The Presence of Evil

by J. T. Patten

  As Drake had calculated, the weight of the big jet, its airspeed and accelerated lift once it passed the skyscraper wind canyon funnels formed strong vortices of air turbulence that spun the yellow cloud upward in a trail sucked up and out toward the Lake Michigan waters. Still, some of Azrael was pushed down low and outward toward Drake. It clouded his vision and shifted the stampede’s direction. The closer he got to the girl, the more people blocked his path. Stay there, kid, I’m coming.

  Drake, we’re going to die. It’ll eat us to the bone. Do not go in there, the dark voice warned from nowhere. Do not fucking go into that death trap. I’ll kill you, so help me I will.

  Then let me do it first.

  As he ran, shoving people along the way and dropping his shoulders to ram his azimuth trail, he recalled being out of his own body in the hospital. So many years ago, in Tunisia. He couldn’t feel pain. He couldn’t feel his body, but he had felt cold and alone. His parents were dead. And then he felt the warmth of Tom Mendle’s hands wrapping around his. Tom was pleading with Drake to hang on. That everything would be okay. And suddenly, he didn’t feel so chilled, nor did he feel the isolation.

  Feet away, Woolf watched in horror as a small boy holding a yellow bag was tripped. The kid’s plastic green hat rolled for but a second before it was stomped on and crushed. Woolf shifted back to the little girl from the apartment with those pink ribbons. She was gone. Drake hammered himself into the crowd and reached down to grab a fistful of the boy’s shirt, yanking him up. The boy was still crying, which was a good sign. How badly he had been injured from being trampled was a question for the doctors if Drake could just get him to someone who could take him to care.

  And then he saw the ribbons.

  The small girl was scampering on her hands and knees toward an opening of free space. With the young boy tucked into Drake’s side, he lowered his center of gravity to resist the flow of the crowd and made a beeline to the girl ten feet away.

  * * * *

  Special Agent Marcus Collier kept an eye on the crowd through his high-powered rifle scope. There was nothing he could do about the madhouse four hundred yards out from his position. All he could do was look for any UNSUB threat actors who were responsible or making matters worse.

  Agent Collier was vaguely aware of the radiological threat but had no real clue about the severity. The yellow haze had to be it. He had given a silent prayer for their souls, and another prayer that the terrorists would come into his sights. When the jet passed overhead sucking the death cloud away, Collier saw another opportunity for a clear shot. He had one kill while on the Bureau’s SWAT team. A pathetic drunk loser who had barricaded himself in a house with his fourteen-year-old stepdaughter. Collier had the drunk in his sights just as the FBI negotiator opened the front door to place a bag of food.

  In Iraq, when a jihadi had a weapon, they were going to use a weapon. If you had a shot, you took the shot. And so, too, did Marine Corporal Collier, much to the surprise of everyone who had expected a more peaceful outcome before the back of the drunk’s head blew apart.

  Special Agent Collier received an official reprimand and many unofficial pats on the back, especially from those agents in the field office who had served in the sandbox.

  Collier had mouths to feed back home, so when he first saw the yellow FBI letters running to the crowd, he kept his finger far and away from the trigger and gave a mental fist bump into the air for the hero running into the fray, yet when he saw the side of the man’s face, his finger moved and he radioed for a request again to take the shot.

  Chapter 91

  “This is Bravo-3. Charlie-6, do you copy?”

  “Good copy, Bravo-3. What’s up?”

  “CPD’s suspect alert that matches our UNSUB is running to the crowd. He has a child in his arms. Looks like he’s using the kid as a shield.”

  “Bravo-3, you’re saying the UNSUB is involved in the WMD attack?”

  “Can’t be a coincidence. He just scooped up another kid, has both of them covering his body. He’s looking around. Looks very suspicious.”

  “Bravo-3, does he have a weapon?”

  “I don’t have a visual, but from the video and photos CPD is circulating, I’ve got near certainty it’s the guy who killed those people up north and stole my shit. We know he’s armed and dangerous. This must be his end game.”

  “Too many people, Bravo-3. Stand down. We can’t take that chance.”

  Shit.

  * * * *

  With both children in his arms, Drake tried to scan the area for an ambulance or first responders who were actually responding and not watching from a safe distance. The yellow haze burned his eyes like tear gas and burned his lungs nearly the same.

  To his right, four school busses pulled up to the parade blockade. Officers swarmed the busses while the lead driver leaned out the window, pointing to the crowds. Drake saw the series of nods all around, and then the officers moved the barricades and started waving people over. The busses pulled to the sides of the street. CPD all-terrain vehicles sped up to the front of the lead bus and started to clear a path.

  Officers directed scores of people carrying their children to get them onto busses where they could be taken to the aid station at McCormack Place a mile away.

  Dantrell pulled his head from Drake’s chest. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, but they were open and he was looking around. “Those are our busses.” He pointed.

  Zarielle lifted her head, too. Her face was a mess of tears, mucus, and yellow stains. “We painted them.”

  “Who had you paint them, sweetie?”

  “Two-bags,” she said, “and him.” Zarielle pointed.

  Drake squinted at the lead driver waving a blue-jacketed arm, heralding people onto the bus. He couldn’t make out the other drivers.

  The voice of Drake’s father entered his consciousness. First wave. Second wave, Drake.

  Now filled, the lead bus started to move. The driver waved to an officer, looked over the crowd, and in the opening where Drake stood, they made eye contact.

  Dexter.

  The Modarris, Dexter Woolf, smiled at Drake. His arm out the opening, Dex gave a slow wave below the window.

  “Can you walk?” he asked the kids, setting them down. They both nodded. Drake set them down, but Dantrell screamed in pain and collapsed, holding his leg.

  An officer jogged toward Drake.

  Drake stepped out as the officer neared. “FBI, I need you to help these two kids,” Drake shouted to the blue. “His leg may be broken, maybe internal injuries. I have to go after that bus.”

  “Don’t touch the blue barrels,” Zarielle warned. “They can blow up.”

  Drake pulled his weapon.

  High above, Special Agent Collier still had Woolf in his sights. “This is Bravo-3, suspect is pulling a weapon at CPD. The kids are out of his reach. I’m clear for a shot.”

  “Take the shot, Bravo-3.”

  Chapter 92

  Tresa Halliday had just panned to the movement of the lead bus and caught a glimpse of pink and the yellow FBI letters that drew her attention. An agent was putting the children down and talking to an officer. Drake. There was some brief discussion; then Drake looked to a bus and withdrew a gun.

  The next thing she knew, Drake Woolf’s legs were up in the air, arms outstretched as he flew backward.

  “Drake!” she shouted.

  “What?” the sniper to her right called over.

  “Stop it. He’s one of us. Don’t shoot. Who’s shooting?” she screamed.

  The sniper called back. “Bravo-1 to Bravo-3. Hold fire. Repeat. Hold fire. Friendly was just shot.”

  * * * *

  Drake gasped for a breath. His whole midsection felt compressed. He waited for those hard-ass punches to continue, but in the moment that he lay there holding himself, they never came.<
br />
  “Warren!” a voice shouted.

  He raised his head to the calls.

  Dexter’s expression was blank, then he smiled. The Modarris waved his arm. Beckoning Drake to follow. “Let’s go. Get in a bus!”

  Dazed, Drake looked around again, his breathing becoming easier. He patted his vest, which now had multiple holes. It was toast. The next impact could find promise.

  “You’re that guy,” the cop realized as he took the children and gave Drake a closer look. “You’re that fucking guy that shot Detective Daniels.”

  Drake popped to his feet. “No, man. One of the good guys. And there’s a bomb on that bus.” Woolf scooped up his weapon and jetted for the busses.

  Dexter accelerated and followed the police escort.

  Drake waved to the blues on the street. “There’s a bomb on the bus. Don’t let them go. Stop the busses!”

  The officers shouted to other officers within earshot. “Take him down. He shot the detective!”

  “Stop the fucking bus!” Drake sprinted to the second bus, pointing his weapon at the driver, who hit the brakes and lifted his hands.

  “Get out of the fucking bus!” Drake moved around and directed the nearest officers. “Get them out of the busses.” They remained conflicted by what an officer was yelling and what an FBI agent was ordering.

  The middle-aged African American bus driver stepped out. “Don’t shoot! I’m coming. I don’t have a bomb.” Woolf yanked him down to the ground.

  The other officers just stood around and started gathering and pointing once they pieced things together. “They’re saying that’s the fucking guy. That’s the shooter from up north.”

  Oh, shit. “Stop those busses. There are blue barrels in back with explosives!” Drake shouted.

  As they turned, Drake jumped up and into the driver’s seat and floored it to catch Dexter.

  From a side mirror he saw some officers boarding the bus, while others withdrew their weapons, eyes trained on him as he drove away. CPD hindered only because of the amount of people behind Drake as he sped off.

  Drake floored the bus down Columbus Drive. He’s headed to the emergency staging ground at McCormick Place. From what Halliday had said, an assistance center would be set up by FBI victim services division immediately, and a number of emergency responders and FBI agents would be congregating to receive casualties and direct family members.

  What are you doing, Dex?

  He played you, Drake, the dark voice chastised. Check, check, checkmate to you. You lose. It’s been him all along. He killed your parents. He tried to kill you.

  Drake pulled his phone out of a pocket to call Havens.

  “Hey, I hoped it was you,” Sean answered. “Halliday says you got shot and now you’re on a bus?”

  “I’m alive. Sean, I think my brother is the operative. He’s heading to the victim area. I’ve got a big blue barrel in the back here, and I can see through the glass, he has one up in front too. I have no idea what the trigger mechanism could be. Probably cellular.”

  “Can you get in front or stop him?”

  “I have a bus full of people. So does he.”

  “Fuck. You think he’s going to ram something or detonate?”

  “No clue.” Drake turned to the rear. “Is there anything electronic on the blue barrel?” Woolf shouted to the back of the bus. From the back window he saw the red-and-blue lights of a police SUV fast approaching.

  “Wires and a cell phone all taped and wrapped,” someone from the rear shouted up. “Are we going to blow up?”

  “Yeah, Sean. Wires and a receiver. Get Mojo to shut the frequency.”

  “You can’t without shutting off a grid, can you?”

  “He should be able to pinpoint the signal emissions around me. Just until we can stop these busses and get them away from more crowds. I’m about five minutes out.”

  “Drake, we need to take out the driver before he gets close. You need to stop your bus.”

  “Focus them on taking him out. Get Mojo now. I’m still too close to people along the road. It clears out in another hundred yards.”

  Drake hung up and tried calling the number he had been surveilling.

  “Little brother,” the voice answered. “You did great back there, War.”

  “Dex, what are you doing?”

  “What has to be done. But much less than you are assuming.”

  “Dex, stop the bus.”

  “I can’t. They’re watching.”

  “Who?”

  “The world’s stage.”

  “Dex, why are you doing this? You used me. You were the one all along.”

  “Nothing is as it seems, Warren. You need to make it out. I need you to take care of something for me. You’ll find the details on the saved voice memo. I know you have access, and I left it for you. Goodbye, brother.”

  “Dex!”

  * * * *

  “We can take them both out as they hit McFetridge Drive,” the CPD commander informed Jay by radio.

  “Don’t shoot our guy,” Halliday pushed back. “We’ll clear it up after we get this sorted, but our guy has saved thousands of lives. He is not a threat.”

  “Just tell us what bus and which guy he is,” the commander radioed back.

  “He’s wearing a blue raid jacket.”

  The commander transmitted the description to his men along the route.

  “They’re both wearing raid jackets,” he informed Jay and Halliday.

  “The lead bus is the one to take out,” Halliday directed.

  “Take out the lead,” said Jay.

  “The lead bus,” the commander called out. He turned to Jay. “We’re lining some of the wagons along the sides of the offramp. It should slow the speed and funnel the bus to a stop.”

  “There is no lead bus. They’re side by side. Hard to tell. A CPD unit is in pursuit. Sounds like the busses are jockeying back and forth,” the radio squawked.

  “They’re side by side,” Jay relayed to Halliday.

  “Let me call.” Halliday received a dead signal response. The phones are killed.

  “Special Agent Halliday, we have to make a decision.”

  Woolf had body armor on, but they had to take whatever shot they had. It could be a head shot, she rationalized to herself. Drake, please be wearing your vest.

  “Special Agent Halliday!”

  It was an impossible decision. “Can you take them both without a head shot?”

  “We’re under an attack by terrorists. I’m not askin’ if you want a wing or a leg,” Jay responded. “We have to stop this now. Commander, have them take the shots.”

  “You have approval to take them both out,” he ordered.

  Halliday lifted he binoculars in vain. Just to see him one last time. He’d be clucking away like his own time bomb. “His mouth. Wait. The guy clicking his mouth open in patterns of three. Don’t shoot the guy whose mouth is moving. Patterns of three.”

  Unsure of what he was relaying, Jay ordered, “Don’t shoot the guy moving his mouth in patterns of three. The guy moving his mouth in Morse code is not the target.”

  * * * *

  Drake raced parallel to his brother. He couldn’t just stop. Dexter wouldn’t look over and held his eyes straight ahead.

  Woolf could see police lining the street, their vehicles wedging the road to a narrow opening ahead. Their weapons were raised at the busses.

  Look over, Dex. Look at me. He’s gone, Drake, let him go, the voice of his father encouraged in his mind. He was already gone.

  Drake looked again to his left. Dexter’s hand had dropped. Through the door windows he could see Dex slightly raising his hand goodbye. The fingers suddenly splayed out.

  The window was sprayed with red. Again. And again. Dex gyrated but gripped the wheel, in
tent on driving the bus in control toward the center of the aligned vehicles.

  Drake braked as the road narrowed, slowing to a stop as Dex’s bus hit and scraped against the paddy wagons slowly coming to a halt, at which time it was swarmed with police.

  Drake ran to the back of his own bus, sending people running out the door as he passed their seats. What’s the hurry? he thought. The radiation’s going to kill us anyway.

  Once at the barrel, Drake inspected the device and wiring.

  The phone was powered off. Wires were wrapped around the device, but their connections were free. From a circuitry perspective, the bomb was benign. From the windows, Drake could see FBI agents talking to police and pointing to the bus.

  Drake shrugged off his jacket and placed a discarded green hat and beads from a seat on himself and exited with the last passengers. He hurried into the crowd that was directed toward the museum campus along with the other flow of people directed toward the emergency triage area.

  Chapter 93

  Were it not for the CPD helmet and jacket lying on top of the police four-wheeler, Drake probably wouldn’t have considered stealing the quad as he searched for a way out.

  The death of his brother was an odd relief, and yet Drake still had questions. Questions, however, could wait. As far as he was concerned, there were no more major threats. And if there were more tangos readying up another wave of attacks, he sure as hell was tapped out on who and where they could be. He’d done more than his fair share as an individual and had little more to give.

  It had only happened a few times in his multiple tours that the lost innocence or life of a child hit him hard. That little girl with the pink ribbons got to him. There was nothing more that he could do for her. They were all doomed from the radioactive dust, so if he could do anything at all, it would be to find Two-bags.