by Brian Shea
“Hi Janet, how are you holding up?” Nick asked.
“It’s kind of surreal. Like being in a movie,” she responded, the remnants of the shock still present in her voice.
“Can you do me a favor? I need you to review the camera footage for the past five or six Thursdays. Just look at footage from the time frame of 4:30 to 5:30 p.m.” Nick said this slowly to make sure that Janet comprehended his instruction.
“What am I looking for?” Janet asked. This was a good sign to Nick because it showed that she was paying attention.
“A red Toyota. Let me know if you find it. Thanks.” Nick hung up.
“What’s the plan?” Izzy asked, still trying to figure out where this was leading. She trusted in Nick’s judgment and followed him, even if blindly.
“We’re going to do a little digging into our construction worker who saved my life. Then we’re going to pay him a visit,” Nick said, tossing Declan Enright’s driver’s license to Izzy.
19
Khaled sat on the worn fabric seat of the blue Honda, enjoying the isolation of the rear parking lot of the Department of Motor Vehicles. The dilapidated old government building and expansive concrete lot stood out in contrast to the historic homes of Wethersfield. He was only a few blocks from his intended target.
He opened a pack of Parliament cigarettes, removed the cellophane wrapping and repeatedly slapped the top of the box into his hand, using the force to pack the tobacco inside. Drawing a cigarette from the box, Khaled stepped out from the car and lit it. He leaned against the hood, looking out at the tranquil water of the Cove. There had not been much water in the arid climate of his homeland and because of this, he tended to appreciate its beauty more than most. Khaled had spent many afternoons walking the Charles River while attending Northeastern University in Boston years back. It felt like a lifetime ago. He was a different person then. That person had burned with his Sonia.
Khaled allowed himself to take this brief mental hiatus from the final preparations to reflect on the moment that brought him to this point.
His beautiful Sonia. She would always ask him about his time in America, fascinated by a land so different from theirs. Khaled would tell her about the colors and smells. She loved when he would describe how the setting sun looked reflecting on the Charles River. Khaled had promised her that he would take her there someday, but that opportunity was stolen from him. He looked down at her aqua-blue bracelet wrapped tightly around his left wrist, feeling as though she was here with him now. A tear began to form, but Khaled took a drag from his cigarette and stared out at a group of geese meandering by the Cove’s tranquil shoreline. He pushed back against his emotions. Sometimes he felt as if there was a paper-thin wall holding back the coming tidal wave of grief. There was no time for sorrow.
Rage had consumed Khaled early on in his desert village, driving him to take his vengeance on members of the elite American soldiers. He was a man that would appear out of nowhere and without warning, reign chaos upon the enemy. Khaled would disappear just as quickly as he arrived, leaving a wake of death and destruction. Thus, he became known as the Dust Devil, a reference to the unpredictable and devastating sand storms of his homeland. He had allowed himself to be recruited and trained by the Muqawama but quickly saw that they were limited in their ability to reach the Americans. Through a series of successful missions, Khaled had caught the eye of The Seven.
The Seven wielded incredible power. The financial backing and resource that they provided gave Khaled the support he needed to exact his revenge. He was trained by mercenaries with many of his instructors coming from a pool of U.S. ex-special forces operatives. In their defense, they never knew Khaled’s true purpose. He received expert level training in the art of death from these military elite men, under the guise that he was a high-level bodyguard of a Saudi prince. These tacticians valued their high salaries and did not question his backstory too deeply. In time, Khaled had developed a skill set that would put many trained special operators to shame.
His attacks on U.S. forces stationed in Iraq were impressive but left him with an emptiness that they could not seem to fill. It was in that void that Khaled had hatched his plan. He knew that The Seven were men who had lost much in war, but also felt that they could never truly know the depth of pain that he had experienced, watching his Sonia burn to death under the rubble of her school. He had approached the emissary of The Seven and told him of the plan that he’d developed. One that would forward their cause, but more importantly fill the cavernous gap in his heart.
The only face-to-face meeting Khaled had with The Seven lasted a few hours, but when it was done the funding for his operation was met and all the resources he could fathom were at his disposal. To The Seven he became known as Rasul رسول,The Messenger.
Khaled felt conflicted as he leaned against the cracked front bumper of the Honda smoking his second cigarette. The pain of Sonia’s death was as boundless today as it had been years ago, but yet he wondered if he would be capable of completing this next task. Could he give that pain to another? Intentionally drill an unfillable hole in their heart? He had relived this moment over and over again in his mind in the years since his Sonia’s death. Now, on the eve of his first strike, he lamented his ability to complete the task. The bus had been easy. This would be something else. It would be personal. That meant that it would also be emotional. Devoid of human emotion is how Khaled typically conducted his operations. It would be a departure from the cold, calculated methods of his previous missions.
He pushed himself off the car and walked down the short gently sloping hill to the gravel, walking the path that surrounded the cove. In the brisk fall air of New England, Khaled lazily strolled along the trail, taking in the bright colors of the dying leaves. In the distance, he could still hear the sirens that perpetuated the fear and turmoil he’d created earlier, striking deep into the heart of this quaint, suburban town.
20
Izzy ran Declan Enright’s information through the usual channels, trying to gather as much about the hero as she could. Nick took this opportunity to reach out to a different source.
“Jay. It’s Nick. Been a long time, but I am into something that may require your skills,” Nick said, hoping that this call would be well received. It had been a long time since he had dialed this number.
“Long time indeed. What’s it been? Five years?” Jay said in a tone that showed that he was genuinely excited to talk to his old friend.
Nick and Jayson Barton had crossed paths on the battlefields of Iraq, a place that Nick “lovingly” referred to as the Sandbox. Nick’s involvement with the Rangers put him in the circle of the military’s elite special forces groups, and with that came Tier 1 missions. Those operations were linked to various intelligence agencies, requiring a high level of security clearance. Jay had been his “spook” connection on more than a few ops, and they had become fast-friends, as people do when life hangs in the balance.
Over the years since his time in the military, Nick had discovered that he never felt as close to coworkers as he did to the people he went into battle with. War was funny that way… you never feel more alive than when you are so close to death. Maybe that is why for the first time in a very long time Nicholas Lawrence now felt a resurgence of energy.
Nick and Jay had kept in touch after their time together overseas and last met a few years back for a night of drinking at an Irish pub in Old Towne Alexandria. As things went with friendships forged in combat, time left little to talk about when back stateside. Some veterans could reminisce about their war experience for the rest of their lives as if time had stopped for them. For many, like Nick’s brother, it had. Some of the warriors never truly left the battlefield. As for Nick and Jay, they had both moved forward after the war and found that neither really wanted to talk much about their past engagements. That ultimately left them with less to talk about. Nick had moved on to the FBI and Jay had stayed in the CIA. Although both agencies typically crossed pat
hs on television, in the real world it was far less common.
Nick had needed Jay’s resources when he was assigned to the Austin office, but that was an extreme circumstance. Jay had put himself out to help Nick, testing the boundaries of their friendship. That was the only time he had requested his assistance outside of Iraq. Until now.
“Sorry to hit you up out of the blue, but I have come across something that you may be able to help me with,” Nick said with some hesitancy in his voice. Jay had risked his career and potential jail time when he helped Nick with an international human trafficking ring out of the Austin area a few years back.
“Tell me what you’ve got, and I will tell you what I can do, or better yet, if I can do it.” Jay was always a straight shooter when it came to his job, and that’s one of the reasons that the two had gotten along so well in a combat environment.
“I’m working an armored truck robbery in a town called Wethersfield, here in Connecticut. I was at the bank doing a follow-up when a bus caught on fire while stopped in front. When I exited the bank, the bus exploded.” Nick spoke, knowing that brevity was the key and the details would come later.
“Shit man sounds like you had a really bad case of the Mondays,” Jay said with a slight chuckle. To an outsider, this comment would have sounded inappropriate, but a warrior’s sense of humor was as key to survival as food and water.
“Like old times. I don’t think the bus was an accident. More importantly, there was a guy present who saved my life and may have some of the answers. And that’s where you come in,” Nick said, hoping that he had secured Jay’s support by inferring the bus explosion may have ties to his special set of skills. Nick was not sure if Jay was still in the counter-terrorism game anymore.
“What do you have for a name?” Jay asked, alerting Nick that he was in.
“His name is Declan Enright. My partner, Isabella Martinez, did some digging on our side and found out that he was recently terminated as a police officer. She is coordinating with his former department to gather the details, but the human resource person she spoke with mentioned that Enright was former military. Specifically, he was a Team guy.” Nick said knowing that Jay would understand this reference to the Navy’s elite SEAL Teams.
“When you say that he may know something, are you really saying that he might be involved?” Jay asked, aware that pulling files on a spec ops guy could result in some immediate blowback.
“No. I don’t think he has anything to do with the bus, but his actions on scene are leading me to believe that he may know something about it,” Nick reassured his friend. No one liked when an operator, past or present, went rogue.
“What’s your take on the bus? What is it that you aren’t telling me?” Jay asked, demonstrating that he had immediately picked up on Nick’s innuendos. He was a smart guy.
“I don’t think it was a bus fire. I’m not getting much in the way of support from the brass here, but I’ve been given a day to bring forth some evidence before I get tossed back on the armored truck robbery,” Nick answered knowing that Jay was familiar with the politics of such things. Probably better than most.
“Okay. So, you think this was…” Jay trailed off, wanting to hear it from Nick’s mouth.
“I think it was a planned attack. This had a similar feel to the things we experienced in the desert. The fire drew in onlookers and stopped nearby traffic. It was a smart move because it increased the nearby populous at a rapid rate. Once the people were close, a secondary device must have been activated, causing the bus to explode. I’m guessing that it was a remote detonation and not a suicide bomb. I think that this is what our ex-SEAL realized and reacted to.” This is the first time that Nick had said his theory out loud, and he caught Izzy staring at him out of the corner of his eye. Her reaction was not pessimistic, but more one of shock.
“You know that if you are right, then this would be the first truly successful stateside attack in years?” Nick noted that Jay’s voice carried with it an element and tone that he had not heard from his friend before. Fear.
“I know. I hope I’m wrong, but something tells me that I’m not. If I have any chance of getting ahead of this thing, then I’ve got to move fast. See what you can find out about Enright’s military time. I’m going to make a surprise visit soon and want to know who I am dealing with before we meet.”
“Will do. I’ll be in touch. Stay low and watch your six.” Jay said, ending the call.
21
The morning air was crisp and clear. Khaled sat on the soft brown leather chair located in the back of the bustling Starbucks sipping from the thimble of white porcelain. The espresso he was drinking best resembled the strength and bitterness of his homeland’s brew but lacked the balance of sweetness provided by the green cardamom that his palate had become accustomed to. He took in the movement of the people lost in the frenzy of their own world. Most of them hypnotized by their cell phone. Completely devoid of human interaction. It assisted his ability to blend in and disappear into the scenery. The pull of social media and digital communication had left the average person disconnected from the present.
The apartment provided by his network was now vacant. He’d spent the morning scouring the surfaces with bleach, removing any evidence of his time there. Khaled knew that The Seven would send someone to erase his presence, but he trusted nobody more than himself. It gave him peace of mind knowing that in the remote possibility that anyone would link him back to that place, they would find no physical trace of his existence. Plus, the cleaning gave his mind a break from the day’s upcoming task. He had not slept well on his last night in Connecticut as he replayed his plan over and over again. Khaled did not pay attention to the news because he had to focus on his next step. The bus attack was still being listed as a terrible accident. The information regarding the attack was in the hands of The Seven for dissemination. Soon their voice would be heard.
Khaled pulled out of the parking lot of the small strip mall and drove the back roads of Wethersfield to his preplanned waiting position. The device had been set a week prior, but the challenge to this operation was the proximity he needed to be to detonate. Enright, or the Golden Man as his beloved Sonia had affectionately referred to him, was married to a very schedule-oriented person. Her routine with the youngest daughter was like clockwork. Today, that would be her downfall. This would turn out to be the worst day of their lives. They would soon feel the burn.
He sat in the blue Honda, checking the mobile application that allowed him to oversee the house of his enemy. Patience was at the core of who he was, and it had served him well up to this point. He understood that there was no reason to rush the process now. Although, he knew that these last few hours would feel longer than the previous eight years he’d waited, leading up to this moment of vengeance. His Sonia would have been sixteen now.
As he strolled the gravel path that encircled the Wethersfield Cove, Khaled allowed his mind to momentarily drift as he envisioned what type of young lady she might have grown up to be.
22
They had been up most of the morning running down information and reading Enright’s personnel file. It was voluminous and carried with it an impressive listing of awards. He had excelled on patrol and was quickly brought onto the regional tactical team. His military experience had obviously contributed to the SWAT team’s interest in him. The tactical team only operated on a part-time basis, enabling Enright to continue his patrol responsibilities. He was selected for the department’s narcotics unit where he had spent his last two years prior to his termination.
The investigation file for Enright’s use of deadly force was very thick and took up the space of an extra-large three-ring binder. The summary documented that Enright had responded to assist patrol units with a mentally disturbed party holding a gun to his head. The notes of the case stated that he had been conducting surveillance of a street-level drug transaction only a few streets away when the call came out. Due to his proximity to the call, Enrigh
t arrived on scene first.
Enright’s picture had been taken by a bystander and used by the media. The photo showed that he was not wearing a uniform, and at the time he looked more like a homeless person than a cop. Enright had grown a beard and let his hair slip way past regulations, but all of this was accepted by his department because of his role as a narc. His grungy appearance was used by the family during the civil suit, claiming that it made him unrecognizable as a police officer. The media had jumped on that aspect of the story and numerous opinionated articles were generated around that debate.
Enright’s report documented that his badge had hung from a metal chain around his neck and was exposed against his chest during the standoff. The media’s focal point was on the fact that the gunman was a young black male in his early twenties. Multiple officers reported that Anderson had begged Enright to shoot him. Nick read this, perceptive that this trend of “suicide by cop” had become increasingly more common. The fallout in the media for any officer involved shooting was never good, but the soundbites of news panel experts buried Enright’s reputation.
Enright had written in his report that he observed that Jamal had a small black handgun pressed against his temple and was yelling for someone to shoot him. Enright had held his position which was noted in a diagram to be seventeen feet from Anderson. Enright’s report, which was corroborated by two other officers, said that as additional police arrived on scene that Anderson removed the gun from his temple and pointed it in the direction of another cop.