by Roger Hayden
“Yes, but the attacks must go forward,” Ghazi said. “The timing is critical.”
“I know that,” Omar snapped back. He scanned the bloody floor ahead. The crippled, maimed bodies of his fighters lying everywhere infuriated him. Rage and vengeance simmered within. But he hadn’t come close to exposing his true anger yet. Not anywhere near it.
The security detail, ten men in all, came rushing back to the open bay, stopping while trying to catch their breath. The man in front, dressed in black and wearing an assault vest, spoke. “More bodies are downstairs. The general. Qadar. And your American cousin. All have been shot.”
“And what of the prisoners?” Omar asked calmly.
“Nowhere to be found.”
Omar nodded with his mouth in a straight line.
“Where’s Ma’mun?” he asked. “Where’s my brother?”
“There’s something you need to see,” one of the other men said.
They led Omar to the room down the hall where Ma’mun lay, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. He had been stabbed to death. The security team recoiled at the sight. Omar stared down at his brother but displayed no emotion. He demanded that they move Ma’mun out of the room.
“Get him out of here, now! Ma’mun will not lie a single minute longer like a dead animal on the ground. Wrap him up at once and prepare to transport him.” The team scrambled to comply, looking frantically for something in which to wrap Ma’mun. Ghazi leaned closer to Omar and spoke quietly.
“It is not safe to be here for much longer. The authorities could be on their way any moment.”
Omar looked at him with a deadly stern expression. “We don’t leave until every piece of sensitive information is gathered and taken from here. In the meantime, post guards outside. Tell them to shoot anything that moves.”
“Yes, my commander.” Ghazi ran out of the room and began instructing everyone on what they had to do. “Collect everything. We need to make sure it’s all accounted for. The bodies must be collected as well. Sensitive items, information, weapons. All of it.”
Omar strolled slowly down the hall, flanked by three men of his security team. He thought of the prisoners. They were eating away at his mind. Ma’mun had told him about them: an American FBI agent and a Chechen boy. Malaka’s nephew. It seemed impossible that they could do such a thing.
The sleeper cells had been blessed with unprecedented success against the enemy so far, but now they faced a major setback. He felt for his brother, missing him dearly. Rage consumed him as he excused himself from the security detail, returning to Ma’mun’s small office.
He left his guards standing outside and closed the door. The barren office only had a few files on the desk and nothing more. Omar grabbed the files and proceeded to go through the drawers. Inside, he found a framed picture of him and Ma’mun as teenagers, attending school together. He smiled and placed the picture facedown on the surface of the desk. He pulled the next drawer open and found a wallet, cell phone, pistol, and handheld radio with the name “Craig” written on it. Omar remembered the name: FBI Agent Craig Davis.
He tried to turn on the cell phone, but it was dead. He set everything neatly on the desk and took a seat to get his thoughts together. He looked through the wallet and examined Craig’s driver’s license, staring at the smiling picture. He flipped through and came across a picture of Craig, a woman, and a child smiling near a Christmas tree. If he killed a thousand more people, it wouldn’t be enough until he got to Craig. He made the decision then and there.
A banging came on the door. Omar’s head shot up. “What?”
“Information, Commander Allawi.”
“Enter,” he said.
Ghazi walked into the darkened room. “The prisoners escaped. We know that for sure now. We recovered a camera. In the footage, the American breaks free and kills everyone.”
Astonished, Omar’s eyes widened. “Escaped? How is that possible?”
“I do not know,” Ghazi said. “Satan was at work here.”
“What of their location? The escaped prisoners could be anywhere. Likely at the agent’s home.”
“A team already went to the American’s house at Ma’mun’s behest yesterday, but didn’t find them. They’ve been watching it since.”
“And?”
“Nothing,” Ghazi said.
“That’s because they are hiding,” Omar said, rising from the seat. “They are hiding, and we must find them.” He handed Ghazi Craig’s cell phone. “Charge this immediately.”
Ghazi took the phone. “There’s more,” he said.
“What now?” Omar asked, frustrated.
“We’re missing a laptop. Not just any laptop either. It belonged to Ma’mun.”
Omar’s voice remained calm. “Are you sure?”
“We did an inventory. Even with an accounting of all the broken equipment everywhere, Ma’mun’s laptop is nowhere to be found. It was pulled from its docking station.”
Omar walked around the desk, past Ghazi, and opened the door. “We move now. Assuming this American has this laptop, it will destroy plans for our next phase.”
“Exactly.”
Omar got right in Ghazi’s face. “You will find this man and his family, and you will bring them to me.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Omar walked out of the room without saying another word. The back of his black robe floated in the air as he whisked past his security team and into the open bay where the Islamic State had faced its first crushing blow.
They left the warehouse, clearing out any hard evidence of their presence, and traveled in a convoy to their secret headquarters, hours away. Ghazi sat in the passenger seat of his van. Parvez, his quiet driver, kept his eyes on the road and his thoughts to himself. Ghazi felt as angry and blindsided as he was sure Omar did. But they could not show weakness. They were in the middle of a war, and casualties were a reality.
Omar’s priorities had shifted slightly since leaving the warehouse. There was nothing more important to him than finding the American. And it wouldn’t stop there. Omar demanded that they find him, his family, and his extended family, and kill them all. It was a special assignment, with members personally selected by Abu Allawi to carry it out.
Ghazi was deemed the leader of the task force—a true honor. While Craig’s phone was still charging, he turned it on, bypassed the security key, and immediately went through his phone calls, contacts, pictures, and text messages. In one of the last text messages, from a contact named Rachael, Ghazi came across something of significance. His heart raced with excitement as he read it.
We just got to the cabin. Only took an hour & a half on the boat. I hope you are safe. I love you.
Ghazi smiled. There were plenty of cabins out there, but the revelation had just vastly narrowed their search.
“Praise be to Allah,” he said out loud.
The streetlights passed by them in a flurry as they left Detroit and ventured toward headquarters with a new assignment—a personal assignment by request of Allawi himself. Before long, everything would come together. As long as they remained one step ahead of the enemy at all times, America was doomed.
Sleeper Cell: An American Armageddon
ISIS on the Move
"Once the Americans realize there is nothing their government can do to protect them, they will descend into misery and fear." - Abu Omar Allawi
Lincoln, Nebraska
he lights in the factory were off, and none of the machines were running. Production was halted for the evening, and there was not a sound on the floor. In the back room, however, a secret meeting was taking place with top ISIS militants.
There was much to celebrate. The multitude of attacks against the United States from activated sleeper cells had been staggeringly successful. Synchronized attacks on the seven major ports throughout the US had left over three thousand dead, a government overwhelmed, and a nation reeling in terror.
But they were only halfway there. One final
phase was still in the works: to cripple the great Satan and initiate ISIS’s worldwide caliphate.
After a major setback in operations, Abu Omar Allawi, "the invisible sheik," was now more visible than ever. They had to regroup and strategize. Pick up the pieces and proceed with the plan, because it had not been a total victory. A substantial number of high-ranking militants had been killed, including Omar's brother, Ma'mun, during a shocking escape by an FBI agent they had been holding prisoner. Omar didn't want to believe such a thing possible. How one man, along with a young Chechen prisoner they knew as Husein, could have eliminated over twenty ISIS militants and then managed to escape was unfathomable.
Omar was filled with rage and vengeance. Finding this escaped “Agent Davis” wouldn't be impossible, and he already had many men on the task. The only issue was time. The timing of phases two and three was critical, and the FBI man had stolen a laptop—Ma'mun's laptop—with sensitive data which, if studied correctly, could reveal their imminent and ambitious plans.
"Everything goes as planned. No changes," Omar told the packed room of his closest confidants. "I will record a new message and send it out. Our brothers must never find out about the grave harm inflicted on us by the enemy."
His men stood around the table and nodded, listening attentively.
"We may have lost the Detroit factory, but that changes nothing. The hour is upon us, and the mission will go on."
"But, My Commander. What about your brother?" Fareed, an older, gray-haired man asked.
Omar turned to him, his face shadowed from a single light above. "Do not ask me about my brother."
Fareed looked away nervously. "I'm sorry, I meant no offense. I just wanted to ensure that he would be properly avenged. He was a dear friend of mine."
Omar held his arm up as the sleeve of his black robe slid down. "The American will not get far, Fareed. We will find him, recover the laptop, and slaughter him and his entire family."
"How can you be sure?" Fareed asked.
The other men looked around the room nervously. No one had ever questioned "the invisible sheik" in the presence of others.
Omar glared at him for that very reason, as the room remained silent. He placed his hand on Fareed's shoulder and looked into his eyes. "My father considered you a friend. I respect that. Question me again, and I will be less inclined to reminisce about the past."
Omar scanned the faces surrounding him, making direct eye contact. To them, he seemed a near-mythical figure. No one knew what he would do, or what he was capable of. So impressed with his ruthless tenacity were the Islamic State leaders in Iraq and Syria that they had placed him in charge of the entire sleeper cell operation in the United States.
"I see curiosity on your faces. You are all wondering the same thing. The American is walking into a trap of which he is not aware. He will be caught and eliminated, but not before being brought to me first."
"Allahu Akbar!" Ghazi, one of Omar's trusted right-hand men, shouted out. The rest of the group followed, reciting the phrase. Ghazi said it again, drowning out any lingering sense of doubt in the room.
After the chanting faded, Omar continued, "Everything that's occurred so far has been a precursor to our last and most important phase. Without it, all the progress we have made today will mean nothing."
He paused and looked around the room and at his three most trusted lieutenants standing to his left.
"Ghazi. Usaamah. Hamid. I want this place up and running tonight. Production will go on, despite unfortunate setbacks. It's time for action, my brothers."
"We should move you somewhere else," Ghazi protested. "It's not safe for you here with that FBI agent running around."
Omar smiled. "For now, we needn't worry about the authorities. This factory is remote, surrounded by barbed-wire fences, and heavily guarded. The only person who needs to be worried is the American. For when he turns on my brother's laptop, we'll know exactly where he is."
Omar called the meeting to an end just as the sound from a caravan of trucks grew loud and menacing as they drew near to the factory outside. The men in the room looked around apprehensively. Several reached for their weapons.
"That would be our resupply," Omar said, answering the question on their faces.
The group left the meeting room and walked out to the main production floor, where long empty assembly belts ran through bottling machines to packaging stations, unmanned and vacant. The machines were shut off, offering only an eerie silence. Ghazi flipped a light switch causing the fluorescent bulbs above to flicker on, one after the other, like dominoes.
Omar led his group through the factory floor toward the exit where vehicles were parking. When they walked outside, two CXTs weighing 14,000 pounds each, and the size of dump trucks, backed in toward the loading dock of the factory. Three white Cadillac SUVs bypassed the open gate and pulled into the parking lot. A guard rolled the gate closed after they passed.
"We have enough chemical solution this time?" Ghazi asked, walking close to Omar.
Eyes forward, Omar continued to walk ahead toward the arriving SUVs under the blackened sky. "You must have faith, Ghazi. This is Allah's will. We are mere vessels who serve at the direction of our prophet."
Omar was always light on specifics. Ghazi had found that most of the time Omar would defer questions to a higher power. In that sense, everything seemed destined to chance. Ghazi also had a secret, only known to him. He was not a true believer in their religious fanaticism. He liked to smoke and drink, and found the constant prayer sessions throughout the day redundant. The only real appeal ISIS held for him was their hatred for Americans.
Ghazi's hatred of the US was rooted in years of psychological trauma, something he remembered like it was yesterday. His sister had been assaulted by a group of American soldiers during the early years of the Iraq occupation. His father ordered him to murder his sister as an act of honor for the shame she had brought to the family—what was called, in some circles, an “honor killing.”
The vivid memory of strangling her to death had been seared into his mind. For this, he blamed the Americans and always would. But he was always careful to keep these thoughts to himself. He did what he was told and seldom spoke up. The other militants had jokingly referred to him as "the quiet man."
Movement rumbled throughout the loading dock. The tailgates of both trucks were unlatched and swung down in a loud crash. Cargo was quickly unloaded by men with pallet jacks. Loading-dock bay doors were rolled opened as they wheeled crate after crate into the factory. The men moved quickly and efficiently, as armed guards strolled the dock, keeping their careful eyes alerted for any possible movement outside the fence. Preparations for the next phase of attack were in the works.
Near the parking lot—barren with the exception of a few vehicles—Omar approached their arriving guests with Ghazi by his side and Usaamah and Hamid trailing close behind. Usaamah was in his late twenties with slicked-back hair and a trim beard. He always kept his Desert Eagle pistol close to his side, especially when guarding Omar, which had become his primary function of late. Hamid was slightly older, with thick, wavy hair tied back in a ponytail and an AR-15 rifle slung over his shoulder.
The Cadillac SUV doors opened as sleek, sophisticated-looking Middle Eastern men in fashionable suits hopped out from all doors. Omar acknowledged them with a broad smile and opened his arms wide in welcoming cheer.
"Brothers!" he said. "At last you have arrived."
Two men with shaved heads, nearly identical and taller than all the others, approached Omar and each gave him a strong hug.
"So good to see you," Omar said after giving a customary kiss to each of their cheeks. He then turned to Ghazi and the others to introduce the men.
"These are my friends from Dubai, Tarayam and Abdullah. I'm sure you may know that without their family's generous investments, none of what we are doing here would be possible."
"How is the factory doing?" Tarayam asked. He had a light beard, whereas A
bdullah only had a goatee.
"A lot better now that you're here," Omar said. "I'm trusting you brought the supplies needed."
"That and more," Abdullah said, stepping forward and signaling to two of his men who stood nearby. They wore sunglasses, even though it was dark.
The two men with the shades vanished momentarily to one of the vehicles and reemerged with two boys who didn't look a day over eighteen. Their arms were bound behind their backs at the wrist. They had blindfolds over their eyes and were both gagged at the mouth with a sock.
Omar seemed confused. The two captive boys trembled in place. One looked American, very light-skinned, with freckles. His skinny legs shook as he cried in muffled breaths. The other boy was Middle Eastern, Pakistani perhaps, and he appeared just as frightened.
"What is this?" Omar asked.
Seemingly amused, Abdullah stepped forward to explain. "Incidentally, during our visit to your Boston organization, they gave us these two young men as a token of good faith."
Omar seemed frustrated and nearing anger. He scanned the darkened parking lot, his face stricken with a sudden look of paranoia. "I do not know them. Why do you bring them here? Have you lost your minds?"
"Relax," Tarayam said calmly. "It's not what you think."
Abdullah pulled a note from a coat pocket and a portable flashlight from the other. "Your Boston contacts wanted me to read this note verbatim as they did not trust us to properly explain the situation.”
"You see, we're business men," Tarayam said.
"Not jihadists," Abdullah interjected.
"So sometimes, we don’t see the big deal about things like this," Tarayam continued.
"Hence this letter," Abdullah said, turning the flashlight on.
"Continue," Omar said.
Ghazi didn't care for the Dubai twins or their elite family from the United Arab Emirates. They came from an immensely wealthy and prestigious family, practically royalty. Having been dirt poor most of his life, Ghazi hated royalty.