Crüe’s Wild Side kicked in. Instantly, the horror of their predicament became evident. A short, thin man wearing a leather vest, leather chaps, and a thong came dancing across the stage with plastic toy pistols. Pittman and Decker screamed and ran from the club, tripping over patrons as they frantically clawed at their own eyes. Walter, however, was determined to make this connection tonight and get the 172
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explosives no matter what. He averted his eyes and nursed his beer, bouncing his leg impatiently as he waiting for this nightmare to be over. The song faded away and was drowned out by the explosive roar of applause. “Let’s hear it one more time for Luscious Outlaw!” “Is this seat taken?” A voice asked a few minutes later, but Walter tried not to look up. “Not anymore,” he replied. “You can take it.” Walter continued to look down. “Find any change down there?” The voice asked as the newcomer sat down next to Walter. “Funny,” Walter replied, plainly irritated. “Is that anyway to talk to the man who is going to supply your explosives?” Walter looked up to see Luscious Outlaw sitting across from him in a fluffy pink bathrobe. “Were you expecting someone else?” Walter didn’t know what to say. Luscious Outlaw laughed. “First off, my name is Boris,” he extended his hand for Walter to shake. “And you are?” Walter slowly shook his hand. “I’m… I’m Walter.” “Delighted to meet you, Walter. Now buy me a drink.” Boris waited down a waitress. “I’ll have an 173
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Amaretto Sour, and my friend will have?” He looked at Walter for a reply. “Just a water, please.” Boris laughed. “That’s rich! It’s not like you have to drive home tonight. After all, isn’t Mommy waiting around the corner for you?” “How… how did you know that?” “Relax,” Boris giggled. “It’s my business to know everything.” Turning to the waitress, he said, “Bring him something to reaffirm his heterosexuality please – maybe a shot a Jameson’s or some Snakebite.” The waitress smiled and walked away. “Lovely gal,” Boris commented as she walked away. “I could set you two up if you wanted.” Walter perked up, but then Boris laughed again. “She would drop you the second she found out you still live in your mom’s basement.” “I do not!” Walter protested. Boris cocked his head to the side, “Come on Walter,” he smiled. Walter rolled his eyes and huffed loudly. “Fine, I live in my mom’s basement. But that’s only until I can save up enough to move out.” “Hey, hey, hey,” Boris said lightheartedly. “It’s not me you have to justify yourself to.” The waitress returned with their drinks. Boris accepted them, slipped her a few 174
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dollars as a tip then remarked, “Walter here still lives with his parents.” The waitress dropped her tray laughing and stumbled away. Boris smiled maliciously at Walter. “Okay, now that dream has been suitably crushed, let’s get down to business. What did you have in mind?” Walter dug out his notepad from his pocket and handed it over to Boris. As Boris scanned the notes, Walter soullessly sat in silence. Finally, Boris nodded his head. “Yes,” he scribbled something on the pad. “This is very doable, quite easy to acquire in fact. I can have the materials and how‐to manual for you by Monday.” “Really?” Walter perked up. “Yes, yours is a very simple request. My price is on the notepad.” Walter turned the pad over but was soon despondent. “That’s pretty high.” Boris finished his drink. “Well it is a large amount of ammonia nitrate fertilizer you’re asking for.” “It’s just that it’s more than I expected and we had saved up.” “You could always borrow from Mommy and Daddy,” Boris suggested scornfully. “No, we’ll figure out a way to get the money.” 175
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Boris daintily wiped the corners of his mouth. “Well, speaking of money, I’m losing it sitting here talking to you. When you have the money, you know how to find me. Ciao!” Boris waved as he got and turned his attention to a group of mustached, leather‐clad gentlemen at the next table. Morosely, Walter walked out of the club. In the parking lot, he spiritlessly snapped his fingers at Pittman and Decker who were still cowering behind a car crying about having seen a half naked man gyrating on stage. The two wiped the tears from their eyes and fell into line behind him. The group slowly made its way up Secaucus Road, looking like a group of survivors who had just endured a hellish disaster. Wordlessly, the three climbed into Mrs. Binghamton’s Volvo station wagon. “So sweetie,” Mrs. Binghamton asked cheerily, “how did it go?” The three men avoided eye contact at all cost. “We need more money,” Walter finally mumbled. “And fast!” Big Jim’s Bonanza of Country Mandan, North Dakota Saturday, July 25 20:15 Central Daylight Time 176
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“Is this really necessary? I feel utterly ridiculous.” Yousef stood in front of a full length mirror, slightly tilted to give the perception of a slimmer customer. But the perceived slimming effect didn’t make him any more comfortable with the clothes Big Jim was picking out for him. “But of course it’s necessary,” Aden allowed barely audible wheezes slip out as he tried to stifle his laughter. Yousef studied himself again in the mirror. There was something about the red and white plaid button down shirt, faux leather cowboy hat, and suede chaps with tassels dangling from the sides that he couldn’t quite put his finger on but that made him feel out of place. However, the chaps did make his butt look full and lifted, and he wasn’t able to resist another look. Abdi and Dekha dropped the cowboy boots they were looking at and outwardly laughed as they saw Yousef try to sneak one final peek. “That does it,” Yousef threw the hat down. “I don’t need to fit in with these infidels! I just need to slay them.” He tore off the shirt and threw it in a heap on top of the hat. He paused for a moment then turned to Big Jim, “Wait… I’ll take the chaps.” “Excellent choice,” Big Jim nodded. Big Jim’s Bonanza of Country was the leading purveyor of all things Country & Western in the Great Plains. If you needed it to live out some childhood cowboy fantasy or 177
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make you fit in at a Brooks & Dunn pre‐concert tailgating party, Big Jim had it. Conveniently located just off I‐94 a few miles west of Bismarck, the originally tiny country store had exploded into a 10,000 square foot Mecca for truck drivers, tourists, and all other sorts of misguided fashion failures who felt that cowboy boots, hats, and belt buckles so large they could only be called dinner plates were acceptable to wear for any occasion. While Big Jim Carr touted his love of America, he didn’t publicize his lack of love for the American federal government. Big Jim had been a US Marine Corps Purple Heart recipient at the Battle of Hue City – back when wars were wars and victory was measured by the age‐old standard of which side killed more of the other side’s soldiers – and since then he had witnessed from a far what he considered to be the downward spiral of the American Spirit caused largely by liberals and the Columbine Massacre. Following the massacre at Columbine, everyone was afraid to tell their children no, to fail kids in school, or to even allow a t‐ball team to lose – which in Jim’s estimation was raising a nation of slackers and underachievers who never had to work for anything because Mommy and Daddy would simply give it to them to prevent them from shooting up their elementary school. Jim had recently been arrested on assault charges when he knocked out the umpire at his grandson’s baseball game who had penalized his grandson’s team for beating their opponents by too 178
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much. Major entitlement programs by the government – like welfare and the push for socialized medicine – were only feeding into Jim’s hatred. This wasn’t the America he slogged through rice patties, killing emaciated and jaundiced third world Asians, and taking a hunk of shrapnel in his knee for. While he didn’t blatantly advertise his distrust of the federal government, Big Jim was a legend on the grapevines of domestic terrorism groups throughout the Western Hemisphere. Only a fraction of the 10,000 square foot facility was dedicated to the leather, suede, and gingham requirements of the Heartland. The rest was devoted to the storage and movement of weapons and materials to stop the sissy‐fication of America. He had a momentary hope that the events of 9/11 would take the country as whole, lift it up and shake it violently awake. However, that soon faded as liberals were allowed to complain about additional security measures implemented to make up for the complaining liberals had done about the previous lack of security measures. There was no pleasing anyone anymore, Big Jim often griped. And while he didn’t support Islam as a religion, he certainly supported its holy warriors as a means to an end – waking up the country to resurrect the once great power that was America. 179
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Big Jim Carr, who was ironically a hair over 5 foot 2 inches tall and 100 pounds soaking wet, led his guests into the secret underground showroom for his private cache of high quality weapons. The room was dimly lit, with mesh camouflage netting strung up on the walls. Sandbags were strategically stocked around the walls to give the illusion of the buyer being in the middle of combat. A surround‐
sound system faintly piped in The Battle Hymn of the Republic in the background. “I have everything you called ahead for,” Jim said to Aden. “Thank you, Sahib,” Aden replied, nodding to Yousef with an expression that screamed ‘I told you so.’ Big Jim slid an olive drab crate across the floor to Yousef. The assassin bent down and pried it open. Inside he found a Russian made Rocket Propelled Grenade launcher, with three explosive rounds. As Yousef and his comrades lovingly caressed the rocket launcher tube, Big Jim inquired, “You look about a Size Medium, am I right?” Yousef giggled coyly, “Not since my high school days.” Not amused, Jim tossed him a heavy duty armored vest, “Try this on!” Yousef complied and was satisfied with the fit of the heavy Kevlar vest. It was equipped with numerous Velcro swatches that enabled him to affix an assortment of different sized utility pouches to carry extra ammunition, grenades, and Special K yogurt bars – he was watching his 180
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weight after all. After filling up every possible pouch with equipment, he admired himself in the mirror. Big Jim was right: the chaps were an excellent choice and really rounded out his rugged look. Settling up the bill, the seven tactically clad men climbed back into the beat up Jihad Machine. Aden threw the van into drive and they patched out, speeding towards their target… two hours away. Yousef scanned the radio fruitlessly. All he could pick up were country music and gospel stations. “Have you no CDs?” Yousef scowled. Aden perked up, “I do!” Maintaining a steady course with one hand on the wheel and no eyes on the road, Aden leaned back and fished through his backpack. Yousef looked on in horror as Aden drifted across the road, through the grassy divider between the East and West bound lanes, and right into on‐coming traffic. Aden snapped to attention when he heard the blaring horn of a speeding tractor trailer. He deftly swerved the van around the tractor trailer and came to rest on the shoulder, facing the opposite direction of traffic. Yousef gripped the frayed pleather arm rests with white knuckles and hyperventilated silently. Aden casually put a CD in the custom installed stereo system. As the music filled the Jihad Machine, the five Somali warriors in the rear began swaying to the music. Aden 181
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guided the van back across the divider and continued on their way. Yousef looked at Aden, “Is this Lady Gaga?” Aden blushed and nodded, “It’s a guilty pleasure of ours.” Yousef whistled, “Holy War should really require a psychological evaluation.” Aden looked at Yousef sourly, “Oh what, you want me to turn it off?” “No, no. Please feel free,” Yousef made a flourish of the hand towards the radio. “Do you have Poker Face on this CD?” With a broad grin, Aden shouted, “Of course! That’s my jam!” Thirty minutes later, a custom installed CD player went flying from the passenger side window of the Jihad Machine. Six voices yelled a variety of slurs and protests at Yousef. “Yell at me all you want,” he responded angrily, “but I warned what would happen if any of you sang the Beyoncé parts of Telephone.” Four pairs of hands began slapping Mustafa punishingly. Mustafa held his hands up in futile self‐
defense and weakly protested, “Who knew he was being serious?” 182
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“Well what are we going to do now to occupy ourselves?” Aden asked. Rubbing a growing stress knot in the back of his neck, Yousef replied, “How about you exercise some discipline and sit in silence?” That lasted five minutes. “I have an idea,” Dekha announced. “How about we play Wonder Boys?” “Allah, grant me the strength,” Yousef mumbled. “What is Wonder Boys?” Hasan asked with great interest. Dekha sat up on his crate. “We pick a car as we pass and we wonder what their lives are like. We try to guess what kind of job they have, where they are going, interests, that sort of stuff.” “That sounds dreadfully annoying,” Yousef growled. “That sounds fun!” Aden bounced giddily in the driver’s seat. “Oh, oh, let me start! Can I start? Please?” Five minutes later, the Jihad Machine swerved to the shoulder of the highway, narrowly missing a station wagon full of a family from Butte and coming to a stop precariously short of rolling into a flooded ditch. In the driver’s seat, Aden clutched at his throat, gasping for air. 183
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Five voices yelled an unintelligible mix of frantic pleas, jeers, and curses. Abdi’s voice rose above the cacophony of voices. “Why did you have to karate‐chop him in the throat?” Yousef massaged the side of his left hand. “That was the most asinine waste of time I have ever been a part of.” Ismail admonished, “But you could have killed him?” “I know,” Yousef responded, “I’m ashamed I missed as well.” “You’re a real prick,” Aden weakly said. “Do you know that?” “Drive,” Yousef gestured nonchalantly to the road. This time the silence lasted for an impressive fifteen minutes. It was so quiet, in fact, that Yousef worried they might have left some of the warriors behind. But Hasan broke the silence. “I have an idea!” Yousef began unbuttoning the clasp on the survival knife on his vest. “We can play ‘Guess What I Ate for Dinner Last Night!” Ismail clapped his hands, “How do we play that?” Hasan grinned broadly and shifted his body to one side so that his left butt cheek was off the milk crate. He 184
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vibrated up and down, giggling. Everyone except for Yousef looked at him in anticipation. Dekha reacted first, his face twisting up in surprised disgust. Abdi screamed, “What the hell is that smell?” Hasan howled loudly, “Guess what I ate for dinner last night!” A young family man, driving his sleeping wife and three children from Butte, Montana to see Lake Itasca and the headwaters of the Mississippi River in Minnesota, slammed on his brakes. He had been lost in the hypnotic trance of the open road and Jimmy Buffett singing Miss You So Badly on his satellite radio. He almost rear‐ended the beat up, brown Econoline van as it swerved erratically. It was the same one that had narrowly missed hitting his family a few miles back. The vehicle slowed down as the side door flung open and two men rolled out onto the side of the road. When the two men came to a stop the one who was wearing suede chaps and a heavy flak vest began savagely beating the other. The young family man debated calling the police but decided there was no easy way to explain what he was witnessing. So he drove on and left the men to their own devices. “Yousef! Yousef!” Aden begged as he and Abdi tried to pry him off of Hasan. “Think of the mission!” Yousef 185
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continued struggling to land punches on the cowering terrorist while the others pulled them apart. “The mission! We need him!” Finally, the five Somalis succeeded in pulling a panting and grunting Yousef off the now bleeding Hasan. Yousef marched back to the van and sat down on the rusting side running board. Abdi and Ismail helped Hasan to his feet. Limping and holding his left side, Hasan cried, “I just wu… I want to go hu… home.” “There, there big guy,” Ismail said encouragingly. “We’re almost done. Maybe when all this is done we can all take a road trip without that wet blanket,” he nodded towards Yousef. Hasan smiled weakly, “Promise?” “I sure do, big guy.” 186
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Chapter Fourteen Binghamton Residence Freehold, New Jersey Saturday, July 25 23:47 Eastern Daylight Time “Walter, you haven’t touched your milk and cookies,” Jerry Pittman pointed his flashlight at his friend’s face. Walter Binghamton sat cross legged under the blanket and couch cushion fort they had made in his mother’s basement, staring pensively at his fuzzy cloud pattern slippers. Jerry and Morris Decker had been busy talking about who they wished they had slept with in high school; which pretty much amounted to every female entity in the school, including the overweight janitor and the octogenarian librarian – pretty much everyone in the school with the exception of that creepy, pimply faced girl who was the subject of the unfortunate hot dog rumors. Walter looked up absently from the floor. “I just wanted this so bad. You know?” Decker put his arm around his friend. “We all did, buddy. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.” 187
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“I won’t accept that,” Walter swiped Decker’s arm away. Seeing that Walter wasn’t going to be touching them anytime soon, Pittman slowly slid Walter’s chocolate chunk cookies off the plate. Emboldened that Walter hadn’t seen him, Pittman dunked a cookie into his milk. Just as the dripping cookie was about to touch Pittman’s lips, Walter snatched it away. “I can’t accept that it wasn’t meant to be,” Walter tossed the cookie back onto his plate. “We planned everything so perfectly.” “We had nothing planned,” Decker corrected. “We couldn’t even agree on the name.” Covertly, Pittman slid his hand across the floor towards the sopping wet cookie. Walter slapped his hand away. “Who needs a name?” Walter asked. “We know what we want to do, so let’s do it.” “But how?” Decker shifted uncomfortably on the floor, trying to release a muscle cramp in his hip. “I have a plan,” he announced proudly. “We just need some guns.” Pittman pointed towards the plate, “Are you gonna eat that?” 188
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Walter ignored him, picked up the plate and stumbled out of the makeshift fort. He tossed the plate full of cookies into the trash. “There’s no time to waste!” Suddenly, the basement light turned on. Mrs. Binghamton stood at the top of the stairs in a plush pink bathrobe, fuzzy house slippers, her hair in multicolored rollers, and a green herbal facial mask. “Will you little shits cut out all that jabbering and get back to bed? I swear to God, Walter, if I have to come down there you’ll never be allowed to have another sleepover as long as I live!” “But Mom!” he whined. “No buts!” Walter’s eyes filled with tears. “I hate living in this house! No one ever lets me do anything!” Decker and Pittman silently watched the awkward display of arrested development. “If you don’t like it,” his mother bellowed from upstairs, “you can always move in with one of your loser friends.” “That cut deep,” a wounded Pittman mumbled to Decker. Decker nodded and frowned. “Fine!” Walter screamed and threw himself on the couch cushion fort, destroying the trio’s hard work. 189
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Chief Street’s Big Game Preserve Somewhere in the middle of North Dakota Sunday, July 26 02:18 Central Daylight Time “Is everyone in position?” A chorus of pre‐determined clicks sounded across Yousef’s radio. He surveyed the lodge with night‐vision goggles. There was no movement inside that he could see. He checked his watch. He would allow Aden to have a nap and he would take the first watch. It had been a long and grueling car ride. He made one final check to see if everyone else was where they should be. Mustafa and Ismail were covering the left flank. Dekha and Abdi were coving the right. Hasan had the overwatch position from the highest point in the property – an underwhelming three foot high hill. Rustling in the bushes a few meters to his left caught Yousef’s attention. He set down his assault rifle and silently took out his serrated Bowie knife. The sound continued with no apparent purpose. Excellent, thought Yousef, his prey had no idea he was there. Walking on the outsides of his feet to eliminate the sound, he stalked his way towards the sound, careful not to catch any branches from the low hanging trees. Spurred on by the thrill of the hunt, Yousef inhaled slowly, trying to catch a whiff of the 190
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shoddy American cologne or deodorant the infidel might be wearing. However, he smelt nothing but the aroma of nature. As he drew closer, the rustling stopped. Yousef immediately froze in place, cognizant of every sound around him. He could hear his own heart beating in his ears and wondered for a moment if it was possible for his prey to hear it as well. He dismissed that thought as the rustling resumed. Through the night vision goggles he saw the mass coming into view, still partially obscured by some trees. It was smaller than he imagined, but he learned never to underestimate the size of an American. It looked like the person was crawling around on all fours. Perhaps, Yousef thought, he was trying to outflank me. Without a sound, Yousef slid the cumbersome goggles off and placed them on the ground. While they helped him see in the dark, the goggles through off his vision and depth perception during hand‐to‐hand combat. As his natural night vision returned to him, Yousef judged the distance between him and his prey. He inched soundlessly closer till he was sure he could maintain the upper hand. Yousef prayed silently for Allah to guide his hand swift and true. He set himself in a stance, with the knife poised in his right hand. Silently, he counted to three and sprung through the trees. 191
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On the other side of the trees was a carefree Key West deer foraging for food. The miniature deer, endangered and protected throughout the Florida Keys, had been a very popular addition to Chief Street’s Big Game Preserve – especially with Miami drug smugglers, southern Florida politicians, and relief pitchers for the Florida Marlins. Not many people outside of the Florida Keys know about the deer; and Yousef was certainly among the uninformed. Because of how close these deer live to the colorful collection of cultural subtypes in the Keys, the animals have lost their once natural fear of human beings. So when the flying Jihadeen burst through the trees, knife in hand to slaughter his prey, the male deer casually repositioned himself out of the way and gorged his antlers into Yousef’s thigh. Abandoning all hope of maintaining silence, Yousef frantically staggered to his feet. The deer – initially angry but now amused ‐ trotted around the wounded man, taunting him. The deer reared up and charged at the injured holy warrior. Just before burying his antlers into the man again, the deer veered off and pranced around. Yousef braced the knife with both shaking hands, sticking it out in front of him in hopes the deer would run into. But there would be no such luck. The deer sidestepped the outstretched arms and playfully – but forcefully – kicked Yousef in the side as he passed. After four or five playful passes, the deer grew bored of his new toy and decided to scamper away. 192
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Yousef waited as an unknown number of minutes passed. Too afraid to look at his watch, he simply cowered in the darkness hoping the animal would move on. When he was certain he was alone again, Yousef struggled to his knees and limped back to Aden. “Aden,” he whispered, “wake up.” Aden stirred but did not wake up. Yousef dismissed all pleasantries and kicked Aden in his side as hard as he could. Aden gasped as all of the air rushed out of his lungs. “Get up, you worthless dog,” Yousef growled. Aden shifted to a seated position and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What happened to you?” “No time to explain, that savage beast may come back,” Yousef grabbed his rifle and swept it around at the trees. “Get the medical kit.” “What medical kit?” Yousef winced in pain and frustration, “How do you not have a medical kit?” Aden shrugged, “I cannot be relied upon to think of everything.” He rolled over and adjusted to resume sleep. “But I’m dying, you ass!” Yousef kicked him again. Air once again escaped Aden as he contorted up into a ball. “Stop being so dramatic,” Aden gasped. 193
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“Dramatic?” Yousef said traumatized. “You weren’t there! You wouldn’t know.” Groaning, Aden got to his feet. “Are you going to live?” Yousef tore open his pant leg. The gouge was deep but didn’t appear to be life‐threatening. Blood, dark and shimmering in the moonlight, oozed freely from the four inch wound. “It’s nothing a medical kit couldn’t fix,” he said scornfully. “Are you still talking about that?” Aden tied a hasty tourniquet, made out of the shreds of Yousef’s pants. Yousef checked his watch. “We still have time. Do you know of any twenty four hour pharmacies or supermarkets?” Aden shook his head. “The only twenty four hour supermarket I know about is in Moorhead. But that’s…” Yousef silenced him with the wave of a hand. “There is no time to debate. Take me there.” Aden looked surprised. “You don’t seem to realize, Moorhead is about…” “And you don’t seem to realize I’m about to ram my foot up your ass if you don’t take me there so I can patch myself up.” 194
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Aden grimaced. “Have it your way,” he griped as he helped Yousef to his feet. He supported Yousef as they slowly made their way back to the Jihad Machine. Twenty minutes later, the beat up brown van was speeding back to I‐94, and the long trip across the Red River at Fargo into Moorhead, Minnesota. Two hours and twenty minutes later, Yousef stood online for the register at the Super Buy & Save in Moorhead. He felt ridiculous, and a bit chilled by the air conditioner, as he waiting in his tattered jeans and blood soaked chaps. Overhead, the in‐house public address system played instrumental versions of horrible Top 40 songs. Only one register was open, but apparently everyone in Moorhead had decided to choose 4 A.M. to do their shopping. Four people were online ahead of him. The middle‐aged man in the front of the line argued with the cashier over whether or not his coupons were still valid. Aden practically pulsated as he stood behind Yousef. In his hands was a case of Red Bull with three of the cans empty. Aden began to hum along to the jazz version of a Rihanna song. Yousef glared at him. Aden stopped at looked back inquisitively. “Why did you drink so many of those?” Yousef gestured to the case. 195
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“It’s a long drive back,” Aden replied. “And since we no longer have a radio for some reason, I thought I needed something to help keep me awake.” Yousef sighed and shook his head. Slowly but surely, the line dissipated and Yousef moved up. “Sooo,” the morbidly obese woman with pink and purple hair and at least a dozen facial piercings who worked the cashier greeted him with her heavy accent. “Arrre ya from the Faaargo – Mooooorhead area?” Yousef flinched at the hard R’s, O’s, and A’s of the quasi‐Scandinavian accent of the northern Plains area. He responded curtly, “Do I look like I am from around here?” To her credit, she smiled pleasantly and chortled, “Nooo, I didn’t think sooo.” She finished swiping his purchases – some gauze bandages of assorted sizes, three bottles of hydrogen peroxide, some antibiotic ointment, sewing thread and needles, Bayer aspirin, a copy of the latest Tiger Beat magazine with an article about the Jonas Brothers (which he felt the need to justify was “just for the ride”), and a pair of cheap zebra striped sweatpants. As she waited for him to pay, she asked “We dooon’t aaall talk like they dooo in that mooovie dooo we?” “Which movie?” he asked with great irritation. “Faaargo,” she smiled. Yousef glowered, “Do I look like I watch movies?” 196
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“Ofta,” she snarled under her breath as he walked away, “I hope you wind up in a ditch.” Two hours later, the Jihad Machine pulled off the side of a dirt road just north of Jamestown. All patched up, and now caught up on the latest gossip for the entertainment world’s under twenty‐five year‐old celebrities, Yousef led the way back to their ambush point. He checked in with the rest of the team and was pleased to hear that no movement had been detected during his absence. The sun was starting to rise and he was sure it would not be long now before the showdown with the last of the witnesses on his list. Allah willing, he could be done with this in a matter of hours, collect his money, and then return to his family business of goat grooming. 197
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Chapter Fifteen Trenton Train Station Trenton, New Jersey Sunday, July 26 07:48 Eastern Daylight Time Harold Jenkins tapped his fingers in time to the radio. Cream was singing Sunshine of Your Love. His partner, Tom Randolph, usually objected to his taste in classic rock. However, as Randolph was inside making the pickup, Jenkins blasted the radio. The armored truck was generally uncomfortable and bothersome to sit in all day. But their boss had allowed them a few minor alterations to make their shifts more manageable. A high fidelity radio system with surround sound speakers was one. Jenkins’ beaded seat cushion was another. Randolph’s gaudy Hawaiian hula dancer bobble‐headed doll was yet another. The shift was routine so far. Prior to stopping at Trenton Train Station, the two had made stops at a few all night fast food places and gas stations who never liked to keep more than a few hundred dollars on hand. Randolph was now inside emptying out the ticket vending machines. Ginger Baker’s drums were really kicking in 198
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now through the bass speakers. Jenkins looked around to make sure no one was looking then launched into air drums. With perfect timing, as the music faded out, Randolph exited the train station. He waved to the two Trenton Police officers who had assisted him. Jenkins turned the sound down on the stereo, thankful that he had the opportunity to let loose. Randolph secured two large bags of money in the rear and took his place up front. “Why are you flushed?” Randolph asked his partner as he climbed into the passenger seat. “No reason,” Jenkins put the truck in drive. “You were playing air drums again, weren’t you?” “No,” Jenkins protested. “Okay, yes.” Randolph shook his head, “Sad, man. Really sad. Next you’ll tell me you pick your nose when no one is looking.” Jenkins said nothing but blushed deeper. “You have problems,” Randolph noted. Jenkins opted to try to change the topic, “Where to next?” Randolph checked the schedule, “You hungry?” “Yeah, I could go for something.” 199
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“Well we have to head up to Princeton. Do you want to stop at Village Bagels, off Main Street, in Lawrenceville?” Jenkins nodded and headed onto the Trenton Freeway. The two men didn’t notice the chocolate brown Volvo station wagon following three cars behind them. “Are you sure about this?” Morris Decker asked from the backseat. A determined Walter Binghamton nodded without a word in the front seat, clutching his sawed off double‐
barrel shotgun tighter. The otherwise silent car was suddenly filled with the sounds of Nat King Cole. “L… is for the way you look at me…” “Mom!” Walter cried out. “What?” Mrs. Binghamton turned down the radio. “It’s my car and I’ll listen to whatever I want.” She lit an unfiltered cigarette and exhaled without the courtesy of opening a window. “And if you ungrateful little shits have any complaints about it, you can all get out right now.” “Okay Mom,” Walter said sullenly. Mrs. Binghamton continued to press anyway, “I’m being nice to you by giving you a ride so you can complete 200
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your ‘oh‐so‐important’ mission and this is the thanks I get?” “Okay Mom,” Walter said more forcefully. “A bunch of shiftless jokes, that’s all you are,” she scowled in the rearview mirror at Decker and Pittman in the backseat. “Why don’t you stop leeching off your hardworking parents and get a job?” “Mom!” Walter cried out again. “I’m sorry. You can listen to horrible music. God! You always do this to me – embarrassing me in front of my friends,” he threw his hands up into the air and back down on to his lap. He sulked as Mrs. Binghamton exited the Brunswick Circle in Lawrenceville, drove through the Harney’s Corner traffic light, and passed Notre Dame High School. “Well Einstein,” Mrs. Binghamton chaffed, “have you given any thought to how you’re going to do it? Or are you just going to go off all half cocked like you everything else in your life?” “They have to come out of that truck sometime, don’t they?” Walter resumed his tight grip on the shotgun. Pittman snickered to Decker, “She said cock.” Without warning, Mrs. Binghamton slammed on the brakes, sending Decker and Pittman flying into the headrests of the seats in front of them. 201
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“So is your brother getting his season tickets for the Jets again this year?” Jenkins nodded, “Yup, same place – three rows back from the field in the end zone.” Randolph shook his head, “Man, must be nice to have money. I don’t know how anyone can afford tickets at the Meadowlands nowadays.” “That’s the beauty of owning his own law firm, I guess,” Jenkins shrugged. “He gives away a few seats to his clients for the games he can’t go to and the whole thing becomes a tax write‐off.” “Think he’ll let you go to a game with him this year?” Randolph laughed. “Hell no,” Jenkins laughed back. He turned off Main Street onto Philips Avenue in the quiet, more rustic area that comprised the town’s tiny ‘downtown’ area. The parking lot was still somewhat empty at this time of day while everyone was out at church or just waking up, so he parked the truck perpendicular across three spots. Randolph unbuckled his seatbelt. “What do you want?” Jenkins replied, “Get me a Taylor ham, egg and cheese on a plain bagel.” 202
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Randolph chuckled, “We’re in the Trenton Area, remember? They call it Pork Roll here. It’s like the law or something.” “Okay fine, Pork Roll, egg and cheese.” “Much better,” Randolph shut the door and headed inside. Fifteen minutes later, Tom Randolph exited Village Bagels with two breakfast sandwiches and drinks in a brown paper bag; and not a care in the world. The quiet town center had lulled him into a false sense of security to the point that he didn’t realize someone was watching him. Tom was about twenty feet from the armored truck, humming a tune to himself. He looked up to see Harold Jenkins air drumming on the steering wheel, the sound of The Who’s Won’t Get Fooled Again was emanating of the truck’s cab. Tom smiled and shook his head. Ten feet from the truck Tom’s day and life suddenly crashed down around him. “Don’t you fucking move!” A voice came out of nowhere, shaky but still conveyed the seriousness of the speaker. Tom turned around to see a man in a pink Hello Kitty ski mask brandishing a sawed‐off shotgun at him. It was a strange reaction, and even as he began laughing at 203
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the absurdity of the Hello Kitty ski mask, Tom knew it was a mistake. The gunman tensed up on the handle of the weapon, “What’s so funny?” “It’s nothing,” Tom sighed. “Just…Hello Kitty? Really? Was nothing else available?” Behind him, Tom could hear Keith Moon’s drums building to the scream made famous by CSI: Miami. He hoped that Harold wouldn’t scream along with Roger Daltrey but look around to see the growing crisis outside instead. “It’s my sister’s!” The gunman’s voice went an octave higher. “It was the only thing I could find.” “Just make him open the door,” another voice pleaded. Tom saw a second gunman to his right creeping out from behind some bushes. He held a small revolver handgun pointed non‐committed at the sky. “Is this some type of hold up?” Tom asked as calmly as he could. “No,” the man with the shotgun answered back with nervous sarcasm. “We just wanted to sell you Girl Scout cookies.” The second gunman lowered his weapon. “I thought you said we sold off all of those, Walter?” “No names, dipshit!” 204
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Tom smiled disarmingly, “Walter, is it?” He dropped his breakfast sandwiches and raised his hands as calmly as he could. “We don’t want any problems, do we, Walter?” “Stop with your dime‐store hostage negotiation tactics,” Walter commanded. “Give me your gun and open the goddamn truck!” “Here’s my gun,” Tom placed his gun on the ground. “But I can’t open that truck, Walt,” Tom continued to maintain his composure. The gunman shook his weapon and shrieked, “Its Walter!” On the radio in the truck, The Who had ended and Metallica’s haunting guitar intro for Fade to Black slowly began to build. Harold had no interest in learning to play the guitar – or even faking playing the guitar – so he would wait till the rest of the song kicked in. Wondering what was taking Tom so long, he looked out his window. Surprised by what he saw, Harold fumbled the radio microphone in a frantic attempt to call for help. Walter called from outside, “Touch that radio and he dies!” Seeing the gunman draw his weapon up to point blank range on Tom made Harold reflexively drop the microphone and put his hands up. He checked the side 205
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mirror and saw that a brown Volvo station wagon was now blocking his exit. The gunman, clearly unprepared for how things were unfolding, closed his eyes to think. “Come on, man,” the second gunman bounced up and down impatiently. “The cops could be here any minute.” “Just… just let me think!” “Easy, Walter,” Tom said soothingly. “Stop using my name!” Walter cracked Tom in the side of the head with the gun. Tom stumbled to the ground. In desperation, Walter grabbed Tom by the shirt collar and rammed the shotgun against the base of his skull. He forced Tom against the side of the armored truck. “Open the fucking truck!” He stared barbarically at Harold in the driver’s seat. “I… I can’t,” Harold yelled through the thick skin of the truck. “You have until three and then I paint your truck with his brains.” Harold began to sweat and breath faster. There were policies for this – essentially the company would rather sacrifice the drivers than lose any of the money inside. That was easier said than done… especially when your best friend was about to be executed. 206
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“One!” “Don’t do it, Harold,” Tom said defiantly and spat at the ground. Harold wiped sweat from his brow. “Two!” “Okay… maybe you should consider opening the truck,” Tom sounded far less defiant. Harold reached for the door handle but stopped himself. “I can’t,” he cried out, tears streaming apologetically from his eyes. “Three!” “No!” Tom’s legs gave out and he fell to the ground. Walter stood above him, gun still at the ready but he didn’t appear committed any more. “I can’t do it either.” Tom sighed in relief, his sphincter loosening itself. Harold wiped his tears away and exhaled. Tom slowly, cautiously, lifted himself off the ground and back up to his feet. “Oh, for crying out loud!” a new voice, older and female, bellowed from behind the truck. “You are totally worthless!” Walter dropped the shotgun to his side. “Mom! You promised you would wait in the car!” 207
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Tom chuckled again, “You brought your Mom to an armed robbery? Damn, are you a loser or what?” “Shut up!” Walter commanded but it was no use. Tom and Harold were now laughing at him. “Do you still live in her basement?” Tom slapped the side of the truck. Walter clumsily aimed the shotgun at Tom again, “You shut up!” “Whoa, careful with that,” Tom suppressed a smile. “Wouldn’t want that to go off and Mommy have to clean your underwear tonight.” The gunman’s mother stormed over to her son. She easily wrenched the shotgun from his hand and pushed her son aside. Without another word she shot Tom in the knee cap. The sound of the blast echoed throughout the parking lot and was soon joined by the sound of Tom screaming in agony. “Mom! I can’t believe you shot him.” Walter’s mother thrust the gun back into her son’s hands. “We are going to have a serious talk with your father about this when we get home.” “Dad? But why, Mom?” She took off her backpack and unzipped it. “I knew you couldn’t do this alone.” She shook her head, “I said it 208
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was way too difficult for someone with the limited mental capacity and will to succeed as you.” Fishing through the bag, “But did your father listen? Noooo! He said we had to give you some responsibilities in life.” “But Mom…” Walter’s mother removed a block of plastic explosive, “I said we should start small… you know, like make you get a job at the local super market or maybe even just a hamster to take care of without crushing it. But he insisted you could topple the neo‐socialist regime of the modern American government.” She affixed the block of explosive to the driver’s side door. “’It’ll give the boy some confidence’ he says,” she mimicked her husband with exaggerated facial expressions. “’Show him he can take on the world’ he says.” Her son sounded shocked, “Where did you get that?” Harold screamed on the radio for help. Tom writhed on the ground in agony. Walter’s mother shoved him to the side and triggered a detonator. The door dropped to the ground. “Do something constructive and shoot the radio,” she barked to her son. She yanked Harold out of the driver’s seat, bent him over her knee, and began spanking him furiously until he agreed to open the back. Sirens could be 209
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heard in the distance. “Hurry up, you useless shits,” she ordered. Walter and his partner grabbed several bags of money from the truck and tossed them in the back of the brown Volvo. A third man was ready behind the wheel. Walter’s mother cuffed the two armored truck drivers together then agonizingly got into the front passenger seat as quickly as her arthritic joints would allow. “Hurry,” she ordered to the driver, “I need to stop at Shop Rite on the way home and get some Epson’s salt to soak my aching joints tonight.” 210
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Chapter Sixteen Chief Street’s Big Game Preserve Somewhere in the middle of North Dakota Sunday, July 26 07:23 Central Daylight Time Dekha stretched and, with the sound of a gentle pop, worked a kink out of his neck. He hadn’t been asleep that long, but he felt totally refreshed. He washed the dry morning breath from his mouth with a swish of water, spitting it on to hard, dry earth. He scanned the other positions. The sun was still rising, and there was not a cloud in the sky – perfect hunting weather, he smiled to himself. Abdi was still well concealed twenty feet away amid a cover of thick bushes. Hasan lay motionless at the top of the small hill. Ismail and Mustafa were about three hundred yards across from his current position. At first he couldn’t make out their position, but a glint of the sun reflected off the scope of one of their rifles. He still couldn’t make out where Aden and Yousef were, but Yousef had called on the radio to confirm they were in place. Readying himself mentally and physically for the showdown, Dekha silently crept ten yards away and 211
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relieved himself of the excessive amount of water he had been drinking last night. “So what are we hunting today?” Ken Shavetail checked the sight on his bolt‐action rifle. Chief Street stuffed a towel into the collar of his camouflaged T‐shirt. “We have a few miniature Key West deer running around out there.” He squinted as he tried to remember the list of endangered animals, “Maybe a three‐toed sloth or two. We still have a black rhino creeping along somewhere out there – but you got no chance of hurting it with that little pea‐shooter you got,” Street laughed and pointed at Ken’s rifle. “Now, him on the other hand,” he gestured to the unnecessarily large caliber rifle Alex Canary had brought along. “What was that thing designed to kill, Canary?” Alex Canary smiled psychotically, “Russian tanks, Sir.” “Canary, you disturb me with how easily you’re able to find heavy duty firepower.” “Thank you, Sir,” Canary smiled and saluted. “If you’re feeling up to a swim,” Street continued, “we even have a sea cow or two in the manmade lake. However, I have a general rule about my lake animals – you have to be willing to wrestle them with your bare hands.” 212
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Canary contemplated that for a moment. “Forget it,” Ken shot him down, “you’re not that good of a swimmer.” Brian Donahue lackadaisically loaded some shells into his small caliber hunting shotgun. He was feeling extra sluggish this morning, and completely disinterested in the hunting expedition. He kept trying to tell himself he was doing it for the story – after all, he was certain that he would come away with a great story any time he hung out with Ken and Alex. But more than anything he wanted to just be home with his new fiancée. “Hey, Pussy‐whipped,” Street called out. Brian suddenly realized the three of them were looking at him and laughing. “Do you have anything you want to add to our conversation this morning or are you going to mope around missing your little girlfriend?” Brian merely smiled in response. “You’re smiling now,” Street said condescendingly, “but let’s see how you are after one of those ill‐tempered deer gores you with his antlers because you’re fixated on some broad.” Brian winced, “Chief, why all the hostility?” “Because I don’t like you, Shit‐stain.” “Why not?” 213
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Street pointed an angry punctuation finger at Brian. “Did you ever once try to make conversation with me while we served together at Yeger?” “Yes, as a matter of fact I tried to make conversation with you every day of the one whole week we served together.” Street softened, “You did?” “Yes.” “When?” “Every day.” “Get out,” Street flinched. “What did I say?” “You just pointed to your shirt or a scrap of paper with FIGMO written on it,” Brian noted. Street contemplatively pursed his lips, “FIGMO?” “Yeah,” Ken interceded, “Fuck it, got my orders… it was your battle cry for the last week of your service.” “Really?” Street seemed genuinely confused. Ken, Brian, and Canary nodded. “Hot damn,” Street announced loudly, “I am a funny sum’bitch, ain’t I?” “I have an idea,” Ken changed the topic, “how about we hunt those saber‐tooth tigers of yours?” 214
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Street appeared less than enthused. “I don’t know, they don’t seem to have much spunk. Not sure how much fun they would be.” “Oh come on,” Ken goaded, “you know you want to.” “Ah Ken, my boy, you could always read me like an open book,” Street threw his arm around Ken and they walked towards the animal cages. “Maybe if one watches the other one get shot it’ll toughen ‘em up and make them blood‐thirsty finally.” Street looked over his shoulder at Brian, “Who knows, maybe one of them will tear up Shit‐stain over here.” Brian gawked, “I thought we were making progress.” Street shrugged, “What can I say? I’m a fickle man.” “What do you think goes on in there?” Aden held a pair of binoculars and scanned the large wooden lodge. He could see movement inside the windows, but could not tell which ones were his targets. “It is an American hunting lodge,” Yousef said matter‐
of‐factly, scanning the lodge through the scope of his rifle. “Apparently ruthless, godless Americans pay money to travel here to slaughter Allah’s majestic creatures.” Aden chuckled, “Does that include that cute little deer that allegedly mauled you?” 215
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“There is nothing cute about that monster,” Yousef said coldly, tightening his grip on his rifle and momentarily imagining the satisfaction of putting a bullet in that disease ridden beast’s head. “You weren’t there. You wouldn’t know.” Thunder yawned and languidly smacked his lips. With a soft feline purr he stretched his front pawns, savoring the tiny pops as he worked the sleep out of his joints. The opening of his cage to the outside world had woken him from a glorious saber‐tooth dream. He was roaming the snowy fields of his ancestors, stalking his prey. In front of him, oblivious to their impending doom, was a collection of humans. He reared back and lunged, only to be woken before his dream could come to a climactic finish. But the sun was rising, and the warm air felt surprisingly good today against his fur. Looking around he saw that Lightning was already making her way outside. He felt in his tiny prehistoric cat brain that today would be just another lazy day; yet something didn’t feel right as he walked outside. “What are they waiting for?” Aden asked impatiently. “I do not know,” Yousef shifted uncomfortably, his leg was beginning to ache again as the over‐the‐counter painkillers were starting to wear off. 216
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“They don’t look so docile,” Ken Shavetail nodded out the window, gesturing to the saber‐tooth tigers with his “Air Force is for Lovers” travel coffee mug. Chief Street took notice too. “I wonder what’s gotten into them.” Both large cats were hunched low to the ground, slowly and deliberately skulking into the bushes, the hair on their backs standing at attention. “Never seen ‘em do that before,” Street announced. “Maybe they’re in heat,” Brian offered. Street looked at him sideways, “Why do you say that? Wanna fuck one? You sick bastard.” Brian stepped back, “I didn’t mean it like that.” “Of course you didn’t, freak,” Street responded condescendingly. Alex Canary sipped loudly from his Two Girls / One Cup commemorative mug. “I don’t know, Chief. That could be a money maker.” Chief Street bristled at first, but then slowly nodded as he evaluated the prospects of diversifying his preservation. 217
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Lightning had caught it first, but it hadn’t taken Thunder long to pick up the scent either. He wasn’t sure what it was at first. However, it awakened something inside of him, something preternatural. It was an ancient fear coupled with the prospect of a hunt. It felt as if ancestors were screaming through time, communicating danger to him. There was something in the scent of that urine that excited his fight‐or‐flight instincts. It was almost as though something inside of him remembered – remembered hunting and being hunted by the cavemen on the African plains. He hunched lower to the ground, careful not to make a sound. “How long are we going to wait?” Canary asked. “I’m itching to kill something.” “He is,” Ken set his travel mug down. “He’s been talking about nothing except killing defenseless animals since you invited us.” Chief Street watched through suspicious eyes – concerned about the way they were acting, and intrigued to find the source of the saber‐tooth tigers’ behavior. “How long are they going to wait?” Dekha grumbled. 218
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Abdi rechecked his AK‐47. His stomach was grumbling and he hoped they could finish this up soon so they stop by the Denny’s for a Grand Slam Breakfast. “Did you hear that?” Dekha turned around, staring only at the thick brush behind him. “You’re just jumpy,” Abdi dismissed. “Relax. No one has left that building since we got here.” But that wasn’t enough to make Dekha relax. Another sound caught his attention. It was closer now, and it was definitely the sound of twigs snapping. He steadied his rifle, trying his best to calm his nerves and fight the urge to unload his magazine blindly into the bushes. “I know I heard something,” he whispered to Abdi. Abdi turned to say something, but before he could, a large furry mass sprung from the bushes. Dekha was suddenly engulfed by a large animal. It looked like a tiger but was far too big. And it gnashed at Dekha with giant teeth that resembled tusks. Fruitlessly, Dekha began firing his automatic rifle into the air. Abdi dove for cover as rifle rounds sprayed haphazardly all around him. The magazine rapidly depleted; and the sound of gunshots was quickly replaced by the screams of Dekha and the ravenous grunting of the giant beast. In desperation, Abdi began firing into the giant hairy back. 219
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“What the fuck was that?” Ken reached for his hunting rifle. “Motherfuckers!” Chief Street kicked the door open and charged outside. “Someone is poaching on my property.” He raised his shotgun high into the hair and blasted off a round. “Show yourselves, you bastards!” The three men rushed out behind Chief Street. However, as soon as they stepped foot outdoor, more shooting began. These shots were intended for them, many coming dangerously close to the group before they had a chance to dive for cover. Brian began firing randomly towards where he thought the shots had come from. Canary caressed his rifle and smiled seductively, “It’s happening all over again.” Ken casually lit a cigarette. As the first barrage of gunfire subsided, Brian hazarded a glance to see Chief Street charging determinedly towards a thick growth of bushes to their left where the original gunshots had appeared to come from. “You no good, thieving bastards! Come out and show yourselves! I’ll teach you to poach off another man’s endangered species!” Hasan fired another round from the sniper rifle in his overwatch position. His target, the plumpest one of the 220
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bunch, managed to duck his balding head out of the way just in time to make Hasan miss. He scanned to his right to see if he could take out the oldest member of that party. As he locked onto his new target, something giant slammed into him. His body when immediately numb as the wind was knocked out of him. Fortunately for him it masked the pain of his limbs being sheared off. Brian saw movement to their right and began firing. Canary quickly stood up, pushed Brian’s head back down, and began shooting in that direction. “You’re not stealing my glory a second time, Lieutenant,” he yelled at Brian in between blasts from his giant vintage World War II‐era Finnish‐made anti‐tank rifle. A scream came from one of the shapes as it dropped to the ground. “Why is Hasan not firing anymore?” Yousef turned towards Hasan’s location. Before Aden could answer, there was a rustling to Yousef’s right. He reflexively turned and fired. “Ow!” Abdi crashed through the bushes. “You shot me, you asshole!” He clutched his hand to a bleeding hole in his arm. “Where is Dekha?” Aden asked and fired off a burst of bullets. 221
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Abdi was hyperventilating now, more from fright than from pain. “It was enormous!” “What was?” Yousef ducked as more gunfire came their way. “The saber‐tooth tiger,” Abdi panted. “The what?” Yousef stopped firing. “It was a saber‐tooth tiger!” “You are hallucinating,” Yousef dismissed him and resumed firing. “I am not hallucinating!” Abdi stood up and began pantomiming the size of the beast and its teeth, “It had fangs that were this long!” Yousef’s rifle began clicking to signal his magazine was empty. He fished another out of his vest and reloaded. “There is no such thing as a…” Just then, a giant tiger with long, protruding teeth leapt through the bushes and snarled viciously at the pack of would‐be assassins. Each man in unison screamed loudly in a high pitch. Abdi had just enough time to say, “See, I told you!” before the beast practically slashed him in half with a swipe of its massive paw. Ismail stumbled through the bushes on the other side, assisting a limping Mustafa, blood issuing from a large bullet wound in his left leg. “Sahib,” he called to Aden, 222
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“Mustafa was almost cut down by the Ameri…” They two skidded to a stop and screamed as they saw the gigantic tiger in front them. “Our mission is not going according to plan,” Yousef announced. “Oh, you think?” Aden fired at the beast as it continued to disembowel what was left of Abdi. “Quickly!” Yousef cried. “Back to the Jihad Machine!” “What in God’s name just happened?” Ken snuffed out his cigarette and got up from the table he was hiding behind. “I have no idea,” Canary fired off one more round. He slung the rifle across his shoulders behind his neck. “Oh, for the love of God,” Ken decried in disgust. “Did you make cumsies in your pants, Canary?” He pointed at a dark stain on his friend’s crotch. Canary spat to the side and answered nonchalantly, “Quite possibly. And I feel no shame in it.” Brian and Ken shuffled away from Canary. “When I find out who these bastards were,” Street griped as he walked back towards the lodge, “I’ll kill them!” 223
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Brian saw that one of the saber‐tooth tigers pranced behind Street with something in its mouth. It seemed too large to be a bird; and as it got closer, Brian could clearly see it the upper half of a mangled human corpse. The second tiger sauntered casually across the yard with a leg coming out of its mouth. “Well, look on the bright side, Chief,” Ken smiled. “Those docile fucks finally got their groove back.” 224
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Chapter Seventeen Undisclosed Apartment Journal Square Section, Jersey City, New Jersey Sunday, July 26 09:09 Eastern Daylight Time Boris stood on a pedestal, high above legions of adoring young men clad in silk togas. Winged cherubs with the face of Abdullah and rock hard abdomens fluttered beside him, placing a crown of olive leaves upon his head. As the cherubs did so, an unseen choir began to sing loudly, though the crowd of eager young men waited to take their cue from Boris. He surveyed his minions, cleared his throat, and raised his hands. The crowd erupted into song in unison. Let’s hear it for the boy, let’s give the boy a ha‐ey‐an‐
ey‐and… In confusion, Boris looked at his adoring fans. This wasn’t the song he had picked for his coronation. He had wanted something by Right Said Fred. He looked at the choir director and shot him an angry look. The flustered choir director could only look back in bewilderment. 225
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Maybe he’s not Romeo, but he’s my loving one man. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! Boris awoke with a jolt. He pulled the satin sleep mask from his eyes and located the phone that was singing next to his bed. He was still very groggy when he answered, “Yes?” The voice on the other end was harried and panic‐
stricken. “They were waiting for us, with monsters! It was a blood bath!” Suddenly finding himself wide‐awake, Boris bolted upright in bed. “What are you talking about?” “Monsters came out of nowhere, they ate Dekha and Hasan. And they cut Abdi in half!” “Slow down,” Boris commanded. “Tell me what happened.” The panting on the phone slowed down. “We were set up to complete the last assignment. When the subjects exited the building all Hell broke loose. They had guns, big guns, and unleashed some type of massive furry monsters upon us.” “You know Yousef,” Boris said fatherly, “there are easier ways to explain to me how you failed. This story seems a bit far‐fetched.” 226
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“Far‐fetched? You didn’t tell me they conducted genetic research in that lodge! These beasts looked like saber‐tooth tigers.” Boris sighed. “It is irrelevant anyway. These overly complicated and impossibly elaborate schemes will be the death of me. Get your ass home with whoever is left of that cell. We’re going to finish this the old fashioned way.” “And how is that?” Boris paused contemplatively. “We’re busting them out.” “And just how do you propose to do that?” “Simple. We’re going in the front door.” Boris hung up the phone and consulted his rolodex of terrorist business cards. He found the number he was looking for, but an unexpected call temporarily halted his plan. Before Boris could even utter the word ‘hello’, the voice on the phone spoke, “We have the money.” “And who is we?” Boris was genuinely at a lost. “We met the other night at the all‐male review.” Boris giggled with the realization. “Oh yes! Enjoy the show?” “Fuck you.” “Why does no one ever like the show?” 227
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“Can we please not drag this out?” The voice was devoid of emotion. “We have the money, can we just buy the stuff?” “Certainly,” Boris smiled. “I’ll be happy to meet you at…” “No!” The voice shouted. “I’m not enduring another humiliating homosexual experience for your amusement.” Boris pouted, “Ew, fine. If that’s the way you want to play it. Where did you have in mind?” “We have a clubhouse in the New Jersey Pine Barrens.” Chuckling outwardly, “Wait, wait. You have a clubhouse?” The caller was openly offended, “Yes, why?” “Oh nothing, I mean all the major terrorist groups meet in clubhouses. You should see the clubhouse HAMAS has on the Mediterranean, it’s simply gorgeous.” “Now you’re just mocking me.” “I am,” Boris admitted. “Just give me the directions to your clubhouse and I’ll bring the stuff.” He scribbled down the directions as his caller gave them. “I’ll be there tomorrow at noon.” 228
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Chief Street’s Big Game Preserve Somewhere in the middle of North Dakota Sunday, July 26 09:29 Central Daylight Time Brian Donahue, Ken Shavetail, and Alex Canary sat on wicker rattan chairs on the deck of the lodge. They watched as Chief Street stood between the two happy saber‐tooth tigers, each still gnawing at their severed human limbs. He was busy skewering the severed heads of the terrorists onto pikes. When he finished, Street proudly hoisted them up. “What do you think boys? Worked for Vlad the Impaler!” “Looking good, Chief!” Ken waved a thumbs‐up. He then turned to his friends, “He’s really like a cake that hasn’t baked all the way through, isn’t he?” “I still can’t believe what just happened,” Brian commented, taking a sip of freshly squeezed lemonade. “Still think that girl in New York was killed by accident?” Ken cradled a Bloody Mary in his hands. “Definitely not anymore.” “So you really think someone is trying to kill us?” Canary inquired. 229
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Two heads slowly turned to face Canary; both wanted to say the same thing, but Brian got there first, “Did you really just ask that?” Canary shrugged, “Yeah why?” “Seriously?” Brian raised his voice and flailed his arms toward the yard, “You seriously had to ask that question after all we just went through?” “I thought it was part of the ‘Chief Street Experience’.” “No one can be that stupid,” Brian looked at Ken. “Can he be that stupid?” Ken nodded, “No, he pretty much is that stupid.” Adjusting himself in the chair, “Any thoughts on who it is?” Brian shook his head. “No clue. But it has to have something to do with the trial.” “What do we do?” “First thing we do is call the FBI,” Brian pulled his cell phone out. “Put your cell phone away,” Canary slapped Brian on the back of the head. “No one’s calling anyone.” “But someone just tried to kill us!” “So? That means it’s payback time,” Canary informed him, staring at Lightning the saber‐tooth tiger snapping the detached femur in two like a twig. 230
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“Payback? Are you insane?” Brian shook his head, “Forget it, I know the answer to that. But don’t you think we should let the professionals take care of this?” Canary spit, “Professionals? If they were so professional this wouldn’t have happened.” Brian looked to Ken for support. Ken nodded again, “I hate to say it but he’s got a point.” “You too?” Brian knew he was alone. “Come on, Counselor,” Ken put an arm around Brian. “You aren’t pissed off that they tried to kill you, twice?” “A little,” Brian lied – he was a lot pissed off. “And if they could get to us, here, could they not get to Katie?” Brian’s chest burned with rage. Ken definitely had a point. “And didn’t we already kick terrorist ass once?” Ken puffed his chest out. “Well, Canary and I did,” Brian smiled. “I’m still not quite sure what you did.” Ken held his hands up, “Hey, hey, I drew that sniper’s fire so you get to him and wrestle him to the death.” 231
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“As I recall,” Brian corrected, “You hid behind a tree while Katie got shot.” “Semantics,” Ken waved his hand flippantly. “It’s the spirit of the intent that counts. Regardless, I propose we extend our hunting weekend and go terrorist hunting!” Canary clapped his hands, “Here! Here!” Brian looked out at the carnage once more, remembering the brief firefight then flashing to the extended firefight at the Yeger Complex. If the same guys were behind both, he felt that perhaps Ken had a point. No one was safe. He could either live out his days in fear of this happening again, or he could take action. He knew he could be killed doing this, but the prospect of going back to the office tomorrow and listening to yet another outrageously frivolous lawsuit didn’t seem all too appealing either. “Okay, I’m with you,” Brian acquiesced. “But where do we start? How will we ever be able to track them?” “This might help,” Street’s voice carried into their conversation. He was walking up the stairs to the deck with a bloody object in his hands. “I pulled this from the pocket of one of those bastards.” As he reached the top of the stairs he tossed the object on the table. It was one of the gunmen’s wallets. 232
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“Well, this is a start,” Ken flipped through the blood‐
soaked leather wallet. “It has an address in Fargo. I say we pay them a visit.” “We’ll need some better firepower,” Brian pointed to his bolt‐action rifle. “Wait,” he looked at a smiling Canary, “Never mind, I forgot who I was talking to.” Ken asked, “Chief, you coming along to join the Crusade?” Chief Street bashfully declined with the wave of his hand. “Thanks, but killing ragheads is a young man’s sport and not for me anymore.” “But Chief,” Ken admonished. “You know that’s not…” “Fuck politically correct,” Chief fired back. “Anyway, now that Thunder and Lightning decided to wake up and be the man‐eaters Mother Nature intended them to be, I think I’m going to focus on how best to capitalize on this.” Undisclosed Apartment Willow Street, Hoboken New Jersey Sunday, July 26 11:47 Eastern Daylight Time For United States Marshal Ali Oxenfrey, the day was starting like any other lazy Sunday. He had the day off, and was lounging in bed watching his favorite TV show. 233
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He was so glad when his cable TV provider started playing reruns of Beverly Hills 90210. Watching the teenage torment always transported him back to his own high school days. His parents had moved to America from Yemen when he was fourteen. Because of his accent, religion, and general aversion to American hygiene standards he was shunned by his fellow classmates. But he soon found comfort in the continuing coming of age saga of Brenda and Brandon Walsh and Dylan McKay. Not to mention, Nate at The Peach Pit always had such sage advice. He became infuriated when the phone rang. He demanded to know who would dare interrupt the drama of the students protesting Donna Martin’s suspension for drinking at the prom. “Who is this?” “What kind of greeting is that?” the caller snarled. “Whoever this is, you caught me at a very bad time.” In the background, “Two, four, six, eight, Donna Martin graduates!” “Yes, I’m sure it’s very important,” the caller quipped sarcastically, “but it is your time.” Ali muted the television, “My time for what?” “Your service is needed. I will be calling you with further details.” 234
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Without a further word, the caller hung up. But nothing further was needed. Ali knew what the caller was referring to. It was his time. Ali Oxenfrey joined the US Marshals after graduating from college. It wasn’t his personal choice – he was much more interested in interior design. However, the path his life would take was pre‐determined for him. His father was a prominent business man, but secretly the leader of a network of sleeper cells in the United States. His father had always told Ali that Allah spoke to him in a dream and commanded that Ali be made to join the US Marshal Service. Ali was skeptical, but knew better than to question his father – or the will of Allah. He smiled, fondly remembering his father and praising his forethought. 235
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Chapter Eighteen Unassuming House, 5th Street South Fargo, North Dakota Sunday, July 26 12:27 Central Daylight Time “You sure this is it?” Brian Donahue asked looking out the window of his compact rental car. They were parked across the street from a ramshackle, two‐story house at the end of a quiet street. By the looks of it, the neighborhood appeared to be a low income, blue‐collar neighborhood. A beat up brown, 1984 Oldsmobile was parked in the driveway. “I don’t know,” Alex Canary shot Brian a sideways glance. “Maybe it’s because I’ve never been here before.” Brian rolled his eyes, “No need to be so sensitive” “Well you have to admit,” Ken Shavetail offered from the backseat, “it was a pretty stupid thing to ask.” “Seriously?” Brian shook his head. “Why does everyone hate me?” “Nonsense,” Ken patted Brian on the shoulder. “If we didn’t like you we wouldn’t talk to you.” 236
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“Funny way of showing it,” Brian pouted. “We can circle jerk away our differences after we find out who tried to kill us.” Ken sat back and looked at the house’s windows through his binoculars. “I don’t see any movement. What do you think?” “I think if I don’t kill someone soon,” Canary said dreamily, “I’m going to forget how.” Brian cocked his eyebrow, “Why do I have a feeling that wouldn’t happen?” Canary smiled and licked his lips. “Okay,” Ken rechecked the shotgun Canary acquired for him. “Let’s go over the plan again. Brian and I, being more emotionally stable and reliable, will take the front of the house. Old ‘Itchy Trigger‐finger Canary’ here will watch the back of the house and shoot anything that comes out that rear door. Got it?” Brian nodded with more than a little apprehension. He racked a few shells into his shotgun. Canary didn’t answer, merely lovingly caressed the M‐
249 Squad Automatic Weapon, or SAW machine gun, he had in his lap. Brian and Ken still had no idea where the firepower came from. “Let’s do this,” Ken exited the vehicle. He slyly tried to use his body to block any neighbors who might be watching from seeing the shotgun he carried. Brian 237
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followed his lead. Canary happily pranced across the street, aiming the gun at imaginary enemies. Ken and Brian stood on either side of the front door. Canary bounded around the back and took up a cover position inside the play kitchen of a dilapidated plastic backyard jungle gym playset. Ken reached out and tried the handle. The door was unlocked. “You ready?” he mouthed to Brian. A bead of sweat trickled down Brian’s forehead. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his eardrums. He nodded back, clutching the shotgun tighter. Ken signaled that he would cover left and Brian would cover right. Again Brian nodded and inhaled sharply. Ken turned the handle again, letting the door drift open slightly. He readied his weapon then kicked the door in the rest of the way. He brought his gun up and swept to the left. Brian swept to the right in near perfect precision. The house was deathly silent. The only sound that could be heard was the constant ticking of the novelty cat cuckoo clock with exaggerated eyes and a pendulum tongue that swung back and forth. There was a faint smell of sweat, body odor, and blood in the air, along with onion and curry – presumably from a recent meal. Somebody or some bodies had been there recently. Clothes were strewn haphazardly around the floor and the stairs. Drawers hung open, frantically rifled through. 238
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Ken pointed a finger to the ceiling; Brian realized what he was gesturing and led the way slowly up the stairs. The mildew‐ridden carpeting on the stairs muffled the sound of their footsteps. The second floor was more chaotic than the first floor. Whoever had been here had left in a hurry. “Damn it!” Ken punched a hole in the rose patterned wallpaper of the second floor hallway’s drywall. “They were just here, I just know it!” “Where do you suppose they went?” “I don’t know, Brian,” Ken patronized. “Maybe they went to the store to buy some chips and dip and lay out a party for us.” “Why do I hang out with you?” “Because we’re the only friends you have?” Brian raised his eyebrows and nodded at the sad truth. “Okay, I’m done insulting your fragile self‐image,” Ken walked down the stairs. “At least for now anyway. Go get Canary so we can figure out what to do next.” Brian nodded and headed through the kitchen to the back door. He opened the door, shielded the bright sun from his eyes with his left hand, and called out, “Hey, Al—
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Before another syllable could be uttered, the quiet yard erupted into complete pandemonium. The deafening sound of automatic gunfire momentarily stunned Brian. He quickly ducked back inside the kitchen as the insistent and thunderous belching of a machine gun rained bullets down upon the house. Brian cowered against the floor, covering his ears with his hands as bullets ripped holes in the wall above him, showering him with shards of wood and plaster. All around him windows and dishes were shattering. Bullets chewed up two legs of the kitchen table, causing it to topple over. Mercifully, the shooting stopped. Above the white noises echoing through Brian’s ears, he could hear the distant ravenous cry of Alex Canary, “Get some! Get some!” Ken casually walked into the kitchen. “You probably should have warned that knuckle‐dragger Canary you were coming out first. After all,” Ken reached down and helped Brian up, “I did tell him to shoot anything that came through that door; and you and I both know how having to think on his feet often grinds poor Alex’s mind to a standstill.” Ken fatherly dusted some of the remnants of plaster off of Brian’s shirt. “Still have all your favorite appendages?” Brian patted himself down, making it a point to check his crotch. “I think so.” 240
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“Good,” Ken opened the kitchen door. “Canary?” he called out. “Dig I get him?” Canary yelled back. “No,” Ken replied. “Brian is still alive.” Brian flipped Ken the middle finger. “Thank you for not shooting at me.” “Not my choice,” Canary hollered back, sounding crestfallen. “I ran out of ammo.” “How could you run out of ammo? There was hundreds of rounds in that gun.” “I’m an excitable boy!” There was a moment of silence from Canary. “And wait, fuck you. Do I ever criticize how you shoot?” “Good point,” Ken yelled back. “Hey, why are we still yelling across the yard to each other?” Canary considered for a moment. “I have no idea.” “Well then come inside.” Inside the kitchen, the three men regrouped. Brian checked the refrigerator for something to drink. However, all of the bottles and cartons inside now had gaping bullet holes in them. “I knew it!” Ken exclaimed, holding up a piece of paper. “They were just here.” 241
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“How can you tell?” Canary sat down on a stool, but the bullet‐wounded leg snapped and he fell to the ground. “Someone left a note for a neighbor to take care of their cats,” Ken tossed the piece of paper on the counter. “Said they had to leave to attend to some family business and would be back in a few days.” “Let’s find the cats and skin them,” Canary suggested, wide‐eyed. Ken made a calming gesture with his hands, “As appealing as that sounds, we don’t have time for that.” Something caught Brian’s attention. A green light blinked on and off in the corner of the living room. Brian went for a closer look and was delighted to see a laptop sitting on the desk attached to the house’s internet modem. “Gents,” Brian returned to the kitchen with the laptop, “we might be able to find a lead on this if only we could get into it.” Ken went through the motions of turning it on and wasn’t surprised to be prompted by a password logon screen. “Figures,” he said disappointedly. “Can we consider going to the Feds now?” Brian asked innocently enough. Out of the blue, Ken struck Brian with a surprise backhand. “The answer was no when we had no leads to go on, and the answer is still no now that we have their 242
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laptop.” Ken eyeballed Brian up and down. “You call yourself an Airman?” “No,” Brian rubbed his cheek. “I was a Second Lieutenant and I left the Air Force.” Another smack – this time from the opposite side, “Nonsense! You never leave the Air Force. It’s like a bad case of genital warts that I contracted from a transgendered lady of the evening on leave in Bangkok, it never leaves you.” Canary and Brian traded disturbed looks. “Oh please,” Ken laughed nervously, “I was just kidding.” Canary and Brian inched away from Ken. “Any way,” Ken tried to get them back on track. “I know of only one person who could help us with this.” The three men nodded and said in unison, “Van Haven.” 243
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Chapter Nineteen Undisclosed Maximum Security Federal Correctional Facility Somewhere in New York State Sunday, July 26 18:07 Abdullah Bin Al‐Raheem dutifully cleaned off his prayer mat and hung it back up on the wall. He felt better after his evening prayers. This week would start the trial, and he needed all the strength Allah could bestow upon him. It was easy to give up hope in such a seemingly hopeless situation; but he continued to reassure himself that there was indeed a greater plan for him. Looking out of his cell Abdullah saw a very frazzled Myaz Bin Riden storming back to his cell. “Myaz,” he called, “what seems to be troubling you?” Myaz looked around nervously with wide‐eyes, sweating and breathing heavily. “I can’t… I can’t talk about it.” “Why not?” “Because!” Myaz grabbed his friend’s shirt. “They have spies everywhere.” 244
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“Who, Sahib? The guards?” Myaz looked Brotherhood.” around panicked, “The Aryan Abdullah sighed, “What is it this time?” Myaz sniffled back some snot, “I was minding my own business in the laundry room when their leader approached me again.” Abdullah looked concerned, “Still wishing for a Bavarian Hook Job?” “Worse!” Myaz wiped tears and snot away with his good hand. “He asked if I wanted to re‐enact Peter Pan with him. He said that I could be the Captain Hook to his Alligator.” Abdullah was stunned. “What does that even mean?” Myaz broke down again, “I have no idea! I never paid attention to the ride in Disney World. But that’s not all he said.” “Well what then?” “He said…” more sniffling and a large snort, “he said that I could be Captain Hook, you could be Peter Pan, and Omar was already Wendy. I have no idea what that means but it can’t turn out well for any of us.” 245
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Abdullah placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I have prayed over this. Allah will grant us strength to get through this ordeal.” “Fuck praying,” Myaz interrupted. Abdullah flinched at the sudden burst of insolence. “While you pray, I’m going to take matters in to my own hands – well, hand.” Abdullah was suddenly extremely concerned. “My friend, do not do anything rash. You must temper yourself with the reassurance of Allah’s blessings.” “Blessings, shmessings! While you’re in here talking to the Big Man upstairs, I’m out there getting propositioned into doing all manner of unwholesome and immoral acts. I can’t take it anymore! I’m not a piece of meat! I have feelings!” “What is it that you want to do?” “This!” Myaz pulled a spoon out of his pants. Studying the spoon, Abdullah inquired hopefully, “Are you going to gut their leader with that spoon?” “No,” Myaz smiled maniacally. “I’m going to dig my way out.” “With a spoon?” Abdullah asked incredulously. “Yes.” 246
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“Our lawyer advises against us doing anything drastic and stupid,” Abdullah reasoned. “I’m pretty sure this qualifies as both ‘drastic’ and ‘stupid’.” “You trust what your Zionist pig of a lawyer tells you?” Abdullah knew that was a hard argument to counter, so he tried another tactic. “Have you given this much thought?” “Yes.” Abdullah nodded slowly, “Any research?” “Yes,” Myaz sounded condescending, “I read The Shawshank Redemption.” He studied his friend for a few beats longer. Abdullah saw the determination in Myaz’s eyes and knew there was no deterring him. “Well, good luck. Come get me when you reach the other side. Insha’Allah.” Myaz playfully tapped the spoon on Abdullah’s nose and said “Bop.” Then he proceeded to practically skip his way into his cell. Abdullah heaved a sigh. His team of once proud holy warriors was now officially lost to him. He curled up on his bed and resumed studying the Qur’an. Deep in thought, he lost track of time until Myaz was standing at his cell again. “I lost track of time,” Abdullah noted. “How long has it been?” 247
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“About ten minutes,” Myaz responded. “Funny, I expected it to be longer. No matter, what can I do for you, dearest friend?” “You told me to get you when I reached the other side.” Abdullah shrugged, “I did. And?” “Well, I’ve reached the other side.” Unsure of what to say or even think, Abdullah simply rose from his bed and followed Myaz to his cell. Myaz pointed proudly to a Justin Beiber poster. Abdullah shook his head, “What am I looking at? Wasn’t it a Jane Mansfield poster in Shawshank?” “I know, but this was the only thing I could find on short notice,” Myaz commented. “And oh my, how cute is his hair?” “You scare me, Myaz.” Myaz pulled aside the poster and revealed a giant, gaping hole in the wall. “What? How?” Abdullah was flustered. “I don’t understand. How long were you working on this?” “Ten minutes,” Myaz said proudly. “I don’t get it.” “I touched the spoon to the wall and whatever cheap, lowest bidder material they used to construct the cells 248
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simply crumbled away – most likely a slurry of recycled cyclamates from the Sixties mixed with some type of recalled Chinese elementary school paste.” Abdullah stood with mouth agape. He ran his fingers over the jagged edges of the hole. “It’s a miracle.” He rubbed some of the dust between his fingers, holding it up to his nose to sniff. “I probably wouldn’t do that,” Myaz warned. “There’s no telling what sort of low grade carcinogens they used to construct this place with.” Snapping his hand down and wiping the dust off on his jumpsuit, Abdullah grinned. “What are we waiting for? I believe it is time to leave.” And with that, the two mighty Jihadeen disappeared behind the infidel teen heartthrob poster. Thirty minutes later it seemed the blessing was wearing thin. Abdullah and Myaz were in some type of crawl space between the cell walls and the hardened exterior walls of the prison. The space was crammed with pipes, electrical wires, and other miscellaneous duct work. Every few feet they stopped and tested the exterior walls, hoping for another spot of poor construction. “It is hopeless,” Myaz finally admitted. 249
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“Nonsense,” Abdullah said with near boundless enthusiasm. “Allah has presented us this opportunity for a reason.” “Do you think He presented it to us just so He could have a laugh?” Abdullah open‐handedly slapped his friend. “I will not stand for your crisis of faith! This path will lead us somewhere.” Myaz sighed and continued scratching at the walls. Almost immediately, chunks of low‐grade masonry fell away. Abdullah nodded enthusiastically and said, “Eh? Eh?” The two scratched frantically and soon another hole was opened for them. This led into a small, pitch‐black chamber that had no windows. Abdullah fished a matchbook out of his pocket, now extremely thankful the guards hadn’t seized it from him. He struck a match and paced around the perimeter of the tiny room, trying to get a feel for what it was used for. There was only one door, but it had no handles or hinges – and most likely sealed from the outside. “What is this place?” Myaz asked rhetorically as Abdullah’s match fizzled out. “I do not know.” Abdullah struck another and saw that he was standing before a shelf of thick ledger books. He 250
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carefully held a match to the shelf then opened the first ledger. What he saw was astounding. “Myaz, do you know what this is?” He said excitedly. “Of course not!” Myaz responded, equally excited. “Have you ever heard of the President’s Book of Secrets?” Myaz nodded, the one thing he knew he knew was American movies. “I saw that in National Treasure Two! Not as good as the first one but quite enjoyable none‐the‐
less.” “Ugh,” Abdullah sneered, “you know how I feel about Nicholas Cage.” Abdullah struck another match and absently handed the matchbook to Myaz. “These ledgers have the answers to all of America’s greatest cover ups.” He flipped through the ledgers, “Jimmy Hoffa’s location. The missing Watergate Tapes. The JFK Assassination. Even the Lincoln Assassination. It’s all here! Do you know what this means?” Myaz struck a match clumsily against the matchbook. “It means you now have compelling bathroom material?” “No, you idiot. It means that we can bring this government to its knees with its own lies and betrayals! I can’t believe they had sealed it up in the walls of a maximum security facility. But then again, what better 251
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place to keep it? This is our ticket to freedom!” He clapped his hands. Suddenly there was a bright flash of light and a whoosh. The room was engulfed in darkness once more. Though in total darkness, Abdullah blinked rapidly on the verge of an aneurysm. “Myaz? Did you just do what I think you just did?” “That depends,” Myaz responded evasively. “If you think I just dropped a lit match onto the books containing some of history’s greatest cover ups and obliterated their fragile pages in a split second then I would have to go ahead and say yes, I did do exactly what you think I did.” “If I could see where you were right now I would kill you.” “I’m sorry,” Myaz defended himself. “But you really should have known better than to hand me a matchbook. I mean, hello!” He waved his stump pointlessly in the dark. “Missing a hand over here!” Abdullah growled and punched wildly in the darkness, hoping to hit something fleshy. Instead, his hand struck a wall. It sent a searing bolt of electric pain through his body. Suddenly there was light again in the room. Abdullah thought he was imagining it at first, but then realized he had punched through another low bidder wall. Freedom quite possibly lay ahead. 252
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He crawled out first, Myaz close behind. The sudden addition of light temporarily blinded them. They heard running water and singing. They could smell Irish Spring soap and anti‐dandruff shampoo. The singing stopped abruptly. Vision returned and through painful eyes Abdullah could see that they had tunneled into the male guard’s locker room. Two muscular guards stood lathered in shower stalls staring at them. “Awkward,” Myaz said in a high‐pitched voice. “Wow,” Abdullah chuckled and playfully slapped Myaz. “This is certainly not the way to Pismo Beach.” One of the guards put down his soap. “You guys should probably consider crawling back through that hole and heading straight for your cells.” Abdullah bowed respectfully. “Already considered and we are in the process of doing just that.” He turned and pushed Myaz back into the hole. Without warning there was a subsonic snap and a burning pain radiated from Abdullah’s butt cheeks. The two guards giggled loudly as one of them recoiled the towel he just whipped Abdullah with. “That really hurt, I think you broke the skin.” Abdullah whined. “I really think I’m bleeding.” “Yeah,” the guard said triumphantly, “I’ve been working on that for months.” 253
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Chapter Twenty Foley Square, Outside US Federal Court Manhattan, New York Monday July 27 08:07 “This is Darren Henderson reporting live from in front of the US Federal Court in New York City where tomorrow the trial of the Greenville Three is scheduled to begin. I know I speak for the world when I say we will never forget the events of that morning. Roll the footage, Maurice.” Maurice the cameraman set down the camera in confusion. “Roll what?” “The footage, roll the montage video of the attack on Yeger!” Bashfully scratching the back of his neck, Maurice blushed, “I… ah… I forgot the footage.” “Oh for fucksake,” Darren exclaimed. “Darren,” Maurice panicked. “I’m still rolling live.” 254
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“Nice move, fuck‐stick. But I can get away with cursing because we’re the fucking media,” Darren stormed off in a huff. “I thought it was because no one was watching,” the cameraman said slyly. Darren recomposed himself and came back to the camera. “Let’s try this again.” He made a soothing gesture in front of his face to re‐center his Chi. He exhaled slowly and shook his body exaggeratedly. “Okay, ready?” “I never turned the camera off,” Maurice said under his breath. ‘In three… two… one… This is Darren Henderson reporting live from in front of the US Federal Court in New York City where tomorrow the trial of the Greenville Three will commence. I’m here to show that the American people have not forgotten what happened on that fateful day.” A young man in a business suit walked by, a Starbucks cup in one hand and talking on his cell phone. “You, Sir,” Darren called to him. “Can I have a moment of your time for a news broadcast?” The man looked enthusiastic. “Sure, about what? The Yankees’ game last night? Man that was a sick way to end it!” 255
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Darren put his arm around the young man paternalistically. “I’m afraid it’s a more solemn matter. Can you tell me your thoughts on the upcoming trial of the Greenville Three?” The man grimaced. “The who?” “The Greenville Three,” Darren gave a gentle squeeze. “I know it may still be difficult to talk about.” The man bit his bottom lip. “I’ll say it’s difficult to talk about. Especially since I have no idea what you are talking about.” Incensed, but still trying to control his rage, Darren paused a short moment. “The terrorist attack in Greenville, New Jersey last year?” The man hummed and shook his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell.” “You insolated, self‐absorbed, mindless douche bag,” Darren berated. “It happened right across the fucking river! You can practically spit on the site from here.” “I’m sorry,” the man inched away. “Think, you rube! Think! It happened in November. You know, just after you and your privileged little douche bag friends finished Trick‐or‐Treating!” A light bulb appeared to go off in the man’s mind. His face lit up with recognition. “Oh I remember seeing 256
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something about that on the news. Yeah, some tool bag reporter had a nervous breakdown live on TV.” Darren flushed with the insult. The man clenched his fist in celebration of his remembrance, “It happened right before some washed up has been 1980’s TV star publically lost his mind. Man… that was some funny stuff how that guy just took on everyone in Hollywood. You couldn’t turn on a TV without seeing his face.” Darren lost his mind and punched the man in the face, knocking him out cold on the pavement. “You pampered little abscess on the nutsack of humanity, good men and women died that day! My cameraman and pilot died that day!” “But Darren,” Maurice piped in, “I’m standing right here perfectly alive. And Chester the pilot just got married last month. You were at his wedding, don’t you remember?” “Stay out of this,” Darren pointed a commanding finger at his cameraman. Maurice ignored him and continued, “Remember? You got so drunk you hit on Chester’s brother?” “It’s not my fault he was so androgynous fetching,” Darren uttered then silenced himself by putting his hands over his mouth. “Tell me you had the sense to turn the camera off?” 257
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Maurice nonchalantly covered the red light on the camera, “Oh yeah, sure, I turned it off.” Darren adjusted himself and smoothed out his clothes. He ran a hand through his hair, making sure his coiffure was still perfect. “Are you ready to try this again?” Before Maurice could respond, however, a voice called out from behind the cameraman. “What do you really know about the Greenville Massacre anyway?” A gangly looking young man in a pair of far‐too‐tight khaki pants, an overly starched white button‐down shirt, and a pocket protector called to Darren. His tone was almost accusatory. Ruffled by the confrontation, Darren stared at him, “Who might you be?” “I’m a Truther,” the young man said sternly. Maurice rolled his eyes so hard his head followed, “One of those crazy, socially awkward college losers that insist that the government was behind 9/11?” The newcomer scowled at the cameraman. “I seek the truth behind all government conspiracies,” he admonished. “Why can’t you little wienies accept that a terrorist group caught the country with our pants down?” 258
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“Because it’s just too easy an explanation, Sheepie,” the young man responded. Maurice shook his head, “Sometimes the easy answer is the answer.” The young man sneered, “Baaaah, Sheepie. Baaaah. Do you eat those lies up with a spoon, Man? Because I carve mine up with a knife and fork before I eat them. Unhook yourself from the Matrix, Sheepie, and start thinking for yourself.” Maurice glared on the verge of drastic action. Darren cocked his head. “And you think that the attack on Yeger was a government conspiracy?” “You don’t?” Maurice wanted to drop the camera and lay out this condescending little bastard. But Darren appeared more intrigued, rubbing his chin pensively, “Why would you say that?” “First,” the man began to pontificate, “why would terrorists want to attack a no‐named, unknown military installation in New Jersey?” “To get a hold of secret military weapons that were stored there,” Maurice answered. “Please, Sheepie,” the man spat. “Who ever heard of bio‐regulators or super‐virulent smallpox?” He was so 259
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emphatic with his finger air quotes that he almost dislocated a knuckle. “Ken Alibek wrote about them in his book Biohazard,” Maurice countered. “Who?” The man asked. “You read?” Darren asked. “Yes, I read, you inbred hillbilly prick,” Maurice retorted. He turned to the young man, “And Alibek was the former head of the Soviet biological weapons program. After he defected to the United States he wrote all about the secret biological program…” The man interrupted, smugly smirking, “Secret biological weapons? Soviet defectors? Now who sounds like the conspiracy nut?” Maurice’s fist clenched, aching to make contact with this self‐righteous little bastard’s glass jaw. Darren continued to rub his chin, “Maurice is right, we were there. What could you possibly know that we don’t?” The young man’s eyes glazed over and he began to lick his lips, clearly excited that someone was actually paying attention to him. “Let’s assume for a moment that the government actually was dumb enough to hold onto those experimental weapons. How would terrorists know that those weapons were there?” 260
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“Haven’t you ever heard of researching on the internet?” Maurice took his turn sounding smug. “Oh sure,” the man scoffed, “the Internet. Al Gore admitted himself that he created it. So you’ll trust a tool of the Republican machine?” Maurice flinched at the comment, “Gore was a Democrat, you idiot.” “That’s what they wanted you to believe!” The man enthusiastically tapped a finger to the right side of his head. “Think Sheepie, baaaaah! Think! They paraded Gore around so the country would vote for George Bush, paving the way for 9/11. They insured the victory of a boob like Bush by forcing you to choose between an even bigger boob! I mean, Global Warming? Please! Does anyone believe in that anymore after New York City was shut down by a blizzard this winter?” “I’ve heard enough, it’s Go Time!” Maurice dove at the young man but Darren stopped him with by throwing his body between them. “Let me at him,” Maurice flailed his arms wildly. “That’s just the start of it,” the man continued, un‐
phased and possibly used to people wanting to beat him up. “Riddle me this, who is Brad Lancaster?” Maurice and Darren stopped struggling and asked in unison, “Who?” 261
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The man beamed with satisfaction, and sat down on a bench. He crossed his legs and tented his fingers. “Brad Lancaster is former General John Trottel’s nephew. Trottel was the mastermind behind the alleged ‘exercise’ that went wrong.” He dramatically looked around, feigning a search for prying eyes that Maurice and Darren knew clearly weren’t there. “Lancaster was hired by his uncle to attack the facility. Now, please Mister Matrix,” he looked at Maurice, “Explain that one to me.” Maurice slouched and Darren released him. “You can’t, can you?” the young man continued smiling a bright, toothy grin. “So the Air Force hired the terrorists that showed up that morning to attack the complex?” “But what about Abdullah Bin Al‐Raheem, Myaz Bin Riden, or Omar Shabazz?” Darren asked, sounding as though he might be swaying in favor of the conspiracy. “Pu‐leeease,” the man scoffed. “Three inept rubes? One who is missing four fingers, one who is missing an eye, and one who is missing an entire arm? They have scapegoat written all over them.” The man self‐
righteously stretched his arms out and slowly put them behind his head, knowing that he had hooked these men in. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the government tries to kill those patsies to silence them, a la Lee Harvey Oswald. 262
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Don’t be shocked to see a hit squad roll up or a bomb to conveniently go off.” Maurice wasn’t buying it yet. Like most conspiracy theories, he knew that if he thought about it for a few minutes he could logically punch holes in this dweeb’s arguments. Darren, on the other hand, was a different story. “You are wise beyond your years, my new friend.” He extended his hand and firmly shook the young man’s. “If you want to know the real story, I’ll put you in touch with The Source.” “The Source?” the wheels were clearly spinning in Darren’s mind. The man pompously explained, “The Source is wiser than I. He knows all and will be willing to share his knowledge with you if it will make the world aware of what really happened.” “I pledge to you I shall,” Darren said with a tear in his eye. “And you?” The man looked at Maurice. “You’re insane,” Maurice dismissed. “You seriously need some friends. Both of you do.” 263
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“Welcome to the Machine, man,” the arrogant young man ridiculed. “Enjoy your life as a Cog in the Wheel of the Establishment, Sheepie.” Maurice rolled his eyes again, “Do they publish a handbook for you whackos on the proper clichés to use?” “No,” the man replied then paused. “But that doesn’t sound like a bad idea now that I think about it.” 264
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Chapter Twenty One I‐80 Eastbound Outside Youngstown, Ohio Monday, July 27 10:21 A battered, brown van sped along the highway, more easily now that the morning rush hour traffic had subsided. Yousef Sadr was at the wheel, staring determinedly at the road ahead as if willing the van to New Jersey. Their escape from Fargo and journey across the country hadn’t gone as smoothly as they would have liked – primarily because Ismail couldn’t read a map as well as he claimed he could. After a needless six hour detour through southern Minnesota, Yousef ordered Aden to pull over in the parking lot of a Walmart. He wandered the aisles of parked cars, muttering feverishly until he found what he had been searching for. With a resolute, bare hand, he punched through the driver’s side window of a Toyota Subaru and relieved its owner of the GPS navigation system that had been left mounted in plain sight on the dashboard. Dripping blood from the dozens of shards of 265
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glass in his hand, he returned to the van. “Drive,” was all he said. “I can’t take this anymore,” Ismail huffed. “How long are we expected to sit here in silence?” “As long as I say so,” Yousef stared straight on, his left eye twitching. “Who died and made you boss?” Mustafa scowled, shifting his wounded leg uncomfortably on the floor of the van’s cargo area. He caught the inappropriateness of what he just said. “Well, besides the obvious three.” Aden puffed his chest out, “Mustafa’s right. What are you going to do, kill us for talking?” Yousef gritted his teeth, “Believe me, the thought had crossed my mind.” “Well I for one am not going to continue this,” Mustafa announced. “Who wants to play a car version of Don’t Forget the Lyrics?” “How do you play that?” Aden asked earnestly. “Answer him,” Yousef’s eye twitched faster, “and it will be the last question you ever answer.” Mustafa grunted glibly, and continued defiantly, “I’ll sing a song and when I stop you have to finish the lyrics.” Aden and Ismail clapped elatedly. Yousef slid his 266
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left hand off the steering wheel and untucked the gun from his waistband. Mustafa cleared his throat. Yousef gripped the pistol tighter; his right eye twitching now, out of synch with the twitching of the left so that the world around him was in a constant, maddening shutter. Mustafa took a deep breath and belted out loudly, “I’m Henry the Eighth I a‐‐” The report of the gun reverberated throughout the tiny Jihad Machine. Aden and Ismail stared at the lifeless body of Mustafa slumped on the floor of the van, blood oozing from the center of his chest. The twitching in Yousef’s eyes had ceased and the tiniest of smiles was creeping across his lips. “You are such a bastard,” Aden whined. “Did you know that?” Yousef continued on silently until they approached a bridge on the road. The highway was fortuitously empty. “Get ready to get rid of him,” Yousef said evenly. He pulled the van over on the side of the bridge over what a sign indicated was the Neshannock Creek. “Dump him,” Yousef ordered. Aden and Ismail grabbed Mustafa and moved quickly to toss his body over the side. The lifeless body made a dull thump as it struck some rocks below. The two jumped back into the Jihad Machine and Yousef tore off. 267
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Aden studied the highway behind them, consumed by paranoia that someone had seen them and alerted the police. Brendan Byrne State Park New Jersey Pine Barrens Monday, July 27 12:21 “Where is he?” Morris Decker paced impatiently outside the clubhouse. He and Jerry Pittman had spent all morning sprucing the place up while Walter Binghamton baked Linzer cookies for their guest. “I have no idea,” Walter undid his checkered apron and wiped the sweat and flour from his forehead. “He said he would be here at noon.” Decker checked his watch again. “Well its past noon and I’m starting to think he won’t show.” “He’ll be here, alright? Just calm down.” Jerry Pittman finished pouring the homemade lemonade and sat down. “You think he turned us in to the authorities?” Walter had thought about that too, but he didn’t want to believe it. “No, he wouldn’t have.” 268
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“How do you know?” Decker helped himself to a cookie. “Because he got a lot of positive feedback on Craigslist,” Walter replied. The sound of gravel crunching announced the approach of a vehicle. The sound was then joined by a 1980’s techno mega‐hit blasting through unseen speakers. Obsession, you are my obsession… A large yellow moving truck kicked up a cloud of dirt as it approached the clubhouse. Who do you want me to be to make you stay with me? “Who listens to Animotion in this day and age?” Pittman asked. Decker looked askew at Jerry. “Who evens knows who sings this song?” Pittman turned his head indignantly, “I will not be mocked for my taste in music.” The rental truck came to a stop in front of the three militia men. The music cut off, the door opened, and out stepped Boris Gurko. The three young men didn’t know what to think. Boris wore a pair of incredibly short khaki shorts that barely covered his butt, a safari vest with an absurd number of pockets over his bare chest, and a pink pith helmet. He looked around at the clubhouse. “Quite a set up you have here,” he announced sarcastically. 269
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“We made you cookies,” Pittman said eagerly. “That’s sweet,” he dismissed as he walked around to the rear of the truck. “Let’s get this over with. I have more pressing business to attend to.” He stood behind the truck and announced with a smile, “Come check out my rear, boys.” Begrudgingly, the three young men followed. “I just love how it was packed,” Boris laughed at his own quip, not caring that the men weren’t sharing his enjoyment. In the rear of the rented moving truck rested a very large and imposing looking explosive device. Four large blue drums were connected to each other via a spaghetti‐
like mess of yellow, red, and white wires. Car batteries and an assortment of other technical looking components sat on a shelf behind the drums. They too appeared connected to the series of wires. Each of the young men gasped in awe. “Is that what you wanted?” Boris asked. “I think so,” Walter said, still staring wide‐eyed at the masterpiece of mass destruction in front of him. “I’ll have you know this was built from the specs of the world’s finest bomb maker,” Boris removed the pith helmet and placed it over his heart fondly. “Abdullah Bin Al‐Raheem.” 270
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Walter’s head perked up with that announcement. “You mean the guy from the trials this week?” Boris nodded and wiped a wistful teardrop from his left eye. Walter didn’t say anything further. Instead he absorbed the irony of him using one of the Islamic terrorist’s own creations to strike back at him. “My money please,” Boris demanded. Walter signaled for Decker to get the bag full of money from the clubhouse. As his friend dutifully ran off, Walter asked Boris, “Where’s the detonator?” Boris smiled, “Oh yeah, that. Well it’s somewhere on my person and you have to find it.” Walter gasped, “What?” Boris spread his arms out, beckoning his client for a pat‐down. “You’re insane,” Walter said. “Just give me the detonator.” “What fun would that be?” The fingertips of Boris’ outstretched arms waved Walter over. “This is what you get for demanding to pick the location of our meeting. You should have just let me set it up.” Walter and Pittman exchanged glances. Jerry nodded. Walter shook his head. Boris nodded. Walter shook his 271
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head more vigorously. Boris slowly and sensually nodded his. Pittman urged Walter, “Do it.” “You do it,” Walter commanded. “No,” Boris said to Walter. “You do it.” He looked at Pittman and said apologetically, “No offense.” Pittman gratefully bowed his head, “Hey man, believe me, no worries.” Walter reluctantly shuffled his feet over to Boris. Boris looked him, “Don’t pretend that you’re not enjoying this.” Walter dispassionately patted a few of the pockets on the vest. “Now Walter,” Boris playfully admonished, “you’ll have to do better than that. It’s a smaller detonator, and it’s a squirrelly little rascal. You’ll have to search hard.” Walter gulped and began squeezing the pockets on the chest. “Colder,” Boris said. Walter groaned and moved down to the pockets on the belly. “A little warmer,” Boris said. Walter continued down. “Oh,” Boris smiled broadly, “warmer still.” Now Walter had to move to the outlandishly tight shorts. He slid a hand over the left front pocket. Boris squinted his eyes lasciviously, “Oh Walter you are warm.” 272
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Walter paused, wretched a tiny amount of bile in his mouth, and slipped a hand inside the pocket. Boris gasped, “Oh my gosh, you’re on fire! Now remember to fish around for a bit, it’s a smaller piece of equipment.” Walter grimaced as he complied. “Dig for it,” Boris said breathlessly. “Dig for iiiiit. Almost there.” Boris shuddered and Walter snatched his hand back as though he had been bitten by a snake. “You sick fuck!” Walter yelled, his hands empty from the search. Boris, flush from the search, smiled a relaxed, fulfilled smile. “Thank you.” “Where’s the goddamn detonator?” Boris clapped his hands above his head. Seemingly out of nowhere, a Bentley convertible skidded to a stop behind him. Boris jumped into the passenger seat next to a man who looked like he walked off the pages of a Swedish beachwear catalog. “The detonator’s in the front seat of the truck. Onward, Sven,” he ordered the driver then blew Walter a kiss as the car sped away, “Ciao! Have fun!” 273
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I‐80 Eastbound Crossing the Delaware River into New Jersey Monday, July 27 15:33 “Yousef,” Ismail asked nervously, “can we stop at a gas station soon?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The gas is fine,” Yousef replied firmly. Ismail sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes watering. “I understand that, but I have a need for other services at the gas station.” “The answer is no.” Ismail strained, “But I really have to make water.” “The answer is no.” Biting his bottom lip, Ismail begged, “Pretty please? I promise I will not argue with you the rest of the trip.” “Piss yourself, the answer is no,” Yousef reiterated unsympathetically. Aden raised his hand apprehensively, “Might I just caution you that if he pisses himself, we still have a long drive ahead of us and we’ll have to smell that.” Yousef contemplated the suggestion. “You raise a valid point.” He reached down into a trash bag on the 274
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floor between the two front seats. From it he pulled out an empty Snapple bottle and tossed the glass bottle to Ismail. “Piss into this.” Grousing under his breath, Ismail kneeled in the far corner of the van and began relieving himself into the bottle. Yousef smiled again, more broadly this time. Casually he let the van drift to the shoulder and over the rumble ‘wake up strips’ cut into the highway to alert snoozing drivers to their impending doom. The strips caused the entire van to rattle, throwing off Ismail’s aim. “Hey!” he called out. “I just pissed on my hand.” Yousef began laughing loudly. Aden looked at Yousef silently for a heartbeat. Then he began chuckling as well. “Do it again,” he whispered encouragingly. Yousef nodded. As Ismail resumed his task, Yousef began tapping on the brakes. The van lurched with the sudden breaks in speed. “Oh you guys suck!” Ismail whimpered, wiping his hand on his pants. Yousef and Aden howled with pleasure, fist bumping each other. Despite Yousef’s subsequent random and jerky lane changing, Ismail was able to complete his pressing mission. Now a new problem presented itself, “What do 275
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you want me to do with this?” He held up a bottle of large colored liquid. “Oh Allah, first thing you should do is see a doctor!” Aden exclaimed with concern. “Are you feeling okay?” “Yes,” Ismail replied. “Why do you say that?” Aden pointed at the bottle. “Urine isn’t supposed to be that dark. Have you been drinking enough water?” “Apparently not,” Yousef noted. “I thought I did,” Ismail ignored Yousef. “Perhaps you need to drink more,” Aden said fatherly. “I’m concerned about your kidneys.” “Fuck his kidneys,” Yousef hollered. “Just get rid of the damn bottle.” “How?” Ismail asked. “Throw it out the window, I don’t care,” Yousef waved an agitated hand at him. Obediently, Aden rolled down his window and Ismail threw the bottle out of the Jihad Machine. No one gave it another thought as they cruised on. They passed the signs for Hope, New Jersey. Yousef checked the GPS and saw that they only had about an hour and a half until they reached Boris’ apartment. A sound suddenly sent a chill through the spine of each holy warrior. The whoop‐whoop of a siren made 276
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Yousef check the rearview mirror and curse. A white police car with red and blue lights was speeding up behind them. A voice inside Yousef tried to calm him, saying that maybe the police officer would just pass on by to another emergency. But as the cruiser pulled into the lane behind the Jihad Machine Yousef realized there would be a problem. “Does everything you guys do have to turn to shit?” He eyed Aden and Ismail as he pulled the van into the shoulder. After a dramatic pause, a short, stocky New Jersey State Trooper stepped out of his car, adjusted his cap, and strolled cautiously towards the van. Yousef debated the odds of successfully shooting the State Trooper and fleeing. However, when a second police cruiser suddenly appeared on the westbound side of the highway and crossed over to join the first Trooper, Yousef realized that would not be an easy option. “Remain cool, and try not to screw anything up,” he commanded to the remaining terrorists. He tried to calculate his next moves, and slid the pistol under his thigh. The first Trooper approached the van from the passenger side, protecting himself from the speeding traffic. He placed a hand on his sidearm as he closed in, raising alarm within the van. “What do we do?” Aden asked excitedly as he watched the approaching Trooper through the passenger side mirror. 277
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“Relax,” Yousef demanded. “I’m freaking out man,” Ismail cried from the back. “Shut up,” Yousef commanded. “Blow this and I’ll blow you.” Aden and Ismail exchanged concerned looks at the statement. “Away!” Yousef coughed uncomfortably, “I meant I’ll blow you away.” The Trooper appeared at the window next to Aden and motioned for him to roll the window down. Aden fumbled for the handle and clumsily complied. The aging window only opened a few inches. The Trooper eyed Aden with blatant contempt and waited as Aden tried to push the window the rest of the way down. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?” Yousef inquired politely. The Trooper studied the inside of the vehicle from behind reflective aviator sunglasses, sniffing the air as he did so. The Trooper studied the three men, evaluating their varying degrees of nervousness. Finally, after an agonizing period of silence, he asked, “Do you know why I pulled you over?” Yousef’s mouth was dry and he licked his lips with a sandpaper‐like tongue to try to get some moisture in order to talk. “Was I speeding?” 278
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The Trooper continued his silent evaluation. The second Trooper was now out of his car and walking slowly to the driver’s side. He too had his hand readily on his sidearm. Beads of sweat began to form on Yousef’s forehead. Aden could feel his armpits already drenched with perspiration. Ismail made a series of hushed but high pitched squeals of discomfort. The Trooper sniffed the air exaggeratedly, “What’s that smell?” Aden looked at Yousef in alarm and he mouthed the word “Blood”. The Trooper, seeing the passenger turn to the driver commanded authoritatively, “Don’t look at him, Boy, look at me.” Aden snapped his head around obediently. “I’ll ask again, what is that smell?” Yousef’s voice was markedly quivering. “I… ah… I don’t know what you mean.” He tried to remain calm, but was starting to fail. He did the mental calculations of how quickly he could eliminate the first trooper. “Smells like…” the Trooper again paused for effect, “Piss.” Yousef breathed a momentary sigh of relief. “Oh that? We can easily explain that one.” The Trooper cut him off with the rapid movement of removing his sunglasses. He now fixed an icy stare on Yousef, chilling him directly to the bone. “Then would you 279
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mind easily explaining to me how a glass bottle full of it wound up shattering across my windshield?” “Um…” Yousef struggled. Ismail bordered on passing out in the back. “Um, I have no idea what you mean.” The Trooper’s eyes grew more intense. “I mean that I was traveling behind you a few miles ago when a glass iced tea bottle filled with urine flew out of this vehicle and shattered across my windshield.” The Trooper studied the three men, zeroing in on the hyperventilating one in the rear compartment. “So I can either take all three of you in, or you can tell me who tossed the bottle right now.” Without a moment of hesitation, Yousef pointed at Ismail, “He did it.” In a dazzling flash, the Trooper forced open the sliding side door for the van and removed Ismail by his shirt color. Ismail made ineffectual wheezing noises as the Trooper dragged him back to his cruiser. It happened so fast that the Trooper took no notice of the blood splatter all over the rear compartment floor. “What do we do?” Aden asked nervously. Yousef studied the second Trooper in the driver’s side mirror. “We may have to go out in a blaze of glory.” “But I don’t have a gun,” Aden protested. “I’ll be the first one cut down.” “Such is life,” Yousef shrugged. 280
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“Jackass,” Aden seethed. Suddenly, the siren wailed again and the first Trooper tore out into traffic and sped away. A scared Ismail peered out the back window. Yousef checked the mirror again and saw that the second Trooper was getting back into his car. Relief washed over both of the remaining holy warriors as the second car sped away as well. 281
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Chapter Twenty Two Greenville Meadows Center for Mental Rehabilitation Greenville, New Jersey Monday, July 27 17:30 “Visiting hours are over at six o’clock, so you’ll have to be quick,” a disinterested receptionist announced as if reading from a script. Her eyes did not leave the computer screen on which she was surfing photos of people she went to high school with on Facebook – intently evaluating whose life had taken the greatest turn for the worst. “Thank you, ma’am,” Ken Shavetail said with fake enthusiasm as he signed in three phony names. “We shouldn’t need any more than a few minutes.” She read his signature, “Thank you mister, Jablowmeh?” Ken smiled, “Please… call me Haywood.” “You don’t look like a Haywood,” the receptionist noted as she turned back to her cyber‐skulking. 282
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Alex Canary and Brian Donahue followed Ken through the halls of the center for mental rehabilitation. It was clear to all three that no rehabilitation of any sort was going on here. It was obviously a place to put those who were society’s lost causes. That much was evident when the first room they passed had a sixty year old man lying in the fetal position on his bed engaged in a masturbatory frenzy with a flaccid penis. The man’s roommate pushed through the trio of stunned onlookers and sat down on the bed next to him. The roommate held his hand up and pantomimed that he was changing the channels on a TV set that wasn’t on. Before Ken could formulate a suitably degrading quip, a scrawny young woman with scraggly reddish‐blonde hair sauntered up to the group and started bleating like a sheep. “I gotta be honest,” Canary said after a moment of deliberation, “she’s doing something for me on more than a few levels.” Brian backed away, “Can we just finish what we set out to do and get out of here?” “The Counselor’s right,” Ken agreed, “the clock is ticking on payback and we still have no idea who we can sacrifice for retribution.” He held the stolen laptop up for emphasis. Canary quickly scribbled his number down on a napkin and handed it to the still bleating woman, “That’s my 283
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direct number. I can hold a steady spot for you on Thursday nights.” He winked at her and followed his friends. As they worked their way down the hall, each man’s face contorted as they registered a fetid, putrid odor of decay. The smell was mixed with the faint scent of a fragrant air fresher, but it was obvious which smell was winning the battle for olfactory supremacy. “What crawled in here and died?” Brian pulled his T‐shirt over his nose in a futile attempt to smell something better. Ken didn’t respond. He checked the room numbers again. “This looks like it,” he said hopefully. As he opened the door, large translucent soap bubbles drifted into the hallway. A ukulele plunked away and someone sang Tiptoe Through the Tulips out of tune in an ear splitting falsetto. “We are totally here,” Ken smiled. He flung the door up the rest of the way and bellowed, “Colonel’s on deck! Attention!” An elderly man in a hospital gown strummed carelessly at a small, wooden ukulele. He stood in front of a shiny, homemade, metallic contraption that spewed a constant flow of soap bubbles. Tied to his waist was something that looked like a matted down raccoon‐skin cap – the source of the rotten stench. A cloud of flies hovered around it. The man stopped playing and studied his visitors. After a moment, recognition flared into his 284
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eyes. “Shavetail! Canary!” He studied Brian. “And… and… you!” “It’s Brian Donahue, Sir,” Brian said sheepishly. “Right,” Colonel Andrew Liberty (Retired) smiled. “Right, Brian.” He put down his ukulele and pulled on some urine‐stained underwear. Excited to see his former subordinates, the Colonel extended his hand. The three visitors looked awkwardly at each other, declining to shake the potentially dirty hand. “Colonel Liberty, you’re looking…” Canary searched for the words. “Here?” “And Bruno,” Ken pointed at the object dangling from Liberty’s waist. “How did they let you keep that?” Liberty shrugged, “I told them it was a raccoon‐skin cap and that I couldn’t live with it.” He held up the rotten human scalp, acquired under mysterious circumstances during the raid on the Yeger Complex. “That’s right, Bruno,” he held it at eye‐level and scratched it lovingly with his left hand. He shook his head and cooed, “I can’t live without you. “Colonel, we’re actually here to see your roommate,” Ken said. “Just you and me, like Bonnie and Clyde,” Liberty continued. “One day we’ll take on the world again.” The three visitors cringed when the retired colonel kissed the 285
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clump of hair. They backed away from the room as the Colonel began singing Just the Two of Us. Across the hall was a small activity room. Two men shuffled around the room – their extremities were splayed out at their sides, tongues and eyes bulging, and drool flowing from their mouths clearly overmedicated on some anti‐psychotic or another. Alone at a table in front of a chess board sat a tall, overweight, and ghastly pale thirty‐something year‐old man. Ken sat down next to the man and put his arm around the man. “Van Haven!” Marc Van Haven yelled, and quickly applied a judo submission hold on Ken. Canary and Brian were able to pry Van Haven loose before he slipped an arm around Ken’s neck and snapped it. Ken struggled to his feet and rubbed his throat. “Easy big fella,” he smiled. “I’m sorry,” Van Haven relaxed, realizing that he had nearly killed his former Air Force Lieutenant. “I’ve just been a little on edge since…. You know.” “No sweat,” Ken smiled, “we all have those days when we go off the deep end. In fact, Canary is long overdue for his.” Canary gave Van Haven a hearty nod. But Marc Van Haven didn’t just have ‘one of those days.’ Since the early 1980s, Van Haven had been obsessed with trying to beat the original Nintendo’s Super 286
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Mario Brothers. This obsession had carried over far into adulthood, fed by each successive failure at the final level of the game. Three months ago, Van Haven had finally beaten the game. However, it wasn’t the momentous occasion that he had built up in his mind. In fact, it only served to increase his sense of emptiness when he realized exactly how much of his life he had given up trying to beat the game. It sent him off the deep end. The first target of his rage was the toy store from which his father bought him the gaming system when he was seven years old. He waited until it closed for the evening then firebombed the building. That started the rampage through the city of Greenville. For the next month, he torched more than ten department stores and gaming outlets that carried video gaming systems. He was finally brought under control when he was pulled over on a routine traffic stop by the Greenville Police Department for having a broken taillight. Panic‐stricken, Master Sergeant Van Haven thought he would have to shoot his way out of the situation. He dove from the car with a grey, plastic Nintendo gaming gun, believing fully that he could shoot it out with the faux weapon. Surprised by what he was watching, the police officer shot the approaching man in his leg. Van Haven avoided a lengthy prison sentence by agreeing to mental rehabilitation at the Greenville Meadows Center. 287
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“We need your help,” Brian took a seat across the table. “Someone’s trying to kill us and this may hold the only clue as to who is behind it. We need to know what’s on this computer.” Van Haven took the laptop and powered it up. He typed feverishly away, cracking the password in a matter of seconds and began searching through the files. The first files he opened were photos. It showed six men on a series of vacations and at an assortment of parties. “That’s definitely one of them!” Canary excitedly pointed at the picture of a dark skinned man urinating on Mount Rushmore and laughing over his shoulder at the camera. “That’s the one I shot!” “Are you sure?” Brian asked. “I never forget the face of someone I shoot.” Ken squinted at him, “I really hope you’ve only shot the two people I know about.” Canary held a coy finger up to his lips. “It’s all here,” Marc said, “photos, bank accounts, even one of their MySpace pages.” “Who still uses MySpace?” Brian asked. “Apparently teenage girls and Somali terrorists,” Ken replied, studying the bank account on the screen. “Pull up 288
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that deposit there,” he pointed at the list of account activity. “It’s a deposit for ten thousand dollars from a Boris Gurko,” Van Haven pulled up another screen. He typed Boris’ name into the search engine. He quickly scanned through a few hits and shook his head. “This is not good. He’s a master terrorist facilitator bent on the downfall of the United States. He’s financed a ton of international operations and is looking to break into the domestic American market.” “That’s amazing,” Brian said in awe. “How did you find all that out in such a short period of time?” “It’s all right here in his bio on his Craigslist page,” Van Haven shrugged. “I say we pay this Boris a visit,” Canary suggested. Ken nodded thoughtfully, “Does it say where he lives?” Van Haven remained quiet and continued searching the Internet. Finally, he looked up from the computer. “He has an apartment in Jersey City. But I might have figured out why he’s trying to kill you.” He rotated the computer so for the rest to see. On the screen was a Facebook profile for Boris Gurko. It listed him as being ‘In a Relationship with Abdullah Bin Al‐Raheem.’ 289
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“So he’s trying to kill us to keep us from testifying?” Brian asked. Ken studied the profile picture of Boris and Abdullah, sitting in what appeared to be a ball pit at a children’s indoor amusement center. “It certainly looks that way to me.” “I think it might be time to alert the FBI,” Brian suggested. “We know who’s behind it, we know why, and we even know where he lives. Can we just wrap this up so we can get on with our lives?” Ken thought about it some more. Finally, he sat back in his chair and smiled. “How about we compromise? We’ll tell the FBI and see if they can beat us to the prize.” “This isn’t a prize!” Brian stood up, knocking over his chair in his rush. “This is our lives! Now I’ve followed you damn near across the country and back and I think it’s time we turn this over to someone who knows what they’re doing.” “Are you finished?” Ken cocked his head. “Yeah, I guess,” Brian fixed his chair and sat back down. “So when do we leave?” Canary’s knuckles blanched as he squeezed his fists tighter with anticipation. “Let’s roll,” Ken slapped his palms on the table. 290
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Undisclosed Apartment Journal Square Section, Jersey City, New Jersey Monday, July 27 19:07 Boris was just finishing his jelly pedicure when there was a knock at the door. He dismissed Sven, his Swedish man‐servant, wrapped himself in his leopard print silk kimono, donned his fuzzy house shoes, and answered the door. Expecting Yousef and his band of second‐string Jihadists, he was quite shocked to see only two men at the door. Not wasting any time with pleasantries, Boris inquired, “I thought you said there were four of you. Where are the other two?” “We ran into some, ah, trouble,” Yousef replied. “Trouble?” Aden asked incredulously. “You say it so casually. This boy needs Jesus in his life,” he said as he pointed a thumb at Yousef. Yousef instantly seized Aden’s thumb and twisted it back, practically snapping it off. A second, Yousef had removed a scimitar sword from seemingly out of nowhere and was drawing it back to behead Aden. 291
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“It’s just an Americanism I picked up by watching Tyler Perry movies,” Aden begged through gasps of pain as his legs buckled to the floor. “He uses the same joke in everything he does.” “Enough,” Boris commanded. “He’s right. Tyler Perry never comes up with new material.” Yousef dutifully released his grasp. “Come, follow me, we have much planning to do.” The two men followed Boris into his living room. Seated on a leather sofa was a well dressed man with a pin on his collar in the shape of a five pointed star. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet US Marshal Ali Oxenfrey.” Aden and Yousef jumped at the introduction, the scimitar clanged against the floor. Hands immediately reached into pockets and guns were leveled. Yousef, withdrew two guns, pointing one each at Ali and Boris. Ali had withdrawn two guns and was pointing one each at Yousef and Aden. Aden had pulled out two guns and was pointing both at Yousef. Yousef looked at his partner with complete annoyance, “Why?” Aden smiled, giggled then aimed at Ali. Boris clapped his hands merrily. “Ooh, a contest to see whose penis is bigger! These are my favorites. My house, I judge!” The three gunmen slowly turned and eyed Boris. 292
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Boris frowned, “Fine, be that way. Why can’t I ever get a fun group of guys to work with?” He flopped down on an oversized leather seat and gestured for the men to put their guns down. Slowly they each complied. When they had all taken their seats on the couch next to each other, Boris leaned back in his chair. “Please Ali, tell them of our plan.” Ali leaned forward and rubbed his hands nervously. “It’s very simple actually. On Wednesday morning, dressed at US Marshals, we’ll enter the maximum security prison where they are keeping Abdullah, Myaz, and Omar. Under the auspices of transferring them to the court for their trial, we’ll simply load them into our car and disappear into the labyrinth of New York City streets.” “Then when it is all done with can I please have my money?” Yousef sounded defeated. Playfully pouting, Boris asked, “What’s the matter? You don’t enjoy my company.” “I would just rather go back to Iraq where things are not so unpredictable.” “Suit yourself,” Boris replied. He readjusted himself on the couch, crossing his legs with a wide, slow arc. As he did so, the men caught a glimpse of Boris’ matching leopard print briefs with one of his testicles hanging out. 293
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“Damn it man,” Yousef barked, “wear some fucking pants next time.” 294
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Chapter Twenty Three Undisclosed Parking Garage Somewhere in New Brunswick, New Jersey Monday, July 27 23:11 The parking garage was sparsely occupied and deathly quiet. Several lights had been removed, drastically dimming the visibility. The hair on the back of Darren Henderson’s neck stood on end, electrified by the suspense associated with this meeting. So much excitement, drama, and espionage had resulted from that fateful note a worthless intern had left him on that momentous November morning. He was a truly lucky man to be a part of this story. The Yeger Complex was shrouded in mystery and it kept offering up more secrets – one scrumptious morsel at a time. And Darren was going to profit off of every scrap. “Do we really have to go through with this?” Maurice apathetically checked the video camera. “You can’t possibly believe anything that scrawny little twerp told you.” 295
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“I can,” Darren announced, “and I do! Don’t you understand what this could mean for our careers?” “Sure,” Maurice put a handful of extra camera batteries into his backpack. “We’ll be branded as conspiracy nuts just like Jessie Ventura and all the rest and we’ll be made the butt‐end of all the jokes at the upcoming media conferences.” Darren raised a thoughtful eyebrow. “Sure, it could go down like that. Or,” He raised his hand in a victorious gesture, “we could bust this case wide open and expose the government’s lies all the way to a Pulitzer Prize!” Before they could say anything further to each other, a flash of light caught their eyes. It wasn’t a brilliant light, but in the almost complete darkness of the rundown garage the sight of the cigarette lighting was somehow magnified. The red flare of the lit end glowed brightly for a split second then faded. It still cast just enough light for Darren and Maurice to see the silhouetted figure exhale a cloud of cancerous smoke. Darren breathed heavily and tried to mask his excitement but failed. “Oh… my… God! It’s just like The X‐
Files,” he quivered. “I don’t like this one bit,” Maurice cautioned. “And I don’t recall asking you,” Darren hurried out of the news van. 296
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Maurice growled and followed after him with the camera. Darren walked at a fast pace to the mystery man. When he was within three feet, Darren dropped to his knees, practically bowing in front of the shadow figure. “Are you The Source?” The man inhaled another lungful of the harsh, home‐
rolled cigarette smoke and blew it towards Darren, engulfing the newsman in smoke. Darren wheezed but inhaled it like an obedient sycophant. “Tell me, oh wise one,” Darren begged, “Tell me the truth.” Maurice could feel embarrassment burning in the pit of his stomach and spreading out in an uncomfortable wave throughout his body. He continued filming, though hoping no one would associate him with this groveling mess of a reporter in front of him. The man emerged from the shadow he was hiding behind. He was much older, Darren guessed in his sixties. His face held the distinguished creases of age in his face, clearly a man of countless life experiences. He tossed the cigarette on the ground near Darren’s knees. Submissively, Darren snuffed it out. “Rise,” the man commanded. Unquestioningly, Darren rose to his feet. “What is it that you seek?” “I seek the truth behind the Yeger Massacre,” Darren spoke quickly. 297
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“And so you shall find out. On the condition that you tell the world and keep me anonymous.” “I shall obey.” The man shook Darren’s subjugated hand. “I know there was a government cover‐up at the Yeger Complex.” The man’s tone sent a chill through Darren’s body. Shifting the camera to the side, Maurice questioned, “And just how do you know this?” “Is his name Thomas?” The mystery man asked Darren. “No, it’s Maurice,” Darren replied. The man grunted, “Well it should be Thomas, considering how much he doubts.” Darren laughed an exaggerated, ‘notice me’ chuckle. “You’re so right.” “You’re such a suck‐ass, Darren,” Maurice replied. “Shut up, Doubting Thomas,” Darren ordered. “Fuck yourself, brown‐noser,” Maurice spat. The mystery man coughed to regain their attention. “If you two are quite done, can we continue?” The reporter and cameraman apologized. “Good. But to answer Thomas’ question, I am retired General Samuel Forest. And I ordered the nuclear strike on Yeger.” 298
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The admission hit the reporter like a ton of bricks. “You… you… did what?” Forest snickered, clearly enjoying the reaction he was receiving from these two. He knew that all of this cloak and dagger mystery would make great fodder for the novel he was writing about government cover‐ups. “You didn’t know, did you?” Darren shook his head. “When things got out of control at the base, I ordered a tactical nuclear strike to silence everyone.” “This is bullshit,” Maurice decried. “Is it?” The man eyed the cameraman. “Then you should look up the flight orders for a B‐2 stealth bomber designated The Spirit of Coxsackie for that day.” Darren furrowed his brow, “How am I supposed to do that?” “Use the avenues at your disposal as a reporter,” the former general suggested. “I’m sure you have a crack staff of researchers at your disposal.” Darren laughed uncomfortably, “Those mongoloids? You are clearly overestimating the capability and drive of my staff.” Forest pressed on, “You were there. Did you notice anything odd about the fires that burned in those buildings?” 299
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Darren shrugged, “To be honest, I spent most of that morning locked inside an armored personnel carrier.” Maurice nodded in agreement, “He did.” “Oh yes, I remember,” Forest announced and lit another cigarette. “Your emotional breakdown made for the funniest television I’d watched in a long time.” Darren’s face flushed. “The fires burned brightly and unchecked for several hours, aided not only by the lack of fire suppression apparatus and sprinkler systems on the campus; but also by the magnesium reinforced phosphate based paint that the walls were coated with. This was a failsafe method the Air Force employed to cover up all of the secrets at the complex.” “What kind of secrets?” Darren asked. The former general’s face contorted, “How much of this story do I have to write for you? Christ, man, do a little research on your own. I’ve already put my life in grave danger telling all this to you.” “What sort of danger?” “Are you stupid?” Forest threw his hands up in frustration. “If my name got out there associated with this and people found out that I was blabbering all of this to you, they won’t hesitate to send a hit squad to silence me. Why do you think I wanted all of this off the record?” 300
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Maurice shifted back and forth, “Um… when you say ‘off the record’ what do you mean, specifically?” Forest and Darren spun to face Maurice. “It means we edit out his face and alter his voice in post‐production,” Darren said. “Right… ah, about that,” Maurice scratched the back of his head. “Wow, this is uncomfortable… Um, it’s going to be kind of hard to edit anything out after I already sent it out live.” “Live?” Darren and Forest yelled in unison. “This conversation is over,” Forest announced in a frantic panic. “I have to be leaving.” He jumped back into his car, fumbling to put the keys into the ignition. He managed to get it started just as Darren and Maurice heard the screeching of tires rounding the tight corners of the parking garage at a high rate of speed. Forest threw the car into drive and tore off. He made it as far as the down ramp when a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows cut off his retreat. Two massively muscular men in black suits, wearing sunglasses in spite of it being past midnight, moved in a well coordinated and rapid motion. They smashed Forest’s driver side window, put a black bag over his head, and effortlessly hoisted him out. Forest kicked and screamed, “The truth must be heard!” The men threw the former general in the rear of the truck. They jumped in and the SUV tore off. 301
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“They’re going to kill him, aren’t they?” Maurice asked, standing dumbfounded. “Probably,” Darren replied. The sound of the exiting vehicle halted, and was then replaced by the sound of the same vehicle returning. The black SUV skidded to a stop in front of the stumped newsmen. The same men jumped out and raced to them. First they seized the camera from the stunned Maurice. One of the secret government agents yanked the tape out of the camera then smashed the equipment on the ground. Before running back into the truck, they punched each newsman in his solar plexus and left the duo sucking wind on the concrete. The car once again sped away, never to return. “Yeah,” Maurice gasped, “my bad.” He rolled around on the floor, gripping his ribs. “That was totally my fault.” 302
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Chapter Twenty Four FBI New York Headquarters Federal Plaza, New York City Tuesday, July 28 08:41 The office was complete bedlam. The trial was set to start in less than an hour and a half. The number of conspiracy nut website rhetoric had quadrupled overnight following Darren Henderson’s live broadcast on Worldwide News Network. Now the number of protestors screaming about a government conspiracy had skyrocketed to dozens of nerdy, socially inept windbags. Justin McCarthy was beyond frazzled. He had been able to track down only three of the key people associated with the case. Two of them, Colonel Liberty and Master Sergeant Van Haven were locked safely away in the Greenville Meadow Center for Mental Rehabilitation – although he seriously doubted how useful their testimony would be to the case; particularly since one was an arsonist and one talked to a human scalp. It didn’t take a legal genius to figure out how to discredit that testimony. Katie Turgid actually answered her telephone. She alerted McCarthy that she hadn’t heard from her fiancé since he left for a supposedly short trip to 303
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Las Vegas a few days ago. Disturbingly, he had gone with two other witnesses, neither of whom could be reached. McCarthy was freaking out. This was not what he had joined the FBI for. No, he had joined to faithfully enforce that anti‐piracy stamp at the beginning of a VHS tape or DVD, because someone had to speak up for all the movie stars and producers who were making millions off of those videos. With all the phones ringing in the office, Justin almost didn’t realize someone was calling his desk. “McCarthy,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Is this Agent McCarthy?” “It is.” McCarthy pushed a stack of papers off his desk, searching for a notepad. “This is Ken Shavetail,” the name allowed McCarthy to relax slightly. “Oh my God,” McCarthy asked excitedly, “are you okay?” “Yeah, we’re fine,” Ken said. “We?” Two voices yelled in the background, Ken continued, “Yeah, us. You’re on speaker phone with Brian Donahue and Alex Canary.” The voices in the background yelled again, ending with Ken saying the word “Douche bag.” 304
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“What?” McCarthy asked. “Nothing,” Ken dismissed. “Someone is out to kill us.” “That’s what I have been trying to tell, but no one has been answering their phones.” “Well try not calling us from an unknown number, dumbass,” Canary yelled. Ken continued, “Anyway, someone tried to kill us in North Dakota. And we know who it was.” Justin dropped the phone in shock. As he fumbled for it, he smacked his head on his desk. He staggered to his feet and flopped into his chair, wincing in pain and rubbing his head. “North Dakota? Who? How?” Ken retold the story of the ambush at Chief Street’s Preserve. He confessed to breaking and entering into the house in Fargo, the theft of the laptop, and for having Van Haven hack into the laptop for information. The transfer of all the money in the terrorists’ accounts to his own off‐
shore Cayman Islands account Ken figured he would keep a secret. “I’m going to need you guys to come in. Right away!” “How about we meet tomorrow?” Ken offered. “Why not today?” Ken hemmed and hawed for a moment. “It’s just that there is an all‐day ALF marathon on cable.” 305
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“Are you serious?” McCarthy looked at the phone. “Are you? I’ve been waiting for the return of that furry, wise‐cracking, cat‐eating Gordon Shumway for almost twenty years.” McCarthy had been warned that he was dealing with an odd bunch. “Fine, do you want to just meet tomorrow?” There were hushed murmurs on the other end. “Tomorrow will be fine. Where do you want to meet?” “Just come in here,” McCarthy replied. “To FBI Headquarters?” Ken sounded uneasy. “Yes, do you know where that is?” There was more murmuring in the background. Occasionally Ken would say “Yes” or “I know.” Finally, he came back on the line. “Um, FBI headquarters isn’t the best idea.” “Why not?” Ken continued to hem and haw, “Well… see… Canary may or may not have some outstanding warrants for his arrest.” “What?” “Better to be safe than sorry,” Ken said. “How about somewhere neutral?” 306
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Justin shook his head. “Fine, there’s a deli around the corner we can meet at, maybe discuss over some breakfast.” Ken agreed and they exchanged information for tomorrow’s meeting. “In the meantime, could you at least give me a name?” Ken thought it over for a moment and reluctantly gave Agent McCarthy the name of the terrorist facilitator. He sat back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Things were starting to finally go Justin’s way. Foley Square, Outside US Federal Court Manhattan, New York Tuesday July 28 08:57 “Darren, tell me again why this is necessary,” Maurice wiped sweat from his forehead. “Weren’t you paying attention last night? Of course this is necessary.” Darren Henderson chided. “Just roll the camera.” He ran through a few spastic gesticulations to loosen his facial muscles up. “This is Darren Henderson, reporting to you live, and with the truth, from outside of the Federal Courthouse – where in a few mere minutes, the trial of the Greenville Three is set to begin.” Darren wiped his face cautiously, the sweat making his make‐up run in the growing humidity. “The government is trying to 307
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silence us again. They won’t even allow us anywhere near the proceedings. Hence the need for this elaborate disguise.” As if scheduled, a young woman in a business suit interrupted. “Excuse me; can I have a knish and a bottle of orange juice?” Darren and Maurice were staked out across the street from the courthouse in a hot dog vending cart. Darren claimed it was the only way they could get close to the trial, especially after last night. “We’re closed,” Darren said with an air of annoyance. “How can you be closed?” She asked. “You’re sitting in the cart, yapping it up, so just give me a knish and some juice and I’ll be on my way.” Darren growled and thrust a bottle of orange juice at the woman. “Here, we’re sold out of knishes.” “How can you be sold out?” He threw a handful of napkins at her and capped his tirade off by reaching over and placing a straw in her overly teased hair. “We had a rush just before you got here. So beat it, Tutts.” “Well, I never!” she exclaimed as she tromped away. Darren called after her, “Hey, you owe two‐fifty for that juice!” The woman refused to stop, merely flipped 308
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him the middle finger over her shoulder. He turned back to Maurice, “Now, where were we?” “Elaborate disguise?” Maurice adjusted the camera and refocused on Darren. “Ah yes, roll again in three… two… one… I’m Darren Henderson coming to you from outside the Federal Courthouse in New York where today the Greenville Three will finally be brought to trial for the supposed crimes they committed during last year’s massacre at the Yeger Complex.” He put on a smug, ‘I know all’ face, and signaled to Maurice to zoom in on him by impatiently snapping his fingers. “I say ‘supposed’ because I’m following a lead that could prove that Greenville Massacre was actually, “ he paused for dramatic effect and raised an eyebrow to the camera, “a government conspiracy…” “Excuse me,” a sweaty, morbidly obese man rapped his fingers on the counter of the hot dog cart. Darren scowled at this new‐comer, “What?” The man flinched but continued, “I’d like two hot dogs with everything.” “Oh for godsakes!” Darren turned to Maurice, “Did you put an ‘open’ sign out front this morning?” Maurice shrugged, “You never said not to.” Cursing under his breath, Darren turned back to the camera and snapped is fingers. “On me… three… two… 309
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one… I am following a lead that could prove the Yeger Massacre was in fact a government conspir…” “Are you going to give me my hot dogs?” The man outside impatiently rapped his fingers again. “We’re closed,” Darren snapped. “But the sign says…” “I know what the sign says, but I’m telling you we’re closed!” Darren’s face was bright red with anger. “Go away.” “Geez, you’re a dick! I’m going to tell all my friends not to eat here.” “That’s fine, Tubby. I’m doing your heart a favor for refusing to inject more cholesterol into you.” “Screw you, asshole,” the man yelled as he stormed away. Maurice smiled to himself, thinking of how much money he might be able to make on the hours of outtakes he had of Darren losing his mind. “Darren,” he suggested calmly, “perhaps we should just follow the other reporters and just set up across the street.” “What are you talking about?” Maurice pointed out the front of the hot dog cart. Across the street, Worth Street was lined on both sides with news vans as reporters were jockeying for the best 310
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camera angles for the story. “But I like the intrigue of having to be undercover,” Darren informed. “Really? You call hanging out in the back of a greasy hot dog cart ‘intrigue’?” “As a matter of fact I do,” Darren announced proudly. “Excuse me,” a business man stood at the window. “Could I get a…” Darren snarled, “You can go fuck yourself.” Then, turning back to Maurice, he said, “Point taken. Let’s get out of here.” 311
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Chapter Twenty Five Inside Federal Court New York City, New York Tuesday, July 28 10:00 Federal Prosecutor Jonathan Buschbaum looked around the courtroom and smiled. This was a slam dunk case if ever he saw one. So much of a slam dunk, in fact, that he had spent all night partying with a mountain of cocaine and several high‐price prostitutes instead of prepping for his opening remarks. No matter, he thought, as he studied the faces of the rubes too lazy or stupid to get themselves out of jury duty. Who needed a strong opening remark when he had witnesses, photos, even video? He would make this look easy, perhaps even use it as a springboard for his bid for US Attorney General when the next Presidential Election comes around. The courtroom was filled with a rather eclectic assortment of spectators, representing a dynamic cross‐
section of society’s lower rungs. A group of militant‐
looking, bald headed men adorned with countless intimidating tattoos sat in the back. Clearly these men were from the Aryan Brotherhood – most likely here to 312
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rally against these foreign interlopers, Buschbaum thought with a smile. That would surely help swing the vote of the jurors towards him. A duo of sickly looking, toothless, mesh‐backed trucker baseball cap wearing trailer park dwellers sat in front of the Aryan Brotherhood. Buschbaum couldn’t figure that one out. Nor could he figure out the bevy of frizzy‐haired, overly made up, spandex wearing truck stop ‘Lot Lizards’ who lined the front rows of the court. The answer to those mysteries became apparent when the defendants were brought into the courtroom. Omar Shabazz was the first to be led out. His chiseled, muscular physique was a stark contrast to the flabby slob in the photos the newspapers had shown from his arrest last year. His eye patch was emblazoned with a Nazi Eagle, the initials “AB” tattooed on his face in Old English Script. Upon him entering the court, the group of Aryan Brothers in the back stood up and saluted him. Abdullah Bin Al‐Raheem entered next. The women in the front rows went insane. They waved homemade signs with less‐than‐crafty slogans such as “Convert me Abdullah,” “Finger me Johnny 3 Fingers” and “Persecute me Johnny, I’m a bad infidel.” One went so far as to tear her panties off, astonishingly without disturbing her skin tight jeans, and threw them with precision at Abdullah’s 313
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face. The odor of unwashed femininity made Abdullah turn a slight green and dry heave. Myaz Bin Riden came in last. The courtroom crowd immediately turned silent and disinterestedly began conversing among themselves. The defendants took their seats next to their lawyer Hiram Cohen. Myaz leaned in and whispered to Abdullah, “What are all those women here for?” “Groupies!” Abdullah said giddily. “All the greatest killers have them. I can’t wait for the conjugal visits to start.” “What are conjugal visits?” Abdullah leaned in and informed his friend. Myaz’s face lit up. “How can I get one of these, groupies, as you call them?” Abdullah made eye contact with one and blew her a kiss. She responded by pretending to faint. Then he gave a nonchalant head nod to another, who licked her lips and waved back. “No chance of that,” Abdullah mocked. “Why not?” Myaz asked dejectedly. “They want a real man,” Abdullah waved to yet another groupie with one finger. She squealed in response. Myaz seethed, “You do not know what you are talking about.” To prove his point Myaz smiled and tried to 314
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awkwardly flirty with one of the trailer park beauty queens. She grimaced and looked away. “You’ll get nowhere with that hook,” Abdullah said brotherly. “Maybe we can get you some type of prosthetic phallus for the limb and up your stock with the women.” Judge Theodore Gideon entered the court and signaled for all to be seated. He shuffled through some papers on his desk – not because he was looking for something specific, but more so because that seemed to be what judges always did when they sat down. He made some procedurally generic opening statements regarding the case of The United States v. Bin Al‐Raheem, Bin Riden, and Shabazz. He then turned it over to Prosecutor Buschbaum for opening remarks. Buschbaum stood up slowly, ostentatiously adjusted his suit jack before silently walking around, pensively tapping his lips with a finger to allow the tension to build. Foley Square, Outside US Federal Court Manhattan, New York Tuesday July 28 10:17 “All I’m saying is that we should turn our attention to the Chinese after this,” Morris Decker pontificated in 315
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between slurps of his extra‐large cherry Slurpee from 7‐
11. “The Chinese are coming, oh yes they are!” “What the hell are you talking about?” Jerry Pittman fanned himself in the back seat of Walter Binghamton’s mother’s aging Volvo station wagon. The air conditioner hadn’t seemed to work since Jerry and Walter became friends. “Will you two shut up?” Walter shifted uncomfortably, trying to catch any semblance of breeze that might be blowing down Broadway. They were parked in a no‐
standing zone in front of a deli across the street from the Federal Building and the Courthouse. He was trying to snap as many surveillance photos as he could before the NYPD or Federal Protective Service ushered them away. “I will not,” Decker said defiantly. “The Chinese are taking every opportunity to soften our children in order to weaken their resistance when the Red Menace finally decides to invade.” He adjusted himself in his seat. “First off, let’s look at all the cheap‐ass, lead‐based paint toys they send over here. They must spray it with MSG or something that makes kids lose their shit and start eating those crappy toys. Do we ever send any of our crappy products there?” “No,” Pittman answered, “We normally send those to third world countries that don’t have such modern 316
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conveniences as telephones, running water, lawyers, or a healthy value on life itself.” Decker bristled at the interruption. “As I was saying, why do we allow them to send that crap to us? Because the softening has begun!” Feeling on a roll now, he lit a cigarette – much to the discomfort of his fellow patriotic warriors who were cramped in the humid, sweaty vehicle. “And the absolute worst is Ni Hao Kai‐Lan.” “The kids’ show?” “No, the Communist brainwashing kids’ show,” Decker corrected. “Think about it, the main character, Kai‐Lan ,is a metaphor for the Communist Machine in China. All the anthropomorphized creatures whose wills she bends to serve her own interests represent different countries from around the world. Take for example that tiger, Rintoo, who is very intelligent, but impulsive. He represents the United Sates. That Elephant? He’s slow but extraordinarily powerful, and represents the combined military might of Africa and Asia. And that little white monkey represents the European Union ‐ tell me I'm wrong.” He pointed at Pittman in the backseat with his cigarette, dropping ash on the vinyl upholstery as he pumped his hand. “What does she say at the end of every episode when things go her way? ‘You make my heart feel super happy… when you obey me.’ It’s subtle, that last part. But I guarantee it’s there!” 317
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“You might be on to something,” Pittman nodded slowly. “You’re damn right I am! Take for example this morning’s episode.” Walter lowered his camera, “I thought you said you were watching the news this morning?” “No, I said I was doing research,” Decker snared. “Anyway, when the monkey can’t find something to draw on, he gets angry and punches the tiger. This causes a rift in their relationship. So it’s up to Kai‐Lan, ergo China, to solve this rift between the two superpowers on the show. Tell me this isn’t a dissertation on how the scarcity of resources in the world is leading to competition between America and the European Union – a rift that only the brilliant and munificent Chinese can solve. And by a ‘solution’ of course they mean by invading and occupying both the European Union and the United States, seizing our collective resources and commodities to fuel their Sino‐globalization.” “You’re insane,” Pittman laughed. “Am I? Next time you watch Little Miss ‘Chairman Mao Zedong’ Kai‐Lan, I want you to pay very close attention to her authoritarian behavior. Sure, it may be wrapped up in laughter, sunshine, and bows, but it's still Chinese hegemony.” He shrugged his shoulders, his tirade winding down. “I for one have already started stockpiling 318
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enough supplies in my tree fort to prepare for a thirty‐
year stand‐off. And remember, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone isn't really out to get you – just saying.” Walter slowly turned his head and gaped at the man sitting next to him. “What?” Decker looked at him with irritation. “You think I’m insane, I know. But don’t look at me so judgmentally.” “No, it’s not that,” Walter said with a hint of awe in his voice. “That could have been the smartest thing you have or will ever say. I never knew how smart you really were. After we get done with this, we are totally launching a campaign against the Red Menace.” “We can call it ‘Operation Takeout Menu’,” Pittman offered from the backseat. The three patriots high‐fived each other with glee. The sight of an approaching Federal Protective Service police officer signaled the end of their surveillance run. Walter quickly stored the camera, put the car in drive and began to head away. At the intersection of Chambers Street and Broadway, he saw a short and drastically overweight New York City traffic officer standing in the middle of the intersection. She was talking to someone on the street and waving her arms to emphasize her point. 319
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Walter couldn’t tell if she was waving him through or not so he decided to risk it and head through. At the very last second, the traffic officer frantically waved at Walter to stop. He slammed on his brakes, much too soon for the driver behind him to react fast enough. With a thud and crunch, Walter’s mother’s brown Volvo station wagon was rear‐ended by garbage truck. Not enough to cause major damage, but enough for Walter to realize someone would be administering some wall‐to‐wall discipline to him with a wooden spoon when he got home. “What’s the matter with you?” The irate traffic agent stood at his window yelling at Walter with exaggerated jerks of her neck that made her look like a chicken. “Couldn’t you see I was telling you to stop?” “No, I thought you were waving me to go.” “Nu‐huh, no! I wasn’t. I was clearly telling you to stop,” she emphatically waved her finger as she spoke now. “I don’t believe you!” Walter was livid. “You’re a crossing guard and you were talking with your hands.” It was the traffic officer’s turn to become irate. “I am not a crossing guard! I am an officer of the N‐Y‐P‐D! See this uniform?” She pointed to the department patch on her arm. “That makes me an officer of the law!” 320
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Morris Decker leaned over from the passenger side and said mockingly out Walter’s window, “If that were true then where is your gun?” “Oh shit, now you done did it,” she started yelling as she fumbled excitedly at her belt. “I’m about to go off!” She began looking around at the crowd of on‐lookers and yelled, “Someone better hold me back, cuz I’m about to switch to Battle Mode!” Someone in the crowd yelled tauntingly, “Oh damn, she’s gone to Battle Mode!” “Can I please just exchange insurance information with the garbage truck and be on my way?” Walter begged as he reached to open his door. She began blowing a whistle and yelling, “Sir, stay in the vehicle!” “This is bullshit,” Walter bemoaned. “You’re not even a police officer. I’m getting out,” he opened the car door. With mystifying swiftness, she kicked the door closed on Walter’s leg as he was stepping out. He opened his mouth to scream in pain, but she discharged an extraordinarily accurate burst of pepper spray that hit Walter in the eyes and moved swiftly to his mouth. Walter collapsed half inside his car and half dangling out of the open driver’s side window – crying, heaving, and drooling. 321
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She stood over him berating, “You done made me chip a nail!” The driver of the garbage truck pulled away as fast as traffic would allow him. Inside the Federal Court New York City, New York Tuesday, July 28 10:37 “Your Honor,” Hiram Cohen stood up. “How long are we going to have to sit here and wait for Mr. Buschbaum to say something?” Judge Gideon covertly paused the game of Angry Birds he was playing on his iPhone behind the bench out of everyone’s view. “You’re right, Mister Cohen. Mister Buschbaum, please begin your opening remarks or we’ll move on.” Jonathan Buschbaum stopped his pacing and looked at his watch. He had been pacing, deep in thought, for the past ten minutes trying to come up with his opening remarks on the fly. However his coke‐binder hangover was clouding his mind and preventing him from coming up with a coherent thought. He needed a distraction, and received it. 322
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Myaz Bin Riden’s head slammed into the table with a thud that echoed throughout the large courtroom. He bounced off the table and slipped to the ground under the desk before anyone could react. His snoring filled the room. “Your Honor,” Buschbaum said with mock indignation, “this is an outrage! Are you going to allow the Defendant to make a mockery of our great American judicial system?” Abdullah helped his friend back into his seat with his manacled hands. Myaz propped his head upon his shackled hand, still groggy in a waking haze. Hiram Cohen stood up, “Your Honor, I apologize for my client’s unfortunate timing. However, I beg you to keep in mind his delicate medical condition.” Judge Gideon folded his hands, “Medical condition?” “Yes, Sir,” Cohen replied. “He has uncontrollable narcolepsy.” Raising a doubting eyebrow, Gideon asked, “Who ever heard of a terrorist with narcolepsy?” Cohen smiled sheepishly, “That was supposed to be part of my opening arguments. While I understand it is a bit of an oddity, Your Honor, we have medical records to support it.” 323
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Judge Gideon nodded and gestured for the Prosecution to continue. “Damn it,” Buschbaum said under his breath. He began pacing again, tapping his chin. He tried to formulate a thought but all he could picture in his mind was a rail of white powder as wide as his thumb on the belly of one of last night’s hookers. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury,” he opened with, pausing afterwards to assess the effectiveness of it. So far so good, everyone was looking at him. “What is it that makes our country so great?” He paced towards his table and back. “Could it be the music we turn out? Or our movies? It’s not our television shows though – I mean let’s face it, we rip everything off from the British.” “Is there a point to this?” Cohen demanded. Buschbaum fired back, “I’m getting somewhere!” “Then please get there fast,” Judge Gideon warned as he un‐paused his game. “Of course, Your Honor.” Buschbaum spun towards the jury with a flourishing move. “I ask you again, what is it that makes this country so great?” Omar Shabazz sat up straight in his chair, his eyes darting left and right, nervously plotting his next move. He could feel his opening coming. 324
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Buschbaum slowly walked towards the Jury Box. “I will tell you what makes this country so great. It is…” “White Power!” Omar sprang to his feet, raising his handcuffed fists high above his head. “White Power!” Judge Gideon hammered his gavel and yelled “Order! I will have order in my court!” Omar leapt on to the table in one surprisingly agile move. He continued yelling, “White Power!” The Aryan Brotherhood spectators in the back of the court were now standing up, cheering their incarcerated brother on – none of them seeming to understand that Omar was from the Middle East. Two court officers charged at Omar, who jumped over them and began stumbling rapidly around the court, crying “Race War! Race War! They’re trying to silence the White Man!” He was finally brought under control when the chains on his feet tripped him up and sent Omar crashing onto his face. “Mister Cohen!” Judge Gideon continued hammering his gavel long after quiet had returned to his court. “I will not stand for these shenanigans in my court! Am I clear?” Hiram Cohen stood as the US Marshals were forcefully removing a struggling Omar Shabazz out of the room. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I can assure you, I had no foreknowledge he would do something so bizarre and offensive.” 325
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“When he calms down,” Judge Gideon ordered, “kindly remind him that he is not of pure Aryan decent.” “I will, Your Honor.” “And will you please instruct your other client to stay awake?” Cohen looked to his left and saw Myaz Bin Riden slouched in his chair with his head hanging over the back, a tiny trickle of saliva glimmering in the corner of his mouth. The lawyer gave his remaining client a nod and Abdullah dutifully woke Myaz with a violent shake. Judge Gideon exhaled slowly. “One more zany outburst from your clients, Mister Cohen, and I will have you all brought up on contempt charges. Is that clear?” “Perfectly clear, Your Honor.” Cohen sat back down, wondering what he did to piss off his law firm to draw this assignment. Jonathan Buschbaum smiled, thankful for the distractions. It had given him a chance to scribble some notes for a more cohesive opening statement. He confidently strolled back to the jury. “As I was saying, what is it that makes this country great?” But before he was able to complete that thought, the courtroom erupted into complete pandemonium once again. Several of the white trash beauty queens began shrieking loudly and diving over the benches for cover. 326
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One of the scrawny men in the mesh‐backed trucker baseball caps was brandishing a tiny Derringer‐style pistol. Someone screamed, “He’s got a gun!” Pulling his own handgun, one of the Marshals replied, “I’m not quite sure that classifies as a gun.” The scrawny man in the red mesh‐backed trucker baseball cap declared vehemently, “Wunna his bombs done blowed up our meth lab last year! We lust e’rythang. He’s gotta die!” He fired the gun without it making much more noise than a tiny clap. In response, the Marshal shot the man in the chest. Abdullah grabbed his arm, “I think he shot me, that bastard.” He moved his hand to reveal a tiny gunshot wound in his upper arm. Abdullah grabbed for Myaz, “Is it bad? How bad is it? Tell me the truth!” Myaz studied the miniscule wound, “I can barely see anything.” “Don’t lie to me, Sahib. I feel cold, and there is a glorious light around everything,” He looked around the court in wonder. “Tell me the truth, will I meet Allah today?” “I have had enough!” Gideon rapped his gavel again. “Mister Bin Al‐Raheem, stop acting like a sissy – it’s probably just a flesh wound. And Mister Cohen…” 327
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Hiram protested and pointed at the lifeless body of the would‐be assassin, “I had nothing to do with that either. I swear!” “I’ve had enough. We will reconvene tomorrow when we’ve had a chance to get all of you under control.” 328
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Chapter Twenty Six Outside of an Undisclosed Apartment Journal Square Section, Jersey City, New Jersey Tuesday, July 28 22:51 FBI Agent Justin McCarthy could feel the electricity of excitement surging through his body. For the first time in his career, he felt alive. He couldn’t believe that just last week he was upset that he had been given this assignment. He felt it was an inconvenience, a roadblock in his quest to bring down the soccer‐mom DVD pirating ring. However, as he stood here surrounded by members of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, Justin had to admit that this case was the greatest thing to happen to his career. After getting the name from the Air Force guys, he was able to do some superficial digging around and found more than enough to get a warrant to search the apartment of Boris Gurko. “Okay,” the HRT team leader called everyone into a huddle. “We’re going to hit this house hard and fast.” He ran down the plan and made sure everyone knew their role. The FBI would burst through the front door and take down anyone inside while the local SWAT team from 329
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Jersey City’s Emergency Services Unit would cover the back. “Who’s got the tools?” One of the other FBI agents held up a black canvas bag. The HRT team leader looked at an energized Justin McCarthy. “Agent McCarthy, this is your case, would you care to take the honors of knocking down the door?” Justin couldn’t believe his ears. “Absolutely,” he said breathlessly. The HRT team leader gave him a hearty and encouraging cuff on the upper arm. “You deserve this. This is a career making case.” Justin could only nod in response. As silently as possible, the team of black‐clad and heavily armed FBI agents formed a line and approached the apartment building. The team leader opened the front door and whispered, “Go.” The team entered the building… and immediately stopped inside the foyer, halted by the second security door that would require a key or someone to buzz them in. “Um, what do we do now?” asked the agent in the front, holding the bulky ballistic shield. “Good question,” the team leader shrugged. “Buzz another apartment maybe, and see if they can let us in?” The others nodded their agreement. “Okay,” the leader 330
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pressed a random apartment buzzer from the panel in front of him. A moment later, a high‐pitched tone and a rumble of static muffled the response from the person on the other end of the intercom speaker. The team leader held the talk button and replied, “Excuse me, sir. Pardon the interruption, but this is the FBI and we need to gain access to the building.” The static returned, each agent straining to understand what was being said in reply. “It’s the FBI, Sir. Please let us in.” More static. “No, Sir, we are not looking for you. Should we be?” The static continued. “I can’t tell you what apartment; you’ll just have to trust us.” Static. “Yes, Sir, we’re from the federal government, you can trust us.” The static cleared up long enough to clearly hear the man on the speaker say, “Go fuck yourself.” The team leader tried a few more apartments and received either similar responses or no responses at all. “Well gang,” the leader turned to his team, “I’m open to suggestions.” He gave a few useless tugs on the front door. As the team deliberated, an elderly lady with a cane hobbled her way into the foyer. “Excuse me, boys,” she said as he pressed between the tightly packed agents. “Ma’am,” the team leader said, “we need you to let us in.” 331
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“Are you with the DEA?” she asked with great concern. “No, Ma’am, we’re with the FBI.” She studied the team leader, “So you don’t have jurisdiction over prescription drug sales?” “No,” the leader responded suspiciously. “Interstate commerce?” “Well I guess it would depend upon the crime.” The woman bit her bottom lip, contemplating. “Are you looking for apartment 103?” The team leader shook his head, “No, Ma’am. Should we be?” She laughed nervously, “Oh, no. I’m always the jokester.” With shaking, guilt‐ridden, sweaty hands, she opened the door and allowed the team to pass through. The team leader got everyone back into formation, making a mental note to re‐visit apartment 103 after they finished with this case. The agent with the ballistic shield led the way up the staircase to the fourth floor. Once on the fourth floor, he made a sharp right and headed half‐
way down the hall. He stopped in front of apartment 409. Each man took up his position. 332
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The team leader signaled for Justin to come to the door with the entry tools. “You know how to work the Rabbit tool?” Justin nodded eagerly. It was a simple enough hydraulic hand pump that would spread the door open with a few quick pumps. Justin handed the duck‐bill shaped spreading end to the team leader, who in turn positioned it in the door jamb under the handle. “Are you ready?” The leader asked. Justin nodded; sweat dripping from his forehead under his borrowed Kevlar helmet. “On my signal,” the leader advised. The leader yelled through the door into the apartment. “This is the FBI, we have a warrant!” He then signaled Justin with one finger to start pumping. Justin excitedly started pumping away at the hand pump, not much bigger than a manual bicycle pump. He pumped fast and feverishly, meeting no resistance. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” the leader told him. “Did you plug it in?” Justin looked down to see that the spreader wasn’t plugged into the pump. One of the other agents quickly adjusted this. Justin nodded he was ready again. 333
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“Boris Gurko,” the leader yelled back into the apartment. “We have a warrant and we’re going to break the door down.” Justin began pumping the handle again, with far more resistance this time. The team leader held the spreader against the door, its ends digging at the door for a purchase point. In his excitement, Justin punched himself in the face with his pump hand. Startled, the team leader let the spreading end slip and it clanged against the floor. “For the love of God man,” the leader growled at Justin, “have you ever served a warrant before?” “Don’t get snippy with me,” Justin replied. “You dropped it.” The leader repositioned the tool again. “Boris Gurko, do yourself a favor and open the door.” Justin began pumping again. The tool found a weak spot and began to spread the door open. The progress was slow and became slower as Justin began wheezing and clutching his chest. “Are you fucking kidding?” The team leader snatched the pump from Justin’s out of shape hands and thrust it into the chest of one of the other agents. “Boris Gurko,” he yelled once more, “do us all a favor and just open the damn door. Please?” 334
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Boris Gurko watched the drama unfolding with a pair of binoculars through the hallway window from the safety of the rooftop of the building across the street. Yousef Sadr, Aden, and Ali Oxenfrey stood next to him, armed with assault rifles. “Do you want us to open fire?” Yousef asked. Boris smiled and shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I left a special surprise for them.” “Surprise?” Ali inquired. “Let’s just say I’ve been inspired by Abdullah.” The door finally burst open and the agents flooded into the apartment. As the agents called out that the rooms of the tiny apartment were clear, the team leader strolled in agitated. “Just great! All of that for nothing? Is this even the right apartment?” Justin looked around, “Absolutely.” He pointed to the oil painting of Abdullah Bin Al‐Raheem – which depicted the terrorist in a toga that was falling from his shoulders, revealing a muscularly chiseled chest and abdomen, light radiating behind him. “I would definitely say we are in the right place.” Justin began looking around the apartment for something, anything that would tell him where Boris was or what he was up to. His search didn’t take long as something caught his eye. Under the desk was a flashing 335
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red light. Hoping it was a laptop, Justin knelt down for a closer look. His heart dropped to his feet when he realized what it was. “Bomb!” He jumped up. “Run!” The timer on the bomb was ticking down, already with only fifteen seconds left. The agents clamored out of the apartment, stumbling over each other in a mad dash down the stairs. Justin counted down to himself as he frantically descended the stairs. Eight… seven…. Six… At the second floor landing, his ankle gave out on him, causing Justin to stumble to the floor, crying out in pain. Three… two… Justin braced himself for the coming explosion. Boris read the seconds ticking down on his watch. He steadied himself so he could watch the glorious fireball he was about to unleash. Three… two… one… Yousef flinched and shut his eyes tightly, expecting to feel the surge of air pressure and the heat from of the explosion. As the seconds passed and stretched into a minute or two of deafening silence, Yousef slowly opened his eyes. Boris gawked at the apartment building across the street, still undisturbed. Boris’ lips moved rapidly, repeating to himself, “I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.” 336
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Ali Oxenfrey saw the FBI agents regrouping outside of the building. “I think it is time we leave.” “I don’t get it,” Boris kept repeating. “I followed his directions perfectly.” “There’s no time to discuss,” Aden urged. “We have to leave now.” Boris nodded and followed the men down the stairs. They snuck out a backdoor and used a back alley to avoid the law enforcement conference that was now forming in front of Boris’ apartment building. They piled into the Jihad Machine and sped away. After several minutes of silence, Boris finally said, “We’re going to need more help.” 337
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Chapter Twenty Seven Brendan Byrne State Park New Jersey Pine Barrens Wednesday, July 29 06:15 Walter Binghamton was sitting in the front seat of the rented moving truck when Morris Decker and Jerry Pittman arrived. Walter looked unkempt and unshaven, with bags clearly taking shape under his eyes. He virtually hummed with the energy induced by the four empty Red Bull cans on the ground next to the truck. “Jesus,” Pittman asked, “Were you up all night?” “I was too excited to sleep,” Walter noted in an extra loud voice without blinking. “Are you ready for this?” Decker asked with a hint of reservation in his voice. “I was born ready,” Walter replied in a near‐yell. “Let’s go over the plan again.” Walter climbed out of the truck and they each took a seat in the ratty lawn chairs. “Okay, first we’ll park the…” Pittman interrupted. “Could you stop yelling?” 338
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“I’m sorry,” Walter continued to vocalize uncomfortably loudly, “I can’t tell how loud I’m talking right now. I took a bunch of pills I bought from some truckers on the Turnpike and washed them down with a ton of Red Bull. I need to be at my top performance level for this operation…. Wait!” He looked around suspiciously. “What was that?” Decker looked around nervously, “What was what?” “You didn’t hear that?” “Here what?” Pittman asked. Walter excitedly turned around. “Never mind, it’s probably nothing. The pills have heightened my senses. I’m like a cat. I big, giant, ferocious cat. But one that’s also cuddly and purrs a lot if you scratch me just right.” He nodded rapidly then looked around again. “There it is again! I swear I heard something.” “Walter,” Pittman said slowly, “I don’t hear anything.” “Like I said,” Walter spoke in between grinding his teeth, “I’m like a cat.” “Can we focus?” Decker asked. “This is important after all.” Walter clapped his hands and rubbed them vigorously together. “Right, sure. Important. Where was I?” “The getaway car,” Decker prompted him. 339
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“Right, yeah, getaway car,” Walter wiped sweat from his upper lip. “What about it?” Decker clenched his fists, “You were supposed to be telling us about what to do with it.” “I was?” Exacerbated, Decker nodded, “Yes.” “Okay, sure, right, yeah. We park the getaway car in Jersey City so afterwards we use the PATH subway to escape. We drive up to the Federal Building, park the truck out front, run like hell and detonate it.” “Run?” Pittman said with concern. “When was the last time any of us ran any where?” “Don’t be a pussy,” Walter taunted. “Want some pills? They’ll get your heart racing and make you poised like a… like a…” “Cat, yes we got it,” Decker waved his hand to speed things up. “Is that it?” Walter looked around quizzically, “Does there need to be more?” “Well, I would think there would be more,” Decker studied his friend. “It seems a little too simple for such a big task.” “If you got a better idea, all ears,” Walter said as he pawed at his ears like a cat cleaning itself. “In fact, sshhh, 340
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what’s that?” He wandered off into the woods to try to find the source of his mystery sound. “We could be in real trouble,” Pittman said as they watched Walter walk away. Decker simply nodded. Undisclosed Parking Garage Jersey City, New Jersey Wednesday, July 29 06:29 Yousef and Aden stepped out of the Jihad Machine when they saw Ali Oxenfrey pull up in his black Chevy Suburban. Yousef pocketed the parking ticket and stood in the dark corner of the garage, waiting for the US Marshal to park his truck. Not surprisingly, Boris was late. Ali Oxenfrey assessed the two men as he approached. They were dressed in khaki 5.11 cargo pants, and nondescript black polo shirts. Very good, he thought, they could very well pass as US Marshals. The finishing touches to their disguises would be bulletproof outer vests that read “Marshal” and MP‐5 submachine guns. The three men shook hands and made pleasant small talk while they waited. Minutes passed, and Ali was beginning to worry something unfortunate had happened to Boris since they parted ways last night following the 341
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botched raid / bombing. He was about to call Boris when a thumping techno‐beat reverberated through the decks of the parking garage. A silver Bentley convertible screeched around the corners of the ramps and came to a stop in front of the three men. In the driver’s seat was the Adonis‐like Sven, his blond hair flowing wildly, spellbindingly disproportionate to the gentle breeze coming in from the Hudson River. In the passenger seat was Boris. He bounded from the car and began waving his hands at the three. “Oh my gosh, this is so exhilarating. I’ve never done a jail break before.” Ali scowled at the sight before him. “Boris, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Boris grimaced, “I don’t know what you are talking about.” “What’s up with the way you’re dressed?” Boris assessed himself. He wore a leather vest, no undershirt, leather chaps, and a leather thong under. His cowboy boots were adorned with jangling spurs. Two pistols hung loosely from his hips, a bandolier of extra ammunition slung across his chest. On his head was a matching cowboy hat with a giant, generic sheriff’s star on it. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed? You said to dress like a US Marshal, so I did some research online last night. This is totally what Wyatt Earp wore.” 342
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“If he were gay or auditioning for The Village People,” Aden muttered. Yousef tittered softly. Ali clenched his teeth and tried not to yell. They couldn’t afford any attention being drawn to them. Commuters would be rolling into the garage any minute now. “First of all, I’m pretty sure Wyatt Earp’s pants didn’t show off his ass.” Boris turned himself around to admire his bare backside. “How can you say that they didn’t?” “And second of all,” Ali continued, “I meant for you to dress like a US Marshal from this century.” “Perhaps you should have specified,” Boris said bitterly. “I didn’t think it required specification!” “I didn’t think it required specification,” Boris rolled his eyes and mockingly repeated Ali under his breath. Ali stormed back to his SUV and removed a pair of beat‐up, navy blue coveralls from the trunk. As he returned, he thrust them into Boris’ chest. “Put these on,” he commanded irately. “You know, coveralls are so out this season,” Boris taunted as he slipped the coveralls over his outfit. “If you don’t want me to splatter your brains across this parking deck and disappear without a trace while 343
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your beloved Abdullah rots in prison, I suggest you stop trying to get under my skin and start listening to every single syllable I say.” Ali drew his Sig Sauer handgun and aimed at Boris’ head. “Is that clear?” “Crystal,” Boris replied. “It’s like looking into a mirror of us,” Yousef whispered with glee to Aden. Aden nodded vigorously, amazed by the similarity. Boris zipped up the coveralls and adjusted the crotch. “We may have a slight problem though,” he blushed. Ali glared so furiously that Yousef and Aden thought his eyes would pop out of his head. “What… slight… problem?” In response, Boris whistled loudly. A second black Chevy Suburban sped around the corner and stopped in front of the group. Four men stepped out. Each was blond, over six foot tall, and apparently solid muscle. This assessment was certainly easy because each man was dressed outfits similar to Boris’ ill‐advised cowboy attire – except one thing was different. “Why are they wearing pink?” Aden ventured to ask. “It’s not pink,” Boris corrected resentfully. “It’s fuchsia, and I’ll have you know it is totally in season right now.” 344
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Ali’s eyes began to blink rapidly. Yousef smiled and laid a commiserating hand on his shoulder, “I totally know how you feel, Sahib. I would have shot them all awhile ago.” “And that’s why you have no friends,” Aden retorted. “Have them change,” Ali demanded. “Immediately!” “Ve have nusing to vear,” the tallest of the group replied in a thick Swedish accent. “Where did you dig them up?” Yousef asked. Boris’ face lit up. “These are Jan, Bjorn, Leif, and Jesper. Each were members of the Särskilda Skyddsgruppen – the dreaded Swedish Special Forces.” Yousef and Aden broke into laughter, “Dreaded by who?” The four Scandinavian cowboys looked despondent. “Oh don’t listen to them,” Boris said reassuringly. “You’re all dreaded in my book.” “Sank you, Teabag,” Jan replied. Boris blew them a kiss. “Can we just get on with this?” Ali barked. Boris gestured for the four men to get back in their truck. Ali climbed in the driver’s seat. Yousef rode next to him, with Aden and Boris sitting in the back. The two vehicles left the garage and headed for the Holland 345
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Tunnel. Morning traffic had already begun backing up around the Tunnel into New York City. “Ugh, traffic sucks,” Boris decried from the backseat. “Can’t we do something to pass the time? Maybe play ‘Eye Spy’ or something?” Aden grabbed Boris’ hand to silence him. “Trust me; you do not want to suggest anything further.” Same Undisclosed Parking Garage Jersey City, New Jersey Wednesday, July 29 07:48 Morris Decker parked his grandmother’s maroon, 1988 Lincoln Continental in a tight space next to a dilapidated brown van with North Dakota license plates. He jogged down the stairs and outside to where the rented moving truck was double parked. Walter Binghamton and Jerry Pittman were seated in the front. Walter was hyperactively jumping up and down in his seat with the window rolled down. “I spy with my little eye… something beginning with T.” Pittman hung his head in his hands, groaning loudly. When he saw Decker approaching, he yelled out the window, “Hurry Morris! Make him stop! We’ve been 346
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playing ‘Eye Spy’ since we left the clubhouse. I think I’m going insane.” “I’m just so excited!” Walter announced, slapping the steering wheel with joy. “How many more of those pills did you allow him to take?” Decker whispered to Pittman. “I don’t know. He must have taken a fistful.” “I feel good!” Walter exclaimed. “Hey that makes me feel like singing a little James Brown.” “Please don’t,” Pittman begged, but it didn’t stop Walter. The rented moving truck pulled erratically into traffic and headed for the Holland Tunnel – its driver singing loudly and completely off‐key, its passengers covering their ears and cringing. None of the patriots noticed the car that was following them. 347
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Chapter Twenty Eight Undisclosed Maximum Security Federal Correctional Facility Somewhere in New York City Wednesday, July 29 08:01 “Three Fingers,” a guard rapped on the cell, startling Abdullah. “Your ride is here. Time for you to wake up and get dressed.” It had been a long evening for Abdullah. Getting shot had certainly not been as bad as partially blowing himself up with a homemade improvised explosive device or losing two more fingers after being mauled by mountain lion in a New Jersey swamp – but it had been unpleasant none the less. He had been rushed to Bellevue where he was made to sit amongst a plethora of genuinely sick patients while the doctors examined the tiny speck of a gunshot wound in his arm. After being triaged as far from life threatening, he was moved into a semi‐private examination room which he shared with a man who was eating his own poo by the handful and kept insisting that he knew where there was buried treasure in the 348
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Caribbean and if Abdullah helped him escape from the restraints hospital security had placed him in, he would surely tell Abdullah the location of his booty. Figuring he had nothing better to do to entertain himself, Abdullah untied the man when no one was looking. Graciously, the man gave Abdullah a sloppy kiss on the lips, whispered that the treasure was in a cave on the north side of a tiny rock of an island near Anegada, and then offered Abdullah some crystal meth in return for immoral sexual acts. Following Abdullah’s polite declination, the man proceeded to escape the hospital where upon he was promptly run over by a taxi cab driver who was talking on his cell phone. Abdullah was finally released from the hospital at around two o’clock and felt like he had just fallen asleep when the guard woke him up. Abdullah yawned and stretched out the kinks in his back. He quickly brushed his teeth and put on the same bright orange jumpsuit he wore yesterday – the bullet hole clearly visible. He found Myaz already dressed and ready to leave. Omar was still on lockdown for his antics in the courtroom yesterday. Four US Marshals awaited Abdullah and Myaz in the sally port area. US Marshal Ali Oxenfrey had explained to the guards whom he was receiving his prisoners from that in light of yesterday’s events, each Marshal on the detail had to wear a black balaclava to protect their identities. 349
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None of the Marshals said anything to Abdullah and Myaz as they were led out to an awaiting Chevy Suburban. Once the SUV had exited the prison complex and was making its way out onto the city streets one of the Marshals giddily exclaimed, “I can’t believe that worked!” Foley Square, Outside US Federal Court Manhattan, New York Wednesday July 29 08:05 “This is Darren Henderson reporting to you live from in front of the US Federal Court for Day Two of the sensational trial for the Greenville Three. Already this is shaping up to be the Trial of the Century!” Darren and Maurice were dressed identically in what Darren had dubbed their ‘urban warfare journalism’ uniform. Each man wore white/gray/black camouflaged fatigue pants, steel‐toed boots, black polo shirts, black nylon skull caps, and reflective aviator sunglasses. Each man also wore a black bulletproof outer vest. Maurice had spent the bulk of his last paycheck on his, while Darren had stolen his from a reporter on his way to Afghanistan one night at the man’s going away party last October and was finally getting the chance to use it. Darren heard rumors that the reporter was killed by a slow moving bullet that could have easily been stopped by the vest he now wore. 350
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Darren grabbed the first person he could find walking down the street – a middle aged visitor from Estonia who was out for a morning jog wearing a workout outfit that made him look like he stepped off the set of Olivia Newton John’s Let’s Get Physical video. “Sir, what is your take on the events of yesterday’s opening remarks in the Trial of the Century?” “I no speak English so good,” the man said nervously – clearly having uncomfortable flashbacks to the Russian Spetsnaz reaping havoc upon his village induced by the military attire of the excited man thrusting a microphone in his face. “Well then what godless, heathen language do you speak?” “I speak Russian.” Without warning Darren backhanded the man, “Goddamn Ruskies! If you’d done your job in Afghanistan in the 80’s we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in now!” The man rubbed his face and slinked away. “So how goes your quest for the truth?” Darren looked behind him to see The Truther emerging from behind a row of parked cars. “I really think we’re on to something,” Darren replied enthusiastically. “That’s great,” The Truther said. Then his face showed concern, “Have you seen my uncle, The Source?” 351
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Maurice looked around uneasily. Darren immediately broke eye contact and cleared his throat. “Nope, not since our meeting.” “Odd,” The Truther frowned. “It’s not like him to not call.” “Any who…” Darren not so deftly switched the topic. “How about what happened yesterday?” The Truther pointed excitedly at Darren, “I told you so! Why would a meth‐head be allowed to bring a gun in to kill a terrorist?” “Because he’s on the government payroll!” Darren shook his fist. “You’re goddamn right!” The Truther clapped his hands triumphantly. “So what do you think will happen today? Hit squad or car bomb?” “I think anything’s possible with this group,” Darren nodded. Entrance to the Holland Tunnel Jersey City, New Jersey Wednesday, July 29 08:12 Walter frantically searched the dials on the radio in the truck. “Music just sucks nowadays,” he declared. “Talk 352
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radio will have to do.” He settled on National Public Radio. After two minutes he punched the dial again, “Talk radio bores me, I need music.” He found a hip‐hop radio station and started bobbing his head, “Yeah, radio kicks ass!” Morris Decker leaned out the window and heaved an aggravated groan. The traffic was barely moving through the Tunnel. The longer he sat in the truck, the more time he had to reflect on what they were doing. He was trying to quash any doubts he might have about their mission. Hip‐hop suddenly became Country. Walter sang along in an exaggerated southern accent, mumbling the words since he had never heard the song before. “Hip‐hop is destroying our society,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “Country is where it’s at.” Jerry Pittman winced in agony and looked pleadingly at Decker. “Make him stop.” “I don’t know how,” Decker replied apologetically. “Country sucks ass!” Walter spun the dial till he reached an alternative rock station. He turned the music up loudly and began banging his head and pumping his fist to the beat of Soundgarden’s Spoonman. “I need more pills,” he reached into his pocket. Walter unscrewed the cap and indiscriminately swallowed a bunch of tiny pills. “Are you sure you don’t want any?” 353
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Decker and Pittman politely refused with an affable wave of their hands. “Your loss,” Walter shrugged. He let out a savage growl, and proclaimed through his clenched teeth, “I feel so alive!" Nitrite Haven Deli New York City, New York Wednesday, July 29 08:45 The deli was mobbed with morning customers, but Justin McCarthy had no trouble identifying the three men he was there to meet sitting in a corner booth. Ken Shavetail wore a spotted T‐shirt that read ‘Sexy Leper Colony’ on it. Brian Donahue was more subdued in his dress, opting for a more subtle New York Jets T‐shirt. Alex Canary wore a curious T‐shirt that read ‘In Bruno We Trust.’ Brian was reading a John Grisham novel, Ken was ogling the latest issue of Swank, and Canary had the same level of excitement reading a copy of Soldier of Fortune magazine. “Is this seat taken?” Justin nonchalantly asked as he approached the table. 354
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“Yeah, so beat it, asswipe,” Canary’s eyes never left the centerfold of a bikini clad babe firing a Desert Eagle .50 caliber handgun. Justin flinched, “But you’ve been waiting for me.” Canary looked up. “Just cuz three guys are sitting alone in a booth doesn’t mean we’re playing ‘Tickle the Pickle’,” he said defensively. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I’m Agent Justin McCarthy of the FBI.” The three men closed their reading material and sat up attentively. They exchanged introductions and Justin sat down. “So what do you have for me?” Brian explained the situation in North Dakota – minus Chief Street’s illegal and quite possibly immoral animal experiments and his impaling of the terrorist skulls. He ended with the raid on the house in Fargo. “It’s all right here on the laptop,” he said proudly as he turned the computer over. Justin raised his hands and backed away slightly. “Guys, I have to check the legality of this but I’m pretty sure this would fall under ‘Fruit of the Poisonous Tree’ statutes. I mean you broke into their house, destroyed it with gunfire, and swiped personal property.” “Look, you can make some shit up about how you came across it can’t you?” Ken took a sip of his strawberry 355
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milkshake, leaving a pink, frothy moustache across his upper lip. “There is key information on that which could bring down not only Boris Gurko, but also a number of other terrorist organizations.” “Oh God,” Justin began to hyperventilate. “Oh God! You looked on it too?” “Yeah,” Canary said sternly. “And we have no idea where all that animal porn came from.” Three sets of eyes turned slowly to Canary. “I’m just saying is all,” Canary shrugged. Broadway and Chambers Street New York City, New York Wednesday, July 29 08:52 Sharita Williams was having a stellar week and wanted the world to know. She had been talking nearly non‐stop about her triumph yesterday since the incident occurred – to any of her friends who would answer their phones or anyone on the street who made the mistake of asking her how her day. “So then I yelled at him, ‘You stay in the car, Dirt Bag’!” She relayed the story to Aretha Hargrove, her regular partner at the traffic crossing post. “He tried to get out and make a move on me, but I was having none a’ 356
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that!” She waved her hand from side to side to emphasize her point. The driver of a cobalt Mercedes thought he had been waved through the intersection and edged forward. Sharita stopped talking and slammed her hands down on the hood of the car. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked of the shocked driver. “Did you see my hands move?” “Yes,” he replied. “I… don’t… think… so,” she said condescendingly. “You best back your car up before I start busting some headlights.” “But you waved me through,” he protested. “Did I? Did you see my hands move?” She moved her hands while she talked. “Hey Aretha, did you see my hands move?” “I didn’t see nuthing,” Aretha called back, more interested in filing down her neon green, three inch long acrylic nails. “Now what you got to say about that?” Her hands flailed to the side while she questioned. A white Dodge Charger jumped at the signal and entered the intersection from Chambers Street. “Don’t nobody respect authority no more?” More hand gesturing. A yellow taxi joined the growing gridlock. 357
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Chambers Street and 12th Avenue New York City, New York Wednesday, July 29 09:00 “What this city needs is more Easy Listening stations,” Walter Binghamton informed his anxious passengers. “Troubled times that we’re living in make it a necessity to be able to listen to the radio and relax. Too much stress is bad for your heart you know,” he nodded at Jerry Pittman next to him. “I heard that last night on a health show on talk radio.” A piano intro he easily recognized came on and he eagerly turned the music up louder. Barry Manilow sang Mandy. “This song is the shit! Yo, do you remember when I rocked this at that karaoke bar in Plainsboro last year? I brought the muthafucking house down!” “Are we there yet?” Pittman checked his watch impatiently. “Still don’t want any pills?” Walter held out the bottle generously. Both men nodded their heads. Morris Decker said, “We’re still good.” “Suit yourselves,” another mouthful of pills followed. “Squares!” 358
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“Do you think you’re taking too many of those?” Pittman asked. “Who are you, my mother?” Walter howled excitedly and sang off‐key, “Oh Mandy, you came and gave without taking! Then he suddenly gripped the steering wheel and broke down crying, “Who’ll be my Mandy? I just want someone who will give without taking. Why can’t I find that? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.” He looked at his passengers with pitifully wet eyes, “Is it?” “Maybe one of us should drive,” Decker suggested warily. Walter suddenly snapped out of his depression, “Nonsense, I’m fine.” “What the hell are those pills you’re taking anyway?” Pittman tried to grab the bottle. Walter playfully hid the bottle, “No way. You missed your chance. Besides, I have no idea what they are.” “What?” the duo asked in unison. Walter shrugged, “I didn’t bother to ask. I just wanted some pills that would keep me awake. And I should say they are doing a phenomenal job at that! I’m on the prowl, like a…” “Like a cat?” Decker asked sullenly. 359
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Walter looked genuinely surprised, “Yes! How did you know?” “How much further?” Pittman asked. “Not much further now,” Walter said casually. “Can you feel that?” “What?” Decker asked, “The excitement?” Walter thrust his hand out across Pittman’s chest. “Yes! The excitement! That must be it. Whew, here I was thinking I was having a heart attack.” Broadway and Worth Street New York City, New York Wednesday, July 29 09:03 “Not to sound ungrateful,” Abdullah said uneasily, “but I can’t believe you forgot the keys for the shackles.” “I’m sorry,” Boris apologized again, batting his eyes like a love‐sick puppy. “There are bolt cutters back in my car. Sven will take good care of us,” he ran a teasing hand up Abdullah’s shoulder. “Okay, now I’m feeling uncomfortable,” Abdullah announced. Boris grimaced, “What are you talking about?” 360
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In the front seat, Ali Oxenfrey turned up the sound on the stereo to drown out the bickering going on in the back. Yousef looked around nervously as they closed in on the Federal Building. “I still hate how we had to travel this route,” he said to Ali. “Relax,” Ali tried to calm his partner. “I didn’t realize there was so much construction today. But we’ll blend right into the other traffic.” He nervously eyed the identical Suburban following behind, his words were as much an attempt to calm him as they were to calm his passenger. Abdullah inched away from Boris. “I’m not liking this attention.” “Why not?” Boris said dejected. “I did all of this for you.” “And I appreciate that, but I’m not comfortable with this invasion of my personal space.” Boris eyed him, “Are you just playing hard to get? I mean you were in the prison after all. I know what goes on in there. I watched Oz.” Abdullah straightened himself up and intentionally dropped his voice an octave to sound ‘more manly.’ “I can assure you nothing gay happened while we were in there.” 361
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Myaz chimed in, “He’s right – especially since it’s not considered gay if it’s for survival.” “Would you shut up?” Abdullah ineffectually slapped him with his shackled hands. “But you gave this to me,” Boris said dejectedly, pulling a stuffed lobster claw out of a pocket on his body armor. “What is that?” Abdullah raised an eyebrow. “It’s the lobster claw you won for me in the stuffed animal machine at the Chuck E. Cheese where we had our first date.” Four sets of eyes shifted to study the stunned terrorist. “Date? That was a meeting to discuss the plan.” “Call it what you will,” Boris said glibly, “but it was magic. And you gave this to me as a token of your undying love and affection.” Abdullah raised his hands, “Wow! Wow! Whoa! Wow! You couldn’t possibly have read that anymore incorrectly.” Boris was on the verge of tears, “So all of this was for naught?” 362
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“I wouldn’t say it was for naught,” Abdullah said diplomatically. “I’m free to continue our Jihad against the Great American Satan.” Boris huffed, “Yes, I guess that’s a slight compensation.” Chambers St and Broadway New York City, New York Wednesday, July 29 09: 06 “Can you believe these people today?” Sharita Williams continued gesticulating. “Can’t they plainly see when I’m directing traffic?” “I don’t know, girlfriend. Some people just stupid.” The traffic jam had just been rectified and cars were moving again, somewhat. A green Saturn Vue hesitated at the intersection, afraid to risk the wrath of the two rotund and hostile traffic agents. Sharita slammed her fist onto the hood, “Move!” “Stop waving your hands when you talk then!” Sharita grabbed her belt, hiked up her pants, and kicked the rear driver’s side door as the Vue passed. “Just drive or Imma go awf again!” After the Vue cleared the intersection, Sharita sauntered back towards where 363
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Aretha had not moved since starting their shift two hours ago. “Girl, lemme tell you. Some bitches best be glad they don’t give me a gun up in here. I’d totally be bus’ing caps at these fools.” She pantomimed drawing a gun and shooting at imaginary targets. Misunderstanding the gesture, a moving truck careened through the intersection. Misunderstanding the gesture, a black Chevy Suburban careened through the intersection. The black Chevy Suburban slammed into the side of the moving van. No one misunderstood what was said next. The sound of the screeching tires and crunching of metal drew the attention of scores of bored pedestrians looking for any excuse to put off reporting to their mundane office jobs. Traffic accidents were a great interruption – especially if there was carnage. The unwritten rule stated that the bloodier the wreck, the better the story around the water cooler. The gathering crowd included an assortment of office workers, foreign tourists, a homeless man with a sign that read “Will sleep with desperate cougars for beer”, and a reporter and cameraman wearing urban warfare attire. 364
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The force of the impact dislodged the locking mechanism for the rear compartment of the moving truck. The roll up door flipped open with a comical fitter. The cameraman zoomed in on the back of the truck. He exclaimed, “Holy shit! It’s a bomb!” The gathering masses heard this and dutifully scattered like hunted gazelles on the plains of the Serengeti. A young man next to the reporter jumped up and down screaming, “It’s a bomb! See? What did I tell you?” The reporter stared in disbelief, “It’s all coming together.” A group of four men ran into the street – one wore a smart business suit, one wore a New York Jets shirt, another wore a ‘Sexy Leper Colony’ shirt, and one wore a shirt that said ‘In Bruno We Trust.’ The doors of the Chevy Suburban opened and four men in US Marshal body armor stepped out. A second Suburban opened up and four Nordic super‐male‐models in fuchsia cowboy stripper outfits emerged with AK‐5 assault rifles. “Oh my god,” the young man with the reporter exclaimed in the throes of a conspiracy‐theorist’s orgasm, “It’s a government hit squad! I think I soiled my underpants.” 365
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“Maurice,” the reporter yelled, “Roll this live or I’ll disembowel you with my bare hands!” Two portly traffic agents waddled away at rate of speed that was slightly faster than molasses. 366
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Chapter Twenty Nine Chambers Street and Broadway New York City, New York Wednesday, July 29 09:10 Upon hearing someone scream something about a bomb, Justin McCarthy ran towards the commotion. The trio of questionable emotional stability followed behind him. He drew his gun, aiming it safely at the ground, hoping he would not have to use it. “That’s one of them!” Alex Canary yelled. Justin slowed and turned to see Canary animatedly pointing at one of the US Marshals. “He’s the guy who was pissing on Lincoln’s head in the Rushmore photo.” Justin stopped in his tracks and assessed the situation. He took too long to react. The Marshal who Canary was pointing at suddenly turned and opened fire with his MP‐5. Bullets raked the ground around Justin. He managed to fire off a few useless shots as he dove for cover behind a car. The other Marshals and the Scandinavian cowboys joined in the firefight. Justin was pinned down as the assault rifles tore up the car around him. A break in the gunfire gave Justin a chance to pop up and fire off some more ineffective 367
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shots. As he ducked back for cover he saw that Ken Shavetail and Canary had crawled their way up to him. Automatic gunfire thundered, echoing throughout the canyon of high rise buildings. “Give me your Throw‐down Piece,” Canary demanded. “My what?” Canary stretched his hand out and started feeling around at Justin’s ankles, “You know, your Throw‐down Piece.” Bullets ricocheted off the street around them. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “The gun you keep in the back of your waistband or in your sock to conveniently plant on unsuspecting minorities,” Ken clarified. “You mean my back‐up weapon?” Justin’s irritation was obvious, even over the sound gunfire. “Sure whatever you have to tell yourself to settle your conscience,” Ken rolled out of the way of another spate of gunfire. “It’s for my own protection!” Justin argued. “It’s not for setting anyone up.” “Whatever, just give me the gun,” Canary demanded. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” 368
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“Trust me,” Ken said as he was jimmying the lock to a Lexus he had taken cover behind. “If you want to put a weapon in anyone’s hand, it’s Canary’s.” Justin sighed and handed a small pistol over. “You call this a gun?” Canary griped. “It’s supposed to be as a backup just in case,” Justin fired off two more shots. “If you say so,” Canary waited for a break in the firing. “If I’m going to die in a hail of gunfire I at least want to do it holding a masculine gun.” “Will you two please hurry up and do something?” Ken asked from inside the Lexus – where he was pocketing the owner’s GPS and removing the stereo. Moments earlier… Ali Oxenfrey released his death grip on the steering wheel, having just seen his life flash before his eyes as the large moving truck shot in front of them. He looked at Yousef rubbing his head, bleeding from where his face hit the inside of the windshield. “Get off me!” Abdullah struggled to push Boris’ head off his lap – Boris having thrown his face into the terrorist’s lap almost as an afterthought following the collision. Boris frowned but got up. 369
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“Is everyone okay?” Ali asked. A series of voices confirmed they were okay. Ali nodded and exited the vehicle to check on the damage. It was worse that he thought – the SUV couldn’t be driven anymore. Before he could think of what to do next, someone screamed “Holy Shit! It’s a bomb!” Ali looked to see several large drums connected via a circuit of wires. Panic set in and the crowd of gawkers on the sidewalks suddenly dispersed. “Hey, I know that bomb,” Boris said in confusion. “I just delivered that.” “You had someone else make your bomb?” Abdullah sounded hurt. “Probably safer that way,” Myaz snickered under his breath. Abdullah elbowed him in the diaphragm. Boris smiled flirtatiously, “Why? Are you jealous?” “Maybe,” Abdullah looked at the handiwork. “Relax,” Boris said, “I put it together myself. I followed your directions.” “You did what?” Abdullah asked with alarm. Without waiting for an answer, he and Myaz dove for cover behind the car. The four Swedish model‐mercenaries exited their car and joined the group, spurs jingling as they sauntered over. “Vat is going on?” Jesper asked. 370
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Ali walked to the driver’s side of the moving truck. The driver was still clutching the steering wheel singing Barry Manilow’s Weekend in New England – though no radio was on, a tear drop trickling from his eye. His passengers were both scared, repeating “Not again! Not now!” From across the street, someone yelled, “That’s one of them!” Aden turned his attention away from the car accident. He saw a man in a suit cautiously making way across the street with a gun drawn. An overweight man in a “In Bruno We Trust” T‐shirt was calling to the man in the suit and point directly at Aden. Without asking for advice, Aden raised his MP‐5 and opened fire, the trigger select set to full automatic. All hell broke loose as eight assault rifles opened up on the approaching law enforcement officer. Bullets chewed up the car around him. He managed to fire off a few poorly aimed rounds but they had him effectively pinned down. “Our car is blocked in,” Bjorn reported to Ali. “Damn it!” Frustrated, Ali turned and unloaded a magazine’s worth of bullets into the hood of a purple Geo Tracker that was stopped behind the Swedish hit‐squad’s Suburban. The car exploded into a fireball as the driver dove clear. 371
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“Feel better now?” Boris asked condescendingly. “No, because you weren’t in it.” “Funny,” a stray bullet pinged off the Suburban next to Boris’ head. “Now we are stuck here.” Police sirens wailed as the NYPD rushed to the danger zone. The desperate terrorists turned their long guns on the approaching police officers, pinning them a block or two away. A young police officer fell to his knees next to where Brian Donahue had been hiding. A high velocity rifle round – most likely from the fuchsia cowboys – had just ripped through the officer’s vest and torn into his upper chest. Brian grabbed the man and dragged him behind a car for cover. Brian quickly removed the man’s vest and used the officer’s uniform shirt to try to stanch the bleeding. Seeing the man was too weak to protest, Brian removed the officer’s gun and extra ammunition. “Here, Sonny,” an elderly lady appeared at Brian’s side. “Let me help him. I was a nurse in my younger days.” “Thanks,” Brian checked the gun then risked popping his head up to see where the gunmen were. “You’ll need a real gun,” the elderly lady said. Brian turned around to see the woman handing him a Model 500 Smith & Wesson revolver. Brian marveled at the size 372
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of the handgun, dwarfing the police‐issued Glock he acquired from the officer. The weight of it surprised Brian and he nearly dropped it as she handed it to him. “Don’t be such a pussy,” she demanded. “Now go get those sons of bitches.” Brian nodded and low crawled closer to the action. “Canary,” he called out when he was about ten feet away. Canary turned to him and Brian held up the large handgun the old lady gave him. Canary slapped the FBI agent, “See! Now that’s a masculine gun!” He turned back to Brian and gestured for him to toss the weapon for him. Brian heaved the gun. It fell short of Canary by at least six feet. “That’s all you got?” Canary yelled as he crawled out to get the weapon. “You throw like a girl! Has Shavetail been teaching how to throw?” Ken put down the lock‐pick tool he was using to get into the BMW that was parked in front of the Lexus he just pillaged. “I heard that!” “Good,” Canary emptied the tiny handgun he had been firing. “Maybe if you start throwing like you piss standing up next season we won’t be the laughing stock of the inter‐mural softball league.” A bullet shattered the window of the door Ken was working on. He reached in and effortlessly opened the door. “Maybe you should learn how to catch and stop 373
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taking line‐drives to your head.” Screwdriver in hand, he pried out the stereo. Jerry Pittman and Morris Decker stumbled over each other trying to get out of the moving truck. They crashed to the asphalt in a mesh of tangled limbs. Decker struggled to his feet, stepping on Pittman’s testicles in the process and eliciting a yelp. He looked back into the truck to find Walter still sitting in the front seat. Walter had moved on to singing I Write the Songs. “Walter, we have to get out of here!” Walter stopped singing and said, “I can’t leave now.” “It’s over, man!” Decker waved his hand for Walter to follow him. “We can’t pull this off. It’s time to abort!” “No,” Walter turned his now deathly pale face to his friend. “I mean I can’t leave. I think I’m having a bad trip from whatever those pills were I took. Why did you guys let me take so many? I have pins and needles in my teeth and chest. I’m pretty sure your teeth aren’t supposed to be getting pins and needles. And how does your chest fall asleep anyway?” His face registered great alarm. “Maybe I’m dead already! Am I dead?” “You’re not dead, Walter. Not yet anyway. We have to get out of here.” 374
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“As long as I sing Barry I’ll be fine,” he announced then launched into Copacabana. “I do not like zis,” Leif called to Bjorn over the bursts of gunfire. “Vat do you not like?” “Ve are dressed like homosexual ranch hands and just valked into zis operation.” “So?” “Do you not ever vatch Star Trek? Ve vould be ze expendable avay team members who alvays fall into zome deadly trap zat is too complicated for zem but ridiculously easy for Captain Kirk to escape.” Leif instantly dropped to the ground, having never heard the large caliber handgun that sent a round into his head. The same handgun sent a large round through Bjorn’s arm, ripping through the bones of his upper arm and continuing between two of his ribs. Inside his chest, the bullet tore apart his right lung and aorta. Reflexively, his muscles contracted, depressing the trigger and firing wildly as he collapsed to the ground, bleeding out internally. Three rounds from Bjorn’s AK‐5 punched through Boris’ back. He collapsed forward into Abdullah’s surprised and moderately annoyed arms. Blood oozed 375
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from his mouth, his face rapidly turning ashen. Boris stared up at Abdullah with a content, relaxed look in his eyes. “There is no other way I would want to die,” he declared sweetly. Abdullah scowled, “Really? I can think of at least a hundred better ways to bite it.” “I meant dying in your arms,” Boris smiled. Abdullah promptly dropped Boris to the ground with a loud thud. Boris released a pathetic cry. “Abdullah, come close, I have something to tell you.” Reluctantly, Abdullah leaned in. Boris reached up, placed a hand on the back of Abdullah’s head and guided him closer. Boris pursed his lips and almost managed to make contact before Abdullah fell backwards, scrambling to escape. “Avenge me!” Boris shook a fist at Abdullah, “A‐Venge Me!” With that, Boris slumped over, his lifeless eyes fixed on his one true love. “Myaz,” Abdullah crawled to where his friend was covered. “We have to get out of here.” “I agree,” Myaz trembled. “But where? How? We’re sitting ducks in these jumpsuits and chains.” Abdullah looked around, “There!” “Are you getting all this Maurice?” 376
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“You bet I am!” Darren Henderson angled his cell phone to take a picture of himself with the gunfight in the back. He snapped a picture, checked it, and promptly erased it. “My hair looks a mess!” He looked at himself in the reflection of a car next to him. Satisfied with his hairdo, he snapped off another picture then uploaded it to his Twitter account. Satisfied, he snapped his fingers at Maurice. “On me! Three… two… one… This is Darren Henderson, once again in the thick of the fight. This time I’m reporting live from New York City where a fierce firefight has erupted between a group of fashionably challenged government assassins and a brave band of civilians and police officers.” Darren ducked as more stray bullets popped past his ear. “Darren, maybe we should fall back to somewhere where we can safely get better coverage.” “Nonsense!” Darren stood up for a more dramatic view. He looked sullenly at the camera and forced a tear. “This bloodshed reminds me of my days reporting the Fall of Khe Sanh.” “Why do you have to do that?” “Do what Maurice?” 377
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“You know damn well you weren’t in Khe Sanh during the Tet Offensive,” Maurice growled, indifferent to the bullets ricocheting around his head. Darren looked at the camera as dashingly as he could, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “The Tet Offensive was in ’68, you hack!” Maurice backed up behind a station wagon. “You weren’t even a sperm in your Daddy’s nutsack back then.” “Irrelevant!” Darren threw his hands up. “Back to the story! Three… two… one. I’ve seen some horrible carnage in my time – and if Maurice wants to keep his job he’ll back me up on that. But it is in my professional opinion that the every last one of the ten million residents of the Big Apple should panic. I recommend anyone with their own firearms definitely take matters into their own hands.” From a pouch in his vest he removed a .357 Magnum. “Lord knows I’m gonna get mines!” “Jesus Christ, where did you get that, Dirty Harry?” “Pretty intimidating isn’t it?” He posed with his hand on his hip, “How do I look?” Maurice nodded, “I gotta say, I’m a little impressed. Can you shoot that thing?” “Pssssh, can I shoot this thing?” Darren asked, dripping with sarcasm. “Watch!” Before Maurice could warn him it was a very bad idea, Darren twirled the pistol 378
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by the trigger guard. He managed to complete five or six remarkable twirls before discharging a bullet with a thunderous boom right into his calf. “Ouch!” Darren limped around in a circle. “My god that hurts! I mean… ow, that really hurts.” Darren winced, fell onto his ass and clutched his wound. “I can’t believe how much this hurts… I knew getting shot wouldn’t be pleasant, but damn! This really hurts.” Maurice positioned the camera to continue filming Darren’s impending breakdown then ran for cover. 379
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Chapter Thirty The Pentagon Arlington County, Virginia Wednesday, July 29 09:20 “General Silverton,” Staff Sergeant Nathan Cromley burst into General Barry Silverton’s office and turned on the giant plasma TV. He began switching through the cable stations. Silverton looked at his watch, wondering when Cromley would get to the point. “Here, Sir.” He backed away from the screen so Silverton could see the live feed of WNN’s Darren Henderson writhing in pain, automatic gunfire echoing around him. “What is this?” “It’s the trial for the terrorists from last year’s AIM HIGH fiasco. I think someone is trying to free them. All Hell is breaking loose up there.” Silverton sprang to his feet. “Christ Almighty!” He burst forth from his office and yelled to the cubicles outside, “We have a major situation! I want options!” He clapped his hands demandingly. “Options people, I want options!” 380
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“We could send up a Predator Drone,” someone called out. “We can’t, they’re all tasked to the Middle East,” someone shot it down. “SEAL Team? Delta Force maybe?” “Would take too long to get them up here,” Silverton observed. “How about a tactical nuclear strike?” The gathering of uniforms parted, clearing the way for Silverton to see the man who made that suggestion. Silverton eyed the shaking, nervous man. “You’re suggesting we drop a tactical nuke on Lower Manhattan?” The Major clutched his hat anxiously, “Um… yes, Sir.” Silverton squinted his eyes to study the man. “Weren’t you the same man who suggested the nuclear strike last year?” Blushing, the Major held his hands out to exaggerate his next statement, “Okay, full disclosure here guys. I own a lot of stock in the company that makes the tactical nuclear smart bomb and to see one go off would throw my profits through the roof.” 381
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Chambers Street and Broadway New York City, New York Wednesday, July 29 09:23 Back in New York City things had gone from bad to worse for Brian Donahue, Alex Canary, and Justin McCarthy. “I’m almost out!” Brian called out to Alex as he reloaded his weapon. “Me too,” Canary hollered after another boom from the miniature cannon the elderly lady had donated to the cause. “How you doing, G‐Man?” Justin fired off another round, “I’m just about out too.” “You guys just need to hold them off a little longer,” Ken Shavetail called encouragingly from the front seat of an Audi where he was stuffing bank statements, an iPod, and loose change into his pockets already spilling over with looted swag. “Brian,” Justin yelled out with concern. “They’re trying to flank us!” Brian risked a glance and saw the two remaining scantily clad cowboys charging towards him. He rolled to the side and fired off the remainder of his magazine. One 382
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cowboy dropped helplessly to the ground and began twitching in the throes of death. The other smiled and continued his charge. The cowboy skillfully dodged Canary’s final bullet before he too was out of ammunition. Brian rolled back behind the car he was using for cover, hoping the cowboy didn’t see him – but there was no such luck. Brian looked up to see a blond Adonis in cheesy male stripper apparel standing over him smiling, his assault rifle trained on Brian’s head. Brian smiled nervously, “Easy there, cowboy.” The smile broadened and became bloodthirsty. “I’m a cowboy! In ze immortal vords of Bruce Villis – Yippee‐kay‐
yay Mister Falcon.” He raised his gun to shoot. Brian held up his hands, “Hold on… what?” The man lowered his rifle. “You’ve never zeen Diehard?” “Of course I have. What male hasn’t had fantasies about being Bruce Willis and crawling through air ducts? But if you’re going to quote the movie before you kill me can you at least get the words right?” “Vhat are you zaying? I vatched the movie last night on zhe TBS Network. He clearly zaid ‘Yippee‐kay‐yay Mister Falcon.” 383
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“See, there’s your problem,” Brian pointed out. “You watched the horribly edited movie on basic cable. He says ‘Motherfucker’ not ‘Mister Falcon’.” “Yippee‐kay‐yay, Motherfucker?” Brian nodded. The cowboy shrugged. “You have a point. It does verk better.” He raised his gun again, tired of arguing about lame attempts to circumvent FCC language rules. However, before he could shoot, a bullet from Justin’s gun struck the cowboy just below his left eye. “Alright!” Canary yelled. “The G‐Man finally figured out how to shoot.” Still in shock, Brian barely reacted when a giggling Canary ran to his side and picked up the AK‐5 and spare ammunition. “Oh shit!” Canary announced. “It’s on like Donkey Kong now!” He laid down a celebratory burst of automatic gunfire to shake things up. “Ow!” Darren Henderson rocked back and forth. “This is so painful. I mean, fuck child birth. This has got to be the ultimate pain someone could experience.” Abdullah popped his head out of the ‘Everything’s 99 Cents’ store. The coast was definitely not clear. All the 384
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cowboys had been killed and two of their assault rifles had falling into the hands of the Americans they had been shooting it out with. “Why do they insist advertising everything in the store as being under ninety‐nine cents?” Myaz checked the rack of novelty Statue of Liberty figurines that were priced at $6.50 each to entice yokels from the Midwest to buy them as souvenirs. It was Abdullah’s idea to duck into the store in hopes of finding clothes they could change into before escaping. He found something even better. In the back of the store, next to row upon row of stacked up pornographic DVDs listed as $1.75 each, Abdullah found a set of pink, fuzzy adult bedroom handcuffs. Fortuitously, Allah smiled upon them because the novelty key just so happened to unlock the shackles that were binding the two. They quickly disrobed from their orange jumpsuits and donned cheap I (Heart) NY T‐shirts and CSI: NY jogging pants. Abdullah looked out again, just in time to watch the crazed fat American fire two rounds into Yousef’s chest. He slumped to the ground, still alive but unable to hold himself up. He looked up weakly and saw Abdullah. With a limp hand, Yousef waved the terrorist over to him. Covered by fire from Aden and Ali, Abdullah sprinted from the store and rushed to Yousef’s side. Yousef struggled 385
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but managed to remove something from his breast pocket. It was a set of keys. “In… Jersey City… there is a… a… parking deck above the… uh… Exchange Pl… Pu… Place PATH Station,” Yousef pointed a wobbling hand in the direction of the Hudson River. “B… b… brown van. Nu… nu… North Dakota plates,” he thrust the keys into Abdullah’s hands. “We’ll cu… cover you.” Abdullah nodded and embraced the man. He ran off in the direction of the Hudson River. Myaz slipped out as well and followed. Abdullah broke stride and jogged back to the where Yousef was laying. “Do you happen to have the parking ticket to get out?” “Wu… what?” “The ticket to get out – do you have it?” Abdullah gestured like he was slipping a ticket into a machine. “If I try to get out without it they’ll charge me full price.” A dying Yousef still managed to stare at Abdullah with fiery eyes. “So wu… what?” “So what? Um, hello? You just sprung me from prison. You think I can afford full price?” Groaning, Yousef fished through his breast pockets till he found the parking ticket. He handed the now bloodied piece of paper to Abdullah. 386
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Abdullah embraced him once more and ran off. Once again, he made it half a block away at full sprint then turned around and jogged back to Yousef. “You don’t happen to have like twenty bucks on you do you?” “For what?” “Were you not listening to me? Just got out of prison equals no money.” Yousef removed his wallet and started slowly looking through it, his end clearly near. “At lu… least some pu… people have the decency to wu… wait until you’re dead before going through your wu… wallet.” He handed a bunch of bills to Abdullah. After quickly counting, Abdullah asked, “There’s only thirteen dollars here. I’m sure parking is going to be more than that.” He shook Yousef, but he was now dead. Abdullah crawled over and tugged on Aden’s pants as he was firing. “Do you happen to have any money to send my way?” Without breaking his fire, Aden lowered a hand, located his wallet, and tossed it to Abdullah. “How fucking cheap are you guys?” Abdullah asked after finding only three dollars and a faded condom. “I didn’t think we’d need extra money,” Aden said between shots. “Ali?” Abdullah asked, “Anything to help a brother out?” 387
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Ali Oxenfrey shook his head. “Damn you cheap bastards. I hope you burn in the eternal fires of Hell!” He scrambled back to where Myaz was waiting. Then the two ran off for the PATH subway station. When the two disappeared into the maze of city streets, Ali and Aden made an assessment of just how dire their situation was now. They were running low on ammunition and were now vastly outnumbered. Plus, with the police locking down the streets around their killing field, it was only a matter of time before they were captured. “What do you think we should do?” Aden asked with eyes that pleaded for guidance. Ali thought about it for a moment. He knew he couldn’t be captured, he would never fair well inside of a prison. He tossed the empty assault rifle aside, grabbed a handgun from Yousef’s lifeless body, and screamed “Allahu Akbar!” as he dove over the hood of the SUV and charged at the three closest American gunmen, He made it two steps before he was ripped to shreds by the fat one in the “In Bruno We Trust” T‐shirt with an all‐too gleeful look on his face as he cut down Ali. “Man!” Aden exclaimed with a mix of wonder and hopelessness. “That shit was hardcore!” Seeing his fellow holy warrior’s sacrifice made up his mind for him – Aden tossed his gun aside and walked out with his hands up. 388
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As Justin McCarthy handcuffed the surrendering terrorist, Alex Canary ran up and kicked the gunman in the testicles. “Hey, you can’t do that,” Justin whined. “Can’t I?” Canary flashed a wry smile. “I’m pretty sure the Patriot Act allows for a shot to jewels when capturing a terrorist.” “What version of the Patriot Act have you been reading?” Brian secured his gun and joined the two. “Alright!” Ken Shavetail jogged down the street, precariously balancing an armful of laptops and LCD flat screens – women’s lingerie with price tags still attached dangled from his pockets that were already packed with car stereos and GPS navigation systems. “Looks like we did it again! Score another one for the good guys.” Canary holstered his weapons and looked at Ken. “You know something… this is the third time we’ve been involved in a gunfight with terrorists and you have yet to fire a weapon.” “I’m a commissioned officer,” Ken shrugged. “I get my subordinates to do my dirty work.” The NYPD began rapidly closing in on the intersection. The first officers were about to reach the moving truck when a beat up brown Volvo station wagon, with heavy rear‐end damage, skidded to a stop in front of them. 389
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Seemingly indifferent to the armed men around her, a woman in her fifties threw her car door open and marched to the driver’s side of the moving truck. Mrs. Binghamton marched with blind rage. “I knew it!” She threw her hands up in frustration. “I knew you couldn’t be counted on to follow through with anything even semi‐important.” She threw open the driver’s side door of the moving truck. Inside, her son was staring blankly ahead. “Looks like we made it,” he sang in his best Barry Manilow voice. He was ashen and sweaty, his head lolling weakly to the side. He looked at his mother with distant eyes, “Hi Mommy. When did you get here?” “Get out of the truck so I can finish this.” “I don’t think I can, Mommy. I took a punch of pills to stay awake and now I can’t feel anything in my body – except for a crushing chest pain. I think I’m having a heart attack.” “Useless! Totally useless!” With one hand, Mrs. Binghamton yanked her son out of the driver’s seat and climbed in. “She’s got a bomb!” someone shrieked. Instinctively, every police officer opened fire on the woman in the moving van. 390
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“It’s getting cold,” Darren Henderson shivered as he lay on the ground. “I think I see my dead grandfather waving me towards the light. I’m coming Pop‐Pop,” he waved his arms aimlessly above his head. “Oh the aching sting of death.” Tears flowed freely from his eyes. “You would have thought I would have learned my lesson after my near‐death experience at Yeger. But noooo, why would I?” A paramedic rushed to Darren’s side and assessed his injury. “It’s just an extremity shot,” he patted the reporter on the shoulder. “You’ll be just fine buddy.” “What do you know anyway?” Darren batted the man’s hand away. “You’re not a doctor, are you? So how are you going to tell me this shot didn’t hit something important?” “Important like what?” The paramedic asked, momentarily taken aback by the fact that the man seemed unhappy that he was going to live. “There’s nothing major in your calf.” “Sure, I can trust you. Where did you go to medical school? You don’t even look old enough to shave. Beat it, Kid, and let me die in peace.” “Whatever, asshole,” the paramedic moved on to triage more critical casualties. 391
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Darren saw the camera was still on him. He dragged himself along the street towards the equipment. He looked into the lens at near point‐blank range, creating a distorted fish‐eye effect for the viewers at home. “This is my last will and testament. I wanted to unburden my soul for all the bad I’ve done since Yeger…” Maurice, the cameraman, shook his head. He watched Darren’s breakdown from the comfort and safety of an electronics store up the street. “This could take awhile,” he said with a chuckle to the group of customers who had gathered around him to watch the blubbery breakdown. 392
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Chapter Thirty One PATH Subway Car 4398 En route to Exchange Place, Jersey City Wednesday, July 29 09:45 “Anyone have any spare change?” Abdullah Bin Al‐
Raheem staggered his way up the subway car with his hat out, begging customers for assistance. “We just need ten dollars to get home.” “Get a job you free‐loader,” someone yelled. “And I intend to, my friend,” Abdullah un‐phased. “However, first we must get home.” “You’re going to need a better line than that,” someone else suggested. “A better line?” “To get people to give you money.” Abdullah thought about it for a moment. His face lit up with an idea. “Of course, what I meant to say was: does anyone have any spare change to give towards my friend’s surgery?” “What surgery?” a woman called out. 393
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“What surgery?” a baffled Myaz asked. Abdullah grabbed his friend’s arm and held up his prosthetic hook / champagne cork combo. “My friend lost his arm in the great holy war battling the imperialistic forces of the United States…” The crowded subway car asked in unison, “He what?” “Ha ha,” Abdullah laughed timidly. “I meant he lost his arm battling the enemies of the United States.” “Oh well in that case,” someone commented and the spare change began flowing. “Almost there,” Myaz whispered with delight. “What do you two think you’re doing?” A gruff looking homeless man in tattered camouflaged pants and a ‘Who Farted?’ t‐shirt came in from the adjoining car. “This is my train!” “Abdullah,” Myaz screamed, “It’s a potentially unbalanced homeless man!” “And he’s armed!” Abdullah yelled, referencing the brick the man held. “Oh, sorry,” he said apologetically, eyeing Myaz’s stump. Myaz shrugged. “I think you have to pay me a toll for what you been collecting,” the homeless man sternly suggested in a way that made both terrorists feel it wasn’t much of a suggestion. 394
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“And what if we say no?” Abdullah asked defiantly. “That would be a big mistake,” the man said evenly. Abdullah gulped. “I’m sorry, but we need this money to get home.” “Suit yourself,” the man said and drew back to swing the brick at Abdullah’s head. As he lunged forward to connect with Abdullah’s skull, Myaz swooned and collapsed in a narcoleptic episode – falling into the would‐
be combatant and knocking him off his feet. “Allah be praised!” Abdullah exclaimed as he kicked the brick away and shook his friend awake. The doors opened at the Exchange Place Station. Abdullah grabbed the sluggish Myaz and dragged him out. “Sometimes your condition comes in very handy,” he noted as they hopped on the escalator. “How could you leave the lights on?” Morris Decker ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I guess I had a lot on my mind!” “Now what are we going to do?” The two stood in the parking garage in front of their now useless maroon Lincoln Continental. Jerry Pittman continued, “It’s not like we can wait around for Triple‐A to come and give us a jump start. It’s only a matter of time before the cops come looking for us.” 395
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“Alright, shut up, I need to think.” Decker looked around the garage hoping for inspiration. A commotion broke his concentration. Two men stumbled out of the elevator, nervously looking over their shoulders. They hurriedly walked to the beat up brown van next to Decker’s car. Sirens wailed in the distance, sounding as though they were getting closer. Decker had to do something. “Hey, can you guys give us a jump?” One of the men looked at him, “What?” Decker looked embarrassed, “I was an idiot and left the lights on. Now the car is dead, and we’re in kind of a hurry to get out of here.” “Us too,” the man replied. Decker noticed that curiously the man was missing fingers on each hand. “Let me see what’s inside.” He opened the side of the van and looked around for a minute. “No, I am sorry, I cannot help you.” The sirens were getting louder. Decker was nearing hyperventilation. “Well, can we hitch a ride?” He abandoned any hope of sounding suave and simply pleaded. “We can pay you.” The man with missing fingers looked at his friend who had a hook for an arm. The men shrugged. “Where are you heading?” 396
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Decker and Pittman sighed with relief. “Anywhere,” Pittman replied. “Hop in, we’ll figure it out as we go.” Moments later the beat up, late model van, color brown, with ‘Jihad Machine’ scribbled in the back pulled out onto Christopher Columbus Drive, heading for the New Jersey Turnpike. As the vehicle faded into the midmorning traffic of Jersey City, Decker’s voice could be heard asking “What smells like blood and piss in here?” 397
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AUTHOR’S NOTE In previous novels, I took the opportunity to separate fact from fiction about things like biological weapons and schemes to rig the lottery. In this novel, there really isn’t anything of interesting historical value to point out. So I’ll discuss some of the locations – First, the beautiful United States Virgins Islands… I’ve been blessed with a job that allows me to travel to obscure places around the country and interact with the locals. Without a doubt, my favorite place to be sent is the US Virgin Islands. I never get tired of the views on the tiny islands and have forged some pretty good friendships. To that end, the reaction of new visitors was faithfully recreated. It never fails to entertain me when I hear murmurs of other passengers on the airplane about having to walk down the steps to the tarmac at the airport in St. Thomas. The same is true for the reactions to driving on the “wrong” side of the road, the humidity, and the lack of palm trees. But I wouldn’t trade my experiences in the United States’ Caribbean for any palm trees or driving on the “right” side of the road. I highly recommend a trip down there to anyone. In fact, much of this novel and AIM HIGH was written at the Frenchman’s Reef Marriott in St 398
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Thomas (Note to the fine folks at Marriott: I’m currently a Gold Elite member and certainly open to any form of corporate sponsorship). However, don’t get your hopes up… to my knowledge, there is no S&M resort called Forced Retreat or an island called Submission Cay. Unfortunately, I have noticed that my clothes reek of fish when I go in the water there, so you can’t say you weren’t warned… Next, take a drive along I‐94 in North Dakota and you’ll see it was represented pretty truthfully as well. I was once offered a road trip from Fargo to Bismarck, North Dakota. Like Yousef Sadr, I thought it sounded like a good idea at the time. And like Yousef, I suffered the same maddening experience, including the discussion about the size of buffalo poop. The World’s Largest Buffalo Statue is by Jamestown, the Red River does flow north, the accents sound just like they do in Fargo, but I don’t think there is any Big Game Preserve for endangered or extinct animals. New York City is depicted pretty accurately as well. It was at the intersection of Broadway and Chambers, right next to City Hall, that I witnessed a crossing guard talking with her hands and caused a traffic accident. The story wrote itself from there. So in closing, thank you for your time and I hope you enjoyed the further adventures of these zany, inept, and 399
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hopefully loveable characters. What does the future hold in store for them? Only time will tell. Until next time…
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ALSO BY THE AUTHOR Non‐Fiction:  EMS: The Job of Your Life  EMS 2: The Life of Your Job Fiction:  AIM HIGH  Lotto Fever  The Patriot Plan 401