Hellfire (Sisters In Law Book 2)

by John Ellsworth

  Hussein extended his hand and allowed himself to be walked around the van. He stepped up and slid inside.

  The engine turned over and instantly they were lurching and swaying along a bumpy dirt road. Judging from the rough ride, Hussein knew the road was deeply rutted and slippery in places, where it dipped and the rain had created mud baths they skittered through. He made a mental note to run the van through a car wash and take great care to wash the undercarriage. He knew the FBI would at some point be collecting dirt samples off the tiny pieces of van left over after the heat and fire and he didn't want them to locate dirt samples that could place the van where he'd been. Already he knew the gas pump and convenience store cameras had been making a record of his journey, try as he did to turn his face from the cameras as he pumped gas and made his purchases. Of course there was the matter of the van's license plates showing up on video, but that couldn't be helped. Besides which the van was unregistered except to the Kirksville seller. By the time the bomb was set off all VIN numbers would be removed, including the hidden ones. He would make sure of that and had acquired the resources and schematics to make it happen.

  The lurching ride along the washed-out dirt road took a good ten minutes. But at long last they slowed and the brakes were applied to bring their trip to an end.

  "Now, I-Ran boy, open your door and step down. I'll come 'round and get you."

  Hussein did as he was told. He wasn't surprised to hear a vehicle pull alongside. Shotgun man then jumped out and strode up to Hussein and jammed what he thought must be the muzzle of the shotgun against his temple.

  "Where's the Benjamins, boy?" asked Shotgun man.

  "Put the damn gun down," said Freddie. "We don't need that here, Roy. I-Ran boy only wants to pay us and pick up his fertilizer and be on his way. Right, I-Ran?"

  "That's right," said Hussein. "I will make no problems here today."

  The burlap bag was jerked roughly from his head. Hussein blinked in the rain and saw that the light was gone and it was dark, and saw that he was in a heavily wooded area with only one road in and out. To his left was a small shack with tire rims leaning on either side of the front door. Why tire rims? Why, Arkansas? he wondered. Why any of this? Because. Because there were American school children to murder in payback for so many Arab deaths. Allah required no less of him.

  Roy pushed at Hussein with the shotgun stock and ordered him to circle back behind the shack. With Freddie leading the way, they walked around the frame shack, where Hussein now found himself looking into the lighted maw of an open garage. Placed neatly against the rear wall stood six bags of fertilizer. Fifty pounds each, said to contain his explosive grade fertilizer. His pulse quickened.

  "So where's the Benjamins?" asked Roy.

  "Under the seat of the van. Driver's seat."

  Roy nodded and grunted in disbelief. It was clear he believed nothing the Arab said and he made no effort to hide his dislike of the man. Hussein had the feeling they would just as soon shoot him as allow him to leave with the fertilizer. He began to consider his options--which were limited.

  Within minutes, Roy returned with the nylon drawstring bag dangling from his right index finger. "Our Bens in here, boy?"

  "Sure. Please count them. I wouldn't try to cheat you."

  "Cheat us?" Roy chortled. "Ya hear that, Freddie? He wants we should trust him!"

  At which point Freddie pushed Hussein from behind and ordered him inside the garage. He guided him to a lighted work bench and held out his hand for the nylon bag, which Roy produced while never taking his eyes off Hussein. "Count better be perfect, I-Ran boy, or you ain't leavin' here alive."

  "It is all there," said Hussein. "Please count."

  Which they did. Both of them, counting in unison, through two hundred bills, one hundred dollars at a time. When they were finished they turned to Hussein.

  "Now comes the hard part, for you," said Roy. "We're goin' down by the river."

  He was roughly handled and forced to walk ahead of the two men--now his captors--out of the garage, where they skirted behind and began following a path. The sound of running water was faint at first but then grew in volume as they trudged through the night, the rain, and the mud.

  Two hundred yards later they were at the edge of what Hussein could hear was rapidly flowing river water.

  "Now on your knees, I-Ran boy," said Roy. "On your knees and close your eyes, boy. You ain't even goan' to feel this."

  "Feel what?" questioned Hussein. "What are we doing here?"

  He asked the question but he knew the answer. In the dark his captors didn't immediately see his first move to the side and he spun around and kicked with his right boot at Roy's closest kneecap. As the kneecap dislocated, Hussein rose upright and seized the barrel of the shotgun. Almost immediately he flipped the gun around and pointed it at his antagonists. Without hesitation he fired off two twelve-gauge blasts into the dark outlines of the men from Arkansas. Both men were blasted backward and lay still. No moans, no groans, no sound.

  Hussein came fully to his feet and again flipped the shotgun around so he was now holding it by the barrel. He pulled his shirttail free and wiped down the trigger and barrel and stock. He went up to Roy's body and placed his foot in the dead man's abdomen. With his free hand he tore loose a square of the man's bloody shirt. He used the square to then grasp the barrel of the shotgun and fling the gun far out over the river, where it plunged into the water and disappeared. He had no concept of current flow or how far the gun would tumble along in the swift waters, nor did he care. Point being, it wouldn't be traced to him.

  Hussein riffled through Roy's trouser pockets and located the van keys. He jerked them free and turned away with a scowl. "Asshole," he muttered.

  As he hiked back to the garage, he had one pressing concern. There were tire tracks from his vehicle that would be traced by the authorities. Coming in and going out.

  Ten minutes later, he had the fifty-pound bags lifted into the back end of the van and was closing the vehicle doors. He then retrieved the nylon bag of money from the workbench where the rednecks had left it. He was elated; so far, so good.

  Three hours later he pulled into an all-night Tire Masters and bought new rubber all around. There would be no tracing and tracking of tire tread after the van was blown to bits. No connection to the tire tracks in Arkansas would be found.

  Hussein paid for the new tires with cash. As he went about his business he wore a slouch cap pulled low across his eyes. He took careful note of the security cameras coming and going and made sure to avert his eyes.

  Hours later he stopped in Ferguson, Missouri, where he helped himself to the license plates from a Nissan sedan parked on Washington Street. He placed the plates beneath the passenger's seat.

  Now he had new rubber, new plates, and he knew where the VINS were etched into the van's steel.

  It wouldn't be traced, which meant he wouldn't be traced, either.

  At least not by the van or its components.

  A second step was completed; an important second step following acquisition of the van. The ammonium nitrate in an explosive grade was all but impossible to acquire. Yet...he had done it.

  And all it had cost was fourteen grand for the van and three tanks of gas and twenty-two hours.

  Chicago was just up ahead.

  The storage facility was just outside Palatine, a northwest suburb of Chicago. When he arrived he tapped his code into the storage facility's sliding gate and parked the van inside his unit.

  He then roared into the night on his Harley.

  Tossing his head back and raising a gloved fist, he shouted.

  "Allahu Akbar!"

  19

  She wasn't all that happy with Ed Mitchell's work on Sevi's case. She pulled out a yellow legal pad and wrote Edward Mitchell's name and slowly nodded. Then beneath that she wrote:

  PROBLEM

  Ex-Army JAG - Loyalties definitely still are with military

  Dragging feet on Sevi'
s case - difficult to attack military establishment???

  FACTS

  Immature: young - 29

  Unmarried - not afraid of losing job and starting over elsewhere

  Beneath all that she wrote

  GOOD POINTS

  Undergrad major = criminal justice

  Law school heavy in criminal law

  Good-looking dude

  Loyal Bears fan

  She tore the sheet of paper from the pad and wadded it up. On second thought, she then flattened it and ran it through her shredder.

  Then she tapped Ed's office line. She asked him to come into her office.

  Ed knocked once and entered. He was carrying a legal pad of his own and he nodded at Christine as he took a seat in one of her visitors' chairs.

  "Hey," he said, and gave her a cheerful smile. "What's cooking?"

  She drew away from her desk, leaned back, and clasped her hands behind her head.

  "You're a week late with the Sevi al-Assad interrogatories. Is there a problem?"

  The smile faded from his face. She watched this with heightened interest, mentally kicking herself for having dated him a few times. That fact made the present need for her to be his boss--his unhappy boss--that much more difficult. Never, she swore to herself, mix business and pleasure. Hadn't she heard that somewhere? Damn!

  Still, every time she saw him she fell into a half-swoon. He was amazingly handsome by anyone's standards and he was attentive, polite, and always read to jump in and help. Worst of all, she had introduced him to Jamie and her son adored him. They did sports together, movies, Saturday afternoon projects around the house. She had to admit; she had let it go too far with someone who was actually an employee. She sighed; she had only herself to blame.

  But the fact remained: he was a damn hard worker, extremely productive and proud of his work product. Careful to the nth degree. Except with Sevi's case. This was his first time off the rails. What the hell was going on? She wondered. She plunged ahead.

  "Sevi's case requires us to sue the government, the DOD, and Blackguard. Is that a problem for you?"

  He sat bolt upright, as if coming to attention in his chair. A small frown creased that soft spot between his eyes.

  "Is it a problem? Well, truth be told, it isn't easy, Sevi's case."

  "Why's that? Clearly the defendants murdered a houseful of innocent people. You disagree?"

  He clasped his hands around a knee and pulled.

  "I don't know if I would say I disagree. But we've both been there--the military. Sometimes missions go awry and innocents suffer. That's just the nature of war."

  "Does that mean the government goes scot-free just because it's war?"

  "No, I guess not. There should be responsibility."

  "You mean to say there should be consequences?"

  He slowly nodded. "That too, I suppose. Yes."

  "So why are we having this work slowdown? Things have been going great around here, but I've messaged you three times this week asking about the interrogatories and all I get back from you are vague responses. You tell me tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow. Yet, tomorrow comes and still no work product. You tell me you'll get back to me and you don't. Frankly, Ed, it's all making me uncomfortable."

  He drew back, defensive. "Hey, Christine, it's only a week past the deadline. I can catch it up."

  There it was, the defensiveness. Too much togetherness away from work had emboldened him. She took it as a challenge and the hair along the back of her neck buzzed ever so slightly. It wasn't a fight, not yet, but it was definitely a tug-of-war.

  "Playing catch-up and meeting deadlines are two different animals. To tell the truth, I am uncomfortable with you this minute. In fact, I'm unhappy."

  "Sorry, jeez. I'll have the paperwork to you first thing in the morning. Does that work?"

  "Sure, it works, but I don't want this to happen again, Ed. Look at it from my perspective. I've taken on a lawsuit and now I owe a client a duty to perform in a workmanlike, professional manner. Toward that end, I pay you to pitch in and help. But you have a kind of agenda, I would call it. That would be your antipathy toward suing the government over a military mission that went to hell. So who's at risk here? Me, that's who. And you put me there because of your feelings. Sorry, but I can't have that. If it's true that you just don't want to be assigned the case, speak up, man. I'll get someone else on it."

  "It's not that. Let me do some soul searching. Can I get back to you on that?"

  "Sure. Take an hour. Search your soul. Then get back in here, either ready to jump all in or tell me where to shove it. Bottom line: I need your truth about the case. That's all I'm asking. Are we good?"

  "Yes."

  "Have I made myself clear?"

  "Definitely you have made yourself clear. Very clear."

  "Good. Then back out of here and go do your thing. I'll expect to see you again in fifty-eight minutes. Goodbye, Ed."

  "Thanks, Christine. I'm on it."

  "Here's hoping."

  With that he turned and hurried for the door. As he went, there was an awkward buckle in the air between them. They had clearly been headed toward a romantic encounter before that morning. Was that off now?

  The door was shut softly behind him--no slamming, no outbursts, no displays of any kind. For that, Christine was thankful. She hated to have to ream a good worker like Ed, but her first allegiance was to the client. Always the client. And not just because of the professional liability exposure, either. She actually felt a moral obligation to do whatever she could for anyone whose case she had accepted into her practice. Whether it was the military she was suing or the timber industry or whatever--they all would be kicked and punched by her until they finally threw in the white flag. She owed her clients no less than that and, by God, she was going to stand and deliver, Ed or no Ed.

  She stood and stretched. Her muscled shoulders rippled beneath the suit coat. She outstretched her arms and flexed her hands. Then she moved to the wet sink and poured herself a cup of coffee and picked up a donut. It felt hard so she put it back. Why couldn't her receptionist keep up and provide fresh pastries? she found herself wondering. It was her week, so was that so hard?

  Which was when she realized. She was restless, irritable, and discontent.

  And it all came down to Ed.

  Or was it just Ed?

  Lately she had become increasingly morose. She did her own soul searching--which took fifteen seconds. Then: damn it, she was lonely. Sonny was gone over a year and she was lonely. Sure, she missed him and loved him dearly yet, but that didn't undo her loneliness.

  Life had to go on.

  She owed it to her kids to be happy.

  And she owed it to herself.

  If not Ed--he was a hunk but he was her employee--then who?

  She laughed. She had never in her life thought of men as hunks.

  So maybe that was her problem: she kept trying to pin faces and feelings onto hunks of flesh. Maybe she should stop that.

  But she knew she never would. More than anything, she needed the big, stiff R:

  Relationship.

  20

  “What are we trying to accomplish today?” said Winona. The sisters in law were meeting in Christine’s conference room. Lunch was a quickie, catered from Quik-Sand sandwich shop downstairs in Christine’s building. Tuna, Turkey, and Roast Beef sandwiches were distributed, plus diet-everything to drink.

  “We’re trying to protect my ass,” said Althea as she bit into her roast beef.

  “Exactly that,” said Christine. “We need to make sure that once Blackguard figures out you’re one of us they don’t murder you.”

  “That would be nice,” said Althea. “Uh-huh.”

  “So how do we protect her?” Sevi asked. She had the veggie burger and was spreading mayo across the “burger.”

  “By making them fear us,” said Christine. “And there’s only one way to do that.”

  “Go ahead,” said Althea, “I�
�m listening.”

  “We need to hand you a bigger club than they’ve got,” Winona said. “You need to have more power.”

  “I’m thinking you’re thinking documents,” Althea said to her two friends.

  “Bingo!” said Christine. “Here’s how I see it going down. First, their systems administrators are going to notice the document transfers. I don’t know how or when, but they probably will.”

  “Agree,” said Althea.

  “They always do,” said Winona. She peeled up the bread on her tuna sandwich and examined it. “Not enough onions. Damn!”

  “Next, they’re coming after you because they’ll trace it back to you. First rule is, you do not show fear. If you show fear they’ll take advantage and head down that road.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning they’ll try torture. They’ll see if they can cause you enough pain that you tell them where their records are.”

  “That would happen,” said Althea. “I’m a sucker for pain. Not!”

  “Okay, so here’s what we do,” said Christine. “We take—”

  Winona interrupted. “We take the records out of your control so you don’t know where they are. You couldn’t tell them even if they’re pulling out your toenails.”

  “Shit, girlfriend, enough on that!” cried Althea.

  “Agree,” said Christine. “Let’s take her idea, though. I like it, Win. We have Jamie hide the records so Althea can’t give them up. That’s beautiful.”

  “Of course then we’re in charge of the records and they’ll know that if anything happens to our friend, we go public.”

  “There it is, ladies,” Christine announced. “There’s our strategy.”

  “I can live with it,” Althea said. “Except for the torture part. How do we avoid that road?”

  “By not showing fear,” Christine told her. “When they threaten torture just throw it right back in their face. Laugh at them. Threaten them right back, as in, you torture me, I expose you. Exposure is huge with these assholes, I can promise you that.”