by Wally Duff
Can I do this?
138
Footfalls echoed on the floor behind me, but I didn’t turn around, afraid of losing my focus on Farhad.
Please be Tony.
I braced for a TSA guard trying to tackle me. Tony skidded to a halt next to me and pulled out his ankle revolver. He was alone. The remaining running passengers saw the second gun and began screaming louder, making it hard to hear.
He trained his revolver on Farhad.
“What’s going on?” he said over the noise.
“Farhad’s making a play for a second trigger in his pocket. Where are the cops and the TSA?”
“They’re coming up with a plan.”
“They’ll be too late!”
“Relax. Dude is scared shitless of me. Check his eye.”
I could only see Farhad’s right eye because he kept ducking behind Sammy’s head. But that pupil was widely dilated, and from what little I could see of his forehead, he sweated profusely.
We inched toward him.
Sweat dripped off of Farhad’s forehead. “Do not move any closer!”
We stopped moving.
“Let me go, or I will detonate all the bombs!” he continued.
“Tony!” I screamed. “He can blow up all the boob bombs!”
boom-BOOM!
139
My head began to throb. My vision became fuzzy.
No! Not now!
I took in a deep breath and blinked my eyes. “Let’s try and reason with him.”
“No way. Let me handle it.”
Tony’s gold detective shield hung from a chain around his neck. He held it up in his left hand. “I’m Detective Infantino with the Chicago PD. Do not put your hand in your pocket!”
Sammy blinked back tears and looked like she was going to faint. I made eye contact with her.
Hold on, girl.
I slightly jerked my head to the right as a signal to move so I would have a shot.
She nodded back.
Focusing on Farhad, I stayed in a shooter’s stance. My right hand was sweating on the butt of the gun.
Breathe slowly. Stay in control.
“Farhad, let Sammy go,” I said. “We can talk about this.”
Was he ready to die? I had no way of knowing, but I wasn’t going to let him kill me.
“Do not reach for that trigger!” Tony said, taking his own aggressive approach.
No, Tony! Give him a way out.
Farhad’s right eyelid narrowed, and his pupil became a black dot.
Ah, man, don’t do this.
I focused on what I could see of his face. His right arm was partially obscured by Sammy’s body. If he moved his hand toward his pocket, I had to shoot him.
Remember Arlington.
Farhad moved his hand toward his pocket.
“Sammy, now!” I screamed.
She slugged him in his side with her right elbow and pulled down and away from him.
“Allahu Akbar!” he screamed as he staggered back from Sammy’s blow. He jammed his hand into his pocket and yanked out a black box.
I didn’t hesitate.
I fired twice.
A micro-second later, Tony did too.
140
My first shot hit Farhad’s right shoulder. The second bullet entered his right upper chest. Farhad’s torso jerked from the impact of my two bullets, causing both of Tony’s shots to miss high and right.
The black box flipped out of Farhad’s hand and flew behind him. He hit the floor with a thud and landed on his right side. He groaned and rolled to his back. As he writhed around, blood flowed from the wound in his shoulder and shot straight up from the other one in his chest, like a bright red Old Faithful stream. That crimson stream pulsated with his heart beat.
The copper odor of fresh blood and gunpowder enveloped us.
Sammy began crawling on all fours away from Farhad.
My ears rang from my gunshots and Tony’s, which had gone off next to my right ear.
Sammy jumped up and slipped on the rapidly expanding puddle of Farhad’s blood. She lurched and skidded but was able to sprint away from the madness next to her.
I waved at the rest of the strippers. “Get out of here! Follow Sammy.”
They did. Micah didn’t.
Micah’s a doctor!
“Micah!” I screamed. “You’re a doctor! Help him!”
Micah crossed his arms across his chest and didn’t move.
Farhad’s bleeding to death!
“Dammit, Micah, do something!” I screamed again.
Micah uttered several words in Yiddish, but he made no effort to do anything.
Farhad’s thrashing slowed down. The geyser of blood pumping from his chest wound transformed to a dark red-black color and no longer pulsated.
The fingers of his right hand clenched and re-clenched in an attempt to activate the device that was behind him.
We have to help him! He’s too young to die!
I took a step forward to save him, but Tony stopped me with his left arm. “I’ll do this.”
He kept his gun trained on Farhad as he slowly walked toward the terrorist.
Micah stared at Farhad but remained standing still with his arms crossed over his chest.
Farhad’s movements were minimal. The flow of blood from the two wounds slowed to a trickle. The puddles of blood on his chest began to clot and looked like chunks of liver.
Farhad stopped moving.
Tony squatted down and, taking no chances, jammed his gun against the terrorist’s head and searched Farhad’s body for another trigger. He didn’t find one.
Picking up the black box, Tony put it in his pocket. It looked like a garage door opener.
He walked over to me. “Give that to me.”
“What?” I asked. My ears were still ringing.
“Give me my fucking gun!” he muttered, nodding at the gun in my hand.
I handed the Glock to him. He slipped his ankle revolver into the palm of my hand.
“Take this and tell them this is the gun you fired.”
141
Before I could ask why he wanted me to switch guns with him, there was a commotion behind us. Swarms of Chicago policemen and policewomen, TSA agents, and a SWAT team ran toward us. Sammy and the other strippers sprinted toward them. A small group of TSA agents broke off from the main group and stopped the girls. The larger core group continued moving toward us.
When they reached us, they screened off the passengers who were still fleeing in both directions. The result was that Tony, Micah, and I were isolated from the chaos around us. When the group saw our guns, they trained their weapons on us.
Immediately behind them, men and women wearing blue FBI windbreakers with yellow lettering approached us. They had their weapons drawn and pushed between the law enforcement personnel.
Micah hadn’t moved. He stood still, staring at the young man. I did too. Farhad’s body lay at our feet.
I killed him.
I raised my arms, holding the revolver in my right hand. Micah lifted his empty hands.
Tony held up his gold badge and his Glock. “I’m Detective Anthony Infantino. I have this situation under control.”
“I don’t think so, Detective,” said one of the FBI agents, as he stepped forward. “This is a matter of national security. We’re taking everyone into custody.”
“Hold it,” an athletic young man in a cheap, blue blazer said. He grabbed Micah’s arm. “I have a Presidential Order,” he said, waving around a piece of paper. “Dr. Mittelman is going with me.”
The FBI agent and the man began arguing. Tony joined in. A TSA agent added his voice to the heated discussion. The late Mr. al-Turk had been right; none of our agencies cooperated with each other.
142
Al-Turk!
His lifeless, black eyes flashed into my memory.
Farhad’s body lay in front of me.
Al-Turk.
Farhad.
I’d
killed both of them!
I started breathing rapidly, and my hands began to tingle. Black dots clouded my vision. Tony’s revolver slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
A female wearing a blue FBI windbreaker quietly ushered me away from the mass of law enforcement personnel around Tony, Micah, and Farhad’s body. As we walked, I continued to sob and lost awareness of my surroundings.
She led me to a small windowless room in the basement of the airport. She stepped inside with me and shut the door. There was one metal chair and a metal table in the middle of the room. A white blouse, green shorts, and ASICS running shoes sat on the table.
She grabbed the clothes and shoes from the top of the table and handed them to me. “Please remove what you’re wearing and put these on,” she instructed.
“What?”
I had trouble focusing. Only the blank glare of dead eyes filled my mind.
“Put these clothes on.”
I killed al-Turk.
I killed Farhad.
With no will of my own, I did what she said.
She stood with me while I undressed and put on the new clothes.
Whoa. Everything fits, including the shoes.
I stopped crying and began to pay attention.
“Please give me your cell phone,” she requested. Her voice was flat.
I handed it to her.
She took it and gathered up my clothes and shoes. She left with my belongings and closed the door behind her. I heard a click. I tried the doorknob. The door was locked.
Am I in trouble here?
I sat down in the metal chair and waited.
What time is it?
There was no clock in the room. Without my cell phone or a watch, I had no way of knowing what time it was. The only noise came from the hum of the florescent lights and the air conditioner fan clicking off and on. The room’s walls and ceiling were stark white. The floor was gray cement. The air was stale. I smelled sweat and sensed fear. Some of it came from previous inhabitants of the room. Some came from me.
Do I need a lawyer?
If I did, how was I going to contact one without a phone?
I just wanted to go home and write my story.
Standing up, I tried the door again. It was still locked. I walked around the perimeter of the room, searching for another way out. I didn’t find one.
I made another circuit around the room and looked for security cameras and listening devices. I didn’t see any.
The third time around the room, I paced it off.
Eight feet by ten feet.
I sat down again and put my elbows on the top of the table.
Come on, guys.
Finally, the agent came back into the room.
“Mrs. Thomas, you are free to go,” she said.
“What?”
“You can leave.”
“But...”
She opened the door. I walked out of the room. She escorted me outside into the sunlight and turned to leave.
“What about my cell phone?” I asked.
She handed it to me.
“And my clothes and shoes?” I continued.
She glared at me and left me standing on the airport’s curb.
143
My cell phone wouldn’t work. I ran to my van and roared away from O’Hare. When I turned onto the Kennedy, I tried my cell phone again. This time the transmission wasn’t blocked.
I called Carter and took a deep breath before I spoke. I wanted to sound calm and keep from sobbing. But it was hard.
Because I killed Farhad. And al-Turk.
“Honey, there’s been a little dustup at O’Hare,” I said.
“We received a report that the airport has been shut down, but there is a total communication blackout.” He hesitated before he spoke again. “How did you find out about it?”
“I’m, um, kind of here.”
“Here? Where is ‘here’?”
“At O’Hare.”
“What?!” He yelled into his phone. “Why are you there? Where is Kerry? Is she safe?”
“Relax, Carter. Kerry’s fine; she’s with Molly and Cas.”
“And?”
I took in another deep breath. “And I was working on Micah’s story when it went to hell, and I rushed out here.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
I dabbed tears from my eyes as I pictured Farhad’s lifeless body. “I’m fine.”
But I could tell from his voice he knew I was lying.
“I’m coming out there.”
“Better bring reporters and photographers with you. This is the story of the year.”
I told him where to go in the airport.
“And I’ll meet you at home,” I said when I finished.
“Home? You can’t be serious?”
“I’m tired of this, and I want to be with Kerry.”
“Isn’t this the story you wanted to write?”
“I’ve had all the excitement I can stand for one day. You take care of this, and I’ll pick up Kerry.”
And figure out what to do with al-Turk’s body.
144
I called Molly. My hands continued to shake as I dialed.
“Molly, is Kerry okay?”
“She’s fine,” Molly said. “She’s running around the house with my kids.”
“Where is Cas?”
“She took her kids home when those men came here.”
A lump formed in my throat as I pictured more terrorists I hadn’t accounted for. “What men?”
“Three cute government guys. They talked to Hannah and then took her and her kids home.”
“Could you keep Kerry a little longer? There are a few more details I need to work out.”
“No problem.”
Carter and his reporters would begin to work on the story as soon as they arrived at O’Hare, but I was positive that account would be heavily sanitized by all of the federal agencies involved. The reporter who possessed the whole story hadn’t written it yet, but I was ready to begin.
If I ever stopped crying.
145
Walking into our home, I sniffed, anticipating the stench of death.
Uh-oh.
The air smelled artificially clean. I sniffed again. Same result.
Go back and get al-Turk’s gun out of the van.
Instead, I went into the kitchen. Mr. al-Turk’s body was missing. A lady sat at our kitchen table. She watched me stare at my spotless kitchen floor.
What the heck is going on?
She wore a black power suit with a high-neck, white blouse. She had a round face and man-short gray hair. She didn’t have on any jewelry, but there was a bulge under the right side of her coat.
Gun?
“We need to talk, Mrs. Thomas,” the lady said. “I’ve been waiting for you, and I don’t have much time.”
“Who are you?” I asked, looking back up at her.
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a leather wallet. Flipping it open, she displayed an FBI badge.
“I am Georganne Roth, Deputy Director of the FBI.”
A Deputy Director? Big dog here.
I glanced at the clean kitchen floor again.
“That problem has been taken care of,” she said, as she watched me do it. “We’ve also cleaned up your upstairs bathroom, washed your bloody clothes and your husband’s trench coat. And sanitized the house across the street and removed the man your friend Cas tied up.”
“Efficient.”
She nodded. I glanced toward our lower level stairs. She saw me do it.
“There is no reason to search in the laundry room for your flash drive or in the garage for the rest of the trash you stole. We have it all.”
“Am I to assume the files about the terrorists have been deleted from my computer’s hard drive too?”
“We pride ourselves on being thorough.” She handed a sack to me. “I brought this for you.”
I glanc
ed inside. It contained the brown shorts, yellow golf shirt, and ASICS running shoes I’d worn to the airport.
“Do you want these back?” I asked, pointing to the clothes and shoes I’d been given at the airport.
“I think not, but I suggest you put on your own clothes after I leave. That way your husband won’t know what we’ve done.”
“And what exactly have ‘we’ done?”
“For starters, we removed al-Turk’s body.”
“Obviously. What happened to it?”
She stared at me. “This is none of your concern.”
“It most certainly is. I need that information for my story.”
“Ah, yes, about that. We’ve made a few changes to solve your problem with the shooting. At this moment, the NSA is planting a background story on the Internet, where your husband and his reporters will discover incontrovertible proof that one of the men who lived across the street from you was at the airport attempting to force Dr. Mittelman to give up his secret medical formula. This information will identify the other two men — who worked for and lived with al-Turk — as agents for a prominent foreign pharmaceutical company whose home office is in Iran.”
“But what about the gun I fired? I didn’t have a license for it.”
“That has been taken care of.”
“But not by you.”
Her jaw muscles twitched, but she remained silent.
“It was the guy at the airport with the presidential pardon, right?”