The Ticking Clock

by Daniel Roland Banks

  Half a dozen quick strides brought us to a loading dock. There were some stairs on the side of it. A big overhead door could be opened to allow shipping and receiving of heavy objects or truckloads of pretty much anything. There was a single, dirty light bulb in an old steel fixture above the overhead door. The door was latched into a fixture in the concrete with a padlock securing it. We went up the stairs and the heavy bolt cutter made light work of the padlock. As quietly as possible, we lifted the door, just high enough for both of us to duck under.

  Inside, it was very dark. The only light was that which spilled in under the edge of the overhead door from the feeble light bulb outside, and whatever ambient light that could get through the few small, grimy windows mounted in the walls high above us. If we’dn’t had the night vision gear, we would have been virtually blind.

  Hafsah flipped a switch on the bracket of her night vision gear and the light in the room increased noticeably. I knew she’d switched on a diffused red light that provided a small amount of additional illumination without being visible from outside the building. I switched mine on as well, and now we could clearly see all of the objects and structures within about ten feet of us. I could also see the Glock she now carried in her hand.

  This was a shipping/receiving area accustomed to sporadic utility. The building was like a small abandoned warehouse, virtually empty. There were a couple of pallets leaning against a wall, another with a fifty gallon drum of some sort of industrial lubricant sitting on it. The only other thing in the building our search revealed was something off in a corner, covered by a tarp. Under the tarp we found two big speakers, an amplifier, an electric guitar and a boom-box with a handful of CDs.

  We looked over the musical equipment and I noticed the CDs were all techno rock, or head banger music.

  Hafsah tapped me on the shoulder and indicated we should continue the search.

  All of the buildings that made up the machine shop were interconnected. Some were separated by heavy sliding doors and others had overhead pulleys and conveyors for moving heavy objects from one building into the next. We went through the whole place, room by room, but found no secret hideout with Hakim lurking inside it. In one room, Hafsah led me to the workbench where apparently she’d seen the AK 47 receivers. They were gone, but I recognized the brass and steel objects left on the bench as typical gunsmith tools.

  In all, it took us the better part of an hour and a half to do a slow, thorough, but fruitless search of the machine shop complex. We’d managed to locate and grab the only computer in the place.

  When we got back into the shipping/receiving room, I went to the musical equipment and started putting whatever would fit into the duffle bag. Hafsah appeared to be impatient and even tried to reject the electric guitar when I thrust it at her, but I was insistent so she complied. She’d more trouble getting the guitar through the gap in the fence than I’d with the now overstuffed duffle bag.

  We didn’t speak until we got back to where the Tahoe was parked.

  As we pulled off our night vision gear, Hafsah snapped at me.

  “Why did you make me drag this worthless guitar all the way back here?”

  I grinned at her.

  “It’s just subterfuge, my dear. We stole the computer and the other electronic things that were easy to carry. Typical petty theft, they’ll chock it up to the cost of doing business in this part of town.

  “The whole exercise has proven to be a waste of time.” Hafsah lamented.

  “Not really, we know Nat Baha isn’t here and apparently he’s never been here.”

  “What about the guitar? She asked. “Don’t you think it’s a link to him?”

  “No, I don’t think it is. I think we’ll find that Mr. Suliman really does have a nephew who plays his guitar in his mostly empty building.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The equipment is cheap and the only music the guitar player was trying to emulate was thrash music, punk rock. I believe your cousin is much more sophisticated than that.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Call it a hunch.” I said.

  Hafsah sighed. “Yes, you are probably correct. I do not know anything about the heavy punk rock style of music.”

  “It’s mostly about the message, which is usually screamed, rather than sung. Thrasher music in particular tends to be raw. There’s often a dearth of sophistication and nuance in the music.” I said.

  While we’d been ducking, crawling and crab walking through the dirty, greasy and debris filled buildings, trying not to get cut or stabbed by bits of sharp metal, I’d come to a decision. It was time to tell Hafsah something she probably already suspected.

  “Hafsah, there’s something else you should know.” I said, taking her arm.

  “What is it, John?” She asked, alarmed.

  “The United States Department of Homeland Security has Mr Suliman under constant surveillance.”

  “John, how could you know….Oh, I see.” Hafsah jerked her arm out of my hand.

  “I wanted to tell you before now…”

  “Tell me what, that you are a federal agent?” She asked coldly.

  “No, I am not a federal agent. I told you the truth. I got the file from a guy in the DHS. He told me everyone in that folder is presently under suspicion and subject to surveillance. My point is, if Hakim were here, they would have known about it. I don’t think they would overlook an opportunity to catch someone like him.”

  “Perhaps they would not, if they knew who he is, and if they are competent enough to catch him. Would they tell you if they did?”

  “I think if they had anything solid on Suliman, Parviz, or any of them, they would have snatched them up in a heartbeat.”

  “So, why do you tell me this now?”

  “I think we’re wasting our time on these guys. Your cousin is hidden somewhere else. Let’s leave these guys to the DHS and you and I stay focused on Nat Baha.”

  “But, you must see that this was a good lead.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time, I didn’t really have time to think it through. Besides, I was kind of looking forward to a moonlit picnic” I said.

  Hafsah refused to be distracted from the topic at hand.

  “Without researching each of these men, we have no idea where Hakim is, or how to find him.” She observed.

  “Remember, I have Christine working on an angle that might bring Hakim to us.”

  “Angle, do you mean like fishing? Yes, I see. We bait the line and hope he takes the hook,” She said, with some enthusiasm.

  “Well, uhhh, yeah, that’s it exactly. Here’s what we have in mind…”

  28

  His band of fighters hadn’t taken the supposed suicide death of one of their number without some reaction. Nat Baha quickly put a stop to any dissention.

  “Understand my brothers, this is the example set for us by the Prophet himself – may he be forever revered and adored. We must strike the neck of anyone who betrays us. Jeff Tolbert was not a true Muslim, nor a true friend. He was an infidel who would have betrayed us and ruined everything we have committed ourselves to do. We must be willing to cut off our own hand if it would cause us to stray from our course. From this day forward, our cause is one; Death to the infidel, Allahu Akbar!”

  “Death to the infidel. Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” The men shouted in unison.

  Nodding in satisfaction he went on.

  “Thanks to Mr. Suliman, our weapons have all been converted to fully automatic capability. Each has been test-fired. He assures me we have enough ammunition for both the mission, and for practice drills. Who will volunteer first?”

  Jahander Khalid raised his hand.

  “Very well, Jahander my brother. You will be first. Everyone, assemble at the firing range.”

  When the men were standing side by side with their weapons, Nat Baha walked down the line inspecting each man’s rifle. He found them all clean and in good order. He
required and expected this, but these were not combat blooded soldiers who’d learned from experience. Mistakes would be made. Still, these AK 47s had all just undergone a thorough work over by Mr. Suliman. They should be in excellent condition.

  He was also checking each man’s general weapons discipline. Safeties were engaged, no fingers on triggers, each man ready, with his weapon secured from accidental discharge. He took Jahander’s assault rifle and walked out in front of the men.

  “Brothers, you have been practicing with semi-automatic feed. This provides you with a possible rate of fire of up to forty rounds per minute. Your rifle has a single magazine holding thirty rounds of 7.62 x 39 cartridges. With the two magazines taped together as yours are, you have sixty rounds available. You have been taught when the first magazine is empty, disengage it and flip it over to introduce the replacement magazine, like this.” He quickly demonstrated, throwing the bolt and charging the weapon. “Can you do that on the run, Mr. Khalid?”

  “Yes sir, I can. We all can.”

  “Good. You must become more proficient at it. It will not be possible for you to carry more than a few extra magazines hidden under your clothing or in a backpack. Movement is essential. You must begin firing even as you are moving. Don’t stop. You have all practiced doing this. I cannot over-emphasize the importance of movement. The faster you are moving the better. It will be difficult for anyone to interfere with you or shoot back at you, if you are moving. Also, as you move through the crowd, more targets become exposed. Observe!”

  Nat Baha spun to his left and trotted past the berm where a line of targets were set up. It was evident he’d selected fully automatic feed for the weapon. It chattered as he ran, spent brass shells flying. He only ran the thirty or so yards down the line, but he never stopped firing. At the end of the line, he whirled as he traded magazines and trotted back up the line, firing again.

  He stopped in front of the men ejecting the second spent magazine.

  “Your weapons now have the capability to fire about one hundred rounds per minute. Who can tell me what the problem is?” he asked.

  Aaron Parviz spoke up.

  “You ran through all sixty rounds in less than fifty seconds. Your gun’s empty and you’re out of ammo. I doubt you were able to hit much of anything.”

  Baha’s smile was without mirth.

  “Exactly so, my brother. It takes great skill and control to be able to run like that and fire the weapon with any accuracy. Without expertise a fully automatic weapon is only useful for spraying crowds and making people take cover. You might kill a few people by accident, but it is not as effective as selecting targets and taking them out with short, controlled bursts. Short bursts are better. Select a target and fire three to six rounds, then select another target.”

  He handed the hot weapon back to Jahander Khalid, along with two magazines he produced from under his shirt.

  “You see, I was not without ammunition after all. Take your positions on the firing line.”

  When the men stepped into their individual shooting stations, they stopped and stared down range for a moment.

  Aaron Parviz let out a long whistle between his teeth.

  “Man, I take it back. That’s some damned good shooting.”

  At his machine shop, Abdul Suliman had cut the six silhouette targets from half-inch thick steel plate, in roughly the shape of a standing man. The targets were currently set at twenty-five yards from the firing line. Each of the freshly painted targets now showed multiple bullet strikes. No target had less than five hits, all of them in the torso section of the target.

  “I make that about thirty hits. Half your shots hit home. You would’ve probably killed all six.” Aaron said.

  “Yes. Unfortunately, Brother Parviz is correct. As he said, I wasted half of my ammunition and only killed six. Learn from this. Short bursts truly are better.”

  When he was satisfied the men had improved both in technical shooting application and strategic target acquisition, he dismissed them to clean their assault rifles. He instructed them to meet in the barn in thirty minutes.

  When they were once again assembled, he told them the news.

  “My brothers, there has been a change in plans. Our target must be shifted. We have been asked if the band would be interested in going on tour with this musician, Kyle Coltrane, and his band. There are certain strategic benefits to this opportunity. Imagine being able to travel the country without alerting the security services. Imagine being able to choose targets near each city in which the band performs. After a concert we could strike a target and be back on the tour bus within minutes. Within an hour after an attack, we could be miles away, taking our leisure on the bus, while chaos ensues behind us. It could take weeks for the authorities to make a connection. As you all know, we were going to use the up-coming concert as the launch point of our operations. Because of this new opportunity, I am planning a strike elsewhere. Your training is incomplete. None of you have seen any action yet. None of you are blooded. A smaller target with less security and better escape options may be more appropriate for the first strike. I’m finalizing the logistics and arranging for transportation. Prepare yourselves. Inch’ Allah, we will strike the neck of America within days.”

  29

  Tony came by the office and, after spending some time with Christine, sat down in front of my desk.

  “I thought you might like an update on the Ferguson case.”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Bob Ferguson confessed. By the time we got him into interrogation he was ready to tell us everything.”

  “It’s funny isn’t it? You were right about him, Tony. You said you didn’t think he would answer any questions if you confronted him, or tried to interview him in an official capacity. You asked me to talk to him at home because he’d feel more secure and empowered in his own environment. In his mind, I was just an employee. I wasn’t sure he would crack. But he did.”

  “It was up to you to talk his wife into going along with it. It wasn’t easy for her to make that choice. I’ve seen dozens of cases like this where the wife won’t cooperate with us.”

  “Often, they can’t, Tony. They want to, but they’re too afraid. Fear is crippling. She’d been living with shame and fear for so long, it’s a wonder she was able to overcome it, even just one time. I think her anger fueled her strength, but anger can also do tremendous harm. It can become hate and bitterness. She’ll need help to get past that.”

  “Too bad she didn’t get angry sooner. Her daughter would be alive, and they all would’ve gotten the help they needed. At least now the sick freak will go to prison for the rest of his life.”

  “We’re all sick, Tony. That’s why we call Jesus “The great physician.” He helps us diagnose our condition and, by his stripes, we are healed.”

  “When I think about Bob Ferguson, my blood boils. Don’t you sometimes think, hell isn’t hot enough?”

  “Sure, but my concern is avoiding the place myself, and then helping other people do the same. I don’t get to judge others, Tony. That’s up to God.”

  “Right, I know. Still when I think about what he did…”

  “Better to move on. Can you imagine what it must’ve been like for Priscilla Davidson? Rosie told her she’s been sexually abused by her father for about ten years. Poor Priscilla was keeping that secret. She also knew Jimmy never hit or hurt Rosie in any way. When Bob Ferguson found out Rosie was dating Jimmy, he went ballistic. He was the one who put his own daughter in the hospital.

  Think what it must’ve been like for Mrs. Ferguson to live with that guy. People cope with horrible things in their lives, often suffering in silence. I’m reminded to be sensitive to people’s hurts. That’s what I want to dwell on, being more compassionate. I tend to forget people are hurting, and sometimes when they act out it’s an expression of their pain.”

  “I hear that. I guess being a cop has made me a little rough around the edges.”

  You’re li
ke a tree, Tony. Your bark is thick and rough, but on the inside…”

  “Yeah, but on the inside— I’m solid as an oak.”

  “OK, let’s go with that. Speaking of going, I have an appointment I have to get to.”

  “Yes, you do, a lunch date with a certain dark-haired beauty.”

  “Now where did you hear…? Christine told you!”

  30

  Walking into the restaurant, all eyes were on us. I knew it was the woman next to me who drew the attention.

  Hafsah was now dressed in blue jeans and a grey tee-shirt, with the slogan “just do it” on the front. She was wearing blue, high-top sneakers. Her glistening dark hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail. As usual, her makeup was tasteful and flawless.

  As soon as we were seated, she reached across the table and took hold of my hands.

  “John, I’m sorry. Christine told me about the death of your friend last week. Now I understand why you are so adamant about not being a federal agent. I had no idea you were recently involved in anything so complex and difficult. I can’t imagine how you are able to help with my mission and still handle your other cases, all while dealing with the grief and loss caused by the rogue FBI unit.”

  “Our mission, Hafsah, it’s our mission to stop your cousin. I’m, sorry I haven’t been able to focus exclusively on it. There are many changes happening, and I’ve been distracted and introspective. I can see more clearly now and I’m ready to take him down.”

  “We have to find him first. The trap is set for Monday, John. There is nothing we can really do today or on the weekend. We have already booked the studio space for next week. Christine is arranging for some promotional radio advertising, announcing the auditions. They will be broadcast all weekend. I will pick up the flyers and posters from the print shop this afternoon. My team and I will distribute them tomorrow. You need to rest and reflect. I believe this matter with the FBI is not yet concluded.”