Night of the Cobra

by Jack Coughlin

  The thought arrived with startling clarity. Everything started to make sense. Swanson knew in his bones that this sparkling mall was about to become the target for a major terrorist attack. What other reason could there be for that bastard murderer to be at the Mall USA when he should have been dead many years ago? The Cobra, his old nemesis from Somalia, the killer of Molly Egan and Lon Sharif, had survived and had come to America to orchestrate a tsunami of terrorism. He was the mastermind. It had been him who gave the tip that spawned the police action at Deqo’s home, and now he had tracked them to the mall. He wanted to kill them, too. It had been the Cobra all along. To Swanson, the entire mall scenario now was not a matter of if but when.

  But his impulse for a chase was trumped by more urgent needs. He had to protect Deqo. Then he had to alert the mall cops to shut the whole place down to avoid certain disaster.

  “What seems to be the trouble here, sir?” The question came from the neat security guard, who held a canister of pepper spray at her side and was watching the pistol. “Is this lady okay? Should I call for medical assistance?”

  “She’s fine. Get your boss, Officer,” Kyle snapped as he held CIA credentials closer for her to read. “It’s urgent.”

  She was in her midthirties and wore a wedding ring and an immaculate uniform with a single polished brass bar on the collar. Her dark hair was pulled back, and her brown eyes were cautious. Keep the subjects quiet until help can arrive. “I’m Lieutenant Parker, sir. Suppose you talk to me first, sir. Please put the weapon away.”

  Kyle’s blood was growing hot. He holstered the pistol with practiced ease. “Lieutenant, a terrorist is trying to exit this mall right now. You need to lock it down and pour in the cops.”

  “Really?” She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “A terrorist?”

  Deqo had collected herself and shucked out of the apron and was mopping her hair while gathering her jacket and purse. “Believe us, miss. The man’s name is Omar Jama, and he kills without mercy. We have seen his evil work before. He was standing right over there two minutes ago.” She pointed to the vacant space on the next corridor.

  Swanson had no time to argue. “The description would be for a black male about six feet tall and with a hideously scarred face. Perhaps accompanied by two bodyguards, all of them making for an exit even as we speak. You have to stop them at the doors.”

  The security officer moved closer and put a gentle touch on Kyle’s elbow to steer them out of the doorway of the salon, away from where the curious crowd was gathering. “No offense intended, sir, but was the identification made by this elderly lady wearing thick eyeglasses? A man seen from, what, fifty feet away?”

  Swanson was out of patience. “Stop debating and get moving, Lieutenant! Aren’t you even aware of the terrorist strikes over the last few days? Or have you just grown stupid in this enclosed little world?”

  She remained blank, waiting for backup.

  Swanson raised his voice and got in her face. “I AM WITH THE FUCKING CIA. I KNOW WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT. NOW GET YOUR FUCKING BOSS!”

  Two more white shirts hustled up. “The identification is too sketchy,” she responded, backing away from his fury as the new guards, two large men, came closer.

  Kyle glared at all three of them. “There is nothing wrong with this lady’s eyesight. Jesus H. Christ, people. She knows the face of the man who killed her husband right in front of her. She has seen it every night in her dreams for the last twenty years. And it’s not only her, because I know him, too, and I saw him! We’re the ones who gave him those scars!”

  An overweight male officer stepped closer. “Lower your voice, sir. You are frightening people.”

  “Good. They need to be frightened, and they need to get out of this place.”

  “Please settle down, sir,” said Parker.

  “There is no need to panic. We have protocols in place for this sort of thing,” said a moon-faced officer. “We get crank calls all the time.”

  Swanson took Deqo by the arm. His next words were menacingly polite. “This discussion is over. Either you call the cops or you don’t, but we are out of here. I suggest one last time that you get everybody on full alert. You don’t have much time. You really don’t.”

  “Thank you for your information, sir. We’ll take it from here, and I will personally brief the major.” Lieutenant Parker actually smiled. “I’ll see you to the door.”

  Deqo turned and spoke in a sad but urgent voice to the two beauty salon employees who had been working on her. “You are good girls, and I don’t want anything to happen to you. This is real. Please close up right now and leave. You are all in grave danger. Please.” Her eyes rimmed with tears.

  “Ma’am. That’s enough,” said Lieutenant Parker. “Come along.”

  The patrons of the salon, all in different stages of their hair, skin, and nail treatments, looked beseechingly to the shop workers, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. The chubby male officer winked. “All is well, ladies,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

  “She’s seventy-five,” said the girl who had been doing Deqo’s nails, and she twirled a finger beside her head to indicate the disturbed customer was unbalanced. They could not afford to let a delusional old woman cost them a half day of business and tips.

  Deqo moved slowly, her soul twisted by the impending danger. She spoke softly. “Kyle, we can’t just leave like this. The Cobra is going to slaughter these people!”

  “There is nothing more we can do at the moment, Deqo, because they don’t believe us. When I get you clear and safe, I will call Lucky.” He looked at the escorting woman. “Tell your major that he will soon be fielding calls from the FBI, the police, Homeland Security, and the governor. Cops will be swarming in here within half an hour. Maybe you’ll believe them.”

  “Yes, sir. I will relay your message.”

  Kyle had been unable to dent her armor of self-confidence, and she had not changed her placid facial expression by the time they reached the mall’s east exit on Twenty-fourth Avenue. He said, “One last thing, Lieutenant Parker. Get a gun, and do it now. I think you’re out of time.”

  * * *

  THE COBRA, BREATHING HARD, was astonished they were not being chased by the Swanson Marine or the police. They reached the parking lot without interference. Pierre had worked the electronic key fob of the SUV, and the engine and heater were on by the time they gratefully scrambled inside.

  “What just happened?” Clinton asked from the backseat, panting only slightly from the run.

  “Some people from Somalia recognized me.” Omar Jama rubbed his gloved hands together and buried his nose in them for extra warmth while his brain spun in overdrive. “Without a doubt, they are even now raising an alarm. We must leave immediately.”

  “But no one followed us,” Clinton said, scanning around the vast parking lot that was outlined in snow drifts. “We’re clear!”

  The Cobra was not looking for police or dwelling on the sighting of the Swanson Marine and old woman. Instead, he was checking the foul weather, which he had to factor in to his next decisions. A chopping cold wind was slashing down from Canada, and although it was not late in the day, a band of darkness seemed to anchor the northern edge of his universe. Low, pregnant gray clouds spat new snow from horizon to horizon. He decided once again that he hated Minnesota. The conditions would make flying dicey for police helicopters, but perhaps a full-throated jet plane could bore through it to the sunshine. Ice and snow would slow down vehicle traffic. He had planned out everything that was to happen tomorrow, but it had all changed with the sightings of his pair of enemies. If he launched now, the attack might not be perfect, but it had the attractive possibility of trapping them inside.

  Once they identified him, the Cobra would be hunted by every policeman in the land. Without question, the time was at hand to terminate his visit to this frozen landscape. “Pierre, go ahead and drive us out of here. Be careful and obey all traffic rules. Mix in with other vehicles as s
oon as possible.”

  “Back to the house?”

  Omar Jama exhaled a long breath as he recalled the road map imprinted on his memory by years of study. “No. Things have changed too much in the past hours. Get on Interstate Thirty-five and head south, toward Des Moines.”

  “Yes, sir. We are going to Iowa?”

  The Cobra motioned for him to drive, and they eased from the parking lot.

  * * *

  SWANSON PAUSED AT THE airlock before leaving the big mall as Deqo wrapped up to encounter the cold. Kyle had his phone to his ear, calling Lucky. It buzzed once, twice, three times. Pick up, buddy! Answer!

  Cawelle Sharif’s voice came on. “Yo, Kyle. How is the mani-pedi going?”

  “Hell is about to break loose out here at Mall USA, Lucky. We just spotted none other than the Cobra in the mall.”

  “Cobra? Him? You certain?” That was preposterous. The man was supposed to be either dead or locked in a dirt prison on the far side of the world.

  “Hundred percent ID by both of us. He is probably the one behind the whole series of attacks, and I think he is getting ready to hit the mall. I have tried to alert security, but they ignored me; said they could handle it.”

  “Mutha…”

  “Yeah. I don’t know how much time we have now. This place is a sleeping giant of a target, Lucky. I know that after spotting us, he is already in the countdown.”

  “Is Deqo safe?”

  “We are already clear. Have a cop meet her at the hotel. You start moving, and get these security people to pull their heads out of their butts. The bus and the shootings were diversions to overwhelm the law enforcement system. The mall is what it’s all about: something of 9/11 significance.”

  “Yeah. I buy it. I’m out.” Lucky Sharif ended the call and hollered for Janna to get them a car. He headed upstairs to the SAC’s office while working his speed-dial directory to begin the impossible task of stopping everything on a dime and then reorienting forces away from the Target Center disaster and the Cedar-Riverside scene and out to the Mall USA. A mall attack by terrorists was the nightmare scenario of law enforcement.

  Swanson put away the telephone. “Lucky is in gear,” he told Deqo. “He will get the cops moving out here. Now let’s get you home.”

  They were at the mall’s major ground-transportation hub, and a yellow cab was at the front of the taxi rank. The driver popped its rear door for them. Kyle helped her into the warm interior, then shoved a pair of one-hundred-dollar bills at the driver. “Take this lady to the Graves Hotel in Minneapolis and keep the change. Don’t try anything stupid or think you might take a shortcut on this job. Her son is a cop, and so am I. She is to arrive there safe and sound, and you turn her over to a police officer who will meet her there. Got it?”

  “Consider her there, buddy,” said the cabbie, pocketing the money.

  “No, Kyle,” Deqo cried. “You have to come, too!”

  Swanson looked into the worried face. “I can’t do that, Deqo. I have to wait here and work with Lucky. Then we will both be over. It’s going to be okay. Love you.” Before she could protest further, he closed the door and slapped the top of the cab, calling out to the cab driver, “Go.”

  The yellow cab moved out, and Kyle jogged to the government sedan he had borrowed back in Minneapolis. The frigid air bit his lungs as he raced through the falling snow, dodging patches of ice, and popped the trunk. FBI cars packed a lot of equipment the normal motorist would never need. He shucked off his heavy jacket and lashed into a bulletproof vest, then lifted out an M-16. The jacket went back on, and he stuffed extra magazines into each pocket.

  * * *

  THE COBRA RECEIVED A brief call from the Volvo tracker, who said the old woman had departed in a taxi but the man was out of sight in the parking lot. Omar Jama thanked the operative and told him to leave the mall. The job was done, and the final payment would be wired to his bank on Monday.

  From his overcoat, the Cobra withdrew a pair of prepaid and preprogrammed cellular telephones, and thumbed the SEND key.

  The call bounced along one satellite and two cell towers to activate another telephone hidden in a sealed box of pans behind the gas main of a large stove in a food court restaurant. The signal snapped close the connection on a powerful improvised bomb that had been made from a block of C-4. The device sparked and erupted perfectly to set off a massive gas explosion that created a rolling tower of force and flames. It gobbled up the kitchen, then blew out the thin walls and raked the seating area and swept outward, reaching for the shoppers.

  While that explosion was still resounding, the Cobra dialed the second phone, which transmitted a text message simultaneously to a group of eighteen numbers and kept repeating it: SWORD … SWORD … SWORD.

  Two of the numbers came up dry, but Cobra had expected a few failures. The sixteen who did receive the message were expecting it, having just been alerted by the initial explosion and the immediate screech of fire alarms. It was a day early, but that did not matter. They all dropped whatever they were doing and rushed to the hiding places in which they had stockpiled guns, grenades, and rocket-propelled grenades so carefully over the past months.

  “So it begins,” Cobra said. His face eased into a dreamy look of pleasure. “Now, drive on, Pierre. This is done.”

  24

  THE BATTLE

  SATURDAY

  MALL USA HAD A security staff of about one hundred officers, although the number on duty at any given moment was much less. Security had to be spread over three shifts a day, seven days a week, plus vacation and sick fill-ins, special details, maternity and paternity leave, and personal requests for time off. The guards covered a massive complex, both inside and out, even in the coldest weather, and scheduling was an ongoing chore for Major Kent Abramson, the security chief. There just was not enough staff to keep the place absolutely tight, and the television monitors were primarily to alert the dispatcher after something had already happened.

  He was in his comfortable private office, listening to Lieutenant Fran Parker explain the incident at the beauty salon, where an alleged CIA guy had made wild claims about a terrorist attack. Both of them knew that the last emergency drill at the mall had been turned into a joke.

  The merchants hated losing precious store time, so a drill had been scheduled at five minutes before closing time on a specific date, and had been announced well in advance. Even so, it had failed because the storekeepers would not take it seriously. Suddenly a guy flashing CIA credentials was claiming to have personally spotted an infamous terrorist up on the second floor, and his claim was backed up by an excited elderly woman with thick glasses.

  The unusual pair had been escorted out of the mall to prevent them from instigating panic, but now Major Abramson and Lieutenant Parker were on the spot. They could do nothing and hope the guy was jumping at shadows to placate the old woman’s fear, although, to Parker, he did not seem to be the jittery kind. The badge and cred pack looked real, although neither of them had ever seen CIA credentials. Even if legitimate, the man might be buckling with post-traumatic stress disorder, probably so marinated in terrorism that he saw threats everywhere he looked.

  True or false? Mall USA had not been shut down in its seven years of existence. As they weighed what to do, the immense building gave a sudden lurch. The framed grip-and-grin photographs and certificates of accomplishment rattled on the major’s walls, and then they heard the muffled whumph of the initial explosion, followed by the louder detonation of gas lines in the food court.

  They exchanged looks of fear. Abramson grabbed an old-fashioned red telephone on the credenza behind him, which was a direct connection to the Bloomington Police Department. Parker ran into the adjoining communications center and ordered the dispatcher to broadcast an evacuation order over the mall’s speakers. She pulled the lever for the fire alarm. Bells and horns blared. Thousands of people began breaking for the exits and safety.

  Security Officer Pavel Kadyrov rushed insi
de the office, his eyes wide with excitement, and Fran Parker tossed him a key ring, yelling for him to open the weapons locker. The big officer with the shaved head fumbled with the keys until he found the correct one, clicked the lock, and pulled apart the twin doors of the cabinet. A selection of handguns, a riot shotgun, and an AR-15 semiautomatic rifle were arranged neatly in a wall rack beside a few boxes of ammunition and a few stun and teargas grenades. The weapons were well oiled and in pristine condition. Kadyrov knew how they worked from previous careers. He loaded a Glock 20 and stuck it into his utility belt, then pulled down the 12-gauge Winchester 870P shotgun and pushed six rounds into the black weapon.

  The guard was handy with guns. He had grown up in Chechnya, where he had fought alongside fellow Muslims against the brutal Russians. Four years ago, a visitor with a Frankenstein face came through and recruited him to take his skills abroad, for a special purpose. Entering the United States on a student visa with refugee status, Kadyrov got the job at Mall USA and was studying criminal justice at a Bloomington community college. He was a solid, popular, and conscientious worker who had never missed a shift.

  The Chechnyan held the long pump-action shotgun with the familiarity of a long-lost lover, racked one into the tube, brought it up, and fired into the back of Lieutenant Parker. The blast flung her onto the dispatcher at the communications console. Kadyrov cocked in another round and jammed the shotgun against the head of the startled dispatcher. The trigger pull vaporized the skull.

  He had mentally practiced this vital opening step hundreds of times. With a third shell loaded, he was ready when Major Abramson opened the door to his private office. The powerful shot tore open the man’s gut and kicked him back against the desk, where he slid to the floor with his life spilling away. A second shot tore into the chest.