Paladine

by Kenneth Eade

  “You’re back.”

  Robert looked down. “Yep.”

  “Got everything this time?”

  Robert nodded and put his papers on the counter. She took them and riffled though them.

  “Uh-oh.” She was looking in the papers. What could she possibly need now?

  Virginia lifted her head, smiling again. “Just kidding! Everything’s here.”

  She processed his paperwork, gave him his Nevada plates, and directed him to the driver’s license test.

  “When you get done, don’t wait in line, just come back to my window.”

  “Thank you, Virginia.”

  She looked startled, then tapped her name tag and smiled. That smile turned out to be contagious.

  ***

  On the floor of the National Counterterrorism Center, which looked like NASA’s Mission Control with its massive viewing screens and rows and rows of computers with scores of analysts sitting in front of them, Nathan Anderson directed the action on the big screens.

  “What have you got on the jihadist nut-job who got snuffed out in the looney bin in California?” Anderson directed his comment to the “Clark Kent” type at the desk directly in front of the largest screen.

  “We figure it was a hit put out by one of the victim’s fathers. Name’s Bryce Williamson. Just established a foundation against terrorism in his son’s name.”

  “Have you got the feed from the surveillance cameras outside his house?”

  The big screen came to life, showing the street outside Williamson’s building. “No unusual comings or goings, no different visitors, either before or after the hit.”

  “The FBI talk to him?”

  “Yes, they’ve got nothing. Apparently the guy has stage four cancer and hasn’t got long to live.”

  “So he’s cleaning house.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Well, keep an eye on him, Jack, in case he decides to take any more jihadists to Nirvana with him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Anderson wasn’t worried about the last wish avengement of an old man dying of cancer. He wanted Paladine.

  ***

  Reclining in his soft leather chair, Bryce Williamson flipped his TV remote, covering the basic news channels. Although there had been a terrorist attack in Europe and the usual suicide bombings in the Middle East, there was nothing on any new jihadist assassinations. It was exasperating for him not to contact Paladine, but he had given him carte blanche to select and execute his own jobs, so he turned to the business of the foundation, which was about to walk into his office.

  The receptionist announced Elizabeth Rubinstein, a career senator from California who had been in office ever since her first wrinkle. The senator seemed to drift into the office on her own air, which was fine with Bryce. He could understand ego. After all, he had helped build it with his generous contributions to every one of her campaigns from Day One. It was payback time, but it was the kind of recompense that would sit well with the senator, who was a staunch proponent of gun control.

  Bryce stood and their outstretched hands met in the middle.

  “So good of you to come, senator. Please, sit down.”

  “It was my pleasure. When I heard you were ill, I knew I had to spare you the trip.”

  Bryce held his hand to his mouth as he coughed and nodded. “Thank you. Excuse me, senator.” She waved it off and smiled.

  “My foundation for counterterrorism has hired the best legislation lawyers in the country. I have here,” he said, patting his hand on a ream of paper, “the most important bill you perhaps will ever have the pleasure of reviewing. I would be most proud if you could bring yourself to sponsor it.”

  “Well, of course I’ll have to read it first.”

  “Of course,” said Bryce, knowing she never would. A staffer in her office would read it and give her a report of the highlights. “Simply put, if a person has been placed on the terrorism watch list, he or she cannot pass the screening to buy any kind of a weapon.”

  Rubinstein’s eyebrows raised.

  “Of course, there is an appeal process. We’ve thought of every nuance.” He slid the mass of paper across the desk to her. “The DVD with the entire bill is in the envelope. You will let me know if you’re interested?”

  “Of course. I hear your foundation is doing some wonderful things to insure that terrorism is wiped off the planet.”

  Bryce nodded and smiled. You don’t know the half of it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Robert returned home to find that mangy mutt curled up on his welcome mat.

  “Hey, scram!”

  The dog just wagged his tail. Robert stepped over him, went in and slammed the door. With second thoughts, he opened it again and the pitiful creature looked up at him with his big, hopeful eyes.

  “Water and whatever I can find in the fridge, then you beat it!” He grabbed the water bucket, slammed the door again, then returned with a fresh water and some leftover steak, which the dog scarfed down in seconds.

  Robert went back inside, booted up his laptop and continued his faux jihadist quest in the sewers of the Darknet’s virtual caliphate. Robert’s research had shown him that the jihadist movement was mostly young people, and most of them were not from the Middle East. They had rejected the establishment’s teachings of moderate Islam. It was a youth revolt against society whose members were from the late teens into their early twenties. He made several “friends” including one who claimed he had been chosen for martyrdom, and who furiously chatted about his plans.

  I HAVE BEEN CHOSEN BY THE DAESH TO BE A SHAHID AND DO MY PART IN THE HOLY WAR AGAINST THE APOSTATES.

  I HEAR YOU, BROTHER. SALAM ALEIKOM.

  AND WITH YOU, BROTHER. ALLAHU AKBAR.

  ALLAHU AKBAR. HOW WILL YOU ACCOMPLISH THIS HONOR, BROTHER?

  THEIR EVIL, BLASPHEMIC MUSIC. IT IS HARAM! I WILL SNUFF IT OUT IN THE NAME OF ALLAH! THEY BLASPHEME THE PROPHET MOHAMMAD!

  Robert could sense his excitement. So, the hit was most likely to occur at a concert or some venue where music was playing. That, most likely, meant an explosive device.

  SURELY, BROTHER, YOU CANNOT DO THIS ALONE.

  WITH ALLAH, WE ARE NEVER ALONE.

  Sounds like a loner.

  TRUE, BUT LIKE YOU, I ALSO FEEL MY DESTINY IN MARTYRDOM. THIS SOUNDS LIKE A VERY WORTHY CAUSE.

  DAESH SAYS THAT KILLING EVEN ONE INFIDEL IS ENOUGH, BUT I PLAN TO KILL HUNDREDS, MAYBE EVEN THOUSANDS.

  IT DEPENDS ON WHAT YOU USE, WHETHER IT’S AN IED OR VEST.

  No answer. It could be either.

  WHAT IS YOUR NAME, BROTHER?

  IT WILL BE WRITTEN IN THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE PROTECTORS OF MUSLIM UMMAH.

  The screen went blank. He said they blaspheme Mohammad. Robert’s hands flew across the keyboard. The search results popped up right away.

  Here it is. Black metal band, whose anti-Islamic lyrics damn Mohammad – Temke – and they have a concert in Phoenix on Friday.

  The venue for the concert was Club Fed, a strange name for a heavy metal venue, but good for Robert because it was not a huge stadium and there was only one main entrance for patrons.

  Robert’s call to action could not wait for Aqwa Bukhari’s speech. This was a chance for Paladine to really put his calling card out there and diversify – less risk with multiple employers. He had to get to Phoenix, and right away.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Robert didn’t know what he would be facing in Phoenix, so he called a number that he had filed in his head, met with a private gun dealer and picked himself up another Remington 700 with opticals. Since it didn’t pack well on a motorcycle, Robert also visited a local music shop and bought a guitar with case. Maybe he would take up the guitar sometime, but for now he kept it in his apartment. The case was for the gun.

  The packing finished, Robert headed out the door – a music groupie on his way to a heavy metal concert - and almost tripped over the dog. The dog shot up and instantly started wagging h
is tail.

  “I thought I told you to get lost!”

  The dog hung his pitiful, droopy head.

  Robert shook his head. He went back in the apartment, filled up the water bucket to the top, put almost all the contents of his refrigerator on a baking tray, and set it out in front for the dog. When Robert tried to leave again, the pesky manager got in his face.

  “I thought you said you didn’t have a dog.”

  “I don’t,” said Robert, slipping on his dark glasses.

  “What’s that?” The manager nudged his head toward the dog.

  “It’s not mine. I’ll figure out what to do with him when I come back.”

  “I can call the pound and they’ll pick him up.”

  “Don’t they kill them in there?”

  “Well, yeah, if nobody claims ‘em.”

  “Nobody’s gonna claim this dirty ole mutt.” Robert looked down at the dog, who responded with a tail wag, his tongue hanging out and panting. Robert shook his head.

  “Well, then I guess I’ll call ‘em.”

  Robert took off his glasses and leaned penchant within an inch of the man’s face, staring at him with firm but emotionless expression. “I don’t think that’s a good idea for you. Why don’t you just wait until I get back?”

  The manager backed off. “Okay, whatever you say.” Robert gave him the creeps sometimes.

  Robert flipped his shades back on and headed for his motorcycle. The plan was still incomplete. Maybe it would come together on the ride.

  ***

  When Robert got to Phoenix, he checked into a cheap motel and went to Club Fed for a bite to eat and a brew. The venue gave away its genre right away – it had a heavy metal dungeon theme, equipped with bars, chains, and of course, skulls. Posters and clothing for heavy metal bands adorned the walls of the bar, including sweat rags and ripped T-shirts thrown off the stage by famous black metal bands such as Immortal, Mayhem, and Slayer.

  Robert sat at a corner table and scoped the layout – especially the emergency exits. Security would be heavy, so perhaps the best time to take the hit would be when the jihadist was entering. The only problem was that Robert didn’t know what he looked like. He would have to guess. Robert suspected that it would be almost impossible for the asshole to get into the bar with a bomb in his possession or a suicide jacket on, so he would probably choose to detonate it outside when the mass of people waiting was the largest. He would check out any suspicious vehicles within range of the bar. He would also look for a loner – an Arab immigrant or Arab-American, who was nervous and looked out of place, with a bulky jacket to hide his deadly payload.

  As Robert left the bar, it was still light outside. He examined the exterior. It was a strip mall with a convenience store, a flower store, a dog groomer. Thanks to the downturn in the economy, there was a vacant store across the parking lot from Club Fed. Its store front windows had been whitewashed. This could provide the perfect cover for Robert to observe the front of the club. He grabbed some food and water from the mini-mart. The next day was going to be a long one.

  ***

  At about 5:30 a.m., Robert picked the lock of the abandoned store in seconds and was in. He took up residence in the back office, which still had an old desk. Robert fired up his “throwaway” laptop, which he used for traveling, as it contained no hard drive and left no digital footprint behind. He hacked into the wireless system of the next door material and pattern store and opened his Onion router in an attempt to get in touch with “Mr. Jihadi.”

  Surfing the chat rooms he came across several who appeared to be recruiting for ISIS, but no suicide bombers. In fact, he couldn’t find any evidence of any type of a planned hit. The guy was obviously one of those home-grown terrorists who planned on doing his own thing and ISIS or Al-Qaeda would take the credit for it after the fact, claim he was a soldier, and had gone to rest in paradise with 72 virgins. Robert had had a virgin once and didn’t see the attraction in it. For him it was an unmemorable experience. It was much better to have an experienced woman who knew what she was doing, preferably a pro.

  Robert scratched a hole in the whitewashed window which was big enough to look out but small enough for him to retain his invisibility. He spent the hours going back and forth from the office to look for clues for the evening’s suicide bombing and the front to check out the preparations for the concert. Finally, about an hour before the doors were to open, he hit virtual pay dirt.

  In the chat room where Robert had talked to the young jihadist bomber, there was a link to a video. It looked like it had been filmed in a bedroom in some suburban community with a makeshift ISIS flag in the background. In it, a nervous, bearded, dark skinned young man recited:

  In the name of God, the most gracious, the most merciful. Let those who fight in the way of Allah who sell the life of this world for the other. Whoso fight in the way of Allah, be he slain or be he victorious, on him we shall bestow a vast reward. I am a holy soldier. I fight for Allah and on behalf of the Daesh. This is not suicide, it is martyrdom. This is what our enemies fear. It is an obligation for all and those who do not fulfill this obligation are sinners. I invite all my brothers to also sacrifice themselves in order to rid the world of the filthy apostates. Allahu Akbar!

  Robert played the video again and again, pausing it to memorize every detail of the face of his target. This little fuck was going to die tonight alright, but he was going to be the only one. Robert was on the hunt again.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  For Robert, watching the metalheads line up for Club Fed was like watching a freak show, starring a bunch of long-haired, dreadlocked, shaved-headed and bearded hippie-types with black band shirts covered in black leather. To blend, Robert had a black jacket for the occasion, hair shaved close to the cranium, and he always had a beard. He also dressed his Ruger SR22 with a Silent SR noise suppressor. This hit would be up-close and personal. He suspected that the party-pooper, Mr. Jihadi, would show up at the murder scene not dressed to kill like the others. That would be haram. But he examined all the faces just the same.

  Robert could not take the chance of going out into the crowd yet. He had to see his target first. In the excitement and commotion of the melee that was to follow it was not likely anyone would remember his face – only another bearded metal freak in black leather and biker boots.

  The chicks were animated, swishing about in their leather lace and spikes and making faces through trashy makeup, while the guys mulled around them, trying to act cool. When the sound of the opening act tuning up reverberated from the bar inside, they flashed “horns” signs and whistled and screamed. Robert watched the line like a chessboard. He would have only one move to make and the timing of it was critical. Straight to checkmate, no time for check.

  Suddenly, Robert noticed someone who looked out of place approaching from the left. He had the beard, but none of the dark metal accoutrements. He was a little pudgy, but it was bulk under his jacket rather than a belt line of belly fat that gave him away. He was jittery, looking kind of like a bather on a beach who had water up to his knees but was avoiding that final plunge into the ocean. Robert was 90% sure he had his man, but couldn’t see his face for confirmation. He pressed his binoculars to his eyes and waited for the visage to come into focus.

  It’s him!

  Robert’s heart was pounding with stone-cold precision. He pulled his ski mask over his head, slipped out of the vacant store and walked straight to the jihadist, as close as he could, leveled his gun and fired three shots to his head and throat. In the split second the man went down Robert vanished like a shadow eclipsed by the moon. People next to the fallen terrorist screamed with confusion. A beef-necked security guard ran to the body and turned it over. Mr. Jihad’s neck and chest were covered with blood. The crowd panicked, but instead of dispersing, they came closer to the fallen terrorist, closing in the circle with curiosity. The beef-neck yelled out.

  “Get back! This guy’s been hurt! Is there a doctor here? C
all 9-1-1!”

  Another security guard came running, yelling into his walkie-talkie, and noticed something sticking out of the jihadist’s jacket near the bottom of the zipper.

  “He’s got a bomb!”

  The masses attempted to scatter in every direction. In their panic, they bumped into each other and knocked each other over. The guards abandoned their posts. The manager came out of the bar yelling, “What’s going on out here?”

  “This guy’s been shot! He’s got a bomb!”

  By the time the police arrived, there were only a few brave witnesses who had stayed behind for curiosity. The bomb squad disarmed the dead jihadist, clearing the way for Detective Joshua Maynard to try to figure out just what had happened.

  Even in his police uniform, Maynard looked more like a cowboy than a homicide detective, as he moseyed through the leftover metalheads, taking statements.

  “I saw who did it, man!”

  Maynard motioned to the skinny white kid with dreadlocks to come over.

  “Who did it?”

  “It was Paladine, man.”

  Maynard had heard of Paladine, but he had written it off to urban legend. Now the bullshit had crept its way into his bailiwick and it gave him pause for thought. It was obviously a professional hit. Someone knew where the bad guy was going to be. But who? And how?

  “Can you describe this guy you saw?”

  “Dude, he was big. About seven feet tall. And he had a beard.”

  “What color hair?”

  “I dunno. He was wearing a mask.”

  “White, black?”

  “Kinda in-between, you know? I couldn’t tell if he was white, black or brown, man. And the weirdest thing was…” The kid drew a blank stare.