Islam Rising

by Johnny Jacks

  She wiped vomit from her mouth with her fingers. “You’re a twisted bastard!”

  “Maybe, but not as much as the scumbags you protect.”

  Within minutes, Grayson almost sideswiped a silver Honda Odyssey as he tore down the exit ramp to the North Freeway Services Road behind Joe and Murtadha.

  He grabbed the radio. “Joe, where the hell is our backup?”

  “Racing to catch us on I-45.”

  “Radio our position so cars can head him off!”

  “Roger.”

  Murtadha made a hard left on East Cypresswood Drive, barreling through vehicles at the traffic light, with inches to spare, and left behind a pile of crashed cars.

  Lights blazing and sirens blaring, Joe and Grayson made a wide curve around the stalled cars and stayed on him.

  Fighting through the chaos to apprehend Murtadha, Grayson was no longer aware of Shannon. He radioed the location of the crashed cars. How loud does this siren have to be to get people to move out of the way?

  “Helicopter in the air,” dispatch reported. “Your location in three minutes.”

  Grayson and his unwilling passenger stayed pinned to Joe’s police cruiser. He clocked Murtadha at over 100 miles per hour. Closing in, he swore he smelled the murderous bastard’s sweat oozing through the air.

  Joe radioed, “We’ve finally got him, Grayson.”

  “Please let me out of here,” Shannon moaned, startling Grayson with her presence.

  “Don’t lose him!” Grayson commanded.

  Murtadha hung a left on Cypresswood Lake Drive and tore through the residential area. He disregarded every intersection and ignored lights, road signs, and traffic. A UPS truck crashed into a large water oak attempting to escape Murtadha’s assault on the neighborhood.

  Grayson caught a line of squad cars in the rearview mirror. Like an accordion, the patrol cars expanded to catch up, then contracted at intersections. Frantically avoiding traffic, Joe and Grayson stayed the course.

  Joe warned him. “We’re entering your neighborhood, Grayson. You have to call the chase off, man! Too dangerous for the locals!”

  He snarled into the radio, “I know where I am! Stay on him!”

  Grayson shifted into guerrilla tracking mode, fixed on his target. His dead stare unnerved Shannon. She screamed at a little boy paralyzed in fear at the edge of the road with his bike, Murtadha aimed right at him. He swerved at the last minute, barely missing the child, but collided with his bike, tossing it mangled and spinning in the air.

  “Grayson, you saw that!” Joe barked into the radio. “We have to break it off! We’ll get him another day.”

  “The hell we will! He’s sold his last kid to perverts. He goes down, TODAY!”

  “He almost killed that boy!” Shannon screamed. “For God’s sake, stop!”

  “Shut the hell—” Grayson’s face paled. “Dear God…No!”

  A familiar pink Cadillac edged into the intersection of Cypresswood Estates Run and Cypresswood Trace: directly in Murtadha’s path.

  “Oh, God! Margaret! Stop! Please stop! Amanda!”

  God heard him, but Margaret didn’t.

  Grayson watched in horror—space and time suspended. Margaret glanced in her rearview mirror and smiled at Amanda, unaware of Murtadha coming in from her left. Amanda laughed and held her drawing high for her mother to see.

  Murtadha’s truck propelled itself forward, a bullet already fired and impossible to retract. His Dodge pickup smashed dead center into Margaret’s door with a force that sent the heavy Cadillac flying sideways into a dump truck stopped at the intersection to her right. The passenger side of the car crumpled on the front of the massive truck, crushing Amanda.

  Murtadha’s Ram rotated dead in the middle of the intersection. A black Chevy Silverado, brakes screaming, slammed into the passenger side of the Ram and skidded it sideways twenty feet into a school bus. Three more cars, following too closely to one another, collided behind the Silverado, blocking the intersection.

  “Grayson! Stop! Brakes!” Shannon screamed at the disoriented man.

  He stood on his brakes, a screeching, spinning halt that turned his car ninety degrees. He jumped out running.

  Shannon threw herself behind the wheel, stood on the breaks, slammed the gearshift into park, and struggled to catch her breath.

  Bewildered, she stared at the twisted metal and chaos. The heavily bearded driver of the blue truck, whom she assumed was Murtadha, escaped from his seatbelt and airbag and crawled over the gearshift to his passenger. Stunned that any of them were alive, Shannon stared at Murtadha, his bearded face burned into her brain.

  He frantically talked to his passenger, a man writhing in pain but apparently conscious. She gasped when a stab of hate for the evil man unexpectedly struck her.

  Unaware of the danger, people began to exit their vehicles and move toward the intersection, some running in the belief that they could help.

  Watching the chilling events unfold, Shannon jumped out of the car. She yearned to do something to help, but she had no idea what. She couldn’t find Grayson in the crowd around the Cadillac. She started to run toward the truck, but a cop grabbed her and pulled her down.

  “He’s armed and dangerous! Stay down!”

  Positioned behind the police cruiser, Shannon could see blood spurting in the air from the passenger’s missing right arm.

  Murtadha pulled the injured man’s gun from its holster and placed it in his left hand.

  “Buy me some time, compadre! Shoot the pigs!”

  The man moved his lips and he stared at his right arm on the floorboard.

  “That man is in shock,” Shannon told the police officer.

  “That’s his problem. I ain’t going near that loco.”

  “Hermano, Brother. Buy me some time!” he repeated. “I promise to care for your mujer e hijos, wife and children!”

  The man nodded feebly. Life draining from him, he had nothing to lose.

  “He’s making a run for it! Shoot him!” Shannon grabbed the cop’s arm and tried to stand.

  “Get down! Can’t shoot. Too many civilians near him!”

  Shannon shuddered as she fell to her knees. What the hell! I can’t believe I wanted him to shoot that man.

  Spurting blood, the man trapped in the pickup aimed the automatic in the direction of the cruiser and blindly emptied the magazine through the truck’s broken window before slumping over. Shannon screamed when a bullet ricocheted off the hood of the cruiser near her head.

  She peered over the hood to see Murtadha stumble on his long legs to an orange Kia Soul. He jerked the door open, pushed his pistol in the woman’s face and pulled the trigger. He hit her seatbelt release, threw her on the road, and jammed himself behind the wheel. With the door hanging open, he forced the car into a hard U-turn over the curb, yelling as he sped away.

  “Did he shout ‘Allahu Akbar’?” the policeman asked Shannon. “Isn’t that what terrorists yell?”

  “Couldn’t have been. He’s Mexican, a tall one, but he’s Mexican nonetheless.”

  Shannon slumped against the cruiser, confused about her reactions and unable to believe Murtadha walked away from the severe wreck.

  The officer leaned into her face. “You okay, lady?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Wrecked vehicles and injured people blocked the intersection, preventing police from chasing Murtadha. More traffic began to cram the roads, quickly adding to the confusion.

  Joe Martin got to Margaret’s car first and turned to intercept his old patrol partner. “No, Grayson!”

  Shannon heard his name and stood to see what was happening. She cringed as the events unfolded in front of her.

  A big man himself, Joe skidded backwards against the force of Grayson’s anguish. “Joe! Get the hell out of my way. They need my help!”

  Other officers moved in to help restrain Grayson. “Let me go! So help me God, I’ll shoot you all. I have to save my family!”

 
Grayson’s left hook felled one of the officers, and Joe grabbed his Taser. The jolt sent Grayson to the ground. He lay in the dirty street and fought his knotted muscles as ambulances and fire rescue arrived on the scene. The emergency medical team covered Murtadha’s dead passenger with a sheet, as emergency responders used the Jaws of Life to extract Margaret and Amanda.

  When Grayson managed to stand, he made another run for the car, but Joe tackled him. It took a team of police officers to restrain him.

  “Grayson, buddy, I’ll Taser you again if I have to.” Joe held Grayson’s back tightly against his chest. “Listen to me! Margaret and Amanda are no longer with us. They…they’re with God now. You mustn’t see them like this.”

  Grayson twisted and fought to get away, but his fellow officers built a perimeter around him. Joe tried reasoning with him. “Slow down and think. You don’t want your last memory to be this one.”

  Shannon flinched and tears poured when Grayson’s primal scream washed over her. “I’ll shoot every damn one of you! Nobody, you hear me, nobody keeps me away from my family!”

  It was his family in the Cadillac. Murtadha had just killed Detective Grayson Dean’s family.

  When he reached for his Sig, Joe grabbed it and shoved it in his belt.

  “You’ve been on scene at a lot of accidents like this one, partner. If our roles were reversed, you’d restrain me. Think Grayson! Slow down! Think!”

  Grayson gradually stopped fighting. His body crumpled to the street, a torrent of primordial anguish billowing from deep within him sent chills through Shannon. Joe knelt beside his friend, never leaving his side, and crying with him.

  “I know this is tough, buddy. Stay with me. Danny needs you to be strong.”

  Grayson covered his face with his hands. “My God. How am I going to tell him I killed his mother and little sister?”

  Joe’s jaw tightened and he spoke between clenched teeth. “You didn’t kill them! That slimy bastard, Murtadha, did. We’ll find him. I promise you we will find him.”

  Lost in guilt, Grayson couldn’t hear his friend.

  “They’re in the ambulance. We’ll follow them.” Tears coursed down Joe’s cheeks, as he helped his friend to his feet. “I’m so sorry, man.”

  Chapter 5

  Don’t Do It Grayson!

  Year 1

  Grayson stood stone-faced next to the sheet-covered body on the gurney. He couldn’t remember arriving at the hospital morgue. He stared at his shaking hands reaching for the sheet.

  “Detective Dean, you don’t need to witness this.” The coroner spoke in a firm voice. “Keep your memories of your beautiful wife unblemished.”

  Grayson clasped the edge of the sheet.

  “Son, if you do this, it will haunt you for the rest of your days.”

  Grayson respected the heavyset older man standing across the gurney. His compassionate broken-veined face had patiently been with him when, with Joe at his side, Grayson identified Amanda’s lifeless form over an hour ago.

  The bear-of-a-man picked up his battered daughter and held her close as he slid against a wall to the floor of the morgue, rocking and crying. Rubbing his large grizzled cheek against her soft small one, now pale as tissue paper, he longed for her to say, “Daddy, look what I did in school today.”

  A policeman from the scene brought her drawing from the car, probably what Margaret and she were smiling about when Murtadha smashed the life out of them. Amazingly, the picture had no blood on it. He held the picture and talked quietly to Amanda before the officer eased it from his hand. “You’re a good artist, sweetie. The water oak and squirrels are beautiful.”

  At the coroner’s signal, Joe lifted Amanda from Grayson’s arms and placed her little body back on the autopsy table. The coroner covered her gently with the sheet.

  Now Grayson faced the biggest challenge of his life. His breathing grew deep and slow, like a heavyweight boxer before springing.

  Frowning in confusion at the sheet-covered figure that, until a few hours ago, was his vibrant wife, the love of his life, his best friend, Grayson reached for the sheet but again pulled his hand back.

  His absolute stillness, a wild cat poised for the kill, worried the normally indifferent, aging coroner. Years ago, his mind had spawned the survival tactic of indifference to corpses—an occupational necessity to salvage his sanity, but it was impossible to avoid sharing a colleague’s torment and anger.

  Prior to Grayson’s arrival at the morgue, the Chief of Police had made an unusual visit to explain how the accident occurred and warn him of Grayson’s murderous anger. When Ramirez’s voice broke, it hit the coroner full force in the gut. Now, the deaths were a reality, causing his throat to tighten against tears.

  After what seemed an eternity, while temporarily in control of his fresh anguish, Grayson looked at the coroner and slowly nodded, asking for help.

  “Son, it isn’t neces—”

  In frozen tones, Grayson interrupted through clenched teeth, “Do it!”

  When the coroner gently rolled the sheet back, Grayson’s eyes narrowed. The color fled from his face. He transitioned from shock to rage, then profound sadness.

  Margaret’s long, silky blonde hair, smashed into the left side of her skull, was thick with her dried blood. A mass of ugly, pale-grey skin, with bone and teeth protruding and her left eye out of its socket, had replaced her once beautiful face. Her left shoulder hung loosely halfway to her waist.

  Grayson reached to touch his precious wife when the air abandoned his lungs and his legs failed him. Joe grabbed him, and Grayson’s bulk took them both to the floor. The coroner was right, but Grayson’s heart had demanded to see his wife. He had to witness what he had done, a subconscious action that would feed his hatred of Murtadha for years to come.

  He whispered, “I screamed at God to save them. Why didn’t He stop her?”

  Joe knelt by Grayson, his arm around his shoulders as he spoke quietly. The coroner watched the man fighting to gain control. He threw off his friend’s arm as he rose from the floor and strode with purpose from the room.

  Chief Ramirez, haggard with age and misery, met them in the hallway. He shook Grayson’s hand and placed his arm around him, speaking privately.

  Joe drove Grayson home in silence.

  Chapter 6

  Devoid of Love

  Year 1

  Grayson’s house, full of laughter and love and noise a few hours ago, was dark and painfully silent. He led Joe to the kitchen and sat at the table, a slumped pile of despair. He spoke in hushed tones, “Joe, you go on home. I need time by myself.”

  Joe, fearful to leave him alone in his growing depression, ignored the sullen demand. “Come home with me. Belinda will fix you something to eat. You can sleep in our guestroom.”

  Grayson shook his head, stood, and walked out of the kitchen.

  Joe sat at the table, uncertain what to do. After a few minutes, he followed his friend. He still had Grayson’s automatic. He’d give it back when the time was right.

  Margaret’s intoxicating fragrance hung in the air, catching Grayson off guard in the great room. Shalimar was one of the few luxuries she allowed herself and it enfolded him. Instinctively, he scanned the room looking for her and spotted his daughter’s pink jacket. Eyes of the Frozen characters embroidered on the pockets stared accusingly at him. Amanda was thrilled when she modeled the new jacket. “Daddy, look what Mommy got me!” echoed in his head and tugged at his heart.

  Everywhere he looked, memories stabbed at him, mocked him.

  From his leather recliner, Jo-Jo, Amanda’s stuffed bear, watched him, indifferent to his existence. In another life, less than twelve hours ago, his daughter cuddled with him before school and then carefully placed Jo-Jo in his recliner. “We’ll sit together tonight, Daddy, and Jo-Jo can tell us all about his day.”

  Grayson stared at the bear, transfixed by its lifeless, black plastic eyes gazing into nothingness. He slowly pulled the bear and the jacket to his ches
t, inhaling the clean smell of his precious child, dropped into his recliner, and sobbed uncontrollably.

  The horrors of the day ricocheted through his brain, saturating his memories. A macabre video of the chase, a replay of Margaret driving into Murtadha’s deadly path, and the gruesome images at the morgue played on a fast-forward loop.

  Grayson raised his fists and yelled to the heavens. “God! Tell me! Has any man’s ego ever paid a higher price for arrogance?”

  “Grayson,” Joe spoke from behind him, “this is not your fault. You were doing your duty as a police officer to get that bad guy off the street.”

  “That’s not totally true, Joe,” he mumbled. “Stop making excuses for my conceit!”

  Grayson’s malevolent brain drew him back to the chase when he smugly ordered his officers to keep at it, as they closed in on his prey. Evil at its worst, Murtadha was a force he had not been able to stop, as if protected by some evil entity. His arrogance cost him everything dear. He alone pushed the bastard, propelling him toward Margaret and Amanda.

  “Joe, didn’t God say something about vengeance belonging to him? I’m a conceited bastard, thinking I was His partner, doing His will.”

  Joe slid to the couch and laid his head back. He couldn’t see Grayson’s face buried in his hands, but he watched his body change, tense, tighten, turn to stone.

  “Grayson, you can’t do this by yourself. It will take all of us to bring Murtadha to justice.”

  Grayson drew his back straight and resolved to thrive on bitterness, make it count. Something ugly had infested his soul.

  “I orchestrated the events that killed my family, but Murtadha is the bastard that destroyed them.”

  A bitter taste germinated from the sour pit of his stomach. Seeds of hate sprouted rapidly, their tentacles spread through his veins.

  Without warning, his voice changed. “What happened to that bitch riding in my car?”

  “There was someone in your car?” Joe, exhausted and confused, worried about Grayson’s erratic behavior.

  “Yeah. I was giving that ACLU lawyer bitch a lift home.” Grayson saw her fear as he drove like a lunatic through the streets, his bravado sustaining him.