If Wallace had not been so focused watching the video feeds on his laptop, he would have noticed the unusual number of men going into room 107.
One thing about Angela, she has a great rack, Wallace thought as he watched her peel off her top as the doctor threw her down on the bed. It was amazing. He’d done this kind of surveillance hundreds of times and everybody started on the bedspread. Some never got to the sheets at all. The sick thing was that the bedspread was never changed in these joints. So this doctor, who probably uses a mask when he drills teeth not to catch aids or some shit, is slamming his genitals all over a bedspread that’s got more spunk, junk, and crud on it than a toilet seat at the Port Authority. That alone should be reason enough for his client, the doctor’s wife, to be granted her divorce, her kids, the house and every penny this dentist fuck had.
As Wallace focused on his LCD screens and Angela’s magnificent breasts rocking as she got pounded, he missed a man entering the room next door with a large case of cold cream.
When the main event was over, the two lay in silence. Wallace’s equipment started picking up sounds from the next room, some kind of chanting or prayer. He turned up the gain on his microphone. Yes, it was some kind of chant or prayer…BRUMP… BRUMP… BRUMP. Suddenly the sound was interrupted by a thumping noise, which at this level of audio gain obliterated the sound with every thump. Then he heard a very distorted, “Angela! You fucking whore,” as the sound ripped into Wallace’s headphones. The three shots that followed almost punctured his eardrums before he could get the phones off. What he couldn’t get off was his eyes from his LCD screen — and one seething, snarling, angry motherfucker firing a.38 and blowing the top half of Angela’s head clear off before pumping two into the doctor. The blood spray and brain matter redecorated the sleazy room in an instant. All of it was caught in glorious digital color, in two angles, with stereophonic 48K sound.
Alzir El Benhan uttered a curse in the middle of his interrupted prayer. The 24 other men in the room on the floor in prostate looked up to see his right shoulder bleeding and the hole in the thin sheet rock wall of room 107. They had heard the shots next door but thought it was only a loud, American TV program. The 24 jars sat in the center of the room and next to them syringes. Holding his shoulder, Alzir groaned, “Take the jars! Leave now!” Then he momentarily blacked out.
“Starlight Motel, North Conduit, shots fired, two people dead. Gunman still inside.” As he spoke with the 911 dispatcher, Wallace kept his eyes trained on the door to room 108. Then he realized he had his HD200X high def video camera in his bag. He got it out and pointed it at the door. He never saw Angela’s husband before, who the shooter almost certainly was. The two cameras in the room were trained on the bed and the gunman was not near it. Wallace figured that when the man left the room, he’d get a shot of him on the HD. The cops could use it as evidence. Then he decided to narrate the tape. “9:10 p.m. Starlight Motor Lounge, thirty seconds after shoots fired, Wallace Barnes, New York State licensed investigator, on an assignment for Mrs. … What’s this?” The zoom range of the mini HD actually afforded a close-up of both 107 and 108. Although the shooter hadn’t emerged from 108, men started piling out of 107. “Three…four…five… six…seven…eight. These guys are all coming out of the next door.”
The first NYPD unit bottomed out hitting the bump in the motel’s driveway at high speed, creating a shower of sparks from its undercarriage. The New York cops quickly assumed that the men fleeing 107 were the perpetrators and winged out the doors of their cars, training their guns on them, and shouting, “Police FREEZE!”
The men were startled and Wallace could see the hesitation in their motion. “Was a drug deal going down next door?”
“Put your hands up! Drop to your knees! NOW!”
Inside room 107, the men who were left tried to reason out their next steps. “We should make a run for it. Some of us will get through and that will be enough to at least inflict some casualty.”
“We should infect ourselves right here, then try to escape.”
“We should kill the cops and proceed with the plan immediately.”
Then Alzir spoke. “You must proceed. You must not fail. You can still get away, but go now.”
In excruciating pain, Alzir pointed to the suitcase under the bed. One of the men dragged it out, opened it, and found ten, older MAC 10s and a hundred loaded mags. The men quickly grabbed the outdated yet still deadly arms. Those who had trained in Afghanistan treated the weapons correctly; the four who had not trained with Al Qaeda watched and tried to emulate what the others did. Fifteen seconds later, all clips were in, safeties off, and extra clips stuffed in belts and pockets. Then two men broke the glass in the window to the room and began shooting at the cop car as two others went through the doorway.
“Holy shit,” Wallace said as World War III exploded in his camera’s eyepiece.
The two cops recoiled behind the patrol car’s doors as the fusillade of bullets ripped the sheet metal to shreds. One officer was hit in the foot and sprang back across the front seat in agony. The other reached the radio and frantically yelled, “10–13, 10–13, 10–13!”
The men kept coming through the door as the two in the window laid down cover fire. The cop dropped the radio mic and took the shotgun from the dashboard mount. He waited for a lull and pumped two blasts at two guys trying to make it across the lot. They went down like bags of bricks. The guns and something else they were carrying crashed to the ground. The staccato sound of return fire from the machine guns made him retreat back to the rear of the car. More men were leaving the room. The cop took a deep breath, turned, squeezed the trigger, and clipped one the instant he appeared between two dark cars.
More units started pulling up. One blue-and-white unit got totally shot up before the officers ever knew what hit them. The other cops, seeing this, held back to a looser perimeter. A responding sergeant quickly accessed the scene and used his portable radio. “113 Baker portable to Central K. Alert all units, heavy weapons at scene. Multiple perpetrators trying to flee. Request ESU. Get air units up.”
Meanwhile, back in room 108, the scene of the original crime, Sal D’Martino sat in an armchair looking at the dead bodies of his wife and her lover, the small war out the window all but non-existent to him. He raised the gun to his temple.
Wallace was so scared and yet still videotaping the battle before him that he didn’t notice the flash on the monitor screen of his remote cameras as they, still in record mode, captured the muzzle flash as Sal went to meet his wife.
The NYPD had kicked the shootings at the Starlight Motel up the food chain of crimes to Major Event. Every cop in the borough of Queens was now heading for the shoddy inn on North Conduit. Emergency Services Unit en-route hearing the reports on heavy weapons called for “Big Bertha,” the N.Y.P.D.’s heavy weapons truck. Many units set up roadblocks at one-mile intervals from the motel. Their orders: “Shut down everything trying to get in or out.” Because the motel was very near JFK Airport, NYPD alerted Port Authority and they went into full prevent-defense. Ten PA cars rolled across runways and taxiways to become a virtual rolling border, guarding fortress JFK. When they rolled up to the perimeter fence, they immediately caught two men trying to scale the wire. One PA cop was injured as the bad guys decided to shoot it out. Twenty cops in cars with shotguns easily outgunned two guys with machine pistols with no cover to hide behind other than a chain-linked fence. Two others were spotted approaching the fence and ran off when the spotlights of the cop cars shone on them.
Aviation was waiting for tower clearance to swoop down on the area, but JFK landed dozens of planes an hour and the tower had to halt all landings so that a helicopter wouldn’t foul up the intake manifold of a jumbo jet with 300 or more souls on it.
The PA cops saw enough of the intention of these men to assume JFK was their target. They ordered a ground freeze and declared the airport in lockdown.
That action triggered the Joint Terrorist Task Force, w
hich brought ten more federal agencies into the mix. JFK being a major potential terrorism target, every conceivable asset that the combined agencies could muster was already conveniently pre-stationed there. That meant that every state and federal anti-crime, terrorism, biological, nuclear, chemical, conventional, and support unit was a five-minute roll from the Starlight Motel.
Blue-helmeted members of the Hercules Anti-Terrorism Squad, in all their body armor, started advancing towards the motel. Regular patrol units held ground and laid down support fire as the heavy-weapons guys swarmed in to neutralize the threat. There were six men left in the room. One was Alzir who was bleeding and handing fresh clips to the two men firing from the window. That left three to try to escape. Each tucked the glass jars inside their shirts, waited until the next volley of fire, then bolted out the door. They were immediately cut down, literally at the knees, from four heavy weapons cops who had snuck around to each side of the room. Unlike the movies, these guys didn’t have to yell “Freeze” and thereby give the bad guy a shot at making their kids orphans. They aimed low and took out their legs, “Perpetrator Shot Running” was the police terminology.
A sergeant tossed a flash bang into the windows like a Ranger tossing a grenade into a pillbox on Omaha Beach on D-Day. The Kilgore/Schermuly Stun Grenade quieted the room in an instant. Four more body-armored cops hit the room as the four outside secured the weapons from the ones who got clipped trying to run. In the two minutes and twenty-two seconds the heavy weapons squad was on the scene the situation had been stabilized.
Wallace had gotten all of it on tape. As the surviving bad guys were being dragged to an interrogation area set up in a command van in the street, Wallace emerged from his car and went over to the heavy weapons unit commander.
“Commander, I’m Wallace Barnes. I was on the job thirty years out of the 42 in South Bronx. I was on a P.I. stakeout when this went down. I got video of the two homicides next door, and, as far as I know, that perp is still in the room.”
“Two homicides! What room?”
“108.”
The commander spoke immediately into his portable. “Be advised all units, armed gunman in room 108. Repeat. Armed gunman in room 108. Two deceased persons and gunman still in room. Approach with caution, and advise.”
Immediately, a path was cleared at an angle, which would cover the line of fire to and from room 108.
At the exact second of the transmission, a white shield, anti-crime cop, still shaking from the first heavy weapons shootout in his six-year career noticed and approached a jar lying on the parking lot asphalt next to one of the downed bad guys. He had one of the forensic team members snap a photo of it to record its position next to the body. He was reaching for it with his surgical gloved hand when the “take cover” order squawked across his radio. For the split second his hand hovered over it, he could swear it was giving off heat. He sought cover, now keeping his eyes on the window next to the blown out ones of the shoot out room.
Two heavily armed cops then scampered around the side of the building like before, only this time they also carried a fiber optic camera. They slid the slim end of the plastic lens under the door and, from a safe distance, manipulated the flexible cable to scan the room. Wallace heard their radio report.
“We show two down by gunshot on the bed and one down by the door. Total three down by gunshot. No others in sight but we can’t see into the bathroom. Advise.”
The commander looked at Wallace. “Three’s all there was. I got it all on tape — video and audio. I think it’s safe for them to enter, Sir.”
“Green team, proceed with caution and secure that bathroom.”
The men kicked in the door.
Within ten seconds, the commander’s radio crackled.
“Secured.”
He turned to the private dick. “Video and audio you say?”
On cue, a Chevy Suburban with flashing red, blue, and white strobes lurched to a halt near the command van. Wallace thought it was going to be more SWAT guys. He was shocked when a blonde woman in black blazer and pants emerged from the passenger side. She walked up to the Commander and spoke in the manner of a superior officer.
“What do we got, Commander?”
“All bad guys engaged in the firefight down or secured. Possible secondary, unrelated, triple shooting next door. Unknown number of perpetrators on the run.”
“I can help with that,” Wallace said.
“Who are you? How can you help?” the no bullshit woman asked, ordered, and demanded in one smooth command voice.
“I am NYPD retired; I was on a P.I. when this all went down. I have video of every guy who escaped and surveillance inside the adjoining room killings.”
The woman turned to the Commander. “You know this man?”
“He gave us correct intel on the second room.”
“Retired at what grade?”
“Detective 2nd grade after fifteen years in patrol.”
“That’s doing it the hard way detective.” She extended her hand, “FBI Special Agent Brooke Burell, Lead Liaison Officer, Joint Terrorist Task Force. We need to see that tape five minutes ago, Detective.”
Fifteen seconds later, they were all huddled around the little screen of his HD camera as he fast-forwarded and rewound the tape so Brooke could take a head count.
“I make it twenty-one through the door, which was the only way out, plus the three in the room. Means we started with twenty-four. Port Authority killed two, we got twelve piled up here, plus three in the bus. That leaves nine at large. Ben, APB all units. Seven suspects in motel shooting still at large, AED.”
Ben ran off to the communications van, while Wallace figured out AED must be fed speak for, “armed and extremely dangerous.”
An agent ran up. “Boss, the motel manager says these guys were having a meeting here. Twenty-four rooms booked in advance, cash. We’re finding plane tickets, cash, prayer rugs, and Korans.”
“Someone else look at the tape and check the numbers,” Brooke said. She turned to Wallace. “Thank you. We’ll get you a receipt for that tape.”
She turned and was heading off to the van when Wallace called out, “You know what? Now it makes sense!”
Brooke turned in her tracks. “What does?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Live From New York, It’s…
Saturday night used to be date night. Now, the only date the Hiccocks looked forward to on a Saturday night was a date with the pillow after the week’s 7:30 a.m. staff meetings. So when his secure phone rang at 10:30, Bill’s sleepy voice answered.
Homeland Security was on the other end. “Mr. Hiccock, I have a high priority message for you from the Secretary.”
“Go ahead.”
Bill heard clicking sounds and then the connection hit.
“Bill, Brad Grayson, Deputy Secretary DHS. We have a situation in New York that could be — repeat could be — a bio-terrorism event. You are directed to monitor the situation through your White House SOP. Sir, do you concur that you have been duly notified?”
“Yes, but one question — who is running the operation on the ground in New York?”
“That would be S. A. Brooke Burell, JTTF.”
“I know her, she’s good.”
“Sir, if there are no other questions, do you concur that you have been duly notified?”
“Yes, William Hiccock has been duly notified.”
“Thank you and good night, sir.” The operator then switched off his recorder and dialed the next person on his Status 2 Alert List.
Bill redialed.
“Good Evening, White House Switchboard.”
“Good Evening, I am Bill Hiccock; please authenticate my identity.” A tone sounded and Bill repeated his name into the voice print recognition system. Then an automated voice said, “Acquired and authenticated, William Hiccock Science Advisor to the President.”
“Yes, Mr. Hiccock?”
“Switch me to signals.”
“Si
gnals, what can we do for you, Sir?”
“I need to patch into the New York JTTF commander on the scene.”
“Roger, standby,” said the army master sergeant who ran the signals department at the White House, the super-interconnect of the U.S. government. A President could talk to a soldier in the foxhole with this network.
?§?
Special Agent in Charge Brooke Burrell was dealing with the ever-changing facts in the crime/terrorism/bio-terrorism/fugitive drama into which she had been catapulted. Her secure agency cell phone rang.
“Burell, go.”
“White House Signals Branch. I have…”
“I don’t have time to talk to the White House right now…”
“Brooke, it’s Bill Hiccock on the line.”
“Okay, White House, I got the call.”
The sergeant dropped out leaving a secure connection between the two participants.
“Bill, a local P.I. stumbled on a terrorist plot to infect some bio-weapon on U.S. soil. Very detailed plan, lots of target cities.”
“How far did they get?”
“We have seven still at large. We have nineteen on tape but it will be a few hours ‘til the tape is processed into our heads-up alert systems.
“Do you have a communications van there?”
“Yes.”
“Still got the tape?”
“Just about to fly it back to Manhattan H.Q. by chopper.”
“Do me a favor,” Bill said as he punched his cell phone. “Hold on for thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds, you got, Mr. Hiccock.”
The Hammer of God Page 4