by Vince Milam
She dressed in a short skirt, sandals, and a silk blouse—the top three buttons undone. It would be more than sufficient. She strode into a large, crowded alehouse and made her way to the bar.
She had spent the day planning. Her mission required care and guile, as it could continue for months. The Americans were a clever people, and the utmost caution must be used while they crumbled. Yet crumble, fold, and surrender they would. The ISIS contact had told her there were others such as her. Others also filled with rage and purity and commitment. Others to join her this day, on this mission.
Rima had also visited a hardware store and purchased unneeded items along with her weapon. An ice pick. It was simple, easily concealed, perfect. She paid cash.
She planned to target the young men of the enemy. They represented potential warriors. They had the capacity to attack, or to help attack, the caliphate. They were the enemy, her prey.
The alehouse smelled of disorder, blasphemy, and beer. A vile smell, and one she forced herself to ignore while she smiled at the milling crowd. A young man near her raised his beer mug in a friendly salute and winked. She checked for friends of his and saw none. She smiled back and moved toward him, the crowd thick with young people laughing and chatting.
“You look like an athlete,” she said, even though he looked nothing of the sort. Scrawny and pale, he offered an easy first target.
“I try,” he replied, lying. “I work out a lot. What’s your name?”
“Alice.”
“Alice, I’m Matt. And I’ve gotta say, you look great in that blouse.”
What a stupid weakling, nasty and full of surety. A full-fledged member of disorder and ungodliness. She asked if he had come with friends, and he confirmed her initial assessment; he had come alone. They did not chat for long as she made it clear they should retire to some place more private.
“My apartment is just a couple of miles from here,” Matt told her.
No. She would not grope or couple with this infidel, this weakling, this walking abomination. “I can’t wait that long,” she said. The young man’s eyes lit up and a toothy grin followed. “Across the street,” she continued. “The parking lot. It’s quiet and dark in the corner. Behind all those cars.” She smiled and ran a finger down his chest and abdomen, stopping at his belt buckle.
In the city darkness of the parking lot, behind a parked van, she allowed him to hold and kiss her. Traffic noise, bushes, and parked cars surrounded them. Laughter, chatter, and loud yelps of mirth filled the air in this crowded bar area of Houston. The fetid heat of summer had not yet started, but the air remained thick, dense, and redolent of bustling humanity.
As he kissed her and tried to stick his tongue in her mouth, Rima found the simple wooden handle buried among the back waist folds of her skirt.
When she resisted his deep kiss, Matt pulled back and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Nothing at all.”
She drove the ice pick into his left eyeball, deep into the brain. He dropped like a rock. She wiped the slender spike clean on his shirtfront, stood, and looked around. The bustling city life continued beyond the parked cars and bushes. She walked away, smiling.
***
Amir drove his old Nissan through the streets of D.C., the Walther P22 pistol under his seat. He’d bought it from a friend, a thief. His friend had tried to screw him, asking far too much. The small caliber pistol came with a barrel suppressor—a longish silencer—and had a peculiar look. The suppressor ensured it made no more noise than a snapping of fingers when fired. That lowered the value. Drug dealers and thugs wanted a big bang from big calibers. The street criminals had no desire for such a weapon. He did.
Amir agreed to pay the asking price if the deal included a small laser sight. A pistol sight, mounted along the barrel and projecting a small, deadly green dot—less than the size of a dime. Where the green dot lay, a quiet bullet followed.
He considered Maryland and Virginia and his home turf of D.C. He would travel, moving and killing. The shitheads would fall, one by one. It began today. Others joined him in the effort—the exact number unknown—and terror would sweep the country.
Streetlights flickered as he approached a quiet neighborhood on a side street and halted at a stop sign. A woman approached from the rear and chatted on her cell phone as she walked, oblivious of the surrounding world. Amir checked her in the rearview mirror and rolled the passenger side window down. He scanned the immediate area; he was alone. A car door slammed from far around the corner, and a car horn sounded—a sharp, short bleat of irritation—from more than a block away.
The woman continued along the sidewalk, less than five paces from his vehicle. She laughed and nodded at the phone conversation, never noticing the small green dot appear, just above her left ear.
With a sound no more than a can of soda opening, she fell, dead. Amir pulled away from the stop sign, filled with glee and hatred. One shithead down. Many more to come. Many, many more to come.
***
Uday Masih transcribed the twenty-one phone numbers into a spreadsheet on his laptop computer. A computer for only the ISIS local network. A computer never used for the Internet—safe and secure. For insurance. If something should happen to me, these phone numbers remain, safe.
He cross-checked the numbers and ensured he’d entered them correctly. Then he took the three sheets of paper containing the phone numbers and burned them in his office ashtray. Seven and eight and six.
As these burn, so will America. A new day. A new world.
Chapter 22
Nadine sobbed. A dear friend, the morning phone call informed her, had been killed yesterday in cold blood. Her body was found in a Fort Worth park, throat cut. She had not been robbed—simply murdered for no reason.
Nadine’s shoulders shook as she pulled up the bottom of her old T-shirt to use as a handkerchief. The material muffled her sobs and absorbed the tears. No way, no way, no way. They had known each other since childhood and kept in touch over the years through all the highs and lows. Each exchange had been filled with laughter, concern, and love. No, no, no.
Mule the Cat leapt into her lap to offer condolences. “Oh, Mule. Why her? Why, why, why?” She hugged Mule, rocking in her chair. She grieved for over an hour, reflecting, crying, and praying.
Later that morning, Cole and Francois arrived from their hotel and tapped the metal door of her garage apartment. The door opened, slowly and without enthusiasm, as she turned and padded back to her computers and office chair.
“What’s wrong?” Cole asked as he moved inside. “Nadine? What’s going on?”
Francois, too, must have noticed her puffy red eyes and drained appearance. “Mon cher. What has happened?”
She explained, as best she could, the loss of her friend—senseless and random. She picked Mule up again and cuddled him at her chest. Tears ran down her cheeks.
When she glanced up, Cole and Francois shared a grim stare.
“What?” she asked.
Cole walked over to her, grasped her arms with tenderness, and pulled her to her feet. She kept a grip on Mule. He hugged her, albeit without force, as Mule wouldn’t tolerate much of that. He kissed her forehead and cheek with the utmost tenderness. Francois joined them and wrapped his arms around her as well, murmuring condolences as he rubbed her back.
Mule broke the moment, exiting her arms, and she turned to pad into the tiny kitchen adjoining the main room. “I’m making tea.” She stifled another sob. “You guys want some?”
They both replied in the affirmative, then exchanged comments within earshot of Nadine, over the electronic hum of servers, minicomputers, and laptops.
“You think?” Cole asked Francois.
“Perhaps.”
“How would we know?”
“I am trying, mon ami. I am trying. It is not something one might simply call. Command. My heart is open, yet I do not know.”
The teapot whistled over the gas fire
and Nadine poured boiling water into three cups, each varying in size and color.
“Seems more than a dang coincidence,” Cole said.
“And yet, we cannot be sure,” Francois said.
She added a tea bag and a teaspoon of sugar to each cup. As she returned to the main room, holding the three mugs, Mule worked his way up a bookshelf to lie next to a small statue of Buddha.
“You think what?” she asked Cole. “And what coincidence?”
When they had informed her two nights ago of the day’s events at the petrochemical plants and Baytown’s Community College, she had probed and asked a litany of questions. The conference call with the others lent a few additional data points. Together they had crafted a nebulous plan to stay in contact, prepared. Prepared for what, none of them could answer. Her only input to the conference call gathering had been, “We’d better buckle up.”
Now Cole and Francois speculated on a connection to this morning’s horrible news.
“Just wondering if your friend’s murder is connected. A part of whatever is fixin’ to happen. Or started happening.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Cole.” She sighed and turned to her keyboard and rows of computer screens. “Too random. Too crazy.” She suppressed another sob, reached back for her tea, and used the hem of her shirt to wipe away more tears.
“Maybe we ought to come back later,” Cole said.
“No. I want you here. Both of you.” I mean it. Don’t feel like being alone now.
She entered search criteria, something—anything—to take her mind off her murdered friend. Most of the crime statistics she knew off the top of her head. She felt, groped, for a morsel of aberrant data, a clue, a thread.
“How many murders a year in the States?” Cole asked, his voice low and soft.
He’s trying to help me. Help with this. Get me off thoughts of my friend. I appreciate the concern, and it’s a nice effort, but that man and data analysis are worlds apart. “About fifteen thousand, more or less.”
“How many classified as random? Unknown assailant or motive?” Cole asked.
“Like my friend?”
“I’m just asking. That’s all.” His voice conveyed love and concern and sympathy.
“I know. I know.” She took a small sip of tea and adjusted her seating. “About five hundred a year. A little over one a day. Even that’s a bit weak, data-wise. Drive-by gang shootings, drug war shootouts, etc. Those muddy the data water quite a bit.” There might be something. Something else. Some correlations. Her mind began to shift into gear.
“You think the number can be sifted? Fine-tuned?”
Hush, Cole. Sweet of you to try and help. Sweet of you to hug me and hold me, and please hush. You too, Francois.
The loss of her friend lingered, affecting her focus and concentration. But a ninety percent Nadine still put her at the top of the pile as a ferret of information and seeker of answers.
She became more engaged as small bright threads shone through. Correlate. Ascertain causation. She kept working and unleashed electronic sniffers, bloodhounds. Without turning around she asked Francois for a smoke, which he lit for her and slid between her two extended fingers.
She eliminated inner-city data cross-referenced to suspected gang and drug activity. Parameters. Find parameters, then filter. Dig. What kind of bastard would knife my friend? No robbery. Murder. Murder for fun. Fun? Some sick bastard. Or a sick bastard making a statement. What kind of societal statement? “I’m a murdering bastard”? She choked back another sob.
Francois asked a gentle question about food, which she ignored. Cole rose to use the bathroom.
Dig deeper. Wait a minute. That’s weird. There were numerous random killings—suspect and motive unknown—in rural areas yesterday. Weird. Take those events, isolate indicators and demographics, and…wait a minute! Regions? Maybe. There’s gotta be a thread that binds. Something. Something else. Dig. That sick bastard. In a park, for God’s sake. She reminisced on the time she and her friend had gone to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. What a hoot. Her sob came short and loud.
Cole returned and squeezed her shoulder.
“I’m okay, Cole. Really.”
He returned to the recliner.
Dig deeper. Find a thread, a cluster. Rough. Rough data elements, unrefined. But something. Something began to show. She collected random murder data from yesterday and crafted probabilities. She extrapolated those into possibilities. Are both these guys just staring at me?
“Turn on the TV if you like,” she said over her shoulder.
“You don’t have a TV.” Cole’s tone was still gentle, non-accusatory.
“Oh, right.” Dig. Take a larger time sample. No. Take the data markers from yesterday and apply them to the day before.
Francois meandered into the kitchen and rummaged through her refrigerator and pantry, clucking in disapproval. “I would offer to prepare a fine meal, mon amour. But this clearly is not possible.”
“We’ll order delivery. Chinese,” she replied, glued to her computer.
“It ain’t even ten o’clock,” Cole said.
“I’m aware of the time, thank you.”
“This kitchen, if I may call it such, is a cry for help,” Francois said, then tried to ensure his statement wasn’t received as a criticism. “Such a thing is no reflection on you, cher.”
“Check the freezer. There’s bourbon with fresh mint stuffed in the bottle. You like that,” she said.
The sound of more rummaging among a few frozen items drifted through the apartment until the priest announced, “Oui. Perhaps all is not lost.”
“It’s a little early for booze, Francois,” Cole said.
“You are far too constrained by the concept of time, mon ami. Somewhere, you may be assured, the sun has set.” The clink of a glass announced his intent to pour. “And for you, chéri?” he asked from the kitchen. “A bit of this may be considered medicinal given the current situation.”
That’s weird. Patterns showed for the previous day, but fell off the table prior to that. Something was going on. “No, thanks.”
“Mon sheriff?”
“Sure, why not,” Cole replied as Francois found another clean glass for him. “Not much on TV.” He paused. “Just tryin’ to lighten things up, Nadine. Really.”
Nadine didn’t deign to respond.
She worked nonstop for several hours. She accessed crime databases—FBI, Homeland Security, state police. She released algorithms inside the collected data and continued to refine search parameters.
Cole nodded off, softly snoring. Mule leapt down from Buddha and sashayed to the opposite end of the couch from Francois. The priest piled a stack of paperbacks Nadine had scattered about the apartment and perused them. He would read a bit of each, mutter “Mon Dieu!” and discard them one after the other. The light toss of each book to the cat’s side of the couch drew Nadine’s attention.
“Quit trying to hit Mule.”
“I was doing nothing of the sort, cher.”
“Yeah, well, I remember your history with Mule,” she announced, standing and stretching. “Okay. I need a break. Let’s go eat. I’m hungry.”
She checked the front of her T-shirt. Good enough. The tears had dried. Good enough for a BBQ joint down the road. “The trends are still ill-defined. But anomalies pop up. Anomalies that don’t fit the larger data set. I’ll get back to it a little later.”
They ate, she talked of her murdered friend, and Cole and Francois listened with the utmost sympathy. She shed a few more tears, wiped away with a Ray’s BBQ paper napkin, and they returned to her place.
Both men camped out, satisfied when she handed them each their own computer tablet, allowing them to surf the Net or watch a movie. She rummaged through several drawers and produced two sets of earbuds. Mule shifted back to the bookshelf and shadows lengthened.
Early in the evening a picture developed, still with static, still with unknowns, but enough. Enough to kick the hornet’s nest and ge
t people involved. DHS. FBI. Jude and Jean. Bishop Sikes and Nick. Enough to prepare for battle.
Nadine May stood, drawing their attention. “It’s started. The conspiracy.”
“What?” asked Cole, bolting upright.
“Qu’est-ce que cela signifie?”
Cole and Francois stared at her, the latter with his mouth open.
“Look,” she said. “Around twenty random killings yesterday in the States. There are common elements—some of which may be a stretch. Still. The day before that, when you guys were getting steamed in Baytown, zero murders with those commonalities. And the days before that, when we returned from Boise, nada as well. So it just started.”
The men remained silent and frozen, clearly unable to process what she’d told them. “The murdering bastard who killed my friend was one of a collection of orchestrated killers. I don’t know if each random murder had a unique killer associated with it, or if some of those crazy SOBs killed more than one yesterday. But it’s going on again today. Twelve random murders, so far. Same parameters. And I’d bet it rises to around twenty by the end of the day.”
“Mon Dieu!”
Cole shook his head and declined to respond other than a red flush rising on his Comanche cheekbones.
“And I don’t know who’s orchestrating, although we can make a pretty good guess,” she continued. “I’m pulling the alarm and contacting Nick and the FBI. You guys contact the others.”
Cole nodded and reached for his cell phone.
“My old friend was singled out. I’m sure of it,” she said, hands on hips and staring at the floor. “Because of her association—her friendship—with me.” Nadine raised her head and felt the blood rush to her face. Anger boiled. “No more speculating. No more hoping it passes by.” She locked eyes with Cole. “No more of any of that. Time to get mean.”
Cole nodded again, still grim but with a spark of fight in his eyes. That fire, seen so often in the past, rose, reflected off his countenance.