Make it Happen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller

by Claude Bouchard

  Sharp hesitated for a moment then said, “I can’t disagree but, unfortunately, ‘my team and I’ have to play by the rules.”

  Jonathan smiled and nodded. “I hear you but I’m sure we’ll figure something out. As the old adage says, ‘The Mountie always gets his man.’ Anything else for us?”

  “We have a team trying to track the emails the AFI sent to claim responsibility,” Sharp replied. “Once again, it’s early in the game but last I heard was our tech folks were getting nowhere fast. Chris, this might be something you want to look into.”

  “That’s actually what I was working on just before you called,” said Chris. “I’ll keep you posted on my progress but this won’t be easy.”

  “Anything you can come up with,” said Sharp. “We have to find who did this.”

  “We’re just starting, Nick,” said Jonathan. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “Well, I just gave you everything we have so far,” Sharp replied, “So we need to find a lot more. Keep in touch and I’ll do the same.”

  After they’d said their goodbyes and Sharp had signed off, Jonathan turned to Chris. “Any promise with tracking those emails? You’re pretty damned good at that kind of thing.”

  “I’m flattered by your confidence but this may be a little out of my league,” Chris admitted. “Those emails jumped all over the planet before getting where they were intended. Fortunately, I happen to know a gentleman who’s even better than me with web stuff and I’m sure he’d be happy to help us out.”

  “Ben?” said Jonathan, a statement more than a question.

  Chris nodded. “If anyone can do this and do it fast, he’s our man.”

  “Who’s Ben?” asked Leslie.

  “Ben Fredricks,” Chris replied. “An old friend and colleague from my days back with CSS. The man is a cyber-security genius and possibly the world’s foremost deep web expert. He worked for a few major telecom firms before starting his own consulting business and making a fortune. Then he had a bit of a run-in with cancer and, although he won that battle, it made him realize life could be shorter than planned. As a result, he closed up shop, semi-retired and spends most of his time travelling the world with his wife, Cora, on their yacht. He’s open to the occasional contract if it’s challenging, lucrative and off the books. I’ll contact him as soon as we’re done here.”

  “Let’s hope he’s not off in the middle of the ocean somewhere,” Dave suggested.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Chris. “Ben is always linked, no matter where he is, and has all the computer power he needs on his boat.”

  “So that just leaves us with Chandhri and Qureshi to deal with for now,” said Jonathan.

  “Uh, how are we planning to deal with them?” asked Dave.

  “I’d suggest we go have a chat with them,” said Chris. “Do what we can to help jog their memories about anything or anyone they might know relating to Saturday’s attack.”

  “Unless I missed something, Nick said he wanted this handled by the book,” Dave insisted.

  Jonathan shook his head and smiled. “Actually, what Nick said was, there was nothing more he and his team could do which meant the ball was in our court.”

  “If you say so,” said Dave. “What about his hoping they keep their guard down because they think they’re in the clear?”

  “Our goal will actually be the opposite,” Chris explained. “Assuming they are connected with the AFI, we’ll hope they get in touch with their contact once we’ve paid them a visit.”

  “Are we going to bug their places?” asked Leslie. “I love that stuff.”

  “We are indeed, my dear,” Chris confirmed. “You can figure out what their schedules are like while I look after getting their phones monitored.”

  * * * *

  Ottawa, Ontario, 1:35 p.m.

  “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” said the Prime Minister as he entered the conference room.

  “No apologies are necessary, sir,” replied Jabbar Qalat, Consul General of Pakistan, approaching with an extended hand. “I am grateful you took the time to see me on such short notice though I certainly regret the circumstances leading to our meeting.”

  “And I as well,” agreed the PM, motioning Qalat to sit as he did likewise. “This attack was a horrible affair and I’m shocked that such cowards could prey on the innocent and show such disregard for human life.”

  “My government and I share your grief and your anger,” said Qalat. “Both my country’s president and prime minister are outraged by this incident, more so since those who are responsible have claimed to be from Pakistan.” He hesitated a moment then continued. “You may or may not be aware but the name, Army for Islam, is one with which I am regrettably familiar.”

  “Because of your son,” the PM said softly.

  Qalat sighed. “So, you are aware. Yes, because my son was allegedly linked to a group which bore the same name.”

  “Do you know where your son is?” asked the PM.

  “My son is dead,” Qalat replied sadly. “I have no proof but I know it in my heart.”

  “How can you be certain if you have no proof?” the PM prodded.

  “Jawad was a spoiled, lazy brat, for which I am to blame,” said Qalat. “He never worked a day in his life and was completely dependent on me. He could not survive on his own and certainly would not even try. Since he left Montreal in January 2011, I have never heard a word from him. If he was alive, he would have contacted me for help, for resources, for money, but he did not.”

  “Is it possible he turned to friends for help?” asked the PM. “Others supported this Army for Islam at the time.”

  “My son’s so-called friends were not supporters of anything,” Qalat scoffed. “They were leeches who loved to take advantage of his generosity with my money. Not one of them showed concern or offered assistance once he disappeared. Quite the contrary, they all made efforts to distance themselves as much as possible.”

  “Do you think any of them could be linked to Saturday’s attack?” the PM questioned.

  “No, I don’t,” Qalat replied without hesitation. “I am not without resources and I have had these men monitored over the years in hope of finding my son. These are not men of true Muslim faith and certainly not what you Westerners call radical jihadists. I invite you to have them investigated yourself, which you are surely already doing. However, you are wasting time and money.”

  The PM nodded then asked, “What do you believe happened to your son?”

  Qalat gazed at the PM as he rose to his feet. “I do not wish to discuss what would amount to guesses and speculation. However, I’m left wondering if perhaps you are secretly mocking me, knowing the truth yet asking this question. My son allegedly committed crimes in your country and would have been justly tried in Pakistan. However, it was not to be because he conveniently vanished before any proceedings could take place. All I can say is, Jawad is not responsible for Saturday’s attack because he is dead. I came here to offer condolences in the name of my country so my work is done. If there is some way my country or I can assist you going forward, do not hesitate to contact me. Good day, sir.”

  Chapter 5 – Thursday, June 30, 2016

  Montreal, Quebec, 12:42 p.m.

  “Chandhri’s place is good to go and I’m out,” came Chris’ voice through the others’ earpieces. “We’ll just have to get to his car when it’s available.”

  “Excellent. The tracker’s installed on Qureshi’s car on this end,” Jonathan replied, playing lookout from his SUV parked on Barclay Avenue. “Leslie, how’s it going?”

  “Almost done,” she replied. “I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.”

  Information already obtained by the RCMP had revealed that Chandhri and Qureshi were both employed by Green Shades, a well-established landscaping and grounds maintenance firm catering to high-end properties around Montreal. Taking advantage of the two men’s work schedule, Chris had visited Chandhri’s apartment in Hampstead to install surveil
lance devices with Dave on the lookout. Leslie had done likewise at Qureshi’s home in nearby Côte-Des-Neiges while Jonathan kept an eye out on the street.

  “Uh, we may have a problem,” Jonathan announced suddenly. “A blue Sentra, like Chandhri’s, is heading this way behind me.” He paused for a moment as the car passed and came to a stop in front of Qureshi’s building. “Definitely them. Qureshi’s getting out.”

  “I’m done,” said Leslie from the third floor apartment. “I’m heading out through the back.”

  As Jonathan looked on, Qureshi entered the building while Chandhri drove off, likely heading to his own apartment. A moment later, Leslie appeared from one side of the building, looking very much the cable technician she was purporting to be. Crossing the street, she opened the rear doors of the VideoScope Cable truck parked a few vehicles ahead of Jonathan’s, removed her tool belt and tossed it inside before climbing in and shutting the doors behind her.

  “I guess they only worked half their shift today,” came her voice through Jon’s earpiece.

  “Looks like it,” Jonathan replied as he tapped and scanned his tablet. “Happy you managed to finish up there. Great job with the camera placements.”

  “Yeah, I’m good,” Leslie kidded then turned serious. “Since he’s home, do you want to go see him now?”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said Jonathan. “Let’s get the truck out of here and come back to chat with the man.”

  “Good luck with that,” said Chris, he and Dave both still linked to the call. “We’re waiting to see if Chandhri shows up. If he does, I’ll get the tracker on his car. Do you want us to go talk to him as well?”

  “Wait and see how things go on this end,” suggested Jonathan as he followed Leslie around the block then stopped to wait as she parked on an adjacent street. “Stay tuned.”

  “Will do,” Chris agreed, ending the current conversation.

  Leslie climbed out of the truck, looking nothing like she had moments before. Having removed her coveralls, under which she wore a custom-tailored business suit, and replaced her work boots with sensible pumps, she was ready for her next impersonation – that of RCMP investigator.

  “You clean up nice,” said Jonathan as she slid into the passenger seat of his SUV.

  “Thanks. I try,” Leslie replied. “So. How hard are we going on Qureshi?”

  Jonathan shrugged as he pulled away from the curb. “We’ll play it by ear but I do intend to make it clear he’ll be better off giving us any information he has.”

  “I’ll follow your lead,” said Leslie.

  A minute later, Jonathan was parking back in in the same spot he had vacated shortly before while Leslie scanned the video feed from Qureshi’s apartment on her phone.

  “He’s getting in the shower,” she announced.

  “Well, let’s get up there before he gets out,” Jonathan replied, cutting the engine.

  They hurried across the street, into the building and up the three flights of stairs to Qureshi’s small top floor apartment where Leslie easily picked the lock for a second time in the last hour. The shower was still running as they entered and Leslie headed to the kitchen to cover the back door while Jonathan remained in the living area near the main entrance. They waited in silence and, moments later, the water stopped running. Another minute or two went by and Qureshi strolled out of the bathroom naked as he towelled his hair.

  Stopping short in shock when he saw Leslie, he quickly covered himself and demanded, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “She’s with me, Farooq,” said Jonathan from behind him.

  Qureshi spun around, almost dropping his towel and glared at Jonathan. “What is going on here? Are you robbing me?”

  “Do we look like muggers, Farooq?” Jonathan asked, gesturing to his business casual attire.

  “Get out of here,” Qureshi ordered. “I’m calling the police.”

  “You’re not calling anyone,” said Jonathan, stepping closer as Leslie did likewise. “I’ll let you get some clothes on and then we have some questions for you.”

  Qureshi smiled and said, “Fuck you, asshole,” before spitting in Jonathan’s face.

  Jonathan’s fist lashed out instinctively, smashing Qureshi solidly on the bridge of the nose with a sickening crunch. The young man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as his body went limp and crumpled to the floor in a heap.

  “Little bastard,” Jonathan muttered, wiping his face while Leslie crouched down by Qureshi and probed the side of his neck.

  “He’s got no pulse, Jon,” she announced, rolling Qureshi onto his back. “You crushed his face.”

  “Damn it,” Jonathan growled. “Guys, we have a problem here.”

  “Yeah, we’re watching the camera feed,” said Chris. “He did provoke you, Jon.”

  “Not enough for me to kill him,” Jonathan snapped.

  “It wasn’t intentional, boss,” Leslie reasoned. “We’ve all reacted the same way at times.”

  “He’s still dead,” Jonathan retorted then sighed. “How should we deal with this?”

  “Robbery gone bad,” said Chris. “At least it’s an opportunity to grab his phone and his computer if he has one.”

  “Phone’s right here on the kitchen table,” said Leslie as she quickly surveyed the small apartment. “There’s a laptop and a tablet on the coffee table.”

  “Take them and his wallet,” said Chris. “Mess up the place a bit and get out of there. That’s what I suggest.”

  “I can’t think of a better alternative,” Jonathan admitted. “It’s probably best you stay clear of Chandhri for now.”

  “Speaking of whom,” Dave cut it, “He’s turning in the parking lot of his building right now.”

  “Here’s what I suggest,” said Chris. “I’ll install the tracker on Chandhri’s car and we’ll get out of here. Leslie, is Qureshi’s phone locked?”

  “Let me check,” Leslie replied. “Nope, it’s on and not locked.”

  “Excellent,” said Chris. “Once you’re done, text Chandhri from Qureshi’s phone, something short asking him to hurry over because he’s in danger. Once Chandhri discovers the body, we’ll see how he handles the situation and, more importantly, who he contacts.”

  “Okay, stay connected,” said Jonathan. “Let us know when you’re done and we’ll do the same.”

  * * * *

  Central Park, Manhattan, New York, 2:07 p.m.

  “I never realized how big this park really is,” said Al-Tashid, impressed as they strolled along Central Park West. “A lovely oasis of nature amidst such a massive hive of activity.”

  “You may have heard of the Dakota?” Mohammad suggested, pointing across the street as they reached Terrace Drive.

  “The home of the late John Lennon, of course,” replied Al-Tashid, gazing at the landmark building, “Amongst many other celebrities.” He winked and added, “Imagine the horror if something happened to that building one day.”

  Taken aback by the suggestion, Mohammad paused before saying, “The impact certainly would be tremendous.”

  Al-Tashid chuckled. “I sense I shocked you, my friend, which is surprising considering what you accomplished less than a week ago. Are you regretting the path you have chosen?”

  “No, not at all,” Mohammad replied as they entered the park along Terrace Drive to pursue their stroll.

  “I am pleased to hear this,” said Al-Tashid. “The success of your operation has clearly demonstrated your organizational skills and I fully intend to exploit your capabilities.”

  Mohammad frowned as he briefly glanced at Al-Tashid. “I was not aware I had agreed to become one of your soldiers. That is certainly not what I had in mind.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Al-Tashid questioned. “That you would decide whatever you wished to do and I would simply pay for it?”

  “But you agreed with my plan,” Mohammad argued. “I did not force you to finance it or provide support.”

&n
bsp; “Do you intend to organize further attacks?” asked Al-Tashid, changing tact.

  “Of course,” Mohammad confirmed. “I have been researching potential locations and events, several which could be dealt with fairly easily with little risk.”

  “And, if I offered to support you once again, financially or otherwise, would you accept?” Al-Tashid enquired.

  “Well, yes,” Mohammad admitted. “Until I can determine how to raise untraceable funds and establish contacts to source arms and explosives, I need your help. That is why I approached you in the first place and I believe I had made my intentions clear.”

  “You did indeed,” Al-Tashid agreed, “But what you obviously did not understand was that our agreement was not one-sided. As the Western expression says, there is no free lunch.”

  Mohammad sighed. “So, what do you expect from me?”

  “Nothing more complex than what you have started doing already,” Al-Tashid replied. “Simply put, I will contact you on occasion with an assignment. You will determine what needs to be done, plan accordingly and ensure the job is successfully executed.”

  “I trust this will not happen too frequently as I have a busy schedule,” said Mohammad. “I can’t say I’m comfortable with this, particularly since I apparently have no say in the matter.”

  “You don’t,” Al-Tashid confirmed. “I had been thinking for a while of having someone reliable based in North America to oversee local activities and then you came along, almost as a gift from Allah. I now don’t need to concern myself with getting someone in position. You are here and are more than capable of managing the occasional task I will send your way.”

  Mohammad’s phone trilled at that moment, interrupting their conversation. Glancing at the screen, he frowned then answered the call with a terse, “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Tariq Chandhri, sounding panicked, “But I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “What is it?” Mohammad demanded, concerned. “Is there a problem?”