by Ryan Garner
John crinkled his brow, with the increase in terrorism he found that seeing Karina's boyfriend suddenly meeting with a violent Arab speaking man more than a little suspicious. It wasn't a “politically correct” assumption, but that didn't much matter to him.
Still, this did not explain why Darren was here or what he was doing. John knew Darren was very sympathetic to the Occupy Congress cause, a little too sympathetic now that he thought about it. Could this all be related? But, why would a rich lawyer stick his neck out beyond verbal or moral support of a cause that did not further line his pockets? None of this was making any sense.
“He did mention a street name once though.” Samantha said pulling John from his own train of thoughts.
“A street name?” John asked.
“Yeah... Burnt Mill and Randall Parkway.” she said, “The only reason why I remembered the names is because I’ve spent a few nights there. Of course now that I know “he” may be there I’d avoid that place like the plague.”
John was still puzzled. He was somewhat familiar with the area, but saw nothing of any particular importance about it. As far as he knew it was an old industrial area with a bunch of abandoned buildings across from some residential homes. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary for that location and he did not know of it offering any strategic advantage of any kind. Of course the entire instance may have been coincidental and the cross street could mean nothing at all. Either way it did not matter now. It would be best if he and Samantha got out of this area quickly. If anyone saw them, especially Darren it would only complicate matters further. John shifted the truck into gear and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. Once on the road he quickly accelerated and sped down the road away from the hotel, Darren, and Samantha's mysterious client.
CHAPTER 18
Clint Schenberg, a short, fat man, with black receding hair, and dressed in a cheap department issue suit that was at least one size too small drove north on 3rd street headed towards the Wilmington Police Department's main station in his unmarked, black Chevrolet Caprice Police Cruiser. To his annoyance he found that the roadways were more than a little crowded. With the recent outbreak of riots many people were rushing to either get home and lock themselves in their houses or in some cases get out of the city entirely. Which decision was safer remained subject to debate. The situation had created more than a moderate amount of congestion on the road. Schenberg, Wilmington PD's deputy chief of police found himself caught in the same group of vehicles at about every other light as he slowly progressed onwards.
Schenberg, whose personality would best be described as abrasive, was beyond annoyed. His normal bitter and resentful persona had been replaced by obvious and outward anger. Thanks to the riots he had been called in on his only day off in order to assist with coordinating Wilmington's response to the civil unrest. He impatiently drummed his fingers on the vehicle's door as he waited at a stop light. As usual he began to ruminate about the unfortunate set of circumstances that had become his life.
It was bad enough that the city manager had chosen the northerner, Herman Stickel a man with an annoyingly blatant New York accent over him when the job of Chief of Police had become available, but to add insult to injury he had practically been forced to run the department because Stickel was “too busy” to concern himself with such matters. Chief Stickel always got the prestigious opportunities to have lunch with the mayor, city manager, and city council members or to be wooed by the local media. When anything good happened in Wilmington, Stickel always took the credit while at the same time if anything negative were to occur the blow back would always fall at Schenberg's door. In essence he was the chief of police without any of the notoriety or power. He couldn’t even fire anyone without Stickel’s final approval. The situation was beyond demeaning for him.
Schenberg had always been a bitter person and thanks to his short stature of 5'03 he had a Napoleon complex to boot. Losing his shot at being promoted to chief of police three years ago had only increased the chip on his shoulder. Constantly berated by his overbearing wife of convenience who chided him at every opportunity she could get for every one of his disappointments; Schenberg had chosen to spend more and more of his time at the Ultraviolet Lounge, a gay bar located on the other side of town. Certainly not one to look at, he had often relied on his police uniform in order to entice the men he desired. His hope was to one day soon divorce his nagging wife and live more freely. The union of a ranking officer with the police attorney had once afforded them many opportunities for advancement, but those days were long behind them now. Close to retirement and seemingly out of options for further promotion he had finally seen a light at the end of this particular miserable tunnel.
There were already numerous rumors about his sex life and his “arranged” marriage to Debra, but after the divorce he would no longer need to conceal anything. He could finally live out his life in peace with any number of male suitors. Even though he was far from dashing his fat pension and even fatter bank account would easily draw impressionable young men to him. As for Debra, he suspected she would go and live with Julie, her “secret” lesbian lover or whoever was her current flavor of the month, maybe even get that sex change operation she had mentioned on a few occasions. Either way it didn't much matter to him, their prenuptial agreement meant he would not have to give her much of his money in the divorce (she already had more than enough of her own thanks to her lawyer's salary) and she would at last be out of his thinning hair.
Schenberg let out a long and aggravated sigh as the traffic light in front of him changed from yellow to red and he slowed to a stop behind the intersection's large white stop line. He looked over at a frazzled middle aged white woman in a minivan as she rolled to a stop next to him. She was talking frantically on her cell phone and it was obvious she was upset; Schenberg suspected that she was already close to panicking over the news reports of local riots. Even with the numerous warnings and obvious signs of unrest many civilians were completely caught off guard at the idea of a large scale civil disturbance breaking out in “their” town. Many assumed that those types of events were reserved for New York City, Boston, Chicago, or Los Angeles, but not here in Wilmington North Carolina (or any other “normal” sized city for that matter). Denial over how fragile their lives actually were had kicked many of them into a frantic state. He could almost hear the woman shouting in fear into her cell phone.
Schenberg's attention was drawn away from the woman by the loud rattling engine noise of a dirt bike that came to a stop in the left hand turn lane next to him. Ridden by two smaller framed males with full cover helmets and one with a backpack the bike itself was old, wore out, and dirty with paint only covering about half its body. A trail of smoke that smelled of burning oil flowed out from the tail pipe. Even though he hadn't answered a 911 call in over two decades and probably had not pulled anyone over in years he was so annoyed today that he wished he had the time to cite this particular motorcycle's rider for both the noise and emissions violation. Schenberg let out another angry huff as he gave the driver and passenger of the dirt bike an irked look before turning his attention back to the traffic light that finally changed to green.
Suddenly, Schenberg's driver's side window exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces of glass that came raining down into the interior of his car. Had he not been belted in, he would have probably jumped out of his seat. The crashing noise of shattering glass was followed almost immediately by a metallic thudding sound, but Schenberg ignored this as he looked over at the two riders on the dirt bike just in time to see the driver draw back the hammer that had been used to smash his window. A split second later the dirt bike accelerated away from him, through the intersection, and sped down the road splitting between cars, driving up on sidewalks, and performing whatever other measures it could to escape. Schenberg was now enraged and upon pulling himself from his shocked stupor he reached over to his center console to activate his emergency equipment so that he could give chase to his a
ssailants and that's when he saw it; an M67 fragmentation grenade was lying on the floorboard of the passenger's seat.
Schenberg panicked as he tried to grab the grenade and throw it out of his vehicle, he suddenly realized that thanks in part to his large gut which hung over his belt the explosive device was just beyond his reach. He then threw open his driver's side door and attempted to leap from the vehicle, but he was violently jerked back into the car. His seat belt was still fastened! In his desperate haste to flee Schenberg had completely forgotten to liberate himself from the device that was normally intended to save lives, but today it had signed his own death warrant.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Schenberg screamed as he frantically tugged against the seat belt with one hand and frantically tried to press the tiny release button with the other. Finally, getting his short stubby fingers to the orange button he pushed down on it and at last felt the safety strap release him from its now deadly grasp. Tearing the seat belt loose and throwing it to the side with such force that it struck the exterior of the vehicle creating a metallic clank; Schenberg quickly slid his bulbous body out of the car. He managed to firmly plant both of his feet on the ground at the moment the grenade detonated.
The explosion produced a chest pounding thud as it sent shrapnel out in all directions. The rest of the Chevy Caprice’s windows were immediately blown out creating a shower of glass to rain down in all directions. The sheet metal portions of the passenger's side door were pushed outward tearing apart and contorting the bottom sections as the Caprice was violently rocked to one side. The rest of the vehicle's hull was instantly turned into something resembling Swiss cheese.
Schenberg was blasted from the vehicle as hundreds of tiny razor sharp pieces of metal tore through his entire body causing immense pain as each piece traveled along its individual path. A split second later the shock wave from the high explosive device collided with his body. The resulting impact crushed Schenberg's internal organs, shattered his bones, and reduced his brain to a gooey mush. When his limp corpse finally landed on the hard asphalt surface of the roadway it produced a fleshy thud. Moments later blood began to pour from his eyes, nose, mouth, ears, as well as the other parts of his body where holes had been cut by the shards of metal.
The already distraught woman in the minivan next to Schenberg whose driver's side windows had also been destroyed by the explosion dropped her phone and began to shriek in terror as panic immediately took hold of her faculties. She slammed her foot down on the accelerator of her vehicle and blew through the intersection. She did not realize until it was too late that traffic had stopped at the light of the next cross street. Her minivan slammed into the back of a VW Jetta with such force that it knocked the vehicle into the Ford Taurus that was positioned in front of it. This action resulted in the nose of the Taurus being pushed out into traffic and it was immediately struck by a Volvo that was proceeding across the road. The operator of the Volvo lost control and with its front driver's side portion caved in the car screeched across the road coming to an immediate stop when it struck a metal pole causing it to sheer off at the bottom and come crashing down into the middle of the intersection. Other cars swerved to avoid hitting the debris as the turmoil ensued.
The woman in the minivan was still screaming hysterically as she tried desperately to exit her wrecked vehicle. She was so terrified that like Schenberg she too forgot to undo her seat belt. The woman violently jerked and pulled against the restraining belt as she called for someone to help her. Within mere seconds two intersections had been thrust into almost total chaos.
Once the initial shock of the explosion and subsequent vehicle accidents began to finally wear off, people in the surrounding vehicles slowly left their cars to see what had happened. Many of them observed Schenberg's limp body lying motionless on the ground. The sharp contrast in colors allowed the crimson pool of blood that was gathering around his body to vividly stand out against the black as tar asphalt.
….
Karina knocked frantically on the door of the upscale townhome. Fear and dread had become a constant companion over these last few hours. She glanced nervously back and forth over her shoulder before resuming her repeated knocking of the door.
Come on! Come on! She thought anxiously to herself. She didn’t know where she would go, but Karina could think of only one person who had the personal connections to get her out of the city unnoticed before Wilmington PD or worse yet the NGP got to her. That depended, however, on whether or not he would answer his door. A disheveled and strange young woman pounding fervently on the door of a home in an affluent gated community was bound to eventually draw someone's attention and in turn the police after that.
Karina still felt horrible about leaving John the way she had, but she believed it was for his own good. Staying around him any longer would only bring further trouble and disaster into his life. She had already done him enough damage and she did not want to be responsible for any more; especially not to John. At last the door opened and before she was even offered entry she bolted into the interior of the townhome.
“What the...?!” Darren said as he jumped out of Karina's way. She had nearly knocked him over as she ran through the doorway and into his entry foyer.
“Close the door!” she said as she turned to face him. He could see her teary, bloodshot eyes. Darren did as she requested and shut the door.
“What's going on?” he asked, “What happened?” Karina immediately began to sob and Darren gave her a soft, albeit falsely concerned look.
“Tiffany is dead...They killed her.” Karina could barely get out the words before she began to weep even harder than she had been before.
“What?” Darren made sure to produce a properly shocked look. “How did this happen? Who killed her?”
Karina had trouble composing herself. The strong swell of emotions from all of the events that had transpired in the last twelve hours swept over her. Wiping the tears out of her eyes she took a deep breath and began to speak.
“The NGP...They raided our apartment last night. I don't know exactly how, but Tiffany was killed when it happened...” Karina paused briefly to take a breath before continuing, “...and now they're after me.”
Darren continued to feign interest. “How could this happen? You were always so careful with your Occupy Congress activities.”
“I don't know?!” Karina lied. By now she was certain it had something to do with Jennifer, but she was already distraught enough. She did not feel nearly comfortable enough discussing that particular aspect of her life right now.
Darren walked over to her and gave her a consolatory hug. “I'm so sorry...” He lied. Actually, Tiffany had become more of a bother to him. He was glad the NGP had finally managed to get her out of his way. If it hadn’t been for Tiffany he would have had full control of Karina a long time ago.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” He held Karina as he spoke with her.
“I have to get away from here before they find me or anyone else gets hurt because of me.” She said still trying to fight back her tears, but not doing a very effective job.
“Where are you going to go?”
“I don't know; I was hoping you could help me.” She looked at him with pleading eyes as Darren raised his brow in a curious manner. He had found out hours earlier from Officer Jennifer Fields that the National Governing Police had conducted an assault on Karina and Tiffany's home and that she may be coming to him for help now. It was fortuitous that Karina had managed to find her way back to him; well fortunate for Darren that is.
Personally, he could have cared less about whether that slut Tiffany had been arrested or killed. His only interest in her was purely physical, but Karina; Karina belonged to him and he would do with her as he pleased. He would use her until he saw fit to do otherwise. She was indeed an expendable asset that would easily be replaced when the appropriate time came, but that time was not yet here. And while she had served a limited purpose within his Occupy Congress
circle Darren had always been careful to make sure she knew very little of what actually went on.
Still, he found it unusual that Karina had not been at her home when the NGP had arrived. She had also not been with him for the night as well, so in Darren's mind he suspected there was only one other place she might have been. While he had no true emotional attachment to Karina whatsoever, the idea that she had been unfaithful to him was nonetheless infuriating. She would suffer for her promiscuous behavior.
“Of, course...I'll help in any way I can.” he said in a soothing, yet deceiving voice in response to her sorrowful request. Karina breathed a sigh of relief as Darren disguised his conniving smile as one of assurance as he leaned in and gently kissed Karina before again pulling her into another embrace. There was a moment of quiet as the pair held each other; a momentary sweet escape from the fear that Karina had experienced over the past few hours, but that moment was short lived as Darren suddenly broke the silence.
“Just one question...” he said as his grip around Karina grew noticeably tighter. His eyes narrowed and his voice grew lower. “If Tiffany was at your apartment by herself last night...then where were you?”
….
Amatullah Hijrah Najat Salib, a twenty year old Arab female with black hair and brown eyes sat quietly in the driver's seat of the idling yellow school bus waiting for the children to arrive outside of Parsley Elementary School. Responding to the growing number of riots many of the schools, especially ones with younger children were releasing their students early as a safety precaution. The air conditioning in the bus was a little cooler than she liked it, but with several dozen or more youngsters soon to be on board the vehicle the temperature would equalize quickly enough. Brought to North Carolina from the Middle East on a student visa under the guise of studying political science at UNC Wilmington, Salib had informed her coworkers that she wanted to one day assist with the political influence of Muslim women within the world's governments. Even though she hailed from war torn Syria, thanks to increased affirmative action and equal opportunity employment laws ushered in by the Jordan administration and with the help of the NAACP, Salib had found it more than easy to obtain a job as a bus driver with the New Hanover County Public School System.