by Dale Wiley
“Let me know. We fixin’ to find a mothafucka.”
Eleven
Grant Miller fielded a multitude of questions since the world started coming down around them all that day. What did it feel like being in the middle of something like this? They all knew the protocol, but, when it happened, was it different? What did he remember about it all?
After two solid years of being shunned, the attention felt good, but he answered their questions grudgingly. They hadn’t wanted to talk to him much before this.
They were all supposed to be manning the phones and Internet, looking for leads, fielding the mind-numbing amount of unsolicited information that came into the FBI on a day like this. But they all wanted to know what it was like to be Grant Miller, the superstar who shone on September 11 and saved lives as a young agent, only to move higher and become a notable laughingstock. The questions he answered prior to that day had been mainly about the laughingstock part, so, if the situation hadn’t been so tragic, he might not have minded this change in focus.
At one time, he was impressive physically—tall and thin with a southern frat boy haircut. His sandy brown hair was cut shorter now, and he was still good-looking, but anyone could tell he quit trying, at least for the time being. He gained twenty-five pounds over his peak shape, mostly around his waist. He didn’t want to think of himself that way, but it got harder by the minute to ignore, and he finally faced reality and bought bigger pants. He found he didn’t get noticed as often by women when he was out, and that cut both ways; it meant fewer questions about his past, but it also meant he was not the All-Star level closer he once was. In the moments when he let himself consider these things fully, he knew his drop in luck was more about confidence than his weight; he had lost his swagger.
That afternoon, when someone attacked Lake of the Ozarks—of all places—everyone assumed that St. Louis would be assigned to handle the investigation. It was, after all, the closest office geographically and generally considered better all-around than Kansas City. But KC drew the assignment, and Grant, now the king of all conspiracy theorists, thought it felt like one more shot at him. God, he hoped not, but he had reason to feel this way.
St. Louis, of course, was a conspiracy theory unto itself, when he was moved there to look into organized crime in the seedy east side of St. Louis, just over the river in Illinois. All the jokes that could be made about such a thing were made, and Grant endured it, ever-so-lucky to still have a job.
But those prying questions were gone now, replaced by the somewhat wistful questions of those who felt left out of the operation, desk jockeying while their rivals across the state were rushing to the lake to piece together what happened. Likely, many of the agents who weren’t called immediately to help would blame him, as if he controlled everything but the weather. He knew he would just have to deal with it. Even in the worst case, in a day or two, some of the agents would be called to help. It would probably be mop-up duty, but, at least, they could brag to other offices they had been involved. Unfortunately, with today’s well-lit map of tragedy, many offices were being called to duty.
He was at his desk, a cubicle under fluorescent light and a far cry from the corner office in midtown Manhattan he inhabited before the fall. His assignment was to try and put together a map of all locations the terrorists hit, between fielding calls from know-it-alls and crackpots. The whole thing didn’t make sense. The attacks were all over the map, literally—east and west coast, north and south. More in cities, of course, but even a couple of attacks in the country. They did not have a fixed number of casualties, but they got the psyche right. Unlike past attacks, focusing as much on icons and people, these attacks happened anywhere. Hundreds were dead, and that number would surely rise.
The crazy callers blamed everyone from Islamic jihadists, to the Tea Party, and even one theory involved PBS. It was quite boring and demeaning, but it was all he had at the moment to do.
Grant heard a buzz in his earpiece. “Call for you. Line 7.”
That was unusual. Line 7 was not one of the public lines. Almost all of his calls were routed from his direct line. But he was probably the most famous—infamous, really—employee of the entire federal agency, so some crank that followed his career might have figured out where to call.
“This is Agent Miller. How can I help you?”
The connection was good, but the caller was clearly driving. He could hear the background noise. Sounded like highway driving.
“Grant Miller? Agent Grant Miller?” He waited for an answer.
Grant felt like he was playing a game of chess. He finally responded. “Yes, Grant Miller. How can I help you?”
“Okay, I’m pulling over. I’m on my way to see you.”
“How can I help you?” More stern this time.
“Give me a number where I can reach you in ten minutes. Do this now. A cell line.”
Grant thought about protesting, but there was something about this caller that felt completely different from the numskulls he spent the morning with. The man spoke with precision and purpose—and maybe a little fear. He broke protocol and gave him his work cell number.
“Thank you. I know that prefix. That is the correct prefix for your division.”
Grant rolled his eyes. “I know that. Look, I’m not going to ask again. How can I help you?”
“In approximately seven minutes, your office will be destroyed by a bomb. I know, because I planted it. Please evacuate everyone, and I will call you after you are safely away. Do not tarry. You must leave at once.”
Grant started to ask a question but could hear that that the phone disconnected.
He walked by Mandy, a once-junior officer who was now his boss, and stuck his head in her office.
“Bomb threat. Call it in. Sounds legit.”
Mandy almost protested this direct demand from Grant, now her underling, but she saw his look and remembered who he used to be—an egotistical mess but one of the best agents she ever saw. She saw a hint of that in his eyes. She made the call and started the protocol. Grant was at the front of the line as they left the office.
Some of the people were griping as they filed past him out into Kiener Plaza.
Grant tried to herd some of the people with him further away, afraid of the shrapnel reported in the other attacks. He used his badge and his voice to move people back, across the street, into the alleys, and away from the face of the building. “Get back! Get around the corner!” He waved and gestured as he moved himself.
He looked at his watch. Almost exactly two hours had passed since the original attack. He took a defensive position as his cell phone showed the clock turn to three.
Even braced and prepared, the blast rocked and surprised all of them. Then he heard the shrill whistle of the shrapnel and the urgent, bleating screams of those who didn’t heed his warning.
Twelve
Despite the similarity of their hometown’s name, the seventh grade boys of West Memphis, Arkansas didn’t regularly make it into the big city of Memphis, Tennessee. There was a river and much financially between them. Their lives were normally running the streets and seeing what they could make off of the largesse of the winners at the dog track. But today seemed different.
Today, they were coming to visit the Civil Rights Museum, and they were going to get to see the sights on Beale Street, which was more interesting on a Thursday afternoon than most places were on the brightest Saturday night. There were twelve of them, all promising students who hoped to one day rise out of their surroundings and make something of themselves. Seven were black, and five were white. All were poor. All were smart.
Jatrelle and Thomas were in front. They were talking about a certain girl back at school, tugging at their pockets, and wondering if she liked Thomas or if he was kidding himself. They were split on the answer to that question.
They would be lionized in the press as some of the youngest victims, their promise documented in several maudlin and lengthy USA Today articl
es. The articles were written by teary-eyed young Samantha Janitz, who dreamed of one day having children of her own. But how could you have children when this sort of thing could happen? Were you just sending your children into the world to be mowed down like Jatrelle and Thomas?
* * * * *
Gladys Diley puttered on her way to an Eastern Star event in Texarkana, Texas. The Eastern Star was the female version of the Masons. It had a lot less to do with secret cabals and a lot more to do with pot luck dinners and sewing circles.
She didn’t like to drive her husband’s pickup, but her car was in the shop. Needed alignment, he said. His old truck drove like it needed alignment, too. She laughed and thought it drove worse than her car did even when it needed work.
A week earlier, a man placed two boxes under the bridge up ahead. They were magnetically affixed to the structure. They were wholly unnoticed during their time there, by person or animal. Now, for a brief second, they started to “whee” loudly, before they exploded and ruined the watery tranquility of that spot. They caught Mrs. Diley just as she was overhead.
Friends remembered her as a loyal member of the Eastern Star and the Texarkana First Methodist Church. It would be several days before her death would be officially linked to the others.’
Thirteen
Naseem set his cruise control for 76 mph as he hit the interstate. He could call Miller back in a couple of minutes, after he knew the explosion was over. He hoped Miller listened to him. If he hadn’t, he would be dead now.
Adrenaline had gotten him to this point. He didn’t want to think about anything else. He had clearly been duped. If he needed clarity, the last text gave him that. Now, here he was, having failed in his effort to kill himself and to save the people he originally intended to kill.
What a mess. Was this what hell felt like? He felt sure of it. It certainly could not be worse.
He knew one thing for certain: if infamy loomed in his future, Yankee would have to live or die in it. He would have time to sort his own feelings, but he would bring it to that man who spit on everything he held holy and used him for his own gain. He spat on the prophet. He spat on Naseem.
The focus came back. The searing hatred lived as his brother for all those years, and the feeling that had been strangely diluted since he returned to this country ran back to him. Now, it focused on one man. Bring him down. Kill him or chain him, but make him pay for turning a martyr into a fool.
He wanted to drive 100 miles an hour, but, because of his skin color, he knew he shouldn’t speed, not in the middle of Missouri where the people were predominantly white. Police could spot him across the way. Frankly, if Miller hadn’t paid attention, he didn’t know what he really headed toward anyway. He would find out soon enough.
He dialed the number Miller gave him. No answer. He took a deep breath and dialed again. After the third ring, he finally heard an answer.
“Miller.”
“You listened.”
“I did. I can tell real intel when I hear it.”
They both paused for a second.
“The question is,” Miller said, “why did I get it?”
“First things first. I have two requirements before I tell you anymore.”
Miller said nothing.
“First,” Naseem said, knowing the whole thing sounded silly, demanding concessions when he stood guilty of a thousand capital crimes. “First, you must convince the press that many agents died. You must not let them know that you were tipped off.”
Miller was considering this. “I can agree. I will have to run it by my bosses, but I think we’re okay there.”
“The second concession is non-modifiable. It is not to be repeated to anyone. And it is nonnegotiable.”
“All right. Let’s hear it.”
“I will not give you a whit of information without your express agreement.”
“Time is wasting.”
“When this matter is concluded, at the time of my choosing, you will kill me.”
Fourteen
Paolo pulled his car around back, got perilously close to the back door, and then rolled down his window and whistled for Caitlin. She peered carefully out the door and then skittered into the backseat, staying low and pulling the door close behind her. Paolo hit the gas and turned onto the boulevard.
“What do you think all this means?” Caitlin really did not want to involve Paolo in all this, but it seemed clear that what masqueraded for logical thinking had certainly done her no good. She didn’t trust him very much, but she guessed she trusted him a little, and that was more than she could say about anyone else at the place.
Paolo divided the world’s problems into three categories: money, pussy, drugs. He calculated. “You into him for some money?”
“No, I think I chose a bad guy to hang with.” She started to say more but thought better of it. “And I didn’t stay sober long enough.”
“You’ve been running with a rough crowd.”
“Tell me about it.” She thought about all she lost over the past year. It made her sick. She certainly didn’t need a lecture from him.
He turned on the radio. A new round of attacks began. No one had a solid estimate on total casualties yet, but it pushed 1,000. Attacks in eleven states. The radio announcers sounded like robots. No one knew what to make of this, least of all, Caitlin. She hunkered down in the back floorboards of Paolo’s Mercedes.
“Where are we headed?”
“It’s a little place over off of Rancho Santa Fe. My boy keeps it for moments like these.”
Caitlin didn’t recognize anything about it but didn’t doubt it. There were hundreds of such houses in Vegas, where everyone is one deal away from needing a hideout.
“How long?”
“Fifteen.”
She grabbed the Wal-Mart bag she had left in the back room, containing a change of clothes and some comfortable flats. It wasn’t exactly high fashion, but she left it there just in case something weird happened, which happens a lot when you live your life blackout drunk. She checked to make sure Paolo couldn’t get a free peak, but he had probably seen her bare ass a dozen times when she was hammered. She got everything off and back on and then slid down far enough to be out of sight, sitting in a weird yoga-like pose that hurt her back tremendously. She tried to turn on her side and worked on slowing her breathing.
Her smug assertion that Britt misjudged her now was replaced by the stone-cold observation she desperately miscalculated him. He was more than a low-level miscreant. It appeared she had been sleeping with the new Osama Bin Laden. Her back wasn’t the only thing that hurt. It all hurt.
She questioned what she would need just to face tomorrow. She couldn’t use her bank account, at least not at an ATM. She put some money away, but she felt sure he could trace that. If she made it until tomorrow, she could withdraw some, but it wouldn’t take long to put that together. She would have to get her affairs in order, do whatever she needed to Paolo to make him let her borrow the car, and then hightail it for somewhere.
The hightailing it part she didn’t mind. She wasn’t cut out for this. She was a Midwestern girl. She still had a soul, no matter how many self-help efforts she made to remove it. Down deep, no matter how many nights she wound up with cowboys snorting coke off her torso, she really only wanted simplicity and the life taken from her. She wanted that back. At this moment, at least, she was not too proud to admit it.
Time crawled on all fours. Her back barked at her. She knew she couldn’t look up, and that made the time seem all that much longer.
Finally, she could tell he was negotiating smaller streets. She figured they were getting close. “Here we are,” said Paolo. She ventured a peek. He finally pulled them into a fairly new taupe-colored duplex in a block that featured nothing but. He pulled into the garage and then shut the door behind them. She started to head inside.
“Wait,” he hissed. “Let me make sure it’s OK.”
He turned and nearly sprinted up the five st
airs to the door. He peered in.
“All good.”
She followed him in. Around the corner, she saw Tony, Britt’s man. He dressed the part, black suit with a black tie. He could pass for a limo driver or maybe a thug. In this case, he was both. Tony pointed a revolver straight at her chest.
“Sorry,” said Paolo, shrugging as she looked at him, aghast. “Just taking orders.”
Fifteen
The gun recoiled in Britt’s hand. Muhammad fell backwards, and the back of his head exploded. He barely bothered to look at the guards. He knew his men had the draw on them. They knew the plan. Britt heard four shots from each of the guards and saw the other men slump to the floor. Then, the guard on his left, on cue, turned and fired at the guard on his right, one less witness. Mission accomplished. Loose ends tied, almost all of them.
Britt had never shot someone at point blank range before this morning, not in his previous profession and not in this world of filth where he reigned as the king. He had plenty of people who did that for him. This morning’s shootings had been in a more controlled environment and with a smaller gun. He marveled at the work this larger pistol did on a physical space. It sent blood everywhere. It caused him to breathe rapidly, much more rapidly than he had this morning, and, for a moment, he wondered if he would pass out. Good thing they weren’t going to be staying there anymore. His ears rang from the blast. He was not cut out to be a Wild West gunman; he knew that for sure. He hoped his last man didn’t notice how rattled he was by all of this.
“Start the fire in here. We’re done.” Almost done, he thought. The text he received told him that Caitlin was on her way back into the fold. He calmly tossed the gun to Gianny, stepped around the blood puddles like avoiding a grenade, and headed for the backseat of the limo, where he could watch the results of his day. That had been the toughest part of scheduling the meeting with Muhammad in the first place. It must be done, but it sure put a damper on the victory party.