Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  Unable to find the two men, now closing in on the hut and fresh with one of the vehicles they had brought up from New York, Billy was on instructions to get back to the main office. There had been a confirmed outbreak of smallpox in Astoria, close to where Shafik had lived, and he was needed back there to coordinate.

  Shafik quickly jumped to his feet and shouted for Mustafa. It was Mustafa who first saw Darius and, as he was close to where the crate was stashed, grabbed six sprays and put them in the backpack that he never left out of his sight. With Faiz Ahmed, the known thief in the hut, nothing was safe, and his wallet and phone would have been an irresistible temptation.

  It had been a few weeks earlier that they had found an alternative exit from the camp. Hot footing it as fast as he could and now focussed on his commitment to his religion, Mustafa half-ran, half-stumbled the two miles out to a lonely farmhouse on Tamarack Road. It had been deserted when they first saw the old truck in the garage, two weeks previous. As luck would have it, the truck was still there, and there was a key in the ignition. There was no one at home and, within two minutes, he was on the open road and heading to New York.

  Shafik, a proficient marksman after his army training in Egypt, had ensured that the Glock 42 pistol he carried in his back pocket was loaded with a six round magazine. His focus was on Darius, now making a fast and dangerous move towards him. Darius fired up and full of adrenaline after dispatching Faiz Ahmed had allowed his charged brain to overrule his basic instincts.

  ‘Never come at a person full on in case they are carrying a loaded weapon.’ The instructor had taught him, but he had failed to listen and now it was going to cost him. Shafik quickly let off three shots, the first one hitting Darius in the upper shoulder and spinning him to the ground.

  ‘You bloody fool!’ Lincoln screamed, mainly to distract Shafik, but also in anger at Darius’s error.

  He had been lucky. The first shot had spun him clearly out of the direction of the following two bullets, which harmlessly impacted the wooden hut. Lincoln, now on a full charge, ducking and weaving behind a tree, a rock, and the cabin, quickly advanced on Shafik. The distraught Egyptian had never shot anyone before, and he had been thrown off balance at the revulsion of his act, as well as the blood spewing out from Darius.

  Lincoln lunged at Shafik and hurled him to the ground. Shafik, in a moment of frustration and separated from his pistol, grabbed the aerosol spray that he had removed from the crate in New York and pointed it at Lincoln. As the spray hit him in the face, he knew instinctively what it was: it was death.

  In sheer terror, he abandoned Shafik and rushed to the creek, now a river, and flung himself into the torrent in an attempt to remove the spray. It was all in vain, some had gone down his throat. He realised he had instinctively swallowed to remove the taste.

  Five minutes later, dripping wet, he regained his composure and went to check on Darius. In the meantime, Shafik had made a run for it. When Billy Hammond checked the crate later, they would find, of the forty-eight sprays, fourteen were missing – the six that Mustafa had taken, the six with Shafik, the one in the hut, and the one that was in Shafik’s old apartment in New York.

  It was Shafik’s former landlord who had created the latest outbreak, although he hadn’t been seen for a couple of weeks. Spraying himself in the face accidentally with a can he had found hidden under the floorboards in Shafik’s old room, he had given it little thought. Thirteen days later, he had wandered down to the Cuban restaurant on Steinway Street. It had been a busy night and Emerson Castro, feeling a little tired and missing that troublesome Egyptian’s rent money decided he was going to enjoy himself.

  Too many Cuba Libres, a highball of rum and cola mixed with lime, had left him the worse for wear and he shouldn’t have made a grab for Maria’s ample bosom. The barmaid’s husband, Fernando, the owner of the restaurant, nearly threw him out but relented on her insistence.

  Increasingly inebriated and, as with all drunks, Emerson came in close to people’s faces, putting his arm around everyone’s shoulders. There were five hundred in and out of the restaurant that night and over three hundred would be affected.

  Darius, his bleeding stemmed and with the bullet having exited the back of his shoulder, was helped towards the vehicle and taken to the local hospital. Nurse Cindy Macintosh, a mature woman in her fifties, applied a substantial dressing, halted the blood loss and ensured he was comfortable for the trip back to New York.

  Lincoln had lived a rough life as a child, and the last few years had been a benefit. Of his gang of twenty, only two were alive. One of those was doing time upstate New York for killing two people in cold blood while in a drug-induced stupor. Lincoln, however, had made good and, if he was going to die, then so be it.

  Ed Small had confirmed that he wouldn’t be contagious for at least seven days. It was more likely ten, but he had said seven on advice from Paul Montgomery.

  Chapter 19

  Mustafa had avoided the majority of the traffic on the way to New York by driving the truck through back roads. With a lessening in fresh outbreaks around the country - the news from Astoria was not generally known - he encountered no road blocks or suspicious questions, apart from when he refuelled at a gas station outside of Lewisburg, but the man was a redneck and a racist. Mustafa had just used his charm, said he was from India and a Hindu, and the guy calmed down. His wife gave him a sweet smile as he left ‒ she would have a black eye that evening.

  Shafik was to follow the same route from the hut as Mustafa. Desperate and devoted to the cause, he had managed to flag down a small Honda Civic. Hiram Beckley and his wife, Mavis, had owned the car from new, never driven it faster than fifty miles an hour. Both in their seventies and from a more peaceful time, they did not have the innate fear of someone different.

  They accepted Shafik’s story that he had come over from Russia some years previous, that he had never lost his accent, and he loved America with a passion. As the car came close to Cross Fork on the northern perimeter of the park, they said they would have to drop him off as they were heading a few miles to the east. Their daughter was married to a very nice man, who made a good living as a ranger in the nearby State Forest. Shafik asked if they could drop him off close to the outskirts of the town as it was a good place to get a lift.

  Naïve, friendly, and trusting, Hiram drove on further and pulled the vehicle to a stop. At the same time, Shafik pulled the Glock pistol from his pocket and ordered them out of the vehicle. With three bullets remaining in the magazine, he put two into Hiram and one into Mavis. Pushing their bodies into the nearby ditch he took off, regretting what he had just done and hoping that their God would reward them with martyrdom.

  Mustafa, aware that Grand Central would be busy remembered that Shafik had mentioned it as a possible target ‒ he decided to head there. The radio in the truck, old and crackling, had told him that most trains were running and that business was starting to reach pre-disease levels. With his six sprays, he reasoned he should be able to spray six hundred people. He calculated that third generation fatalities would be close to a hundred thousand.

  Shafik was also considering where he would gain the best advantage. He had used the railway station as an example, and he felt that would be where Mustafa would go. Thankfully, the radio in the Honda Civic still worked, and it was clear that the President was ready to bow to international pressure and allow flights between America and some of those countries that had the most stringent controls on the disease.

  According to the broadcasts, the United Kingdom, although it had sustained devastating losses, seemed to be getting the situation under control. Mainland Europe had seen a few isolated cases and Russia and China, none. That wasn’t altogether true, as Russia had seen seventy thousand cases, eight hundred kilometres to the east of Moscow while China had lost close to three hundred thousand.

  Both governments, their militaries with unhindered powers, had isolated the areas and bombed them into submission. Nothing moved
in or out, not even the news. In another week, Russia was to resolve the issue with a field trial of nerve gas they had been stockpiling. There was no need to wait for any further infections. It made good sense just to kill everyone within a fifty-kilometre radius and then remove the name of the city from their maps, at least long enough for them to dispose of the bodies.

  Darius, healing well, although confined to the office and Lincoln were pondering as to where Mustafa Hafiz and Hussein Shafik would strike next.

  ‘What do we have?’ Darius grimaced a little as the bandage on his shoulder was tight. ‘We’re confident of the truck that Hafiz stole. Do we have any idea where it is now?’

  ‘Bill Hammond put a trace out,’ replied Lincoln, ‘but apart from it running a light in Newark three days previous, we’ve no idea.’

  ‘We’ve got to find him soon. Have you seen the traffic downtown, the pedestrians? Everyone is desperate to get their lives back to normal.’

  ‘It’s premature, but what can we do?’ replied Lincoln. ‘We’ve still got these two guys running around. They could hit anywhere.’

  ‘There’s a blanket restriction of any mention of them. Business and politics are overriding plain good common sense.’

  ‘It’s not for us to criticise,’ Lincoln’s voice weakened as the disease took control of his body. ‘We need to carry on and find them before they cause any more damage. Anyway,’ he added despondently, ‘I’m only good for another four days before I’ll need to find a hole somewhere to crawl into.’

  ‘Sorry about that. It can’t be easy to carry on under the circumstances.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it. Where do we go from here?’ Lincoln responded stoically.

  ‘We need the truck. See if Hammond can find it from cameras in the city – parking tickets, traffic lights, whatever.’

  ***

  Two hours later and an excited Bill Hammond rushed into the office where Darius and Lincoln were sitting. ‘I’ve found the truck that Mustafa Hafiz stole. He must have hidden out somewhere for a few days, but now it’s parked on East 39th Street, close to Lexington Avenue.’

  ‘That’s Grand Central,’ said Darius. ‘It’s only four blocks away. How long’s it been parked there?’

  ‘Not more than forty minutes, possibly less.’

  ‘Michael,’ Darius addressed Lincoln by his first name, ‘mobilise the team. The guys we took up into Pennsylvania may be best. At least they know what we’re up against. Bill, you stay here. There must be security cameras in the station. See if you can access them.’

  ‘And make sure there are no marked vehicles, flashing lights and police running in waving guns,’ Lincoln added.

  ‘Michael’s right,’ said Darius. ‘If Hafiz knows we’re on to him, he’ll just let the spray go. We need to stop him, not scare him.’

  ‘The CIA has easy access to the Grand Central security system,’ Bill Hammond said. ‘It was part of the directives of the Homeland Security Act. I’ll get some face recognition technology onto him now that we have a copy of his passport photo.’

  Darius, unable to sit idly in the office, travelled to the area with Lincoln. The others suitably dressed as average Joes, some in jeans and T-shirts, some in business suits, mingled with the crowds at the busiest time of the day.

  ‘Mustafa Hafiz may have seen us that day.’ Darius felt it was best if he and Lincoln kept out of sight.

  ‘No, he only saw you. I’ve already been sprayed once and besides he can’t do anything to me.’

  Lincoln exited the vehicle and headed into the main concourse of the station, unsure of his general direction. Bill Hammond directed him through an earpiece. The others were strategically placed at all the entrances to the station. The throng of people was immense ‒ Mustafa Hafiz had chosen his target well.

  ‘I’ve picked him up,’ Hammond’s voice said over the earpieces that each member of the team wore. ‘Lincoln,’ there was more than one Michael in the team, ‘he’s off to your left. Just move in the general direction and I’ll keep you posted. Keep your phone on so I can get a GPS fix.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Lincoln. ‘Tell the others to move in the general direction as well, but stay back. He’ll spot us easily if we go barging in. I’ll approach him, attempt to isolate. We need to stop him spraying. Once that’s secured, we rush him.’

  Twenty feet from Hafiz, Lincoln had his first sighting. Dressed in a pair of stylish jeans, an open neck shirt, and some Reeboks, he looked a typical American youth, not an obsessive fundamentalist. Lincoln was unsure how to approach. Sure, he could grab the backpack from Hafiz and throw him to the ground, but he had one of the spray cans held tightly in his right hand. The plan was for zero infections and, if he failed to secure him, Mustafa Hafiz might shake free of his grip and go crazy, spraying wildly.

  ‘Darius, bring up whoever you can,’ Lincoln said. ‘I’m going to confront him. It’s the best I can do. If anyone is infected, they cannot be allowed to leave Grand Central.’

  ‘Lincoln,’ Bill Hammond had been listening. ‘I’m shutting down the station. The whole of the New York rail system is going to be systematically shut down. I need five minutes.’

  ‘You’ve got five minutes.’

  ‘If he gets impatient, you’ll just have to rush him.’

  Bill Hammond coordinating back in the office ensured that the other members of the team slowly moved into position, moving barriers, pushing a luggage cart here and there. The entrances to Grand Central were blocked from the outside. Within five minutes as Hammond had said, the only trains operating were those leaving the station.

  With sufficient space separating him from the other commuters, Lincoln approached Hafiz.

  ‘Mustafa, do you really want to kill all these people?’

  ‘Who are you? Leave me alone. It is Allah’s wish.’ He was startled, unsure how to respond.

  ‘You grew up in America. This is your home. Why do you want to kill all these people, your fellow Americans?’

  ‘I must. It is my duty to avenge the deaths of my family in Pakistan. I will be rewarded.’

  ‘What, with all those virgins? From what I know, you managed to find plenty down here.’

  ‘How do you know so much about me?’ Mustafa aimed to move from his position. ‘Get back or I will spray you in the face.’

  ‘I know everything about you. Your family, where you lived, the women you laid. You certainly had great success with them. I was at the hut in the forest, as were you. I saw Shafik and Ahmed.’

  ‘I do not know them.’ Mustafa Hafiz, increasingly agitated, fiddled with the spray in his hand. In the interim, the police had moved in and were herding the thousands of people out into the street. There was no possibility of him spraying anyone other than the CIA agent standing in front of him.

  ‘Yes, you do. Hussein Shafik, who liked fishing, and Faiz Ahmed, a smelly individual, were at the hut with you.’

  ‘What if I do? My life is over now. You will kill me the moment I give you the sprays.’

  ‘Faiz Ahmed is dead. My colleague strangled him. Shafik is somewhere in New York, and we need to find him. Help us and we will help you.’

  ‘I will dedicate myself to Allah. I will not surrender. If I cannot take any more people with me, then I will take you.’ Agitated and nervous, the fundamentalist responded with threats, threats that gave Michael Lincoln no concern.

  ‘You’re wasting your time. Shafik has already done sprayed me. I’m infected already.’

  ‘I do not believe you,’ Mustafa said as he raised the spray and directed it at Lincoln.

  ‘You either give me your backpack, or I will be forced to kill you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Then you will kill me.’ Mustafa replied.

  Lincoln, the bitter taste of the spray in his mouth, shot Mustafa Hafiz, seducer of women, the all-American boy, and deluded jihadist through the chest with a bullet from his standard issue Browning HP-35 pistol.

  ***

  As a result of the success
at Grand Central, the President had been quick to announce the re-opening of JFK international airport.

  Shafik had heard the reports of Mustafa Hafiz’s failure and his subsequent death as he drove down Newark Turnpike. He had spent a few days sleeping rough in the car. The fear in New York, regardless of the President’s declaration of business as usual, had returned after the attempted attack on Grand Central, and the streets were clearing as he came closer to the city.

  The airport, due to open the next day, and he still had not thought of a good place to hide out. He reasoned, the car was unknown and, if he kept a cap over his eyes he might just be taken for a Latino. Armed with a razor blade and some shaving cream purchased from a pharmacy down on Congress Street in Newark, he had taken off down the back streets and found a public toilet in Independence Park.

  Twenty minutes later he had emerged clean-shaven. He felt he looked like a woman, especially with the skin lotion that made him look two shades lighter. He felt like a homosexual, and he abhorred them as much as he hated his appearance. Still, Osama bin Laden had shaved off his beard in the past to evade capture. If it was good enough for Osama, then it was good enough for him.

  He listened to the radio. It gave no clue as to whether the CIA, the police or the authorities were looking for him or not. There had been no mention of the old couple that he’d killed – although, considering the recent weather, maybe their bodies would remain hidden for a few more days. Hopefully, he thought, long enough to allow him to commit his attack.