by Brian Shea
“Sure, my friend. It will be done.” Mustafa said this as he retrieved the piece of paper. Khaled noticed that the fat man had registered that he was wearing gloves. Mustafa began to sweat, betraying his momentary terror.
“You will not see me again. I trust you know what to do with that piece of paper when I leave?” Khaled could see the dread in Mustafa’s eyes. He did nothing to console him or ease his worry. Let him think that I am here to kill him. He will work harder for me under that strain.
Mustafa nodded. Fear had constricted his ability to speak. Khaled pushed his chair back and the screech of the metal against poorly laid tile caused Mustafa to jump slightly. Khaled walked out of the room and into the comparatively fresh air of the city. He knew that inside J’s Pizza shop the fat man was already busy relaying the message to The Seven.
14
Declan had kept Val in the loop with everything that he was doing. She remained calm throughout the bank planning and its execution because she had a perpetual faith in him. This gave him strength, but also carried its own burden. The look of relief on Val’s face after he told her that he had saved the house confirmed that he had done right by his family. Even with that, Declan felt conflicted by the robbery. He’d done some dark things during his time as an operator in the Navy, but it was always under the guise of the importance of the mission’s objective as it pertained to national security. He had never crossed over his line of right and wrong. Until now.
Val was amazingly supportive. She had seen his torment when he talked about the robbery. He did not like taking advantage of the two innocent guards. She reaffirmed that he had done a great thing for their family and tried to provide further reassurance by highlighting that no one was hurt by his actions. She also tried to ease his worries by pointing out that the police hadn’t knocked at their door. Declan was also a realist, knowing that eighty-seven thousand dollars was only a temporary fix for a long-term sustainability problem. This also weighed on him, but for the moment he dealt only with his immediate concerns.
Declan knew that he had to begin the process of slowly putting the cash into their checking account without drawing suspicion. Today would be his first deposit at the Clover Leaf Bank. It would serve two purposes. First, he wanted the bank tellers to see him in his filthy construction shirt, ensuring that the new cash flow would not raise any red flags over the next several months of deposits. Declan knew from his experience working drug distribution cases that banks would report activity that was outside of the norm for an account. He wanted to quell that suspicion before it arose. Secondly, he was hoping to catch an earshot of how the investigation was progressing. Maybe some small talk with a teller about the robbery would give him some insider information, knowing that people loved to gossip about such things.
He entered through the double doors of the bank at 11:45 a.m. Declan had parked his wife’s minivan over at the gas station, purchased a Gatorade, and then walked to the bank with the sugary drink in hand. Everything he did was done for the specific purpose of blending into the environment. Declan portrayed himself as a hard-working construction guy who was making a quick stop at the bank during his lunch break.
There were only two people ahead of him in line at the bank and only one teller. Declan had decided to wait until he stood in front of the clerk before filling out the deposit slip. This would stall things a bit, giving him additional time and opportunity to talk. Silence was uncomfortable for people and Declan had seen people fill its cavernous void with things they shouldn’t talk about. Many times, arrestees in the back of his police cruiser had confessed to their crime or given a critical piece of incriminating evidence in a desperate attempt to alleviate the deafening silence. He hoped that the bank teller would prove to be no different.
“Next please,” the teller called. Declan noted her name was Melissa, evident from the name tag pinned above the breast pocket of her lightweight sweater. She sat on an elevated chair behind the wooden encasement of her workspace and pleasantly gestured for Declan to step forward.
“Hi there. I just wanted to make a cash deposit into my checking account,” Declan said, pulling a crumpled dust-covered envelope from his pocket smudged with a little bit of dirt and grease. It had the mathematical scribblings like the one he used for the money order. Today’s deposit would only be for $475. It was designed to look like a cash payment from a weekend job. This would allow him to make an additional deposit at the end of the week. Declan knew of the under-the-table payment system in the world of construction, exploiting its commonality with the teller.
“Did you fill out a deposit slip?” Melissa asked. She was distracted, looking out toward the entrance as she spoke.
“Sorry. I totally forgot,” Declan said softly, cocking his head to the side and giving an apologetic smile. Melissa smiled back and didn’t seemed bothered by his mistake. Declan had a rough masculine feature from years of hard physical training, but his light blue-gray eyes gave his face a warm element of kindness. Women found this quality attractive, and although he never had overtly flirted since being married to Val, he used it to his advantage when necessary.
“No worries. Do you have your license? I can fill it out for you.” His charms had worked their magic.
“Thanks,” Declan replied.
Melissa stopped filling out the deposit slip mid-pen stroke. She looked up as she heard the suction release of the front doors. Declan turned to see a man enter in a blue blazer jacket and button-down white shirt. As he moved through the lobby in the direction of the management area, Declan caught the glint of a badge and saw the back portion of the frame and rear sights of a Glock protruding from the right-side hipline of the agent.
“Sorry. It’s been crazy here lately. Did you hear about the robbery?” Melissa blurted, attempting to calm her nerves by talking. Perfect.
“Yeah. I saw it on the news. Scary stuff. Were you at work when it happened?” Declan asked, giving the impression of genuine concern.
“No. I left early on that day, my son was sick. Thank God. It sounded terrifying,” Melissa said, lowering her voice.
“I bet. So, did they catch the guy?” Declan said quietly, matching her change in volume. He tried to convey a level of interest equivalent to that of a nosy citizen.
“I don’t think so. That guy who just came in is with the FBI. Nice guy. He’s been here a lot. So, I guess he’s in charge.” Melissa whispered, acting like she was the president of the guy’s fan club. “Your money is in your account. Here is your deposit slip. Is there anything else that I can do for you today?” she said, returning herself to business mode as the line behind Declan grew with the lunch wave of customers. She slid the rectangular piece of paper across the lacquered brown wood over to Declan.
“No. I’m all set. Thank you,” Declan said, taking the thin slip of paper. He walked toward the exit.
His hand pressed against the handle of the first set of doors. The door began to open when he heard Melissa call to him. “Mr. Enright, you forgot your license.”
Declan turned, seeing that the yell from Melissa had drawn the momentary attention of the FBI agent who was standing with Janet, the bank manager who had recently denied his loan. A wave of disappointment immediately filled him. He did not want the investigating agent to take notice of him even if it was innocently done.
Janet smiled, recognizing Declan. “I am glad to see that you are working again. Sorry I wasn’t able to help you out before but check back with me once you’re settled in with your new job.” Janet projected this to him from across the bank. It was only about thirty feet away, but it sounded to Declan as if she had used a megaphone. This total lack of professionalism by the bank manager caused a moment of panic for Declan. Did she really just say that in front of the FBI agent?
Declan noticed that this comment registered with the agent. A guy with financial problems is suddenly making a deposit within four days of a bank robbery. The fed was sizing him up. He watched as the agent visually scanned him,
taking in his physical characteristics. Time to go. Declan turned and prepared to leave without saying a word to Janet.
“Oh my God!” Screamed Melissa. “Look!” she yelled as she stood up from her chair. She pointed frantically out toward the street.
Declan saw a CT Transit bus. It was stopped at the bus stop across the street. The same one that Declan had used for his reconnaissance during his weeks of preparation for the armored truck job. The rear compartment of the bus was engulfed in fire. He immediately pushed the exit door open, stepping outside from the silence of the bank into the raucous sounds of the street.
Declan instinctively began to run at the chaos taking place at the bus stop, moving on autopilot. As he did so, he realized that beside him, running step-for-step, was the FBI agent from the bank.
Traffic had begun to gather on all sides of the bus. Most people sat in their cars gawking at the scene before them. Those onlookers not frozen by the mayhem had taken their cellphones out, recording the rapidly unfolding events. People typically stood by and recorded tragic events, rather than getting involved. Everyone looking for the next viral video. A world of useless voyeurs, Declan thought as he scanned the crowd. He continued sprinting toward the burning bus.
Declan and the agent moved quickly, crossing the sidewalk nearest the bank. He could see that people were continuing to gather near the fire, like moths to the flame. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the man he’d seen at the bus stop a few weeks prior. He had recognized something familiar about the man but couldn’t place it then. Now, with the intensity of the situation heightening his perceptual awareness, it hit him like a twenty-foot shore breaker. The man from the bus stop was the translator from a village used by his SEAL Team in Iraq. There was no such thing as a coincidence of this magnitude in Declan’s world.
Declan’s brain went into overdrive as he instantly and without thought reverted to the mindset that had earned him the nickname Ace. Declan began a rapid-fire assessment of the situation unfolding in front of him.
“Stop!” Declan shouted as he extended out to the agent who was within arm’s reach, grabbing him by the wrist. “Get back!” Declan yelled, pulling the agent to the ground.
“What the hell?” The agent yelled in response. His question was drowned out by the explosion and shock wave that followed.
Chunks of metal and debris accompanied the blast. Declan couldn’t hear much as the ringing in his ears intensified. He looked down at his left shoulder and saw a jagged piece of metal sticking out. Blood saturated his shirt, steadily rolling down his arm and dripping from his fingertips. The agent was unconscious but appeared to be alive. Bypassing the pain, he grabbed the agent, pulling him behind a small retaining wall near the bank where he began checking his vitals.
Declan’s head was on a swivel, scanning the area for the Translator, but he was nowhere to be found. No coincidences. Declan determined that the initial threat had passed and turned his attention back to the unconscious FBI agent on the ground in front of him.
15
The bank lobby had become a makeshift triage center for the wounded, and Nicholas was just now starting to take stock of his circumstance. Izzy was kneeling by his side there as he awoke on the floor of the lobby. A medic from the local Emergency Medical Service told him that he had a concussion and recommended that he be seen by a doctor. Nick avoided hospitals when possible and today would be no different.
“Nick, you should really listen to the medic. Get yourself checked out. I’ve got this until you get back,” Izzy said, sounding genuinely concerned for his well-being.
“Look around Izzy. I’m not taking up a bed at a hospital when we have people here that are truly injured. I have been through much worse and had to push past it,” Nick retorted, thinking back to that day when his shoulder was peppered with bullets from an enemy rifle. He had stayed in the fight for twelve hours with shredded tissue and bone. He got some chest candy for his bravery that day. The sum of his valorous efforts now lay at the bottom of a desk drawer at home. Nick had never been one for accolades.
“The locals are running the bus fire. It’s not our scene to work,” Izzy said, motioning to the expansive efforts out on the street.
“Bus fire? Don’t you mean bombing?” Nick was confused. He remembered running in the direction of the burning bus with the construction worker. Why did the construction guy yell Get Down? What did he know? Everything else after those words faded into a blur.
“If you don’t remember then I definitely want you to get yourself to the doctor. A brain injury is nothing to minimize,” Izzy said, looking worried.
“I remember running toward the bus. And there was a guy with me. A construction worker. He was in the bank when I was speaking with the manager. Someone yelled and we both ran out to the bus.” Nick rambled, feeling the fog in his head begin to lift, but only marginally.
“I didn’t notice anyone in our casualty area wearing construction clothing. Maybe he’s outside.” Izzy ominously gestured out to the sea of yellow body blankets strewn across the road.
Nick looked out in the direction of where he last saw the bus. It was like looking through a magic mirror into some third world country. Twisted blackened chunks of metal were scattered everywhere with mangled cars surrounding the roadway in front of the bank. And then Nick saw the yellow plastic tarps covering the bodies, knowing that the dead needed to stay in place until their positions were photographed and marked.
“How many?” Nick said in a vacant tone.
“They’re still working on the official number,” Izzy said, sounding grave.
“Well give me the unofficial,” Nick grunted as frustration set in. Compounded by his concussed brain.
“Thirty-two dead. Sixty-seven injured with some people transported in critical condition. The death count is bound to go up.”
“Holy shit. So, they are listing this as a bus fire?”
“That’s what they’re saying. Something about a fire in the engine that ignited a fuel line. I’m no mechanic and that’s beyond my technical expertise in that area. Tragic. I am so glad that you are okay,” Izzy said, taking up his hand in hers before quietly continuing, “When I heard the explosion, I ran from the PD. It was the craziest thing I have ever seen. I was terrified that you were in that blast.” Izzy’s voice exposed her panic as she mentally revisited the trauma.
“The construction guy definitely knew something,” Nick said this more to himself than to Izzy.
“We can pull the footage from the bank’s ATM camera. It should give us a good angle to view the bus.”
“Good idea. Where’s Janet, the bank manager?” Nick asked, still a bit disoriented from his temporary period of unconsciousness.
Janet was seated in her office. Nick registered the signs of shock. She was paler than before and had a light layer of sweat on her forehead. She stared off into oblivion, and it took her a moment to register the two agents standing in front of her desk.
“I need you to pull up the footage from the bank’s external cameras just prior to the bus fire,” Nick directed, speaking clearly and slowly, allowing Janet to register this request in her current state of stress.
Izzy and Nick had taken over Janet’s office and the manager now floated aimlessly in the lobby. Nick had given her the task of making a list of all bank personnel currently inside and to note any injuries. He knew that by giving her this responsibility, it would ease some of the emotional impact of the situation. People who were unaccustomed to these types of events benefited from tasks that distracted from the overwhelming nature of the ordeal.
The footage on the screen in front of them showed an image of Nick darting through the bank’s parking lot close behind the construction worker wearing a fluorescent work shirt. The bus was already on fire and the brightness of the flames washed out some of the image at the far corner of the screen. They watched as the construction worker turned and grabbed Nick, pulling him to the ground. The blast followed immediate
ly after.
“Run it again but slow it way down,” Nick said, directing Izzy who handled all things technological for the two as he leaned in more intently.
“Okay. What are you looking for?” Izzy asked, seeing that Nick didn’t even register the question. She had worked with him enough to know that he was in his investigatory zone. He could hyper-focus, excluding everything else around him. She had learned that it was better not to interrupt this process.
Nick slid his hand over Izzy’s without speaking, taking control of the playback functions for the surveillance system. With the replay slowed down, Nick saw what he was looking for.
“Do you see that?” Nick asked, swiveling his head back to Izzy.
“See what?” Izzy replied, still trying to figure out what he had noticed.
“There.” Nick pointed to a still image on the screen. He tapped the screenshot of the construction worker’s head. It was turned away from the direction of the bus.
“So, he turned his head. What’s the big deal?” Izzy said, still confused by this detail that she was apparently missing.
“He saw something. Look how he turns his head and then a split second later he’s pulling me to the ground, right before the big explosion. Whatever he saw made him react.” Nick got quiet and Izzy waited, knowing that he had more to say. “He saved my life.”
“I’m not going to lie. That guy moved like a ninja. Look how much we had to slow this feed down just to catch all of this. He pulled you to the ground with one arm and then used his body to shelter you from the flying debris. It looks like he was injured in the blast too.” Izzy said, scrolling a few frames ahead as she resumed toggling the playback controls and pointed to the blood-soaked shirt of the construction worker. “Even with those injuries, he managed to pull you to safety before heading back toward the carnage,” Izzy said, sounding impressed.
“He pulled me to safety with one arm. The guy is strong, but beyond that, it looks like he’s got some skills.” Nick’s brain was on fire again. He was trying to comprehend all this new information while dealing with the pounding headache that was forming.