Make it Happen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller

by Claude Bouchard

  Make it Happen

  A novel by

  Claude Bouchard

  MAKE IT HAPPEN

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2017 by Claude Bouchard

  Cover design by Luke Romyn

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.

  Published by Claude Bouchard

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks goes out to two fine gents for their assistance in my continuous quest for realism and accuracy.

  One is author, pilot and seasoned survivalist, Steve Bird, who helped me properly shoot down a plane because it’s tougher than one thinks.

  The other is cyber-security guru extraordinaire, Fred Bedrich. Not only did he share deep web techie stuff I know little about, he also became the basis of my new character, Ben Fredricks.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – Thursday, May 12, 2016

  Chapter 2 – Saturday, June 25, 2016

  Chapter 3 – Monday, June 27, 2016

  Chapter 4 – Tuesday, June 28, 2016

  Chapter 5 – Thursday, June 30, 2016

  Chapter 6 – Friday, July 1, 2016

  Chapter 7 – Saturday, July 2, 2016

  Chapter 8 – Sunday, July 3, 2016

  Chapter 9 – Monday, July 4, 2016

  Chapter 10 – Tuesday, July 5, 2016

  Chapter 11 – Wednesday, July 6, 2016

  Chapter 12 – Thursday, July 7, 2016

  Chapter 13 – Friday, July 8, 2016

  Books by Claude Bouchard

  Chapter 1 – Thursday, May 12, 2016

  Near Talagang, Pakistan, 1:27 p.m.

  The lone rider puttered along the dirt road, if it could even qualify as a road, leaving a plume of dust in the hot, arid air behind him as he went. His destination was now in view, a dilapidated farmhouse, barely more than a shack. He would be pleased to get off the noisy, uncomfortable motorbike and out of the sun, even for a short while, having never accustomed to the lifestyle of rural Pakistan.

  He was well aware he might be heading into a trap and, if he was, he had nobody else to blame but himself. After all, he had set the wheels in motion which had eventually led to this impending meeting – a meeting which might allow him to move forward with his plans or conversely, put him in peril and even result in his demise. He had carefully considered the possible outcomes for a time and finally concluded potential success outweighed the risks he might face. If surging ahead resulted in suffering or death, it was the way of Allah.

  A beaten path came into view amid the sparse growth and he slowed then turned onto it toward the cinder block farmhouse a scant hundred or so feet away. He eased on the throttle, reducing his pace to barely a crawl as he ascended the slight incline, relieved to have arrived without incident, yet anxious of the upcoming moments which might encompass the remainder of his life.

  The rough, heavy door of the structure swung open on surprisingly well-oiled hinges and a man stepped out, aiming a small automatic carbine with one hand while commanding him to stop with the other. The rider halted immediately, speed was not an issue, killed the engine, kicked the stand down and was off the motorbike in seconds, motionless, his hands raised.

  “Assalamu alaikum,” he said in greeting.

  The armed man gestured in response, beckoning him to approach. The rider complied, walking slowly toward the guard, having now noticed a second gun barrel trained on him through a small open window to one side.

  “Stop where you are,” the armed man ordered in Arabic, “And turn around.”

  The rider did as he was told, keeping his hands raised well above his head.

  “You are not armed?” asked the guard.

  With feigned courage, the rider laughed at the absurdity of the question. “I have come here as an ally, not an assassin.”

  “Remain as you are,” the guard replied, extracting an electronic device from a pocket of his shalwar and quickly scanning the visitor. He turned to his colleague at the window and gave a curt nod then said, “You may lower your hands and turn around. Wa Alaikum Salaam.”

  The rider turned and bowed slightly as the guard lowered his gun and motioned him toward the entrance. Inside, the armed man from the window nodded then led the way across the small front room to a closed door. His knock was answered with a muffled response and he opened the door, waved the visitor in and closed the door behind him.

  The temperature within the room was remarkably cooler, almost chilly, the air-conditioning unit set in the window a rare sight in the area. The faint puttering of a diesel powered generator could be heard outside. Two men sat in traditional low chairs, gazing at him in silence as he entered. He knew of these men and, though he had never met them, he recognized them from photos he had seen. The one on the right was Hamid Sahir Mahar, the State of Islam’s territory leader in Pakistan and the man he was here to meet. The presence of the other, however, surprised him for he was Abdel Omar Al-Tashid, the self-appointed leader of the State of Islam.

  “Assalamu alaikum, Mohammad Azim Syed,” said Mahar, using the visitor’s alias rather than his true name. “Have a seat.”

  “Wa Alaikum Salaam,” Mohammad replied, nodding to both men before settling into the chair facing them, “And thank you for seeing me.”

  “We are always interested in meeting potential supporters of our cause,” said Mahar, “But before we get started, you are no doubt thirsty. May I offer you something to drink?”

  Mohammad eyed the two open bottles of Heineken on the small table between the men and nodded. For many, prohibition was a public affair but not so much behind closed doors with people of trust. Mahar produced a fresh bottle from a small cooler to one side, popped the top off and passed it over to their guest.

  Well aware this might be a test of faith, Mohammad raised his drink and said, “To new friends and potential partners.”

  The other men raised their bottles and the three drank in unison.

  “You are a long way from home,” Al-Tashid commented, speaking for the first time.

  “Pakistan is my true home and I am here frequently,” Mohammad replied. “However, you have travelled a long distance as well to be here and surely not without danger. I am surprised and humbled by your presence.”

  “As you surely understand,” Al-Tashid explained, “Our organization closely monitors the development and activities of other groups which share our convictions. We were not impressed with the Army for Islam, nor with its leadership, when it surfaced five years ago, and history has clearly demonstrated why. However, when Hamid informed me you were hoping to revive the group and seeking assistance, I was immediately curious and felt it warranted some attention.”

  Mohammad nodded, keeping his expression neutral as he replied. “The AFI at the time was nothing close to what it is today. In fact, I strongly considered adopting another name for my group but decided Army for Islam was worthy for its recognition factor.”

  Al-Tashid smiled then said, “Surely you are not expecting to spark fear in the hearts of our enemies at the mention of this name.”

  Mohammad returned the smile. “If our enemies currently heard the name, they would likely laugh and perhaps assign
a Cub Scout to monitor our activities in his spare time. However, I have no intention of letting anyone learn of the AFI’s rebirth until we have demonstrated we are to be taken seriously but, to do so, I need your assistance.”

  “What type of assistance are you seeking?” asked Mahar.

  “Funding as well as sourcing required equipment,” Mohammad replied. “In addition, considering your experience in such matters, any suggestions and guidance you are able to offer will be also appreciated. In short, I will welcome whatever you can provide to ensure the successful outcome to my plan.”

  “How much financial assistance are you seeking?” asked Al-Tashid, “And what exactly is your plan?”

  “I will begin by answering your second question,” said Mohammad, “And then perhaps you can help me determine the answer to the first.”

  Chapter 2 – Saturday, June 25, 2016

  CFB Trenton, Ontario, 7:03 a.m.

  “I know what I’m having for lunch,” said Corporal Denise Bailey as the refrigerated truck from Bernie’s Burger Barn, Trenton’s favourite eatery, approached the security gate off Old Highway 2.

  Corporal Ray Dobson grinned and asked, “Do you mean a burger or Billy-Boy?”

  “Oh, be quiet, Ray,” Bailey muttered, shaking her head.

  Dobson shrugged and winked. “Well, he is kind of cute.”

  “Whatever, Dobson,” said Bailey with increasing annoyance.

  “And he flips a mean burger,” Ray added.

  “Shut up, Corporal,” Bailey growled as the truck pulled up to the gate.

  “Yes, Sir,” barked Dobson as they approached the vehicle. “Good morning, Bill.”

  “Good morning,” twenty-five year old Bilal Jilani replied, proffering the required paperwork through the open window. “It will be a perfect day for the show.”

  “The weather is certainly cooperating,” Bailey agreed, “Though it might be a bit too hot this afternoon.”

  “It will still be better than cold and rain,” Jilani countered with a smile.

  “True,” said Dobson as he scanned the list of the truck’s contents. “You have a thousand pounds of beef in there?”

  Jilani nodded. “That’s only four thousand burgers. Bernie will be coming with just as much in the other truck by noon.”

  “That’s a lot of burgers,” said Bailey, impressed.

  “A ton of them,” Jilani agreed with a wink then asked, “Do you wish to see inside?”

  “Just a quick look,” Dobson confirmed.

  “No problem,” said Jilani as he hopped out of the cabin and stepped to a side door which accessed the refrigerated box. He unlocked and pulled open the heavy door then stepped aside. “Be my guest.”

  Dobson climbed into the frigid interior and did a cursory scan, noting stacks of boxes of frozen beef patties, bags of onions, crates of tomatoes and cases of various condiments. Satisfied, he stepped back out, signed and stamped the documents and returned an approved copy to Jilani.

  “You’re good to go,” said Dobson while Bailey raised the gate. “Do you still have a lot of setting up to do?”

  “We finished most of it yesterday,” Jilani replied as he climbed into the truck. “This morning will consist of hooking up the propane tanks to the grills, making sure everything is working and a lot of slicing and dicing. The rest of the team will be coming in around nine because Bernie wants us to be ready to serve customers when the gates open at ten.”

  “I’ll try to drop by before it gets too busy,” said Bailey. “I’m sure you guys will make a killing.”

  Jilani smiled and said, “That’s the plan.”

  * * * *

  Roundel Glen Golf Course, Astra, Ontario, 7:48 a.m.

  “Good morning,” said twenty-four year old Yasir Bhatti as he strolled into the employee lounge.

  “Morning, Yasir,” General Manager Mike Cleary replied between mouthfuls of breakfast.

  “Hey there, buddy,” said Jerry Sizeman, the course superintendent and Yasir’s boss. “What are you doing here? You don’t work today.”

  “I want to get a good seat for the airshow,” Yasir explained with a grin, the course being immediately north of the runway at CFB Trenton.

  Sizeman laughed. “You won’t have much to see before noon or so. Hope you brought a book or something to keep busy.”

  Yasir shrugged and said, “Actually, I’ve noticed some branches hanging pretty low over the cart path around the twelfth, thirteenth and fourteenth. I figured I’d deal with them before they become a problem.”

  “It’s supposed to be your day off,” said Sizeman, shaking his head.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Yasir replied as he filled his thermos mug with coffee. “I’m just snipping a few branches to kill some time and it needs to be done.”

  Sizeman sighed in resignation. “Suit yourself but clock your hours.”

  “Sure thing, if that’s what you want,” Yasir agreed as he headed for the door. “I’ll see you later. Have a great day, guys.”

  “Same to you,” Mike replied then turned to Jerry once Yasir was gone. “One hell of a kid, that one.”

  “Best I’ve seen in a long time,” Jerry confirmed. “If they were all as hard-working and devoted as he is, I could literally cut the grounds crew in half. Fact is, we’ve been running with one less man this year with Yasir on board. I’m real happy he’s with us.”

  * * * *

  CFB Trenton, Ontario, 7:59 a.m.

  Bilal Jilani casually scanned the area as he returned to the Bernie’s Burger Barn canopy and breathed a sigh of relief. His concern had been greater while dealing with the propane tanks at the other food providers’ kiosks where anyone might have noticed him and questioned his dubious presence. However, though he had spotted the odd person here or there over the last twenty minutes, none had been in the immediate vicinity nor paid him any heed.

  As a result, he had successfully completed the first and most crucial part of the task assigned to him. Twenty propane tanks along concession row, ranging from fifty to one hundred pounds in size, were now each equipped with one of the devices he had smuggled in within a case of beef. The actual installation of the small, magnetized boxes had been relatively easy – simply a question of slapping them into place. However, he had been urged to position them out of view, preferably to the underside of the tanks, which had made the job a bit difficult with the full hundred pounders.

  The enormity of what the coming hours would bring suddenly hit him and he gripped the work table before him to steady himself as a wave of dizziness threatened to knock him to the ground. His legs suddenly weak, he stumbled to a nearby folding chair and dropped onto it as sweat streamed from his every pore, drenching his t-shirt and cargo shorts in seconds. His stomach roiled and bile surged into his throat as a bout of nausea tore at him. Gasping huge gulps of air, he willed himself to regain control – he could not be sick or appear to be anything but his usual normal self. Too much was at stake to allow his nerves to take over.

  Seconds became a minute then another as he slowly managed to calm himself, breathing deeply and more steadily, forcing himself to relax. Feeling less shaky, he slowly rose to his feet and waited a moment until he was convinced his legs would support him. The dizziness had passed, his sweating had ceased and his breathing was returning to normal, all indications that he had conquered this latest panic attack. However, with almost seven hours remaining, the risk of another jeopardizing the plan was far too great and he could not take any chances.

  Reluctantly, he pulled a small plastic zip bag from his pocket, shook out a couple of the tiny white pills, popped them into his mouth and washed them down with a swig of water before he changed his mind. He had been assured the pills would simply help him relax and would not alter his ability to function. Although he had always been against the use of drugs unless medically prescribed, he reasoned that taking these now was indeed for the greater good.

  While he waited for the pills to take effect, he looked around and not
ed a few more people than earlier but still a far cry from the thousands which would be milling about within the next few hours. A handful of employees at other food concessions had recently arrived, some already busy at work tables in preparation for the eventual hungry crowds. He himself would also be getting to work momentarily, as soon as he changed into some dry clothes which he had thoughtfully brought along in case of emergency.

  * * * *

  Roundel Glen Golf Course, Astra, Ontario, 10:43 a.m.

  Yasir Bhatti glanced at his watch and sighed in frustration. With another four hours to go, he felt he might die of boredom as he waited but he had no choice. He had no control over the schedule and realized it might even be changed, forcing him to deal with possible further delays. He had spent the last three hours looking after menial tasks about the course, simply to kill time, until Jerry had come by moments ago and ordered him to stop working.

  Contrary to what he had told his bosses in the employee lounge, there was no need to find an appropriate spot to view the airshow. He had chosen the perfect location weeks ago, in a wooded section east of the thirteenth green and near the fence which separated the golf course from the airbase. Since, he had prepared the area to ensure it would provide both an unobstructed view of the airfield and concealment from the golf course. Over the last week, he had also smuggled in the various components of the piece of equipment he would be using later. From practice, he knew he could assemble it in seconds when the time came.

  His frustration was not due solely to the slow passage of time, however. He was more than a little concerned about Bilal and his ability, or intention, to actually carry through with his part of the plan. The grill cook had clearly become more uneasy as time went by and he had admitted his increasing difficulty in dealing with the anxiety earlier in the week. Yasir had not hesitated to contact Mohammad, their organizer, with whom he and Bilal had a meeting planned for the following day. Mohammad had met with Yasir a couple of hours earlier than originally scheduled to establish a contingency plan after which they had met with Bilal.