Only Wrong Once

by Jenifer Ruff

  Ken smiled and made the sign of the cross. “Holy Mother of God. I think we really did.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Charlotte

  November 6th

  Julia answered an unexpected knock at her apartment door wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants. She shuffled back a few steps when she saw a uniformed man with a shaved head and bulging muscles standing in her doorway.

  “FBI, ma’am. We have to clear the area. You need to come with me. Right now.”

  “What is this about?” Julia said, without moving.

  He reached for her arm. She attempted to pull it back but he held firm.

  “We need you to leave your apartment. Now. For your own safety.”

  “Wait, I…” Her eyes moved to the figures in white suits and helmets preparing to barge into Amin’s apartment. “What’s going on?”

  “An emergency. Come with me.”

  “Amin? I think you have the wrong person.” She tried to plant her feet. “He’s an accountant at one of those big banks.”

  “Ma’am, you’re holding up a federal operation.” He continued to pull Julia away.

  Just outside Amin’s apartment, a man yelled, “FBI! Stay back! Don’t move!”

  Amin’s door splintered into large pieces. “Don’t hurt him!” Julia screamed from across the parking lot.

  As the door smashed apart, Kareem turned his head to the side and moaned, “Nooo.”

  Amin gasped. He stood next to his cousin holding a shirt, boxers, and shorts in his trembling hands. He couldn’t believe what was happening. His cousin was dying before his eyes and two people covered in plastic suits with face shields had burst into his apartment. Not medics. An icy coldness gripped his core.

  The intruders looked at the blood-spattered wall and then focused on Kareem.

  “He’s sick.” Amin’s voice shook. Was their forced entry a result of his call to 911? Where were the medics and the ambulance? What was going on?

  A third person entered the room in one of the same suits.

  “Don’t move!” One of the strange men grabbed Amin’s arms, twisting them behind his back. The clothes fell from his hands. The man snapped on handcuffs, dropped a shielded helmet over Amin’s head, and pushed him into a seated position on the floor.

  One of the other men inserted an IV line in Kareem’s arm and shouted, “Keep him alive!”

  Amin sat rigid, his heart racing and his arms tightly constricted over his lower back. Two sets of eyes stared at him from behind their hard, plastic masks. They were large men and their voices meant business.

  “What is your name?”

  “Amin Sarif.”

  “This is your home?”

  “Yes.”

  The other man pointed to Kareem. “Who is he?” Kareem was surrounded by the men in their bulky suits. Amin could barely see him. He glimpsed a tube trailing from one arm.

  “He’s my cousin.”

  “His name?”

  “Kareem Sarif.”

  “Does he live with you?”

  “No. He arrived from Syria two nights ago. He got sick last night. He’s really sick.” They obviously knew, anyone could tell, but Amin could hardly think straight. His world had become a real-life horror movie. “What’s going on? Why am I in handcuffs?”

  “Is this his?” one of the men pointed to Kareem’s bag on the counter.

  “Yes,” Amin answered.

  The man ran some sort of wand over the duffel and unzipped it. Amin held his breath, suddenly expecting to see a giant assault rifle or something else incriminating, but only clothes tumbled out onto the floor. A black baseball cap, a black and turquoise Panther’s football jersey, boxers, a pair of socks.

  Large gloved hands lifted Kareem’s letter from the counter and carefully peeled it open. “I found the tickets,” the man yelled into a mouth piece. “These are the guys. Both of them. One is sick. I don’t know about the other.”

  “I’m not sick,” Amin said. “But my cousin needs help.” He almost said, Please, he hasn’t done anything wrong, but stopped himself because he didn’t know if the statement was true. Yesterday he thought so. Today, anything was a possibility. “Are you going to take him to a hospital?”

  No one answered.

  Fear tightened his throat. “Why are you here? Why did you come to my apartment?” His voice sounded shrill. The men looked his way, but again, no one answered. They were busy communicating with others through ear pieces and microphones hidden inside their space suits. He’d never felt so helpless and afraid. And alone. He felt very alone.

  Kareem moaned from the couch.

  Amin became aware of a barrage of noises outside. Banging on doors. Shouts of “FBI!” Assertive voices commanding his neighbors. “Grab what you need and leave immediately.”

  He heard, “For how long?” “What’s going on?” and “Why do we have to leave?”

  What was happening? What had Kareem done?

  “How were you infected?” a man shouted at Kareem.

  “Infected?” Amin shifted his gaze to his cousin. Suddenly, puzzle pieces clicked together in his mind, although the picture was far from complete. He turned his head toward the wall and squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to run and hide from his memories as well as the scene currently unfolding in his apartment. Had Kareem deliberately infected him with a deadly virus in Syria, that night after Amin refused the so-called vaccination? Amin shivered. Was he sick too?

  “Do you know who infected Kareem?” one of the men said.

  “I don’t know.” Amin dropped his head. “Someone in Syria. Maybe someone he works for.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “He’s a microbiologist in a lab in Syria. He does research to find cures for diseases. I think.”

  “What is the lab called?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who does he work for?”

  “Someone named Al-Bahil.” Finally, he had one relevant answer.

  “Muhammad Al-Bahil?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Kareem Sarif works for Muhammad Al-Bahil,” the man said to whoever was listening on the other end of his earpiece. “When did your cousin arrive in the States?”

  “Friday night.”

  “Where did he go from the airport?”

  “I think he came straight here. I don’t know.”

  “How did he get here from the airport?”

  Amin shook his head. “Cab?”

  “Was he sick when he got here?”

  “He was tired. I don’t think he was sick until late last night. This happened very quickly.”

  “Who else has he been in contact with since he arrived?”

  “No one really, I mean he hasn’t been too close to anyone besides me. Except…Oh! This is before he arrived, but I just remembered, he had sex with a girl the night before he left Syria.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “He didn’t tell me. She’s in Syria. That must be how he got sick.”

  “Hmfff. Yeah—that must be how.” The FBI agent shook his head as if he was disgusted. “Stand up! Don’t touch anyone!”

  The agent lifted the helmet off Amin’s head and pulled protective material over his body, including his cuffed hands, like a giant garbage bag. Only his head and feet stuck out. The helmet was replaced. “Let’s go,” he said, pushing Amin forward.

  Kareem moaned incessantly as two more suited men entered the apartment. They carried a stretcher inside a sealed tent. They lifted Kareem onto the stretcher and zipped the covering, sealing him inside.

  “Ant-ta-da!” Kareem suddenly yelled out what sounded like garbled nonsense. Amin thought it might be Arabic. “It’s in my bag—” he said, before coughing spasms racked his body.

  “What?” one of the men said. “We can’t understand you.”

  “Amin. Two shampoo bottles!” At least that’s what Amin thought he heard Kareem scream from under the heavy plastic as the men carried him out of the apartment.r />
  “Delirious,” said one of the two men carrying the stretcher.

  “Sure is,” said the other.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Los Angeles

  November 6th

  Holly’s gaze moved painfully across her living room taking in the mess: L’Amore Production DVDs on the floor in front of the television, beer bottles, the onyx Sophie vase overturned, an open, almost empty suitcase, clothes scattered around. Everything about the moment, including her pounding head and nausea, reminded her of college, waking up inside a fraternity house at UCLA. She closed her eyes. What had happened?

  Quinn. Damn, Quinn.

  He was the reason for all of this. He blew off their vacation. He hadn’t been home in days. Where the hell was he?

  Her head began to clear. Recent memories returned. At least, some of them. Like throwing everything out of her suitcase. Calling Reese. Reese coming over to cheer her up with a group of friends in tow.

  Then what happened? Holly remembered champagne. Coughing and sneezing. Not being able to keep her eyes open. Having trouble standing. Her last memory from the evening was of Christian helping her lay down and telling everyone to leave. Christian? In her home? Yes, she distinctly recalled him shooing Reese and her friends away. Reese said he was being rude, but Holly was grateful. They needed to go.

  Morning sunlight streamed in through the windows and burned her eyes. She wasn’t feeling any better. In fact, she felt much worse. The pain pills would help minimize her discomfort. She needed another. And now.

  Unable to think clearly, she stumbled from the living room couch toward her bedroom. Her body felt strangely detached from her brain like they weren’t working together. Yet, her nerves were sharp, frayed threads of pain. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this way—this terrible—in her whole life.

  I might have gone too far this time. This is my warning. It’s time to stop using, before the drugs affect my looks and health.

  A powerful gurgle inside her lower intestines propelled her toward the bathroom. She stopped half way there to lean on her dresser and the feeling dissipated.

  When did I eat last? I must be dehydrated. There are electrolyte waters in the refrigerator.

  But the refrigerator seemed miles away. Reaching the kitchen seemed the equivalent of trekking the final peak of Mt. Everest.

  Find my phone and call the cleaning lady—tell her to come right away—but first—go back to sleep.

  She was desperately tired, every bone in her body ached with exhaustion, but she was also shaking, which didn’t seem right.

  Tainted pills. One can only be lucky for so long. Need to call Reese and warn her.

  She edged across the room, made it to her bed, and collapsed across it, unable to move. After a few hours of restless sleep, she woke, drenched with sweat. The sheets and pillowcases were soaked. She got out of bed, every slow move painful. A fleeting glimpse of her reflection in the mirror shocked her. She quickly looked away. Her eyes were red. Her face had a strange rash, visible even under her smudged make-up. Never in her life had she ever looked so wild and ugly. She limped forward, keeping herself upright by holding onto the wall. Every few steps she paused to catch her breath like an old woman plagued by arthritis.

  Suddenly, Quinn appeared. He stood in the bedroom doorway. He wore only his boxers, the navy ones with the shamrocks. His broad chest was smooth, lean, and strong. He smiled, which seemed strange. Why is he smiling at me? Can’t he see I’m not okay? He opened his palm. It held a small pile of pink pills. He offered them to her.

  She shook her head. “I don’t need any,” she tried to say. Her throat burned.

  Quinn’s smile grew tight. “A young woman died when you and Reese ran her off the road. Did you know?”

  “What?”

  “A young woman died on her way home. She died because of you. Because you and Reese didn’t stop to see if anyone needed help.”

  “No. No one died, it was just a fender bender. There wasn’t even a mention in the news.” Holly wasn’t sure if she was speaking out loud or if her words were stuck inside her head.

  Quinn shook his head.

  “I didn’t know…I didn’t think anyone was hurt, I…” Holly struggled to justify her past actions. She couldn’t think. She could hardly breathe. Why was he bringing this up now?

  Like vapor, Quinn vanished as suddenly as he had arrived.

  What the—? Oh my God. I’m hallucinating. She choked back her tears. Leaning heavily against the wall, sweat dripping down her back, she reached for the tissue box on the table. Her fingers shook so violently she couldn’t control them, but finally she succeeded in grabbing a handful of tissues. She blew into them, alarmed by the sensation of liquid flowing from her nostrils. She forced herself to look. The tissues were stained a dark red.

  Holly gasped with fear. Too much coke. But wait…no….I haven’t…

  Mustering the courage, she staggered back to the mirror and lifted her chin. Her eyes weren’t merely bloodshot like she’d had a rough night, they were jaundiced and bloody, like the creepy addict she saw when she visited Christian in the valley. We must have gotten the same batch of tainted pills. Christian did this to me! She hyperventilated, unable to avert her gaze. Red capillaries had burst along her tongue. Her frantic heartbeat hammered her temples.

  “What is happening to me?”

  Her brain struggled to overcome her fear and confusion. She needed to see a doctor, but she couldn’t call 911 because she didn’t want anyone to know about her terrible drug reaction. She didn’t want to be arrested. But she also didn’t want to be alone. She spotted her phone and reached to grab it with her quivering hand, but instead sent it tumbling to the floor behind the night stand. She dropped to her knees, moaning like an inhuman creature, and crawled across the carpet, searching. The carpet fibers felt like knife blades under her fingers. She patted the space under the bed and under the nightstand, desperate to find her phone.

  Her vision blurred.

  Quinn. I need you. Help. Please help.

  The room spun. Dark grey clouds flooded her sight. Something roiled inside her stomach. Her pain escalated, transporting her into a state of shock.

  Just before she passed out, she thought, I forgive you. Just come home. We’ll go to Spain once I get better. And then, I don’t want to die alone.

  Her eyes flew open, and then closed a final time.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Los Angeles

  November 6th

  In the Los Angeles field office, the counterterrorism team finally slept for a few hours, collapsing immediately once they lay down. Except Quinn.

  The Governor of North Carolina called on a secure line from outside the Panther’s stadium.

  “I just want to thank you, Quinn. It’s a picture-perfect day. Thousands of people are trailing through the security lines into the stadium right now, excited for the big game. If they noticed security being tighter than usual, no one has mentioned it. I just can’t believe…To say I’m relieved is the understatement of the century.”

  “That makes two of us,” said Quinn.

  He hung up with the Governor and called Holly, his fourth call in less than an hour, but still no response. He knew he had screwed up as far as she was concerned. But making amends would have to wait a bit longer. He had to provide updates on the case, starting with the National Security Council. A few moments later, he was on a video-conference call with most of its members.

  “We found the two carriers,” said Quinn. “American born cousins, Amin and Kareem Sarif. They were located before they had the opportunity to spread the disease. Kareem Sarif passed out on the way to the hospital and was DOA. Amin is still alive and under interrogation. We’ve also confirmed E.C.1 originated from an ISIS group, specifically Muhammad Al-Bahil, presumed to be the current leader of ISIS, the brother of former leader Anwar Al-Bahil. The CDC is currently conducting an emergency risk assessment.”

  “Good work,” the Secretary
of Health and Human Services said. “Did ISIS officially take credit? Or did the surviving terrorist claim responsibility on behalf of ISIS?”

  “No to both questions. We have yet to hear from ISIS, but Amin Sarif confirmed his cousin worked for Muhammad Al-Bahil. He also saw the first two infected men, Pivani and Spitz, in Syria on the day he left. However, Amin Sarif is vehemently professing his innocence and ignorance of the threat.”

  The secretary laughed. “Innocent? Hardly. But that’s original. He’s the first Islamic-extremist terrorist I’ve ever heard of who didn’t want credit as a martyr.”

  “He’s not symptomatic yet, but he tested positive for E.C.1. He may have more to say when he becomes ill.”

  Ken was waiting outside the briefing room when Quinn finished the call and stepped out.

  “We found more evidence linking all of the carriers together,” said Ken. “Kareem’s fingerprints were on the envelope we found in Pivani’s trash. That envelope was from the Yoga Institute of Paris.”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Rashid got remote access to Spitz’s computer. He compared the browser histories for Spitz, Pivani, and Redman. The one site they had in common was The Yoga Institute of Paris. The French police had already raided the building. They found nothing unusual. It looks like ISIS was using it as a dummy company, to route mail through from the United States on to ISIS networks.”

  “Hard to believe they were communicating through the U.S. Post office,” Quinn said.

  “The company’s website has class names and class times, most of it in English. Made to look like they’re a real yoga studio offering classes, which they are. But it’s also where they put all their recruiting info. Their inspirational quote of the day and their practice of the day are all coded instructions. The website asks for a login password and a code, which must be sent through the mail. We think it’s all done to make the recruit feel part of something very selective.”

  “Great work,” Quinn said. He stepped forward and almost lost his balance. He steadied himself against the doorframe. He’d been too focused to realize how tired he was, but suddenly, he couldn’t ignore his exhaustion. “I’m going to go home,” he announced. With all the excitement, everyone had forgotten about the vacation he missed. Good thing. The way he was feeling, he couldn’t deal with anyone giving him a hard time, or worse, feeling sorry for him.