The Ticking Clock

by Daniel Roland Banks

  As he was thinking about these things, Nat Baha felt another presence in the night. He recognized it immediately. Gabriel had come to him. He stopped walking and quickly looked around, but he was still unable to see the angel. No matter, he was getting guidance from the unseen spirit being. He didn’t have to see the angel in order to receive the instruction. He felt it within every fiber of his being.

  Yes, of course. It was obvious to him now. There was no need for any of them to hide. On the contrary, the more open they were in their movements, the better it would be. The men should return to their normal activities until it was time to go on the road with the Kyle Coltrane concert tour. The tour would provide transportation to new, target rich, areas of the country. It would be, as he’d told his mujahedeen, a perfect cover. The men should all return to their day to day lives until then. Everyone who knew them would expect them to be excited about the upcoming opportunity. They would spend the next couple of weeks getting ready for the tour.

  Nat Baha smiled.

  Before they went about the routine aspects of their lives, there was just one more thing he and the band needed to do.

  45

  We were ready by eight o’clock the next morning. When we arrived at the studio we immediately took it under our exclusive control. A great deal of money had been spent to assure we would be the only people present at the studio. Christine and Anke were at the front, Christine behind the reception desk. Benjamin and David were at the soundboards in the control room that overlooked the studio space. Hafsah and I were in the primary studio recording room. This was a huge room. It was set up to accommodate a number of musicians and do so with a certain amount of comfort. In addition to the two huge sofas, on opposite walls, there were two electronic keyboards, a grand piano, two full drum sets, with a variety of additional percussion apparatus, various microphones and stands, amplifiers, speakers, stools, tables, and other equipment. The floor had cables snaking around, most of which were taped down. The walls were all covered in acoustic enhancing and sound dampening textured tiles. There were doors that opened into three smaller sound booths for recording individual vocal or instrumental performances.

  Hafsah was dressed for whatever might happen. She wore the same outfit she’d worn to the picnic, right down to the Glock in the shoulder holster. I found the slogan on her T shirt ironic, “just do it’ was what we were hoping Nat Baha would decide. It might have a whole new meaning before the morning was over. We were all armed, locked and loaded, the fully automatic Uzis strategically hidden within easy reach.

  None of us expected to see the murderous musician, but we’d to be prepared in the event he did show up. We were resolved that if Nat Baha walked in, he wouldn’t walk out.

  We were all attuned to the ticking clock, counting the minutes as the appointed time approached.

  At precisely nine lock, in walked Nat Baha. Aaron Parviz and Abdul Suliman followed right behind him. All three men were dressed casually. Aaron Parviz looked pale and he was limping prominently. Clearly his left leg had suffered an injury. He appeared to be in extreme pain and possibly drugged. There was no sign of Jahander Khalid.

  “Good morning!” I called, as they came into the room.

  “As-salamu alayka.” Nat Baha replied gravely. He scowled a little as he eyed Hafsah in her western street clothes. He was carrying a guitar case in his left hand. Suliman had one in his left hand as well.

  I saw Suliman studying Hafsah surreptitiously as he and Baha placed their guitar cases on one of the tables.

  Aaron Parviz approached Hafsah.

  “Why are you dressed that way, Nadia?” He asked thickly, clearly confused.

  “Good morning gentlemen. May I offer you coffee or tea?” She replied, ignoring his comment.

  “Thank you, no. Ms. Ahmed, isn’t it?” Nat Baha asked her.

  I wasn’t comfortable with the laser like attention being focused on Hafsah and the direction this conversation was going. I decided to change it.

  “Mr. Parviz, this is a great day for your band. Can I show you around? Say, you’re injured. Will you be able to play the drums?”

  Up close, I could see he was sweating. I was sure he was drugged, probably sedated and high on pain pills. Evidently, there had been an exchange of gunfire at some point in the carnage at the mall. Texans tend to be armed and these guys had been unprepared to have armed citizens shooting back at them. Whether it was an armed citizen, a cop, or a security guard didn’t matter. Parviz had been hit, maybe more than once. Had something similar happened to Khalid?

  “He will manage, Mr. Hightower.” Nat Baha replied.

  I figured he could. How many rock and roll musicians had played while they were stoned?

  I turned my attention to the two men as they unlatched the guitar cases.

  “I didn’t get the name of your lead singer on the rhythm guitar. Will he be here soon?” I asked.

  “His birth name was Robert Tolliver. Recently he has changed it to Mohammad Hussein. He will join us shortly.” Nat Baha replied.

  “And the bass player…?”

  “…Sam Jones. He is with Mr. Hussein. As I said, they will be here shortly. This gentleman is Abdul Suliman. He is in charge of our equipment.”

  “Hey, Abdul,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “While we are waiting, perhaps you will show us around the studio, Mr. Hightower.” Baha suggested.

  “…Sure thing, Nat. Can I call you Nat? You can call me Earl.”

  “Very well, Earl.”

  “As you can see, this space is the primary recording studio. The domed ceiling is an innovative design to reduce the sound bouncing back down. The walls are covered in acoustic tile as one would expect, but even the floor is sound absorbent. If you drop a drumstick or knock over a stool, it won’t ruin a recording. Listen…can you hear that…? That’s the sound of complete silence, there’s no ambient noise. The equipment in here is all primo, the best of the best. Every microphone and amplifier is connected to the control booth over there. Those guys you see in there are a couple of the best sound techs and mixers in the business. They’ll make this recording sound the best it possibly can. Would you like to meet them and have a look at the boards?”

  “I would be pleased.” Nat Baha replied.

  As I headed for the door to the control booth, I was concerned there were three missing members of the group, somewhere outside the building. I wasn’t sure the men in the control booth had hidden their guns well enough. There was nothing I could do but stall for time.

  I stopped and turned to Abdul Sulliman

  “Don’t you want to take a look at the sound boards, Abdul?”

  “No, thank you. I wouldn’t know what I was looking at. I just move and set up the band’s stuff, wherever the gig is. I’m going out to the truck to get the rest of what we’ll need.”

  “You won’t need much. Everything in here is available for your use.”

  “Mr. Baha is particular about what equipment he uses.” He replied.

  I shrugged and turned to Aaron Parviz.

  “Mr. Parviz, can I call you Aaron?”

  “Yeah, Ok.” He replied, dully.

  “Aaron, that show the other night was sensational. Had you performed with Kyle Coltrane before?”

  “Uh uh,” He said, with a shake of his head.

  “Mr Coltrane was very impressed with the audience response to our performance. He has invited the band to go on tour with him, as his opening act.” Nat Baha informed me.

  “Perfect! That’s exactly the kind of exposure you boys need. With a demo record in hand you’ll be all set to take L.A. or Nashville by storm.”

  “Inch’Allah, Mr. Hightower.

  “Huh?”

  “What happens or does not happen beyond this moment, is in the hands of Allah, may his name be forever praised and adored. We are but his servants.”

  “Oh, right, yeah, I get that. One thing at a time, today we make a demo record. When are you boys supposed to hit the roa
d with Kyle Coltrane?

  “The first of October. May we see the control room now?”

  “Sure. Not a problem.”

  I opened the door to the control booth and stuck my head inside.

  “Nat Baha and Aaron Parviz would like to take a look at the sound boards. Is that OK with you boys?” I asked.

  Benjamin and David were both seated on rolling stools behind the sound boards, as though they knew what they were doing. Their Uzis were stashed out of sight.

  They had adopted a kind of “who cares” attitude.

  “Whatever, man.” David said.

  “We’re ready whenever you are.” Benjamin said, catching my eye.

  “We’ll get started shortly. We’re waiting on a couple of the band members.” I replied.

  I stepped aside and indicated that Baha and Parviz should go on in.

  “Might be a little crowded in there, but take a look.” I said.

  “As-salamu alayka.” Nat Baha said to the men, as he entered the sound booth.

  “Aleichem Shalom.” David replied instinctively.

  I froze.

  “Your Hebrew is excellent, sir. Are you Israeli?” Nat Baha asked David.

  My hand went inside my jacket.

  “Nope, born and raised in Brooklyn. I’m David. Where are you from?” David asked casually.

  “My name is Nat Baha. I was born in Spain.” He offered a handshake.

  “Cool.” David said, shaking his hand, “I hear you’re something else on lead guitar.”

  “I work at it, thanks be to Allah.” Baha replied, “This is Aaron Parviz, the leader of the band.”

  “Howdy, boys, I’m Ben.” Benjamin said.

  “I must say, I am impressed with the quality of this equipment.” Baha observed.

  “It’ll do the job, man.” David agreed.

  I began to relax. David and Benjamin were professionals. They’d handled David’s slip as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “Time is money, boys. Let’s get you set up. Maybe the others will wander in while we’re doing it.” I suggested.

  “As you say, Earl, I will send them a text message and encourage them to come along. They have their instruments with them.” He took out his cell phone and began tapping out a note.

  46

  In preparation for a recording we had no idea how to make, nor any intention of making, we began setting up microphones, guitar stands and other gear, checking the wiring connections. Christine was photographing the whole process. I thought it was a nice touch, as though this was an historic event. The first recording session would be an important moment for the band. Abdul Suliman came back in with equipment stacked on a hand truck. There were a couple more guitar cases. He began unloading these things next to the table where the other guitar cases were placed.

  As we were doing these things, Mohammad Hussein, formerly known as Robert Tolliver, came in with Sam Jones. They had their own guitar cases, which they placed on the same table with the others. We made the usual introductions.

  There was no sign of Jahander Khalid. Where was he? I didn’t like having anyone unaccounted for, but I couldn’t exactly ask where he was.

  The show must go on.

  We had two microphones on stands for the vocalists, additional microphones to pick up the full sound of the band, and another pair just for the drum set. The guitars would be hooked up to amplifiers and the feed from all of the microphones and amps would also go directly into the control room. Speakers in the studio would send the sound back into the room as a track was being laid down. Once an initial recording was captured the sound would be sent back into the room for the approval of the musicians. At least that was what was supposed to happen.

  Aaron Parviz took a seat behind the drums and picked up his drumsticks.

  Mohammad Hussein stepped up to a microphone.

  “Check, check, 1,2,3,4, check, check.” He said into the microphone. There was no sound coming from any of the speakers. He looked at the switch on the microphone. He looked over at the sound booth, flicking the switch.

  David and Benjamin were staring at us, unaware they were supposed to be monitoring and adjusting sound levels.

  Mohammad Hussein waved at the sound booth and pointed at the microphone and then at his own ears, signaling that the microphone was not turned on.

  In the sound booth, I saw Benjamin and David both scrambling to figure out how to turn it on.

  Nat Baha was getting one of his guitars out of a case. He was watching the confusion in the booth. Abdul Suliman was opening a case and speaking quietly to him. Nat Baha glanced at Hafsah.

  That was all the warning I’d.

  Several horrible things happened at once.

  What Nat Baha pulled out of the guitar case wasn’t a Stratocaster, but an AK 47. He swung toward Hafsah, opening fire.

  Hafsah pulled her Glock free of the shoulder holster as the first bullet hit her, half turning her.

  I found Nat Baha in the front site of my .45 and fired four shots. Swinging over on Abdul Suliman, who had pulled another AK and had started firing at the sound booth, I fired my last three rounds and ejected the magazine.

  Anke and Christine ducked in from the front hallway, selecting targets and firing as they came through the doorway. Anke came in low holding an Uzi, firing in short controlled bursts. Christine followed Anke, firing the Judge revolver I’d given her a year or so before.

  Mohammad Hussein, and Sam Jones had both pulled handguns and were caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the two women. They had intended to shoot me, but had to turn toward the women.

  I slapped another magazine into my.45, as Benjamin and David reappeared from behind the soundboard where they had been forced to duck as the hail of bullets and broken glass had flown into the booth. They both opened up with their Uzis on Hussein and Tolliver.

  Those men were shot to pieces in the crossfire from the women and the men in the control booth.

  The nearly perfect acoustics of the recording studio allowed us all to hear the roar of the gunfire with particular clarity. The total silence that immediately followed the exchange made me think for a moment I’d gone deaf.

  I could see Nat Baha was down, but Suliman was hidden from my sight by the table and stack of equipment.

  I spun to get a look at Hafsah.

  She was down.

  Still sitting behind the drums, unmoved and unmoving, Aaron Parviz had gone without notice. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet, with a crash of symbols. He swayed for a second, bringing his handgun to bear on Hafsah where she lay, unmoving.

  I shot him three times, two in center mass and one through the head.

  Horror and chaos had reigned supreme for less than ten seconds.

  The room had gone totally silent again.

  “Freeze, Federal Agents—Drop your weapons!” Someone yelled through a megaphone, his amplified voice booming in the smoke filled silence.

  We all froze in place. I wanted desperately to go to Hafsah, but I knew that if I moved, I would die.

  Men in full combat gear with heavy weaponry, poured into the room from both front and back hallways.

  We were quickly stripped of weapons and flung to the floor.

  I landed next to Hafsah in a growing pool of her blood. Her beautiful brown eyes were closed and she didn’t appear to be breathing.

  I called her name as my arms were pinned behind my back and cable ties bit into my wrists. She didn’t respond.

  “Clear” Someone yelled.

  A moment later I heard a voice I recognized.

  “This is one hell of a mess, but I really like the location.” I heard Jack say, with remarkably pure pitch and tone.

  “This one’s still alive.” Someone said.

  “Jack, its Hafsah. Help her, she’s been shot.” I pleaded.

  “Medic!” He called.

  A combat ready guy with a medical kit knelt beside Hafsah. He examined her quickly.

  “We need
to get her stabilized and transported, right now.” He said.

  From somewhere above and behind me, Jack called for an EMT from an ambulance that was evidently already outside.

  He spoke to another agent standing over me.

  “Take this guy and ‘ginger girl’ over there. Put them both in my vehicle. The other three go directly to Dallas.” Jack directed.

  Two guys hauled me to my feet and hustled me into the back hallway where we passed a couple of ambulance gurneys being brought in by swiftly moving paramedics.

  “We’ve got another live one.” Someone called out from inside the studio.

  “Hot diggity!” Jack said, with evident glee.

  47

  As I was being shoved toward the rear exit of the recording studio, I looked back over my shoulder. Right behind me, Christine was being dragged along the hallway by another pair of heavily armored soldiers. I couldn’t see her face because her head was down and her hair obscured my limited view.

  The parking area behind the building was filled with big, black SUVs and emergency vehicles. Several firemen, federal agents and a couple of uniformed policemen watched as Christine and I were unceremoniously stuffed into the back seat of one of the SUVs. Our escorts left the doors open and stood watching us, with weapons ready.

  Christine and I both had our hands bound behind us with cable ties cutting into our wrists. Christine laid her head back and I was able to see part of her face. Her red hair was plastered across it, but I could see the tears coursing down her cheeks. She let out a ragged sob.

  My attention was drawn to a gurney being brought out the back of the building. Hafsah was strapped on it. She was quickly loaded into the back of an ambulance. Another SUV with red and blue lights flashing in the grill pulled ahead of the ambulance. The ambulance sirens bleated and the lights began flashing. The SUV followed by the ambulance, pulled away and disappeared from my view.

  A moment later another gurney came out, with Jack right behind it. Jack watched as the ambulance was loaded and an escort vehicle pulled up. He turned toward us, as the two vehicles drove away.