Paladine

by Kenneth Eade

  He hit a series of berms, which would be a challenge for the Explorer but was child’s play for the 650. Robert easily flew over them with alacrity, looking for more treacherous terrain to lose himself in. He looked in the mirror and saw the Explorer bouncing as it took the bumps, like a sailboat in rough water. As he approached a mountainous area, Robert dodged his way through large stones and bushes, which slowed him down a bit and the Ford a lot. He spotted a dark clump of evergreens and headed straight for them, watching the Ford bouncing and swerving behind him. Then, the Explorer hit one of the large stones and rolled over as Robert disappeared into the forest.

  Robert headed deep into the wooded area for about 10 minutes, then parked, dismounted and quickly cleaned and buried the Remington under some soft dirt and stones, which took an extra 10 minutes off his schedule. Once it was done, he sped off, using his compass to connect back with the 50, knowing that the other team of pursuers and who knows who else may be looking for a lone man on a motorcycle. He had to dump it as soon as possible, but he still had mountain ranges to cross. His chances of hitching a ride were pretty slim at this hour, and the possibility of one of those rides being his pursuers was not one he was willing to take, so he planned to jam all the way to Grand Junction. There, he would dump the bike and pick up some alternate transportation. Paladine had, once more, dispensed death and escaped from it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  The alarms went off at NCTC and the watch team notified Director Anderson at his home. Colorado Springs Police had reported that Aqwa Bukhari and a key lieutenant of Al-Banwa had been killed by sniper fire. Anderson dressed and headed directly for the office in order to be briefed and prepare a statement for the press. He got on the line to Bill Carpenter, who ordered his task force out to Colorado. Paladine had taken out the number one terrorist on their watch list. It was time to take him seriously. This was a problem which had to be resolved by bringing him in – or otherwise dealing with him.

  ***

  Joshua Maynard swung his bare feet off the bed and planted them on the floor. Another day of catching bad guys was about to begin. He stood up and shuffled into the kitchen and pushed the “on” button for the coffee machine, then headed for the bathroom, scratching his head and yawning. Joshua knew his priorities. When he was showered and ready for action, he filled up his mug with the second cup of the day and switched on his computer to check the news headlines on the Internet. Paladine had struck again. Aqwa Bukhari was one of the most watched men on the FBI’s terrorist watch lists and a someone had just taken him out right under their noses. Was it for profit or for principle? Could there be any connection to the case he was working on? He jotted down the name of the investigator of the case in Colorado Springs. That would be his first call when he got to the office.

  Joshua got into his Jeep Cherokee for the 30-minute drive from Chandler to Metro Phoenix. He had chosen to stay in the bedroom community so he could be closer to his two kids, even though it would have been more practical to get an apartment near work. It was his work that was the final breaking point of the marriage according to Sally. She used to complain that he was hardly ever home because of it. Now he never was.

  Joshua passed the box of donuts on the table in the detectives’ division and went straight to his office. It was Spartan – a working environment, with the only trace of humankind being the pictures of his kids on the desk, which were at least five years old. The décor of the office was non-existent. On the wall was a huge whiteboard on which he had made a collage of sorts – of evidence. In the center of the mural was a picture of Muhammad Abdul Kareem, the would-be metalhead suicide bomber. The only suspect was a fictitious character named Paladine. Surrounding the photograph of Kareem were case notes that Joshua had made. The other parts of the collage consisted of different cases. There were no connecting lines between any of the cases. Joshua picked up the black marker in the tray beneath the board and wrote a new name: Aqwad Bukhari. Then, under the name, he wrote: “suspected terrorist” and circled it. The word “suspected terrorist” had been written and so emphasized in each entry of the evidence board: Muhammad Abdul Kareem, Aqwad Bukhari, Abdul Moussef (the McDonald’s shooter), and Aaresh Shanahwaz, the terrorist who had been shot by a sniper at a mental hospital in California. All were suspected terrorists, and all had been executed by a person or persons unknown.

  Maynard called Colorado Springs and talked to their detective in charge of the case, but there was nothing that he provided that Joshua hadn’t already learned from the Internet. He called the local FBI office and spoke to the agent on duty. He explained the case he was working on and asked for access to the TSDB database, which he was given. When he asked about the Bukhari case, the agent gave him the names and contact information for two special agents from the Bureau who were working the case out of the National Counterterrorism Center. He thanked the agent and placed a call to Special Agent William Wokowski.

  “Wokowski.”

  “Agent Wokowski, this is Detective Joshua Maynard, Phoenix P.D. I’m in charge of the Muhammad Adbul Kareem case here in Phoenix.”

  “The guy who tried to blow up the rock concert?”

  “That’s the one. I understand you’re looking into the Bukhari case.”

  “Me and my partner, Jack Samuels.”

  “I’ve been looking at the similarities between all the suspected terrorists who’ve been murdered in the past three months.”

  “What have you found?”

  “So far, that they’re all suspected terrorists and they’ve all been murdered.”

  “In other words, not a lot.”

  “Well, my investigation is just beginning. I wonder if we may be able to compare notes?”

  “Sure.”

  Wokowski vowed to cooperate any way he could with his investigation, and Maynard noted down his email address. He disconnected, then looked up at the whiteboard. Maynard stood up, picked up a red marker, moved his hand to the top of the board and wrote the name of his prey in block letters: “Paladine.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Robert never cared for social media, but in his work it was becoming more and more important. He had created a Facebook page under one of his Arabic aliases as well as a Twitter handle, and regularly surfed the pages of ISIS and other terrorist groups. Terrorism had gone high tech. No longer did it concentrate on developing personal relationships, or spend months finding and cultivating youngsters to join their deadly club. Now they could spread their propaganda online and the recruits would come to them already radicalized. Robert spent an hour or so every day, commenting, sharing and re-tweeting the jihadist rhetoric, mainly looking for more “inventory.”

  Farther west there was trouble hitting home with his employer. Bryce Williamson’s foundation was run by a man named Rahbi Moghadam. Rahbi was originally from Syria, but had emigrated to the UK when he was very young. A successful software engineer in the Silicon Valley, Rabhi had quit his job and joined the foundation for personal reasons. His daughter, Rasha, had always wanted to help people. Although born in the UK, she strongly identified as Syrian and, at the age of 19, she learned of the Syrian civil war on social media and wanted more than anything to do something to become more involved in the humanitarian aid effort.

  Unbeknownst to her parents, Rasha had met in person with an ISIS recruiter who had fed her everything she wanted to hear. He was young and handsome, and appealed to her romantic fantasies as well as her higher ideals. Rasha had decided that instead of goofing around for her summer vacation, she would spend a month in Syria, joining others in providing food and needed medical supplies to people suffering in her home country. She begged her parents to allow her a “study tour” in Turkey, and eventually they conceded. She was joined by two other girls on the flight to Istanbul and they made instant friends. They were all just as beautiful as they were gullible.

  Rasha and her two friends were met at the airport by another handler and another girl from Eastern Europe. The handler hel
ped them get across the border to Syria. The first thing he did was to collect their passports “so it would be easier for them to cross the border.” Once across, he kept the passports and they were taken to an ISIS compound. Rasha found out right away that the type of humanitarian aid she was going to provide was as a sex slave in a jihadi marriage to six different ISIS fighters, who each raped her on a daily basis. Luckily, the compound was bombed and she and one of the others pretended to be Syrian refugees. Once across the border to Turkey, she found asylum at the US Embassy, who contacted her frantic parents.

  Because there was no evidence tying him to the sex trafficking, and because of freedom of speech and religion, there was nothing the authorities could do about the local recruiter, who was still doing his thing. Rasha was an adult, after all, and had gone to Turkey on her own free will. After a year of intensive psychotherapy, Rasha killed herself. Rahbi, like Bryce, had selfish reasons for joining the foundation and had made himself indispensable to his boss. So, when he asked for a meeting in Bryce’s office, Williamson naturally obliged.

  Williamson received Rahbi and shook his hand warmly. He offered him a seat in front of the massive desk.

  “Mr. Williamson, thank you for seeing me.”

  “Please, Rahbi, call me Bryce.”

  Rahbi smiled. “Bryce.”

  “Good, and my door is open to you at any time. You’re an important guy to us.”

  “Thank you, sir. The reason why I asked for this meeting was a personal one.”

  “Oh?”

  Bryce leaned forward and listened intently to Rahbi’s story. He knew how helpless Rahbi felt, and he also could feel his need for revenge.

  “So my reasons for joining the foundation weren’t entirely all charitable. I know that your son was also a victim of terrorism, and I consider my daughter to be as well. That is why I have no choice but to ask you for a particular favor. If you refuse, I understand. I will resign if you like. But I want to get this jihadist scum who is responsible for my sweet Rasha’s death.”

  Bryce looked puzzled. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m very observant, Mr. Williamson – Bryce. I know that the man who killed your son was gunned down in Atascadero. I want the same thing for this asshole who killed my daughter. And I have money saved up, I can pay for it.”

  “Rahbi, you’re assuming an awful lot. And what you’re proposing is against the law.”

  “When the law fails to serve us, we must serve as the law.”

  Bryce could not express disagreement with that thought. But he also could not expose his relationship with Paladine, even to someone who was on the same side, as much as he wanted to help him.

  “I’m sorry, Rahbi, but I don’t think I can help you.”

  Rahbi hung his head. “That’s alright, Mr. Williamson, I understand.”

  After Rahbi had left, Williamson slapped his palm against the office desk blotter calendar, crinkled it in his hand and squeezed it with rage, balled it up, and then threw it against the wall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  What should have been a ten-hour ride had turned into a 20-hour ordeal. Robert had stayed over in Grand Junction, sold his KLR for cash to a junkyard dealer by turning over the signed, unregistered pink slip he had received from the guy he had bought it from, and bought a three-year-old KTM 990 from a private party. The KTM had a top speed of 129 miles per hour, could go zero to 100 in 3.2 seconds, and was well rated for off-road use. As Robert rode away on the 990 he thought that it would be a shame to have to dump it someday, but let that thought slide off his back. Possessions meant nothing to Robert.

  When he got to Vegas, he went straight to the storage locker, parked the 990 and took his street bike home. As he was walking up the stairs to his apartment, he noticed a lump in front of his door where the welcome mat was supposed to be. It was that dog! The dog raised his pitiful face, hung out his tongue and wagged his tail as Robert opened the door.

  “Well, you may as well come in.” Robert directed his hand toward the open door in a sweeping motion and the dog shot up on all fours, and ran in, his tail going at the speed of an airplane propeller.

  Robert filled up the bucket with water and set it on the floor. The dog ran to it immediately, lapping and lapping until his tank was full, and then dripping water from his chin all over the kitchen floor.

  “Don’t make me regret this.”

  The dog happily looked up at Robert, panting and wagging. Robert opened the fridge, which was virtually empty except for what was left of a twelve pack of Bud, so he closed it and rummaged the pantry for something to feed him. He found a box of crackers, poured them into a bowl, and set the bowl on the floor. The dog ran to the bowl and gobbled up the crackers, crunching crumbs all over the floor, then dutifully cleaning them up. The dog came over to thank Robert, panting in his face and licking him with his long, slimy tongue.

  “Dude, you stink! Gonna have to give you a bath.”

  There was a knock at the door and the dog ran to it and barked loudly.

  “Whoa, whoa, let’s see who it is.”

  Robert went to the door and opened it a crack. It was the manager. The dog forced open the door and lunged out at him, sticking his growling muzzle in the manager’s crotch. The manager froze in a ridiculous position.

  “It’s okay. Stand down.”

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

  “I don’t.”

  The dog kept growling at a low purr.

  “Can you tell him to back off?”

  “Back off, Butthead!”

  The dog immediately complied and the manager started rambling.

  “If you’re going to have a dog here, we need an additional security deposit.”

  Robert slammed the door in the manager’s face. He patted the dog on the head. “Good job, Butthead!” The dog wagged his tail happily. He had found his keep.

  Robert fired up his laptop and skimmed the stories about the Bukhari assassination. The second man he had shot was being groomed as Bukhari’s second in command at Al-Benwa. A check in the world of the jihadi Darknet revealed that a bounty had been placed on Robert’s head. Kill him and you get not only 72 virgins and paradise forever, but $100,000 to give to your survivors.

  “How nice.”

  He turned his attention to the TSDB, focusing not at the top of the list, as this would be what they would expect. The terrorists weren’t the only ones after Paladine after all – the feds would be too, and they may expect him to kill in numerical order. To Robert, they were all the same priority – another job, another 50k moved into the asset column. All in a day’s work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Robert had friended hundreds of jihadists on Twitter and Facebook and had cultivated his farm regularly. He was a known figure under several aliases, but then undercover FBI agents probably were as well. The only difference between them and Robert was that he didn’t pick the low-lying fruit. And, like Monopoly players who went to jail without passing go, Robert’s targets skipped arrest and went straight to execution. Trolling for marks, Robert spouted jihadist rhetoric in Arabic, stating he lived in Southern California and wanted to kill as many infidels as he could for Daesh. It wasn’t long before he received an inquiry for an encrypted chat by PGP.

  “Hello, brother, may Allah be with you.”

  “And with you.”

  “I hear you are interested in joining the movement.”

  “Yes, I wish to fight here or in my homeland, which is Syria.”

  “There is plenty of work to be done here, brother. First we will need to discuss it. Do you have access to Skype?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good.”

  Muhanad Halabi was a Syrian-born US citizen with suspected ties to the Islamic State who lived in San Diego. According to the FBI, he was one of the most active ISIS recruiters west of the Mississippi. He had a not-so-insignificant place on the TSDB as a number four suspect.

  Robert received an en
crypted message with a Skype contact and time for a vetting video call. He assumed he would be a little older than the desired candidate, but his only purpose was to determine if this was Halabi or someone else who could be identified as a recruiter on the suspected terrorist database. There was no bounty for a dead undercover G-Man.

  When the video call was initiated, Robert feigned problems with his video, but he saw the video feed from the recruiter clearly. It was a positive match for Halabi. Robert apologized for the technical difficulties, and Halabi advised him to send a PGP message once the video problem had been straightened out. Perhaps it was a problem with his Internet speed that could be corrected.

  The intel on Halibi showed a last known address in Logan Heights. Hopefully, it was still accurate. He had been on the radar for quite some time now, but there had been nothing the feds could do about him. He wasn’t dealing with underage girls or porn, just spreading the word of jihad to young, impressionable people, which, unfortunately, was not a crime.

  Robert set out for San Diego on the 990. This would be a quick in and out job, and he planned on being back by daybreak, so he let the dog out to do his business and left him plenty of food and water at home. He took the I15 all the way to San Diego and exited the freeway in Logan Heights.

  It was what Californians called a “rough neighborhood,” and, in some respects, reminded Robert of El Barrio, except that there were more cracker box houses than apartment buildings. Robert located Halibi’s house and cruised his neighborhood. He found a motel within walking distance and stashed the bike there in a parking space behind the building. Robert took a room for cash. The clerk didn’t ask for ID. It was obvious this was a motel frequented by working girls because he asked Robert if he wanted the room overnight or for just a few hours. Robert got the room for overnight with no intention of staying after success of the mission. He slid the cash through the hole in the banker’s window to the clerk and was given a key in return. There was the faint smell of urine outside as he unlocked the door to his room and he caught a whiff of mildew when he opened the door.