by Rick Jones
There were none since the process had been discussed until the procedure was embedded into memory days ago. Everyone had a lock on what they were supposed to do, even practiced it until they moved purely by instinct rather than thought.
After sanitizing the area for any physical trace evidence and removing the laptops, Mohammad Allawi contacted Aimu Ababneh via a burner to confirm if there were any potential flaws in the plans for his transport to Cuba from the Virginia Beach fishing trawler. All contacts and times had been confirmed, Aimu assured him. A small skiff was waiting to take them to a boat that would be masked as a fishing vessel. From there, a journey straight to Cuba, which was a mere layover before reaching the Middle East.
“One final blow to the Great Satan,” Allawi told everyone, who once again slipped into preacher mode. “And an added victory that will be one of many in the fight to achieve the wishes of Allah.”
When everyone got inside the van, Allawi looked at the CCTV cameras attached to the telephone poles across the street. Aimu Ababneh had mentioned that they were down and never repaired, which was evident by the way the cameras leaned in odd directions from rusted brackets. But there would be more cameras along the way, more eyes to spy from. Allawi, however, would be hidden inside the van along with his brothers, who were dressed in bakery uniforms provided by Aimu, to avoid having his face read by scanners between Norfolk and National Harbor. After two years of planning from Najm but governed by Mohammad Allawi, this was going to be a victorious stroke of pure genius that would do more than keep a country on her knees. It would break her back.
The driver, shifting gears that grated against one another, pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the highway. Looking out of the small rectangular window in the van’s rear door, Allawi watched as the Ababneh’s Bakery disappeared into the distance.
Taking a seat next to the chest, Allawi leaned his head against the van’s wall and closed his eyes. He was a multi-tasker, a man who could easily juggle multiple responsibilities at the same time. He had a team moving against Special Agent Shari Cohen, who had been a blight to him since her raiding party had killed his brother, and then subsequently tossed a wrench into his gun-running operation.
Not this time.
Aaziz Farooq was a leader, a commander, a man who was born and bred to kill because killing, to him, was more than just a performance of duty. It was also a passion.
The truck pitched over a bump, startling Allawi. A moment later, he leaned his head against the wall and once again closed his eyes—this time recalling the moments when he confronted the priest who came at him like an unstoppable force. He was big and tall and had eyes that glowed with the spark of residual flames that seemed to burn from deep inside. He was hardly a person who operated by the tenets of a religious man, but by the cold fortitude of a machine that possessed no feeling, no emotion, no contrition, and most of all, no mercy.
Yet he allowed me to live when he could have easily killed me.
But Allawi was not a soldier like Farooq Aaziz or the members of his team, who were trained to be hardened killers. They would eclipse and conquer, which made Mohammad Allawi, at least in the back of his mind, wonder if they had the capabilities to do so. The first wave of attackers were also skilled practitioners in the art of war, though they were killed with apparent ease. If Shari Cohen took part in the slaughter, she certainly didn’t manage the butchery on her own.
No way.
Another bump in the road, but not enough to cause Allawi to open his eyes as he continued to think about this priest who was known to ISIS as the Devil’s Magician.
Allawi drew a light smile at the corners of his lips. We’ll see how much of a magician you are, priest, when you go up against Aaziz Farooq and his team. I know you’re with the woman because I can feel you. I can sense you. And when this day is over, I’ll see your head on a platter.
Allahu Akbar!
The van continued its northbound journey.
Chapter Forty-One
The Lakeside Cabin, Maryland
After hours of musing, Kimball returned to the cabin and noted the sidearm Shari was attempting to cover with the tail her shirt. “Expecting a battle?” he asked. “That message I received from the director,” she told him. “It was about Mohammad Allawi.” Shari then went into detail about Operation Herod, and that it was corroborated by a low-level member of Allawi’s cell. Though the specifics remained unknown, the director wanted Shari to investigate the matter and try to decipher Allawi’s actions, since she was the one who developed the man’s psychological profile. But she also explained to Kimball that the director had a disguised ulterior motive, as well. By engaging her in the process which could pay dividends about Allawi’s whereabouts, he also wanted her off the grid after the assault on her residence. And this was his reason for giving her a two-page report with little information, which was to give her a sense of purpose while keeping her safe in hiding. It was a paternal gesture on the part of the director, this she understood. “He also suspects that you were the one who brought down the faction in D.C.,” she told Kimball. “He thinks you’re here. Somewhere. He even asked me if you were the one who did what you did, since he believes that I couldn’t have taken them out alone.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Which I think was answer enough. He closed off the area as a crime scene, knowing that I’d have to disappear. He also suspended me with pay to make sure that I stayed away from the hub of activity. And those,” she pointed to the sheets of paper by the computer, the slight details regarding Operation Herod, “I think was a way for him to get me involved without the knowledge of the principals behind the hunt for Allawi. I think they’re desperate because they’re on a clock. In less than twenty hours, if the United States does not release high-ranking extremists from across the globe, then Operation Herod will commence.”
“It’s foolish not to have you completely involved,” he told her.
“They were afraid that I would become emotionally compromised, if I confronted Allawi.”
“Would you have?”
She was on the fence about this. In her mind she believed she could maintain a level of professionalism, but her mental state of mind also told her that Allawi was the man who murdered her family and deserved to die. Would her emotions overcome her ability to control herself and cause her to lose composure? And maybe compromise the safety of others, as the principals believed could happen? She wasn’t sure. Shrugging, she said, “I don’t know, Kimball. He did kill my family. And because of this I want to see him hurt for what he did. But on the other hand, I also believe in justice. How the scales would tip should I confront him in the heat of the moment, who knows.”
“Why the gun?” he asked, pointing to the obvious bulge on her right side. “Why here?”
“Because of the email,” she told him. “Director Johnston clued me in that Operation Herod was real, and that Mohammad Allawi appears to know their every move.”
“Which could mean that there’s a mole in the program, which is unlikely, or that Allawi is somehow tapping into Intel databases and misappropriating information, which is most likely, even with high-end firewalls to safeguard their programs.” She nodded in agreement. “Allawi has always surrounded himself with a supporting cast of intelligent people, his second lieutenants. One man—we only know him as Najm—has a computer skill set that we believe could have compromised the mainframe of Air Force Two, bringing her down. And he did so by pinging corrupt data from geostationary satellites to get the job done. If he can do that, then he’s capable of stealing data and hiding his cyber trails. By the time these trails are discovered and traced, they’re long gone.”
“That still doesn’t answer the question as to why you’re carrying.”
She nibbled on her lower lip for a moment, and then, “I believe Najm is monitoring the informational fields to every Intel station, which is why they’re always one step ahead of the assault units. I think he’s doing
this under the orders of Mohammad Allawi.”
Kimball looked at the bulge by her side, and then to her eyes as if silently asking
‘and the gun’?
Intuiting this, she said, “I’m getting there.” And then: “I know Mohammad Allawi. I created his psychological profile. He attempted to take me out last night, that much is obvious. And he will not stop until he succeeds because his ego won’t allow him to be defeated by the person he holds responsible for his brother’s death. So, I responded to the director’s email.”
The lightbulb on enlightenment suddenly went off inside of Kimball, the thought coming to him as a sudden realization. “You want Najm to find your trail,” he said to her. “You want him to trace the IP address to this location.”
She nodded. “If he’s watching, Allawi will reset his sights and come after me. If they do, then we can mine them for information regarding Operation Herod.”
“I see,” Kimball stated. “So, if you can’t bring the mountain to Mohammad—”
“Then bring Mohammad to the mountain . . . Literally.”
“It’s a long shot.”
“Perhaps.”
“And if they do come, you think that Glock is going to hold them off?”
“To a degree,” she told him. “But I have something else.”
“And what’s that?”
She smiled with her lips defining beauty. “I have you.”
Kimball felt comfort in her words, that of trust and compatibility that they could be of one mind and body, and a collective.
Then from Shari: “I have something for you.” She led him into her bedroom and to the dresser. Opening the drawer, she produced two sheathed combat knives and placed them on top of the bureau. “Just in case,” she said. “You left them behind at the archdiocese when we were dealing with the Nocturnal Saints. And Cardinal Bishop wasn’t comfortable with them there, so I took them . . . And hoped.” Kimball grabbed the knives, his weapon of choice, and removed them from their sheaths. They were his Ka-bars, his favorites. “Hoped about what?”
“That someday you would return to reclaim them. You know—visit me. As soon as I picked them up at the archdiocese, they immediately reminded me of you. So, I look at them from time to time since they remind me of you . . . since nothing defines you better.”
Kimball didn’t know whether to be delighted or wounded. Of all the things to remember him by, weapons? To be defined by implements of violence, this is how she remembered him? No wonder she had rejected him. All she saw in him was the savage side, never his benevolence.
“Thank you,” he said. I think.
She pulled closer to him until he could once again smell her scent, that of honeysuckle. “You’re welcome.”
Stepping away, Kimball attached the sheaths to each leg as if they were six-shooters. Not only did they fit well, they also felt right.
“It’s you,” she told him, smiling.
Right down to the core, he thought.
And then from Shari: “If they come, they’ll send an army after us. You know that, right?”
Kimball removed the knives and held them up in display. “Then we’ll greet them accordingly.”
She maintained her smile and nodded. “We make a good team,” she told him.
“You and I.”
“Yeah,” he said, agreeing. “We really do.”
Chapter Forty-Two
National Harbor, Maryland
National Harbor, Maryland, was the site of the International Spelling Bee Competition with the Jackson-Hall Arena serving as this year’s venue. There were 750 contestants from more than thirty countries. The 750 challengers would be broken up into five sets of 150 contestants in each group. Of those five groups, only the top three contenders would move into the Final Round, which would consist of fifteen children between the ages eight and eleven.
Emily was assigned to Group 3.
Today they were canvassing the location along with hundreds of other children and their parents, in downtown National Harbor. It was a massive arena, one that could seat over 18,000 people. Often used for Monster Truck rallies, rodeos and concerts, the hall was going to be the inauguration site for the new annual spelling-bee competition that would rival Scripps.
“It’s beautiful, Daddy.” Emily sounded nervous and excited at the same time.
“Now remember, sweetheart, it’s OK to be nervous. That just means you care. Once you work out the butterflies, you’ll be just fine.”
“I’m afraid I’ll mess up.”
“Look, sweetheart, getting to this point was half the battle. The other half is winning the competition, you know that. But you also have to remember that there are others who earned the right to be here just as you did. Everyone’s a competitor.” Devin got to a knee so that he was eye-level with his daughter. “But I want you to know something,” he told her. “Whether you come in first place or seven-hundred-fiftieth place, I am so incredibly proud of you. You have no idea how proud I am. And if your mother was here, she’d say the same thing.”
“She’s watching from Heaven, right?”
“That’s right, honey.”
“Then she is here, watching.”
Her father smiled. “I guess she is.” And then he added: “How did you get so smart.”
“I just am.”
Laughter from her father, a quick bark, and then he added, “You’re modest, too.” Standing and grabbing his daughter’s hand, they, along with hundreds of other parents and children, walked through the venue hoping that here would be a slice of normalcy that was far from the madness that was happening elsewhere. Unfortunately, that madness would be coming to their front door.
Chapter Forty-Three
Farooq Aaziz’s team were men who had absconded from the military service only to end up doing time in Leavenworth, where they were branded as cowards.
After their release and getting involved in more criminal activity that landed them in state confinement, that was where they ironically discovered the faith of those whom they had previously fought against, those who carried with them a Muslim devotion. Allah was now everything to them, a wizened God who saw the corruption of other faiths and religions. Allah was the only true God, the only moral compass who mandated one rule under one God, even if the road to get there was through vicious acts of violence.
Now, as they served under the command of Mohammad Allawi whom they believed to be a conduit to Allah, they first determined him to be a mad monk upon their first impression. Later, however, they began to realize that the mad ravings of this man might just be the wisdom of a prophet. So, they eventually followed him and accepted his guidance. And like everyone else who fell under the spellbound rhetoric of Mohammad Allawi, they served as his disciples.
From the edge of a distant tree line, Aaziz had the cabin caught within the lenses of his binoculars. It was close to four in the afternoon. For three hours the cabin had been under surveillance. If anyone was there, they had yet to make themselves known. In fact, the area appeared too quiet.
“Something isn’t right,” said Aaziz. He was surrounded by his teammates: Juma, Kasmi and Mostapa, those he had served with in the Middle East when they fought against their brothers when they were the opposition, only to realize that they were misguided. But redemption was to be had, Allawi had told them: “Through your actions in service to Allah, only then will you find salvation.”
So here they were by the lakeside cabin in Maryland, all seeking deliverance with gun in hand.
Aaziz continued to watch the cabin, though secluded and surrounded by open terrain, for several additional minutes, sighting absolutely no activity. Then he shook his head. “Something definitely is not right here. And I’m not comfortable enough to approach the unit in the middle of the day, either.” Juma took the space beside Aaziz in the brush, both men hunkering low. “Then we wait until nightfall,” Juma told him. “Use the cover of darkness.”
Aaziz concurred. And then to his other teammates: “
Kasmi, Mostapa.”
Both men moved carefully to reach Aaziz.
“I want you two to flank the cabin,” Aaziz told them. “Kasmi will come up on the west side and Mostapa from the east. And you,” Aaziz tapped Juma in the chest with the point of his finger. “I want you to come in unobserved from the shoreline and work your way to the rear of the cabin. I will maintain watch from the front. All communication will remain dark until eighteen-hundred hours. Until that time you will become a chameleon to your surroundings by remaining still and utilizing patience. You will not—not—compromise your points of observation. I want to make that abundantly clear to everyone.”
It was.
“At the appropriate time of mobilization, Juma will make his way to the lakeside property from the rear. Once he secures his position, we will move on the target area. The optimum mission here, people, is to neutralize Cohen. And if the priest is with her, don’t hesitate to take him out without prejudice. He needs to be terminated before he gets a chance to register what’s going down.” Evenly, he said,
“Branch out.”
Juma, Kasmi and Mostapa separated and fell back into the cover of the forest.
Aaziz looked skyward. The sun was making its westward trajectory, the orb moving at a glacial pace. In a few hours night would fall and the moon would be in its crescent phase, meaning it would shed little light that could possibly compromise their approach.
Allah was certainly looking over them with favor.
In the thickets beyond the tree line, Farooq Aaziz waited patiently as his team surrounded the cabin.
Chapter Forty-Four
Shari was sitting by the computer and watching the monitor that had been broken up into eight grids, with each grid showing areas close or around the cabin from security cameras. While the day thus far appeared without drama and slogged along, Shari’s thoughts centered on Kimball.