Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2)

by Derek Ciccone

  “He was also the captain of that yacht in West Palm.”

  “Jimbo went missing after his release, as did all the other thirty-two men and women who were held hostage in Samawah. The only time they pop up on the radar is to murder innocent people.”

  The reason these people could disappear was obvious—nobody was looking for them. And these types of contractors and security officials in Iraq, and places like it, lived transient lives, going from country to country, willing to work for the highest bidder. It had been a years since their capture, and the killings in the US didn’t begin until a few months ago. They were completely off the radar, and the CIA wanted to keep it that way.

  “How did you make the connection?”

  “The files I told you about in Qwaui’s hideout. Liam Scott and Manny Ontiveros were prominently featured, and identified as high-level Al Muttahedah operatives. We were able to match them to the photo of the ‘pirates’ of West Palm. Up until that point, we thought Gallegos and Wade were just rogue agents hired by Huddled Masses, but hadn’t connected it.”

  I knew them better as the two goons who were aiming guns at my girl, and responsible for this nasty headache.

  “Are you trying to tell me that Al Muttahedah took these hostages, brainwashed them, and turned them into suicide killers? Seems farfetched.”

  She looked incredulous. “No, Warner—the indoctrination was already complete by that time. What I’m telling you is that this was a meeting. A Huddled Masses convention, if you will, made to look like a hostage situation. This was a convenient way to meet.”

  I tried to wrap my throbbing head around what she told me. “I guess it was like an Amway meeting. Nora said they called the leader New Colossus—have you figured out his identity?”

  “The man who is ultimately in charge of Al Muttahedah is Hakim. But that makes things even murkier. Many believe Hakim is dead, or hidden away so deep in a cave that he might as well be. But his ghost is being kept alive to act as the boogieman, so nobody is completely sure who is running Al Muttahedah these days.”

  They had operated more erratically this past year, and had drawn more attention to themselves, which was in contrast to Hakim’s style. “Could Qwaui be New Colossus? He was second in command.”

  “If the killings suddenly stop now that he’s dead, or take on a different signature, then we can assume he was the orchestrator.”

  “But don’t these terror cells have plans years in advance?”

  “That’s the thing about Huddled Masses. They are current and agile. You can plan an attack on a building years in advance, but not a wedding or a party. There is real-time communication going on. Yet there is almost no related chatter—we have no idea how they’re doing it.”

  “Nora said they got their marching orders from the Good Book.”

  “From what I know about Nora Reign, she spent a lot of time on her knees, but it was rarely to pray.”

  I grew irritated. “Watch what you say about her.”

  “You still care for her … that’s cute.”

  “She’s not here to defend herself.”

  “She cares about you too, you know.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “When she told you that they threatened someone she ‘cares about,’ who exactly did you think she was referring?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “According to the documents we found, when she sobered up last summer and balked at going through with her mission—the response was to threaten her by taking someone close to her hostage. Anything interesting happen to you last summer?”

  “Serbia was about Nora?”

  “And here you thought the world was all about you.”

  I refused to let her under my skin, and moved on, “So why not go public with what you know—work with the FBI instead of against them to stop the next attack? Maybe someone out there has seen these missing contractors.”

  “It’s important that we keep this contained, which is why we confiscated the evidence, such as the gun and vest. And you trust Agent Hawkins as much as I do when it comes to being a team player.”

  “Or you don’t want it to get out that many of those involved can be traced back to the CIA and their affiliates. It would be quite embarrassing, especially after all the praise you received for the hostages’ release. The same hostages who turned out to be Huddled Masses.”

  “No, because if the American public finds out, the country will likely end up under martial law. You know how it is here—killing is just the cost of freedom, until a turban is involved, and then you trip over each other to feed your constitution through the shredder.”

  “You do know my American taxpayer dollars pay your salary, right? So maybe a little respect.”

  “I’m the best use of your tax dollars in a long time … and while you’re busy waving your flag, I’ll be the one making sure it’s still flying.”

  I blew out a deep breath, and tried to process everything she’d told me. And then something hit me. “The one reporter who beat all of us to the scoops on the Samawah hostages was Tino Fernandez. Did he get too close … is that why they killed him?”

  Her eyes pierced me. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Warner. It’s right in front of your face.”

  When I remained myopic, she exclaimed, “Tino was one of them! He’s the one who got Nora involved. He was the one who got the gun inside the studio. Nora was supposed to shoot Lauren, but she went off script, and turned on Huddled Masses, killing one of their key members instead. It also meant her actions left them with three threats they needed to clean up—Nora, Lauren, and you. Nora is obvious, but they also couldn’t ignore what Tino might have told Lauren during their relationship. And you, because of what they believed Nora might have signaled you during your meeting.”

  I needed to sit down, but realized I was already sitting. Nora was actually fighting back against Huddled Masses. She was far from a hero, and was involved in this up to her neck, but I was starting to recognize the woman I once knew.

  Jovana stretched like a cat and yawned. “Saving your ass has tired me out, so how about you giving me a shoulder rub?”

  I could see where this could go very wrong for me. “I really shouldn’t.”

  “C’mon, Warner … it’s the least you can do for me getting you out of that hospital. Those places are germ factories. You’d probably be dead by morning.”

  More likely from a gun than germs. “I really can’t. I don’t think my girlfriend would approve.”

  “Last I checked, she’s not here. Just a shoulder rub … I’m not asking you to take me to bed.”

  “Don’t stop on my account.”

  I snapped my head around, which hurt like hell, to see Gwen, which was going to hurt much more.

  She stared down at Jovana. “Nice dress,” she said, before turning her attention to me. It wasn’t the same loving look from earlier. “I went back to the hospital to look for you, and I was told you checked out, which was not only news to me, but also to your doctor.”

  I pointed to Jovana. “She’s my nurse, and said it was okay.”

  “I know … we met at the hospital. Thanks for the note about the bedbugs, but you failed to mention the other insects I needed to look out for.”

  The room grew awkwardly quiet, so much so that all I could do was hear the ringing in my head. I clicked on the TV, attempting a distraction. It turned on to GNZ—just my luck.

  The anchor was previewing an interview they planned to do tonight with Lauren Bowden, who had just woken from surgery. He added that Lauren had gained access to a tape that proved that Huddled Masses was connected to an international terrorist group. “And much more!” he teased

  Jovana began ripping off my shirt, which I didn’t think would help things with Gwen. When she exposed the bulletproof vest, she searched it until she located the recording device hidden deep within it. “Son of a bitch,” she shouted out. Lauren did have a source on this information—she had been recording
our every word since we took possession of the vest.

  Part Three –

  Whiskey Sour

  Chapter 38

  Upper East Side, New York

  April 10

  It was past eleven when Marty Cooper returned home. And despite another sixteen-hour workday, he felt invigorated the moment he stepped through the door.

  He smiled, remembering back to when he first came to the city, right out of Wharton. At the time, the idea that a high-rise apartment could ever be considered a home seemed as crazy an idea as aliens landing on the Empire State Building. But that’s exactly what Allison and the kids had done—they’d turned it into a home.

  He tiptoed through the foyer, trying not to wake the sleeping household. When he entered the living room area, he heard a monotonous electronic drone.

  Allison had fallen asleep at her computer, using her keyboard as a pillow. He was convinced that his wife could sleep through anything. At their first apartment in Brooklyn, the elevated G and F trains ran right by their bedroom window and she didn’t miss a wink.

  He gently lifted her head off the keyboard, stopping the terrible sound. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled. It made the entire day worth it.

  He took note of the papers and binders surrounding her workstation—David Tully tying them to the grindstone once again. But after almost losing the life they’d built, he realized that work, even at these crazy hours, was easy. It was not working that sucked the life out of him.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Allison said in a groggy voice. “There’s some leftover pizza in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

  “Thanks, but I had a sandwich at the office. It should hold me until morning,” he replied. He took her into his arms and carried her to the couch. He gave her a kiss on the forehead and watched her fall back into a deep sleep.

  He kicked off his shoes, and stretched his tired legs out on the coffee table. He then clicked on the TV.

  He turned to the news, hoping to catch up on the world he’d missed out on all day. The top story was another attack on innocent citizens. This one took place in Pittsburgh, at an encampment on the South Side, an area frequented by the city’s homeless. It was retaliation against the Huddled Masses group, which had declared war on the wealthiest segment of the population.

  This group, which called itself Whiskey Tax, had fired numerous shots from a cannon—a cannon?—into a group of homeless, killing three, and injuring many others. Nobody was arrested or charged, but a written message had been left behind. In short, the group would continue to target the poor and minorities, until Huddled Masses ceased their war against them. It went on to say they were forced to take this route, since the US government had not lived up to their obligation to protect them.

  At a press conference, an FBI agent named Hawkins described the actions as “vigilante justice.” He held up a sketch of a man seen behaving suspiciously in the park prior to the attack, who they wanted to bring in for questioning. A phone number for the FBI tip line was provided, and he promised anonymity to anyone with information.

  Marty turned it off. The amount of crazy in the world really bothered him, even more so since the kids were born. They shot a cannon at homeless people … really? Who does that? He wondered if the world had always been this nuts, or whether you just hear about it more with all the Internet and social media.

  The report prompted him to look in on his sleeping children. His first stop was Gracie, the ten year old. Where had the time gone? While she more resembled him physically, especially the dark hair, she was all her mother when it came to personality. Both his kids were, which made him proud—he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather them take after than Allison.

  He kissed Gracie goodnight, softly wishing her sweet dreams, and then ventured into the room of eight-year-old Chase. He tucked him under the covers that he’d kicked off onto the floor, and tousled his mop of blond hair.

  On his return to the living room, he passed by Allison’s workstation, and something caught his eye. It was a printout with the heading Test Markets. Marty Cooper Consulting LLC had been hired by General Washington Carpet Cleaning to be in charge of their rapid expansion across the country, and he knew all their markets backwards and forwards. He used a complex formula to pinpoint what they called “Red Wine, White Carpet” clusters. They usually ranged from small cities to upper-crust towns like Ridgefield, Connecticut and Lake Zurich, Illinois.

  Large metro areas didn’t fit their demographic. Yet according to this printout, these “test markets” were in major cities like Atlanta, Phoenix, and even Manhattan. What the hell?

  He went to Allison, and lightly shook her awake.

  When her eyes focused on the sheet, she said, “Those are markets that David has been testing advertising in.”

  “I realize that, but he never cleared them with me. He’s doing it all on his own.”

  “Well, sweetie, it is his company. All you can do is make recommendations … if they fail, then he can’t blame you.”

  “But why do all this analysis, and work—radius studies, street level mapping, yada, yada—if he’s just going to do whatever he wants?” Marty replied, his irritation building.

  “You know David—he needs to feel he’s in charge. That’s why he calls me twenty times a day.”

  “I think he does that because he has a crush on you.”

  “Could you blame him?” she said with a sleepy smile. “You’re probably doing too good of a job, and he feels left out of the success. And for the record, next time you tell me I shouldn’t bring my work home with me, I will reference this conversation,” she made her point, and drifted back off to sleep.

  Marty knew she was right—he took the list back and stuck it in the folder. But when he did, another sheet caught his eye—a list of directories and their publish dates.

  The news report of the Pittsburgh attack was still fresh in his mind, otherwise he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. The Phoenix/Scottsdale directory came out last December, the same month as the mall shooting. When he looked down the list, he noticed that Atlanta was published in January, West Palm in February, Manhattan in March, and now Pittsburgh in April.

  He found a stack of proofs for the test market ads. Allison would proofread all ads methodically before releasing them to the publisher—even the smallest error would be caught by Tully.

  Marty scanned down to the discount code. Basic stuff—call the listed number, provide this code, and you get 15% off your next carpet cleaning. He studied the Manhattan ad, and then the Atlanta one. But what caught his attention were the numbers used in the code—he recognized them.

  He retrieved his laptop, opened the software, and began punching in the discount codes. First he focused on the ads related to the cities where attacks took place, and then compared it to ones where no attack occurred. What the …

  He thought of waking Allison again, but she would just laugh at him. So he got a pad and paper out and began writing. And when he connected all the dots, a sick feeling came over him.

  It had to be a coincidence, he told himself. It made no sense. These long hours were causing him to lose his mind. He would sleep on it, and things would make sense in the morning.

  But one of those commercials popped into his head. The ones incessantly shown in New York since 9/11—If you see something, say something!

  Sounds simple enough, until what you saw earns you a lengthy psych-evaluation at Bellevue. And what if saying something would bite the hand that literally fed you? It would be easy to let it go, see how things play out … until you factor in that if you’re right, more innocent people could die.

  The FBI tip line popped into Marty’s head. That’s what he would do—he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t. So he found the number, and thought of the best way to do this. Should he use the home phone? Should he disguise his voice?

  But logic overtook his paranoia. If they “outed” those who use these tip lines, nobody would ever use them.
He still didn’t want to wake Allison, so he used the phone in their bedroom. And it wasn’t a person who answered, but a voice message. So he laid out his theory the best he could without sounding like a total nut—adding a little voice disguise, just to be safe.

  He felt better. At least for a few minutes, until the phone rang. This time there was a voice at the other end of the line. A man’s voice, telling him that he was an agent for the FBI. That they believed there was credence to his theory, and it was important that they meet right away.

  “Can’t this wait until morning?” Marty asked.

  “Lives are at stake, Mr. Cooper,” said the voice on the other end.

  Chapter 39

  Allison Cooper woke up to the sounds of her little ones scurrying around the apartment. She reached over to Marty’s side of the bed out of habit, but all she got was a big handful of couch cushion.

  She pulled herself to her feet, realizing she’d never made it to bed. It started to come back to her—she’d fallen asleep at the computer and Marty carried her to the couch. Her middle-aged, white-collar Hercules! He kept waking her up to talk about work … test markets, or something like that.

  She peeked into Gracie’s room, and found her and Chase engrossed in a video game, already dressed in their school uniforms. “You guys getting ready?” she asked.

  Gracie looked at her, and with her beautiful sarcasm, replied, “Are you, Mom?”

  She looked down at her sweats, and ran her hands through her messy hair. Good point. She took a quickie shower, and dressed in her battle gear—a blue pantsuit—for another crazy day of following her favorite band, David Tully & the Yellow Pages.

  She made her way to the kitchen, to find that the greatest kids in the world had made breakfast. Toast, slightly burned, which was overcompensated with gobs of strawberry jam. Not exactly Eggs Benedict, but better than anything she would have been able to whip up with so little time to spare. What she really could have used was a cup—more like a whole pot—of coffee, but she would pick one up en route.