“Shouldn’t we hurry a bit more? The train is due in a few minutes,” Celina said, her finger tapping at the nonexistent watch on her wrist.
Lisa smoothly accelerated back to the speed limit.
―
Arriving at the train station, Lisa was surprised to see that the parking lot was already full.
“I’ll let you go in with Melissa if you don’t mind, Celina,” Lisa said looking at her daughter, who was starting to fuss in her seat. “I might have to circle the parking lot a couple of times.”
“I don’t mind. It will be good for both of us after this long ride.”
Lisa watched as Celina took the stroller from the SUV’s trunk and arranged Melissa inside it before kissing her on the forehead. Celina waived at her and started to walk toward the terminal.
Lisa looked at her watch, trying to remember what time her husband was due back from work that afternoon. Was it four o’clock or four thirty? Better call him, just to be sure, she decided.
Lisa reached inside her brown Luis Vuitton handbag and felt around for her cell phone. So much stuff in this thing. Eventually, her fingers found the smartphone, and she extricated it.
“Yes?” Mike answered after the first ring. His voice sounded strained.
“What’s going on?” Lisa asked, instantly concerned.
“Everything’s fine, baby, but I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back, okay? I love you.” Suddenly the line went dead.
Disconcerted by how brief the conversation was, Lisa wondered what was going on. But her thought was cut short when her SUV shook slightly. The Montreal train was just entering the station.
―
Yaser Yussuf and Malik Fareed knew that they would never hear from Asad Wafid again. Wafid had called Fareed that morning and said only four words: “It is sunny today.”
Those words had been the ones Yussuf and Fareed had been waiting for. Their only regret was that they wouldn’t be able to celebrate the economic destruction of one of the Great Satan’s closest allies.
Kneeling down in the direction of Mecca, they prayed that Allah would guide their hands so they could kill as many infidels as possible. After their prayers, Yussuf and Fareed helped each other put on their explosive vests. They had fabricated the improvised explosive devices themselves.
They’d both been top recruits at the Sheik’s training camp in Iran, where they had learned how to build explosive vests from their teacher, Mohammad Alavi, one of the world’s most accomplished bomb builders. Following Alavi’s custom design, they had constructed their vests not for destroying infrastructure but for killing people.
Each explosive vest was packed with four pounds of C-4 explosives and more than a thousand two-inch nails. After detonation, nobody within a hundred-foot radius would have any chance at escaping unscathed.
“Now we just have to wait, my brother,” said Yussuf, adjusting the trench coat over his bulky vest. The weight felt pleasant on his shoulders. Soon they would be in paradise.
―
After looping three times around the parking lot, Lisa managed to find a parking spot at its far end. She hurried out of the Range Rover and fast-walked to the terminal’s main entrance. Once inside, she scanned the electronic board next to the escalators, confirming that the Montreal train had just arrived at the same time as the one from Toronto.
No wonder the parking lot was full, she thought, looking around. At least a hundred and fifty people had gathered in the train station to wait for friends and loved ones. She made her way toward Gate 1 of the arrivals area, where passengers from the Montreal train would disembark. That’s where she found Celina, seated next to Melissa’s stroller.
“Took you long enough,” her mother-in-law said. “Did you park across the river?”
“Don’t worry,” answered Lisa, keeping a pleasant tone in spite of Celina’s sarcasm. “I’ll call you a cab if the five-minute walk proves to be too much for you.”
Without waiting for a reply, Lisa approached Melissa’s stroller.
“Are you excited to see your grandparents, sweetie?” she cooed softly, poking her head around to look inside the stroller. Her daughter had fallen asleep and was drooling slightly.
―
Yaser Yussuf unlocked the door of the cleaning room. He assessed once more Malik Fareed’s dark expression and saw the same raw determination that he himself felt.
“The train is coming, brother. This is the moment we have been waiting for,” he said, his voice charged with emotion. “Don’t forget to wait until after most of the passengers have disembarked but before they have the chance to leave the station. You go to Gate 1, and I will be at Gate 5. May Allah be with you, all praise be to him.”
Fareed bowed his head. “Allah Akbar.”
They embraced one last time and exited the large cleaning room that had been Yussuf’s workstation for the last few years. They headed in separate directions without a backward glance.
―
From the waiting area, Lisa spotted the first-class car and watched for the familiar faces to appear. She felt a smile pull at her lips. The first-class upgrade had been her and Mike’s little surprise for her parents. If asked, they would both deny that they had played any part in it.
Lisa soon caught sight of her father emerging from the car. Her mom followed a few steps behind. Once they were both on the platform, they started walking hand in hand toward the station. Lisa raised her arm and waved at her parents, beckoning them over.
“You look beautiful, my darling,” said a smiling Andrew Harrison as he entered the large waiting area. He held his daughter tightly in his arms. “Now let me get a look at this belly!”
“Good morning, Dad,” said Lisa, returning her father’s kiss and taking a playful swing at his arm.
“Wow!” exclaimed Francesca Harrison, picking up little Melissa and her arms. “She’s really grown since the last time I saw her.”
“Don’t wake her up, Mom!” said Lisa too late. Her daughter was all smiles at the sight of her grandmother.
“Gran-ma, Gran-ma!”
“Grand-ma missed you too, honey! You’ll see, we’ll have lots of fun together,” Francesca said before continuing with the voice of a conspirator. “And I brought a lot of candies.”
“Candies! Candies!”
“Shh,” said Francesca, a finger on her lip. “Not a word to your mother.”
As Celina exchanged greetings and kisses with her parents, Lisa couldn’t help but wonder, She looks genuinely happy to see them…For some reason, she’s impossible only with me.
Big deal. I can take it.
“While you guys wait for your luggage, I’ll bring the SUV curbside,” Lisa said.
“Thanks, baby,” her father replied. “You want me to go with you?”
“I’m fine, Dad. Help Mom with her things, will you? Is she still packing like she used to?” she asked, thinking about the heavy suitcases her mother would bring for a two-night stay.
Her father nodded but not before he had looked in his wife’s direction.
He’s afraid of saying it out loud!
“Okay, then. I’ll be in front in ten minutes.”
Walking toward the exit, Lisa noticed two males emerging from a utility closet. The duo muttered something to each other before heading in opposite directions.
Weird. Why all that heavy clothing?
A strange feeling was gnawing at her gut. She just couldn’t put her finger on what it was exactly.
―
Thirty seconds later, Lisa crossed the loading lane and was heading toward their SUV when suddenly she heard a thunderous explosion. She felt the ground shudder beneath her, and the concussion blast from her rear sent her pitching to the ground, scraping her hands and knees.
For a few moments, she could think only of the pain. Then a horrifying revelation dawned on her
. “Oh, my God! Melissa!” she yelled, scrambling to her feet and running back toward the station.
A taxicab hit her at approximately thirty-five kilometers per hour. The driver, who had been distracted by the explosion, had no time to press the brake pedal after he realized that a pregnant woman had dashed out in front of him.
Lisa felt a huge force hit her right leg and had the sensation of being lifted into the air. Then her head collided with the taxi’s windshield and everything went black.
―
Inside the train station, the explosions from four pounds of plastic C-4 attached to Yussuf’s and Fareed’s vests caused thousands of tightly packed nails to travel faster than three hundred kilometers an hour. Everyone, including Francesca Harrison and Celina Powell, within a forty-foot radius of each terrorist died instantly from the shock wave created by the force of the explosions. Their bodies, completely distorted, were hurled like rag dolls left and right.
All the glass windows shattered, cutting and blinding even more people. Ultimately, what caused the most damage were the nails. The passengers close to the detonations absorbed the shock waves. The nails, however, continued their trajectories until they impacted something solid enough to stop them. Unfortunately, the open-space concept of the Ottawa train station didn’t help the situation.
Twenty-two-month-old Melissa never felt the two-inch steel nail penetrate her throat. Her little body collapsed in a tiny heap. Her grandfather had three nails hit him. The first and second lodged themselves in his right leg just above his kneecap. The third and fatal one entered his abdomen, which caused him to fall on his side still aware of the mayhem being unleashed around him. The pain became unbearable when he saw the lifeless body of his granddaughter a few feet away. He crawled toward her, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Lisa Powell’s dad died five minutes later, holding his granddaughter in his arms.
CHAPTER 4
Macdonald-Cartier International Airport
Mike was a few meters behind the four suspected terrorists when he heard the familiar sound of an automatic weapon firing in the distance. He whipped his head toward the noise and decided it was coming from the direction of the tarmac. The Ottawa police officers who had just arrived on scene looked at each other in disbelief.
Then time seemed to shudder to a stop.
As if the clatter of gunfire was the cue they’d been waiting for, the four suspected terrorists pulled out AMD-65 submachine guns they had concealed under their heavy clothing and opened fire on the startled police officers. Several of them tried to reach for their guns but were cut down before their hands touched their holsters. Rounds upon rounds were lodged in the officers’ chest cavities, for their bulletproof vests weren’t designed to stop the 7.62mm rounds.
As Mike was reaching for his 9mm Smith & Wesson pistol, he heard a muffled explosion coming from the airplane. Shit. Dropping to one knee to make him as small a target as possible, Mike tried to aim his pistol at the nearest shooter. But with all the scared and panicked passengers running to and fro struggling to find cover, he could not get a clear shot.
Cursing, Mike looked around, trying to find something he could use as cover. He spotted a concrete pylon five meters to his left and went for it.
What the fuck? This isn’t Afghanistan! Mike thought, clenching his teeth.
―
Asad Wafid had the pleasure of seeing the five police officers he fired at go down as he emptied thirty rounds into them. He expertly released the magazine and replaced it with a fresh one. He was proud of Hassan and Fadl. They had initiated contact the moment they thought they were compromised. Well done!
Focusing his attention on the unarmed Canada customs officers who were trying to hide behind the Air Canada ticket counter, he grabbed an M67 grenade from the left pocket of his overcoat and took out the pin. He calmly counted to three, then lobbed the grenade behind the ticket counter. It exploded two seconds later. Wafid was rewarded with strangled screams. When several wounded officers crawled out from behind the counter, another grenade thrown by one of his brothers in faith finished them off.
Wafid felt a sense of accomplishment. No more screams came from behind the desk.
―
Zima Bernbaum’s heart had jumped when she’d heard the crackling of gunfire. She quickly deduced that terrorists were fighting over control of the aircraft with Paul Robichaud. Before she could provide backup for Robichaud, the four men Mike had been following had suddenly opened fire on the crowd.
After reaching for her pistol inside her purse, she slipped off her high-heel shoes and took cover behind the metal recycling bin on her left. It wouldn’t stop a bullet, but it did provide concealment behind which she could assess the situation. She looked for Mike, but he had disappeared the moment the bullets had started flying. She pointed her firearm toward one of the terrorists, but a terrified young father and his tall son darted in front of her, pushed away from an attacker’s line of fire by a courageous army captain, effectively blocking her shot. Just as a spray of bullets cut down the military officer, Zima felt a tremendous punch to her stomach.
―
After safely reaching the concrete pylon, Mike scanned the area around him. Some people were still madly dashing for safety, but most were smart enough to have found some kind of cover. Just then a fusillade of bullets chiseled the concrete just inches from his face, forcing him to remain immobile.
Damn! That was close.
After the firing in his direction had subsided, Mike counted to five. Then, taking a deep breath, he poked his head out from behind the pylon just long enough to see one of the gunmen throw a grenade behind the Air Canada counter.
Another couple of rounds hit the pylon, forcing Mike to take cover and spattering pieces of concrete into his face and shoulders. The grenade exploded, followed shortly after by a second blast.
Damn it! cursed Mike. Where the fuck is the backup? Where’s Zima? He had lost visual contact with her. With Robichaud having his hands full on the airplane and all the police officers down, Mike knew he was the only one who could stop this bloodbath. He was outnumbered and outgunned; but still, he had to do something or the body count would keep rising. Perspiration was quickly forming on his forehead, and his pulse was hammering off the charts.
I can’t believe this is actually happening. Shit! Shit! Shit!
A little voice inside his head reminded him that next time, he should maybe be a little more careful about what he wished for…
Mike looked around him.
Chaos.
Think, Mike! he commanded himself as he concentrated on controlling his breathing. His first target should be the gunman who kept firing at his position. Kneeling down so he wouldn’t appear to be in the same position he had been when he’d taken that quick look moments ago, Mike adjusted his stance. Making sure to remain under the cover of the pylon as much as possible, he extended his arm, took quick aim at the terrorist, who was busy reloading his weapon, and fired two rounds within half a second. He hit his target’s center mass.
Goddammit! From his covered position, he saw that even though the gunman staggered a few steps backward, he didn’t go down. They’re wearing body armor!
Aiming higher, Mike fired two more rounds. This time his target went down with two bullet holes in the forehead.
That’s for you, Dad.
Mike inched his neck out farther from behind the cement pier and saw the first passengers come pouring out of the aircraft and into the waiting area. With so many people rushing behind them, they couldn’t turn back once they entered Gate 17 and realized what carnage was awaiting them there.
Mike caught sight of one of the three remaining gunmen pointing his AMD-65 in the general direction of the oncoming passengers. Mike raised his weapon and emptied two rounds into the terrorist’s armor-clad chest. He adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger again. His third bullet entered the base of hi
s target’s skull and exited through his mouth. A gush of blood sprayed the wall to the right of the Jetway.
―
Twenty-seven-year-old police constable Matthew Lipton from the airport division of the Ottawa Police Service was writhing on his back, bleeding from a bullet wound to the left shoulder. Turning his head to his right, he saw his fiancée and fellow officer Melia McFerlane lying in a pool of her own blood. Her eyes were still open in surprise. She looked like she could still be alive except for the neat bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.
Looking in the direction of the threat, Lipton realized that two men were firing randomly at the people around them. With his left shoulder hurting like a bitch, he used his right hand to draw his firearm. He sat up and fixed his gun sight on the closest terrorist, but he couldn’t shoot. His hand had started to shake uncontrollably.
―
Asad Wafid became suddenly aware that someone was returning deadly fire. Two of his men were dead, each cut down by an expert marksman. He threw himself on his stomach and started scanning the area around him. Where were they? How many?
Yet he discovered only the thirty or so passengers who were lying on their stomachs in the Jetway leading to the aircraft, hoping that nobody would see them.
“Ibrahim, throw a grenade in the Jetway!” he shouted in Arabic to his only surviving brother in faith.
The Thin Black Line Page 4