by Henry Hack
Alicia related her twelve years in the FBI saying, “I am a New Yorker, born in Brooklyn, and have always been assigned to the New York office. We have everything weird here, and now we’ll beat the Romens if they stick their noses into my city.”
Now that the group was finalized at three teams led by John McKee, Harry had requested to come over to speak with them. He said, “This old room holds a few memories for me and I’ve come here to let you know I am behind this team one hundred percent. John, when the situation demands, any request from you will be expedited, be it for additional manpower or materials.”
“Thanks, Harry … I mean, Commissioner.”
“Harry is fine for everyone in this group,” he said. “Many years ago, through an unusual set of events, Pop Hunter, Nick Faliani and I were fortunate to join Walt Kobak, John McKee, Jerry Campora and Dick Mansfield here in this Task Force to investigate a possible terrorist group. Three members of that group stabbed to death a bartender on my foot post in Elmont. I tracked them down to an apartment in Queens, and foolishly not waiting for back-up, I got involved in a shootout and damn near got myself killed.
“In the hospital Walt and John came to see me based on their suspicions this group of six young men was involved in terrorist activities. We all joined forces and waged several battles together against OBL-911 finally defeating them once and for all. During those battles we lost Jerry Campora. Let’s not lose any more. Now Dick Mansfield and Pop Hunter are retired, but as we all know Pop has found himself right in the middle of this new terrorist group – The Romens. Our friend, and once again official member of the team, is about to embark upon the most dangerous assignment of his life. Please protect him as best as you can. He is not replaceable.”
Harry sat down, obviously fighting his emotions. Walt Kobak said, “I know where Harry’s coming from and I’d like to add to what he just said. Pop is irreplaceable, not only to this investigation, but to all of us personally. Let’s all do our utmost to bring this fight to a successful conclusion with him still alive – with all of us still alive.”
“Anything new from Washington, Walt?” McKee asked.
“Based on the four to six week wait to scrutinize Pop, and assuming there are at least a few others in the same process, the consensus is the Romens will wait until all their replacements are in place and vetted before they strike again.”
“Sounds logical,” Harry said.
Harry and Walt couldn’t have been more wrong.
9
The only disagreement the Savior and the Apostle Peter had in their years working together was the selection of the target for the second campaign. The Savior wanted to attack Big Tobacco and its supporters. Peter knew the reasons – the personal reasons – that drove him to this decision. He argued, unsuccessfully, from several points of view – Big Tobacco was not as big a danger to the earth as the mining industry, the logging industry, the nuclear plants – they should certainly be addressed before them. The Savior argued back Big Tobacco was responsible for polluting individuals more than any other industry, and was responsible for millions of deaths and illnesses and untold misery to the families of those affected.
“I know how you feel,” the Savior said, “and deep down I agree with you. But you know what this means to me and my family, so please back me up. I promise you this will be our shortest campaign, but the message has to be transmitted.”
“What are your plans?”
“As with our first campaign I will take out the most prominent politician who supports Big Tobacco – Senator Byron “Bo” Ferguson from the great state of North Carolina. Then you and the other apostles will take out twelve prominent supporters and leaders in the industry. I have eight in mind already. You can help me select the others.”
“Sure, then what?” Peter asked.
“Then we get personal and have the disciples target forty-five tobacco shop owners and forty-five or so individual smokers at random.”
“Don’t you want to wait until the five new disciples are in place and tested?”
“No, we’ve been inactive too long. And how is the process for replacements going?”
“Good. I’ve got all their documents. I’ve already begun the database searches.”
“Great, but take your time. Be thorough. We can’t afford to get careless now.”
“I will be meticulous, as always.”
Six of the apostles and their forty-eight disciples had now re-located to areas east of the Mississippi River and were ready for the word to strike again. But they knew the first strike belonged to the Savior, and they knew he wouldn’t keep them waiting long.
Friday, April 16, was a beautiful spring day in western North Carolina. Senator “Bo” Ferguson had left Washington D.C. after lunch and enjoyed the drive to his home on the outskirts of Asheville. His wife, Minny, and he would be entertaining several politicians and businessmen for cocktails and a light dinner at their palatial home nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Savior was already there. He had scoped out the house and grounds several times and was certain of his plan which was similar to the one he had used to kill Senator Edward Millard. The difference was the presence of a wife. But if Minerva had to go, so be it.
The Savior watched as the last guests departed at 10:30. The lights in the Ferguson bedroom clicked off forty minutes later. He waited until midnight before entering the house. There had been no need to cut a hole in the glass this time. All the doors were normally unlocked and there was no alarm system – “Big Bo” wasn’t afraid of anyone. The casual approach to security had allowed the Savior to actually walk into the house and scout it out on a day when Mrs. Ferguson was shopping in Asheville. He had noted the light switch location on the bedroom wall, and also discovered the loaded six-inch .357 magnum revolver in the drawer of the night table next to one side of the bed. He had toyed with the idea of removing the bullets, but that would be too risky. Who knew how often Bo checked his powerful weapon? Besides, he would have the drop on him so fast he’d never be able to get to the gun.
The Savior crept up the stairway to the second floor and softly pushed open the bedroom door. He flipped the switch and observed the Fergusons sound asleep and undisturbed by the intrusion of the lights. He kicked the footboard of the bed and shouted, “Wake up! Get up!”
They roused themselves from their deep sleep, confused, and then their eyes opened wide. They were staring at what first appeared to be Jesus Christ – but this Jesus was pointing a .40 caliber Glock at them. Bo went right for the night table and the Savior shot him in the arm that was grasping at the handle of the drawer. Bo screamed in pain and Minerva also screamed. The Savior shot her twice in the chest and the screaming stopped. “Listen to me, Senator,” he said. “I want you to know why you are going to die. You killed my father.”
“Your father?” he asked, grimacing in pain.
“Yes, by your corrupt legislation that allows the tobacco industry to flourish and poison millions of people.”
“Fuck you. If you’re gonna kill me, just do it. I don’t need to listen to your ravings.”
“You’re just like Senator Millard – arrogant, corrupt, destroying the earth and its inhabitants for your own personal gain. The Romens will win this fight and rescue the earth. We are winning now. Adios, Bo.”
The Savior pumped two rounds into Ferguson’s face, killing him instantly. He propped him up on his pillows and moved Minerva off to the side. He hung a sign around his neck that said, Death to the Supporters of Death – the Romens. The digital camera was once again used to memorialize the death of his victim. After picking up the five cartridge cases, he checked around the room for any possible trace evidence he might have left behind. Satisfied there was none, he shut the light switch and left the house.
The Savior arrived at his new apartment in the Maryland suburbs of Washington just as the sun was rising. He was dead tired after the long tension-filled day, but before he would put his head on the pillow he would forward the pictur
es of the dead senator to his apostles, adding a brief message, “Go! Our second campaign has begun!”
The mild weather had continued throughout the northeast that April weekend. On Saturday afternoon as the temperature approached seventy degrees, Harry and Susan strolled through Central Park observing the trees and flowers bursting into life once more. They discussed the week's events and finally the conversation came around to the Romens. “It’s been a long time since they did anything,” Susan said. “Do you think it’s all over?”
“No, we believe they’re gearing up for their next attacks – soon.”
“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” she said, “but are you sure? How long has it been since they killed anyone?”
“Eight weeks. The last SUV drivers were killed in late February.”
They were walking out of the park toward their apartment building when Harry’s cell phone rang. After the conversation Harry looked at Susan and said, “That was John McKee. The Romens struck again. Senator Bo Ferguson of North Carolina was found murdered in his bed a few hours ago. His wife was also killed.”
“How do they know it was the Romens?” she asked.
“The usual sign was around his neck. It said, ‘Death to the Supporters of Death.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ferguson was the staunchest supporter of the tobacco industry in Congress. He gets millions of dollars for his election campaigns from them.”
“First the gas guzzlers, now the smokers?”
“Could be. I’m sure we’ll know soon if they repeat the pattern. Your firm defends the tobacco industry, right? They could be a target of the Romens.”
“Harry, you’re getting paranoid.”
“Am I? If the murder of Ferguson is the first attack, who do you think would be likely to be the targets of the next twelve attacks?”
“I don’t know, I…”
“Big shots in the tobacco industry. Congressmen, lobbyists, CEO’s, and maybe even the law firms who defend them. Do me a favor when you go in Monday. Tell Paul Vasky to increase his security at his home and the office. Tell him to call Sheldrake Associates for help.”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
“Will you tell him, or should I call him?”
“All right, I’ll talk to Paul first thing Monday morning.”
Paul Vasky did not make it into his Manhattan office that Monday morning, nor would he on any future mornings – the Apostle Mark had made sure of that. Vasky had been found sitting in the driveway of his suburban Westchester County home, back against the driver’s side door of his Mercedes S600, with two bullets in his face and a sign around his neck that read, Death to the Enablers of Death – the Romens. By the end of the week the Romens had successfully completed phase two of their second campaign. In addition to Paul Vasky eleven more movers and shakers in the tobacco industry were murdered – three congressmen, three CEO’s, two COO’s, the chief lobbyist for the tobacco industry, and the president and vice-president of the Tobacco Grower’s Association. The signs around their necks were basically the same, with changes in wording to suit the victim’s occupation – Death to the Producers of Death, Death to the Growers of Death…
The country, which had had an uneasy respite for the past two months, was shocked and numbed by the new attacks. But the fear increased tenfold when the Romens finally went public, and ordinary people realized they themselves were next on the hit list.
On April 28, the Romens distributed their manifesto sending copies of the typed pages to the newspapers in ten large cities, the four major TV networks and the three major cable news channels. They had collaborated and agonized over the content and tone of their message to America. If possible, they wanted to not only justify their actions, but to enlist support in their fight to save Mother Earth. Indeed, their opening line was an apology for the destruction and deaths they had inflicted, but the apology was immediately followed by several paragraphs explaining the “end does justify the means,” the end being the resurrection of Mother Earth and the continued existence of all human beings on a clean, unpolluted, healthy planet. They also explained their structure with the Savior as their leader, twelve apostles as his generals in the field and “multitudinous disciples” dedicated to their cause.
The Romens closed their message with the promise all their future actions would not be taken without ample warning, so any possible targets could reform their ways and avoid death or destruction. Then they got specific – Phase three of our second campaign will begin one week from today on Wednesday, May 5. The sellers and users of tobacco products will be targeted. Do not sell tobacco. Do not smoke tobacco. The power to curb death and disease is in your individual hands. Without the smokers, the industry will wither away. Don’t disappoint the rest of us who are forced to breathe in your secondhand poison. You have been warned.
The Romens
“They’ve finally come out in the open,” Dan Snyder said at a hastily called conference at police headquarters.
“Did you get the conciliatory tone of the message?” Chief O’Halloran asked. “They have a pretty good propaganda machine going.”
“A lot of people detest cigarettes and cigarette smokers,” Harry said. “I know, I used to be one of them. But I’m questioning the Romens’ choice of targets. There are worse polluters of Mother Earth than tobacco smoke. Maybe there is something personal going on here. Maybe one of their leaders had a close relative die from smoking.”
“Maybe like his father?” Dan Snyder said looking at Harry knowingly.
“Maybe,” Harry said.
“Do you think the warning will have the desired effect?” Chief O’Halloran asked.
“I wouldn’t walk down the street with a butt hanging out of my mouth,” Petersen said.
“When the Mayor calls me, as I’m sure he will,” Harry said, “what do I tell him? How do we plan to protect the thousands of sellers of cigarettes in the Metro area from the Savior and his apostles? And how are we going to protect the millions of smokers who light up in public?”
“To be honest with you,” Dan said, “if the stupid bastards light up in public next week, they deserve to be shot.”
“I agree,” Harry said, “but we better work on a plan to protect the shop owners. Dan, would you take the lead on that?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Carl, any word on Pop’s admission into the Romens yet?”
“No, but it has been five weeks. It has to be soon.”
“Okay, let’s get to work. We know who the enemy is, what their goal is, why they’re doing their acts, how they’re doing their acts and now they’ve told us when they will strike next. There’s only one W missing – where – where the hell are they?”
“Only Pop can tell us if, and when, they let him in,” Petersen said.
Pop was having coffee in the break room the morning after the Romens went public. The room was abuzz with conversations as could be expected. Bob Willis came up to him and whispered in his hear, “Sam, meet me for lunch today. Be outside the building at 12:15.”
“Sure,” Pop said, realizing this had to be it.
After they were comfortably seated in a local coffee shop, Bob smiled and quietly said, “Meet Number Five at the same place at exactly 5:30 this afternoon. They’ve reached a decision on your admission.”
“Did I get accepted?”
“I can’t say,” Bob said, “but I can do this.” He smiled and gave a thumbs-up to Pop.
As soon as Pop got back to his office he went to the men’s room, and when he was certain he was alone, he dialed John McKee on his cell phone. “I’m meeting Number Five again at 5:30 today. Same place. Looks like I’m in, but I guess I’ll find out for sure later.”
“Great! We’ll be around.”
After Pop hung up, John called the group together and informed them of the situation. He said, “Let’s try to tail Number Five again, but if it gets dicey, let him go. We can’t afford to blow t
his now.”
John then called Carl Petersen who was again en-route to Washington. Carl asked John to call the PC and fill him in adding, “Finally, we may be catching a break.”
“Keep me informed immediately of any developments,” Harry said when John told him of the meet.
“Are you worried like I am?”
“Yeah. Listen, I know I don’t have to say this, but please take care of Pop.”
“I understand. Call you later.”
This time Pop noticed Nick Faliani sitting on the steps. A good friend to have covering your back, for sure.
“Hello, Sam,” said a smiling Number Five.
“Hello,” Pop said, following him as he began to climb the steps to the main entrance doors. They arrived on the third floor and once again went to an empty desk with few people in the vicinity. When they were seated on opposite sides of the desk Number Five said, “Congratulations, Sam. Welcome to the Romens.”
Pop beamed and said, “Thank you. I can’t wait to get me a couple of cigarette smokers.”
“Whoa there, Sam. Not so fast.”
“I figured you wanted a full staff on board for phase three of this campaign.”
“We do, but you and a few others still have to pass the final test first, remember?”
“I’m ready to go as soon as you give me the word. By the way, what will be my final test?”
“Let’s just say our Savior has indicated he doesn’t want those fucking SUV owners to think we’ve forgotten them.”
“Great. Can you tell me more about the Savior?”
“No, our Savior is known only to his immediate subordinates – his twelve apostles. The apostles have names. Ours is Mark. Each apostle has eight disciples. I am Disciple Number Five. When you pass your final test you will be Disciple Number Three.”
“Number Three? Shouldn’t I be Number Eight?”
“No, Number Three failed his final test. You will be his replacement – if you pass your final test.” He passed a folded piece of paper over to Pop and said, “You’ll meet with the apostle and the rest of us disciples at this address in Brooklyn this Saturday night at eight p.m. Be prompt. I’ll see you there.”