by Rick Jones
The president nodded at this with a positive reaction. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. Then he handed the photo back. “Find that man.”
“Yes, sir.”
Once the meeting concluded with the president informing all security leaders to keep him posted every minute of every hour, Burroughs, though he felt some comfort in the positive movement going forward, it was still marginal.
Allawi was out there, somewhere, the man most likely planning his next move. This is all a chess game, thought President Burroughs. That’s all this is. Allawi had played his game well by moving his pawns into position. But when one failed to detonate his vest and perhaps one other having a change of heart, this allowed President Burroughs to counter with several tools at his disposal.
Now that operatives from all over the nation were converging quickly on known associates who were popping up on the computer ledger, Allawi’s protective bubble was about to burst. Under the articles of the Patriot Act, associates and family members could not lawyer up because the Act was an enhanced domestic security measure against terrorism.
People will talk.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Washington, D.C.
1312 Hours
Mukhtar Ajam discarded his vest minutes after he absconded from the site of the Columbia Bank and tossed it in the Potomac, where it sank. And then he ran until he could run no more, the man sweating profusely while his chest labored for oxygen. Then he leaned against the concrete rail of the bridge and looked down at the waterway, as the currents swept beneath him. Allah was no longer a consideration to him, or his God. He was once again Jerhon Bellamy, a simple Black kid from the Bronx who was looking for direction, only to find a dead end at its finish. His life may not have been what he wanted it to be, but death was certainly not a part of his underlying beliefs. He simply wanted to fit into any societal program, and he did so with chameleon adaptability. He voiced his praises in the name of Allah. He even aided in creating his vest that was to be laden with Semtex bricks. But in the end, his allegiance to Mohammad Allawi and to Allah was a false one. He was now a man on the run after committing an unforgiveable act. And because of this he was more afraid of Mohammad Allawi than he was of Allah.
After gaining his breath, Jerhon Bellamy, who shed his second skin of Mukhtar Ajam, continued his run. All around him were CCTV cameras which acted as the eyes of Washington, D.C., which captured his image with crystal clarity. Three hours after his failure to detonate his vest, Bellamy found himself inside an old and abandoned warehouse. His clothes had become dirty and dust laden, which mattered little to him now that he was all alone and had nowhere to go.
Jerhon Bellamy, as fast as he was, could only run so far.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Winchester, Virginia
1319 Hours
It was one of the rare occasions that Mohammad Allawi had lost his cool. Sweeping his arm, he knocked the items off the kitchen counter before he proceeded to do the same to the items sitting on the kitchen table. Plates and glasses shattered on the floor. Silverware chimed until they settled. And a sugar bowl exploded upon impact, spreading granules everywhere.
Najm and others looked on as they allowed Mohammad Allawi to vent.
Then as Allawi fought for calm, he said, “Failure! Do any of you have any idea what that means?”
No one answered.
“It means that everything we have designed up to this point is unraveling! Everything was working without fault! Mukhtar Ajam is now on the run, his soul damned as a coward! How long do you think it’ll take the authorities to track down a man who has nowhere to go?”
Still, no one answered.
“The blast would have been effective enough to break Ajam down to bits so small, identification would have been impossible. The same with Masood Zaman, who was killed before he could detonate his package.”
Allawi started to pace the floor while running a hand nervously through his hair. And then: “It won’t take long for the national security forces to close in,” he finally said. “With the responses of Zaman acting too late and Ajam cowering, Homeland and the Feds will begin to connect the association dots the moment these two are identified . . . Eventually, this location will be compromised.”
“Now what?” asked Najm.
Allawi looked at him. “We simply counter and act accordingly to the situation,” he told him. “We’ve two undertakings left in our agenda before we leave the country. We must accelerate the timetable and act quickly.”
“How quickly?”
Allawi took a moment to consider the question. Then: “Tonight,” he began, “we start with the woman. Shari Cohen.” Then he planned out an operation to abduct her and made it abundantly clear that she was to be kept alive. “We’ll take her to the Middle East,” he told them, “as a gift to my allegiance to the Islamic State, who will treat her in a manner that will make her wish that she was dead. After reconsidering her fate, it’ll be a far greater punishment than dying by my hand.” Then with Najm’s suggestions, amendments were made to the existing plan to assure that Shari Cohen would be in Allawi’s custody come nightfall.
That took care of the first operation. Then there was another discussion regarding a second operation that could only be conducted at a specified time, which was in two days.
“I have hidden the instrument necessary to see this done,” Najm told Allawi.
“But we’ll need to move it so as not to jeopardize the operation, should the Feds decide to move on our location.”
“Show me what you have, Najm.”
Ushering Allawi to the basement level of the house, Najm unlocked a master catch and forced back a false wall. Behind the wall was a small room that was surrounded by walls made of fieldstone. Lying in the center of this chamber was a freezer with a lid top.
Crossing the dirt floor, Allawi pointed to the chest: “Open it.”
Najm did.
Inside the freezer were stacks of Semtex bricks that had been accumulated through several channels over the two years that Allawi had been incarcerated. Sitting in a wire basket was the timer and detonator, obviously inactive.
Najm closed the lid. “As you can see, we’re ready.”
Allawi was pleased. The problem now was that they would have to move to a new location that would be less secure. Because in two days, a performance was to take place at a venue whose time could not be changed and was beyond their power to do so. Therefore, the detonation would have to take place as originally scheduled.
“Tonight, the woman,” Allawi said. “Then we’ll deal with this.” He pointed to the chest.
“Yes, Allawi.”
“But first, send a message to the political principals and let them know that they have an additional twenty-four hours to comply with my demands, not a moment longer. And make no mention of Operation Herod. Let them continue to trouble over that. Is that clear, Najm?”
“Yes, Mohammad.”
Allawi smiled lightly as he placed a hand on Najm’s shoulder. “I couldn’t have asked for a better aid in all of this,” he told him. “I wish that all of this had gone smoother. But as you said, plans always look great on paper but are rarely performed to perfection. We’ve been lucky to this point. After we collect the woman, then we’ll move to our new safehouse. Once there, I want you to spearhead the drive to get this device to where it needs to go.”
“I’ve already devised a plan,” he told him. “We’ll have no problem.”
Allawi’s smile flourished. “You are going to be a wonderful asset to our brothers in the Middle East. The principals will certainly favor you as I do.”
“Thank you, Mohammad. Kind words from you mean a lot to me.”
“They’re more than kind words, Najm. They’re the truth. Someday we will rule. It is Allah’s will.” Then he pointed to the chest. “If the United States government does not abide by the will of Allah, then we will move forward as planned.”
“And if they do comply and m
eet our demands within the time limit?”
“Then we move forward anyway. This will be in retribution for the children who have been lost in the battles headed by the United States and the Coalition Forces.”
“Yes, Allawi.”
And then the cell leader was gone, leaving Najm alone with a chest filled with enough Semtex to level a massive construction.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was a long day for Kimball Hayden, but the drive was going well. There was little to no traffic on I-95 with caution heavy in the air. Outside of gas stops, he continued at his 80-plus mile-per-hour pace, even after the sun had set. Stars could not be seen, meaning that a cloud cover was moving in. As it did, he hoped that it would not rain, which would slow down his drive.
He checked the clock on the dashboard. It read: 8:36 p.m.
With less than three hours to go, he wondered how Shari would take or accept his presence. Or perhaps it would be best if he stayed within the shadows where he felt most comfortable and watch from afar, until he was needed.
Yeah, he thought. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll keep her safe from the shadows.
Kimball continued to drive.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Washington, D.C.
After the NSA cleaned up the photo of the third man who ran from the Columbia Bank, they downloaded his image into the VisageWare facial-recognition program and, with the collusion of the FBI and their NCIC database, they were able to come up with the name of Jerhon Bellamy, a small-time drug pusher who spent time in the penitentiary for drug sales.
Using certain landmark features on Bellamy’s face, the NSA techs were able to rewind captured video and track Bellamy’s steps through numerous CCTV cameras from the moment he broke from the line to run along the Potomac, until he ended up at an old industrial park filled with abandoned buildings.
Even in the United States, Big Brother was everywhere.
* * *
Washington, D.C.
0957 Hours
Jerhon Bellamy never had familial support in his life until he met inmates who gave him not only the support he needed, but a family he longed for. They had become his brothers who preached causes under the banner of the Islamic faith. He would become a member of a united brotherhood, they told him. And serve as part of a constituent that would become the crusaders who would usher in a new era of Enlightenment. With his newfound family, though he cared little of the Enlightenment, Jerhon Bellamy accepted the call because he believed that he belonged to something that gave him a measure of self-worth. But as fate would have it, he once again found himself alone and without family.
The sun had settled, and he had grown hungry. His clothes, once fine threads, were covered with dust and his shoes were scuffed. What he thought was his calling was nothing more than the opportunity to embrace a family who wished to see him dead in order to fulfill an agenda. Only now did it take Jerhon Bellamy to realize that Mohammad Allawi was using him as a puppet to fill a need. As he sat with his back against the wall of an abandoned warehouse, he saw the flashes of red and blue lights through the broken panes of window, the sound of tires skidding along the pavement, and then multiple car doors opening and closing.
With instinct driving him, Jerhon Bellamy ran to the opposite end of the warehouse as fast as he could but found it difficult to run in loafers. As soon as he rounded the corner of a corridor, he was met by a force of a SWAT officers who moved against him with their weapons leveled to kill.
Get on the ground!
Now!
Face down!
Raising his hands high above his head and getting to his knees, it didn’t take long for an officer to slam him face first to the concrete floor.
Once behind bars, Jerhon Bellamy hoped to find a new family.
* * *
The Oval Office, The White House
Washington, D.C.
1102 Hours
It was late evening at the White House when President Burroughs received the call regarding the apprehension of Jerhon Bellamy, the man who was seen running from the Columbia Bank and who later discarded his vest by tossing it into the Potomac, which was retrieved by patrol divers attached to the FBI. Though this was good news on one front, President Burroughs also received terrible news on another. Mohammad Allawi had reset the clock for twenty-four hours. If the government did not comply with the demands to release high-ranking insurgents from global penitentiaries, then the war on American soil would continue. Finding himself alone inside the Oval office after hanging up, President Burroughs caught himself praying for divine intervention, which was something he often did under times of incredible stress.
His prayers would not go unheard.
Chapter Thirty
Washington, D.C.
2346 Hours
Shari Cohen had just turned off the light after reading a paperback novel, a political thriller. Then she pushed aside the sheer drapes. The two vehicles and the supporting agents were still surveying her property, a precaution taken by the Bureau since Shari didn’t think it was necessary to be placed inside a safehouse. This was, after all, her comfort zone which she refused to allow Mohammad Allawi to drive her from in principle alone. This is my haven, my home, my country. Letting the drapes fall into place, Shari Cohen went to bed.
But sleep would not come to her on this night.
* * *
Special Agent Molin was sitting alongside his partner, Special Agent Radke, while keeping Shari Cohen’s residence under surveillance. Neither man was pleased to be conducting what they considered to be ‘baby-sitting duties.’ “Forty bucks an hour for this,” said Radke. “Watching a house in the middle of the night.” Then he turned to Special Agent Molin. “You have no idea how much I want a cup of coffee right now.”
“It’ll just make you piss in an hour.”
“There’re bushes.”
Appearing from seemingly nowhere, a man emerged from the shadows to take position on the passenger side, directing his aim against the agents with a suppressed weapon, he pulled the trigger in quick succession.
. . . Phfttt . . .
. . . Phfttt . . .
. . . Phfttt . . .
. . . Phfttt . . .
The muzzle flashes from the four shots that were no louder than loud spits lit up the area. The triggerman was a skilled shooter who placed a bullet to each man’s center mass and one to their head, killing both agents before they could register the moment of the killer’s intent.
And then like magic, the assassin vanished into the dark veils.
* * *
Special Agents Rutherford and Maximillian were sitting inside their vehicle talking about the Redskins and their upcoming game with the New England Patriots.
“I’m taking the Skins at minus six,” said Rutherford.
“The game’s in New England.”
“So.”
“So, you’re taking a home team like the Patriots against Redskins? Really? How much?”
“Five hundred to win seven hundred.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Maximillian told him. “I don’t care if Brady’s operating the backfield from a wheelchair. He’s—”
Rutherford sat ramrod straight after catching a glimpse of something and pointed to the second vehicle. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” asked Maximillian.
“Flashes of light.”
Special Agent Maximillian looked at the sedan that was parked down the road and on the other side of the lane, with the frontend facing them. “I don’t see anything.”
“Give them a call,” said Rutherford.
When Special Agent Maximillian removed his cellphone from his pocket, two men appeared on the passenger’s side with suppressed assault weapons, MP7s, and began to strafe the car. Bullets punched through the metal sheeting and smashed windows. And the bodies within jolted as if they were charged with high-end electricity from the impacts, then stilled. As the smell of gunpowder wafted heavily in the air, the as
sassins disappeared.
* * *
After the FBI’s surveillance units were summarily dispatched, Team One met with Team Two in the shadows across the street from Shari Cohen’s apartment. They were dressed in black cargo pants, Kevlar vests, black wool-knit caps, and every man in the unit was connected through lip mics and ear buds for long-range communication.
Aarib Qadir was heading the group, as he did on the night of the raid against the Blacksite facility. He was a man who Najm trusted to facilitate the military aspects of the operation, since Qadir and those he commanded had served as mercenaries who farmed out their services for profit, only to discover the true meaning of Allah during the process. They were His soldiers, the very instruments who had conducted operations that brought the ‘Great Satan’ to its knees.
At the safehouse in Winchester, Virginia, and by the governing hand of Mohammad Allawi, a plan was put to paper and committed to memory. Najm was able to bring up the blueprints to the apartment complex and, in detail, marked off the location of their target: Shari Cohen. It was a small unit with a small backyard that was cordoned off by six-foot-tall vinyl fencing. Now that the agents had been dispatched, removing the high-end asset should prove easy. But Shari Cohen was not to be taken with a sense of complacency, since she was a skilled marksman who no doubt was equipped.
They moved through the shadows, black against black, with the dark colors meshing perfectly. Two remained in the front whereas two moved to the rear with the points of their weapons raised to eye level.
When the second unit reached the backyard fencing and noticed that there were no motion detection lights, Hamdi Nagi said into his lip mic, “Team Two in position.”