The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  “Place a call to Abernathy—immediately.”

  Kabanbai nodded and pulled his phone from a pants pocket. Temir drew his weapon and crouched low.

  The door to the squad finally opened, and an officer exited, looking menacing with his mirrored sunglasses and gleaming badge. He walked slowly past the gas pumps toward the convenience store with his chest puffed out for emphasis. He pushed the double glass doors open and stepped inside, swiveling his head to identify possible threats. Hii’s body was lying on the floor, hidden behind the counter.

  “Burikhan,” whispered Temir in Kazakh while hiding next to a row of canned goods. “I can easily hit him right now. Should I shoot?”

  “No shooting. Kabanbai, have you contacted Abernathy?”

  Kabanbai looked up from his cell phone. “Yes, Burikhan. He’s talking with the authorities. He says to surrender to the police.”

  A voice spoke from the front of the store in a thick drawl, a transplant from Houston, or more specifically, Galveston. “What the hell’s goin’ on here? I’m Officer Jed Mosely with the Oswargo Police Department. Why you boys hidin’? Where’s Yon Hii?

  There was much dialogue in Kazakh including what appeared to be a brief argument. With obvious reservations, Temir and Kabanbai stood up and faced their leader. Burikhan gave another command and their handguns came skidding across the tile floor in the direction of the officer. Unsettled, the patrolman fumbled with the release tab of his retention holster. Once his weapon was drawn, the instructions were specific.

  “Down on the floor. Everyone down on the floor.”

  Burikhan smiled as he casually dropped to his knees and then lay fully extended across the cold linoleum. His accomplices immediately followed suit.

  “All right, you damn terrorist pieces of shit, where is Yon Hii?”

  Burikhan pointed toward the cash registers. Leaving his weapon trained on the suspects, the officer walked up to the counter and peered over the side, which revealed the misshapen face and lifeless body of Yon Hii collapsed against the cigarette case. The patrolman moved to the fallen store clerk and checked for a pulse. A shudder ran through the officer’s body. It was only his second code 187 running the I-35 corridor, and the first time those perps fled the scene prior to his arrival.

  Officer Mosely’s radio crackled with activity once the body of Yon Hii was found. He immediately cuffed Burikhan and used plastic tie straps on the other two. Despite their incapacitation, the officer was visibly shaken, and he kept his weapon drawn even as the Central Asians calmly conversed in Kazakh.

  “I don’t know who y’all are, but I’m supposed to wait here with you until backup arrives. If you’re lucky, I won’t kill you before the wagon gets here.”

  A slow smile spread across Burikhan’s face. The officer snarled and reached back as if to hit the suspect, but Burikhan hardly flinched.

  “Go ahead and kill us, you insect. See where you end. We work for the glory of God; you are dirt.”

  “You shut your fuckin’ mouth.” Mosley hands shook as he pointed his handgun directly at Burikhan’s head.

  Sometime later, as the parking lot was filling with squad cars and a mobile forensic lab, the arresting Kansas Highway Patrolman huddled with his captain just outside the doorway.

  “I got his keys right here,” said Officer Mosley. I want to see what’s in that car they was driving.” The DPS men walked back over and looked inside. The interior was a rolling garbage dump filled with empty cans, candy wrappers and cigarette packages. Mosley moved around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Inside they found a reinforced heavy plastic container with a padlocked steel latch.

  “What the hell’s is that?”

  “Better let the Feds handle it. I wouldn’t mess with it, son,” said Captain Keith Johnson, a hulking man with a gut that hung over his belt.

  “They’re probably terrorists for Christ’s sake, Keith. What if it’s a bomb?

  “That’s the whole point, dumbass. Let the Feds handle it.”

  “Yeah, and take all the credit,” said Mosely. “I caught these bastards, and I want the reward.”

  “You’re outa your fuckin’ mind.”

  “Well, if it goes off, at least it can’t hurt nobody else.”

  “This is bad decision, Jed. Let the feds do it.”

  “For God sakes, we’re out in the middle of nowhere, and you think these dirt bags have a bomb? Watch out.”

  “As your superior, I’m ordering you to leave that box alone.”

  “Oh, fuck off, Keith. You’re still my brother-in-law for God’s sake.” The officer moved closer to the box. “Hell, I’m not afraid.” He reached down and began to fiddle with the lock when the sound of footfalls in the crushed gravel caught his attention.

  The dark suits and tinted glasses were distinct reminders that the feds were involved. This was no time to be tampering with evidence. Mosely backed off from the box and smiled artificially, feeling nothing but contempt. The four lawmen stood for a moment regarding each other before one of the trench coated men produced a badge.

  “I am Agent McKlowski, this is Agent Jones. We’re from the ATF office in Kansas City, we're taking control of this crime scene.”

  “I’m Captain Johnson, and this is Officer Mosely. We have a robbery murder here. These three individuals are in custody, and we’ve impounded this vehicle.”

  “Thank you Captain Johnson. But this is now an ATF matter. We’ll take it from here.”

  Johnson looked at Mosely and back at the Agent. “I don’t understand. This is a murder robbery, local jurisdiction. Why would ATF be involved?”

  “I’m not sure I owe you an explanation, Captain. It would be best if you and Officer Mosley get in your vehicles and leave immediately.”

  Johnson regarded the agent for a moment. “I’m not so sure I want to do that without an explanation.”

  “Are you questioning my authority here?” The ATF man slowly removed his black sunglasses and stared directly at the local police Captain. “I’m about to make a phone call and file charges against you for interfering in a federal investigation. I think you both know that would mean immediate arrest and the end of your career.”

  To further solidify his apparent authority, three more ATF agents stepped out of a nearby vehicle wearing full body armor and wielding automatic weapons. They stood off about 50 feet from the confrontation, assault rifles at the ready.

  Johnson looked at Mosely and raised his eyebrows. In the law enforcement world, federal jurisdiction almost always won out. “Come on Jed, this isn’t a battle worth fighting.”

  Mosely rolled his eyes, gritted his teeth and then removed his hand from the butt of his holstered gun. Glaring at McKlowski and Jones, he retreated toward the squad with Johnson a step behind.

  “Very wise Captain, a very wise decision indeed,” said McKlowski.

  Waiting until the squad car drove away, the ATF men walked into the convenience store and stood over the bound Kazakhstanis, who were still on the floor with their backs against the counter.

  “You fucked up, Burikhan—I guess that’s your name,” said McKlowski. “I have no love for you or your stinking people. This is messy; you’ve caused a lot of problems. We’ll have to clean up your damn dirty diaper. My boss says that Abernathy is fuckin’ pissed, and I have to tell you, this is a load of shit I didn’t need.”

  Burikhan refused to make eye contact. “We are sorry—very sorry. But the clerk, he sent for the police because of how we looked. This is a very racist country.”

  “You look like a bunch of God damn bums, so what did you expect? You smell even worse. I would have called the police, too. We’ll give you two hours before an official report is filed. We’ve moved the contents of your car over to that Dodge Durango, so no one will be able to follow you or suspect you had anything to do with this. Although honestly, I’d like to choke your scrawny neck myself.”

  McKlowski unlocked Burikhan’s handcuffs while Agent Jones cut the nylon re
straining bands on the other two terrorists. Regaining his feet, Burikhan bowed deeply while motioning his accomplices toward the SUV. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. May God bless you and the efforts of the Rasul.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Now get the hell out of here.”

  For a moment, Agent McKlowski regretted the day he had unsuccessfully attempted suicide. Thanks to the intervention by Mr. Cox, he finally was accepted into the ATF academy and took a fast track to an executive position. Yet, in the process, McKlowski abandoned every principal that attracted him to the Bureau in the first place.

  While his wife and kids enjoyed his new found success, he felt disgusted as he watched the terrorists drive off. Details were always scarce when he was assigned to one of the Benefactor’s operations, but he had a sickening feeling that these Kazakhstanis were going to kill many people. As he looked around at the crime scene, McKlowski did his best to hide his thoughts. One never knew when the Benefactor was inside your head.

  ***

  They traveled swiftly along I-5 moving toward Portland. Zach drove while Anston sat in the passenger’s seat staring straight ahead, eyes hardly blinking as his left hand dug at his pant leg. Several times Zach tried to start a conversation but was met with stone silence. He worried about Anston’s mental state and believed it was important to reconnect him with reality.

  “Well, we’re almost there,” Zach said absently as he turned onto 84-E per Munoz’ instructions.

  “Where are we going?” These were the first words Anston spoke since they left Seattle over two hours ago.

  “Hey, Jarad, good to have you back, man.”

  “Where are we going, Zach? Where are we going exactly?”

  Zach looked sideways at his friend. I don’t know for sure. I’m not familiar with Portland. Some place in Corbott.”

  “But where? Give me the exact address.” Anston’s skin was the color of skim milk, and his eyes drooped from lack of sleep.

  “I’ll show you when we get off the freeway. It’s in my pocket. Besides, why does it matter?”

  “Well, in case Carly calls…” As if on cue, the cell phone in Anston’s pocket began to ring. Anston and Zach looked at each other. If it was Carly, what could he possibly say to her?

  “Hello? Hi Carly...I’m with Zach.” The ensuing pause was awkward. “I know… I know what you said…” Anston shook his head and his eyes seemed to well up. “I miss you too, dear.” Then, turning to Zach, he said, “I need the address. Can you give it to me?”

  Zach swerved in the car as he reached into his pocket, stuffed with receipts, dollar bills, and an odd assortment of other pocket stash. He wouldn’t be able to find the address until they pulled over.

  “Tell her you’ll call her back. We’ll give it to her when we get off the freeway.”

  “I’m sorry Carly, Zach can’t find it. I’ll call you as soon as we get there… I don’t know how long… I understand and I know what you said… They’re business trips, Carly, we’ve discussed this before. Look I have to go… Yes, me too.” Anston hung up the phone and starred silently out the window for the remainder of the trip.

  Zach turned off I-84 onto Corbott Hill Drive and followed the winding road as it moved through the rural setting. He pulled the car onto the shoulder and reached into his pocket for the crumpled paper that Munoz gave him. He looked at it hastily and then merged back onto the street. Two more turns and they tentatively pulled up to the secluded house on Meyers Lane.

  Zach got out of the car and walked slowly toward the front door. He glanced back, and Anston was on his cell phone again but apparently couldn't get any reception. He was cursing and holding the phone in a variety of positions. Zach felt for him and envied the relationship he had with his wife. No doubt Carly was worried sick.

  The house was small and nondescript, exactly how one would expect a safe house to look. White exterior, beige trim, well-kept but certainly not new. It was the perfect combination of colors designed to avoid attention by blending in.

  As Zach opened the door, the stale smell of a sealed building invaded his nostrils, and he grimaced slightly. The furniture was sparse and utilitarian. The home included a functional kitchen, three bedrooms, and a small living room with an old cathode ray tube television. A single telephone sat on a coffee table with several devices attached to it. There was no doubt every call would be recorded, probably scrambled as well.

  Zach walked to the refrigerator and opened it. Much to his surprise there was several bottles of cold beer. He twisted the cap and took a long swallow of a Bud Light before sinking into the couch. A few minutes later, Anston walked in. Seeing the beer in Zach’s hand, he got one for himself and pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat down.

  “Well, what now, Zach? We’re here in a safe house, and we’re probably an accessory to the murder of two federal agents, not to mention the guys we left at the restaurant.”

  Zach looked down at his beer, his elbows rested on his knees as he hunched forward. “I just don’t know. Someone or something is after us, that’s for sure. Maybe Munoz can help us.”

  “Munoz? How do we know he’s not responsible for all of this? He may be the killer for cryin’ out loud. What in the hell are we even doing here? Maybe we should call the FBI and tell them what’s going on.”

  “That’s a bad idea. I believe Munoz is on our side. After seeing those FBI agents, or whatever they were, I’m not inclined to trust anyone else.”

  “And just how do you know we can trust Munoz? I’m not even sure what the right side really is anymore.”

  “Well, I told you to leave, Jarad. I’ll take you to the Portland airport, and you can fly back to Phoenix tonight.”

  Anston shook his head and rubbed his temples. “I can’t take the chance, Zach. Munoz knows who I am. I can’t jeopardize the safety of my family.”

  They drank their beers and avoided the subject until they eventually feel asleep from exhaustion.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The journey was difficult, but the men were resolute in their mission and intention to complete it. They drove the worn Yugo through Palkhana toward the north border with Turkey, virtually unimpeded by the authorities. In the back of the vehicle, the bomb device rattled around in the hard shell case, seemingly inert, but ready to be armed at any time.

  “To the glory of God,” said Jabbar to his compatriot.

  “Yes Jabbar, to the praise of God. To the praise of the Rasul.”

  Jabbar looked over at the driver, a blank expression on his face. “Abadar, what do you make of the American, Abernathy, murdering Fadi?”

  There was silence in the vehicle for a moment as its oil starved engine droned on. “I do not question the word of the Rasul.”

  “But others do, Abadar. You know that others do.”

  “Jabbar, you speak heresy. You know the Holy Book prophesized the appearance of the Rasul. You were saved from a horrible afterlife. Like me, the Rasul spared you from eternal damnation. Remember, we suffer the stain of attempting suicide with no glory for God.”

  Jabbar looked down at his lap. “I know Abadar. But it still doesn’t seem right. Is it time? Does God really want us to destroy the world?”

  “It is not your position to question these things. We will just drive this device to its destination and let others fulfill its providence from there.” The dust of the road was almost blinding as they continued to move closer to their destination.

  “Abadar, I am sorry, but I do not think I can participate in this,” said Jabbar.

  A worried look crossed Aabdar’s face as he stared purposefully ahead. “You must remain focused my friend. The eyes of God are upon you.”

  “I have thought on this deeply. I am sorry; I do not think I can continue.”

  “Are you certain? This is a significant decision.” He hardly noticed as Jabbar reached into his bisht and extracted a large knife.

  Abadar looked over at his companion; his eyes widened, and the vehicle swerved. The knife was dr
iven deeply into his rib cage, and Jabbar twisted the blade to inflict the most damage. He pulled the knife out and plunged it in again just to make sure of the effectiveness. Abadar slumped over the wheel, and Jabbar kicked his foot off the pedal and guided the vehicle to the side of the road where he sat panting. His clothing was covered with blood and an unidentifiable white liquid material.

  Jabbar exited the car and stumbled into the sparse desert vegetation, falling to his knees and facing up to the sky. “Forgive me oh Great One. I do not believe this ‘Benefactor’ is you. I believe he is Satan. I will never escape him, so I will give myself to you. May you forgive me and let me still into paradise.”

  Jabbar reached for the knife and raised it high with ill intent, sobbing as he thought of his wife and children and the corruption of his ways. He began the downward thrust that would guide the bale directly into his own abdomen. However, as he started the motion, he felt the strength being drained from his body. He went limp, and the knife fell from his hands harmlessly to the ground. Jabbar looked up slowly and stared straight into the eyes of Mr. Cox.

  “I am disappointed Jabbar… Very disappointed.” Cox walked slowly around the slumped figure of the terrorist, whose face touched the ground as he began to sob.

  “So, I am not the Rasul, and instead, I am Satan? Is that what you think?”

  Jabbar shook his head slowly and spoke through his tears. “No, Benefactor. I don’t believe you are Satan. I was influenced by Satan to say those things.”

  “Interesting Jabbar. Very interesting. Perhaps you need something to remind you of who I am.”

  Jaabar felt a growing heat on his skin. It started from the middle of his back, not unpleasant, and spread up and down from his spine through his extremities. The feeling continued to intensify as it moved slowly through his arms and legs. However, it only took a few seconds for the irritation to become searing, and his skin and muscles started to burn.