by Spell, David
Deniz was number eight on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Omer understood the irony of the fact that the agency that had employed him for six years was now using their vast resources to track him down. The traitor hoped that the search had finally cooled off so that he and his team could complete their journey towards the west coast undetected. He knew that the Bureau would eventually catch him. His goal, however, was to strike a major blow for Allah before he became a martyr.
Omer’s parents were nominal Muslims, having immigrated to the United States from Turkey when he was just one year old. Growing up in Sterling Heights, Michigan, however, Deniz was exposed to fundamental Islam, the entire area around Detroit being the home to thousands of Muslim immigrants. His parents chose Sterling Heights over the more radical suburb of Dearborn, wanting to avoid fanaticism. They just wanted to assimilate into the American lifestyle. As a young man, Omer was drawn to the writings of the most fanatical imams, but knew that living in America he needed to keep his opinions to himself. Yes, the Americans were evil and wicked, but Omer would have to wait for the right time to play his own role in fulfilling Allah’s will.
While attending Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., Omer attended religious services held on campus by Imam Ruhollah Ali Bukhari. It became clear to the young pre-law student that Bukhari held to the most conservative tenants of Islam. In public, the imam preached a message of moderation, but in private conversations, Omer found that Imam Ruhollah was a true believer.
During their meetings over tea, Bukhari spoke to Deniz of ways that he could play a role in the coming jihad. The imam guided Omer towards getting a job with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Deniz had planned on becoming a lawyer and serving the Muslim community back in the Detroit area, but the Muslim cleric convinced the young man that he could better serve Allah’s will inside the FBI. Bukhari never gave him any names of the other believers who were working inside the Bureau but Deniz believed that there were many.
After his training, Omer was assigned to the Counter-Terrorism Division. Deniz’s fluency in English, Turkish, Arabic, and Persian were a great asset in his work. Agent Mir Turani eventually connected with him and the two men became friends. They began spending time together away from work and Mir eventually told Omer they had a common friend in Imam Bukhari. Deniz was informed that Turani would be his contact to the imam. Any information that Omer needed to pass on would go through Mir.
Turani was in a different division, assigned to the Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate. Omer’s position inside the CT division would provide him with much intelligence that the imam would be interested in. Omer and Mir began connecting at least once a week, usually having dinner at one of the many excellent restaurants throughout DC, where Deniz could pass on information to Turani. This was the perfect setup, with no one suspecting a thing when the two FBI agents met after work for dinner.
The Turk saw himself as a soldier of Allah, fighting behind enemy lines. Omer worked out daily at a local health club and shot at least once a week in the FBI’s firearms training center to stay sharp. When his time came, Deniz wanted to be prepared to take the holy war to the Americans. Even after the Bureau was forced to relocate to Andrews Air Force Base, Omer continued his physical fitness regimen in the base gym.
Everything changed, however, when the FBI received a pair of mysterious phone calls a few weeks after the attacks on DC, Atlanta, and New York. One call came in on the public line, while the second went to the Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate. Omer had been working at his cubicle when he noticed a flurry of activity, but had no idea what was going on, just hearing a few of the agents talking excitedly about an anonymous tip.
Deniz wandered to the coffee pot to refill his cup, hoping to catch a snippet of the conversations going on all around him. From there, he could see Mir Turani’s work space on the far side of the room. The Iranian had a worried expression on his face as he held the desk phone to his ear. A burly, dark-haired agent materialized in front of Omer, startling him.
“Oh, hey, Joe,” Deniz greeted his supervisor.
“I need you to hold down the fort,” the supervisory special agent said. “We received intel a little while ago that there were three dead terrorists at an address in Hanover, Pennsylvania. I’m taking Roberts, Price, and Cortez up there. Monitor the phones and I’ll call you later to let you know what else we might need.”
“Sure, Joe, no problem,” Omer answered, anxiety rising inside him.
Right after the CT agents left for the two-hour drive to Pennsylvania, Omer watched Turani walk quickly out the door, carrying his leather briefcase. The expression on Mir’s face left no doubt in Deniz’s mind that his friend would not be returning. Two and a half hours later, Omer’s desk phone rang.
Joe told him one of the dead terrorists was Imam Bukhari and that a digital recorder had been left near his body. None of the agents with him spoke Persian and Joe asked Deniz to plan on staying late so that he could translate the recording. After disconnecting, however, Omer gathered his belongings and exited the building for the last time, as well. Special Agent Deniz instinctively knew what was on the recording and that it was time for him to disappear.
He didn’t even go back to the barracks he was sharing with many of the other single agents. Omer kept a go-bag in the back of his personal vehicle, a gold Toyota Highlander. Among the many items in the backpack was twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. Deniz dropped his FBI-issued smart phone in a dumpster behind a convenience store a mile from the base and threw his personal phone into the dumpster at a McDonald’s two miles further down the road when he stopped to get a bag of food for his trip. He had already removed one of the three disposable cell phones from the go-bag. Forty minutes later, the rogue agent was pulling onto Interstate 70 for the nine and a half hour drive to Michigan.
Michigan was where he had grown up so it was natural that was where he was heading. Most fleeing criminals made for their homes, where they felt the most comfortable, Deniz remembered from his training. That would be the first place where the FBI looked for him, he knew. During the long drive, Deniz made a decision. He wasn’t going to go into hiding and live as a fugitive.
As a mole in the FBI, he had played his role well, passing useful information on to Turani, who in turn delivered it to Imam Bukhari. The imam was dead, however, and Omer would put a team together to attack the infidels as so many of his brothers had done. By the time the Highlander crossed the Michigan state line, Omer had formulated a rudimentary plan to inflict another devastating attack against the United States. Allah’s ways were mysterious, he thought.
Instead of going to his parent’s house in Sterling Heights, Deniz drove to Dearborn, the home of the largest Muslim population in America. His time in counter-terrorism had allowed him to identify the most radical imams in the Detroit area. He used cash to rent a room in a cheap hotel and spent the next week visiting mosques and Islamic centers, speaking with several imams.
The religious leaders were cautious, most of them turning him away. Eventually, however, Deniz was able to convince one of the religious leaders to help him. He introduced Omer to Qasem, Samer Ali, Kimani Davis, and Marquette Walters.
Mohammad Qasem was a second generation American with Pakastani roots. Mohammed had joined the United States Navy right out of high school, training as a computer specialist. Qasim became radicalized in the faith while in the Navy and was arrested for conspiring with a group of other Muslims to blow up a United States aircraft carrier. He spent a year and a half in a military prison before being dishonorably discharged. Mohammad was itching to strike back against America.
Samer Ali was a short, wiry Palestinian with a bushy beard and intense eyes. He had received specialized training in bomb making and military tactics from Hezbollah. He, too, desired nothing more than to strike a powerful blow against the Great Satan, the United States. Ali was a true believer, willing to die for the cause of Allah.
Davis and Walters were both Africa
n-Americans who had converted to Islam while in prison. Kimani had served time for several armed robberies around Detroit. Marquette’s latest stint in prison had been for just over four years for aggravated assault. He had beaten a young man senseless who had made the mistake of speaking with Walter’s girlfriend. The victim had lost the sight in one eye and was left with permanent brain damage.
After interviewing the four men individually and being satisfied with the their answers, the former FBI agent outlined his plan to them and saw the excitement in their eyes. The imam gave Omer the keys to a Muslim youth camp in rural Michigan. The five men moved there to train and plan for their mission. Deniz and Ali worked with their team over the next few months, training the others in weapons and tactics. Deniz wanted to take his time so his team was truly prepared before launching their operation.
Omer knew that the FBI had translated the recordings from Bukhari’s house and that the Bureau would be looking for him. Whoever had killed the imam had probably been able to get him to give up the names of those soldiers of Allah who worked for him. Omer’s face had likely already been sent out to law enforcement agencies across the country.
For the next phase of their mission, Deniz put the team under the direction of Samer Ali. The terrorists were being sent back to the east coast to locate some zombies. Michigan had not experienced the devastation that the eastern cities had from the bio-terror virus. Part of the reason for this was the natural barrier that Lake Erie provided, but also because of the distance. Most of the infected had been attracted to the large urban centers in the east which had provided them with plenty of fresh victims.
Deniz instructed his men to go find some Zs, kill them, and then use syringes to extract infected blood from their bodies. The men looked at him like he was insane.
“My brothers,” Omer said patiently, “I told you that we were going to release the zombie virus in cities that had been spared the first time around. We can only do that if we have some of the virus. Blood from the creatures is lethal and we can use it to turn more American cities into graveyards.”
Deniz gave them rubber gloves, masks, syringes, and coolers to keep the loaded syringes in. The team was gone for five days, having driven over to Pennsylvania. Finding Zs was harder than they thought it would be, as so many had been eliminated over the last few months. The terrorists finally came upon a group of five decaying and smelly zombies walking down a rural section of interstate north of Harrisburg.
The Zs soon all had bullets in their heads. The team filled all twenty-five of the syringes with zombie blood, carefully recapping the needles and placing them in the cooler with ice to protect the infected blood. While an unpleasant task, the four men began to understand what Omer had in mind, getting excited at what they were about to accomplish in the jihad against America. The days together on the road also helped them to bond as a team.
As Marquette put the vehicle into drive for their long trip back to the camp, movement in the rearview mirror caught his eye. A group of vultures landed next to the dead zombies and started picking at the corpses. A sudden chill went down the felon’s spine as he pictured thousands of the carnivorous birds feeding in the streets of Los Angeles or one of the other big cities on the west coast.
Now, they were heading towards the west coast where they would wreak havoc in three cities, Allah willing. Omer had designated two squads. He and Mohammad were traveling together while Ali and the two African-Americans followed in the other vehicle. When they got closer to California, they would split up and each team would head for their initial target city.
The rest area had no amenities. It was just a large parking lot for travelers to pull over and stretch their legs or nap for an hour or two. Omer glanced at their other car as he exited the stolen silver Honda CRV, his Highlander left behind at the youth camp. The second vehicle, a maroon Mercury Marquis, pulled past them and parked several spaces over. They were the only two vehicles in the rest stop.
“No toilets? What kind of rest area is this?” Qasem grumbled as he got out of the SUV, surveying the dark surroundings and lighting a cigarette.
“There’s plenty of trees that you can go behind if you’re shy,” Omer said, walking towards the wood line a hundred feet away.
“I don’t really need to go. You be careful,” Mohammad called out. “You don’t know what kind of animals live in those woods.”
As Deniz finished urinating at the edge of the woods, he watched as another set of headlights pulled into the rest area. The silver Dodge Charger with a light bar on top cruised slowly through the parking lot, the streetlight illuminating the gold decal on the door containing the words ‘State Trooper.’ Omer instinctively moved behind the tree that he had just peed on, watching to see what the Iowa State Police car would do.
The three men from the Mercury had followed Deniz’s lead, walking over to the trees to relieve themselves. Mohammad had stayed with the CRV and was standing in the open doorway as the police car stopped behind him. Qasem quickly dropped his cigarette to the asphalt and retreated back into the vehicle, grabbing his .40 caliber Smith & Wesson M&P pistol and slipping it into his jacket pocket, holding the pistol in his right hand. Bright spotlights suddenly illuminated the interior of the vehicle.
“You in the Honda! This is the State Police! Step out of the vehicle, keeping your hands where I can see them. Do it now!”
Omer immediately understood that the trooper had run the plates on the CRV and had gotten a stolen vehicle return. It appeared that the officer was initiating a felony takedown without waiting for backup units. Maybe that meant that there were no other cops close by. It did not look like the cop had a partner with him.
Mohammad made no move to get out of the stolen vehicle and the trooper issued the same verbal commands again. Deniz stepped deeper into the woods and moved parallel to the parking lot for fifty yards. He then exited the tree line where there were no street lights and sprinted back towards the asphalt, coming up behind the police car which was now just a few hundred feet in front of him.
I’m not going to be in time, Deniz thought, a feeling of helplessness sweeping over him. He saw movement as Mohammad exited the CRV, lifting his left hand towards the sky. His right hand then thrust the pistol towards the trooper, squeezing off three shots that smashed into the windshield and hood of the cruiser.
The police officer quickly returned fire with his own handgun, cutting down the former sailor who dropped to the pavement. Omer was running now, knowing the cop would be dealing with tunnel vision, focused only on what was in front of him.
“Unit 231 to dispatch, shots fired, shots fired!” the trooper yelled into the microphone on his shoulder. “I’ve got one suspect down. Start me an ambulance and a supervisor!”
Omer slowed as he neared the patrol car, quietly slipping up behind the police officer, his FBI issued Glock in hand. The young trooper was of average height with a muscular build, his blond hair cut short. At the last moment, he sensed movement to his rear and tried to spin around.
The terrorist fired one shot into the cop’s head, the .40 caliber hollow point catching him just above his right ear, killing him instantly. Footsteps sounded from nearby and Deniz swung his pistol towards the new threat. Samer had had the same idea, approaching from the opposite direction, a Colt Government Model .45 pistol at his side. Omer lowered his gun and looked down at the dead trooper and then over at Mohammad, lying in an ever growing pool of blood, sadness filling his heart. Qasem had become a friend.
Ali knelt beside Qasem, feeling for a pulse, but four bullets from the police officer’s weapon had hit him in the chest and abdomen. He looked over at Deniz and shook his head. May Allah honor his sacrifice, the terrorist thought.
“Where are Davis and Walters?” Omer asked.
Samer stood, anger flashing in his eyes. “They left their guns in the car when they got out to piss. They’re both convicted felons and their first worry was getting caught in possession of a gun.”
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�We’re going to kill thousands of Americans,” Deniz snapped, “and those two idiots are worried about getting arrested for having a firearm?”
Omer hated the idea of dealing with American home-grown terrorists, especially those who had converted in prison. At the same time, however, he had to use the ones whom Allah had sent him. Losing Mohammad was a crushing blow, but Allah’s ways are not our own.
“Grab our things out of the CRV,” he told Ali. “I’m sure that trooper put the tag and description out on the radio so we’ll need to leave it here. I’ll see if he has anything we can use in the police car. We need to be rolling in two minutes. We’re only forty minutes from the state line and we need to create some distance.”
Fort Belvoir, Virginia, Saturday, 1530 hours
Chuck and Elizabeth had flown back to DC Friday night and driven immediately to Fort Belvoir to be with Andy and the others. Colonel Kevin Clark had sent over six of his contractors to provide additional security at the hospital and the agents’ homes. The heavily armed men were all former spec ops and Kevin personally vouched for them.
Chuck and Beth’s townhome on the base had not been targeted and the couple decided to stay there, inviting Scotty and Emily to use their guest room. Andy would not be sleeping in his quarters, the dried blood on the floor too much of a reminder of what had happened. Eric Gray, the former gunnery sergeant, lovingly ordered his friend the former staff sergeant to come stay with him when he wasn’t at the hospital.
On Saturday morning, McCain, Smith, and Gray had met with Shaun Taylor to brief him about the attacks on the agents and their families. Director of Operations Williams was traveling and had instructed Shaun to meet with the men to hear first-hand what had happened in Georgia and Virginia. Taylor did not say much during the meeting, but took several pages of notes to brief his boss later.