by Rick Jones
He was out there, somewhere, becoming one with the land, a predator who sought out other predators, hunter against hunter.
But her attempts at drawing the flies to the honey may have fallen on blind eyes, she considered, if Najm wasn’t monitoring the data fields. It was a tactic that was based on a whim and a gut feeling that had carried her throughout the course of her career. Since she was handcuffed by the principals, she could only perform her prowess through deductive reasoning, which was her only true weapon.
But that wasn’t entirely correct either, she considered. She had another weapon at her disposal, a juggernaut who knew no boundaries despite the collar he wore around his neck to dictate otherwise. He was a man caught between the worlds of sinner and saint who used the methods of Darkness to serve the Light. And out there, somewhere in the woods of Maryland, she knew that he was watching over the cabin as her champion because he loved her . . .
. . . And she loved him.
Sitting before the computer screen, she prayed that Kimball would rise above this chaos and bring with him the peace he so deserved. Perhaps, she thought, when this is over, maybe his demons would finally leave him.
From her desk she waited and watched, seeing nothing on the screen but beautiful terrain.
But within this beauty, she knew, Death was walking amongst the pines.
Chapter Forty-Five
National Harbor, Maryland
The bakery van made it to the Jackson-Hall Arena exactly on time. People milled around the center as they registered and started to get a feel of the venue. Come morning, the scene would become a bedlam of chaos and mass confusion. With more than just the 750 contestants between the ages of eight and eleven, that number did not take into consideration the scores of young siblings who had come to cheer on their brothers or sisters. The number could climb to more than a thousand, maybe higher. And their parents would join them in the afterlife, Allawi often mused, with these heathens sharing a time without end along the shores of the Eternal Lakes of Fire.
Once the ice chest filled with Semtex was strategically placed, the blast effect would compromise the supports upon detonation and bring the house down like the planned implosion of a condemned site. And in Allawi’s mind he had seen the image play over and over in his head as if it was looped, the man appeased and comforted with every mental playback. Within twenty hours, despite the action or inaction of the United States government, he was going to make a final and crushing statement.
As soon as the truck backed up to the dock that accepted shipping and deliveries, the van’s door rolled up and four men, who were wearing bakery uniforms, rolled the chest onto the platform using a four-wheel dolly. As the area supervisor approached with pen and clipboard, he asked them for their delivery papers, which prompted Anwar to point to the rear of the van.
“My manager has the paperwork,” he told him.
“No problem,” said the supervisor, who then made his way to the vehicle. The moment he stuck his head inside to inquire about the paperwork, Mohammad Allawi pointed the tip of a suppressed firearm at the man’s forehead and pulled the trigger. It was a perfect hit as the round punched a bloodless wound to the man’s skull. As a ribbon of smoke coiled slowly from the bullet hole, the supervisor started to fall forward. But Allawi caught the man, dragged him inside, and closed the door. A few minutes later, Najm exited the vehicle wearing the man’s clothes. He also had the supervisor’s clipboard and was carrying his iPad. Now that Phase One had been completed, it was now time for Phase Two, which was the actual placement of the chest.
Leaving Allawi inside the van with the body, Najm led the team through the corridors of the facility. The outfits, the nametags and lanyards all provided them with the perfect shields. They were next to invisible to everyone since no one asked questions or provided concerning looks, since they were clearly accepted as venue personnel.
Najm, bringing up the blueprints to the facility on the iPad, led everyone beneath the Jackson-Hall Arena to the kitchen through a freight elevator, and to a galley that served as the prep area that supplied the topside kiosks. Pushing the crate down the aisles towards the pantry, the location was deemed the perfect point of detonation because it was located directly beneath the main floor. With crippling blasts, the overhead buttresses would buckle and collapse, killing everyone who was trapped beneath the domed ceiling.
“Hey, wait a minute.” It was one of the sous chefs. “Where do you think you’re going with that?” He was pointing to the chest.
Najm held up the clipboard. “I need a signature for the delivery,” he said.
“You were supposed to do that back at the dock, not down here.”
“It’s got to be delivered, doesn’t it? Or did you want to carry this down by yourself? If you want, I’ll return it so that—”
The sous chef waved him off. “I’ll sign it,” he said. “I ain’t got time to argue.”
Grabbing the clipboard, the sous chef scratched his name on the bottom line without even looking at the form, then asked what it was.
Meats, Najm told him—like hotdogs and burgers, stuff for kids.
“I have all that,” responded the sous chef.
“Hey,” said Anwar, “we get the orders and we deliver the goods. That’s all we do. You sign, we go. It’s that simple.”
The sous chef looked at them and memorized their faces, all hard-looking men who had a sinister air about them. Something that was strong and powerful and unyielding. “Yeah,” he finally said. And then: “You know where to put the chest, don’t you?”
Najm nodded. “I know exactly where to put it.”
The sous chef nodded. But he also carried a look of suspicion as well, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Anwar.
“Aw damn,” said the terrorist, “you shouldn’t be thinking like that.” Anwar withdrew his suppressed firearm from beneath his outfit, brought it up, and just as the sous chef was about to raise his hands in defense of the coming gunshot, he took a pair of rounds to center mass, which killed him.
Najm shook his head in annoyance towards Anwar. “You didn’t have to do that,” he told him.
“He absolutely did.” This came from Fahd. “He suspected something, which could have compromised the mission. So, I’ll tell you what, why don’t you just leave the soldiering to us, OK?”
“Killing people openly like you just did can also compromise the mission,” he told him angrily. “Did it ever occur to you that somebody might miss this guy, who was obviously performing within the scope of his duties?”
“Did it ever occur to you that as soon as we left, he would have checked with his supervisors because he was suspect. This mission would have been over before it had a chance to begin.”
Najm yielded. “Hide the body. And make sure that no one, and I mean no one, discovers it.”
With Anwar and Fahd grabbing the sous chef, Deneb and Hassan directed the ice chest to its final resting place with Najm directing. Inside a room that had an attached pantry, there was a lock on the pantry door. It took two shots of Anwar’s firearm to remove it. After placing the chest and body inside the small compartment that was filled with canned goods, Najm lifted the lid of the container that was loaded with Semtex bricks. Then taking his iPad, he started to type a code on the keypad. Within seconds the timer inside the chest activated and started to countdown in large red LED numbers.
. . . 17:59:59 . . .
. . . 17:59:58 . . .
. . . 17:59:57 . . .
After shutting the lid, everyone exited the pantry and closed the door behind them. Fahd, removing a new lock that was a large as a man’s hand and guaranteed to withstand most levels of damage, locked the pantry door, and literally threw away the key so that no one would have access—not the supervisors, not the venue management, no one.
Watching his iPad, Najm continued to pick up the signal. But their mission was far from over. The timer had just under eighteen hours, which meant that anything could happen between n
ow and then. This team of mercenaries that Mohammad Allawi had leaned on for so many operations would stay behind as the guardians of the gate. In their allegiance to Allawi, which was also an allegiance to Allah, they would safeguard the chest from all intents to disable it, should the device be discovered. They had pledged themselves as moral sacrifices in a cause that would bring them a rich and endless bounty in the afterlife, or so they were led to believe. Anwar, Fahd, Deneb and Hassan, born as Americans but lived as men without a country, were not afraid to surrender their lives in the name of their God. Najm, who was too valuable to the cause, bowed his head in respect to each man, told them what they needed to do, and ended the parting with Allahu Akbar. Reaching topside, Najm entered the rear of the van where the body of the supervisor lay, and informed Allawi that the final campaign had begun. The timer was activated. The countdown had begun. And his soldiers were standing true with their commitment not only to Allawi, but also to Allah. It would take a force of many to overcome them.
In silence, as if praying in homage for the coming sacrifices, Allawi turned to the four Messengers inside the cab and said, “My most cherished men, those who have found deliverance within the clutches of Allah’s embrace, have stepped forward to accept the glory of Paradise. Now, my brothers, my question to you is: are you ready for the same commitment?”
The four messengers were between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, people who, in Mohammad Allawi’s eyes, were disposable tools to be used in order to promote an agenda.
When he received no answer, he again asked: “Are you ready for the same commitment?”
“We are, Allawi,” said the one who looked the youngest. “We are.”
“Very good, my brothers.” In the cramped quarters of the truck, Allawi lifted the lid to a small container. Inside were four vests for the storage and carrying of Semtex bricks. Though the capability of storage was two bricks per vest. Their operational duties were simple: they were to detonate themselves to diminish the number of survivors who looked to escape through the passageways, with a disciple waiting at each of the four ports. Pull the cord and give yourselves over to Allah, and He will embrace you accordingly.
But the truth was much simpler. Mohammad Allawi wanted these men dead with no loose ends like Jerhon Bellamy to worry about. No loose lips.
Handing each one a vest, Mohammad Allawi showered them with praises and told them that the vests were great gifts from Allah.
After spelling out what each man had to do come seventeen hours and thirty-three minutes, Mohammad Allawi gave each man a pat, a hug, kisses on the cheek, and false praises. When he concluded his routine, he left the Messengers behind and had Najm drive from the site.
In the rearview mirror, the Messengers continued to stand along the dock with the types of faces that registered a sense of self-warring and self-debate. Whether they would follow through was what concerned Allawi the most. Though they were minimal players, he knew their lives were doomed from the moment they worshipped his ideologies and gave them a sense of purpose.
Allawi looked at the iPad.
. . . 17:29:31 . . .
. . . 17:29:30 . . .
. . . 17:29:29 . . .
In just over seventeen hours, he thought, his final masterpiece would be unveiled as a cacophonous explosion killing scores. It would be something that would make his legacy in the Middle East rise to greater heights and to unimaginable levels. But the project was now in the hands of his followers. And though he had little to believe that the Messengers would follow through with their objectives, he did trust his military unit since they were embedded with a sense of duty and honor.
This will get done.
As Najm directed the van towards Virginia Beach, Allawi could feel the anticipation that was starting to build, the excitement of the final escapade. The collapse of the venue, the transport to Cuba and then to the Middle East, with all this happening under the clueless eye of the United States government.
As the van continued its journey, Mohammad Allawi looked at the tablet once again.
. . . 17:26:11 . . .
. . . 17:26:10 . . .
. . . 17:26:09 . . .
Allahu Akbar!
Chapter Forty-Six
The White House, Oval Office
Washington, D.C.
It was after 8:00 p.m. when President Burroughs called into session the company of his top Intel and national security directors. There had been no changes regarding Mohammad Allawi, the man was simply undiscoverable to the eyes of CCTV cameras and other methods of detection.
“We have nothing,” Homeland Security Advisor Moncrief informed the president.
“And there’s nothing on the international front, either,” stated the CIA director, “other than what was already reported.”
“What I’m obviously concerned about,” stated the president, “is what’s happening on the American Front. We’ve less than fourteen hours before Mohammad Allawi decides to go through with Operation Herod. The question is, do we comply with his demands?”
“We still have time, Mr. President.” This came from FBI Director Larry Johnston.
“We still have people in the trenches trying to pick up a trail.”
“That’s the point, Larry. We’ve exhausted all means of trying to locate Allawi and have mined his people for everything they know, which is not much. He’s always one step ahead of us and he’s somehow tapping into our systems, no matter how often we change the arrangements of communication from one agency to another. By the time we locate a glimmer of evidence and follow it to its point of origin, we find nothing.”
The president looked at the wall clock.
Time was ticking.
Then in a tone that was close to defeat, the president stated, “We cannot give in to the demands of Mohammad Allawi. If we did, that would only encourage future acts of terrorism. And secondly, and even if we did comply, Mohammad Allawi would no doubt follow through with his plan, regardless.”
In other words, he thought afterward, we’re dead in the water no matter what we do. Whatever Mohammad Allawi has planned is going to happen. Barring divine intervention, a lot of people are going to die within the next fourteen hours, most notably children.
“Keep digging, people. Find the venues that children often frequent like fairs, parks, waterparks, anything. Use federal and local state law enforcement in overtime duty, as well as the National Guard. And prepare for the worst. Contact all hospitals and Urgent Care facilities to make sure that they’re equipped to handle a major crisis that may or may not be coming their way. Right now, we need to put our faith in the power of prayer. Because that’s what it’s going to take since Mohammad Allawi has beaten us at every turn . . . Nothing but divine intervention.”
Within this somber mood and downtime of discussion, Director Johnston believed that divine intervention had interrupted not too long ago when he decidedly stepped out of the shadows of St. Peter’s Basilica to right a listing ship.
. . . The priest who was not a priest . . .
Though he was one man against many.
After activating Shari Cohen against the wishes of the president and the attorney general, he only did so because he knew she was not alone. During the aftermath of killings at Shari’s residence, there was no doubt that her angel had been standing by her side when everything went down. Even though Johnston did not see him, he could feel him.
But even with the injection of divine intervention with perhaps this man alone incapable of dealing with the full forces of Mohammad Allawi, he still hoped that this priest could somehow, in some way, become a savior to many.
They now had less than fourteen hours.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Lakeside Cabin, Maryland
Kimball Hayden melded with his background; the man almost invisible against the scenery. For hours he remained as still as a Grecian statue, though his eyes moved from time to time to scan the area. As soon as night descended, only then did he move since
Darkness was his ally.
He was a puma moving through the shadows, with quiet and feline grace. Twigs did not snap beneath his footfalls. Leafed branches did not break against his approach through the brush. And the little light that had been cast from the crescent moon did not alight on him with illumination but repelled it. He was Darkness in motion, a hunter on the prowl.
Kimball made his way to the eastside of the property. And like a skilled operator he moved against his opponent, who was hunkering behind the trunk of a fallen pine. Earlier, this assassin, who was one of four operatives who had walked so close to the Vatican Knight that he could have reached out, pulled the man close, and slit his throat. But Kimball did not want to compromise his position because to do so would have provided the other three with the advantage of daylight.
But in Darkness, Kimball Hayden was king.
And he used his realm wisely.
* * *
Communication had gone dark for most of the day. Now that night had descended, contact within the cell had been given the green light. Mostapa, who was kneeling behind a thick brush, spoke into his lip mic to let ‘Team Leader’ know that he was ‘set.’ After the message was received and acknowledged by Team Leader, Mostapa never realized that something was approaching from behind. It was quiet as it advanced, the shape no larger than a leprechaun, something that was small and compact. Then when it drew close to share Mostapa’s space, this black mass rose to its full height as something that was blacker than black, the shape growing impossibly tall and looming over the assassin, still growing to a greater height, the figure now dwarfing Mostapa who had no clue, no knowledge, that he was about to be eclipsed by darkness that was absolute and complete. In the shadows, as Mostapa waited for the call from Farooq Aaziz, the contour of a man, a menacing hunter, overwhelmed Mostapa with silence and stole from him his life.