by Mike Brogan
She heard more trucks drive up outside. Through the wall slit, she saw a delivery bay door roll up. Men rolled more cases of ChocoYummy outside. She heard them being loaded onto the trucks.
A driver walked into Hasham’s office carrying a five-foot long, flimsy magnetic sticker.
“I just took the last flower signs off the sides of the trucks,” the driver said. He showed it to Hasham:
ZELDA’S FRESH GARDEN FLOWERS
“Off all trucks?”
“Yes.”
Hasham nodded, reached into a large drawer and took out another package.
“Time to attach these new signs to sides of each truck.”
Nell watched Hasham unfurl a new fifteen-foot magnetic sticker. She squinted through the slit and read:
ASK MOMMY FOR CHOCOYUMMY
Nell slumped against the wall. There it was! Hasham was going to kill thousands of kids with – ChocoYummy - his unique delivery system.
She felt like she might vomit. She banged on her door and begged the tall guard to let her go to the bathroom. He finally unlocked the door, grabbed her arm and walked her down to the small filthy restroom. She stepped inside, shut the door, bent over the broken, stained toilet, but couldn’t vomit. It figured. She hadn’t eaten since last night. She leaned against the wall and tried to calm herself, but it didn’t work.
She heard noise outside. She looked out the small, nailed-shut window and saw Hasham lead the drivers over beneath some shade trees. The men stood in a line beside two large white bathtub-sized basins filled with what looked like water. Clean white towels sat stacked on the table. He gestured for the men to approach the basins.
The drivers walked up to the basins, whispered to themselves, and stripped to their underwear. Each man began to pour water over his hands three times. Then over his face three times, then over his arms, torso and feet, three times. Each man rinsed his mouth with water three times.
They did not speak. They lifted their eyes and arms toward the heavens. Their lips moved in silent prayer.
Nell understood.
She was witnessing a Muslim purification ceremony. They were cleansing themselves, preparing for their likely sacrificial death.
They are preparing to die.
The attack is imminent . . .
FORTY FIVE
Hasham strolled around his ChocoYummy factory. It had served his purpose well over the last six years. The years of searching for the right location to build a subterranean laboratory within striking distance of New York City, and searching for the right kind of assembly plant nearby, and the right mystery substance to blend with the VX, and the right reformulation of the blend mix to make it more lethal.
And of course, the years of identifying the right Aberdeen scientist to help him with the delicate blending process - all his years of channeling his rage into his jihad . . .
. . . would all pay off in hours.
He watched his men stack more cases of ChocoYummy onto the trucks and double-lock the doors.
He smiled at the truck Ask Mommy for ChocoYummy signage.
Then he walked inside to where Izzat was working on his iPad.
“What’s a new product without advertising, Izzat?”
Izzat smiled. “Unknown . . .?”
“And unsold!” Hasham said. “Watch this!”
Hasham inserted a DVD into the large screen television. On the screen, Hasham’s new commercial popped on.
He watched as . . .
. . . a young blond boy and girl, around nine,
skip down the street and hurry into a small
neighborhood grocery store. They ask for
ChocoYummy. The smiling grocer hands
them each a bottle. They twist off the top
, chug some down and lick chocolate off their
lips and grin into camera. Chocolate drips
down the boy’s chin and the girl giggles.
Then the ChocoYummy logo pops on, the announcer says . . .
“ChocoYummy . . . is fresh whole milk with lots of yummy organic nutrients. So ask your mummy for ChocoYummy . . . cuz it’s so good in your tummy!”
“Perfect,” Izzat said.
“Agreed,” Hasham said as he walked into his office and shut the door. He took out his safe phone and dialed. Time to tell Bassam Maahdi in Yemen the good news.
“Ah . . . Mr. Smith, so nice to hear from you,” Maahdi said in Yemen. “How are things?”
“Just fine, Mr. Jones. And there?”
“All is well. Tell me, is our medicine on its way to market?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful. And will it be delivered to our patients on schedule?” Maahdi asked.
“Yes.”
“And you will tidy up the assembly facility?”
“A most thorough cleaning indeed. Just minutes from now.”
“Most reassuring, Mr. Smith.”
“So we’ll talk after the product’s in the marketplace,” Hasham said.
“Yes. After!” Maahdi said.
They hung up.
He looked around the plant and smiled. My global jihad begins here now. France and England in a few months. Tel Aviv in ten months. The world will learn . . .
Hasham smiled. He was filled with an overpowering sense of fulfillment, unlike anything he’d ever felt. Just one last task. Destroy the bottling plant.
And Dr. Nell Northam with it.
He and Izzat walked over to one of the drivers near the bottling assembly line.
“It’s cleanup time,” Hasham said.
Izzat and his assistant followed Hasham over where they grabbed five-gallon cans and began splashing gasoline onto the floor. They poured some on the rolls of paper near the printers, some near the bottling machines, garage loading area, and the corners of the building. They spilled more onto some flammable lubricants near the small machinery and computers.
Everything would be destroyed.
Hasham would have preferred to use his favorite explosive: TATP, triacetone triperoxide. TATP was his weapon of choice for his suicide bombers in Europe and Israel. Wearing their vests, they pushed their TATP detonators with such unwavering bravery and devotion. He was especially proud when they blew themselves up during Ramadan to earn greater rewards in heaven. Such devotion!
But traces of TATP found here would shout terrorism. Which would bring in the techs from FBI and Homeland Security. Hasham did not want expert FBI techs investigating the bottling plant fire. They might get very lucky and stumble upon his most important secret from the plant, a critical secret he did not want discovered.
Hasham wanted local firemen - bumpkins - investigating the fire.
The firemen would declare that gasoline caused the fire. They’d conclude the fire was set for the insurance money and suspect the factory owner. But the factory owner, one Felix Frampton, they’d learn had been deceased for twenty-six years.
By the time they realize I borrowed Mr. Frampton’s identity, I’ll be six thousand miles away in a country with a non-extradition treaty with America.
Hasham walked over and splashed an entire can of gasoline near the janitor closet door where Dr. Nell Northam was locked up. The fire would seep into her room and cause the chemical compound vats to burn and likely explode.
It was unfortunate to sacrifice someone with her expertise. She’s a brilliant scientist who could have created powerful weapons for our cause. But a cause she would never accept because she’s infected with infidel thinking.
And now she knows too much. She certainly read some of my files in the lab when I was busy. Critical files that detail extremely important future plans. And she can identify me.
It’s simple. She must be terminated.
He looked toward the janitor room again. Should he feel guilty that Dr. Nell Northam would never see her husband and daughter again? Of course not!
Did she, or any Americans, ever feel guilt for killing his wife and daughter?
“An eye for an eye, Doctor!” h
e whispered at her door.
The word - eye - jolted him, as always. He flashed back to the last time he looked into his wife Leyla’s eyes . . . flat and opaque as life drained from them. Minutes earlier, they’d been bright and luminous and brimming with life. But that night even the full moon couldn’t animate them as she lay on the ground, bleeding to death.
Just minutes earlier, they’d been sipping tea in their Tikrit home.
He’d said, “Leyla, I’m going down to Abdul’s for a few minutes.”
“You’re planning another attack, aren’t you?”
“We’re always planning.” She worried too much and he wanted to calm her concerns. “But we plan very carefully, Leyla. Then we act.”
“You mean attack. And the attacks always beget attacks.”
He shrugged, knowing how she wanted him to cease all his jihadist activities.
“Leyla, you have nothing to fear.”
But that night, he couldn’t have been more wrong.
She had everything to fear.
He’d stepped outside and walked down toward Abdul’s. He noticed the evening sky had turned dark amber. He smelled jasmine. The full moon lit the heat waves shimmering off the desert sands. A breeze swayed the palm tree fronds. A beautiful night.
A few steps later, he heard a unique whistling overhead. He recognized the sound, knew it was too late. Knew he was a dead man. Looked up and saw the missile streaking toward the bomb-makers’ house next to his. Saw the explosion, felt his body blown over a car and dropped onto the street where a speeding truck missed his head by inches.
His nose was broken and bleeding. He spit blood and sand. A bloody bone stuck out of his forearm. Struggling, he managed to hobble back toward his home. But it wasn’t there. Only rubble . . . and body parts.
He knelt down beside the dismembered bodies of his wife and daughter. His beautiful young daughter, Adara, lay dead, still gripping her mother’s severed arm. He buried his head into Leyla’s blood-drenched body, wept, swore revenge, and passed out.
He awakened in a hospital two days later.
Why am I still alive?
Only one reason made sense.
Allah wants me to punish those who did this to my family and the others.
He persuaded a wealthy Saudi benefactor to help the injured victims of the drone attack that killed his wife and daughter, and nine others, including two widows and their children. But after six months of helping victims, Hasham decided it was time for payback.
It was time for Al Thar - revenge.
FORTY SIX
Nell heard nothing for several minutes. No machines humming, no bottles rattling, no printers clacking, no computers beeping, no trucks coming or going.
And no men talking.
Only silence.
Hasham and his men had shut down the bottling operations and left for the night. Had they left her alone? She doubted it. Hasham had to have a night watchman walking around. A very silent watchman.
She heard a noisy truck drive down the alley behind her, spewing gasoline fumes in its wake.
She had no tools to unhinge the door. Just screws, nails, bolts, paint. She saw a small stepladder and a longer ladder, some boxes of printer paper. She had no chemicals to make an explosive.
She heard a pigeon cooing above her.
She looked up and saw the bird’s silhouette through the small glass-block window near the ceiling. The bird’s shape was clearly defined, suggesting the glass might be thinner than she thought.
Could she break the glass?
Could she even get up to it?
And if she got up to it, she had no tool to break the glass.
But if she somehow did manage to break the glass, could she squeeze through? The window looked too small.
Or was it?
She held a broom handle up and measured the window to be maybe fourteen inches high and twenty-four inches wide.
Could she crawl through? She was thin, one hundred eighteen, five-nine. Maybe with twisting, she could squeeze through. But even if she couldn’t, she could stick her head through and shout for help.
It was her only hope.
But the ladder didn’t look long enough. She carried the rickety wooden ladder over and leaned it against the wall. If she stood on the top rung, she might reach up to the window.
But how could she break the glass blocks?
Again, she rummaged through the room for something to break glass. She found nothing. Frustrated, she spun around too fast and tripped over a heavy box of printer paper, dragging it a few inches. Beneath the box, she saw the tip of a tool. She moved the box, grabbed the big rusty wrench.
Maybe seven pounds.
Maybe heavy enough.
Gripping the wrench, she started climbing the ladder. On the third rung, it wobbled so much she almost toppled over.
Slowly, rung by rung, she climbed the rickety ladder to just beneath the window.
She reached up and tapped the wrench against a glass block. The glass sounded thicker than it looked. If she could just break out the window and signal someone.
She smelled gasoline again. Another smelly truck probably drove down the alley.
She swung the heavy wrench against the glass hard and the wrench bounced back, nearly flying from her hands.
But it left a small crack in the glass.
She swung again and split the crack wider. She swung still harder and punched a bigger hole. Bits of sealant crumbled out between the glass blocks. Her next swing shattered the glass enough to see outside through a one inch hole. Fresh air whooshed onto her face and felt wonderful.
She listened for anyone responding to the broken glass. No one did. Maybe there wasn’t a night watchman.
But she now smelled serious smoke. Not truck exhaust. Not Hasham’s cigar smoke, but smoke from a fire, maybe from trash burning in the alley.
Or . . . maybe . . . burning inside this building . . .
She turned and saw smoke seeping under the door.
My God! The building’s on fire!
Why didn’t the fire alarm she saw go off? Did Hasham disable it? Did he set fire to the building to destroy everything – including me?
She bashed another glass block, but only a small chunk fell out.
She heard fire crackling right outside her door. Black smoke seeped through the slit in the wall. The smoke and the fire would soon fill her room . . . and then engulf the chemical cleaning drums . . . build pressure inside them, cause them to catch fire and possibly explode.
She slammed the wrench hard against the last three glass blocks, knocking one partly out. Smoke curled up the ladder into her lungs. She coughed hard and nearly fell off.
Fire crept toward the chemical drums – but even closer to the paint cans. Paint, she knew, could catch fire and explode.
Should she go down and move the paint cans - or keep trying to break the glass blocks?
She attacked the glass blocks with a vengeance, swinging again and again, knocking out one more glass block.
But the fire was now inches from the paint cans. She hurried back down the ladder, carried the paint cans to the corner farthest from the fire and threw a tarp over them.
She climbed back up the ladder and swung the pipe wrench at the last glass block. A slight crack. She swung again. No change. The smoke stung her nostrils.
She saw fire creep onto the tarp covering the paint cans. She’d have to risk it.
She swung harder and split the glass a bit more. Another swing knocked out a big chunk. Another knocked the rest of the glass block into the alley. She stuck her head outside, sucked in the cool fresh air and looked for someone.
She saw no one.
“HELP!”
No response.
“HELP!”
No response.
Somehow she had to lift herself - up and over - the sharp shards of glass sticking up from the lower sill - and then out through the skinny window. The alley was nine feet below. If she crawled throug
h head first and dropped, she’d break her neck.
Legs first. No other way.
But how? How could she possibly get her legs up to the window without falling back down into the flames?
She had to try.
She lifted her heel up to the sill, but it slid off. She tried again, wobbling the ladder so much she almost fell down into the flames.
Teetering on the last rung, she managed to lift her right calf onto the windowsill. Sharp glass dug into her leg. Panicked, she gripped the upper windowsill, and tried to lift her other foot up into the window. Impossible!
She couldn’t lift it without falling back.
Flames crept up her ladder. Smoke filled her lungs.
She suddenly felt very weak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t think . . .
She was losing it . . .
She was not going to make it . . .
She was going to pass out . . .
She was going to fall and die in these flames . . .
Praying for strength, she threw her head back and gasped for air . . .
. . . and saw it!
On the ceiling. Hidden in the smoke.
A long plumbing pipe. Right above her head.
She grabbed the pipe like a gymnast and pulled her other leg up and through the window, cutting her thigh a bit.
Pulling with both hands, she lifted her butt onto the windowsill, and tried to catch her breath.
Still clutching the pipe hard, she eased her butt and legs out the window as sharp glass cut into her lower back.
She let go of the pipe to drop into the alley.
She did not drop.
She wriggled hard.
She did not drop.
Her blouse had snagged on some protruding glass at the base of the windowsill frame. She tried to shake loose, but couldn’t.
She was hanging half in the window, half out . . .
The flames reached the top of the ladder, inches from her hair.
She shook harder, nothing. She twisted right, left, right. Dropped an inch.
Panicked, she jerked and spun like a mad woman, tearing her blouse and . . . finally ripping loose and dropping into the alley below, landing on her feet and hands. Slowly, she stood up, took several deep breaths and looked around. Saw no one.