Kareem turned to Deb, whispering, “Listen. The police are thinking too small. They’re focusing on a floor-by-floor search, thinking the target is this building, but it’s not. It’s the city as a whole. They’ll never get here in time. The terrorists are taking the bomb to the roof so they can get the broadest coverage with the prevailing winds.
“I know you want to help, but right now the help I need is in the form of a gun. Go back downstairs. Find the SWAT team. Tell them what you’ve seen. Tell them we need aerial coverage because the bomb is on the roof.”
“Got it,” Deb said. She crept to the door and turned the handle quietly before slipping back into hallway leading to the stairwell.
Kareem turned, anxious to keep his eyes on the terrorist, not sure what he should do next. His memories were disjointed. Thoughts flashed through his mind out of sequence, confusing him. His elbow clipped a can of air freshener on one of the shelves and the can rocked. His fingers grabbed at the silver metal, but he was clumsy. His glancing fingers pushed the can over. As it tumbled through the air, he reached out, trying in vain to grab at the can, but the metal cylinder struck the concrete floor and bounced, skidding noisily across the ground.
“Who’s there?” the bomber asked, calling out into the vast room.
Peering between the shelves, Kareem could see the man had drawn his gun and was screwing a long black silencer onto the end of the barrel.
“Step out into the open.”
Kareem looked around, trying to find something he could use as a weapon. There were mops, brooms, metal dustpans, buckets.
Three shots rang out, sounding like handclaps in the echo of the room. A bullet struck a bottle of cleaning fluid beside him and green liquid seeped from the hole in the plastic. Two feet to the left and it would have been blood dripping, not antibacterial soap.
Kareem dove for the door. One of the shots had struck the lock. The bullet must have clipped the keyhole, denting a corner of the faceplate as it plunged deep into the lock. Kareem pulled at the handle, but the door was stuck. He shook the door handle, trying to pry the door open.
“Show yourself,” the voice cried as two more rounds struck the wall next to Kareem. A third tore through the front of his jacket, barely an inch from his chest.
“I’m unarmed,” Kareem yelled, realizing he was out of options. “Don’t shoot! I’m a paramedic.”
He walked out with his hands raised above his shoulders. Thankfully, he was still wearing the paramedic’s jacket Deb had given him, with its Hippocratic symbol over the left breast: two snakes entwined around a staff, reaching up toward two wings open in flight. The white emblem was easily visible on the navy blue jacket and was universally recognized as a symbol of medical assistance. Kareem hoped it was convincing and bought him some time.
As he turned the corner and caught his first good glimpse of the bomber, he had a flashback. He remembered this. He remembered it like it had happened yesterday. Kareem knew precisely what would happen next, and that was confusing, as there were large gaps in his memory, times where he couldn’t remember anything at all. But this he remembered like his favorite movie.
The bomber waved with the gun, signaling for him to step out further.
“Who else is back there?” the terrorist cried.
“There’s no one,” Kareem replied calmly. “Just me.”
Sweat dripped from the bomber’s face, beading on his forehead and running down the sides of his dark cheeks. He had a gun in one hand and a bomb trigger in the other, but Kareem knew what this trigger was for. This wasn’t the detonator for the main bomb. This was for a bunch of claymore mines facing in his direction.
“I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill all of you,” the man said, apparently not believing Kareem was alone.
“No,” Kareem replied. “No you’re not. In a little under five minutes, you’ll be dead.”
“What?”
The terrorist’s right arm straightened, pointing a 9mm Glock at Kareem. The bomber peered down the barrel of the gun, lining up a shot at Kareem’s heart, but Kareem wasn’t afraid. He knew what happened next. He spoke with calm deliberation.
“I’m not scared of you.”
The terrorist raised the bomb trigger in his left hand. White knuckles gripped the thin handle of the radio control. His thumb arched over a blue button.
“You’re bluffing,” Kareem said. “You’re too close. You’re in the blast zone.”
The terrorist seemed flustered, frustrated. He stepped back slightly, but not enough to clear the blast radius. The bomber kept his gun on Kareem, but he didn’t fire. Kareem knew he wouldn’t. He was confused. Kareem didn’t fit his plan, and his uncertainty led to inaction.
“Why did you do it?” Kareem asked calmly, walking forward with his hands outstretched so as to appear unarmed. “For love or for money?”
That was the strange thing about Kareem’s memory. He remembered events. He remembered actions, but not words.
“I remember you,” the terrorist replied, ignoring Kareem’s question. “You were there at the museum.”
His eyes narrowed, sizing up Kareem. He was probably trying to figure out whether Kareem had a concealed weapon. With a slow, deliberate motion, Kareem widened his hands, allowing the jacket to fall open, exposing his midriff and hips so the bomber could see there was no gun.
“Turn around,” the terrorist demanded.
Kareem raised his hands as he turned, lifting the jacket. He could feel the hem just above the small of his back. Everything was unfolding precisely as he remembered it. As he completed his turn, he made eye contact with the bomber.
Kareem couldn’t articulate how he knew the answer to the question he’d asked, but there was something in the bomber’s demeanor. He’d expected self-righteous disdain, but the bomber was curious. That didn’t fit with religious extremism.
“Money?” Kareem replied, answering his own question. “Huh. I wouldn’t have figured that. I was sure this was ideologically motivated. I had you guys for religious zealots, but that’s not it, is it?”
The bomber snarled, still ignoring Kareem. His boldness was growing. He marched forward, turning his gun sideways as he raised it up level with the center of Kareem’s head.
“Who told you we would be at the museum? How did you know the time?”
“But how could you make money from this?” Kareem mused, the barrel of the gun just inches from his forehead. “There’s no ransom, no extortion.”
The muscles on the bomber’s forearm flexed, and veins bulged in his neck as he shouted at Kareem.
“Tell me! I swear, I will blow your goddamn brains across the floor! How did you know we would be at the museum? How did you know we would be here? Who ratted us out?”
“It’s the stock market, isn’t it?” Kareem replied calmly, in a stark contrast to the rage of the bomber. The terrorist was shaking with anger. His finger flexed on the trigger of the bomb, but Kareem was at peace. He knew precisely what would happen, and when.
The bomber kept the gun trained on Kareem, wiping his forehead with the back of his left hand. He was shaking. Kareem had unnerved him. Kareem knew the bomber wanted to kill him, but couldn’t. He had to find out how Kareem had tracked them between two entirely different bomb sites. Kareem knew he’d never believe him; besides, Kareem was waiting for one event, something he remembered with crystal-clear clarity.
“You’ve hedged against the market,” he said. “You’re bringing Wall Street down so you can collect on options!”
With his teeth gritted, the terrorist lashed out with his left hand, thumping Kareem just above his sternum, forcing him back. He flexed his fingers around the pistol grip, tightening his hold on the gun, ready to fire.
“You won’t get away with this,” Kareem added. “Oh, sure, we might bomb the wrong country for a while, but eventually, someone will figure out what really happened. They’ll follow the money trail.”
“Shut up,” the angry man barked. “You t
alk too much.”
The bomber hadn’t denied the motive. Kareem might not have figured out all the details, but he had to be close.
Kareem was surprised by how calm he was even after the bomber had pushed him. That physical act undermined the terrorist’s threat of force. Pushing Kareem was all he could do. So long as the bomber thought Kareem had some inside knowledge, he was safe. There was a danger Kareem could push him too far, but Kareem remembered all of this. The words might have escaped him, but he’d expected that thump to the chest. And he knew what was coming next.
The bomber’s eyes darted back and forth nervously between Kareem and the storage area. Clearly, he expected SWAT or someone else to come charging out at him.
“What’s to stop me from killing you? What’s to stop me from splattering the back wall with your brains?”
And this was it. This was the moment Kareem had been waiting for. Everything aligned. The slight tilt of the bomber’s face, the crates in the background, the angle of the gun. He could picture this moment in his head. Kareem articulated one word slowly, enunciating carefully and timing his word perfectly.
“Sweat.”
“Wh—”
A drop of sweat rolled into the bomber’s right eye and he flinched, squinting. In that fraction of a second, Kareem darted to one side. He struck the terrorist in the center of his chest with both hands, stepping forward as he did so and knocking the bomber to the ground.
A shot rang out.
Kareem bolted behind an emergency generator as a second shot struck the sheet metal behind him.
The vast storage room stretched the entire length of the floor. From what Kareem could tell, it had been used to house old NYPD equipment for decades. There were stacks of dusty riot shields, batons, and helmets on the shelves.
Another shot. Splinters of wood exploded from the edge of a crate beside Kareem. He weaved, ducking between the crates. After no more than ten feet, he dropped to the ground and rolled into another aisle.
“You can’t run,” the terrorist yelled.
Kareem grabbed a riot baton from one of the shelves. It was no match for a gun, but Kareem already knew he wasn’t going to use it offensively. He remembered an occasion where it would be useful.
Rather than cutting through the storage area, Kareem doubled back, wanting to outwit the bomber.
One of the claymore mines was seated in front of a ventilation duct running from an AC unit up into the roof. The vent had to be an intake. Rather than pulling the fuses, Kareem repositioned the claymore, placing it on the other side of the duct and turning it to face the other direction.
He caught a glimpse of the terrorist moving down an adjacent aisle, so he tossed the baton into a pile of jackets at the end of the row. The baton landed with a soft thud in the heavy material. The bomber took the bait, creeping farther down the aisle past Kareem.
“I will find you,” the bomber yelled.
Little did the terrorist know, Kareem was relying on the man’s ego to give away his position. By getting him talking, Kareem didn’t have to watch for him. He knew roughly where he was by sound.
Kareem crept across the central aisle where the terrorist had first confronted him. He found the second claymore by the elevator. Again, he turned it around, facing it away from the cleaning supplies, toward the back of the floor.
His memory faded.
Whereas moments before his thoughts been clear, now he struggled to recall the next sequence of events. Cursing himself quietly, Kareem turned and crouched, wanting to creep away behind a stripped-down generator that had been cannibalized for parts. He could feel his jacket pocket catch on something heavy. He tried to stop, grabbing at his side, but it was too late: he’d dragged a wrench free. He managed to get his hand to the wrench as it struck the concrete, preventing it from clanging against the floor, but even the soft crunch had been enough to give away his location.
Bullets peppered the stainless steel around the elevator doors, slowly walking down toward Kareem. He darted behind a wooden crate full of police barricade signs.
“Not smart. Not smart,” he repeated to himself.
He started to creep away from beside the elevator when a chunk of wood exploded from the edge of the crate, not more than an inch from his eye. The bomber had him pinned down. Out of frustration, Kareem lobbed the wrench in the general direction of the gunshots.
“Like a cat with a mouse,” the terrorist laughed.
Kareem heard a gun magazine drop to the concrete not more than ten feet away. His heart pounded in his chest, and yet deep down he knew he would make it to the roof. He escaped from here, he was sure of that, even if he didn’t remember the specifics of how. Knowing that, though, didn’t make it any easier.
The metal door at the far end of the room burst open. SWAT police stormed the aisles containing the cleaning equipment.
“Put your gun down,” came the cry from the far racks.
The bomber dropped his gun. Smart move, thought Kareem. He was acting compliant, luring the police into his trap.
Slowly, the bomber stepped backward, away from the SWAT team, holding the trigger detonator high above his head. He was laughing, ignoring the cries from the police.
“Get down on the ground!”
“Don’t do anything stupid!”
“Put down the detonator!”
“Oh,” the bomber replied arrogantly, still backing up. “You want this? You want my little toy?”
“Stay where you are,” one of the police officers cried.
Kareem stayed out of sight. He pushed his back hard against the wooden crate, pressing his palms over his ears and squeezing tight.
Standing well back, the bomber triggered the claymores, only the mix of explosive gases and superheated ball bearings no longer faced the door. Almost fifteen hundred tiny steel balls cut through the air toward the bomber, ripping him to shreds, leaving little more than a red mist floating where a human had once stood. Traveling at upwards of four-thousand feet per second, they peppered the rear of the floor, tearing wooden crates into kindling.
In the confined space of the upper floor, the strength of the compression blast shocked Kareem. He’d known it was coming, but being below the blast wave, pressed up against a crate, he hadn’t expected the thump in the air to be so violent. The pressure wave rocked his body, shaking his bones and resonating through his chest. Dirt and dust billowed through the air. The smell of burnt metal scorched his nostrils. From the far end of the floor, police officers cried out. Several of the shelves had collapsed, pinning a couple of the SWAT team.
Kareem’s ears were ringing. Even with his hands pressed over them, the sudden pressure change and blistering crack of thunder had caused his ears to pop. He got to his feet and made for the stairs beside the elevator. Someone yelled out to him, but he couldn’t make out any distinct words.
The air inside the maintenance shaft running up next to the elevator smelled of oil and grease, but it was a welcome relief from the smoke. Jogging up the stairs, Kareem thought about the bomb. He’d seen it from afar, he remembered that. He could see the numbers whipping down toward zero, but he couldn’t distinguish individual numbers. Beyond that, he drew a blank. If he had a moment to clear his head, he thought he could probably remember more detail, but there was no time.
Kareem crashed through the final door, staggering out into the late afternoon sun. The wind whipped across the rooftop, surprising him with a sudden chill. A blue helicopter sat on the helipad. The cockpit was empty. There were none of the normal police markings he’d expect. This was a civilian chopper. It had to be their primary means of escape. The helicopter’s rotor blades turned slowly. The pitch of the engine was low, idling in the autumn cold.
The sun cast long shadows over the roof.
In the distance, Kareem could hear another helicopter approaching the building.
The helipad was raised slightly above the roof, having been built on top of the existing structure. A network of struts
and beams supported it. And through the dark shadows beneath it, Kareem could see the second bomber. He was on the far side of the helipad with the bomb.
Kareem began picking his way around the helipad, coming to within twenty feet of the bomber, when suddenly it dawned on him. This is what he’d seen. This was the view he remembered. He didn’t remember anything beyond this point. Throughout the day, he’d had crisp, clear memories, even if sometimes they were disjointed, but this was the last one. Beyond this point, there was nothing. Why would his mind betray him from here? What had changed? Was this the end? Was he going to die? Kareem wanted to remember something, anything, just a glimpse of tomorrow, or even of later tonight, but his memory was blank.
The sun was setting. A chill descended. The vapor coming from his breath faded before him like his memories.
Just wait it out, he thought. Wait for the SWAT team. Don’t die a hero. A foreboding sense of emptiness swept over him. He’d come all this way. He’d gone through so much. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He had to make a decision.
“It’s over,” he called out, walking toward the terrorist. His boots crunched on the loose gravel scattered across the rooftop. At the very least, he could buy the SWAT team some time. “You’re not a suicide bomber. You’re not going to detonate that bomb while you’re still standing here. It’s finished. You lost.”
“Really?” the bomber said, with his back still turned.
“You think you know what I’ll do,” the bomber said calmly, turning slowly toward him. “And what makes you think that, Kareem?”
For the first time, Kareem got a glimpse of the second bomber. He hadn’t recognized him in the artist sketches, he’d missed seeing him at the museum, and down below, he’d never seen his face. But here stood his twin brother, Ahmed. Kareem felt his blood run cold.
“What were you doing at the museum?” his brother asked, holding a revolver limp by his side. “Who told you we would be there? How did you find out about the attack?”
Kareem was speechless. He and Ahmed were fraternal twins, and so didn’t look identical. Ahmed had always been physically bigger and more athletic. Kareem had been quiet, Ahmed outspoken. Kareem had been bullied at school, Ahmed was the bully.
From the Indie Side Page 30