Make it Happen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller
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“The procedure is simple,” Al-Tashid scoffed, “And, as I’ve told you before, the app file is encrypted. You risk much more danger of exposure communicating with your secret Facebook rooms and burner phones than by the one-time installation of this programme.”
“I suppose you are right,” Mohammad conceded. “I will get this done with my other recruits.”
“You will contact them as you did these three,” Al-Tashid decided, “And you will supply me with their required information. I will ensure they are added to the network and to your call list.”
Mohammad shrugged. “Very well. It will be one less thing for me to concern myself with.”
“And it will be done efficiently and securely,” Al-Tashid gibed before changing subjects. “I have also received confirmation regarding the explosives supplier and there will be no problem obtaining what we need from a local associate when needed.”
“Have you determined what we need?” asked Mohammad, barely hiding his sarcasm.
Al-Tashid smiled. “Yes, in fact, I have. I believe two devices similar to those used in your attempt Friday will be satisfactory. However, visually, they will appear to be large, insulated beverage bottles. I want two of your people to go sit among the crowds –”
“Why two?” Mohammad interrupted.
“Each will carry a device in a backpack,” Al-Tashid explained. “Should there be any outside security inspecting bags, one person with two large drink containers could raise suspicions. Secondly, two people can more easily leave the devices in separate places. In addition, should one fail, the other can still succeed.”
“I cannot disagree with your logic,” Mohammad admitted. “Have you looked at the schedule for upcoming concerts?”
“Yes,” Al-Tashid replied. “The next one is on Wednesday at six o’clock and there is another on Friday, also at six. Since I do not wish to fail, here is what I propose. Your two men will go to Rumsey Playfield on Wednesday afternoon to familiarize themselves with the area and to get an idea of what it is like, how many people show up and how early. When they return on Friday with the devices, they will know what to expect.”
Mohammad nodded. “How will we obtain the devices?”
“We will first determine which two of your recruits will be executing the attack,” said Al-Tashid. “This is something with which we must not delay and they must be clearly committed to do what we expect of them. We will then arrange to have them each take delivery of their own device from the supplier. Once again, I wish to keep them acting separately to maximize the chances of our success.”
“Do you wish to contact them now?” asked Mohammad.
“I want you to contact them now.” said Al-Tashid. “They need not know you are working with anyone else. Do not give them any details of the venue until you are certain they are willing to participate. You should let each know another will be independently involved to emphasize the importance of coordinated timing. Go ahead and make the calls. I am here to guide you as required.”
* * * *
Knowlton, Quebec, 2:16 p.m.
Intent on enjoying the day, Sandy, Josée and Cathy had taken the powerboat across the lake to go stroll in town while Chris, Jonathan and Dave had gone for an hour’s worth of sailing on the catamaran. Keen on simply lazing by the pool with Dominique, Leslie had volunteered to monitor any further communication activity on Mohammad and company’s underground network.
“Did we miss anything?” asked Chris as he, Jonathan and Dave strolled up to the pool from the dock.
“Moe made two calls,” Leslie replied, her eyes fixed on the iPad. “A first one to Queens which lasted close to ten minutes and a second to the Bronx which he’s still on.”
“I don’t like this,” Jonathan muttered. “With the additional messages to and from X-Man before we left and now these calls, they must be planning something for tomorrow. We have to find these bastards and stop them.”
“We’re doing all we can, Jon,” said Chris. “We’re tracking them without their knowledge and you’re feeding whatever is pertinent to the U.S.”
Jonathan scowled. “I know all of that but, it’s not enough.”
* * * *
Manhattan, New York, 4:35 p.m.
“So, have we covered what is needed to your satisfaction?” asked Mohammad as he rejoined Al-Tashid in the living room.
“We have,” Al-Tashid replied. “It remains to be seen if these two, Hamza and Rashid, can successfully complete the simple tasks assigned to them but I sensed no hesitation from either of them.”
“We will know for certain on Friday,” said Mohammad. “As agreed, I will follow up with them during the week and will coordinate the delivery of the explosives.”
“You will keep me updated,” Al-Tashid stated.
“Of course,” said Mohammad, gritting his teeth.
“Very well,” said Al-Tashid, rising to his feet. “Now that we are done with our business, I suggest we go have a drink or two and decide what we wish to do for dinner.”
“Since we are done,” said Mohammad, “I will return to Montreal.”
Al-Tashid frowned. “Now? We agreed you would stay until tomorrow.”
Mohammad shook his head. “I see no purpose in staying any longer. We have discussed what was required and I am not comfortable remaining here under surveillance.”
“You are still bothered by the video?” Al-Tashid taunted with a grin. “It is simply insurance to encourage your continued cooperation and discretion.”
“It is blackmail and a lack of trust,” Mohammad shot back.
“I am possibly the most wanted man on the planet,” Al-Tashid replied. “The few people I trust have earned it over time. You should not take it so personally. Why not stay and enjoy the evening?”
“I am going home,” Mohammad retorted, picking up his phone. “If you will excuse me, I must make some calls to organize my flight.”
“Very well,” said Al-Tashid as he headed to the door. “Do not forget to keep me updated.”
* * * *
Knowlton, Quebec, 5:47 p.m.
“Our damsels return,” Dave announced as he watched the boat rapidly approaching before abruptly spinning one hundred-eighty degrees to a stop, kicking up a wall of water then gliding in reverse alongside the dock. “Wow, Sandy can really handle that thing.”
“She is a woman of many talents,” said a grinning Chris, watching as the women secured the boat before heading their way. “And a show-off.”
“You think you have problems?” Jonathan jokingly scoffed. “Josée loves to pull stunts like that too, except she flies planes.”
“I guess I’m lucky,” said Dave. “All Cathy does is shoot guns.”
“Your wives are amazing and you know it,” Leslie piped in. “Stop complaining.”
“Who’s complaining about what?” Sandy demanded as the three women joined the group.
“Nobody’s complaining,” Chris replied. “Dave was praising your boating skills.”
Sandy laughed. “Liked my spin, did you? Our buddy, Ben, taught me that.”
As if on cue, Chris’ phone buzzed. Glancing at the screen, he smiled and said, “Speak of the devil,” then took the call. “Hey, Ben. We were just talking about you.”
“Should I be flattered or concerned?” asked Ben.
“I’m not sure yet,” Chris replied. “You interrupted our discussion.”
“Sorry about that,” said Ben. “Let me know when you’ve reached a verdict.”
“Will do,” Chris agreed. “What’s up?”
“We’re now in Montego Bay, in case you’re keeping score,” said Ben, “But the main reason for my call is to tell you I have once again succeeded in completing an impossible task bestowed upon me by you.”
“You got the video?” asked Chris.
“It’s uploading as we speak,” Ben confirmed. “It’ll take a few minutes because it’s a big file.”
“Excellent,” said Chris. “Did you look at it?”
“It’s a porn flick?” asked Chris, drawing curious glances from the others.
“It’s one hundred percent graphic sex but I don’t think it’s intended as porn,” said Ben. “My impression is the participants weren’t aware they were being filmed. Not once did any of them even glance at the camera. I’m guessing this is for blackmail.”
“Tell me about the participants,” said Chris.
“Knockout blonde in her twenties and cute little white guy, possibly minor but probably not. My guess is they were working. The third is a guy in his fifties, in pretty good shape. He’s white too but a bit darker, dark hair, maybe Middle Eastern but it hard to say. If this is blackmail, he’s the target.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing this,” said Chris. “Once again, great job.”
“You pay me well,” said Ben. “I feel obliged to deliver. Anyhow, that’s all I’ve got for now. The upload’s almost done so you can go watch a movie. I’m taking Cora for drinks and dinner in town to make up for my neglecting her because of you.”
Chris laughed. “At least you can afford to treat her right. As you mentioned, we pay you well. Have a great time.”
He cut the connection and smiled at the others. “If you’d excuse Jon and me, we have to go watch a couple of minutes of porn.”
“Can I come too?” Sandy asked with a wink.
“For now, it’s a work thing,” Chris replied, winking back. “Maybe later.”
He headed inside with Jonathan to his study, briefly recapping what Ben had recounted.
“I’m not getting my hopes up too quickly,” Jonathan muttered as Chris logged onto their secure network. “We may just end up seeing three strangers getting it on, one of whom could potentially get blackmailed by some unknown person.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” said Chris, clicking on the file which Ben had uploaded.
The screen went dark and the familiar Play icon appeared which Chris also clicked. The video, which began immediately, had likely been shot from a fixed camera positioned on a wall across the room to capture the full expanse of the king-size bed. In full colour and high definition, the three participants were already well engaged in their sexual carnival. While the woman performed oral sex on the older man, who lay flat on his back, the boy/man straddled their client’s face, receiving oral pleasure of his own.
“Move so we can see the guy,” Jonathan growled.
As if in response to the request, the young man climbed off and he and the woman changed positions. While they did so, the older man’s face was clearly visible, almost centred on the screen.
“Son of a bitch,” Jonathan murmured as Chris paused the video.
“Mohammad?” Chris suggested.
“Don’t know for sure but it’s a damned good guess,” Jonathan replied, pulling out his phone. “Send Nick a screen shot while I give him a call.”
* * * *
Les Cèdres, Quebec, 8:59 p.m.
Mohammad had left the hotel almost immediately after Al-Tashid had departed, not wishing to spend any more time in the suite than necessary under the terrorist’s surveillance. He had taken a cab to Teterboro Airport where he had filed a flight plan, had his plane fuelled and contacted the Canadian Border Services Agency with the required information relating to his arrival. He had been airborne shortly after six-thirty and touching down in Les Cèdres as the sun was setting.
Upon landing, he had been informed no CBSA officer was waiting for him so, as a CANPASS Private Aircraft member, he was free to leave. Tired, frustrated and hungry, he was pleased to avoid any further delay. Once his plane was parked and secured, he headed to the parking lot, relieved the area was mostly deserted as he simply wanted to get home.
* * * *
“There he is,” Dave murmured from behind the wheel of the mini-van parked near the entrance to the airfield.
“Start moving,” said Chris from the back of the van, phone in hand. “Let’s find out if he’s Mohammad.”
* * * *
Mohammad reached his car and popped the trunk, tossing his overnight bag in just as the telltale ringtone of the secure network sounded.
“What now?” he muttered, slipping his phone from his pocket.
Scrolling to the proper page, he tapped the Solitaire icon, pressed his thumb to the digital reader then stared in numb shock at the identity of the caller – Farooq Qureshi, who had been found dead in his apartment the week before. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps some error had been made when the New York area recruits had been added to the network.
He tapped on the flashing phone icon and said, “Yes?”
“Mohammad?” asked an unfamiliar voice.
“Who is this?” he demanded as a dark minivan turn into the parking lot.
“Is this Mohammad?” the voice asked once again.
“Who is speaking?” Mohammad repeated as the minivan stopped behind his car, feet from where he stood.
The driver stepped out and said, “CBSA. Sorry I’m late.”
Mohammad glanced at the somewhat familiar looking man, vaguely noting that though his attire was professional, it was not the usual CBSA uniform.
“I will be with you in a moment,” he snapped before turning away to tend to the mysterious caller.
In doing so, he did not see the minivan driver pull out the dart-gun, aim and shoot though he did feel the sting as the dart pierced into his upper back. He swung around in surprise and felt himself teeter as his legs turned to jelly. His phone and keys fell from his hands as he began to topple but the driver was there to catch him.
“You can’t drive in this condition,” the blurry-faced driver told him as another fuzzy man magically appeared to help lift him into the mini-van.
He felt them lay him on a cloud as a comforting darkness engulfed him though his last thought was that something might be wrong.
* * * *
“That went well,” said Dave, sliding the door shut then casually scanning the area for potential onlookers.
“Like a charm,” Chris agreed, picking up Mohammad’s phone and keys. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll follow in his car.”
Chapter 9 – Monday, July 4, 2016
Montreal, Quebec, 9:22 a.m.
As Mohammad clawed his way back to consciousness, he became increasingly aware of his discomfort though he did not yet realize it was due to having been laying on his back for hours on a sheet of plywood atop a sturdy iron frame. Becoming more alert, he ordered his stiffened muscles to move, painfully rolling onto his right side until the heavy chain handcuffed to his left wrist prevented him from going further.
He opened his eyes and what he saw served only to confuse and concern him more. He was in a small windowless warehouse or similar concrete block structure, perhaps thirty feet deep by forty or more wide. Most of the area was vacant barring what seemed to be a workbench and tools along the rear wall and a few others odds and ends. A mini-van, his own car and a mid-sized RV were parked at the opposite end of where he lay. Nearby, next to a flat-screen monitor mounted on a stand, two men were seated, watching him in silence – the supposed CBSA officer who had nabbed him and another whom he did not recognize.
He slowly raised himself to a seated position, wincing as he went, and turned toward them, lowering his feet to the concrete floor. His mind cleared more and told him he needed to empty his bladder.
“I need to use a restroom,” he croaked.
“There’s a bucket at the foot of your bed,” Dave informed him. “Your chain is long enough.”
Mohammad sighed and slid to the end of the crude bunk then stood, turning his back to them as he relieved himself. Once done, he sat on the corner of the bed and faced them once again.
“May I have some water?” he asked. “My throat is very dry.”
Dave picked up a plastic water bottle from the floor next to him and tossed it over.
“You sure can,” Chris replied. “We’re with the government and we need to chat about what you’ve been up to and what you’re planning next.”
“Do you know who I am?” asked Mohammad.
Chris smiled. “Of course we do. You’re Jabar Qalat, Consul General of Pakistan but you also go by the name of Mohammad Azim Syed when you organize terrorist attacks like the one in Trenton last week.”
“I am indeed Jabar Qalat but you are gravely mistaken about the rest. I have even offered my assistance to your Prime Minister and I am working with the RCMP to help find those responsible.”
“Yeah, we know all of that,” said Chris, “But you’re still Mohammad.”
“What proof do you have?” Qalat demanded, “And, if you really are with the government, why was I kidnapped, drugged and being held prisoner in a place like this? Why was I not arrested and detained by the proper authorities?”
“Valid questions,” said Chris. “Let me check what I’m permitted to answer.”
He walked over to the RV and went inside. A moment later, he reappeared followed by the Prime Minister.
Qalat’s eyes widened in surprise as the men approached, stopping a half dozen feet away, their eyes fixed on him.
Qalat met the Prime Minister’s gaze and said, “I am relieved to see that you are involved. I was concerned this was being handled unlawfully with no regard to my official status.”
The Prime Minister walked the few remaining steps over to Qalat and stared at him for a few seconds before lashing out with a solid jab to the face.
“Sir, don’t –” Chris started then stopped as the PM held up a hand and stepped back.
“I’m done,” said the PM, still glaring at the diplomat. “I just wanted to make sure this bastard understood I wasn’t here to make nice. Is that clear, Mr. Qalat? Before we even knew who we were looking for, I had decided we would be dealing with this off the record. You killed and injured hundreds of innocent citizens of this country and you must pay for your crime.”