Masters of Terror: A Marc LaRose Mystery

by R. George Clark

  Quietly, Marc climbed the short flight of steps. At the top of the steps was a metal hatch with a hasp that would lock it shut. Only now, the hasp was in the open position. Marc slowly pushed the hatch upward a few inches. Through the opening, he was hit with the orange and yellow of the early morning sky. The sun was just breaking over downtown Aiken.

  Slowly, Marc pushed up on the hatch and cautiously ascended another step. From around the hatch’s door, he saw a short railing that he assumed ran along the edge of the roof, but no sign of an assailant. Cautiously, he continued pushing on the hatch until it locked open. With the early morning light he could see the tops of a few buildings that ran on either side of Laurens Street, the business hub of the City of Aiken. Standing on the last step, Marc peered around the hatch. Crouched along the railing, was the dark shape of a man about fifteen feet away. Marc could see the man was using the railing to steady his aim as he pointed his pistol downwards, toward the street, and Rebecca’s car.

  Using the hatch as a shield, Marc slowly brought his firearm up, covering the man with the sights of his gun.

  “Drop the gun!” Marc commanded. His voice was clear and authoritative.

  The man flinched, surprised by the sound of Marc’s voice. A few seconds passed and he slowly got to his feet. He raised his arms over his head, still clutching the firearm in his right hand and turned, bringing himself into a standing position to face Marc. The rising sun shone down on the man’s face.

  The terrorist wasn’t a large man, maybe 5’10” or so, but he was holding a big gun. Marc recognized it as a Sig Sauer 40 caliber, which he knew was powerful enough to penetrate the steel hatch he was using as cover. Marc also recognized the shoes he was wearing. A pair of black leather dress shoes, just like the ones he had seen while he and Rebecca were hiding in the Apex Irrigation building the evening before.

  “Who the fuck are you, anyway?” the man asked.

  Marc noticed the accent, Middle Eastern, Marc suspected. “You have a short memory, asshole. I’m the guy you tried to kill twenty minutes ago.”

  The man’s facial expression turned from indignation to a sneer. “You have no idea what you’ve done, what you’ve cost us.”

  The voice of a policeman using his vehicle’s public address system called up from the street below. “You, up on the roof, this is the police. The building is surrounded. Put down your gun! Give yourself up!”

  Upon hearing the policeman, the man turned and glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the policeman’s voice.

  “From where I’m standing, it appears you’re in kind of a tight spot. The cops have the place surrounded, and I’m here with a gun pointed at your head. What’s it going to be, Mister Akhtar?”

  The terrorist’s facial expression remained unchanged. “It appears that we have underestimated you, Mister Marc LaRose.”

  The policeman’s voice called again, “You, up on the roof, this is the Aiken Police Department. The entire area is surrounded. Put down your weapon and give yourself up.”

  Akhtar again glanced at the gathering of police on the street below.

  “It seems your police friends are getting anxious for this to end. But first tell me, what are you doing here? We know you’re just a small-town private detective from upstate New York. You came here to caddy for your daughter’s boyfriend at the golf tournament in Augusta. So why do you choose to interfere? Our plans had nothing to do with you.”

  Marc held his pistol steady. He suspected the terrorist was attempting a last-ditch effort to divert his attention and create a moment’s hesitation so he could strike.

  “Give it up, Akhtar. There’s an old saying in the U.S. that you’re probably not aware of.”

  “Oh? And just what is that?”

  “Blood is thicker than water,” Marc said.

  Akhtar hesitated. “So how does that concern me?” The sneer on the terrorist’s face held steady.

  “You and your crew have caused more than your share of mayhem, leaving a bloody trail of sick, dead and traumatized people from Aiken to Augusta to Atlanta. But the biggest mistake you made was when you needlessly frightened my daughter.”

  “All this is about one of my men pushing your daughter around? Surely we can work something out.”

  “Yes, you can. You can either give yourself up, which we both know you are not prone to do, or you can do the right thing,” Marc said, remembering an article he had read concerning the ‘Old Post Office’ that he found in his room back at Rose Hill.

  Akhtar seemed to consider Marc’s words. ‘“The right thing? What do you mean? What is this ‘right thing’ you speak of?”’

  “About a hundred years ago, when this building was a working U.S. Post Office, there was a flagpole mounted in the middle of that rotunda over there,” Marc said, motioning with his pistol toward the mound of cement that formed the interior rotunda just a few feet away.

  The terrorist’s eyes flickered toward the mound.

  “It rained that day. This man, no one seems to remember his name, carried out his duty and came up through this very hatch, the same one we both used to get here. Because of the storm, it was his duty to lower the flag.”

  “So?” Akhtar spat, his lips curled downward.

  “The rain caused the mound to be slippery, and while he was attempting to bring my flag, the flag of the United States of America, inside, he slipped on the wet surface of the rotunda and fell off this roof to his death. He was trying to do the right thing, and he died for it. We both know your situation. You’re surrounded. Your accomplices have been captured or are on the run. It’s the end of the line. It’s time for you to do the right thing.”

  Akhtar’s face was expressionless. He inhaled deeply. “Suicide is not an option, Mr. LaRose.” With that, he lowered his weapon and fired, the bullet penetrating the hatch’s steel lid, but missing Marc.

  Marc ducked below the level of the roof and prepared to return fire. But, before he could react, there was an explosion of gunfire from the street below. For whatever reason, Akhtar had decided to take on the Aiken Police Department. Raising his handgun, Marc peered around the side of the hatch’s lid. Akhtar stood motionless next to the railing at the roof’s edge. Bullet holes had ripped through the back of Akhtar’s shirt. The gun fell from the terrorist’s hand, and he teetered. Just before tumbling over the railing, his face turned slightly back toward Marc. The evil sneer that Akhtar had worn before was gone, replaced with the placid look of surrender.

  A moment later, Marc heard a sickening “ka-thump” as Akhtar’s body hit the cement sidewalk thirty-feet below. Without looking over the railing, Marc turned and quickly went down the three sets of stairs to the building’s basement. Rather than heading out through the tourist office however, he exited the building through the rear service entrance.

  When Marc rounded the corner of the building, several police officers were gathered around Akhtar’s remains now in a bloody heap on the sidewalk. Rebecca and Mrs. Goodspeed were standing on the opposite side of the street.

  A detective noticed Marc exit the building. He came across the street to where Marc and the two women were standing.

  “Sir, I need some identification.”

  Marc had noticed the detective eyeing him as he joined Rebecca and Mrs. Goodspeed. He removed his New York State Police retirement ID and shield from his back pocket and handed it to the detective.

  The detective looked at the photo on the ID, then back to Marc. “Are you familiar with that man?” the detective asked, motioning toward Akhtar’s body lying on the sidewalk.

  Marc hesitated. “Yes, I believe he’s the terrorist responsible for the attack at the Savannah River Golf Links yesterday as well as an attack on me and Ms. Tripp earlier this morning. He also kidnapped this woman, Mrs. Bill Goodspeed.” Marc motioned toward the woman, her face still red from the packing tape that had been wrapped around her face. “In addition, I believe he’s responsible for the death of a former employee at the Apex Irrigation
Company, Mr. Zach Saylor. Moreover, he masterminded an attack on an Office of Secure Transportation convoy carrying nuclear material in Atlanta last night.”

  “You seem to know quite a bit. Do you know his identity?” the investigator asked.

  Marc hesitated, then exhaled. “His name is Sajak Akhtar. He owns, or owned, the Apex Irrigation Company. He and one of his sidekicks, who you’ll find on the floor of one of the rooms in the basement of this building, attacked me and Ms. Rebecca Tripp earlier this morning.”

  “There’s someone else here, inside the building? Show me,” the detective said.

  The detective motioned for another police officer to join him. Leaving Rebecca and Mrs. Goodspeed on the sidewalk, he followed Marc through the building to the second terrorist, who they found still passed-out under the table.

  When the detective started to search him, Marc retrieved the pistol from his waistband that he had taken from the man earlier. “This belongs to him. I suspect it’s the gun he used when he and his friend out on the sidewalk attacked us earlier this morning at Ms. Tripp’s condo.”

  The detective retrieved a pair of disposable gloves and a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. He put on the gloves, then dropped the handgun inside the bag.

  He turned toward the uniformed officer and motioned toward the terrorist, “Give me a hand. Let’s get him up off the floor.”

  The two men lifted the terrorist into one of the chairs around the table. The man was groggy, but appeared to be coming-to. When his eyes focused on Marc, he flinched and put his hands in front of his bloody face.” Don’t hith me, pleath,” he cried through a mouth full of busted teeth as more blood trickled from his chin.

  “What the hell happened to his face?” the detective asked.

  Marc looked down at the cowering man. “Don’t know, probably fell, or something.”

  The detective gave Marc a knowing glance, then looked at the fresh smear of blood on the tabletop. He ran his hand across the table and felt a fresh indentation. He picked out a broken piece of incisor made when the terrorist’s face came in contact with the table and shook his head. A corner of his mouth turned up. “Guess he’s going to have to learn to watch his step.”

  The detective then retrieved a radio from his belt and signaled that an EMT was needed. He told the terrorist to put his hands flat on the desk, searched him and retrieved a wallet from the man’s pants pocket. Other than a few hundred dollars however, there was nothing that would help identify him.

  “What’s your name?” the detective asked.

  The terrorist gave the detective a confused look, then pulled his bloody lips back in a ghoulish smile. “Fuck you,” he mumbled, but with blood dripping from his swollen lips and around a mouthful of broken teeth it sounded like “fuff ooh.”

  The detective stood the man up, pulled his arms around his back and secured handcuffs to his wrists.

  A moment later, two EMT’s arrived with another uniformed police officer. “He’s under arrest for felonious assault. There’ll be a few more charges, but that will hold him for now. Take him to the emergency room and get him patched up. When the doctor is through with him, bring him to the police station,” the detective said.

  “Fuff ooh,” the terrorist blurted again as the EMTs helped him out of the room. The detective and Marc followed the EMTs and watched as they loaded the terrorist into a waiting ambulance. A police car with two uniformed patrolmen left, following the ambulance to the hospital.

  The detective turned toward Marc. “What’d you say your name is?”

  “Like my ID says, my name is Marc LaRose. I’m in town with my family. We attended the golf tournament in Augusta.” He looked around and saw Rebecca. Pointing toward the two women on the sidewalk, he said, “I’d suggest you talk to those ladies over there. The younger of the two is Ms. Rebecca Tripp. It was her condo that the deceased and the guy with the busted face tried to break into. The older lady, Ms. Goodspeed was kidnapped by the terrorists last evening. We found her here, earlier this morning in the bathroom next to the tourist office. She was bound and gagged.”

  The investigator caught the ladies’ attention and walked over to them. “Ms. Tripp, I understand you had a run-in with the deceased earlier this morning.”

  “Run-in? Yeah, if you call having someone break into your home, then fill your living room with bullet holes, yeah, I guess we had a little run-in.”

  The detective shifted his attention to the woman next to Rebecca, “Aren’t you Bill Goodspeed’s wife?” the detective asked, apparently recognizing her from a previous meeting.

  She nodded, “Yes, I’m Gloria Goodspeed,” She said, still shaking from her experience with her kidnappers.

  “I thought you looked familiar. Are you injured?”

  Rebecca, knowing Gloria was unwell, jumped in. “Officer, Ms. Goodspeed was kidnapped by those men last evening. She’s been tied to a chair and wrapped in tape all night. She should be examined by a doctor.”

  The detective again pulled out his radio and directed that another ambulance respond to the scene. Then, returning his attention to Marc and the women, he said, “Why don’t we all take a seat in my car while we wait for the ambulance?”

  While they waited, Rebecca described the attack at her condo and the pursuit that led her and Marc to the Old Post Office. As she was talking, several more detectives arrived, as well as a black SUV with the word, “CORONER” emblazoned on its license plate.

  When Rebecca finished, the detective motioned toward Rebecca and Marc, “As soon as the ambulance gets here, I’m going to ask you to follow me in your car to the police station. I’ll need written statements from both of you. Mrs. Goodspeed’s can wait until she’s discharged.”

  Marc, aware that taking witness statements can be time consuming said, “Detective, I have a situation.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Before our encounter with the terrorists this morning, Ms. Tripp and I had just returned from Atlanta. We had been directed by the Office of Secure Transportation to accompany them as we had information regarding a possible terrorist attack on a convoy that was leaving the Site and traveling through Atlanta. We had just returned from that, when these guys tried breaking into Ms. Tripp’s condo in an effort to take us out. We haven’t slept for over twenty four hours, plus, I have to catch a flight out of Columbia at 2:30 this afternoon.”

  “The detective glanced at his watch, “Sounds like you folks have had a busy evening. Don’t worry, Mr. LaRose. I’ll personally see that you’re on the road in plenty of time to catch your flight.

  After the ambulance left with Gloria, Marc turned his phone on and dialed Ann Marie’s cell number.

  “Daddy, where have you been? We didn’t see you last evening and this morning, when you hadn’t returned, we were getting worried. I tried calling, but couldn’t get through.”

  “Sorry. It’s a long story. I’m just calling to give you a heads-up. Right now, I’m enroute to the police station.”

  “The police station! Daddy, what’d you do? What happened?”

  “Nothing that you should worry about. I’ll fill you in when I see you at Rose Hill. I should be there shortly, probably in an hour, maybe two.”

  Two hours later, Marc and Rebecca left the police station.

  “If you have time, I know a nice place for breakfast, my treat,” Rebecca said.

  “I’d love to but it’s running late,” Marc replied, glancing at the time on his phone. Any chance on getting a rain check?”

  “I guess,” Rebecca said with a disappointed look.

  “With all that’s happened, I’m sure either the city or the Fed’s, probably both, will need me to return here to testify. I’m sure we’ll have time then for some breakfast, or dinner, or whatever else you’d like to do,” Marc said.

  With a sad look she peered up at Marc, “Okay, I’ll hold you to that.”

  In an effort to console Rebecca, Marc wrapped his arms around her. “We’ve only know
n each other for a few hours but, you know something, Ms. Tripp?”

  “What’s that, Mr. LaRose?” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “I think you’re someone I’d like to spend a lot more time with.”

  She smiled and blinked the tears away, then raised herself up on her toes and kissed him.

  Marc returned the kiss. Then, with his arms still around her, he said, “but now that you’re going to be a federal agent, when will you find the time?”

  “You underestimate a woman’s power of persuasion. Leave that little detail to me,” she said.

  They held each other in a long embrace.

  Two cops, who were leaving the police station to begin their day on patrol, observed the two in the parking lot, whistled and clapped.

  “Better save some of that for later,” one of them shouted.

  Marc smiled, waved at the officers, then returned his attention to Rebecca. “Got time to give me a lift to Rose Hill?”

  “I have time to take you anywhere you want to go, Mr. LaRose.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Six weeks later, Marc was sitting at his kitchen table drinking a cup of decaf coffee while reading his hometown newspaper, The Plattsburgh Standard. At his feet, his cats, Brandy and Rye, made kitty noises, reminding Marc it was time for their breakfast.

  “Just a moment, fellas,” Marc said. An article at the bottom of the second page had caught his attention; “Keeseville man accused of burning his house down, then filing an insurance claim for damages, pleads guilty to arson and insurance fraud charges.” Details of the article continued on the fourth page. “The accused, Mr. Cecil Robare of Keeseville, on advice of assigned counsel, pled guilty to the reduced charges and was sentenced from three to five years at the Bare Hill State Penitentiary near Malone, New York.