Night of the Cobra

by Jack Coughlin

  Sharif did not waste time blaming himself for a tragedy that he could not have prevented. Bad guys never play by the rules, and shit happens. There were things that needed to be done, and the veteran special agent had been trained for just this kind of emergency. Like a test pilot in an out-of-control airplane, he would not let panic take hold. Step by step was the only way to go.

  He studied the storefront with a practiced eye. The glass had been blown out of the main window, but jagged points still hung from the top sill. The door just beside it was intact. First responders were still rolling in, and a dozen cops from various agencies were pointing their weapons into the empty space. EMTs had dragged his agent, Burt Loving, away without receiving any more fire and were on their knees working on him.

  “Gut shot,” reported Janna Ecklund, who had checked the condition. “Not good.”

  “Hmm.” Lucky acknowledged his partner’s comment. Must be twenty cops out around. They could lay down some covering fire to keep the terrorist busy, toss in some flash bangs, then enter. One possibility.

  A city patrol car edged to a stop, and a stout middle-aged man with more stars on his collar than Eisenhower climbed out. He asked one of his patrol officers where the Fed was who was directing this fuckup. The man pointed to the SUV. Adolf Dixon had been the police chief of Menomonie for three years and knew everybody in town. Murder, even mass murder, was a local matter. He hoped the Feds would not be giving him a lot of trouble about jurisdiction.

  He ambled to the doorway, not very impressed by the two special agents standing there talking. One was a tall woman with snowy white hair that fell back over the collar of her heavy jacket, and the other was a black man who was even taller than the woman.

  “Who the hell are you?” the chief asked in a sharp voice.

  Lucky replied calmly, “This is FBI Special Agent Janna Ecklund, and I’m Lucky Sharif. We are out of the Minneapolis field office.” They all nodded, but did not shake hands.

  “Chief Adolf Dixon.” The cop’s forehead wrinkled. “Seems that we have had multiple murders here in my little town, and the bureau shows up before me? Were you all having breakfast together around here?”

  Lucky played nice. “It’s a national security matter, sir, so I’m in charge right now.”

  “Maybe not, son. At least not until I know why a bunch of FBIs from Minnesota are over here in Wisconsin at the scene of a crime that just happened.”

  Sharif dropped the hammer. “We’ve been following the guy for a few weeks, and we trailed him here this morning. He’s al Qaeda.”

  It landed like a punch, and Dixon coughed. “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  Dixon looked up at the man. There wasn’t any strain showing on the dark face. “Well, that changes things, I guess. Federal matter, huh?”

  “Look, Chief Dixon. We all have to stay on the same page here. We all want to get inside and tend to those victims. Hell, we don’t even know how many there are. You know everybody in town, so it would be a big help if you organized a command and communications center and keep things under control and quiet. We especially don’t want the media on this yet.”

  “All my people will cooperate, Agent Sharif. The Dunn County sheriff is sending over his SWAT. What’s your play?”

  “I’m working on it, sir.” He did not share with Dixon that an FBI Hostage Rescue Team had already been scrambled. The HRT would trump the county SWAT. All of that would take time, and Lucky knew he was burning minutes when he needed something fast. He had seen it happen repeatedly: if a reaction didn’t happen with speed, the cops would back off and gather their officers, suit up in armored vests, drive up their big armored vehicles, and launch the helicopters. Wait long enough, and lawyers and the press would be involved. With the Hoover Building in Washington now on alert, the bureaucracy would slow things down. Sharif was in charge at the scene and wanted to avoid all of that.

  “We’re burning minutes,” he groused.

  * * *

  POLICE CHIEF DIXON HAD staked out an insurance company’s office as a command center, then went to an ambulance to talk to Gertrude Prince, the cook who had witnessed the slaughter. He had known Gert for a long time, and she settled down when he appeared, more comfortable with him than with Special Agent Tim Walz, the FBI man who had been questioning her. She was fixing an omelet with a side of bacon when she heard the first shot, and the new server, Caroline, had come hurtling backward through the doorway and landed with wide, dead eyes and a hole in her chest from which blood bubbled like a fountain. Gert had remained rooted in position with a spatula in her hand and eggs sizzling on the griddle until she heard more shots. Then she bolted out the back.

  The FBI man asked if the attacker had been wearing a vest of explosives, but the cook didn’t know; she never saw him. The ambulance took her away.

  “Say, Special Agent Walz. I got to ask.” He nodded toward Lucky and Janna. “Are they up to this? Seem kind of young.”

  “Chief, they are among the best we have. The woman is highly qualified, and the guy, well, Cawelle Sharif is even more qualified. I can’t reveal too much, but he came out of Somalia, soaked up education, got a full scholarship to play basketball for the U of Minnesota, got a law degree, and was snapped up by the FBI. He even served with Hostage Rescue for a few years, did undercover work down in South America, then shifted out here to be a bridge into the Somali refugee community. Lucky Sharif knows what he’s doing, Chief. Our job is to stay out of his way.”

  * * *

  LUCKY WAS TIRED OF standing around with freezing toes. “I got an idea,” he told Janna, and opened the back of the Suburban, then lifted the lid on the emergency equipment box that contained everything an agent might want, from road flares to stun grenades. An AR-15A3 tactical carbine rested snug in its holder, as familiar to Sharif as an old friend. A Colt 4 × 20 scope was already in place above the sixteen-inch heavy barrel.

  “You’re going to try to shoot him?” Janna Ecklund’s jaw dropped.

  “No.”

  “No! Lucky, wait for our Hostage Rescue guys, understand me? You do not have permission to fire. The Hoover Building will go nuts.”

  “Is this thing zeroed?” he asked.

  “As far as I know, nobody has ever even touched it.”

  “Okay, then. Factory zero.” The rifle wasn’t top-of-the-line, but it was more than enough for the job at hand. Sharif would be aiming at a target about a hundred yards distant, so to compensate for the slight drop, the zero would be about one inch up. He checked the load, a magazine of 5.56 NATO rounds, and inserted it, then put one in the chamber. A bullet would spit from the rifle at a muzzle velocity of 3,200 feet per second.

  He climbed into the rear seat. “Lower the rear window, Janna? I want to look inside of that restaurant.”

  “You have no authority to shoot, Lucky. Think about what you’re doing.”

  “Okay. I’ll just take a peek. Maybe I can see if he’s wearing an exploding vest.”

  The tinted window hummed down, and Lucky brought the rifle to his cheek and looked through the sharp scope, directly through the destroyed window and into the breakfast place. The carnage swam into dreadful focus. Sprawled atop the counter was the motionless body of a woman in a gray T-shirt that was soaked with blood. The gunman was down behind her, using the body as a macabre sandbag.

  He said softly, “I see one body on a long front counter, and in front of it looks like a mother and a child on the floor. Motionless.” Dark blood pooled around the downed victims. Details flooded into his mind: the coloring of the walls, debris randomly scattered, and even the menu board, which now proclaimed the chalked message about the greatness of God in familiar Arabic lettering. Pages of a newspaper fluttered in the breeze coming through the window. It was not strong enough to turn the page, so wind was not a factor at this range. “I don’t see anyone moving.”

  Janna climbed into the driver’s seat and was watching through the passenger-side window using binoculars. “More
victims are in the room to the left, but we don’t know how many. Little Ahmed did some damage here today.”

  While Sharif watched, he saw the top of a head suddenly rise from behind the counter as the assassin took a quick look out, then ducked back down. Lucky remembered the instructions that Kyle Swanson had given him after Lucky had joined the FBI and was training to be a sniper, and the waiting game began. Normal human behavior made it likely that when the shooter looked up again to see what was happening outside, he would lift up in that exact same spot. Lucky wasn’t in Kyle’s league as a sniper, but he was good enough. Plus, he had learned more about precise long-range shooting during long talks with Swanson than he had ever picked up while just pumping rounds down a range. Kyle was the reason that Lucky had wanted to be a sniper in the first place.

  “Janna,” he whispered. “Take a flash bang and pop it in the street. Let’s draw his attention.” All he needed was a distraction to tickle the curiosity of that cat inside.

  Janna hissed, “YOU DO NOT SHOOT!”

  “Of course not.”

  Janna Ecklund knew he was lying but fished a flash-bang canister from the equipment box anyway. “HRT and SWAT will be here in fifteen,” she warned. “Wait for them, Lucky.”

  “Do it.”

  She got out and took two steps forward. Then she called in a loud voice, “Mohammed Ahmed. This is Special Agent Janna Ecklund of the FBI. I want to talk to you. Just talk.”

  Nothing at first, then a muted voice shouted, “God is great!”

  Janna pulled the pin on an M84 stun grenade, flipped away the lever, and underhanded it into the empty street. It bounced and rolled, then exploded with a blinding flash and an enormous roar that jarred everyone who had watched it go off.

  Mohammed Ahmed gripped his pistol, then rose slowly until he could just see over the body along the counter. A woman was standing outside, and Mohammed steadied his pistol.

  Lucky watched the tableau unfold in slow motion, and the 4 × 20 scope transformed the actual hundred-yard distance to about twenty-five yards. He had not twitched since coiling into position, and his breathing was slow and steady, with a pulse rate that was only a slow throb that would not jar his aim. The rifle was rock steady, and his world had shrunk to the point of the crosshairs. He eased the slack out of the trigger. The gunman’s forehead came into view, then the eyes and nose rose in exactly the same place they had been earlier. Sharif squeezed the trigger, the rifle fired, and the high-velocity bullet smashed into the nose of the terrorist, plowed through his brain stem and spinal cord, and took off the back of the skull. A bright spray of crimson blood painted the yellow wall behind the counter as the medulla oblongata shot blew through.

  16

  DEQO

  TUESDAY MORNING

  MINNEAPOLIS

  THE VOICE GUIDED KYLE Swanson to a gas station ten miles away, where he filled the tank, walked around, did some stretches, used the toilet, bought a soda and a bottle of water and a bar of quick-energy chocolate, then drove out again, wondering if the better choice would have been to make this a two-day drive. But the Audi was running perfectly, the computer lady seemed satisfied, and a soft bed was waiting up ahead. He turned on the radio as he scuttled on into Minneapolis on I-94. To stay awake, he skipped around the dial to find a top-of-the-hour newscast. There was a brief report about a multiple shooting in the small Wisconsin town of Menomonie, and Swanson recognized the name of the place back down the road where the cop had cut him off and blocked the exit.

  An updated report came ten minutes later, authorities confirming only that there had been several people killed when a gunman opened fire in a coffee shop. The alleged shooter was among the dead. The investigation was continuing. Considering the scant information, Kyle thought that it was probably a domestic quarrel that got out of control and the shooter downed his loved ones and some other people, then committed suicide. It happened all the time.

  The voice on the GPS finally guided him off of the interstate and into the web of unfamiliar streets of Minneapolis, taking him right to the door of the Graves 601 Hotel. He handed off the Audi to the valet, along with a fifty-dollar bill and instructions to have the car professionally cleaned and detailed and parked in a covered space. It was to be a gift. He could use taxis in the meantime, or he would walk. Minneapolis had about eleven miles of indoor sidewalks. The Skyway that arched over North First Avenue connected his hotel to the massive Target Center. Or, going the other way, he could cross Hennepin to reach the sprawling Nicollet Mall and major shopping. A blizzard could be watched in comfort.

  He had the entire day free before Lucky and Janna were to pick him up, so he clicked on an electric blanket to warm the bed while he took a shower. With the light off, and the heavy curtains drawn to darken the room and maintain its warmth, the hotel noises and sounds from the street were muffled. His cell phone on the table beside the digital clock was silent. Everything was quiet, and as tired as he was, Kyle should have fallen to sleep without problem. Instead, he tossed and turned, wrestling with the uncomfortable feeling that something important was missing. He cocked an eye at both of the timepieces on the table. Hours yet. Go to sleep! He rolled onto his left side, punched up the pillow, and finally drifted off.

  TUESDAY, MIDDAY

  MENOMONIE, WISCONSIN

  For half an hour, Chief Dixon, Janna Ecklund, and Lucky stood in a tight group in front of the restaurant, not wanting to track into the crime scene or interfere with the emergency medical teams. The corpses of men, women, and children lay in the undignified angles of death. An older man was on his back, still clutching a newspaper, as if he had been hiding behind it when two bullets ripped through the newsprint and ended his life. The little boy in the front had managed to crawl closer to his mother after being hit and died at her hip. They had all been ordinary people carrying out a morning routine in a tiny Midwestern town, just starting another day, when off the street had come a man with a dark heart and a gun.

  “My God,” whispered Janna when she first saw them. A sour taste rose in her throat, and she fought to keep from throwing up.

  Lucky was still holding the rifle, less one bullet. He exhaled a balloon of frosty breath, frustrated that he had not taken the fatal shot sooner. Maybe he could have prevented some of this. They could not see the man he had killed, for the target had crumpled back behind the counter when his head exploded.

  “That was a nice shot,” Dixon said, as if reading the troubled mind of Sharif. “Are you going to be in hot water about not having permission?”

  “The guy was a terrorist who had killed people in that restaurant, had downed one of our own, and was pointing a loaded weapon at my partner. That was all the permission I needed. Are you saying that you wouldn’t have taken that shot?”

  “Not saying that at all, son. Glad you did it, but that’s not the point. If someone tries to stomp on you, I’ll back you all the way. Everybody here will, although that damn grenade scared the shit out of us.”

  Janna agreed. Her hands were stuffed deep in her jacket pockets. “Some weenies in the media are going to say that if you had been more patient, we might have taken him alive and gotten him to talk. That he could have given us valuable information.”

  “No. That guy came here to die, not talk,” said Lucky. “What’s the butcher’s bill going to be in there, Chief? I’ve got to check in with my boss.”

  “I’d say eight confirmed dead, and two more about to be. The EMTs don’t think they will make it to the hospital. Plus the killer. You know for sure that he was from al Qaeda?”

  “Yes,” Janna Ecklund said. “He was a low-level recruiter who worked as a janitor at a mosque in Minneapolis. Our surveillance was only to discover his contacts. We never thought he would turn violent himself.”

  Lucky held up a palm while he answered a new call on his radio. Washington wanted answers, and he drifted back to the SUV for privacy and began his report. Janna joined him, started the engine and the heater, and silently listened w
hile he talked. Sharif suddenly told her to get Chief Dixon, and she fetched him from the crime scene. The veteran officer looked sad.

  Lucky hung up his phone and lowered the window to talk. “We’re all going to clear out now, Chief, so we are turning it back over to you. Janna and I have to get back and write official reports.”

  “Okay. Got to do the paperwork. I understand. I’m going over to the command center and issue a statement. The media circus is in town.”

  “Do NOT use the word ‘terrorism’ yet. Just paint the big picture: a lunatic with a gun, it’s still early, and your investigation is continuing. No mention of al Qaeda, or even the FBI, if you can get away with it. Get them to pay attention to the local angle—names of victims, hospital, that sort of thing. It will fill their notebooks for a while.”

  “That charade won’t last very long, son. Al Qaeda attacking a small American town is a big story. Too many people already know about it.”

  “Just stall for some time. If the early reports are about common workplace violence, the public won’t panic. This incident is over, and there is no credible threat elsewhere, but the investigation is ongoing. Be honest, but the media is not entitled to everything the police know.”

  “I got it. Nice meeting you two. Now get out of here.” He hesitated, then asked, “You think it is really over?”

  Lucky shook his head reluctantly. “I don’t know, Chief. Let’s hope so.”

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  MINNEAPOLIS

  Deqo Sharif lived alone in a small, neat house on Lake Street in the Cedar-Riverside neighborhood of Minneapolis. She was going to be seventy-five years old in a few days, and looked forward to starting the final quarter of her life. Deqo planned to live to see one hundred, and no one was betting against her. If anyone could reach that impossible number, it was Deqo.