“Well he didn’t walk in, so he must have driven. Forensics is examining the surveillance tape, but it’s very grainy. Old technology, but these local business owners are too cheap to buy the new stuff.”
“I got a bad feeling on this one, Cap. Who’s checking the cars?”
“Dunlap,” said Murkell. “He’s old school, can’t be bought off.”
“Yeah, good cop.” O’Malley ran a hand through his curly hair before putting his hat on. “Cap, I have to get goin’. The wife’s grilling a couple steaks, and I’ve been late twice already this week.”
Murkell smiled and nodded just as his phone began to vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the ID. Dunlap was calling from the parking garage. Murkell covered his ear to reduce the background noise and leaned over. O’Malley squeezed the Captain’s shoulder as he rose from the bar. He turned to walk away when Murkell’s strong hand grabbed him from behind. The Captain’s face looked grim; an expression O’Malley remembered from the Van Gough serial killings in 2011. The news would not be good.
Murkell leaned over and placed his lips less than an inch from O’Malley’s ear. “We need to go. Dunlap found something in one of the cars. It’s bad.” He rose from the table, and they exited the bar and located the squad in the tow zone where they left it.
Within fifteen minutes, the two cops stood on the third floor of the parking garage. The facility was full of investigators walking through the various floors taking notes and checking license plates with 5G tablet PCs connected to the CPD mainframe.
“It’s over here,” said Dunlap as he pointed in a far corner behind a support pillar. O’Malley and Murkell followed a step behind until the group arrived at a parking stall occupied by a late model Dodge Durango. Two uniformed officers stood guard in front of the vehicle, and Katie Hansen was having difficulty holding the leash on Rex, the canine unit.
“There’s something in there, Captain. The dog went crazy. Probably drugs—maybe worse.”
Murkell walked over to the SUV and shaded his eyes from the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. The windows were tinted dark and hid the vehicle’s contents even with his Maglite turned on. He could see numerous discarded snack wrappers, beverage cans and cigarette packages. The ashtrays overflowed with butts that cascaded from the upholstery onto the floor. Circling the vehicle, Murkell could smell the aroma of stale cigarettes, decaying food, and human body odor leaking from the interior. Another faint scent was mixed in, but he couldn’t identify it.
He turned back to Dunlap. “Call the Bomb Squad.”
The reaction was swift and instantaneous. The officers sealed off and evacuated the entire floor while another detail began a sweep on subsequent levels to ensure every patron was safely removed. The entry and exit doors were closed, and the gates secured. In a few short minutes, the armor-plated assault vehicle arrived and began to climb the embankment of the parking garage.
As it reached the third floor, it moved toward the Dodge, shining a spotlight directly on the windows. Two men in full-faced helmets and thick Kevlar body protection emerged from the side hatch and approached the SUV cautiously. Behind them, two others followed, clad in bio hazard suits and holding a variety of air sampling instruments. They walked around the car in an arcing circle and applied the device to strategic points along the body.
One of the technicians stopped and motioned for his partner to join him near the lift gate. They both looked at an LED readout for several seconds, exchanging glances, gestures and conversation. The second officer extracted a metal device with a two pronged tool on one end and a plunger and knob on the other.
He jammed the pronged end hard into the receptacle and pushed the plunger. The lock partially disengaged, and he used the crow bar to open the overhead door the rest of the way. As they looked into the cargo area for the first time, both officers seemed to stumble backward. They glanced at the readout and then at one another. One of them grabbed his radio.
“Captain, we have a serious problem here.”
“What is it Marco?”
“The cargo space is hotter than Three Mile Island. They had enriched uranium in here. Our meters are pegging. Sir—there may have been a suitcase nuke in this car.”
O’Malley’s skin grew cold.
***
The permanent members of the Security Council met in a private suite on the ninth floor of the U.N building in New York. A dimly lit eco-friendly fluorescent bulb cast a yellow tint over the men seated at a long, polished hardwood bench, perched symmetrically on a three-foot platform. The bench intentionally was raised to intimidate those who might find themselves sitting in one of the plain pine chairs located at ground level.
A representative calmly looked up at the Council with his hands neatly folded. His tailored Joseph Abboud suit covered his starched white shirt. He was the Honorable Alp Yilmaz, the U.N. ambassador from Turkey. In the other chair, a small, fidgety man in a rumpled state-issued suit periodically used a handkerchief to wipe the accumulated sweat from his brow. Boris Botev, the ambassador from Bulgaria, recognized the difficult position he found himself in and did not relish the forthcoming verbal assault.
“Mr. Botev,” a booming voice echoed from above in a distinctly American accent, “The rogue actions of your country risk the wrath of the entire international community. Is that what your prime minister wishes?”
Botev swallowed audibly. “Of course not, Mr. Chairman. The simple people of Bulgaria only wish to be left alone to live their lives in peace without the threat of border incursions from the Turks.”
Yilmaz stiffened slightly at the words. “Mr. Chairman, there has been no proof whatsoever of any attacks by the Turkish army on any territories inside Bulgaria. This unprovoked surprise attack on Istanbul by the cursed Bulgarians has caused a devastating loss of life and has had a terrible consequence to commerce and industry. Fortunately, the Turkish armed forces are in the midst of a counterattack on Sofia and other Bulgarian cities. As we speak, our brave soldiers are repelling this despicable aggression.”
“Mr. Botev, how can we solve this crisis?” asked the British Ambassador, Lord Andrew Arlington.
Botev gulped at his water and slammed it on the desk, sloshing liquid on his shirt and pants. “It is most simple. Tell the stinking Turks to stop violating our borders and stop raping our women and stealing our wealth!”
“Mr. Chairman,” said Yilmaz, “you realize this is a complete fabrication. Even now we pull the burning bodies of our children from the rubble. Istanbul has been ravaged by this sneak attack. But we will have our revenge.”
“Meester Botov,” said Uri Burshoskov the Russian Ambassador, “do you realize the deeficult position you put us in? The Turkish army is in the midst of organizing a deevastating attack on your country. You have lost much of your military force in the attack on Istanbul. I ask you to reconsider this course of action and make peace and restitution.”
“I am afraid that the prime minister is nonnegotiable on this issue. He expects a Turkish surrender.”
Without looking in Botov’s direction, Yilmaz muttered, “Then your country will die.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“C’mon Jarad, we’re leaving.” Zach grabbed his jacket from the table and pulled the car keys from the pocket.
“Finally,” said Anston as he rose to his feet. “I’m getting tired of listening to Munoz. He wouldn’t even let me call Carly until I told him she would contact the police if I didn’t check in.”
“I have to go meet the girl, Jarad. I think she’s turned her car back around, and I sense her slipping away. The entity from the vision contacted her again; there isn’t any other explanation. She’s in trouble, and I need to find her.”
“For God’s sake, Zach, you don’t even know if she’s real.”
“No, I promise you she’s real. Her name is Sarah and her presence is palpable. I know she was coming up to Portland before something changed. She’s going back to him, and I need to find out w
hy.”
Anston stood up and pushed his feet into a pair of Colhon loafers. They packed for a trip that was supposed to last a day, and the clothes in the safe house smelled of mothballs and suffered from vintage 1990s styling. However, practicality ruled in these circumstances, and there was really no choice except to wear what they were given.
“Ok, let me grab another cup of coffee and then let’s find this girl you think you know.”
Twenty minutes later, the rental car sped out from the secluded safe house with Anston at the wheel. He turned onto I-90 heading west toward I-5 and the Oregon Border. As the miles passed, Zach was increasingly aware of the presence of the strange woman in his vision. She was moving at a slow rate of speed toward Southern California in the opposite direction from Zach and Anston.
As they drove, Zach continued to concentrate on connecting with Sarah. He could see her in his mind’s eye staring straight ahead, almost mechanical in her actions. She heard him, but she was either pushing him away or under the influence of the other.
Zach encountered the oppressive blackness of her aura as he tried to penetrate the dense cloud that shielded her. Still, he kept probing and looking for areas where the membrane thinned so he could push his thoughts into the girl’s mind. After some time, he saw her shake her head and blink rapidly before she slowed and pulled the truck over on the shoulder of the road.
***
In the hub of the computer command center in New York, Alan tracked Sarah’s vehicle through a hijacked feed from a Department of Defense satellite. He jerked away from the screen and searched through the clutter for his cell phone, which he finally found under a stack of papers and a month old tuna sandwich. He wiped away the residue and made the call.
“Hello?”
“Abernathy, this is Ziminski. That little bitch has stopped on the side of the freeway. She’s a couple hours outside Sacramento, but I think she’s planning on turning around again. Fuck it.”
“Johansen? Alan, are you sure?”
Alan held the phone away from his ear and gave it the finger. “Of course I’m sure. I have the most sophisticated surveillance equipment in the world right here. I think I’d know if it was for sure.”
“Ok, Alan, stay calm. I’m in Sacramento, and it will only take me a few minutes to get on the road and go after her. I wish I didn’t have do this myself, God damn it.”
“Ok, but you know you’ll be in deep shit if you don’t find her. My father is really pissed off, and you know how Watts gets when he has to report bad news to the Benefactor.”
“I don’t need to be reminded, Alan. I have to get on the road now.”
The click on the other end terminated the call, and Alan flung the phone against the wall in frustration. They were always telling him what to do. Stay calm Alan, don’t panic Alan. Well, maybe he would decide to do something that just might make everyone panic. He thrust his legs out and let the momentum of his chair take him to the last screen. It was the one that showed the location and the activation status of the bombs.
***
Sarah sat in the truck while it idled on the shoulder of the southbound I-5. The touch of the other being was unmistakable. Light, warm and compassionate, it was so different than the anguish that always accompanied Mr. Cox’ mental invasions. Back at the barn, the feeling remained for a while but faded a bit for every mile she drove south. Sarah knew she was being manipulated; there was no escaping the will of the Benefactor when he located you.
Yet, the other presence continued to probe her mind, and he was becoming stronger as well. He—Sarah somehow instinctively knew it was a he—beckoned her to turn the car around and drive to Portland. She wanted to follow his instructions and fought with herself for the next 50 miles as she looked at each exit, trying to summon the will to maneuver onto an off ramp.
Her mind was being torn by the competing forces that compelled her to act at their own behest. Still, as the new presence again became more assertive, the light in her heart grew brighter. Twenty miles north of Sacramento, where she was supposed to rendezvous with the sadistic Abernathy, Sarah Johansen found strength to once again head north.
Sarah knew the one who came from the bright light understood the danger she was in. He was looking for her, and Sarah prayed he would arrive in time.
***
Munoz exited his car and walked up the driveway of Harold Moss’s Puget Sound home. After maneuvering through the long entryway, he reached for the door chime button and stopped just before pushing it. His trained eye noticed the deadbolt was not latched. The door was slightly ajar, and Munoz stepped in, cautiously moving through the foyer into the living room. His instincts told him something was out of place, and his eyes were immediately drawn to a small parlor room where the body of Harold Moss was slumped over a desk .
As Munoz took a cautious step forward, his peripheral vision caught the tire iron just as it entered its downward arc. He turned his head away from the weapon so it only grazed his eyebrow, cutting a gash that sent blood droplets splattering across the white three-ply carpet. The stunned detective staggered back for a moment and covered the wound with his hand. Two men stepped from behind a full length drapery and stalked him menacingly. One held a knife in a stabbing position while the other carried the bloody tire iron, a sinister sneer plastered on his pockmarked face.
Munoz entered survival mode, and he tried to focus through the growing haze. The assailants clearly didn’t want to raise suspicion by creating a loud noise in a residential neighborhood, which explained why they were not approaching with guns. Jose had far less of a concern. He reached for his revolver just as the man with the tire jack struck him again, this time in the forearm. The detective drew his hand back while yelping in pain.
Munoz allowed his training and instincts to assess the situation and assume control. With remarkable quickness for a man in his fifties, he swung his leg up high and hard, the knob of his ankle connected directly with the assailant’s nose cartilage. The crunching sound was unmistakable, and the man winced, grunted and dropped the pry bar while clutching at his nose and stumbling back.
Munoz tried again to reach for his service revolver, but the second man lashed out at him with the knife. He swung it wildly from side to side until Munoz was able to grab his wrist
The attacker belched spit-laden obscenities. “You shit. You pissant. You’re trying to ruin things. Die bastard, die!” He strained hard against Munoz’ iron grip.
Recognizing an opportunity to use the perpetrator’s own rage against him, Munoz held steady as the spittle flew and landed hot on his face. The detective balled his free hand into a fist and planted a roundhouse right to the assailant’s left temple. The blow momentarily affected his equilibrium, and the man reeled and toppled sideways. Munoz used his legs to gain space and rolled away from the aggressor. As the two men nursed their wounds from opposite sides of the room, they glared menacingly at the detective.
The standoff continued for several seconds until Munoz pulled his gun from its holster just as the one with the knife began to take an automatic weapon out of his backpack.
Munoz didn’t hesitate. He opened fire and placed three slugs in the gunman’s body, one within inches of his aorta. After neutralizing the first threat, he immediately turned his attention to the other man, who held his nose to try and stem the flow of blood.
“What the hell is going on here? Why did you murder Moss?”
“Fuck you!” the man screamed as blood leaked through his hands.
“Look, I’ve already killed your friend, and I can kill you just as easily. Who do you work for?”
The hand came down from the nose as twin gouts of blood streamed from both nostrils. “You have no idea what you’ve done here. No idea whatsoever. Your life is over; I promise you, it’s over. You’ll never live through this now. Moss told us who you are and now they know. You’re a dead man.”
Munoz walked up to the kneeling form and grabbed him by the throat. “Who do you work for?�
�� His grip strengthened, and his fingers dug through the skin and closed on the other man’s trachea. Still no response. “Who do you work for?”
The antagonist's face reddened and then flushed purple, but he continued to smile through a red mask of crimson gore. Through crushed vocal chords, he managed to rasp in a low gurgle, “I work—for—Satan.
Removing his hands from the man’s neck and watching him wretch and gasp for air, Munoz reached into the assailant’s pocket and took his mobile phone as well as the phone of his dead accomplice. He searched their pockets and backpacks, removing wallets, keys and receipts. After checking to make certain the slumped form of Harold Moss had no pulse, Munoz handcuffed the surviving attacker to a banister and left the home through the back door. A cascade of sirens in the distance indicated neighbors had heard the shots and called the police.
Safely moving out of the neighborhood and back onto the main road, Munoz found the nearest secluded side street and pulled in. He grabbed the wallets and rifled through them until he found their drivers licenses. A few seconds later, he called Yolanda on her prepaid cell.
“Jose, you’re on a national alert list with the FBI. They say you committed two more murders.”
“Jesus, Yolanda, how could they have found out about that so soon? I just left the crime scene and no one saw me leave.”
There was a pause and static on the other end. “Jose, you didn’t—”
“Of course not. How could you even ask that?”
“I’m sorry; it’s just that—”
“Yolanda, I don’t have time for this. If you really think I could be a serial murderer...
“No, I believe you. It’s just tough right now.”
“Look, I understand,” he said, “but I don’t have anywhere else to turn. I need you to run a check on some people.”
“I’m risking everything here, Jose.”
“Believe me, I know. But I still need your help.”
The Suicide Society Page 22