Earlier, when the attack began, the high-value target was dangerously close to the initial explosion at the first entrance. The shockwave flung him directly against a wall, dislocating his left shoulder. Two of his men immediately helped him to his feet.
Unknown to the U.S. forces, there was a fourth entrance to the cave complex that was further away from the first three and much lower down the mountain. That entrance was small and narrow, hidden by strategically planted brushes and trees.
The high-value target and his two men ran to find their secret fourth entrance, staggering around a turn, and then stumbling down a steep passage. Their shoes thudded and stomped on the dirt path, as they tried to control their downward speed. Just after hearing the first rattle of machinegun fire, they reached a narrowing tunnel that forced them to begin crawling on their hands and knees. Half a minute later, they exited the mountain. The three men ran a pre-arranged emergency path down the mountainside, away from the smoke and gunfire. They stumbled over rocks and tore their skin against thorns and bushes. This was their only way to safety.
Grasping his injured shoulder, the high-value target, Iranian-born Ibn Khali Jalel ran painfully but furiously. Noticing something in the sky, Jalel quickly glanced up. With the coming dawn, he saw the eagle owl just above him jerk to one side, as it sailed over the last few trees. Its captured rabbit kicked and twisted with such force that the owl lost control of its flight. Suddenly, it loosened its hold on its prey.
Released, the rabbit twisted and tumbled through the air, and then crashed on top of a bush, falling through it, and tearing its hide. Landing on the pebbles and dirt, it wriggled itself to its feet and raced away down the mountainside.
Like the prey escaping the clutches of the predator, Jalel sprinted on a parallel path, through the dirt and brushes, grasping his injured shoulder in his escape through the trees, and then disappearing under their cover.
* * * * * * *
Washington, D.C.
In the J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI Special Agent Katrina Etelson leaned back on her seat, while she kicked her flats up on her desk. As she read a document in her hand, she shifted the jacket of her pantsuit one way, and then another to make herself comfortable.
Her desk was cluttered with both open and closed case files strewn across its surface. They had been taken out of the now-empty file organizer, at the corner of her desk. Several pens were hidden under documents. In a pencil holder was just one pencil with its lead tip broken off. Her laptop sat at another corner of her desk, partly hanging over the edge.
Coming down the hallway was her partner, Special Agent Riley Stevens. He paced down the floor, with his hands in the pant pockets of his business suit, and his back slightly hunched forward. After walking through the open door of Etelson’s office, he stood in front of her desk.
The two had formed a close rapport, over their four years as partners. With some regularity, Etelson visited Stevens’ wife and family. Etelson enjoyed badgering Stevens over his slouch, and at times, imitated his mother and reminded him to “Stand up straight!”
Stevens looked at her as she read, waiting patiently to get her attention. But then, his gaze moved down, and he began to stare at the bottom of her heels.
Before he could point out something to her, she spoke to him from behind the document. “Hey, Rye…” she said. She preferred to call him “Rye” as short for “Riley.” “…the profiler says that this guy we’re looking for, in the stairway strangling case, is probably someone in their mid-to late-twenties, who’s, quote, meticulous in his home life, is concise and deliberate in his actions, does no more than what’s necessary to get tasks done, but gets it done precisely, unquote.” She paused, moved the document to the side of her face, and said, “Hmm. Who’d a thunk it?
Stevens interjected, “Etti, you’ve got either mud or crap on your right heel.” “Ett” or “Etti” was what he called her. Those not familiar with the two agents thought the name sounded like “Eddie.”
Etelson quickly jerked her feet from the top of her desk, positioned her right foot over her knee, so that she could smell the shoe, as she leaned forward. With her nose next to the heel, she smelled a whiff. “It’s mud,” she said flatly. Thinking nothing more about it, she leaned back, and once more, rested her feet up on her desk. Putting the document back in front of her eyes, she continued, “He probably had some military or police training. The killings are out of character, but he does it because he thinks he’s part of some higher purpose.”
“So, he’s got some grand idea driving him, huh?” Stevens said, and then contributed, “Does it say if he’s conjured up the ‘higher purpose’ from his own mind or from someone or something external?”
“Ah…nope,” Etelson replied. She set the document on her desk and began to comfortably swivel side to side in her chair.
Stevens informed her, “By the way, I’m getting the blood that wasn’t sucked out from the two victims analyzed, along with the ink from the tatts. But right now, I’ve got some info on that symbol.”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
He explained, “It appears that same symbol was worn by a top-notch group of German soldiers in World War II, as tattoos on their wrists. Some of these guys guarded Hitler in certain events.” Stevens wrinkled his nose, took two noticeable sniffs, and then stepped a few feet to the side, away from Etelson’s shoes. He continued, “The lore is that during one night, one of said soldiers single-handedly stopped an assassination attempt on Der Half-Mustached One.”
Etelson smiled on hearing his name for Hitler.
Stevens continued, “The guy that stopped the assassin had a tatt of the symbol on his right wrist, and apparently, he was the originator of it. After saving Hitler, all the soldiers guarding Hitler that night tattooed themselves with the same symbol.”
“Interesting,” Etelson responded. “So, do you have an idea on how that gets us here? It does tie into the military angle the profiler gave.”
Stevens said. “Yeah, it’s an interesting backdrop to our little mystery. But aside from that…I still need to think about it a little bit more.” He paused then added, “It probably ties in to his quote-unquote higher purpose that the profiler says motivates him.”
“Maybe,” Etelson responded, and then gazed at the ground as she thought.
“I’m running a search on the criminal databases to see if the symbol comes up in the form of a tatt or some other marking on anyone or anything. I’ll go check on it and be back here in a bit.”
“Ah, no. I’ll just stop by your office later?” suggested Etelson. “Also, let’s talk about a possible lead in San Diego. We got a call from a guy who says he got a note telling him about the two murders.”
Etelson’s eyes dropped back down on the document, but then quickly, she raised them back up, blurting, “Oh, hey! The lab put under a microscope that red pearl we found in the New York victim’s ear. They discovered that glass sphere isn’t glass at all. Also, inside it are blood cells - that’s what’s giving it the red color. But they gotta break it open in order to further investigate. They’re wondering if they can go ahead and break it.”
Stevens replied, “Well, they gotta do what they gotta do.”
“Agreed,” Etelson nodded, and then added, “So, I’ll see ya at your office then.”
As Stevens turned to leave, he stopped at the door and turned around. He said with a smile, “Alright. But don’t be thinking about going into my office with those turd-ridden shoes.”
“Turd?” she protested. “I said it’s mud.”
As Stevens walked away, he teased, “Riiiiight. Ett, you gotta believe what you gotta believe.”
* * * * * * *
It was Sunday, just before noon. In a rush, the longhaired goateed man sat inside Trace in his regular booth by a window, waiting for his stomach to loosen, so that he could take another drink from the half-full glass of his second Mule.
Finally, reaching for the glass of beer, he drank from it, as his thou
ghts quickly focused on the time. The Charger game was scheduled to begin at one o’clock, and he was eating both faster than normal and at an earlier time than normal, in order to make it back home to watch the game. Although the TVs at Trace were always tuned to the game, he had never watched any of the games there. He enjoyed the solitary comfort of his apartment, where he didn’t have to “buddy-up” with any fellow fans.
A thought flashed in his mind about the note he found at his apartment, just before leaving on his first date with Dancy. But he didn’t want to dwell on it. He had already called the proper authorities, and he was going to be contacted back. This afternoon, the football game was on the top of his list.
Glancing behind him, he wanted to find his waitress, Katy, and get her attention.
As he quickly chewed one of the remaining fries on his plate, he extended his neck out and saw Paige standing at a distance. She wore jeans and a petite black t-shirt. At the front of the shirt, it had the word “Chargers” in yellow and blue, and on the back, an arched lightning bolt appeared in the same colors.
Hurriedly, he turned back to his fries, and then took a final drink from his beer.
Behind him, Paige walked up, with a notepad in her hand. She greeted him with a friendly inflected, “Hi.”
He looked up, smiled from his chewed fries, and said, “Hey, you.”
“Hey, so, I bet you’re tryin’ to rush outta here to watch the Charger game.”
“Yeah, have you seen Katy? She’s disappeared somewhere. Hey! I see you’ve got the spirit.” He pointed at her shirt, with a big smile.
“Yay team!” she said cheering and pumping a fist in the air. Then, she said, “Uh, I can get you your check. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks.”
“So, what are ya doin’ two weekends from now? The church is having a picnic, and I’m just wondering if you wanna join?”
“Ah, hmmm.” He wrinkled his nose and flashed a quick frown. Then, he looked away from her, took a deep breath, and said word per word, “I…don’t…know.”
She tried to coax him. “There’s gonna be good food and stuff. They’ll be playing volleyball and ah, football!” She raised her eyebrows and exaggerated her last words.
“Well…hmmm.”
She continued her enthusiasm, “And there are a lot of nice people that you haven’t met yet. It’s worth going! It’ll be fun!” She nodded her head and smiled, as she waited for his answer.
“Hmmm.” He looked up at her, and then back down again. He wrinkled his nose once more. “Ah…me and new people. You know…no mixie-mixie.”
Paige’s smile went away. She stood back and leaned on one leg, as her hands fell to her sides. She didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
Finally, with the notepad in her hand, she slapped the back of his shoulder. “Fine!” she exclaimed, giving up. She turned and said in a monotone voice, while walking away, “I’ll get your check.”
The slap surprised him.
He moved his hand around, rubbed his shoulder, and mouthed, “Ouch!” Turning around, he watched her make her way to the bar to get his check.
Quickly, she returned, coming from behind him. Without stopping, she slapped down on his table a folded pad with his tab inside.
Raising his hand and extending his head out, he asked, “Hey, Paige, could I get a…”
She kept on walking.
“…water…” He frowned and picked up his bill. “Nah, she’s not upset.”
Later, he began to head out of Trace. As he passed between the bar and the seating area with the tall tables, he saw Paige and Katy talking together, further away. With Paige facing away from him, she unbraided her long thick hair and slowly shook it down, while tilting her head back.
He had to do a double-take.
Her hair caught his attention. It was full with a natural soft wave, reaching down to the middle of her back. With it down, it made her look so much more different. He used to think she was pretty in her own way, but he never thought she was this pretty in this way. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and he almost ran into a barstool. Without redirecting his gaze, he stuck out his hand, fumbled to grasp the stool, and corrected his direction.
“Wow,” he said under his breath, mesmerized.
With both her hands, Paige fluffed the hair at the top of her head, and then began to comb it down with her fingers.
He realized what he was doing and mocked himself, “…and now I’m just a typical male fool hypnotized by a beautiful woman’s hair swaying back and forth,” but he continued to look.
Katy noticed him leaving, and she waved her hand at him, as she talked to Paige who began to braid her hair again.
Gaining his composure, he waved back.
Finally, walking out through the glass doors, he made his way to his car. He signed, “Ah. Ok. Alright. Focus! There are more pressing things to think about other than girls. Like the game!” The car’s top was already down, as he opened the door, climbed in, and started the engine. The stereo powered up once again, with the song it had been earlier playing. Briskly, he drove out of the parking lot and made his way home.
As he walked into his apartment, he looked at the digital clock on top of the stereo. It was 12:40 p.m.
Then, he made his way to the refrigerator and opened the door. After looking intently inside it for several seconds, he said, “No beer. Gotta get some beer.” He stood up, closed the fridge door, and looked at the clock. “If I go to the regular store, I’m not gonna make it back for kickoff. But if I hit Qiki Food, maybe I can make it. Gonna have to pay more for booze though, man.” He shook his head.
Trying to decide what to do, he stood there with hands on his hips.
Finally, he said, “Qiki Food it is.”
At Qiki Food, he stood third in line, with both hands holding a carton of a 24-pack of beer. An old woman was at the front of the line. She was about to purchase some items from the young male cashier. Behind her was a man in his late thirties in dark baggy clothes.
As the woman paid, slowly counting each bill and coin, the longhaired man grew impatient. When she set down the last penny, he breathed out a quite noticeable and audible sigh.
Then, she wanted to buy lottery tickets.
He groaned inside, looking irritated, and becoming more irritated by the second. With rolling eyes, he thought, scoffing, Watch her pay with a check.
The old woman’s purse straps were around her shoulder, as she kept the purse opened wide, while she counted the money she needed to pay for the lottery tickets. Both he and the man in front of him could see that she had several hundred-dollar bills inside.
After paying for her tickets, the woman left, carrying her plastic bag of purchases.
The man behind her also bought lottery tickets, and then quickly left Qiki Food.
The longhaired man paid for his beer and briskly walked out of the store, while checking the time on his phone. He would make it just in time for the Charger game kickoff. As he passed through the door, he heard a scuffle at his side. He heard the old woman yell, “No! Let it go! Leave me alone!”
The man who had earlier stood behind her in line tugged at the purse around her shoulder with enough force to shake the woman side to side that she almost fell to her knees. Surprisingly, the old woman gained her balance and stood her ground. Her hands clutched tightly around her purse.
Rolling his eyes, he thought to himself, Oh no, no, no…no distractions please. I need to make the game. He thought the situation was a nuisance, but unexpectedly, he couldn’t keep himself from caring, just a little bit, about the old woman’s plight.
He stood for a moment in his ambivalence.
Then, he said in an almost uncaring tone to the man pulling on the purse, “Hey, just leave the poor lady alone and run along.” He began to walk slowly towards them, holding tightly on the handle of the 24-pack.
Still grabbing the purse, the man quickly positioned himself behind the old woman, and wrapped his arm around h
er neck. He warned, “Back off, Cub Scout!”
The longhaired man stopped walking. Raising his eyebrows, he asked calmly, “Cub Scout?” Me? A Cub Scout?” He sighed, shook his head, and then began to walk towards them again. Getting closer, he said, with another sigh, “Ok, just let her go, and we’ll forget all about it. Just let her go.” He was about seven steps away.
The man holding the old woman grew uncomfortable with the close distance. He pulled a small twenty-two caliber revolver from his pant pocket, pointed it at him, cocked back the hammer, and sternly warned, “I said back off, punk!”
The old woman, although initially feisty and stubborn, was now quite fearful. Seeing the gun, she let out a loud gasp.
The longhaired man stopped walking. He set down his beer and put his hands on his hips. His attitude changed. Then, in an agitated voice, he asked, “Punk? Me?” He quickly turned his head over his shoulder to see if the man was possibly talking to someone else. Irritated, he said, “You gotta be talking to me ‘cause there ain’t no one else around. Me? I’m the punk? Me?!’ He could sense that there were six bullets in the cylinder of the revolver. Then, he rendered them useless, transforming the gunpowder inside them to grains of sand.
Calming down and picking up his beer, his apathetic tone returned, “Whatever. Just put the gun down. You’ll regret doing this. You’ll wake up tomorrow morning, be all embarrassed, and kick yourself…blah…blah…blah. You know the drill.” He began to walk again and was now less than four steps away. He started to raise the 24-pack. Unknown to him, the green mantis appeared on one side of the beer carton, fluttering its wings.
“One more time. Back off, prick!” the man with the gun commanded.
The longhaired man kept on walking forward, but now he was a little annoyed, saying, “Dude, what’s with the name calling?”
The gun-wielding man watched with amazement that his threats were going unheeded. With anger in his voice, he exclaimed, “You asked for it, jackass!” He pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened - just a click. He pulled it again. The cylinder turned. Click.
RB 01 Through Flesh & Bone Page 14