Bluegrass and Crimson

by Jeff Siebold

  Closer is better for the angle, thought Zeke.

  In the next moment, it looked to the partygoers as if the blond man had stumbled and fallen down. His glass flew out of his hand and he fell forward. Closer to the floor he tucked and rolled, using his right shoulder to continue the flow of his body weight through the intentional fall and ending on his back, flat and stable, with the Glock 17 pointed back and up, held in both hands. The motion had taken a second and in that time Ismael had yelled and begun to reach into his vest to find the detonator. Hearing him, Jari dropped his camera to the floor and turned toward Zeke, also reaching beneath his vest.

  They’re reaching for detonators, Zeke thought. I’ve got one shot each.

  The Glock fired two of its seventeen bullets in an instant. It sounded as if it were a double-tap shooting.

  The angle of the bullets was about thirty degrees, and they covered the ten feet between Zeke’s outstretched arms and the terrorist’s in less than a hundredth of a second. After passing through the men’s heads, the two bullets continued upward and into the drop ceiling of the facility. Then they ricocheted off the concrete ceiling, lost their energy and bounced around above the ceiling tiles. Gives the forensic guys something to do, thought Zeke.

  The thirty-degree angle was enough to prevent collateral damage. The bullets passed over the heads of the partygoers behind the two men, and safely away from the crowds.

  Clive was in the middle of the fray in an instant. As the crowd drew back from the bodies in its initial reaction of self-preservation, avoidance and safety, Clive stepped in between the dead men and checked their vests. He signaled Zeke that the threat was over.

  Still lying on his back, arms extended and holding his handgun, Zeke finally exhaled. He could sense the uncertainty of the partygoers, confusion about what they had just seen. He looked around the room and saw several security types starting to move toward the dead men and toward Zeke. From the crowd someone yelled, “Somebody shot the photographers!”

  Zeke rolled onto his stomach, sat up and holstered his weapon in a non-threatening manner. He called, “Police, we’re the police,” several times to the crowd, which was still stunned and not moving much.

  Clive stepped away and dialed Captain Adams.

  Zeke stood and noticed that several people in the crowd were spattered with blood and brain matter. The two Security guys approached, talking into their radios. They were unarmed.

  “What’s going on here?” asked one of the security guys, a large black man with very long arms.

  “Terrorists,” said Zeke. “Be careful, their vests are bombs. The Louisville police and the FBI should be here in a minute.”

  And they were.

  Chapter 44

  The girl, Gabby, now dressed in a dark blue dress with a yellow scarf around her neck and black heels, walked with authority down the A Concourse of the Louisville airport. She had just cleared the TSA security screening and was smiling to herself, relaxed and comfortable. Her Lufthansa flight was scheduled to depart from gate A15 in an hour and a half.

  The change in her appearance was once again remarkable. Her brown hair was pulled up behind her head into a tight bun, and her makeup had been applied to accentuate her mouth and eyes, a significant contrast to the girl who had exited the Uber car near the ‘Departures’ door twenty minutes earlier. Using a restroom stall, Gabby had changed her appearance to resemble a Lufthansa flight attendant. Her ticket, secured at the airport ticket counter before her change of attire, was for a twelve-hour flight, connecting in New York, then to London, and from there connecting to a direct flight to Damascus. Although Damascus was, technically, in possession of the Syrian armed forces, Gabby would be met there by IS sympathizers and driven north along the M5 to Aleppo, near the Turkish border, an area controlled by opposition forces.

  She had opted for a flight through New York, not Washington, in light of the damage that the others would do at Dulles airport. Doubtless, she had thought, the airport will be shut down after the killings by Amed and Asha’ath. But during the drive to Louisville, it became apparent that something had gone wrong with their plans. There was no news activity, and nothing on the Internet, and now, nothing on the Louisville airport televisions. Just weather, sports and soft news about the upcoming Kentucky Derby.

  After she had escaped the FBI in Washington, Gabby had headed south to Charlottesville and picked up Ismael and Jari. They took turns driving on the long trip from Charlottesville to Louisville, and she had checked her smartphone periodically, watching for any news of the DC bombings. When the scheduled time had passed, she called both of the men, Asha’ath and Amed, repeatedly from her burner phone. She received no answer.

  The next Lufthansa flight connects in New York, she thought. Or, I can wait until morning and take the red-eye flight. In the end, Gabby opted for the earlier flight, to get herself out of Louisville before the transportation links were shut down. A suicide bombing has a tendency to cause some level of overreaction, she thought to herself. Best to get out early.

  * * *

  “There was a woman with them,” said Captain Adams. “The security camera shows her parking the car in the lot, dropping off the two bombers and walking to a waiting ride, probably Uber or Lyft.”

  He was talking with Zeke and Clive. They stood outside the gala, looking over the parking area. It had become a sea of red and blue lights, yellow tape and blue uniforms. All the primary colors are present, Zeke thought.

  “Just so,” said Clive. They were standing apart from the tactical unit, which was interviewing the guests from the gala party. A tall, rawboned uniformed officer stood with them, keeping tabs on their whereabouts until the unit commander had inspected the scene and was ready to chat with them. Zeke’s gun had been confiscated and was in the trunk of a Crown Vic sealed in a plastic evidence bag. His hands had been swabbed for GSR, gunshot residue. Clive’s handgun had conveniently disappeared.

  “That was a bit of quick thinking,” Clive continued. “The forward stumble was brilliant.”

  “We’re still missing the girl, though,” said Zeke. “She seems to be a key to this whole thing. She keeps turning up in all the wrong places.”

  “Seems like it,” said Clive. “She’s not just an undergraduate student. That trick she pulled escaping the FBI in DC was a pro move.”

  “She’s got to be involved with the leadership,” said Zeke. “Unusual for a Muslim group, but not unheard of in the United States and Europe.”

  “Indeed,” said Clive. “We need to find her.”

  * * *

  Still waiting for the homicide commander in the parking area of Churchill Downs, Zeke and Clive were focused inward on the problem at hand.

  “She parked, dropped the bombers here, and then took a ride,” said Clive. “Where would she go?”

  Race week brought an estimated million and a half people to Louisville, and the cabs, as well as all other forms of transportation, were stretched to their limits.

  “Just a few possibilities, really,” said Zeke. “A private home. The airport or bus terminal. A hotel. But a private home or hotel would indicate that she plans to stay around here for a while, and I doubt that. Most likely, she’d want to get out of Louisville as quickly as possible to avoid any manhunts or police searches.”

  “Right, she could be trapping herself,” said Clive.

  “So if she took an Uber to connect with transportation, it would be to the airport for a flight or a rental car, or the Civic Center for Greyhound,” said Zeke. “By the time we track down the ride she took, she’ll be gone. But if we can anticipate her destination…”

  “…then we can be waiting for her when she arrives,” said Clive. “Right. If she flies, she’s stuck with the Point A to Point B route. If she drives, she has more flexibility.”

  “Bigger picture,” said Zeke. “They tried to bomb Dulles, which was probably the “wings” of Muhammed’s winged steed. Then they went for the Kentucky Derby, the “steed” part, b
oth around Lailat al Mi’raj, the day Muhammad rode his winged steed Baraq to the farthest Mosque in Jerusalem. I’d say they thought they were making their point. Maybe she’s heading home.”

  “Which would be…” asked Clive.

  “The dagger she had with the rhino horn handle was likely from Yemen,” said Zeke. “Probably something that’s been in her family for a while.”

  “And by now, she knows that neither the Washington attack, nor this one, were successful,” added Clive.

  “But if they had been, they’d have made their point and she’d be ready to disappear.”

  “So the airport is a high probability,” said Clive. “Either a car rental or a flight out of town.”

  “Seems most likely,” said Zeke. “She was planning to escape while the authorities were sorting out the bombing.”

  Just then, a middle-aged man in a blue uniform accompanied by three other police officers approached Zeke and Clive. The tall uniformed cop with them said, “Commander,” in a deferential way and nodded to the man. The unit commander was short, about five foot six. His blond hair was cropped close to his skull and his blue-gray eyes had a steely look. He moved quickly, leaning forward as he walked.

  “You’re the shooter,” he said, looking at Zeke.

  “Guilty,” said Zeke.

  “Nice job,” he said,” but you should have waited for us. I’m Commander Russell, Louisville PD. We checked with the FBI, and they told us your status. We’ll need a statement from both of you, and…”

  “Commander,” Clive said, interrupting, “we have good reason to believe that there’s another terrorist still loose in the city. We need your help tracking her down.”

  “What? Where?” asked Russell.

  “Most likely the airport, either for a rental car or a flight out,” said Zeke. “Can we alert the good folks in security at Standiford Field?” Standiford was the original name of Louisville International Airport.

  “Sure can,” said Commander Russell. “Who are we looking for?”

  “At least one female terrorist, very resourceful and very clever. She’s killed an FBI nurse and escaped from the interrogation unit in the FBI building in DC.” Zeke paused. “I think that her goal right now is escape, but she’s definitely dangerous.”

  “Do you have a description?”

  Zeke told him what he knew about Gabby.

  Chapter 45

  “Your ticket, please,” asked the gate attendant. Gabby was at the gate boarding the flight to New York. She smiled at the attendant and handed her boarding pass to the woman. Noting Gabby’s outfit, the woman said, “You heading home?” Gabby smiled and nodded.

  The boarding pass was scanned, the appropriate beeps sounded, and the woman handed the pass back to Gabby and turned her attention to the next passenger. Gabby pulled her carry-on into the enclosed jetway and stood in line. She was anxious.

  What happened to Ismael and Jari? she wondered. There was no sign of trouble on the airport televisions or on Gabby’s smartphone. News reports mentioned a developing story, an attempted suicide bombing in Louisville that was broken up by the local police. She had expected that the bombing would create confusion and chaos in the entire city, and be all over the news. That hadn’t happened. And there was still nothing about the DC attack.

  Gabby settled into her window seat, and then she saw it, a news article on her smartphone about an attempted bombing at Churchill Downs. At the Fillies and Lilies Gala this evening, a benefit to honor past Derby winners. According to the article, two suicide bombers had penetrated the security of the event posing as photographers, and had been positioning themselves to set off the explosives in their vests when they were neutralized—that’s actually the word that was used in the report—by law enforcement.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  Gabby looked up.

  “Would you raise your seat back for takeoff, please?” said the flight attendant.

  Gabby smiled and made the adjustment.

  How did they find out? she wondered. How could they have known about Ismael and Jari? Was there an informer in the group? But no, almost everyone was either dead or in custody. Maybe someone talked at the FBI headquarters and tipped them off to the bombing…

  The passengers were still loading onto the plane, but it was filling up. We should be airborne right on time, Gabby thought. A large man with a wide girth walked down the aisle and set his bag in the empty seat next to Gabby. He reached into the open overhead compartment above Gabby’s head and started moving bags around, making room for his small carry-on.

  The man reached down to get his bag and accidentally knocked it off the seat, onto the floor of the plane. He looked at Gabby, deciding whether it would be appropriate for him to reach down to the floor so close to her leg.

  Sensing his uncertainty Gabby smiled at him and grabbed the bag and held it out to him. It was fairly light, perhaps holding some books or papers, she noticed.

  The man reached for the bag, but instead of taking it he took hold of Gabby’s right wrist and cuffed it with a handcuff. The other end of the handcuff was attached to his right wrist. He immediately yanked the girl out of her seat and across the aisle seat and laid down on top of her, while two other men, one in the seat in front of her and one in the seat behind, stood and immobilized her left hand. With a few quick movements, Gabby was secured and in the custody of the US Air Marshals.

  * * *

  “It wasn’t too difficult,” Zeke explained. “We suggested that they look for female passengers flying to the Middle East, originating in Louisville. There were several, but only one who had purchased her ticket on a credit card with a billing address in Charlottesville. Her destination was Damascus.”

  “The police were pretty quick about that,” said Clive. “They responded well, once the FBI talked with them and confirmed the action.”

  “I want to talk with her,” said Zeke. “As soon as they get her back to DC.”

  “What, with her attack of the FBI nurse, we may be lucky if she ever surfaces again,” said Clive. “Those boys and girls are very serious about that sort of business.”

  * * *

  Three days later, Zeke joined Clive for a cup of morning coffee. The DC coffee shop was busy, the line long. They chatted as they waited.

  “It turns out that Gabby only suffered a broken clavicle on her trip from Louisville to Washington on the FBI Learjet,” said Clive. “The official report indicated that she’d slipped on the stairs while entering the plane and banged her shoulder on the cabin doorframe. Unfortunate accident.”

  “Where is she now?” asked Zeke.

  “Waiting for you, my friend. Waiting for you.”

  * * *

  Zeke sat across a metal table from A’isha and looked at her. “Hello, Gabby,” he said.

  “I have nothing to say,” said the girl, shackled to the table and dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit that said, “FBI Prisoner” across the front and back. Her right arm was in a dark blue sling.

  “You should just listen, then,” said Zeke. “You’re in a world of trouble. You’re not going to be able to help the cause any more. You’re heading to prison for two attempts at terrorism on US soil. They’ll put you away longer than the Boston bomber and the Oklahoma City bomber put together. You won’t be getting out of prison again. Americans don’t have much of a sense of humor when it comes to domestic terrorism.” He paused.

  “And murder, the murder of the FBI nurse. You may need to be kept in solitary confinement for your own safety,” he continued. “I can’t do much about all of that, Gabby. Our job is to take IS warriors off the board. And we have.”

  She looked at him, still silent.

  “But, there is one thing. The underground railroad into Syria. We’re looking for two sisters that disappeared on that railroad last month. The Cook sisters. Ring any bells?”

  She smiled a thin smile. “They are taking my place in the cause,” she said, suddenly. “They will become warriors like m
e. We helped them get to Kobane, and they are now where they should be, in Aleppo, with their Islam princes. You can’t touch them there.”

  * * *

  It was a cool night in the desert. The day had been hot, reaching 100 degrees Fahrenheit, but in the evening it fell to below 60. The rain had slowed this month, from raining every other day to maybe one day out of four. Catherine Cook had finished the last leg of her journey, from Mursitpinar Bucagito across the border to Kobane and then to Aleppo, to see her sister. When it finally happened, it was somewhat of a letdown.

  A man came to the hostel one evening without warning. He was a young man, about twenty. He was dark skinned and wore a cotton shirt and a partial turban on his head, and he said his name was Kabir. He was missing his left hand; in its place was a stump that grew out of his shirt. He was abrupt and impatient and self-important, as if he had many, many things to do and helping Catherine was the least of them. He asked for her by name and gave the hostel owners some money. Then he told Catherine to bring her backpack and follow him. She did.

  Outside the hostel and holding her backpack by a strap, Catherine looked around. There was rubble in the dirt street, and directly across the street from the hostel’s front door was a large van painted yellow and red, with a closed rear cargo area. The sides were painted with DHL logos. The vehicle was larger than a van but smaller than a typical one-ton truck.

  “Get in,” the man, Kabir, said, walking ahead of her and around to the driver side door. Catherine pulled the passenger door open.

  “No, get in the back,” the man yelled at her, giving her direct eye contact for the first time. His eyes were fierce.

  “Sharmuta,” he said under his breath as he started the truck. She knew he was calling her a whore. Ashamed, but not sure why, she climbed into the rear cargo area of the van and laid down. Then she pulled the blue tarp up over herself and her bag. She heard the rear doors close. The truck moved away from the curb, backfired, and stalled. She heard the man curse, then the starter again, and in a moment the engine started its rough coughing, then caught and she felt motion.