by Vince Milam
Several long-distance truckers had been murdered at rest stops. Other truckers refused to haul. Material and supplies stopped moving. The murder of dockworkers in Seattle, Galveston, and Baltimore sent longshoremen home. Freighters remained at dock, unloaded.
“And our Nadine,” Francois said as he lowered his nose into the bag of Sumatran coffee and sniffed. “She retains hope? One would pray so, for her abilities remain most formidable.”
“She needs a break. The whole effort needs a break.”
“I’m certain they are exhausted. A rather simple meal tonight. Rustic. French, of course.” Francois moved to the refrigerator and checked supplies.
“I don’t mean a break from the effort. A break regarding the pursuit of these killers. A mistake by the jihadists. Something that can be leveraged to find the sumbitches.”
Nadine padded by and rubbed her wet hair with a SpongeBob SquarePants towel. “Coffee?” she asked.
“Soon. How you feeling?”
“Better, I guess. Have you looked at social media like I asked? Obscure data elements, I’ll admit, but mood and texture of the target society can be used in calculations.” She leaned from the waist in her terrycloth robe and toweled her hair vigorously. “You let Francois make the coffee, didn’t you?”
Cole had eschewed social media platforms his whole life, with the exception of a Facebook account he used to stay in communication with his daughters. They would post photos and comments. His only input had been to “like” their posts. But Nadine had asked him to expand his reach and check on the pulse of America. The results did not surprise him.
Since the president’s declaration of war, Americans had begun to lose the element of panic, replacing it with grim resolution. Determination replaced fear. Anger and a sense of personal responsibility to combat the attack filtered through segments of the population. Large swaths of Americans committed to being part of the solution. They had become killing mad.
Chapter 31
Pete Badowski drove along the Alexandria, Virginia, side street. He’d come from a D.C. delivery several miles away and now had three Alexandria deliveries.
Pete’s courier service hadn’t shut down because of terrorism. As a small business owner, if he didn’t work, his family didn’t eat.
The lion’s share of his clients were law firms and lobbyists. Many of them now worked from their homes and waited out the war, holed up in D.C. suburbs. Demand for Pete’s services had surged, and he intended to make hay while the sun shone. His wife was pregnant with their second child, and the extra money would come in handy. At least the traffic is a heck of lot lighter than normal, he thought.
Pete wasn’t supposed to carry a firearm. Illegal in D.C., the authorities would prosecute him and yank his business license in a heartbeat if they found him with a gun. But this was day ten of the jihadi attack and while he was willing to work and put his ass on the street, there were none of the normal provisions for his safety. That realization prompted him to carry insurance of the pump-action kind.
He hailed from rural Pennsylvania, where people kept guns. His brother, Will Badowski, had driven down three days ago and passed him a shotgun wrapped in a blanket. Pete kept it on the floor next to his seat in his company minivan. I’ll have Will come back and get it once this is over. Until then, it stays by my side.
Pete pulled into the empty parking lot of the Athenaeum, a Greek-revival building that housed an art gallery. It was lunchtime, and he unwrapped the sandwich his wife had made for him—a BLT with thin-sliced onions. He popped the top on a Pepsi and placed it in the drink holder.
This part of Alexandria consisted of tree-lined streets and million-dollar townhouses. Quiet and sedate, with little traffic on a normal day, it stood eerily silent. He flipped on a sports talk station, which today held little chatter of sports. He ate his sandwich and relished the crispy bacon as another car turned into the tiny lot.
He’d reversed into his parking space to enjoy the view while he ate. The nondescript white sedan began to pull into the space next to him, the driver doors side-by-side.
As the sedan edged its way toward him, the driver’s window began to lower and Pete stopped in mid-chew. The unknown driver’s right hand displayed a pistol. Mental alarms screamed as Pete rolled off his seat and onto the floor, spilling the Pepsi as he frantically unwrapped the shotgun from the blanket. The radio’s low voice opined on current terrorist events.
Pete’s heart pounded and rushing blood swooshed in his ears. He slammed open the sliding side door of the minivan and flung himself to the ground. The light rubber-on-concrete tire sound indicated the sedan was backing up on the other side of his minivan. Pete gathered himself, knee-walked to the front of the vehicle, and peeked around the front grill.
A loud pop and a burning sting along his right cheek caused him to jerk back, face pressed against the front panel. The sedan continued to reverse and turned to pass, backward, by the front of the minivan. His legs trembled with the realization he was the target—a planned victim of jihad. He was meant to die.
Pete threw the pump shotgun to his shoulder as the rear of the white car rolled past in reverse. The back door came into view, then the open-windowed driver’s door.
Pete didn’t wait for the pistol aimed at him to fire again, and he slapped the shotgun’s trigger. Glass, plastic, and portions of the driver’s head blew across the parking lot. The car continued to roll in reverse and Pete got to his feet as he fired, pumped, fired. The shotgun held six shells and Pete used them all as he walked alongside the slow-rolling sedan and sent round after round into the stranger’s body.
The car bumped into a lot light pole and stopped. He pumped and fired again. The metallic click of the firing pin indicated he was out of ammunition.
Pete Badowski lowered his weapon, leaned over to vomit, and then dialed 911.
***
Sandy Jefferson didn’t analyze the scene. She just stomped the accelerator.
The acknowledgement they were at war wiped out the rumors and murderous conspiracies that had kept the inhabitants of Ardmore, Oklahoma on edge and scared. They maintained an uneasy awareness, but now understood they were in a fight.
Sandy drove home from her Realtor’s job, the Ford Explorer’s radio tuned to national news. Real estate transactions had come to a standstill across the country, but she showed up at work each day as an act of defiance. Life would move forward and she had no intention of hiding.
Her subdivision near Lake Murray, south of town, had several rural road entrances. Sunset wouldn’t be long, and she looked forward to supper with her husband and kids. It was Italian food night, and the preparation of sauce, sausage, pasta, and salad had become a family affair. The bottle of Italian wine shared with her husband during the cooking process added to her anticipation.
A fine spring evening, and the Ford’s windows were lowered to enjoy the almost-perfect weather. She turned off the radio as she entered the first subdivision road. The crunch of gravel under tires accompanied her as she drove.
The massive echoing boom of a high-powered rifle caused her to slow down. Sandy had grown up around hunters. She knew the sound—distinct, loud, and incongruous within this setting. It was not hunting season and, besides, no one fired weapons within the subdivision’s boundaries.
The thick trees to the right shielded her view of Lake Murray a short distance away. The lake would have boats full of fishermen this time of day who were not going to be denied the ritual of spring bass fishing regardless of war, famine, or the second coming.
She slowed to a crawl and a parked sedan at a sharp curve in the road came into view. A lake breeze stirred the pine tree limbs and lifted strands of hair across her forehead. A man emerged from the dense growth and stood near the parked vehicle. The trunk lid popped open. He carried a rifle case.
She stopped the Ford and a light brake squeal caught his attention. They locked eyes. An immediate rush of adrenaline and fight surged through Sandy as the stranger’s
face radiated madness. Madness, hatred, and fiery evil.
He moved further into the road and began to unzip the soft case, his eyes still on her, upper lip curled in a snarl. The rifle case folded to the ground and he opened the bolt of the scoped deer rifle to chamber a fresh round. He began to raise the rifle to his shoulder, pointed at her.
Sandy Jefferson stomped the accelerator. The four-wheel drive Ford dug into the gravel surface and she shot forward, the engine howling in protest. The gunman lowered his cheek to the weapon’s stock, aimed, and fired.
Gas pedal floored and jaw clenched, she ducked just prior to his shot, vaguely aware of the booming rifle retort and tight ping of a bullet shot through glass. The Ford side-swiped the sedan, followed by the loud thump of a body hitting her front grill.
Sandy sat up, slammed the brakes, skidded to a stop, and threw the Ford into reverse. She twisted in her seat to look through the back window. The gunman was dragging himself, wounded, across the gravel road and toward the trees. She lead-footed the gas pedal again and drove over the crawling body in reverse.
The man lay still and she waited half a minute for any sign of movement, prepared to drive forward once more. Then Sandy dialed 911.
***
Jill Weber left the lone open bar in Baker City, Oregon, after an evening red beer. The Budweiser/Clamato juice concoction constituted one of only a few drinks the bar’s owner served that night, the usual crowd nervous and at home.
She worked highway construction as a certified heavy-equipment operator, employed by a company contracted to the Oregon Department of Transportation. A divorced mother of three, all grown and gone, Jill’s work had come to a standstill as the nation’s activities were put on hold. She stewed over the shutdown, the anger bubbling under the surface. War, she thought. Well, bring it on, you chickenshit sons of bitches.
Jill seldom carried her small hammerless .38 revolver. She had purchased it as a precaution when working isolated areas of sagebrush-covered eastern Oregon. It made for lonely country, and the pistol gave her a sense of security. The nation’s war footing prompted her to tuck it inside the waistband of her jeans, even in her hometown of Baker City.
The sun had set and twilight provided sufficient light to navigate her way to the parked pickup on the empty street. Not a single vehicle moved through town.
A figure moved from an alley near the pickup and approached her.
“Hi,” the man said as he moved toward her. “Can I ask you something?”
It wasn’t right—the timing and movement and unknown voice. She reached into her rear waistband and gripped the small revolver, but kept it hidden.
“Why don’t you stop right there, friend,” she said, her back to the parked pickup and her other hand extended, palm out. “Stop moving at me and we can talk.”
The twilight reflected the flash of a long knife blade, and he accelerated his forward progress.
The pistol held five bullets. The first four hit the stranger in rapid succession and he crumpled to the sidewalk. The gun blasts roared across the empty streets and echoed off the surrounding hills. Neighborhood dogs howled. Jill circled around the now-groaning and contorted body. She approached close to the man’s head, and put the fifth bullet in his brain.
I’m not one of your victims, you son of a bitch. Not tonight. Not Jill Weber. Her hands shook as she retrieved her cell phone and dialed 911.
Chapter 32
“We’ve had a break,” Zuhdi announced to the task force. “Three jihadists taken out by citizens. Alexandria, Virginia. Ardmore, Oklahoma. Baker City, Oregon. Our people have blanketed each location.”
’Bout time, Cole thought. Mercy, it’s day eleven. He remained at Nadine’s and spent nights on the couch. While Francois slept at the hotel, he’d brought his shaving kit and change of clothes, worried about Nadine’s state.
Relief and excitement electrified the task force. The pressure had built to the boiling-over point and now they had something to work with.
“We ran ballistics and DNA tests last night and can now confirm the three jihadists taken out are tied to previous killings,” Zuhdi continued. “Plus, we have their cell phones. Maybe—and I do mean maybe—we can utilize those devices to give us a trail.”
Several members on the call expressed positive possibilities. They finally had a break. The exhausted voices expressed, for the first time since the terror started, an element of hope.
“We’re going public with the three dead terrorists,” Zuhdi said. “I just received confirmation from higher ups on the communiqué.”
The communication strategy brought broad concurrence. A victory, albeit small and unclear as to ultimate outcome, satiated a collective need to inform Americans of some good news.
“Nadine, I’d like you to drop everything and work with DHS, the FBI, and the NSA on the recovered cell phones.”
Another beep from Nadine’s computer systems carried over the line to the members of the task force, then another. They knew what it meant and remained silent until Nadine informed them of the latest killings. Cole had grown to hate the beeps. Another life gone—murdered.
“Near Dickerson, Maryland. Teenage boy fishing. By himself. Head bashed in,” she said.
Muted curses from the task force members mixed with expressions of anger and a drive to leverage the latest development to help track the other eighteen terrorists.
“The other?” Zuhdi asked in reference to the second beep.
“Hold on,” Nadine said.
Questions about the dead jihadis’ backgrounds, connections, and communications circulated among the callers while they waited for Nadine’s input on the second victim. They conjectured on tendrils of association and potential electronic trails to tie the twenty-one attackers together. A loop back to ISIS overseas and what could be done about it floated among them. I’d dang sure like to know why we’re not kicking ass over there, myself, Cole thought.
“We have a problem,” Nadine said. The entire task force quieted. “Fort Wayne, Indiana. Random. No robbery. No witnesses. But outside the three geographical areas.”
The callers remained silent.
“Folks, we have a copycat killer,” she continued. “And we’d better hope it’s the only one.”
“This wasn’t done by our remaining eighteen?” Zuhdi asked. “You sure?”
“Not sure, but a very high probability,” Nadine replied. “We’ll know tomorrow morning.”
“How will we know?” a task force member asked.
“With the three eliminated yesterday, we should see eighteen random murders over the course of today. If it’s nineteen, we’ll know.”
***
Cole risked making coffee prior to Francois’s Uber-provided arrival, now established at nine o’clock each morning. His driver, the Buddhist, remained on call for the regular fare.
Cole’s view of current events differed from other task force members. The elimination of three terrorists was great news. The leads developed from yesterday might be a game-changer. They could pursue and hunt as opposed to reacting.
The copycat killer—and little doubt Nadine nailed it—offered a new threat, but the collective experience of the task force pointed to this as a one-off, and a distraction from the prime mission.
The supernatural element was Cole’s main concern. The death of the three jihadists might trigger a reaction. A reaction of the hell-sourced kind.
Francois’s arrival was accompanied by lengthy commentary on the condition of America’s attempt at croissants, a dozen of which he’d purchased at a rare opened coffee shop on the way to Nadine’s apartment.
“I shall present these as a base for the ham and the cheese also purchased,” Francois said. “Perhaps these croissants may be salvaged in such a manner. I smell coffee. Surely you are not responsible for this, mon shérif.” He wafted past and assumed his kitchen position.
Nadine remained impervious to any discussion and collected data on the three cell phones acquired. Cole
strode into the cramped kitchen to view Francois pour out his fresh coffee and restart the process.
“Big development yesterday,” Cole said. He waited to ensure the priest’s full attention.
“Oui. I am listening.”
Cole covered the deaths of the three terrorists, the possibilities of evidence and leads that might come from the event, and his gut feeling of an evil reaction.
“Those demonic influences sittin’ in the shadows? Well, they might come into the open given the latest news. Refill the jihadi number back to twenty-one.”
Francois paused and used his apron to wipe his hands. He opened the kitchen window and lit a smoke. Lips pursed, he said, “A possibility. True. True.”
Cole found a news channel on a laptop and they listened as the head of DHS announced the three jihadist deaths to the American people. Francois suggested they conference call Jude and Luke.
“And Jean. Nick, too,” Cole said.
The priest, pastor, and bishop talked daily, and Cole had overheard Francois’s end of the conversations. Their prayers and concerns never faltered, but the overall sense of urgency and awareness had lagged. Time had passed. They were losing hope.
They called Jude, Jean, Luke, and Nick. Nick claimed too much on his plate to participate in the call. “We’re scrambling like you can’t believe,” he said. “Can’t talk with you guys now.”
Cole presented his assertion to the rest of the gathering. “Got nothing to point to, other than a gut feeling,” he said.
“Okay,” Jude said. “Fine. But what does that mean with regard to us?”
“It means be prepared. Right now. The Enemy is going to get active. Replace those three that were killed,” Cole said.
“Oui,” Francois said. “Satan’s minions control these horrid killers. We shall not argue this reality. We must focus. Prepare. Have no fear.”
“Accepted, Brother Francois. Accepted,” Luke said. “But I fear neither the Enemy nor the human evil that roams among us, and I am prepared for both.”