by Chase Austin
Nine minutes.
Nine minutes later, the shooting paused.
Nine minutes later, the place was buzzing with the ghastly silence of the dead. The eight militants remained unconquered. The stillness was occasionally interrupted by weak voices of help from the survivors among the knots of bloody, mangled bodies and were instantly silenced by a bullet.
The shooters didn’t care how many were dead or still breathing but one look at the massacre, and they knew they had made Yasin proud. The first leg of the mission was complete, and they needed to move on to the next. Khalid checked the time and tried to imagine the situation in other cities but then he jerked the thought out of his head. They had to stay alive to complete the next step of the mission and he had to make sure of that. He heard multiple police sirens screeching at a distance, cruisers racing towards the crime scene with urgency.
Khalid looked at the others and flicked his right hand. It was time to move. The nearby area had been deserted barring a few moving vehicles whose drivers didn’t get the time to navigate to safety. The shooters fired at the few moving vehicles, but then they didn’t want to waste much of their ammo on something that would not have the intended effect. Instead, they sprinted towards First Avenue. Their new target was the Bellevue Hospital Center, a mere one and a half miles away from Union Square. At the entrance, they saw a moving ambulance and shot three rounds. The driver wasn’t prepared for an assault and lost control of the van. The vehicle rammed into the hospital’s gates. The four unarmed security guards watched it unfolding and immediately sprang into action, shutting the hospital’s doors, but Khalid foiled their plan with twenty rounds of lead.
Four more dead bodies at the gates. Though the hospital staff had already been alerted by the NYPD control room, they hadn’t had much time to prepare themselves. Now the fight was at their door and they literally froze as the gunmen stormed into the hospital. One of the staff switched off the main light switch. Others started to lock down the wards to protect over fifteen hundred frightened patients.
Chapter 21
Farmer’s Terminal Market, Philadelphia
Mary was waiting for Stan when she heard the shots. Stan was still not back from the restroom. She saw people running in her direction. In a momentary confusion she looked around and saw that four men with guns were shooting with blinding rage at the crowd.
She got up from her chair as fast as her arthritis-weakened knees allowed her, her gaze fixed in the direction of the restrooms. But in the maddening rush of people, she could see no faces, only bodies rushing to get to safety.
She heard an approaching scream and located it a second too late. A man was rushing towards her. Behind him was a shooter who had just opened fire in the running man’s direction. The bullets leaped towards the man’s spine. Mary shifted her gaze back at the man’s face and saw his expressions freeze. His moving body jerked forward, and he lost his balance. Before Mary could understand anything, she was falling on her back along with the deadweight of that body. She hit the floor hard and a burning wave swelled through her spine. Her head hit the floor and bounced back. The concrete floor beneath her skull had started to get red. She fought hard against the blackness, but her weak body had already lost the battle. As she slowly slipped into darkness, all she could think of was Stan.
Lead rained through the market aisles from eight assault rifles from every exit point. The shooters moved forward, inch-by-inch, tightening the circle.
Stan was splashing water on his face when he heard the first couple of rounds and his first trained instinct was to duck. The sound was dreadful because he knew where it was coming from. His mom was out there waiting for him and his mind immediately wondered about her safety. His right hand went for his hidden leg-strap; his trusted SIG was there. He checked the magazines. Only one. Twenty rounds. No backup. That’s all he had. He hadn’t come here ready to face a full-blown terrorist attack.
He focused on the sounds outside and closed his eyes for a moment. Amidst the screams, he could hear something revealing. There was method in this madness. Focused short bursts. The consistent gap, between each fire. There were four distinct sounds frequencies. He couldn’t determine how many shooters were outside, but the shots were coming from four directions. If he imagined it as a tight square, then the shooters were at the four corners of that square. He checked his phone to see any news about the shooting to help him ascertain the number of shooters. There was none.
He looked around and found the stall doors shut. People who were inside had probably heard the gunshots too and decided to stay where they were. Stan could do it too, stay in the safety of the restroom and wait for the massacre to stop but his instincts weren’t going to allow him to go for that option. The biggest reason was the people outside, including his mom, facing bullets for no fault of their own.
In his crouched position he quickly covered the distance to the door. He pushed it open and immediately thanked the maintenance team for doing their jobs diligently. The door had made no sound. From the sliced vision, the first thing he noticed was the floor’s color. As far as he could see, there was only red. He had no idea if any of the shooters was right outside the restroom. The shots were still raining. Stan decided to get out. There was no point waiting for everything to get over. The attack was sudden, and he had doubts if anyone would have the firepower or the skills to stop the perpetrators.
The men restroom’s door faced the women restroom and the passageway opened into a small foyer just as in the letter “T”. The middle of the passage had space to get back into the market. Stan slowly crawled out of the men’s restroom without opening the door fully.
Once he was out of the restroom, he saw a shop’s steel counter. His truncated view showed the counter to be deserted. He treaded cautiously forward and found an elderly man’s lifeless eyes staring back at him. The man possibly was the owner of that counter. A gasp left Stan’s mouth. He felt the pressure building up in his chest. These were the butterflies of mortal combat. He took a deep breath to control the adrenaline rush. It was necessary to get his focus on to the most vital task — of containing the attack.
He hoped to locate the shooters quickly, but before that, he had to find a solid cover. With no bulletproof vest to protect him, he knew that his success rate hovered in the negative territory. A SIG was no match for assault rifles. If the shooters got their eyes on him before he could spot them, the consequence would be definite death.
He carefully slithered forward in the foyer and slowly the passage started to reveal itself. From the corner of his eye, he also kept checking the women restroom’s door. He didn’t want any surprises. Despite the chaos, the passage was untouched.
Soon another pair of lifeless eyes found him and then he met the third, the fourth, the fifth, and after a point, he had to stop counting. Amidst this, his gaze landed at a spot. A perfect cover. The only issue was that it was ten to fifteen yards away from where he was right then. The pathway to it was laid out in the open, but he had to take that risk. Bending forward he checked the passage one last time before taking the plunge. Luckily, there wasn’t a single living soul lurking in the passage.
In his cowered position, Stan hurried towards the spot, his eyes darting from corner to corner to spot any danger. Fortunately, he found nothing.
Once behind the marked thick steel counter, he sat in a squat position among multiple dead bodies. The shooting had subsided but he could still hear an occasional burst of shots followed by shrieks of pain. He utilized the next few seconds to adjust to his new surroundings while scrutinizing them. The counter had an empty man-sized steel cabinet built to store unused containers, and it was unlocked.
He was still busy thinking of his next steps when two pair of faint footsteps grabbed his attention. There was someone on the other side of the counter. Stan looked up and immediately found comfort in the height of the counter.
He sat still as one of the shooters thumped the counter with his hand, but the counter didn�
��t budge. Its legs were latched onto the floor with some solid screws. Stan took the benefit of the thumping sounds to swiftly crawl inside the unlocked steel cabinet and close it.
Stan sat alert with his SIG ready to shoot anyone try opening the cabinet’s door, but no one did. Maybe the shooter didn’t know that counters had cabinets.
Sitting inside, he cocked his ears to identify the position of the shooters. Following the sound of the footsteps, he figured that no shooter was near the counter now. He slowly got out, his back against the steel wall of the counter, intently listening to the sound of footsteps. The shooters walked slow, with the measured steps of predators looking for their prey. Stan moved with them on his side of the counter.
The edge of a gray rucksack emerged first, followed by the whole bag, hanging on a man’s shoulder and partially open to easy access. The terrorist’s back was towards Stan, but he wasn’t alone. Another militant, scanning the other side, walked a couple of steps in front of him. They were the ones who had probably checked this side of the counter and had found no one.
The partially undid bag gave Stan the glimpse of the preparedness of these men. Discovering the arsenal engulfed him with a sense of unease but then something captured his imagination. Hand grenades.
There was a way, and he knew how it could be accomplished. He waited for the shooter to pause while he moved his gun from his right to his left. As soon as the man stopped, Stan carefully put his right hand inside the bag. His fingers wrapped around one of the grenades. Without drawing his hand out, he plucked the safety pin. He then left the active grenade in the bag and carefully drew his hand out. The shooter, unaware of this, walked further, following his partner in the lead. Stan retreated behind the counter. He had six seconds to get himself to safety.
One, Two.
He decided to get inside the cabinet, holding its door from the inside.
Three, Four.
The two terrorists walked closer to the next shooter duo lurking not far from them. They were busy checking every aisle on their side and happy that as far as they could see the aisles had only dead bodies.
Five. Six.
What Stan didn’t know was that the haversack did not only have grenades. In a matter of seconds, the grenade blast combined with the RDX blew everything to pieces in its vicinity and almost made the high ceiling of the market, redundant. The building wasn’t built to withstand such an intense blast, and neither were the bodies of the four militants. Rubble, shards, and shrapnel flew in every direction and caught other terrorists off guard. Stan being closer to the attack felt the blow too despite being inside the steel cabinet. He had never expected the blast to be of this power and without the steel wall protecting him, he would have had the same fate as of his enemies.
Inside the cabinet, he couldn’t even imagine what had happened to the militants. A large portion of steel counter was blown away by the impact, but the rest of it remained grounded due to its nailed legs that held it together. The blast waves made Stan hit the steel wall with an intensity that almost made his left shoulder dislocate. The loosely held doors of the cabinet gave way and unbolted with a loud thud. The massive blast caused his ears to ring and his body shuddered involuntarily. Despite this, he didn’t lose the grip of his SIG. It was the only thing that would keep him away from his death.
Outside the building, Police had already cordoned off the area with tens of Cruisers in position, but the unexpected explosion sent the whole setup into a tizzy. The concrete blocks flew out of the market with speed to wreck three Cruisers and badly injure five officers. Even the nearby Jefferson Station felt the tremors.
Stan’s ears were still ringing. His left shoulder and rib cage had a stinging pain, but he needed to determine what was left of the shooters. He took a few seconds to realign himself and then carefully got out of the cabinet. Outside, the visibility had dropped to nil. There was dust and smoke all over. He couldn’t see the roof but realized that since it was not on him yet, it possibly was holding well. He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision, but nothing changed. The smell of burning flesh and wasted blood had started to overwhelm him.
The counter was ruined beyond imagination. Stan had survived because of the dual steel wall of the cabinet. If he had been outside, there was no chance he would have been in one piece to see this. Using the leftovers of the counter he slowly stood up, but in the effort his knees hurt like hell. He knew that he had stirred the hornet’s nest, and more would come looking for the reason of the unexpected blast. In a way this was good since all he now had to do was wait.
And he didn’t have to wait too long. A faint outline appeared in the dust, walking limply, with a rifle in his hand. The shadow stopped at some fifty yards away. Stan knew that the man might have spotted him too standing in the dust. But despite pausing, he didn’t shoot. Maybe he was still considering if Stan was friendly.
A costly delay.
Stan brought his SIG to bear and immediately saw the reaction as the shooter’s barrel come to life, sweeping across the area around him. But Stan fired first. The terrorist fired a millisecond later. They both missed.
Stan’s bullet flew off-target, but it caused the shooter to flinch, which bought Stan half a second for a follow-up shot. He didn’t miss this time. The man shuddered as the bullet punched his chest. But the hit couldn’t silence the assault rifle. Glinting lead raced towards Stan and before he could duck and find a cover, one of the bullets tore into his belly. His shot up adrenaline didn’t make him feel anything. He squeezed the SIG’s trigger again, firing the third round as fast as he could. It found the gunman’s neck. His cervical column severed, the assault rifle was silenced. Stan knew that he had hit his mark.
Not knowing if anyone had lined up on his muzzle flashes, Stan decided to sit on his knees and immediately regretted that decision. “Damn it,” he muttered. Somewhere in his abdomen region, blood had started to leak. He could feel that a bullet was inside.
Fortunately, no return fire came his way giving him precious time to slowly take cover behind the still intact part of the counter. While sitting, the immediate thought in his mind was to call Jessica – his colleague in the Vesuvius team. He lurched forward and took out his cell from his back pocket.
“Shit!” he muttered under his breath. It was broken.
Chapter 22
Farmer’s Terminal Market, Philadelphia
Saif opened his eyes and watched the haze. Dust and smoke, with visibility hovering at zero. The blast had thrown him far away from where he was standing. The blast wasn’t planned. Not even expected. He had no idea how it went off. The plan was to use the RDX to take down the whole building, but that wasn’t until they had sprayed enough bullets.
Footsteps. Lots of them. The uniforms were coming in. His rifle was nowhere to be seen, and he didn’t know where to find it. The untimely blast had ruined everything. They had failed in their mission. Now he had to find a way to kill himself.
With his right hand’s support, he tried to get up, but his body wasn’t ready. His left leg wasn’t moving and hurt like hell. He lifted his head to see what was wrong with it, but the haze made it harder. The only way he could do it was using by his hands. His left hand started to scan his leg, and a cry escaped his mouth. Multiple steel rods had punctured through his left leg. The realization made the pain ferociously intense. Tears trickled down his cheeks. With both his hands, he swept around to find his weapon or something to kill himself, but all he could find was rubble and dust.
The boots were closing in. He looked sideways for his teammates to help him out. Nothing. He was alone.
Two tactical robots rolled inside the building, before the first man would put his first step in. Covering all bases, their job was to give the infantry a heads up on what to expect inside. The blast’s impact was severe at the left flank of the market, but the rest of the building was intact, albeit in a mess. The steel counters had taken most of the impact on themselves, making sure that the age-old building didn’t give
way.
The two robots slowly scoped the area for any hostiles. The 360-degree cameras fitted at the top relayed the live feed to their operators’ laptops. No hostiles spotted yet, but a large area yet remained to be swept. The SWAT team was doing everything by the book.
The first operator heard whispers and murmurs from the right flank of the market on his headphones, and the robot turned in that direction. Some thirty yards away, among the rubbles and dust, the operator soon discovered the first set of fearful eyes through the mounted camera. The flank had multiple survivors, still under a mild wreckage but breathing. The second robot, sweeping the left flank, found the first duo of the militants under the debris. Assault rifles in their lifeless hands. Their eyes open in shock.
“Two dead hostiles.” The operator quickly informed his team through his microphone.
“Where?”
The operator gave the location.
“Anything on the right flank of the building?” The captain asked.
“No, sir.”